Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x Reader
Summary: You and Hiccup have been tangled in a messy, unspoken situationship for months. Friends, partners, lovers -- though neither of you will admit it out loud. It’s all late-night visits, stolen kisses, heated arguments that end in desperate touches. Neither of you brave enough to call it real. A new villager arrives on Berk. Confident. Charming. Interested in you. He doesn’t play games or hold back. He courts you openly, makes you laugh, gives you what Hiccup never had the courage to promise.
Themes & Warnings: jealous!Hiccup, YEARNING I LOVE IT, Hiccup being not so nice sometimes, situationship, cursing, fist fighting, angry!Hiccup, did i say yearning??? love some good yearning, slight angst i guess
Hiccup had really tried for it to be Astrid. One would think it would’ve been easy. Astrid was gorgeous, kind, non-rebellious and respectful to her elders. She was well spoken, worked hard, and was approved of by Stoick. But, of course, just because everything in Hiccup’s life had to be difficult and unexpected, it was you. It was you that made Hiccup’s heart jump, it was you he couldn’t ignore, it was you that even Toothless preferred.
You, with your sharp tongue and sharper instincts. You, who questioned everything and didn’t flinch when he got loud. You, who somehow matched his chaos and made it feel like clarity. You, who challenged him and lit a fire in his chest he couldn’t smother, no matter how hard he tried.
You were reckless and brilliant. Stoick didn’t approve. That should’ve been enough to stop him. It wasn’t.
So you and Hiccup became a secret sort of thing. Something undefined. Something that shouldn’t exist, but kept existing anyway.
Late-night visits to your hut under the guise of dragon reports. Long walks that turned into longer arguments that turned into quiet, breathless moments where neither of you said what you really wanted. His hand brushing yours. His lips brushing your neck.
Never in public. Never discussed. Never claimed.
It wasn't that Hiccup wanted to keep it a secret. In fact, he didn't want it to happen in the first place. He wanted to be able to say with full conviction that what he was doing was the right thing, the right path. But he was doomed to do the most complicated and wrong thing, all the time, every day of his life. It had started with Toothless, then with you.
It was never supposed to happen like this.
That’s what Hiccup told himself every time.
Yet here he was again, pressed against you in the dim glow of the forge, your breath hot against his neck, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
(Maybe you would. Maybe that was the point.)
The argument had started hours ago, something stupid, something about dragon training techniques, something neither of you actually cared about. But it had escalated, as it always did, voices sharpening, bodies leaning in too close, tension coiling tighter and tighter until--
Snap.
His mouth crashed against yours.
No hesitation. No tenderness. Just heat, frustration, need.
You bit his lip. He groaned.
This was wrong.
Your back hit the workbench, tools clattering to the floor. His hands were under your tunic before he could think better of it, fingers tracing the scars he knew by heart -- the one from the Monstrous Nightmare burn, the thin line from a poorly executed axe throw.
"Gods," you hissed between kisses, "I can't stand you, Haddock."
His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer.
"Liar," he growled against your mouth, voice rough with something between anger and want.
You laughed -- sharp, breathless -- and tangled your hands in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him curse.
"Prove it," you challenged.
And he did.
His teeth grazed your throat, his hands mapping every inch of you like he was memorizing it, like he needed to. The forge was too hot, the air too thick, but neither of you cared. Not when his name was spilling from your lips like a prayer, not when your nails raked down his back, leaving marks he’d have to hide later.
It was reckless. It was messy.
When you were done, you quickly loosed your hair, rebraiding it so it looked just as it had when you came in. You ruffled your tunic, readjusting it, and you watched Hiccup do the same.
Wiping your eye makeup, you glanced at him again.
"We can't keep doing this."
Hiccup didn't answer, opting to pretend he didn't hear it. He always did this. He didn't want to acknowledge that it was an issue unless it was on his terms.
"It's a secret because you want it to be. But someone's gonna find us out sooner than later, Hiccup."
Your words hung in the air, sharp as the blade he'd been sharpening before this, before you, had derailed him completely.
Hiccup kept his back turned, fingers tightening around the edge of the workbench. The wood creaked under his grip.
"No one's going to find out," he said, too calm, too controlled.
You scoffed. "You don't know that."
"I do," he snapped, finally whirling to face you. His eyes burned, not with anger, not with frustration, but with something far more dangerous. "Because I make sure of it."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.
You crossed your arms. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" His voice dropped, rough and raw. "What do you want me to say?"
I want you to choose me.
I want you to stop pretending this doesn't matter.
I want you to be as brave with me as you are with everything else.
But you didn't say any of that.
Instead, you straightened your shoulders and met his gaze, unwavering. "I want you to stop acting like this is nothing."
Hiccup flinched.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
The forge door rattled.
You both stiffened.
"Hiccup?" Astrid's voice, sharp and impatient. "You in there? Your dad's looking for you."
Hiccup didn't take his eyes off you.
"Yeah," he called back, voice carefully even. "Be right there."
A pause. Then footsteps retreating.
You exhaled, slow and deliberate.
"We're not done," you muttered, brushing past him.
Hiccup caught your wrist.
For a second, just a second, his thumb traced the inside of your pulse point, soft, almost apologetic.
Then he let go.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We never are."
And just like that, you were gone.
Leaving him standing there, alone, with the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.
Oddly, after that, the two of you went days without another incident. You did your job, tending to dragons and making plans. And he did his. You barely spared each other a glance, just like normal, in fear that the others would connect the dots. You spoke when you had to, when your jobs overlapped and you had to work together.
Hiccup missed you, but he was content.
Until fucking Erik.
The moment that grinning, broad-shouldered outsider had stepped off his ship and looked at you, really looked at you, with that open, unashamed admiration, Hiccup had felt something ugly twist in his gut.
And then it got worse.
Because Erik didn’t hide it. Didn’t play games. Didn’t pretend.
He just… wanted you.
And you--
You let him.
Hiccup watched, jaw clenched, as Erik leaned in too close when he spoke to you, as he laughed at your jokes like they were the funniest thing he’d ever heard, as he touched you -- casual, easy, like it was allowed.
It was. That was the worst part.
Hiccup had never given you that. Had never claimed you, not even in the dark when it was just the two of them. He’d kissed you like a thief, like he was stealing something he had no right to.
And now Erik was here, giving you everything Hiccup had been too afraid to offer.
It burned.
Even Toothless hated it. He watched as you got to know Erik's dragon, running a hand down his pretty scales and scratching behind his ear.
Erik's dragon, Terror, was a Monstrous Nightmare, like the one you'd been attacked by so many years ago. But Erik didn't allow you to be afraid. He held the back of your hand as he helped you conquer your fear, allowing you to pet the monster in front of you, the dragon giving a puff of approving smoke.
Toothless's eyes flicked up to Hiccup's, a show of irritation. He grumbled in annoyance.
"I know, bud. Me too." Hiccup said, rolling his eyes.
The final straw came during the evening feast.
Erik had brought you a gift: a delicate silver pendant shaped like a dragon’s wing. "Saw it at the trader’s post," he said, grinning as he fastened it around your neck. "Reminded me of you."
You touched it, smiling in a way that made Hiccup’s chest ache. "It’s beautiful. Thank you."
Across the fire, Hiccup’s grip on his tankard turned white-knuckled. Toothless, curled beside him, let out a low, warning growl.
Astrid elbowed him. "You’re glaring."
"I’m not glaring," Hiccup muttered.
"You are," she said flatly. "And if you don’t stop, someone’s going to notice."
Hiccup didn’t care.
Because Erik was still touching you, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing your collarbone. Casual. Easy. Allowed.
And then--
Then you leaned into it.
Something inside Hiccup snapped.
He stood abruptly, knocking over his drink.
Silence fell.
Every eye in the hall turned toward him.
You looked up, startled.
Hiccup didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at you, his breath coming too fast, his pulse roaring in his ears.
For one endless second, your gazes locked, and he saw the flicker of something in your eyes. Challenge? Defiance?
Guilt?
Then Erik shifted, his arm sliding possessively around your shoulders.
Hiccup turned on his heel and walked out.
Toothless found him later, perched on the cliffs, staring at the sea.
The Night Fury nudged his shoulder with a whine.
"I know," Hiccup said hoarsely. "I know."
Toothless huffed, unimpressed.
Below them, they heard it. Your infectious giggle, a wild laugh and a splash. Hiccup's eyes dropped down, only to see you and Erik playing in the water by the dock.
Your braid was a mess, hair plastered to your forehead. He could see your beautiful e/c eyes from up there, the sun making them even brighter. Your under-clothes revealed your tanned skin.
Hiccup's breath caught in his throat.
You were glowing.
Erik said something, Hiccup couldn’t hear what, and you laughed again, head thrown back, the sound ringing across the water like music. Then Erik scooped you up, spinning you before tossing you back into the waves with a splash. You surfaced, gasping and grinning, shoving him back with a playful shriek.
It was easy.
It was right.
And it destroyed him.
Toothless let out a low, mournful croon, sensing the shift in Hiccup’s posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his grip on the cliff’s edge tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"She looks happy," Hiccup murmured, voice rough.
Toothless flicked his ear, unimpressed.
Hiccup swallowed hard. "Yeah, bud. I know I’m an idiot."
The Night Fury snorted, as if to say, Then do something about it.
But Hiccup just sat there, watching as Erik reached for you again, as you let him pull you close, as your fingers lingered on his arm --
Stop.
The word burned through him, sharp and sudden.
Stop pretending.
Stop running.
Stop letting her go.
Before he could second-guess himself, Hiccup pushed to his feet.
Toothless perked up immediately, tail lashing in anticipation.
"Yeah, yeah," Hiccup muttered, swinging onto the saddle. "Let’s go."
The Night Fury didn’t hesitate.
They dove.
Wind roared in Hiccup’s ears as Toothless streaked toward the docks, wings tucked tight, the sea blurring beneath them. You looked up just as they pulled out of the dive, skimming the water’s surface, close enough to send a wave crashing over Erik.
The man stumbled back, coughing.
You, however, stood perfectly still, staring at Hiccup with wide eyes, seawater dripping from your clothes.
Hiccup dismounted before Toothless had fully landed, boots hitting the dock with a thud.
Erik wiped his face, scowling. "What the hell, Haddock?"
Hiccup ignored him.
His gaze was locked on you.
"You ready to stop ignoring me?" He asked hoarsely, green eyes staring at you. You felt the heat from them warming your cool, dripping skin.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.
"Ignoring you?" You said snidely, glaring at him. "Spending time with someone I matter to is ignoring you?"
Hiccup flinched like you'd struck him. The words cut deeper than any blade, and for a moment, he just stood there, jaw clenched, breath ragged, water from his dive still dripping from his hair.
Then he stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his stormy green eyes, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him despite your soaked clothes.
"You do matter to me," he said, voice rough. "You know that."
You scoffed, but your traitorous heartbeat stuttered. "Could've fooled me."
Before Hiccup could respond, Erik's hand met his shoulder, shoving him away from you. He didn't move far, but it was enough to redirect his attention to the man that had captured yours. Toothless growled, claws digging into the dirt, but Hiccup gave him a calming glance.
Erik's grip tightened on Hiccup's shoulder, his voice low and dangerous. "Leave her alone, Haddock. She doesn't want--"
Hiccup's eyes flashed, something wild and untamed sparking in their depths. For a split second, you saw the dragon rider in him, the warrior who had faced down legends and won.
Then his fist connected with Erik's jaw.
The crack echoed across the docks.
Erik crumbled to the ground, pain spreading along his face, blood dripping from his lip. Hiccup did nothing but look down on him, face disinterested as if he was a discarded piece of trash.
Erik held his bleeding face, looking up at Hiccup in surprise.
"You son of a--"
Hiccup cut him off.
"Get out of here. You had your time with her, it's my turn."
"Haddock, I swear--"
"Go. Now."
Erik, rather than taking his chances on someone he'd completely underestimated, climbed up from the dirt while eyeing your horrified expression. With one last glare, he turned to walk away.
Then he stopped and turned back.
"What would your father think about the new chief, Hiccup?"
Hiccup's entire body went rigid. A shadow passed over his face, darker than any storm cloud. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely restrained fury.
You saw the exact moment Erik realized he'd crossed a line he couldn't come back from.
Toothless let out a warning growl, his spines rising along his back.
Hiccup took one step forward -- slow, deliberate. Then another.
Erik stumbled back.
"My father," Hiccup said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "would have thrown you off this dock and let the Scauldrons have you by now."
Erik paled.
Hiccup didn't touch him. Didn't need to. His gaze alone was enough to make Erik swallow hard.
"But I'm not my father," Hiccup continued, tilting his head slightly. "So I'll give you one last chance. Walk away. And if I ever see you near her again--" He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.
Erik didn't wait for the rest. He turned and fled, his boots pounding against the wooden planks.
Silence settled over the docks.
Hiccup exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly. Then he turned to you, his expression shifting from cold fury to something softer -- something uncertain.
You stared at him, heart pounding.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.
"I, uh... probably shouldn't have done that," he muttered.
You nodded, looking out over the horizon.
"Probably not. Stoick doesn't even like me, and you're tarnishing your chiefly reputation by fighting my.. Whatever he was." You hummed.
Hiccup stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the worn dock planks. "My dad didn't like me much either at first," he said quietly. "Took him a while to see what was right in front of him."
You turned to face him, the sea breeze tugging at your damp clothes. "And what's that?"
"That sometimes the things that test us the most are the only things that make sense."
You softened for a moment. Then you turned away again.
"Erik will probably never speak to me again. Or even look at me," You snorted. "You've made sure of that."
Hiccup's jaw tightened, but his voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke.
"Good."
You whipped your head around to glare at him, but the intensity in his gaze stopped you cold. The setting sun painted his profile in gold, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.
"You think I care about Erik?" Hiccup continued, eyes locked onto you. "You think I care about anyone else’s opinion when it comes to you?"
The wind carried the salt spray between you, the dock creaking beneath your feet.
"You did. You hid me, Hiccup."
Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut like he was in physical pain. For a long long moment, he just stood there.
Then he closed the distance between you in two quick strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, calloused thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"I was scared," he admitted, voice raw. "And stupid. So, so stupid."
You nodded, a watery smile on your face. The honesty and transparency for the first time in months made tears well up in your eyes.
"Yeah. You are pretty stupid."
Hiccup let out a choked laugh, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Astrid did warn me I was being an idiot."
His thumbs brushed away the tears trailing down your cheeks, his touch unbearably gentle.
"But I'm done hiding," he whispered. "Done pretending. If the whole village has to watch me lose my mind over you, then so be it."
You sniffled, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.
"Really?"
"Really." He nodded passionately, stroking your cheek again.
Leaning in, he pressed a long kiss to your forehead, savoring the feeling of your skin on his. Then, he wiped the tears from under your eyes gently.
"I love you." He admitted, eyes shining with the final freedom of being able to admit it.
You beamed.
You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. "Better late than never, Haddock."
He laced his fingers into yours, tugging you a little bit.
You stumbled, following him.
"Where are we going?"
He smiled in amusement.
"To see my dad. No more hiding, right?"
Hiccup's hand was warm and sure in yours as he led you through the village, his stride purposeful. The evening torches flickered to life around you, casting dancing shadows across his determined expression.
You squeezed his fingers. "You're serious about this? Right now?"
He didn't slow down. "Should've done it years ago," he said, throwing you a lopsided grin over his shoulder that made your heart stutter.
As you neared the Great Hall, your steps faltered. "Hiccup, wait--what if he--"
Hiccup turned abruptly, cradling your face in his hands. "Then we'll face it together," he said firmly. His thumbs traced your cheekbones. "I'm proud that it's you. We have nothing to be ashamed of."
You took a deep breath, nodding against his palms.
The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall loomed before you. Hiccup gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze before pushing them open with his free hand.
The warmth and noise of the evening feast spilled out - the clatter of tankards, boisterous laughter, the scent of roasted meat and ale. But as you stepped inside behind Hiccup, the lively atmosphere seemed to freeze in place.
Every head turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the serving wenches paused with their trays.
At the high table, Stoick set down his tankard with a heavy thud. The firelight reflected in his piercing gaze as it traveled from your joined hands up to Hiccup's determined face.
"Well," Stoick's voice boomed through the silent hall, "it's about damn time."
Hiccup's shoulders relaxed slightly. "So... you're not angry?"
Stoick snorted, stroking his beard. "Angry? Boy, I've been waiting months for you to stop moping." He raised his tankard in your direction. "I wasn't sure about the lass at first, but.. She's good at keeping you alive, whether she's trouble or not." He teased.
A ripple of laughter spread through the hall. You felt Hiccup's fingers tighten around yours as he shot back, "She's more than capable - she's been putting up with me this long, hasn't she?"
Astrid's voice rang out from the warriors' table, "And doing a better job of it than the rest of us!"
As the hall erupted in good-natured cheers and toasts, Stoick gestured you forward. "Come then, don't just stand there. Let's have a proper look at the woman who finally tamed my stubborn son."
Hiccup leaned close as you walked, his breath warm against your ear. "Told you it would be fine."
You elbowed him gently. "You were the one hiding me."
"My fault," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple that drew another round of cheers from the assembled Vikings.
And as you took your place beside Hiccup at the high table - not hidden in shadows, but proudly at his side - you realized this was where you'd always belonged. The warmth of the hall, the boisterous singing, the weight of Hiccup's arm around your shoulders - it all felt like coming home.
Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x Nomad!Reader
Summary: Turns out, Hiccup wasn't the first dragon rider -- and Toothless wasn't the last Night Fury. You prove to be a master of all things concerning the species.
Themes & Warnings: kind of enemies to lovers, fluffy at some points, violence if you squint, sick Toothless, Hiccup is kinda an ass a little bit.
Things had been fantastic.
Since his father had accepted dragons as a part of life, the world had opened up for Hiccup. He spent all of his time working with Toothless, expanding the rookery, cataloging species, sketching maps and forging new gear. The village looked to him like he actually belonged. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t “useless.” He was essential. He was happy. Toothless was even happier. His friends had dragons, too, exploring their sense of self up above the clouds just as he was.
He had finally done something right.
Until the night he met you. He lost his sense of self immediately.
One of the seamen, Golberg, came sprinting back into the center of Berk, out of breath and sweating, eyes wide. His face was beet-red, easy to see even in the dark. He knocked urgently on the chief's door, waking Hiccup in the process.
Him and his father exchanged a look before opening the door.
Golberg immediately started rushing the words out of his mouth.
Golberg sucked in a lungful of air, bent over with his hands on his knees. When he looked up, his eyes were still too wide, his voice trembling with disbelief.
“I heard the whistle! The whistle of a Night Fury! I saw the damn thing, in the sky, and there was--”
Hiccup interrupted.
“Not possible. Toothless is the last one alive.”
Golberg shook his head frantically. “I know what I saw!” he insisted, voice pitching higher. “It looked like a Night Fury -- almost exactly! But different. Bigger, maybe? And the sound -- gods, I swear it, Hiccup, it had the same shriek. The same lightless dive!”
Hiccup felt a chill crawl up his spine. Toothless stirred behind him, sensing the tension.
“Where?” Stoick asked, already turning toward his axe.
“The docks.” Golberg’s voice dropped. “It landed.”
Hiccup didn’t wait. He grabbed his flight gear and swung onto Toothless’s saddle before his father could stop him. The dragon let out a low, uneven chirp -- something between a question and a warning.
Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “You alright, bud?”
Toothless blinked, slow. His pupils were wide, body sluggish beneath him.
Strange.
Still, Hiccup tightened his grip on the saddle. “Let’s go.”
When he reached the dock, there was nothing but wet footprints. Footprints that looked exactly like Toothless's but bigger, like Golberg had mentioned, and then a set of small boot prints beside them. They reached the gravel and then disappeared.
“Damnit.” Hiccup grumbled. “They're gone.”
Toothless again stiffened up, a groan leaving his chest, before he oriented his body towards the thick line of trees across the water. He groaned again, his head shifting with more intention this time. His ears twitched toward the tree line, pupils narrowing slightly.
Hiccup followed his gaze.
A dense stretch of forest stood just beyond the edge of the inlet --dark and mist-veiled, with only the faintest shimmer of moonlight bouncing off the wet leaves. Nothing stirred. Not a single branch moved, no animal sounds. Too quiet.
Hiccup’s fingers flexed around the saddle grips.
“You smell something?” he muttered. Toothless gave a low rumble in response, tail swaying slightly.
It wasn’t just instinct. It was something deeper. Primal. A flicker of recognition from the Night Fury. Of territory being tested. Of something that felt too close, too similar… too other.
Hiccup slid off the saddle slowly, boots hitting the damp wooden dock with a muffled thud. He followed the trail where the prints ended, crouching down to touch the last visible one. Still fresh. Still wet.
Not gone. Just hiding.
He looked back at Toothless --who now stood perfectly still, shoulders hunched, wings twitching like he was bracing for a challenge.
“Okay,” Hiccup muttered under his breath, pushing up the collar of his flight suit. “If they want to play it like that…”
He drew his dagger from his belt -- not to use, but just in case. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Whoever you were, you had the nerve to fly into his village on a dragon that shouldn’t exist, insult his intelligence, and vanish into the woods like a shadow.
No. He wasn’t letting it go that easy.
And with one last glance at the still, dark trees, Hiccup stepped off the gravel path and into the forest. Toothless followed, body tense but curious. His black scales shimmered in the night glow.
The forest swallowed them whole.
No village lights reached this far. Just the occasional sliver of moonlight piercing the canopy and the steady rhythm of breath --Hiccup’s, then Toothless’s, both just a little too fast.
Twigs cracked underfoot. Moss muffled the rest. The air smelled like earth and storm.
Then, the brush moved. Deliberate. Close.
Hiccup froze. Toothless’s ears flattened. Another growl rumbled out of his throat, deeper this time, nearly a warning.
But the answer came before Hiccup could react.
A second growl. Lower. Rougher. From somewhere ahead.
Toothless surged forward, snarling, but then stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locked.
A shadow melted from between the trees like ink in water.
It was your dragon again.
And you, standing to its left, one hand still resting on the beast's side, calm like you'd been waiting.
You tilted your head. “Bringing backup?”
Hiccup didn’t sheath the dagger, but he did lower it. “Didn’t realize I’d need it.”
“Neither did I,” you replied. “But here we are.”
The tension cracked in the air between you.
Your dragon was.. Toothless. But bigger. He had broader wings, shinier scales, and sharper teeth. Instead of green eyes, his were an intimidating ice blue, pupils thin, eyes trained onto Hiccup and Toothless like he expected a fight. His wing curled around the back of you, like a protective sheath, ready to curl you inward if needed.
Your eyes widened, not as hostile as your dragon's.
“It's true.. Everything I heard is true. There is another one.” You said, almost breathlessly. You ran a hand down your dragon's side reflexively, like a calming gesture to both of you.
Hiccup’s breath hitched, a mix of disbelief and something deeper stirring in his chest. The weight of it settled like a stone -- another Night Fury. Not just a myth or a legend. Real. Alive.
Toothless shifted beside him, low growl vibrating through the air, but his eyes were softer now, watching your dragon with cautious recognition.
“You don’t look like one of us,” Hiccup said slowly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not from Berk. Where are you from?”
You met his gaze steadily, fingers still lingering against your dragon’s smooth scales. “Far from here. I’ve been chasing stories for months, trying to find the Night Fury I've been hearing of. Your Night Fury.”
Hiccup’s eyes narrowed slightly, absorbing your words. The weight of months spent searching, the desperation and hope wrapped into one, was clear in your voice. It stirred something in him -- a mix of admiration and skepticism.
“Thor,” he murmured, glancing at his dragon, who let out a soft, almost curious chirp in response. “I didn’t think anyone was still looking for them. Least of all, someone like you.”
You smiled wistfully.
“I found Perseus,” you gestured to the huge dragon beside you, “when he was small. Thrashing around in the bushes, caught in a trap. I was never like the rest of the people in my village. I didn't want to kill them and I wasn't afraid of them.”
Perseus purred, nuzzling against you.
“I raised him. Learned how he works. Learned everything about his species.. The species I thought burned out. But it seems we were wrong.”
Hiccup’s eyes softened as he studied you and Perseus, the enormity of what you were saying settling in like a dawning light. “You raised him… from a hatchling?”
You nodded, fingers gently stroking the sleek scales along Perseus’s neck. “I had to learn fast. Night Furies aren’t like other dragons, they’re elusive, intelligent, and fiercely protective. If you don’t understand that, you don’t stand a chance.”
Toothless shifted closer to you both, his gaze flickering between Perseus and his rider with growing curiosity. The unspoken connection between the two Night Furies hummed quietly in the air -- familiar, like echoes from a past no one had dared to speak of.
Hiccup swallowed hard, a strange mixture of envy and relief flooding him. “I thought Toothless was the last. That the species was gone forever.”
You smiled in amusement.
“Toothless. What a fun name.”
Hiccup blinked, a slow smile creeping onto his face despite the tension lingering between you. “Yeah, well, it fits him. He’s… unique.”
You chuckled softly, the sound light but carrying an edge of knowing. “Unique is one word for it. I imagine he’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
“Toothless?” Hiccup grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.”
The two Night Furies exchanged a brief glance, the older one’s eyes narrowing with something almost like recognition, before Perseus let out a soft, rumbling purr that seemed to say, I like him.
After the exchange, Hiccup brought you back to the village.
He couldn't decide whether it was a mistake or not.
You were loved. Immediately.
You could do things Hiccup couldn't. Perseus was new and shiny to the people of Berk, adoring fans crowding around him, but backing up when he let out a shattering roar, as if to warn people from coming too close.
Hiccup watched from a distance, a complicated knot tightening in his chest. You moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, sharing knowledge about Night Furies that left the villagers wide-eyed and eager to learn. Your connection with Perseus was undeniable -- fierce yet tender -- and the people of Berk couldn’t get enough.
But there was something else. A tension beneath the admiration. A shadow in Hiccup’s mind whispering that he was losing ground -- not just as a dragon rider, but as the village’s champion of dragon-kind.
A rivalry began.
Who could complete the most raids? Who could defend Berk better? Who caught the better approval from Stoick?
You and Hiccup were at each other's throats as soon as you could be.
One time, you showed up at the same raid, undermining each other and failing to complete it. Your eyes almost burned with irritation as you dismounted Perseus, approaching Hiccup immediately.
Hiccup wasn't much happier.
“What the hell was that, Haddock?!” you shot, voice low but fierce. “Trying to show me up? Because you just made a mess of everything.”
Hiccup’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t trying to impress you or anyone else. I was trying to keep Berk safe. Something you seemed to forget when you decided to go solo.”
Perseus growled softly behind you, wings twitching nervously, while Toothless let out a warning hiss, sensing the tension crackling between the two of you.
You stepped closer, eyes locking with his. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to be the hero, you’d see that we’re stronger together.”
Hiccup laughed bitterly, shaking his head.
“We have no business doing anything together,” he groaned, “You're only here because of your dragon. Not because we need your help.”
You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharp edge in his voice, the unspoken hurt beneath the anger. Your breath hitched, but you refused to show weakness.
“Is that what you really think?” you asked, voice steady but cold. “That I’m just some tagalong riding a flashy dragon? Maybe I’m here because I want to protect Berk. Just like you.”
Hiccup’s eyes narrowed, pain flickering there before the stubborn shield went back up. “It’s not the same. You don’t belong here.”
Perseus rumbled low, a protective growl that vibrated through your bones. You wrapped a hand around his neck, grounding yourself.
“I belong wherever I decide to stand,” you said softly but firmly. “And right now, that’s here. Whether you like it or not.”
For a moment, the silence between you was thick enough to cut. Then Toothless stepped forward, nudging Hiccup’s arm, breaking the tension -- a silent reminder that neither of you were alone in this.
He could've sworn he saw a tear glisten in your eye before you stalked off. Perseus stuck behind for a second, grumbling at Hiccup judgmentally, a warning growl.
Hiccup stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring after you as your silhouette vanished into the darkening woods. The raw vulnerability beneath your fierce words twisted in his gut, conflicting with his stubborn pride.
Toothless shifted beside him, letting out a low, almost mournful hiss, before glancing up at Hiccup with those wide, knowing eyes.
Weeks stretched before you and Hiccup interacted again. You’d even been in the same place without speaking. You trained with the rest of the group, but you didn’t train with Hiccup and Toothless. You focused on training Perseus with the larger dragons, namely Snotlout (annoying and far too flirty) and his dragon Hookfang. You sometimes trained with the twins and their Zippleback too, but once again, Tuffnut got a little too comfortable with you.
Today, Perseus had done well. He always did, really. There was something odd about the session though.
Hiccup and Toothless hadn’t even shown up, they were nowhere to be found at all. So you, unfortunately, were kind of off your game. You looked off into the horizon, expecting to see Hiccup on Toothless’s saddle, apologizing awkwardly for being late. But the moment never came.
“Babe!” Snotlout called, gliding up next to you. You felt the heat off Hookfang’s scales seeping into your clothes. “Focus. What are you looking at?”
You rolled your eyes. “Babe? What have I told you about calling me babe, Snotlout?”
Snotlout grinned, completely unbothered. “That it gets under your skin.” He leaned a little too far toward you, raising his eyebrows. “Which I take as a sign you secretly like it.”
Hookfang let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Perseus curled his lip, baring a row of glinting white teeth. The threat was clear -- one flap closer and Hookfang wasn’t the only one Snotlout had to worry about.
You sighed and gently tugged Perseus back with a hand on his jaw. “Back, boy. He’s not worth the energy.”
Snotlout raised both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your tail in a twist. Just trying to lighten the mood.” He squinted at you, then glanced toward the distant cliffs beyond Berk. “You’ve been twitchy all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried.”
You stiffened slightly, trying to hide the way your eyes flicked to the sky again. Still no sign of Hiccup or Toothless.
“I’m not worried,” you lied. “I’m just… distracted.”
“Mhm,” Snotlout said, clearly not buying it. “Well, for what it’s worth, I heard Hiccup was out early this morning. Didn’t say where he was going, just packed some gear and flew off. Toothless didn’t even say goodbye to Hookfang. Can you believe that? Rude.”
That sinking feeling returned in your stomach. Hiccup might have been petty -- and kind of a jerk when he wanted to be -- but he wasn’t reckless. Not without a reason. And not without telling anyone.
Your voice was quieter when you finally spoke. “Did he say anything to anyone?”
Snotlout shrugged. “Not that I heard. Maybe Fishlegs would know more. He and Hiccup always talk nerd stuff.”
You gave a quick nod, pulling Perseus around with a soft whistle. The massive Night Fury immediately followed, wings twitching with tension.
Snotlout called after you with a lazy wave. “Try not to miss me too much!”
You didn’t even glance back. You were already scanning the skies, muttering under your breath.
“Where the hell did you go, Haddock?”
Surprisingly, you didn’t have to go far.
When you went into the village to get some gear in preparation to go hunt them down, you found that they were already home.
Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. Hiccup answered, worry in his eyes, poorly disguised as annoyance to see you.
“Y/n. I’m kind of busy right now.”
Your brows drew together immediately. You could see it in Hiccup’s face -- the exhaustion, the unspoken panic. His shirt was wrinkled, collar askew, and his hair was a mess like he’d been running his hands through it nonstop. Something was wrong.
“Busy?” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady. “I noticed. You disappeared without a word and didn’t show up for training. Toothless didn’t show up either. And now you look like you haven’t slept.”
Hiccup sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
That stung. You stepped forward anyway, peering over his shoulder, and your heart dropped.
Toothless was curled up on the floor behind him, his massive form sluggish, wings drooping over the sides of the rug. His breathing was uneven, too slow. His scales, normally iridescent and alive with movement, looked dull under the dim firelight.
Your voice softened, forgetting every ounce of rivalry between you. “Hiccup…”
“He wouldn’t eat,” Hiccup muttered, stepping aside reluctantly to let you in. “Didn’t fly right. He nearly crashed this morning, so I brought him back. He’s been like this since.” He dragged a hand down his face. “And I have no idea what’s wrong.”
You dropped your gear beside the doorway and approached Toothless slowly. Perseus, waiting outside, let out a soft, distressed hum that vibrated through the wood of the hut. You crouched beside the dragon, resting a hand against his muzzle.
He didn’t flinch, but the touch made his eye flicker open. It was hazy. Unfocused.
You took that as a sign that he wasn't hostile. Leaning down further, you calmly smoothed your hand across his head, starting from his jaw and ending by his folded ears. You frowned, biting your lip. He was warm. Feverish.
“I’ve seen this before,” you cleared your throat, standing. “He’s sick. Perseus has been through it, too. I called it Scorchrot.”
Hiccup blinked. “Scorchrot?”
You nodded grimly. “It hits Night Furies harder than other dragons. Starts with a fever, then weakness in the wings and limbs. If untreated, it can affect their fire glands -- that’s where the name comes from. They burn too hot on the inside, like they’re rotting from the core.”
Hiccup paled slightly, glancing back at Toothless. “How did you treat it?”
“Well, there's a medicine I can make that helped Perseus a lot. Also, cool compresses, a temporary shift in diet -- no fish, just soft roots and rainwater -- and something to lower his body temperature.”
Hiccup ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “Medicine? What kind of--what do you need? Herbs? Minerals? Just tell me and I’ll get it.”
You gave him a steady look. “I’ll need frostleaf, ground thistle root, and dried skybloom petals. They’re rare this far north, but I saw some near the cliffs when I flew in.”
He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders tight as wire. “Right. Okay. I’ll get them.”
You hesitated before stepping forward, voice softer. “You don’t have to do it alone. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me with this. I’ve done it before.”
He met your eyes, something shifting behind his, pride, maybe. Or fear disguised as pride.
“I’m not worried about trusting you,” he muttered. “I’m worried about losing him.”
Your expression softened. “Then we fix him. Together.”
A quiet moment passed. Then, from behind, a weak thrum of a purr came from Toothless’s throat -- hoarse, but there. Alive. Reaching.
Perseus, still just outside the hut, let out a low, supportive hum. He wouldn’t leave either.
And maybe, for the first time in weeks, the rivalry didn’t matter so much.
“Can you.. Will you stay here with him? I don't want him to be alone.”
Hiccup acted like it literally burned his throat to ask for help, but you accepted, smiling softly.
“Yeah. I'll stay.”
You moved back toward Toothless, kneeling at his side again with quiet care. His tail twitched at your presence, just barely, and you stroked along his jaw, murmuring something low and soothing. His eyes fluttered, half-lidded, but calmer now.
Hiccup lingered in the doorway, watching the way your hand moved so naturally, how Perseus let out another soft trill from outside, keeping vigil.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.
You didn’t look up. “Go get what we need. We’ll be here when you get back.”
There was a beat -- like he wanted to say something more -- but he only nodded. Then he was gone, off into the thickening clouds of the afternoon, chasing herbs and hope like his life depended on it.
Inside the hut, the heat from Toothless’s fever pulsed faintly in the air. You leaned into it, not shrinking away, fingers steady on his scales.
“We’re gonna take care of you,” you whispered.
When Hiccup returned, you were holding a cold compress to Toothless's head tenderly, stroking his scales. You'd loosed your hair from your braid, the curls tumbling down your back in soft waves -- before you even realized he was there, you cooed, speaking gently to the dragon. It was your nature, he'd realized. You were amazing with them, like you'd known how to love a dragon your entire life. Because in all honesty, you did.
This was the first time he wasn't envious of it. He leaned against the doorframe watching you, an unusual feeling building in his chest.
No envy. No distaste as there usually was. Just.. watching you. Watching how you worked. Watching how your h/c hair blew gently in the wind from the open window. Watching how you turned to smile at Perseus, who had somehow managed to curl his massive form around you on the floor.
You were beautiful.
The thought made Hiccup wince. Why the hell was he doing this?
Because for once, he wasn’t trying to win.
Not a raid. Not a title. Not Stoick’s approval.
Not even a rivalry.
Just--this. Toothless, sick but stable. Perseus curled around you like a shield. You, eyes soft and voice softer, hands moving like you'd done this a thousand times, like dragons were born trusting you.
Hiccup tightened his grip on the bundle of herbs in his arms, unsure what to do with the sudden ache blooming in his chest. You weren’t supposed to be beautiful. You weren’t supposed to be gentle and fierce in the same breath. You were supposed to be frustrating. Competitive. Impossible.
But now? You were kneeling in his hut, taking care of the creature he loved most in the world like he was your own. And for the first time, Hiccup felt like maybe you weren’t just here because of Perseus. Maybe you weren’t just a threat.
Maybe… you were something else entirely.
He stepped inside quietly, setting down the supplies. You turned, surprised but smiling.
“There you are,” you said softly. “I was starting to think you got lost.”
And just like that, Hiccup found himself smiling back.
“Not a chance,” he murmured, eyes flicking to Toothless. “Couldn’t stay away.” Then quieter, “From either of you.”
He winced, turning his head to apologize for being weird, but he hadn't realized that you'd already gotten started on preparing the medicine, probably having taken the herbs from his arms while he was staring like a moron.
His face flushed.
Get it together, Hiccup.
You hadn’t said anything about the comment -- at least not out loud -- so he was really hoping that you hadn't even heard it. If you had, you let it pass. Maybe out of kindness. Maybe because your focus was entirely on Toothless.
Your fingers worked with practiced ease, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle, mixing them with a dark amber liquid that smelled earthy and sharp. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. Hiccup stayed quiet, hovering nearby with his hands in his pockets like some awkward apprentice.
“Help me lift his head?” you asked, glancing up with that same infuriating, gentle confidence you always had. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you didn’t need him but still wanted him there.
He nodded quickly, grateful to have something to do. As he cradled Toothless’s heavy head, you brought the bowl close, dipping a small ladle into it and holding it near the dragon’s mouth.
Toothless didn’t resist. He trusted you. That fact alone made Hiccup’s chest ache.
You sat back on your heels after the last of the mixture was gone, brushing your hands on your thighs. “He’ll need another dose tomorrow, but this should bring the fever down.”
Hiccup set Toothless’s head back onto the cushions gently and looked at you again.
And this time, when he looked, he really saw you.
Not the rival who beat him at raids. Not the outsider who dazzled Berk. Not the competition.
Just you.
Exhausted but unwavering. Fierce but kind. Beautiful, yes but in that wild, maddening way he never saw coming.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks. For… everything.”
You met his gaze, softer now. “I’m not here to steal your dragon, you know.”
“I know,” Hiccup said, voice low. “I think I just… didn’t know how to let someone help.”
You tilted your head, studying him, something unreadable behind your eyes.
“Well,” you said, finally, “you’re doing better than most.”
And he smiled. A real one. Small, crooked. Honest.
You stood to leave, gathering your things. A small wave of your scent hit his nose -- flowers, smoke from a fire, and leather grease.
He watched as you slung your pack over your shoulder, fingers deft and sure, the same hands that had soothed Toothless back from the edge. You didn’t look at him right away, maybe on purpose, maybe because you didn’t want to break the strange quiet that had settled.
And maybe he didn’t either.
You were halfway to the door when Hiccup found his voice again.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You paused, glancing over your shoulder.
And there it was again -- that look. Like you could see through him without even trying. Like you already knew what he was going to say.
Still, he said it.
“…Thanks for staying.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks for letting me.”
And then you were gone, the door closing quietly behind you. The scent of flowers, fire, and leather grease lingering like a memory.
Hiccup stood there a long time after you left, watching the door, listening to Toothless’s steady breathing, wondering when everything had stopped being so simple.
And why the thought of seeing you again tomorrow suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.
Over the next week, Hiccup watched you like he had the first night you'd been there. Watched you care for Toothless while he was sick. Watched you help the both of them through his recovery, helping the dragon regain his strength and teaching Hiccup how to help too.
You guided his hands to where he needed to hold Toothless, supporting him in regaining limb strength. Hiccup wasn't sure if he'd felt such soft, yet firm hands in his life. They were warm too.
And every time your fingers brushed his, by accident, or maybe not, Hiccup’s mind blanked for a second too long.
At first, he told himself it was just proximity. Just admiration. You were helping Toothless, after all -- he’d be an idiot not to appreciate that. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you smiled when Toothless lifted his head for the first time without help. The way you murmured encouragement into the crook of his neck when his limbs trembled from fatigue. The way you praised Hiccup when he got it right, voice soft and proud, like it mattered to you.
Eventually, Toothless was himself again.
You cheered in happiness when he finally took flight, darting around the sky, diving like he used to. Perseus joined him, flying around in circles.
You stood with your hands cupped around your mouth, calling out to them both like a proud parent, laughter spilling from your lips as Toothless and Perseus twirled through the sky like black comets.
Hiccup stood beside you, unable to take his eyes off either of you -- not the dragons, not the joy on your face. Your eyes glowed with the reflected fire of the setting sun, and something about the moment twisted in his chest, bittersweet and beautiful.
“He’s really back,” you breathed, eyes tracking Toothless as he executed a perfect loop. “I was scared he wouldn’t be.”
Hiccup glanced sideways at you, his voice quiet. “Me too.”
Perseus roared playfully mid-air, and Toothless responded with a trilling chirp before they dove together, a synchronized flash of wings and light. Their bond was no longer wary or foreign. It was something else now. Familiar. Like they’d always known each other.
Kind of like… you and Hiccup.
You turned toward him just then, and he realized how close you were standing. Shoulder to shoulder. You’d always felt like competition before. But now, you felt like something else. Like part of his team.
“You helped him get here,” Hiccup said, voice low, a little rough. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”
You blinked, surprised at the honesty. Then your lips curled into a slow smile. “Well, Haddock, maybe you’re not so bad at letting someone help after all.”
He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
You nudged him gently with your elbow. “Too late.”
The dragons whooshed overhead again, close enough for a gust of wind to tousle your hair. As you both watched them chase each other across the sky, Hiccup wasn’t sure what tomorrow would look like -- but for once, he hoped it looked a lot like today.
When he returned home, his dad sat in his chair, reading from a big thick book. He looked up from it, smiling knowingly.
“Hiccup. How's Toothless today?”
Hiccup paused in the doorway, caught off guard by the warm familiarity in Stoick’s voice -- and the knowing look in his eyes. He stepped inside slowly, brushing the wind from his hair and shrugging off his riding gear.
“He’s better,” Hiccup said, glancing out the window for a moment as if he could still see the dragons dancing in the air. “Flying again. Strong.”
Stoick nodded, pleased. “And the other one? Perseus?”
“Also good,” Hiccup replied, then hesitated. “They’ve started flying together. It’s like they’ve known each other longer than we have.”
He closed the book, placing it down on the table next to him.
“You're right to be fond of that one. Y/n. She's fantastic with the dragons.”
Hiccup's jaw dropped immediately, his face burning. What was his Dad insinuating?
“Dad! We're not--”
Stoick interrupted, putting his hand up to silence him.
“My boy. There's no shame in it. She's fair in the face, she's honorable, and she’s got a spirit fiercer than any dragon I’ve ever met. A fine match for a chief’s son, don’t you think?”
Hiccup sputtered, his ears turning as red as a Monstrous Nightmare’s flame. “I--I don’t--we’re just friends! We train dragons together, that’s all!”
Stoick leaned back in his chair, his knowing smile widening. “Aye, and I just happened to notice the way you look at her when she’s not paying attention.”
Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, Thor.”
His father’s laughter boomed through the hall. “Relax, son. I’m only teasing.” He paused, then added with a softer tone, “But if there were something more… well, I’d be happy for you.”
Hiccup exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well. Thanks, Dad.” He shot a glance toward the door, desperate for an escape. “I should, uh… go check on Toothless. Again.”
Stoick waved him off, still grinning. “Go on, then. Just remember--dragons aren’t the only things worth chasing. Betrothal is just as important.”
Hiccup nearly tripped over his own feet on the way out.
The next day, everyone resumed training, pleased that Toothless was well again. He was the last one there, quickly saddling Toothless and climbing on. Looking up in the sky, he saw you already up there, Perseus dipping and blowing targets apart with blue flames. You giggled and cheered, praising him, your braid blowing in the frantic winds.
He could've swooned.
Tuffnut stood next to him, his arms crossed, smirking in that dumb Tuffnut sort of way.
"Wow," Tuffnut drawled, nudging Hiccup with his elbow. "You’ve got it bad."
Hiccup startled, nearly dropping Toothless’ saddle strap. "What? No I don’t." He fumbled with the buckle, refusing to look up. "I was just… assessing Perseus’ flight form. Y’know, as the resident dragon expert."
Tuffnut snorted. "Uh-huh. And I assess Fishlegs’ lunch every day before I steal it. Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry." He leaned in, grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re smitten."
"I am not smitten," Hiccup hissed, finally securing the saddle and swinging onto Toothless’ back. "And even if I were--which I’m not--it’s none of your business."
Tuffnut clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, but it is! As your best friend--"
"You’re not my best friend."
"--I have a sacred duty to point out when you’re being ridiculous." Tuffnut smirked. "And right now? You’re being ridiculous."
"Ooooh, Hiccup’s got a crush!" Ruffnut’s voice carried across the training arena as she and Astrid strolled up, both wearing matching grins.
Astrid crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were too busy being the ‘Dragon Master’ to notice anything else."
Hiccup groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh, come on. You too, Astrid?"
"What? I call it like I see it," Astrid said with a smirk. "And I see you staring at Y/n like she just invented fire."
Ruffnut cackled, elbowing Tuffnut. "Told you! Even Astrid noticed!"
Hiccup’s face burned. "I do not stare--"
"You literally just sighed when she did that barrel roll," Tuffnut cut in.
"I was impressed by Perseus’ flying!" Hiccup protested weakly.
"Uh-huh," Ruffnut said, rolling her eyes. "And I’m just here for the free mead."
Astrid shook her head, still grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re obvious."
Just then, you and Perseus swooped down, landing gracefully beside them. "What’s obvious?" you asked, hopping off your dragon and brushing off your tunic.
The twins exchanged exaggerated glances.
"Oh, nothing," Tuffnut said innocently. "Just Hiccup’s undying admiration for--"
"DRAGON TRAINING!" Hiccup blurted, cutting him off. "We should, uh, get back to it. Right now. Immediately."
You blinked. "…Okay?"
Toothless gave Hiccup a flat look, as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?
Astrid snorted. "Smooth, Haddock. Real smooth."
Hiccup buried his face in his hands as the twins howled with laughter.
Some days, being the future chief was really overrated.
At the end of training, Hiccup knew where to find you. Just where you usually were -- watching the sunset at the edge of the cliff with Perseus.
Your skin glowed in the orange sunlight, boot clad feet dangling from the edge as you scratched Perseus behind his ear. You hummed to an old folk song, staring out at the sun. Hiccup landed behind you, unclipping himself from his gear, before slowly starting to approach you.
Toothless, ever the mischievous wingman, nudged Hiccup forward with a low, encouraging warble, nearly sending him stumbling.
"Hey," Hiccup said, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped beside you. "Mind if I join you?"
You glanced up, smiling. "Only if you promise not to trip over your own feet this time and make Toothless dive to catch you."
"Hey, that was one time--" he protested, but you just laughed and patted the spot next to you.
Perseus rumbled in greeting as Hiccup sat down, his tail thumping against the ground like an overgrown cat’s. The sunset painted the sky in fiery golds and deep purples, the ocean below shimmering with reflected light.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the wind, the distant cries of dragons, and the steady rhythm of the waves.
Then;
"So," you said, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Heard you’ve been admiring my flying."
Hiccup choked. "Oh, for Thor's sake--who told you that?"
You grinned. "Let’s just say the twins aren’t great at keeping secrets."
"I’m going to strangle them," Hiccup muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
You laughed again, leaning back on your hands. "Relax. I think it’s sweet."
His heart did a weird little flip. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Another pause. Then, softer:
"I admire yours too, you know."
Hiccup turned to look at you, really look at you. The way the fading light caught in your eyes, the way your lips quirked in that half-smile he’d come to memorize.
And suddenly, all the teasing, all the nerves, none of it mattered.
Because right here, right now?
This was perfect.
Toothless and Perseus exchanged a glance, then deliberately turned their backs, giving you two the closest thing to privacy two nosy dragons could manage.
"Hiccup?"
"Yeah?'
You cleared your throat.
"I know you thought I came here to.. take your place. Dull your shine. Whatever it was, but," you started to talk, turning in his direction. "I never felt like I had a place before I got here. I was always running, trying to figure out where I belonged. You make me feel like I have a home. A place where I fit perfectly."
Hiccup’s breath caught in his throat. The way you said it, so raw, so honest, hit him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he couldn’t speak.
Then, softly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours.
"You do belong here," he said, voice rough with emotion. "And not just because of Perseus, or because you’re an amazing dragon rider--though, y’know, that definitely helps."
You laughed, but your eyes were suspiciously bright.
Hiccup swallowed, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "You belong here because… because Berk is better with you in it. I’m better with you in it." He huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "And trust me, that’s saying something, because I was really doing well before you showed up."
You leaned into him, shoulder against shoulder, warmth seeping through the contact. "Your dad told me some stories.. about when you were younger. From what I hear, you're a lot different than you were."
Hiccup groaned, his face flushing. "Oh no. What did he tell you? Please don’t say it was the eel incident--"
You grinned, mischief dancing in your eyes. "Oh, it was definitely the eel incident."
"I was twelve!" Hiccup threw his free hand up in exasperation, but he was laughing despite himself. "And in my defense, eels are slippery."
You leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He also told me about the time you tried to impress Astrid by jumping off the Great Hall--"
"Okay, wow, I see how it is," Hiccup interrupted, shaking his head. "My own father, sabotaging me. Some chief he is."
You nudged him, still grinning. "I think it’s sweet. He’s proud of you. And he likes me."
Hiccup softened, his thumb still absently tracing circles on your hand. "Yeah, well. You’re kind of impossible not to like."
The words hung between you, quiet but weighty. The sun had fully set now, leaving only the glow of the village fires below and the endless scatter of stars above.
When he finally glanced down, he saw your e/c eyes looking back up at him. The moonlight reflected in them, your eyelids slightly low. You studied his appearance like a painting, like you'd never seen anything more detailed.
This was the first time you'd looked at him like this. The first time you looked at him like he was something other than transparent.
Hiccup’s breath hitched.
There was something new in your gaze -- something intentional, something certain -- and it sent his pulse skittering like a startled Terrible Terror. Your fingers tightened ever so slightly around his, anchoring him in the moment.
For once, Hiccup Haddock didn’t overthink.
He didn’t stumble.
He just leaned in.
Hiccup’s first brush of lips against yours was hesitant: sweet, questioning, as if he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. But when you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, something in him ignited.
His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers tangling gently in your hair as the kiss deepened. Your lips parted, and the taste of him -- warm, faintly of hearth-smoke and wild mint -- sent a shiver down your spine. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat against your own.
The world fell away.
There was only this: the heat of his touch, the rough calluses of his fingers against your skin, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip. A low, desperate sound escaped him, and he kissed you like he was drowning and you were air.
When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against yours, his voice ragged.
"I’ve wanted to do that… for weeks. Ever since you first helped me with Toothless."
You smiled, thumb brushing the flushed curve of his cheekbone. "Took you long enough."
Hiccup laughed, breathless, his eyes dark and burning in the moonlight. "Yeah, well… I’m a slow learner."
"Liar," you whispered. "You’re the quickest one I’ve ever met."
His grin was wicked. "Prove it."
And then his mouth was on yours again, hungry and sure this time, swallowing your laugh as he kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.
And maybe, just for tonight -- it was.
Until you heard slow clapping behind you. You broke apart, rolling your eyes, and turned in Hiccup's lap.
Ruffnut and Tuffnut.
"Bra-vo!" Ruffnut drawled, clapping with exaggerated slowness. "And here I thought Hiccup’s only talent was tripping over his own feet."
Tuffnut wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "So beautiful. So pure. I think I’m gonna be sick."
Hiccup groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "I swear to Odin, if you two don’t vanish in the next three seconds--"
"Ooooh, scary!" Ruffnut cackled, elbowing her brother. "Think he’ll sic Toothless on us?"
Toothless, still sprawled dramatically on the ground, cracked one eye open--then promptly rolled onto his back, paws in the air, as if to say, Don’t involve me in this nonsense.
You sighed, twisting to smirk at Hiccup. "We could just ignore them."
Hiccup raised an eyebrow. "You think that’ll work?"
"Worth a shot."
"Actually," you smirked, "hold on."
And then -- without breaking eye contact -- you tapped Perseus's side, waking him up. His blue eyes opened slowly, then narrowed playfully. His throat released a growl, not malice, but pretending to be. His main goal was scaring the twins.
He didn't disappoint. The growl rumbled the dirt, stirring pebbles up.
The effect was instantaneous.
Tuffnut yelped, backpedaling so fast he nearly tripped over his own axe. "WHOA -- OKAY -- WE’RE LEAVING!"
Ruffnut, to her credit, stood her ground for a grand total of two seconds before Perseus exhaled an ear piercing roar.
"Alright, alright! Jeez!" She threw her hands up, but her grin was all mischief. "But just know -- this isn’t over! You two lovebirds are officially our new favorite entertainment!"
And with that, the twins bolted, their laughter fading into the night as Perseus gave a satisfied rumble and flopped back down, tail thumping like a pleased cat.
Hiccup stared after them, then turned to you, eyes wide. "…Did you just weaponize your dragon to scare off the twins?"
You shrugged, scratching Perseus under the chin. "What can I say? He’s got range."
Hiccup burst out laughing, pulling you back against him. "You," he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, "are terrifying."
You smirked. "And you love it."
"Yeah," he admitted, his voice soft. "I really do."
And as Perseus and Toothless settled in beside you -- one pretending to sleep, the other already actually snoring -- Hiccup decided something:
Synopsis: Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isn’t the rookie you left in Raccoon City, he’s colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Mission-Driven Angst
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery
Words: 12k
The corn stalks whip at your arms and face, their sharp edges leaving stinging trails across your skin. Every breath burns, the damp air heavy with the stench of earth and rot. Spain has been unkind since the moment your boots touched its soil. The villages are hollowed-out shells, the people nothing more than puppets for something far darker.
You press forward anyway. Orders are orders: infiltrate, gather intel, eliminate Ramon Salazar if the opportunity presents itself. Simple words on paper, but the reality is blood, paranoia, and the gnawing weight of isolation.
The cornfield feels endless, each rustle too loud, every shifting shadow a threat waiting to pounce. When you finally break free, it’s almost worse, an open stretch of dirt path leading to ancient stone buildings, their walls cracked and leaning like tired old bones. The silence here is suffocating, pressing against your ears until even your own heartbeat sounds like a beacon.
You sink low, pressing yourself against the jagged stone. The air is thicker here, heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood, though you can’t tell if it’s yours or someone else’s.
Movement.
Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.
Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.
You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.
For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.
You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.
You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.
And then you hear it.
Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.
The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.
The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.
You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.
You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.
Then they’re on you.
The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.
You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.
They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.
Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.
Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.
Stalemate.
You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.
Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.
Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.
And then you see them.
Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.
It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.
The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.
Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:
“…Leon?”
For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.
Leon.
It’s him, but not.
Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.
The man in front of you now is nothing like that.
His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.
But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.
They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.
There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.
And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.
For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.
Then it’s gone.
Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.
His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real, or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.
“...You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.
“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.
You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.
The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.
His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:
“Tell me. Now.”
But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”
His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.
“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”
For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.
“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.
Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.
But his shoulders don’t relax.
They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.
He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.
The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.
Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:
“You don’t belong in this place.”
Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.
Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.
“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.
You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.
“The castle.”
For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.
“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”
The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.
You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”
Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.
But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.
And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.
The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.
You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.
The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.
Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.
The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.
There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.
You look away, heart hammering.
“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.
You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.
The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.
And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.
The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.
Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.
It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.
The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.
A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.
Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.
“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.
“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.
You trust it.
They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.
Back to back, you spin as one.
He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.
Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.
For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.
But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.
The night quiets.
You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.
Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.
As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.
But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.
And you hate how much you miss it.
Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.
“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.
Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.
“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”
He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.
The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.
The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.
You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.
“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”
You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”
That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.
“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.
“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”
You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”
His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”
“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”
The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.
Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.
You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.
“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.
You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.
“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”
Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.
“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”
His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.
But not fast enough.
His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.
“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”
The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.
The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.
Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.
While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.
It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.
When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.
No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.
He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.
The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.
You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:
“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”
The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.
Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.
You don’t answer him. Not with words.
Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.
You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.
“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”
His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.
He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.
But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.
“Thanks.”
The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.
You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.
Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.
At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.
But it doesn’t last.
A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.
Your eyes snap open.
The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.
And that’s when you see it.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.
His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.
You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.
“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.
The words light a fire in your chest.
“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.
But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.
Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.
“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.
Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.
The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.
You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”
“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”
“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”
For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.
“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”
You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”
The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.
You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.
Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.
When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.
You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”
Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”
You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”
His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.
For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.
And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.
You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.
Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.
He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.
Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:
“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.
The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.
“No. I don’t.”
You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.
Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.
Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.
Then nothing.
You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.
You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.
Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.
And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.
You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.
The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.
Leon is already awake. Of course he is.
He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.
You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.
You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.
When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.
“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”
You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.
Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.
For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.
The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.
When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.
“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”
Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”
“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”
“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”
The words sting more than they should. Trust me.
You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.
For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.
Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:
“Some things never change.”
You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”
Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”
You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”
That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.
“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”
The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”
Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.
“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”
The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.
You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”
His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”
That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.
“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”
Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”
Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.
Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.
The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.
Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.
Silence swallows what’s left.
You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.
The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.
You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.
It feels like a line carved through more than stone.
“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.
Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
The words cut sharper than any goodbye.
You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.
He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.
The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.
You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.
He swallows them down.
“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.
Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.
“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.
The words hang there, heavy, final.
You nod once. Nothing more.
Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.
Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.
The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.
But he forces them down.
When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.
The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.
And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.
The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.
You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.
Salazar is dead.
The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.
The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.
The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.
You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.
The silence is unbearable.
You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.
The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.
You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.
But the words feel empty.
Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.
You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.
The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.
The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.
Until it hits you.
The memory.
You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.
You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…
God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.
Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.
He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.
You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”
For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.
“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”
You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”
Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”
And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.
But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:
“Come with me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”
He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.
“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”
The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.
You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.
But you know you can’t.
“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”
His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.
“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”
You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.
“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.
“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.
“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”
The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.
You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.
The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.
“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”
The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.
So you say nothing.
The silence is worse than any refusal.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.
“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.
So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.
He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.
When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.
The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.
Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.
You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.
It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.
Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.
But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.
“Going so soon?”
You freeze.
The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.
He’s there.
Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.
For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.
“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.
But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.
Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.
You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.
The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.
Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.
For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.
His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.
It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.
Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.
Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.
For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.
The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.
Then, finally, Leon speaks.
“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”
Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.
Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”
The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.
Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.
He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.
“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”
Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.
“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”
You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.
And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.
A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.
The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.
Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.
“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”
You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.
“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.
Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”
The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.
“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”
The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.
For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.
For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
Then something in him breaks.
He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”
You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.
The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.
He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.
Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.
When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.
“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.
And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.
sum; as an ex villain with your own grudge against heroes, you weren't particularly tickled by the fact that your boss was an ex hero who had definitely almost gotten you caught a few times. Robert Robertson was a pain to work with for a long while, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he didn't hate you like you claimed to hate him.
content; unprofessional relations, f!reader is z-team member with briefly mentioned telekinesis, z-team plays a decent role in this, slow burn but not really its just a lot of tension and denial, sort of enemies to lovers, alcohol consumption, reader is hit on and groped once non-consensually by a stranger, a bit of an emotional freak out for reader, unprotected sex, oral (m!receiving), hair pulling, robert and reader are both clueless idiots, small switch!robert mentions :3
wc; 15k
a/n; okay so i think my new thing is gonna be disappearing for a month and coming back with a 10k+ fic .... just kidding—but it's been hard to write lately. I've had this, a mandy fic, and an invisiblazer x reader fic stuck in my drafts since fucking november. good news is i'm going insane over leon as of late, so i may or may not drop an re4 leon fic soon... we hope!
You hated him. Robert Robertson III. He was a moody asshole who had too big of a heart that was only used a single piece of it on rare occasions.
Well, that's what you thought he was. Because you two didn't get along very well. He was too bossy for your liking. He got a pass for some of it, but he crossed lines when he tried to act like he knew your life story.
What did that result in? Constant bickering. You got along with Flambae and Prism, which meant you had endless ammo to tease him with names. He had a higher advantage of his position at work, but other than that, he couldn't do much. He'd threaten to cut you from the team, but he knew it wouldn't be the end for you. He knew you didn't care enough. You'd done your mandatory time in the Phoenix program, so this was just for the pay and time out of your apartment.
Over the comms, Robert's voice scratched as he lectured you about staying on route. You huffed, gum popping in your mouth as you remained on the shortcut.
"I'm getting there faster, what's the issue?" You grumbled.
"The issue is you not listening to orders."
"Bob-bob, none of us like to listen to you." Flambae chimed in over comms, currently resting in the break room.
"He's right. Also, no offense, man, but you suck at picking routes." Sonar, on his way to his own assignment, quipped on his end.
"God, you're all a fucking nightmare. Just do your damn jobs and get back here. We have a meeting during lunch." Robert sighed heavily.
"What? During lunch?" You and Malevola seemed to complain in unison, a collective groan erupting from the entire team.
"Yes. It's just our end of the month discussion." He murmured, hand pinching at the bridge of his nose.
Nobody liked the monthly meetings. It was always bullshit to the majority of the team. Just performance reviews, talking about teamwork, etc. It was a drag every single time.
"Why isn't it at the end of the day like normal?" Invisigal asked, the sound of crunching being heard. Probably a hard candy she was eating, you assumed.
"Because Blazer is leaving early today, she adjusted her schedule to fit it in during lunch. At least she didn't put us in her 8am slot. Be happy." Robert explained, keyboard and mouse clacking as he checked everyone's status and location while the conversation died down.
Later, during the meeting, you were a few minutes late. Before Blazer or Robert could ask about your reason, you flung a pen at Robert's forehead, stunning him momentarily. He blinked, processing your situation.
Soaked. Mud covering your knees, smeared along your chest and chin.
"If you send me on a mission with Waterboy again, you might meet your maker." You threatened, taking the nearest empty seat—unfortunately stuck between Robert and Golem. Golem wasn't an issue. He was great. Robert was the issue.
"Oh, boy." Blazer inhaled sharply, brows quirked up with worry.
"Watch where you're going, and maybe it wouldn't be an issue. You know Waterboy makes puddles." Robert shrugged. His lack of care only made you more frustrated.
You looked at Blazer, stifling the scowl that threatened to decorate your face.
"Why don't we get started? Looks like everyone's here." She cleared her throat, looking around to take a quick head count. "Great. Now, overall.."
The entire meeting became background noise as you stared holes into the side and back of Robert's head. In your frustrated staring and sulking, you noticed things. He wasn't ugly. Far from it, really.
The chipped ear, the constantly messy hair, the stubble that told you he definitely hadn't shaved in a bit, the eternally tired look in his eyes, and... he had freckles. Huh. Who would've known? Not you. You usually sit farther during meetings, but given your late showing, you were stuck there.
At the end of the meeting, Robert waited, occupying himself with Blazer in a hushed conversation as everyone filed out. Before you could file out with Sonar, you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder. Robert. You knew it was him by the grasp. Not rough, not friendly. Just a grasp for attention. You turned, and you swore your eye twitched at his next words.
"I'd like to talk to you privately." He said, his voice annoyingly deep, exhausted.
You didn't respond as you nudged his hand away and sat back down, watching as Waterboy was the last to leave with Blazer, the door closing quietly behind them.
"You've been distracted recently." He started, blunt.
"Don't know what you mean." You shrugged.
"Let's not play that game. You're off your game. You're not usually this bothered by Waterboy, nor do you fall into his puddles. You pay attention. You notice everything." He stepped closer, arms crossing as he squinted slightly, brows knitted together in that way that was so him.
"Fuck, you're watching me like that? What's next—you know my fucking sleep habits?" You scoffed, looking away.
"No. But I can tell that you're losing sleep, too. Insomniacs recognize, y'know." He leaned his hip on the table, exhaling heavily.
"So, what's the point of this if you know I'm losing sleep?" You asked.
"You're costing yourself a lot when you can't meet your own reputation. Blazer wanted me to check on you because of your... success rate drop." He said, voice careful near the end.
"Just tired. Stressed. It's just that time of year." You waved it off.
"It's January." He deadpanned.
"Exactly. New year depression. The fuck else do you want me to say? You're not my therapist."
"No. But you should probably look into therapy. It'd do you wonders."
"Oh, please, you're one to talk, Mr. Daddy Issues." You laughed, rising from your seat and stepping past, your shoulder nudging him unintentionally. Robert scowled faintly at your quip.
"I'm just saying... we don't get along, but it's my job to make sure you're at your peak performance." Robert sighed, watching you pause at the door.
"You wanna help?" You looked at him. He nodded, honest. "Then stay out of it, would you?" You scowled, only to storm out and leave him to groan, falling back to lay on the table in the empty conference room.
He did. He stayed out of it for weeks. Or... you thought he did. In reality, he just asked Prism to keep an eye on you since you two got along. He didn't ask for details or butt into your business. All he asked was that Prism let him know if you needed anything from him that you wouldn't admit yourself. He didn't like your attitude or your behavior, but you were on his team, so he automatically had reluctant care for you.
Weeks went by. Things didn't change. Your mood was constantly sour, always on edge. Nobody could figure out why. Really, not even Invisigal when she'd made it her mission to find out by following you around. Until right at the end of February, Robert overheard you in the women's locker room as he passed by on his usual walk around the building before he'd left. It was late. You'd just gotten done with some late night gym unwinding, so you were getting ready to shower.
Robert paused at the sound of your voice.
"I don't get it. How can someone be so good-looking with that personality? It doesn't make sense, Flambae!"
"Well, maybe your taste in men is just bad." Flambae's voice came through the speaker from your phone. "Or you like it because he challenges you and makes you angry. Are you into angry foreplay?" Flambae laughed as you groaned.
"He's like a parasite. Ever since he pulled me aside that day, it's like he's everywhere. And if it's not him, it's someone talking about him. Waterboy—that poor fool—he never shuts up about Robert! You'd think he'd be the one who wants to suck his dick." You ranted, slamming the locker door shut with a groan.
"Okay, dude, gross. I don't wanna hear about your dick sucking fantasies." Flambae shuddered, but you both knew he didn't care—it was only because he knew you weren't home and it was about your shared boss. A little weird.
"Whatever, you say worse all the time about the dudes you've been with. God forbid I wanna talk about the stupid fucking parasite I wanna suck off." You grumbled.
"Girl—" Flambae sputtered a laugh at your unashamed sentence. "Go shower. Seriously. You probably smell like ass."
"Yeah, I'm going. I'll see you tomorrow, asshole."
"See you tomorrow, bitch face."
A beep nearly echoed through the locker room as the call ended, and as you grabbed for your bag of hygiene products, you heard a... bark?
You turned around, brows furrowed. "Beef?" You tilted your head, looking at the fat chihuahua standing in the doorway. "You're not supposed to be down here." You raised a brow, looking around. You froze, realization hitting. You circled around the bench and peeked out of the locker room.
Robert stood there, his honey brown eyes wide at the fact that he was caught. "I didn't know anyone else was still here." He choked out a lame excuse.
"Yeah? You go around and play security guard before you leave?" You crossed your arms, and that's when Robert processed that you were just in a towel, given how you grasped the towel to keep it from falling.
"No. Beef likes to take a walk around the building before we leave." He grumbled, cheeks faintly flushed. He didn't want to be the one to acknowledge your previous conversation.
"And you just happened to be at the women's locker room." You scoffed.
"I was heading back from checking around the basement." He countered. "Not my fault you're so fucking loud."
"Oh, please, I can be louder."
"I bet you could." He leaned down to pick up the stubby dog, holding him in one arm.
The staring lasted a moment too long. His brows subconsciously furrowed, brown eyes staring daggers into yours until you stepped back and turned away without a word. He wasn't about to follow you in, so he turned and left, but you could hear the way he groaned and cursed at himself down the echoing hallway.
You couldn't tell whether or not that was a win or a loss. Sure, he probably heard you talk about wanting to suck him off. But now he was all flustered because he looked like a pervert.
So you'd ignore the first part and take the small win. Anything to see him tense and aggravated.
Robert didn't assign you to much the next work day. It pissed you off. He gave you the dumb missions that Waterboy usually got. The coffee run, a stupid motivational speech at an elementary school—which Prism came along for—and other missions that felt useless and wasteful of your time. At the end of the day, Robert was stretching back at his chair, a deep groan leaving his lips as he felt his back crack. Then he felt a harsh smack against his head, only to turn and see you across the office, acting as if you didn't just fling a... fucking couch pillow at him?
"Really? Where'd you even get this?" He stood, scratching lazily just beneath his shirt at the waistline of his pants where his SDN shirt began to come untucked thanks to his stretching.
You approached, arms over your chest as you stood in front of him. "What's your deal?" You asked.
"Sorry?" He raised a brow.
"Don't play coy, Robert." You spat his name like he'd personally destroyed your bloodline and legacy.
"Listen, I don't—"
"You listen! What the hell is with you today? You sent me on little to no missions. I barely had a single one that was barely worthwhile. Normally, you send me to better assignments. So what the fuck is your deal?"
"It was one shift. You're really getting all worked up over a single shift?" He scoffed faintly. "I figured you could use a break. Your focus is still all over the place. You didn't even yell at Waterboy the other day when he accidentally spilled coffee all over you."
"I'm not a dickbag, Robert. I don't yell at every unfortunate incident. And it just so happens, Waterboy and I have been bonding. He's nice enough to tolerate his clumsiness. So no, I didn't freak out on him. Now give me the real reason I got these bullshit assignments." You persisted.
"That is the reason. I wanted to be nice. I figured if your workload was less, you'd relax for once and stop looking at me like I'm the fucking devil."
"I don't—please, I don't look at you like that!" You argued, laughing at his comparison.
"If it's not that, I don't think you're aware of how you look at me." His voice lowered slightly as a few people passed by, unwilling to look like this would be a scene at all.
"I'm well aware of how I look at you." You grumbled.
"Oh, is that so? Enlighten me." He gestured to have you continue, eyes narrowing as you hesitated. You really did only have two looks for him—the one that said he was the devil, and the one that said you wanted to slap him around in bed and then let him do the same to you. And you'd never admit the second look.
"That's not what I came here for." You deflected. "Don't put me on useless assignments. Give me shit I can put work into."
"What's the magic word?" He mused, having far too much fun with how you seemed to squirm at his narrowing gaze, his lips curling into that lazy, almost sleazy smirk of his.
"Do it or I'll cut your dick off." You spat, cheeks flushing faintly.
"That's a sentence. Not a word." He egged you on, only to pull back when he finally heard it,
"Please." You gritted your teeth, glaring up at him.
"So you can say it. Wow. Never thought I'd live to see the day. Wonder what else you've got hiding for me." He stuffed his hands in his pockets before he turned and left, leaving you to watch as he returned to his desk and resumed his final work for the day.
Sonar popped up, elbow jabbing your side. "Just fuck him already." He murmured, mouth half full of a twinkie.
"Jesus—fuck, Sonar!" You smacked him, jolting away as you turned to face the tall half-bat man.
"No, not fuck me. Fuck Robert."
"I hate you so much. Truly. I can't wait for the day Mal gets tired of you and spits you into a portal to hell." You grumbled, cheeks flushing as you walled off to head toward the locker rooms. Sonar followed.
"Alright, alright. I didn't come to tease. Mal and Prism want to get team drinks on Friday. You coming?" He asked, craning his neck to look at you.
"Yeah. Sure. I could use a drink soon." You huffed a heavy exhale, a hand brushing down your face.
"Sweet. Don't die before then. See you, loser." He continued down the hall as you split off at a corner, waving your goodbye.
Cut to Friday, and it turns out Robert does know how to listen. He fixed your assignments with ease, ensuring he sent you on as many as you could handle. It was easier that way—for you, at least. It meant you had no time to think about other things besides work. You were able to just work and fight and be the hero you were mostly reformed into.
By the end of the shift on Friday, you found yourself in the bathroom, picking thick splinters and stray pieces of glass out of your hip. Having to fight some random tree villain wasn't pleasant. So now this was part of your prep to leave for the bar. People passed by—dispatchers and heros—none really batted an eye, used to the sight of injuries in the bathroom or locker room. Your shorts were tugged down to expose the irritated flesh and wood, shirt tucked between your teeth to hold it out of the way as you plucked and cleaned the tiny cuts.
And then Robert popped up. He peeked his head in, catching your attention through the mirror. You stared, tweezers mid-pluck as you held your shirt up between your teeth.
"Sorry, I know this looks bad." He started, approaching with a small jar.
"It does." You deadpanned, voice muffled from your shirt.
"Malevola told me you got a little fucked up." He said, holding the jar out. It was vaseline. You blinked at him.
"Mm?" You nodded toward the jar curiously.
"For after the splinters are out. You've got pretty bad scrapes, too, and vaseline does better than neosporin with healing scabs and not leaving scars." He explained, popping it open to show you it was untouched. You stared at him, spitting the shirt out to speak.
"You come into the women's bathroom to give me a jar of vaseline?"
"I-i know it looks dumb—"
"Thank you." You sighed through your nose, reaching to take the jar. "I should be done soon. You guys can head out without me, I'll catch up." You said, setting the jar down before you resumed to pluck out the last couple of tiny splinters.
"I can wait." He shrugged.
"You can also leave." You mocked his shrug.
"Suppose that's true." He mumbled.
A tense silence stretched on as he pulled out his phone to shoot a text to who you assumed was Waterboy. You finished the removal of the splinters, moving onto cleaning the nasty scraps and cuts. You reached for an alcohol wipe and began to wipe at the exposed wounds, teeth grinding as your nose scrunched uncomfortably.
"Hydrogen peroxide hurts less." He said absent-mindedly. "It cleans just as well."
"I don't have hydrogen peroxide." You exhaled sharply as the stinging subsided in that spot, spreading a decent glob of vaseline over the scrape on your thigh, covering it with a large bandaid. You repeated the process with the other few cuts and scrapes before you tugged your shorts back onto your hips properly, groaning as you bent your leg back and forth to stretch the hip that had been bent upward a bit too long.
"Bad hip?" He raised a brow, watching as you fixed your shirt and got rid of the trash from the supplies you used. You handed the vaseline back to him.
"Bad joints. Fucked around too much and gave myself horrid joint pain."
"Ah. Right." He nodded lightly, taking the jar and stuffing it into his pocket.
"So, two questions."
"Shoot."
"Why didn't you send someone else to check on me?" You asked as you washed your hands and dried them off. "And why are you insistent on waiting for me?"
"Everyone else is either already gone or busy." He answered, still watching you through the mirror as you fixed yourself up a little, using a wet paper towel to pat at a small cut on your cheek. "And I figured it'd be nice. We don't talk much." He shrugged.
"There's a reason for that, Bobbo."
"Bobbo?" He raised a brow, scoffing with a faint smile on his lips.
"Yes. Bobbo." You said plainly, turning to stare at him.
"Okay. Well, what are the reasons? We're talking fine now. I don't really get why you have issues with me." He said honestly, following as you began to walk out, ready to leave for the night.
"You're annoying. You bother me. You're snarky."
"And you as well." He shot back, unashamed.
"But you're a man." You said, mostly joking.
Robert blinked. He couldn't deny it was a little funny. "That's... not a reason." He exhaled a breathy laugh.
For a reason you didn't want to acknowledge, that sound made you stumble, tripping over your own feet and barely catching yourself on the elevator door as you straightened up, eyes wide. Robert instinctively reached out to steady you, one hand at the small of your back, the other at the side of your ribcage, splayed gently against your shirt. You straightened up, pushing his hands away.
"I'm fine. No need to get handsy, Robert." You joked, but it came out hesitant, shaky.
"I'm not—ugh, you're talking like Invisigal." He groaned, jokingly wiping his hands on the nearby fake plant. You rolled your eyes as you two stepped into the elevator.
"Please, don't act like touching me isn't a blessing."
"Never said it wasn't." He said bluntly.
"Are you flirting with me?" You scoffed, looking over at him, only to find him already staring, his eyes focused a little too low for your liking.
"No." He said plainly, gaze lifting momentarily to your right eye, then the left one, and back down to your lips, in a slow, calculated action.
You stared back, watching. The elevator dinged, snapping your attention before you stomped out of the elevator and made quick work to leave him behind. He didn't bother to catch up. You went to your car, he went to his. As he passed yours, he could hear you screaming about something. The words were unclear, but he could see you seemingly losing your mind about something while holding your phone. Maybe another freak out call to Flambae, he assumed.
He'd figure it out at some point, he hoped.
Later at the Sardine, you found yourself watching Flambae and Prism do karaoke, Malevola and Waterboy at your sides in the booth as you sipped on whatever drink Robert had ordered for the group. It wasn't strong, but it was good. The entire hour you'd been here so far was agonizing—his glances and sometimes unashamed stares, the way his hand brushed yours when he brought you a refill or now when he handed you a shot. You looked up at him as he leaned over the table, only to down the shot with him still staring as he sat himself down one slot away from you on Malevola's side.
Flambae finished a song, leaving Prism to have her own solo act as he switched places with Waterboy, striking a conversation with you to continue some conversation from earlier that day.
"Yeah, I saw you come back. You looked all sorts of busted—shocked you were able to fix yourself up." He murmured, gesturing toward the hip you'd been fixing up earlier and then gesturing toward your hair and face.
"Not you acting like I'm ugly, damn." You feigned offense, only for him to punch your arm.
"Shut up, you know I didn't say that. I just mean you looked like you just got fucked upside down by a tree." Flambae corrected, but it only made it worse as you pushed his face away and listened to his cackle.
"You're a bitch."
"No, Robert's a bitch." He corrected again.
"What—I'm not even in the conversation!" Robert choked on his drink, waving a hand to express offense.
"Exactly. So budge out, Bob-bob." Flambae flicked his wrist at him.
"Yeah, don't be nosey again."
"Yeesh, you're mean when you're intoxicated." Robert huffed.
"I've barely had anything."
"You're two shots and three quarters of a beer deep. We've been here maybe an hour and a half." He deadpanned.
"And so what?" You sassed, sticking your tongue out at him.
"I'm gonna laugh when I hear about your hangover on Monday." He said, turning his head as he sipped on his drink.
"Whatever. I just know how to unwind." You huffed, reaching for your beer.
Only a half an hour later, and you were somewhere off in the bar, unsupervised and drunk. The place wasn't big, but it was crowded enough to get you lost, especially as the music got better with time, leading to you, Malevola, and Flambae on the dance floor. It wasn't the most populated area, and it wasn't even a 'dance floor', just an empty chunk of room to be filled by drunken commotion. Robert tried not to indulge too much in his alcohol consumption, but it was hard when all he could think about was you. And he wanted to get rid of that, if even just for a moment.
He was on his second beer, which shouldn't be making him much more than buzzed, but he's a shameful lightweight who can't hold his alcohol.
Robert hated how it made things worse. His gaze stuck on you like a moth to a flame, chest practically burning with a jealousy he had no idea he could feel when he saw you dance with Flambae and Malevola like nothing. He wasn't worried about either of them, knowing damn well Flambae didn't swing that way and Malevola had some weird thing with Sonar. But the sight of Flambae tugging you in, or you touching Malevola so freely, it sparked something he hadn't felt in years. He wanted to be there. To be the one touching you and being touched by you. Which didn't make sense logically because you didn't get along.
He groaned, head dropping to the table. Waterboy tilted his head. "Robert? Are you—you look u-uhm.. upset—bothered." Waterboy observed, voice a little louder than the music.
"I'm fine. Just... eugh." He groaned, sighing heavily. "Do you know how to keep your mouth shut?" Robert asked, a little too blunt with how Waterboy tensed.
"I.. I think so? Yeah, I d-do." Waterboy nodded, a little more confident than his words.
"She's driving me fucking insane. She hates me, I know. It's like my own personal hell. She hates me, but all I wanna do is..." Robert trailed off, exasperated as he grabbed at Waterboy's biceps.
Waterboy looked over at you, not even needing Robert to say who he was talking about. "She—Robert," He tapped Robert's hand, gesturing carefully over toward you. "She's look—staring this way—a-at you." He said.
Robert perked upright, hazy eyes snapping in your direction. He saw how disheveled you looked, tank top askew, shorts unbuttoned for unashamed comfort, hair taken down from its usual pulled back look that you kept during work hours. He wanted to add to that mess.
"I think you—maybe have a ch-chance." Waterboy said quietly, hoping to ease Robert of his stress and worry.
"I don't think so." Robert grumbled, head falling on Waterboy's shoulder.
"She's l-looking right at you. Like.. like she wants—needs something?"
Sonar leaned over the back of the booth, ear twitching. "You talking about your little crush?" Sonar mused.
Robert looked up at Sonar, sitting upright as he blinked away the dizziness. "It.. it is not a crush. Crushes are for children."
"You've got a chance either way, y'know. She's been freaking out to Flambae and Prism for weeks because of you and how—as she says—sexy and suckable you look." Sonar said, fully willing to spill your exact words.
"Fuuuuck," Robert groaned, sliding down a little bit in the booth, hands wiping down his face.
"Go! Go before she runs off!" Sonar encouraged, pushing Robert out of the booth and sending him stumbling into a support beam nearby. He groaned, straightening up as he shuffled toward where you were taking a break at the bar. What he didn't process was the man trying to talk to you on the side he couldn't fully see.
"You here with someone?" The man asked, leaning in ever so slightly with his hand inching toward your drink.
"Yes. With... with friends." You said, clearly dizzy and a little tired from all the movement.
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you branched off for a bit. Come get to meet someone else—maybe you'll have some fun, y'know?"
"I don't think so." You murmured, shaking your head. The man's hand creeped toward your hip.
"You're a real pretty girl. I wanna get to know you." He urged, hand splaying at your lower back as his fingertips dug in faintly.
"No, you wanna get to know my insides, you perv." You spat, pushing his hand away.
Robert saw the initial signs of crossing a line, and he didn't hesitate. He came up behind you, fueled by the beer as he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you to stand up.
"There you are, baby. I was looking all over for you." He spoke, voice rumbling deep in his chest as he pulled you in for a hug, face burying against your neck as he glared at the man behind you. The man turned away, scoffing about how 'women lead him on'.
"What are you—"
"Just hold on." Robert soothed, a low whisper against your neck as he felt you tense against him. "I'm not... mmh.." he sighed heavily, shivering at the strong smell of your shampoo mixed with the sweet scent of perfume. "I'm not trying to be weird."
"You are."
"Not."
"Just tell me when he's not looking, you impatient animal." You finally gave up, relaxing into him. It would never be admitted out loud, but his embrace was soothing in this situation. Even for someone as strong as you, it's never fun to have a stranger be pushy with you.
He slowly pulled back, finally taking in your dazed look. Flushed cheeks, messy hair. You were gorgeous. "Sorry." He whispered, just loud enough for you.
"...'s fine, Robert." You looked off to the side. His hands finally left your waist as he stepped back fully.
"I didn't mean to... y’know.."
"I-i know." You sighed, a hand coming to pinch at the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't be a prick about it, please?"
"Why would I..?" He blinked.
"Just don't. Okay? Can you do that without questioning me?" You snapped lightly, Robert frowning in the process.
"Of course." He slurred quietly, nodding.
You stepped off to the side and walked past him to grab your phone from where you'd left it in Prism's handbag. Leaning over the table slightly, you focused on texting someone. Robert remained at a distance, only for a short amount of time. He got pulled into a conversation with the bartender, no longer focusing on you.
From behind you, you felt someone lean in, hip pressed to yours. Before you could look up to see who, you felt a palm over your ass, working its way into the back pocket of your shorts.
"What the fuck?!" You shrieked, reaching for the nearest glass bottle as you turned and processed it was the same man from moments before. You shoved his hand away, stumbling back and raising the bottle. The shriek caused the bar commotion to halt, the entire place becoming silent.
"Woah, come on, sweetheart, I'm just being friendly!" He laughed, hands raised in mock surrender.
"No, you're grabbing me like a chunk of meat." You spat, teeth grinding.
"Well, sweetheart, it's not my fault you've got a good chunk of meat back here—" He tried to reach behind you, only to have a half drank beer bottle slammed into his face. It was a messy hit, but strong enough to send him falling onto his ass.
Robert scrambled through the forming crowd, along with the rest of the Z-Team, watching you hold onto the broken neck of the bottle, knuckles becoming pale with tension. From behind, Robert snuck up to take the broken neck, only to have you shriek again and thrash around. Lucky for him, Prism managed to grab your wrist before you could hurt him or yourself.
Processing they weren't the threat, you stepped away and let the glass be taken from your hand. Murmurs became louder, the crowd coming in a little closer as someone came to nudge the man with their foot, watching him groan and squint at the light. You were a little shocked a fight hadn't broken out because of that, but you scrambled off before you could wait to see if one would.
"Son of a bitch." Robert cursed, brows furrowing. The Z-Team collectively raised a brow and murmured curiously when Robert pushed through the crowd to get to you. The bartender came through with the security to get the man out of the way and taken care of.
Robert didn't see you outside. He searched around nearby lots, only to find you curled up, head down in your dark car in the backseat.
Gently, he knocked at the window, peeking in to watch you jolt slightly. You weren't crying, so that was a good thing, he hoped.
"Can I sit with you?" He spoke up, gesturing for you to unlock the door. You obliged, leaning forward to pull the lock upward before he opened the door and crawled in, shifting to sit with you.
"I didn't mean to hurt him that bad." You muttered.
"I don't care. He deserved a lot more than just a whack with a bottle." Robert scoffed.
"You... you don't think that was 'wrong' or 'overreacting'?" You looked up at him, brows furrowing. "Even though I'm supposed to be a hero now?"
"Fuck no. I would've helped you hide his body for the way he touched you." Robert said bluntly, facing you more properly.
It made you laugh, relieved at his lack of annoyance and his offer to help in the worst-case scenario. "Didn't think you were the murder kind of guy."
"I'm not really. But some people shouldn't be around." He shrugged.
"You sure you're not a reformed villain, too, Robert?" You joked lightly, head leaning sideways to rest on the head rest.
"With everything I've been through, you'd think I should've been a villain." He laughed, legs kicking up to settle them between the two front seats on the middle console.
You watched him for a moment, still dazed by the buzz of alcohol, but less affected than earlier due to the shock of the previous encounter. His voice pulled you back with his hand reaching out to lightly wiggle his fingers at you.
"You're staring." He said. "Are you sure you're alright?" He asked, leaning in a little to focus his gaze on you in the dark car.
"I'm fine. I'm just... a little disoriented, I guess."
"Because of the guy or the alcohol?"
"Beats me. Could be both. Though, the alcohol is just making me tired now—drained." You looked away, chin resting on your knees as you hugged them to your chest.
"You could take a nap, I'm sure." He suggested. "What's stopping you?"
"You. And the car is uncomfortable." You said bluntly.
"I'm not stopping anything." He chuckled lightly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
"Your presence is."
"Well, that's unfortunate, 'cause I can't let you drive home." He feigned pity, pulling his phone out to find a contact. "Malevola might be good to take us to your place."
"Us?" You perked up slightly, raising a brow.
Robert froze, thumbs shaking slightly as he caught what he'd said. "I.. yeah, sorry, I'm not sure why I said it that way." He laughed, clearly a little nervous as he cleared his throat. "I'll step out and call her. I'm sure I could... uh.." he trailed off, scooting away.
"You're still buzzed, too, y'know." You blurted out. "It... might not be super safe for you to drive, either."
"Probably not, but.. I'll catch a ride with someone else." He brushed it off, reaching to open the door before you nudged him with your foot, groaning inwardly.
"I'm saying you can stay over, dumbass." You spoke reluctantly, still refusing to look at him as he turned to look at you.
"You don't look too thrilled."
"What, you want me to be excited about the guy who's technically my boss coming over and staying on my couch? Yeah, it's like a dream come true!" You said, words dripping with sarcasm.
He chuckled, tension softening as he opened the door. "I appreciate you torturing yourself for my safety. Real heroic, y'know?" He looked back at you with the softest faint smile you'd ever seen him present. You only glanced before he was climbing out of the car to call Malevola.
You shifted, checking your messages and letting Flambae and Prism know that you were fine. In the middle of your last text, Robert peeked back in, bent over the seat to look at you, his hands flat on the seat just a few inches from where you sat.
"Malevola said she'd drive us back to your place, and she'd just portal herself home." He said simply, adjusting to crawl into the car and sit down again.
"Okay." You said, sending one more text before you shifted to shove your phone behind you on the seat.
Silence fell—heavy and unsure. Robert didn't want to make small talk, knowing damn well it would only be more awkward.
"Why'd you come after me?" You blurted out, still staring off into the distance to avoid looking at him and seeing something you didn't want to from him.
Robert wasn't entirely sure. Why did he? He couldn't say he was worried—you'd just get defensive. "I'm... I don't know. It felt right." He murmured, his words as sure as he could make them sound.
"Why?" You repeated.
"It felt right. You ran off so fast, and after his first advance, I didn't want to leave you alone. He sure as hell wouldn't come after you, but nobody knows who he's connected to. I couldn't let you be alone, not only for your safety, but... if you... if you needed someone.." he trailed off, finally turning his head to look at you, only to find the pleasant surprise of you already looking.
"So you're here out of pity and your hero complex?" You said, flat and dry rather than jumpy and angry.
"No! What—God, you're infuriating! I ran after you because I care about you, even though you seem to hate me." He spat, frustrated. You tensed.
"I.. I was joking. Sorry. I thought... I thought the dry tone gave it away.." you blinked, realizing that it wasn't exactly a good time for joking, especially with your previous attitude and arguments with Robert.
"No, not really. You always sound dry around me." He exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back as he pressed a hand over his face, only for both of you to jump at the sound of Malevola knocking on the window.
"Let me in!" She called, knuckles banging on the glass of the front seat.
"Jesus." You groaned, crawling into the front and yanking the lock up before she pulled the door open and playfully shoved you back into the backseat.
"You alright in here?" She asked, glancing back as she got in and adjusted the seat. Driving was far from ideal for her, considering her height, but also because she had no need for it. But she wouldn't pass up a chance to help a friend.
"I'm fine, Mal. I'm just tired, really. Adrenaline has crashed, and now I just want to sleep." You shrugged, sitting back to buckle as Robert did the same.
"You didn't have any to drink, right?" Robert asked Malevola, looking at her through the rear view mirror as she rolled her eyes.
"Not tonight. I was already Sonar's ride, so I only had a shot, and that was hours ago, before you two even got here. I'm fine to drive."
Robert decided not to poke further, leaning back in the seat as he caught a glimpse of Malevola in the rear view mirror, their eyes meeting as she seemed to shoot him a look. He couldn't tell what kind of look it was, but he didn't hold her gaze long enough to figure it out. He shifted, looking back to you as you handed Malevola the keys and she started the car.
"What?" You asked, catching his stare for only a blink before you turned to look elsewhere.
"Nothing. Sorry." He cleared his throat, a heavy exhale pushing through his nose as he leaned his elbow against the car door and rested his chin on his palm.
The ride was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the soft murmur of music from the radio. You'd fallen asleep, far too stressed and buzzed to keep your eyelids from being glued shut with exhaustion. Given your lack of sleep as of late, Robert wasn't shocked to find you slumped into the window, forehead pressed into the glass uncomfortably. He hesitated for a moment, hand hovering near your shoulder. His hand dropped, undoing the seatbelt as he shifted his other hand around your waist to gently bring you to lay down in the backseat, your head in his lap, faced away.
He kept an arm looped over your shoulders to keep you in place, acting as a belt to avoid letting you roll off during stops or turns. You stirred slightly, making him tense, but relaxed with your hand coming to loop over his legs to keep him still, much like you would with your actual pillows at home.
By the time Malevola got you two to your place, you were beyond being woken up, so Robert shifted carefully as he worked you into the right position so he could carry you inside in a princess carry hold. Malevola handed him your keys, eyeing him for a moment.
"Don't drop her, and make sure she stays asleep." She said. Robert nodded, taking the keys.
"Which apartment is she?"
"3B. Take the stairs. The elevator is loud." Malevola pointed out before she stepped back to watch him leave. He made a mental note, nodding as he headed inside. Entering the building, he could hear Malevola portal herself elsewhere, leaving him alone with you.
He carried you up to your apartment on the third floor, fumbling with the keys as he struggled to keep you properly held in his arms.
"Fuck." He cursed under his breath, shifting his hold on you so that you were now resting against his front easier, allowing him to more comfortably hold you with one arm hoisting you from below, his other arm free to move and unlock the door.
He got inside, flicking the nearest light switch on as he used his foot to push the door closed behind him. He locked it and shuffled to find your room.
"Bathroom. Closet." He grumbled, the first two doors a fail. Lucky for him, the apartment only had three doors. He stepped into your bedroom finally, which was dimly lit by the moonlight and the street lights that shone bright into the thin white curtain on the only window.
He brought you to your bed, careful not to jostle you too much as he let you fall back into the bed. He tugged the blankets over you, cracking the window to give you some fresh air before he stepped back.
"Okay. A little shocked that didn't end in injury." He mumbled to himself, backing off as he found himself closing your door, leaving it cracked and turning the hallway light off as he retreated into the living room. He sat down, sighing heavily.
He sat there like that for hours, unable to sleep. The couch was definitely comfortable, to his poor standards, but he just couldn't get you off his mind. He hated it. You hated him, as far as he knew. So why did you let him stay? Why didn't you hit him when he hugged you in front of that guy? You'd hit him for less, he always thought.
He groaned into his palms, rubbing up and down his face. The sun began to peek over the horizon, casting a soft, barely there glow over the city that he could see peeking through the blinds of your balcony door.
He sat up, looking around. It was just past 5:30 a.m. now. He wouldn't be sleeping, he finally decided. He stood, deciding he needed fresh air. He could no longer feel that buzz from the bar, having let the alcohol pass through or be watered down by the water he chugged throughout the hours he couldn't sleep.
As he was coming to pass the hallway to rinse the water cup he'd been using, he barely caught a glimpse of you, shuffling out of your room with a ghostly whine, hair an absolute mess.
He shrieked, the glass clutched in his hand before you turned the hall light on, squinting at him.
"You scream like a baby." You rasped, only to look away for a cough. Your throat was unbelievably dry.
"You're horrifying in the dark." He huffed.
"Not my fault." Your voice came out gruff as you trudged down the hall. Robert noticed you'd changed at some point, likely just before you came out of your room. A baggy, cropped t-shirt that had the collar cut out with a pair of sleep shorts. You scratched lazily at your leg, approaching the cupboards to get a glass and fill it with water.
"Have you slept alright?" He asked, stepping next to you to set his own glass down.
"Mmh." You shrugged, chugging the water before you set the glass back down to look at him. "As good as it gets for me."
"So, not good." He concluded, nodding.
"You haven't slept. I can see it." You said bluntly, refilling your glass to sip on it as you leaned against the counter.
"What do you mean?" He raised a brow, leaning opposite of you.
"Your eyelids are limp, like you can't really keep your eyes wide. Your hair is a mess, more than normal, indicating a night of tossing and turning. Your lips aren't puffy like most mornings."
Robert was stunned. He wasn't sure what to say. His eyelids? His hair? His lips? All things that he'd never thought you'd notice. He didn't think anyone in the office had ever looked at him long enough to notice such things. Especially the swelling of his lips every morning after he'd get more than his typical three hours of sleep.
"Right. Yeah. That's... all reasonable." He cleared his throat, nodding as he looked aside.
Silence fell, stretching on into an easier quiet. The humming of the heating system, the occasional engine roar of cars starting outside or driving past, and the steady breathing between you two. For once, no words needed to be exchanged, and maybe you were exhausted and still jarred, but Robert couldn't deny how much he enjoyed the very rare moments where you two weren't arguing or bickering.
You straightened your back, clearing your throat as you set your cup down.
"I'm gonna shower. And pray I don't puke. Uh.. if you're hungry, you can... make something? I-i don't have a lot right now, but I've got eggs, bread, and cereal for breakfast. I've got... possibly expired granola bars?"
"We'll stick to eggs and toast. You got butter? Jelly would be nice, too." Robert shook his head to try and pacify the anxious tone he could hear from you.
"Maybe. Just look in the fridge. I need a shower before I let myself fall back to sleep." You shuffled away, a hand waving dismissively. "I'll give you a ride to the bar later to pick up your car."
Robert took it as a good sign that you not only felt comfortable to shower with him present but also that you chose to let him rummage through your kitchen.
"Take your time!" He called down the hall, giving you a thumbs up as you disappeared into the bathroom.
Robert occupied himself with whipping up a decent breakfast. He wasn't big on breakfast, but he knew both of you needed it. He made some eggs, buttered toast, and set it at the living room coffee table with two cups of water.
He waited for you, watching the sun pull itself over the horizon and cast an orange shade over the living room. He zoned out, staring off into the blinding sunrise. The only noise that caught his attention was a yawn mixed with the feeling of you slamming down to sit on the couch, slouching.
"You didn't puke, did you?" He asked, turning to look. Just a dumb question he already knew the answer to being used to fill in silence.
"Nope. Which is shocking. But it's not a promise that alcohol will make someone puke." You shrugged.
He nodded. "You can definitely hold your alcohol, it seems. And your body handles it... well enough."
You gave a lazy thumbs up before you reached for the bland toast. Sure, it wasn't packed with flavor, the butter was barely there, but the bread itself, toasted or not, would've been enough to get the soft exhale from you, a sign of relief.
Robert watched for a moment, reaching for his own plate as he picked lazily at his scrambled eggs.
"You eat your eggs scrambled?" You asked, muffled slightly by the toast.
"Mhmm. Chase used to make them for me like this." He said, stabbing his fork into a particularly fluffy bite.
"Chase?" You paused. "The old fuck from work who's always calling everyone names and saying fuck every other word?" You couldn't help but sputter a laugh.
Robert did, too. He looked away, hiding his laughter behind his hand to avoid laughing too loud with his mouth full. "Yeah, that Chase."
"He used to make you eggs?" You asked.
"Yeah. When I was a kid, he was kinda like my babysitter. He ended up being more like my brother, but... yknow, life gets in the way, and.." he trailed off, exhaling before he swallowed tightly.
"I get it. I know." You spoke, a bit too casual. The casual tone made Robert both question your experience, but it also seemed to ease his worry about having to explain.
"Yeah. You... you know." He murmured, shoulders slouching as he stabbed his fork into the toast and picked up his piece. You stared, mouth hung open as you held your toast just an inch from your mouth.
"You're such an odd being." You muttered, shaking your head and continuing your bite.
"Says you." He scoffed.
You kicked at his ankle, making him feign injury like a child.
"I'm gonna tell HR you're abusing your boss."
"Shut up, you're probably into it." You joked. Robert choked out a laugh, caught off guard. "Finish your food so I can get you home." You said.
"Right. Yeah." He exhaled a small snicker, nodding as he moved to finish his toast as you dealt with your dish and went to grab your keys from your room.
Robert followed momentarily, pulling his shoes on by the door as you came back out in jeans rather than your previous shorts.
He followed you out, trailing quietly as you led him down the stairs and out of the building to the parking lot. He was a little conflicted. You were acting so casual about this. He slept over, made you breakfast, and now you're driving him to his car so he can go home and you're not complaining or insulting him or even questioning him.
He didn't question it verbally, but he did make a mental note to ask around work. Maybe he'd get something out of Sonar. Sonar isn't very good at keeping secrets. It's not like Robert hasn't known you have a thing for him, but he's just a ball of confusion when it comes to how you talk to him or how you treat him during work. He's been on your bad side for ages now, and all of a sudden, he's not? Well, he hopes he's not at this point. He'd do most anything to not be anymore.
Robert let you be nice, unwilling to start a fight just because he's confused. You even asked him if he wanted to choose the radio station for the 10 minute drive. He chose some oldies station. Definitely suited him, you thought. Upon arrival to the parking lot he'd left his truck in, you parked right across from it and turned to him.
"I'll see you Monday?" Your head tilted slightly. The softness of your tone felt almost domestic.
"Yeah. See you Monday." He nodded. Part of him hesitated as he turned to open his door, foot pausing on the step right at the door of yoru car.
"Did you forget something?" You raised a brow.
"Huh?" He looked back. "Oh—no, sorry. Just.. checking my pockets." He said, patting the small pockets of his work pants that he ached to get out of. He'd definitely be stripping and taking a shower as soon as he got home.
"Got everything?"
"Yeah. Phone, wallet, keys." He gave a lazy thumbs up, a quick, tight-lipped smile, and then he pushed himself up and out of the car. He walked around to his truck, turning his head to look at you as he unlocked the door, tugging it open.
You gave him a thumbs up, which he returned. He got into his truck and watched you pull out of the spot, driving off within seconds. The fact that it was early seemed to give you a bit of confidence with how quickly you left.
"Oh, I'm so done for." He groaned, head falling against the steering wheel.
Robert spent his weekend trying to avoid himself. He showered and went to pick up Beef from Chase, and Chase somehow looped him into spending the day helping with things on Chase's to-do list. Sunday was less busy, but Beef kept him busy enough when he wasn't doing work from his computer or attempting to nap because he could never get a decent sleep.
Monday came around and Robert felt a rock in his throat. He groaned as he saw your car already parked across the lot. He looked at Beef in the passenger seat.
"Is it too late to go home and call out?"
Beef whined, pawing at the door handle to get out. Robert chuckled, immediately relaxing. If Beef wasn't anxious, Robert had no reason to be.
He hoped.
He moved about his morning like normal. He got Beef settled in his bed with a treat for being good on the ride there, got himself some coffee, and spent a moment talking to Galen about their respective weekend activities.
When he got back to his desk, finally ready to hop onto comms, he was a little startled to find you, crouched to pet Beef. He pulled his chair out, catching your attention as the chair creaked with his weight sitting on it.
"Beef gets a good morning before me?" He joked.
"Yes. Everyone does." You snickered faintly.
"Wow. Makes me feel real special." He puffed a sarcastic laugh.
"Oh, you're special in a way." You gave a side glance. Robert rolled his eyes, arms crossing over his chest.
"What are you doing here?" He asked. "We've got ten minutes before the shift starts."
"Yeah. I just came to say hi to your dog. And to tell you I put something in the break room fridge for you." You rose to your feet, sighing lightly as you clicked your earpiece on and said your goodbye to Beef.
"Oh. Okay. What is it?"
"Go find out." You said, walking off and disappearing down the hall to look for Prism.
Robert had to wait until lunch, which was agonizing. The shift was relatively easy, not a lot of commotion. Finally, on lunch, he shuffled over to the break room and rummaged to the back of the fridge to find the small tupperware bowl with a folded piece of paper taped to the lid with his name in thick, blue ink from the specific pen you always carried around.
He settled comfortably at the table, unfolding the note and reaching to open up the bowl. It was a brownie. The smell of the rich, fudgey chocolate could've made him melt if he wasn't in a public space. He opened up the note, humming as he reached to pick at the brownie. He probably needed actual food, but he wasn't about to pass up a brownie.
'Robert,
warm it up, you cold food freak. it's not like cold leftover pizza. brownies are better warm.
also, thank you.'
Signed with your name in the neat mess of rushed handwriting, Robert snickered. He grabbed the bowl and popped it into the microwave, hip leaned onto the counter as he flipped the paper over to check the back.
'there's a dog safe brownie in the cabinet to the far left that nobody uses. it's in the back in a pink bowl.'
Robert was about to let himself smile at the note, the seemingly genuine care you were offering, but he caught himself when he heard Waterboy shuffle in, like a cartoon character smelling hot pie on a window sill with a trail of sweet steam to follow.
"That sm-smells real—very good." He announced, walking past Robert to find his own food in the fridge.
"Yeah, it does." He nodded, voice as monotone as normal.
"Did y-you make them?" He asked. "T-the brownies?"
"No, uh.. a friend made them for me." Robert shook his head.
"Sounds like a v-very nice—good friend—p-person."
"She is." Robert exhaled softly through his nose.
Robert took his brownies from the microwave, retrieving the other bowl from the cabinet to bring it back to Beef so he could finish some reports and paperwork at his computer. He tucked the note safely into his pocket, only to pin it up to the cork board wall of his little cubicle. He made sure to hang it low enough so that his pen cup would hide your name, knowing you'd be embarrassed if people knew you left him a note with such a domestic undertone. He gave Beef his treat, which he probably should've saved since Mandy already came to give him treats earlier in the day. Beef was very popular in the office.
Things around the office became much less hostile in the next few weeks. Of course, you still picked on him 'to keep him humble', you said, and you didn't get too friendly beyond a nod of mutual respect. You definitely still argued over missions, especially the pointless ones, but now his biggest problem was Flambae setting shit on fire, whether or not it was on purpose, nobody knows—it probably was though.
Everyone noticed the change, but it was a nice change to see you less stressed, less anxious, overall less angry. Maybe you and Robert both just needed some stupid people to piss you off enough to where you both bonded over wanting to bury someone alive.
Sometimes, Robert will catch you lingering in the main office, looking less sure than you usually do. He doesn't ask why, doesn't linger with you, but he waits, almost expecting something when you walk back and forth across the office, but you don't make a move to talk with anyone at the end of the day.
Today was no different. You'd head toward the elevator, bag in hand, occasionally trailing behind Flambae if you two were going out that night, but you'd hang back for a few seconds on most nights. Outside was cold, so you used that as an excuse to lie and say you forgot your sweater. You waited this time, Prism leaving you in the office as she stepped into the elevator to leave. For once, you did something. You walked over to Robert, chest puffed out slightly with the way you held your breath.
Robert turned, his cup of cold coffee halfway to his mouth to take a sip. You paused. He stared at you, lips lightly pressed to the rim of the cup.
"You drink coffee this late into the day?" You asked.
"Yes."
"Maybe that's why you don't sleep."
"Decaf."
"Gross. What's good about coffee besides the caffeine?"
"The creamer is good, too." He shrugged, taking a sip.
"You like cream? Sounds a little gay."
"Very mature." He mused, brow raising slightly as his lips curled upward. "Did you need something?"
You exhaled heavily, brows furrowing. "You're coming over Sunday. Leave Beef with Chase."
"Why do I need to leave Beef?"
"Because I said so. My house, my rules."
"Apartment. Not house. But okay, whatever you say. Beef will go home with Chase."
"Good. Come to mine 6 p.m on Sunday."
"Bossy much?" Robert smirked lightly.
"You're probably into being bossed around, shut up."
"Bet you'd like to find out, wouldn't you?" He leaned in slowly, just an inch or two from your face.
"You're gross. Don't make me report you to HR." You threatened, but you didn't move back.
He scoffed. "HR my ass. This job has the worst HR department you could think of." He leaned away despite his words, assuming that your threat was half assed but a way to tell him 'not yet' without actually saying it.
"You'd know, perv." He laughed slightly at your words, rolling his eyes as he turned to shut down his computer for the day.
"I'll be there on Sunday. Send me your address, would you?"
"I don't have your number." You said, stepping forward to grab a sticky note as you pulled your signature blue pen with thick ink from your back pocket. You wrote your address down, and when you lifted your head to stick the sticky note onto the wall of his cubicle, you froze, hand mid-air.
The note from your brownies weeks ago. The one where you said 'thank you' without explanation, hoping to god he'd know why you said it. A shaky hand pushed the sticky note to the wall and you straightened up, pulling back quickly.
"Alright. I've got errands. I'm gonna go now. Bye." You gave him a tense thumbs up before rushing off, one hand coming to clutch over your chest as you ran for the elevator, getting on just as it opened for someone else who was leaving.
Come Sunday evening, you choked up as you tried to figure out dinner plans. Robert would be arriving in the next hour, and you were tempted to just pretend you weren't home when he knocked. Why did you invite him over? What came over you? It's not like anything would come of it. After settling on using chicken and diced beef to make chicken and beef tacos. You had no idea the kind of food that Robert liked, but you knew tacos were typically a safe choice.
Ten minutes after finishing the preparation of the meal and your poor efforts at trying to make your coffee table feel more acceptable to eat at, a knock on the door startled you and made you slide across the hardwood floors as you ran from down the hall where you'd had to change into a more date appropriate outfit. You yanked your shirt over your head and tugged it down, adjusting it properly before you tugged the door open. Robert blinked at the speed in which it flew open, only to stifle a snicker at your state. The outfit was gorgeous, but with your rush to get the shirt on, it'd messed up your hair.
"What? Why are you staring like that?" You asked, brows furrowing slightly.
"You've got a little.." He gestured to your hair, only to take care of it himself by gently brushing the askew pieces down, fixing the part you'd usually keep it in. "There we go."
"I could've fixed it myself, y'know." You objected lightly, stepping aside to let him in. He stepped in, kicking his shoes off and nudging them to the side as he watched you close the door.
"Mmh, smells good in here." He changed the topic, his attention turning over to the coffee table where there were two plates, still hot, with two glasses of water accompanying them.
"It's just some tacos. I didn't know what you liked, so I just put both meats on the side with the tortillas for you to decide."
"I'll eat most anything," He shrugged, following you to the couch as he sat on the edge to be close enough to his plate without sitting on the floor.
"Doesn't look like it." You blurted out, only to freeze for a moment, gaze turning to him, who was also momentarily stunned by your comment.
"Great start." He said, but the laugh that followed eased your nerves slightly, letting you realize that he either didn't care or that he was used to the comments from others in his life.
You reached to grab a taco, using the food as an excuse to stop talking. Talking seemed to be an issue for you whenever you were around him since he came home that one night. He'd plagued your mind like a nightmare. He was in dreams, he was constantly on your mind, you even ran into him at the grocery store a week ago!
It was infuriating. He cared so much, he was so kind to even the meanest of the team, and despite all the shit he'd been through and how much he'd lost, beneath that bitchy resting face and the monotone voice that always rumbled from his chest, he had so much to show, and you'd only been lucky to see a little of it because he had enough of a heart to care for the team. Despite the constant torture, borderline HR violations in the past, and the consistent fighting.
"So, what's all this for?" He asked, snapping you from your daze as you swallowed your bite, only to watch him take his first one.
"Uh.. what do you mean?" You played dumb, blinking.
"You invited me over. Why? It's not a date, I wouldn't think. So, what's it for?" He said, that deep voice becoming all too casual with the word 'date'.
"Absolutely not. You're far from an ideal boyfriend."
"Ouch. You wound me, yknow that?" He puffed out a small laugh, taking another bite.
"Good."
"Answer me." He demanded lazily, voice slightly muffled.
"Can't I just invite someone over? Fuck, let a girl have some freedom." You grumbled, but Robert saw the small blush creeping to your cheeks, and he couldn't stop there.
"No, you can obviously do what you want. You're an adult. I just wanted to know why you chose me." He paused, letting you think as he swallowed before adding, "and why I needed to leave Beef with Chase. Beef would've loved these tacos."
"I wanted to.. I dunno, talk. Normally. Without the office looming over me. Us. I think." You looked away, shoulders drooping forward as you shifted uncomfortably at his silence. He nudged his plate back, glass scraping over the wood, making you tense further.
"Let's talk, then." He said, turning his entire body to face you. "Where do you want to start? Our first fight on your third day of work or the night I came home with you?"
"Neither. God, this is bad. I didn't think this through." You groaned, words hurried as you dropped your face into your palms, fingertips digging into your skin and tugging.
Robert hissed, realizing maybe he was being too casual about the contents of the upcoming conversation. "Okay, relax. Stop digging at your face." He said, reaching over to gently grasp at your wrists to tug them away from your face.
"I feel like I'm going insane." You blurted out.
"Why?"
"I don't know how to explain it."
"Try. I'll piece it together for you. But... I'd appreciate if you started by looking at me."
"I'm not sure I want to right now."
"Nevermind, then. Just talk."
"I'm pissed off. Every damn day. Especially since the night at the bar. You saved me from that dickbag, and then you sat in my car with me while I sulked, even though I've been nothing but rude and mean to you." You paused for a moment, swallowing dryly at the lump forming in your throat. "I don't understand you. You're stern, you're the guy that keeps us in check, but even with all you put up with from us, especially me, you're still the nicest guy I know after Waterboy."
"'kay, good to know Waterboy is above me on niceness rankings." He chuckled, only to stop when he watched you look at him with a frown. "Not the time. Sorry. My fault." He cleared his throat, scooting closer.
"I just can't wrap my head around the fact that you haven't kicked me off the team for behavior alone."
"It's a rehabilitation program. I signed up for this. I just.." He trailed off, looking off to the side.
"You what?"
"I just hadn't expected to feel so strongly about someone from the team." He exhaled heavily through his nose.
"What do you mean?" You tensed, anxiety spiking.
"I've been a little insane, as you put it, since before that night, but it really peaked that night. Sonar told me some.. stuff. I won't repeat it for the sake of your sanity, but since he said it, and with a lot of encouraging from Waterboy, I've been really trying to decipher whether or not you and I could ever be a thing. In any way, really, but maybe more than just coworkers." Robert looked at you, watching you lift your head as you finally turned to look at him.
"You're into me? Like that?" You blinked, his confession catching you off guard. "Robert, I don't think I'm really... the right material."
"I can adjust. You've clearly adjusted lately. Less arguing, more sweet treats left in the office fridge, and you've definitely been using Beef as an excuse to see me every now and then."
"Wha—I have not! Beef isn't an excuse for anything!" You countered, cheeks burning.
Robert chuckled. "It's the point that you've adjusted. You're adjusting to me, so why wouldn't I adjust to you?"
"Because I'm not someone whose earned that." Your voice lowered slightly, and he frowned.
"You don't have to earn a chance at a normal life." He reached out, his fingers curling at the side of your jaw to let his thumb find home over your cheekbone that he could feel heat radiating off of. It made him chuckle a little.
"Why are you so stupidly nice?" You muttered.
"Because I've got a soft spot for girls who hate me, I guess." He shrugged, scooting so that he could let his knee nudge yours. "And it's been nice. Seeing a more... docile part of you. Even though it's always nice to have you yell at me or boss me around, I think I prefer this side of you."
"The side that's on the verge of exploding?"
"Spontaneous combustion doesn't work like that. Worst case, you give yourself a heart attack, but I meant the side that's being open and honest and letting me in. Even if you go back to hating me tomorrow morning, I have a sliver of a chance at understanding you now. And I think you should let me in a little more." He leaned in, his other hand reaching around to turn your hips to face him on the couch.
"You just wanna get into my pants now, don't you?" You joked quietly, slightly eased at his words and the way he touched you so reverently, ready to stop if you said it.
"Not entirely. But I guess a kiss would be nice. If you'd want to."
"If Sonar said what I think he did, I think a kiss is far from all I wanna do, and you know it." You mumbled, momentarily allowing your tension and emotional worries to be put aside for now.
"I've known for over a month now. I know more than enough." He laughed, leaning toward you, only to dip his head to the side and press his lips to your cheek, then down to your jaw, peppering wet kisses along your warm skin until he found your lips, fitting perfectly against his as he trailed his right hand down to your thigh with his left hand still on your cheek, feeling the way your jaw moved to match his eagerness in the kiss.
You leaned forward, a hand finally lifting to press at his chest. He pulled back, dazed momentarily as he didn't even process you climbing into his lap. His hands fell to your hips as he felt your thighs straddling over his, planting yourself firm in his lap as he let you push him to lie down.
"Considering you were just on the verge of exploding, I think this is a bit fast." He joked, staring up at you as you tugged your hair out of your face, huffing slightly.
"Don't piss me off when I'm about to get the chance to do the things I've wanted to do for months." You grumbled, glaring down at him. He took the hint, nodding as he pulled you into another kiss.
"You're not the only one who's impatient."
"I know I'm not. You don't hide it very well."
"Yet you questioned my affection towards you, so I think I hid it pretty well."
"Affection and sexual attraction are two different things."
"I don't care for sex as much if it's a no-strings attached kind of thing, so I think I can pretty easily tell you that I'm down bad for you in multiple forms." He admitted, shame leaving his body as he leaned into you, his hands working their way under your shirt to gently push the fabric up your body, his rough, callused palms trailing up your sides before slipping to your back and sliding down, finding a temporary place over your ass to pull you closer.
"Good. Because if you end up ditching me after this, I might quit SDN and go back to being a criminal." You huffed, a small shudder leaving your lips as he deepened the kiss and pressed his hips up into yours.
"Good thing I don't plan on ditching you."
"Do you ever stop talking?" You groaned, pulling away from the kiss to look down at him.
"Only if I'm forced." He grinned, snarky and mischievous.
"I knew you were into being bossed around, you freak." You scoffed.
"Ooh, keep that up. That's the good stuff." He gave an exaggerated groan, only to have you smack his chest. "What? I'm just soaking it in."
"I hate you so much."
"Yet you're on top of me. Willingly." He tilted his head.
"Yeah, and I'm about to suck your dick. Don't make me use teeth." You felt him tense at the thought, eliciting a snicker from you as he stared at you, a weird kind of fear and arousal mixing inside of him.
"I think I like this side of you, too." He uttered, watching you shimmy your way into a comfortable position to spread his legs. He sat upright before you could get to it, making you freeze, brows furrowing slightly.
"What? Is something wrong?"
"I don't want to do this on your couch. There's not enough room." He said, grabbing you by the hips and lifting you easily into his arms as he rose from the couch, stumbling as he stubbed his foot on the coffee table, cursing under his breath as he rushed down the hall to your room.
"Jesus, Robert, relax—"
"Not a chance." He blurted out, interrupting your teasing as he set you down and kicked the door shut, pulling you against him as his hands worked their way under your shirt. He slipped his hands under the fabric and dug his fingers into your skin, his lips trailing down your neck as you tilted your head back for easier access. A small whine left your throat as he nipped at the skin of your collarbone, one of his hands snaking around front to cup your breast over your bra.
He groaned at the feeling, the plush fat heavy in his palm as he unhooked the bra with his other hand. He pulled back to tug your shirt off, letting the bra fall down and expose your upper body entirely to him. "Fuck," he cursed, leaning down to kiss at the valley between your breasts, palms flattening over the mounds.
"Oh, shit—" You shuddered, chest prickled with goosebumps due to his cold palms.
Robert was taking your previous comment and shutting up so he could focus on getting you worked up. He wanted to do something for you before you took control for however long you planned to. He couldn't just sit there and do nothing.
"Robert—" You choked out, a small whimper leaving your lips as his teeth found your nipples, biting gently just to get a small reaction. Your right hand came to his hair, tangling and tugging harshly with a whine. He pulled back, leaving a soft kiss as an apology as he looked up at you, chin resting at the space between your tits.
You pushed him to sit back on the bed, a small huff leaving him as you stood between his legs. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?" He blinked, batting his thick, dark lashes at you. His honeyed eyes were dazed faintly, a visible sign of his attraction, but it was such a soft look despite his needy touching.
"Like you think I hang the moon and pull the sun into position every day and night." You muttered.
"Can't I enjoy the moment?"
"No. Now sit back and stop stalling. I'm not gonna bite your dick off." You said, hands moving to undo the buttons of his shirt as you lowered yourself onto your knees between his legs. He inhaled sharply, breath catching in his throat as he watched your hands move smoothly along his belt, undoing it and having his pants undone in a matter of seconds.
He lifted his hips when you tapped his thigh, letting you tug his boxers down with his pants, letting him kick them aside to be forgotten about like your bra and top. You shuffled closer, and he instinctively spread his legs.
Considering all the jokes in the office, Robert's size wasn't one to complain about. A decent length of nearly five inches, a girth that you knew would hurt your jaw. Circumcised and well groomed with evidence of a recent trim for hygiene purposes.
On top of the decent size, the angry, already drooling tip was easily the sexiest part. Robert was so fucking excited that the tip pulsed slightly, waiting angrily for some kind of attention. You looked up at him to find him staring like a virgin. It was laughable. It made it even better as you reached up to gently flick the tip, watching his jaw click slightly. You bumped the tip again, letting the length bob and fall against his stomach, twitching.
"Would you quit that?" He grumbled, words strained as he bit back a pathetic whine.
"Quit what? This?" You hummed, flicking the tip once more, only to press your thumb over the slit this time. He choked, hips jolting as he gripped the sheets of your bed beneath him.
"You're such an ass." He breathed, a weak laugh leaving his lips as he looked up and bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut in an effort to brace himself.
"Don't be such a baby." You clicked your tongue, finally wrapping your hand around the base and pumping slowly. It wasn't as stimulating with the dryness of your palm, so you leaned over the length and let your spit slip onto the underside of his cock, acting as a lubricant as you got your fun out of his reactions. He whined, hips bucking into your palm as you tightened your grasp and sped up the stroking pace.
"Fuck—please." He gasped lightly, tip leaking desperately.
Like a trigger in your mind, the word 'please' was all it took for you to lean in and take the tip between your lips. His hand came to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He looked down, taking in the sight as he watched you push your hair out of your face.
"Shit, sorry." He hissed, shaky hands coming to gather your hair as much as he could to keep it from getting in the way. "It's.. ah.. it's been a while, y-you know?" He breathed, grasp tightening on your hair as he felt you work deeper onto his cock until the tip touched the back of your throat, resulting in a small gag.
He expected you to pull back, but you pushed deeper and began bobbing your head, letting his tip kiss your throat with each downward push of your head. A mix of whines, moans, and gasps filled the room alongside the occasional gagging and sounds of unintentional slobbering. Robert's head fell back as he felt his peak approaching, hips twitching and bucking against your face as you slowed to a stop and gave control over to him. Spit and precum mixed at the base of his cock, making a mess of your chin and cheeks as he gained more certainty in fucking your throat.
"Oh, God! Fuck—you're so fucking perfect." He gasped, balls drawing tight to his body as he tried desperately not to blow his load yet. He let out a sound akin to a sob, eyes rolling back.
With the obvious signs of him getting close, you pushed his hips to stay down, head pulling up and off of his cock as you coughed slightly, catching your breath. Robert looked down, eyes wide with confusion and slight worry.
"Wha—are you okay? Shit, did I hurt you? I-im sorry." He sputtered, vision slightly blurred as he focused on the sight of you wiping your chin and lips.
"You didn't hurt me." You huffed, taking a moment to catch your breath as you looked up at him. "I just wanted to piss you off." You grinned lightly, watching him groan as his shoulders slumped in relief.
"You're so mean." He panted lightly.
"Fine, don't cum in my mouth. That's fine, too. I don't have to let you cum at all." You shrugged, head tilting up at him.
"You wouldn't dare." He squinted.
"I so would." You rested your head on his thigh, face just an inch or two from his length.
"Don't." He muttered, frowning slightly.
"What's the magic word, Robert?" You mused, one hand coming to lightly grope at his balls, eliciting a gasp from him and another drop of precum spilled from his slit.
"Please. Fucking please." He breathed, brows knitting together with desire as he fought the urge to grind his hips into your touch.
"Mmh, I dunno. You were kinda bothering me earlier. You think you should get a reward?"
Robert nodded frantically. "I was only joking. Come on, don't make me beg." He pleaded softly, hand still tangled in your hair.
"What do I get in return?"
"Anything you want. As soon as you let me cum, I swear."
"Fine. But only because I want something." You leaned back in, taking him into your mouth and letting him resume his desperate throat fucking, your hand still groping and squeezing at his balls, hoping to increase the pleasure for him. It was a good move because he was gasping your name and spilling his load down your throat in less than a minute after resuming.
"Ooh, my god." He gasped, cock twitching. Your nose pressed to the neat patch of coarse hair at the base, eyes screwed shut as you let him bask in the pleasure as his tip spilled a few more weak spurts that were swallowed down with the rest.
Slowly, you lifted your head and looked up at him, enjoying the already messed up expression on his face. "It really has been a while, hasn't it?" You teased. "I've never been with someone so fucked out over a quick suck."
"Shut up." He huffed. He let your hair fall out of his grasp as he moved to gently wipe your face and pull you into his lap. "God, you smell amazing." He groaned, nose pressing into your pulse point where you always sprayed the perfume that he'd grown accustomed to.
Robert made quick work of getting rid of your jeans, leaving you in just your panties as he shifted so that he could lean back and lie his head on your pillows with you still on top of him, hands guiding you to press your hips properly down onto him. He worked your hips back and forth, allowing himself to get hard again while also providing you with some lazy form of friction.
He reached down to tug your panties to the side, exposing the bushy expanse of your core. He slid two fingers between your folds, spreading them and slotting his length between the warmth and wetness. You dragged your hips back and forth, breath catching when his thumb found your clit, encouraging your movements.
Robert watched as your hips lifted slightly, hand coming between your thighs so you could reach to angle his cock upright. He let out another curse, watching as you sank yourself onto his length. He moaned, eyes fluttering shut as you sat perfectly with him nestled inside of the warmth and tightness you rewarded him with.
His shaky hands rose from your hips, finding home with the palms groping at your chest once more. "You're a tit guy, aren't you?" You teased, voice breathy.
"For you? Fuck yeah." He groaned, squeezing the fleshy mounds as he felt you begin to lift your hips, falling down seconds later. His fingertips dug into your skin as you found a steady rhythm, hips jolting against his each time his tip would graze that spongy spot inside of you. A soft cry left your lips as the pleasure increased, pussy squeezing around him as he plucked and toyed with your nipples between his groping. You reached down, your own hand gently finding its way down to rub at your clit.
"Fuck, Robbie," you breathed, head falling back as you sped up and let your hips fall harder.
"Yeah, just—fuck—just like that, baby. Touch yourself while you fuck yourself on my cock like that." He hissed, gaze dropping to watch his length disappear inside of you whilst you pleasure yourself.
"I-i'm so close.. oh, god," you whined, eyes rolling back with pleasure.
"Not god," He panted. "Me. Robert. Robbie." He insisted, grip tightening possessively.
"Ah! Robert—Robbie, please!" You squealed, hand coming to grasp at his wrist as you felt overstimulated by your own touch. Robert took initiative, one hand toying with your breasts while the other cane down to replace yours, thumb pressing in circles against the puffy bundle of nerves.
"Come on, give it t'me, baby. Give it to me." He encouraged, hips bucking upward to meet you halfway.
"Oh! Ah—ugh!" A cacophony of squeals, moans, and gasps filled the room as you let yourself go, pulsing around him and triggering his own orgasm, cock spurting thick, hot ropes of his cum into you as your hips fell for the last time, body trembling above his as he worked you through the pleasure, your hips twitching until he stopped, hands coming to massage at your thighs.
You fell forward, body limp above his own limp and relaxed body. You both heaved, catching your breath as you felt him slip out of you, shuddering in sync as his cum spilled out of you and onto him.
"That's gross."
"I think it's hot." He murmured, lips finding a comfortable spot to kiss along your shoulder.
"Of course you do. You're a freak."
"Never underestimate the desperation of a man who's spent months with dreams of his sexy coworker plaguing him." He mused jokingly.
"You're so unbelievably shameless outside of work." You laughed, pushing at his face as he rolled you over and got on top, hips between your thighs.
"What can I say? It's not often I get to have sex with the woman I've been pining after for months." He kissed along your shoulders and neck, soft and sweet.
"You're just saying that."
"No. I've been waiting to see if you'd soften up. I've been waiting for months. Ask Waterboy." He admitted, honest and sincere as he lifted his head to look down at you.
"Fuck. You're so sappy." You looked away, cheeks tinting with color as your brows furrowed.
"Do you want me to stop?" He asked.
"For now. Probably. I don't like sappy sex. That's a new kind of vulnerability that you haven't unlocked."
"Unlocked?" He laughed. "Like a video game character?"
"Yes. Exactly like that, you big nerd."
"I might be a nerd, but you can't deny I've got a lot more skill in the bedroom than other nerds."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, hon." You patted his chest, moving to try and sit up. Robert pressed your hips down, huffing.
"You saying I don't?" He grumbled.
"I'm sure there's better." You continued, enjoying how jealous he seemed to get.
"Fuck that." He grumbled again, tugging you to lie down again as he shifted. "I wanna go again. You were doing all the work last round. I had no control. Gimme some redemption, would you?"
"Robert, I'm joking." You laughed, leaning up to kiss him softly. "If it helps at all, 90% of the guys I've fucked haven't made me cum nearly as hard as you did, if they even managed to." You murmured.
"You're so cruel to me." He dropped his head to your shoulder, laying all his weight onto you as he curled his arms around you and huffed, getting comfortable.
"I need to pee." You announced, listening to him groan.
"You always interrupt." He whined, but he listened and sat upright to let you get up.
"Quit complaining, and I'll consider a round two." You said.
"Hurry back." He reached out, lightly swatting at your butt as you shuffled off to the bathroom.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up together, had sharpened each other like two arrowheads. You thought that meant everything, until you see Ka'vina has taken your place.
Despite the high stakes, hunting always brought you a sense of peace.
There were repetitive motions that you followed for every hunt, ones that felt as familiar as breathing at this point in your life.
Every hunter must remember first scan their area, they must be familiar with the routines of the yerik packs, must be aware of where palulukan reside and hunt, must be wise to acknowledge the territory that the angtsìk claim as their own, it is also important that they be wary of the path they take home for nantang’s are known to try and steal a clean kill when the opportunity arises.
Next the hunter must track, keeping everything listed prior in mind. If the yerik tracks stray too close into palulukan territory, the hunter should retreat. If the hunter stumbles into angtsìk grounds, they must remember to show no fear.
Once the hunter has safely tracked a yerik, they should remember to watch their footing. To step lightly, and avoid sticks, leaves or other flora that can alert the yerik that something is around. It is best to find an angle that allows you to stay hidden, a clean kill from a concealed location always fills your chest with pride.
When the hunter is concealed they can then nock their arrow. A slow pull on the bowstring minimizes noise, and leads for more time to correct your aim. But a skillful hunter can nock, draw, and release an arrow before the yerik can even raise the defensive fans that sit upon their heads.
A true aim leads to a clean kill. A spoken prayer to Eywa, sending the yeriks spirit back to hers. And thanking the yerik for its sacrifice, for feeding the clan, and providing precious materials in the form of hides.
Finally the hunter must decide on if they will haul the entire yerik back to the home tree; or if they will only take the most valuable cuts of meat, and the largest spans of hide to carry back and leave the rest for other forest creatures to feast on.
You rarely chose to leave any of your catch. Years of training left you strong, you could easily haul your kills home. It did not matter if it left an ache in your shoulders, or if a twinge settled in your lower back.
As you approach hometree you begin to wonder if you should have at least taken a bit of the breast meat. You knew it was Neteyams favorite, and it would be a good way to show him not only your hunting prowess, that you are attuned to him. That you see him.
It is a nice thought. To court someone you have been pining after most of your life. But then you find yourself too close to hometree to dismount the yerik from your shoulders and you chuckle at how much your mind wandered on the way home.
You make your way through the clan, greeting people as you make your way to the carvers. They would slice the hide from the yeriks body and hang it to dry before cutting up your kill into as many satisfying, equal portions as possible to be prepared for the cookfire tonight.
Mou comes to greet you, “Thank you taronyu.” He grabs the yerik from where you’ve placed it. “Do you wish for a specific cut? Perhaps you would like some of the hide?”
It was traditional for the carvers to ask if the hunter would like a specific piece of their kill. But that would also take away the significance of offering a piece of meat as a courting display.
“I do not wish for it. You know you do not have to ask me that every time I bring you a kill, Mou.”
He laughs at you, finding your blank tone amusing, “It is tradition.”
“It is stupid. Have I ever asked you to do this for me?”
“No, but one never knows when ferocious hunters like you may grow lazy.”
Mou tosses a grin over his shoulder as he hauls your kill away and towards the group of waiting carvers. He was never one to take your brazen demeanor as rudeness, he knew you spoke your mind and let your feelings be known even in uncomfortable situations.
You scoff at him as you leave. As if you would ever become lazy. How could he have the audacity to even think of such a concept?
The clan is bustling as you shift through; children are running around with their wooden toys, singers are practicing the ancient songs, there are bigger hunting parties returning with their kills, even the weaving circle is louder than usual.
It brings a slight grin to your face, seeing the people happy makes you happy. You had more than enough time to take a quick nap, and then head to the river to wash up before dinner would be served. Maybe if you skipped the nap you could take your beloved ikran out for a flight and wash at one of the hot springs that sparsely resided in the Ayram Alusìng.
Yes.
That would be nice, it could ease the tension in your shoulders.
It is settled. Instead of heading back to your kelku, you pivot to climb up hometree. The ikrans rest at the highest level, but you’ve been climbing almost as long as you’ve been walking so you would reach it shortly.
As you arrive at the base of hometree and start to find some solid footing a call of your name comes across the clearing. Your eyes close, a sigh heaving through your lips. With a turn of your head you survey the area, you know the voice, and have heard it almost everyday since she learned how to speak.
You spot Kiri weaving her way through the clan, her hand raised in a beckoning motion. “Come search with me for some paywll.”
“They are far Kiri. We will not arrive back before the cookfire starts.”
She is face to face with you now, her tail undulates as she speaks. “You have never minded missing a bit of the cookfire.”
Your lips purse, a crease forming between your brows in mock debate.
“Please.” Kiri grasps your hand before turning around and tugging you behind her.
Laughter bubbles uncontrollably out of your chest, “Kiri – Wait! I have not said yes yet!”
“You would have said yes regardless, now come. I will carry the gourd now, you may carry it back when it is full.”
You were only supposed to be txantxewm, lingering over her shoulder to shoo predators away. Now she wants you to work too! Unbelievable.
It’s hours later when Kiri and you approach hometree again. You’ve ended up carrying not only the gourd filled with medicinal liquid, but also the leaves of paywll, which are packed into a basket that rests on your hip.
You pass the cookfire on your way to the Tsa’hiks kelku. It’s lively as ever; drums are being beaten creating a tune for the singers to perform to, there's a group of clan members dancing, and the younger members have begun to section off into groups.
Kiri is half a step in front of you, excited to drop off the items her grandmother requested and finally be done with her Tsakarem training for the day. You allow your eyes to skim over the faces, searching for Neteyams, you’d like to know where you should move to after you deliver the materials to Mo’at.
It takes you a few moments to find him. He’s settled all the way across the gathering, surrounded by other young hunters, a few climbers and weavers as well. He normally sits on the edge of the group, saving space on one of his sides for you. You’re unsurprised to see he’s flanked by Fay’ru, the other male trying to get into the future Olo’eyktan’s good graces.
You’re unable to conceal your look of shock at Ka’vina sitting on Neteyams other side. She has never joined your group before, always softly tucked into the weavers circle or sitting with her sister where the singers congregate. You school your expression before someone can see you trying to dissect Ka’vina from the inside out.
Neteyam had always rejected anyone from closing him in. He would kindly redirect them towards another seat, reminding them that he had saved his closest friend the seat they had just tried to sit in.
Neteyam was a strong warrior, a strong hunter, and as his father would say he has a ‘backbone’. So there would be no reason for him to allow her to sit in your spot.
But he was of age, in his prime years.
He was strong. He filled out his body well in recent years. He gained some of his fathers unnatural width. His old armbands no longer fit, having to become bracelets or being stored away for his future children. His cummerbund also barely fit now, but he refused to part with it until it absolutely no longer fit.
He was kind. He took on responsibilities of other clan members when he could see them struggling. He helped the elders with carrying their baskets, he had even carved them walking sticks to steady them on their paths.
He was the youngest hunter to ever get a clean kill on a sturmbeest. Very few of the current hunters had prowess that rivaled his. He frequently led the younger hunters when they went out, making time to help them hone in on their skills.
Neteyam also frequented the training grounds, not for his own skills. He had been bestowed the honor of training new warriors. Of teaching them the ways of the Omatikaya, making sure they had every required skill to complete their Iknimayas.
Ka’vina was a stark opposite.
She spent most of her time around hometree, never venturing out into the forest unless accompanied by a warrior.
She weaved many things. Tewngs, chest coverings, chokers, bracelets, armbands, cummerbunds, bowstrings, baskets, hammocks, floor mats. The list could continue on and on.
She was knowledgeable of healing herbs, the best spices to use on meats at the cookfire, aware of how to properly prepare some tough to handle roots and fruits for consumption as well.
However she was naive.
You knew she did not know how to hunt. Did not know how to skin a yerik, how to aim at a herd of sturmbeest; you were not even sure she knew what animals were aggressive and which were kind.
Her hands were soft, not even calloused with the countless hours spent weaving. You didn’t think she even wielded a bow. Hardly believed that she knew a knife could be used to do anything other than chop roots. It showed how simple her life was, how different she was from Neteyam. How different she was from you.
Then it dawned on you. Neteyam must be courting her. As they say ‘opposites attract’ and her softness would be a perfect compliment to the firm hand he would come to lead with.
A piercing feeling shot into your chest.
You’ve been following Kiri silently this whole time. She had glanced back at you occasionally, mostly to make sure you were still following her, but she could tell you didn’t want to speak based on the carefully crafted expression on your face.
Mo’at greets you as you duck into the tent, on autopilot you respond.Then you’re asking her where she’d like the gourd and the basket, placing them down with a delicately crafted care before bidding your goodbyes.
“I will join you at the cookfire shortly.”
“Ah. I will be heading home.” You shake your head, the beads braided into your hair clacking with the motion. “Let me know if you require aid harvesting more herbs. Goodnight Kiri, Tsa’hik.”
With sudden, jerky motions you duck back out of the tent. You can hear Kiri protesting, trying to encourage you to at least pick up a niktsyey before heading home. It’s pleasant to know that she cares, but you don’t think you could face Neteyam so shortly after your realization.
Unfortunately you have to walk past the cookfire again to reach your kelku, it being on the opposite side of the village from the Tsa’hiks. You were a skilled hunter, a warrior when needed, and you knew how to camouflage, how to avoid being seen.
Taking a steadying breath, you head more towards the forest, where it would be easier to blend into the flora. Easier to slip past your friends. Easier to avoid the new reality you’d have to live in.
You’re only a few steps away from rockier terrain when a five fingered hand grasps your wrist. Whipping around you come face to face with Lo’ak.
He’s grinning, clearly happy to catch you and hinder you from heading home, “Come, I need your support in an argument with Vor’lan.”
He doesn’t listen before starting to drag you towards his friends. What is it with these Sullys and refusing to wait for an answer!
“Lo’ak. I am tired, I have been out all day.”
“That is fine. It will be quick, and you can have my last niktsyey as payment.”
You scoff, “No. I have not had time to wash, I do not wish to be around people.”
“My friends do not care.” He turns to face you briefly before continuing to drag you, “To be fair, they will probably still drool over you.”
“Lo’ak!” An incredulous gasp tears from your throat.
A boyish laugh leaves him, “It is true! So do not worry about the smell, just back me up okay?”
In reality you could dig your heels into the dirt and yank your wrist free of his grasp. You were still stronger than him, your muscles more taut, more prepared to fight back than his. But the soft spot in your heart reserved for the Sully kids aches. So you allow him to drag you to where his friends reside at the cookfire.
You allow him to shove the niktsyey into your palm, along with a carved up filled with something that he definitely should not be drinking. The food and drink loosen you up, allow you to relax a little bit, to find a way to enjoy the company you’re in.
When Lo’ak retells his story about the tslikllte he caught, all of his friends doubt him. No one believing he saw one of the creatures this far inland. But then he’s looking at you, “She was there, tell them! Tell Vor’lan specifically how I bested it.”
You take another swig of your drink, swishing it around your mouth as you decide how much to talk up Lo’ak. “I was not there when Lo’ak stumbled upon it.”
“Hey! You so wer -”
“Hush. When I arrived you were already wrestling the poor thing.” You gulp down a few more sips before beginning to swirl the drink around in your cup.
You’re barely helping Lo’aks case and he has to defend his honor, “I had thought it to be dead already!”
“Any skxawng should know that they can hold their breath. Nevermind that does not matter. I have never seen a grip as strong as Lo’aks.”
His friends are leaning in closer now, staring intently at you, the expressions you make, the way your eyes flit over each of them.
“The tslikllte are coated to make them slick, and yet, Lo’ak never faltered. He managed to keep it in his grasp even as he removed a hand to retrieve his knife.” You begin to rest against the log everyone had gathered around, knowing that your job was done and you can fall into a nice limbo until you retire for the night, “The taste was like nothing I have experienced before, I couldn’t be happier to have tried it.”
Their conversation flows freely after that. They talk about climbing tomorrow, which mountains are best, where they can get the best views, or the best ones to try tricks on their ikrans around. It then flows to why they chose the colors that decorate their arrows. It ebbs briefly into relationships, and who’d they’d like to court after completing their dream hunts. It takes a turn into how some of them would rather mess around with many people before settling and that brings a chuckle to your tongue.
The conversation had been settled into which piece of a sturmbeest was best when it suddenly goes quiet. All eyes are focused behind where you and Lo’ak sit and would make you nervous if you weren’t such a strong warrior; scratch that, it would make you nervous if you did not have so much of the fermented drink settled in your belly.
You’re about to open your mouth and ask what has everyone staring when there's abruptly hands on your shoulders. The voice that follows sends a shiver of rigidity down your spine.
“What are we talking about, hm?”
One of Lo’aks friends speaks up, “The best part of a sturmbeest.”
“Ah, it is easily the thigh.” Neteyams hands begin to lightly massage your shoulders, feeling the tension that formed, “You do not mind if I steal her, right?”
It was a rhetorical question, and everyone knew it. You may have loved Lo’ak, willing to do almost anything he had asked. But you were still Neteyams closest friend, it was a no brainer that you would hightail it out of there as soon as you were asked. Still out of respect, they shook their heads, bidding you a goodbye.
“I am exhausted Neteyam, it would be best if I head back to my kelku now.” You’ve stood to make your point. Turning around to face Neteyam, hoping he did not see the cracks in your composure.
“I will be quick,” He smiles at you, one of the genuine ones that shows his true inner happiness, “ there is someone I want you to meet.”
Oh. You absolutely could not go over there. The stories you knew of Ka’vina were enough to satiate your need to ever meet her.
Neteyam begins to tug you by your hand, as both his siblings had earlier. These damn Sullys and not taking a hint!
This time you dig your feet, you don’t let him drag you towards that woman. Your reaction would ruin your reputation in the clan.
“I really am tired, Neteyam,” You turn to Lo’ak, “Did I not say the same to you before you dragged me here?”
Lo’ak nods, remembering how you had complained hours earlier. He doesn’t understand why you’re denying Neteyam though, he doesn’t think you’ve done that in all his years of knowing you.
“Then I will walk you home.”
He turns in the direction of your kelku, seemingly pleased to just be in your presence after not seeing you all day. You let him drag you a few steps, just far enough that you’re sure his brother and his friends can no longer hear you.
“I wish to walk alone.”
Neteyams tail slows to a still in front of you, his ears flick forward to catch any and everything you say, “...But I have not seen you all day.”
What are you supposed to say? ‘I know, I’ve lived this day as well?’ or better yet, ‘I have seen you, but chosen to not acknowledge your presence as it makes me sick.’ Neither option feels right so you stay silent.
“I wish to walk you home so we can talk.”
“I do not have energy for conversation.”
“You had energy when entertaining Lo’ak’s friends.” Irritation is obvious in his tone, and his tail begins to whip back and forth harshly.
“I was not saying much, just sitting in their presence.” You finally meet his eyes, trying to drive home your point, “Just let me walk by myself tonight, please.”
The disappointment settles heavily on Neteyams features as he comes to terms with the fact that you will not allow him to do this, he grunts some noncommittal reply before heading back towards his friends who remain at the cookfire.
You should have left after that, stomped your way to your kelku, grabbed a nice warm pelt, and tucked into your hammock. Instead you watch Neteyam through the crowd, eyes following as his figure settles back onto the log, and he allows Ka’vina to settle into his side a bit more than is considered friendly.
The stabbing pain settles back in your chest. It pulses a bit the longer you watch but it does not matter anymore. You would have to fall into a new routine in the morning, sure that Ka’vina would not want you close to Neteyam as they start courting.
Before you know it four eclipses have passed and you’ve successfully avoided Neteyam for all of them. You hunt early in the mornings, leaving before most of the hunting parties have even woken up for the day. You return with your kills lighter than normal, taking enough meat to satiate yourself until the next day.
When you complete your duties you take to flying. Not the usual routes that the hunters would take, or the ones that the warriors would patrol around, just drifting with the wind patterns. Your face ends up windburnt from how much time you’ve been spending up there.
If your head isn’t literally in the clouds, you take to climbing. The hobby wasn’t your favorite, and that’s what made it the perfect diversion. You could head back out to the forest, finding a good tree to observe Eywas beauty from. Sometimes, you’d just climb hometree, heading all the way to the top to give your ikran some special treatment.
Regardless of how, you strayed from your normal paths. If you avoided them, Neteyam shouldn’t be able to track you down. And hopefully he would get the point, would understand that your paths were unwinding from each other, that they were branching off in different directions for the first time.
It hurts to avoid him. But it was better than facing him. Better than seeing him with Ka’vina. Better than watching their love flourish, and hearing the gossip spread about what a perfect pair they make.
The fifth day starts like the rest. You wake, change your tewng and chest piece, eat some fruit you had foraged the day before, slide on your knife holster and knife, and toss your bow across your back.
As you emerge from your kelku a sense of loneliness sits in your chest. You missed hunting with your friends. Missed fooling around with them at the cookfire. Missed accompanying Kiri on her foraging. Missed doing stupid shit with Lo’ak under the guise of being a responsible figure. You really missed Neteyam.
Missed flying with him. Missed hunting with him. Missed training with him. Missed indulging Tuk with him. Hell you even missed rebraiding his hair.
But your heart can only take so much. The images of him with Ka’vina flow freely into your head, reminding you of why you needed the distance, of why you needed to become a ghost in your own home.
A shout of your name halts you in your tracks. The Olo’eyktan has one of the most noticeable voices in the whole clan. You take a deep breath before turning to face him
“Good Morning, Olo’eyktan.” You raise your hand in the traditional greeting, “What can I do for you?”
Jake greets you back, “None of that formal shit kid,” then he’s yanking you into a hug. Your arms wrap sheepishly around his back, uncomfortable with the gesture due to the state of your and Neteyams relationship.
“You can say no, but Neteyams a little tied up at the moment so I was hoping you could train the young ones for a little while?”
As if you could say no to the Olo’eyktan. Jealousy claws at your heart, Ka’vina has Neteyam so busy with his courting that he can’t even tend to his duties?
“Of course, I will head there now.”
This would be good. Your friends would probably be there, and it could solve your loneliness problem, maybe you could even get a few good spars in and disguise them as ‘training demonstrations’. A skip finds your step on your way to the training grounds and for the first time in many eclipses you feel excited.
A small part of you hopes that Lo’ak would be there, that he’d force you to go on an adventure with him after training. And you could ask to bring Kiri along, satiating most of your need to hang out with the Sully kids.
You can’t think about the Sully kids without including Neteyam. You want to reminisce about happy memories, want to think about all the future good memories to come, but then Ka’vina inches her way into your mind. The image of them together at the cookfire, sitting too close for comfort.
But you won’t see them, they’ll be too busy taking strolls through the forest. Or maybe they’re flying their ikrans in spirals around each other. Perhaps they were climbing through the ayram alusìng, going higher and higher until they reached the alluring hot springs.
It’d be preferable to not think about the way Ka’vina would undress.
Would she save her modesty and undress after submerging, hoping that her loincloth and chest covering would dry before they emerged again? Or would she make a show of it, slowly unclipping her chest covering, slowly dragging it down to reveal her breast. Would she move onto the loincloth and make a show of that too?
And Neteyam. Would he watch, become so enticed with the show that he couldn’t avert his eyes? Or would he be the gentleman he was raised to be, letting Ka’vina undress and submerge in the warm water, allowing the steam time to curl over her body before finally turning around and entering the spring himself.
Oh Eywa, you were going to be sick. Why would you torment yourself with such thoughts?
A few steadying breaths flow into your lungs. The nausea is still present, but you know once you start teaching that it will subside for good.
You see the familiar shape of Tal’kren. He is performing on the archery targets, taking them from odd angles and showing off to the young ones before their lesson begins. You nock an arrow and wait, deciding when the best moment would be to make your presence known.
Tal’kren takes aim and you eye his stance to figure out which target he is aiming at. You determine it must be the target woven between many trees, the one nearly 100 meters away, farther than any of the young hunters could even dream about reaching.
You let your arrow soar just milliseconds after his does. From the angle everyone is watching from they cannot see your arrow trailing his. Tal’kren’s arrow sinks into the bullseye of the target with a satisfying thump.
Your arrow splits his a millisecond later with a much more satisfying crack. Fifteen heads start turning, searching for who released the arrow.
“Pxi kan, taronyutsyìp,” Tal’krens voice rings out. Finding you much before the trainees did.
You smile, laughing, “I am not little, just taronyu is fine.”
Tal’kren claps a hand on your shoulder before bringing you in for a hug. As you pull back, he keeps the hand on your shoulder “I assume you are my partner for today?”
“I am,” You want to show camaraderie, and encourage the trainees to cultivate similar relationships so you make no move to remove his hand from your shoulder. “The Olo’eyktan has asked me to step in for the foreseeable future.”
The young trainees murmur excitedly; your name is one that is usually spoken in soft whispers so for you to join in on their sessions for a while seemed like a blessing from Eywa. They could complain, wishing it was you and Neteyam training them, that they could have both of the best future warriors teaching them.
But they normally had Neteyam, had spent months learning from him and Tal’kren. Now they could learn your ways, and they could learn how to make their own unique style based on the two of you.
Days pass like this. The trainees soaking up your knowledge. Letting you adjust their stances, pull their strings more taught, sharpen the arrowheads that dulled from constant use.
Today you’re standing face to face with Opani when you hear the familiar timber of Neteyams voice. Your ears flick in annoyance, because of course Neteyam had to show up, but then you’re focusing on the young warrior in front of you.
Looking down towards the target you can see she is off, leaning more left than she should. It may be because of your proximity so you chide her gently, “Adjust to the right, if you were to take the shot now you would not hit a kill shot.”
She exhales roughly through her nose, you believe it to be from nerves and not irritation so you do not scold her. Then she shifts, leaning slightly more into your personal space. As she releases the arrow you hear Neteyam’s voice again.
This time you flick your head to angle it over your shoulder. Where was he? Why did it sound as if his voice was getting closer?
Beside you Opani releases a shout of joy, and that forces you to face front again. She's already staring at you, jumping a little from excitement. Flicking your eyes to the target you can see she hit the bullseye perfectly.
You ruffle her braids, giving her some words of encouragement before telling her to go retrieve her arrow and try again. After she runs off you redirect your attention in Neteyams direction.
You must be off your game, any skilled hunter should be able to differentiate from all current sounds around them. Yet, you somehow managed to miss Ka’vina’s voice. Seeing her renders you motionless; Your ears press against your skull, your tail falls flat, eyes drifting over every piece of her.
It takes you a few moments to notice Neteyam is in front of her, his back to you. They assume the same positions you and Opani were just in. It feels different this time though.
With you and Opani it was obvious that you were teacher and student. With Neteyam and Ka’vina it seemed as if it was a date. Instead of their movements being out of necessity, they had a sensual tone to them.
Neteyam uses his hand to raise Ka’vinas elbow higher, he watches the arrowhead carefully to make sure her aim is true. She turns towards him, saying something that you can’t hear.
You can see how he raises his fingers to grasp her chin. He tilts it back towards the target, encouraging her to always keep her eyes where her arrow is aimed.
The feeling that settles in your stomach makes you disgusted with yourself. They’re a well suited couple. Anyone with eyes could tell you that. They would make a good Olo’eyktan and Tsa’hik.
A good couple to lead the Omatikaya.
And here you were, upset at their presence. Upset that they were falling into love in the public eye. Upset that Neteyam hadn’t even told you he was considering courting Ka’vina.
You wondered which piece she wore was Neteyams courting gift. Was it the bracelet, the deep brown twine, mixed with blue and green beads that match her skin and the tones of the forest?
Or was it the choker, lined with polished river rocks lining her collarbone?
You couldn’t let your mind linger any longer. Couldn’t allow it to make you detest your closest friend.
So you find Tal’kren, alert him of some sudden illness you’ve come down with, and leave for the day. You could rest, and allow your mind to drift to other things. It would be smarter to head to the Tree of Souls. To make an honest prayer to Eywa for her to help you move on.
She would help you, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to let go yet.
You wanted to seem more alluring, something to attract attention at the clan gatherings. Not that you were actively seeking a mate, but it would be nice to see who is interested. Nice to see how many options you had, if any.
You knew you were rough around the edges. Knew that you spoke harsher than most liked. That your hands were rough from years of use. That you had nasty scars littering your body. That you had more muscle than the typical lithe Na’vi woman.
And you knew it had to make you less desirable. That the men must have wanted someone easier. Someone who thought before they spoke, and chose their words carefully so you could fall upon them like a pillow instead of a rock.
But that does not mean that everyone would dislike you, there has to be someone in the clan who sees your beneficial qualities. Someone who you could live your life with.
If there wasn’t you would prefer to know sooner rather than later. To decide if you should seek out a mate from a different clan.
So you seek our Kiri. A skilled weaver, knowledgeable in the proper herbs to stain cloths, and good company.
You had decided on a nice deep red. It was a color not typically worn by the Omatikaya as it did not blend in with the forest fauna - therefore it would draw the most attention.
“So, I have not seen you around the gatherings much.” Kiri drawls, keeping her head towards her weaving but angling her eyes to see you.
Your fingers don’t stop their meticulous patterns, “I have been there. Just last night I ate with Lo’ak.”
“Yes, but you skip at least 4 cookfires a week.”
“I tire easily, you know of my many duties.”
Kiri scoffs, but decides against responding. Her silence allows you to pick up a new bead, weaving it onto the side of where the cloth will hang. You’ve decided on white beads, and silvery polished river stones. They compliment the red well, they will also bring more attention to your waist, clacking and clashing with every step.
You decide on a symmetrical look. Two braided strands on each side. The farthest one shorter than the one that rests closest to the cloth. It will look nice.
Will it matter? Will the males of the clan really focus on the little details or only focus on what rests underneath?
You knew Neteyam would notice, that he would mention that the symmetry helped your internal equilibrium. Helped keep you centered in the rough moments. Not that you couldn’t function if your garments were asymmetrical, but he knew you were always a hair more sure of your aim.
But you were not wearing it for him. So what he thought did not matter. However this left you with a good idea on what to focus on when approached. Knew what you wanted to hear, and what you did not.
As you tie off the last bead on the tewng a sense of accomplishment falls upon you. You gaze upon your work lovingly; proud that even though your hands are rougher than the weavers, you can still produce a good piece.
It’s during your admiration that Kiri speaks again, “I require more twine.”
“The great mother has bestowed you with two legs and two arms, you can go retrieve your own twine.”
“I will fall out of rhythm, and then who knows how long it will take me to complete this piece.”
Your sharp words never phased Kiri, never shoved her away. You guessed it was good enough reason to go and retrieve more twine from the weavers circle.
As you stand and begin to pad away, you can hear Kiri shout some sort of thanks and you lift your hand in acknowledgement.
You were aware of many women in the weavers circle. Most of them are siblings to people you’ve hunted with, some girls you grew up with, others were elders who taught you how to weave at the beginning of your life.
A polite, simple greeting would do. You could say hello as you’re reaching for the twine. Exchange niceties, as you unspool the amount you guessed Kiri needed. And unsheath your knife and cut the twine before any deep conversations began to form.
You keep your head down as you reach for the twine and greet the circle. Everyone murmurs a similar greeting back and you are content to leave it as that. They know why you are here and do not need to indulge in conversation.
“Ma’numeyu, how have you been?” Rinak is speaking, drawing your eyes up from where the rest. She taught you how to weave when you were just a babe, toddling around camp looking for things to do.
“I have been well, and you Rinak?”
“I am also well numeyu, but I am disappointed that you have not eaten with me in many moons.”
You unsheath your knife, angling it safely to tear through the taught line of twine, “I am sorry. I will eat with you tonight if you will have me.”
“Of course I would.” Rinak chuckles, as if amused by the idea that she would shun your company away.
You smile back at her, pleased with how easily this has went. You have not run into Ka’vina or any of her friends, and have not had to exchange fake niceties with them. This will be counted as a win in your book.
But then you turn, ready to stand and head back to where you and Kiri have been hanging out as you weaved. And there, at the far side of the circle rests Ka’vina. Sitting knee-to-knee with her is Neteyam. He is weaving something, what you cannot tell, but Ka’vina is intently studying it.
Neteyam is looking at you though, his head tilted as if he is curious, and his hands only loosely grip his work. It is as if he is hunting; his eyes remain wide even after he blinks, not wanting to miss any movement from his prey.
You meet his eyes, frozen in place from his gaze. It would be improper to run, but it would be too awkward to walk over and say hello at this point. The tension grows around the circle, other members slowly noticing the way that the two of you are staring at each other.
The tension snaps like a bowstring when Ka’vina tugs on the piece in Neteyams hand. His eyes bolt to hers, ears flicking forward to catch every word that she says. That is your moment to move, so you run with it.
One of your hands raises as you bid everyone good weaving and goodbye. You force yourself to maintain a normal pace, not wanting Neteyam to see you run away. For him to know how openly you despise choice.
Upon returning to Kiri, you silently drop the twine, pressing a hand to her shoulder in greeting as you pass. She does not speak however, simply tying the two pieces together so she can continue working on her piece.
You’ve tucked your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stew in your thoughts. Kiri must have known about Neteyams chosen one by now. Ka’vina must have been formally introduced to the Sullys, and therefore Kiri. And Kiri was the best judge of character, if she were to say Ka’vina was a good pick, you would believe it.
A whispered call of her name leaves your lips. You hope she misses it. Hope that it blends in with the pleasured yelps of the children, or the distant roars of the ikrans, even the chatter of the passing group of hunters.
But it does not, and Kiri responds much louder than you would like.
“What is it?”
“What are your thoughts on Ka'vina?” You can feel her eyes boring into the side of your head, but you refuse to look at her.
“She is a good weaver.”
This is common knowledge, Kiri must know you do not care about it. “What else?”
“If she did not wish to weave, she could easily join the singers.”
She must be egging you on. Wanting you to expose what you really feel before she says anything. You would think that a hunter as skilled as yourself would have more patience. You snap all the same, falling right into Kiris trap, “Yes. I know this. Everyone knows this. I want to know what you think about her deeply.”
“I think she is a good person. That she has many skills to help around hometree, and is known to assist the children and elders, but is unwise when it comes to other tasks.” Kiri is still staring at you even as she finishes her piece, “Why do you ask?”
You could not tell her the reason. Even if she sensed it, it would be wrong considering that Ka'vina was to be her sister. It could be worked out, where had you seen Ka'vina? Where had she piqued your interest?
“She has come around the training grounds recently and I could not think of why.” Finally you let your eyes drift to Kiris, hoping that there are no emotions swirling in your amber pools, “It makes sense with what you said. She needs to become fluent in many skills, not just a few.”
Kiri stares at you, eyes flicking over your face. Then to your ears, and briefly to your tail. Trying to assess how you feel internally from your body language. When she senses no showing of a lie a smile graces her face.
Then she's tossing the piece she crafted into your face. You grab it before it can slide and meet the dusty ground. As it rests in your palms you notice the red, white, and polished river stones that accent it.
“I made it so you could have a matching set tonight.”
At that, you gape at her. She had gone through all this trouble for you?
“Well don’t just look at me! Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much. Thank you Kiri.” You’ve stood now, crossing the small clearing to toss yourself onto her as a full body thanks.
“You skxawng get off of me!”
The two of you tousle a bit, acting like children getting into their first scuffle. But then you are off of her, and running in the direction of your kelku to get ready for the cookfire tonight.
It is almost eclipse, which means you have enough time to change slowly, put your braids up in a different style and meander your way back to the center of hometree.
On your way back Tal’kren calls for you. He must have also stopped at his kelku before heading to the cookfire.
“Hello Tal’kren, how were the trainees today?” You call back over your shoulder, refusing to stop for him, but walking at a slower pace nonetheless.
“They were fine. No more rowdy than usual. Though they listened les-” Tal’krens voice trails off, and when you turn to look at him he is already staring at you, “What are you wearing?”
You’re approaching the cookfire now, but you still choose to indulge him, “It is new, how do I look?” You give a childish spin, showing all angles of your new outfit.
You can feel more eyes than just his as you sit and wait for a response. But it is not worth searching for who is staring at you when you have a perfectly fine archer right in front of you. If you’re lucky he will say something that will make you believe he has more going on in his head besides arrows, bowstrings, and bows.
“It is very sevin,” Tal’kren gulps, a light shade of indigo coming to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “You are sevin.”
It was not the best compliment, but you would not deny that it made something flutter in your stomach. It was nice to be seen as something other than a txantxewm taronyu.
“Thank you Tal’kren.” You begin to walk towards where you know Rinak likes to sit, “I will see you after I have eaten, yes?”
“Yes. I will be with some of our other friends over here.” He gestures in a general direction, not moving until he sees you nod in acceptance of his words.
The night moves smoothly from then. You talk with the elders, inform them of the current happenings of your life, what new herb you decided you liked on your meat. They in turn spoke about other things you may enjoy, what fruits could enhance the flavor of certain meats, special herbs only the most skilled climbers could eat.
It was nice to speak with them, to gain some wisdom, but it was even nicer sitting around with people you knew.
First it was Lo’ak. His group sat between Rinak and Kiris groups, and he had made fast work of snagging your arm as you passed by. They indulged you in more fermented juice, happy to provide whatever you desired to keep you with them.
You missed the way that Loak's young friends eyed you. Missed how their eyes traced over your chest covering. How they seemed to stop at every bead, or rock, that dimpled the pattern. He had said they ‘drooled over you,’ but in your eyes they were just children, and there was no way they’d be interested in you.
Then Kiri and her group came to join. She had said something about how it was ‘Forbidden to hide from her’ when she crafted you such a beautiful piece. Her friends eyed your new cloths with jealous eyes. The color combination was something they had not considered to be allowed.
You still ignored their gazes. Knowing they mostly wanted to know what weaving pattern Kiri used, and what herb was used to dye the clothes and twine. Not that they cared about you as a person or the body that rests underneath the cloths.
There was a good mix of people, the feeling of the group never becoming tense or uncomfortable. There was currently an exchange of the bravest, most death defying things they had gotten away with.
You had decided that was your time to go join Tal’kren. If you heard too much about what Lo’ak or Kiris friends got up to, you would feel the need to implore them to be safer. So you asked them to top off your drink before you headed off.
As you approach, only two pairs of eyes flick to you. The first being Neteyams, it would seem as if his eyes followed you the entire way from across the fire, but that would be a silly thought. Especially considering Ka’vina was still pressed closely into his side.
The next is Tal’kren. He grins widely as you get closer to where he rests on the log. Already moving to rise before you even fully reach him, “Would you like to sit?”
“It is fine, may I brace my back on your legs though?” You did not wish to have the rough bark mar your skin.
He plants his feet a bit away from the log, steadying them before nodding, “Of course.”
Their conversation is equally as lively as the other groups. Once again discussing trick shots they have taken during sturmbeest hunts.
They first discuss the ones that do not count. This only means they got scolded for it after as it did not result in a kill, was reckless, wasted resources, disrupted the formation, or all of the above.
Once the group had ran through those, they switched to ones that did count. Ones that ended in a kill, clean or not. These were much more important, as the elders would try to scold you, but they had rarely any footing because the clan was still fed.
The only person who could not produce a story was Ka’vina, and it did not bring a sense of pity to your chest. Instead it just reminded you how different she was. Even if she did participate in the hunts, would she want to engage in such activities? What did she even consider fun?
You’ve been avoiding where she and Neteyam were sitting. It was not against them, but you were unsure of how you would act, and you preferred to keep this night enjoyable.
So when someone grasps your bicep and yanks, you are shocked. Before you even have time to identify who it is you’re being tugged backwards.
“Hey-” You stumble over a rock, nearly falling to your knees before you regain your composure, “Just wait a second!”
“I will not.” Neteyams voice is gruff, like he had to force the words through clenched teeth.
You’re furiously pulling your arm now, the cookfire is glowing dimly in the distance, and you cannot believe the audacity of this man. “You will!”
With that final motion, you are able to tug your arm free. And you spin rapidly to face Neteyam, appalled at his actions.
“What was that?”
“It was necessary.”
“By Eywa, in what world was that necessary?”
Neteyam does not grant you a response. He stands in front of you, huffing a little bit with his eyes towards the ground. His ears flick at every sound, and his tail lashes aggressively behind him.
“You are a grown man, and I know your tongue has not been cut out, so speak.”
His eyes meet yours briefly before softly uttering, “They were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.”
“I cannot understand mumbling Neteyam,” When he doesn’t make any move to speak again you turn to leave.
“I said they were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.” The last words spit from his mouth like acid, like they physically pained him to say.
“So what if they were?”
“They should not do such things.”
“Why is that?” You come close to him. Because of the height difference you still have to peer up at him, but you hope your intimidating presence is enough to cut him down a bit, “Why should they not look at me?”
“It is unbecoming of a hunter. They should know better.”
And you laugh, right in his face. “Unbelievable. You are truly, unbelievable Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan.” Then you stalk off, rushing in the direction of your kelku, hoping you can make it in and tie the flaps shut before the tears run down your lashline.
One would think they would want to spare the feelings of someone they grew up with. That they would find a way to soften the blow, not make the impact harder.
If he found you so undesirable, why could he not find another way to say it?
The winds flow freely through your hair. You had unbraided it, wishing to wash it before braiding new beads and feathers into it.
You’re flying on your ikran, heading to one of the hot springs you’ve been aching to dip into for weeks now. Your favorite one rests inside a cave on one of the mountains.
There is just enough space for your ikran to land, truly hiding the space from anyone who doesn’t know it exists. However it also meant that you could never know who’s inside without entering yourself.
But you had left long after the clan had settled for the night. Only the embers of the cookfire remained, and you passed many sleeping members of the clan on the way up hometree. There was no doubt that you would be alone.
You step slowly into the space, admiring the bioluminescence that lit up the cave. Stripping quickly you almost dive into the water with your haste. The hot water instantly releases some tension in your shoulders.
There are natural ledges around the border of the pool, you find one and take a seat. You’ve been very busy recently and deserve the chance to relax.
Before you can get too comfortable you take to scrubbing your scalp. The goal is to remove any dirt, dust, or grime that may have gotten caught up in your tightly wound braids. But that quickly switches to giving yourself a scalp massage.
The motions are nice. They would be even better if it was someone else completing them however, you were not a complainer. You’re unsure how long you sit there for, but you’re sure enough time has passed that you can scrub away at your body now.
Any caked on grime or blood, has become soaked through with the warm water. It slides off your skin easily, showing the vibrant blue shade underneath. You begin to feel more like yourself again, as if you’re shedding your old skin and coming into a new one.
When you turn around, eager to retrieve your waterskin and change positions you're faced with another body. You must have mistaken the sounds of someone else entering the spring with the sounds of your own splashing.
You scoff, “What are you doing here?”
“It is a free hot spring.”
“Yes, but should you not be getting your beauty sleep?”
“Shouldn’t you?”
All the tension you felt leave your body came back. You had specifically came so late as to avoid any of this. Why couldn't Eywa give you a break, just this once. With a deep breath you shut your eyes tightly, and let you head fall against the border.
You would not allow Neteyam to bother you. You have waited many moons to come here, and you would leave when you were ready, not because you were forced out.
Soft ripples distract you from where you’ve let your thoughts drift. Your ears snap to attention, trying to discern if the ripples are moving closer or farther from your location.
Your eyes shoot open when you realize that Neteyam is moving closer to you. “What are you doing.”
You do not pose him a question. You speak the words like a warning, giving him the chance to turn back.
“I am coming deeper so the water may reach my shoulders.”
“Go to that side of the spring then. Do not come closer.”
For a moment you think he will continue moving towards you. That he will attempt to cage you in against the wall and himself, but he moves to where you told him to go. When he gets there you expect him to stay silent.
You have nothing to say to him, nothing nice especially after the cookfire a few nights ago. And whatever he has to say to you, you do not wish to hear.
Minutes tick by in silence. It is not comfortable, some may even say it is suffocating, most would leave. You got here first however, and you refuse to vacate when you came under such perfect conditions to be alone.
Let's be realistic, there were plenty of hot springs he could have picked, why did he come here? He could have left after seeing you already submerged! Quietly backed out, and climbed upon his ikran to find another spring.
The thought irritates you more. It makes you grind your teeth, the anger beginning to simmer in your chest.
“I wish to talk.”
Neteyam had said those same words to you forever ago, when this all began. They had meant less than they do now, but you still feel the same way.
“I do not.”
“Well, we must talk. There is no other wa-”
When you open your eyes, you find Neteyam already staring at you intently, “You cannot force me to talk with you. You are not Olo’ekytan yet, and you do not command me in hunting parties, therefore I do not take orders from you.”
He softly calls your name. If you didn’t know any better you would assume there is a quiver to it, a bit of unsureness. But that would be a silly thought, and you promptly will yourself to stop thinking it.
Suddenly Neteyam is moving closer again. Slowly but surely moving into your side of the spring. When he reaches the halfway point you raise your hand slightly, muttering a quick ‘don’t’ in warning.
That does nothing to deter him. His shoulders begin to glisten from no longer being submerged, droplets cascading down his arms and clavicles in rivulets that remind you how thirsty you had been just a few minutes ago.
Oh Eywa! What were you thinking?
As you get your thoughts back under control Neteyam shifts ever closer. His body comes to rest just a few feet in front of yours. Slowly inching closer, truly trying to cage you like an animal.
“I said to not come closer.”
“And I said we need to speak.”
He thinks you will just sit here? Allow him to force you into speaking? Believes that your nudity embarrasses you enough, that you will allow him to speak?
There is some space between the cave wall and the border of the pool, and if you angled yourself properly you could follow it the entire way back out to where your tewng and chest covering rested. And if you called for your ikran as you were dressing you could be back to hometree within the half hour.
It is decided.
You scooch backwards, using your arms to lift up onto the ledge. It is then that Neteyam finally stops.
Neteyams eyes flick over your body. Your chest, where your nipples have begun to peak in the cooler air, the water that drips down your navel, the way your hips look without the tewng covering them. He does not speak, but an indigo tint falls on his cheeks, rises up his neck, and also hits the tops of his ears.
You stand, wringing out your hair so it does not drip on you as you fly. Pointedly ignoring Neteyams presence, but when he does not continue in his harassment you turn your eyes towards him again.
He is flustered, that much you can tell. At first it makes you a little happy, knowing that you actually do have an effect on him. Then you remember Ka’vina, and the feeling leaves.
“Oh you are disgusting!”
Neteyam sputters out of his trance, “What?”
“Staring! At an undressed woman. Alone! Especially when you are courting another.”
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” Then he avoids his gaze, focusing on the water directly in front of him instead.
“Wait.” His eyes raise back to yours, “My courting?”
“Yes. With Ka’vina.”
A disbelieved laugh leaves his lips, “I am not courting Ka’vina.”
“There is no need to lie. I will not tell her about this.”
“I am not lying.” He rises a bit more, grabbing your hand, “Come back in and I will explain.”
You laugh at him, “I am not going back in there with you.”
Eyes flick back towards the entrance of the cave, remembering your earlier plan. The urge to execute that plan comes back. The urge to suddenly be tucked into your woven mat with pelts submerging you in warmth, stronger than anything else.
As you’re debating your escape plan Neteyam sneaks up on you. He places a hand on your thigh another on your waist, and hauls you back into the water. You hiss, smacking his chest.
“You cannot move so rashly!”
“I would like to know how you came to the belief that I was courting Ka’vina.”
You try to thrash a bit. To use the slickness of the water on your behalf, but Neteyams grasp is unrelenting. He does not let you move an inch.
When you try to at least sit down, he still does not let you move. “I will not speak until I can rest.”
“You must lean back then. It would be unpleasant to sit directly down.”
It is then that you realize you are on Neteyam's lap. A flush adorns your face now, realizing the predicament that you’re in. But his grasp still isn't letting up, so you lean back on your haunches. Carefully maneuvering to avoid any unwanted touching.
“Now explain.”
“I saw the two of you at the cookfire, a few moons ago.”
“Yes, I was integrating her into our group.”
“Because you were courting her,” Your hand raises to cover Neteyams mouth, if he wanted you to explain he would have to hear it in entirety before trying to contradict your words.
“I only realized because she had taken my spot next to you. And then the two of you at the training grounds, the way your hand lingered on her.” You move your palm from covering his lips to grasping at his chin, the same way he had done to Ka’vina.
Tossing his head to the side you continue, “Then you were with her at the weaving circle. You had allowed her to critique your work, allowed her to undo the knots and braids you had worked on. You don’t even like to weave.”
Neteyam is peering up at you, his lashes fluttering lightly, “May I speak now?”
You nod, not trusting your voice anymore.
“I was around her because she needed help completing her iknimaya, many of the other karyus have tried and she has failed many times.”
“Her iknimaya?”
“Yes, her other karyus were too rough, they did not attune to her learning style.” One of his hands begin to travel up and down your side, “I was involving her with our friends so she could have other people to lean on.”
Your eyes stray to the side, embarrassment creeping up your spine. But Neteyam keeps staring at you, “She needed help with archery for her dream hunt. And I needed help with weaving. I wanted to make something beautiful, that would last, that could withstand harsh weather, and harsher movements by the wearer.”
The hand moving up your side travels up, ghosting over the side of your breast, and lightly settles on the side of your neck.
“It was a mutual exchange of skill.”
Your embarrassment at misunderstanding makes you snap at him, “Yes, I understand that Neteyam.”
Your voice comes again, lighter and nicer this time, “You do not desire her, even slightly?”
“Not even slightly. What else would make you think that?”
“She is soft.”
Neteyam mulls over your words. Ka’vina is soft, her body is soft, her words are soft, her weaves are soft, the way she aims her bow is soft, so he agrees, “Yes, she is soft. But I do not want soft.”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows me like you. No one can anticipate my movements like you. They cannot hit flying targets as well, and they do not like to sharpen their arrows so they pierce their kills more efficiently. I have wanted it to be you since we were children, since my parents explained the concept of a mate to me.”
“That is stupid. You were too young to understand then.”
Instead of being upset at your misplaced anger, Neteyam just smiles. Then his lips curl into a smirk, “May I kiss you?”
“May you… what?”
“Kiss you.”
Instead of answering you lean forward and press your lips to his. You’re motionless, and it’s awkward. But then Neteyam begins moving his lips, opening them slightly and tilting his head to deepen it.
Before you know it your hands are pressing against his face, trying to memorize the feel of him after months of not being close. You finally pull away when you start to feel light headed. Your eyes are hazy darting across all of his features as you greedily suck in air.
You lean back in. This time Neteyam licks into your mouth, he tastes like the smokiness of the meat that was served at the cookfire tonight. It’s something you believe you could get used to.
This is something you think you could get used to.
You’d do it anywhere. Here in the hot springs, back in your kelku, in Neteyams kelku, out in the forest, hell you’d even do it at the training grounds if Neteyam wanted.
Truthfully, you’re a bit mad at yourself. How long could you have been doing this for if you had just spoken to him? How much farther could you have gone? It did not matter now, and you clearly were not the best at thinking through scenarios.
When Neteyam leans back again you nearly whine. The fact that such a noise wanted to emerge from your throat shocks you. What was this man doing to you?
“Would you like to see what I was weaving?”
You’re lightly panting, allowing your tongue to lave over your swollen lips. “What?”
“What I was weaving with Ka’vina -”
“Do not mention Ka’vina when you just had your tongue in my mouth.”
Neteyam laughs, “I will not, but she did direct me in perfecting your courting gift,” His grip lets up a bit so that he can begin caressing you softly, “It is over with my tewng. If you will still have me.”
“Of course I will still have you, do not make jokes.” You stand, grabbing Neteyams hand, and suddenly you’re tugging one of the Sully’s around. “I am excited to see what you have made for me.”
“It will fit you well.” He kisses you one more time, acting as if he would not get the chance to after he bestows the gift upon you, “And then everyone will know you are mine.”
A realization dawns on you. The other night, Neteyam had not been mad at you for crafting a new loincloth and chest covering. He was mad at your comrades, your friends, for eyeing you in such a way, “You were jealous the other day?”
“Very much so. They were just looking at you, not seeing you.” Another peck, “I see you, that is why I deserve to court you.”
You laugh. It is a soft sound, one of the only soft things you can identify about yourself. And you don’t allow the hard parts of you to bring you down. Don’t allow them to make you insecure about how you would fit with Neteyam. He likes you as you are, and that is enough.
Forehead nuzzling to his, you repeat his words, “And I see you.” Unable to resist, you kiss him one last time before making a demand, “Now let me see my gift.”
Neteyam laughs ever amused at your personality, but he does not voice any opposition. He would continue to feed into you for as long as the two of you shall live if it meant he got to see your grin. Got to see your fangs peek out over your bottom lip, and your nose scrunch up in delight.
Summary: Reader is Dick's new neighbor who keeps accidentally almost discovering he's Nightwing. He's climbing in through windows, she brings over cookies at the worst times, she hears weird noises, at night while she hacks away (FBI or Interpol). Dick is losing his mind trying to keep his secret while also being very attracted to her. BUT what he doesn't know is that both of them are vigilantes, and she falls in love with Nightwing while patrolling, and he is falling in love with the real her.
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Dick Grayson was having a very bad night.
The drug bust had gone sideways, he'd taken a knife to the ribs (shallow, but painful), and now he was bleeding on his fire escape at 3 AM, trying to remember if he'd locked his window or if he'd have to break into his own apartment.
That's when he heard it.
Humming.
Someone was humming on the fire escape next door, the apartment that had been empty for months but apparently now had a tenant.
Dick froze, pressing himself against the wall, trying to become one with the shadows. Through the window of the neighboring apartment, he could see her.
You were sitting at a desk, multiple monitors glowing, typing away with the kind of focused intensity he recognized. Your hair was pulled back, you were wearing an oversized hoodie and glasses, and you were... beautiful. Distractingly beautiful.
Also, those looked like law enforcement databases on your screens.
Before Dick could process this information, you stood up, stretched, and walked directly toward your window.
Dick did the only thing he could think of: he dropped off the fire escape entirely, catching himself on the level below and swinging into his own window with perhaps less grace than usual due to the whole "bleeding from the ribs" situation.
He landed in a heap on his living room floor.
"Smooth, Grayson," he muttered to himself. "Very smooth."
The next morning, Dick ran into you in the hallway.
Literally ran into you. You were carrying a box of what smelled like fresh cookies, he was running late for work, and the collision resulted in cookies everywhere.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" You immediately crouched down to help pick up the scattered cookies.
"No, no, that was totally my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." Dick knelt down too, and that's when he got a good look at you.
It was definitely the girl from last night. Same face, same hair, but without the glasses and somehow even prettier in natural light.
"I'm your new neighbor," you said with a warm smile, extending your hand. "Apartment 4B. I was actually bringing these over to introduce myself. Guess that plan is literally crumbling."
Dick laughed and shook your hand. "Dick Grayson, 4A. And these cookies look salvageable. Five-second rule?"
"I like your optimism." You grinned. "What do you do, Dick Grayson from 4A?"
"I'm a cop. Blüdhaven PD." The cover story rolled easily off his tongue. "You?"
"Data analyst for a consulting firm. Lots of late nights staring at computer screens. Very boring."
Dick thought about the law enforcement databases he'd seen. "I'm sure it's more interesting than you're making it sound."
Something flickered in your eyes, amusement? Recognition? "Maybe. What about you? Do you like being a cop?"
"It has its moments. Lots of night shifts, though. If you ever hear weird noises coming from my apartment at odd hours, I'm probably just getting home from work."
"Good to know. Same here, I keep weird hours. We'll be the problem neighbors who make noise at 3 AM."
"As long as we're only bothering each other, I think we'll be fine."
You smiled, and Dick felt something warm in his chest that had nothing to do with his still-healing stab wound.
"Well, Dick Grayson, since the cookies are ruined, can I buy you coffee sometime? As an apology for the collision I'm definitely going to claim was your fault?"
"I'd like that," Dick said, probably smiling too much. "How about tomorrow morning?"
"It's a date. Well, not a date-date. A neighbor-coffee-thing."
"A neighbor-coffee-thing. Got it."
You headed back to your apartment, and Dick watched you go, wondering why his new neighbor had law enforcement databases on her screens at 3 AM and why the universe had decided to give him a crush on someone who lived directly next to his secret identity.
This was going to be complicated.
Nightwing was tracking a human trafficking ring when he literally crashed into her.
Well, she crashed into him, technically. He was about to drop down on the warehouse when a figure in purple and black swung past him, planted both boots in his chest, and sent him sprawling across the rooftop.
"What the—" He rolled to his feet, escrima sticks already in hand.
Huntress stood across from him, crossbow trained on his chest. "Nightwing. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Clearly, since you just kicked me in the chest." Dick took in her appearance... the costume, the weapon, the confident stance. Huntress. He'd heard of her, but they'd never worked together. "I'm guessing we're after the same shipment?"
"If by shipment you mean the fifteen girls being held in that warehouse, then yes." She lowered her crossbow slightly. "I've been tracking this ring for three weeks. This is the hub."
"I know. I've been tracking them for two months." Dick moved to stand beside her, looking down at the warehouse. "Want to work together? Or are you going to kick me again?"
He could hear the smile in her voice. "Depends. Can you keep up?"
"I think I can manage."
Working with Huntress was... intense.
She was skilled, efficient, and absolutely ruthless with the traffickers in a way that made Dick a little nervous. Not killing them, but definitely not holding back either.
"You're pretty good," Dick said as they zip-tied the last trafficker for the police.
"Pretty good?" Huntress turned to him, and even through the mask he could tell she was raising an eyebrow. "I just took down six guys while you were handling four."
"I was being gentle with them."
"Gentle. Right." She holstered her crossbow. "You're not bad yourself, Nightwing. For someone who plays by the rules."
"I don't always play by the rules."
"Could've fooled me." She moved closer, and Dick was suddenly very aware of how tall she was, how her costume fit, how her voice had a teasing quality that made his pulse quicken. "Maybe I'll have to teach you how to loosen up sometime."
"I can be loose. I'm very loose."
"That sounded better in your head, didn't it?"
"So much better."
Huntress laughed, a real laugh, warm and genuine, and Dick felt that same flutter he'd felt with his neighbor. Which was ridiculous. They were completely different people in completely different contexts.
"Same time next week?" Huntress asked. "I've got intel on a weapons shipment."
"It's a date," Dick said, then quickly added, "A vigilante team-up date. Not a date-date."
"Smooth, Nightwing. Very smooth." But she was smiling as she grappled away into the night.
Dick watched her go and wondered why he was suddenly attracted to two women who were both completely unavailable for entirely different reasons.
Dick was beginning to think the universe hated him.
In the past week alone:
Incident 1: You'd knocked on his door at 2 AM because you'd heard "concerning noises" (him limping home from patrol with bruised ribs). He'd answered shirtless, still sweaty, and had to convince you he'd just been doing a really intense home workout.
"At 2 AM?" you'd asked skeptically.
"I keep weird hours. Cop schedule, remember?"
You'd looked at him, really looked at him, your eyes tracking over his chest and the bruises he couldn't hide, and something had shifted in your expression. "Right. Of course. Just... try to keep it down? I'm working on a big case."
Incident 2: He'd been climbing back into his window after patrol, and you'd been on your fire escape with a cup of tea, laptop open, working on something that looked suspiciously like surveillance footage.
You'd looked up just as he was halfway through his window.
"Late night at work?" you'd called over.
Dick had frozen, halfway through the window in his Nightwing suit, and thank god it was dark and you couldn't see details. "Yeah! Just getting home. You?"
"Can't sleep. Thought I'd get some work done." You'd squinted at him through the darkness. "Are you okay? You're moving kind of stiff."
"Just sore from the gym!"
"You go to the gym a lot."
"I'm very dedicated to fitness!"
"Clearly!"
Incident 3: You'd brought over cookies again (you were always bringing over cookies, and Dick was starting to associate the smell of chocolate chip with minor panic attacks about his secret identity). He'd answered the door with a black eye he'd forgotten to cover up.
"Dick! What happened to your face?"
"Uh... walked into a door?"
"A door."
"A very aggressive door. In a doorway. That I didn't see."
You'd reached up and gently touched his cheek, and Dick had nearly forgotten his own name. "You should be more careful. For a cop, you're surprisingly accident-prone."
"I'm working on it."
Now, Dick was trying to get into his apartment quietly at 4 AM when he heard your door open.
You stepped out in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, garbage bag in hand, and stopped when you saw him.
"Oh! Dick. Hi. Late shift?"
Dick looked down at himself, civilian clothes, thank god, but definitely disheveled and possibly bleeding through his jacket from the cut on his arm. "Yeah. Really late shift. Lots of paperwork."
"Paperwork that fights back?" You nodded at his jacket where blood was definitely starting to show.
"I... cut myself on a filing cabinet?"
"A filing cabinet."
"They're very dangerous. OSHA nightmare, really."
You set down your garbage bag and walked over to him, all pretense of buying his story gone. "Dick. I'm not an idiot."
His heart stopped. "I don't—"
"You're either the clumsiest cop in Blüdhaven, or you're into some kind of underground fight club, or..." You paused, studying him. "Or you're going to keep lying to me, and we're going to keep doing this awkward dance where we both pretend I believe you."
Dick didn't know what to say. You were looking at him with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and he realized you'd probably never believed his excuses. Not even once.
"I can't tell you," he said finally, honestly. "I want to. But I can't."
You nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Everyone has secrets, Dick. I'm not going to push." You picked up your garbage bag again. "But maybe let me at least look at that arm? I've got a pretty well-stocked first aid kit. Data analysis can be surprisingly hazardous."
It was a terrible idea. He should say no. Should keep the distance between Dick Grayson and his nighttime activities.
"I'd like that," he heard himself say instead.
Your apartment was exactly what he'd expected: organized chaos, multiple monitors on a custom desk setup, books everywhere, and yes, a suspiciously well-stocked first aid kit that looked more suited to field trauma than paper cuts.
"Sit," you ordered, pointing at your couch.
Dick sat.
You cleaned and bandaged his arm with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. Many times before.
"You're good at this," Dick observed.
"I told you. Data analysis is dangerous work." You met his eyes, and there was something there, a shared understanding, maybe. A mutual recognition of secrets kept. "There. Try not to fight any more filing cabinets."
"I'll do my best."
You walked him to your door, and Dick paused in the doorway. "Thank you. For not... asking questions."
"Thank you for not asking why a data analyst has medical supplies and works at weird hours staring at what definitely looks like surveillance footage."
Dick's eyes widened slightly. So you knew he'd noticed. Of course you had.
"We're both terrible liars," he said.
"The worst," you agreed. "Coffee tomorrow? Our actual neighbor-coffee-thing that we keep rescheduling?"
"I'd really like that."
"Good. It's a date. Not a date-date—"
"A neighbor-coffee-thing. I remember." Dick smiled. "See you tomorrow."
As he walked back to his apartment, Dick realized he was in so much trouble. Because he was falling for his neighbor who was clearly hiding something, while also developing feelings for his vigilante partner who he only knew through masks and banter.
The universe definitely hated him.
"You're distracted," Huntress observed as they staked out a drug shipment from a rooftop.
"I'm not distracted."
"You've been staring at that same window for five minutes. The bad guys are in the other building."
Dick snapped his attention back to the correct warehouse. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Complicated stuff."
Huntress laughed. "Let me guess. Girl trouble?"
"How did you—"
"You have that look. Kind of mopey. It's cute." She nudged him with her shoulder. "Want to talk about it?"
This was surreal. Getting relationship advice from Huntress while on a stakeout.
"There's this woman," Dick started. "She's smart, funny, beautiful. We have coffee sometimes. She lives next door to me."
"Sounds perfect. What's the problem?"
"I can't tell her about... this." He gestured at his costume. "And I don't know if I can have a relationship built on lies."
Huntress was quiet for a moment. "You know, I have the same problem."
"Yeah?"
"There's this guy. He's... he makes me laugh. Makes me feel normal, like I'm not just the vigilante, you know? Like I could actually have a life outside of all this." She sighed. "But he doesn't know the real me. And I don't know how to tell him without ruining everything."
"Maybe he'd understand."
"Maybe. Or maybe he'd run screaming." She turned to look at him. "What about your neighbor? You think she'd accept the vigilante thing?"
Dick thought about your well-stocked first aid kit, your late nights, your databases, the way you'd never once actually believed his excuses.
"I think she might have secrets of her own," he said slowly.
"Then maybe you both need to take a leap of faith."
Before Dick could respond, the warehouse doors opened, and the shipment arrived. They sprang into action, moving in synchronized harmony that came from weeks of working together.
Huntress was incredible in action, graceful, lethal, and efficient. And the way she moved, the way she fought, there was something familiar about it that Dick couldn't quite place.
After they'd wrapped up the bust and were sitting on the rooftop again, Huntress pulled off her glove and held out her hand.
"Friends?" she asked. "Real friends, not just work partners?"
Dick took her hand, and even through his glove he could feel...
Wait.
There was a small scar on her thumb. A distinctive scar in the shape of a crescent moon.
Dick's brain stuttered to a halt because he'd seen that scar before. This morning. When you'd handed him his coffee and he'd noticed the unusual mark and you'd told him you'd cut yourself on a broken mug in college.
Huntress had the same scar.
Huntress, who talked about having a normal life with a guy who didn't know about her vigilante activities.
Huntress, who lived in Blüdhaven and worked weird hours.
Huntress, whose voice, now that he was paying attention, sounded remarkably similar to...
"Oh my god," Dick said.
Huntress, you tilted your head. "What?"
Dick started laughing. He couldn't help it. The universe wasn't cruel. The universe was hilarious.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. Everything. I just..." He pulled off his own mask and watched your eyes go wide. "Hi, neighbor."
Your jaw dropped. "Dick?"
"Surprise?"
"You're Nightwing. You're... all those injuries, the weird hours, the 'filing cabinets'..." You smacked his arm. "You let me feel bad about not believing your excuses!"
"You're Huntress! You've been kicking my ass in the field and bringing me cookies in real life!"
"I have not been kicking your ass—"
"You literally kicked me in the chest the first time we met!"
"That was tactical!"
You were both laughing now, the absurdity of it all hitting you simultaneously.
"So," Dick said, catching his breath. "When you said you had a guy you couldn't tell about the vigilante thing..."
"I was talking about you, you idiot."
"And when I said I had a neighbor I was falling for..."
"Also me." You shook your head. "We're both terrible at this."
"The worst." Dick reached out and took your hand, the one with the scar that had given you away. "But I think we can figure it out now. No more secrets?"
"No more secrets," you agreed. "Although I have to say, this explains so much. I thought I was going crazy with the noises from your apartment."
"I thought you were going to figure me out when I came home bleeding that one time."
"Dick, I figured you out the second week. You're not as sneaky as you think."
"What! When did you—"
"You left your escrima stick on the fire escape. I saw it when I was having tea."
Dick groaned. "And you didn't say anything?"
"I have secrets too! Speaking of which..." You pulled out your phone and showed him your screen; it was full of files on the trafficking ring you'd both been investigating. "I'm not actually a data analyst."
"Shocking revelation."
"I work for Interpol. Undercover. I've been tracking these rings internationally."
"That's actually really impressive."
"I know." You smiled at him. "So. Now that we both know everything... want to get coffee tomorrow? As a real date this time?"
"Not a neighbor-coffee-thing?"
"Definitely a date-date."
Dick pulled you closer, and kissed you right there on the rooftop overlooking Blüdhaven, and it was perfect. No masks, no lies, just him and you and the truth finally out in the open.
"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted when you broke apart.
"Which version of me? The neighbor or the vigilante?"
"Both. All of you. Every version." He kissed you again. "Though I have to say, the cookies really sealed the deal."
You laughed against his lips. "Good to know the way to Nightwing's heart is through baked goods."
"Among other things."
Six Months Later
Dick woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of you talking to someone in the living room.
"—so then he tried to tell me he got the black eye from walking into a door," you were saying, clearly on the phone. "A door! And I'm supposed to just accept that?"
Dick smiled and got out of bed, padding into the living room where you were sitting on the couch, his couch, in his apartment that you'd basically moved into three months ago.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked, dropping a kiss on your head.
"Oracle. We're comparing notes on how oblivious our respective Batboys are."
"I resent that. I figured you out eventually."
"You figured me out because of a scar, not through actual detective work."
"Detective work is noticing details. The scar was a detail!"
You pulled him down for a proper kiss. "Good morning to you too."
"Morning." He grabbed his coffee cup. "What's on the agenda today?"
"Well, I have a meeting with Interpol at ten, we have that team-up with Batman and Oracle tonight to take down that arms dealer, and I promised I'd bring cookies to the Titans tomorrow for their meeting."
"You're going to spoil them."
"They love my cookies. Especially Gar."
"Everyone loves your cookies." Dick settled onto the couch next to you. "I still can't believe we're actually doing this. Living together, working together, fighting crime together."
"Having a completely normal, healthy relationship?"
"I was going to say 'tempting fate' but your version is better."
You laughed and curled into his side. "You know what the best part is?"
"What?"
"No more sneaking around. No more lies. No more pretending the weird noises at 3 AM are from a filing cabinet."
"I maintain that filing cabinets can be very dangerous."
"Dick."
"Fine. Yes. This is much better." He kissed the top of your head. "I love you. Both versions of you. The Interpol agent and the vigilante and the neighbor who brings me cookies."
"I love you too. The cop and the vigilante and the guy who is genuinely terrible at lying about his injuries."
"I'm working on it."
"Please don't. It's endearing."
Dick's phone buzzed with a message from the Titans group chat. Gar was asking if you were really bringing cookies tomorrow, and could you make the chocolate chip ones again?
"See?" Dick showed you the message. "Spoiled."
"They're heroes. They deserve cookies." You grabbed his phone and typed back a response. "Besides, someone has to balance out all your protein shakes and kale smoothies."
"Those are healthy!"
"Those are crimes against taste buds."
"You're terrible."
"You love me."
"I really do," Dick agreed, pulling you closer. "Even if you did kick me in the chest the first time we met."
"That was tactical!"
"Sure it was, neighbor."
You kissed him to shut him up, and Dick decided that having a vigilante girlfriend who lived next door and brought him cookies was actually the perfect ending to the weird, complicated, wonderful story of how you'd found each other.
No more secrets. No more close calls.
Just the two of you, fighting crime and falling in love, exactly as it should be.
Bonus Scene - The Group Chat:
Nightwing: So funny story about my new neighbor
Oracle: This is going to be good
Red Hood: Is this the one you wouldn't shut up about?
Red Robin: The one who brings cookies?
Robin: I fail to see what is amusing about baked goods
Nightwing: She's Huntress
Oracle: WHAT
Red Hood: YOU'RE KIDDING
Red Robin: That's actually hilarious
Robin: I do not understand the humor
Nightwing: I've been patrolling with her for weeks, and she's ALSO the neighbor I've been falling for
Oracle: Dick. Only you.
Red Hood: Did you literally fall for the same person twice?
Nightwing: ...yes
Red Robin: That's the most Dick Grayson thing I've ever heard
Nightwing: I hate all of you
Oracle: No, you don't
Nightwing: No, I don't
Red Hood: So did you tell her?
Nightwing: I figured it out from a scar on her hand
Oracle: A SCAR
Red Robin: Not even through detective work
Nightwing: DETECTIVE WORK IS NOTICING DETAILS
Robin: This is pathetic
Nightwing: You know what? I'm leaving this chat
Oracle: No, you're not
Nightwing: No, I'm not
Red Hood: Bring her to the next family dinner. I want to meet the woman who kicked you in the chest
Nightwing: How do you know about that???
Red Hood: She told me. We're friends now.
Nightwing: WHEN DID YOU TALK TO HER
Red Hood: She has a sense of humor unlike SOME people
Nightwing: I'm blocking all of you
Oracle: You've said that before
Nightwing: THIS TIME I MEAN IT
Nightwing has left the chat
Oracle has added Nightwing to the chat
Oracle: Nice try
Huntress has been added to the chat
Huntress: Hi, everyone! Dick's told me so much about you!
Red Hood: OH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD
Oracle: Welcome to the family!
Huntress: Thanks! I brought cookies
Robin: ...acceptable
Red Hood: I like her already
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up togther, played and trained like dangerous thanator cubs until his iknimaya came and he suddenly began to believe himself better than you. So why, now that it is mating season, does he suddenly take an interest in you again?
ᶜʷ cannon divergence, aggressive(?)reader, smal misunderstandings, sexual comment made towards reader, angst?(happy ending)
ʷᶜ 13.7k
You remember the days when you were little, as if they were yesterday.
You remember when you first began to acknowledge Neteyam's presence. His face started to form features, instead of just being glossed over. His body began to take a shape, instead of being a blue blob in your periphery. The high pitched gurgles and giggles that he let out now reached deeper parts of your brain, and hearing them made you release your own in turn.
You remember when the two of you began to explore the forest. Learning of Eywa's beauties and strengths. Deciding upon your favorite creatures and flowers. Becoming unafraid of the ambiance that it held, and learning awareness of what sounds led to danger and what was alright to stay around.
You remember when your fathers began teaching you the ways of the warriors. Teaching you how to track, to nock an arrow, to achieve a clean kill, and to sharpen your knives. The two of you were always sparring partners in these early days – you learned the traditional ways of battle, before adding your own flares to it.
But then Neteyam completed his iknimaya.
He was the youngest of the Omatikaya to ever do it. His fathers expectations of him pressing him to become better, to be the best he can be, to be the symbol of the strength of the people.
When he had told you that he was going to attempt his iknimaya, you were surprised. It was not that you believed he couldn't complete it, but he was so young, had so much time left in his life and there was no need to rush things.
Nonetheless, you were excited. Over the moon for your best friend. Before he ventured out you had crushed him in your arms, pressing a swift kiss on his cheek to wish him good luck.
You weren’t surprised to see him arrive home unscathed. The celebration that night was loud, the clan's excitement at an all time high for the Olo’eyktans son. It was then that the young hunters approached Neteyam.
They were a few years older than the two of you – slightly jealous at the fact that Neteyam had accomplished so much when he was so young. But instead of teasing him, pushing him, even bullying him into submission, they took to praising him.
There was no doubt that Neteyam would become Olo’eyktan. No doubt that he would lead the people when his time had come. So it was best to start making friendships now, to start fostering their relationships and secure their future positions in the clan while Neteyam was still young.
You and him had been dancing when they approached. Moving your bodies to the beats of the drums, laughing freely, simply basking in the celebration. But then Teylun taps on Neteyam's shoulder, dragging his attention away from you.
Over the music you can faintly hear something about ‘join us,’ and ‘welcome you,’. You miss most of what Teylun says, but from what you did catch it seems as if he and his friends want to congratulate Neteyam personally.
The two of you were attached at the hip, everyone in the clan knew you both were inseparable. So when Teylun begins to lead Neteyam away you move to follow. But for the first time, possibly ever, you aren’t allowed to go.
Teylun pushes Neteyam’s shoulder blade urging him forward, before turning back to face you. “I’m sorry ‘eveng, we will be discussing warrior things. It is best if you stay back, converse with people your own speed.”
He is calling you a child? Just because you didn’t want to rush your iknimaya, did not mean that you were a weak child. That you couldn’t complete it if you really wanted to. Before you get the chance to retaliate, to say your piece, Teylun has already guided Neteyam the rest of the way to where his friends reside.
You wouldn’t disrupt. It was Neteyam’s night, his celebration, and he could be in whoever's company he wished. You would see him in the morning anyway, then you could tell him how rude Teylun was to you.
When morning arrives you begin your way towards the Sully kelku. Normally Neteyam would meet you halfway, then the two of you would head towards the training grounds or the forest together. He didn’t today though, maybe he was just tired. So you keep moving, you could just meet him at his home.
Maybe you could even steal some fruit or meat under the guise that your parents hadn’t fed you. Yes, that would be nice. A second breakfast to set you up for the perfect day. As you poke your head into their kelku, you don’t see Neteyam.
It still doesn’t phase you. Pushing past the hides that cover the entry way you make your way towards where Neytiri and Lo’ak sit. “Good morning auntie, Lo’ak.”
The human word felt odd coming from your throat, but Jake had taught it to you when you were young. He said that the word meant close, almost motherly figure; and Neytiri was always like that to you.
Lo’ak stands, crashing into your chest with a tight hug. He acts as if he had not seen you just yesterday, had not danced with you after Neteyam left with Teylun.
“Would you like something to eat, child?”
When you nod, Neytiri hands you a leaf holding fresh fruits and roots. The perfect way to start your day. You begin picking at the meal with your fingers, picking the best pieces for yourself, and giving the slightly less best pieces to Lo’ak.
After swallowing a few bites you begin to look around. Where is Neteyam? He is usually an early riser, and you had expected him to be up by now even with the late night he had.
As if sensing your curiosity Lo'ak speaks. “Big bro left.”
He doesn't acknowledge the look on your face, doesn't even look up from where he's deciding what piece of fruit he wants from your leaf. You only come out of your stupor when he points at a particularly juicy piece of fruit and asks if he can have it.
“Where did he go?” You hand Lo'ak the fruit, leaning your head against his as you ask.
You can feel him shrug, feel his jaw work as he chews before he responds. “Dunno, I think he said something about going with Teylun.”
Neytiri snaps at Lo'ak, telling him to mind his grammar. She didn’t like how much English he included in his daily life, much less when he began creating Na'vi slang that matched with words his father had used when he was a human.
You tune her out. Instead focusing on how Neteyam is off with Teylun again. You could understand last night, it was important to show camaraderie. That must be what this is.
Allowing Neteyam to follow along with their hunt, or training, or whatever it was that they were getting up to. Allowing him to establish himself with the others who have completed their iknimayas.
So you thank Neytiri for the food, ruffle Lo'ak's braids, and head out to train yourself. You don’t manage to catch a glimpse of Neteyam for the rest of the day. It’s odd, and it places what feels to be a rock in the center of your chest. But you knew you would see him tomorrow. These new friends would ebb and fade, and even if they didn’t Neteyam wouldn’t abandon you for no reason.
The next day as you approach the Sully kelku, there is distinct chatter. You can hear Teylun’s voice, is he ever going to leave Neteyam alone? Then Li’ral’s voice filters in too. Neteyam’s voice is the first clear thing that you can hear.
“Are you sure that I cannot join you later? I have not seen ma txeylan in nearly two days.”
Teylun laughs. You assume it is because he sees you as a child. Li’ral pitches in, confirming your thoughts, “The girl who has been attached to your side since the two of you were toddlers?”
“Yes, that is her.”
“She is a ‘eveng. You are a warrior now.”
Neteyam sighs, “She is not a ‘eveng. Just because she did not complete her iknimaya yet doesn’t mean-”
“But has she not trained as long as you?”
“She has. What does that have to do with her being a child?”
Thank Eywa he was standing up for you. You knew you could trust him.
“It means she should have trusted herself, her training and attempted her iknimaya as well. It is childish fear that held her back.”
Most Omatikaya didn't complete their iknimayas until they were a minimum of fifteen years of age anyway. You were not behind, Neteyam was just leagues ahead of everyone.
You think Neteyam would retort again. Come to your defense as he always had – but instead you can hear the familiar patter of footsteps. A faint conversation discussing the best way to roast a yerik, wafts over to your ears before you lose the ability to hear them.
Maybe he had defended you again when you were out of earshot. There was no way he allowed the conversation to change so easily, still wanting to defend the person he spent so many years beside.
The opportunity to confront him never comes. To ask for some comfort about the situation, for him to quell your fears that he truly did see you as a child.
Just a short week after his iknimaya, Neteyam was to complete his dream hunt. You would not let him evade you before this event. The possibility of him dying was too great to not at least wish him luck.
Not because he needed it, you knew how strong and determined he was. But because you wanted to show that you still cared, still considered him your best friend even with the distance of the past week.
When you approach the small group he's settled in, they go silent. Their eyes flit from Neteyam to you hastily.
“Ma txeylan, do you have a moment?” You keep your voice light, trying to block the nervousness from seeping into your tone.
Neteyam's ear flicks. The young hunters he's began to associate himself with eye him, smirks and grimaces adorning their features. His beads clink as he allows his head to nod slightly, “Of course.”
He lets you drag him a few feet away from the group. Positions himself with a view of the group he was sitting with over your shoulder.
“I've missed you.” A polite smile graces your features as you speak.
Once again he only nods to show any sign that he has heard you. But you don't let him get away with it; instead taking to staring into his eyes with your bright ones. So he grants you a small, noncommittal sound from the back of his throat.
When you realize that you won't be getting a vocal response you continue, “I just wanted to wish you well. To tell you I am hoping for good luck on your dream hunt.”
“Why?”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his odd question, then they furrow, “What do you mean why?”
Neteyam’s eyes flick over your shoulder, making contact with the new friends he’s solidified himself with. Then he breathes a deep, annoyed breath, “Why do you feel the need to wish me luck. I am not a ‘eveng, like you,” For the first time in days his eyes meet yours, “I can handle myself.”
Oh. So that’s how it was going to be. You stuck with him for years, and now he wants to cast you aside because he has some new and shiny friends.
How unfair.
Laughter bubbles up behind you. When you look up you can see Neteyam’s lips quirk into a smile at the sound, can see the way his chest puffs slightly in pride. You don’t need to look at the group to know they were staring at you, that their amusement was due to your embarrassment.
The sound burns into your memory. Sears painfully into the deepest parts of your brain. It must have changed the chemistry in your brain with the way that it now triggers your fight or flight response.
That same laugh drags your attention from your friends. It brings a twinge to your chest – one that quickly places a scowl on your face. It’s bringing the urge to fight. To cross the cookfire and pour a full waterskin over Li’rals’s head. To shove Teylun over the log he’s sitting on and cave his nose into his face. To grasp Neteyam’s tail and attempt to dislodge it from where it rested on his spine.
But you take a deep, steadying breath. Take a loving glance at the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with; the ones who adopted you after Neteyam abandoned you. And you decided to take it out on him tomorrow during training, there no one could judge you for seeming bloodthirsty.
The adults of the clan haven’t seemed to get the memo that you and Neteyam are not friends.
Well, more that you cannot stand him. Anytime he speaks, you grunt to reply. When he looks in your direction, you make sure to avoid your eyes. If he approaches your friends to discuss what they’re weaving or how the hunt went, you make it a point to act as if he does not exist.
When you’re in the same hunting party, not much is achieved. Formations are broken, twigs are snapped, prey is lost. No one can decide who to blame; Neteyam for putting you in the most useless part of the formation, or you for storming off and hunting by yourself.
And sparring together always leads to more scrapes and bruises than when you spar for anyone else. So you’d think that Jake and your father would avoid placing you two together. That they’d want two of the clan's best warriors to stay in formidable shape.
Their wiseness should have been able to influence their decision. To prevent them from ever even thinking that the two of you could be applicable partners. That you could ever go back to how it was.
Instead, at least once a month, the two of you end up partners.
Unfortunately it is the most entertaining part of the session. Watching the two of you be forced into the circle; him smiling as he scratches the back of his neck, you huffing before shoving yourself off the tree you were leaning against. They’d watch in anticipation as Neteyam watched you, assessing your stance, trying to make eye contact.
Then their eyes would flick to you. Watching how you’d toe at the ground, roll your knuckles till they crack, bite your lip as you stare at your father like he personally offended you. It was obvious that you were wound up, like a cord ready to snap.
You’d wait until the last moment, until your father or his would call for the start of the spar, to even glance in his direction. Rarely looking at his eyes, instead learning the movements of his muscles so you could determine his movements from that. Anything so that you wouldn’t have to look at his stupid face.
At the beginning of the spar, everything would be cordial. Proper stances, dancing around each other before taking light jabs, ducking and dodging until you were inevitably told to ‘push your opponent!’. It was then that Neteyam would start lunging a bit more seriously, reaching his hands out to grab at your thigh or push your shoulder; something to tip your center of gravity, allowing him to pin you down.
You’d retaliate with shoves of your own, letting your nails scrape a lot more than necessary. It was low, a bit dirtier than should be allowed in spars, but it wasn’t explicitly against the rules. Plus, who's to say the scrapes didn’t come after the two of you had started rolling around?
It didn’t matter how it happened. Didn’t matter who shoved who, who’s hips pinned the others down, who celebrated their victory a bit too early; the two of you would always end up tousling on the ground.
Provoked, enraged, by the others misplaced confidence, whoever was pinned would buck and thrash until they had regained a bit of control. Then the two of you would be wrestling, throwing insults back and forth among the punches, grabbing braids, tugging tails, hell you’d even taken to some below the belt kicks a few times.
With how last night had gone, today was shaping up to be one of the worse spars the two of you have had. Neteyam had pinned you, somehow still in top shape after all the rumaut wine he had had yesterday. It would be fine, everything would be okay, but then Li’ral had to open his big fat mouth.
It wasn’t loud, not wanting the elders, especially the Olo’eyktan, to hear him. But it was loud enough to drift over the edge of the circle to where you laid beneath Neteyam. You heard his voice float over you as your ears were just recovering from their ringing, ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if he mounted her like that again after eclipse one of these nights.’ Just who, on Eywa’s green planet, did he think he was talking about?
And if that wasn’t insulting enough, you could hear the faint laughter follow from Neteyam’s friends. On a better day, you’d take your eyes off Neteyam, angle your head back so you could tilt the yellow orbs to assess who specifically was laughing. You’d catalog them into your brain, prepare to treat them a little harsher the next time you sparred. But today was not a better day, and it was just in Neteyam’s luck that he also heard the joke, and was allowing himself a few huffs of laughter from where he rested above you.
Your vision fades black at the edges, sole focus being on the boy atop you. With sudden, aggressive thrusts, you launch him from the seat he was claiming. He falls, landing on his back with a rough exhale. While he’s disoriented, you rotate off your back and hastily crawl towards him.
Before you can settle yourself into a position that allows you to hold Neteyam down, you swing. Your fist collides with his cheek, the force splitting his lip and sending you falling over until you’re laid out on top of him. From there you swing your leg over his torso, taking a firm seat before you continue your onslaught.
Surely, this had led to another joke to bubble from his friends. Something about how eager you were to mount him. You couldn’t hear it though, too busy thrusting your fist towards Neteyam’s face. Too busy ripping his arms away from where they came up to block your assault. Too busy pulling at those damn braids that he loved to swing around.
At some point Neteyam had tried to push back. Thrusted his hips up hoping to displace you, but you were too far up on his chest for it to do anything. Tried to grab your arms when you swung, yet you managed to dislodge them. Attempted to even roll his body under yours, to lay on his stomach and get some leverage to stand and force you off. But nothing worked, something had snapped in you – something that gave you insane strength that you were using to the fullest.
The rage you had felt forcing your blood to boil, for it to rush so fast through your veins that you were rendered unable to hear anything else. You couldn’t hear the gasps. Couldn’t hear the concerned murmurs. Couldn’t hear Neteyam saying he yielded. Couldn’t hear the Olo’eyktan telling you to get off of his son, nor your father reprimanding your sudden rampage.
Suddenly – well suddenly, for you, – you’re hoisted off of Neteyam. As you raise into the air you get a perfect view of him. Laid out on the dirt, chest rising in heavy breaths, lip busted and bleeding down the side of his face, cheek already gaining an indigo tint, braids misplaced from the wrap he had them in; it brings a maniacal grin to your face.
Yeah, his friends and him could make fun of you all they wanted. But at the end of the day, you’d be the one laughing. That was one thing you’d made sure of ever since that night so many moon rotations ago – they’d never be able to call you a child again.
Slowly a voice fades into your head. Vowels and consonants forming into syllables that you can finally piece together into words. It’s your fathers voice, he’s whispering a scolding, ‘I cannot believe you did that’, ‘ma’ite, I know he aggravates you, but he is still the Olo’eyktan’s son’, ‘How will it look to the elders’, ‘You’ll scare off potential mates if you keep up with this,’. You weren’t embarrassed at your actions, but being hauled away while everyone knew you were getting scolded brought a slight flush to your cheeks.
You’re sure to be scolded more intently when safely tucked into your kelku. Sure that your mother will force you to spend more time with the weavers and the gathers, saying that it’ll soften your demeanor. Sure that your father will remind you of how he fought with Jake Sully and Neytiri, how their union was strong and Neteyam and yours should be similar especially with your mature ages.
So when the conversation happens you let it. Nodding dutifully as they chatter; agree to chaperone the gathers as they forage, agree to weave with the elders so you can soak up their wisdom, even agree to stay in formation next time you go for a hunt.
It’s only when they mention apologizing, that you deny. A grimace overtakes your features, brows creasing as you speak, “I will not do such a thing. I cannot do such a thing.”
“You will. We must be united as a clan,” Your father speaks, tone harsh, “Today you showed everything but unity. You showed the fierceness of the clan, and our unwavering determination. So you must tie the whole thing together with our camaraderie, this can only be completed with an apology.”
You frown, ready to plead, to beg for any other punishment, “Father please. I cannot do it.”
“You must.” He frowns back, not wanting to debate the matter any longer.
“If you were to have heard what his friends were saying about me, then you would understand!”
“It does not matter. We must take the high route.”
You stand, slightly moving towards the entrance flap of the kelku, “It was disgusting, bordering vile, father! And he – Neteyam, he was laughing right along with them!”
“What did they say?”
Fantastic.
You weren’t going to repeat their words. It would only make the situation worse. Your father wouldn’t stand for it, ready to defend your honor even if it put your family at risk of shame.
“Can I not just avoid him? You and the Olo’eyktan do not have to place us to spar any more, and we can coexist just fine as long as we aren’t forced to interact.”
It must have gotten to him. Your father seems to be pondering the idea. It’d be much simpler that way, changing schedules and ensuring that the two of you don’t spar together would prevent most of their issues. But it would also mean that two of their best warriors wouldn’t have their best competition, and it would risk their skills dulling.
A small grin graces your face. You could do this, could avoid Neteyam and his group of friends for the rest of your parents' days. And you’d never have to apologize for something you weren’t sorry for. But then your mother speaks, “You must apologize.”
“Mother! I cann-”
“You must! I will not have the elders shame our family at the weaving circle, will not have others whisper our names with disgrace on their tongues. Please daughter, swallow your pride this time, after you may avoid him, yes?”
Your head falls. Sure you may not have minded what the elders had to say, didn’t mind when people spoke ill of you; but that was because you knew they didn’t know the full story. That they would probably have your side if you had voiced your side too.
So instead of rebuking again, you allow your head to nod. A soft hum of agreement leaves your throat before you depart through the flaps of the kelku. You storm through the clan, rushing to the ikran rookery; a nice flight to clear your head before your inevitable apology.
It’s a calming mechanism you’ve used since you passed your iknimaya. The clear air and loads of open space allow you to think through all your problems easily. Small tricks and flips bring you confidence. Your skills in the air remind you of your skills on the ground; and a smile is brought to your face as you remember Neteyam flat on his back earlier today.
You fly for hours, watch the sun reach eclipse atop your ikran. Observe as the bioluminescent glow overtakes the forest. Eventually, your racing heart slows, and your breaths come more regularly, and it’s then that you decide you can apologize.
The Sully kelku has its entrance flaps open when you arrive, typical as the Olo’eyktan is expected to be available until the last clan member goes to sleep. You don’t walk straight in however, instead sing-songing a soft “Kaltxì.”
It is Lo’ak who comes to the entrance, “Oh shit.” He laughs out your name, “Dude, the way you beat Neteyam’s ass today was crazy!”
“Yes,” a tight lipped smile adornes your features, “I am here to apologize. Is Neteyam around?”
Lo’ak gazes at you curiously, even though you put distance between you when you stopped talking with Neteyam, he had never let you fully seal the door. Normally when he’d praise your skills, you’d at least laugh a bit with him. Nonetheless, he nods, “Yeah. Yeah he’s on the sleeping mats.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to where you could find him.
“Where is everyone else?”
“Mom and dad are out, and Kiri and Tuk are weaving.”
Good. This was good. You didn’t want to have anyone in the family hearing the conversation, but you also didn’t want to have it outside where anyone could hear. “Can you just come back in a little bit Lo? I must apologize to your brother in private.”
“In private?” Lo’ak’s eyebrows waggle, “Aloneee?”
You shove past him before turning and lightly pushing his shoulder to urge him into taking a few steps out the kelku. “It is not like that and you know it.”
As you move deeper into the home, you call out to Neteyam a few times. Eywa forbid he was improper when you finally saw him. When you finally hear his voice ring back, you allow yourself to duck into the area that held their sleeping mats.
Letting your eyes rove over him you can see the damage you did. You look at the way he winces upon sitting up, how his lip is still swollen, the indigo finally setting on his cheek, even the faint scratches that rest upon his pectoral muscles. He looked bad, it takes everything in you to not allow a smile to grace your features.
You allow yourself to kneel, not wanting to seem higher or more important by towering over him.
“I am here to apologize. My earlier actions are inexcusable and I hope you can forgive me.”
Neteyam nods a bit. Lets your words linger in the air before he responds, “It is fine. We all get overcome by our emotions sometimes.”
“It is not fine.” Your head shakes, beads clinking to accentuate your point, “Please accept my apology, do not brush it off.”
“Okay.” His tongue darts out over his lips, bringing the bottom one between his teeth before he hisses from how tender it is, “I accept your apology.”
Good. He will no doubt tell his parents about your change of heart, and it will spread from there. Your family will be cleared from any possible shame and you can go on with your lives. As you move to get up Neteyam’s hand wraps around your wrist.
Your eyes flick over to his, “What is it?”
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” His hand falls, but his eyes keep peering into yours, “What happened to us?”
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” You scoff, all semblance of being friendly disappearing, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
Fast, jerky movements lead you out of the Sully kelku. How dare he say something so preposterous? How dare he act as if he’s not the reason the two of you are here?
Unbelievable.
At least you wouldn’t have to interact with him again. Thank Eywa.
Neteyam did not know what had gotten into you today.
Last night you had seemed pleased, happy to drink rumaut wine with your friends as the cookfire reduced to embers. He’d been watching you, allowing his eyes to roam over the people, but lingering on you for a bit longer than everyone else.
This morning however something was off. You were on edge, nearly strung your bow too tight before archery practice. When the time for sparring finally rolled around, instead of meandering near the edge, you were bouncing on the balls of your feet – like a thanator ready to pounce.
It was his luck that the two of you were paired together today.
The dance you’d fall into was familiar, he was prepared for it. Ready to dance around and trade dominance until one of you became too tired to continue. But today, you’re hyper-aggressive; your moves are harsher, punches are harder, jabs are faster.
He hisses the first time your nails make contact with his chest; it’s almost as if they’ve been sharpened, prepped to cut just for this. The sting urges him to take you down, to put some real use to his larger muscles thanks to his father's avatar DNA.
He ducks down, using his right hand to grab at your left thigh. His hand slides down the smooth skin until he can grab at the flexion of your knee. Then he tugs it towards himself, tilting you backwards.
Instead of letting you fall alone, he follows. Neteyam lets his left hand move to the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the ground too roughly. But once you’re settled on the ground, he clambers over you, settling most of his weight on your hips.
At first you try to hit him, fruitlessly using your arms to displace him. It doesn’t work, but it does get annoying. Neteyam moves to pin your arms, now he can secure his win without any other lesions to his body.
He smiles, huffing a little laugh at how angered you are today. He wants to ask what was up with you, wants to ask what crawled up your tewng today. But then something happens – something otherworldly takes over you.
Unnaturally bucking overtakes your hips, your whole body is being used. Shoulders pressing into the ground beneath you, legs bent at the knee to grant extra force, even your arms slide across the ground to displace his grip.
The shock overtakes him, forcing him off your body. His back roughly hits the ground, and the breath is knocked from his lungs. And before he can even acknowledge that he’s off from where he once sat victoriously on you, you’ve launched a punch into his cheek.
From there it’s only downhill. You’ve taken a seat upon him and begin laying into his face, his chest, his arms, really anything you can.
Neteyam tries to fight it at first. Tries to defend his face, to force you off of him, to flip the two of you over, but nothing works. He tries to ensure your win, to yield, but his voice goes uncared for or unheard.
It’s only when your father hauls you off of him that he gets some room to breathe. The break allows the ache to set in his jaw, and his cheek, and his lip, and his scalp. Eywa, did he hope that his grandmother would use the yalna bark salve today.
His father hauls him up from the ground. Gives him a once over as he questions, “You good boy?”
Neteyam nods, braids falling over his face when he doesn’t move to raise his head again.
“Good. Go get patched up.”
With a pat and light shove to his shoulder, Neteyam is off. When he arrives to the Tsahik’s tent, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s only his mother and grandmother inside.
He can hear them chattering about something. The words ‘of age,’ and ‘best time to train a tsakarem,’ float to his perked up ears before he realizes they’re speaking about him.
So he delays making his appearance known for a little longer, taking post behind the tent where the hides are thin. Their words come softly muffled through the hide, his grandmother’s voice ringing through first, “Many will seek him out during the upcoming mating season.”
“Yes,” His mother hums, “I can only imagine how many gifts will swarm our kelku.”
The two of them chuckle and it brings a smile to Neteyam’s face. But then he remembers how soon the season is, just a few short weeks away. Sure his siblings had teased him plenty about how many girls would throw themselves at him – but that was useless teasing, this was his mother and grandmother. If they’re speculating it must be serious.
“It will all be for naught if he does not reciprocate. Has Neteyam spoken of anyone who has piqued his interest?”
“No, he has not. There are many near his age this season though.”
His mother was right, there were many who’d be his age this mating season. Even though Neteyam could think of the prospects himself, his mother and grandmother began to list off the girls that would be participating this season, allowing him to mull over their attributes himself.
“Pxule…” She is one of the singers. Soft spoken until she needs to voice the hymns of the ancestors and she finally allows her voice to raise. A kind girl, but not one he could see himself being mated to for eternity.
“To’lei…” A gatherer. Her nimble fingers always grant her perfect harvests. It would seem as if Eywa herself loves when To’lei heads into her forest, always granting her the best materials from whatever area she’s decided to forage in. Her skills would eternally be useful to the clan, but she engages in constant babbling as she gathers, rarely taking moments to embrace the natural noises of the flora and fauna.
“Mekani…” One of the hunters. She was able to flawlessly lead a hunt among the younger bunch; her stern tone leaving no room for discussion or pushback. Her shoulders were never bare when she arrived back at hometree, making sure to share the burden of such a success with her fellow hunters. A formidable mate, someone who knew how to lead and the importance of being strict, but she never seemed to let up, never showed a softer side that would be important for raising children.
Maybe Neteyam would need to take some time to sit and think when he got home. All of the options that were being listed were good options; just not for him. He needed someone who matched him, someone who questioned when he was making a bad decision, someone who could be soft when he didn’t know how to be.
If he could take a trait from each of the girls listed and place them into a mold, he’d end up with the perfect mate. The one who would make him confident when he took the role of Olo’eyktan over. But that wasn’t possible, he couldn’t force any one of them to fit whatever mold he’d created in his head. Just as he’s about to push out of his kneel and approach the entrance of the tent his mothers voice cuts in again.
She spoke your name, “For a time, when they were little, I believed that they would end up together.”
“Hm. Why is that?”
“They were always together. You cannot be that close for so long and never grow any feelings – it is how I came to see Jake in another light.”
Neteyam hadn’t even considered the fact that you would be participating this year. Sure you were the same age, and had long since passed your iknimaya. However the thought of you getting dressed up in brightly colored loincloths and chest coverings just to dance around the cookfire with potential mates made him sick.
His brain ran through the list of men who’d be eligible this year. Sure there were plenty of options, but none of them would be good enough. Korvyn was too timid. Sa’nel was too immature. Rikutu had many adventures with girls already.
The thought of you ending up with a courting gift adorning your body by the end of the season soured his mood.
He knew it was wrong – to be this protective over you, even though he hadn’t spoken properly to you in years. But that wasn’t his fault! He had tried; joined your friends as they weaved, taken the position of lead in your hunting parties, and he’d made sure to never take it easy on you during spars not wanting to undermine all the training he knew you did.
You were the one that refused to speak to him after he came into his own.
After his dream hunt, he’d begun getting more responsibilities. It was around that time that you stopped talking to him. When he called across a clearing, your head would turn in the opposite direction. He’d sneak up on you and Lo’ak as you helped him with his aim, only revealing himself to give some advice of his own, but instead of sticking around you’d mention that he could take over before leaving.
No matter what, it was a deflection, and it was you who influenced the distance. Not him. So why does it matter if you’ll probably be ending the mating season with a serious prospect courting you. Who cares that in the next few months you’ll mate before Eywa with some skxawng. It makes no difference that sometime in the near future there might be a child running around hometree with your eyes, your mates nose, and tiny loincloths weaved by your own fingers.
The thoughts wound Neteyam up tightly. As if he was twine woven around a tree to stabilize a kelku. It made his treatment rougher than necessary; his grandmother moving to massage the tensed muscles more than needed.
Even though his muscles had been worked out, stretched and prodded until they were spongy and soft again, his brain was still a mess. What could he do to prevent such an outcome? How could he implement himself back in your life in a way that would put him in a perfect position to determine who you decided to spend the rest of your life with?
Hours passed as he laid on his sleeping mat and pondered. Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by your voice calling out to him. At first he had assumed it had been a figment of his imagination – that because his thoughts were all consumed by you, his brain had decided to play a trick on him. But then the voice came again, and again, and it only stopped after he had responded.
It was you, really you! Sitting next to him, poised upon your knees as you spewed something about an apology. Truly, he did not care. Everyone has bad moments, maybe not him, but now wasn’t the time to say that.
You hadn’t liked that. Forced him to not just brush off your apology. And that’s fine, it’s the first time in nearly half your lives that you’ve said more than ‘okay’ or ‘I heard you’ to him. So he accepts your apology all while silently hoping that you’d stick around, say something else to continue the conversation. You must’ve missed him as much as he’s missed you. Must have been wondering what his daily life looked like now.
Instead, you move to rise. Hands plant on your knees as you let your center of gravity shift to allow your knee to come up from beneath you. It’s then that Neteyam realizes Eywa’s delivered you to him. Here, on a shining platter (your knees so you’re level to him), and he’d be a fool to not take the opportunity to talk.
He lets his hand rest upon your wrist for a moment. Allows his calloused fingers to feel over your pulse point until you question what he needs. It takes him a moment to find his voice, to gather his thoughts into a proper sentence.
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” Neteyam lets his hand drop, believing that you’ll stick around without him tethering you, “What happened to us?”
For a moment he thinks that you will give him an answer. Something about how you wanted space to grow into your own, but now that you’re both old enough you’re willing to become friends again.
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” A scoff falls from your lips, face falling into an unimpressed scowl, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
What?
What were you saying? Implying?
He supposes that he didn’t have to be important to you. But he never thought you’d say such a thing. Never thought such a statement would leave your lips when regarding your future Olo’eyktan.
Not that he needed to mention his rank. It was something that followed him as a child, something that lingered in the back of all the friendships that he held. You had never acknowledged it though, he was ‘just Neteyam’ and he couldn’t be happier for that.
Before he can move to grab you again, to try and force you to explain your rash statement, you’re up and out of the kelku. He moves to stand but his body aches and he can’t move fast enough. By the time he calls out to you, he knows you’re gone.
How strange.
No matter. Neteyam’s sure that he’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk with you before the mating season begins. Everything can be straightened out and he can claim his rightful position by your side and influence your final decision.
If you were hard to get a hold of before, you were impossible now. Neteyam could rarely catch sight of you. When he did you were promptly out of his vision a moment later, as if you were a phantom of his imagination.
He tried speaking to your friends. Urging them to spill the secret of where you were spending your time. When that didn’t work he tried bribery, offering them an uninterrupted dance with him during the season.
They hadn’t given up where you were spending all your time, but they had told him how you never stayed in the same spot for too long. That you allowed your schedule to rotate frequently to prevent being seen. This was not useful, but he had already pressed his forearm to theirs and grabbed their elbow in the traditional signal of a deal before they gave the information.
When there was only a week left until the start of mating season, he took to more desperate measures.
Neteyam begged his father to place you in his hunting party again. Jake's reply was less than pleasing, “No can do son. Strict orders to keep the two of you out of each other's hair after that last spar.” Who cared how that ended up?! The two of you were adults and could move past that if they gave you the opportunity.
He asked his grandmother to speak to you when you went to her to be patched up. Mo’at sighed as she responded, “I will not get involved in your frivolous situation grandson.” Neteyam had scoffed, spewed something about how it clearly wasn’t frivolous to you, before he departed from the tent.
Next to suffer was Lo’ak. Despite how you had pushed him away, and refused to be seen around hometree with him, Neteyam knew that the two of you still hung out. As Lo’ak had been leaving the village one day Neteyam had stopped him, asking to tag along. “Sorry bro, not blowing up my spot for you.” had been Lo’ak’s carefree reply. What did he mean ‘blowing up his spot’? One would think that after all the heat Neteyam took for him, Lo’ak could do his big brother this one solid, but no matter there was still another path to try.
The final person he dared try was your mother. She was always nice to him, loving and caring whenever he stopped by the weavers circle. Neteyam knew it would be a long shot, but it was still important to try all his options, to just implore her to tell him what had gotten under your skin. But she denied him too, “Ma’ite’s business is her business. You will have to find out from her yourself.” At least she was nice enough to pair her words with a soft tone and a light smile.
What a shame. How did they expect him to solve this situation if you wouldn’t speak to him! How was he supposed to ward off potential mates if he couldn’t be in your vicinity!
The thoughts consumed him all throughout the first week of the season. Sure Neteyam had his fair share of suitors approaching him; plenty of young women, even some men, approaching him to converse and delve into their lives. He still made sure to keep an eye on you however, glancing over the shoulder of the person in front of him, turning his head in your direction as he itches the back of his neck, a few times even excusing himself as he sees you walk off.
The second week is when small gifts begin to be exchanged. He begins to get cuts of meat from Mekani. She delivers him the best, fattiest, pieces of sturmbeest and yerik meat. At first she delivers it raw, but as the week progresses she begins to cook it, glazing it in nectar, or roasting it with fruits.
Neteyam’s not interested. To eat the meat is to show signs of interest, but it’d be rude to just discard. So instead, he takes it to his friends, distributes it between Teylun and Li’ral; and he only slightly regrets it when they begin to sing Mekani’s praises.
Korvyn has been taking up your time. Not all of it, still allowing you to seek out other potential suitors, but he has certainly become bold in the last few weeks. He allows his tail to find your waist, to run it along the base of your own as the two of you talk. Tilts his head appropriately to show his interest in your stories.
There wouldn’t be any worry from Neteyam if you hadn’t been smiling so happily at him. Hadn’t inched closer where you sat perched against the log. Hadn’t presented Korvyn with a fresh harvest of rumaut that you had cut up yourself.
So the next morning Neteyam sets out, before the sun has risen over the horizon. He will bring back the best piece of sturmbeest meat, and then he is going to roast it slowly over the fire. When it is nearly done he is going to wrap it in a leaf with some fine roots, and glaze them both with honey, before allowing it to steam to perfection.
It would be perfect. A meal that he knew you consumed from childhood, perfected by his hands as the perfect distraction from other suitors.
Wait.
Wait.
What was he thinking? From other suitors? He was not trying to court you. Wasn’t trying to take a permanent, romantic, spot in your life.
Well. It wouldn’t be that bad.
He’d known you all your lives anyway. Been close until you were twelve. Your families liked each other, parents supporting each other in the war against the sky people. It wouldn’t be the worst scenario if he were to court you.
Plus who would challenge the future Olo’eyktan for someone's hand? It would be stupid, they wouldn’t have a chance. Who would want a simple hunter, a weaver, a gatherer, or a carver, instead of the future leader of the Omatikaya?
Teylun had said something similar to him just before mating season had started. Boasted that because of his title, he could obtain anyone he wanted, that he could probably get an older woman if he really wanted. Someone with more experience on everything, especially how to make him see stars in the privacy of their own kelku.
He was always more focused on the sexual part of things. On the physical level of affections, not on how they start, on the emotional base that makes everything more intense. But nonetheless, it was a great idea. He’d be able to ward off other suitors and maybe even encourage you to start seeing him how you once did again.
So Neteyam spends the entire day preparing the meal. Kneels over the roast until his back gains a twinge. Ensures that the glaze covers the entire meal nicely, in a perfectly even layer before setting it to properly settle into the meal.
And when he’s finally settled, finally believes that the meal is perfect, he wraps it tightly in woven cloths to seal the heat. Then he’s off to the cookfire. He steps past where his friends reside, faltering for only a moment until he sees that Korvyn has yet again taken the seat next to you, then he is back on his mission.
When he steps into the little bubble the two of you have cultivated neither of you pay him any mind. Your conversation flows, smooth despite his presence lingering in front of you both. Korvyn is in the middle of recounting how he learned to swim when his brother cast him into the river when Neteyam clears his throat.
The two of you turn towards the source of the noise. Korvyn lets a smile grace his features, always so friendly, but you just peer up at him. Your eyes go from the wide orbs that he’s used to, to half lidded at your disinterest.
Neteyam’s eyes are only on you, watching the subtle sway of your tail, the way the furry tip brushes against Korvyn’s. He observes how your chest covering leaves very little to the imagination, it makes his throat dry up until Korvyn’s voice rings out to his left.
“Neteyam, what can we do for you?”
So he clears his throat, lets some saliva coat his tongue, then speaks. “I wish to speak with her.” When no movement is made to leave the two of you alone he opens his mouth again, “Alone.”
“Oh. Right, of course!” Korvyn turns to you as he moves to get up, “I will see you later, kalintu.”
You let your hand grasp his bicep as he stands, allowing it to ghost over his skin until your hand rests in his. Neteyam can see the way your fingers flex as they hold Korvyns, can see the way his thumb rubs over your fingers before he inevitably steps away.
When he departs your face falls more than it already had. Even more so when Neteyam sits next to you. Your brow creases, frown tilting your lips downwards. And finally, he’s granted with your voice being directed at him, “What is it?”
“I prepared this for you.” Neteyam begins to uncover the food, neatly unwrapping the cloths from around it before he hands you the leaf. You stare at it, lifting it in your palms to test the weight before raising your head again.
“Thank you.”
“Open it.”
So you do, maneuver your fingers deftly to untie the twine that secured the leaf before beginning the actual process of unwinding the leaf. As you do a familiar sweet scent begins to flood your senses. You can tell what it is before it even comes into eyesight.
When it is finally revealed you can feel your mouth water. The delicious smell paired with delectable view sparks a hunger that you didn’t have before. But you couldn’t eat it, wouldn’t eat it, the implications were too great especially as anyone could see.
You mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before moving to rewrap the food. Neteyam shoots his hand out though, halting all movement from you.
“I wish for you to try it.”
It was dirty. A play that he shouldn’t be forcing right now, but Neteyam can feel Korvyn still lingering. He knows that he’s watching this whole interaction and Neteyam wants him to know that there’s competition. Worthy competition at that.
“You know I cannot. That we are not prospects for each other.”
“Just try it. I wish to know if I’ve improved on the taste from when we were children.”
A huff leaves your nostrils. Heavy and harsh, as a clear sign of your distaste for Neteyam’s methods. But the slight grumble in your stomach does just enough to convince you. You raise the meat to your lips, parting them just wide enough for a bite before tearing off a piece with your teeth.
You let it rest on your tongue for a moment. To let the glaze flutter over your tastebuds before the tender richness of the meat joins it. It’s good. Very good. Unfortunately, Neteyam had mastered what herbs and spices went best with the meat and honey.
Swallowing your pride you allow a quick, “It is good.” Before you move to wrap the meat again. This time Neteyam lets you, pleased that you’ve tried his food in front of the whole clan. Even more pleased that you couldn’t deny that it was delicious – you may not have verbally said it, but he could tell from the way your eye sparkled and the upward flick of your ear that it was just as you liked it.
The next few weeks went smoothly. Well, as smooth as they could in Neteyam’s eyes.
It had become clear to the clan that he and Korvyn were dueling for your attention. He had thought it would work in his favor, if everyone knew he was trying to court you, then they would encourage Korvyn to back off.
Instead, Korvyn's friends seemed to step up their encouragement. Neteyam heard whispers from them about how good of a pick he had made, how if the Olo'eyktans son wanted the same woman then she must've been the perfect choice. If Neteyam wanted to take a page out of Li'ral's book, then he would have used the statement to his advantage.
Ran to you and told you that Korvyn only spoke to you because he wanted to stake claim over something that Neteyam wanted. But before he could even let the thought form he heard Korvyn’s voice drift over, ‘that does not matter to me. I thought she was perfect before he decided to intercept.’ Great. He was a great, honest guy.
Neteyam really hopes that they can get along afterwards. That there wouldn't be any hard feelings when he took his rightful spot by your side. But he wouldn't be too upset if it didn't work out – the more distance between you two, the better.
As the time passed he began to appreciate you. At first it had been a distraction, to encourage others to stay away. But as he spent nights bringing you meals, rare flowers, dyes from rare fruits, even a couple of carved bone jewelry pieces, he got to know you again.
He relearned the sound of your voice – not the one he usually heard, the blunt, uninterested tone. But instead the light airy tone that you held in casual conversation.
Relearned how your outer eyelid begins to droop when you're tired. How you refuse to sleep when there's much left to do, and how your eyes begin to tear up in protest to your stubbornness.
Relearned how you'll allow your bare foot to scrape against the dirt when you find a pebble. Most would move their foot, kick the pebble away, or if they must, plant their foot on top of it and try to ignore the sensation. You instead, embrace it.
Relearned how observant you are. Even if you look to be immersed in a conversation, you're still tuned into everything around you. Your ears will flick back at particularly loud laughs, eyes will steal glances when people begin to move in your vicinity.
He feels as if he’s relearned you entirely. Cataloged every piece of you that was missing in the past twelve years.
You must have felt the same. Felt as if you came to understand him better. That every missed moment was now known and that you were as close as before.
Neteyam’s drifting thoughts led to him messing up his weaving. He had switched stitching styles midway and now the armband looked crooked and mangled. He grunts in anger before putting his fingers into motion to fix his mistake.
“What is wrong?”
His mothers voice rings out behind him. She was preparing for dinner, carving the roots and slicing the meat while Neteyam sat a few feet away. She was always so observant, her oldest son the easiest for her to read.
“Nothing is wrong mother.”
He can hear the knife she held being placed down on the stone she was cutting on. Can feel her body heat shifting closer to his. “Something is wrong. You are tense, hunching over your craft as if it must be shielded from the world.”
Neytiri's palm presses between his shoulder blades. It urges him to sit up straight.
“I want it to be perfect.”
He can feel his mother peering over his shoulder. It brings tension back into his body as he holds his breath. If his mother didn't like it he isn't sure what he would do.
“It will be.” Neytiri nods approvingly, “You do not need to rush.”
He did need to rush. Teylun told him this morning during training that he overheard that Korvyn had finished his courting gift. That could only mean that he would be presenting it to you tonight at the gathering, which meant that Neteyam had to finish his courting gift before then.
The two of you had been close last night. Closer than usual, dancing next to the fire with other couples. Body's swaying and twirling around each other, never straying far enough for someone to slip between you two. If Korvyn got to you first tonight, Neteyam was nearly sure that you would accept his gift, that he would lose you to him.
So he just smiles tightly at his mother. Nods in faux agreement that he had time to complete it, that he could be patient. He knew better though, and he knew he could complete it. Hours spent training in the ways of his people meant that he was well versed, he would complete this easily before the festivities tonight.
Normally armbands were fashioned with feathers as accent pieces. Two or three that would hang down the wearers bicep, usually of a color that meant something to them. He wants the feathers to be something that stand out; a nice rich orangy-red. Not only would it stand out against your blue skin, but it’d also draw attention, garner questions about who made it for you.
The thought brought a small smirk to his face. You, confirming the suspicions that the two of you were becoming something more, to any and all who asked.
As he approaches the fire he scans to look for you. You aren't at your normal log. You aren't settled where your friends are. Aren't nibbling on something near the edge of the forest.
Where were you?
Maybe you were late. He had heard that you were going to wash at one of the hot springs after training today, maybe you just hadn't made it back yet. That would make sense.
He takes up position with Teylun, Li’ral, and the rest of their friends. He tries not to get too comfortable, to be ready to jump up and head over to you as soon as you breach the forest.
Neteyam didn't want to seem like a prude by not partaking in the activities while he waited. So he drinks some wine and assumes a casual, loose position. He converses with his friends, shares his opinions on their prospects, answered when they question his stance with you.
The conversation almost leads him to miss your arrival. But his ears flick towards the sound of your voice instinctually. He allows his head to swerve with them, to watch as you greet your friends. You seemed happy, smiling as you caught up with them, he wondered what you were talking about.
It seemed wrong to interrupt. When the conversation died down he'd slowly meander over, politely ask your friends to excuse you, and drag you away from prying eyes. Then he could present you with the armband and implore you to give this courtship a chance.
As he ponders how the situation would go, Neteyam can see a figure approaching. When his eyes refocus he notices its Korvyn. He's approached you while you talk, urging you away as Neteyam was just daydreaming he would.
No.
No, no, no. Neteyam only has one thought coursing through his mind as he approaches – Korvyn would not ruin this for him.
“Korvyn! Can I speak to you for a moment?” Neteyam places a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.
Korvyn nods, “Of course.”
Neteyam drags him away; away from prying eyes, away from their friends, away from you.
“I heard you are going to give a courting gift tonight.”
“I am.”
Neteyam lets his tongue lave over his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as he picks his words carefully. “I do not think it wise to do that.”
“Why is that?” Korvyn’s brow furrows, nose scrunching before he schools his expression back to neutral.
“I wish to court the same person. And-” Eywa is he really doing this? Yes, he was and there was no turning back now, “and it would be embarrassing for her to deny you in front of everyone.”
“She has said that she would deny me?”
Neteyam lets his lips press tightly together, “I have not asked. But it would be wise to think of all possibilities.”
With another pat to Korvyn's shoulder Neteyam turns to leave. He makes his way back to the fire, back to the music, back to you.
But you aren't there again. So he rushes to your friends, questions your absence like he should have done earlier. They tell him you were tired, that you had outdid yourself earlier and the hot spring loosening your muscles only made you more tired.
That is fine. Perfectly fine. He could see you in the morning, before training went underway. Drag you away to a more secluded area and confess his feelings then while he presents you with the armband he carefully crafted.
So he goes back to his kelku. Laid down on his sleeping mat and pulled a pelt over his body before drifting off to sleep. When he wakes up he's excited, happy to see where this day takes him. Ever the optimist.
But when he gets to the training grounds you are not there either. It is fine, you were probably late again – you said you were tired the night before, maybe you just slept in today.
Neteyam tries to keep his optimistic mood, to be the open and kind person that he should be. However it falters as the day goes on and he still does not see you.
You didn't make an appearance for the midday meal. Fine.
Didn't show up to the weavers circle to gossip with your mother and the other older women of the clan. Fine.
Weren’t up high on the ikran rookery tending to your ikran as if they were your child. Fine.
Maybe your father had sent you out to duties he was unaware of. Things that drew you away from the village. But then you weren’t at the fire later on. Not the cookfire or the celebration fire either.
And to be honest, it was still fine.
Neteyam was able to emotionally regulate himself to not fall into a spiral. To not consider that something bad had happened, or that someone else was able to steal you away in courtship before he could. You were probably resting, and if you were not resting maybe you had fallen ill.
So he lays his head down to rest another night, preparing to get up as the sun rises. He'd go to your kelku and ask for you before you had a chance to leave – not that you would be leaving, since you were sick, of course.
Upon arriving your mother greets him.
“Oh Neteyam! So good to see you – quite early though.. How is your mother? And your siblings, are they treating you well?”
A polite smile graces his face. He’d always been fond of your mother, and it’s important to answer all her questions diligently if he wanted to ensure she also liked him.
“I apologize for the intrusion. She is well, I believe she's preparing for a hunt right now. My siblings are also well – troublemakers, but they are well under my watchful eye.”
Your mother nods along as he speaks, showing her interest, “That is good. I am very happy to hear the Olo’eyktan’s family is doing well.” She wipes her knife with a cloth, sheathing it before her face lights up, “Ah - I apologize, you must be here for something important if you came so early.”
Neteyam smiles, your name leaves his lips and he smiles politely. When your mothers expression falls into something morphed from confusion Neteyam realizes his mistake and continues.
“I was hoping to speak to her.”
“She is gone for the day already, another busy schedule.”
“Do you know where I might be able to find her?”
Neteyam feels as if he can see the gears turning in your mothers head. It’s as if he’s watching her weigh the pros and cons of revealing your location. He hopes that the pros outweigh everything else and that she’ll guide him in the right direction but he’s not foolish – he knows family should stick together. It’s his fathers favorite saying anyway.
“I do not. She has taken on many responsibilities recently.”
Neteyam can feel his face fall before he can school his expression. Disappointment settles in his bones, weighing his shoulders down. But before he can fully allow himself to count today's pursuit as a loss, your mother speaks again.
“She may be with the gathers. Fishing while they gather fibers for weaving. However, I am not certain.”
A smile graces his face at that. It wasn’t a definite answer of your whereabouts, but it's good enough. There were many spots to gather fibers down the river, and the walk would give him ample time to perfectly craft his confession.
As he walks through the forest Neteyam allows himself to kneel and pick a few flowers. If all went well maybe you'd allow him to braid them into your hair. He could picture it now. The two of you sitting in an alcove of a fallen tree, the ambiance of the local fauna surrounding you, talking about any and everything that came to mind as Neteyam weaved your braided hair into other patterns to incorporate the flowers as well.
Sounds of rushing water and muffled voices force him out of his daydream. Arriving to the river means he has to attune himself to everything – he’d hate to miss you because you were on the other side of the river, or if the group you were with ended up being more inland.
When he passes groups Neteyam puts on a proper face. He smiles, greets the clan members – sometimes he helps them with picking the fibers, or hauling a catch. When he comes upon the third group, he spots you nocking an arrow a few paces away.
After you release the arrow, he calls out to you. He watches as your yellow eyes snap to his figure. You allow your head to fall into a slight nod of acknowledgement before wading out to retrieve your catch.
Neteyam steps slowly, as if he is trying to not startle an animal. His hands reach out in front of him, trying to show that he means no hard as you yank the arrow from the octofins body. When you toss the fish into a basket filled with the rest of your kills, he finally approaches.
“Can I steal you from fishing for a few moments?”
He can see the way your tongue rolls over your top teeth beneath your lips. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, before you motion towards the forest.
Good. The denser flora would better muffle your conversation from prying ears. He wanted this to be a more intimate moment, and he’s glad to see that you share the sentiment.
Neteyam feels like a child with how he brambles behind you. His feet snap twigs, his hands take ages to move the vines from his vision, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Any sense of preparation flees when you reach a clearing that you deem good enough.
“Speak.”
Not the joyous greeting he had hoped for, but it was fine, he could work with it. Perhaps you were just stressed about bringing back enough fish.
“How have you been? I missed you at the festivities the past few nights.”
You scoff, “I am fine. I have been busy – I am currently busy as you just saw. What did you come all this way for?”
“I wish to give this to you, so you can carry a piece of me with you always.” Before Neteyam can begin to dig into the satchel that rests tied to his tewng on his hip, a snarl from you halts his movement.
“Do not humiliate me. I will not allow it, not again.”
“I would never. These past few weeks have been very special to me. I feel as if I have gained ma txeylan back, as if we had never grown apart.”
Your lips tightly purse together, and you nod. This is not how Neteyam thought it would go. He believed that you would share his sentiment, that you would elaborate on how it felt from your perspective. Did someone else get to you first?
“Do you not feel the same.. Did–did you agree to pursue someone else already?”
“Oh you are just so full of yourself! Can’t you see that?” You bellow, “You toss me aside for some new shiny friends, just to act like it’s my fault that we aren’t friends anymore. And now you bring up Korvyn? After you’ve forced your rank so that he does not court me?”
Neteyam allows his brow to crease. “What do you mean?”
“The other night! He had approached me to speak before you dragged him away, and yesterday morning I hear that he's been asked to stay away by the future Olo’eyktan.”
“No. No, not that.” He waves his hand dismissively, before looking back at you, “I did not toss you aside.”
“After your iknimaya. When Teylun first approached he called me a child. Then you brushed me off until your dream hunt, and then you only laughed at me and called me a child yourself!”
Realization dawned on his face. Much had happened in the past years, so much that he had buried that memory in his head, refused to allow it to see the light of day.
“I… I am so sorry.” You huff a laugh, disbelieving smile adorning your features before Neteyam continues, “I was taken with the praise that was being bestowed upon me, blinded by their perceptions of who I was that I didn’t consider how rude and childish my actions were.”
“Even if that were true, you only started taking an interest in me when you saw others approach – not because you truly wanted to reconnect.”
“It started like that, but I have always enjoyed our time together.” Neteyam hopes you can hear the earnestness in his tone.
He tries to assess the non vocal signs you give him. The way your ears are slightly tilted back in annoyance, the way your tail is lashing angrily, how your fingers dig into your elbows where you hold your arms together. And despite your standoffish stance, you don't snap at him again.
“Actions must be paired with your words. Do not embarass me.”
A smile graces his lips, overjoyed that you're giving him a real opportunity, “You wont regr–”
“If you try to humilate me again the beating you recieve will be worse than the last.”
“Of course.” The smile falls a bit, but he cannot shake it from his face entirely. “May I help you bring back the fish you have caught?”
The thought dances around your mind before you shake your head, “No. You may begin with whatever you're trying to achieve tomorrow. Let me fish in peace.”
Not wanting to ruin his chances, Neteyam listens. Withdrawing from the area bidding the lingering clan members a goodbye before he begins his trek back through the forest. It hadn't gone as he planned, but you hadn't taken away his opportunity. Hadn't sealed and locked your heart away like one of the pressurized doors at the human outpost.
He hoped that his luck would play out. That he would be able to charm you into feeling the same way for him. But time would only tell.
Everyday Neteyam worked on something. Something to impress you. Something to show he cared. That he considered you as more than a prize to win.
At first they were simple things.
A nice feather to tag your arrows with.
Materials to help you craft a stronger grip for your knife.
Polished rocks that could be carved down into something to adorn your body or be used as decoration.
But Neteyam knew those things would only mean so much. Deep down he knew that anyone could retrieve those items for you – he had to distinguish himself somehow, to show how much better he was for you then any of the other candidates.
So the gifts progressively got more elaborate.
When you carved yourself a new bow, he weaved fibers together to make you a string to match its fury.
When the two of you somehow ended up in the same hunting party, he placed you in prime positions. No longer watching for unseen stampedes, but now being the one to arrive at hometree with the delight of knowing the clan would feast on your kill tonight.
He spent time making new meal combinations. Picking the ripest fruit to pair with savory mushrooms. He’d scour for ferns to crush into spices for meats. Swim out to rocks in the middle of lakes and rivers to catch the bigger fish that resided there.
Neteyam wished to make you clothes, jewelry, shawls, anything that could adorn your body. He wanted others to look at the craftsmanship and question where you found the time to make something so intricate when you were so busy. He wished for a deep purple tint to find your cheeks when you admitted that Neteyam made them for you, that he somehow found time in his even busier schedule to make you such detailed gifts. But he knew he had to wait – that he should wait, at least until you accept his courting.
So until then he continues with other acts.
He makes mental notes of beautiful hidden alcoves that he sees on patrol. Which he later begs you to accompany him to. Some are in the forest, hidden behind vines and trees but bright with glowing flowers and moss. Others are in the floating mountains, lush green spots that contain shallow bodies of water for the two of you to lounge in after a long day.
Most importantly, well most important in Neteyam's mind, he makes more of an effort to listen and also show you that he heard you.
When he asks about your day, he makes sure to delve into the little details about what fibers you're using for your weavings. Then the next morning more miraculously arrive outside your kelku.
When you state that a meal didn't come out as good as you hoped because the fruit you used wasn't of the rarest quality because you didn't want to scale the mountain for it, Neteyam makes sure that not only the fruit, but the meat and the nectar you were using show up with him the next day. You tried to take it from him with a polite apology, but he insisted that the two of you cooked together. He couldn't stop himself from getting caught up on the fact that you let him feed you when taste testing the meal.
When you complained others speaking about you, Neteyam set them straight.
To’lei said that the future Olo’eyktan couldn't have a carbon copy of himself as a mate, that he needed someone with a slightly different personality. So he politely reminded her that his mother not only matched, but exceeded in some senses, his fathers personality and their leadership has been strong and prosperous.
Ulkan mentioned how the two of you had always butted heads, that this complete change did not make sense. Neteyam informed him that people can change and mature, but also that mistakes and misunderstandings happen and those are mendable wounds.
And before Teylun and Li'ral could even think of making a comment Neteyam took the initiative to speak to them. He tried to not dwell on the past, to blame them for his past mistakes, but he did make it clear that they would have to respect you from now on, along with more of the clan's women. Specifically for you however he made it clear that it is not to be because of his interest in you, but because they can acknowledge your skills and prowess in what you do.
After weeks of changing his ways, of proving himself to you Neteyam began to think that it would not work. That you wouldn’t ever take him seriously and all of this was for naught. Sure, you had softened – allowed him to be around you more, laughed freely, and teased him as you once did. But that didn't mean you'd give him a real chance at proving how good of a mate he'd be.
But one morning as he's making his way to the training grounds he sees you already there. You’re teaching some of the children how to properly hold their bows – what stance their feet should be in, how to twist their hips, and how to line their shots. That isn't unusual, the children loved to learn from you and you didn't view it as a hindrance as long as they listened.
What was unusual was the bright orange and red feathers that adorned your bicep, upon trailing his eyes up a bit more Neteyam could see that they were attached to a very familiar pattern.
He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his face. The boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes as he approached calling your name.
“You accept?”
You startle. Wave the children off dismissively, and huffing a bit when they don't disperse easily because of their nosey habits. But then you turn to him fully and nod.
“I am willing to try. It is as if you brought back the aspects of the boy I grew up with and paired them with the actions of a man.”
“That was my goal.” His hands reach towards your hips but they hover instead of landing, “May I touch you?”
When you nod again he allows his hands to fall. His thumbs begin soothing over the skin they rest on, “How about a kiss too? I promise I will not disappoint you.”
Instead of answering you allow your lips to press to his. It's brief, nothing to cheer or shout over, but it's everything to Neteyam. It's proof that all his months of trying have now progressed into something palpable, and it means that his feelings are reciprocated. When he moves to kiss you again, you press a hand to his chest halting his movements.
“There are children around.”
“It is nothing they have not seen from their parents.”
“Do not be hasty. How about we go flying tonight, and we can… continue then?”
Neteyam nods eagerly, dislodges himself from you and begins to make his way across the training grounds. If he were to stay nearby with this recent revelation hanging in the air he wouldn't be able to contain himself.
So he strides away, takes to sharpening a spear with an even wider grin than before adorning his features. He cannot wait for the future that he is so sure will happen – mating before Eywa, the ceremony with the clan, the births of your children, and eventually falling into the roles of leaders.
He should make a stop by the spirit tree to thank Eywa later. Neteyam is sure that she has had a role in this. That she had opened your heart and mind to the idea of him, and that without her he would have never been able to atone for his past mistakes, and never had won you back.
He would have never become important in your eyes again if not for her.
Maybe he would even take you - to prove that she had blessed this communion. Or maybe not, he should save that for when you consummate the union anyways.
Translation:
Eveng - child
Ma txeylan- my best friend
Rumaut - cannonball fruit
Ma’ite - my daughter
Kelku - home
Kaltxì - hello
Tewng - loincloth
Skxawng - idiot/moron
Kalintu - sweet person
a/n: lowk didn't love the ending of this but i wanted to write it instead of figuring out my ten minute presentation thats due in a few days or studying for my super important exam on monday soooo it is what it is
Dividers by @cafekitsune
tag: @skepticalvoidhedgehog
pls like/comment/reblog/come into my inbox and tell me what u think of the fic <3
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
summary: you're sent on an undercover mission to a remote village with your coworker. except you pretty much hate each other. except leon has always spent the holidays alone...until now.
cw: this part is pure tension and forced proximity, even with some fluff i would say! + fake marriage.
a/n: heyy so..back in the ring. i know christmas already passed but i didn’t want to let go of the opportunity to post this while the spirit still hangs around. if it goes well, i would love to make the second part :)—didn’t write it all together cause i thought it was getting so long—so lmk what you think ❗️
“Are you certain this is the route?” Leon’s voice was dangerously level, a low-frequency hum that vibrated through the floorboards of the rented sedan. It was the fifth time he had posed the question, and the meticulous, almost white-knuckled grip of his hand upon the steering wheel hadn't loosened once. His eyes, perpetually narrowed against the gathering dusk, never left the ribbon of asphalt unraveling ahead.
And for the fifth time, you forced the single, crisp syllable out. “Yes.”
You were practically squatting on the stiff leather seat, your body hunched, both hands rigidly clutching the source of his doubt: a colossal, crinkled paper map, its edges yellowing. It was so absurdly large it draped over your lap and rose like a fortified curtain, effectively bisecting the vehicle. You couldn't see the passenger window; you couldn't see him.
“Then why are you still looking at it..?”
You let out a sharp, ragged puff of air—a sound that was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
“Maybe because I don’t want to see your face.”
A beat of charged silence hung between you, thick and cold as the mountain air. Then, a sudden, forced agreement that stung more than any argument. “Lovely. The feeling is entirely mutual.”
You've been paired together for a covert data-gathering mission. The worst of their kind, you thought, because you didn't really have to do anything except to keep a low profile and stay proximate to the target for passive scanning. Observe, wait, pretend — report, repeat. Ridiculous, isn't it? You two being high-ranking, risk-qualified agents now stuck in this..holiday postcard.
Fat, wet snowflakes began to crash against the windshield. Leon activated the wipers, and the blades swept away the melting snow in rhythmic, frantic arcs, leaving less and less of a trace with each stroke. The road had become a monotonous path lined with towering, identical pines. The light was fading rapidly, and the silence in the car felt less like a truce and more like the prelude to an explosion.
A knot began to tighten in your stomach. You were now actively doubting whether this was really the designated service road, but the very thought of admitting that Leon Know It All Kennedy had been right to question your direction felt like a surrender you simply couldn't afford. You gripped the map harder, the paper protesting with a dry, ripping sound.
With a final, desperate sigh of defeat, you let your head fall to your knees, the map finally slipping from your numb fingers to crumple into the space beneath the seat.
“So it 's not.” Leon stated instantly, his voice now calm, terrifyingly victorious.
You shoot him a withering look out of the corner of your eye.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
You pull the sedan into what it looked like the last gas station there’ll be. It was less a business and more a skeletal relic: the pumps were faded yellow, the main building was dark and the windows opaque with dust and neglect. It smelled faintly of stale diesel and pine resin.
You catch yourself thinking it’s the perfect, forgotten backdrop for an apocalyptic scenario—a typical, desolate refugee point. The thought flashes through your mind: you and Leon, surviving a week here, armed, before the supply run turns bloody. It's a darkly humorous fantasy that grounds you, a reminder that the real-world threats you face are just as absurd, if less eccentric, than zombies.
Leon stretched the map out on the hood while you fill the tank. "...As much as it genuinely pains me to say this," he mutters, running a gloved finger along a marked blue line, "your guiding was technically correct. We are heading the right way."
You let the gas pump click off, pulling the nozzle free with a satisfying, metallic clink. “Of course we are. I’m a freaking genius.”
He didn’t look up. “You just read a map, don’t get so excited.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile touching your lips. “Hardly.” You tap the sedan's roof twice—a familiar signal. “Ready to get back on the road.”
Leon finally lifted his head, his eyes widening marginally as he watched you bypass the passenger side and open the driver’s door. The look of faint, weary betrayal was instantly readable. You simply settled in, your hands already on the steering wheel. He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of inevitability. “I guess,” he conceded, dragging himself around the hood.
The next two hours passed in the same way as the sun set, a constant tug-of-war between you two; if you weren't fighting over a sliver of air from an open window, you were fighting over the overhead light, and if not that, over the radio station. You wanted to listen to cheesy Christmas songs because come on, let’s get in the mood, right? But Leon simply clung to the station that played nothing but Three Days Grace, with a few songs by My Chemical Romance and Smashing Pumpkins thrown in.
“Home sweet…home?” You let the car door slam, the sound echoing too loudly in the frozen silence of the woods. You gripped your suitcase, eyeing the structure looming ahead. You didn't want to call it old; perhaps "rustic" is the right word. The wood was still standing, but it wasn't in its best condition... and that's okay, you weren't expecting a 5-star hotel, given the story that had been put together for you. You're a couple on vacation before your wedding. Yeah, right.
“It’s probably going to collapse on us the moment we close our eyes.” Leon muttered, stepping past you.
“One can only dream.” You shot back, following him up the rotting porch steps.
Leon kicked the door open with a sharp thrust of his hip, his hands full of tactical gear and duffels. The frame groaned in protest, shaking loose a flurry of dust and wood shavings that drifted down like grim confetti. Something small and furry scurried into the shadows, but Leon didn’t flinch. He just stopped dead in the entryway.
“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
You craned your neck to look over his shoulder “Oh.”
In the center of the cramped room sat a single, solitary bed.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩
The winter chill didn't take long to find the gaps in the cabin’s cedar walls. As the sun dipped below the treeline, the room turned into an icebox, leaving you no choice but to drag the heavy mattress across the floor until it was flush against the stone hearth.
“I’m taking the side by the fire,” you declared, claiming the spot before he could even look at it. “Non-negotiable.”
“All yours.” With his back turned on you, Leon didn’t even bother to protest.
“Right. Good.” You exhaled, feeling the smallness of the victory.
After a quick, cold wash and a change into your thermals, you slid under the heavy wool blankets. You stared at the ceiling, tracing the knots in the wood and trying to regulate your breathing. You were a professional; sharing a bed was just logistics. But then, the rustle of fabric caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leon’s hands hook into the hem of his shirt.
Don’t look. Do not look.
“Sorry,” Leon’s voice was a low rasp in the quiet room. He paused, the shirt pulled halfway up his torso, bunching around his ribs. “I usually sleep like this. Does it bother you?”
“Wha—no. No, it’s fine,” you blurted out, the words tripping over each other. You waved a hand dismissively, silently cursing the heat rising in your cheeks.
You couldn't be sure in the flickering amber light of the fire, but you thought you saw the ghost of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.
“Great.” He finished the motion, tossing the shirt onto a nearby chair.
You whipped around almost instantly. “Night,” you snapped.
“Night-night,” he replied, his tone far too amused for your liking.
The silence in the cabin was thick, broken only by the frantic whistling of the wind through the eaves. You lay as stiff as a board, eyes wide open, staring at the darkened wall. You could hear everything: the slow, steady rhythm of Leon’s breathing, the rustle of the sheets when he adjusted his weight, the heat of him radiating like a second hearth.
An hour dragged by. Your mind was a frantic loop of mission parameters, but your body was hyper-aware of the man inches away.
Suddenly, the floorboards outside groaned.
You felt the bed shift violently as Leon moved. Before you could even draw a breath to ask, his hand was over your mouth—warm, calloused, and smelling faintly of gun oil.
“Quiet,” he breathed against your ear. His chest was pressed firmly against your shoulder, his bare skin shocking against your thermal top.
You didn't nod; you went limp. With his other hand, he reached under his pillow, the distinct click of a safety being disengaged echoing in the dark. You reached slowly for the holster you’d tucked into the side of the mattress.
For three agonizing minutes, neither of you moved. You were fused together, two predators waiting in the dark. You could feel his heart thudding against your back—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the hunt. It was the first time you’d been this close without trying to throw a punch at him.
The sound didn't repeat. A heavy thud followed—the sound of snow sliding off the roof and hitting the porch.
Leon didn't let go immediately. He stayed there, his hand lingering over your lips for a second too long, his breath hitching as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only the awareness of the position you were in.
He slowly retracted his hand, but he didn't pull away.
“Just the snow,” he rasped, his voice rougher than usual.
“I knew that,” you whispered, though your heart was still hammering against your ribs. You finally turned your head, finding his face only inches from yours in the gloom. The "enemy" you’d been bickering with all day looked different in the dark—less like a rival and more like the only person in the world you could trust to keep you alive.
“Sure you did,” he murmured. He didn't move back to his side. Instead, he settled back into the pillow, his arm inadvertently brushing yours. “Go to sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”
“We’re supposed to be on vacation, Leon. Agents don't take watches on their honeymoon.”
“Then pretend I’m protecting my investment,” he said dryly, though there was no bite in it this time. “Sleep.”
You turned back toward the fire, but you didn't feel the cold anymore.
The sun hadn't even cleared the pines when a heavy, rhythmic thudding echoed through the cabin. Someone was pounding on the front door.
Beside you, Leon was already a blur of motion, rolling out of bed and grabbing his shirt in one fluid movement.
"Company," he hissed, sliding his sidearm into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. "Remember: we’re a 'happy couple.' Lose the killer glare."
"I’ll lose the glare when you lose the attitude," you whispered back, frantically smoothing your messy hair and trying to look like someone who had just spent a romantic night by the fire rather than a night on high alert.
Leon reached the door, took a centering breath that transformed his entire posture from lethal to lethargic, and swung it open.
Standing on the porch was an older man in a thick flannel coat, holding a crate of firewood. He looked exactly like the kind of local who kept a mental map of everyone in a ten-mile radius.
"Morning!" the man boomed, his eyes immediately darting past Leon to find you. "Saw the smoke from the chimney. Thought the city folks might need some more birch. The storm’s coming back tonight."
Leon leaned against the doorframe, a lazy, charming smile spreading across his face—the kind of look he never gave you. "Much appreciated. We were just debating who had to go out and forage." He reached back, blindly finding your hand and pulling you toward him.
You stumbled into his side, and his arm draped naturally, heavily, around your shoulders. He pulled you flush against his warm chest.
"Sweetheart, this is...?" Leon trailed off, prompting the man.
"Arthur. I manage the properties around the lake." The man peered at you both, his gaze lingering on the way you were tucked under Leon’s arm. "You two look a bit peaked. Cabin fever setting in already?"
"Just a long night," Leon murmured, his fingers idly tracing circles on your shoulder. It was a calculated move, a performance, but the heat of his touch through your thin thermal shirt felt dangerously real. "Wedding planning is exhausting. We came here to forget the world exists for a bit."
"Is that so?" Arthur looked down as if searching for something and that’s when you realized: the rings. Neither of you had them. You subtly ran your left hand down Leon's hip, toward his back. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He looked at the bed pushed up against the hearth. "Resourceful. Most folks just complain about the draft. I see you’re keeping each other warm, at least."
You felt Leon’s chest vibrate as he let out a low chuckle. "Doing our best." He looked down at you, his eyes brimming with a fake devotion that made your stomach do a somersault. "Right, darling?"
"Absolutely," you said, forcing your voice to go soft and honeyed. You leaned your head against his shoulder, looking up at him with a gaze that felt like a lie and a confession all at once. "Though I wouldn't mind if he let me sleep past dawn just once."
Arthur laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "That’s the spirit. Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s a market down the road if you need supplies, though I’d get there before the ice sets in."
As soon as the door clicked shut and Arthur’s footsteps faded into the snow, the warmth vanished. Leon dropped his arm and stepped back, the charming "fiancé" mask sliding away to reveal the cold professional underneath.
The silence in the cabin suddenly felt much heavier than it had before the visitor arrived.
"He was checking our story," Leon said, his voice flat as he moved toward the window to watch the man drive away. "He didn't buy the 'vacation' bit entirely. We need to be more convincing if we go into town."
"More convincing?" You crossed your arms, trying to shake the lingering sensation of his hand on your shoulder. "You were practically purring, Leon. Any more 'convincing' and he’ll expect a wedding invitation."
Leon turned back to you, his eyes unreadable. "Then maybe you should start acting like you actually like me. It’ll make the lie easier to swallow."
“What I believe will make us seem more real is a pair of engagement rings.”
The confidence on Leon's face vanished at that statement. He had forgotten that detail and now he knew you thought about it first.
“..Fuck”
Where were you supposed to get a couple of rings in the middle of fucking nowhere? That was a great question.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
Whether you were officially engaged or not in the eyes of the neighbor, you still had to get on with your work, so the situation was temporarily relegated to the "Low Priority Pending Matters" mental folder.
The cabin, which had felt tiny during the night, felt even smaller as a makeshift command center. You set up your laptop on the rickety pine table, the screen’s blue glow clashing with the warm orange of the dying fire. A few feet away, the bed served as Leon’s workbench. The only sounds were the rhythmic clicking of your keys and the metallic snick-slide of Leon’s weapons maintenance. You were deep-diving into the target’s digital footprint—analyzing travel routes and encrypted comms—while Leon methodically stripped his sidearm. He worked with a silent, terrifying grace, his large hands moving over the steel components with the same focus he’d used to caress your skin earlier.
"Target just pinged a local cell tower," you muttered, your eyes scanning lines of scrolling green data. "He’s early. He’s not waiting for the holiday—he’s moving into the estate across the valley tonight."
Leon didn't miss a beat. He slid a fresh magazine into his sidearm with a sharp, echoing clack. "That changes the window. We’ve gone from forty-eight hours to six."
He stood up and moved toward you, leaning over your shoulder to see the monitor. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. One of his hands planted on the table right next to your mouse—you didn’t want to move your hand.
"Look at the encryption on the security feed," you said, trying to ignore how his scent was filling your senses. "He’s not just hiding. He’s expecting a delivery."
"Or an extraction," Leon countered, his voice a low vibration near your ear. He pointed a finger at a shimmering heat signature on the satellite map. "There. That’s a landing pad. If we don’t move by sunset, we lose him."
“Right,” you murmured, biting your lower lip as you ran the numbers. “We can't roll in as a strike team..”
“No,” Leon agreed, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the look he wore right before something exploded. “We go in as two lovesick idiots looking for a scenic spot to watch the sunset. Very romantic. Very loud.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he snapped your laptop shut. The sudden darkness of the room made his eyes seem brighter. “Get your coat, darling. We’ve got a date.”
The scenic route involved a grueling mile-long trek through waist-deep snow, circling the perimeter of the coordinates you’d pulled from the satellite. You and Leon moved with synchronized silence, despite your "tourist" gear.
"The landing platform is just over this ridge," Leon whispered, his hand going to the grip of his concealed weapon. "If the delivery is happening now, he’ll have at least four guards on the perimeter."
"On my mark," you breathed, heart hammering. "Three... two... one."
You both crested the ridge, weapons ready, prepared for a tactical nightmare.
Instead, you were met with a glow of warm, tacky neon lights and the muffled sound of Jingle Bell Rock.
You blinked. Below you wasn't a secret compound or a black-market exchange point. It was Miller’s General Store & Outpost. The "landing platform" you’d seen on the thermal map was actually a reinforced flat roof used for heavy supply drops during the off-season, currently decorated with a giant, inflatable, illuminated Santa.
And there, standing by a rack of somewhat pathetic-looking Christmas trees, was your target. He wasn't holding a briefcase of plutonium; he was squinting at a box of tangled tinsel and holding a frozen turkey like it was a precious artifact.
"Is he... is he checking the expiration date on that poultry?" Leon hissed, his tactical intensity crumbling into pure confusion.
"The intel said 'High-Value Acquisition,'" you whispered, feeling your face heat up. "I think he's just buying dinner."
"We have to get closer," Leon muttered. "If we turn back now, we have nothing."
You both descended toward the store, trying to shed your 'special-ops' aura for 'annoying tourists.' You entered the store, the bell above the door ringing loudly. The target looked up, and for a split second, you panicked. You needed a distraction—something to make you look harmless.
Leon reached for a shelf of ornaments, but his gloved hand was still clumsy from the cold. He bumped a massive display of "Handcrafted Vermont Cider" bottles.
"Leon, watch out—"
It was too late. He lunged to catch a falling bottle; you tried to grab him, but you tripped over a bale of decorative hay in the way, and you both tumbled embarrassingly. You were trapped beneath him, amidst a pile of tinsel and spilled cider.
A pair of polished boots appeared in your field of vision. You looked up to see the target—the man you were supposed to be investigating—looking down at you with a mix of pity and amusement.
"Rough start to the holiday, eh?" the target asked, chuckling as he offered a hand to help Leon up. "I haven't seen a spill that graceful since the ice storm of '98."
Leon took the hand, looking appropriately embarrassed—though you knew he was actually recalculating the entire mission in his head. "Sorry. I’m a bit of a klutz when I’m trying to impress my fiancée."
The target’s eyes softened. "Fiancée, huh? Newlyweds-to-be? You two look like you've had a hell of a trek. You staying at the old Miller cabin?"
"We are," you said, brushing fake snow off your coat. "We just... wanted to make this Christmas different. Clearly, we’re getting there."
The man laughed, a warm, booming sound that didn't fit a criminal mastermind at all. "Do not worry, in this valley it is all about survival, not perfection…” Was that a threat, or a motivation? Had he already discovered you? “Listen, my place is just up the hill. I’m hosting a small dinner tomorrow night—mostly just my family and some local friends. It’s better than eating canned beans in a musty cabin. Why don't you two join us? Bring some of that 'city energy' to the mountain."
Leon looked at you, a silent, panicked conversation happening in the span of a heartbeat.
"We wouldn't want to intrude," Leon started.
"I insist!" the target said, patting Leon on the shoulder. "I like your spirit. Seven o'clock. Don't be late, or the turkey gets it."
As he walked away toward the checkout, you let out the air you were holding in.
Leon leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, mocking rasp that barely carried over the store’s tinny Christmas music. "Well, looks like we’ve got a dinner date with a ghost. Try to keep your feet under you this time, sweetheart. I'm not sure the hay bales can take another hit."
"And you," you shot back, brushing a stray bit of tinsel off his shoulder with more force than necessary, "try not to let your sudden love for cider blow our cover before the appetizers are served."
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩
Unfortunately, you didn't have time to watch the sunset like the couple you pretended to be would. You had to get your costumes.
Advising Leon on his wardrobe was surprisingly entertaining, though the man was annoyingly easy to dress. He had the kind of frame that made off-the-rack pieces look like custom tailoring. You settled on a crisp, designer white shirt—simple, but with a thread count that whispered "private wealth"—and tailored black trousers that hugged his legs in all the right places. The burgundy vest was your final touch, a splash of festive warmth that made his eyes look darker, more dangerous. As for your appearance, you were quite pleased with a dress you had spotted at the same store; it was earthy green, with a tie at the waist that accentuated your figure and then fell to just above your knees. It was pretty, modest and practical, but a hand on your waist interrupted your moment of great femininity.
"Green's not your color” Leon said in an unnecessary whisper, he stepped closer, resting his chin near the side of your head. In the mirror you looked like a portrait—a perfect, golden couple.
“So which one is it, then? Since you know me so damn we–”
“Red.” He stated it without hesitation and without letting you finish. "Red like your scarf. Like your nails. Like your lipstick. It simply suits you."
Oh.
“And as always, I believe the darkest red is the safest option…” he continued, his hand sliding slowly down from your waist, his touch deliberate and grounding. He reached past you, his arm brushing yours as he hooked a finger under a different hanger. “Something like this.”
He pulled out a deep, wine-red dress. It was silk, the kind of fabric that didn't just hang—it draped. It was bold, elegant, and..
“It is..beautiful”
“Because I know you so damn well,” he murmured, meeting your eyes in the reflection with a look that felt far too honest “I know that sometimes you might overlook things that are right in front of you.”
“Take it and let’s go” his tone turned back to normal–careless, indifferent–as he stepped back and left.
What the hell was wrong with him?
That night in the cabin, it was all about restructuring the plan. It was no longer just distant surveillance; now social infiltration was included, and you had to be prepared for it. You had your looks, but that was just a tiny part of it. The trick was almost entirely not just on acting, but on the little details nobody thinks about.
“We need a story,” you said, laying your dress out on the bed. “Arthur and the target—Silas—are going to dig. They’ll ask how we met, who proposed, what our first fight was about..”
“Our first fight was about who would drive the first leg of the trip and what radio station we should listen to.” he reminded you, unbuttoning the shirt he had worn from the shop.
“I know that.” You sighed, scratching the bridge of your nose as you subtly turned away, avoiding seeing him and his bare chest, again. “But that´s not even nearly romantic, is it? It could be more like.. we met at a rainy bus stop. You gave me your umbrella and got soaked. You looked like a drowned rat, but I still gave you my number sort-of-thing.”
Leon let out a short, dry laugh. “A drowned rat. Endearing. Fine. Who proposed?”
“You did. Six months ago. On a bridge,” you said firmly.
“Which bridge?”
“Does it matter?”
“Silas is a structural engineer by trade,” Leon said, his eyes narrowing. “If I say ‘a bridge,’ he’ll ask which one. Let’s say the Key Bridge at sunset. I’m a traditionalist.”
You scoffed.
“Alright, most important part.” You turned to face him, regardless of his condition. “The first kiss.”
The air in the tiny room went still. The old clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. For a second, neither of you moved. Then his eyes flicked to your mouth—quick, instinctive—before snapping back to yours.
“Third date,” he said, his voice lower now. “Outside a jazz club. It was snowing, just like here. I didn't want to let you go home yet.”
The way he said it—so effortlessly, so convincingly—It gave you a feeling you didn't welcome, a lurch in your stomach, a dizziness.
“Good,” you managed.
“And what about..personal space?” he asked the question lingering in your mind, stuck in your throat.
Leon tilted his head. “And what about personal space?”
You scratched at your eyebrow, buying a second. “We… stay close, I guess.”
“How close?”
He stepped in, close enough for the firelight to catch the sweat on his skin and the faint lines of old scars. You put a hand on his chest, meaning to stop him there.
“Like this,” you said. “Exactly like this.” You expected him to step back. Instead, Leon’s hand came up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that wasn’t meant to hurt, but to hold. He didn't move your hand away; he just looked down at it, his thumb beginning a slow, hypnotic stroke over the copper wire band you’d twisted earlier and used as a ring.
“No one’s buying this”
“Well, maybe we are metaphorical and these are..symbolic”
He laughed under his breath.
After years of missions and late-night watches, that sound was still rare enough to catch you off guard.
You turned over in bed, stretching, to find Leon hugging his pillow. He looked so annoyingly undisturbed, the sun didn't seem to bother him; his hair blocked it and acted like a reflective shield, creating golden twinkles.
You wanted to punch the beauty out of him. But instead you got up and channeled all that anger in two very hot coffees.
“Hey,” you said softly at first, almost tender. “Leon…” You insisted, cup in hand. Which was trying to burn, actually. “Come on.” Your free hand landed on his bare shoulder, slightly pushing it.
Finally, he reacted, lazily opening his eyes and making cute strange noises as he fully woke up.
“Welcome to the world of the living, I thought you left us for a sec.” You greeted him, handing him the cup once he sat up in bed.
One side of his hair seemed to suffer a little friction during sleep and was now pretty disheveled.
“Sorry, practicing our bonding last night really drowned me, I suppose.” He raised his eyebrows and took a long sip.
“That sounds really bad if you take it out of context…I’d prefer calling it a Chemistry Test.” You sat in front of your computer, reviewing data and names, connections and companies. All you needed to know by heart at the end of the day.
“Well, that. Exhausting.”
“You'll find that it won't be tiring at all when it comes to getting to know the one you truly love…” You said naturally, without giving it much deep thought, while clicking. Leon kept quiet for a second that seemed imperceptible for you.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
“Are we forgetting something?” You ask one last time, double-checking the list on your mind before leaving the cabin.
Leon lifts your dress slightly and confirms that your knife is tied to your leg.
“I believe we have everything we need.”
“I knew I had that, Idiot.” You glared at him as if you were about to bite him in defense. “I meant you, do you have your stuff?”
Leon doesn't answer but opens his vest, revealing 3 knives of different sizes and textures on one side, a small pistol on the other and a set of bullets that he takes from his pocket, hidden in a pack of cigarettes.
“Nice.” You smiled, satisfied. “We have a Christmas party to attend to.”
"Heyy! Could you do a res4 Leon x fem reader fic where reader is his colleague/ fellow agent who has a situationship w Leon but he’s getting hung up on Ada and reader is jealous? Maybe even confronting him about it? Lots of angst but good ending 😭"
Summary : You escape burnout by turning your life around and becoming a government agent. Old mistakes haunt you and you find it difficult to replace old problems with the new, especially when you find yourself in a situationship.
Pairing : RE4 Leon! × Fem Reader
Tags : Angst, angst, ANGST, unreliable narrator, unethical therapy mention, hurt/comfort, slight smut, moderate strong language, slow burn (for a one shot) jealousy, open ending perhaps, reader is not okay and grew up watching cop drama.
Word count: 10k
A/N: I did NOT proofread it as well as I should've. It starts off as a hard read. but gets better eventually.
[part II]
You always held pride in your emotional intelligence. It wasn’t superficial, you had a degree in psychology after all, so you knew it to be true. Managed to practice as a therapist for few months before taking time to reflect and turning your life around. It was quite a big stretch to jump from your ideas of becoming a therapist, leaving your straight A student persona behind, ditching those PhD dreams and leaping into a cycle of never-ending physical trainings, on your way to become a government agent. It was a shock to everybody in your life, but to you it wasn’t. Not in any way.
There were two reasons.
First, you mapped up the time, glued up a dream board and realized that it would take you years to finish your academic journey before you could actually do what you intended to. You also realized that watching a lot of daytime TV did you a disservice and planted an unrealistic idea in your head. You wanted to seek our murderers using your knowledge of the human nature. Help the police track the bad guys, interrogate them, wear expensive suits and even go out in the field wearing bulletproof vests with a real gun.
After years in university, this concept revealed itself as unattainable. It would take you decades to even get on a level where your expertise would be sufficient to write a decent report that could be used in court. And no one would ever let you go after criminals with a gun. And what was it about it that drew you in? What were you planning to do exactly in this scenario other than looking good and feeling badass? In case they actually hire you for that job, as a profiler (which would take additional years and expertise), you’d be too old to be physically fit enough for any of the badass visions. And when it came to those visions, you’d have to be too visually old to be taken seriously as a woman in the field anyway. At least some grey hair and wrinkles to get any respect from the men who stepped anywhere near military. It was not at all what you wanted.
Second reason was a bit more personal and way more grounded in reality. You didn’t like to think about it, but you had to be honest with yourself. Sometimes you wished you were a little bit less honest, just in your head. You wanted to sugarcoat things, and ignore problems and patterns, but you couldn’t. Admitting that you wish you could cloud your mind was too, a testament of seeing things clearly. You assessed the situation you got yourself into, and left. You didn’t like thinking about the second reason, it was a little too private, even for your own thoughts.
The third reason, that wasn’t mentioned, was the one you kept repeating to others. It wasn’t mentioned, because it wasn’t entirely true. After all, you couldn’t lie to yourself, but lying to others was easier. You told everyone that therapy was stressful and not at all physically demanding. You got into university with a scholarship because you were an athlete in school and the prospect of growing stiff sitting around and stressing wasn’t alluring. Stress needed a way out. You needed an active job. That was true, you knew it better than most and had a degree to back it up.
Training for becoming a government agent wasn’t easy. You did your best and still couldn’t get in the first year. Nevertheless, you weren’t known for the lack of determination, and soon enough you were an agent. Your dreams of wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying a gun were close enough to grab, if it wasn’t for all the paperwork you were hired to handle.
Didn't take long before you found out they only decided to accept you because of your degree, which to them made you a perfect candidate to process large amounts of information fast and make important connections. Heading straight into severe burnout, you nagged your way into a mission once, where you successfully managed to enter the building without drawing too much attention, and this success turned everyone’s eyes to you, becoming your golden ticket into the world of real missions, where the stakes were high, adrenaline was rushing and your actions actually mattered.
It was your dream life, bulletproof vest, a gun, you signed commands to your teammates, had a codename “Dove” (that you chose yourself) and for the first time in your life you felt in the right place doing the right thing. Your family and friends did not agree.
Every time you got back home, people would ask whether you found yourself a husband, implying that you only got into the field because “that’s where the real men are” since you must've gotten tired of those whiny boys you met in therapy and uni. You were perfectly aware that they tried to devalue your achievements and it made you want to never ever settle down out of spite, which wasn’t healthy, but you couldn’t help yourself. Poor coworkers that were bold enough to try their luck asking you out - got rejected, before you even thought of it. The idea of your family ending up thinking they were right all along and smirking about it for the rest of their lives made you sick. You were emotionally intelligent, yes. It didn’t mean that you were suddenly a robot and their toxicity didn’t get to you. Understanding and admitting this issue was a part of it, keeping it in mind was enough. Besides, it’s sensible to know better than confusing professional with personal.
You had it all figured out at first, the work/life balance thing. While most people in the filed allowed themselves to lack focus, only wishing to go back to their families, or on the contrary, spent all their time working as a distraction from not having any personal life or hobbies - you managed to be right in the middle. Hobbies, friends, self-care, education. At first.
Your optimistic desire to learn and improve yourself led to you taking on all the available courses that work managed to provide, which in turn led to you dealing with things mostly outside of your grade of training. Every time they were short on agents, you came in to help. Never alone, you were still too inexperienced and a woman. Nobody wanted to be responsible for writing you off dead. Even though your work was impressive, sending a young girl on a mission which resulted in her death cold not possibly look good on paper.
You disliked working with most agents. They happened to be arrogant, bad at commutation and for some reason always acted insulted that you were given the same task. It was never about teamwork to them. One of the agents once greeted you with a “Seems like I’m going to be your babysitter for this mission”. You knew better than to bite back, you never spared them the reaction they wanted to get out of you. Always friendly.
It took a toll on your mental health, but it wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was them being nice, making you finally feel accomplished, just to badmouth you behind your back afterwards.
Laugh about you being a burden and whatnot. You knew they just tried to keep up their image, to appear tough to other guys and to make sure everyone knew that they did not take you seriously, so their little crush wouldn't be that apparent. You also knew that everybody knew that, so it wasn’t getting under your skin most days.
Some nights it felt too unfair to ignore, so you imagined telling them off and commanding respect, like the women in those daytime shows you loved to watch as a kid. But every morning you felt too professional and too grounded in reality to pay it any mind. Maybe too small, but it was a secret you kept, unable to grant yourself at least a little courtesy, at least a little white lie, a lie by omission. Some silence that would protect you from self-doubt. Had to be cruel.
That nagging and flattery bothered you up until the moment you got paired with the moodiest agent. It was a brief time, a small task to help him out on a mission, getting into the building pretending to be barista and retrieving a package with intentions to pass it on to him. Got caught in a little bit of a cross fire and ended up helping out beyond your instructions.
He was famous for extreme cases and a cool attitude so you prepared for the worst. To your surprise, he happened to be extremely easy to deal with. A bit cold and he made a weird joke once that almost didn’t seem like a joke coming from him (or at best, for sure didn’t land). You hated that it didn’t go according to plan and prepared to hear all about how you were trusted with something delicate and created problems (even though it wasn’t your fault, it rarely was), but when you learned of his reports praising you for having potential and a fast reaction, you started seeing him in a different light.
Leon Scott Kennedy kind of proved to you wrong just when you started to think you were doomed to drown in self-deprecation before finally quitting. Your higher ups mentioned him giving you positive feedback and you didn’t waste time telling them that you found working with Agent Kennedy productive. He didn’t need your praise, so you praised your synergy. In all the best and seamless ways you knew how to, in order to manipulate them to pair you together more.
Your skills did not disappoint, soon enough you were working together every other mission. You were cautious not to seem annoying, but he had a way to make you feel at ease. He’d smile when you saw each other. He wasn’t a talker, but you didn’t feel any pressure. You were comfortable with his professionalism, it made you feel understood and respected.
After some time working, you were happy to return the favor, tolerated (a fair share of) his weird sense of humor. He’d alert your walkie-talkie with a stern “Dove.” and when you answered, he’d say “Flying high today?”
Made you roll your eyes every time. And finally, you were the one who got to feel annoyed, instead of feeling like you annoyed others.
He appreciated your attitude, sometimes he’d call you up to the shooting range at the base and helped you adjust your aim dealing with a bigger recoil than you were used to.
Maybe it was when he put his strong arms on yours, standing so close behind you without the gear being there to block his body heat from warming your back.
Maybe it was when he asked you if were okay at the end of the day. Maybe it was when he protected you from danger as his first priority every mission. Maybe it was when he trusted you with his life. Maybe it was when he wrapped up the mission before completing the task, because he didn’t want to risk you loosing too much blood due to your injury that one time.
Maybe it was when he texted you later. Lying in your hospital bed, you read “Dove. How’s the flight?”, how it made all the pain irrelevant. How you never answered because you suddenly didn’t want to say the wrong thing, but did everything in your power to hop back to your feet and get back to work. Maybe it was the shift in the energy that you felt once you saw him again, maybe it was the way you noticed how attractive his attitude was (when it was directed at everyone else but you). But you noticed that he certainly had an effect on you.
It was him who was the first to tell you that you’d have to stay put for a while, no feet on the ground, just “remote work”, as he kindly put it.
“Found a way to get rid of me?” - you joked before letting the sadness seep from your tensed up eyebrows straight into your eyes. He noticed and reassured you it’s temporary. And for the better. “If you say so.” was all he got. You were agreeable and there was nothing to discuss really. It was the first time he made you feel hurt. It wasn’t his fault, and you knew it, you were very mature after all. Emotional intelligence. But you still wanted to test if he’d feel bad about it and judging by the sigh that he let out, it worked. Smirk on your face as you walked away.
Same smirk curled up your lips when he came by the headquarters to ask how you’re doing, seeing you in hoodie with your hair down, talking to an intern, a young nerdy guy who was explaining something you pretended to care about.
“Getting comfortable?” – he asked, you weren’t sure if he was referring to your friendliness with an intern or your blunt dress code violations. Truth be told, you knew he was entering the base and let your hair down intentionally.
“Yeah…” – you put a hand through your hair, - “Keep getting headaches staring at the screen for hours and all..., hair ties do not help”.
You noticed his gaze lingering, - “Can’t catch a break, can you?” – he joked.
“Well, if everyone writing me off counts as a break, it’s all I’ve been catching.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” – he rolled his eyes, before looking at the intern, the guy's name was Nail, Neville, Niall something like that. Niall pretended to work behind you, and Leon lowered his voice, softened even, - “you know it’s not like that.”
“I know, I’m just making sure you know I don’t like it.” – you lowered your voice to match his, - “However it is.”
“Came here to make sure of that.” – there was a hint of a smile in his voice as he leaned closer to say that, before pulling away, - “Planned on disrupting your little holiday soon.”
Your eyes sparked, - “You did?”
“Can’t afford all my mentoring go to waste because of one stab wound. Ridiculous.”
“Your mentoring?” – you laughed, watching his relaxed smile for the first time, you liked that smile, - “Sure, that would be criminal.”
Getting back to work was easy, you never really needed that much time off anyway. You’d consider it a waste of time, if it wasn’t for a conformation that Leon cared about you in some way. You got bolder equipped with that knowledge.
Things generally shifted a little. His usual teasing turned into “Dove. Flying high? Both wings intact?”, he switched to a more hands-on approach, moving you around and grabbing your arms to stall you more than usual. He got more comfortable. It was like after your first big injury he got his conformation that you can handle harm and stopped acting like he was responsible for your every step, even though he never was.
Things got more easy until they got more complicated. When adrenaline got the best of you after speed climbing an abandoned military base wall to get away from landmines that were about to be triggered by a fallen satellite tower. Both heaving, lying on the floor, ecstatic that you made it.
Leon crawled his way to you, putting his hand to your side, where you were stabbed (three months ago by now), - “You okay?” - he put his hand on your forehead and brushed his knuckles over your temples, like it will give him any indication.
You sat up slightly. “Yeah…” - grabbing onto his forearm to get up, but getting lost in the vision instead. You both were high on the rush, him almost on top of you, sweat covering your faces, breathing deeply, it was only natural to put your hand on his shoulder and letting him kiss you. Kissing him back. Falling back on the floor, hearing him grunt into your lips as he fell onto you, putting your hand into his hair, pressing him closer, deepening the kiss. You made it out alive. You were so alive.
“Fuck,” – he breathed out between kisses, - “we got to go back”, - he kissed you deeper, as he let his hand grab your chest, moving it to your back, possessively, lifting you up, closer.
You held onto his arm, as if ordering it to stay there. Ordering, begging, approving… Nodding, - “yeah,” – and kissing him back. You both knew this moment might be the only one to steal. It was all there. It was all there was.
But you managed to pull away, the spell was broken and it turned into tension. And you got back without any distractions. Silent on the helicopter, both solemn in your own throughs.
Both planning on how to go about this incident, both trying to keep it professional, without ruining your partnership. Both failing as your off-duty talk turned into you kissing him against the wall of your on-base apartment, his knee between your legs, your hands under his shirt.
The story was: you both had the same monologue prepared, your ideals, sense of professionalism and morals aligned. And since it all aligned anyway, why does it matter?
You were great when it came to team work, you trusted him with your all and he met you in every way possible, every kiss, every thrust, every bite, he even came through with it every time all you needed to cum was to hear him moan.
You managed to keep it professional outside of the bedroom (or any room really where no one could see). It worked. You were too busy for proper relationships, you knew how to make each other feel good, you cared about each other, and you both wanted it. That’s what you kept telling yourself.
But you were a bad liar when it came to facing yourself. You knew damn well that you didn’t want any other proper relationships. You also didn’t want to change how things were, you did not put everything at stake for this career to throw it away on some good dick. Some good dick. Nice shoulders. And strong hands, that held you up, like they designed you and were making sure it stayed in place. Big legs and steady hips, that felt just right every time you came down on them. Firm lips, that took what they wanted. Soft voice that was sharpened with a rasp, always asking if you’re all right, if it’s okay, if you like it, if you’re close. Never had to ask, in his mind he always knew. His mind, always busy. Baby blue eyes, attentive, detached, sad. Ghosts, so many ghosts.
You wanted to take it away, you could. You saw past his exterior, you wanted to repair it, whatever it was. Your past mistakes coming back to the surface. Your second reason. Never could keep any boundaries. Drawn to all the broken things, too invested. You made a bad therapist, an even worse agent as it turned out.
But it was different with Leon, he was on the same page. There was no disbalance, no uncomfortable power dynamic, besides that in the bedroom, where he could easily overpower, holding you down, as you shake, as you pull his hair; him not letting you come down from your high before forcing another round of bliss onto your overstimulated body. No, outside of all that, there was no disbalance. You were on the same page. You were both okay. You were equal. It was better, he wasn’t your client, you didn’t have to feel bad.
You could care about him and it didn’t mean going back to destructive patterns. And it’s only natural for a person to care about another. You weren’t his therapist. You weren’t even his friend. You were just two people who understood what they..., were to each other and who were on the same page. Whatever that page was. He wasn’t letting you down this road alone. He had you. Whatever it meant.
It was special. And you felt like it was all worth it. It was scary to let your mind wonder to places he occupied, but soon enough you had trouble finding any space he didn’t. He was everywhere, like a new puzzle you tried to put together. What shaped him into this man you wanted to disappear into? What weights him down? What was he like as a child? What’s on his mind when you’re not together? What are the missing pieces? What pieces needed mending?
It was not your intention to let yourself get so wrapped up, but it was hard not to when he wrapped your legs around his shoulders, riling up the tug in your stomach with his tongue until your mind went white. So so wrapped up. Messed up. His hair, your body, your thighs, your thoughts.
You cut down on joint missions, couldn’t risk it. Seeing him in action distracted you, it wasn’t safe. He understood. It was hard seeing you in gear. It was really hard.
When you finally learned how to behave, you happened to work together more, couldn’t risk growing too far apart. Had to keep your hands to yourself, your thoughts focused on the task. Despite betting your all on these changes helping you to prioritize your career, you found yourself more ready than ever to throw it all away. Head first into his embrace, you didn’t care about your family gloating about being right, about proving it to yourself that you’re unable to keep anything professional enough. Despite every wall you’ve built. He made it seem worth it. Inviting. Safe. And if you were on the same page…, Were you on the same page? He had to be.
Where was he?
Those thoughts were doomed to be pruned before blooming because you couldn’t let the reality slip away. You had a dangerous job, even if you leave to make it more acceptable for you to be together, he won’t. And you can’t trust yourself to be okay with him putting himself at risk with no means to help out or at least to know what’s going on.
And you couldn’t forget that the only reason you happened to fall into this was out of convenience. Maybe not the only reason, but the main reason. One of the main reasons.
You were sensible, but in your head, you were retired in a house near some sea, lying on a blanket on some beach, reminiscing the old days with a smile with Leon next to you. For now, your goal was to collect as many memories as you could, make sure you have plenty to look back at. He’d be hot with grey hair. He’d kiss your temple and there’d be no ghosts in his eyes by then. You could see it so clearly. You’d love it all down. It would be perfect.
The day you wrapped up another mission (a big round number for you) you started planning the celebration. It was how it was done here. Had to plan ahead, but was way too busy daydreaming.
You knew it would be risky to have other agents, you and Leon at the same table. Add alcohol into picture, and the risk is high. But not inviting a person you owe at least half of the number you’re celebrating to, would be even more suspicious.
Little did you know, the reason why it was the worst idea ever never even crossed mind. The topic of you two wasn’t brough up until most of the guests left, the bar was almost empty, it just you and some of the agents who knew Leon “forever”, to quote them.
“So, Leon keeps snatching up all the ladies?” – came from one of them.
You had no idea if they knew anything or simply insinuated, so you looked taken aback. That’s when the guy added, - “Oh, I’m just kidding. I know Leon does not shit where he eats, not after Ada Wong!”
You didn’t know what to process first. To be relieved you were off the hook, to be disgusted by the phrasing, or to pay attention to the way Leon’s face changed after the mention of the name. He said the guy’s name sternly. A warning.
“Oh sorry, hit a nerve. He doesn’t talk about Ada.” – he finished his beer before adding, - “Would you believe our Mr. Cool over here fell for an enemy out of all people? Now he’s above it all, sure. Let that bitch walk all over and still-”
Leon stood up, - “Shut it. And take her name out of your mouth. You know nothing.”
It was your cue to deescalate the situation, but you just sat there. Silence filled the bar, and Leon walked out.
The guy who brought it up whistled, - “You’d think he’d be over it by now.”
“Hopeless romantic, that one” – cackled another, - “You must be used to his temper by now.” – He looked at you knowingly.
Before they left, you said that you’re were going to stay for a while, you had some business with the bartender. And you did, asked him for something stronger than beer.
At first you waited for Leon to come back, not letting any thoughts seep into your head. It wasn’t the best idea. You were better than this.
Did they know? Did they suspect? Was it their way to warn you?
You knew of Ada Wong, not much. Clearly not enough. It didn’t matter.
Didn’t it?
Whiskey never eased your thoughts, just made them flow more freely. It was a mistake to drink more after what happened. Another mistake.
Was it all a mistake? A thousand thoughts you desperately tried to keep at bay broke the dam and flooded your mind.
So that’s what it was about. Not about you, just him falling back to his habits. How could you judge? You weren’t exactly exhibiting a golden standard of professionalism yourself. It’s not a big deal. You both knew it wasn’t a big deal since the start, on the same page. Were you?
Suddenly everything felt disgusting, the bar, waiting for him felt embarrassing. Your thoughts right now, your dreams earlier. God, you were stupid.
You paid for the drinks and headed out. Bartender asking you something, as you turned to leave, not even listening. That was rude. Disgusting behavior.
It will all go away in the morning. It’s just too much information. Not enough information. Most people your age had past relationships; Leon was a couple years older. It’s not a big deal, he’s a young man with needs.
And you were just there to aid him with that. You had needs too. It was convenient and fair. Never gave any promises. Except that you did.
A lot of silent promises, it was convenient. Didn’t have to follow through if the only person who knew of them was you. Falling asleep was a challenge. You prayed for sleep to take away these thoughts. These feelings. You begged for a clean emotional palette in the morning.
But morning felt heavy on you on your shoulders. Sticky thoughts clinging to your consciousness and spreading like a disease. Embarrassing, grotesque, ugly.
You did your best to pick right through them and cage unwarranted ones. You were an adult.
So what, he had an ex. So, he didn’t want to talk about it with others. So, he didn’t want to be mocked. So what? It makes sense.
Was it because of her? What was it? You wanted to interrogate him, to strap him down to a chair and to get it all out of him. Make him confess it all to you. You deserved it. He owed nothing to you. You were way too mature to think like that.
You knew it was unhealthy since the start, you never learn. You needed a reality check. It felt like a slap in the face; hot, burning. Shame.
You were stupid enough to think you were special. You were stupid enough to overthink it now. Always overcomplicating. Was she the ghost in your eyes?
It wasn’t about you, it was your curiosity that made you walk into the office, wasting your day off, finding the intern you used to flirt with. By the time he got a promotion. Cut his hair differently, training weathered his frame a little, a beard making it's way to his face. Almost handsome. You tried your best to gather a crush, to cling to some dignity. It wasn’t all about Leon, your mind was capable of thinking of other people as well. And when you asked ex-intern to get you all info on Ada Wong he could find, it wasn’t about Leon as well. It was about your case. You saw him as a puzzle after all, it wasn’t personal. Just a curiosity.
Leon looked unaffected, if you weren’t there that evening he got all insulted over a mention of his ex-whatever, wouldn’t have a clue. He’s good at hiding. What else is he hiding? You thought you had your clues, not one.
Reading Ada’s files made you feel stupid. You kept thinking to all these times you thought it was sweet of him to care about you, to train you. You thought he liked feeling like he had something to teach, something to show. You were wrong, if Wong was what he wanted, he found your training sessions pathetic at best. She was better than you, better than him. Is this what he liked? You were so stupid. She was beautiful, not in the way you were.
You learnt all about how she wrapped Leon around her finger, he messed up. It was pathetic of him, embarrassing. You tried your best to transfer those feelings onto him, to project. It didn’t work. He wasn’t pathetic, he was this hopeless romantic with a ghost of a lover in his eyes. A woman who managed to steal her way into his heart even after betrayal. That wasn’t pathetic. You were, collecting any piece of information about her that you could. Now that was pathetic.
How you wanted to solve this puzzle, convinced that once you do, it will let you go. Set you free. You couldn’t possibly spend much longer on his leash. Tracking all your thoughts to him. To her.
They made you feel sick. You hated her for disrupting your fairytale. You hated him for not playing his part right. You hated yourself for allowing this fairytale to take roots.
It was stupid. You had so many guys after you in university, so many people at work who’d die to ask you out. You had all the cards when it came to dating, and you knew it. But you felt stupid and ugly. It was like all the miserable scenarios; all your jealousy seeped its way through your skin and you had to wear it heavy on your face. Ugly.
He ruined everything. He was not responsible for your feelings. You took pride in your emotional intelligence. Even that, he managed to take away from you. It was all tainted.
You weren’t jealous, just disgusted with yourself. Ashamed of being naïve. Ashamed of your thoughts and reactions. Was it even her real name? Ada Wong. Seemed fake. She surely made that up, who in their right mind uses a real name with a job like hers? If you can even count it as a job.
You wondered if Leon knew her real name. He knew of her nature, knew what she was doing for a living, he killed people for less. And yet couldn’t stand someone speaking badly of her. Left you alone.
Maybe it was a way to escape the conversation, maybe he knew something, knew these people and knew they would dig to find the truth about your affair if he stayed. This had to stop. You couldn’t afford to advocate for him just to justify your lack of maturity. You had sex because you were two adults in close proximity who happened to find each other attractive enough. That was it. Any complications will only hurt down the road.
The urge to shut off and be cold was as immature as it was natural. You could not force yourself to be any different. Couldn’t let go of the only shield that you knew, even though you knew it was childish, you knew it was wrong. You know it, you knew it all. You were smart. You were beautiful, you were capable and daring and independent. Why on earth did you do this to yourself?
You were miserable.
You had to let this go. It was in your head. Ada Wong was nowhere to be found, she was an evil, horrible person who betrayed people, a criminal with no regards for anything other than money. If Leon fell for it, he’s pathetic. You had a moral high ground in the situation regardless of any circumstance. At least you weren’t a criminal. The days you spent in therapy came to your mind. That was unethical, not illegal. It would be considered illegal in some states.
You weren’t a bad person.
Seeing Leon on duty was easier than you anticipated. Acting like you didn’t drag your dignity through the mud was harder, but you managed. Made it work.
A little more quiet than usual, but it was fitting for the mission. You flew over to another country to assist Secret Service agents responsible for president’s safety by tracking down the shooter. They knew assassination attempt was planned, but couldn’t risk to let it be carried out, so you had to track down whoever was smart enough not to die by being too bold, but dumb enough to be entangled in this mess. Not very physically demanding for the most part, a lot to do with getting into the head of someone who puts their life on a line to do something stupid.
Daytime shows always portrayed these criminals as some genius people who had a plan and an ideology. Reality was disappointing; it was mostly poor people with no education, desperate enough to do any “job” for a promise of money they never end up seeing. Their handlers weren’t much smarter, bribed to organize the mess you had to take care of because violence pays.
They were all stupid at the end of the day, putting their lives at risk for money. Just like Ada Wong. She was less stupid than your regular criminal, had to give her that. Maybe that’s why she was able to leave such a lasting impression. She’s just like a daytime TV drama character.
So smart and horrible, but since she’s sexy and rich, it can all be forgiven, it makes her cool. Was she rich? No idea, but she had to be, a lot of money involved in the field, if you can even call it that. Surely, she was sexy, you saw the photos that were in the system. Studied the 3D model of her face that was created to identify her under all the wigs and disguises just in case. You looked at her face for hours imagining Leon kissing her lips, what it would feel like. Desensitize yourself, so you don’t get visually bothered next time someone brings her up. To understand him better, perhaps, he was just a puzzle at the end of the day. You were invested as a phycologist; it was essentially just research.
“Missing the action?”
“What?” – you looked at Leon, who was setting up yet another spyglass set (that looked more like a telescope fit to see what was happening on Mars) in the empty apartment you were stuck at.
“Looks like you’re not enjoying our little getaway.”
“That’s not a getaway, Leon, we’re on duty.”
“Could be worse.” – a sly smile as he adjusted the lens, eyes hidden by the steel tube.
Fuck, he was hot. You knew better than to open your mouth, feeling the word vomit coming up. You were going to mention her name, if you kept talking. This whole thing turned into obsession that wasn’t healthy. Let it go.
There are ways to process those emotions. Therapists can provide valuable assistance in dealing with feelings of jealousy over a partner's ex by offering various strategies and approaches. You’re capable.
Understanding Emotions. Exploring and understanding the roots of this jealousy. Was it insecurity? Fear of abandonment? You had nothing to be insecure about. And there’s no abandonment if you weren’t an item in the first place. Knowing someone could be this close to you and not head over heels might have hurt your self-esteem. So, he was kissing your neck as your bodies collided, but it wasn’t enough to forget another woman. Like you weren’t that special. That hurt, we all want to be special. Sometimes you felt your pride suffer when a barista ignored your smile as they gave you your coffee. That rarely happened, maybe once. But you still remember. It was an issue to work on. Nothing to do with Ada Wong.
Cognitive Restructuring. Cognitive-behavioral techniques were useless on you, you had no irrational thoughts. You got high on feelings, got hurt, humbled and it was an uncomfortable situation to deal with. Your negative thought patterns associated with jealousy were mostly about your pride. It wasn’t about other people. They had no control over you.
Communication Skills. There was no point in talking about something you created in your own head. You were not in a relationship with Leon, you did not know the Wong girl, whatever her real name was. It was about you and your self-esteem issues. Thinking it through was enough.
So, building self-esteem was the way. What were you defined as that you took most pride in? It used to be your academic achievements. You gave it up. Your job? Where you really any better than hired criminals who put their lives at risk for someone else? Where you really that much better than Ada fucking Wong?
There was no pride in your job anymore. Daytime TV lied and you weren’t even the best at what you were doing. Did you find pride in your looks? Yes, but now that you were used as a fuck doll, it was pretty hard to do it. Your maturity and emotional intelligence? Not when you were crushing out because a co-worker you screw for fun has an ex he didn't manage to get over. As if it matters in any capacity. Ridiculous how you let yourself get so low. All this inadequacy and competitiveness was a result of doing a job you did not even like anymore. A burnout.
Mindfulness and Emotional Regulation. You had to regulate any and every ugly thought, filter your goddamn mind. No more wallowing.
Setting Boundaries. It wasn’t even an affair; you were just helping each other to blow off steam. You had to trust each other with your bodies at work, it worked. Could trust each other with your bodies off work; not a big deal.
Had to reframe the relationship in your head. Remind yourself of the frame.
Comparative Analysis. Ada was nowhere to be found. Hiding like a criminal, that she was. And you were there. There was no way she could realistically get in the way of you living your life, and even if that happens? She can have him and moody ass any time. You do not need his energy bringing you down anyway. She can play these mind games with him; you just liked the way his body felt. The rest was hormones, you must’ve been very hormonal when you made all these things up. And you analyzed him because you missed your true calling.
Finally, the curse is broken. You took a sip of hot green tea, relaxing into the sofa in your hotel room. It was nice to be back, to not feel guilty, to finally make sense out of everything.
A knock on the door. Leon, Leon, Leon. So predictable. You debated opening the door for a split second before realizing that it’s a perfect opportunity to prove to yourself that you can finally trust your mind to not act like a lunatic. Essential even.
“Hey, I thought…” – he couldn’t finish his excuse, before you grabbed his shirt and tugged him inside, put him up against the wall. He looked at your hands, taken aback slightly; like it wasn’t what he came for. So charming, just how you like him.
You kissed his jaw, broad kisses travelling down his neck, - “Now that’s a gateway”, - you smiled as your hands dropped to the belt and felt up his thighs, teasing.
“Yeah…”, - he swallowed, throwing back his head slightly. Like he was contemplating something. You felt his neck move under your lips and it made you think of all the ways his body could move, will move in few minutes, the bottom of your stomach feeling tense, - “I thought… Had to check up on you” – he hissed as you bit above his shoulder.
“Check up on me, huh? I got a couple ideas…” – the hands on his pants circling closer to bulge that was very much prominent at this point.
“You must have some ideas” – he let out a breath, brows knitting slightly, - “Spent so much time at the office lately.”
You laughed, so silly. Did he keep track of your whereabouts? Waited for you to be available? – “Mhm… I have friends there.” – the circle came to a point and you palmed him, squeezing lightly.
“Like that Niall guy? What’s his name?”, - he tilted his head down to look at you, fast enough for you not to see it coming, you found yourself scared you might accidently kiss his lips. It terrified you for some reason, so you sank lower.
And lower, - “You’re thinking about me with Niall?” – slowly stroking the outline clear under his clothes, - “Does it turn you on?”
“What?” – he made a face, scrunching his nose, - “No”.
Hilarious, - “What about us three together?” – a frustrated huff through the nose, - “What about us three but with another girl?” – you picked up the pace, undoing the belt with a free hand, it was so entertaining riling him up, all this frustration, he could let it all out on you.
He called your name in that assertive tone that you liked, made you laugh as you licked the skin between the pants and a shirt, - “What if it was Ada Wong?”
He said your name again, catching both of your hands in a tight grip. Had to ruin all the fun.
“Come on, what now?” – you whined, rolling your eyes.
He yanked you up to your feet and looked at you. Studying, disappointed, accusing. What did you do?
You started at each other for a moment. You didn’t do silent treatment. “What?” – you repeated, this time more genuine annoyance in your tone, - “Use your words, Leon, fuck. I’m too tired for this.”
That look of a disappointed parent. Or a pet owner, - “Get some rest then.” – so full of it as he set in motion.
“No need to react this way, threesomes aren’t for everybody.”
“And don’t,” – he closed the door before lecturing you more, - “Don’t ever mention her name."
“Fine!” – you exclaimed, raising your eyebrows, - “Jeez, thought she made you hard, didn’t know she was such a boner killer.”
“You don’t know anything about her.”
“Fine! And I don’t want to!” – he wanted to act like an angry dad, you could match. It didn’t sound at all like you wanted, you didn’t have the authority in that scream to back it up; so, you stood there in silence for a slip second, - “Get out.”
The sound of the door closing felt like a punch to the core, a sob coming straight from your ribs before you chocked it with a hand to mouth. Pressing hard, tears flooding your fingers, tickling.
So fucking stupid. Everything was so fucking stupid. It hurt that you were just another fling at work, yes. But it hurt more that she wasn’t.
You hated her. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. You wanted to die.
The pain in his eyes, the disappointment. Did she do this to him? The ghost in his eyes? Was she the one who could make it go away? The burn in your chest rang up your ears and breathing got harder.
If she was so dear to him, you’d find her. Set them up together. And then you’d die. Horribly. You’d fall off a cliff, rocks breaking every bone and smashing away your body parts and then some… Some wild dogs would tear you to pieces and he’d watch. And before the fall someone would shoot you like ninety times. Straight to the heart, and then you’d fall. And as those wild dogs ate your flesh, they’d growl loudly. And he wouldn’t care.
He would be happy with his glorified criminal knowing that you died for it. And you’re the only reason he got to be happy. And it would… It would haunt him forever. He would look at Ada and see your ghost. Finally, she would be the one dealing with the ghost of you staring back from his beautiful eyes.
You were mature and rational. And you’d rather be dead than live through this.
You never learned how to lie to yourself, no matter the effort. It was never meaningless to you; it was larger than what you allowed yourself to dream of. And he was never a puzzle.
He was the only person who made you feel like you had nothing to prove. Like you were worth the effort with no payback. And you had such deep respect and love for him. It hurt to admit. Knowing that your feelings were yours alone. It hurt to know that truth.
That all these times he trained you, he missed his very much skilled lover. That every moment that was meaningful to you, was just a distraction for him.
You didn’t want to be small, your ego was through so much, but maybe it was the lesson you had to learn. To let go of that thing that stalled you every time you made a mistake.
You weren’t special, nobody cares if you’re in the right, if you’re better, smarter, ethical. So, it’s okay if you fall short. That you’re going to live through this.
You are going to live through this.
Last day of the mission the weather was mockingly good. Feathered clouds hugging the sun just enough to soften the rays that danced on the ground as if they were playing hide and seek with the wind. Daytime TV always matched the weather to the feelings of the main character. Maybe you weren’t. Not even special enough for the weather to reflect your turmoil. It made you smile, the realization. Bittersweet, but you could handle knowing this truth, so you could handle the rest.
Leon was even more brooding than ever, weather didn’t pick him as the main character either. You were both doomed. Warm wind merrily moved his hair, as if it was pleading “Play with me, play with me, Leon!”. He didn’t care for it.
Leon noticed you looking at him, tucking his radio set in a pocket, he was about to say something when you interrupted, - “I’m quitting.”
The wind decided to try you this time, tickling your face by messing up the hair and exposing your neck, you smiled. That wind reminded you of a little kid. You weren't in the mood to play, sorry.
Leon nodded, said “Okay, we’ll get back to that” and picked up the radio set. Just like he would if you weren’t there. Just like he will.
Sure, but there was nothing to discuss. He could go back to whatever he wanted.
The flight home was silent. It was nice to be on a plane for a change, a private jet, not being thrown into the helicopter. You realized you never got to say goodbye to those views out of that noisy flying box. You never knew your last helicopter work transfer would be your last the last time you were there. Funny how things work. You have it all figured out and before you know it, everything changes and you don’t know whose body you’re in. Who is this strange person? What will this person do? Will it feel familiar ever again? Will it feel like home inside your skin?
Your blue-eyed partner spent the flight staring at the window, deep in his thoughts, up until he decided to occupy the seat next to you, leaving quite a bit of space, like you might not be safe to get close to.
“Hey…” - his voice soft, you’d like to remember that voice instead the one that he used earlier, - “Listen… Did something happen? Is it your family? Did something happen at home?”
The tenderness in which he carefully approached almost surprised you. You looked at him.
“You’ve been… I’ve never seen you like this. Noticed for a while… Now you want to quit.” – he glanced and looked away, not to pressure, - “You know, you can tell me”.
You slowly shook your head, - “Nothing happened.”
Silence once more claimed the cabin. It was comforting to have him around, not too close, just there, - “You spent so much time at the office lately. Reading, studying… Do you miss it? Want to go back?”
You looked at him, indifferent yet with so much pain in your eyes, tired, raised your shoulders in a little shrug. You looked so broken.
“You know… I understand. I had my moments… I was the best at the academy, put my all into it, and when I… When I graduated and it hit me that you can’t always measure… How good you did something…”
He was truly good. You could never paint him a villain in your story. Not even when he hurt you. He managed to find the root of the problem, you missing the career you left behind, dodging every shameful detail. Took your time spent studying as something upstanding instead of what it was, dignified your most embarrassing lows. You really loved him. And it tugged on your shattered heart.
“What are you doing?” – you asked him kindly, his attention fully yours, - “You don’t have to mentor me…” – you reached out and put your hand on his, comforting. It was okay.
A warm look, those blue eyes studying yours, looking for something, - “I’m not…”
“It’s okay.” – Gave him a bittersweet smile.
He took your hand in his. Strong warm fingers, brushing carefully, - “The sky is going to be lonely without you, Dove.” – you hummed, humoring the joke, - “I’m going to be lonely.” – he added, it hurt.
You sighed, - “You’ll find another.” - Took your hand away, - “You and the sky.” – There was no malice in those words, you truly meant it, - “After all it’s not your first affair at work. Won’t be last.” – it was comforting to finally accept it. Accept it to the point where you could say it and not feel rage. It broke your heart, but you’d learn how live with it. It wasn’t your first affair at work as well, after all.
Silence was cushioned by the mellow sound of the engine, white noise; after some time, he got closer and you put your head on his shoulder. He kissed your head as you pretended to fall asleep. It was something that will always stay with you. Had no photographs, it was too late to borrow his clothes, nothing. Just this one memory that wasn’t tainted by jealousy. That wasn’t butchered by an autopsy and fragmented into pieces to be devalued in a shrewd attempt to glue your ego back together. And it was nice. He was nice. It was okay.
You sat up straight when you were convinced that Leon fell asleep, looked at him, expecting to memorize his features. To your surprise, he was awake, completely still. You could swear his eyelashes were more matted than before. Your poor baby, it wasn’t worth it.
“You know… Ada.” – his voice heavy. Oh. Well, perhaps that was worth it. Perhaps she was, - “We met… Few times. She was the one who took something from me. Made it impossible to care for others.” – That explains it. Finally, the puzzle is coming along. Your goal is about to be complete and there’d be nothing left to do here. You almost didn’t want to know all the answers of why he couldn’t ever care about you, - “I spent years thinking I gave my heart in vain. I was so sure all I was good for was to be used.” – hearing him say that was devastating, - “But when I met her again. I figured it wasn’t like that. She saved me, more than once. More than in one sense. She really cared. She did. But she couldn’t act on it, fully, because she wasn’t free. It wasn’t me who was good for nothing. It was her, refusing to let go of her cage. I owe it to her, recognizing that there’s something worth breaking the rules and cages for, and if you don’t…”
“You embody the cage that trapped you?”
He nodded, - “Hollow.”
You wanted to move to hug him, to hold his hand, anything, but he wasn’t done.
“So, I owe it to her. Nobody gets it. I owe it to her to not end up the same. I know that she l…- “– he bit his lip, angry at himself for some reason, - “She loved me. I know it. She had love in her. And she walked away from it. So, I promised myself not be like that.” – there was a build up in his tone, what seemed to be a sob story about his one true love, was revealing itself a charged speech that was about to go off, - “So you may it call an affair, us, but I cannot agree with this. I don’t. And if you want to treat it that way, it’s your call. But you have to be honest with yourself.”
That was a lot to process. A lot of cracks in your theories to fill. What kind of strategy is this? What was he getting you into? This is disruptive, it made you uncomfortable.
“Understand that. I care, okay?” – he nudged your shoulder, - “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m all ears.”
That last phrase sounded a lot like “I’m all yours” to you at first and when the realization of what he actually said hit, you found yourself looking for an escape from that corner he got you in. You’re hearing what you want to hear again. That’s unhealthy.
That man didn’t even belong to himself. Despite what he’s saying, he’s a lot like Ada, a thought ran through your head. He saw so much of himself in her, and he didn’t like it. He must’ve seen enough of goodness in her to not give up on himself in that case. You spent so much time cursing the woman who in actuality convinced him to care about you, if you buy what he says. Did he have a reason to lie? Where you becoming just like them? Jaded.
Above all, she saved his life. You owed it to her. And in that moment, it hit you all at once. The stress you’ve been under. The idea of Leon dying, not being able to talk to him again, to touch him. Ada Wong and her love that she never got to share. Was it fair that she saved him for someone else? Where was she? How was she? Were you experiencing ego death?
Your eyes hurt, tears filling up the corners, chocked up, - “I’m so tired.”
Leon must’ve pulled you in, because for a moment, the world narrowed down to black, feeling of wet cheeks against a fabric, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, temples pulsing, and it smelled like him. Must’ve been an awkward position, couldn’t tell where your limbs were, but you felt his hands caressing the back of your head, rubbing your back; you stayed like that till you breathing evened out, and you wiped your face, standing up and excusing yourself to go wash your face.
When you came back, he offered you a water bottle without saying a word.
Lingering sadness in the air. What a wild mess. Who are you going to be when you walk out of the jet?
“How can I help?” – poor guy looked genuinely worried, was probably convinced something bad happened and you were going through a lot. Maybe you were.
You shook your head and he dropped it.
Usually, he’d carry the bags with equipment out to the storage facility once you land, a courtesy to the staff. This time he followed you, calling your name and on land you felt more strangely claustrophobic next to him, more so than in a tiny cabin in the skies, so you quickened you pace, hearing him call your name. Dangerously bad at goodbyes, so much for being mature, you just took off and ran. You wanted out.
Leon caught up to you, trapping you in an empty hallway, both of his hands against the cold white walls, your shoulders in between, didn’t touch you, but you knew you couldn’t get away easily. You whined and closed your eyes, when will this interrogation stop? You wanted to sleep.
He got closer, studying your swollen face intensely, traced your jawline with his nose, pressed a soft kiss onto your lips, the corner of your mouth, to the side of your nose, you tried to push the man away; your palms on his chest, but he grabbed your hands by the wrists and pinned them to a wall, next to your face. So dependent and reactive, every time one of you got tougher, the other got weaker. It was obvious what was coming, you had no strength in you left to fight it, it wasn’t clear why you were fighting it to begin with. He kissed your lips, soft and intimate. A deep kiss, slow, it was the most vulnerable thing between you to this day. Heartbreaking, for no reason at all. His hand, cupped your face, as soon as he felt tears on the lips, then he took your face in both, - “Fuck, not this…” – he kissed your cheeks, stroking your jaw; rough hands suddenly tender and careful, - “Please, baby…”
You clung to his neck, hiding, gripping, he picked you up, held closely, before sliding down the wall, squeezing you in his arms, like you’d fall apart if he were to let go. It was true.
You were so scared of letting go of the life you grew to be familiar with. Scared of starting it all again. Scared of facing the truth that running away from problems was the biggest problem of them all. Scared of letting another person in, the one who had too much power over you, who had an affect on you so profound you were no longer the one in control. Scared of not letting him in and ending up alone. Scared of loud noises because of all the blood and the pain. Scared of this job traumatizing you for life for no good reason.
Someone appeared from the left side of the hallway, you heard rushed footsteps echoing and a worried voice, - “Is everything alright?”
Scared of footsteps.
“Need a medic.” – Leon’s voice firm, full of urgency.
You felt like you were going to die.
You didn’t die though, and no one did. Got looked at, got a strong prescription, got sent home. Got a service dog, kept you active as well as safe and alert when it got worse. Leon loved that dog, sometimes it even made you slightly jealous, making you laugh at how immature you could be. You quit. On your way of getting a PhD, working on most severe PTSD cases and yet still sometimes jealous over the silliest things like your boyfriend paying too much attention to your dog. It was hard to stay jealous through, catching Leon’s adoring eyes every now and then as he watched you. And he loved watching you; as you were studying, writing, doing chores, cooking, walking, playing with the dog. You never wondered what was it, never tried to read his mind. His mind was his and you trusted him with it. Couldn’t see far enough into the future, but you trusted him with it too.
———————————
I typed a lot straight to tumblr at the end there and if doesn't go through i'm gonna kms bc it will be lost forever
pairing: lo’ak x fem!na’vi reader (aged up characters for plot purposes!)
story description: after completing iknimaya, you were so sure that you and him were going to happen. but, reality reared its ugly head and your dreams were just dreams. lo’ak had suddenly severed your 16-year-long bond with him, leaving you behind to pick up the broken pieces.
contains: angst, slowburn, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, and fluff (maybe soon)
warnings: none, except hurt feelings of course.
➙ PART 2:
── .✦ part 2 of: PREMONITIONS
w.c: 6.8k
pairing: lo’ak x fem!na’vi reader (aged up characters for plot purposes!)
story description (read
a/n: this is my FIRST avatar fic EVER. i did not expect to write this much for 2 days, or nearly experience zero writing block. man, was i on a roll. anyway, this was meant to be a one-shot, but it’s most likely going to turn into a 2 parter. maybe if this part does well… i’ll write the next part!
It didn’t bother you as much as it used to, losing touch with Lo’ak and the Sully family. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. These days, dinner at eclipse was spent around a different circle of friends and family, and the once-frequent glimpses of the Sullys at distant bonfires had grown rare, fading into the past.
You had no reason to dwell on it. The here and now mattered more than old memories. Or so you tried to believe.
“Who’s ready for a round of s’mores?” D’yla’s voice rang out, cheerful and unbothered, as she raised a stick skewered with marshmallow high in the air. A chorus of agreement followed, hands lifting in unison around the crackling bonfire. Its warmth was inviting, the glow reflecting the growing camaraderie of the group.
“If it weren’t for the Sullys,” D’yla added with a grin, “we wouldn’t even have these… cotton edibles.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the term, though it didn’t quite reach your chest, where a familiar pang settled instead. The mention of the Sullys was always like that, stirring up feelings you weren’t sure what to do with. They were still as admirable as ever, their deeds sung by the people of the clan. But that’s all they were to you now: stories. Praised figures. Not the friends you used to know. Not anymore.
Did it bother any of them? Maybe it did. Neteyam, Kiri, Tuk, and even their parents had made small efforts over the years to keep in touch, but life pulled everyone in different directions. The distance had grown so naturally, so imperceptibly, that it became easy to accept. Your mother’s words echoed in your mind often: “That’s just the way life goes.”
But it wasn’t completely severed. Not yet. You knew the Sullys didn’t want to let go entirely. The occasional gestures were proof of that. All except for one: Lo’ak.
Of all the Sullys, he seemed unbothered by the widening chasm. Maybe even willing to let it turn into a full-fledged canyon. And for reasons you couldn’t understand, that hurt the most.
Because for the longest time, he had mattered the most.
By the time you passed your Iknimaya, the two of you had become little more than strangers. The shift was so sudden, so stark, that it felt almost unreal. But it was real. Real enough that you stopped asking his siblings about him. Real enough that you stopped asking the entire family.
They all had futures to look toward—Neteyam especially, with the weight of being the future Olo’eyktan on his shoulders. You couldn’t bring yourself to beg for answers. You wouldn’t risk making them worry about you and Lo’ak any further.
If this was the end of some childhood story, then so be it. Some endings didn’t need explanations.
That’s just the way life goes… right?
2 years ago…
“So, out of all four today, who’s caught your eye the most?” Kiri’s voice carried a teasing lilt as she lounged in Lo’ak’s tent, her tail swishing idly across the floor flaps. Her curiosity radiated in every movement, her grin sharp and knowing. “Come on, brother! You’ve been looking forward to this age for this exact reason.”
Lo’ak lowered himself onto the floor table, the one you had built for him not long ago. His eyes immediately found you in the corner of the tent, quietly inspecting your bow. You looked preoccupied, your fingers tracing over the carvings he’d etched into the wood a few moons ago. Passing Iknimaya had been all you could talk about lately, and Lo’ak—desperate to stay connected—had tried to keep up with you, chasing your conversations even as they veered further into adulthood.
He let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered, “I know, I know. I just… don’t know. It seems hard. There’s so many.”
But the truth was far messier. While you seemed optimistic about growing up, Lo’ak dreaded it. Growing up felt like the end of everything he loved. Playfulness, freedom, and most importantly, you. He feared that your bold streak, the one that had always set you apart, would eventually take you somewhere, or to someone, that didn’t include him.
He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the thought of losing you to adulthood terrified him.
The thought twisted in his chest. Would he just become a memory, a childish friend you once cared for but ultimately outgrew? Lo’ak couldn’t shake the fear that one day, when his mother inevitably started dropping hints about you and him being tied together for life, you’d recoil. You’d laugh off the idea, push him away, and that would be the end.
That every shared laugh, every accidental graze of your skin, every lingering glance meant nothing to you while they consumed him whole.
But he wasn’t ready to lose you. Not yet.
And yet, here you were, completely unbothered by Kiri’s teasing. When the conversation turned to the topic of other girls courting him, you remained so painfully supportive, offering polite smiles and offhand comments. Lo’ak knew he was selfish for it, but part of him wanted your chest to pang at the thought of him being with someone else. The way his chest burned whenever he imagined you with another Na’vi.
“So, what about you, [Y/n]?” Kiri asked, her tone light and mischievous as her sharp eyes flicked between the two of you. “Have you given Te’ylu or Ek’ran an answer yet? Or is there someone else you’ve got your eye on? I mean, with you being one of the most sought-after girls around, I’m sure there’s no shortage of people trying to catch your attention.”
You shook your head, your response clipped and quick. “No.”
Fuck.
Lo’ak’s stomach dropped. Was your nonchalance genuine, or was it a front, masking feelings you didn’t want to admit? He dared to hope for the latter, but hope was dangerous.
Because he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t fair to wish for anything other than your happiness. If you chose someone who was nothing like him, someone who made you truly happy, he would accept it. He would let you go with silent resignation, even if it tore him apart.
But a cruel thought lingered: maybe if you had known him less, for the the version of him that he could exist as in your fantasies, you would’ve love him more than for who he actually was. The flawed reality of him that you knew too well at heart. Because maybe, just maybe, you knew him too much to find him attractive.
And maybe then, instead of it being strangers he’d get teased about being with, it would be you.
8 years ago…
The sunlight danced through the canopy above, a shifting mosaic of gold and green that dappled the jungle floor. Everything smelled fresh, like rain-soaked earth and blooming flowers. The world felt bigger back then, didn’t it? The air heavier with mystery, the trees taller, their shadows deeper. It was one of those days where the wind carried the laughter of children like a melody But beneath it all, there was something sharper. Something you didn’t notice until later.
You were following the sound of your father’s totem, the little wooden carving tied to a leather string that never left your neck. Only it wasn’t on your neck now. It was ahead of you, swaying in Sänika’s hand. The jungle was alive with noise—birds chirping, leaves rustling—but all you could hear was your heart pounding and Sänika’s teasing voice calling over her shoulder.
Her auburn hair bounced as she skipped ahead, the curls catching the sunlight like copper wire. You hated how she always looked untouchable, even when she was being cruel. There was a faint scar running down her left cheek, just a thin, silvery line that deepened when she smirked—and she was smirking now, her yellow eyes gleaming as she turned to face you near the edge of the cliff.
“You’re such a crybaby,” she said, holding it higher, as if daring you to lunge. “You care this much about a stupid trinket? You’re always carrying it around like a baby with a blanket.”
“It’s not stupid!” you shot back, your voice cracking halfway through. “Give it back, Sänika!”
She wiggled her fingers, making the totem sway above the drop, her yellow eyes sparkling with something cruel. “If it’s so important, why don’t you come and get it?”
You froze, panic tightening your chest. The cliff’s edge crumbled with every gust of wind. The totem wasn’t just important—it was everything. It was the last thing your father had given you before…before you lost him. You couldn’t lose it too.
The wind picked up, tugging at your hair, and as you stepped closer, a part of the cliff crumbled beneath your foot. Pebbles tumbled into the ravine, disappearing into the void below. Your stomach flipped, and you stumbled back, your breath catching in your throat.
That’s when Lo’ak appeared, crashing through the underbrush like he’d been chasing after you for hours. He was smaller then, his braids messier, his face still round with childhood. His knees were scraped, his braids tangled, and he looked like he’d just wrestled the entire jungle. He skidded to a stop, eyes darting between you and Sänika, quickly sizing up the situation.
“What’s going on?” he asked, though his face was already hardening. He froze when he saw you and Sänika by the cliff, his wide eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.
“Sänika she…,” you blurted, clutching your arms tight against your chest as you held back tears which threatened to fall. “She has my totem!”
Lo’ak frowned, his ears twitching. “What are you doing, Sänika? You’re being so stupid again.”
Sänika tossed her head, her auburn hair bouncing with the motion. “I’m not stupid, Lo’ak. I’m teaching her a lesson. She thinks she’s so special, always clutching that dumb little thing like it’s magic or something.”
“It’s not magic!” you snapped, your nails digging into your palms. “It was my dad’s! Just—just stop messing around!”
Lo’ak stepped forward, his tail swishing sharply behind him. “Sänika, give it back! You—!” His voice had dropped into that serious tone he used whenever you both got too close to trouble
You froze, unable to move, a tight knot of fear settling in your stomach. Sänika only tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief as she feigned consideration. “Hmm, you’re right,” she said slowly, drawing it out. “I don’t want to drop it.” Her smile widened, the kind that made your heart race. “I want her to come get it.”
It wasn’t a dare—it was a challenge. She held the totem just beyond the edge of the cliff, her knuckles white against the carved wood.
“Are you insane?! You’re crazy!” he hissed, his voice thick with anger and fear. Lo’ak warned you, his voice sharper now, “Don’t!”
But you couldn’t wait. You lunged forward before your fear could hold you back, your hand shooting out toward hers. The ground beneath your feet shifted, loose dirt crumbling into the ravine below, and for a terrifying moment, you felt yourself tipping forward. A strong arm caught you around the waist, yanking you back just as your balance gave out. Lo’ak’s grip was firm and unyielding as he pulled you away from the edge.
Lo’ak lurched forward, grabbing her wrist and yanking it back before she could drop the totem. She shrieked, trying to twist away, but Lo’ak was too quick. He snatched the totem from her hand and shoved her backward—away from the cliff, not too hard, but enough to make her stumble.
Sänika’s laughter rang out, cruel and high-pitched. “Aw, she almost made it!”
You collapsed to your knees, trembling as Lo’ak crouched beside you. “You okay?”
“See? No harm done,” Sänika said breezily, brushing dirt from her hands. “You’re welcome for the excitement.”
Lo’ak shot her a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through the undergrowth. “Shut up, Sänika! Don’t mess with her ever again. Go home!” he shot back, before turning to you and pressing the totem into your hands. “Here. Don’t let her take it from you again.”
You nodded, your breath still shaky. You clutched the totem tightly, your breath catching in relief. “Thank you, Lo’ak.” You muttered, looking down at it instead of him.
Lo’ak grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. “You’re welcome,” he said, his tail flicking with unspent energy. He nudged a pebble with his foot, sending it skittering over the edge of the trail. “But, next time? Maybe don’t let her play you like that so easy. You should definitely keep that in a bag or sumn’.”
The boy’s hand brushed your shoulder as he stood, his voice turning impatient. He extended a hand, pulling you up with a rare show of careful strength, his grip firm and steady. “Come on! Let’s get out of here before I really lose it.”
You took his hand, both soon walking side by side into the heart of the vibrant forest ahead. Lo’ak kicked a stone, sending it skittering through the soft, damp soil with a faint, melodic sound, and you sidestepped a low branch that swung too close. Every so often, he nudged you with his elbow, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. You shoved him back lightly, pretending to glare, but your smile gave you away. Lo’ak glanced at you, his hand brushing yours for a split second, almost absentmindedly. Without warning, you gave him a playful shove, nudging him off the path. He stumbled but caught himself, shooting you a mock-scowl, though the comfort of familiarity had already replaced the tension, like it always did. “You owe me for that. Big time.”
“For what?” you shot back, the adrenaline making you bold. “For almost letting me fall?”
“For almost making me fall.” He grinned then, that familiar troublemaker grin. “And for not letting you punch her first. Trust me, I saved you a lot of trouble. You could at least say ‘thank you, Lo’ak, you’re so brave!’”
You shoved him back, again, rolling your eyes, but your lips twitched into a grin. “Fine. Thank you, Lo’ak. You’re so annoying.”
The boy laughed then, loud and carefree. Lo’ak, always a little quicker, started to moved ahead, but you easily caught up, each of you slipping past the other in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. And for a moment, the fear of the cliff and the totem’s danger faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of his laugh.
Each step felt like you were walking deeper into a dream, the quiet murmurs of the forest and the gentle rustling of the leaves filling the space between you two. The ground beneath your feet seemed alive with the roots of massive trees curling up from the earth, their gnarled forms glowing faintly in the tree-filtered, low light. Every now and then, a soft hum of bioluminescent insects flitted past the glowing moss of the trees, their tiny lights like glowing fireflies darting through the air.
“To say the least, I’m not as obedient or responsible as my brother. What do they even see in me, other than what I’ve overheard; a second choice to him?”
His words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. You bit your lip and frowned, a sharp flare of anger rising in your chest as the question twisted something deep inside you. Second choice? That was laughable. You wanted to tell him that that was ridiculous, that the only reason anyone even compared him to Neteyam was because they were blind to everything that made Lo’ak Lo’ak. He was amazing as he was. But the words didn’t come. They never did, not when it came to this. Defending him outright? That wasn’t your style. Compliments between the two of you always felt like crossing some invisible line, one neither of you had ever dared to define.
Instead, you trudged ahead, crunching softly over leaves and branches as the glowing forest swallowed the two of you whole. The world felt quieter now, muted by the creeping eclipse. You glanced back at him, watching his expression as he trudged behind you. He looked…tired. Not just from the day’s hunt but from something else, something that weighed on him more than you realised.
You were supposed to be honest with him. You always had been. Honest, but sharp. Never tender, never soft. But, this time, you couldn’t risk saying what you actually thought. What if he thought you were being weird? Laughed it off, or worse, didn’t care? You didn’t even know why you felt like this—protective, almost angry. It wasn’t like Lo’ak expected you to care to this extent which you did. You didn’t.
At least, you didn’t think you did.
“Your existence is proof that failure has a sense of humor,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Maybe some girls are just into that.”
You expected him to laugh, or roll his eyes, or shoot back something equally sharp. But instead, his footsteps faltered behind you and when you turned, he had halted to a stop, standing still, expression unreadable.
He wanted to ask if you were one of the girls you had previously described, but he mentally slapped himself before he could say something as nearly stupid and weird as that. But there were still questions he found worth asking, one he particularly settled for.
“Do you… really see me as a failure?”
The question caught you off guard and for a moment, you froze, unsure of how to respond. His voice wasn’t biting or sarcastic. It was quiet, almost hesitant, and that made it worse. It was the most un-Lo’ak thing ever. Like, he sought for your validation? Never in your lifetime would you be able to foresee that. It was confusing and unexpected, but you didn’t have it in you to ask why.
You stared at him, the weight of his question settling between you. He wasn’t meeting your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just over your shoulder. It wasn’t like him to look so unsure, so vulnerable. And it wasn’t like you to feel so…paralyzed. You wanted to tell him no, of course not, that he was more than what he thought he was.
“Lo’ak,” you started, your voice softer than you intended. He looked up at you then, just slightly, like he was waiting for something—an answer, a reassurance, anything. For a brief moment, you thought about telling him the truth right there and then, when he had prepared himself to be in perfect earshot. And not just the truth about how you didn’t see him as a failure, but the truth about why. That you admired him, even when he doubted himself. That you chose to be by his side every day, not because of some childhood bond or shared memories, but because it was him. That you cared about him in a way that scared you because it didn’t feel simple anymore.
And with every passing second, the pressure grew, the unspoken words clawing their way up, desperate to escape. You could feel them swelling, a tide rising fast, threatening to spill over. The silence pressed harder, suffocating, as if daring you to break it. But instead of yielding, you retreated behind the familiar walls. You couldn’t let it out. Not now. Maybe not ever. Your honest words caught, stuck somewhere between the aching weight in your chest and the trembling tightness in your throat, tangled in feelings too raw to untangle, too sharp to name. You fell back into the only script you knew, the one you two always performed so well.
“I can’t even give you a proper compliment without it feeling forced,” you said, forcing a grin that didn’t reach your eyes. “But you know I care. I’ve known you forever—probably know more about your failures than you’ll ever admit.”
You mentally winced. The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Not because they weren’t true to your usual dynamic, but because they didn’t feel right. Not now. To keeping up the usual pace, this time it felt so wrong and so outdated. But you pushed that thought aside, waiting for the usual retort, the banter you relied on to fill the silence.
For a brief moment, Lo’ak didn’t move. He stood there, his posture taut, muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he stood tall—much more solid than the boy you used to know. The years had done their work. He had grown into his body, shaping into something undeniably striking. His skin, painted with the marks of his people, glistened faintly under the moonlight. And as much as you tried to look away, your gaze lingered on the way his shoulders tensed with every breath, the defined lines of his torso stark in the dim light. Lo’ak pretended not to notice your gaze before you tore your eyes away.
The ache in your chest refused to be ignored as Lo’ak’s face remained unreadable, a mask of frustration that had nothing to do with the banter that used to flow so easily between you. You caught yourself looking at him, straight ahead this time, and just for a second, the thought flickered through your mind that maybe—maybe, just maybe—he’d say something to break the tension. But then, he walked past you, his shoulder bumping into yours, causing you to stumble as he moved toward the clearing ahead.
“You’re right,” he muttered, his voice cold and distant. “If I ever needed comfort, the last person to ask would be you.”
The words shouldn’t have hurt. You’d heard worse from him before, and you’d given worse in return. But, it was different this time. This time, the edge in his voice wasn’t teasing or playful. It was real.
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Lo’ak, I wasn’t being serious.” you said, forcing out the words even though they felt too hollow to hear.
He kept walking, his steps deliberate and heavy, as if the very act of moving away from you was an act of willpower. His jaw tightened, the muscles working against the storm of emotions threatening to break through. He hated this. Hated how much he suddenly cared, how your jokes now stung instead of rolling off him like they used to. Why couldn’t he just laugh it off? Why was it different this time? He didn’t want to hurt you, but it felt like he was suffocating under the weight of wanting something deeper.
And for the first time, it scared him to admit it.
What if, without the banter, there was nothing left? What if this was all there ever was? What if a joke is all you saw of him? He didn’t know if he could bear that, but was just how things had always been between you two: always deflecting, always skimming the surface even when none of it was casual for him with you. Not anymore.
Because Lo’ak had spent his whole life pretending he didn’t care—about what his father thought, about how people compared him to his brother, about the teasing he got from others and especially you. But, this time, there was a growing part of him, a small, desperate part, that wanted you to say you saw him differently. He wanted to feel like he mattered to you in a way that went beyond years of childhood habit. He wanted more than your jokes and your teasing, because he knew you could give him that now that you were older. To see through his front, to the boy who was trying to prove he was more than what everyone joked or even thought he was.
But, you never did, And, least of all, Lo’ak didn’t know why he expected you to. Didn’t know where all of it was suddenly coming from.
It felt final, like a line had been crossed, one neither of you were ready to admit existed. You wanted to call out to him, to say something, anything, as he walked away, but the weight of fear held your voice hostage and legs tied down. You told yourself it probably didn’t matter, that everything will be fine in the morning, as it always had been. But beneath it all, you knew something had shifted and you weren’t sure if you could ever go back.
Neither did he.
Lo’ak didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he might’ve seen the flicker of confusion and regret in your eyes—and he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done with that. The truth was, Lo’ak wasn’t sure what could’ve hurt more: the idea that you might actually have seen him as a failure, or the realisation that your words mattered to him in ways they never had before for the first time. Either way, it felt like he was losing something he couldn’t afford to lose—his pride, his control, or maybe even you.
If avoiding you were a contest, Lo’ak would take the prize. The playful banter, once effortless, now felt stilted, a relic of a closeness neither of you knew how to reclaim. Slowly, your conversations dwindled. Shorter, more polite, less… you two. It wasn’t sudden. It happened in tiny, almost imperceptible steps: a missed laugh here, a sidelong glance avoided there, a quippy comeback that never came. Until one day, you realised how quiet it had become between you.
You told yourself it was just a phase. Maybe Lo’ak needed space after Iknimaya, the details of which he somehow forgot to mention to you. Or maybe you were just imagining things. You clung to that thought, even as the silence between you two grew heavier. But the last thing you wanted was to make the cracks between you visible to anyone else, least of all the Sullys.
They’d ask questions you couldn’t answer, offer advice you didn’t want to hear. You didn’t want to admit to them that you were worried, not when Lo’ak had already made it clear that space was what he needed, no matter how uncomfortable it made things. So, you waited.
But god, you wish you didn’t have to.
Days turned into weeks, then months. The wedge delved between you two and your interactions deepened, and widened, into an unknowing expanse. You caught yourself rehearsing things you wanted to say to him, but never did out of the fear of the ‘what-if’s. Anyway, with each time you saw him, any flicker of hope was quickly extinguished by the stiffness in his acknowledgements towards you, the way he avoided meeting your eyes, or how he said nothing more than two words.
You used to stare into his eyes, studying his face, but now all you saw was his figure from a distance. You held onto the comfort of knowing he was alive, because it was the only comfort you had left since the distance between you had grown.
“Are you sure you two are okay?” Neteyam asked on the hike out, substituting the spot of his younger brother. “Has he been avoiding you, outright?”
Everything that came out of your mouth next was a lie. But, atleast you didn’t try to cover it up through a joke this time. Right? 4 weeks ago you were treading the same path, “No, no. He’s just busy.“
Two years later, after keeping up with all the lies and excuses of never being seen together, one night after the eclipse, everything came crashing down—if they hadn’t had already.
You hadn’t meant to go there, not really. You weren’t really looking for him. Not on purpose, at least. You had just ended up here, feet carrying you toward the cliffside where the air always seemed to clear your mind, where the familiar sound of the wind through the trees had once calmed your thoughts after eclipse dinner.
You walked aimlessly, your fingers toying with the rough, woven bag Lo’ak had made for you years ago. It felt strange to still carry it, but you had never been able to leave it behind. His craftsmanship, though imperfect, always had a certain warmth to it—a reminder of times before the silence, before things changed.
But then, as you approached the spot, a laugh cut through the stillness of your night, catching you off guard and freezing you in your tracks.
It was Lo’ak.
You peered higher and saw Lo’ak sitting there, but he wasn’t alone. His toned arms draped casually around someone else, a female Na’vi who had leaned into him. You could see his face was lit with the kind of ease you hadn’t seen from him in months.
And then your breath caught. For a moment. You couldn’t tell what you felt.
You didn’t know how long you stood there, staring. Long enough to feel the sting of tears prick your eyes. Long enough to realize he wasn’t going to notice you. A knot of feelings twisted in your chest, unnamable but impossible to ignore.
You told yourself it wasn’t about the girl, not really. You didn’t even know her, and maybe that was the point. If she were someone else, someone familiar, maybe you could convince yourself that this was normal. That Lo’ak was just being Lo’ak. But the sight of his hands on her waist burned into you like it was something you weren’t supposed to see.
Why was she here, and what were they doing?
Maybe it was the laugh. That stupid, familiar laugh that used to be with you, or at least it felt that way. Because all that had now dissipated into silence when that laugh, that ease, was once the thing that kept you going. It was what you’d been waiting for these past few months, but now, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you’d been waiting for nothing.
Maybe you were wrong to think that the next sunrise would be the one where everything would finally be okay. Maybe you were wrong about everything. Was it always going to be like this now? You and him on opposite sides of something you didn’t know how to name?
But then your gaze stilled on something—a flash of moonlight catching onto something too familiar, way too vivid.
Her hair.
The sight of it gleamed a rich, deep auburn, like firelight tangled in shadow, a colour freshly burned into the back of your mind, that used to send a cold shiver down your spine.
No… It couldn’t be.
For a moment, your mind refused to process it. You blinked, stared, convinced the memory was playing tricks on you.
But no.
And then, it hit you.
There she was. Sänika. Sitting right next to Lo’ak, her arm resting comfortably around his, at your favourite spot, yet the same spot where she threatened to throw your father’s totem over. You hadn’t seen these two together in ages, were they even friends? What was she doing here, with him? His hands around her waist? How had she slinked into his world, weaving her way through the cracks while you were struggling to even get past through to him beyond the surface?
And then suddenly, you were back there: a younger version of yourselves, swearing under your breath as you tried to avoid her, tried not to let her get to you.
“She’s such a pain,” Lo’ak had said once when you were kids, kicking dirt at the ground, his voice bitter. “I swear, I don’t know how she manages to be everywhere we are.
You didn’t know her at this age anymore, but the unmistakable curve of her cheek, once the subject of countless jokes between you and Lo’ak, was now the very spot where you painfully watched him press his lips. The damage from that hit you like a punch to the chest, and a tidal wave of anger—one you refused to admit had been building—flooded your veins. You tried to make sense of the mess swirling inside you—the memories, the countless unanswered and unravelling questions, the sudden sense that things were fully slipping away this time.
Why? Why was she the end of his answer? What had you ever done to deserve this?
Somehow, as your heart sank deeper, it became painfully clear to you—he wasn’t coming back.
You didn’t want him to, not anymore.
And so, it took everything within you to walk away, each step a battle against the ache in your chest. Turning your back on it felt like the only bit of control you had left, the only thing you could still control in a situation that was completely out of your control.
part 2 is out! thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are deeply deeply appreciated! 💕
pairings: aged up ao’nung x metkayina female reader
notes: ao’nung is a womanizer, reader is shy & pure, ao’nung is tatted, angst with comfort, miscommunication, ao’nung & reader in their own turmoil, tsireya a literal sweetheart, slow burn but worth it cuz he’ll be obsessed soon, selective amnesia, ao’nung being a shameless yearner, tsaheylu, happy ending. smut & suggestive themes, p in v sex, ao’nung a muncher, corruption, virgin reader, tummy bulge, breeding.
i do not see ao’nung as a womanizer cuz one thing’s for sure is that he is like his father, a one man woman only. this portrayal of him is just for the plot cuz it’s fun to play around with personality of a character into something entirely different. don’t be an idiot yapping how they wouldn’t do this or that, this is fiction and i am not writing in their canon personality.
word count: 28.1k
prompt: you had always found ao’nung’s way with women to be disgusting, you believe sex should only be for the one you are mated with. everyone hoped he would change and it seems as if eywa had answered when you woke up calling the man you are disgusted with as your mate.
an: the lack of ao’nung & lo’ak fics in this fandom is making me tweak whenever i scroll. it does not help that ppl are wrong tagging, thought i found a good ao’nung or lo’ak fic after scrolling for god knows how long then it’s entirely a fic for another man with their tags smh
credits to @uzmacchiato (divider)
The sun hangs low over the reefs of Awa'atlu, casting a warm golden shimmer across the water that laps gently at the woven platforms of the village.
You sit cross-legged on a mat of dried kelp, your form draped in a simple top of woven fibers that clings lightly to the gentle swell of your breasts, the fabric shifting with each breath. Your wide hips settle comfortably against the mat, a natural curve that draws lingering glances from the warriors passing by. Their eyes tracing the smooth teal skin of your thighs before they force themselves to look away. However you pay them no mind, your reserved nature a quiet shield. Your pretty face, framed by loose waves of dark hair adorned with small shells, turned toward your best friend.
Tsireya.
She's perched beside you, her laughter bubbling up like the foam on the waves. She’s the only one who can coax the playful spark from you, drawing out giggles and shared secrets that make the world feel lighter. Today though, her expression carries a mix of exasperation and fondness as she leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You won't believe the earful my brother got from Mother and Father last night. They were pacing the marui going on about his... habits."
You tilt your head, a soft smile tugging at your full lips, though your wide eyes hold a flicker of disapproval. Ao'nung, Tsireya's brother, the future Olo'eyktan, has always been a topic laced with complexity for you.
"What did they say this time?" You ask, your voice gentle as your fingers idly twisted a strand of seaweed while you listen.
Tsireya sighs rolling her eyes with dramatic flair, her tail flicking against the platform.
"The usual. That he's too old for this nonsense, that as the eldest and heir, he needs to be mindful of his actions. Ever since he passed his Iknimaya, it's like he's on a mission to bed half the village. Father said why must he tarnish his reputation with such recklessness and Mother was just staring him down."
She mimics Ronal's glare and you can't help but chuckle softly, the sound light and rare, reserved for these moments with her. You nod as your expression turned thoughtful, the sea breeze lifting strands of your hair to brush against your high cheekbones.
"I think he's handsome. However, it annoys me how he... how he takes women without any real feelings behind it. Sex is sacred, meant for mating, for tsaheylu, for binding souls under Eywa's gaze. Using it for anything less feels wrong, disgusting even." Your words come out measured, laced with a quiet conviction while your fingers stilled on the seaweed as you glance toward the path leading to the village center. "That's why I steer clear of him."
Tsireya's eyes widen slightly, a teasing glint in them, but before she can respond, movement catches your eye.
Speak of the devil, there he is.
Ao'nung striding past, his legs carrying him with effortless poise, the muscles in his thighs shifting beneath his loincloth. A giggling Metkayina woman clings to his arm, her hand trailing possessively over the intricate tattoos that mark his status. Her body pressed close to his side, her laughter high and breathless. His arm is slung around her waist, pulling her nearer as they walk.
"See?" Tsireya murmurs, her voice dripping with exasperation as she nudged your shoulder lightly with hers.
You feel a flush creep up your neck but you hold your gaze steady, watching as Ao'nung's eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment. There's a spark there, recognition flickering across his handsome features, the sharp line of his jaw tightening just a fraction.
Ao’nung finds you pretty, the way your delicate features and voluptuous form stand out even among the clan's beauties. But that's all it is, a passing appreciation, nothing more. His life is a whirlwind of duties as the future leader and the parade of women who vie for his attention. Tsireya's quiet best friend barely registers his mind amid the chaos of his everyday life.
A memory however surges in his mind, pulling him back to the night before. The marui had been thick with tension, the air heavy with the scent of healing herbs from his mother’s stores.
Tonowari sat on the woven bench, his massive frame hunched forward, arms crossed over his broad chest, the weight of leadership etched in the lines of his face.
"Son." He had rumbled, his voice deep and steady like the ocean's undertow. "You are to be Olo'eyktan. The clan looks to you for strength, for example. These... actions of yours is a headache we cannot afford. They respect you and follow you without question. Do not taint it."
Ronal had stood nearby, her posture rigid, hands clasped over her pregnant belly as she fixed Ao'nung with a gaze that could pierce kelp. "You are great at everything and yet this rendezvous of yours? It dishonors the path Eywa has set for you. Settle on one. Choose a mate. Be done with this foolishness before it stains our family's name or so help me Eywa, I will forget you are my son."
Her words had cut sharp, worry and frustration simmering beneath her calm for her eldest.
Ao'nung had leaned against the wall, his tattooed arms folded, a tilt to his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll settle when Eywa wills it, Mother, Father. Not a moment sooner. I'm no skxawng, I know my duties but love? That's not something you command."
His tone had been firm, edged with unwavering resolve, though a shadow of doubt had lingered in the way his tail twitched.
Tonowari had sighed rubbing his temple while Ronal's lips pressed into a thin line, the conversation dissolving into uneasy silence.
The memory fades as quickly as it came, Ao'nung's gaze sliding away from yours back to the woman in his arms.
She whispers something in his ear, her fingers dancing along his chest and he smirks pulling her closer as they vanish around the bend of the path, their forms swallowed by the cluster of maruis.
You exhale softly turning back to Tsireya, your voice barely above the waves. "Your brother will probably never change unless a miracle happens."
She bursts into laughter, the sound bright and unrestrained, clapping a hand over her mouth as she nods vigorously. "Oh, you're right, (Y/N). A miracle indeed. But Eywa works in mysterious ways, doesn't she?"
You smile faintly, admitting to yourself the truth of your words earlier.
He is handsome, undeniably so.
The way his towering body moves through the water during hunts, spearing fish with unerring accuracy. Or how he's always been kind to you in passing, offering a steady hand when you stumbled on the reefs or sharing a quiet nod during clan gatherings. You've seen him help mend nets after storms, his strong arms hauling heavy loads without complaint. A great hunter whose prowess earns respect from even the elders. The only flaw, the one that sours it all is his reputation as a womanizer, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
The girls in the clan chatter endlessly about it, their voices hushed during weaving sessions. "One day, I'll be the one to change him, to make him see me as more than a night's diversion."
They dream of taming the untamable but you shake your head at the thought. The day Ao'nung officially courts someone or Eywa forbid forms tsaheylu and mates, that would be the miracle of the ages.
Tsireya shifts closer, her expression turning curious, a playful lilt in her voice.
"Speaking of miracles... have you thought any more about those courting proposals? Narku from the hunting party left that beautiful shell necklace for you last week and Kiri'ka's been sharpening his spear extra sharp hoping you'll notice." She waggles her eyebrows, her tone light but probing with a genuine concern for your happiness threading through it.
You duck your head shyly, purple heat blooming across your cheeks as your fingers traced patterns in the mat.
"No, Reya. I refused them all. The necklace, the carved ilu figurine from Teylan, even the rare pearl from Vo'lek. They're fine warriors, strong and honorable but... it doesn't feel right." Your voice is soft and laced with that deep-seated reservation you always have, your body language closing in slightly with your shoulders hunched as if to ward off the idea.
She pouts but her eyes sparkle with affection. "Why? You're the prettiest in the clan. You'd make someone so happy!"
You laugh quietly shaking your head, the motion sending your hair cascading over your shoulder. The day you finally accept a courting proposal or mate with someone, that will be a miracle.
"I'm not in a rush, Reya. If Eywa wills it, love will find me when the time is right. For now, I'm content being by myself hanging out with you like this." Your words carry a peaceful certainty, your light smile genuine as you meet her gaze, the bond between you unbreakable.
She groans theatrically flopping back onto the mat, but her grin betrays her. 'Fine, fine. But I won't stop pestering you. I just want you happy, you know that.'
Her persistence is born of love, the kind forged since you were both tiny wriggling infants in the maruis.
Your mother, Riki'ea, had been best friends with Ronal. The two of them inseparable through hunts and healings, sharing secrets under the stars. When Riki'ea died bringing you into the world, her last breath a plea to the Tsahik. Ronal had sworn on Eywa's light to care for you as her own.
"She will be my daughter too." Ronal had vowed, tears streaking her face, her hand on Riki'ea's cooling one.
Tonowari and Ronal had stepped in without hesitation, helping your father, Ar'von, raise you amid the clan's rhythms.
Ar'von had never taken another mate, his heart tethered to your mother's memory, pouring all his devotion into you. Teaching you to swim before you could walk, his deep voice singing lullabies of the ancestors. He was a great warrior, Tonowari's steadfast comrade, until that fateful storm when you were thirteen. The winds howled like anguished spirits, waves crashing against the outriggers as he dove into the churning sea to save injured hunters, his strong arms pulling them to safety one by one. But the sea claimed him in the end, his body lost to the depths, leaving a void that echoed in your young heart.
Since then, Ronal had drawn you under her wing, training you in the healings arts. The careful grinding of herbs, the soothing chants over the wounded. She watched over you with maternal protectiveness, her guidance a balm to your grief of losing two parents. And through it all, Tsireya had been your constant, the two of you attached at the hip, exploring tide pools and whispering dreams late into the night.
Ao'nung had always been there on the periphery, hovering like a shadow. Offering a hand to steady you during your first free dive or quietly mending a tear in your fishing net without fanfare. He never crossed that line to true closeness, not like Tsireya. He was too absorbed in his own world of friends and rigorous training to forge deeper bonds but he was nice in his distant way, his presence a reliable hum in the background of your life.
Then came his Iknimaya, the rite that transformed him. He returned from the trials with those striking tattoos, bold lines curling over his biceps tracing the planes of his chest and back, symbols of his maturity and prowess. Women had flocked to him immediately, drawn to his newfound poise, the air in his step as he flexed those marked arms during communal feasts. You found it annoying, the way he toyed with their affections, careless with hearts that beat for him in earnest.
You've no experience yourself, no knowledge of the heated tangles of bodies or the raw urges that drive such encounters. The elders' teachings have painted it as sacred. A profound union reserved for the one you love, the partner with whom you'll form tsaheylu, weaving your kurus in Eywa's eternal bond. You believe in that love, pure and enduring, the kind that honors the spirit as much as the flesh.
For that, Ao'nung's actions disgust you. A perversion of something so holy and in quiet moments like this, you hope faintly that he finds someone who can pierce through his armor, someone to change his ways and lead him toward the man he could truly be.
Hours later, the afternoon sun beats down on the turquoise expanse of the reef, turning the water into a glittering mosaic of light and shadow as you guide your ilu through the currents.
Your body moves in harmony with the creature's powerful undulations, legs wrapped firmly around its sleek form, the cool rush of water caressing your bare skin where your loincloth rides up slightly against your thighs.
Beside you, Tsireya calls out with a laugh, her voice carrying over the splashes of the group of other gatherers from the clan who had nets at the ready to scoop up schools of fish darting through the coral. Ao'nung leads the way ahead, his broad back cutting through the waves, tattoos rippling with each stroke of his arms, his ilu responding to his commands with effortless precision.
You're focused, eyes scanning the vibrant underwater world for the telltale shimmer of a catch, your hair streaming behind you like dark ribbons in the flow. The ilu beneath you surges forward suddenly, chasing a cluster of plump fish and you lean into the turn, heart quickening with the thrill.
But then, chaos.
A rogue current twists unexpectedly, slamming your ilu against a jagged outcrop of coral hidden just below the surface. Pain explodes in your skull as your head connects with the sharp edge in a white-hot flash that blinds you. The world tilts as the water swallowed your gasp and darkness rushes in pulling you under.
Tsireya's scream pierces the haze first, raw and frantic as she wheels her ilu around, eyes wide with terror. "(Y/N)! Eywa, no. Ao'nung! Help her!"
Her voice cracks, hands trembling as she reaches for you but you're limp. Your body floating adrift, blood threading faintly into the water from the gash on your temple.
Ao'nung is there in an instant, his ilu powering through the water like a spear.
He dives off without hesitation, strong arms wrapping around your waist to haul you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head to staunch the bleeding. Your unconscious form molds to him, soft curves pressing into the hard planes of his torso, your chest rising and falling shallowly against his ribs, wide hips settling against his as he kicks toward the surface. Water streams from your lashes, your pretty face pale and slack, lips parted in silent vulnerability.
This is the first time he's held you so close and under such a grim twist of fate. He thinks you're clumsy, always have been in your quiet way but seeing you like this, so breakable and fragile, stirs an unfamiliar knot in his gut.
"Tsireya, head to Mother’s marui!" He barks, voice edged with urgency he's not used to feeling as he surfaces with you in his arms, your head lolling against his shoulder.
Tsireya nods, tears streaking her cheeks, urging her ilu toward shore while Ao'nung swims quickly. Your weight no burden to his warrior's build. He doesn't let go until they're at the shallows, scooping you fully into his arms to carry you the rest of the way. Your legs dangling over his forearm, the warmth of your body seeping through his damp skin.
The path to Ronal's healing hut blurs in a rush of worried murmurs from the clan but Ao'nung pushes through with Tsireya at his side, her hand clutching your trailing arm. Inside the dim marui, the air thick with the scent of medicinal pastes and smoldering herbs, Ronal looks up sharply from her worktable, her expression shifting from calm to alarm.
"What happened?" She demands, gesturing to the woven pallet as Ao'nung lays you down gently, your hair fanning out like seaweed across the fibers.
"Coral strike, head injury." Ao'nung says tersely, stepping back but not leaving, his eyes fixed on the slow rise of your chest.
Tsireya hovers, wringing her hands. "She was gathering then just... gone under."
Ronal works swiftly, cleaning the wound with cool water, applying a poultice of ground leaves that smells sharp and earthy, her fingers deft and sure.
Ao'nung lingers uncharacteristically still, concern etching his features. You're his sister's shadow after all and up close like this, you seem so soft, your supple form curled slightly even in oblivion.
Hours slip by in tense vigil, the light outside fading to the soft glow of eclipse. You stir finally, eyelids fluttering open to the thatched ceiling, a dull throb pulsing in your temple.
Tsireya gasps, leaning over you, her face a mask of relief and worry. "(Y/N), oh thank Eywa you're awake. How do you feel? Does it hurt that badly?"
Her voice wavers, hand squeezing yours tightly as her fingers interlaced with your slender ones.
Ao'nung stands nearby, arms crossed over his tattooed chest, a hint of relief flickering in his teal eyes at your awakening. He's still here, against his usual instinct to bolt after crises, drawn by some pull he can't name.
You blink up at them, vision clearing, and your gaze lands on him. His strong jaw, his piercing stare, the faint scar on his lip from a hunt gone wrong during your teen years. A warmth blooms in your chest, instinctive and sure.
"Ao'nung... why are you so far? Come here, ma muntxa."
The words tumble out soft and earnest, your head tilting in innocent confusion as you shift on the pallet, wincing slightly at the pull of your wound.
The room falls silent, shock rippling through them. Tsireya's mouth drops open, her grip tightening.
"W-what? (Y/N), that's... you can't mean—" She's stammering, eyes darting to her brother, remembering all the times you've whispered your disdain for his ways, how you've avoided him like a tainted current.
Ao'nung's lips curve into a smirk at first, a low chuckle escaping, thinking it's delirium or a jest to lighten the mood. "Cute but save the teasing for when you're not half-drowned."
But you only frown deeper, propping yourself up on one elbow, your free hand reaching toward him, the curve of your arm revealing the gentle swell of your breast beneath your top.
"Why would I tease? And why am I lying here like this? We should be together..." Your voice trails off shy but puzzled, eyes searching his face with a trust that feels utterly natural to you.
Ronal steps forward, her presence commanding as she kneeled beside you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Child, tell me your last memory. What do you recall before waking up?"
Her tone is calm and probing, eyes sharp as she assesses the blankness in yours.
You pause searching inward but there's only fog, a void where days and details should be. "I... I don't remember. Nothing's clear."
Your fingers twist in the edge of the pallet, vulnerability etching your features making your wide eyes seem even larger.
She nods unperturbed then leans closer. "And these words, you say Ao'nung is your mate? Explain, little one."
A shy smile graces your lips, cheeks warming as you glance at him again, seeing Ronal's son but overlaid with the certainty of your mating bond.
"Yes, Tsahik. We've mated, haven't we? For months now. Tsaheylu and all." Your voice holds a quiet joy, hand still extended toward him ignoring the stunned stares.
Ronal's gaze flicks to Ao'nung, catching the way his smirk falters into wide-eyed disbelief, his tail flicking sharply. A subtle smile tugs at her own lips, something knowing in her eyes.
Eywa's hand perhaps, weaving threads in unexpected ways.
As Tsahik, she senses the fragility of your state, the selective amnesia a veil over your true memories, and stressing it now could shatter the delicate recovery. "Rest now, child. Your body's mending."
Sleep tugs at you already, eyelids growing heavy, though not before you murmur with a soft and pleading voice. "Ao'nung... closer, please?"
He hesitates then steps forward under his mother’s piercing glare, kneeling beside the pallet so your reaching hand can brush his arm, the contact sending a faint spark through you both.
As your breathing evens into slumber, Ronal straightens, turning to her children with a stern whisper. "She must not be overwhelmed. No stress as her mind is healing, piece by fragile piece. This is my best friend's daughter, I swore to Riki'ea I'd guard her like my own blood."
Her words carry the weight of that old vow, eyes softening briefly before hardening on Ao'nung.
He opens his mouth as frustration bubbled in his chest but Ronal's sharp glare silences him.
Tonowari, who has entered quietly, places a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, voice rumbling low. "Just until she gets her memories back, son."
Ao'nung groans rubbing a hand over his face, the muscles in his jaw clenching.
Ronal presses on unyielding as she met his stare head-on. "You'll care for her, Ao'nung. She believes you're mates, pulling away now would wound her deeper than any coral. Stay by her side and let her heal in that belief until she remembers on her own."
Tsireya sighs deeply crossing her arms, her protectiveness flaring like a sudden tide.
"That means you stop your flirting, stop chasing every girl who bats her eyes. Don't hurt her Ao’nung, not while she's like this, vulnerable. She's my best friend and I won't let you play with her heart." Her tone is fierce as her eyes narrowed, a sister's warning laced with genuine concern for you.
Frustration coils in Ao'nung's chest at this situation he did not ask for.
You're pretty, always have been. That face like carved coral, body a temptation of soft curves and inviting lines but he's woven into the fabric of attention, the eager presses of other women against him, their whispers and touches a constant rhythm.
This? Pretending a bond that doesn't exist? It chafes against his freedom.
Ronal nods firmly. "Carry her to your marui. Mates wouldn't sleep apart, keep the illusion steady for her sake."
He sighs a long and defeated one, bending to slide his arms beneath you. One under your knees, the other supporting your back. Your body lifts easily, light in his hold, head nestling instinctively against his chest, your breath warm on his skin.
Tsireya glares daggers at him as she crossed her arm. "Take care of her Ao’nung or you'll answer to me."
He nods curtly just so they can all shut up, striding out into the cooling evening, your form cradled close to his chest.
You've always turned heads but now, with your lashes fanned against your cheeks, lips softly parted, he lets his gaze trail. Over the inviting line of your neck, the gentle rise of your chest with each breath, the way your hair clings damply to your shoulders. Something stirs unbidden as he enters his marui, the space sparse but his own, the woven walls of it fluttering in the breeze.
Carefully, he lowers you onto his sleeping mat, arranging the soft hides around your form, your legs curling slightly in repose. He stares for a long moment conflicted, the quiet of the space amplifying the thud of his pulse. Then shaking his head, he turns and walks out, needing to blow off some steam.
Not diving into beds this time but still, perhaps some flirting or a stolen kiss in the dark, something to reclaim the ease he's losing with this new situation at hand.
The first rays of dawn filter through the woven walls of Ao'nung's marui, casting a soft pearlescent light over the space.
Your head throbs with a persistent ache like the dull echo of waves crashing far offshore, pulling you from sleep. You shift on the sleeping mat, the hides warm beneath your bare legs as you blink against the haze, instinctively reaching out for the familiar solid presence that should be beside you.
Your gaze lands on him.
Ao'nung seated cross-legged a few paces away, his broad back to you, shoulders rolling with the rhythmic scrape of stone against metal. He's sharpening his spear, the weapon balanced across his thighs, its tip gleaming sharper with each precise stroke. The muscles in his arms flex subtly, tattoos shifting like shadows over his teal skin, and you can't help the sleepy smile that curves your lips. A surge of warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of your mate tending to his tools so early.
Quietly, you push yourself up, ignoring the twinge in your temple and shuffle forward on your knees. The mat whispers under you as you close the distance, your arms sliding around his waist from behind, palms pressing flat against the firm ridges of his abdomen through the thin weave of his loincloth. You nuzzle into the warmth of his back, inhaling the clean masculine scent of him, more of a sea spray and sun-warmed skin.
"Good morning, 'Nungie." You murmur, voice thick with lingering drowsiness yet still laced with an adoration that feels as natural as breathing.
He stiffens instantly, body going rigid under your touch, the spear pausing mid-stroke.
The nickname hits him like a sudden current, intimate in a way that sends an unexpected jolt through him. Your voice wrapping around it the nickname with such unguarded affection that it’s almost cute to him. Memories of his mother's stern command and Tsireya's warnings flash in his mind. No stressing you, no pulling away, or face the fallout if you break down in tears to his sister.
He exhales slowly, forcing the tension from his frame, and leans back into your embrace, the solid weight of his shoulders settling against your chest.
He tells himself in a few weeks, your memories will resurface and he'll slip back into the life he knows. Surrounded by eager women, their hands on him, their laughter filling his nights. A free man and away from this tangled obligation.
"Good morning, (Y/N)." He replies in a casual tone, almost offhand as if this is just another dawn.
Your forehead creases in confusion, a flicker of hurt tightening your features. You pull back slightly, rising to your feet with a soft rustle then circle around to sit in front of him, your knees tucked under you. Your lips form a cute pout, full and downturned, drawing his eyes despite himself. The way it plumps your mouth, making you look endearingly petulant in his eyes.
"What's got your lips in a pout, (Y/N)?" He asks, curiosity edging his voice as he sets the spear aside, the stone clinking lightly against the floor.
The pout deepens as your eyes narrowed just a touch, hands folding in your lap where your fingers twist together.
"See? There it is again. Did I do something wrong?" Your words come out soft but insistent, a thread of worry weaving through them.
He chuckles, low and puzzled, head tilting as he studies your face. "Huh?"
"You keep calling me by name. Are you mad at me?"
The question hangs between you, your gaze searching his, vulnerable in its directness, the morning light catching the subtle glow of your eyes as you gaze at him.
Ao'nung's chuckle fades as realization dawned on him like the sun cresting the horizon.
Your amnesia has rewritten your dynamic into something far more personal and that probably includes nicknames. He has no clue what endearment your fractured mind has invented for itself but stressing the truth now would only invite chaos.
Playing it safe, he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Oh, then what is it you want me to call you so you can stop pouting?"
This way, he fishes information without revealing the gap and he can keep the illusion intact.
You glare at him playfully, the expression making you resemble a sulking child. All wide eyes and stubborn chin which only pulls another laugh from him, genuine this time as it rumbled deep in his chest.
"Yawntu." You declare, crossing your arms over your chest, the motion accentuating the gentle swell of your breasts beneath your woven top which he tries not to look at.
Instead he nods, suppressing a smirk at how easily you've handed it over. "I'm sorry, yawntu. I was just messing with you."
You scoff, a light huff escaping as you uncross your arms, but the pout eases into a reluctant smile, his words smoothing the wrinkle from your forehead.
He thinks his ploy worked seamlessly, you buy it without question and the trust in your eyes a quiet weight he hadn't anticipated. Shifting gears, he scans your face as concern flickered briefly when his gaze drifts to the bandaged gash on your temple, the skin around it still faintly bruised.
"Are you hungry? Does your head still hurt?"
You nod, one hand drifting to clutch your stomach, the faint growl audible in the quiet marui. "I am hungry but my head only hurts slightly now. A dull ache, nothing like before."
He rises fluidly as he extended his hand palm up, visible calluses are seen, rough from years of handling weapons.
"Let's get breakfast then." His voice carries a casual warmth, masking the internal tally of how long this charade might last.
Your face lights up, a beam spreading across your features as you slip your hand into his, fingers interlacing with a natural ease that sends a subtle warmth up his arm. The contact lingers as you both stand and he moves to withdraw once you're steady on your feet but your grip tightens, holding firm as your thumb brushed absently over his knuckles.
He pauses then lets it be, the unexpected cling stirring a faint curiosity in him as you step out into the bustling morning of Awa'atlu.
The village hums with life, weavers calling to each other over glowing braids of kelp, children darting between maruis with laughter trailing like bubbles. Heads turn as you walk hand-in-hand toward the communal eating area, the sandy paths crunching softly underfoot.
Ao'nung, the clan's notorious charmer, linked with you. The elusive beauty who's turned away every suitor, always shadowed only by Tsireya's side. Whispers ripple through the air like wind over water. He's never paraded his flings like this. With them, it's waists gripped possessively or arms draped around his, only fleeting and bold.
But you?
Your hand in his feels different, your steps syncing with his in a rhythm that draws more eyes than he'd like.
You shrug off the stares with a soft inward smile, assuming it's lingering surprise at your mating bond, the clan still adjusting to the idea of you and Ao'nung as one.
He knows better.
Their gazes carry judgment, speculation, the sting of his altered habits hitting close. Yet he doesn't pull away, his fingers flexing slightly around yours, the warmth of your palm a steady anchor against the growing murmur.
Your eyes sparkle as you spot the sacred table ahead, elevated on a woven platform overlooking the reef, where Tsireya sits with Ronal and Tonowari. Fresh fruits and smoked fish steam in shallow bowls, the air rich with the aroma of roasted roots. Without hesitation, you tug Ao'nung forward, your pull gentle but determined, leading him like it's the most natural path in the world.
Ronal's sharp eyes soften at the sight, a pleased curve touching her lips as she watches you draw her son along. It warms her to see him yielding, even if temporarily. It was adorable really, the way your fingers stay laced with his, your body leaning slightly into his side as if seeking his strength.
Perhaps Eywa's guidance after all.
She muses stirring her tea with a subtle nod of approval.
Tsireya looks up, her smile bright and genuine as she waves you over. She says nothing about the hand-holding, though her gaze flicks to it with a mix of relief and caution, keeping the fragile peace.
"Come sit, (Y/N)! We've saved spots for you both." Her voice bubbles with forced normalcy, hiding the protective undercurrent as she pats the mat beside her.
The table draws every eye in the eating area. Clansfolk pausing with utensils halfway to mouths, conversations dipping into hushed tones. Especially the women, clustered in groups, their whispers sharp and envious.
You remain oblivious, focused on the spread, but Ao'nung feels the heat of their stares like prickling sunlight on his skin, a reminder of the attention he's traded for this pretense. Still, he doesn't release your hand until you're seated, the circle complete around the sacred space. In fact, as the meal begins, he reaches for the platters with his free hand, selecting pieces you favor. The tender strips of fish grilled with sea herbs, the juicy segments of reef fruit that you've shared with Tsireya on countless mornings he's observed from afar.
He piles them onto your plate, the motion deliberate, his arm brushing yours in the close quarters.
"Here, eat what you like." He says, voice low and almost gruff, masking the odd satisfaction in providing for you.
You glance up, a shy smile blooming as color touches your cheeks, your free hand covering his briefly in thanks before you finally let go to pick up a piece of fruit.
"Thank you, 'Nungie." You whisper, the nickname slipping out again, soft and intimate amid his family's chatter.
The sudden absence of your touch leaves his hand feeling oddly cool, fingers curling absently as if chasing the warmth. He shakes it off, turning to his own plate, spearing a chunk of meat with more force than needed.
The women's heated glares bore into him from across the way, longing and accusation in it but he ignores them. His jaw set, focusing on the flavors bursting on his tongue, the easy flow of conversation around the table pulling him into the moment despite the frustration simmering beneath.
After that, the days blur into a rhythm that's both unfamiliar and oddly comforting with your steps shadowing Ao'nung's through the winding paths of Awa'atlu. You trail him from the training sands where he drills with the younger warriors, your presence a quiet constant at the edge of the circle, to the marui where he repairs nets under the afternoon sun.
He doesn't shoo you away.
In fact, he slows his pace sometimes, glancing back with a nod that invites you closer. Your sweetness wraps around him like the gentle swell of tides. Your small gestures like brushing sand from his shoulder after a spar or offering a woven cord to tie back his hair when the wind tugs at it. Affection flows from you towards him, evident with a hand grazing his arm as you pass a water gourd or leaning into his side during quiet moments by the fire pits. Each time, surprise flickers in his eyes, a brief widening before it softens and he's starting to lean into it, the warmth of you seeping past his guarded edges.
It's a stark shift from the woman the clan knew. You were always so reserved, your laughter only for Tsireya's ears alone, your body language a careful veil of distance around everyone else. Now, you're blooming in his orbit, the very man whispered about as too wild to tether and it stirs something in the onlookers.
For Ao'nung, it's disorienting at first, this clingy devotion from someone who'd barely spared him more than polite nods before. But as the sun arcs higher each day, he finds himself anticipating your approach, the way your fingers seek his in passing crowds.
Nights have transformed too.
The first evenings after your accident, you'd curled against him on the sleeping mat, your limbs seeking his heat while he lay stiff, allowing the contact but withholding his own. His arms were folded and breath measured to avoid entanglement with you. Now, as twilight deepens the marui's glow, you press close with your cheek nestling into the crook of his neck, legs tangling with his under the hides.
He hesitates only a beat before his arm drapes over your waist pulling you flush, his palm splaying wide across the dip of your lower back. The difference settles over him like a sigh. Your softness molding to his harder lines as breaths synced in the dim light and for those hours, the world narrows to the steady rise and fall of your shared rhythm.
Time weaves you together in stolen pockets. Mornings breaking fast with shared glances across the communal mats, afternoons where you sit nearby as he carves bone tools, and evenings mending gear side by side. He's growing fond and undeniably, your quiet care chipping at the walls he's built, making the days feel less like a duty and more like... something real.
Yet beneath it, a pull tugs at him with the memories of his old freedoms. The rush of new skin under his hands, the electric chase of fleeting nights with women who knew the game as well as he did. He misses that spark, it was the variety that kept his blood humming.
And always, the question lingers in his mind, when will the fog lift from yours? When will those clear eyes remember the truth and shatter this fragile illusion?
Today finds you both at the beach's edge where the reef kisses the shore in frothy whispers. The sun hangs low painting the waves in molten gold and you've knelt in the shallows as water laps at your thighs.
Ao'nung stands a few paces back with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with a gaze that's grown habitual.
You're gathering shells, fingers sifting through the damp sand, unearthing iridescent treasures that catch the light. A beam lights your face, wide and unguarded, with cheeks flushed from the salt spray and your hair cascading in loose waves down your back, clinging slightly where the mist has touched it.
He looks down at you, the angle framing your features in a way that steals his breath for a moment.
He silently admits you're pretty, the curve of your jaw soft under the dying light, your lips parted in concentration as you examine a find. He's long grown accustomed to seeing you in Tsireya's wake, a shadow of gentle poise. Your interactions with him limited to courteous words and that undercurrent of disappointment in your eyes whenever he'd stride past with another woman draped on his arm. Growing up in the same guidance of his parents, you'd shared spaces but never closeness. Your reserve a barrier he'd never bothered to breach, assuming it matched his own disinterest in anything.
Now though, your amnesia has rewritten the script. You cling to him with a faith that's both bewildering and intoxicating, your body seeking his like it's always belonged there.
Is this what mating truly means?
He ponders it as the waves curl at his feet, the warmth of your proximity a steady hum against the chaos of his past.
It's not the wild pulse of conquests, the quickened hearts and whispered promises that dissolved by dawn. This is quieter, a constant tide that’s reliable and enveloping, pulling him under without the crash. Before the accident, he'd been certain that his life of freedom was the only one worth living, no chains of commitment to dull the edge. But standing here, watching the joy radiate from you, doubt creeps in.
Which existence holds more? The fleeting highs or this deepening anchor?
You glance up suddenly, eyes sparkling like the foam around you. You were holding aloft of a shell in your palm, a flawless teal curve that’s veined with subtle pearlescence.
"Look, 'Nungie." You say, voice bright with delight, the nickname tumbling out with that endearing lilt, your smile stretching wide enough to crinkle the corners of your eyes. "It's the color of your eyes."
Adorable. Eywa, you're utterly adorable beaming up at him from the sand, water droplets tracing paths down your neck, soaking into the edges of your top where it clings to the swell of your breasts.
He crouches slightly to meet your gaze, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the internal whirl.
"It is very pretty, yawntu." He murmurs, voice low and warm, the endearment slipping out smoother now and laced with a teasing affection that masks the way his pulse quickens.
Your smile widens, satisfaction glowing in your expression as you tuck the shell into the woven pouch at your hip, the motion swaying your hips subtly. Rising from the shallows, sand sluicing off your legs in rivulets, you close the distance in two fluid steps, the wet fabric of your loincloth darkening against your skin. Without warning you lean in, pressing a smooch to his lips, tasting of salt and the faint sweetness of the fruit from breakfast.
He freezes, body locking as your supple mouth softly molds to his, the unexpected press sending a shock of heat straight through him.
But resistance crumbles fast as instinct takes over, he kisses back with one hand rising to cup the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your damp strands. He deepens it, tilting his head to claim more, tongue brushing yours in a slow exploratory glide that draws a soft hum from your throat. His other arm snakes around your waist, hauling your frame against his, the contrast of your curves to his solid build igniting a low burn in his gut. Your body so pliant, pressing into him with innocent eagerness.
You smell incredible too, a heady mix of ocean brine and the faint floral trace of your skin, clean and inviting. And your form... it's a torment, all softness where he is taut, your breasts flattening against his chest, hips slotting perfectly into the V of his thighs. It was fucking delicious the way your waist nips in before flaring to those wide hips, the subtle give of your flesh under his grip, promising depths he hasn't explored but now craves with a sharpening edge.
You pull back first, a shy smile curving your lips against his, breath mingling in the scant space between you as your cheeks bloomed with a deeper flush.
He looks so handsome like this, up close. Tattoos curling over his shoulders like living vines, framing the sharp lines of his jaw, his full mouth still parted from the kiss. Those piercing eyes, half-lidded now with a hunger that's new and unchecked, drop inevitably, tracing the path down your body.
It lingered on the way your top strains over the full mounds of your tits, nipples pebbling faintly against the damp weave then lower to the shadowed cleft where your loincloth hugs the mound of your pussy, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.
The gaze sends a shiver through you but you hold his stare, the air thickening with unspoken want, the waves' murmur the only sound as tension coils between you like a gathering storm. The pull of your lips lingers like a brand but Ao'nung draws back anyway, his breath ragged against your skin. Every fiber in him screams to dive deeper, to chase the heat blooming between you, but he reins it in sharply.
In your mind, this is the bond of mates, sacred and sure, but he carries the weight of reality. The accident's cruel twist, the amnesia that paints him as your everything when he's just the brother of your closest friend. He's bedded plenty, chased pleasure without strings but you... you're untouched, a purity he won't tarnish, not like this. Not when it's all built on fog and forgotten truths.
His thumb brushes your jaw once, a fleeting anchor before he straightens, voice roughened at the edges. "Come on, let's go back."
You nod as the afterglow softened your features and slip your hand into his, fingers lacing with a giddy squeeze that tugs at something deep in his chest.
The path back through the village feels charged, the air thick with the scent of salt and blooming night flowers as maruis glow softly in the dusk. Eyes follow you from the women of the clan, their gazes sharp and lingering on the man at your side, the one they've known as untamed, always slipping away before dawn. A sour twist knots in your gut, unfamiliar jealousy flaring as you catch their stares, possessive in a way that surprises even you.
One in particular stands out, leaning against a woven wall with arms crossed, her form silhouetted by the firelight inside.
Saraye.
Her name surfaces from the haze of your altered memories, a woman you'd glimpsed more than once in Ao'nung's company before everything shifted, her laughter echoing from his marui on restless nights. Her eyes narrow now tracing the joined hands, her lips pressing into a thin line of what might be envy or resentment. But Ao'nung doesn't spare her a glance; his focus stays forward, thumb absently stroking the back of your hand as he leads you onward, the simple act easing the bitterness in your throat into a faint relieved smile.
Inside his marui, the space feels more like home with each passing evening. The low ceiling draped in nets, the faint tang of sea air mingling with the herbs Ronal left for your healing. He settles you on the mat with a gentleness that belies his warrior's build, broad shoulders flexing as he portions out dinner of fresh fish grilled over a small flame, its flaky flesh steaming beside woven baskets of fruit. You eat side by side, his knee brushing yours, the quiet broken only by the distant crash of waves.
When the meal ends, you shift closer, drawn by the solid warmth of him, sprawling across his chest like it's the most natural place in the world. His arms encircle you without hesitation now, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other tracing idle patterns along your arm in skin to skin motion, the contact a steady pulse that lulls you.
Sleep heavily pulls at you contentedly but not before you nuzzle into the curve of his neck, lips brushing a soft drowsy kiss there, right over the ridge of his pulse. The spot tastes of salt and him, warm under your mouth, and you feel the vibration of a stifled groan rumble through his throat, his grip tightening fractionally on your hip. It's enough to send a lazy spark through you but exhaustion wins as your eyes flutter shut, breaths evening out and you drift off with your body lax atop his.
He lies awake longer staring at the woven ceiling, the echo of that kiss replaying in his mind. The unintended tease of your lips on his skin. Eventually, sleep claims him too, his hold on you loosening into something protective and instinctive.
Hours later, the morning light filters through the marui's entrance, a soft glow that stirs you from the depths of rest.
Ao'nung's movements rouse you full with the shift of his weight and the quiet rustle as he rises. His form looms in the half-light, tattoos stark against his blue skin, muscles coiling under the early chill as he straps on his gear.
"I have to leave early." He says, voice low and gravelly from sleep, patting your head with a large palm that lingers a beat too long as his fingers combed through your tousled hair. "Hunting party."
You nod rubbing sleep from your eyes, the mat cool where his warmth had been. He's turning away when your hand shoots out, catching his wrist in a loose but insistent grip.
"Kiss before you leave, 'Nungie." You murmur, voice thick with lingering drowsiness, lips forming a sleepy pout that tugs at the corners of your mouth. "It's our thing, remember?"
His heart stutters a heavy thud against his ribs. This simple request, so earnest and routine in your fractured world, hits like a spear's tip.
He imagines it then, the life of true mates, your lips meeting his each dawn before the hunt. A warm body waiting in the marui upon his return, steady and waiting. No more empty nights, no chasing shadows. But no, he shoves the thought down, clinging to the wilder memories, the freedom that still calls like an old habit.
This can't be it, not when it's all illusion.
Still, he leans in cupping your face with one hand, his mouth pressing to yours in a firm lingering kiss. Soft at first then deepening just enough to taste the sweetness of your breath, tongues brushing in a slow slide that leaves heat pooling low in his gut. He pulls back before it can ignite further, eyes dark with restraint.
"Go hang out with my sister to kill time." He says, voice steady despite the internal storm. "I'm sure she misses you."
You nod again, a sleepy smile curving your lips as you watch him slip out, the flap of the entrance falling shut behind his retreating form. The marui feels emptier without him but you burrow back into the hides, sleep reclaiming you for a few more hours, your dreams laced with the phantom press of his mouth.
When you wake properly, the sun climbs higher, warming the air. The pouch of shells from yesterday sits nearby, a colorful bundle that draws your eye.
You've missed Tsireya fiercely, your days swallowed by Ao'nung's orbit and the thought of her pulls you to your feet. Dressed in your simple coverings, the fabric light against your skin, you make your way to her family's marui, the village humming with midday activity of children splashing in shallows and weavers calling out rhythms.
You spot her on the deck outside, perched on a low stool with a basket of healing herbs in her lap, her frame relaxed as she sorts leaves, curls swaying gently in the breeze.
"Reya!" You call, voice lifting with genuine joy as a beam broke across your face when you approach.
She looks up, her expression brightening into a wide smile, waving you over with an enthusiastic sweep of her arm.
"Come, sit." She says patting the space beside her, eyes crinkling at the corners with warmth.
You settle close, the wood creaking under you, and the words tumble out. How you've missed her laughter, her stories, the ease of your shared silences now overshadowed by the pull toward her brother.
She pouts playfully, sticking out her lower lip in mock offense though her eyes sparkle.
"My brother's stealing you away." She teases nudging your shoulder with hers, the contact light and familiar. "I barely see you anymore."
You giggle, the sound bubbling up light and free, covering your mouth with one hand.
"Well, he's my mate now so my time has been consumed." You reply, the words matter-of-fact in your altered certainty, laced with a shy affection that colors your cheeks.
A flicker crosses her face, it was hesitance, brief but there like a shadow over clear water. She wonders in that split second if your memories will return before Ao'nung's old ways resurface, before he crosses a line that could shatter you both. But she masks it quickly, nodding with a soft hum.
"I know." She says, voice gentle, steering the conversation onward.
You smile shyly pulling out your weaving tools and the shells from your pouch, fingers deftly beginning to thread them into an armband. It was of teal and pearlescent strands twisting around a base of supple vine, each piece chosen for its luster.
"I can't believe I'm mated to him, Reya." You confess, eyes focused on the work but voice dreamy, a soft wonder threading through it. "It feels like yesterday when we were talking about how he'd never be tied down."
Tsireya's smile stiffens at the edges, the irony twisting in her chest. It is only several days ago, those same conversations where you'd wrinkled your nose at his reputation but you can't recall. She forces a light laugh, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
"I know." She echoes, tone careful. "My brother has been so soft with you. It's... different. Good different."
Your face lights up at that, a bright flush warming your skin as you glance at her, pride and happiness mingling in your gaze.
She gestures to the armband taking shape in your lap, the shells catching the light like captured stars.
"For my brother?" She asks, curiosity tilting her head.
You nod shyly biting your lower lip as your fingers pause, the vine curling under your touch.
"I haven't given him anything yet." You admit, voice dropping to a murmur as a touch of embarrassment heated your ears. "It feels right though. Something to show... him."
She giggles then, the sound genuine and light, easing the tension in her shoulders.
"He'll love it." She assures, watching your progress with an approving nod but her mind races ahead, and she adds almost casually. "I'm also surprised he hasn't made his advances."
The words catch you off guard, a subtle warmth stirring low in your belly at the implication. Tsireya's eyes widen slightly at her own boldness but she recovers with a quick smile.
"He's respecting your purity and innocence." She explains softly, choosing her words like steps on uneven ground. "You have no experience, remember? Maybe he doesn't want to pressure you."
You bite your lip harder, the plump flesh whitening under your teeth, a flicker of uncertainty mixing with desire. Ao'nung's restraint has been a quiet frustration. The way he responds to your touches but never pushes, always drawing the line just beyond your reach.
"Maybe I should give a hint?" You muse, voice tentative as you glanced at her for guidance. "It's okay because we're mated. Sex must be for my mate only."
Nervousness tightens her features, a subtle crease at her forehead. She knows your true stance, the disgust you'd voiced for casual unions, the reverence you hold for bonding. And worse, you're not truly mated, a truth she can't voice yet without unraveling everything. She swallows reaching for your hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
"I think you should wait first until you're really ready." She says gently, her tone laced with concern masked as sisterly wisdom. "I know how much you cherish yourself. Don't rush what feels sacred."
She's right, the words settling like a cool wave over your heated thoughts. Ao'nung has been nothing but patient, mirroring your pace, his responses a mirror to your affections without overstepping.
But still, what if you try?
"I guess so." You agree, a small sigh escaping as you resume weaving, the shells clicking softly.
By the time the armband is finished, the sun dips toward the horizon, the piece a delicate band of color and texture, perfect for wrapping around his strong forearm. You hold it up admiring the way it shimmers, a shy anticipation building within you.
Tonight when he returns from the hunt, you'll give it to him as a token, a step closer in this life you believe is yours.
The sun hangs low over the reef, painting the waves in strokes of molten gold as you stand at the shore's edge, the damp sand cool between your toes.
You've taken care with your appearance today, the beaded necklace top clinging just enough to accentuate the gentle swell of your breasts, each strand of shells and pearls shifting with your breaths, drawing subtle outlines against your skin. The loincloth hugs your hips tighter than usual, the woven fabric tracing the curve of your thighs leaving your legs bare to the breeze that carries the tang of salt and distant kelp.
Inside Ao'nung's marui, tucked safely away, waits the armband you've crafted with a quiet promise and woven with intention.
Your gaze scans the horizon, heart quickening with each passing moment until the silhouettes emerge from the sea. The hunting party with their ilus gliding through the shallows, riders dismounting with spears in hand and hauls of fresh catch slung over shoulders. Your eyes lock immediately on him, Ao'nung, his broad frame cutting through the water like a shadow given form.
He's already watching you, those intense eyes narrowing with a heat that sends a rush of warmth flooding your cheeks, turning your skin a deeper shade of turquoise.
You smile widely up at him, the giddiness bubbling over as your stare roams his body.
The intricate tattoos swirling across his teal chest and arms, inked lines that speak of battles won and rites passed, his muscles still taut from the hunt, glistening with seawater that traces rivulets down his abdomen.bIt dips lower, your gaze trailing to the low-slung loincloth that barely conceals the powerful lines of his hips and your thoughts scatter as heat pooled low in your belly.
You haven't crossed that final threshold yet, the bond in your mind sealed only by the memory of tsaheylu, a spiritual tie without the physical claim. But tonight, after you present the armband, perhaps you can offer more. Your first time given freely to the mate you know him to be. The idea makes you bite your lower lip in a sharp tug of anticipation as he strides toward you, the other hunters trailing behind with knowing glances.
Without a word, you step into his space, arms wrapping around his waist in a tight hug, your cheek pressing to the damp warmth of his chest as you inhaled the mingled scents of ocean and exertion.
"I've missed you, 'Nungie." You murmur against him, voice soft but laced with that earnest longing that's become your rhythm.
He chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you, a rumble that eases the ache of the day's separation, even as the men around you exchange teasing smirks and elbow nudges, their laughter muffled but present.
Ao'nung's arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you closer for a beat before he guides you away, your hand finding his naturally, fingers intertwining as you walk the path to his marui. You feel his stare on you the whole way, heavy and appraising as it lingered on the way your top sways with each step, the tighter cloth molding to your form and highlighting the sway of your hips.
Inside, the space is dimmer now, lit by the fading light filtering through the entrance, the air still carrying the faint spice from earlier meals.
You've prepared ahead, knowing the toll of a hunt. A spread of roasted stingray, its flesh tender and spiced with reef herbs, alongside sliced fruits and a bowl of fermented root drink.
His eyes widen slightly as he takes it in, surprise flickering across his features before softening into something appreciative, a nod of thanks as he sinks onto the mat beside you.
You eat together, the flavors bursting on your tongue and you fill the quiet with tales of your day. Tsireya's laughter over shared shells, the way she braided a new strand into your hair, her gentle probes about your budding life with him.
He listens intently, fork paused midway to his mouth, his gaze steady on your face, absorbing every detail with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse skip.
But you're bolder tonight, touchier, your knee pressing against his thigh under the pretense of closeness, fingers brushing his arm as you gesture. Each contact deliberate, a slow seduction woven into the mundane. When the meal ends, he clears the remnants with efficient movements, stacking the mats and rinsing the bowls in a nearby basin, his back to you for a moment, his tattoos flexing with the pull of his shoulders.
You wait heart thumping until he turns back and then you rise, holding out the armband with shy fingers, the shells catching the low light in a shimmer of teal and white.
"For you." You say softly, eyes lifting to meet his as a flush creeped up your neck.
Surprise etches his face, deepening the lines around his eyes but he takes it gently, turning the piece over in his large hands, admiring the careful weave and the way the colors echo his own markings.
"It's... beautiful." He muttered, voice rough with unexpected emotion as he slipped it onto his forearm where it fits snugly, hugging the curve of muscle and inked skin like it was made for him.
A symbol of him taken, bound to you in the eyes of the clan.
You beam at him as joy lightened your face and before he can settle, you move straddling his lap with a fluid grace, the heat of his body seeping through the thin barriers of cloth.
A surprised grunt escapes him, his tattooed hands instinctively settling on your hips, fingers splaying wide to steady you, the grip firm against the softer give of your flesh.
Leaning in, you capture his mouth with yours, tentative at first. Your tongue parting his lips clumsily, exploring without the map of experience, driven only by instinct and the rightness of it all. He responds in kind but deeper and hungrier, his kiss consuming you like a tide pulling under, tongue stroking yours in slow deliberate sweeps that draw a whimper from your throat. Emboldened, you guide one of his hands upward, pressing his palm over the soft mound of your breast, the beaded top yielding under the pressure.
He squeezes unable to resist, the flesh molding to his touch and you moan into the kiss, the sensation sharp and electric, unlike anything you've known. His fingers delve further, slipping beneath the strands to find your nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger with a teasing pinch that sends sparks racing down your spine. You mewl against his lips, the sound muffled but needy, the foreign pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Good, so achingly good as his mouth claims yours again deeper.
Your hips move on their own, grinding forward in a slow roll against the growing hardness beneath you, the massive bulge straining his loincloth. He bucks up to meet you, a low growl vibrating in his chest, the friction building a slick ache between your thighs.
"'Nungie." You mewl breaking the kiss just enough to breathe his name, your usually soft voice husky with want.
He freezes beneath you, body going rigid, and then his hands clamp on your hips, stilling your movements with unyielding strength. He pulls back from the kiss, breath coming in harsh pants, eyes dark and conflicted as they search yours.
"We should stop, yawntu." He says with a strained voice like it's costing him everything to form the words.
You frown in confusion, chest heaving as the heat lingers unanswered.
"But we're mates." You protest softly, a plea edging your tone as your hips shifted again in a desperate grind seeking that lost rhythm. "I want to be close... like this. That’s what mates do, right?"
A deep and tortured groan rips from him, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder, his hot breath fanning your skin as his body trembles under the restraint.
The confusion swirls in you, thick and stinging.
Is he not drawn to you this way? Your lack of skill, the women he's known who move with practiced ease, their bodies honed for pleasure, do they eclipse you? Does he find your untouched form lacking, unworthy of the warrior he is?
You bite your lip hard, the doubt twisting like a knife as he lifts you off him with careful hands, setting you aside on the mat as if you're fragile glass. Your heart aches at the distance, the blatant pullback leaving a raw sting in its wake, the rejection blooming cold in your chest.
"We should sleep." He mutters, voice flat now, heavy with fatigue he didn't show moments ago. "I'm tired from the hunt."
"Oh." You whisper, the single word hollow, echoing the sudden emptiness as you watch him stretch out on the sleeping hides with his back to you, the armband a stark band against his skin.
You follow quietly curling onto your side without reaching for him, the usual urge to nestle close withered under the weight of hurt.
He doesn't turn, doesn't seek your warmth, his breathing evens into sleep's rhythm, his broad shoulders rising and falling leaving you staring at the expanse of his back, the tattoos a blurred pattern in the dimness.
Doubts flood in relentless waves. Your inexperience a barrier, your body not enough to hold him, the bond you feel so surely perhaps one-sided in its fire. You bite your lip again tasting the faint metallic tang and curl tighter into yourself, willing sleep to come.
Tomorrow, you hope the morning light will mend this fracture, chase away the shadows clinging to your thoughts so cruelly.
Hours later, the first rays of dawn filter through the woven walls of the marui, casting soft patterns on the sleeping hides where you stir awake, your body heavy with the remnants of uneasy dreams.
You reach out instinctively, fingers seeking the familiar warmth of Ao'nung's side but your hand meets only cool empty space. A frown tugs at your lips as the events of last night crash back. The tentative touches, the heat building between you only for him to pull away, his voice clipped and distant. And now, he's gone before you even open your eyes, slipped out like a shadow before the light could catch him. The sting lingers sharp in your chest but you push it down shaking your head slightly.
No, you won't let doubt fester. He's your mate, bound to you in ways that transcend fleeting moments. There must be a reason, maybe hunting duties or perhaps early chores. You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you rise, smoothing the hides and stepping out into the morning air, the scent of dew-kissed fronds mingling with the ever-present salt of the sea.
Your steps carry you toward the cluster of maruis where Tsireya's family resides, her presence a beacon you crave, always knowing the right words to untangle the knots in your mind.
The path winds past the communal fires, still smoldering from last night's embers and your gaze drifts idly toward the distant stretch of beach where the waves lap gently at the shore. There, two figures stand close, their forms silhouetted against the rising sun. One broad and commanding, the other slim and poised.
Your breath catches as recognition hits.
Ao'nung, your mate and beside him, Saraye, the woman whose stare had burned into you days ago from across the sands.
She's the one the clan whispered about, the beauty who everyone believed could finally tether Ao'nung's wandering spirit. Unlike the others he'd discarded after a single night, she'd been seen with him more than once—twice, three times, her laughter echoing in his wake, her touch lingering on his arm during feasts.
A cold knot twists low in your stomach as you watch her tilt her head, her long braids swaying with the motion, her skin a smooth canvas of teal that catches the light just so.
She's pretty in a way that commands attention, her body honed by years of knowing exactly how to move, how to draw eyes and hands alike. She knows his body in ways you don't. Maps of pleasure you've only begun to imagine, experiences that make your own innocence feel like a barrier rather than a gift.
The rejection from last night floods back sharper now, your advances met with his sudden withdrawal, his hands lifting you away as if your touch burned. Maybe that's it, he isn't drawn to you like that, not with the fire he must have shared with her. Perhaps he's trapped in this bond with you by circumstance, his heart pulling toward Saraye, the one who fits his old life seamlessly.
You see it in the way he laughs now, an easy sound carrying on the breeze, his head thrown back slightly as she gestures animatedly, their familiarity a knife's edge against your resolve. They stand close, shoulders nearly brushing, her hand hovering on his forearm, the very arm now adorned with the band you wove for him as he converse with another woman.
Your heart fractures under the weight, the pieces scattering like shells on the tide. The cold shoulder of his rejection, waking to an empty cot, and now this, him seeking her company while you ache alone. Hot and unwelcome tears prick at your eyes as you tear your gaze away, hurrying along the path before the sight can carve deeper.
Tsireya's marui comes into view soon enough, its entrance draped with fresh kelp weaves and you call out softly, your voice trembling just at the edges.
She emerges quickly, her face lighting with a warm smile that fades the moment she takes in your expression. The downturned mouth, the shadowed eyes, the way your shoulders hunch inward.
"What's wrong?" She asks stepping close, her hand reaching for yours with that instinctive gentleness. "You look like you've seen a storm. Did you give my brother the armband?"
You nod, whispering the words as if they might shatter if spoken louder. "Yes, I gave it to him."
Her brows knit in confusion, head tilting as she searches your face. "Did he not like it?"
"He liked it." You reply, voice barely above a breath, the confirmation twisting the knot tighter.
"Then why the sadness?" Tsireya presses gently, guiding you to sit on a nearby log, her body angling toward yours protectively, the morning light gilding the fine tattoos on her face from her Ikinimaya.
A sniffle escapes you and you lean into her side, the solid warmth of her shoulder a small anchor as the words tumble out in a rush, it was laced with the raw edge of hurt.
"Last night... I tried to be close to him, Reya. I sat on his lap, kissed him, touched him like mates do, and for a moment it felt right. He was responding but then he just... stopped. Froze and pulled away, said we should sleep because he was tired from the hunt."
Your voice cracks on the last word, fingers twisting in your lap.
"And this morning he was gone before I woke, no note, no warmth left behind. I thought maybe it was nothing but then I saw him on the beach with Saraye. They're laughing so easy together like they share secrets I don't know. She's the one who was with him more than once, the only one who could tame him, everyone said that before. She's experienced, knows how to please him in ways I don't. I offered myself, my first time, and he rejected it. What if he doesn't want me like that? What if he's cheating or worse trapped with me when he wants her, wants his old life of many women instead of this bond? I feel so... unworthy, Reya. Like my body isn't enough, my innocence a curse instead of something to be cherished."
Tears spill now, tracking warm paths down your cheeks and Tsireya pulls you into a full embrace, her arms wrapping tight around your trembling form, one hand stroking your back in slow soothing circles.
"Oh, syulang." She murmurs against your hair, voice thick with empathy, her own eyes glistening as she holds you close. "You're not unworthy, not even close. My brother... he's an idiot sometimes but that doesn't mean your feelings aren't valid. He shouldn't have left you doubting like this. You're beautiful inside and out, any man would be lucky to have you. Ao'nung's just... complicated with his past and all. Give it time, he'll come around. And Saraye? She's just a shadow from before. You're the light he needs right now."
She doesn't spill the truths she guards of the amnesia and the false bond but her words weave comfort without deceit, her tone fierce with protectiveness. Internally, anger simmers in her usually cheery demeanor. She'll corner him later, give him the earful he deserves for hurting you this way despite her warnings. She thought he was changing, softening under your genuine affection, but this? It stings her too. And Eywa, she hopes your memories return soon, to shield you from this pain.
You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, managing a watery smile at her.
"Stay with us tonight in our family marui. You need space from him, a night to breathe without the weight. My parents would not mind, you're like another daughter."
Gratitude swells in your chest, warm amidst the ache, and you nod squeezing her hand. "Thank you, Reya. You're more than a friend, you're my sister."
The day unfolds in her company, a deliberate distraction by weaving new nets by the lagoon, her laughter pulling reluctant smiles from you as she splashes water your way. Sharing midday fruits under the shade of a sprawling mangrove, her stories of childhood antics lightening the shadows in your mind. Even a quiet swim, her hand in yours as you glide through the clear shallows, the cool water easing the tension from your limbs.
She doesn't pry further, just fills the hours with easy companionship, her presence a balm that soothes without erasing the hurt.
As night falls, the family marui envelops you in its familiar hush, the sounds of the ocean a lullaby through the walls. You settle onto a spare mat near Tsireya, the hides soft beneath you but sleep evades at first. She told Ronal you were just here for a girly sleepover to avoid letting them know of the troubles with Ao’nung but there was a knowing glint in her eye even if she nodded.
Your thoughts circle back to Ao'nung, of his strong jaw, the way his tattoos shift with his breaths, the brief fire in his kiss before it all crumbled.
Why must he wound you like this, with silences and distances that cut deeper than words?
But you're not one to cling selfishly.
If space is what he craves, if his heart pulls elsewhere, you'll grant it even as it splinters yours further. Tomorrow you'll step back, let him roam without your shadow, the bond in your mind a fragile thread you won't force anymore.
The decision settles heavy in your chest, a quiet resolve mingled with sorrow and finally exhaustion claims you, pulling you into a restless slumber with a heart weighed down by unspoken fears.
Hours later, the sun climbs higher the next morning, its light spilling across the village paths like spilled honey but you linger in the family marui folding a spare wrap with deliberate slowness, your fingers tracing the woven fibers as if they hold answers. Returning to the shared space with Ao'nung feels like stepping into a trap, the air there thick with unspoken regrets so you avoid it entirely.
"Come gather with us, it’s our schedule." Tsireya says linking her arm through yours, her touch light but reassuring, the faint scent of sea blooms clinging to her skin from an early rinse.
You nod, grateful for the distraction though a quiet hope flickers that Ao'nung won't be leading the group, his presence would only sharpen the edges of your hurt.
The shore buzzes with quiet energy as you arrive, ilus shifting restlessly in the shallows, their sleek forms cutting through the lapping waves. Your eyes scan the assembly briefly, heart sinking when you spot him.
Ao'nung stands tall among the gatherers, his broad shoulders squared under the weight of command, the armband you crafted glinting on his bicep like a mocking token. And there, pressed too close to his space is Saraye as if it’s her righful place and maybe it is, since Ao’nung was letting her be there.
You force your gaze away fixing it on the horizon where the sea meets the sky in a hazy line, pretending the space he occupies is empty air. No glance and no acknowledgment, the rejection still burns too fresh, a bruise you won't prod.
Tsireya senses the shift in you immediately, her fingers intertwining with yours in a subtle squeeze, her thumb stroking the back of your hand as she shoots a sharp glare across the group toward her brother. It's a silent warning, her teal eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line that speaks volumes of her frustration.
You feel Ao'nung's stare then, heavy and probing like a current tugging at your edges but you keep your face turned, climbing onto your ilu with steady grace, the creature's warm hide flexing under your thighs as you settle into it.
The group surges into the water, ilus plunging forward in a synchronized rhythm, foam cresting around their flanks as you ride toward the reef. The salt spray mists your skin, cooling the flush of unease rising in your chest and you urge your mount faster hoping the task ends swiftly so you can retreat to the shadows of avoidance, away from prying eyes and tangled bonds. The rocks loom ahead soon enough, jagged outcrops alive with clinging anemones and darting fish, the water deepening to a vibrant turquoise.
You guide your ilu close, fingers dipping into the currents to pluck iridescent shells, the cool flow soothing your palms but then a presence draws near, the subtle displacement of water signaling another rider as your pulse quickens.
Please let it be Tsireya.
Her familiar chatter a shield against the world but instead, a voice slithers through the air, low and laced with a sultry edge that sets your teeth on edge.
"Do you still have that selective amnesia?" Saraye's words hang there, her ilu gliding parallel to yours, her body leaning slightly forward.
Confusion knots your forehead and you turn to her, the question spilling out sharp and bewildered. "What?"
She smiles coyly, her full lips curving as her sharp and assessing eyes lock onto yours. "You hit your head a week ago. Woke up with selective amnesia thinking Ao'nung is your mate."
Her tone is casual and knowing, almost conversational as if discussing the weather or the tide's pull but it lands like a spear to your gut.
Your mind reels, the world tilting as fragments of her words clash against the fragile reality you've built.
"What are you talking about?" You manage, voice thin over the rush of water, your grip tightening on the ilu's reins until your knuckles pale.
Saraye shrugs lightly, her shoulders rolling with effortless poise, guiding her mount closer for a moment before easing back.
"Ao'nung told me. I was wondering why he's spending so much time with you so suddenly. He mentioned it yesterday, how he's being forced by their mother to be there for you because of your selective amnesia."
She delivers it without malice, just fact, her gaze flicking toward the group ahead where Ao'nung leads, his form cutting through the waves like he owns them.
Your breath hitches, ragged and caught as the currents around you stir growing choppier, the sea mirroring the storm brewing inside.
Forced.
The word echoes, unraveling everything. The kisses, the touches, the armband that now feels like chains.
"I hope you get your memories back." She adds patting your arm with a smile that's almost sympathetic, her fingers cool against your heated skin. "So Ao'nung can go back to his life."
With that, she steers her ilu away, veering smoothly back toward him, her laughter trailing like a taunt as she rejoins his side.
Tears sting your vision blurring the reef into a watercolor haze, hot tracks threatening to spill as the truth crashes over you.
So that's why he rejected you. It was pity, obligation, nothing more. He doesn't like you, not in the way your amnesia-woven dreams painted. You're not mates, it was all an illusion. A cruel trick of the mind, the tsaheylu you'd imagined nothing but vapor of fake memories.
The waves swell rougher now, unforgiving, mirroring your inner turmoil and in a blink disaster strikes again. Your ilu bucks against a sudden surge throwing you forward, your head slamming against the unyielding rock with a crack that echoes in your skull.
"(Y/N), hold on!" Tsireya's voice pierces the chaos, frantic and distant but the world fades to black, pain blooming sharp and consuming before swallowing you whole.
When consciousness returns to you hours later, it's in fragments. A dull throb pulsing at your temples, vision swimming in blurry edges, your mind a whirlpool of lost pieces slotting back into place.
Memories flood out of nowhere, the accident that started it all, the disdain you'd once felt for Ao'nung's careless ways, the rejections of suitors you'd turned away with quiet resolve, Tsireya's unwavering loyalty through orphaned years. And him, not your mate but a reluctant guardian, his kindness a mask for duty.
"(Y/N), you're awake!" Tsireya's voice breaks through laced with relief, her face hovering close, eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears, her hands gentle on your shoulders.
Your vision clears gradually, sharpening on the familiar confines of Ronal's healing marui. The low ceiling woven with healing herbs that release a faint earthy aroma, the soft glow of bioluminescent pods casting blue shadows.
Ronal stands nearby, her presence steady and authoritative, her arms crossed as she watches you with measured concern. Tsireya is at your side but no Ao'nung. His absence makes a bitter kind of sense now as the illusion shattered, though a faint sting lingers in your chest. You'd grown accustomed to his solid warmth, the way his gaze had softened in those fabricated moments, fond of the role you'd played as his.
You blink the lingering ache away, pushing down the hollow echo of those false affections as Ronal approaches, her steps measured, the beads in her hair clicking softly.
"How are you feeling?" She asks, voice calm but probing, settling on the edge of the mat, her cool hand pressing lightly to your forehead. "You've been unconscious the whole day. It's night now."
Silence stretches for a beat, your thoughts settling like sediment after a storm before the words emerge, steady despite the tremor in your core. "I remember everything now."
They share a look, a fleeting exchange heavy with unspoken relief and apology as Ronal's eyes softened and Tsireya's widening further.
"You do?" Tsireya whispers leaning in, her fingers squeezing yours.
"Yes." You confirm, the truth settling like a weight lifted and replaced by another.
Ronal nods slowly, her grip on your hand firm yet tender, calluses from years of healing rough against your skin.
"We are sorry for lying to you when you didn't remember." She says, her tone laced with genuine regret, eyes holding yours with the weight of her role as Tsahik. "But your recovery was fragile, it was matters of the brain that demanded caution and Eywa guided us to protect what was mending."
You nod, the understanding coming easy, gratitude threading through the sorrow. They had shielded you, woven a temporary truth to cradle your healing mind. Yet the ache persists, a quiet throb for the emotions you'd nurtured in that haze. The pull toward Ao'nung, the vulnerability you'd offered freely now exposed as fleeting shadows.
"It's okay, Tsahik." You reply softly, managing a small weary smile. "I understand."
Tsireya shuffles closer then, her body curling protectively around you in a hug, her cheek pressing to your shoulder, warm and trembling slightly with her own relief. You meet her gaze as she pulls back, the bond between you unbreakable, forged in shared secrets and losses.
"Can you get my things from Ao'nung's marui?" You ask, voice even, though the request carries the finality of severance. "I'll move back to my own now that I remember the truth."
She bites her lip as a flicker of hesitation crossed her features, guilt perhaps for the part she played before nodding softly, her hand lingering on yours. "Of course. I'll bring them right away."
Ronal rises, her expression resolute as she places a hand on your shoulder.
"Come see me every day so I can check on your wound." She instructs, the command softened by care.
Leaning down, she presses a kiss to your forehead, her lips dry and warm, a blessing in the gesture. She watches as you and her daughter rise unsteadily supporting each other toward the entrance, the night air cool and starlit beyond the flaps.
"I hope Eywa grants you healing, child." Ronal calls after you, her voice a quiet anchor in the darkness.
Tsireya's arm wraps around your waist as she guides you through the village paths, her grip firm yet tender, the warmth of her body seeping through the thin fabric of your wrap against your side. The night air carries the distant hum of waves crashing against the reef, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves overhead but neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with the weight of the day's unraveling.
Her steps are measured syncing with yours though you can feel the tension coiled in her frame, the subtle clench of her jaw, the way her free hand fists at her side. Guilt gnaws at her, evident in the downward tilt of her gaze, shadowed by the bioluminescent glow of nearby maruis and beneath it simmers a fury directed at her brother, her breaths coming a touch sharper than usual.
You both slip into your marui, the familiar space feeling both sanctuary and echo chamber, the woven walls curving protectively around the simple cot piled with soft hides. Dust motes dance in the faint light filtering through the entrance flap and the scent of dried sea grass lingers, a reminder of quieter days before the illusions took hold.
Tsireya leads you to the cot, her hand lingering on your elbow as you lower yourself onto the edge, the hides yielding under your weight with a faint creak, your body heavy with exhaustion, muscles aching from the twin blows of injury and revelation.
"I'll sleep with you for the night." She murmurs, her voice soft but resolute, eyes meeting yours with a depth of protectiveness that eases the knot in your chest just a fraction.
You nod, gratitude swelling warm and wordless. The thought of solitude tonight, a vast echoing void, too much to bear. Your limbs feel leaden, the throb in your head a dull pulse syncing with the hurt radiating from your core, memories now sharp and unrelenting crashing against the fragile peace you'd clung to.
"Thank you, Reya." You whisper, your voice cracking faintly at the edges.
She nods settling beside you, her form curling close as she draws you into a sisterly embrace, arms encircling your shoulders, her cheek pressing against your temple. The steady rise and fall of her chest against yours grounds you, her skin smooth and sun-kissed carrying the faint salt tang of the sea.
You grow quiet in her hold, the silence stretching until words bubble up unbidden, raw and vulnerable.
"I grew feelings for him, Tsireya." You confess, the admission hanging in the dim air, your fingers twisting into the edge of a hide. "Even if it was built on a lie at first."
"Oh, (Y/N)." She breathes, her voice thick with empathy, pulling back just enough to cup your face in her palms, thumbs brushing away the dampness gathering at the corners of your eyes.
Her touch is gentle yet it conveys the depth of her sorrow for your pain.
"It's okay." You continue, forcing a steadiness into your tone even as your throat tightens, the illusion's warmth now a cold void. "I know he doesn't see me that way. I've robbed him of his freedom, his life, because of the amnesia I had."
The words taste bitter, self-recrimination lacing each one, your hips shifting uncomfortably on the cot as you draw your knees up, the curve of your form folding inward protectively.
She holds you closer, her embrace tightening, body heat enveloping you like a shield, though you sense her own turmoil. The way her breath hitches, her mind racing. She'd harbored quiet hopes that this twisted path might weave you and Ao'nung together.
You, with your steadfast rejections of every suitor, waiting for Eywa's true sign. Him, the restless future Olo'eyktan, chained by his wandering appetites, unable to root himself. But now, the threads snap, her optimism crumbling like dry kelp, leaving only frustration and a fierce protectiveness for you.
"Before I hit my head." You add, voice dropping lower, the memory fresh and stinging like salt in a wound. "Saraye talked to me. She said Ao'nung told her he's just being forced to pretend, that she hopes I get my memory back so he can be free."
Your words tumble out, laced with the disorientation of that moment, the sea's roar drowning your thoughts.
"My vision blurred and I was so overwhelmed I didn't register the waves until it was too late. Until I hit my head. I guess in a way, they both were the reason for me getting my memory back."
A hollow laugh escapes you, empty and brittle, echoing off the marui walls, your supple chest rising and falling unevenly with the force of it.
Tsireya's fury ignites anew at the revelation, her body stiffening against yours, eyes flashing with outrage. Saraye's careless barbs rendering you vulnerable, a catalyst for yet another injury, her brother's indiscretions the spark. She bites back a retort, jaw working silently choosing instead to hold you tighter, her fingers threading through your hair in soothing strokes until exhaustion claims you both, sleep pulling you under in tangled limbs, the night's quiet broken only by the distant call of nocturnal creatures.
The next morning, sunlight filters through the cracks in the marui weave, painting golden streaks across the floor and Tsireya stirs first, her movements careful not to disturb you.
She shakes your shoulder softly, her touch light as a breeze, voice a gentle murmur. "I'll leave now to get your things."
You nod sleepily, eyes heavy-lidded, the remnants of dreams of fleeting images of shared warmth now soured clinging like mist.
She rises fluidly, her form silhouetted against the entrance, curls swaying as she pauses to press a quick sisterly kiss to your forehead before slipping out, the flap falling closed with a soft whisper.
It's time I talk to my brother.
She thinks, resolve hardening her steps as she weaves through the village toward Ao'nung's marui, the morning bustle a blur around her. Fury simmers in her veins, a protective fire for you, mingled with the sting of dashed hopes. She pushes aside the entrance flap without ceremony, finding him seated on the low bench, his broad frame hunched slightly, tattooed arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed blankly on the woven floor.
The space feels emptier already, the absence of your presence a subtle shift in the air, his handsome features etched with something unreadable, regret perhaps or the weight of solitude returning.
"I'm getting (Y/N)'s things." She announces with a clipped voice, teal eyes locking onto his with unyielding accusation as she moves to the corner where your sparse belongings wait.
Ao'nung looks up slowly, his jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck cording briefly under the teal sheen of his skin.
"Why?" He asks calmly though his tone carries an undercurrent of defensiveness, rising to his full height, the armband you'd woven still circling his bicep, its beads catching the light like reluctant stars.
"She remembers everything now, Ao'nung." Tsireya retorts, her hands swift as she gathers your wraps and trinkets, folding them with precise angry motions, the fabric rustling sharply. "You can be free to do whatever you want now. Be with Saraye and all those women."
The words bite, laced with sarcasm, her glare piercing as she straightens, bundle clutched to her chest.
He scoffs, a low, rough sound rumbling from his throat, stepping closer to watch her dismantle the traces of you from his space, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean Saraye?"
"(Y/N) saw you the other day all close with her." Tsireya shoots back, her voice rising with frustration, cheeks flushing with the heat of her anger.
"And?" He presses arms crossing over his chest, the play of muscles under his skin a testament to his warrior build, though his stance holds a flicker of unease.
Tsireya glares undeterred, her body tensing as she continues packing, fingers trembling slightly with restrained fury.
"I know we've forced you to play a part but you didn't have to hurt her like this. She came to me that day almost in tears, telling me how you rejected her the night before, how she woke up the next morning to you gone, only to find you with another woman. A woman you've been so intimate with countless times." Her words hang heavy, charged with the pain she'd witnessed in your eyes, the vulnerability you'd bared to her alone.
Ao'nung's jaw clenches visibly, a shadow crossing his sharp features, his breath escaping in a controlled hiss.
"She misunderstood." He mutters, voice low and edged with irritation, though doubt flickers in his gaze, the realization of the chasm he'd widened settling like lead.
Tsireya rolls her eyes, the gesture sharp and dismissive, slinging your gathered items over one shoulder.
"It doesn't matter anyway. You've already hurt her. Also, you're free now, you don't have to play the part anymore." She turns toward the entrance but pauses, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Thank Saraye for (Y/N) getting her memory back. If she hadn't told (Y/N) yesterday how you're being forced because of the selective amnesia, (Y/N) would still be believing she's mated to you. In a way, that bitch of yours made (Y/N) hit her head, literally and figuratively."
Ao'nung stiffens at her words, his form going rigid as fury bloomed across his face, eyes darkening and fists balling at his sides as the true catalyst of your accident yesterday slams into him.
Saraye's meddling, his own careless confidence spilling secrets, the rough waves claiming you in your distress, it all converges a storm he hadn't anticipated, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Tsireya pauses at the entrance, your things balanced in her arms, her expression softening just a fraction with sorrow.
"She really did like you, Ao'nung." She says quietly, the words a final arrow. "And I thought you did too."
With that she slips out leaving him in the hollowed quiet of the marui, the space echoing with absence.
The cot where you'd slept undisturbed, the faint imprint of your scent on the air, the way sunlight now slants across empty corners without your form to soften it. His eyes drift to the armband on his bicep, fingers tracing its weave absently, the beads warm from his skin.
He'd grown used to you, to the rhythm of your shy smiles lighting the dim interiors, the press of your body against his in stolen moments, the idea of being yours, of being binded solely to one woman. The freedom you’d handed back feels less like release and more like a void, his chest tightening with the unfamiliar ache of what might have been.
That night, when your body pressed against his in the dim confines of the marui, your hips grinding instinctively in the haze, Ao'nung's resolve had cracked but held just barely.
He pulled away not out of disinterest but a respect for the innocence you held sacred, the purity you guarded like a hidden cove, untouched by the casual waves of fleeting encounters. He knew the bond you believed in wasn't real, woven from the fragile threads of amnesia and he wouldn't be the one to shatter it with his touch, to claim what wasn't truly offered in clarity.
Your wide hips had curved invitingly against him, the soft swell of your breasts brushing his chest through the thin barrier of hides but he turned from it all, forcing his body to face the woven wall, the cool night air doing little to quell the heat pooling low in his gut.
His cock throbbed insistently, hardened to an ache from the friction of your warmth rubbing against it, the slick promise of your untouched folds teasing through the fabric. If he'd pulled you close, wrapped his arms around your supple form and buried his face in the crook of your neck, he wouldn't have stopped.
He imagined it then in the dark.
His mouth descending to feast on your virgin pussy, tongue delving into the sweet uncharted heat, lapping at your folds until you arched and whimpered beneath him. He pictured plunging deep inside your tight hole, the velvet grip yielding to him inch by inch, breeding you with a primal urgency, marking you as his in the most irrevocable way.
The thought clawed at him but he denied it, breaths ragged and controlled until sleep finally claimed him in fitful fragments that night.
In the morning light, filtering soft through the entrance flap, Ao'nung stirred before you, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form. Your face, framed by loose strands of hair, held a serene beauty of full lips parted slightly, lashes casting faint shadows on your cheeks, the gentle rise of your chest a rhythm he'd come to anticipate.
"So beautiful." He murmured, voice a low rumble and thick with unspoken apology, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to taste the warmth of your breath. "I'm sorry, yawntu."
The endearment slipped out heavy with the weight of what he withheld before he rose quietly, his broad shoulders rolling as he slipped out toward the beach, the sand still cool underfoot.
He needed to do something—anything—to bridge the gap he'd enforced so he crouched by the tide pools, fingers sifting through the damp grains for shells that caught the dawn's glow. Iridescent spirals, smooth pebbles veined with color, each one selected with care for the necklace he'd craft as an apology, a token to adorn the column of your throat.
The water lapped gently at the shore when Saraye emerged from the shallows, her form cutting through the waves, water sluicing off her teal skin in rivulets that traced the curves of her hips and the swell of her breasts. She approached with a sway, braids dripping, a knowing smile curving her lips.
"Ao'nung, I haven't seen you in a while." She said, voice lilting with feigned casualness, eyes flicking over his tattooed arms as she drew near.
He shrugged not pausing in his search, the muscles in his back flexing under the morning sun.
"Been busy." He replied evenly, tone neutral, his focus on a cluster of tiny pearlescent shells half-buried in the sand.
Saraye's smile deepened, stepping closer until her shadow fell across his hands, her scent wafting toward him.
"With (Y/N)? I thought you didn't settle down." She teased, a glint of challenge in her gaze, her fingers trailing idly along the edge of her loincloth.
Ao'nung straightened slightly, wiping sand from his palms, seeing no harm in the truth, it wasn't a secret to unravel.
"She has selective amnesia." He explained, voice steady, meeting her eyes without warmth. "She believes we're mates. My parents asked me to take care of her until she recovers her memory."
Her eyes glinted sharper, a flicker of opportunity crossing her features as she tilted her head, lips pursing in mock sympathy. "So you're being forced? I feel sorry that you're stuck with taking care of her when you can spend your time with me."
The words dripped with invitation, her body angling toward him, one hand resting on her hip to accentuate the dip of her waist.
He laughed then, a short bark of sound escaping his chest, genuine amusement bubbling up at her presumption, the sheer audacity of assuming his chains were so easily chafed. It wasn't interest fueling the chuckle but the irony of her misread, the way she painted his days with you as a burden when they'd become something he guarded.
That was the moment you glimpsed him from afar, the sound carrying on the breeze, twisting in your mind into flirtation, a dismissal of the fragile world you'd built.
"She's not a duty to me." Ao'nung said firmly, shaking his head as the laughter faded, his expression hardening with sincerity. "I would have left already if I didn't like taking care of her. No one can force me to do anything I don't want, Saraye."
His words cut clean, leaving no room for her advances and he turned back to the shore dismissing her with the set of his shoulders as he resumed his hunt for more shells, each find a step toward mending what he sensed fraying.
The day stretched on without your return to the marui, the empty space gnawing at him as the sun climbed high then dipped toward the horizon. Worry coiled in his gut, a tight knot that had him pacing the woven floor, his bare feet silent on the hides. He ventured out as dusk painted the sky in bruised purples, scanning the paths until he spotted you near the edge of the village, your laughter ringing soft and clear as you leaned into Tsireya's side, her arm slung companionably around your shoulders.
The sight eased something in him, your face animated, the tension in your posture loosening in her company, and his heart softened, a quiet understanding blooming at how you must have missed her steady presence.
He wouldn't intrude, wouldn't crowd the space you clearly needed. Instead he retreated to the marui, the bundle of shells clutched in his fist.
Night fell but sleep evaded him, his mind replaying the curve of your smile, the way you'd murmur “Nungie” in those unguarded moments, your voice a balm he craved.
He sat by the low table, fingers fumbling with the materials. Rough cord from dried vines, the shells he'd polished smooth against a stone. Weaving wasn't his skill, his hands moved clumsily, the strands twisting unevenly, beads slipping before catching. But he persisted, the necklace taking shape as a simple adornment, its asymmetry a claim mirroring the armband you'd given him.
Yours on his skin, this for your neck, a silent vow to the bond he hadn't dared voice.
Daylight crept in again, the marui warming with the sun's rise and Ao'nung finally set the finished piece aside, its weight light but meaningful in his palm. He headed to the beach for the gathering, his role as leader pulling him to the water's edge where ilus bobbed in the shallows, their sleek forms glistening.
He knew your schedule intertwined with Tsireya's today, gathering kelp and pearls from the outer reefs and he waited, eyes scanning the horizon, the necklace tucked into a pouch at his hip.
Saraye steered her ilu closer, her mount brushing his with deliberate proximity but he paid her no mind, gaze fixed on the approaching figures, jaw set in quiet focus.
You appeared then, mounted gracefully on your ilu, the wind tugging at your braids but your eyes slid past him without pause, the avoidance a sharp twist in his chest, your posture rigid as you guided your creature to join Tsireya's side.
He swallowed the pang, figuring the distance was necessary, that he'd speak to you later in private. Away from the eyes of the clan, no pressure to you in the open where whispers could wound. The group set out, ilus slicing through the waves in formation, the sea's rhythm steady under him as he directed the paths, his commands barked low and efficient.
Silence wrapped around his thoughts until Tsireya's voice shattered it, a shout laced with panic of your name tearing from her throat.
He whipped around, heart slamming against his ribs, the world narrowing to the sight of you slumped forward on your ilu, blood trickling from a gash on your forehead, staining the teal of your skin in stark rivulets. Terror gripped him, cold and visceral, a echo of that first accident replaying in brutal clarity.
He urged his ilu forward in a surge, closing the distance in seconds reaching out to gather you from Tsireya's trembling arms, her face pale, tears streaking her cheeks as she passed you over.
Your body felt limp and fragile against him, the warmth of your form seeping into his chest even as the metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, soaking into his skin where he cradled your head. It was déjà vu, the rush of waves blurring as he kicked his ilu toward shore, holding you secure, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your neck, your blood smearing across his torso in warm streaks.
"Eywa, please." He whispered fiercely to the wind, pulse thundering. "Let her be okay."
The village blurred past as he barreled toward his mother's marui, Tsireya's ilu splashing close behind, her sobs carrying over the surf. He burst through the entrance flap, the space dim and herbal-scented, laying you gently on the healing mat as autopilot took over. His ears ringing, vision tunneling to the pale cast of your features, the shallow rise of your chest.
You looked so vulnerable, lashes fluttering weakly against your cheeks, the curve of your lips slack, blood matting a strand of hair to your temple.
Ronal moved swiftly, her hands steady as she took you from his grasp, assessing the wound with practiced eyes. Tsireya tumbling in behind to explain in halting bursts of the rogue current, the hidden coral outcrop, your focus lost in the moment.
His chest and arms glistened with your blood, sticky and cooling, but his eyes never left you, fixed on the fragility of your form, the way your fingers twitched faintly at your side.
"Go clean yourself up, Ao'nung." Ronal commanded, her voice firm yet laced with concern, glancing at him briefly before turning back to you, her fingers already mixing a poultice.
He nodded numbly, rising on unsteady legs, the weight of hope and fear pressing down as he backed away whispering to himself. "She'll be okay. She has to be."
As the memory fades and Tsireya left, alone in the dim hush of his marui, Ao'nung paced the woven floor. His broad chest heaved with a sigh, muscles taut under his teal skin as he raked a hand through his braids, the beads clinking softly.
What he'd once craved of nights tangled with whoever caught his eye, the thrill of no strings, the freedom to chase the next wave has now twisted into something hollow, a shadow against the vivid pull you exerted on him.
"Fuck." He growled low, the word rough and edged with frustration, fists clenching at his sides as he sank onto the mat, staring at the armband you'd woven for him, its fibers a constant press against his bicep.
Tomorrow he'd corner you, lay bare the truths gnawing at him.
How your innocence had hooked him deeper than any fleeting liaison, how pulling away that night wasn't rejection but a desperate bid to honor the purity you valued even if the bond was born of fogged memory. He'd explain the laugh with Saraye, the shells he'd gathered just for you, the necklace burning a hole in his pouch. But doubt coiled in his gut, sharp as a spear tip.
Would she listen or had the recovered memories sealed me out for good?
Sleep came heavy and reluctant, his body curling into itself, dreams fractured with visions of your curves arching under him, the slick heat he'd denied himself leaving him waking with a insistent throb between his legs.
Dawn broke with a soft glow over the village, the reef's colors bleeding into the sky as Ao'nung slipped from his marui, the clumsily woven necklace clutched in his palm. The shells strung unevenly, a pearl at its center catching the light like a promise. He made his way to your dwelling, the path familiar now, his steps measured but urgent, heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs.
You emerged just as he approached, your form silhouetted against the entrance flap, the sway of your wide hips accentuated by the tight weave of your loincloth, the supple swell of your breasts rising with each breath under a beaded top that clung to your skin. Your face, that exquisite blend of soft features and wide guarded eyes, turned away before locking on him, lashes lowering in deliberate avoidance.
"(Y/N)." He called, voice low and laced with a plea stepping closer, the pouch at his hip swaying.
But you didn't pause, shoulders stiffening as you veered toward the communal path, bare feet padding silently over the packed earth, your long hair swaying like kelp in a current.
He thought of Saraye's bold assumptions, how you'd twisted his laughter into betrayal and it fueled him. You believed him reverted to old habits, tangled with her perhaps, chasing skirts while your heart mended elsewhere. The idea ignited a possessive fire in him, his gaze tracing the line of your spine, imagining pinning you against a palm, hands gripping those birthing hips as he ground against your ass, showing you exactly who consumed his thoughts.
He followed at a distance, shadowing your steps like a hunter tracking elusive prey, the thrill of the pursuit sending heat coiling low in his belly.
You headed to the weaving circle where women gathered under shaded fronds, their hands busy with fibers and dyes. dTsireya was there, her frame bent over a half-finished mat but she glanced up as you approached, her eyes flicking past you to Ao'nung lingering at the edge, his tattooed arms crossed and jaw set. You settled beside her, fingers deftly twisting cords but your movements were tense, the curve of your neck exposed as you leaned forward, oblivious or pretending, to his presence.
"Tsireya." You murmured, voice soft with forced lightness, though your cheeks flushed faintly. "Pass me the red fiber? I need to finish this band before the tide turns."
She obliged, shooting him a warning glare over your shoulder but he didn't retreat.
Instead crouching nearby pretending to inspect a nearby basket, his eyes devouring the way your thighs pressed together as you shifted, the faint sheen of sweat tracing a path down your collarbone into the valley between your breasts. Obsession bloomed sharper as images flashed of your legs parting for him, that virgin slit glistening, begging for his tongue to trace its folds, to taste the sweetness he'd only fantasized about while denying himself.
"(Y/N), wait." He said finally, voice rougher now, edged with the strain of restraint as he rose and closed the gap, ignoring Tsireya's sharp intake of breath.
You stiffened hands pausing mid-twist but kept your gaze on the weaving, the fiber snapping taut under your grip.
"I need to talk to you. About everything." His words hung heavy, charged with the undercurrent of desire he barely leashed, his body heat radiating as he knelt beside you, close enough that his knee brushed your outer thigh sending a jolt through him at the contact.
You exhaled sharply, a flicker of hurt crossing your features before you masked it, lips pressing into a thin line.
"There's nothing to say, Ao'nung." You replied coolly, though your voice wavered, betraying the storm beneath your shy reserve. "You've made your choices clear. I thank you for taking care of me but you can now go back to... whatever life you had before me."
The words stung laced with accusation, your wide and shimmering eyes finally meeting his for a heartbeat before darting away, the beauty of your face twisting his gut with regret and want.
He leaned in, breath warm against your ear, the scent of your skin stirring his cock to half-hardness beneath his loincloth. He really doesn’t know what’s wrong with him and why his body is like this with you now.
"It's not what you think." He murmured, low and insistent, fingers itching to trace the shell of your ear, to tilt your chin and claim your mouth until you melted against him. "Saraye means nothing. Let me explain yawntu, please."
The endearment slipped out raw with longing but you pulled back rising abruptly, the sway of your hips hypnotic as you excused yourself to Tsireya with a murmured apology, heading toward the shore path.
He trailed you again, the sun climbing higher, warming the sand underfoot as you reached the water's edge, bending to rinse your hands in the shallows, the waves lapping at your ankles.
Your loincloth rode up slightly, revealing the firm curve of your ass and he bit back a groan, vision blurring with the urge to drop to his knees behind you, hands spreading your cheeks to bury his face there, tongue delving into your untouched heat until you buckled moaning his name. Obsession clawed deeper within him, a thrilling ache that made his pulse race.
He couldn't let you slip away, not when every glance, every avoidance, only heightened the carnal hunger building like a storm.
The beach wasn't empty, a few hunters sparred nearby, their grunts echoing but he ignored them, matching your pace as you wandered along the tideline, picking at driftwood absently.
"(Y/N)." He tried again, voice dropping to a husky timbre, stepping into your path this time, his taller frame blocking the sun, casting a shadow over your form.
Water droplets clung to your skin tracing lazy paths down your arms and he followed one with his eyes, imagining licking it away, his mouth exploring the soft underside of your breast, teeth grazing the peak until it hardened under his assault.
You halted, chest rising faster, the beaded top shifting with the motion, outlining the pert tips beneath.
"Why are you doing this?" You demanded, frustration bleeding into your tone, eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something softer, a vulnerability that made his heart clench. "Following me like I'm some obligation? Just like before when I thought... when I was wrong about us. Leave me be, Ao'nung. Go find Saraye, she seemed to make you laugh."
The bitterness twisted the last words, your hands fisting at your sides as your knuckles paled.
He reached out, fingers grazing your wrist, light and tentative but electric, the contact sending sparks up his arm straight to his groin, where his length strained fully now, tenting the fabric obscenely.
"That laugh wasn't for her." He said fiercely, thumb stroking the pulse point there, feeling it flutter wildly. "She assumed I was trapped with you, like caring for you was a chore. I laughed because it's absurd, being near you is the only thing that feels right anymore. I pulled away that night because I respect you, (Y/N). Your innocence, what you hold sacred. I won't corrupt it with half-truths. I wouldn’t fuck you knowing your mind is under a haze even if I badly fucking want to."
His gaze dropped to your lips, full and parted on a shallow breath, imagining them wrapped around his cock, sliding down inch by inch, your shy eyes watering as you took him deep.
You yanked your hand free but didn't flee, the tension crackling between you like lightning over the reef, your body leaning imperceptibly closer despite yourself.
"Respect?" You echoed voice trembling, a flush creeping up your neck. "Or regret? Now that I remember, you're free again. Back to your ways."
The words were a challenge, laced with the pain of your shattered illusions but your eyes betrayed the lingering pull, the way they traced the hard planes of his chest, the V of his hips.
The thrill intensified, his obsession a living thing now urging him to close the distance, to press you against the nearest rock and rut against your core until you felt his undeniable raw need.
But he held back, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "No regrets. Only want. For you, all of you. Let me show you, not with words but... give me a chance."
He lifted the pouch, the necklace glinting as he drew it out, holding it toward you like an offering, the uneven weave a testament to his fumbling devotion.
You stared at it, conflict warring on your feature. The pretty bow of your mouth softening, eyes widening at the shells that mirrored the ones you'd admired together. But then Tsireya's call echoed from afar, pulling you back and you turned away once more, leaving him standing there, arousal throbbing unmet.
The chase far from over, each step you took only drawing him deeper into the intoxicating web of desire and denial.
You walked away from him on the sun-warmed sand, the waves whispering at your heels like secrets you weren't ready to hear, your heart a tangled knot of doubt and lingering ache. The necklace he'd offered glinted in your mind's eye, a fragile thing that tugged at the edges of your resolve but you pushed forward, your hips swaying with each determined steps.
Behind you, Ao'nung stood frozen for a heartbeat, the shell strand clutched in his fist, its edges biting into his palm as resolve hardened in his chest like coral forming over time.
No more holding back.
With your memories restored, the fragile veil of your amnesia was gone and so was the restraint he'd imposed on himself out of some misguided respect for the innocence you'd carried like a sacred flame. He never saw your purity as a barrier to shatter but a canvas to paint with his touch, to draw out moans and shudders until you craved him as fiercely as he burned for you. He'd use every whisper of pleasure and every slide of skin on skin to weave you into his world making the bond real, sealing it with the heat of your bodies joining.
His old ways called to him, that shameless pursuit of ecstasy but this time it was singular, laser-focused on you. On the curve of your spine, the plush give of your breasts, the untouched warmth between your legs that he'd claim inch by aching inch.
His parents' words echoed faintly, a nudge he'd ignored for too long.
Settle, mate, build a legacy.
Fine. He'd do it, but only with you.
Filling you until your belly swelled with the promise of their grandchild, your wide hips cradling the life you'd create together. But first, he had to break through that shy wall you hid behind, tease it down with lips and fingers until you begged. Gripping the necklace tighter, the pearl warm against his skin, he started after you again with his strides longer and more predatory, the throb in his loincloth a insistent drumbeat urging him on.
You veered toward the village center, where the midday bustle hummed.
The hunters sharpening spears under woven awnings, children darting between legs with laughter like splashing water, women carrying baskets of fresh catch from the reef. The air hummed with the scent of smoked fish and blooming vines but your focus narrowed to escape to the cool shade of the gathering pavilion where Tsireya might be waiting. Your bare feet sank into the soft path, each step sending a faint tremor up your legs, your breasts shifting gently with the motion, nipples pebbling against the beaded strands from the breeze off the sea and Ao’nung's advances earlier.
He caught up before you reached the pavilion's edge, his hand wrapping around your upper arm, not rough but firm and halting you mid-stride. The contact seared, his callused fingers pressing into the soft flesh and you felt the heat of him radiate through your skin, stirring an unwelcome flutter low in your belly.
"(Y/N)." He breathed, voice a low rumble that vibrated against your back as he pulled you slightly aside into the partial shelter of a broad-leafed plant, its fronds casting dappled shadows over your faces.
His body crowded yours, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades but the hard line of his arousal was evident against your hip when he shifted closer unashamed.
It was a whole 360 from the restraint he had when you were under the selective memory loss and was humping him like you were in heat. Still, you twisted in his grip, cheeks heating as you met his gaze. Those intense teal eyes darkened with hunger, his pupils blown wide like the deep sea at night.
"Let go." You whispered, voice trembling with the effort to sound firm though your body betrayed you, leaning just a fraction into his warmth.
Innocence cloaked you still. You knew the basics of mating from hushed talks with Tsireya, the sacred joining under Eywa's gaze but the raw mechanics of the stretch, the slick slide, the overwhelming fullness remained a hazy mystery, one that made your pulse skitter when his thumb traced a slow circle on your arm.
Ao'nung didn't release you.
Instead he stepped nearer, his free hand rising to cup your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered perilously close to his. His breath fanned hot over your mouth, carrying the faint tang of salt and desire.
"I can't." He admitted, the words rough and laced with a yearning that twisted his features, brows furrowing as if the confession pained him. "Not anymore. You think I'm chasing Saraye? That laugh was at her foolishness, nothing more. She's a shadow, (Y/N). You... you're the one pulling me under."
His thumb brushed your lower lip parting it slightly and you felt the damp heat building between your thighs, unfamiliar and insistent, making you clench instinctively.
Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as you fought the pull, the way his touch ignited sparks along your nerves.
"Prove it." You challenged softly though your voice cracked, body arching subtly toward him despite your words. "Words are easy for you. You've said them to others."
The accusation hung between you, your free hand pressing against his chest as you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath the firm muscle, his tattoos curling like waves over his pecs. He groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest right into your palm, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to hold you steady as he leaned in with his nose brushing yours.
"Easy? This is torture." He murmured, lips grazing the corner of your mouth in a tease that sent liquid fire pooling in your core. "Every night with or without you in my marui, I ache hard from the thoughts of burying deep inside you, feeling your walls clench around me for the first time. Your innocence drives me mad, yawntu. I want to ruin it, show you how good it can be, how you'd drip for me, beg for my cock to fill that sweet virgin pussy but I had to hold back because I do not want you to hate me once you got your memories back. I did not want you to think I’m taking advantage of your selective amnesia just to get my dick wet."
The words were filthy, explicit, yet honest as it painted pictures that made your knees weaken and your heart soften in understanding.
You shoved at him harder though your push lacked conviction, fingers splaying over the ridges of his abs, tracing the dips involuntarily.
"Stop." You gasped but it came out breathy, your hips shifting restlessly, the friction of your loincloth against your swelling clit a new torturous sensation.
He was obsessed, you could see it in the way his eyes raked over you as it devoured the swell of your tits straining the beads, the flare of your hips he wanted to grip while thrusting home. Blooming festering love simmered beneath the lust making his yearning palpable like a tide dragging you under its pull.
But you held firm, barely, the doubt about Saraye a anchor keeping you from melting. "Not like this. Not when I see you with her in my mind."
Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears and it only fueled his determination, his hand sliding down to your waist, thumb dipping just under the edge of your top to stroke the soft skin there. Ao'nung's jaw clenched, frustration and adoration warring in his expression as he pulled back slightly enough to scan the growing crowd nearby.
The villagers milling about the pavilion, conversations dipping as eyes turned toward your secluded spot. Tsireya lingered at the edge, her gaze sharp while Saraye hovered further back, arms crossed watching with narrowed eyes.
Perfect. If words weren't enough, action would be.
He straightened, keeping one hand possessively on your hip, the necklace still fisted in the other and raised his voice, letting it carry over the hum of the village like a hunter's call.
"(Y/N) is mine as I am hers." He declared, the words booming with finality, drawing gasps and murmurs from the gathered clan.
Heads turned, whispers rippling like waves as Ao'nung, the untamed future Olo'eyktan, announced a courtship? He'd never done this, never laid claim publicly, always keeping his entanglements fleeting and private. No woman worthy enough to be considered to be courted yet here is he now.
"I am courting her officially under Eywa's light. No other. She is the only woman I see, the only one who stirs my blood, who I'll bond with body and soul." His eyes locked on yours pleading as he pressed the necklace into your palm, closing your fingers around it. "Prove it? This is proof. You're it for me."
The crowd erupted in stunned chatter, faces alight with surprise as hunters exchanged wide-eyed looks and women clutching their baskets tighter in envy. Tsireya's lips curved into a knowing smirk, her gaze sliding to Saraye who paled, shoulders slumping as the implications sank in.
You stood there with the necklace warm in your hand, heart pounding wildly, the lewd promise in his earlier words still echoing making your body hum with unspent tension. You hadn't given in fully, not yet as the hesitance in you held you back demanding more time to believe but the public vow cracked something inside leaving you trembling on the edge, his obsession a thrilling current pulling you closer.
The murmurs of the clan still swirled around you like the eddies in a tidal pool, eyes lingering on the two of you with a mix of awe and curiosity but Ao'nung's declaration hung in the air like a claimed territory.
You searched his face, those sharp features etched with a sincerity that cut through the haze of your doubts.
He wasn't a liar, no.
The future Olo'eyktan might chase skirts and leave hearts in his wake but deceit wasn't his vice. He was transparent with everything. His words had weight, forged in the heat of his affections for you and they settled over you, heavy yet oddly reassuring.
Hesitantly you nodded, the motion small, your chin dipping just enough to signal surrender to the moment.
A wide triumphant grin split his face, his teeth flashing white against the teal of his skin as he stepped closer, the crowd fading into a distant hum. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck sending a shiver racing down your spine. The necklace's cool pearls slid against your collarbone as he fastened it, the shell pendant nestling between the soft swell of your breasts right where your beaded top parted slightly with each breath.
"You're so beautiful, yawntu." He murmured, voice dropping to a husky timbre that vibrated through the scant space between you, his gaze tracing the way the light caught the curve of your jaw and the full pout of your lips. "I'll court you every day, even after we're mated. I always will."
His thumb lingered at the clasp, a gentle press that made your pulse stutter, the warmth of his body invading your senses of musk and sea salt mingling with the faint earthy scent of his arousal.
You bit your lower lip, the plump flesh caught between your teeth as uncertainty flickered in your chest, words caught in your throat like fish in a net. The public vow was one thing but the intimacy of his promise tugged at something deeper, a shy ache that made your thighs press together subtly.
Ao'nung's eyes darkened at the sight, his breath hitching as he leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours.
"Come home?" He asked, the plea raw in his tone, laced with a vulnerability that cracked his usual bravado. "The marui doesn't feel like home without you in it anymore."
His hand found yours, fingers interlacing with a possessiveness that sent heat blooming across your skin, his calluses scraping lightly against your palm. Warmth flooded your chest, a gentle tide washing over the remnants of your resistance, easing the knot there. You nodded again, more firmly this time, letting him lead you away from the pavilion's edge, his stride confident as he wove through the thinning crowd.
The path to his marui wound along the lagoon's fringe, bioluminescent vines glowing faintly in the late afternoon light, their tendrils swaying like silent witnesses.
Behind you, Tsireya's voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with satisfaction as she turned to Saraye who stood rigid with her arms still crossed over her chest. Tsireya's smirk was a blade, her eyes gleaming with protective glee.
"He was never yours to begin with." She said, voice low but carrying the weight of finality, her posture straight and unyielding. "You better be glad my brother is too busy with her right now or you would have been punished for what you did."
Saraye's face drained of color, her lips parting in a silent retort but Tsireya turned away leaving the words to fester like an open wound.
Ao'nung was all smiles as he guided you up the familiar woven steps to his marui, the entrance draped in kelp curtains that parted with a soft rustle. The space inside enveloped you as he pulled you deeper, his hand never leaving yours until you stood in the heart of it, the low platform bed piled with soft furs in the corner.
"I'm taking your things back from your marui tomorrow." He declared, his grin softening into something warmer and more intimate as he faced you fully, his broad shoulders filling the doorway behind. "You belong here."
His free hand rose to trace the necklace's path along your throat, fingers dipping lower to skim the edge of your top where the beads clung to the underside of your breast. You nodded, the motion automatic, your body already yielding to the pull of his presence, the way his tattoos seemed to shift with each flex of muscle under his skin.
He exhaled slowly, stepping closer until his chest brushed yours, the hard planes pressing against your softer curves.
"I cannot erase my past, (Y/N). I was a skxwang." He said, voice rough with earnestness, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "But I will do everything in my power to shield you from it. You... changed me. I want to be better for you and I will."
The confession hung between you, his hand sliding to your waist, thumb circling the dip above your hipbone igniting a spark that traveled straight to your core.
Your lips parted, a soft exhale escaping as you searched his face, the sincerity there chipping away at the last barriers.
"How?" You whispered, voice trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity, your fingers tightening in his grip. "You've always been... free with your affections. What makes this different? Me?"
Ao'nung's jaw tightened, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he pulled you flush against him, the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against your belly through his loincloth.
"Everything." He breathed, his mouth hovering near your ear, breath fanning the sensitive shell. "You make me burn, yawntu. Not like the others who were just fleeting fires. With you, it's a storm, crashing and endless. I dream of tasting you, of making you writhe under me until you forget anyone came before you."
His words were a caress, filthy and direct, stirring an unfamiliar heat between your legs, a slick warmth that made you shift restlessly. You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing as naivety mixed with the budding ache.
"Tasting?" The question came out breathy and innocent, your wide eyes meeting his unaware of the depths he meant.
A feral glint entered his gaze, his grip on your waist firming as he guided you backward toward the bed platform, the furs yielding under your calves.
"Let me show you." He urged, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper laced with hunger. "No further than this, not yet. Just... let me worship you. See how it binds us closer than words."
His free hand trailed down your side, hooking into the tie of your loincloth loosening it with deliberate slowness, the fabric whispering as it fell away exposing the smooth expanse of your thighs and the untouched mound between them.
Your heart hammered with a shy protest rising but it died on your tongue as he knelt before you, his strong hands parting your legs gently, thumbs stroking the inner skin until gooseflesh prickled.
"Ao'nung..." You murmured, half plea and half wonder, your hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there.
The air felt charged and heavy with anticipation, your body trembling as he looked up at you, eyes dark with obsession.
"Trust me." He said, the words a vow, his breath ghosting over your core, making you gasp at the sudden sensitivity.
He leaned in, nose brushing the softness above your slit inhaling deeply, the musky sweetness of your arousal hitting him like a drug, his cock twitching painfully against the confines of his cloth, pre-cum beading at the tip.
"Eywa, you smell like sin and salvation. So fucking good." He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin as his tongue flicked out, tracing a tentative line along your outer fold.
The sensation was electric, a jolt that arched your back, your thighs quivering as you gripped him tighter. You innocence shattered in that first touch of the wet and insistent tongue parting your lower lips to lap at the slickness gathering there. You whimpered needily, your hips bucking instinctively toward the source of pleasure as unfamiliar waves build low in your belly.
He growled in response, feral now, hands clamping onto your wide hips to hold you steady, his fingers sinking into the plush flesh as he devoured you. His mouth was relentless, tongue circling your entrance before delving inside, thrusting shallowly to taste your depths, the lewd wet sounds filling the marui like a forbidden chant.
"So tight, so fucking delicious." He mumbled against you, the vibrations sending sparks up your spine, his nose nudging your swelling clit with each eager press.
You moaned head falling back, the necklace's pendant swaying with the motion and cool against your heated skin. Pleasure coiled tighter, a pressure you'd never known making your toes curl into the furs.
"What... what is this?" You gasped, voice breaking as his lips sealed around your pearl sucking gently then harder, teeth grazing just enough to tease.
"This is you coming alive for me." He rasped, pulling back briefly, his chin glistening with your essence, eyes wild with lust as he stroked himself through his loincloth, the outline of his thick shaft straining.
The sight made your core clench emptily, a fresh gush of wetness coating his waiting tongue as he dove back in, lapping sloppily and nastily like a man starved. His tongue flattened dragging from your entrance to your clit in long deliberate strokes savoring every drop and every quiver.
Minutes blurred in agonizing bliss as he alternated between soft licks and fervent sucks, one hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple through the beads, the dual assault making stars burst behind your eyelids. Your breaths came in pants, body slick with sweat and breasts heaving as the tension wound higher, your innocence yielding to the raw ecstasy he coaxed from you.
"That's it, yawntu." He encouraged between laps, voice muffled and desperate, his free hand fisting the furs to keep from touching himself further, cock leaking steadily now, the damp spot growing. "Let go for me. I want to feel you flood my mouth, mark me as yours."
His words pushed you closer, the obsession in his tone mirroring the love that simmered beneath, his mouth working you with single-minded fervor.
The peak crashed over you slowly at first then all at once. A tidal wave of sensation that had you crying out, thighs clamping around his head as your walls fluttered, release soaking his eager tongue. He drank it down, humming in approval, not stopping until you sagged boneless and spent, his kisses turning gentle on your trembling thighs.
Rising slowly, he pulled you into his arms, cock still hard and insistent against your hip but he held back, forehead resting against yours.
"See?" He whispered, voice hoarse with restraint. "This is just the beginning. You're mine now, in ways words can't touch."
Your body hummed with aftershocks, the corruption sweet and irreversible, drawing you deeper into his web.
Since then, your days blurred into a rhythm of relentless pursuit from him. Ao'nung's promises weaving into the fabric of your shared life like vines claiming a trellis. From that charged day in the marui, he hadn't faltered, not once. His courtship unfolded with a shameless fervor that left the clan buzzing with whispers trailing you both like schools of fish in the lagoon. He was a man unashamed, his affections poured out in broad daylight drawing eyes yet there was a steadiness to it now, a depth that silenced the skeptics over time.
Ronal's approval came first, her sharp gaze softening in ways you'd rarely seen.
As the family gathered in the central marui for the dawn meal, the air thick with the scent of roasted fish and fresh ilu kelp, she pulled Ao'nung aside after the others had scattered to their tasks. You lingered near the entrance, adjusting the shell bracelet he'd gifted you the day before, its smooth edges cool against your wrist. Tonowari nodded from his seat by the fire pit, his broad frame relaxed but it was Ronal who spoke, her voice a quiet command laced with warmth.
"Take care of (Y/N)." She said, her hand resting on his arm, fingers pressing into the inked patterns that marked his lineage. Her eyes, usually piercing with the weight of her tsahìk duties, held a rare tenderness, the lines around them crinkling faintly. "As much as you are my son, she is also a daughter to me."
The words carried the gravity of her promise to Riki’ea and Ar'von, her posture straightening as she glanced toward you with a subtle smile curving her lips.
Ao'nung met his mother’s gaze steadily, his jaw set with resolve, the muscles in his neck shifting under the morning light filtering through the woven walls.
He knew the roots of her affection, your mother had been her closest companion, a bond forged in youth and shattered too soon by death. Ronal had watched over you ever since, a silent guardian weaving you into the family's tapestry.
"I will, Mother." He replied, voice low and fervent, his hand covering hers briefly. "She's everything now. I swear it on the ancestors."
Tonowari grunted in approval clapping his son's shoulder with a firm thud that echoed his pride, the clan's future olo'eyktan finally stepping into the role they'd long urged.
The exchange lingered in Ao'nung's mind as he sought you out later that afternoon, the sun hanging high over the reef, casting dappled patterns on the sand. You were at the water's edge, knees drawn up as you watched young na'vi children splash in the shallows, their laughter mingling with the crash of waves.
He approached without preamble, dropping to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours in a casual intimacy that sent a quiet thrill through your veins. His skin was warm from the hunt earlier, a faint sheen of sweat tracing the ridges of his abdomen where his loincloth rode low.
"Yawntu." He murmured, voice a soft rumble that drew your eyes to his face, to the strong line of his nose and the way his full lips quirked in that shameless grin. He reached for your hand, interlacing fingers with a gentleness that belied his being, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered. "Walk with me? The cove beyond the mangroves, it's quiet there. Just us."
His gaze dipped briefly to the curve of your neck, where the necklace he'd placed there days ago rested against your skin, the pendant rising with each breath.
You hesitated only a moment, the warmth of his touch coaxing a nod from you, your body already leaning into the pull.
As you rose, he kept hold of your hand leading you along the shore, his stride measured to match yours, the sand shifting underfoot. The cove was a hidden gem, enclosed by twisting roots and lapped by gentle currents, the water a crystalline blue that invited submersion. He didn't release you until you both waded in up to your waists, the coolness shocking against the heat of the day.
There with the water buoying your forms, he turned to you, hands sliding to your waist, fingers splaying over the dip of your hips.
"I've been thinking of you all morning." He confessed, his breath warm against your temple as he drew you closer, chests nearly touching.
The water made everything feel weightless, his touch exploratory as palms glide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin barrier of your top. It was soft, this affection laced with a darker undercurrent that made your breath hitch as heat pooled low in your belly.
"Ao'nung." You whispered, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the flush creeping up your neck.
His name felt natural on your tongue again but the old endearment hovered, waiting. You liked this, the way he looked at you like you were the only tide worth chasing, his body responding to yours with an openness that chipped away at your reservations.
He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through the water as he leaned in, lips grazing your earlobe. "Say it properly, yawntu. That one nickname I miss hearing from you."
His hands dipped lower, cupping the swell of your ass beneath the surface and squeezing just enough to elicit a soft gasp from you, the pressure firm yet tender, igniting sparks along your nerves.
Softening under his gaze, you let the words slip out, tentative at first.
"Nungie..." It was a murmur laced with affection, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.
His eyes lit with triumph, a groan escaping him as he pulled you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal pressing into your thigh through the water's veil.
"There it is." He breathed, voice husky with desire, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the column of your throat.
He nuzzled there, lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin mixed with the sea's brine. It was lewd in its intimacy, his free hand roaming to tease the tie of your top, loosening it just enough for the fabric to slip baring one turquoise breast to the cool air above the waves.
You arched into him, a quiet moan bubbling up as his mouth descended capturing the peaked nipple between his lips, sucking with a slow deliberate rhythm that sent jolts straight to your core. The water lapped around you, heightening every sensation of the swirl of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, his hips rolling subtly to grind against you.
"Nungie, please." You whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders, nails leaving faint crescents on his teal skin.
He pulled back slightly, eyes dark with lust but tempered by reverence, his thumb circling your wet nipple.
"I could do this forever." He said, voice rough, forehead pressing to yours. "Taste every inch, make you feel how deep this runs."
But he reined it in, retieing your top with careful fingers, the promise lingering in his touch as he kissed you deeply, tongues tangling in a dance that left you breathless.
Word of his devotion spread like ripples from a dropped stone. The clan noticed the change, the way Ao'nung no longer lingered at gatherings with wandering eyes, his attention fixed solely on you. During a communal hunt preparation the next eve as warriors sharpened spears under the torchlight, he wove through the group to bring you a woven basket of fresh fruits, his hand brushing your lower back possessively as he leaned in.
"For you." He said, popping a ripe berry between your lips, his thumb lingering to wipe the juice from your chin, eyes locked on the way your mouth worked around it.
The gesture was affectionate and public drawing smirks from the others but he ignored them, focused on the spark in your eyes.
Tsireya watched from afar, her nod subtle, approval clear in her relaxed stance as she sees her brother finally making everything right for you.
That night back in the marui, the air hummed with the soft glow of lanterns, furs spread invitingly on the platform. He drew you down with him, bodies aligning in a tangle of limbs, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that started sweet and turned heated.
"You're softening to me." He observed between breaths, his hand slipping under your loincloth to cup your cunt gently, fingers tracing lazy circles over your folds without parting them, just enough pressure to make you squirm.
"Maybe I am." You admitted, voice breathy, calling him "nungie" again as you nipped at his lip, your leg hooking over his hip.
The lewd press of his erection against your thigh was insistent but he kept it teasing and with a drawn line, grinding slowly while his mouth explored your neck, sucking marks that bloomed like bruises of possession.
He proved it daily, to you in stolen touches that left you aching, to the clan in his unwavering focus, to his parents in quiet reports of your growing bond. Ronal's smile grew wider each time she saw you together, her hand often squeezing yours in passing, a silent affirmation.
And as the days stretched, your walls crumbled further which led to the very night he had been praying Eywa for.
The marui enveloped you in its hushed intimacy, the woven walls filtering the distant hum of the reef into a soothing lull. The lights casting a soft ethereal glow across the furs strewn over the sleeping platform, their light dancing on Ao'nung's teal skin as he knelt before you, his broad shoulders tense with a mix of reverence and barely leashed hunger.
Your heart pounded in your chest, a wild rhythm that echoed the waves outside, your wide hips shifting slightly as you sat cross-legged, the thin straps of your top straining against the swell of your breasts with each shallow breath.
His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours, the faint scar along his jaw catching the light, making his handsome features sharper and more commanding.
"Yawntu." He murmured, voice a low vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his large hand reaching for yours with a gentleness that contrasted the raw power in his frame. His fingers intertwined with yours, thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist. "Before anything... we bond. As Eywa wills it. I respect that. Your heart, your ways, your convictions."
There was a earnest plea in his tone, his gaze unwavering, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing on him like the ocean's depth.
You nodded, a flush warming your cheeks, your full lips parting on a soft exhale. The innocence that had shielded you for so long felt fragile now, cracking under the heat of his stare but trust bloomed in its place nurtured by his relentless courtship, the way he'd shadowed your days with touches that lingered just shy of demanding.
"Nungie." You whispered, the endearment slipping out like a secret, your free hand rising to brush your kuru, the neural tendrils within it quivering in anticipation. "Show me."
He leaned forward, his breath mingling with yours, the scent of salt and earth clinging to him like a second skin.
With deliberate care, he guided your kurus together, the pink tendrils uncoiling from their protective braids, seeking each other in the dim light. They met with a soft electric hum, connecting in a rush that stole your gasp, your body arching involuntarily as the bond snapped into place. Sensations flooded you, not just your own but his.
The fierce protectiveness that had taken root during those quiet mornings by the shore, the frustration of holding back when your laughter had first chipped at his guarded heart, the slow burn of desire that ignited fully in the marui nights, watching your hips sway as you moved. How he found you beautiful even way before the incident and how curiosity and fondness festered when he actually got to know you.
Memories cascaded through the link, vivid and unfiltered.
You saw Saraye's approach that fateful morning, her form pressing close muttering propositions and claims he rebuffed firmly, his mind already tangled in thoughts of you that day. The truth unfolded raw and undeniable, his encounters with her a fleeting accident as he was too determined to gather pretty shells and stones for you to apologize when she interrupted.
No lies, no hidden depths, just the stark honesty of a man remaking himself for one woman.
And then, the love.
It washed over you like a tidal surge, blooming from stolen glances during hunts, to the ache in his chest when you'd called him “nungie” again, to the all-consuming fire that now raged possessive and tender vowing to claim every part of you. You felt it in your bones, the depth of it mirroring the pull in your own soul, tears pricking your eyes as you clutched his hand tighter.
"It's real." You breathed voice trembling with awe, your supple curves pressing forward as you leaned into him, the bond amplifying the warmth pooling between your thighs.
Ao'nung's eyes darkened, a groan rumbling from his chest as the connection deepened, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb sweeping over your lower lip. "All of it, yawntu. Every beat of my heart, yours now."
The bond thrummed with his arousal, a throbbing heat that matched the slick ache building in you but he held back, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that started fierce and melted into something soul-deep, tongues sliding in a rhythm that echoed the bond's pulse. When he finally pulled away, his breathing ragged, the air between you crackled with intent.
The tsaheylu held you linked, every sensation shared, heightening the anticipation as he eased you back onto the furs, his body following caging yours without crushing.
His hands roamed with purpose now, no longer teasing as his palms slid up your sides to tug at the ties of your top, freeing your breasts to the cool air. They spilled out full and heavy, nipples pebbling under his gaze and he wasted no time, mouth descending to latch onto one peak, sucking with a wet insistent pull that drew a keening moan from your throat.
"Nungie—oh." You gasped, fingers threading into his hair, the bond flooding you with his pleasure at the taste of you that’s salty-sweet on his tongue.
He lavished attention on your skin, teeth grazing just enough to sting then soothing with broad licks, his hips settling between your thighs, the hard ridge of his erection grinding against your core through the thin barrier of your loincloth. The friction was maddening, your hips bucking up instinctively chasing the pressure as wetness soaked the fabric.
He chuckled against your breast, the vibration sending sparks through you before trailing kisses lower, nipping at the soft curve of your belly, hands working to peel away your loincloth. It slid free, exposing the flesh of your folds, already glistening with need. Ao'nung's breath hitched, eyes devouring the sight, his cock twitching visibly against his own cloth, straining the ties.
"So beautiful." He rasped, voice thick with lust, fingers parting your thighs wider as his thumbs brushed the sensitive inner skin. "My innocent yawntu, all mine to ruin."
Through the bond, you felt his thrill. The primal satisfaction of being first, the only one to witness you like this bare and trembling. He dipped his head, nose nudging your clit before his tongue flicked out, lapping at your entrance with a slow deliberate stroke that made your back bow. The taste of you exploded on his senses and shared with you in a dizzying loop, his groans muffled as he delved deeper, tongue thrusting inside your tight heat curling to coax more of your essence.
You writhed legs quaking, the bond amplifying every swirl and every suck on your swollen nub until stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Please, ma muntxa. More." You begged voice breaking, your innocence fracturing under the onslaught of pleasure as your mind fogged with the sheer intensity.
He obliged, one finger joining his tongue, pressing past your virgin barrier with care, the stretch burning sweetly as he pumped slowly, scissoring to prepare you. The bond let you feel his restraint fraying, the way your walls clenched around him driving him wild and his pre-cum beading at his tip.
He rose then shedding his loincloth in a swift motion, his cock springing free as the flushed head leaked, curving slightly toward his taut abdomen. It was imposing, larger than you'd imagined in your shy fantasies and your eyes widened, a mix of awe and trepidation fluttering through the bond.
"This is for you, yawntu. Your first and last cock." Ao'nung's lips curved in a predatory smile, hand wrapping around the base, stroking once to ease the ache. "Gonna fill you so deep, make you take every inch."
Positioning himself at your entrance, he notched the tip against your folds, rubbing through the slickness to coat himself, the drag teasing your clit until you whimpered.
"Breathe for me." He instructed voice husky, leaning down to capture your mouth as he pushed forward.
The breach was slow, your tightness resisting then yielding with a pop that had you crying out into the kiss, nails digging into his biceps. Inch by inch, he sank in, the bond sharing the exquisite burn of your walls stretching around him, molding to his girth like they were made for it.
"Fuck so tight." He growled against your lips, hips stuttering as he bottomed out.
The bulge of his cock visible against your lower belly, a faint outline pressing upward. You felt full, impossibly so, every ridge and vein pulsing inside you, the bond echoing his ecstasy of the way your heat gripped him like a vice, milking him already. He stilled, forehead to yours, breaths mingling as he let you adjust, his hand splaying over the swell, his thumb pressing the bulge.
"Feel that? That's me, claiming you. My cock buried in your sweet little cunt."
Tears of overwhelmed sensation slipped down your temples but you nodded, hips shifting experimentally drawing a hiss from him.
"Move, Nungie. Please." You pleaded, voice dazed, the pleasure coiling tight in your core chasing the high he'd built with his mouth.
He did, pulling back almost to the tip before thrusting in deep, setting a rhythm that started measured, each slide dragging against your sensitive walls, the wet sounds of your joining filling the marui. The bond intensified it all, his building need, the slap of skin, the way your breasts bounced with each plunge.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass urging him deeper, your moans turning incoherent as he angled to hit that spot inside, sparks igniting with every grind.
"That's it, yawntu. Take me." He panted, pace quickening, one hand pinning your hip while the other teased your clit with circles matching his thrusts.
Sweat slicked your bodies, his tattoos gleaming as his muscles flexed, the scent of arousal heavy in the air. You felt yourself teetering, the bond pushing you over as your walls fluttered clenching in release, a gush of wetness coating him. He groaned riding it out, thrusts erratic as your orgasm milked him but he didn't stop, flipping you onto your stomach with a possessive growl.
"Not done." He murmured, voice rough with obsession, lifting your hips to enter from behind.
The new angle letting him go deeper, the bulge more pronounced as he rutted into you. His hand snaked around to rub your oversensitive nub, the other tangling in your hair to arch your back, exposing the kuru still linked. Through it, you felt his intent crystal clear, the drive to breed, to flood you with his seed and make it take root.
"Gonna fill this pussy, make you swell with my child. Make you a mama carrying our future."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body responding despite the ache, pushing back to meet his hips, the lewd squelch of your combined fluids spurring him on. He pounded harder, balls slapping against your clit, the bond a torrent of his love twisted with feral need. It was nasty and unyielding, pouring into every snap of his hips. You came again vision blurring, mind going blissfully blank, cockdumb and lost in the stretch and the fullness as you mewled his name like a prayer.
Ao'nung followed with a growl, burying deep as he spilled hot pulses painting your walls, the bond letting you feel the rush of his release, the satisfaction of marking you inside out. He collapsed over you still joined, cock twitching with aftershocks, but even as he softened slightly, he rocked gently, ensuring every drop stayed buried.
"Mine." He breathed into your neck, kissing the bite he'd left earlier as his hand cradled your belly. "We'll do this again. Tonight, tomorrow, every day. Until it takes."
You hummed, sated and boneless, turning your head for a lazy kiss, the bond humming with shared contentment. He pulled out slowly after a time, only to flip you back, sliding in once more, already hardening at the sight of your flushed form and the cum leaking from your abused entrance.
The second round built slower, his thrusts languid, drawing out gasps as he worshipped your body anew with kisses to your throat, fingers pinching nipples, whispering filthy promises of the family you'd build.
By the third, you were a wreck of whimpers, riding him atop, hips grinding as he bucked up, the bulge reforming with each deep seat, his hands guiding your wide hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
Hours blurred, the marui filled with your shared cries, the bond sealing not just your souls but your fates as his seed took hold in the fertile ground of your innocence, corrupted and cherished in equal measure.
Soon, sunlight filtered through the woven panels of the marui, casting golden flecks across the furs where you lay tangled with Ao'nung, your bodies still humming from the night's fervor.
Your skin tingled with a newfound warmth, a subtle ache between your thighs a reminder of his thorough claiming and as you stirred, a soft glow seemed to radiate from within, your cheeks flushed with contentment.
He was already awake, propped on one elbow, his tattooed arm draped possessively over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns along the curve of your hip. His eyes, usually sharp with command, softened as they roamed your face, drinking in the way your lashes fluttered open and your full lips curving into a sleepy smile.
"Yawntu." He whispered, voice rough from sleep but laced with unbridled joy, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead then your nose, then the corner of your mouth.
He was insatiable in his affection, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent mingled with his own. A heady mix that made his chest rumble with satisfaction.
"My mate. Officially, irrevocably mine."
The words carried a triumphant edge, his broad frame shifting to pull you flush against him, the hard planes of his chest pressing into your softer form, his leg hooking over yours to keep you close.
You giggled, the sound light and bubbling up as his hands wandered with tender care, one cupping your breast gently, thumb brushing the sensitive peak until it hardened under his touch.
"Nungie." You murmured squirming playfully, your wide hips shifting against him, feeling the familiar stir of his arousal but basking in the simple intimacy.
He chuckled low and warm, moving to fetch a damp cloth from the basin nearby insisting on tending to you himself as he wiped away the remnants of your shared passion with slow reverent strokes that made your breath hitch.
"Let me." He insisted softly, his gaze locking onto yours with that intense devotion, the tattoos along his shoulders flexing as he worked.
He was happy, truly. Lines of tension smoothed from his forehead, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he watched your reactions, your giggles filling the space like music. When he finished, he gathered you into his lap, feeding you bites of fresh fruit from the woven basket, his free hand stroking your kuru.
But as the morning deepened, reality tugged at you.
"I have to help Tsireya with something." You said reluctantly, trying to extricate yourself from his hold, your voice tinged with apology.
His arms tightened immediately, a dramatic whine escaping his throat. This towering inked warrior all muscle and scars pouting like a child denied a treat.
"No." He groaned burying his face in your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. "Stay. We just... bonded. I don't want to let you go, not even for a moment."
His voice cracked with mock despair but the clinginess was real, his hands roaming your back in pleading circles, pulling you closer until your breasts pressed against his chest.
You laughed, the sound turning into more giggles as you cupped his face, thumbs tracing the strong line of his jaw. "Nungie, come on. It's just a few hours. You'll survive."
But he shook his head stubbornly, nipping at your earlobe, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"Cruel, yawntu. Leaving your mate so soon after making him the happiest man in the clan." His eyes sparkled with mischief but there was a vulnerable undercurrent, the reluctance of distance after so much closeness.
You pouted up at him, lips pursing in that way you knew melted him, your eyes wide and pleading. "Please? For me?"
He held out for a heartbeat longer, jaw clenching then sighed dramatically, relenting with a grumbled curse under his breath.
"Fine. But I'm walking you there."
He stood pulling you up with him, his hands lingering on your waist as he helped you dress. Tying your loincloth with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs drawing a fresh flush to your cheeks.
The path to the family marui wound through the village, the air alive with the calls of ilu and the chatter of early risers.
Ao'nung kept you tucked against his side, arm around your shoulders, his thumb stroking your arm in absent affection. But as you approached, his expression soured into a frown, forehead knitting when Tsireya spotted you from the entrance, her face lighting up with a knowing grin.
"Tsireya!" You called waving but Ao'nung's grip tightened fractionally, his steps slowing.
She laughed outright, the sound bright and teasing, leaning against the woven frame.
"Look at you two. And you—" She pointed at her brother, eyes dancing. "Frowning like a sulking pup. What's wrong, brother? Can't bear to share her?"
He scowled deeper, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the tattoos shifting with the flex of his muscles. "Shut up, Reya."
But there was no real heat in it, just the playful bickering of siblings.
Tsireya turned to you then, her gaze softening as she took in your appearance. The subtle shine to your skin, the relaxed curve of your smile, the way you carried yourself with a newfound ease.
"You look glowing, (Y/N). Truly radiant." Her voice held genuine warmth, a hint of relief threading through.
Ao'nung's frown lifted into a smug smirk, his chest puffing slightly as he shot her a triumphant glance.
Yes, my cock did that.
He thought, the satisfaction blooming in his chest though he kept it to himself, instead pulling you closer with a possessive hand on your hip.
You swatted at his arm lightly, cheeks warming under the attention. "Go on, Nungie. Shoo. I need girl time with Tsireya."
But he planted his feet shaking his head, his expression turning mulish.
"No. I'm staying." His tone brooked no argument, eyes fixed on you with that unyielding intensity, the broad span of his shoulders blocking the path as if daring anyone to challenge him.
Tsireya snorted, rolling her eyes skyward. "Stubborn as ever. Come on, then. Help or not but don't be a headache Ao’nung."
Inside the marui, the air smelled of herbs and sea salt, mats spread with half-mended nets and beads scattered for weaving.
You settled cross-legged on the floor, Tsireya beside you, passing over a bundle of fibers to start on.
Ao'nung followed dropping down behind you with a huff, his legs bracketing yours, arms encircling your waist to draw you back against his chest. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath fanning your neck as you began chatting, your fingers deftly twisting the materials.
Tsireya watched the pair of you for a moment then shook her head with an exasperated laugh. "You're so clingy, Ao'nung. You do not have to be here, you know? We can handle mending without your brooding presence."
He smirked against your skin, lips brushing your ear in a way that made you shiver, his hold tightening just enough to emphasize his point.
"That's what mates do, right? Stay close. Protect what's mine." His voice was low and teasing but the words carried a deeper truth, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, making it hard to focus on the task.
You could only giggle leaning into him despite yourself, the vibration of his chuckle rumbling through you as Tsireya launched into another retort.
"Protect? From what, loose threads? You're ridiculous." She flicked a bead at him but her eyes sparkled with amusement, the sibling squabble light-hearted, pulling more laughter from you as you mediated with playful nudges.
From the doorway, a distance away, Ronal leaned against the frame, her arms crossed loosely, a soft smile curving her lips as she observed the scene. The three of you, her children and the woman who'd become like a daughter, bickering and laughing, the marui filled with a harmony she'd long hoped for.
Riki'ea.
She thought, her gaze lingering on you with quiet affection.
I hope you're seeing this. Your daughter is truly happy now.
The words were a silent prayer to her best friend and her husband, her heart swelling at the sight of your joy, that selective amnesia started the bond that had finally woven you and Ao’nung together.
🐝 book 2 of the bridgerton inspo story 🐝
🐝 that older sister 🐝
summary : neteyam & his family have returned to awa'atlu, residing. as the eldest daughter of tonowari & ronal you are expected to find a mate via your people. when the olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya, also ao'nung's best friend, reenters your life - you're thrown off course.
but when you are caught participating in such scandalous acts, will you mate with who you love?
warnings!
mdni, 18+ language, swearing/cussing, slight angst, mean neteyam, smut, sex in public, rough sex, creampie, neteyam's a munch, reader is not petite, corruption, reader is oblivious, reader's inexperienced, spitting, overstim just smut & fluff!
a/n 📝 : no spell or grammar checks soz, i love bridgerton istg who's excited for the 4th season!? ✨ (ps this is long asf)
you dreamed of love as something fascinating, hard to come by.
it is not mere the thought of our minds it is beyond our imagination, beyond the lessons we are taught as we grow.
but how were you meant to know love would face you from one of a different clan, different tradition. you were not expecting to be pulled from your family like this, residing in a mauri which was empty and cold with silence.
your people and family are important to you. awa'atlu is your home, your beginning and hopefully your end, you are one with the metkayina. awa'atlu is home to many, land of 1000 years old surround the people, there is lesson, teachings, guidance, through the waters.
but when you declined every sing lelefnelan (male) na'vi that stepped before you, there was no place for you to complain with where you are now. you brought this upon yourself. your sa'nok (mother) and sempu (father), the Great Olo'eyktan Tonowari te Tsika'u Arvak'itan & Tsahìk Ronal te Natsira Tan'ite, pushed you to bring life to the clan. have children, find your mate for life, perform tsaheylu before eywa.
blah blah blah.
marriage was exciting, finding that someone was exhilarating. but you did not expect it to come like this. losing your position as the next olo'eykte for love. maybe it was the thrill of looking rather than gaining.
you were not shown of what is to come, what may happen. you were not told of the addicting sensation that happens between your thighs. you were not prepared for the aspects of marriage.
disappointment is what filled your parents at first, heavy silence, lectures every time you breathed, what else were they expecting from you? you cannot force tsaheylu with a lelefnelan (male) you do not love, it is painful just the thought of it.
you are rebellious in your parents eyes, hard to tame, annoying once your mouth is open. don't point fingers! it is not your fault that you have a mind of your own and do not rely on a significant other to respond for you.
years of childish behaviour, roaming the waters freely, getting into fights that you would lose, eating at your hearts desire, not caring of your image.
it is only until recently you have become more...tamed.
you are the Metkayina's crowned pearl. a burdening title but one where those of the other clans make you the talk of the century. is it a flex? possibly. a title rewarded for your care of the people, modesty, looks & skills. you have to put on a character for the people, they cannot see who you truly are.
when the Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya had graced you with his presence it was almost as if you had returned to being a teenager. a sudden wash of deja vu filled you when laying eyes upon him, your soul had been this close to him before.
Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan, Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya. when your family had first met them, they were all children, teens. the bond between you all formed naturally, from years of fighting beside one another.
but you were never close to neteyam, you were best friends with lo'ak. his younger brother, the Tulkun Makto. he is your sister's lover but also a younger brother beside ao'nung in your eyes.
neteyam was adamant on keeping you away from having fun, ruining every single ounce of excitement with his lectures. he behaved more like your father than ao'nung did. neteyam the party pooper. tuk created that name for him when he lined all of you up and told you off for trying to adventure to the sea dragon.
when neteyam had almost died before you, it was your name he called out. a friendship that suddenly became so fuelling, you thought of him as a soul mate.
but as time goes on, people change, feelings change too.
word had spread to the omatikaya that you were now accepting proposals, neteyam's family were ecstatic. but neteyam? it was an alarming feeling of betrayal that flowed through him. he didn't expect you to be so foolishly blind.
he had his eyes on you the moment he saw you but you did not entertain him, you did not look his way. you got closer with his brother instead. he tried every conversation with you but it did not last. until you fought side by side, protecting one another. you were locked in with him.
the day neteyam had arrived, you were not expecting anything from it. but what you didn't seem to remind yourself is that he is a man and you are a woman.
you could not sense of what was to come.
"tsmuke (sister)!"
ao'nung's voice pulls you from your thoughts.
"yes bro,"
"the na'ring (forest) na'vi have returned!,"
surprise slaps you round the face.
"the sullys have returned?"
"yes! are you coming to see them?"
your heart drops to your stomach, stepping outside your mauri pod with speed.
"let's go!,"
the two of you dive, darting through the water to the shores of awa'atlu.
the people are celebrating, welcoming the dark skinned na'vi before you. their tails are still as small. but their frames, they are taller, wider, larger. seeing them from behind, you could easily recognise who was who from their frames.
the backs of the two siblings, are defined. curved with muscles, taller in size, larger in frame. they had grown.
ao'nung rushes over to greet them but you don't follow so quickly, you stand back, watching.
"my friend."
ao'nung embraces neteyam, warmly.
"brother, it is good to see you." neteyam's voice is deeper.
his accent is thicker, heavy with every word. his voice is louder, every word so easily heard even if he were to whisper. just his voice screams olo'eyktan.
ao'nung and tsireya greet the sullys with love, your mother & father are quick to do the same. but you do not move any closer, you can only look.
her presence is clear. she is far but i can feel her, she is watching us. neteyam thinks to himself, a smirk lingering on his lips. he can sense you even from a mile away, he can smell your scent of...lilies, paskalin (sweet berry). neteyam's heart thuds against his chest, excitement.
"daughter, come forth," your father's booming voice, calls for you.
each step is gentle, standing beside your father. you lift your gaze, slowly, the sully's stand before you with shock.
neteyam couldn't stop the spark that travels down to his cock from seeing you. you have grown into a woman hand crafted by eywa herself, born again. you do not wear the same figure as before, you are rounder. so full in every corner he looks to, your thighs are thicker, stomach blessed with a pudge. your chest is swell, the roundness of your breasts elevated by the thin material you adorn.
stretch marks are luminous on your skin, travelling up your knees, muscled biceps, corners of your stomach. you hide them with tattoos that lie on your wide hips. tenderly built, full in a way that marked warmth. your face still adorned the full cheeks that are painted with the same pink hue.
you were everything neteyam did not expect and it only fuelled a feeling in him that lied dormant since he left awa'atlu. since he left your side. you had ignited the fire in him, desire.
it is tuktirey's voice that brings you back to reality, her squeal of your name has you walking over to her. you greet every sully with a tight hug, even their father, before you stand just breaths before neteyam.
he is no longer the boy that you would tease on purpose, the boy that would ruin all your fun. he is not the party pooper you remember.
you sigh as you think back to the day you had first met him after many years. neteyam wore scars as if they were the same blessed tattoos you have, he stands much taller, he looms. his face is chiseled, lips full. braids hang just past his shoulders, the same beads and feather behind his ear. he was so built. defined muscles, torso lined with abs, drool fills your mouth.
it was a fleeting feeling at first, the initial meeting was shy. your eyes did not meet but you shook each other's hands with blushes coating each other. a skip of a heart beat you did not register hitched your breath.
since that day, meeting the Olo'eyktan had become painful. he spoke very few words but let his eyes continue the rest of a conversation. he walked through the villages with his shoulders rolled back, hands behind his back. he still stood two steps behind his father, he was the Olo'eyktan and did not force his image.
interactions came more often, you could not escape the man no matter what corner you turned.
"do you not enjoy the celebrations with your people?," he asks you, lowering himself.
you look up at him through your lashes, a small smile on your lips as you take a bite of the fresh meat caught from the hunt.
"does it seem this way, olo'eyktan?"
he laughs to himself, you do not say his name out of respect, more out of mockery.
"it does."
his blunt reply has you silent.
"I hear you are planning on mating," he asks.
"yes...I am."
"I see,"
"do you have a partner, olo'eyktan?"
his silence has you questioning yourself.
"I do not."
"oh,"
"it's out of choice rather than...not being accepted,"
"I did not ask," you smirk.
he grins, shaking his head.
"still the same it seems,"
"of course,"
he hums, standing beside you in silence. the two of you do not utter another word that night, enjoying the quiet presence between one another.
at other times, neteyam would purposefully step in the way.
"you still have gift i made you,"
lo'ak smiles.
"of course I do sis, why would I get rid of it?,"
you grin, hugging him tightly.
"I'm happy to see you again bro,"
"me too, it's been a long time."
"it has, I'm sure things are better though, right?"
"yeah, we're just rebuilding ourselves at the moment,"
"that's good to hear, will you guys be staying for long?"
"depends on dad and neteyam,"
"I see,"
he nods, grabbing your hand.
"your sister missed you every time she left," he says.
"I'm glad she was with you,"
"me too, we wish you were with us,"
"I'm sure I will visit the forest soon, your father has ordered me to come soon,"
he laughs.
"yeah, dad talks about you all the time,"
"he does?" surprise filling you.
before lo'ak can speak any further, neteyam's eyes are dark as they scan your figure.
"bro," lo'ak greets.
"baby bro,"
lo'ak looks down at your joined hands, his brother's eyes hot on them. he lets go fast, patting your shoulder, gulping.
lo'ak knows his elder brother has always had his eyes on you, he knows how much he tried but failed. you were too close to lo'ak, you did not recognise the elder brother who also wanted to be close with you.
"bro,"
"yeah?" neteyam responds.
"you still got feelings for y/n?"
neteyam spits out the food he was eating, lo'ak gags.
"what's wrong with you?" neteyam muffles with a mouthful.
"first of all, that's disgusting. and just the mention of her name has you fumblin', mighty warrior," he mocks.
neteyam rolls his eyes, cleaning himself up.
"when did I ever have feelings for her?" he spits.
"c'mon bro, you weren't fooling anyone even if you didn't, you wanted to get close to her."
"bro..." neteyam sighs.
"she's kinda...she can't tell left from right, if you don't remember,"
"yeah, i know," neteyam groans.
"you had time though bro, you could've told her."
"wasn't the right time baby bro,"
lo'ak nods, rubbing his brothers back.
"she's gonna get wifed then knocked up bro, you better get a move on," he laughs.
neteyam scowls.
"shut your skxawng ass up lo'ak."
every single interaction had a space for neteyam to butt into. he did not let you have any sort of conversation without being there or eavesdropping behind you.
it wasn't attractive, it was jarring. it only spurred your annoyance towards him.
"are the standards that low y/n?," neteyam spits.
"excuse me?"
"you seem to be offering every man a chance,"
"does it seem that way? why does it concern you?" you grit.
"you must be weak minded."
anger burns through your skin.
"do not jest with me, neteyam."
"does it look like i'm making jokes?" his brow cocks.
you scoff.
"right and you clearly don't have any standards since you have no partner,"
he growls.
"don't try it with me y/n, I am just telling you. you have better choices of men, do not allow all of them such closeness with you, just for you to reject them." he shakes his head, sighing.
"and what are you going to do? help me find a mate?"
neteyam gulps, tilting his head.
"yes," he breathes out.
shock short circuits your mind.
"y-you what?"
"I will help you,"
if only you could run back and tell yourself to not fall into this trap, setting yourself up with your stupidity. neteyam announced courting you loud and clear, a promise made between you two.
"you will court me,"
neteyam's head almost snaps.
"what?"
"if you want to help me, you can't just walk around by my side. you must court me,"
"y/n."
"what? you have nothing to lose, don't stress it olo'eyktan. once we find the right one, we can go our separate ways."
you must have lost cells from every fight you lost in your time, because your stupidity angered neteyam. he could not believe the shit that was coming out of your mouth and neither can you, now that you look back at it.
now here you are, stuck in a space of hell. punished with the olo'eyktan next to you at every second. and each time you are near he puts this feeling in you, this thought, the world is slower at every step he takes.
his aura is threatening, his eyes are dangerous and that mouth. every single bit about him has your head spinning, your chest heavy with pressure when he is near.
what was meant to be joint partnership in succeeding you with a partner has turned into something that neither of you were expecting.
"neteyam, this is absurd!," you giggle.
"a man only has to take one look at you and he will claim you as his y/n,"
you roll your eyes, pressing your fingers, gently, into his arm.
a shiver is sent up his spine, your faint touch has his skin burning.
"you do not see how they look at you?"
you cock your hip, turning to face him.
"I do not."
"each time I speak to you i think you will remain oblivious forever,"
"hey! don't be mean,"
he shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
"i mean it, you're naive,"
"neteyam, i have simple conversation with simple men,"
"and, you fail to find the conversations interesting, your people here are not simple, they are anything but that."
you match his stance, crossing your arms over your chest.
you don't realise what mirroring him has done to you, your breasts lift; threatening to spill. neteyam's eyes can't help but flicker down at them. he smiles to himself. you can't help yourself even if you tried.
"how is them trying to sell themselves to me interesting? you should listen to the things they say!,"
neteyam only kisses his teeth in response.
so oblivious, you do not realise the cart of fruit that is about to hit you. neteyam pulls you in by your wrist, hand heavy on your waist as he moves you before him.
as if you have been winded, you gasp. heart racing at the sudden manhandling. no man has tried to carry you, you thought it was because you're too heavy. but he has lifted you with ease. no strain.
"careful," he whispers.
not realising how close he is to you, neteyam scans you face. the shock has drained colour from your face. he holds you tighter, rubbing soothing circles into your waist.
your eyes are wide, your lips parted.
"are you okay?,"
he lowers his head, moving it to each side of your face and body, analysing for a wound.
"i-i'm...i am not hurt," you whisper.
his hands are rough, calloused. heavy but warm. his hold on you has your skin prickling. licking your dry lips, you lull your head back.
"you are not hurt,"
"i am not." you breathlessly reply.
warmth pools in your belly, a tingle underneath your tweng (loincloth) has you squeezing your thighs together.
it doesn't go unnoticed by neteyam. his brows furrow, eyes flicking from your lips to both of your eyes. your breasts are pushed together, elevating the breaths you are struggling to take.
neteyam sniffs the air, paskalin. so close and intoxicating. the smell of your arousal has his ears flicking, tail curled higher. he smirks, letting his hand rub lower across your back. watching how you shiver below him.
you bite your lower lip, gulping. his warmth has you alarmed. pushing him off in an instant.
struggling to catch your breath, you turn on your heel.
"we will see each other later,"
he does not respond, inhaling your lingering scent on his hands.
you're aroused and you don't even know it.
neteyam is meant to feel ashamed, you're pure, untouched. & he's putting his hands all over you, ruining your modesty. it doesn't push him away from you, it brings him closer. when neteyam wants something, he will do anything to gain it. neteyam is a tsamsiyu (warrior) and he has the skills to achieve anything. even if it meant you.
but his mind isn't set on having you, no. it's to make you desperate for him, no man being able to provide the same presence. he came to awa'atlu to congratulate you, support you but now that he's seen how much you've changed? yeah, no. it was the stupid conversations you have with these men that are only after one thing, he doesn't want that to happen to you! neteyam's just looking out for you.
moulding you. he doesn't deserve you, he knows he'd be torturing you if he had you as his. you would not live the life you live now.
since the day neteyam had his hands on you, you crave for it more. wanting to feel his hands on you just a little longer, the feeling in your belly does not return until he is with you. the feeling between your thighs only happens when you're with him, you want it again.
and you got it alright, any excuse, any small excuse, neteyam had his hands on you.
ꨄ︎
"let us go this way y/n,"
his hand on the small of your back, remaining there as he pulled you, gently, to a different path. that same feeling returns.
"mind your step,"
his large hand holds yours, the roughness rubbing your hand in a soothing way.
ꨄ︎
"oh, your hair,"
"huh?"
he moves your hair behind your ear, tucking it, gently. butterflies fill your stomach.
ꨄ︎
"here,"
"thank you," you whisper.
he hands you a plate of food, filled largely. a smile coats your face.
ꨄ︎
"y/n,"
his breath is hot on the back of your neck, breath hitching, you turn to face him.
"yes?" you shakily respond.
he doesn't say a word, invading your personal space with his looming figure.
"I brought you a gift,"
"you did?," grinning.
"close your eyes,"
"we're not children neteyam,"
"just do it,"
closing your eyes, you place your hands up in the air. your cheeks ache from your hard grin, but when something cold is placed in your hands, you can't help but hum.
"what is it?"
"open your eyes,"
in your hands is your songcord, attached with new beads.
"what's this?"
"one for looking for proposals, one for our return to awa'atlu & the last one is for our new found friendship," his voice is soft.
warmth coats your entire body, you squeal as you pull him into a hug. knocking the wind out of his chest, neteyam lowers himself, steading you with his hands on your waist.
both of you laugh together, holding one another. but you don't realise, the beads are the same colours as the ones in neteyam's hair.
he has completely invaded your space, mind and soul. whatever man you talk to does not stimulate you the way neteyam does. no one interests you as much, no one has you second looking. it's painful, a waste of time. having to participate in pointless conversation that are not leading anywhere.
so you have begun flat out declining.
you do not want your time taken away from neteyam, no other man should waste hours of your days when you could be communicating with the man who knows just what you dislike and like, how to get a reaction out of you & what the right words are to ease your mind.
the grass isn't always greener.
he sits before you, eating fresh meat and sticky fruits. even when he is sat next to you, his frame is still taller. there is no denying the difference in your size next to the olo'eyktan.
"are you even listening to what I'm saying?," you shout.
"I am, I'm multi tasking,"
"what eating and not replying?"
"no...eating & listening."
rolling your eyes, you cross your arms, watching him.
the juice of a fruit rolls down his index and middle fingers, coating them. he tuts before...you're set on fire. you're burning before the man. your heart thuds in your ears, your throat dry.
neteyam's long tongue wraps around either of his fingers, lapping up the juices that trickle down before shoving both the finger in his mouth.
his long lashes flutter before he makes his eyes to yours, he's got you right where he wants you. you're dazed, starry eyed. watching him as every fibre in your body sets alight. your doe eyes stare at him, chest rising with each breath you take.
neteyam's eyes watch for any slight change in your expression, tracking even the smallest flicker. pleased focus. your eyes move to his, glossy.
bright to dark, desire coating his eyes. his pupils dilated, he lets go his fingers with a pop.
your flustered face is bright pink, glowing.
"you okay?," he smugly asks.
that same smell, sweet. your arousal shifts the air you breath, intoxicating his brain.
"y-yeah," you hiccup.
you stand with urgency, shaking.
"i don't feel well, i will see you another time,"
"you don't feel well or you're aroused?"
his question forces your eyes on his.
"w-what?"
"your chest rises faster, your heartbeat is loud, your lips are wet and your pupils are dilated. it is not an illness, you are aroused y/n,"
"w-what? n-no, stop I have to go."
he pulls you onto his lap by his wrist, a gasp turning into a quiet moan.
"neteyem! s-someone will catch us, let go of me!,"
but you do not fight to be freed, your relax further into his hold. he chuckles at your words, chest vibrating against your back.
"do you feel it between your thighs?," he whispers against your ear.
you shiver, hands gripping onto his thick forearms.
you purse your lips, closing your eyes, focusing on trying to stay silent.
your ass is right on his cock, so soft and full.
"tell me,"
his breath travels down your neck.
you nod, slow.
"do you understand what that feeling is?"
you shake your head no.
"it is arousal. does it feel wet and sticky?," he snarls.
you nod.
he groans, cock twitching, he can't stop his hips from rolling just gently.
"fuck," he groans.
you moan against him, his voice sends flushes to your stomach, goosebumps forming all over your light blue skin.
"have you ever touched yourself y/n?,"
confusion causes you to open your eyes.
"what? where?"
neteyam's eyes widen in shock.
"you've never touched yourself?"
"where? you've asked me this twice."
"you've never-"
his fingers slide across your body, pushing your thighs apart. you gulp in anticipation, letting out a shaky exhale. his fingers lightly tap you clothed clit, your back arches. a loud moan leaves your lips, the sensation makes your thighs tremble.
"touched your pussy?"
"n-no.."
"oh y/n."
you whine as his hand moves away. he coos, lifting you to face him, off of him. his strength warms your chest, the strange feeling of being able to be lifted by a man has you light headed.
"neteyam," you whimper.
he tuts.
"go home y/n and when you are alone, when it is quiet and dark outside. let your hands travel down your body, let your fingers touch your pussy, rub it, press down each time you touch your sensitive spot, explore yourself."
the voices of other have you running away, not listening to his call of your name. shock runs your body cold.
she'll do what i've asked her to do. neteyam whispers to himself, rubbing his thumb across his lips.
ding ding ding, he was right.
it is quiet in your mauri pod, silence filling the empty space. the moon is bright tonight, casting shadows within your home. you rid of your cover, closing your eyes.
neteyam fills your mind.
his body,
your hand travels lower.
his muscles,
your hand lets your breasts free, the cold air hardening your nipples. you hiss.
his golden eyes,
you rub your fingers across your nipple, arching into your touch. the sensitive buds sending sparks down you.
the way he held you in his arms,
your fingers travel to your tweng.
his larger frame caging yours,
moving your tweng to the side, you spread your legs wide.
the way he sucked his fingers,
your fingers push against your clit, yelping at the pleasure that bursts through you. you pant, stopping yourself. the feeling is so strange, so different. it has your insides buzzing, warm.
his fingers on your pussy,
rubbing your fingers against your pussy, your moan echoes through the darkness. the touch is exhilarating.
you keep rubbing, circling your clit, gathering the wetness of your pussy and spreading it over and through your folds. the faster you move, the intensity builds. the knot of pleasure inside you threatens to burst -
"neteyam," you moan.
the feeling washes over you, creaming as you shake. your eyes roll to the back of your head. this is addicting & all you've had is a taste of it.
neteyam could tell very well that you had touched yourself. your skin painted pink, cheeks rosy, chest rising each time he was no wear. no need to be so modest y/n.
you were so obedient already. he wanted to corrupt you with things you have never been taught, he wanted to show you what you have been missing out on.
but neteyam was a shy man when it came to his emotions, he's never had the space to talk about how he feels. there was never a need at times.
you began to fill his mind more than you already did. it was not poison, he began to hate himself. hate the thoughts that filled him. his morals did not align with what he was hungry for.
it did not stop, you did not stop infiltrating his mind. his dreams, his thoughts. he'd wake up and see you, go to sleep and see you, during the day you be there before him.
but his morals. you were a pearl, a beautiful woman that deserved to stay pure forever. well that was what he kept telling himself, internal conflict. he was debating with himself each day.
he told himself to look away when you were near, think of anything else but his thoughts did not cooperate, rotating images of you with a stubborn thirst that could not be quenched.
it unsettled him, uncomfortable. he has never obsessed over something before. he has not had time to find love and be selfish, his family is his first priority. & now that he is olo'eyktan, he knows he must focus on his duties.
the argument that ran through him was trapped behind his ribs, surrounded his heart and dug into his blood flow. arteries tightened, his breathing short. but nothing could stop his mind from leaning towards you.
"his silence is frustrating," you mutter, picking at the fruit in your hands.
"what is wrong sister?," tsireya holds your hands, sitting before you with worrisome eyes.
you chew your lip, shaking your head.
"it's nothing," you sigh.
"we haven't been close recently, I've missed you," she huffs.
"I've missed you too,"
"have sempu (father) & sa'nok (mother) said anything about neteyam courting you?," she asks.
"they still don't talk to me tsireya," you sigh.
"I know...I know, I thought they would have said something to you at least,"
"well, they haven't,"
"I'm sure they will speak to you eventually,"
"you have been saying this for years now, there is no point sister. I am not fussed,"
"then what is bothering you?,"
you hesitate, the sound of footsteps stopping you from speaking.
"tsmuke? (sister)," ao'nung calls out.
"come in,"
he smiles when he sees both of his sisters together, making his way to sit beside you both. the sun is shining down into your mauri, the sounds of waves providing music.
"sister," he greets.
"you okay ao?," you rub his shoulder.
"it seems I've interrupted something serious,"
"do not worry brother," you smile, weakly.
"you've clearly got something on your mind y/n," he wraps his arm over your shoulders.
"your best friend, his silence is frustrating,"
"what has he done?," ao'nung purses his lips.
both your siblings look at you with wide eyes, listening.
"he has not spoken to me in days,"
"did something happen between you two?,' tsireya asks.
you think back to how warm his hands were on your skin, his breath causing you to shiver - the scent of mint leaves. his braids brushing over your shoulders, a comforting itch.
you don't realise the colour forming on your cheeks, your brother pulls a face of disgust.
"please do not tell me it was something disgusting, I do not wish to think of my tsawl tsmuke (big sister) in such ways." he shivers, pretending to gag.
you slap his chest playfully, grinning.
"do not think of me as such baby bro, nothing has happened. he has not spoken to me, he stands beside me in silence but at distance or he avoids me whilst we stand in the same room,"
ao'nung scowls.
"he is a sxawng," he mutters under his breath.
"do not be annoyed ao'nung," tsireya hums.
"I can't tell anymore, I do not know what courting even means, how am I meant to feel? am I meant to feel a certain way or did I miss the memo?," you grunt.
ao'nung grins.
"are you asking us how can you tell if you like neteyam?,"
embarrassment shines in your eyes, you look away, a shy smile on your lips.
"when you like someone, you should feel butterflies in your stomach when they are near, your chest will feel tight," tsireya smiles.
"your knees will feel weak, head light headed. & once you feel those things, they will consume every part of you, you cannot rid them even if you tried," ao'nung gazes into the distance, reflecting.
their words have you second guessing yourself, doubting the words you said to neteyam. you made a promise between each other, help you find a partner & then be off on your own ways. but now...you have come to realise, it won't be as easy as you think.
this was never meant to happen.
you were never meant to feel this type of way.
you gasp in shock, cold fingers pressing against your warm lips.
you have feelings for Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.
neteyam could not have guessed he would fall this hard for you, he thought he could stop himself. but that side of him, one that wants to see you on your knees in front of him.
"bro, stop pacing!," lo'ak shouts in annoyance.
"sorry baby brother,"
"you're putting me on edge, what is wrong?"
neteyam sighs, crouching down.
"it's her isn't it?," lo'ak turns to face his brother.
neteyam only groans in response, rubbing his hand down his face.
"why did you put yourself in this situation, your feelings are too strong for her, aren't they bro?,"
neteyam nods, slow.
"I thought helping her would be the right thing, I did not realise this would happen,"
"then you're foolish, you can't believe that you weren't gonna' fall for her when you had some sort of feelings for her years ago bro,"
lo'ak's truth makes neteyam's skin crawl. he knows his brother is right, he should have never put himself in the middle of this shit. he should have just wished you well and stood beside his parents. but you're so interesting, everything about you is hypnotic.
"don't fuck this up bro,"
night has fallen, the people are singing and dancing with the tlalim clan (wind traders). they have taken rest in metkayina, trading and sharing stories with our people before they continue on their journey. the olo'eyktan's of the tlalim are good friends with your father, it is always a blessing from eywa when they are within your presence.
neteyam has not spoken to you although you stand close, the two of you are silent. neither of you make the first word, both equally as shy. you want him to say anything but you do not want to face your feelings for him.
it is when neteyam sees you talking with a tsamsiyu (warrior) of your clan that has him pulling you by your wrist, away from the people.
"neteyam! what's your issue!?" you scowl.
"stop pulling me!,"
your protests fall deaf on his ears.
"stop it!, let me go!,"
his blood is boiling, eyes seeing red, head pounding against his skull. he watched your entire interaction with the male.
your shy smile,
the giggle that escapes your lips,
your doe eyes as you look up at him whilst he speaks,
the way you tucked your hair behind your ear,
the tsamsiyu purposefully flexing his arms in your face,
his eyes that wandered all over you,
his loud cackle at clearly something humorous you had said.
neteyam is seething with jealousy, he could not watch you any longer.
your gentle strides across the people,
your long lashes fluttering as you greeted the people,
the flow of your hair brushing against men that gawked at you,
the people did not care, they clearly did not respect the fact he was courting you.
it was not apparent enough that you were being courted by an olo'eyktan.
his jaw almost snaps from hard he is clenching, he suddenly halts in his steps, letting go of your wrist.
"neteyam? hello? why aren't you saying anything?,"
he turns to face you.
his face is stuck in a expression of annoyance, anger.
he lifts you, fingers pressing down painfully on your skin.
"ow!, neteyam! let go of me!," you scream.
he throws you over his shoulder, landing a harsh spank on your behind. you yelp, kicking the air.
"put me down!,"
"neteyam, you prick!, let go of me!,"
"put me down!,"
neteyam, turn his head, your behind is right against his face. your tweng lifted, the outline of your folds has him inhaling against you.
you gasp, stopping your kicks.
"neteyam?"
he growls, leaving a bruising slap against your cheek, watching it jiggle.
"what is your issue?,"
"stop screaming." he states.
his voice is low and firm.
he places you down, standing in the maze of trees. he paces before you, hands pressed against each other, against his lips.
"neteyam?," you whisper.
his rage is evident, the twitch in his ears is harsh, tail whipping against the ground.
metkayina's pearl. who would've known she would rile up the olo'eyktan of the omatikaya this much.
"do not entertain that tsamsiyu (warrior),"
"what?"
"you are speaking to men of the wrong morals y/n,"
"and you think that dragging me, throwing me over your shoulder is the right thing?"
he shakes his head.
"do you enjoy gaining the attention of others? do you like it when even the men who only want one thing from you approach you?,"
his questions have you breathing sharply.
"do not question what I do after you do not speak to me the way the do, you have no right to be mad,"
"I am not mad,"
"you are fuming neteyam, it is evident." you roll your eyes.
"did you just roll your eyes at me?,"
for some reason, guilt heats your body. it as if you wear the shame when your father catches you doing something you should not be doing.
"yes," you whisper.
his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched. his eagle like eyes bore into you. shaking his head.
the battle in his head is loud. the scent of you so close to his face has him drunk.
"y/n,"
"neteyam,"
seconds pass in silence, eyes trained onto one another.
he takes one step forward,
you do not hold yourself back.
neteyam lifts you as you clash into him, wrapping your legs arounds his waist. he smashes his lips against yours, teeth biting at each other's lips. you moan in his hold, struggling to breathe as he attacks you with his mouth.
it is desperation, the days of frustration pooling from each kiss. his lips are plump, wetness shared. you swallow his saliva that is passed from his tongue, the taste has you in a frenzy. you want more.
the kisses are sharp and unyielding, fighting for dominance via your tongues. it is a challenge that you accept, teeth grazing, breath stolen the pressure had was intense - making your pulse jump.
your moans mixed together, he pulled back. his eyes held a warning in them, a question.
if we continue this, there is no going back.
you answer him with a peck on his lips.
there is no going back.
he grins against your lips, holding you tighter. the kisses are promises, wanting to show you far he was willing to go.
he wastes no time, putting you down. he attacks your neck, biting down as he pulls your breast free. squeezing the fullness, rubbing the sensitive bud. his rough hands against your soft skin, driving you insane.
his fingers reach into your tweng, your wetness welcomes him in. neteyam groans against your lips, puffing air.
"fuck, you're soaking."
you moan in response, digging your nails into his skin. he rubs, the feeling so different to your fingers. his touch warms your skin, warmth pooling low in your belly.
you feel alive, seen, touched in every crevice of your body.
"neteyam," you whimper.
"you feel so good ma'"
you grin, shy. the moon light shines against both your glowing skin, the contrast in shades, calm intertwining with depth.
"what the fuck!?,"
both your faces drop in horror, looking over, your brother stands, shaking. his fists curled, eyes dangerous. if smoke was visible from him it would be coming out of his ears.
neteyam lets go of you, ao'nung runs at him, growling.
"what the fuck are you doing!?," ao'nung roars.
he lands a blow on neteyam, he does not fight back.
"AO'NUNG!," you scream.
he ignores you, dropping neteyam to the ground. he jumps on top of him, throwing rough punches at the olo'eyktan below him.
"AO'NUNG!,"
your fathers booming voice has you dropping to your knees, ao'nung stopping his blows.
the ground shakes underneath your fathers steps, pulling his son off neteyam.
ao'nung entire body shakes, hands spasming. your father does not punish his son, he pulls him away, watching his vibrating figure.
"olo'eyktan," your father helps neteyam up.
"son!,"
neteyam's dad runs over, holding his son to the side.
you pick your nails, tsireya brushes her fingers through your hair. you wait outside the olo'eyktan's mauri pod, neteyam, ao, toruk makto and your father are inside.
you sit with your sister, mother, lo'ak and the rest of the sullys. anxiety runs your skin cold, knee bobbing up and down at pace.
"what happened?," tsireya whispers.
you shake your head, eyes glossy with tears.
your mother argues with neteyam's mother, hissing.
"your son has clearly done something!" your mother spits.
"do not accuse my son of anything!," neytiri hisses.
you head snaps up as they all come out from inside. looking directly at neteyam, he hangs his head low. you try to hold down the tears that escape you.
"you two will wed," tonowari states.
pin drop silence.
"i do not know of the argument between yourself and neteyam, daughter. but ao'nung has said it was a lovers quarrel, to ease the tension. I have agreed, with the blessing of eywa, you will mate before the Great Mother,"
you stand in shock, your father bears a soft smile. for once he looks at your with kindness in his eyes, he does not wear the stoic expression.
you cross over to ao'nung, the anger still washes off him but instead, he also wears a smile.
every single male before you is smiling except neteyam. he stands with his shoulders dropped, a grin creeping.
"we welcome you to our family, y/n te Tsika'u Ronal'ite,"
the sully's celebrate, hugging the both of you. your sister's soft cries have you clutching onto her. lo'ak pulls you into a tight hug, whispering words of reassurance in your ear.
"big sis," he grins, teasing.
your mother presses a kiss against your head as she holds you close, uncontrollable sobs leave you. her touch has been distant for years, she has not held you.
your sat with your brother and neteyam, both of you waiting for him to speak.
"there was no point of me telling father what I had seen,"
"ao, i'm so sorry,"
"don't apologise when it isn't your fault sister, clearly my friend here could not control his urges,"
neteyam sighs.
"neteyam had already asked to marry you weeks ago sister,"
you still.
"w-what?," you stutter.
"it seems he did not tell you,"
neteyam kneels before tonowari, ao'nung stood to the side with lo'ak.
"you wish to marry my daughter?,"
"yes,"
"nga new tsonta muntxa si? (you want to mate?)"
"yes,"
"hm..."
neteyam gulps.
"stand up, you are the olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya."
neteyam stands, crossing his arms behind him. his heartbeat is loud in his ears, worry nipping at him.
"nga lu am'ake nga tsun ease 'ite tirengop (you be sure you are able to ease my daughter's life)?,"
"oe lu am'ake (i am sure),"
"you are the son of Toruk Makto, the olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya, you are one with the forest. my 'ite (daughter) is the pearl of my people, she is of water. she will struggle with your traditions..."
tonowari cannot stop the thoughts of his daughter struggling fill his mind.
"I will care for her greatly, po lu my ya (she be my air),"
lo'ak's lips are swollen as he bites them, eyes flicking from tonowari to his brother. their father enters the room, seating himself as he watches his son.
"my 'ite (daughter) is complex, she is...mighty with her emotions, one of the figures for the people,"
"she is my complexity, she will be mighty with my people,"
"tell me, olo'eyktan. do you plan on making her Tsahìk?"
neteyam nods, shoulders easing with the change in tonowari's words.
"she will naturally enter that position,"
"hm...and does she know of your interest?,"
neteyam gulps down the ache in his throat.
"it has been difficult,"
"you are courting her,"
"I am, it has been very real for me. but to your daughter, she is...this arrangement. we have not shared our feelings," neteyam struggles.
"I see,"
"I am coming to you before the time comes again in the future, my intention is clear sir,"
tonowari grins, nodding his head.
"then so it be, eywa tìng syawn nga mune (eywa bless you two), i trust you will help my daughter express herself, bring the truth to her soon, son. this will be difficult, she is a strong character."
fat tears roll down your face, hot. your cheeks are burning, bottom lip quivering.
acceptance is what makes your chest swell, being chosen. no man has done this, said this, gone to your father to ask for you. no man has been comitted to keeping you around once they actually get to know you. they do not see you for who you are, declining every single man because they do not give you the feeling you've been looking for.
the feeling that neteyam has given you, shown you.
neteyam already chose you from the moment he seperated from you, he did not regret going to your father the moment he agreed to court you. he was anxious, split into two. his urges, he did not want to be the same as all the men that surround you.
"you are a lucky man my friend," ao'nung smiles.
neteyam cannot stop himself from placing his hand over yours. wiping your tears away.
"i am," neteyam whispers.
"ao," you sob.
"do not cry sister, you will make me emotional,"
you wrap your arms around ao'nung, his hands shake as he returns the hug.
"i will leave you two, i hope i never see you two like that again, i feel nauseous."
you press a chaste kiss against your brother's cheek, watching his shy face glow.
you and neteyam kneel before each other, finally alone.
"you did not tell me this was your plan,"
"i wanted you to recognise me yourself,"
you smile, holding his large hand in yours.
"I see you, neteyam."
neteyam's eyes widen, watching you.
all he's ever wanted was for you to see him, since the teenage years he wanted to be close to you the same way lo'ak was. he could not hold himself back from having you but he thought he was a sinner for the way he behaved. deep regret burned holes in his chest when your brother caught the two of you, he kept ruining you, taking away your purity.
neteyam is quick to bare you of your clothing, stripping you naked under the night sky. he moans, precum rolling down his cock.
you cover yourself under his gaze, hiding your parts.
"no, no, it's okay baby, let me see you," his voice gentle.
he kisses you all over, whispering words of affirmation in your ear, reminding you how beautiful you are.
neteyam is soft with every move, taking his time to explore each part of your body. he kisses every scar, licks every spot that has you shivering under him. he spreads your legs open for him, watching the droplets of your arousal trickle.
"you're dripping," he groans.
you watch him, nervous. neteyam's cock is rigid, hard and dripping with his precum. you're going to end up kill him. he brushes his nose down your frame, inhaling your sweet scent, paskalin. so addicting, he moans after each sharp inhale.
you giggle, holding his face between your hands.
"that tickles,"
he grins, flashing his canines.
he kisses your thighs, kissing the stretch marks that are etched into your skin. light moans escape you, neteyam stops his movements.
he looks at you, mind twisting with the thoughts he's tried to push away. he reminds himself of his morals but they do not stop the sinful thoughts.
corrupt you.
mould you.
mark you.
neteyam lets them consume him, closing his eyes. your doe eyes stare up at him, careful not to make a single sound.
"this will hurt y/n,"
"i want it to be painful," you confess.
neteyam's brow cocks, head lulling.
oh she wants me to fucking ruin her.
& so he does.
"open your mouth," he croaks.
you do as he says.
so obedient.
"stick your tongue out, yawne,"
your pink tongue is flat out for him, you watch with wide eyes as he gathers the spit in his mouth, swishing it before spitting it onto your tongue. you yelp.
"swallow it,"
your stomach churns with shame.
he laughs, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"swallow it baby, c'mon, don't wanna' upset your olo'eyktan do you?"
you shake your head, no, swallowing it.
"show me,"
his spit is hot, thick as it travels down your throat. it doesn't make you react the way you thought you would, your stomach twists with pleasure.
sticking your tongue out to show him, he grins.
"get on all fours baby,"
the exposed position has you trembling with anticipation, his hot breath on your bare pussy.
he pulls your folds apart, watching the strings of arousal between them.
"your pussy is swollen, you been touchin' yourself?" he slurs.
you squeak a yes.
"nasty girl. your pussy's puffy baby, did you make yourself cum multiple times?," he coos.
you nod, burrowing your face into your arm.
"aw baby, don't be shy. 'm proud of you, did it feel good?"
"uhuh," you squeak.
he laughs against your pussy, burrowing his nose between your folds, letting your scent intoxicate him. you smell sweet, natural, clean. neteyam places a kiss on your folds, you jolt in shock. the pleasure is nerve wrecking.
neteyam analyses you, your two holes so tight. he gathers his saliva once more and spits it on your tighter hole, watching it clench beneath the trickling spit.
you moan as his spit sinks between your folds, your greedy hole sucking it in. neteyam's eyes roll back. your poor pussy is just so tight, he wants to ruin you but you'll bleed all over his thick cock.
you whimper, nails digging into the earthy ground below you. your hips move back, desperate for his touch.
"want me to touch you?," he coos.
"yes please,"
"so sweet, of course my yawne,"
he flattens his long tongue, pressing it against your clit. your hips shake, a long moan elicit from you. the taste of your juices have neteyam seeing stars, cock twitching with need.
his tongue curls between your folds, drinking your juices. each gulp has him thirsting for more, needing to quench his thirst.
he laps at your throbbing pussy, puffy from making yourself cum multiple times the night before. the sensitivity still there, you squeal. neteyam wraps his mouth around your clit, sucking at it fast and rough.
your front half falls flat to the floor, legs spreading further against the rough ground. you tremble, arching.
neteyam hums against your clit, the vibrations making your eyes roll back. it doesn't take long for you to feel the build up of pressure in your stomach.
"n-teyam!," you squeal.
he hums in response.
"i feel, feel like i'm- feel strange!," you squeak.
neteyam can't stop the grin, teeth grazing against your clit, sending you over the edge. neteyam shoves his finger in your clenching hole as you cum, screaming his name.
"feel okay?,"
"yeah," you pant.
"you just came, baby, well done," he praises.
"that felt so weird,"
"should've felt the same way you felt making yourself cum, paskalin,"
you huff air.
"it doesn't,"
"come yawne, i will show you how much better it will feel,"
he lifts you onto his lap, holding you close. neteyam sucks at your sensitive tits, moaning.
"these fat tits," he growls.
lying you flat, he lifts your legs over his waist.
"sevin (pretty), this will hurt,"
you nod, watching his brows knit.
rubbing his tip between your folds, neteyam looks down. his cock is dark blue, tip purple with shiny white precum rolling. thick veins wrap around the girthy length, throbbing.
neteyam helps you pass through the burning stretch, rubbing your clit to provide stimulation as you clench around his girth. he sits so heavy and full inside you, tip curled to sit against your sensitive spot.
he's instant, pistoling, his cock is thick, rearranging your guts.
thwap! thwap! thwap!
his hips bruise you, hand wrapped around your neck. the warmth of your pussy, squelching below him, has his eyes rolling back.
shlick! shlick! shlick!
your stomach bulges with each thrust, your head lulling to the side, eyes white.
"fuck, look at that, see my cock in your belly,"
he grabs your hand, pressing it against the bulge. his rigid cock is hard inside you.
"harder teyam!," you scream.
he grins, lifting your legs, pushing them to either side of your head. he pushes himself all the way in you, bottoming out. his weight is heavy against you, the position has your muscles aching but the pleasure has your nerves buzzing.
"feel's good tey," you moan.
"si nga my sevin muntxate (make you my pretty wife),"
"f'ck me tey please, need it so bad," you whine.
his toes curl at your words, every single hair on his body lifting.
"yeah, you want me to fuck you?,"
"yes please,"
"always so kind,"
his thrusts moves your entire body, your hands scratching him.
"feel's full,"
"yeah?,"
"uhuh, so big!," you squeal.
neteyam's balls tighten, the coil in his belly snapping. he fills you, shaking as he paints thick white ropes of his cum in your womb.
but neteyam doesn't stop, the swishing sound of his cum inside you has him fucking you deeper, slower.
every inch of you feels like it's on fire, head spinning from his attacks.
that same pleasure in your belly has you shaking, clutching onto him.
"gonna- gonna cum, please tey, please." you scream.
"shh, shh i got you,"
"fuck!,"
"clenchin' me so tight, gonna milk me yawne," he growls.
"feel's different teyam, pressure!," you scream.
"huh, gonna squirt on my cock tiyawan?"
you squirt all over him, shaking, eyes rolled to the back of your skull.
neteyam laughs in shock, your juices coat his abs, neteyam pulls out, lowering himself. he gulps down your juice, moaning after each gulp.
you two are in sync, cumming and moaning at the same time. pushing yourselves past your limit, shaking in overstimulation.
you both don't realise the sounds close by.
"you have got to be fucking kidding me!,"
ao'nung's shouting pulls you out of your brainless mind, the two of you turning to face him in horror.
summary: Ao’nung made his hatred of your family clear from day one— you’re outsiders who brought war to his peaceful shores. But somewhere between the insults and the fighting, hate transforms into something neither of you saw coming.
pairing: ao’nung x fem!sully!reader
warnings: spoiler-free, fic takes place in atwow, slight enemies to lovers, slight slow burn, angst, fluff, mutual pining, whipped ao’nung, protective ao’nung, aged-up characters, violence, near drowning, prejudice, hurt/comfort, happy ending
w/c: 5.6k+
The ocean was supposed to be a refuge. That’s what your father had said when he announced the family was leaving the forest, leaving everything you’d ever known behind to seek shelter with some reef clan halfway across Pandora. A refuge. A safe haven.
Nobody mentioned it would feel like drowning.
You broke the surface of the water with a gasp, lungs burning as you struggled to orient yourself. The reef people moved through the water like it was air, like their bodies were made for this. Your body decidedly was not. Your tail, built for balance in trees, did nothing but drag behind you. Your arms, strong from climbing, felt heavy and useless in the water.
“Again.” Tsireya’s voice was patient, kind even, but you could see the concern in her eyes. You’d been at this for hours and you still couldn’t hold your breath for more than a minute. Beside you, Kiri seemed to be managing, and even Tuk was doing better than you. Lo’ak was showing off as usual, probably trying to impress Tsireya with how quickly he was picking things up.
“I need a break,” you said, hating how defeated you sounded. You were a skilled hunter back home, and here you were, struggling with something children could do.
“That is fine,” Tsireya said. “We can continue later.”
You pulled yourself onto the nearest platform, water streaming off your body. Your lungs felt tight, your throat raw from salt water. This was humiliating.
“Pathetic.”
The word cut through the air and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ao’nung had made his opinion of your family clear from the moment you’d arrived. Freaks, he’d called you. Demon-blooded. Not true Na’vi.
“Got something to say?” you asked, finally looking at him. He stood with his arms crossed, that same condescending smirk on his face that made you want to punch him. He was tall, muscular in the way reef people were, built for swimming and diving. Objectively, you could admit he was attractive. Subjectively, he was the most infuriating person you’d ever met.
“I am saying it. You cannot even manage a basic breath-hold. What will you do when you need to hunt? Starve?” His eyes raked over you dismissively. “Perhaps you should have stayed in your forest.”
Your jaw clenched. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“There is always a choice. You chose to bring your war here. To put my people in danger.” He stepped closer and you stood, refusing to let him tower over you even though he had a good six inches on you. “Tell me, forest girl, what happens when the sky people follow you here? When our children die because you were too coward to face your own problems?”
“That’s enough.” Jake’s voice rang out across the platform. Your father looked exhausted, the kind of tired that went bone-deep. “We’re grateful for your father’s hospitality. We’re learning your ways. That’s all we can do.”
Ao’nung’s expression flickered with something that might have been respect for your father, but when his eyes landed back on you, there was nothing but contempt. “Learn faster,” he said, then dove into the water with barely a splash, disappearing into the depths.
You stood there, dripping and furious, your hands balled into fists.
“Ignore him,” Lo’ak said, hauling himself onto the platform. “He’s just an asshole.”
“He’s not wrong though,” you muttered. “We did bring our problems here.”
“Hey.” Lo’ak grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “Dad made the call he thought was right. We’re here now. We’ll figure it out.”
You wished you had his confidence.
The days blurred together. Wake up, struggle through lessons, endure Ao’nung’s comments, go to sleep sore and frustrated. Your siblings were adapting faster than you. Even Lo’ak, who’d always been reckless and unfocused back home, seemed to be thriving here. You watched him joke with Tsireya, saw the way she laughed at his stupid comments, and something bitter twisted in your chest.
You’d always been the steady one. The reliable one. The one who kept Lo’ak out of trouble and helped Kiri when her head got too lost in the clouds. Now you were the one holding everyone back.
“Your breathing is wrong.” Ronal’s voice was sharp as she observed the lesson. The Tsahik scared you more than you wanted to admit. She’d made her opposition to your family’s presence clear, and unlike her son’s teenage posturing, her disapproval carried actual weight.
“I’m trying,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Trying is not enough. You must slow your heartbeat. Breathe from here.” She pressed a hand to your stomach, hard enough that you gasped. “From your center. You breathe like prey, quick and panicked. You must breathe like a hunter.”
You wanted to snap that you were a hunter, that you’d made your first kill at fourteen and had brought down a thanator at seventeen. But that didn’t matter here. Here you were useless.
Ronal studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she said something that surprised you. “You are afraid.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. I see it. Fear makes the body tight, makes the breath shallow.” Her voice was still stern but something in her eyes had shifted, just slightly. “What are you afraid of?”
The honest answer sat in your throat. I’m afraid of being useless. I’m afraid we made a mistake coming here. I’m afraid the sky people will find us and it will be my fault when people die.
“Nothing,” you lied.
Ronal made a dismissive sound. “Then you will continue to fail. Fear must be acknowledged before it can be released.” She turned away, already moving to correct Tuk’s form. “Again,” she called over her shoulder.
You dove under, forcing your eyes open against the salt sting. The reef was beautiful, you could admit that. Colors that didn’t exist in the forest, fish that moved in shimmering schools, coral formations that looked like art. You could see why the Metkayina loved this place.
Your lungs started to burn. You pushed yourself, counting the seconds. Sixty. Seventy. Your chest was tight. Eighty. Ninety. Your vision was starting to blur at the edges. One hundred. One ten. One—
Your body made the decision for you, forcing you to the surface. You broke through gasping, immediately angry at yourself.
“Ninety seconds.” Ao’nung’s voice came from behind you. You spun to find him floating there, barely treading water. Showing off how easy this was for him. “Better than yesterday.”
You waited for the insult, the mocking comment. But he just watched you with those sharp eyes, expression neutral.
“What do you want?” you asked.
“To tell you that you are breathing wrong. You are trying to fight the water. You cannot fight the water. You must move with it.”
“I’m not asking for your help.”
“I am not offering it. I am stating a fact.” He dove under, and you watched his form cut through the water with effortless grace. When he surfaced again, he was twenty feet away. “Slow your heart. The body follows the mind. Or continue to struggle. I do not care either way.”
He disappeared again, leaving you treading water and confused. Was that… advice? From Ao’nung? The same guy who’d been making your life hell for weeks?
“Don’t think about it too hard,” Tsireya said, swimming up beside you. “My brother is complicated.”
“Your brother is an asshole.”
She laughed at that, bright and genuine. “Yes. But he is not wrong about the breathing. You are trying too hard, using too much energy. Here.” She placed a hand on your chest, over your heart. “Feel how fast this beats? You must calm it. Think of something peaceful. Something that makes you feel safe.”
You closed your eyes, trying to think of something, anything that felt peaceful. The memories that came were all from the forest. Climbing through the canopy with your siblings. The smell of your mother’s cooking. The sound of your grandmother’s songs.
Your heart slowed.
“Good,” Tsireya said softly. “Now breathe. Slow and deep.”
You did. And when you dove under again, you managed two minutes.
Three weeks in and you were starting to get the hang of it. Not proficient by any means, but improving. You could hold your breath for nearly four minutes now, could swim without feeling like you were fighting the tide, could even dive deep enough to touch some of the coral formations.
Lo’ak was spending every free moment with Tsireya. Young love, your mother called it with an indulgent smile. It was cute, you guessed, watching your brother actually apply himself to something for once because he wanted to impress a girl.
Ao’nung had mostly left you alone lately. He still made comments, still radiated disapproval whenever your family was around, but he’d stopped directing his worst venom at you specifically. You didn’t know what had changed and you weren’t about to ask.
You were helping repair fishing nets when you overheard it. A group of younger reef boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen, talking in low voices that still carried across the water.
“—demon blood,” one was saying. “My father says they will bring destruction to our village.”
“The Tsahik agrees. I heard her talking to the elders. She wants them gone.”
“Ao’nung’s father is too soft. Giving them shelter, teaching them our ways. For what? So they can bring war to our home?”
Your hands stilled on the net. You should walk away, should ignore this. But your feet wouldn’t move.
“I say we make them want to leave on their own,” another voice said. “They do not belong here. The sooner they realize it, the better.”
You should have walked away. Instead, you stood, the net falling from your hands. “Say that to my face.”
The boys turned, startled. When they saw you, their expressions shifted from surprise to something uglier. The oldest one, the one who’d been talking about making you leave, sneered. “Gladly. You do not belong here, forest girl. You and your freak family should go back to where you came from.”
“We were invited. By your Olo’eyktan. Who you seem to think you have authority to question.” You stepped closer, using every inch of height you had even though these boys were bigger than you. “You want us gone? Take it up with Tonowari.”
“Or maybe we take it up with you.” The boy stepped forward too, aggressive, posturing. His friends flanked him. You were suddenly very aware that you were alone and outnumbered.
But you’d faced sky people. You’d faced worse than some bigoted teenagers.
“Try it,” you said.
What happened next happened fast. The boy reached for you, probably just meant to push you, to intimidate you. But you’d been training as a warrior since you were twelve. Your body reacted on instinct. You caught his wrist, twisted, used his momentum against him. He went down hard on the platform.
His friends rushed you. You got one in the stomach with your elbow, heard the air whoosh out of him. But then there were hands grabbing you, pulling you toward the edge of the platform, toward the water. You fought, but there were too many of them.
You went into the water hard, disoriented. Hands pushed you down, holding you under. Your lungs burned. You thrashed, trying to break free, but they were stronger here, in their element.
This is it, you thought distantly. This is how it ends. Drowned by a bunch of kids who think they’re protecting their home.
Then suddenly the hands were gone. You shot to the surface, gasping and coughing. When your vision cleared, you saw Ao’nung holding two of the boys by their necks, his face twisted in fury.
“What do you think you are doing?” His voice was low, dangerous. You’d heard him angry before but this was different. This was the voice of a future leader, someone who expected immediate obedience.
“We were just—” one of the boys started.
“You were attempting to drown her.” Ao’nung’s grip tightened and the boy gasped. “Do you know what the punishment is for attempting to kill someone under my father’s protection?”
The boys had gone pale.
“I should let you find out. I should drag you before the Olo’eyktan and let him decide your fate.” He shoved them away, disgust clear on his face. “Get out of my sight. If I hear of you going near any of the Sullys again, we will finish this conversation.”
The boys fled. You stayed in the water, still catching your breath, trying to process what just happened.
Ao’nung turned to you. His expression was hard to read. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. They had you under for nearly a minute.” He pulled himself onto the platform and then, to your surprise, offered you a hand.
You stared at it for a moment before accepting. His grip was strong, pulling you up easily.
“Why did you help me?” you asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Just studied you with those sharp, assessing eyes. Finally, he said, “Because you are under my father’s protection. An attack on you is an attack on his authority.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“What other reason would there be?” But he looked away as he said it, and you got the sense he was lying.
“I had it handled,” you said.
“You were drowning.”
“I got jumped. Four on one. It happens.”
“It should not happen. Not here. Not to someone my father has offered sanctuary to.” He seemed genuinely angry about it, which was confusing coming from someone who’d spent the last month making it clear he didn’t want you here.
“Well. Thanks. I guess.” It felt awkward, thanking someone who’d been your main antagonist since arrival.
Ao’nung nodded once, sharp. Then he turned to leave.
“Wait,” you called. He paused, looking back. “Why do you hate us so much? And don’t say it’s about the war. I know there’s more to it than that.”
For a long moment, you didn’t think he’d answer. Then he said, “You want honesty? Fine. I look at you and your family and I see everything my people are not. You come from a place of war, of violence. You have fought sky people, killed them. You carry that with you, in the way you move, the way you watch everything like you expect an attack.”
“Because we do expect an attack. We’ve been at war our entire lives.”
“Exactly. And now you bring that here. To our home. To our peaceful waters.” His jaw clenched. “My sister looks at your brother like he hung the stars. She does not see what I see. She does not see that he is reckless, dangerous. That he will get her hurt or worse.”
“Lo’ak would never—”
“Not intentionally. But it will happen anyway. Because that is what happens around your family. Chaos. Destruction.” He took a breath, seeming to forcibly calm himself. “I do not hate you. I hate what you represent. I hate that my father felt he had no choice but to offer you sanctuary. I hate that my sister is falling for someone who will break her heart when you inevitably leave or when the sky people come and kill you all.”
It was the most honest he’d been since you arrived. And maybe it was because you’d nearly died, or maybe it was because you were tired of all the hostility, but you found yourself saying, “I get it.”
He looked surprised.
“I get it,” you repeated. “You’re scared. You’re trying to protect your family, your home. I understand that. I’ve been doing the same thing my whole life.” You wrung out your hair, suddenly exhausted. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to be here either. I miss my home. I miss feeling competent. I hate that we brought our problems to your door. But we’re here. And we don’t have anywhere else to go. So maybe we can both stop pretending the other doesn’t exist and just… coexist.”
Ao’nung stared at you for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, his mouth quirked up in something that might have been the ghost of a smile.
“Coexist,” he repeated.
“Yeah. Radical concept, I know.”
This time he definitely smiled, just a little. “You are not what I expected.”
“Yeah, well. You’re exactly what I expected.”
He laughed at that, actually laughed, and the sound was so unexpected you found yourself smiling too.
“I am going to pretend that was a compliment,” he said.
“Take it however you want.”
He shook his head, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. Then he dove into the water and was gone, leaving you standing there wondering what the hell just happened.
Things shifted after that. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually. Ao’nung stopped going out of his way to antagonize you. He still made comments, still had that air of superiority that made you want to throttle him, but the real venom was gone.
You found yourself watching him sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking. Watching the way he moved through the water, the way he interacted with his sister, the way he took his role as future Olo’eyktan seriously even at nineteen. He was a good teacher, you realized. Patient with the younger kids, firm but fair with his peers.
He caught you staring once. Raised an eyebrow in question.
“Your form is good,” you said, because you had to say something.
“I know.” Cocky as ever. But then he added, “Yours is improving.”
It might have been the nicest thing he’d ever said to you.
The lessons continued. You were up to seven minutes on your breath-hold now, could dive deep enough to hunt, could keep up with the others on the ilu rides across the reef. Ronal had even given you a grudging nod of approval last week, which felt like a bigger victory than anything else.
Lo’ak and Tsireya were officially courting now, whatever that meant for the Metkayina. It was sweet, watching them together. Your brother had never been so focused on anything in his life.
“Your brother is going to ask Tsireya to be his mate,” Ao’nung said one day.
You were sitting on a platform together, repairing a fishing spear. When exactly you’d started sitting together, working together, you couldn’t say. It had just sort of happened.
“They’re young,” you said.
“So are we.”
You glanced at him. “We’re nineteen.”
“Yes. Old enough to know our own minds. Old enough to make our own choices.” He was quiet for a moment, focusing on the spear. Then: “Would you try to stop him? If he asked her?”
“No. It’s his life. His choice.”
“That is very reasonable of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am not surprised. I have learned you are more reasonable than I gave you credit for.” He tested the sharpness of the spear tip, nodded in satisfaction. “I have been unfair to you.”
You nearly dropped your own spear. “What?”
“I said I have been unfair. The things I said when you first arrived, the way I treated you. It was wrong.”
“Are you… apologizing?”
“Do not make me say it twice.” But there was no heat in his words, just a kind of wry amusement.
“I’m just shocked you’re capable of admitting you were wrong.”
“I am capable of many things that would shock you.”
There was something in his tone that made you look up, really look at him. He was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“Like what?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Like recognizing when I have made a mistake. Like changing my mind about someone I was determined not to like.” He set the spear aside, turning to face you fully. “Like admitting that I find you fascinating.”
Your heart was suddenly beating very fast. “Fascinating.”
“Yes. You are stubborn and defensive and you never back down even when you should. You argue with me constantly. You question everything. You make me want to either kiss you or throw you into the ocean, sometimes both at once.”
You couldn’t breathe. “Ao’nung—”
“I know this is unexpected. I know I have given you no reason to see me as anything but an asshole, as your brother so eloquently puts it.” His jaw clenched. “But I cannot stop thinking about you. I have tried. Eywa knows I have tried. You are supposed to be temporary. You and your family are supposed to leave when the threat passes and I should want that. I should want you gone.”
“But you don’t,” you said softly.
“No. I do not. And I do not know when that changed. Perhaps it was when I saw you refuse to give up, day after day, even when everything was difficult. Perhaps it was when you stood up to those boys even though you were outnumbered. Perhaps it was a hundred small moments I did not notice until suddenly I was noticing everything about you.”
You couldn’t find words. Your brain had short-circuited somewhere around “I find you fascinating.”
“You do not have to say anything,” Ao’nung said, misreading your silence. “I know I have no right to feel this way. I know I have done nothing to earn your good opinion. I just… I needed you to know. I needed to be honest with you.”
“I think I might hate you,” you said.
He flinched, but nodded. “I understand.”
“No, I mean—” You grabbed his arm before he could pull away. “I think I might hate you because you’re not supposed to be right. You’re not supposed to be the person who pushes me to be better. You’re not supposed to make me laugh when I’m frustrated or challenge me when I’m being stubborn. You’re not supposed to look at me like I’m something special when I still feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water here.”
His eyes were very wide. “I do not understand.”
“I’m saying I think I might be fascinated by you too, and I hate it because it’s inconvenient and complicated and you drove me absolutely insane for weeks.”
“And now?” His voice was rough.
“Now you still drive me insane. But differently.”
The smile that spread across his face was like watching the sun rise. Slow and bright and inevitable. “Differently,” he repeated.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” But he was already leaning closer, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You didn’t want him to stop. You kissed him first, closing the distance between you before you could overthink it.
The kiss was everything you’d expected and nothing like you’d imagined. He tasted like salt water and something sweeter, and his hand was gentle against your face even as the kiss deepened. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
“Well,” you said, eloquently.
“Well,” he agreed.
You should probably talk about this. About what it meant, where it could go, all the logical concerns about courting someone from a different clan when your own status here was still uncertain.
Instead, you kissed him again.
Word spread fast in a village this size. Within days, everyone knew that you and Ao’nung were… something. Together, maybe. People had opinions about it. Lots of opinions.
Ronal’s expression when she first saw you together could have frozen the ocean. Tonowari looked thoughtful, assessing. Your father just looked tired, like this was one more complication in an already complicated situation.
But Lo’ak was thrilled. “Does this mean we’re going to be related?” he asked, grinning.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you muttered, even as Ao’nung’s hand found yours under the table.
Tsireya was delighted, immediately pulling you aside to talk. “I knew it,” she said. “I told Lo’ak weeks ago that you two would end up together.”
“We’re not—I mean, it’s early—” You stumbled over the words.
“It does not matter. I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. My brother does not give his heart easily, but when he does, it is with everything he has.”
You thought about that later, sitting with Ao’nung on his favorite platform, watching the sun set over the water.
“Your sister says you don’t give your heart easily,” you said.
“My sister talks too much.” But there was affection in his voice.
“Is it true?”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of your hand. “Yes,” he finally said. “I am… careful. My mother raised me to think about duty, about the clan, about what is best for the people. Personal desires come second.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.” He looked at you, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that you’d never seen before. “You make me want to be selfish. To choose what I want instead of what I should want.”
“What do you want?”
“You. This. A future where you stay here, where you become one of us, where I can court you properly without worrying that one day you will disappear back to your forest.”
The honesty of it stole your breath. “The sky people—”
“I know. I know they are still out there, still hunting you. I know the threat is real.” His grip on your hand tightened. “But you asked what I want. And I want you to stay. I want to build something with you. I want to argue with you every morning and kiss you every night and teach our children to swim someday.”
“Our children?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am getting ahead of myself.”
“A little.” But you were smiling. “Though for what it’s worth, I’m not planning on leaving.”
“No?”
“No. I miss the forest sometimes. I miss the trees and the green and the way everything smelled like life and growth. But this is home now. You are—” You paused, trying to find the right words. “You are home.”
He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you thought maybe Tsireya was right. Maybe you’d been heading toward this moment since the day you arrived, since that first antagonistic meeting. Maybe all that anger and frustration had just been something else in disguise.
But of course, nothing could ever be simple.
It was Ronal who brought it up, during a gathering of the clan leaders and elders. You weren’t supposed to be there but you heard about it afterward from half a dozen sources, each version slightly different but the core the same.
“The boy may court my daughter if he wishes,” Ronal had said, speaking of Lo’ak and Tsireya. “But Ao’nung is different. He is my son. The future Olo’eyktan. He cannot tie himself to a girl from a family of fugitives.”
Your stomach had dropped when Tsireya told you. “What did Tonowari say?”
“He said it was Ao’nung’s choice to make. That he was old enough to know his own heart.” Tsireya squeezed your hand. “But my mother is not letting this go.”
You found Ao’nung at the edge of the village, sharpening his spear with more force than necessary. He looked up when you approached, and you could see the tension in every line of his body.
“You heard,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I will talk to her. I will make her understand—”
“Ao’nung.” You knelt beside him, taking the spear from his hands before he could hurt himself. “She’s not entirely wrong.”
He stared at you. “What?”
“Your mom. She’s not wrong. You are the future Olo’eyktan. The people need to trust you, need to believe you’ll put them first. And choosing me… it’s a risk.”
“I do not care.”
“I know. But maybe you should.” You took a breath. “Your mother thinks I’m going to bring trouble here. That my family is cursed or marked or whatever. And honestly? She might be right. The sky people are still out there. They’re still looking for us. One day they might find us. And when they do—”
“We will fight. Together. As a clan.”
“And people will die. Your people. Because of us. Because of me.” Your throat was tight. “I don’t want to be the reason your mother is proven right. I don’t want to be the reason your people suffer.”
Ao’nung cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Listen to me. You are not responsible for the sky people. You are not responsible for the war. You are not responsible for any of the violence that has followed your family.” His voice was fierce. “You are responsible for showing up every day and working harder than anyone else to learn our ways. You are responsible for treating my people with respect and kindness. You are responsible for making me believe that maybe my mother is wrong, that maybe strength comes not from isolation but from unity.”
“That’s a pretty speech.”
“It is the truth. And I will say it as many times as necessary until you believe it.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “I am not giving you up because my mother has concerns. I am not giving you up because the future is uncertain. I am not giving you up at all. Unless you want—”
“I don’t,” you interrupted. “I don’t want to give this up either. I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of failing you. Of failing your people. Of being the disaster your mother thinks I am.”
“You could never be a disaster.” He kissed your forehead, soft and gentle. “You are brave and stubborn and you never give up. Those are exactly the qualities my people need in their future Tsahik.”
“I’m not—we haven’t even talked about—”
“I know. I am getting ahead of myself again.” But he was smiling. “For now, just be with me. Let me worry about my mother. Let me handle the politics and the clan concerns. You just focus on being yourself. That is more than enough.”
You wanted to believe him. And looking into his eyes, seeing the absolute certainty there, you thought maybe you could.
Ronal cornered you three days later.
You were helping prepare food for the evening meal, gutting fish alongside some of the other women. You felt her presence before you saw her, that commanding energy that made everyone instinctively straighten.
“Walk with me,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
You followed her away from the village, down to a more secluded part of the reef. Your heart was pounding. This was it. She was going to tell you to stay away from her son, to know your place, to stop reaching above your station.
“You are afraid,” Ronal said, echoing her words from months ago.
“A little,” you admitted.
“Good. Fear means you are smart enough to understand the situation.” She studied you with those sharp eyes. “I do not like this thing between you and my son.”
“I know but—”
“But.” She held up a hand when you started to speak. “I do not like it because it is complicated. Because it challenges the way I have always seen things. Not because you are unworthy.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I have watched you these past months. I have seen you struggle and fail and get back up and try again. I have seen you treat my people with respect, even when they did not deserve it. I have seen you learn our ways with dedication and sincerity.” She paused. “And I have seen my son become someone I barely recognize when he is with you. Softer. Kinder. More patient.”
“Tsahik—”
“Let me finish. When the sky people come—and they will come, do not fool yourself about that—we will need warriors. We will need strategy. We will need unity.” Her gaze was piercing. “My son believes you and your family can help provide that. I am beginning to think he may be right.”
You didn’t know what to say. This was so far from what you’d expected.
“But,” Ronal continued, her voice hardening, “if you hurt him, if you prove to be the disaster I fear, there will be nowhere in this ocean you can hide from me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
“Good.” She turned to leave, then paused. “He asked me to give you a chance. To see you as he sees you. I am trying. Do not make me regret it.”
Then she was gone, leaving you standing there trying to process what had just happened.
When you told Ao’nung later, he looked unsurprised. “I told you I would handle my mother.”
“You talked to her?”
“I did more than talk. I told her I was going to court you whether she approved or not. That she had raised me to know my own mind, to make my own decisions, and this was my decision.” He pulled you into his arms. “I also may have pointed out that she mated outside her own clan when she was younger, before my father became Olo’eyktan. That she of all people should understand.”
“You’re kind of devious.”
“I prefer to think of it as strategic.” He kissed the top of your head. “She will come around fully. She just needs time.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I will deal with it. But I think she will. My mother respects strength and dedication. You have both.” His arms tightened around you. “Besides, she already likes you more than she lets on. I can tell.”
You weren’t sure you believed that, but you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.
This was home. He was home. And you were done running.
The tide had brought you here, through anger and struggle and fear. But it had also brought you to this moment, to this person, to this love.
Synopsis: Nobody danced the fine line between love and hate like Neteyam did when it came to you. Or alternatively; five times Neteyam ‘hated’ you, and one time he didn’t.
Contents: neteyam being your biggest 'hater', fluff, jealousy, mentions of injury (in brief passing), 5+1 fic (maybe?)
Word Count: 2.9k
Note: yes i used the word hate a lot i do NAWT wanna hear it. (idea came from listening to ‘Everything is romantic’ omw to uni)
𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥…
Neteyam knew who he was from a young age. His parents, his grandmother, the rest of the clan made sure he did. The next Olo’eyktan, a young na’vi with a bright future, a promising warrior. He’d heard it all. And he dutifully accepted his role without question.
That didn’t mean he didn’t wish he could spend more time as what he was. A child.
He watched you with envy. Wishing he could trade his duties for the free time to go on adventures with other na’vi his age.
You, who always disappeared in the early hours of the day, only to return for supper, claiming you were on yet another “quest.”
You, who would spend all your time dawdling, choosing to explore the forests surrounding your home instead of training for your iknimaya. Your rite of passage to becoming one of the people.
You, who despite slacking off every chance you got, could still best Neteyam in every training activity. No matter how lazy you seemed, you had the talent. The potential to be as good of a warrior as Neteyam did.
He loathed it. The way the elders would bring up your name alongside his in hushed gossips about your generation of warriors. Loathed the way he couldn’t even disagree with them.
Because when all is said and done, you were an incredible warrior, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how you could beat him without breaking a sweat.
Neteyam never understood how you were so much better than him when he’d spend tenfold the amount of time you would honing his skills. It didn’t make any sense.
And he absolutely despised how your face was the first to flash in his mind when others were talking about his generation’s strongest warriors.
He swore to Eywa that he would never admit out loud how much he respected you after that. How much he admired your abilities. Because knowing you, you’d be all smug about it.
But he hated how you chose to walk the path of a healer. He thought of it as wasted potential. You could’ve been by his side as his equal. Instead choosing to hide your talent for combat, confining it to the walls of your healing tent.
Although, maybe it was for the best. He wouldn’t have to see your stupid grin every time you’d successfully complete a hunt. That stupid face that he’d be forced to see for years to come.
𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧…
You had spent the better parts of your childhood training for this day. The day you could finally complete your rite of passage. Your first chance to mark your transition into adulthood.
Everyone (you and your friends) made sure Neteyam knew that they wouldn't let him live this day down if he failed his first attempt at his iknimaya. Especially when the both of you stepped forward simultaneously to begin your challenge, focused intensely on the multicoloured mountain banshees in front of you.
When your eyes landed on one, slightly tucked away behind a few others, it stared back, a piercing screech cutting through the air as surrounding ikran began taking flight.
Neteyam watched as you almost immediately found your ikran, his eyes still searching for one of his own, eyes finally locking with one.
He watched as you swiftly muzzled the ikran, mounting yourself on its back as it fought back, desperately trying to undo the binds around its snout. The way you quickly made tsaheylu without a moment's hesitation.
He hated the sound of your scream as the banshee dove off the cliff with you on its back, the chance to complete your iknimaya and earn the title of ikran makto. The way he couldn't check whether you were okay or plummeting to your death without risking his own life.
When he finally made tsaheylu with his ikran, his first thoughts weren't to show off that he had completed his rite. It was to calm his frayed nerves, to see for himself that you were safe.
As if his ikran understood already, it took a nosedive off the edge of the floating mountain, only pulling out of it when he was a mere inches away from colliding with another set of floating rocks.
His head immediately snapped towards the sound of cheering. Your cheering. When he turned to look beside him, he saw a bright flash of colour. The colour he had seen minutes prior dive off the ledge that had left a sense of dread that settled in his stomach as he thought of the worst case scenario.
You settled into a steady pace beside him, eventually landing back on the edge of the floating mountain, cheers from your fellow warriors erupting around the two of you.
Neteyam hated you. Not because you had bonded with an ikran and beaten him (in his books) yet again.
But because the thought of you dying in front of his very eyes terrified him more than he would've ever thought, because he looked for you first when he successfully completed his iknimaya. Not his friends, not his younger siblings, not even his father whom he desperately wanted to please.
He hates that your reaction to him completing his rite meant more to him than anyone else.
Not that he'd admit it out loud.
As if it couldn’t get any worse for the boy? His ikran was mated. To none other than your brightly coloured banshee. Meaning the two of you were almost always beside each other in flight formations.
Neteyam swore from that day onwards that Eywa had it out for him.
𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞…
There was nothing Neteyam hated more than finding himself in his grandmother’s tent, watching you dance around with practiced ease. Your graceful, methodical movements held purpose as you grabbed everything you needed before turning to him.
Why did you just have to excel at everything you did? You had learned the ways of a healer in mere months, working your way up to now learn directly from his grandmother.
And why was he always the one you tried new recipes on? Surely he didn't visit the healers quarters that often...
As much as he really didn't want to stroke your ego, the ointments and salves that you'd test on him always worked better than he thought. He couldn't even remember he was injured within the next few days.
Sometimes he’d have the misfortune of being treated solely by you, left alone by his grandmother as you’d rub salves across his injuries. The heat of your fingertips leaving him painfully aware of his surroundings.
You’d let out quiet teasing comments as you massaged the ointments into his skin. The mighty warrior being so reckless with himself on hunts and missions, leaving him exposed in front of you.
He’d let out small hisses as you’d cover more tender areas. Mentally cursing himself for allowing you to see this part of him that he tries so desperately to keep hidden from everyone in the clan.
Yet he slowly eased up as you continued, the tension leaving his shoulders and he felt your touch. He knew you could feel it too.
The poor boy knew you’d hold moments like these over his head 'til the day he died.
He could practically hear the amused chuckles, the hushed whispers that would follow him for the remainder of the day once he left your tent. Because for Eywa knows why, he was always treated by you if not his grandmother. Not another elder, not his sister, just you.
But what he hated the most about having you as the one who would tend to his injuries, was the fact that he knew you would keep moments like these secret. You could tease him all you want, but you wouldn't tell a soul about anything that happened between the two of you in your healing tent.
He knew that he didn't have to worry about any unwanted attention directed his way afterwards, that you respected him and his privacy as much as he did you.
He hated you for being the way you were. For being someone he could feel himself relax with. Someone he didn't have to worry about putting a front up to.
𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧…
He hates this. Hates you for and your ridiculously flirty comments towards him. Hates himself for being unable to control his heart rate whenever he hears them. And he absolutely despises the young na'vi that's been following you around like a lost viperwolf pup.
The boy had been by your side practically every second of the day ever since you saved his life after a raid gone wrong.
That was weeks ago.
He couldn't even go to you when he needed to be patched up anymore.
He was rigid the first time he walked into your quarters and saw him sitting beside you as you explained the best healing techniques. And you noticed how tense he was the whole time with the additional presence.
He hated how your once private moments were now being turned into teaching lessons in a party of three.
Curse you for noticing. Because after that you passed the word to his grandmother, ensuring she was the one to tend to him instead of you.
But what really ticked Neteyam off was the fact that you were entertaining the boy. You allowed him to follow you around, smiling and laughing at things he said, inviting him out when you left the village to gather supplies for healing.
You used to ask him to go with you. Granted, he waved you off every time, claiming he had duties to finish when in reality, all he was really doing was ignoring the way his heartrate would spike around you.
Now it was like he was a mere afterthought.
Perhaps it was his fault. He'd been so wrapped up in whatever you made him feel and how to get it under control that he had completely brushed your feelings off.
Neteyam absolutely hated you for just existing at this point. Because how could one person know everything about him when nobody else did. Not even his family.
He hated that your absence left such a big gap in his daily life. He hated that he'd grown so accustomed to having you constantly around. And he absolutely hated the way his heart ached at each laugh and smile that others could pull from you during times you used to spend by his side.
But there’s no way he was in over his head. You had to feel it too. The connection, the spark. There was no way you didn’t. So why were you just acting like he was the same as every other na’vi you talked to?
He almost tripped over himself when he heard whispers of another na’vi wishing to court you. Moments from his younger years playing through his mind.
You when you'd beat him in hand to hand combat. Your smile as the two of you flew beside each other after completing your iknimaya. Your gentle hands across his back as you tended to his injuries.
But Neteyam hated you. Everything about you. That dumb smile and those sweet words you’d whisper. You infuriated him.
𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧…
You’ve cursed him. At least that’s what he told himself.
And how did he come to this conclusion you may ask?
Because as of recently, he’s been unable to get you out of his head. Everything he did somehow reminded the poor boy of you.
His apparent distress was very noticeable as well. His grandma noticed the way his eyes snapped to the entrance of the hut. Almost as if hoping it was someone in specific.
He brushed her off when she gently asked about it.
His siblings noticed how much of a pushover he’d been as of lately. He hardly scolded Lo’ak when he did something stupid. Didn’t stop Kiri from wandering the forest on her own. He didn’t even try to decline Tuk when she asked him to play dress up with her.
They even cornered him after another week passed of complete compliance. Forced him to spit out whatever had him so dazed.
He wished he could give them an answer. But truthfully, he hardly knew himself what was happening. Everything was attacking him all at once. And knowing his siblings, they wouldn’t let him live it down.
Neteyam knew something was wrong when his father pulled him aside, asking him if everything was okay. Telling him he had a distant look in his eyes.
He tried brushing it off, convincing himself more than his father that everything was fine. That he was just tired.
But the way his head turned to Jake at the mere mention of your name told a completely different story.
The boy immediately tried to play it off, covering his anticipation with a cough. But his father already clocked it.
Turns out he and Neytiri had their suspicions about the pair of you for years. You were the only one Neteyam seemed to deem worthy of mention over meals. The only one they noticed to have the skills to rival their son’s.
You pushed him to be stronger, better. Without knowing it, he had shaped himself into the na’vi he was in the best ways possible because of you.
Neteyam thought about it. About having you by his side all these years. All the times he’d dust himself off after having his ass handed to him. When he’d seek you out to tend to his injuries over others (he always claimed it was because you were probably with his grandmother anyways).
He thought about how he hated all those moments. Or… how he thought he did.
Jake seemed to notice the gears turning in his son’s head and let out a chuckle, patting him on the shoulder.
‘You know what you have to do.’ He offered a small smile as he dismissed Neteyam for the rest of the training session.
Did he? Not really. Was he going to try anyways? Yes, yes he was.
It didn’t take him long to find you chatting with that same skxawng that wouldn’t leave you alone. The anger that bubbled in his chest as he saw you smile at someone else practically confirmed his feelings for you.
He pulled you aside, not even bothering to excuse himself in front of the other na’vi boy.
For a moment, he just stared at you. At the face he spent years convincing himself he hated. At the one he fell for somewhere while dancing along the line between love and hate.
Neteyam didn’t wait for you to speak—to question why he abruptly interrupted your conversation with the other boy. He just went for it.
Truthfully, the boy had absolutely no idea where to start. The whole situation only happened because of an impulsive decision. But that didn’t stop the words from tumbling out.
Somewhere along the lines of ‘I hate you.’ and ‘I see you,’ Neteyam had lost track of what he was saying. It wasn’t until you physically cut him off that his mind caught up to his mouth.
You kissed him. Gentle, fierce, so sure of yourself. It was so… you.
He hated you. Hated the way his knees nearly gave out on him as you returned his feelings, the way your smile had his heart pounding in his ears.
Neteyam hated how much he loved you.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜
How Neteyam ended up in this position was beyond him. With you lying next to him, his arm around you, looking up at the stars.
But he was by no means complaining. In fact, he was savouring every second of it.
His eyes flicked between you and the sky above, thoughts racing in his mind. Thoughts about how stupid he was. How he could’ve lived like this—with you like this with him—a long time ago.
Because his feelings were always present. Dormant beneath his ribcage, covered with the excuse of rivalry and hatred. He knew they were there. Just didn’t want to admit it.
You gave him such a hard time about how long it took for him to come to terms with his feelings.
Despite it all, he didn’t regret a single thing. He grew to love it all.
You and your stupidly smug grin as you’d hold up the first catch of the hunt. He adored the sparkle in your eyes knowing your skills had shone through again.
The way the two of you were forced beside each other during flight formations because both of your ikran couldn’t be apart from each other for longer than they absolutely needed to. He silently learned to appreciate knowing you’d be nearby, watching his back during raids.
Your experienced hands that he used to hate feeling all over him. The gentle touch he had come to savour as the heat your fingers left cut through the sting of the treatments.
How jealousy took over his sense of reason every time he saw you smile at something another boy said. He never learned to love the ugly feeling it left in his chest, he just knew he trusted you, and he loved you for your loyalty.
He used to hate the way you slowly consumed his thoughts. The way everything he did reminded him of you. Yet slowly, he accepted it as the days went on. His thoughts of you pushed him to do his best.
No matter how ridiculous you were, or how infuriating you could be, you were wholeheartedly his. He wouldn’t trade that fact for the entirety of Pandora.
He loved you. Your quirks, your strength, even the stubbornness that challenged his. He didn’t know why, or how. He just did. And he learned to let the feeling blossom as your relationship grew.
Neteyam didn’t know what he did in his past life to earn you in this one, but he prayed to Eywa that he could work hard enough to earn you again in the next. And every one that followed.
Because Neteyam did not in fact hate you. He loved you more than words could describe.
⤷Synopsis: In which Neteyam, tries to court Y/N, a girl so clueless where she always mistakes his flirting for being a good friend,leaving a frustrated warrior to wonder how to win a heart that can't take a hint.
⤷Warning: cringe ahead, sorry :(( Masterlist
── .✦ Neteyam often wondered if the Great Mother had simply forgotten to give Y/N the instinct part of her brain.
As the eldest son of Toruk Makto, Neteyam was trained to see everything. He noticed the slight shift in the wind , the hidden shimmer of a thanator eyes in the dark, and the way his father looked at his mother when he thought no one was watching.
He was quite and very careful. Y/N, however, is opposite, she is pure, unfiltered sunshine and she was driving him absolutely insane.
He watched her now from the edge of the clearing, his heart doing that annoying, frantic flip it only did for her. Y/N was currently sitting in a moss, tongue poked out in concentration as she tried to teach a group of small forest children how to make whistles out of seed pods. She was a vision of chaotic , her braids were messy, often caught with stray leaves or glowing spores she hadn't bothered to brush off.
Looking at her, Neteyam realized his careful nature wasn't helping him at all, In his perspective, his life had become a series of failed romantic gestures that Y/N consistently mistook for community service or extreme friendship. He would spend hours practicing his smoldering warrior look in the reflection of a river, only for Y/N to walk up to him and ask if he had something stuck in his eye.
"You're squinting, Neteyam," she would say, leaning in so close he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. "Is it a bug? Do you want me to blow on it?"
He didn't want her to blow on his eye, he wanted her to realize that he was looking at her with the total love. But Y/N was the kind of girl who would find a bouquet of romantic flowers left at her sleeping mat and assume the wind had simply been very organized that morning.
She wasn't stupid tbh, actually far from it.
She could literally track a palulukan through a swamp and recite the history of their ancestors. But when it came to the language of the heart, she was effectively illiterate. She treated every Na'vi in the clan with the same bubbly, gentle kindness, which meant Neteyam’s special treatment didn't feel special to her. It just felt like Neteyam being Neteyam.
For her, Neteyam was the reliable, strong, slightly-too-serious boy she had grown up with. They are literally stuck to their hips when they're still a child until Neteyam develops feelings for her, but she's clueless about this because In her mind, they were a team like two brothers, or a pair of very close cousins. The idea that he might want to bond with her was a concept that sat somewhere outside her realm of possibility, right next to the idea of a mountain flying away.
Neteyam would watch her from across the fire, his tail twitching in agitation as she laughed at something Lo'ak said, or as she carefully mended a tear in a child's loincloth. He was a warrior of the Omatikaya, a warrior who could take down a bull with a single arrow, yet he couldn't figure out how to tell Y/N he loved her without her thanking him for his excellent communication skills.
He knew that if he didn't do something drastic, he would spend the rest of his life being her best friend, watching her accidentally marry someone else because she thought the wedding ceremony was just a really long, fancy dinner party.
Neteyam took a breath, puffing out his chest as he stepped into the clearing. He watched as a glowing woodsprite tried to land on Y/N’s messy braids, and she actually giggled, leaning her head back to give the little creature a better landing spot.
"Y/N," he called out, voice deeper than usual.
She looked up, her golden eyes widening with that signature, heart-stopping brightness. "teyam! Come quick! I think I finally figured out the seed pod whistle, but it only works if you hold your breath and wish really hard."
He didn't sit in the moss with the children. Instead, he reached down and took her hand, pulling her gently but firmly to her feet. The kids whispered and giggled, sensing the tension, but Y/N just blinked at him, tilting her head.
"Oh! Is it time for training? I forgot we were supposed to practice our tree-skipping," she said, already looking for her bow.
"No training," Neteyam said, his thumb grazing the back of her hand. He leaned in close, his height towering over her, his shadow enveloping her small frame. "I want to show you something. In the High Grove. Alone."
Y/N’s eyes sparkled. "A secret? did you find that weird purple fruit that makes your tongue go numb? I love those!"
Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, silently asking Eywa for strength. "No, Y/N. It’s not a numb-tongue fruit. Just... follow me."
He led her away from the camp, his hand never letting go of hers. He led her to a secluded ledge that overlooked the valley, where the trees breathed and the stars looked close enough to touch. He turned to her, reaching into his pouch to pull out a necklace he had spent weeks making. It was made of rare sea-glass and a single, polished tooth from a palulukan a trophy of immense courage.
"Y/N," he whispered, stepping into her personal space until their chests were almost touching. He lifted the necklace, the light reflecting in his serious, intense eyes. "I made this for you. Not for the children, not for the elders, and not for the clan. For you."
Y/N looked at the necklace, then up at Neteyam’s gaze. Her bottom lip trembled slightly.
"Neteyam..." she breathed, her voice soft.
Finally, he thought. The moment of realization.
"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she said, taking the necklace. Then, her face broke into a look of pure, agonizing pity. "You’ve been working so hard on your crafting skills because you’re worried you aren't a good enough warrior, aren't you? Oh, teyam, you don't have to prove anything to me! You’re already the best friend I have. You don't need to give me bribes to stay your friend!"
She threw her arms around his neck in a tight, friendly squeeze, patting his back like he was a sad ikran.
Neteyam stood there, frozen, the rare necklace dangling between them. He could feel her heartbeat against his, but all he could think was that he was officially the most frustrated man on Pandora.
♡
After the necklace disaster , he decided to stop using objects and start using instincts. If she couldn't read his intentions in a gift, he would have to make her feel them in his presence.
Then, this opportunity came the following morning.
── .✦Attempt One
They were walking through a dense part of the Olangi forest, the giant ferns curling over them like a ribs. Neteyam noticed Y/N ahead of him, skipping over roots with her usual chaotic personality, her head tilted back to watch a swarm of wood-sprites.
"Watch your step, Y/N," Neteyam warned.
Naturally, she didn't. She tripped over a protruding vine, and in a flash, Neteyam was there. He catch her, and pulled her flush against his chest, his strong arms wrapping around her waist to steady her. He kept her there longer than necessary, his chin resting against the top of her messy head, heart thudding a confession against her back.
"I have you," he murmured, his voice vibrating deep in his chest.
Y/N leaned back into him, a soft sigh escaping her. Neteyam felt a surge of victory until she spoke.
"Wow, teyam! Your reflexes are getting so fast," she chirped, patting his muscular forearms like he was a particularly talented pack-animal. "It’s so comforting knowing you’re practicing your 'save the clumsy scout' drills on me. You’re going to be such a responsible leader. No one will ever stub a toe on your watch!"
She hopped out of his grip, giving him a bright, oblivious thumbs-up before skipping further into the brush. Neteyam stood alone, his arms still shaped like they were holding her, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth.
── .✦Attempt two
The sun was beginning to dip, Neteyam found Y/N sitting on a thick branch overlooking the river, her feet dangling over the edge. Her hair was, as usual, a messy. She had somehow managed to get sticky tree sap and several glowing feathers tangled into her braids.
Neteyam climbed the tree with a steady grace, sitting directly behind her, without asking he just simply reached out and began to unbind her hair. His fingers moved slowly, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of her neck.
To any other Na'vi girl, this was an incredibly intimate act a silent request to be more than friends. He leaned in so close he could smell the sweet, wild nectar of her skin, his chest almost brushing her back.
"teyam?" she murmured, her head tilting back slightly.
He felt a spark of hope. "Yes, Y/N?" he whispered,. He let his fingers linger on her pulse point, feeling the steady beat of her life.
"You're so sweet," she sighed, closing her eyes. "My mother always says I’m too messy to find a mate, but you... you treat me like a sibling! It's so nice of you to help me stay presentable so I don't embarrass the Chief's family. You really are like the brother I never had."
Neteyam’s hand jerked, nearly snagging a knot. "I am not your brother, Y/N."
"I know! You're better," she chirped, turning around on the branch to face him. She was so close their noses almost touched, her golden eyes sparkling with pure, platonic affection. "You're like a professional groomer! If you ever get tired of being a warrior, you could definitely help the elders with their ceremonial headdresses."
Neteyam stared at her, his jaw ticking. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her until she forgot the word brother. Instead, he just handed her the feathers he’d pulled from her hair and climbed down the tree without a word.
── .✦Attempt three
The clan was sharing a meal after a long day. Usually, Neteyam sat with his brothers, but tonight, he walked straight to Y/N.
When Y/N reached for a piece of roasted fruit, Neteyam’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-air. He didn't let go yet,Instead he picked up a piece of the best meat the hunter’s portion and held it to her lips.
"teyam?" she blinked, her cheeks turning a blush. "I have hands, you know! I'm not a baby forest-bird."
"Eat," he commanded, voice low, a tinge of possessiveness, he ignored the stares from the other young hunters. He wanted them to see him feeding her. He wanted them to know she was being provided for by him alone.
Y/N took the bite, giggling as juice dripped down her chin. "Oh! You’re practicing being a father-figure! That’s so sweet, teyam. You’re making sure the 'weakest' member of the group is fed first. You’re going to be such a charitable Chief!"
Neteyam’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. He didn't say a word, he just wiped the juice from her lip with his thumb, pressing a little too hard, staring at her mouth with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
Attempt Four
The forest was heavy with the scent of blooming night-nectar. Neteyam had found a group of rare sweet-drop fruits small, glowing berries that only grew in the highest canopy. They were a traditional gift for courting, known for being as sweet as a first kiss.
He found Y/N sitting on a low-hanging branch, swinging her legs and trying to whistle back at a distant banshee. Neteyam climbed up, sitting so close that their shoulders were pinned together. then pulled a single, shimmering berry from his pouch.
"Y/N," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet tone that usually made the other girls in the clan blush.
She turned, her golden eyes widening at the sight of the fruit. "Oh! Are those the rare ones? The ones that are hard to find?"
"They are," Neteyam said, his gaze fixed intently on her lips. Neteyam didn't hand her the berry but Instead, he held it between his fingers and moved it slowly toward her mouth. It was a bold, intimate gesture an invitation. "Taste it."
He watched her, his breath catching as his fingers brushed against her bottom lip. He leaned in, his face so close he could see the tiny pulse in her neck . He was certain absolutely certain that she could feel the heavy, romantic tension thick enough.
Y/N took the bite, her eyes closing as she hummed in delight. "Mmm, it's amazing, teyam!"
She opened her eyes, and for a second, she stayed there, inches from his face. Neteyam felt his heart hammering against his ribs. He started to lean in that last inch, his eyes fluttering shut
"You're such a dedicated provider!" she suddenly chirped, patting his cheek with a sticky hand. "You’re practicing your 'feeding the wounded' skills, aren't you? My dad said a great warrior needs to be able to nourish the weak during a long march. You’re going to be the most charitable leader ever! You even make sure I get the snacks first!"
Neteyam’s head dropped onto her shoulder with a thud of pure exhaustion. "I am not... trying to be... charitable," he muffled into her skin.
"Don't be modest!" she laughed, braiding a small vine into his hair as a thank you. "You’re the most selfless friend in the whole forest. Now, come on! I think I saw a weird bug over there that looks like your dad’s bow!"
Neteyam stayed on the branch long after she hopped down. He stared at the remaining berries, wondering if he should just start wearing a sign that said 'I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU' in giant, glowing letters.
The silence of the forest offered no advice, only the mocking rustle of leaves.
Last Attempt
After the berries, he promised himself one final gesture. No more games, no more symbols. He would use the ancient language of their people the Tsaheylu of the eyes to show her exactly what he felt before the words ever left his lips.
They had stopped by a high, secluded falls where the water fell . As Y/N leaned down to drink, Neteyam stepped into her space, blocking the light. When she looked up, He dropped to one knee, bringing his face inches from hers, his golden eyes burning with a raw honesty. He reached out, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw, holding her gaze with a silence so heavy it should have been impossible to ignore. He was waiting for the flicker of realization to finally cross her face.
Y/N blinked, her expression shifting from surprise to a gentle, heartbreaking concern. She reached up, not to hold his hand, but to pat his forehead. "teyam, you’re glowing so bright... are you getting a fever? You should really lie down."
The frustration had reached a boiling point, boiling just beneath Neteyam’s skin like the heat of a forest fire. He watched her skip away, her laughter echoing through the trees, and for the first time in his life, his warrior's discipline failed him.
♡
Final Snap
He spent the rest of the night in silence, his tail twitching in a sharp lash that warned even his siblings to stay away. He didn't want to be charitable. He didn't want to be selfless. He wanted to be the only thing she saw when she closed her eyes at night.
The moon is bright, air grew thick with the scent of damp moss and impending rain, but as the rest of the clan settled into their hammocks, Neteyam’s eyes remained wide. Every time he blinked, he felt the ghost of her sticky hand on his cheek and heard the echo of her calling him a provider.
He needed to end the games. He needed to strip away the wholesome lens she viewed him through and force her to see the hunter beneath the prince.
When he finally spotted her silhouette by the edge of the river, her messy braids glowing faintly in the dark, the last of his patience snapped. He wasn't going to bring a gift. He wasn't going to offer a snack. He was going to take what he had been trying to give her for months.
Neteyam marched through the shallow water, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. The bioluminescent ripples fled from him, but he didn't care about stealth anymore.
"Y/N," he said.
She turned around, her eyes bright. "Neteyam! You're back! Did you find that bug? I was just thinking about how the water looks like—"
"Stop," he rasped, closing the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed her wrists, not painfully, but with a firm grip that forced her to look up at him. "No more bugs. No more whistles. No more 'training drills.'"
Y/N blinked, her head tilting in that familiar, innocent way. "Are you okay? You’re breathing like you just ran from a palulukan. Do you need some of that cooling moss? I can go get—"
"I don't need moss, Y/N! I need you to listen!" Neteyam’s voice cracked with months of suppressed longing. "You think that necklace was for a 'friend'? It was a trophy of my spirit, I was giving you my soul. When I groomed your hair, I wasn't being a brother, I was marking you. Every gift, every hunt... I wasn't being charitable. I was trying to claim you.!.
Y/N stared at him, her lips parting. For a second, a flicker of understanding crossed her face, but then she gave a small, nervous laugh. "Oh! You’re... you’re doing a play! Like the ones the elders do about the old days? Wow, Neteyam, your acting is so realistic, you almost had me—"
"It is not a play!" Neteyam snapped. He was shaking now, his warrior's mask completely shattered. "I am in love with you! I have been in love with you since we were children! Every time I look at you, I am dying. Every time you call me a 'friend,' it’s like a knife to my heart. Do you really not see it? Or are you just trying to drive me mad?"
Y/N’s smile wavered. She looked at his hands trembling on her wrists, then at the raw, burning desperation in his golden eyes. "Neteyam... I... I thought we were just... I mean, you're the golden son. You're so perfect. Why would you want someone as distracted as me? You're just being... really nice, right?"
That was it. The final nice.
Neteyam let out a low growl frustration. He didn't wait for her to finish he just pulled her forward, his hand sliding into her messy, spore-filled braids to tilt her head back, and he crashed his lips against hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss ,It was a firm, possessive, I-have-waited-too-long kiss. It was the kiss of a hunter who had finally caught his prize.
Y/N froze, her breath hitching in her throat. The world around them the glowing trees, the rushing water, the distant banshee cries all of it vanished. There was only the heat of Neteyam’s mouth and the solid weight of his body against hers.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead stayed pressed against hers. He was panting, his eyes dark and blown wide.
"Do you think I'm being 'nice' now?" he whispered against her lips.
Y/N’s hands, which had been hanging at her sides, slowly traveled up his chest, her fingers curling into his skin. She looked up at him, her face a deep, glowing violet, her eyes finally finally clear.
"Oh," she breathed, her voice a tiny, shaky hum. "That... that wasn't very 'brotherly' at all."
"Good," Neteyam muttered, before leaning down to claim her all over again.
♡
The next morning, the entire Olangi clan knew. They didn't need an announcement ,they just had to look at Neteyam.
The stoic, serious warrior had been replaced by a shadow. Wherever Y/N went, Neteyam was exactly two inches behind her, he hovered, his tail constantly entwined with hers, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back as if telling the world, "This one is taken".
Y/N, for her part, was still her usual bubbly self only now, she was a very well-kissed version of it.
"Neteyam, look!" she chirped, stopping by a cluster of puff-plants. "If you squeeze them, they make a funny popping sound. Do you want to try?"
In the past, Neteyam would have sighed and told her they had to keep moving. Now, he simply leaned down, tucked a stray leaf behind her ear, and hummed against her temple. "If you want to pop the plants, my love, we will pop the plants."
He reached out and squeezed a puff-plant, his eyes never leaving her face.
The clan watched in amusement. Lo'ak leaned against a tree, snickering as he watched his tough older brother carry Y/N’s basket, her gathering pouch, and even a particularly round rock she had decided was too pretty to leave behind.
"Hey, brother!" Lo'ak called out. "You're looking awfully... helpful today! Is that some more 'community service' you're doing?"
Neteyam didn't look at his brother, He just simply pulled Y/N closer to his side, his arm tightening around her waist "She’s my mate, loak"
Y/N beamed, standing on her tiptoes to press a quick, messy kiss to Neteyam’s jaw. "He’s still very helpful, though," she whispered loudly to Lo'ak. "He’s even better at kissing than he is at hunting!"
Neteyam’s ears turned a deep shade of red, but for the first time in months, he didn't feel frustrated. He just let out a satisfied purr and began to help her collect more pretty rocks.
He finally had her instinct, her heart, and her attention. And if he had to spend the rest of his life being helpful to the girl who owned his soul, he decided he wouldn't have it any other way.
summary: jake sully x female!reader but no use of y/n, arranged marriage, sunshine!jake x grumpy!reader, kind of lmao. angst, jealousy, mentions of death, feelings of insecurities. fluff. <3 i think that is all, pls lmk if i missed anything
word count: 5,112
tìyawn (n) - love
comments: first fic in a few months, first avatar fic ever <3 i really loved writing this, so i hope you all love it too, okay mwah mwah bye ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
You had not wanted your night to end like this, angrily picking at your song chord as your mother whispered to the elders of her desire to have you wed, and to the Olo’eyktan none the less. Every stone, every achievement, you had earned felt as though it was taken from you. Ripped from your fingers just as you were starting to enjoy the fruits of your labors.
