#chapter three

[thelittlewyrm]

I finally got the art work done for chapter 3 of Pictures of you (pictures of me)

I hope you enjoy it and the chapter, now onto the next art!

[saffusthings]

i look at you, and i'm home

oscar piastri x reader

summary: The morning after is all aching ribs and tension she doesn't understand. She keeps trying to leave, to not be a burden, and Oscar keeps gently insisting she stays. When he finally confronts her with her words back to her.

warnings: descriptions of a car accident's aftermath (whiplash, shock, pain medication, etc.), mentions of needing to use the rest. needing help (very brief and vague i promise)

word count: 3.3k

part one | part two | part three

You woke up to sunlight and pain.

The sunlight was streaming through what looked to be familiar windows. The pain was instantly everywhere—your neck, your ribs, your head, places you didn't even know you'd hurt yesterday. Everything that had been muffled by adrenaline and shock had come back with startling clarity.

You tried to sit up and your ribs screamed at you. You froze halfway, breathing through it as slowly as you could without causing the pain to flare again.

"Hey, hey, don't move."

You turned your head—slowly, because that hurt too—and Oscar was there. He was in the armchair next to the couch, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His hair was sticking up on one side and there were shadows under his eyes.

You were on Oscar's couch.

Right.

The hospital. The accident. Oscar bringing you here.

"Did you sleep?" you asked, trying not to sound as guilty as you felt. The words came out raspy, croaky and low after heavy sleep.

He shrugged rather politely before sugarcoating the truth.

"F’course. Slept some."

Of course, now you definitely felt guilty. Before you could find a way to apologize that wouldn’t end up with Oscar scolding you about not needing to apologize, he stood up and crossed over to the couch.

"How do you feel, hm?"

Still blinking slowly, you answered,"I feel fine. Not too bad, actually."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression deadpan as he waited for you to tell him the truth. Of all the people in the world, Oscar Piastri was likely one of the very few who could see through you like that. "Mhm, try again."

"I'm fine," you repeated, insisting and this time you even committed to sitting up. Your body protested every inch of the way but you managed to get yourself upright, even if you had to pause at the end to breathe through the spike of pain in your ribs that felt not unlike what being stabbed with the literal sun might feel like.

By the time the room felt less fuzzy again, Oscar's hands were hovering near your shoulders like he wanted to help but didn't know if you'd let him.

"See?" you gritted out, teeth clenched as you attempted to give him a reassuring smile. "Better than fine."

"Right,” Oscar sighed, rolling his eyes. Still, he didn’t move from your side. Instead, he resorted to asking a different question. "D'you need to use the bathroom?"

You did, desperately, but the bathroom felt very far away, and your legs may or may not have felt like jello. "I can manage."

"I- Okay."

Instead of arguing any further, he stepped back and you stood up.

Or, well… you tried to.

Your legs were shaky and when you put weight on them, suddenly everything tilted sideways. Before you could even process that you were falling, Oscar caught you in an instant, hands firm on your waist.

"Ah, there we go, I've got you," he spoke quietly, as if this was some secret he'd keep safe so you wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed by needing him to save you. Had it not been for his quick reflexes, you’d likely well made a fool of yourself by crumbling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Yet you could still fill the warmth of familiar hands holding you up, holding you near.

Was he always standing this close?

"I'm fine, I just—" You tried to pull away but your legs weren't cooperating and his hold only tightened, insistent.

"Stop saying you're fine."

"I am fine."

"You can't even stand."

"I'm standing right now."

"Because I'm holding you up!"

There was something sharp in his voice. Not anger, exactly – frustration, maybe.

"Just let me help."

"I don't need—"

"Yes, you do." His eyes were so tired. "Please. Just let me help."

Your throat went tight. Eventually, reluctantly, you nodded.

Once he was certain you weren’t going to yell at him for it, he helped you to the bathroom, patient and careful as only he could be, and waited a respectful distance away from the door. When you were done, he was right there again, helping you back to the couch even though you insisted you could walk on your own.

You couldn't, really. But you didn't want to admit it.

After you were comfortable in your spot on his couch again, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with water and your medication and toast that looked just as sad as last night's.

"You need to eat before you take these," he instructed you.

"M’not hungry."

You really didn’t make things easy. Still, he only sighed good naturedly. 

"Don't care."

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you ended up taking the toast. Careful eyes watched you eat it. All the aching everywhere had every bite feeling like you were trying to swallow sandpaper, but you got it down because he was looking at you like if you didn't eat he might actually lose it.

"Happy?" you drawled sarcastically when you were done. If it didn't hurt to breathe too hard, maybe you’d even curtsey. 

"Thrilled," he replied, equally sarcastic if only to hide the small smile that threatened to appear on his face instead. Making sure he had the correct dosage, Oscar handed you the pills with a glass of water.

Once you’d finally forced yourself to swallow them down, he took the glass back and you sank into the couch cushions. As much as you’d hoped that would magically dissipate all your aches and pains, everything did still hurt. It wasn't even just the injuries – your neck was stiff from sleeping wrong, your ribs ached with every breath, your head was pounding. It took genuine 

Oscar sat on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knees almost touched yours.

"What hurts?" he coaxed softly.

"Nothin’."

Oscar tried his very best not to sigh audibly. He’d learned quite some time ago that the slightest sign of frustration only motivated you to apologize more, which was kind of the opposite of what he wanted.

"I– Stop lying to me."

"I'm not—"

"You are."

His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it.

"You're sitting like your ribs are broken and even I can tell you haven't turned your head properly once since you woke up. So tell me what hurts."

You looked away from him. "Everything! Everything hurts. Happy now?"

"No."

He stood up and disappeared down the hall.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe. 

This was stupid. 

You shouldn't be here. You should be at home where you could suffer in private and not make Oscar watch you fall apart. Something quite like guilt curled tighter in your chest.

He came back with a heating pad and extra pillows. The sight was so soft, so full of thought and care and all the other stuff that might make your heart all mushy in your chest.

"What– What are you doing?" you managed to ask.

"Er, helping?"

He plugged in the heating pad.

"Lean forward."

"Osc—"

"Please lean forward?"

Eye still wide in awe of just how much one person could care, you adjusted your body as he’d requested you too, and he arranged the pillows behind you so when you leaned back your neck was actually supported. Then, he had the audacity to drape the heating pad over your shoulders.

The warmth helped immediately.

You hated that it helped.

"Better?" he hummed.

"You, uh, don't have to do all this."

"I know that…? I was asking if—"

"No, Osc. M’serious. You've– You’ve done enough. I can just—I'll call someone to pick me up. You need to sleep or eat something that’s not toast—."

He sat back down on the coffee table and looked at you like you'd said something incomprehensible. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looked genuinely hurt, like you’d somehow brought that sad puppy look onto his face. He looked… sad.

"You… think I'm gonna let you leave?"

"I can't stay here forever."

"....You've been here for eight hours."

"Still."

"Still what, exactly?"

There was that sharpness again.

"You have a concussion. You can barely walk. Where exactly do you think you're goin’?"

"Home?"

"By yourself?"

"I'll figure it out!"

"No."

It was flat, final.

"You're staying."

"Oscar—"

"I'm not arguing about this."

He ran a hand through his hair and it stuck up worse than before.

"Why're you fighting me on this?"

"Because I'm not your responsibility!"

The words came out louder than you meant them to, and Oscar went very, very still.

"Is… Is that what you think?" he asked quietly.

"I—"

Suddenly, the sound of your heartbeat was loud and the air in the room was much thinner, causing a strange tightness in your chest.

"It’s just… You have your own life, you know? Like, your own things to deal with. You don't need to be stuck taking care of me."

"I'm not— I’m not stuck."

"But you are. You woke up every three hours last night.There are actual, literal bags under your eyes because of how tired you are. You—"

"I wanted to." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "D'you understand that? I wanted to be here. I want to help. Why's that so hard for you to accept?"

You didn't have an answer for that.

Oscar was watching you, waiting, and you couldn't find the words. Your head was pounding and everything hurt and you were so tired of hurting.

"I just don't get it," you confessed finally. Your voice sounded small even to you, tentative. "I don’t get why you'd, uh, want to."

Something shifted in his expression, confusion tinged with hurt. "What?"

The look on his face… You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. It was almost like your words were hurting him somehow, and you couldn’t possibly understand how. Nothing you were saying was meant to hurt him. You were only trying to tell the truth.

It took a deep breath for you to find your words again.

"This. All of this."

You gestured vaguely at the pillows, the heating pad, him.

"Putting up with me. I don't—I don't understand, I can figure out why you'd go through all this trouble."

"It's not trouble."

"It is though! Like, objectively it is. You could be sleeping right now. Or– Or you could be doing literally anything else. But instead, you're here watching me like I'm gonna break and I just—"

You had to stop because your voice was cracking.

"I don't. get. why."

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, precariously balanced on a single, invisible point.

"...You really don't know?"

"Know what? Don’t know what, Osc?"

He looked at you like he was trying to solve an equation. Then he sat back and there was something almost helpless in the way he said his next words

"You told me I'd make a good boyfriend."

Your brain stalled out, short circuiting in real time. "What?"

"Last night. You said I'd make a good boyfriend. That whoever dates me would be lucky."

Oh god.

You'd said that. You'd actually said that out loud.

"I was—that was the pain meds talking. I didn't mean—"

You could feel your face getting hot.

"That was– It was just a compliment. Like, I was just saying you're a good person, that you—"

"Right."

Amber brown eyes were still watching you with that same careful expression.

"...Just a compliment."

"Yeah. I mean, you know, it’s—"

You were stumbling over the words.

"You’re, like, weirdly good at taking care of people. Like me for example – you bring me toast and add the exact right amount of butter. You remember when I'm supposed to take my meds before I even remember that I need to take them, because you won’t let me be in the slightest pain for even a second. You watch Finding Nemo with me like it’s the first time every time. That's just facts. It wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"

"You said I'm always like this," he continued quietly. "With you."

You remembered that part too, now. The shape of it. How his hand had felt around yours.

"Well. You are." 

It came out defensive.

"You're always doing stuff like this. Helping with things. Being there. I was just—it was an observation."

"An… observation," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He nodded slowly, and there was something in his face you couldn't read.

"Can I make an observation?"

You nodded, wary.

"You're scared," he spoke carefully.

"I'm not—"

"Not of the accident. Of this," he gestured between you. "Of letting someone take care of you. Of needing help. Of—"

He paused.

"Of what it might mean if I want to be here."

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "Oscar, I…”

"I'm not a good boyfriend to just anyone," he whispered, and his voice was so gentle it made your throat ache. "I'm good at taking care of you because it's you. I wake up every three hours because it's you. I can't—"

He stopped, dragged a hand over his face.

"I can't watch you hurt and not do everything I can to fix it because it's you."

Oh.

Oh.

The heating pad was warm on your shoulders. The apartment was quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat.

"Oh," you finally whispered, a breath more than anything else.

"Yeah."

His smile was small and a little bit broken.

"Oh."

You were staring at him and he was staring back and the whole world had just tilted on its axis.

"I didn't know," you mumbled stupidly.

"I know you didn't."

The smile Oscar wore was some tragic cross between heartbroken and smitten. It made you want to cry.

 He leaned forward again, careful, like he was approaching something that might bolt.

"But now you do."

"Now I do," you echoed softly.

His hand moved like he was going to reach for yours, then stopped. "Is that okay?"

Is it okay.

Is it okay that Oscar — Oscar who'd come to the hospital the second they'd called, who'd stayed all night, who looked at you like you were something precious — was sitting here telling you that it was you, it had always been you.

"I told you you'd make a good boyfriend," you blurted out. Your voice sounded strange. "I meant it. Even with the pain meds. With the— I meant it."

His breath caught, hitching audibly. "...Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And then, because your brain was still foggy and everything hurt and you couldn't seem to stop talking, even more words tumbled out of your mouth.

"I think I meant— I think maybe I was talking about me. Like, whoever you date? I think I wanted—"

You couldn't finish, but you didn't have to. Oscar's face did something that made your chest feel too full, like all the feeling, all the– the this could somehow overflow and pour out of you and into space between the two of you.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"I am here."

"Closer."

You shifted forward and immediately regretted it when your ribs protested, but then Oscar's hands were on your arms, steadying you, and he was so close you could see the exact shade of worry in his eyes.

"For the record," he started, "I don't wanna date just anyone."

"No?"

"No."

His thumb brushed against your forearm, soft and deliberate.

"Just you. If that's— if you want—"

"I do want," you blurted out before you could even think about it, because Oscar looked terrified and you couldn’t stand him feeling like that and you needed him to know. "Oscar, I want."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise – soft and tinged pink, radiant and full of promise.

"Okay," he breathed.

"Okay," you echoed, your face splitting into a matching grin. When it came to Oscar, you couldn’t help it, and you didn’t want to. The scrunch of his smile and those adorable buckteeth and that floof of his hair made the butterflies in your stomach flutter all the way into your chest. It made your mind short-circuit, made your heart skip, made you do all the tooth-rotting, sickeningly sweet things only Oscar could bring out in you. 

The sound of his voice interrupted your daydreaming.

"But you're still staying on this couch until the doctor clears you."

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, even when it hurt your ribs. Right now, you really didn’t care. "Okay."

His smile only god wider.

"And you're gonna let me take care of you."

"Mhmm."

"And you're gonna stop trying to convince me you're fine when you're clearly not."

You almost nodded, before you stopped yourself. "Hmm, that one might take some work."

Oscar’s expression was so horribly lovesick you couldn’t fathom how you never noticed it before. 

"I've got time,” he hummed, his hands still on your arms, warm and steady. "I've got all the time in the world."

Your eyes were burning again, but for a completely different reason than last night.

"Can I—"

You gestured awkwardly between you.

"Can we— I was wondering if—"

"Kiss?" he supplied smugly, and there was something almost teasing in his voice now. "You wanna kiss me?"

"Yes,” you blushed, suddenly shy when everything you didn’t know you wanted was just within reach. “But I don't think I can move without something breaking."

Oscar laughed, soft and fond, and leaned in to close the distance himself. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, careful of the bruise on your cheekbone, and when his lips touched yours it was gentle, tender.

Like you were something that might shatter.

You wouldn't shatter. Not with him holding you like this.

The kiss was everything you could have imagined and more. It wasn’t fireworks so much as it was an all encompassing pleasant thrum that began from your lips met his and spread until it consumed you whole. The warm weight of his lips on yours, the gentle brush of his hand steading your waist, the scent of him — just everything — had you uncertain whether the kiss was breathing life into you or stealing your breath away.

Whatever it was, you hoped it’d keep happening forever.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours and you were both breathing like you'd run a marathon.

"That okay?" he asked, equal parts smug and tentative. Only Oscar could manage to be both at the same time, you thought.

"Better than okay."

"Good."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead then, before carefully guiding you back against the pillows.

"Mhm, now rest. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor," you yawned, before settling in just so you could look at him some more. As pain meds began to kick in the edges started to grow hazy, your mind fought against sleep because you were almost afraid that this would all turn out to be some dream.

Oscar’s fingertips barely grazed against your skin as he brushed a lock of your hair out of your, tucking it behind your ear.

"Boyfriend's orders, then."

Your heart tripped over itself. 

"Boyfriend?"

His ears went pink, but he didn't back down. "Yeah. If you want."

"I do want," you assured him, and you'd never meant anything more.

He settled back onto the coffee table, close enough to touch, and picked up his phone. Probably setting an alarm for your next round of medication.

He’d only just thought you’d fallen asleep when– 

"...Oscar?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you. For… all o’ this. For bein’ here."

He looked at you and there was so much in his expression — affection and exasperation and something softer than both.

"Always," he replied simply, like it was the easiest promise in the world to make.

You believed him.

a/n: sorry for being mia. brain was being a bitch, but i wrote this and it made me feel a little better. hopefully this can make you feel a little better too <3

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven’t seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter three

⭐︎ You're the greatest thing we've lost

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comofort (I guess?), mentions of death, grief, grumpy/mean!Steve

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Steve allows you to see a glimpse of who he really is, and not only do you get that, you also find out some sad truths.

Word count: 12.1k

Author's note: One of the chapters I was excited for the most was this one, you'll know why when you read it hehe. @hellfire--cult worked on this one with me, and she added a lot (don't listen to her when she will say she didn't, cause she did !) give her some love (or all of it cause she deserves it ♡)

⭐︎ series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter ⭐︎ next chapter

☀︎

Steam fogs the mirror in the bathroom, drops of water fall from your hair and down your shoulders, the smell of vanilla and lavender lingers in the room, you are rubbing moisturizer into your skin, enjoying the luxury of it all, a luxury you won’t have much longer the moment you are back on the road again. It’s impossible to find functioning showers nowadays, let alone hot running water. Something that used to be so normal, is something special now and you enjoy every second here in Hawkins, every hot shower, every good night’s sleep, every warm meal, the feeling of safety. 

You put a pair of sweatpants on and a sweater to keep you warm, a pair of wool socks that Nancy knitted herself. You brush your wet hair and clip it back. 

When you step out into the hallway, silence greets you. Eddie is in his room, he was complaining about a headache after you finished patrolling together after he worked on the RV all morning, you both got caught in the rain and after taking a shower to warm up, he excused himself to lie down. The door to Nancy’s bedroom is closed as well, she must be reading, she always closes the door when she does. The rainy weather allows you all to take everything a bit slower, to rest a little more than usual. 

The wind howls outside, thunder striking somewhere far, red bolts of lightning curse through the sky, an image you still haven’t gotten used to. 

You make your way down the stairs, it isn’t dark out yet but the grey clouds make it seem like it’s evening already, the golden light from the fireplace in the living room is very inviting in contrast to the darkness outside. You step inside and notice Steve moving around in the kitchen, taking out bowls from the cardboard. A towel is slung over his shoulder, his features are relaxed, no sign of a frown appearing on his face… yet.

You watch him for a moment, not moving away or towards him. You don’t want to disturb him or his peace. He seems to be content by himself and you know that facial expression will change the moment he notices you. 

Things have been tense between you after your one and only time patrolling together. He didn’t ask you to join him in anything and you didn’t make the mistake of trailing after him again. You also didn’t make much more conversation with him and he seemed happy about it for he didn’t try either. The only interactions you both have are ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’, maybe a ‘can you pass me the salt’ or an ‘excuse me’ here and there but that’s all. 

It’s been eleven days since your arrival here, and you both are still where you started. It saddens you. You tried to get to know him, and you still want to but he makes it hard to.

Maybe if things had been different, you would have gotten the chance to get to know the Steve you have seen in the pictures Nancy had shown you. The guy he once was seemed sweet and welcoming, the one before you is the opposite of it. 

You know something must’ve happened to him. Maybe it’s got to do with the scars on his skin, maybe he lost someone you don’t know about, maybe it’s because of Robin but whatever it was that took away the light in his eyes has turned him into this – mistrusting and mean. 

A silent sigh falls from your lips, you force your eyes away from his form and turn away, ready to make your way back up the stairs but his voice makes you halt in your tracks. 

“Hey…”

A lump grows in your throat, a nervous feeling settles in your chest, you swallow and take a deep breath before you turn around, facing him again. 

He is looking right at you, an awkward attempt at a smile pulling at his lips. 

“Hi… I uh, Nancy and Eddie are in their rooms and I didn’t want to disrupt their peace but uh I also don’t want to disrupt yours so–”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts you, not even letting you finish your sentence. “Would you like to help me?” 

You blink. 

Did you hear him correctly? 

He presses his palms against the counter, raising his eyebrows at you, like he waits for you to say yes. 

Steve notices your uncertainty, the knit between your brows, the pursed lips, the confused look in your eyes. You are pulling at your sleeves, looking a little lost, looking a little intimidated. You are not like this with Nancy and Eddie, you are comfortable with them – but not with him, and he can’t blame you for that.

“I could use a hand.”

You nod slowly, licking your lips, “yeah, I uh, sure!” 

You can’t help but feel a giddiness inside of you. He never asked you to join him before, he never asked for your help. 

“What do you need me to do?” You ask as you make your way over to him, standing across from him now, on the other side of the kitchen island. 

“Butter for now.”

“Butter?” You tilt your head. 

He hates it when you do that, every time you ask a question, every time you are confused about something, you tilt your head to the side. 

“We received a ton of milk, but we have to make our own butters and cream,” he explains as he gestures to the cans of milk on the table. 

“Oh…”

“Wanna give me a hand? It’s a lot of stirring.”

You nod, following him to the small, round kitchen table. 

“Here,” he murmurs, gesturing to the wooden jar, “this is a butter churn.”

“This is what they look like?” 

Steve nods, “yeah, what’d you think they looked like?” 

You shrug, picking up the stick, “I dunno, this thing looks like something straight out of the 1500s.”

Steve snorts, “maybe it is, we found it in Miss Keller’s house, she’s basically from the 1500s with the dresses she always wore.”

You fake a gasp, bringing your hand up to your mouth, “you stole Miss Keller’s butter churn? Bad Steve.” 

He rolls his eyes at you and turns away, but you see the way his lips curl upwards, even if only a little. – A small victory on your part. 

“So… how do I use this thing?”

He pours some milk into the jar and takes the stick from your hands, putting inside the jar before he covers the sides with a towel so the milk doesn’t splatter over you both.

“Here, you just… do these motions,” he explains, twisting the stick from side to side as he raises it up and down slowly, “you churn it slowly, you don’t want the milk to get all over you, it may take some time until you see some progress, you just gotta be patient.” 

You hum, moving a little closer to him, invading his space, you smell his shampoo, his body wash, a hint of oranges and apricot, the sweet and soft scents surprise you, most men opt for masculine scents, strong and overpowering ones. You prefer this. You like this, you like this a little more than you should. You watch the way his hands move as he shows you the motions, you focus on his voice when he gives you the instructions and then you take over when he hands you the stick before he steps away from you rather quickly. 

Unbeknownst to you, he too liked the scent that lingers on your skin a little too much. The sweetness of it, the softness of your hand when it touched his own, the closeness and the heat of your body – he doesn’t like you, how could he? His body reacts to your scent, feminine and soft. It’s been a long time since he felt the touch of a woman, and you are the first to graze his skin, that’s all. He wouldn’t think anything of it, he wouldn’t react to it had there been other women around. 

To his surprise you stay quiet, focused on the task before you, you don’t speak or ask any questions for a while, it’s almost odd to him, you are talkative, never missing the opportunity to open your mouth and ramble about something completely random and unimportant. Then again, things have been tense between you both. He knows it’s his fault, he also knows that it’s for the better, yet he can’t help but dislike this silence right now, he doesn’t know why. 

He tries to focus on his own task, pouring milk into a pot to make cream. 

The crackle of the fire, and the sound from the butter churn fill the silence between you both. A few minutes pass before you finally speak up. 

“What are we using the butter for?” You ask, feeling the soreness in your wrist already.

“For the meat. I use it to make it tender. The meats are not as good now that the cows are not properly cared for. They’re just cows from the wild and the few from the barn here.” 

“Oh, so they don’t get all the needed supplements and stuff?” 

“Exactly,” Steve nods, reaching for a spatula, he starts stirring the milk, “I mean, we do our best but you know…”

You look over at him, surprised to find him looking back at you already, you didn’t realize his eyes were on you. You nod your head slowly, not moving your eyes away from his, you don’t break the contact just yet, looking into his hazel eyes that are always blazing with anger or annoyance, right now it’s neither of those emotions, it’s something else, something you can’t read, something you can’t make out, something you haven’t seen in his eyes yet, a look yet to be unlocked. 

He blinks, shaking his head, he furrows his eyebrows and looks down at your hand, “how does it look?” 

You breathe out and force your eyes away from his as well, you stop your movements and lift the towel off the jar, “uh, I think it’s solid now.” 

“Great, now pour it into the bowl,” he gestures to the bowl with the cheesecloth inside. 

You fall quiet again and follow his instructions, his voice fills the space between you as he gives you a step by step on what to do but when you’re as good as done, the silence between you is almost deafening, almost awkward, especially to him, the need to fill it is so strong. 

He swore to himself that he wouldn’t talk to you if not necessary, that he wouldn’t ask questions. He doesn’t want to know anything about you, he doesn’t need that in his life, but this moment right now is killing him. He is done cooking the cream, and he is now working on making dinner, cutting vegetables. He tries to distract himself with that but to no avail. 

He glances at you. It’s dark out now, the only source of light coming from the fireplace and all the candles set up because he likes to save up on electricity by keeping the lights off. The golden light touches your skin so softly, your hair shining from it, the smell of your body wash lingers in the room. You look relaxed, you look content despite being here with him. The sweater you are wearing is too big and it slipped down your shoulder from all the movements, exposing the scar that has formed on your shoulder. It was fresh when you came here, and he never found out how you got it. 

He clears his throat, swallowing the lump that grew from nervousness, he speaks your name, which it’s almost foreign on his tongue. 

You look up at him, “yeah..?”

“What uh,” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly before he points to your shoulder, “what happened?”

You need a moment to follow what he is pointing at. You are surprised, almost taken aback to hear a question coming from him, a question directed at you. Slowly, you look down, only now noticing that your sweater slipped. You put down the paddle that you used to form the butter and pull your sweater back up. 

“Uh… I fell onto broken glass when a sick person snuck up on me.” You explain, scrunching your nose, “I was distracted, I never am usually but I was hungry and looking for food and I found something I’ve been looking for, for months!” 

“Oh,” Steve mumbles and looks down. “What was it?” 

“...Kit Kat’s.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, lip curling up a bit, “you almost got yourself killed because of Kit Kat’s?” 

You shrug at him, “they’ve always been my favorite! And I haven’t had any since the day the world went to shit!” 

He chuckles a bit but he doesn’t comment on it further, just looking back down, giving you the opportunity to look at him closer, at the scar around his neck, you never asked how he got it, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. 

He looks up to find you staring at his neck. He knows you are curious, you have been from the start, he always caught you staring at it. 

“I was dragged by a demo– a bat.”

He sees the way your eyes widen, how surprised you are by his explanation, “huh?”

He points to his neck, “it choked me, leaving a mark, while two others bit my flesh off.” 

Steve used to cringe every moment he spent thinking of that night, of when they dragged him across the floor, leaving marks on his skin. He used to have nightmares of it, until those nightmares were replaced by new pictures, worse ones. 

You nod slowly, looking him up and down, there are no other visible marks for you to see, except for the one on his neck. 

“Where?”

He sighs, not wanting to look into your eyes, not wanting to see the sadness flashing in them. He looks back down at the carrot he was cutting, picking the knife back up again, he continues. 

“My abdomen, my sides… but Eddie had it worse.” 

You quickly realize what he is doing, steering the topic away from him again, thinking he doesn’t deserve sympathy for what he went through. 

You have seen the scars on Eddie’s skin, the deep and gnarly marks, he briefly told you what had happened but you never pushed the subject, you never tried to find out more. 

“You mean the scar on his lip…?” 

Steve nods, “his chest, abdomen, arms, legs… They’re all scarred. They bit off chunks of flesh.” He says, his voice sad, almost haunted. 

Your shoulders drop, the look on your face too, sadness flushes through you and you look down at the table, at nothing in particular.

You can’t imagine how it happened, the pain he was in, the fear that took home in all of them when Eddie was bleeding out and fighting for his life. 

Steve turns around when he registers your silence. He sees the worried, sad look on your face, how your lips curl downwards and your shoulders are dropped. 

“But we’re okay now, he is healthy as you can see… and annoying.”

At that, you smile a little, lifting your head back up to look at him, “yeah, but he’s adorable.” 

Steve draws back a little, raising an eyebrow at you, “you crushing on Munson or something?” 

Your eyes widen and you flush all over, shaking your head quickly that your hair falls out of your clip. 

“What, no! Ew! He reminds me of my brother! People that are just like my brother ain’t my type!” You scoff, shuddering a little. You pick up the paddle again and continue forming the butter into the shape you want to have it. 

Steve can’t help but smile, amused by the look on your face. He gets a little curious though. 

“... And what is your type?”

You hum, taking a moment to answer his question. 

He doesn’t look away from you just yet, he watches you. 

“Mmm… As long as he makes me smile when I need it the most… that’s all I need.” 

Steve nods at your words, humming. 

You look up at him, surprised to see him still watching you. 

“What about you? What’s your type, cowboy?” 

He flushes a little, cheeks warming under your eyes. He hasn’t talked about women in years, and hasn't thought about this either. 

He shakes his head, lifting his shoulders up and down, “I uh… I honestly have no idea.” 

He is not the guy he used to be, the one who was flirting freely and taking out one girl after the other – even that guy didn’t know his type. He was searching for something in every girl, and he never found it. 

“Oh come on!” You scoff, looking at him in disbelief, “what type of women did you go out with?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know, they were always… stereotypical girls that always talked about the latest trends and stuff.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you look down. 

“Ah right… Prom King. I can guess which type of women you’re into–”

He quickly shakes his head at you, “no… no… I went out with them to have fun, it was just physical. Those girls weren’t my type.” 

You frown at his words and sigh. 

For some reason your reaction makes him think that you’re done with this conversation, but then you look back up and turn towards him completely. 

“Okay… then, when you’re with a woman, what is attractive to you?” 

“... Real answer?” 

“Sure…” You murmur. 

A smirk tugs at his lip when he notices how flustered you are getting when his eyes move up and down. 

You notice how he stops at your chest in particular and you can’t help but groan and shake your head in disappointment. 

“Booo…”

“No!” Steve raises his hands up in surrender, chuckling. 

“I was gonna say eyes.”

You roll your eyes, snorting, “right… I didn’t mean physically, Steve. I meant what is attractive to you when you’re on a date with them? What do they do that is attractive to you?”

Your words wipe the small smile off his face again, and he stands there in silence, getting lost in his thoughts, getting lost in the past, reliving every date, every moment that should have excited him but didn’t. He realizes that there was not a single date that is worth remembering, not a single girl who made him smile genuinely. Sure, he had fun the moment he was in pleasure but that’s all, the girls were attractive physically but emotionally? They all sucked, none of them cared about him, all they wanted was a piece of King Steve. 

And even when he thought he found something genuine, someone to love him, someone to care for him, it turned out to be a show, it was just as genuine as the interest all those girls had in him. It was all a lie. 

There is no love in him for her anymore, no feelings, no desires, nothing. But those words still hurt and sometimes they still haunt him because he believes it. Those words echo in his head, just like all the other hateful things others have thrown at him. But one in particular remains,

‘Bullshit’

“I… I don’t know…” He whispers, letting his facade fall for only a moment. “I guess someone who doesn’t see me as a failure.” 

You are taken aback by his words, a weird feeling settling in your chest at the confession. 

When Steve realizes what he said, when he notices the look in your face, when he notices his mistake, he immediately draws back. 

“W-What… Failure, why?” 

He shakes his head, turning his back to you again, “doesn’t matter, um… the butter should be done, wanna give me a hand cutting the potatoes?” 

You hesitate, staring at the back of his head. You want to know more, you want to know why he said that, you want to know why he feels like this, who made him feel like this. 

A sigh falls from your lips, loud enough for him to hear. 

“Sure…”

You leave it alone, not wanting to risk getting on his bad side again, you bite your tongue and do as he asked. You clean up the kitchen table before you walk over to him, getting your own cutting board, and you start peeling the potatoes. 

You work in silence for a while, just like before, but this one isn’t as uncomfortable, even though his words still echo in your head and you wonder about his past. You don’t want him to close up on you again, not when he just started to open up, so you don’t press the subject further. 

It’s too silent though and you can barely handle it. You let go of the peeler before you started peeling the potatoes, taking Steve aback, his eyes already glaring at you as you turned and walked away.

“Really? You don’t want to peel potatoes?”

“It’s too quiet!” You leave the kitchen, leaving Steve stunned as he looks back at the door. It was quiet but he didn’t think you were going to have a breakdown because of it. He doesn’t know you and that is being a little obvious by now. Maybe you don’t do good with silence and he just doesn't know that side of you. If he knew, maybe he could have talked about something else, or try.

But not two seconds later, he starts hearing the radio turning and then static. He doesn’t remember when was the last time they turned on that radio. He can hear you changing the channels of it, the static growing and lowering, and he wonders if you're crazy. There is no music being played. Who would operate a radio station in the middle of the apocalypse–

His eyes widen when he starts hearing ‘Hound dog’ by Elvis Presley. It is static, yet it is still there. There is music. Somewhere in Indiana, someone is operating a radio station. Someone is trying to keep people in a good mood despite it all. He never knew. Nancy never knew. Eddie never tried. The three of them thought that the only music they could have was Eddie’s guitar.

He hears you humming to it, walking back into the kitchen and placing the small radio on the far corner so you two can have the music to yourselves. He is still staring at the radio, completely stunned, his eyes wide. You turn to look at him when you grab the peeler, noticing the look of surprise.

“Why do you look so stunned?”

“I– I didn’t know they played music…” Your eyes went to look at it and you smiled, nodding at him.

“Yeah, I had one back at camp too… Did you know radio signals can travel from 50 to 60 miles away? Some AM stations up to 100 miles!” He is still surprised there is music, yet you are talking away facts to him about radio signals. But that actually caught his attention. There are others, not an hour away from him. It has to be the WSQK watts station. It has to be.

“There’s… a radio station near… like thirty or forty minutes away from here…” You turn to him, surprised as well now.

“Really? Well… there’s people operating there… Probably also sending out news and messages to people.” Your attention turns back to the potatoes, starting to peel away, leaving the peeled skin scraps in a mountain on the counter. 

“That’s… good to know.” It actually is good to know. They thought that the only radio signal they could ever get for news was Mr. Clarke’s transmitter that is in the library. That’s how they got contacted by Hopper when the others arrived in California, and now he is finding out that maybe some radio stations are still transmitting. They are probably using some kind of solar panel to make energy because–

“This potato has a worm.” He snaps out of his thoughts immediately at your words, frowning as he looks down at it. 

“There’s no worm there.” You slowly look up at him with a cheeky smile, only to look back down, leaving that peeled potato aside to grab another.

“You were thinking too much. Just enjoy the music, you can think later.” You reply and he blinks for a few seconds as the song keeps playing. He looks back down to his carrots, grabbing the knife he left on the side to keep cutting. The minutes pass, the songs changing, songs he knows. Songs that remind him of when the world didn’t simply go to shit. 

And there’s some kind of comfort in that.

“Did you know Marvin Gaye was shot by his own father?” You have been spitting facts and news to him that he either knew or never knew, and he didn’t notice he found himself talking back at you, even giving a fact or two of his own.

“I did, that was crazy as shit.” The song ‘Sexual Feeling’ was playing, that’s why you started talking about that with him. Each song that passed, you said something about it. You were stirring the vegetables in the boiling water while he sauted the meat in the pan, with the butter you made. He threw some rosemary in it too, for extra flavour.

One other thing he didn’t notice was that he had been humming along all this time.

He had two pans where he was cooking four pieces of meat, while you worked on making sure the vegetables were properly boiled. You had added some garlic in the pot because you claimed it’s good for the overall health. He almost chuckled at that because it was just because garlic is delicious. There was no need to put garlic on boiled vegetables. 

You two didn’t even notice that even in the silence of conversation, where just the music played, there was no more awkwardness. There was no tension. There was nothing that could make you think he didn’t like you anymore. 

“Is that Marvin Gaye?” The sound of Nancy’s voice makes the two of you turn around, and she is surprised to see you working together. It’s been days since you two last had a proper conversation, and– “Wait… music?”

“Yeah. She kind of discovered it. Nance, we didn’t know the radio station was still functioning, for a whole year.” Steve’s voice makes you feel proud, knowing you helped and that he was actually surprised by your discovery. Nancy blinks a few times, not believing her ears.

“Wait, so it means we can use that to receive news…” Steve’s eyebrows meet in the middle for a second, only to then nod slightly.

“I bet they’re not different from the news we get from the transmitter in the library, Nance.” His head turns back to the meat, while you grab four plates, stacking them next to him. “Thanks.”

You try to tone down your giddiness, not wanting to show him you are really happy he is being civil and friendly with you, “No problem.”

Nancy’s eyes travel back and forth with the two of you, wondering what had changed, but it is better not to ask. Seeing Steve putting steak on each plate while you grab a colander from the cupboards below the sink. You are about to grab the pot yourself, grabbing kitchen clothes to not burn yourself on the handles, but Steve grabs them from you.

“Let me.” You see how he grabs the pot, not letting you do it, not letting you carry the heavy weight yourself.

“Um–” You don’t know how to react or say, kind of confused at his action, but you don’t dislike how much of a gentleman that move was. Nancy hums a bit to herself, clearing her throat before yelling out.

“Eddie! Food’s ready!” Your head turns to look at her, and you snap from your thoughts, not noticing you had been looking at his arms as they strained a bit when pouring the water into the colander. You quickly move to the cupboards to start setting up the table with Nancy as Eddie walks down the stairs. 

“Oh, shit, we eating Steve’s delicious steaks?” Steve rolls his eyes but he’s proud of his cooking. It’s one of those things he knew he was good at, and he never received any complaints.

“Just set the table up, Munson.” He replies and Eddie immediately moves to grab the water out of the fridge and set it on the table. You go back to the counter, next to Steve, and grab a big scooping spoon. Steve hands you one plate, with a steak on it, and you just add some boiled vegetables on it before placing it in front of Nancy as she sits down.

Once you are all seated, Eddie doesn’t even wait a second before he shoves a piece of meat into his mouth, moaning as if he’s in a porn movie, making the other three of you cringe.

“Do you have to do that everytime you eat his steak?” Nancy asks as she cuts herself a little piece, Eddie turning to look at her, with his mouth full.

“Its’ ‘fee biss’ stek’ i’ve evur’ haf.” You snort into your water at the nonsense he just mumbled  because of his mouth full of food. Steve holds in a chuckle as he grimaces in disgust.

“Can you chew and swallow before you talk?” And Eddie glares at him only for his eyes to widen up as he looks around, a frown in his eyebrows. He chews quickly, swallowing where he almost choked.

“Is that– ‘Take on me’? Is that fucking music!?” Nancy snorts as you all realize that Eddie hadn’t even noticed the music playing because he was more focused on Steve’s steaks. 

You explain that you have found a few channels over the months every time you come across a radio somewhere, though none of them have played metal music. 

“Maybe you gotta do the heavy metal channel,” you shrug. 

“Huh, you know what? Maybe I will, once I figure out how to, I fucking will,” he nods happily before he takes another bite of his steak. 

Steve chuckles a little to himself, though he keeps his eyes trained on the plate before him. Nancy and Eddie share a look of surprise, it’s been a while since they saw him so… relaxed. 

For the first time in a while, he joins in on the small talk during dinner, commenting and nodding along to the things you talk about. A sparkle of hope is inside of both Nancy and Eddie, hope that maybe there is still something left in him wanting to try, wanting to live, wanting to fight for something better. 

Maybe he is ready to leave now, maybe he is learning how to let go. 

Eddie wastes no time in wanting to find out, because the moment you are all done eating and he pushes the empty plate away from him, leaning back, he stuffs his hand into the pocket of his jeans, fishing something out. 

You all watch curiously. 

Eddie flashes you a smile when you lean closer, trying to peek over the table. He lifts his arm up and throws something over to Steve, the unmistakable sound of jingling keys passing by you, a flash over silver before your eyes before it lands in Steve’s hand. 

Steve looks down, feeling the metal in his palm, his fingers are closed around it. He doesn’t need to look to know what it is, the happiness in Eddie’s eyes and the dreadful feeling in his stomach tells him exactly what it is. 

With furrowed eyebrows, he stares at nothing in particular. 

“What is it!?” Nancy asks, impatiently. 

Eddie looks at the both of you, unable to contain the smile on his face as he starts jumping up and down on his chair. 

“I finished it,” he explains proudly, though neither of you understand what he means by that as you both give him questioning looks, to which he sighs. “The RV! It’s up and running! We can finally get out of here!” 

“Seriously?” Nancy nearly squeals, her eyes lighting up at his words, she nearly jumps from her chair, almost knocking it over. 

You know that she’s been waiting for this, waiting to be reunited with her family again. 

“Yeah! We’re going to California, baby!” Eddie exclaims, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. “So you better start packing your bags.”

You smile, sharing their relief as well. You've been waiting for it too, waiting to finally see your family again, though in this moment, you fear looking over at Steve, knowing how he feels about leaving Hawkins. You still turn your head, daring to take a glance and you find exactly what you thought you would. 

His features are no longer relaxed, his lips are no longer curled into a smile, his eyes aren’t soft like they were before. A mixture of sadness and anger lingers in them, and when he looks at you, meeting your eyes, you feel a shudder running down your spine, he no longer is the one from before, the one that laughed with you, the one that talked with you like you were his… friend. 

He clenches his jaw and he turns away again, throwing the keys back to Eddie who catches them with one hand, the smile falling from his lips when he finally notices the frown on Steve’s face. 

You all flinch a little when the chair scrapes against the hardwood floor and the brunette picks his plate up angrily before walking over to the kitchen. 

Nancy’s smile falls and her shoulders slump, helplessly she looks at Eddie. 

“Dude, you know we can’t stay here,” Eddie states carefully, with a soft and gentle voice. “We’re gonna run out of everything someday, you can’t prevent–”

“We won’t run out if we go hunting,” Steve grumbles. 

“There’s nothing left here for us, man. We got people waiting for us–”

Suddenly, Steve turns around, with his eyes angrier than before and his cheeks burning red, “you got people waiting for you! Leave me out of this!”

Nancy frowns in disbelief, as well as Eddie who gets up from his chair as well, throwing the keys on the dining table. 

“Seriously? You’re telling me that the kids aren’t waiting for you? That they haven’t been asking for you every time Dustin radio’d us and you’ve been acting like a complete asshole, refusing to speak to him – to them?” 

Steve scoffs loudly, turning back around, he makes his way over to the sink. 

“We’re not leaving without you, Steve,” Nancy speaks. “I’m not leaving you behind.” 

“That’s rich coming from you, Nance.” 

She falls silent after that, opening her mouth and closing it again, she looks a little taken aback, guilt flashes in her eyes. 

Eddie only sighs, looking down with a defeated look on his face. 

You don’t know what his words mean, you don’t know why she gives up after that. Many questions run through your head but you mostly wonder what he meant by that. 

“Steve,” Eddie tries again and you can hear the desperation in his voice, you can see the sadness in his face, he doesn’t want to leave his friend behind but he doesn’t want to stay here either, he never wanted to, least of all now. “There is nothing left for us here, there is nothing left for you here, you know that, man. Robin is–”

You flinch again when he throws the plate into the sink, so hard it must’ve splattered in half. He turns around, throwing a finger at Eddie, “I told you I’m not leaving! If you wanna go, feel free to get the fuck out of here, all of you! But leave me alone!” He yells, glaring at the both of them before he storms out of the room, passing by you and out into the hallway, not bothering to grab a jacket or an umbrella before he rips open the door and leaves the house, slamming the door so harshly that you wonder if it’s still in tact or not. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest, adrenaline kicking in when you notice that Eddie and Nancy aren’t moving, not planning to follow him out. 

They know him better than you do, they know not to touch him now, he won’t listen, he won’t compromise, he will do more damage than anything else at this moment but you don’t know that. 

Worry settles deep in your gut, the urge to go after him growing stronger each passing second. You get up and push the chair back, leaving them no time to react before you rush out of the room, quickly throwing on your old pair of sneakers, not wasting any more time to follow him out. 

You hear your name being called before you slam the door shut, but you don’t bother to turn back around, you run straight into the storm, not caring about the rain you ran from earlier. 

You rip open the gate and close it behind you, looking around you as you try to spot him in the darkness, you squint your eyes when lightning strikes through the sky. You see his silhouette, three houses down the road. 

The rain runs down your face, soaking through your clothes already, the coldness of it clinging to your skin and making you shiver already, even as you start running after him, following him wherever he is going. You pick up the pace when he gets further and further away from you. 

Worry still gnawing at you, not knowing how he will react to you following him but you can’t just let him go like this, you know that he is angry but you also know that the anger is a mask for something else. He is sad, he is broken because of things that happened to him. You may not be the person he wants him to follow, but you just can’t let him go like this. 

You slow down when he rounds the corner of a house, disappearing behind the wall. The rain paddles harshly against the floor, thunder crashing through the sky. You almost slip on the muddy ground when you step into the grass, you halt in your tracks when you notice the surrounding bushes, somehow still full and alive, unlike most other things in Hawkins. 

You lost him after he disappeared into the garden of whoever lives or lived in this house. The white picket fence has no gate, and you can just walk through it. You follow the footprints in the mud, feeling grateful for the lightning for once. You push your wet hair out of your face, as you inch closer and closer to where he ran off to. 

You take deep breaths, trying not to shiver from the cold. Thunder makes you flinch again, though the loud crash is not what makes you halt in your tracks, nor is it the red lightning bolts in the sky that illuminate your surroundings, allowing you to see better, allowing you to take in the view before you. 

For a moment, you stop breathing, you stop moving completely, you are sure that even your heart stopped beating. You can only raise your hand to your lips as your eyes widen in horror. 

He is here, he is standing in this garden, only a few steps away from you. He is standing there with his head hung low, looking down at the grave before him, wilted flowers on it, a necklace dangling from the cross, a necklace that once dangled from her neck. 

Robin Buckley. 

The name engraved into the wooden cross, is the name you have heard so many times, the name of his best friend. 

So many feelings run through your veins but mostly shock and confusion. He talked about her like she was alive, they talked about her like she was alive, there was no sign of this. You could have never guessed. Every time he left the house saying that he was gonna visit Robin, you thought he was actually seeing her, you could have never imagined that he meant visiting her grave. 

Your heart breaks when the realization of it all begins to sink in, why he is the way that he is, why he doesn’t want to leave, why he is so filled with anger and rage. 

You swallow the sickening lump in your throat. You don’t know what to say or do, a part of you wants to walk away and leave him be, the other wants to comfort him, and the stronger part wins. 

“Steve…” You call out softly to him, your voice reaching him despite the raging storm.

He tenses up, you can see it, it takes him a moment but when he finally turns around, you realize what a mistake it was to follow him. Even through the darkness and the rain, you can see the glistening tears in his eyes, the angry ones, the scowl on his face directed at no one but you. 

“I-I’m sorry…”

“Don’t!” He snaps loudly. “Don’t say anything right now!”

You press your lips together, taking deep breaths as you look at the intense emotions in his eyes, and his anger makes you cower away. Shivers run down your spine, not from the rain, but from how he looks at you. 

You shake your head slowly, digging your nails into your palms. You don’t know what to do, so you just stand there and watch him. Behind the hatred in his eyes, you see pain and sadness, you see how hard he is holding onto this, you see how it is driving him crazy, how it’s ripping him apart. 

“I-I didn’t know…” You say softly. 

Steve can hear the sadness in your voice, the gentle tone in it, the warmth in your eyes – he can’t stand it, he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t deserve it. 

“That she’s dead? You didn’t know that my best friend is dead?” Steve scoffs as he slowly starts to make his way over to you, inching closer carefully, staring at you like you are his prey that he is ready to rip apart, right here, right now. “Well, now you fucking do, she’s dead, Robin is dead just like most people are, just like you will be the moment you step out there!” He throws his hand up, pointing at nothing in particular. His voice is trembling, the rain streams down his face. 

You wince at his words. 

You know what’s waiting out there, you know the dangers of this world but that doesn’t stop you from finding your family, from keeping hope alive. 

You understand him now, more than anything. You don’t know how you would be if you lost someone you loved so dearly but he still has people he loves, people that love him. 

“I’m sorry, Steve. I really am, I’m sorry that you lost her,” you start, your own voice trembling, out of nerves and out of fear. “But she is gone, a-and you staying here won’t change it! It won’t bring her back, it won’t fix anything! I understand your pain, I really do… but– you have people who care for you, Eddie and Nancy. You have other people who are waiting for you… Dustin?” You say despite the shock that still curses through you. 

You don’t know whether it’s tears running down his cheeks or if it’s just the rain, but his eyes are glassy.

“Don’t bring Henderson into this! He is alive and well and that suffices!” 

“Does it really?” You ask, tilting your head to the side. “Because you look miserable most of the time, and you will end up all alone once Eddie and Nancy are gone!”

Steve takes another step closer to you, looking down at you with nothing but hatred in his eyes. 

“I know you feel like your life is over but it’s not, I–”

“You’ve known me for two weeks. Two fucking weeks. I don’t care about your optimistic hopeful bullshit. When you find your parents and your brother dead, you will wish you never had it to begin with.”

You draw back, straightening your back, you stare at him, speechless and stunned. The words are caught in your throat, your chest aching more than ever. 

You know he is hurt and angry, and now he is trying to hurt you back. You know that they’re alive, you know that your parents are fine, you know that your brother is well. 

“They’re… they’re not–”

“You saw the world out there, open your eyes for just a second!” He snaps at you, getting closer and closer, allowing you to see him and his anger better. “You are leading my friends to their death! You are helping them leave! I-I thought you would want to stay once you realized you were safe here, that you’re all fucking safe!”

You shake your head at him, growing angry too for the things he said about your family. 

“Why wouldn’t I want to leave!?”

“Cause you are literally driving into hell! There are things you haven’t encountered there!”

“I want to see my family! Nancy and Eddie too! You have family waiting for you!” 

A humorless laugh falls from his lips, he brings his hand up to his face, pressing his knuckle under his nose as he closes his eyes for a moment before he opens them again, looking at you again, “family? My family is here, six feet under!” He yells, pointing at the grave. He is blinded by rage and sadness. “The one person I had in my life that cared for me like no one else had is gone! And I’m not leaving her here!” 

You know there is no getting through to him, not when he is like this.

Steve would rather chase after a ghost for the rest of his life. 

“Leave her here?” You whisper. “She’s not here anymore, Steve! Do you really think she would want this for you? She wouldn’t! You were family, you were her best friend, she would want you to leave, to find a better place, to live!” 

If the look in his eyes could kill, you’d be buried under this ground right now. You can see that it’s getting worse, that his eyes are burning, that his chest is heaving. 

“I know what danger is out there, but I need my family–”

“Smell the fucking non-existent sunflowers, they’re dead by now!” 

Steve tries it again, to hurt you, to harm you where he knows it hurts the most but you shake your head, trying not to let his words get to you, trying not to let his words touch your heart. You take a step away from him, shaking your head. 

“No–, no they’re not,” you whisper, feeling the familiar lump in your throat, the painful throbbing in your heart, the hotness in your eyes. 

He scoffs at you, looking you up and down in disbelief, “you think you’re going to find your house surrounded by a gate of protection? You’re fucking delusional if you think so.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, taking a step back further. You hesitate, feeling intimidated by his presence all the sudden but he only follows, looking right into your glassy eyes. 

He is guided by hatred. He can no longer see clearly, the pain has turned him into this, the pain has made him cold. He doesn’t care about the tears in your eyes, about the trembling in your bottom lip, about the fear and the sadness in your eyes. 

“My family is alive, I-I know they are–”

“Smell the decay of the corpses around you, and tone down that hope of yours before you end up even more hurt than you thought you could ever be. Open your eyes for once and stop acting like an immature little girl.” 

His words feel like a blow to your chest, stealing the breath from you and replacing it with pain. The colors vanish before your eyes, a darkness you never allowed to enter, blurring your vision and crawling into your veins, threatening to take over. 

The tears no longer stay in your eyes, they start falling freely as your bottom lip trembles, a sob threatening to escape you though you push it back down, not wanting him to see just how much his words have hurt you. 

You see nothing in his eyes, no remorse, no guilt, nothing but this – grief has turned him cold.

Your sniffle breaks his anger a little though, the blaring redness that flashed in his eyes just seconds ago, dimming just a bit when he begins to see the damage he has done. He sees the way your chest is rising up and down heavily, the way you're blinking quickly like it would stop your tears from falling, he sees the pain in your eyes that he had caused. 

You are crying, he made you cry when he once swore to himself to never do this to anyone ever again. 

“You’re…” Your voice breaks and you wipe your tears, as though it would change anything. “You’re a douchebag.” 

The tension in his shoulders leaves him, and regret starts sinking in. 

Robin thought that of him before she got to know him, before she became his friend. He changed, even more so when he found her. 

Has her death made him turn back around?

Has it changed him this much?

She would be disappointed, she would kick his ass for what he did just now, for what he said, for how he made you feel, for making you cry when all you wanted was to help. He knew where it would hurt the most and he chose to hit you there exactly, not caring about what it would do to you. 

You tear your eyes away from him, sniffling quietly as you walk away from him, leaving him in the rain. 

His fingers itch, his hand moves forward as though to stop you but he quickly clenches his fist and breaks his eyes away from you, looking down at the muddy ground. He closes his eyes, shutting them tightly as he holds back tears. His heart is aching more than ever. 

He knows you’re right, deep down he knows. 

He knows it’s only fair for Eddie and Nancy to leave, he knows it all, he understands it all.

He knows that she would want him to go with them, that she would force him to if she could. He knows she’s gone, he hasn’t felt her presence since the day a bird had sat down on her cross, she is gone and there is no bringing her back, not even if he stays. 

But how can he leave when all that is left of her is this? 

Everywhere he turns there’s a reminder that she was here, every good memory he has of her would be abandoned and he can’t do it, he just can’t. 

With trembling lips and tears now streaming down his cold cheeks, he turns back around, looking at her name on the cross, at the reminder… that she is gone, forever. His knees almost buckle, a sob threatens to rip from his lips but he doesn’t let it, he doesn’t allow himself to break down, even as the sadness and the guilt begins to consume him. 

“Robin,” he whispers, shakily. He knows he won’t get an answer, he knows he won’t get the sign that he’s been begging for, he knows he won’t hear her voice calling back to him, the only thing he hears is the rain, the rustling trees and his own heartbeat. He tastes the saltiness of his tears, he tastes the bitterness. “Birdie…”

She is gone and she’s not coming back. 

He lost her, and soon he will lose more. 

Soon his biggest fear will catch up to him. 

Being left behind, being all alone. 

It was bound to happen. 

Right?

-

Steve didn’t come out of his room all day. 

You haven’t seen him, haven’t heard from him, haven’t heard his voice in the hallway or anywhere else. 

He came home shortly after you the night before, you heard him talking to Nancy, heard her asking questions that he didn’t answer. You know she told him that you’re leaving today, told him to pack his bags and be ready by night. It’s getting dark out now, your bags are in the RV, as well as Nancy’s and Eddie’s, along with a box of pictures and other things that they refuse to leave behind. 

You are all ready to go, all except for him. 

Eddie is giddy, excited to finally hit the road, though you can also see his jumpiness, how he can’t seem to sit still, the anxiety of having to leave Steve behind is eating at him. 

Nancy is distracting herself, sitting at the dining table, her guns and knives sprawled across the table, a cloth in her hand as she cleans her weapons. 

You’re sitting by the window, looking into blank space. Sadness lingered in you all day, and it didn’t change throughout it. He planted thoughts into your head that you refused to think about or even consider, though now a part of you can’t help but feel anxious because what if… what if there is some truth to it? What if you are being a little too hopeful? What if you are being ignorant and foolish? 

You know he was hurt, and that hurt has triggered the anger, anger that he directed at you – he wanted to hurt someone and you were there, the perfect target, you are the reason why his friends are leaving now. 

You didn’t mention what you found out last night, not to Eddie nor Nancy. It only really sunk in this morning, when you woke up with a headache after crying yourself to sleep. 

You don’t know how he lost her but something tells you that she didn’t go peacefully. He blames himself, you saw it in his eyes. 

“We should go soon.” It’s Nancy who breaks the silence in the room, a determined look on her face. You can sense her hesitation, her nervousness. She doesn’t want to go without him, you saw the way her eyes kept flicking to the staircase waiting for him to come walking down the stairs with bags in his hands, he never did. She told him to be ready by 7pm, it’s 8 now. 

Eddie told you that Steve said goodbye, that he hugged him and Nancy, and prepared food and snacks for the road. No matter how much they begged and tried to convince him to come with them, it was to no avail. He never planned on leaving, not then, not now. 

A part of you wants to try, to go up to his room and talk to him again but you doubt he wants to see you, especially after last night. He hates you, you saw it in his eyes. He won’t change his mind, not for you. He hurt you, but you still don’t want him to stay here, to be alone, to be left behind. 

Eddie stops pacing around, he watches Nancy as she gets up from her seat, putting the guns and knives away into her backpack. 

“Nance,” Eddie hesitates, looking at her in uncertainty. 

She throws her backpack over her shoulder and shrugs at him, trying to look tough, trying to mask the worry on her face. 

“He made his choice, he wants to stay. I won’t force him to come with us.” That is all she says before she leaves the room, taking you by surprise with her sudden coldness. She walks out of the house without another word.

Eddie glances at you, taking in the frown on your face, the sadness behind your puffy eyes. He knows that something happened between you and Steve when you followed him out into the rain, last night. He suspects that he threw unkind words at you – you didn’t tell him anything, neither did Steve but Eddie knows it crashed between you. 

Now all he sees is hesitation in your eyes, despite the hurt written across your face. He can tell you don’t want to leave him behind. Eddie noticed that you had developed some kind of attachment to Steve, despite his constant cold shoulder. 

You keep your eyes trained on the ground, blinking rapidly as you get up, not moving away from the window just yet though. 

Eddie sighs, he walks over to the desk by the window, opening one of the drawers, he picks out a map he kept hidden, a copy of the one already in the RV. It’s marked up just like the other one, the town in California circled in a red color. He carries it over to the dining table, “in case he changes his mind,” he tells you. 

You furrow your eyebrows as you look between him and the map, “I thought you didn’t have a copy?” 

He makes his way over to you, a small smile grazing his lips, he places his palm on your shoulder, “guess I lied a little.” His brown eyes are sad, not matching the smile at all. He squeezes you, nodding softly before he steps away, looking around one more time, even though he’s done it a few times already today. “I’ll be outside.”

“Yeah…” 

He closes the door behind him, leaving you by yourself. 

You can’t say that you’re surprised by their sudden decision to leave today, but then again, they have been waiting for this moment for a long time. They’ve been waiting for it for a year, waiting for him to be ready. He never will be. 

You take a deep breath as you look around the house you found shelter in, found new friends in. You wouldn’t have been here if you didn’t follow him that day. You tug your jacket closer to your body, gripping it tightly. 

You don’t want to leave without him. 

But you are the last person to change his mind. 

You have known him for a few days only and yet he managed to crawl under your skin. You got used to him, despite his rough demeanor, despite yesterday. 

You make your way upstairs, you can’t leave without saying goodbye. 

But when you knock on his door, he doesn’t respond or open the door – not that you expected him to. You lean against the door frame, keeping your knuckle against the wooden door. 

“Steve?” You whisper shakily, hoping to hear his voice. “I uh… I just wanted to thank you, for letting me stay, I know you didn’t want to but still… thank you.”

You hear nothing on the other side, no shuffling, no footsteps, no sighs, nothing. 

A sigh falls from your lips, the sadness in you spreading further. 

“Despite everything, it was nice meeting you… Goodbye Steve.” 

You finally pull away from the wood, looking at the door one last moment before you head back downstairs and grab the backpack you left on the floor. You look around the house one last time and you can’t help but imagine him walking downstairs, where his friends once were, and see them all gone. Just himself and the ghost of what once was and never will be again.

It hurts to leave him behind, and you can’t even imagine how Nancy and Eddie feel. You have your answer once you head out and towards the back where you see Eddie wiping his cheek away while making sure the tires are all set, and how Nancy has her back towards the two of you, and her legs are slightly shaking as she looks at stuff into her weapon bag.

They are hurt from leaving him behind, way more than you are. You had to reassure them that even in loneliness, Steve will be safe. He is inside a community, guarded even if little, but he is still with people and in safety.

“Okay ladies, I think we are good to go.” Eddie says finally and you head over to Nancy, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, Nance.” You see her looking at the distance, towards the same way you followed Steve the night before. You see her gulp tightly, nodding at you before turning around and heading inside the RV first. You turn to see Eddie giving you a small comforting smile as he looks at the house one last time. 

He sighs as he turns towards you, bowing down as he points with his arm towards the open door of the RV. You can only smile so little at the theatrics, and you take a deep breath before you step inside, surprised to see just how well equipped it is. Two big seats at the front, driver and passenger, then followed by counters on the side, and then a couch on the other. A pull out couch. Then at the end of the kitchen counter sat a small booth, with a small table in the middle. 

You see there is a small little hallway, which has the door to the toilet, and then at the very back end you can see the big double bed. It has a sliding door to close it from everyone else if needed. You are amazed by it, a small and nice motorhome for the three of you. Eddie enters the RV as Nancy starts the vehicle. He closes the door behind him and he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“You like it? I installed the pull out couch myself. We have enough gas till the next possible gas station, and hopefully there’s still some left, so we need to make sure to not run out before that.” Nance only nods as you look up and open the bag cupboard at the top of the couch, putting your bag inside as well as Eddie’s and hers. You close it and you three hear the RV coming to life finally. 

“Good job Eddie.” Nancy finally smiles his way, and Eddie puffs out his chest as he sits in the passenger’s seat, pulling the map out of the glove compartment in front of him. He had marked down all possible places they could stop at to look for more food and gas. Even toiletries. He also marked all possible gas stations, and you realize they had been planning this for a very long time.

“Okay… goodbye Hawkins you piece of shit.” Eddie says, making you hum as you take a seat on the couch. Your body suddenly sways as the RV starts to move slowly, and the excitement starts to come back to you as well as the fear of what you might encounter. You are going to your family. You are going to find your family and you will be safer this time. You have people around you, armed and willing to protect you as much as you would protect them. You won’t sleep in the mud, looking for cover under the cup of the trees. You will be sleeping either on a nice couch, or the bed whenever available. 

You see how Nancy turns the lights on and off quickly, just enough to mark her way through the trees, not following the main road so no one would stop you all. Your hands were gripping the couch tightly, not wanting to look out the window, not wanting to look back, but you were itching to do so. 

It takes time because Nancy is going as slow as possible so the motorhome would not do that much of a sound thanks to the engine. You know that people are already sleeping by now, except for the guards at the front gate, and you are taking the closed off one. The one in all chains. 

Once you reach it, Nancy stops the RV right in front of it, Eddie getting up from the passenger’s seat to walk towards the cupboard underneath the sink of the kitchen, taking out some bolt cutters. Your eyes widen as he pulls those out and you turn to look at Nancy.

“Hang on, you are cutting those open– you are going to leave the gate open for all the community inside here!” Nancy sighs at your outburst and you hear the clanking of chains, you turn your head to see Eddie holding a new pair in his hands and a lock.

“We are not that reckless and selfish. It took me some time to find a spare pair of chains this size, and a lock, but– It’ll endure.” With those last words, he jumps off the RV, and you rush to the passenger seat to see him get into action, grabbing the cutters and start snapping the chains away. 

You’re biting your lip as you see the metals falling piece by piece. Eddie hesitates for just one second before he snaps open the last chain. He pushes one of the doors open slightly and Nancy turns on the bright lights instantly. You see how he pulls it open even more and you see how there is nothing out there, giving you guys the green light to go. He gives a nod towards the two of you and pushes the first gate open and then the next one. 

His eyes widen when one bright light shines your way, the guard light tower pointing your way. The sound of a loud siren blasting suddenly and you realize you’ve been caught. Nancy and you motion Eddie to leave the chain behind, that people will put it back together instead of him. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Nancy curses loudly. 

Eddie snaps out of it as he rushes to the doors of the RV, the motorhome starting to move forward as you hear the screams of people, telling you to stop, to turn back, that it’s dangerous out there. The front of the vehicle is out and you’re almost passed the gate when Eddie’s head turns to his left, his panicked face falling as his eyes widen. 

“Eddie, get in!” You yell, trying to snap him out, and Nancy groans loudly.

“Munson, I’m stepping the gas whether you get fully inside or not–”

“It’s Steve!” Her eyes widen as well as yours. She doesn’t stop moving, instead slowing down. 

You rush towards the window, popping your head out and sure enough, you see him. 

He is running fast even with a bag hanging on his back, two duffel bags on each side of his hips, his bat in one hand, the other gripping a flashlight tightly. You hear Eddie egging him on, to keep running because Nancy is not stopping, she can’t. You see the flashlights of people running towards you, right behind Steve, ready to stop you all from stepping into the danger zone. 

He can’t feel his limbs anymore from how much he ran, from how dumb it was to not tell the three of you that he had actually packed, leaving the bags in his room. Dumb to tell you that he left to give his last goodbye to Robin’s parents and Robin herself. He spent all day with her. Had breakfast, had lunch, and finally dinner. 

He lost track of time, and when he returned to the house, none of you were in it. His heart had crumbled to the floor, but it was just a few minutes late, so if he had any luck, you three were still near. He grabbed everything as fast as he could, rushing into the kitchen to shove one last thing into his duffel bag, and then run out. He ran through the woods with his flashlight, following the broken bushes and the tire trails the vehicle left. 

As soon as the RV came into view, the lights from behind him turned on, his panic rising as he didn’t have a chance to even catch a breath. He saw how the officers and the guards started running towards him with their flashlights, and he took off. He ran as fast as his feet could take him, trying not to think of all the weight he was also carrying. He could hear Eddie calling for him, his hand reaching out already for Steve to grab.

He knew that the moment he grabbed Eddie’s hand, Hawkins would be a thing of the past. She would be the past. Everything would be the past. But Robin would have wanted him to move forward. She would have wanted him to keep on going. She would have kicked his ass if she found out he was willing to throw everything away just for her. She would have wanted him to actually live.

So he grabs onto Eddie’s hand.

Eddie pulls tightly with a grunt, using all his strength. Nancy picks up the speed and throws her foot onto the gas when Steve manages to put one foot on the first step of the RV. Eddie drags them both inside, falling onto the floor with Steve. 

You are stunned as you stare down at them both. You snap out of it when you feel the cold wind, you run towards the door and shut it, locking it.

Steve is panting, no, heaving as he tries to recover his breath on all fours, staring at the floor. Eddie is sitting up, his hand coming to rest on Steve’s back. The three of you are silent, not having expected Steve to appear out of nowhere at the last minute. 

“What… What happened?” Eddie asks, his own breathing heavy from the whole ordeal, and you can just stand over them both, looking as Steve starts to shake, your eyes coming to meet in the middle in worry.

“I– I was saying goodbye– I forgot to tell you, I’m so sorry–” And you can hear the choked up voice, your heart turning with sadness as Eddie’s eyes glistened, looking at his friend. Nancy couldn't stop driving, but she turned her head for just one second to look and you saw how a tear was running down her cheek, her gaze turning back to the road.

“Steve…” Eddie’s voice is low, a whisper and it was the key that opened the gate to Steve’s emotions. Through his heavy breaths, you start hearing his sobs. Choked up sobs that he wanted to swallow down, but it was impossible. Soon, his tears were hitting the floor as he stared down at it, his fingers digging into the carpet as memories flashed in his mind.

He could almost picture Robin waving at him from the gate that people were already closing. He could almost picture how she would be smiling and jumping happily the more the RV drove away. How she would be cheering him on. His cries were loud, knowing there is a part of him that was being left behind, a part that he will never in his life get back. 

You could hear the sniffles coming from the driver’s seat as well, quieter than Steve’s cries of pain, and you saw how Eddie was keeping a strong face for both his friends, especially Steve who was still trying to breathe through his sobs.

You just stood there as you waited, wanting to comfort the man that was on the floor, but you knew better. It was a moment that he needed to have with his friends, with his family. You felt your own tears flowing down your cheeks. You didn’t know Robin, but from the cries of your new found friends, you realized she was loved. She was very much loved.

The road ahead was uncertain, but in Steve’s mind, only one little thing resonated, one little voice that he could hear despite the dark clouds inside it, and the screams coming out of his mouth. If he was imagining it, he hoped it would never leave him. He might have gone crazy, but he was so happy to hear her voice, at least one last time.

‘Goodbye, Dingus.’

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk

[alliumms]

TGCF Short Film Chapter 3 (eng subbed)

「A perilous encounter in emerald waters. Such a fleeting meeting—hearts are in turmoil and flutter with unease. Gentle words to soothe the wound, and a tailored crimson robe. Walking side by side on an endless road, two shadows in line, just like in days gone by.」

WEIBO SOURCE

MEGA LINK | GDRIVE LINK | KO-FI LINK

It's finally here!!! >w< I love Hualian so much bro the way I screamed when I first watched this HEHEHEHHEH!!! I wanted to be a little bit faster but alas, anyways, hope y'all love this! (Where is season three........)

Note: Because of copyright, most new uploads will be unlisted. So my Tumblr is the only place where you can find all the episode directory, other than the playlists on my Youtube! This video will be unlisted at around a few weeks after the upload date.

UPDATE: It didn't even take them a few weeks, only a day 😭 I can't reupload it so unfortunately it can only be found on the drive links and Ko-Fi.

☆ Masterlist ✨ ☆ Buy me a coffee 🌟

Taglist: @geektastic84 @sleepyssnail @quetzalpapalotl @thebarofgold @ni-vuni-connu @thepineapplegal86 @jesterauntie @ethiy @sootbat @booksnightowl @k3shh @dontknowwhethertolaughorcry

Let me know if anyone wants to be added 💛

[lostgirl88]

Dónal Finn as Thomas Hayward

[rori-ol]

The Space Between Blood and Belonging

Alpha!Neteyam x Omega!Reader

Chapter Three

Wordcount: 7.2k

Summary: Thrown into the chaos of an omaticaya celebration, reader is overwhelmed, on edge, and very much not okay—but somehow ends up anchored by Neteyam’s presence (which is… a problem). there’s tension, there’s territory being claimed without words, and there’s a quiet shift in how they start to see each other. and it all starts in the bath... and suddenly it’s not just survival instincts acting up anymore.

Warnings: Age up characters, Graphic depictions of war and violence, Trauma and PTSD, Omegaverse dynamics (A/B/O), Scent marking/scenting, Heat mentions (non-graphic), Survival situations, Emotional distress, slow burn enemies (ish) to something else, protective Neteyam, touch starvation, sensory overload/crowd anxiety, food insecurity themes, power imbalance undertones reader struggling with vulnerability, mild possessiveness/territorial behavior, grief mentions (family loss), tension so thick you could cut it ;P

Author's note: Sheeees Backkkkkk!!! sorry I've been busy with school! I haven't forgotten you guys. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter. I had so much fun writing it! More soon 😘

Previous - Masterlist - Next

The moment you step outside, the noise hits you like the weight of a mountain.

You had almost forgotten how alive the Ometicaya clan was.

Light from massive bonfires roars, just out of sight, in the central gathering space, throwing dancing shadows across dozens—no, hundreds—of Na'vi. Warriors laughed and shoved at each other, their movements loose with whatever they were drinking from carved wooden cups. Drums pounding a steady rhythm that you could feel echo in your chest. Voices raised in song—war chants, from the sound of it. Fierce and wild and celebratory.

It was completely overwhelming. Nevertheless, Neteyam was walking right towards the sounds and bright lights of the celebration, leaving you no choice but to follow behind him.

The closer he led you into the celebration, the more clear the shapes of the shadows from the bright light of the fire became. 

People were dancing to the beat and chanting of the people around them. Their bodies moving with the kind of fluid grace that came from years of practice, but there was nothing delicate about it. This was warrior dancing. All power and aggression and barely-contained violence channeled into movement.

“What’s the occasion?” You voice your question to Neteyam. Have you forgotten a holiday? Surely the clan doesn’t celebrate like this every night. 

Neteyam’s response is dry but full of pride, "Successful raid. No casualties.”

The information should make you feel proud. That here, in the Ometicaya, the Na’vi people were fighting back and were doing  so with great success, but the deep, poisoned wound that had been left on your heart from the failure of your own clan–the failure of yourself–was oozing with envy.

You try to rationalize that Neteyam wasn’t saying this to brag, that he was only answering the question you had asked him, but the honest truth he speaks feels like a calculated attack. 

All thought is casted away when a small weight is slammed into your leg–naturally a lethal sounding hiss falls from your mouth and your hand relatively reaches for your knife you had holstered only minutes ago–but when a child's laugh and a mumbled apology fills the air, you force your hand to fall to your side.

You can hear Neteyam chuckle from in front of you–which makes your tail involuntarily twitch–but he makes no move to stop and correct the child. So you have to catch back up to him in three long strides.

Children were weaving through the chaos, laughing and playing despite the apparent late hour. And it seemed you were only one of the many people inconvenienced by their rowdiness. Elders sat in groups, watching the festivities with approval but kept side eyeing the children playing tag throughout the celebration.

And everywhere—everywhere—there were people. Living, breathing, thriving people.

A couple kissing heavily in the shadows of the trees. A group of teens chatting loudly by the fire about how successful their raid was. Females giggling at attempts from the males at impressing them. An elderly mated pair, handing out food from a table nearby the fire. 

It was too much.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too alive.

You step closer to Neteyam before you can stop yourself. Close enough that the heat radiates off his body and into yours when his shoulder nearly brushes yours. Close enough that his scent helps center you in the overwhelming assault of everyone else's.

For a second you're embarrassed that you’ve just taken a big sniff of the man, but all the color drains from your face when his hand comes to rest on the small of your back.  

Ever so light and gentle. Truly a ghost of a touch, if that, as he guides your form slightly in front of him. It’s incredibly grounding and so, so comforting being in front of his massive frame and not behind him and you hate him for it. Anger sits deep in your chest as he guides you forward into the masses of bodies. You can’t stand how helpful his touch is and how much your needy body is betraying you by craving his touch.

You quickly realize however, that Neteyam's touch is the lesser of two evils.

No one else had tried to touch you, yet. Though several strong looking warriors–with even stronger glances and even some who were brave enough to move in on you– hesitate the second they catch sight of Neteyam's hand on you and his scent all over your body and divert. Hoping not to start a problem with the intimidating warrior that loomed inches behind your form. You don’t know who to thank, them for having been smart enough not to bother or Neteyam’s rank for allowing you some space from the masses; the semblance of the air your lungs were begging for. They were unknowingly giving you the gift of distance that Neteyam could not afford to give you.

The protection was obvious. Deliberate.

And it should have made you angrier. Should have made you want to shove his hand away and prove you could navigate this by yourself. But in truth, it was hard to be angry when you were so scared. 

Scared that the crowd of this many people would swallow you up and spit your weak, useless bones out.

Common sense was telling you to run, fast and far, but the warmth in the palm on your lower back pleaded you stay close.

So you listened.

You stayed close because of the intense need from your body, craving comfort, outweighed the fear you were walking into. You let him guide you. Let his presence carve a path through the chaos. Let his hand on you steady the beat of your trembling heart.

He led you to where food was laid out—massive quantities of it. Roasted meat that made your mouth water. Steamed root vegetables. Fruits. Flatbreads. Everything spread out on woven mats for the clan to share.

His touch left you then and hate spread back through your veins at the small whine that echoed in your throat. You were confused. So, very confused. It was like your body was reaching on its own. Like your brain was just along for the flight that your body was taking. 

The only indication you got from Neteyam that he had, in fact, heard your degrading whine was his slight pause and tilt of his ears as he approached the food. It was more than enough confirmation to be mortified. 

You watched in controlled silence as Neteyam grabbed a wide and thick leaf that served as a plate and began piling food onto it. He acted delicately. Loading the plate with enough food that would have fed you for a week in your home clan, his movements were efficient and purposeful.

The leaf plate looked as if it could hold no more without tearing in half, when you comment.

“Do you eat this much every night?” The disgust was evident in your tone. Just this leaf plate alone would have fed your mother and your sister for days.

He was a glutinous Tapirus pig.

He didn’t respond to your comment but did turn and hand you the full plate.

You hold back another wave of disgust as he starts to make another plate. He was greedy in your eyes, but as you take another look around the campfire you see lots of people full and happy with remnants of their meals left on abandoned leaf plates. 

How easily you forgot, that in this clan, food was not a rarity or something to be rationed. The people of the Ometicaya were a healthy and plentiful tribe that met the needs of every clan member. 

You hold the first leaf plate in shaky hands as Neteyam finishes placing food onto the second, clearly less full plate.

You motion the fuller plate back to him, thinking he just needed help holding his larger first position. As you wait for him to take back his plate, your eyes find a juicy-looking Yovo fruit, and your stomach growls again. There had been many nights where you would’ve split the palm-sized fruit for dinner with your sister, giving her the bigger half. The memory makes your mouth water. 

If he would just take his plate back you could eat the fruit for dinner.

"Eat," he said simply, interrupting your thoughts.

You stare up at him with annoyance. " I can't—take your plate back."

“That is your plate, pup.” He stares back at you with a concerning look. 

“What?” His words are as jarring as cold water on a hot day. “This is too much...”

Your voice trailed off. Guilt eating your insides. How could you be so selfish and eat all this food? The weight of the leaf plate in your hands seemed to triple. 

"You'll eat what you can." His tone left no room for argument. "Your body needs it."

With a firm hand he led your guilt-ridden body away from the food–before you could protest further–toward a less crowded area where several Na'vi sat in a loose circle. His hand never leaves your back.

"Neteyam!" A girl's voice called out. Kiri. She was seated beside a younger girl who had similar features to Neteyam—same strong build, though slightly smaller. Another sister, probably. "You're back! We didn't expect you until—"

Her eyes landed on you and widened. Flickering to Neteyam's hand on your back, then to your face, then back to Neteyam.

"Oh," Kiri speaks with calculated words after she takes you in. "Well, grandmother said you would be joining us late. She’s gone to bed now but we saved you–both of you, a spot."

The younger girl beside her—definitely a sister—smilled wide. "Neteyam! I missed you. Can you take me fishing tomorrow?—" Her eyes raked over you with open curiosity. "You’ve been gone so long. And you promised—"

"Tuk," Neteyam said flatly. "You know I will take you."

"I'm just saying, Nita ‘s brother has been taking her and I—"

"Tuk."

The younger sister held up her hands in surrender, but the grin never left her face. She had her older brother wrapped around her finger; you quickly decide. And the thought brought back memories of your own older brother going out of his way to keep you happy. The memory brings only pain, so you push it deep down inside.

Neteyam is a welcome distraction as he guides you to sit, then lowering himself beside you. Close enough that your thighs nearly touched. He sets his plate down in front of him and begins to eat.

Like a starving animal he in fact was. He moans in delight as the tender meat hits his lips and you can’t help but gawk at the juice that runs down his chin. 

Tearing your eyes away you stare at your own plate. The food smelled incredible and made your stomach cramp with hunger. But eating in front of strangers, in front of these people, in front of—

"Eat," Neteyam speaks again. Softer this time so only you can hear him.

It’s like his words are the answer to an unprompted question for permission to eat. The next thing you know you're diving into your leaf plate with a calculated precision, hoping it keeps people from looking at you while you eat. Keeps him from looking at you while you eat.

You pick up a piece of meat. Bring it to your mouth. And much like Neteyam–moan as the first bite explodes with flavor onto your toung—seasoned and cooked perfectly and you have to remind yourself it’s real. Real food after days–years– of nothing.

The moment you swallow, the pain you had learned to ignore in your stomach starts to dissipate. 

You forced yourself to take another bite. Then another. Refusing to acknowledge the two women sitting next to you. Refusing to look at Neteyam.

Your body needed this. Needs to fuel itself and you had little care about anything else in the whole world besides the pile of food sitting in your lap. 

Besides the mumble of conversation from Kiri and Neteyam’s younger sister, Tuk, you found yourself focusinging in on the sounds coming from Neteyam as he ate. Slurping and swallowing sounds were making it hard not to look over at him to see what exactly was on his plate that tasted so good. 

It was almost becoming unbearable to listen, your body was reacting without your consent again. His noises were causing an emotion akin to jealousy to settle into your body. You wanted to be the reason those noises were coming from him–

Wait.

No.

No, no, no. 

Kiri, bless her, seemed to sense your internal discomfort.

"Ignore him," she said, shooting her brother a glare. "He has no manners." She turned to you with a kind smile. "How are you feeling? I tried to bring you some food last night and this morning but you were out cold.

"Wait," you managed around a mouthful of food. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About a full day. You feeling okay?”

You hope your face doesn’t give away how sick you feel. A whole day? You thought you had been asleep for a few hours, not an entire day. All the food you’d just eaten threatens to come back up as you choke out an “I’m fine.”

"She's lying," Neteyam says calmly. "She hasn't eaten in days, flew for days straight, and passed out the moment she felt safe."

You shoot him a glare that he returns with a less-than-impressed smile and takes another bite of his food.

Kiri's expression softened. "Well, you're here now. You're safe. And tomorrow we can start getting you settled."

"Settled?"

"Into clan life," Kiri explains. "There are daily activities, tasks everyone contributes to. You'll probably be assigned to one of the groups—gathering, perhaps, or—"

"I'm a warrior," you interrupt. "I fight. That's what I do."

Silence fell around the semi-circle.

Tuk's hairless brows shoot up. Kiri's expression turns into an uncertain and concerned frown. 

"Omegas don't typically fight," Kiri says carefully. "Not in battle. They—"

"I've killed plenty of sky-people," you state with passion. "I'm not going to spend my days gathering while there's a war happening."

"That's not how we—" Kiri started.

"She'll train with the warriors," Neteyam cuts in.

All eyes turned to him.

"Brother," Kiri said slowly. "Father's not going to—"

"Father isn't here." Neteyam's voice was calm. Firm. "And when he gets back, I'll explain. She asked for Uturu. She's under our protection. That doesn't mean we clip her wings."

He looked at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch.

"She wants to fight? She fights."

The approval in his tone made something in your chest warm. And something in your mind turn dirty. Based on his words alone, it seemed the deal was official. A deal you had almost forgotten about too quickly. A traitorous purr starts in your chest. His confidence in you made you want things you had no business wanting. Like more of his approval. 

You forced yourself to take another bite of food before you could do something stupid and let the purr fall out of your mouth. Or thank him. Or smile.

Kiri was watching you both with a strange expression. Like she was seeing something that concerned her. Or maybe fascinated her.

"Well then," she said finally. "I suppose training starts tomorrow."

The meal continued with lighter conversation. Kiri asked careful questions about your journey—nothing too probing, nothing about your clan. You appreciated the restraint. Tuk made jokes that earned her several eyerolls from her sister. 

Through it all, Neteyam stayed close. His thigh ghosting against yours when either of you shifted too much. His scent wrapped around you like a shield against the overwhelming presence of the clan.

You hated how much you needed it.

Hated how much you wanted it.

When your plate was almost empty—when you couldn't force down another bite despite Neteyam's encouraging looks—he stood. Offering you his hand.

You ignore his outstretched fingers and stand on your own.

That fucking smile appears on his lips again. Like he'd expected exactly that from you.

"Come on," he said. "I need to wash this paint off before bed and you..."

He looks you over in thought.

Humiliation and insecurity roast your face with heat. When was the last time you had taken a bath? Washed dirt, grime, and blood off your skin? Washed your hair? The reality of how you must look—how you must smell—crashes over you with mortifying clarity. Days of flight. Dried sweat. War paint cracked and fading. Dirt crusted under your nails and in the creases of your joints.

You can feel yourself shrink under his gaze. Your ears pin back against your skull. Your tail drops, curling slightly inward in shame and embarrassment.

"OOO," Tuk's voice is high pitched as she begs, materializing beside you with the enthusiasm only a child could maintain this late. "Please Neteyam! Can I rebraid her hair? Pretty please! Kiri's hair isn't as long as hers—"

"Enough, Tuk." Neteyam speaks to his youngest sister with little care of how agitated his tone sounds.

The little girl's face falls, ears drooping. She looks between you and her brother with confusion—clearly unused to being dismissed by him so curtly.

"Bed," Neteyam says, softer this time. He reaches out to ruffle her braids. "You can pester our guest tomorrow. She's had a long journey."

"But—"

"Tuktirey."

The firmness in his voice—not quite an alpha command, but close—makes the child huff and retreat. But not before she shoots you one last curious, eager look.

"Your hair is really long though," she whispers with longing before scampering off.

The moment she's gone, Neteyam's attention returns to you. That assessing gaze that makes you feel stripped bare.

"The bathing pools aren't far," he says quietly. "Come."

It's not a request. 

The walk through camp is mercifully short, but every step feels like a march to execution.

The clan is still celebrating. Still drinking and laughing and living their unburdened lives. Their eyes track your movement—track Neteyam's hand that hovers near your lower back without quite touching, guiding you through the crowds.

More whispers follow in your wake.

Look at how he stays close to her. 

Already taking her to bathe. Bold. 

What’s so special about her anyways?

Your jaw clenches hard and your tongue rubs against the backs of your teeth in an effort to fight back the hiss that begs to be released at the strangers comments towards you.

The bathing area is separated from the main camp by thick curtains of woven vines and bioluminescent plants that cast everything in soft blue-green light. The sound of running water grows louder as you approach—a small waterfall feeding into a series of natural pools carved into stone.

Steam rises from the largest pool.

You can hear voices. Laughter. The splash of water. Several Na'vi are already bathing in the communal pools—their silhouettes visible through the vine curtains.

Your steps falter.

Every instinct screams danger. Vulnerability. Too many people. Too exposed.

Neteyam notices immediately. Of course he does.

"The communal pools are that way," he says, nodding toward where the voices are coming from. His tone is carefully neutral. "But there are private pools further up. For families. Mated pairs."

The implication sits heavy between you.

You want to argue. Want to snap that you're not his mate, that this whole charade is temporary, that he doesn't get to make decisions for you.

But the thought of stripping down in front of strangers—of being vulnerable and exposed while other Na'vi watched and judged and scented you—makes your skin crawl.

"Private is better," you bite out.

Something flickers across his expression. Satisfaction, maybe. Or approval.

He continues walking without another word, leading you past the communal area. The path winds upward, following the waterfall's flow. The sounds of other bathers fade behind you until there's nothing but rushing water and night sounds.

The private pool is smaller. More intimate. Fed by a thin stream of the waterfall that splashes over smooth rocks before settling into calm, steaming water. The bioluminescent plants here are denser, their glow reflecting off the water's surface in rippling patterns.

It's beautiful.

You hate that you notice.

You hate more that you're here. Alone. With him.

Neteyam moves to the edge of the pool, begins unlacing what remains of his battle gear with practiced efficiency. "I'll be quick," he says without looking at you. "You can wait over there until I'm done."

He gestures to a flat rock on the far side of the pool, giving you distance. Giving you space.

You should feel relieved.

Instead, something ugly and vulnerable twists in your chest. The thought of standing there alone—even just on the other side of the pool—while he bathes makes your throat tight. The thought of him leaving you, even for a moment, even just out of sight around the waterfall's curve, makes that same omega hindbrain that got you into this mess start screaming.

Alone. Vulnerable. Unprotected. Abandoned.

You shove the feeling down violently.

"Together," you hear yourself say.

The word comes out harder than intended. Aggressive. Like a challenge rather than a request.

Neteyam's hands still on his gear. He turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "What?"

Your face burns but you force yourself to continue. "If we're supposed to be—" You can't say the word. Can't voice the lie. "If the clan thinks... if someone sees us bathing separately, they'll talk. It defeats the purpose."

It's a logical argument. Strategic, even.

It's also transparent as fuck, and you both know it.

The truth—the truth you barely want to admit to yourself—is that the thought of being alone right now, even for the length of a bath, makes your chest tight with panic. The thought of him leaving, even just to the other side of a vine curtain, makes something in your omega hindbrain scream abandonment.

You've been alone for days. You've lost everyone. And despite everything—despite the bargain and the awkwardness and the way he makes your body react in ways you don't want—Neteyam feels like the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.

His eyes search your face. You glare back, daring him to call you on the lie. Daring him to acknowledge the pathetic omega who can't handle being alone for ten minutes.

"Alright," he says finally. His voice has dropped lower. Careful. Like he's approaching a spooked animal. "Together. But rules."

"What rules?" The suspicion in your tone is sharp.

"You stay on that side of the pool." He points to the far edge. "I stay on this side. We wash. We don't talk. We don't look. We don't—" He gestures vaguely between you both. "We keep this practical. Understand?"

"I wasn't planning on—" Indignation flares hot in your chest. "I don't want—"

"I know." He cuts you off, but there's something strained in his expression now. "But you smell like—" He stops. Jaw clenching. "Your scent is loud right now. And I've been fighting for three days straight and I'm trying very hard to be respectful, but I—"

He cuts himself off again. Takes a breath.

"Rules," he repeats firmly. "For both our sakes."

Oh.

Oh.

He's affected. By you. By your scent.

The realization sends a complicated thrill through your body—part satisfaction, part fear, part something you refuse to name.

"Fine," you manage. "Rules."

The clinical nature of it all should be relieving.

Instead it feels like rejection, which is stupid because you don't want him, you just want—

What? What do you want?

That infuriating smile tugs at his lips. "Good."

You both undress with your backs to each other.

It should be practical. Efficient. You've removed your weapons and armor dozens of times before.

But your hands are shaking.

The weapons come off easily enough. Knife belt. Arm guards. Each piece you set aside with more care than necessary, hyperaware of every sound Neteyam makes behind you.

The soft rustle of leather. The quiet thud of his weapons being placed on stone. His breathing, steady and even.

Then you reach for your brother's necklace.

Your fingers freeze on the clasp.

It's just a bath. Just water. The necklace won't be hurt. You'll put it right back on after.

But the thought of taking it off—of being without its weight against your chest even for a moment—makes your throat close up.

Behind you, you hear Neteyam enter the water. The soft splash. A quiet hiss as the heat hits his skin, followed by a low groan of relief.

The sound does something to your omega biology that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

You force your fingers to work. Undo the necklace clasp with trembling hands. The weight lifts from your neck and it feels like losing him all over again.

Your brother. His hands tying this same necklace around his own neck every morning. His laugh. His stupid jokes. His fierce pride in becoming a warrior.

His body, broken and bleeding, painted with mourning white.

You set the necklace down with excessive care. Then your mother's chest band. Your sister's armband. Your father's sheath—now holding the bone blade you'd crafted from his killer's remains.

Each piece removed feels like shedding skin. Like exposing raw flesh to air.

By the time you're down to just your tewng, you're barely breathing. A steady stream of tears flowing down your face. 

"You planning to stand there all night?" Neteyam's voice carries across the pool. Not mocking. Just... present. A reminder you're not alone.

You hate that it helps.

"I'm coming," you mutter.

You undo your tewng with jerky movements. Let it fall. And before you can second-guess yourself, you stride into the water.

The heat is shocking.

It steals your breath. Makes your muscles seize for a moment before they begin to melt. The temperature is perfect—hot enough to burn away the chill that's lived in your bones for days, heated by some volcanic source beneath the stone.

You sink down until the water reaches your shoulders and can't stop the involuntary sound that escapes your throat.

Relief. Pure physical relief.

Across the pool, Neteyam makes a choked noise.

Your eyes snap open. He's turned away, shoulders tense, one hand gripping the edge of the pool with enough force that his knuckles have gone pale.

"Sorry," you bite out.

"Don't." His voice sounds strained. "Just... it’s alright."

Right. Alpha. Omega sounds. You keep forgetting that your biology broadcasts things you don't intend.

Silence falls.

You stay on your side of the pool as agreed. He stays on his. The only sounds are water and your own breathing and the distant celebration still happening in camp.

You should start washing. That's why you're here.

But the warmth is soaking into muscles you didn't realize were knotted. The heat is reaching places that have been cold and tight for so long you forgot what relaxation felt like.

You close your eyes. Let yourself float in a rare suspended second of peace; if even for just a moment.

"You doing okay over there? You’ve gone quiet."

Neteyam's voice makes you jolt. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

“Yeah, ‘m fine.”

When you look, he's still facing away. His war paint is already half-gone—purple and yellow running in faded streaks down his back. The scars visible on his skin stand out even more without the paint. His stripes are clear and stark against the lighter blue skin, even in the faint glow from the bioluminescent plants.

You force yourself to move–to stop ogling his tone and sculpted back and arms–grabbing the soap left on the pool's edge. The soap is made of some kind of herb mixture that smells clean and fresh.

The first pass over your skin turns the water around you murky.

You scrub harder. Watching days of grime and dried blood and evidence of your journey literally wash away. The water grows grey around you for a second before dispersing in the flow of the water. 

Your bullet wound scar pulls when you stretch wrong. The raised tissue above your hip protests the movement. You wince and suck in a deep breath.

"Are you hurt?" Neteyam's voice is sharp now. Alert from the sound of your pain.

"How many times do I have to say I'm fine." You growl out at him. He was being quite annoying. 

"I suppose I’m just imagining things, then." He retorts.

“Suppose so,” you mumble out knowing he can still hear your whispering tone from his stop across the pool.

It’s quiet for a moment longer until he whispers back. His voice is so soft you almost don’t catch his words.

“What hurts?” 

"Old wound." You don't look at him. Can't. "It pulls sometimes. It's nothing."

Silence.

Then another whisper, "How old?"

"Does it matter?"

"How. Old."

The command in his tone makes your spine straighten. Makes your omega biology want to obey even as you grit your teeth against it.

"A year," you bite out. "Give or take. Bullet grazed me."

More silence. You can feel his attention on you like a physical weight.

"You're lucky it was just a graze."

"I know."

"Human weapons are deadly—"

"I know," you snap. Louder. Harsher. "I was there. I bled. I survived. I don't need you to tell me how lucky I am."

Lucky. What a word. Lucky to have a scar. Lucky to have survived when so many others didn't. Lucky to be here, alone, the last of your clan.

So fucking lucky.

The water ripples. You tense, but Neteyam hasn't moved closer. He's still on his side of the pool.

Just... turned now. Watching you with those too-intelligent eyes from over the bulking mass of his shoulder.

"I wasn't trying to—" He stops, pausing, then starts again. "You're right. I'm sorry."

The apology catches you off guard.

You didn’t have much personal experience with alphas, but you were sure they wouldn't apologize. As much as you could remember being told they command, they take, they demand obedience and offer protection in return, but apologies?

Those are a weakness.

"Whatever," you mutter.

You turn your attention to your hair and immediately regret it.

It's a disaster.

Mats and tangles and what feels like half the forest woven into the strands. Your fingers catch on a knot immediately, and when you try to pull through it, pain lances across your scalp.

"Pxasìk," you hiss.

You try again. Same result. The mats are too tight, too close to your skull, and your arms are already shaking from exhaustion. Maybe you shouldn't've been so shocked at how long you had slept for. 

Your eyes burn.

This is stupid. It's just hair. It doesn't matter.

Except it does.

Because your mother used to braid your hair. Would sit with you for hours, patient and gentle, working through tangles while humming old songs. Your sister would watch, eager to learn, her small hands attempting to copy the patterns.

Both of them are dead now.

And you can't even wash your fucking hair without falling apart.

"Let me help."

Neteyam's voice is quiet. Careful.

"No." The word comes out too fast. Too defensive.

"You're about to rip half of it out."

"I can handle it."

"I can see your hands shaking from here."

Rage and humiliation war in your chest. "I said no."

"Please, I just want to help," He still hasn't moved. Still giving you space. "I won't touch anything else. Just your hair. That's it."

"Why do you even care?"

The question bursts out before you can stop it. Raw. Genuine.

Why does he care? You're nothing to him. A stranger. A burden his grandmother forced on him. An omega who attacked him in his own tent and then demanded his protection.

He owes you nothing.

Neteyam's expression shifts. Something complicated flickers across his face.

"Because you asked for Uturu," he says finally. Simply. "That makes you my responsibility. My clan's responsibility. And we don't let our people suffer when we can help."

Our people.

The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do.

You're not his people. Not really. This is temporary. A means to an end. You'll get your revenge and then you'll leave and none of this will matter.

But something in your chest still clenches at the phrase.

"Fine," you hear yourself say. Your voice comes out smaller than intended. "But just the hair. Nothing else."

"Just the hair," he agrees.

Neteyam moves through the water slowly. Deliberately. Giving you time to change your mind. To tell him to stop.

You don't.

He settles behind you. Close enough that you can feel his breath hit your shoulders. Close enough that his scent—woodsy and leather and alpha—wraps around you.

Close enough that every omega instinct you possess starts purring.

You shove those instincts down viciously.

"This is going to take a while," he says quietly. "The tangles are... bad."

"I know."

"Just... try to relax. I'll be as gentle as I can."

The first touch of his fingers in your hair makes your entire body go rigid.

"Easy," he murmurs, "I've got you." His breathy words send shivers down your spine.

He starts at the very end. Works up slowly, carefully, separating strands with a patience you didn't expect from a warrior. When he hits a particularly bad tangle, he doesn't yank. Doesn't force it. Just works at it gently, persistently, until it releases.

It's methodical.

Completely impersonal.

You don't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

Minutes pass. The only sounds are water and your breathing and the quiet whisper of his fingers working through your hair.

Your shoulders begin to relax incrementally. The tension dissipates despite your best efforts to hold onto it.

"Who taught you this?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

"My mother," Neteyam says. "She used to do this for Kiri, my brother and me. Our hair would get matted after swimming or flying. Mom would spend hours working through it." A pause. "Kiri hated sitting still that long–which is why she keeps her hair so short– but I'd volunteer to help just to give Mom a break when it was longer."

You try to picture it. This lethal warrior prince patiently detangling his sister's hair while she squirmed.

The image doesn't quite fit with the male who threatened to teach you where to cut to make death slow.

"You're good at it," you admit grudgingly.

"I've had practice."

He's moved to the middle section now. Working upward with steady, careful progress. When his fingers brush against your scalp accidentally, you can't quite suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

His hands still for a fraction of a second.

Then continue like nothing happened.

"Lean back," he instructs quietly. "Need to wet it more."

You hesitate only a moment before obeying.

The water closes over your head. His hand supports your neck—just your neck, nothing else—keeping your face above water while letting your hair float free.

When you sit back up, his hand withdraws immediately. You want to moan in displeasure. 

"Better," he says. "The water helped loosen some of the tangles."

He returns to his work. Applies soap this time—the same herb mixture you used on your skin. It smells fresh. Clean. Makes you feel like a new person, not the person who had been fighting for her just a few days ago. 

His fingers work it through your scalp in small, firm circles.

And oh.

Oh.

It feels so, so good...

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to suppress the sound building in your throat. Trying not to lean into the pleasure of his fingers and their pressure on your scalp. Trying not to show how good it feels to be touched with gentleness instead of violence.

How long has it been since someone touched you like this? With care? With softness?

Sadness overtakes your body when you realize you can't remember.

"Almost done," Neteyam murmurs.

Is it your imagination, or does his voice sound rougher?

He works through the last section near your face. His fingers brush your cheek accidentally and you both freeze.

The touch burns.

Not with pain. With something else. Something you refuse to name.

You hear his deep inhale next to your ear, the sound making the muscles in your ear twitch. You can almost hear him processing the information he’s getting from your scent. Then you feel his exhale; his breath hits your face and neck, sending another wave of shivers down your spine.

"Sorry," he says quietly. His hand withdraws.

The loss of contact turns the water cold.

"It's alright," you manage.

"Rinse," he says finally, patting your head before moving back across the water.

You lean back again. Let the water wash away the soap and the last of the tangles and the careful, competent touch of his hands.

Distance reestablished. Boundaries restored.

You should feel relieved.

The hollowness in your chest suggests otherwise.

"Thank you," you force yourself to say.

"It was no problem."

More silence. Awkward now.

You both finish washing in quiet. The intimacy of the moment before dissolving into something stilted and uncomfortable.

By the time you're both clean—truly clean for the first time in days—the heavy weight of sleep is pulling your eyelids down.

"We should go," Neteyam says. He's not looking at you. "It's late. You need rest."

Right. Rest. In his tent. In his bed.

Fuck.

The reality of the situation hit you like cold water.

The tent. His tent. Where you'd slept before, yes, but that was different. That was collapsing from exhaustion, unaware of whose space you'd invaded.

This was walking back knowingly. With him. With the warrior whose scent just got scrubbed off of you, whose protection you were hiding behind, whose bed you'd already slept in.

The reality of sleeping beside an alpha who just touched you with more gentleness than you've felt in years.

Double fuck.

Neteyam moves first. Pulls himself out of the water in one smooth motion, muscles flexing as he lifts his weight. Water sluices down his back, following the lines of his spine, the curve of his—

You look away sharply.

Not fast enough.

Because now the image is burned into your brain. The breadth of his shoulders. The taper of his waist. The way water droplets cling to blue skin and trace paths down, down, down to—

Stop.

You stare determinedly at the far wall of the pool. At the bioluminescent plants. At anything that isn't Neteyam's body as he reaches for dry clothes left on the rocks.

The sound of fabric moving over wet skin makes your jaw clench.

This is ridiculous. He's just a body. Just a male. You've seen plenty of warriors undressed before—training, bathing, tending wounds. It means nothing.

Except your heart is beating too fast.

Except you can still feel the ghost of his fingers in your hair.

Except some traitorous part of your omega biology is paying very close attention to every sound he makes and wants desperately to turn around and look.

You crush that urge with vicious determination.

"You can get out now," Neteyam says. His voice sounds strained. "I'm... decent."

Decent. Right.

You haul yourself out of the water with significantly less grace than he'd managed. Your arms shake. Your legs feel like water themselves—weak and unsteady after days of abuse and the heat of the bath.

You nearly slip on the wet rock.

From the new angle, you can see the V-shape that disappears beneath the fabric. Neteyam catches you staring--you expect the smirk to appear back on his face, but instead his face looks tinted purple, and his ears look warm as the twitch. You don't have long to stare at the new look on his face because he quickly clears his throat and turns away. Giving you privacy.

Your mouth goes dry with the weird taste of disappointment.

Stop staring.

You pull yourself up and out of the water with a newfound speed.

You grab your own tewng with more force than necessary. Wrap it around yourself, acutely aware of how exposed you are as you start to tie it closed. Not caring that the water on your body is soaking through the thin material.

You try to focus on the task at hand- getting redressed- but now that the two of you are clean, Neteyam's scent is stronger and clearer than ever.

How his scent is stronger now. Cleaner. Without the war paint and grime masking it, the alpha pheromones are almost overwhelming.

Like warmer, heavier—like the forest air just before a storm breaks. The clean earth and sun-warmed bark deepen into something richer, touched with sharp salt and heat, while that faint sweetness grows more noticeable, almost intoxicating, and impossible to ignore.

Something clicks in your brain. Neteyam was aroused. How did you know that...

Why did you know that? You try to brush it off, but the thought lingers like an annoying bug.

You try to dismiss it as just your senses being overwhelmed—like your body is cataloguing things it never had to before, sorting through too much information in too little time. It’s the quiet of the pool, the lingering heat of his touch still ghosting in your hair, that makes everything feel sharper, too vivid, too hard to ignore.

And worse—you can feel it. Not just smell it. The awareness of him sits heavy between you both now, like something neither of you are acknowledging but both of you are absolutely aware of.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

You look.

Just a glance. Just for a second.

But it's enough to catch the curve of his ass as he bends to retrieve his cumberbund. The way the muscles shift beneath blue skin. The strength evident in every line of him.

Heat floods your face.

You snap your gaze away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, heart hammering against your ribs.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

This is just biology. Just your omega hindbrain responding to an alpha in close proximity. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything.

You're here for revenge. For justice. Not to ogle the heir to the Ometicaya like some heat-addled—

"You alright?"

Neteyam's voice makes you jump.

"Fine," you bite out. Too sharp. Too defensive.

When you risk a glance at him, he's watching you with that unreadable expression. Like he can see right through your aggressive deflection to the confusion underneath.

Like he knows exactly what you were just looking at.

Your face burns hotter.

"I'm just tired," you add, hating how the excuse sounds.

"Right." Is that amusement in his tone? "Tired."

Fuck him.

You turn your attention back to getting dressed, hyper-aware of his presence behind you. Of the fact that he's probably watching you the same way you'd just been watching him.

The thought makes your hands fumble with the ties of your chest band.

Your mother's chest band. The one she'd crafted for you after your iknimaya. The leather is soft from years of wear, molded to your body.

Putting it back on feels like putting on armor.

Piece by piece, you rebuild your defenses. The chest band. Your brother's necklace—the weight settling against your neck like an anchor. Your sister's armband. Your father's sheath.

Each item returned to its place makes you feel more like yourself. Less like the vulnerable creature who'd just let an alpha wash her hair.

Less like the omega who'd been staring at his ass.

When you're fully dressed, weapons included, you finally turn around.

Neteyam is waiting. Also fully dressed and armed. His war paint is gone—his face bare for the first time since you'd met him. Without it, he looks younger. Softer around the edges, though no less dangerous.

His eyes are very golden in the bioluminescent light.

"Ready?" he asks.

No. Not even close.

"Yes," you lie. And manage a total of three steps back towards the camp before your feet grow roots. You can't believe you'd gotten this far without thinking about what would happen after the bath.

"Wait," you start. "I can't—"

"You can." He already knows you're about to protest before you can fully vocalize your concern. He’s all too willing to comfort you.  "And you will. Unless you'd prefer to sleep outside where any alpha with more balls than brains might decide to test grandmother's protection?"

Your jaw clenches. "I can defend myself."

"I know you can." His voice is maddeningly calm despite the heaviness in the air. "But you shouldn't have to. Not here. Not when you can be safe. In my tent."

He had a point. You hated that he had a point.

Hiiii hope everyone enjoyed!!! Here's the new and updated tag list!!! Let me know how you liked it!!

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[saphicangel]

orbital mechanics: small perturbations

kk Harvey x femme!reader

synopsis: you've always found comfort in the order of things: the careful arcs of particles, the certainty of formulas. caroline harvey moves through life like a force you can't calculate, impossible to ignore and harder to forget. somehow, the two of you end up lab partners.

content warnings: college setting, slow burn, idiots in love, friends to lovers, physics (yeah it's a warning), tooth rotting fluff, internalized homophobia, reader has rough relationship with parents, pining, possible smut;)

➢chapter three || next chapter

The library has thinned out by the time evening settles in.

Rows that were full earlier now sit mostly abandoned, chairs pushed in at uneven angles, forgotten notebooks stacked beside dim desk lamps. Only a few lights remain above the tables by the windows, their glow soft against the dark glass. Outside, night has swallowed the campus, leaving the windows reflective—the shelves repeating themselves in faint layers.

Caroline pushes open the library doors and immediately spots you.

Of course you were already there.

You’re sitting at a table near the back, laptop open, notebooks spread neatly around you like a carefully organized research station. Your brow is furrowed slightly in concentration, one hand resting lightly beside the keyboard while the other moves in small, precise strokes across the page.

She pauses for half a second just watching, following the deliberate movement of your pen, the way your gaze flicks between screen and notebook. There’s something focused and self-contained about it, like you’ve settled into a rhythm the rest of the room doesn’t quite exist inside.

Beautiful mind.

She watches a second longer than she probably should, then adjusts the stack of notebooks in her arms, forcing herself to keep moving.

“You were right,” she announces as she approaches.

You look up at the sound of her voice.

She’s carrying a stack of notebooks, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly damp as if she’d rushed over right after a shower. “This is a good spot.”

Your expression softens. Concentration eases into quiet recognition, and she looks down before thinking too much about it.

She sets her books on the table.

“So,” she says, settling into the chair across from you, “we’re stuck with each other for the rest of the term, huh?”

Your mouth tilts slightly. “Could be worse.”

She raises an eyebrow. “High praise.”

“I try.”

⸻

A few minutes later, the notebook between you is filled with diagrams.

The realization still feels a little surreal—the same Caroline Harvey whose name shows up in sports articles and highlight reels, now leaning over the same open notebook as you like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“…so the concentration changes over time according to this term,” you explain, sketching a small square on the page.

Across the table, the star herself has gone quiet.

You take it as a good sign. Most people interrupt by now, ask you to slow down, repeat something, admit they got lost three steps back. Caroline hasn’t done any of that. She’s leaning towards you, eyes lowered to the page, chin resting loosely against her knuckles.

What you don’t notice is how her attention keeps slipping.

Her gaze tracks the line you’re drawing, but every so often it lifts—just enough to catch the small crease between your brows when you concentrate, or the way your lips move faintly as you work through the explanation.

You push the notebook a little closer to her without looking up, already moving to the next step.

A lamp casts a warm circle of light over the notebook, leaving the rest of the table in shadow.

“…and that’s why the gradient matters.”

Silence settles over the two of you. A distant cough echoes behind the shelves, then fades into stillness.

You glance up. Caroline is still watching, blinking abruptly when your eyes meet.

“…sorry,” she says quickly, straightening just enough to seem composed.

You tilt your head, studying her.

“Did that not make sense?”

She glances up, then back down at the notebook, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, it did,” she admits, voice softer now, like she’s convincing herself.

“…mostly,” she adds finally, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Your mouth twitches. “Mostly?” you prompt.

Caroline looks up, her smile crooked and hesitant, like she’s gauging how serious you are.

“Well… the gradient part made sense,” she says, her hand drifting close to yours for a moment before pulling it back. “It’s just… somewhere around the… uh… what’s it called again…”

She squints at the page, vaguely gesturing. “…the ‘spatial rate of change’ thing.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s literally the definition.”

Her eyes brighten a little at getting you to laugh. “Yeah… which is why it sounded convincing,” she says, like she’s proud of herself for faking comprehension.

You shake your head. “Okay, then. Let’s go back— from the part where the particles move outward.”

You flip back half a page, smoothing the paper flat before redrawing the square diagram.

“This,” you say, tapping the outline once, “is the system.”

Caroline adjusts her chair to see better, eyes tracking the page instead of you this time.

“At the beginning, the concentration is highest here.”

You tap the center twice, glancing briefly to make sure she’s following.

“As time passes, the particles move randomly. They start spreading outward.”

You draw arrows from the center toward the edges, pausing at each line. Caroline follows the movement with her eyes, occasionally tilting her head.

“But the rate of diffusion,” you add, sketching another arrow toward the boundary, “depends on the boundaries themselves.”

Her forehead creases slightly, a mix of concentration and trying to gauge your explanation.

“…Okay,” she says softly.

You raise a brow. “Okay… good okay, or polite okay?”

She exhales, leaning back fractionally. “I think I followed most of it.”

“Most?”

Her mouth tilts. “The idea that the difference spreads out over time—that part made sense.”

You nod. “That’s the important part.”

She traces the arrows again. “It’s the boundary part I’m still trying to picture,” she admits. “Like… why that changes the rate.”

You shift the notebook and redraw one of the arrows smaller. “Because once the difference gets smaller, there’s less driving the movement.”

Her gaze flicks from the new sketch to your face. “So it slows naturally.”

“Exactly.”

A small pause as she processes it, then she nods, more certain now.

“Okay,” she says again, with a faint smile. “That actually made sense.”

Your mouth curves before you can stop it. “That sounded skeptical.”

“Maybe a little,” she admits, tone warm. “You say it like it’s obvious.”

“It is,” you reply lightly.

She huffs a laugh. “For you.”

Caroline leans back slightly, considering the diagram, then gestures toward the arrows with two fingers.

“The part where the concentration evens out,” she says. “That made sense. Everything spreads until it’s… less crowded.”

You nod once. “Yeah. That’s the idea.”

She studies the shaded center again, head tilting a fraction. “It’s like the middle can’t hold it forever.”

You glance up at her. “More like the difference can’t hold.”

“Still,” she says, a faint smile appearing, “it kind of looks like they’re giving the center some space.”

Your eyebrow lifts. “They’re not… avoiding it.”

“Maybe not,” she says, leaning forward again, eyes flicking between the diagram and your face, “but you did draw them all heading outward.”

“That’s diffusion,” you reply, though there’s a hint of amusement in your voice now.

Caroline’s smile grows a little. She taps lightly near the shaded circle. “Or it’s the particles deciding things are getting intense in the middle.”

You look up properly at that. “I can’t imagine how.”

She shrugs, casual but deliberate. “Well, when someone is sitting there explaining physics like that,” she says, voice lighter, “I might also think about backing up a little.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, though your expression softens. “Are you saying my explanations are intimidating, Caroline?”

She freezes for the barest moment. This might be the first time she’s heard you say her name. She thinks she likes it. Likes the way your voice seems to curl around the thing that has always defined her, the name she’s carried everywhere. Suddenly it feels different, like it’s something only you could give it. She shakes the thought away, and straightens her posture, letting a small breath escape as if she’s just settling back into the rhythm of the conversation.

“I’m saying,” she stutters, glancing down to collect herself before meeting your eyes again, “you look very sure of yourself when you do them.”

You rotate the pen once between your fingers. “That’s because I know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re keeping up, though.”

Caroline’s smile turns crooked, almost reluctant, like she didn’t expect the compliment. She shifts her chair a fraction closer without making a point of it.

“Yeah?” she says quietly.

“I’m glad you think so.”

Your leg bounces slightly under the table, a small, restless motion you can’t quite stop, as your chest twists at the compliment and warmth rises to your cheeks despite yourself.

Caroline shifts slightly, enjoying the reaction she just managed to get out of you, resting her forearms on the table. “I was thinking… maybe you could show me more of it sometime.”

You glance over, caught off guard. “More…?”

“Outside of class,” she clarifies, eyes flicking to the notebook, then back at you.

“I don’t follow,” your brows furrow.

Something about the way she watches your reaction makes it clear she’s suddenly very aware of how that sounds. Her finger taps lightly against the notebook, an absent motion that betrays the hesitation she’s trying to hide.

“Like hockey,” she says, voice lowering. “You’ve never been to the rink, have you?”

“I- no.”

“Perfect,” she says, grin widening. “Then you’ll come with me. I’ll show you how to measure acceleration, Stride efficiency. Real data.”

A beat. “We can test your space tops on ice.”

You stare. “That’s the most ridiculous justification I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you,” she says proudly.

“You’re proposing an experimental physics lab… at a hockey rink.”

Caroline nods without hesitation. “Interdisciplinary collaboration,” she says with confidence.

You shake your head with a small laugh at her attempt to sound professional, eyes lingering for a moment before sighing. “…fine. I’ll come.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Actually?”

You hold her gaze, chest tightening slightly at the thought of actually being there with her—outside the familiar controlled environment of the classroom, but out in her element, where outcomes aren’t predictable to you.

“…We’ll see what happens,” you say carefully.

Her smile holds. “You already said yes.”

You exhale, corner of your mouth lifting.

Her blue eyes hold you steady, clear and bright, like a force you can’t look away from. Your chest tightens in a way that should terrify you, but at the moment excites you.

“You’re going to like it,” she says softly, voice easy, trying to put you at ease.

You tilt your head. “That sounds like a guarantee.”

“Pretty much.”

You meet her gaze again, lips curving. “Alright,” you concede. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The equation sits there between you, half-forgotten, while Caroline studies your face like she’s trying to decide if you’re teasing her… or something else that she doesn’t want to think too much about before she starts spiraling.

Then she huffs a quiet laugh and nudges the notebook with her elbow.

“Now that’s out of the way,” she says. “Please go on, professor.”

The conversation drifts back to the page after that, the earlier tension settling into something easier. You walk her through the next part step by step, occasionally flipping back to redraw a diagram or underline something important. Caroline asks more questions now—sometimes stopping you halfway through an explanation, sometimes leaning nearer just to double-check a number—but there’s a rhythm to it.

By the time you reach the final page of notes, the plan for the project is mapped out clearly between the two of you: what needs to be calculated, what data you’ll need, and which parts each of you will tackle before the next meeting. Which will apparently be at an ice rink.

⸻

Caroline exhales softly after obediently completing one of the tasks you had given her, and shuts her laptop carefully.

“Hey,” she says, glancing at you like she’s deciding whether to commit to the question, “I’ve been meaning to ask…”

You pause mid-keystroke.

“…yeah?”

She fiddles with one of the rings on her fingers.

“how’s your research going?”

You blink.

“My research?”

You know exactly what she means the second the words leave your mouth, but the question still catches you off guard.

Caroline nods.

“The space tops.”

You straighten slightly.

“…okay, first of all,” you start, narrowing your eyes, “that is absolutely not what it’s called.”

Her mouth twitches.

“They orbit,” she explains, lifting one finger and tracing a small looping path in the air above your laptop. “And they don’t crash into each other.”

The tiny circle she draws hangs there for a second before her hand drops back to the table. The fact that she remembers not just the topic, but the way you described it, catches you off guard

“So I call them space tops,” she finishes lightly. “Because science should be fun.”

You stare at her for a beat, somewhere between confused and unexpectedly pleased.

Then you blink.

“So you’re making fun of me then.”

Your tone is suspicious, but there’s a laugh hiding underneath it.

The blonde sits up immediately, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense.

“Absolutely not,” she says, grinning. “I’m honoring your genius by giving it a cool name.”

You huff under your breath, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. The surprise fades into something sweeter. The unfamiliar sense that she’d been paying attention longer than you realized.

Her hand shifts across the table as she reaches toward the keyboard, brushing yours briefly in the process. The contact is quick, almost accidental, but she doesn’t react—just leans closer to the screen.

“Are you almost done?” She asks thoughtfully, as if she wasn’t just responsible for the stutter in your heartbeat.

“Uh- yeah, I’m just finishing up here.”

She glances at you sideways, a small knowing smile on her face, and heat immediately creeps its way up your neck. Maybe agreeing to the hockey thing was slightly too ambitious.

a/n: short one this time cause i really struggled with writing this chapter for some reason lol. As usual lemme know what you guys think, do you prefer shorter chapters but quicker updates, or longer chapters but slower updates?

Also feel free to comment if you want to be added to my taglist<3

Taglist: @imonagetawaycar

[anthrofractal]

DESCRIPTION:

Nomiani and Joy's History elect to quietly swim across the swamp. The creature turns its head to watch them, but otherwise doesn't move towards them or appear threatening. They reach the opposite bank, and Joy's History says, "Whew! Guess it's busy…"

Choose one:

Stop to look a little closer

Keep moving on

Voting ended onMar 28