synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : michael and you break up after you find out he was seeing lisa marie on the low. months later, he sees you with prince and realizes that you had moved on.
themes — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : fem reader, breakup, betrayal, jealousy, insecurity, miscommunication, fame, loss, regret, moving on
wc — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : 1,047
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you and michael had been together for a year. your love wasn’t perfect, not publicly in any way that made sense, but it was real in the way it counted. late night calls, shared silence, the habit of finding each other in rooms without trying. you didn’t think about the end of it. not until you heard his brother’s voice. marlon didn’t mean for it to land the way it did. it was casual, almost careless, like it wasn’t something that could split your entire world open.
“you didn’t hear it from me.” marlon added, a bit too late because now there was a name you couldn’t unhear.
lisa marie.
you didn’t ask questions after that. you didn’t need to. your mind filled in the gaps on its own, and none of the versions were gentle. you didn’t fight. you didn’t call michael. you just went home and started packing in the quietest way possible. no crying that night. not yet at least, just the slow, mechanical kind of movement where you fold things because your hands need something to do.
you didn’t even turn on the lights.
just the glow from the hallway slipping into the room every time you moved past the door.
michael was at the studio that night. he always ran late sessions like that, disappearing into music until the world felt manageable again, so you had time. too much of it, maybe.
you left the things that felt too intense to take with you. the things that would’ve made you stop halfway through and change your mind. when you were done, the apartment didn’t feel like yours anymore. it felt like something you had already exited emotionally, even if your body was still standing in it.
you didn’t leave a note.
there wasn’t anything you could’ve written that didn’t sound like begging or breaking.
so you just left.
michael didn’t come home until hours later. the studio had run long, the way it always did. music stretching time until nothing else mattered. he walked in tired, still half in another world.
“you still up mama?” he called out automatically. no answer.
he frowned slightly, dropping his keys on the counter.
“mamas?”
still nothing, and that’s when he noticed it.
first the silence, then the space, then the way your jacket wasn’t on the chair like it usually was.
he walked further in.
your bag was gone, then the closet was half empty in a way that didn’t make sense immediately, like his brain refused to label what it was seeing. he stood there for a moment, not moving. like if he stared long enough, the room would reset itself. he checked the bedroom next. then the bathroom. then back again, slower this time.
“this isn’t funny.” he said out loud, but there was no one there to hear it.
that’s when it started to land, not all at once though, but piece by piece.
he picked up his phone and called you, but it went straight to voicemail. the sound of it started to feel wrong after a while.
he sat on the edge of the bed, still holding it like it might change if he didn’t put it down. then it hit him fully. you hadn’t left during an argument, you hadn’t left while he was there, you left while he wasn’t.
you were already gone when he understood what had happened. completely gone.
not just from the house, but from the moment and from his life.
you didn’t see him that night. you were halfway across the city when your small phone lit up with missed calls you didn’t answer. you didn’t turn back, not once.
something in you already knew that if you saw him, you would stop, and you couldn’t afford to stop anymore.
he told himself he’d fix it the next day, then the next, but by the time he realized you weren’t coming back on your own. you had already become something he only saw in fragments. a name that stopped showing up where it used to, a silence he couldn’t reach anymore.
months later, he saw you on television. it was late, the house you once shared was dim except for the blue white wash of the screen, and michael almost missed you at first because his mind refused to place what his eyes were seeing. he had been half listening to the broadcast, not really paying attention until something in the frame snagged inside him and pulled hard.
then the camera found you again.
there you were, under a storm of flashes, dressed in black that caught the light every time you moved, your face lifted toward the cameras with a calm he had never seen on you before. you were standing beside prince, michael’s rival (which you knew), and the two of you looked like you had stepped out of a different world entirely. he leaned in to say something in your ear, and you laughed, a real laughed, head tipping back, one hand brushing his sleeve like it belonged there. the crowd behind you shouted your name. the lights made everything around you look unreal, but you looked more real than michael had ever seen you look with him.
you looked expensive, untouchable, and alive in a way that had nothing to do with surviving him. michael didn’t move. the remote slipped from his hand and hit the floor without him noticing.
he just stared at the screen, his chest going tight, because it wasn’t only that you were beautiful. it was that you were radiant in a life he had no part in. there was no hesitation in your face, no trace of the woman who used to stand barefoot in his kitchen while he wrote songs at three in the morning. this version of you belonged to bright rooms and velvet ropes and people who knew how to smile for cameras. this version of you stood beside prince like you had always belonged there. michael understood, all at once, how completely he had lost you.
he watched until the segment ended, until your face disappeared, until the screen cut to commercial and the room felt colder than before. and this time, there was no knocking on a door that wasn’t there anymore.
pls write steve x yn where steve and the reader dated back in high school and broke up, but then they meet again after years so reader sees how steve changed, and they kinda want each other so badly 🙏🏻 (smut or suggestive, that’s up to you)
summary: steve is your ex boyfriend — high school sweetheart. after your breakup, you meet him at the motel you work at after almost 5 years. the passion is still there, and it brings you both in under the sheets again
warnings: MDNI — smut, exes getting back together, p in v, unprotected sex, cum
word count: 1,7k
a/n: i absolutely loved writing this
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ navigation ; masterlist ; commissions ; character list
dating steve was a total dream. he was the popular kid. the cool kid.
steve-the-hair-harrington.
you were envied by the entire school. but you couldn’t handle it anymore — all the popularity, his bad friends making fun of you… and steve’s immaturity. now, not that he was that immature... but you yearned for a man. and steve was a boy.
you broke up for various reasons, but mainly for this. you had higher standards and wanted more for your future self. not that complicated, right? sure… until you casually meet after almost 5 years. you're now working as a receptionist at a motel, and guess who just came over to book a room? steve-the-hair-harrington. he's right in front of you, minding his business as he reads a magazine. you've been staring at him for some minutes, and you're sure he's noticed.
is that really him?
"excuse me, ma'am, may i know when my room will be ready?" his voice snaps you back to reality.
steve's eyebrows furrow in confusion and in an attempt to recognize the person before him. "y/n?" you smile warmly. "hey."
his eyes light up immediately and he opens his mouth to say something, though no sound escapes from it. he looks like he wants to do something, like he can't contain his excitment for a moment, but then he pulls himself together and clears his throat.
"what are you doing here?" he presses, his smile so big that it could reach his eyes.
"i kind of work here, you know," you answer, chuckling soflty at his dumb question.
"no, yeah, i figured... just, wow. you look good," the comment slips out of his lips before he can even stop it. you feel your cheeks burning hot.
"how long is it been?"
"a few years... 4 or 5."
again, it's not like you two broke up because there wasn't love anymore... seeing this new version of steve is making you feel things you thought you moved on from. you notice the details — his hair got bigger—more beautiful—his shoulders broader, his jawline sharper, and his hands more veiny. you wonder if their grip on your waist got stronger too.
what? no! pull yourself together. he's your ex.
"mind showing me the room? i spent two hours trying to find this motel's parking lot, and i don't want to get lost again."
his voice got deeper too.
"sure, follow me," you say as you quickly check the room assigned next to his name and grab the keys. steve follows you out of the hall and outside. the cool night air hits you both, the street lights casting a delicate glow on your faces. you head towards the porch and walk past many rooms, until you finally arrive to his.
"here you go, room 229."
you leave the keys to him.
"may i ask why you're here?" you know that's none of your business, but you're curious.
"well, don't worry about that," he sets boundaries with a calm smile. you feel like the most stupid girl in the world. he's changed, he's an adult, he knows what he wants to talk about and what he doesn't.
you decide to change the topic, too embarrassed to just walk away like this now. "it'll be 55$ per night — breakfast included."
he looks at you with a serene expression, with almost a smirk of someone who has everything under control. "sure. i can pay later, right?"
you nod and he adds, "have a goodnight, i’ll be here if you need me."
he walks inside. the words echo in your head as you stare at the 229 on his closed room door. your feet refuse to move and go back to the reception, so you just stand there for a couple of minutes until a nearby car honking brings you back to reality. you get back inside.
at almost midnight, you receive a call.
"hello! this is y/n, how may i help you?" you pick up the phone and use your professional and polite voice to answer.
"it’s me, steve," your heart leaps. "may you come to my room? i think i’m having trouble with closet door." he sounds genuinely tired.
"i work at the reception, steve, i can’t actually—" he cuts you off. "please." one word, but enough to get your legs feel like jelly.
"alright," you hang up and head outside and to his room. with the copy of the keys, you open the door only to find him almost naked, trying to open the wardrobe. he’s clearly just come out of the shower — droplets of water caressing his back and falling from his hair ends. his hands are on the wooden handle as he pulls the wardrobe door towards him, the towel is on his waist and hanging on for dear life.
"hey," he catches you staring. "is there a secret way to open this? it looks like an enigma," he jokes and chuckles, but you hear his exhaustion in his voice.
"there is a safety."
"a safety? on an armoire?"
you scratch your neck sheepishly. "we had a mouse infestation a few months ago… not our fault, though! we clean this place regularly. to not risk giving guests surprises, we decided to lock some things like the closet or the drawers," you explain carefully and he nods in understanding.
"alright, no problem. so… how do i open it?" he steps closer. you’re not sure if it was intentional or not, but now you can feel his breath on your skin and it’s driving you mad.
"i have the key," you move in front of him and unlock it. "there you go."
as you step back to give him space to open it, he just stands there, eyes laid on you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. you know that look — he used to look at you like this when he was about to start a good session of making out. your heart is beating fast now — memories of your past relationship flowing back.
"i like this new hair," his voice raspy, but the compliment is gentle, lingering in the air. "it suits you."
"i just wanted to try something new," you justify yourself as if to diminish his compliment.
"i bet you’re getting many appreciations from your man."
"man? oh no, no… i’m as single as a dollar." you chuckle nervously. your eyes desperately avoiding his.
he grins. proud of something, proud of himself for knowing right. he probably knew you weren’t taken, but he wanted to hear it himself. he wanted to hear those words come out of the pretty lips he used to kiss and worship.
you finally meet his gaze. but steve is already closer than you remembered.
"i don’t have a woman either. you got my standards high," he let the sentence hang in the air. the tease. the flirty tone. you can feel the teen version of yourself waking up and recalling the moments together.
he leans close, his hands reaching for your hips. they're indeed stronger, confirming your earlier thought of tonight. you let him pull you against his chest like you weigh nothing, like you're a doll for him to handle. you're scared to lift your gaze again, but you do. he's looking at you with those puppy dog eyes, but they're not showing a bit of innocence — they're fiery, passionate, looking at you like you're a piece of meat and he's the starving lion. in a matter of seconds, before you can even react, his lips are on yours — as soft as they used to be. he's tilting his head down, his big hands gripping your entire waist. you kiss him back; there isn't much else you can do.
he lifts you up and crushes your body against the wall with both force and gentleness. you gasp as the cold surface hits your back. "steve... i can't, i have to go back to work," you breathe out, there's no heat in your words — no conviction.
"just give me one minute... please, i miss you, y/n." and with that, he's already lifting your skirt, his lips attached to yours. he quickly undoes the towel around his waist, and you help him as much as you can from the position you find yourself in. his fingers move your panties aside and he wastes no more time.
it's 1983 again. when he used to intertwine his fingers with yours on the soft cotton of your bedsheets. when he used to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, encouraging you to take him deeper. when he would taste your nectar and leave marks on your thighs as he spread you wider.
it's all that again.
his cock stretches you out like the good old days, reminding you of how big he is with each thrust. you whimper against him, lost in an ecstasy you couldn't even describe in a million years. the sudden rush of adrenaline, the forbidden situation... it takes nothing for you to moan like a bitch in heat.
"like that, hold onto me, baby," he groans into your ear. he is so bossy, he has grown. you want to have him back like nothing else right now, you yearn for him to make you his once again.
"where do you want me to come…?" he pants. but you can't speak.
"mh, am i that good, baby?" he speeds up his pace and keeps going until he feels you squeezing his dick like a vice. he lets you ride out your orgasm, pressing harder against you to hear you more and trigger his climax. he quickly pulls out and jerks off, aiming at your belly. you look down to watch his white seed hit your skin.
it was rushed, secret, like a rebellious teenage runaway.
you loved every second of it.
steve kisses you gently, "are you okay?" you simply nod, unable to engage in a basic conversation. he smiles, proud of himself and fond of you. you watch him reach for a nearby tissue box and extract one of those to clean up your stomach.
"think you can call me in the next days?" he glances up at you — his eyes full of hope.
"yes..." you chuckle and cup his cheek with your hand, "i still remember your number."
"mh, someone was hoping for a comeback," he teases, silencing your further blather with your lips against his.
⋆.˚ ʚɞ ⋆˙⟡ reblogs and comments are very very very appreciated ♡︎♡︎
description: Eddie Munson has been a regular at your coffee shop for four months before either of you finally exchange names. After that, it's easy conversations and the sort of harmless crush you swear you'll eventually get over. Meanwhile, your sorority house becomes the target of increasingly disturbing phone calls. You just never think any of it has anything to do with the sweet guy who calls you 'sweetheart' every morning at seven.
pairing: ghostface!eddie x reader (fem!reader)
tags: ghostface!eddie munson, college au, sorority girl!(ish)reader, alt!reader, obsessive!eddie, stalker!eddie, dark romance, possessive!eddie, yandere vibes, knifeplay, fear and attraction, the mask STAYS ON, dead dove, if crazy why boyfriend shaped
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do NOT interact!! (like fr). stalking, home invasion, coercive behavior, CNC themes, power imbalance, murder, dead dove
WC: 8.4k
A/N: hi <3 friendly reminder that this is a Scream-inspired work of fiction. i am certainly not endorsing any of the behaviors depicted here in real life (w/o consent, ofc). if you're here because you enjoy horror and fictional men who desperately need to be institutionalized, you're in the right place.
reblogs are always appreciated <33
xoxoxoxoxo enjoy, my loves :)
The bell jingles softly overhead, drawing your attention from the carafe you were filling to the front door. Your usual regular comes in every day at the same time: 7 a.m. sharp, yet you have never once caught his name.
It wasn’t that you didn’t care; you always remembered people's names when they introduced themselves. But this customer, in particular, always made you feel a certain way.
Tall, broad shoulders, dark curly hair, tattoos, big dark-amber doe eyes, and always adorned in various band tees and metal accessories; you couldn’t help but be awestruck whenever he came in.
Asking for his name was difficult when you could barely peel your eyes off of him to make his coffee or give him his change.
And, not to mention, he always greeted you the same way, which even after four months of seeing him made your stomach flutter all the same.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said casually, gliding over to the counter and resting his elbows on the glass.
“Hey, you,” you replied. ‘Hey you?’ What am I, a fucking idiot? “What can I do ya for?”
He pointed across the counter. "Didn't pin you for a Kappa Delta girl."
Your eyes followed his hand down to the faded green letters stretched across your chest, and you groaned dramatically.
"Oh, God, don't remind me."
"So you are?"
"Unfortunately."
A laugh rumbled out of him. "Unfortunately?"
"My grandmother was one. My mom was one. My older sister was one. Legacy status and all that." You shrugged. "Plus they have alumni connections that could basically hand me internships after graduation, so..."
"So you sold your soul."
"I leased it," you corrected. "There's a difference."
He barked another laugh, head tipping back just enough for the silver chain around his neck to catch the morning light. "I knew there had to be a catch."
You folded your arms across the counter, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
He looked at you for a second. Not glanced, looked.
"I don't know," he admitted. "You don't exactly scream sorority girl."
Your lips twitched. "What do I scream?"
His eyes wandered for a moment, taking in the long black nails, the silver hoops decorating your nose, the tiny bat charm hanging from your necklace, and the faint outline of tattoos disappearing beneath your sleeves.
"You look like you'd bully frat boys for fun."
"I do."
"I believe it."
"I've made three cry."
His grin got even bigger. "I definitely believe it."
You busied yourself finishing his drink, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he'd apparently been paying enough attention to have an opinion about you at all.
You slid the cup onto the counter. "That'll be four eighty-six."
His hand instinctively went to his back pocket, then his front, then his jacket. The smile slowly disappeared from his face.
"...You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"What?"
"My wallet."
He patted himself down again like it might magically appear. "I left it at home."
He let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I can run back and—"
You waved him off before he could finish. "It's fine."
"No, it's not."
"It is."
He looked unconvinced. You leaned your elbows on the counter.
"The owner of this place is some rich schmuck who spends six months out of the year in the Bahamas and has never once noticed if inventory's off by a cup of coffee."
"I still don't want you getting in trouble."
"I won't."
"You sure?"
You smiled.
"I've accidentally made the wrong drink three times this week."
"You?"
"I'm shockingly incompetent."
"I don't buy that for a second."
"You shouldn't."
A quiet laugh escaped him as you nudged the cup another inch toward him. "Take it."
For a second, he just looked at you. Then he picked it up carefully. "Thanks... sweetheart."
You pretended that didn't make your stomach flip. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You know..."
"What?"
"I've been coming here every morning for four months."
"Mhm."
"You've never asked my name."
You blinked. "...Huh."
"And I just realized I've never asked yours, either."
A sheepish smile spread across your face. "I guess we're both terrible at introductions."
"I guess we are."
You reached across the counter and plucked the cup back out of his hand before he could protest.
"What're you doing?"
"Fixing it."
You uncapped your Sharpie and quickly wrote something on the side before handing it back. He looked down. Instead of his order, there was your first name, and underneath it, your phone number.
His eyes flicked back up to yours. You suddenly became very interested in the espresso machine behind you.
"So..." you mumbled. "Now you know mine."
A slow smile spread across his face, softer than the cocky little grin he'd walked in with. He looked back down at the cup one more time before meeting your eyes again.
"Eddie."
"What?"
"My name."
You couldn't help smiling. "It's nice to finally meet you, Eddie."
He wrapped one hand around the warm cup, still looking at the writing on the side.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."
The common room smelled faintly of vanilla candles and expensive perfume, with a hint of whatever pumpkin spice disaster someone had burned in the kitchen that afternoon.
You were tucked into the corner of the oversized sectional with your legs folded beneath you, a dog-eared paperback resting comfortably in your lap. It was one of the only quiet places on campus, at least in theory.
In reality, there were six girls gathered around the coffee table barely ten feet away, and they had absolutely no concept of indoor voices.
"Oh my God, did you see his face?" one of them laughed, nearly spilling her drink. "I genuinely thought he was gonna cry."
Another girl snorted. "He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."
Your eyes stayed fixed on the page. You'd gotten remarkably good at pretending not to listen.
"I still can't believe we made him stand outside with that sign."
"And then nobody even talked to him."
"I did."
The group collectively turned toward Madison, who looked far too pleased with herself.
"You did not."
"I swear."
"What'd you say?"
She took a sip from her cup with a little smirk. "He asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime."
Someone immediately burst out laughing. "No, he didn't."
"He absolutely did."
"And?"
"I said yes."
A chorus of dramatic gasps erupted around the room. "You are such a liar."
"I'm serious."
"So you're actually going?"
Madison's smile widened into something that made your stomach turn. "Oh, absolutely."
You looked up from your book for the first time. She continued casually, like she was discussing the weather.
"I'm gonna tell him to meet me at Romano's Friday night."
Someone else caught on instantly. "Oh, my God."
"And then?"
"I'm not showing up."
Another girl laughed.
"No, no. Better." Madison leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm gonna have Tyler and Jake there recording him waiting."
The room exploded into laughter. "We'll post it."
"That's so evil."
"It's hilarious."
"He seriously thought he had a chance."
Someone chimed in from the armchair. "Didn't you guys dump a trash can on him during hazing?"
"That was different."
"We also shaved his eyebrows."
"You did not."
"Just one."
More laughter.
You slowly closed your book. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough to draw a few eyes toward you.
"What?" Madison asked.
You looked at her for a second before speaking. "Don't do that."
She blinked.
"...Do what?"
"The date."
Her expression immediately soured with amusement.
"It's just a joke."
"No, it's not."
"He'll get over it."
You slipped your bookmark between the pages. "He asked because he likes you."
"No," Madison scoffed. "He asked because I'm hot."
"And he thinks you're nice."
That earned another round of laughter. "Oh, sweetheart."
You ignored it. "If you don't want to go, don't go."
"I don't."
"Then tell him no."
Madison rolled her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"
You looked at her for another long second. "I don't know."
Your voice stayed perfectly calm. "I've just never thought humiliating someone for liking me sounded particularly entertaining."
Another girl shrugged. "You're too nice."
"I don't think that's what this is."
Madison leaned back against the couch. "God, you're such a grandma."
You smiled faintly. "I've been called worse."
Someone changed the subject almost immediately, conversation moving on to parties and outfits and football games, but your attention had already drifted, and you looked back down at your book.
The words blurred together. You couldn't stop thinking about the poor freshman with one eyebrow, standing outside some restaurant waiting for a girl who was never planning on showing up.
By the time you came downstairs that afternoon, the entire house was buzzing. Not with excitement, but with gossip.
The television mounted above the fireplace was muted, some reality show flickering silently across the screen while half a dozen girls occupied every available couch and armchair, coffees in hand and phones practically glued to their palms.
You'd barely made it three steps into the common room before you heard Madison's name.
"...I'm telling you, he actually waited almost forty minutes."
Another girl burst into laughter. "No, he did not."
"He absolutely did."
You quietly crossed toward the kitchen, hoping to escape unnoticed. No such luck.
"Did you hear about that freshman?" someone asked from behind you.
You looked over your shoulder. "No."
"The one Madison was talking to."
"Oh."
You already had a bad feeling. A blonde sitting cross-legged on the sofa practically bounced with excitement. "So apparently she texted him to meet her at Romano's last night."
You didn't say anything.
"Poor idiot actually showed up with flowers."
Your stomach sank while another voice chimed in. "Not flowers."
"A single rose."
"Oh my God, that's even worse."
The room dissolved into giggles while You stayed quiet.
"He waited forever," another girl continued. "Then his pledge masters showed up."
"They told him Madison was waiting downstairs."
"In the basement."
You slowly lowered the mug you'd been reaching for. "...Romano's has a basement?"
"It rents out the lower level for parties."
Someone snorted. "They took him down there and made him chug like half a bottle of vodka."
"No, it was whiskey."
"I heard it was tequila."
"They made him eat dog food."
"They shaved his head."
"They wrote all over him with Sharpie."
"I heard they made him call his mom drunk and then run across the freeway."
The details changed with every person who spoke, each version somehow becoming more ridiculous than the last, but the laughter never stopped.
The point wasn't what had happened; the point was that everyone thought it was funny.
One girl looked up from her phone. "I heard his name's Gareth."
Another shrugged. "Whatever it is, he's definitely dropping."
Madison herself wandered into the room a moment later, completely unfazed, grabbing a yogurt from the refrigerator as if they were discussing the weather instead of another human being.
The second she sat down, someone asked, "Did he actually bring you flowers?"
She grinned. "Apparently."
The room erupted again.
You stared at her, and she noticed, staring right back. "What?"
"You knew he was going to."
"So?"
"So you still sent him there."
Madison looked genuinely confused by your expression. "It was a joke."
"No," you said quietly. "It wasn't."
She rolled her eyes. "He's a frat pledge. They'll haze him either way."
"That doesn't mean you had to help."
"Oh, my God." She laughed through the words. "Are you actually feeling bad for him?"
You looked around the room; nobody else seemed bothered. Some of them were still laughing. One girl was already recounting the story over FaceTime to somebody else.
Finally, you looked back at Madison. "I just think if someone asks you on a date and you're not interested..." You shrugged, "...you could just say no."
For a brief second, nobody said anything. Then Madison smirked. "You are so weird."
Another girl nodded. "Seriously."
You looked down at your coffee for a moment before forcing a small grin onto your face, one that had become second nature over the years.
"Whatever," you said with a little shrug. "I won't be “weird” once I bring you all free pastries after work."
That immediately changed the mood. Madison gasped dramatically. "Are we talking muffins or those chocolate croissants?"
"The croissants."
"I take everything back."
Another girl pointed at you from across the room. "See? This is why we keep you around."
"For my sparkling personality?"
"No."
"The day-old baked goods."
A couple of them laughed, the conversation effortlessly drifting away from Gareth and onto weekend plans, football games, and who was wearing what to Saturday night's mixer. You let them; it was easier.
You'd long since figured out that there wasn't much point in arguing. They'd laugh, call you sensitive, tell you to lighten up, and move on without giving it another thought.
So instead, you simply grabbed your bag from beside the stairs, waved over your shoulder, and headed for work. The walk into town did little to shake the conversation from your head.
You found yourself thinking about the boy you'd never met, sitting alone at Romano's with flowers in his hand, probably checking the door every few minutes with that tiny flicker of hope that somebody was actually going to show up.
The image lingered even as you unlocked the café and tied your apron around your waist.
Your afternoon shifts were usually uneventful.
A handful of students hiding behind laptops, professors grading papers over americanos, the occasional frazzled parent trying to wrangle a screaming toddler with a blueberry scone.
Which was exactly why, barely an hour into your shift, the familiar jingle above the front door made your head snap up.
You blinked. For a second, you genuinely thought you'd imagined him.
Eddie stood just inside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, curls a little windblown from outside.
He looked around the café until his eyes landed on yours; a slow smile spread across his face.
"Well, this is new."
You couldn't help smiling back. "It is."
He wandered over to the counter, looking around theatrically. "I was beginning to think they kept you in a little cabinet overnight and only took you out at seven in the morning."
You laughed. "Nope."
"So you're actually a real person."
"Allegedly."
"Huh."
He rested his elbows on the counter. "I kinda liked the mysterious coffee cryptid theory better."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be."
He glanced up at the menu before looking right back at you. "So... this is your afternoon shift?"
You nodded. "Covering for somebody."
"I almost didn't come in."
"No?"
"Nah."
He smiled to himself. "Glad I did now."
You leaned against the espresso machine, folding your arms as he dug around in his pockets for cash. "So."
"So?" he echoed.
You gave him a pointed look. "You never called."
His hand froze for a fraction of a second before he let out a quiet, guilty laugh. "...Yeah."
"'Yeah?'"
"I know."
"I gave you my number and everything."
"I noticed."
"And then?"
"And then..." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. "I had a really long night."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's the excuse we're going with?"
"No, that's the truth."
The teasing smile faded just enough that you immediately felt bad for pushing.
He looked down at the countertop, absentmindedly tracing one of the little scratches in the laminate with his thumb.
"One of my friends ended up in the hospital."
Your expression softened. "Oh."
"Some asshole fraternity hazing."
You didn't say anything.
"He got hurt pretty bad."
The words landed in your chest like a stone.
You'd spent all afternoon trying not to think about Gareth, trying to convince yourself that maybe the stories had been exaggerated through the campus rumor mill. Suddenly you weren't so sure.
Eddie exhaled through his nose. "I was there until like three in the morning."
"Is he okay?"
"He will be." His jaw tightened. "He's tough."
You nodded quietly. "I'm sorry."
He shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "It sucks."
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he shook himself out of it with a tired smile. "On the bright side, he's done with all that now."
"What do you mean?"
"He's dropping."
"Dropping?"
"The fraternity."
You nodded once. "Oh."
"He was only doing it because he thought that's what college was supposed to be."
"And now?"
Eddie smiled, though this one looked considerably more genuine. "Now he's transferring over to ours."
You blinked. "You have a fraternity?"
He looked almost offended. "I know. Shocking."
"I definitely didn't pin you for that type."
He laughed. "That's exactly what I said about your sorority."
"Touché."
"Ours isn't..." He searched for the right word. "One of the big campus ones."
"The terrifying Greek Row mansions?"
He nodded. "Yeah, definitely not that."
"So what is it?"
He shrugged. "A couple of guys living in a run-down house that desperately needs a new roof."
"Very prestigious."
"Extremely."
"I'm assuming there are matching sweaters."
"Oh, absolutely not."
"No little hand signs?"
"The only sign we’ll have is Gareth flipping everybody off when they make him do dishes."
You couldn't help laughing. "And people voluntarily join this organization?"
"Barely."
"What do you even do?"
He smiled. "Band practice in the basement. Movie nights. Cookouts when we can afford burgers instead of hot dogs. Other…stuff."
"So..."
"So?"
"It isn't really a fraternity."
His grin spread wider. "No."
"It sounds like a bunch of guys who accidentally signed a lease together."
"You’d be correct."
"I knew it."
He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "We've got a house, we've got letters on the front, we've got paperwork with the university."
"And?"
"And mostly we just look after each other."
Something about the way he said it made your heart ache. Your thoughts drifted back to Gareth, to whispered conversations and laughter echoing through the sorority house that afternoon.
Without thinking, you smiled softly. "I think I like yours better."
Then, with impeccable timing, the espresso machine behind you let out a deafening hiss that made both of you jump. You burst into laughter, and Eddie looked at the machine.
"I think it disagrees."
"I think it's jealous."
"Of me?"
"No."
"The hot dogs."
He looked deeply offended. "They're actually pretty good."
"I don't believe that for a second."
"Come over sometime and find out."
The words came out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them for a beat. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly, as did your own.
He cleared his throat. "I mean..."
You smiled despite yourself. "I know what you meant."
The next week settled into something dangerously close to a routine.
Every morning at seven on the dot, the bell above the café door would jingle, and Eddie would stroll in with his curls still a little messy from sleep and some new band shirt you'd inevitably spend the next five minutes trying not to stare at.
Some mornings he'd stay for all of three minutes, grabbing his coffee before rushing off to class.
Other mornings he'd linger against the counter while you cleaned the espresso machine or restocked cups, making conversation about whatever happened to cross his mind.
Professors he couldn't stand, the guitar amp that had decided to die on him over the weekend, a stray cat that had apparently moved into the back porch of his fraternity house and now refused to leave.
You learned he always picked the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms first. He learned you read at the counter whenever business was slow. You discovered he couldn't pronounce the name of the French pastry on the menu to save his life and would instead point at it with complete confidence until you handed it over.
And every single morning, without fail, he'd greet you exactly the same.
"Mornin', sweetheart."
By Friday, you had unfortunately reached the point where hearing it from anybody else would probably feel wrong.
He still hadn't asked you on a date, and you still hadn't asked him. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in rushing whatever this was.
It was comfortable, easy. Enough so that you found yourself smiling whenever you looked up and saw him walking through the door.
Which was exactly why, hours later, sitting barefoot on one of the stools in the sorority kitchen with a mug of tea and a textbook open in front of you, the sharp ring of the landline nearly made you spill it.
The house phone almost never rang; everyone had cell phones. For a second, nobody moved.
Then one of the girls shouted from upstairs, "Can somebody get that?"
You sighed, slid off the stool, and wandered over. "Hello?"
Nothing, just soft static. You frowned. "...Hello?"
Then a man's voice, low and calm. "Madison there?"
You glanced toward the staircase. "Yeah. Hold on."
"Thanks."
Something about it felt...odd. Not threatening, just strange.
His voice was too even, too measured, almost like he was deliberately trying not to sound recognizable.
You covered the receiver with your hand. "Madison!"
A moment later she came clattering downstairs in fuzzy slippers and an oversized sweatshirt. "For me?"
"So he says."
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "If it's Tyler, tell him I'm busy."
You handed her the phone anyway. She tucked it between her shoulder and ear and wandered toward the hallway, disappearing around the corner.
You could still hear the occasional muffled sound of her voice, but not enough to make out words.
You returned to your tea. Barely thirty seconds passed.
Then, "What the fuck?"
Her voice echoed down the hallway. A moment later, Madison stormed back into the kitchen, looking thoroughly annoyed, hanging up the receiver hard enough that it rattled against the wall.
"What happened?" another girl asked from the doorway.
Madison crossed her arms. "Some creep."
"What creep?"
"I don't know."
She looked genuinely irritated. "He kept asking what I was wearing."
A chorus of disgust immediately followed. "Ew."
"What a freak."
"He knew my name."
One of the girls frowned. "Maybe it was Tyler messing with you."
"It wasn't Tyler."
"How do you know?"
"I know Tyler's voice."
Another girl leaned against the counter. "So what'd he say?"
Madison mimicked a deeper voice. "'What color shirt are you wearing, Madison?'" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told him to fuck off."
Someone laughed nervously. "Probably just some drunk guy."
"Probably."
Madison grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "But seriously,” she shivered, "It was creepy."
The conversation moved on almost as quickly as it'd started. By the time everyone drifted back upstairs, the phone call had already become another funny little story to tell over drinks.
You looked over at the silent receiver still hanging on the kitchen wall. For reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the feeling that the voice on the other end hadn't sounded drunk at all.
If anything, it had sounded patient.
By ten-thirty, the house had emptied almost completely. Doors had slammed, music had drifted down the front steps, and the collective cloud of perfume and hairspray had finally dissipated enough for the place to feel like it could breathe again.
You'd declined the mixer without much thought.
The excuse had been homework. The reality was that spending your Friday night curled up on the couch with tea and a book sounded infinitely more appealing than making awkward conversation with finance majors wearing pastel polos.
The old grandfather clock in the foyer chimed once, then silence settled back over the house. You turned another page before the landline rang. The sound made you jump hard enough to nearly drop your mug.
You glanced toward the hallway. Once. Twice. Three rings. With nobody else home, you finally stood and crossed the hardwood floor.
"Hello?"
A brief pause of staticky silence. Then, "Hi."
The same voice. Low, calm, almost pleasant. You frowned ever so slightly.
"...Hi."
"I was hoping somebody would answer."
"You've got somebody."
A quiet chuckle. "I guess I do."
You rested your shoulder against the wall. "Can I help you?"
"I was looking for Madison."
"They're all out."
"Oh." The disappointment sounded almost genuine. "When will they be back?"
You hesitated. "I'm... not really sure."
"That's okay." Another brief silence. "You stayed home?"
You blinked. "Yeah."
"Homework?"
"...Something like that."
"You don't seem like the mixer type."
A tiny smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. "I guess not."
"You'd rather read."
Your smile vanished as you looked down at the paperback still sitting open on the couch.
"...Lucky guess."
"I suppose." His voice remained perfectly even. Comfortable, like talking to somebody over late-night radio.
"What're you reading?"
You glanced toward the cover. "'Rebecca.'"
"I've always liked that one."
"You've read it?"
"I've read lots of things."
"Hm."
"You sound surprised."
"A little."
"I disappoint you?"
"No."
You laughed softly. "I just wasn't expecting literary recommendations from mysterious men calling sorority houses."
Another quiet laugh. "Fair enough."
The conversation drifted for another minute. Movies. Coffee. The weather. Nothing strange, nothing threatening.
And yet something about it continued to make the hairs on your arms stand up. You couldn't have explained why.
Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows. Outside came the unmistakable sound of half a dozen girls talking over one another before the front door burst open.
Laughter. Music still playing from somebody's phone. Someone yelling that they'd lost a shoe.
You looked toward the foyer. "They're back."
"Already?"
"Looks like it."
The voice was quiet for a moment. Then, "Madison came home in the black heels, right?"
Your stomach tightened as you slowly turned toward the front windows. You couldn't see anyone outside. "...Yeah."
"The silver dress looked nice on her."
Your grip on the receiver tightened almost painfully. How...
The girls continued piling into the foyer, completely oblivious.
Madison stumbled in near the back of the group, kicking off exactly the pair of black heels he'd just described.
Your pulse began to climb, while the voice remained calm. "Could you hand her the phone?"
For one impossible second, you just stood there, your brain trying desperately to make sense of it.
Maybe he'd seen them leave. Maybe he'd driven by. Maybe...
Madison noticed you standing there. "For me?"
You looked from her... to the receiver in your hand... then nodded slowly. "I think so."
She rolled her eyes dramatically and took it. "Hello?"
You watched her expression change almost instantly; the smug annoyance disappeared. "What?"
Silence. Her face lost color. "No, that's not funny." Another pause.
The room around her was still loud with drunken conversation, nobody paying much attention, but Madison wasn't listening to any of it anymore. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.
"Who is this?"
Silence. Then whatever was said next made her visibly stiffen. "No."
Another pause. "I said no." Her voice had become quieter. Not angry anymore, but scared. You took an unconscious step toward her.
Madison swallowed. "...How do you know that?"
Nothing. Her breathing changed, and the color drained completely from her face. "Stop it."
Another pause. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Please stop."
The laughter in the foyer had finally begun to die down as people were starting to notice. One of the girls frowned.
"Mads?"
Madison didn't answer. She was staring at the floor now, eyes wide and unfocused.
Then, without another word, she slowly lowered the receiver back onto its cradle and the line clicked dead.
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally, someone forced a laugh. "...Who was it?"
Madison didn't look up; her voice came out barely audible. "I..."
She swallowed hard. "I don't know."
Then she looked at you. Not annoyed, not embarrassed, but terrified. And for the first time since you'd met her, there wasn't a trace of arrogance left on her face.
Madison was still staring at the phone like it had personally offended her, one hand wrapped tightly around the edge of the kitchen counter.
Ashley was the first to break the silence. "...Madison?"
She didn't answer. "Madison, what did he say?"
Another girl laughed uneasily, the sound forced and far too loud. "Please don't tell me you actually got freaked out by some loser prank caller."
Madison slowly looked up. "He..." She swallowed. "He knew what I was wearing."
The room went quiet.
Ashley frowned. "What?"
"He described my dress."
Someone scoffed immediately. "He probably saw you leave."
"No." Madison shook her head. "He described it after I got home."
Another girl chimed in. "Maybe somebody from the mixer followed you guys back."
Madison wasn't listening anymore. "He knew I changed my shoes."
"What?"
"The heels."
Her breathing had become noticeably uneven. "He told me I came home in the black heels. The ones I kept in my purse to walk home in.”
A couple of girls exchanged uncertain looks. Still, nobody seemed genuinely concerned, until Madison spoke again.
"He asked me if I liked my room."
Your stomach sank. "What do you mean?"
Madison looked toward the staircase without realizing she'd done it. "He asked if I liked the poster over my bed. He asked if I still slept with my closet door open."
Nobody laughed this time. Madison's voice was barely audible now. "And then..."
She looked like she didn't even want to repeat it. "He said the window sticks when you try to close it all the way."
You felt every hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Madison suddenly lurched toward the front door, fumbling with the deadbolt before checking it once. Twice. Three times. Then she checked the handle anyway.
Ashley followed after her. "Madison—"
She was already moving toward the kitchen windows, yanking the curtains shut before checking those locks too. Then the back door. Then another window.
One of the girls nervously laughed. "Jesus Christ."
Madison ignored her completely. She was already halfway toward the foyer windows.
Ashley finally caught her wrist. "Hey."
Madison looked at her with genuinely panicked eyes. "What if somebody was watching us?"
Ashley glanced around at everyone else before lowering her voice. "Mads... think about it."
She didn't answer.
"The Pi Kap boys."
Madison frowned. "What?"
"They're messing with you."
Another girl immediately nodded. "Oh my God, obviously."
Ashley crossed her arms. "You dumped that drink on that guy tonight."
"So?"
"So now his buddies are probably trying to freak you out."
Someone else chimed in. "They probably had somebody parked outside the house."
"They know where you live."
"They've all been here for parties."
"And your room's literally been on your Instagram."
"They know what your room looks like."
"They know your outfits."
"They know what shoes you wear."
"They probably saw you come home."
The explanation settled over the room almost instantly; relief was contagious. Another girl laughed.
"Honestly? That's kind of a good prank."
Madison didn't laugh, but Ashley squeezed her shoulder. "It's just some pissed-off frat guys."
"They're trying to scare you because of it."
"They're assholes."
"But that's all it is."
For a long moment, Madison stood perfectly still. Then, slowly...
"...You think so?"
Ashley smiled. "I know so."
Another girl chimed in from the couch. "They're just trying to get in your head."
"And judging by this little performance..." She gestured vaguely toward the six different locks Madison had just checked. "...it's working."
A couple of people laughed again, tentatively this time. Madison finally managed a weak smile.
"Yeah."
Ashley nudged her toward the stairs. "Go to bed."
"I'm serious. Sleep it off. Tomorrow you'll realize it was some sophomore with too much time on his hands."
Eventually, Madison nodded and headed upstairs. The conversations slowly resumed. Music started playing from somebody's phone again.
Someone ordered late-night pizza. Within ten minutes, the atmosphere had almost completely recovered.
You lingered in the kitchen a little longer than everyone else, and your eyes drifted to the front window.
The curtains were drawn, and you couldn't see outside. For some reason...
You couldn't shake the feeling that someone might still be looking in anyway.
Sleep never really settled in after the phone call.
You'd drifted off eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, but it wasn't restful.
Every creak of the old house seemed louder than usual, every shifting pipe enough to tug you halfway back to consciousness.
By the time you finally opened your eyes again, the room was dark enough that you had to squint to make out the red numbers glowing on your alarm clock.
2:43 a.m.
You let out a quiet sigh, pushed your blankets aside, and shuffled toward the door, still half asleep. The hallway was almost completely dark.
Only the tiny stained-glass lamp at the end of the corridor cast enough light to keep you from bumping into the walls, throwing patches of muted color across the hardwood floor.
You rubbed at your eyes and headed toward the bathroom as the floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet.
Halfway there, another one answered. Not yours.
You stopped. Silence.
You frowned, listening. Nothing, probably one of the girls getting water.
You took another cautious step. And suddenly a figure dressed entirely in black stepped out from the darkness at the opposite end of the hallway, and you froze.
Your brain didn't even have time to process what you were looking at.
A black hood. Long robe. The pale, impossibly familiar ghost mask catching just enough light to make the empty eyes seem alive. Every instinct in your body screamed.
The figure moved, fast.
A gloved hand shot toward you. You stumbled backward on pure instinct, your shoulder striking the wall as a strangled gasp caught in your throat before it could become a scream.
Then, another black-clad figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It caught the first one by the shoulder and shoved him sideways with surprising force.
Not enough to knock him over, but just enough to stop him.
The two stood there for the briefest second. The taller one turned his masked face toward the other and made one sharp, impatient motion with his hand.
Not at you, but past you, toward the end of the hallway. Toward Madison's room.
The second figure hesitated, and the first one pointed again, harder this time. Even through the costume, there was something unmistakably authoritative in the gesture.
The shorter figure looked back at you one last time before reluctantly turning away.
Without a word, he disappeared down the hall.
The taller figure lingered just long enough for his mask to turn toward you. You couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his eyes.
But for one impossible second, you had the overwhelming sensation that he was studying you.
Then he reached back and quietly pushed your bedroom door farther open behind you, almost expectantly. Your legs moved before your mind did, and you stumbled backward into your room.
The second your heel crossed the threshold, the masked figure swung the door shut behind them, leaving the two of you alone in your bedroom.
The room suddenly felt impossibly small, illuminated only by the pale wash of moonlight slipping through the curtains.
Your pulse hammered so violently in your ears that it almost drowned out everything else, but not quite.
Downstairs, something crashed. A scream, another one, then running, then silence.
You stared at the figure standing only a few feet away from you, every instinct screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something, but your feet wouldn't cooperate.
The black robe barely moved as they shifted their weight. The knife in their hand remained pointed toward the floor.
Not raised, not threatening, but just... there.
You swallowed hard. "What... what do you want?"
The white mask stared back at you without expression. When the voice finally came, it wasn't a voice at all.
It crackled through an electronic distortion, flattened into something mechanical and impossible to place, every trace of age or identity stripped away.
"I'm sorry."
The words were so unexpected that they almost didn't register.
You blinked. "...What?"
Another scream echoed somewhere else in the house, farther away this time. The figure didn't so much as flinch.
"I'm sorry," the altered voice repeated quietly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
Your hand found the edge of your desk behind you. "What are you talking about?"
Then the mask tilted ever so slightly. "You're the last one."
Your blood ran cold. "No..."
"You are."
"No."
"I'm sorry."
You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it. "No, they're all here. They're upstairs. They're—"
"They're gone."
The electronic filter couldn't hide the strange heaviness behind the words.
There was no laughter. No theatrical gloating. No excitement. Just something that sounded dangerously close to regret.
You stared at him, unable to breathe. "No..."
The figure remained perfectly still. "I didn't want you to find out this way."
Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...Who are you?"
Silence. The only answer was another distant bang somewhere in the house, followed by complete stillness.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"Please."
The masked figure lowered their head for just a second. "I can't."
"You know me."
Another silence. Then, softly, "Yeah."
The admission hit harder than any threat could have.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "...Do I know you?"
The mask didn't move. The voice changer crackled faintly before the reply came.
"You do."
Every instinct begged you to ask another question. To demand a name. To make them pull the mask off. Instead, all that came out was a trembling—
"...Why me?"
The figure looked at you for what felt like an eternity. When they finally spoke, the words were almost gentle. "Because you were never supposed to be part of this."
The apology hung in the room between you. Outside, somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the old house sat in perfect silence.
He stood perfectly still. The knife remained pointed toward the floor, hanging loosely from his gloved hand, as if he'd forgotten it was even there.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...You keep saying you're sorry."
The mask tilted. "I am."
"Then why are you here?"
The distorted speaker crackled softly before he answered. "I don't know."
It wasn't the response you expected. "I thought I did."
Another pause.
"I had a plan."
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh that sounded even stranger through the electronic filter.
"A really good one."
Your fingers were still gripping the edge of your desk so tightly they hurt. "What plan?"
"You weren't supposed to matter."
The words were matter-of-fact, almost clinical.
"You were supposed to be..." He searched for the word. "Adjacent."
The mask turned toward your bookshelf. "Pretty girl."
Toward your desk. "Good grades."
Toward the discarded sorority sweatshirt hanging over your chair. "Legacy."
"I figured I'd have you all figured out in a week."
You couldn't bring yourself to respond. Instead, he continued talking almost to himself.
"But then you were kind. You let me walk away without paying."
Your stomach sank. Wait…
"You looked at me like there wasn't something wrong with me."
The voice changer hid his real voice, but not the strange sincerity underneath it.
"You laughed at my jokes."
"You remembered my order."
It can’t be…
"You started setting aside the blueberry muffins before I even asked."
Realization hit you like a freight train.
Your mouth went dry. "I was just being nice."
"I know." Another quiet laugh. "That was the problem."
He took one slow step across the room. Not toward you, just... wandering.
Looking at your shelves, your records, the dog-eared paperbacks stacked on your dresser.
"I kept waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to disappoint me."
His head tilted slightly. "You never did."
Your pulse hammered painfully against your ribs.
"So then I started wondering if maybe I was wrong."
"About what?"
"About people."
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he'd said so far.
"When Madison humiliated Gareth..." He stopped. "...you told her not to."
You stared. "...How do you know that?"
Another tiny crackle from the speaker. "I know lots of things."
"You sat in the corner pretending to read while everybody laughed."
"You left early."
"You looked guilty."
"You always look down when you're upset."
Your breathing became noticeably shallower.
He wasn't speaking like someone who'd watched you once; he was speaking like someone who'd watched you a hundred times. A thousand.
"You don't understand," he continued quietly. "I had everything figured out."
"The people who thought they could hurt whoever they wanted."
"The people who laughed."
"The people who'd never had anyone tell them no."
"They made sense."
"You..." Another soft laugh. "...you didn't."
You could hear your own heartbeat.
"So I started paying attention."
"You read in the park on Tuesdays."
"You always buy the same black pens because you hate blue ink."
"You leave the ends of your sandwiches."
"You hum when you mop the café floors."
You felt physically ill. He wasn't bragging; that was somehow the most terrifying part. He sounded fond, as if he were reminiscing.
"I kept telling myself I'd stop."
"I didn't."
"I kept telling myself you weren't real."
"I'd go home and think, she's pretending."
"Nobody's actually like that."
He looked directly at you. "And then you were."
Your eyes stung. "Please stop."
He ignored the plea. "I thought it would make this easier."
"This?"
"Killing you." The words landed with horrifying simplicity.
"I told myself if I watched long enough I'd find something."
"Something fake."
"Something ugly."
"Something selfish."
Another pause.
"I couldn't."
He lowered his head ever so slightly. "You were supposed to be easy."
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly around the knife at his side. "You were supposed to fit with the rest."
"You were supposed to laugh with them."
"You were supposed to become one of them."
"You weren't."
The electronic distortion crackled again. "And now you're making this so much harder than it was supposed to be."
You couldn't stop the tears now. "I don’t even know you that well.”
"No."
"But I know you." His head lifted again. "And that's the really unfair part."
Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it, "I think if we'd met differently..."
The sentence never finished. Instead, he looked away, almost angry with himself for saying it at all.
When he spoke again, the softness was gone; only something fractured remained.
"I spent weeks trying to convince myself obsession isn't the same thing as caring." The mask turned back toward you. "I still don't know if I believe that."
He stood there in the moonlight, impossibly still. The voice changer hid his identity. The mask hid his face. But you knew who it was, mask on or not. Eddie.
His name echoed in your mind, heavy and final, twisting something deep in your gut. You should have screamed. You should have lunged for the window, the phone, anything.
Instead, your body stayed rooted, trembling against the desk as the Ghostface figure, Eddie, some broken part of you already whispered—stood bathed in the thin moonlight slicing through your curtains.
He took another slow step.
The knife still dangled from his gloved fingers like an afterthought, but his head tilted with that unnerving curiosity, like he was memorizing the way your chest heaved with every shallow breath.
"You keep saying you're sorry," you whispered again, voice cracking.
"I am." The distortion made it sound almost gentle. "But I can't stop now. Not when you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you see me." He was closer now.
Close enough that the black fabric of his robe brushed your bare knee where your sleep shorts had ridden up. "Like maybe you could want this too. Even if you shouldn't."
Your pulse roared in your ears. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, but underneath it—god, underneath it—something hotter flickered.
The way he'd watched you. The way he knew you. The confession of weeks, months, of him orbiting your life like a shadow you never noticed.
It should have repulsed you. It did. But it also made your skin prickle, your thighs press together without thinking.
"I don't—" The lie died on your tongue as his free hand rose, gloved fingers ghosting along your jaw.
Not gripping, not yet. Just tracing, reverent, like you were something sacred he was about to defile.
"You do," he murmured, echoing his earlier words. The knife lifted slowly, the flat of the blade pressing cool against the side of your neck. Not cutting. Just resting there, a promise.
Your breath hitched sharply.
"I can see it. That little shake in your voice. The way your nipples are hard under that shirt even though you're scared shitless."
A low, distorted chuckle. "Pretty girl... always so fucking kind. Always pretending you don't feel it."
He stepped fully into your space, the mask inches from your face.
You could smell him—faint leather, weed, that metallic tang of whatever madness drove him. His body heat bled through the robe, solid and real against you.
"Tell me to leave," he said suddenly, voice dropping. The knife traced lower, down your collarbone, catching on the thin strap of your tank top. "Say it. Say 'get out,' and I'll try. I'll really fucking try."
Your lips parted, but no sound came. His gloved thumb brushed your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them further.
"That's what I thought." The knife slipped under the strap and flicked; sharp, precise. The fabric gave way with a whisper.
Cool air hit your skin as one breast spilled free. He groaned, the sound raw even through the mask. "Fuck... look at you."
You gasped as his hand cupped you roughly, thumb circling your nipple in a way that made your back arch despite yourself. Terror and heat twisted together, impossible to separate. "Please..."
"Please what?" He leaned in, the mask's nose brushing your cheek. The knife dragged lightly down your sternum, not breaking skin, just teasing the panic that made you clench.
"Please stop? Or please keep going? Be honest, sweetheart. I've watched you long enough to know when you're lying."
His other hand slid down your body, shoving between your thighs without warning. Two thick fingers pressed against the damp seam of your shorts, rubbing slow and firm.
You whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Shame burned your face even as slick heat flooded you.
"See?" That fractured laugh again. "You're soaking for the monster who came to kill you. My sweet, perfect girl... always surprising me."
He pushed you back onto the desk with sudden force, scattering papers and pens. The knife clattered beside you as he used both hands to yank your shorts down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down.
You tried to close your thighs; he forced them open wider, dropping to his knees between them like a man at prayer.
The mask stayed on (of course it did). But you felt his breath hot through the fabric as he leaned in, inhaling you like a drug. It lifted slightly, not enough to see his face, but enough to assist him.
"Been dreaming about this," he rasped. His tongue, warm, real, and eager, dragged up your slit in one long, filthy stroke.
You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk. He didn't tease; he devoured. Licking and sucking at your clit with desperate hunger, his now un-gloved hands pinning your thighs apart as you squirmed and moaned.
Every flick of his tongue pulled another broken sound from you. Fear made everything sharper—the edge of the knife still within reach, the threat of who he was—but the pleasure was drowning it, wave after wave as he ate you like a man starved. Like he'd been waiting lifetimes for the taste of you.
"That's it," he growled against your cunt, voice rough and filthy. "Ride my face, baby. Use me. I killed for less. I'd die for this."
Your hands tangled in the hood of his robe, pulling him closer despite everything. Your hips rolled, chasing the building pressure.
He moaned into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. One finger pushed inside you, then two, curling just right while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.
You came hard, thighs shaking around his masked head, a sob tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through the terror. He didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, almost worshipful, until you were twitching and oversensitive.
When he finally rose, he towered over you, unzipping the robe with one hand while the other picked up the knife again. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed, already leaking.
He fisted himself slowly, stroking as he looked down at you spread out and ruined on your desk.
"Still scared?" he asked, almost tenderly.
The tip of the knife traced your inner thigh, leaving faint red lines that didn't quite break skin.
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks even as your pussy fluttered around nothing, aching for more.
"Good." He stepped between your legs, rubbing his cock through your folds. "Because I'm not done with you. Not even close."
He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thickness. The mask hovered above you as he bottomed out, a broken groan leaving his mouth.
"Fuck... so tight. So fucking good." He started moving, deep and punishing, one hand braced beside your head with the knife still clutched tight. "You're mine now. Say it."
You gasped with every thrust, the desk creaking beneath you. "I’m yours—"
"Louder." His hips snapped harder, dragging perfectly inside you. "Tell the man who you’re scared of that you're dripping for his cock anyway."
"I'm yours," you moaned louder, legs wrapping around his waist despite the fear still clawing at your chest.
The blade pressed to your throat again as he fucked you harder, the danger and the pleasure twisting into something addictive, something insane.
He laughed wild and unhinged, something almost Eddie, and leaned down until the mask was pressed to your ear.
"Good girl. Now cum on my cock while I decide if I'm still gonna kill you after... or if I'm keeping you forever."
The choice, you realized through the haze of overwhelming sensation, had never really been yours to begin with.
And some shattered part of you didn't want it to be.
A moment of weakness and God's sense of humor leads Jud to mistakenly assume he is talking to a phone sex operator named Lilith when he calls you, an unsuspecting artist. The awkward encounter surprisingly develops into a close friendship. However, nothing is as innocent as Jud would like to believe, and soon he is not only at God's mercy, but also at yours, body and soul.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist
Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female)
Word count: 6.8k
Warnings: romcom logic and shenanigans, reader uses the artistic alias „Lilith“, mentions of sex work, breach of the celibacy vow, religious guilt, sexual themes, (consensual) voyeurism, (mutual) masturbation, phone sex, angst with happy ending in Part III
Note: Unfortunately, I am not immune to the hot priest propaganda. My deeper thoughts and feelings about wake up dead man are shared with my friends, while tumblr is responsible for the thirst. A warning in advance: I did a bit of research, but I myself have a complicated relationship with faith and was not raised catholic, nor do I live in the usa. Since I don't want to offend anyone's beliefs, please read the warnings carefully before continuing. And as always: English is not my native language or the one I primarily use. Hope you enjoy it anyway! :)
Even before the first dial tone rang out, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.
Not only was he about to breach his vow of celibacy (again) but now he also involved a stranger in his sin. Nervously, he fiddled with the hem of the white bedspread. Jud sat fully clothed in the small chamber that he had been assigned after his arrival in Albany, only the warm light of a single night lamp tracing the outlines of the room. No matter how minor the offense seemed compared to a physical sexual encounter, and no matter how much he longed for that kind of human contact, this clearly crossed all lines. He lowered the phone, about to hang up, when the ringing abruptly ended and a gentle voice responded.
“Hello?”
Jude almost choked on his own heartbeat. Instinctively, he answered.
“Yes! Uh...Hello. I, erm -” He cleared his throat, arranged the words in his mouth before speaking them. “I'm calling about the ad on your website, but I've reconsidered and no longer need...your services.”
“Oh, that's a shame,” you said. “Could you possibly tell me what changed your mind, if that's not uncomfortable for you to share?“
The simple design of the website had indicated a rather professional company. No erotic photos of women in compromising poses or ambiguous wording, just the elegantly curved font announcing that you would find the perfect voice for every fantasy here. Jud hadn't been sure what to expect, but certainly not this. Your composure took him aback so much that he just replied honestly.
“Well, I'm a priest, so - you know…”
You laughed a little. The sound made him flinch.
“Now I understand,” you said. “It's because of the alias I work under, isn't it? Lilith.”
Lilith. Of all the phone sex workers in this country, he had to wind up with one that used a pointedly biblical name. Jud couldn‘t recall seeing a stage name or a list of performers, only a number you were supposed to call to be transferred to the right person. But he ended up with Lilith. It seemed like a divine warning to him, or at least bitter irony. A sign to hang up immediately.
When he didn't respond, you continued:
“That initially deters some devout clients, especially clerics, from engaging me. But their concerns usually subside once they talk to me personally and get a sample of my work. Regardless of their beliefs, I try to create a comfortable environment for all my clients during our collaboration.”
“Some of your clients are clergy?,” he asked, once again drawn in by your casual manner of speaking, allowing this strange encounter to continue unnecessarily. Jud wrinkled his brow. How could a collaboration respect a person’s faith when its goal was to infringe upon one of its disciplines?
“It has actually become my main source of income, although I never planned it that way,” you replied. “So there's no need to be nervous, you're in safe hands.”
By the sound of your voice, he could tell you were smiling. Something about the way you said it reminded Jud of how he spoke to congregants when they sought his guidance. A kind of recognition, a shared understanding filled him. He believed you. The tension in his chest eased a little. Nevertheless:
“I'm sure you're very professional, but I regret calling at all. This...This just isn't right,” he said.
“Hmm, if you tell me what your concerns are, maybe I can address them directly?”
Jud shifted his weight, the narrow bed beneath him groaning disapprovingly.
“I had no intention of using your services at first,” Jud began hesitantly.
Even before you had taken the call, the moment of temptation had passed, but something must have driven him here in the first place. Surprisingly, you had managed to steady him in this moment of weakness. Perhaps it was a good thing that he ended up with you of all people today. Who was to say that another priest could advise him better in his situation, understand his desire for intimacy more than a sex worker? Maybe it was worth a try.
“I haven't been a priest that long yet,” he explained. “In a previous life, I was a boxer and lived on the streets for a while.”
“Holy shit - Sorry! Sorry. I didn't expect that. The transition must have been quite challenging.”
A small smile crossed Jud's face.
“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Some things are easier to get used to than others. I love what I do for the people, it fuels me, makes me who I am. But I also struggle with myself sometimes, have to convince myself that some things no longer belong in my life.” He hesitated briefly, his words faltering. “Like...intimacy with another person. Sexuality in general, you know?”
“Are you talking about...celibacy?” Your voice suddenly sounded stiffer, slower, as if you couldn't quite follow him. The warmth was still there, but it wasn't radiating as strongly anymore.
“Yes, I assumed that your other clients from clergy seek out this service for similar reasons. It’s not just that you miss, um, the act itself, it’s also about the connection with another person.“
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. His hands began to sweat. Had he said something wrong?
“Wait a minute - what kind of service are you looking for exactly?”
An uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, just like in training, right before he had to step into the ring.
“Well, I think the website said something about voices for every fantasy...or, uh, something like that.”
Another beat of silence. Then:
“Are you talking about phone sex?”
Phone sex. Hearing the term so plainly and bluntly from someone else’s mouth felt like the cold shower Jud needed. The accumulated weight of regret he had felt briefly at the beginning came rushing back, hitting him like a cold wave.
“Well, erm...yes? I - I think so,” he stammered. “I stumbled across your website, but it was a stupid idea and that’s why I didn’t want to…ah. Yes.”
You paused for a moment. The quiet stretched on for an eternity. Then, finally, you said:
“The only thing you’ll find on my website are photos of stained glass windows.”
Jud didn't understand, your words came through to him over the phone, but they formed no sense in his mind.
“I'm an artist, not a sex worker. When you mentioned an ad, I thought you wanted to place an order for a restoration or redesign of windows, like other churches,” you explained calmly.
Artist. Not sex worker. Slowly, the realization sunk in. And to Jud's horror, you confirmed exactly what he had just figured out.
“I think you have the wrong num -“
He hung up before you could finish the sentence.
In the following days, Jud Duplenticy experienced what was essentially a hell on earth designed specifically for him. The confession did not lighten his conscience by even the weight of a single feather. Not only did he have to confess his impure thoughts, he also had to explain the misunderstanding and relive it all over again. He knew that Bishop Langstrom did not condemn him (which was why he had asked him to take his confession), but the smirk that his Excellency suppressed after they had finished their conversation didn't escape Jud‘s notice. Again and again, he picked up his phone, ready to tap your number in his call list to apologize, and each time he lost the courage to do so, sinking into a new spiral of shame.
It was only about a week later that Jud managed to find a moment of peace. He had offered his help in tending the gardens during his lunch break. In a secluded part of the grounds, he dug through the damp earth, weeding the flower beds. The midday sun warmed his skin below the rolled-up shirt sleeves, fresh air and silence soothed his soul. Unfortunately, the latter did not last long, as a mechanical ringing sounded through the garden, shattering the idyll.
“Hello?”
Jud's voice came through muffled from the phone he'd wedged between his shoulder and head, pulling off one gardening glove, the other still between his teeth, which he'd taken off to answer the call.
“Hi, it's me,” you said on the other end. When Jud didn't react, you added: “The artist slash presumed sex worker.”
With a soft plop, the glove fell from Jud's open mouth into the flower bed. He managed a weak greeting in response to yours, but then fell silent immediately. Now he severely regretted not having found the guts to reach out to you when he had a rehearsed apology ready. This call caught him completely off guard.
"I've been thinking about our conversation the other night for a few days now and came to the conclusion that, in true priestly fashion, you're probably beating yourself up over this silly mix-up. So I've decided to offer you the only way out I can: I forgive you."
Jud had expected just about anything: anger, accusations, questions, laughter. Unsolicited forgiveness had not been part of the scenarios his guilt-ridden brain had come up with in great detail.
“Why?” he asked.
“I'm no expert, but forgiveness is one of the virtues taught by the Church, isn't it? Besides, I wasn't offended. Looking back, I find it quite funny, to be honest.”
“Well, I couldn't really laugh about it.”
“A priest trying to hire a woman named Lilith for an erotic encounter, come on! That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke that people crack after three beers at the local bar.“
You laughed and the sound spread through Jud like the warmth of the sun, from the roots of his hair to his toes. He couldn't suppress a small smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
“It was easy,” you replied, now more serious again, “You seemed like you just needed someone to talk to, to be honest. If you want…”
You left the end of the sentence hanging in the air, a sincere offer.
“Oh, no! That's very kind, but I um...no,” Jud declined, even though a small part of him wanted to accept. The part of his soul whose desire for honesty was stronger than his sense of embarrassment.
“Okay.”
You paused. Jud's fingers rubbed nervously over the leather of his gloves. He was unsure how to end this call. Or whether he even really wanted to.
“Can I ask you a question?” you asked, resolving the matter for him.
Jud straightened up, reverting to his natural demeanor as a priest. Always ready to help, to serve.
“Of course.”
“What makes a boxer follow the path to priesthood?”
Over the next few months something strange happened, even weirder than the mix-up and the forgiveness that followed: somehow, against all odds, you became friends.
After Jud had answered some of your questions in the garden - his life story had undoubtedly piqued your interest - he called you again a few days later. It bothered him that he never formally apologized to you, he claimed, and another conversation ensued. After that, you called him one evening requesting further explanation of some Bible passages that a client wanted to see incorporated into a piece. Although you were accepting more and more commissions for churches, your own relationship with faith remained complicated, which was why you valued a second opinion.
A quick google search led Jud later to your website (the right one this time) and he studied the photos of your artwork in detail. A selection of beautiful stained-glass windows that you had designed or restored for various churches and some other buildings, as well as private customers. He liked how you used color to create mood and the symbolism (whether colors or individual elements) that you skillfully employed; sometimes subtle, sometimes provocative. He hovered the cursor over a tab labeled about me for a while before clicking on it. Relief washed over him when no headshot appeared next to your biography. He didn’t want to know what you looked like. Or rather, he did want to know, and that was precisely where the cross was buried.
Your friendship rested on two simple principles: anonymity and honesty. Since you had been brought together by chance (your version) or divine providence (Jud's version), but only communicated over calls, you never met in real life. Neither of you would recognize the other even if you were standing right in front of each other, giving you the comfort of talking freely. It was easy opening up to someone when you didn't have to look them in the eye, and each of you had qualities that further enhanced this ease. You liked Jud's empathetic nature, how he remained true to his beliefs in forgiveness and love no matter what, his warmth. He liked your wit and open mind, the curiosity driving you to explore the world and people around you without prejudice.
In his brief search to satisfy a certain need, Jud had instead found a loyal friend. However, the harmlessness of this relationship, which he had ascribed it due to the impossibility of ever getting physically close to you, lulled him into a false sense of security. It clouded his perception, made him believe in its innocence, even though he awaited your calls with increasing anticipation and worried about you disproportionately often. The longer he talked to you, the more he nurtured an affection for you that shouldn't grow any further if he didn't want to risk stoking the fire he tried to extinguish.
This dilemma reached its climax on a seemingly random Tuesday evening.
Jud sat on his bed, bathed in the dim light of the meager bedside lamp. For the past hour, he had drunk chamomile tea, read a few pages of a book, and closed it again after five minutes. He had done some breathing exercises, stretched, prayed the rosary a second time, flipped through a church magazine without even registering what he was looking at, and then rearranged and cleaned his entire room. None of these activities showed the desired effect. His thoughts circled incessantly, he was both tired and restless, and yes, that was the biggest problem, also a little bit turned on.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table, read the displayed time, and sighed. It was a stupid idea. You were probably already asleep and there was no guarantee that talking to you would take his mind elsewhere.
His fingertips drummed on the black plastic.
Then he unlocked the display again and tapped on your number at the top of the recent calls list.
It took a while for you to pick up, much longer than usual.
“Jud?”
Your voice sounded distant, a little husky and somehow... a bit out of breath?
“Hello! Hi. Do you have a moment?”
“Well... I, um -” You cleared your throat. There was muffled rustling in the background. “I guess?“
Jud frowned. Something was wrong. You normally had no trouble finding words, always the direct one out of you two. Sometimes a little too direct, even though he liked that about you. On the other hand, was there anything he didn't like about you?
“Is everything okay?” he asked concerned.
“Oh, yes! I was just, um...lying in bed.”
The guilt set in immediately. Of course you were lying in bed, he shouldn’t have called you so late in the evening.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No, no! I was just... well, I - um... actually, uh.” You stopped, exhaling sharply through your nose, annoyed with yourself. Then you took a deep breath and whispered quietly but clearly, this time without stuttering:
“Actually, I was just masturbating.”
Your statement reached Jud's ears, but it took him a moment to comprehend what you had just revealed to him. It wasn't unusual for people to share details about their sex lives with him during confession. But this wasn't confession and he wasn't your priest.
“Oh. OH. Sorry, should I - um - should I hang up?”
Jud ran his hand over his face and pinched his eyes shut. So much for the idea that talking to you would distract him. Involuntarily, an image rose in his mind of unfamiliar hands digging into a sheet, caressing naked skin. The husky tone in your voice - did it always sound like that when you touched yourself? He banged the back of his head against the headboard, a futile attempt to knock these indecent thoughts out of him.
“It's okay,” you said, a slight smile on your lips, back to your usual temperament. “To be honest, it reminds me a bit of how we met, only with reversed roles in a way.“
“Please don't remind me, I have no idea what came over me that evening,” he groaned, his eyes still covered. The mixture of desire and shame that had risen within him now shifted almost entirely to shame.
“Oh for sure! You were so nervous and completely clueless.”
Your giggle echoed through the line. The sound loosened the knot in his throat a little, enough that he dared to open his eyes again.
„Hey, you can't blame me for that! I mean, how is something like that even supposed work?"
“Well, you can give each other instructions on what to do,” you answered his question, although it was meant to be rhetorical, “but you can also just listen and let the other person describe what they’re doing to themselves.”
The last sentence lingered suggestive in the air. Your playful tone had given way to tense silence. Nervously, Jud listened to the static crackling on the other end, letting your words resonate within him. Describing what you did to yourself, turning the other person into an uninvolved, almost innocent audience. Sharing your own pleasure without the other person having to break any disciplines. He swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck.
“So, like you describing to me what you were doing before I called,” he murmured.
“Yes,” you said. Your voice now soft - not shy, but rather full of anticipation.
A test, it struck him.
This is a test, and the only right thing to do now would be to say goodbye and hang up. He had to put an end to this temptation before he crossed a line that could not be undone. Something that would not only weighed on his faith, but could also sever your delicately woven bond of friendship. He had to hang up.
Instead, he heard himself whisper:
“For example?”
His heart raced so fast he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. A thick silence settled over the room, pressing down on his lungs. No air to breathe, only your voice keeping him alive.
“For example,” you began, barely a whisper, “I took off everything except my underwear and T-shirt, slipped under the covers...” You paused briefly, unsure whether you should continue, if you were allowed to continue. When he didn't dissuade you, you proceeded: “Let my hands wander over my body.”
“Where?” he murmured.
The question left his mind as easily as a raindrop falling. Gravity, attraction. Simply Unstoppable.
“My neck... my breasts - hmm, my stomach. Moving lower -”
Your voice trailed off. Jud imagined fingers gliding over your bare body, lower and lower until -
“Jud... I -” you mumbled. Your voice trembled slightly, your breathing quickened.
“Don’t stop.”
The plea just slipped out. He waited in awe for your heavy breathing, the moan you tried to suppress as you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties.
“Keep going,” he begged. “Please.”
Jud closed his eyes, concentrating on the lustful sounds coming from you, pressing the phone against his ear as close as possible to not miss a single one of your sighs.
It was obscene, it was human, it was breathtaking.
You gave yourself fully to your desire while Jud listened. Sounds of pleasure, gasps and quiet moans, shaky breathing poured through the phone. He breathed harder, in harmony with you, but unlike you, he fought the urge to touch himself. If he broke his celibacy now, he would have to make a confession tomorrow and this intimate moment between you would be destroyed. He wanted to be a part of your pleasure, hear you moan as you tipped over the edge, and seal this sound away inside him forever.
You grew louder, your breathing hastened, until you reached your climax with a tembling oh god. A shattering sound that washed over him like a powerful wave, knocking him off his feet and spitting him out again. Sweat dampened Jud‘s clerical collar without him having lifted a single finger.
The very next morning, less than five hours later, he went to confession. Jud omitted the part of the story where a phone call with you had escalated into a voyeuristic-erotic experience and told the priest in the confessional a version in which he had been tempted and given in to unchaste thoughts. The man granted him absolution, comforted him by saying that all clergymen struggled with such thoughts and needs from time to time, congratulated him for his fortitude in not going further, and advised him to focus on his calling. Which Jud did.
Unfortunately, when he ignored your calls, he could neither lie to God nor to himself that he was doing so for a noble reason. The truth was simple: he was scared. Dealing with the guilt of struggling to keep his vow of chastity was something he had to work out between himself and God. But the fact that he had broken the innocence of your friendship by using you for his desires weighed heavy on him. He knew he had to fix the situation, but it took him a few days to gather the courage he needed.
This time he called you first. Jud had prepared the words beforehand and sought refuge in the most secluded part of the garden, the place he felt safest beyond the walls of his room (which stirred up too many memories of you). Sheltered beneath the green of trees, he felt liberated and, above all, unobserved enough to openly address this delicate matter.
The first dial tone hadn't even faded before you picked up.
The next few minutes were a jumble of apologies, clarifications, and forgiveness. Clear words alternated with guilty stutters and relieved, albeit still timid, laughter. Nothing had changed regarding your friendship; you didn't consider him a perverted priest and he didn't accuse you of seducing him into sin. None of your fears turned into bitter reality. The clear air and relief of his conscience towards you made Jud a little light-headed. The two of you joked that the purpose of your first encounter had been fulfilled after all, just differently than expected.
“That was by far the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” you muttered, your tone not entirely convincing.
“Yes, so dumb,” Jud echoed.
The leaves above him rustled, raindrops began to fall on the small awning above him, but he hardly noticed. In his mind, scenes from that very night played out, one that would never be repeated. A stupid fantasy, indeed. You, completely vulnerable and eager to open yourself up to him, to make him the sole audience for your desire, touching yourself and - suddenly, his mouth felt dry, his pants a little tighter. The rising wind offered no relief from the heat growing within him.
“Jud?”
When you started speaking again, your voice was rough and quiet, carefully testing the waters.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to...do it again?”
It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes escaped his lips.
Going forward, two things changed. Firstly, Jud went to confession more often than before. Not so often that it was noteworthy, but often enough that a small portion of shame and guilt almost became part of his priest's robe. Secondly, he stopped ignoring your calls on days that followed erotically charged conversations.
You were still friends who confided in each other about all the major and minor aspects of your lives. You still shared stories, reflected on your problems together, analyzed doubts and dreams, laughed over silly jokes, and recommended music, books, or movies to each other. Sometimes, however, Jud just listened to you touching yourself. The only moments when he felt this kind of intimate connection without breaking his vow of celibacy in a physical way. It was pure martyrdom, pure indulgence. Surprisingly, apart from the vow, nothing about it felt like the sinful seduction, which one might ascribe to the arrangement when viewed from an outsider's perspective. You were simply two people sharing every aspect of their lives, including their sexuality. Natural. Human.
But one evening, Jud pushed it too far.
He probably shouldn't have answered your call in the first place. Last week, you mentioned in passing that a friend had given you some expensive black lingerie, an attempt to bribe you into accompanying her to a new bar in the neighboring town. According to her, the amount of time you spent working on your current project in a church had apparently led you to believe that you, too, had to remain celibate. The thought of you, dressed in sexy lingerie (temptation), flirting with a stranger (anger) kept Jud's mind spinning and his emotions in turmoil.
Your phone call had actually started quite harmless, you spoke about your difficulties with the project in question and the conflicts within the church administration regarding your artistic vision. But one topic led to another and you ended up talking about former relationships, which, to your surprise, Jud had a few of. Perhaps it was less a surprise and more envy. Jealousy towards the people he had freely given himself to when that opportunity still existed.
“I'm sure you had no shortage of suitors, but phone sex was obviously not part of the package,” you teased him, alluding to how you met, in order to distract yourself from this nagging feeling.
“Not really,” Jud replied. “One of my exes wanted to try it once, but I was terrible. How do you start a conversation like that without sounding unnatural or creepy?
He grimaced at the memory.
“Well, a safe bet would be to start by asking what the other person is wearing,” you answered his question much more honestly than you intended. When you realized in what risky direction you had steered the conversation, you added: “But that would be a waste of time with you. I bet you’re lying in bed wearing full black priest’s getup again.”
Jud glanced down at himself. Black socks. Black trousers. Black button-down. His belt (also black) rested on the nightstand, and the sleeves of his shirt were casually rolled up. Bull's-eye. Only the white clerical collar stood out.
“Well then, what are you wearing?”
Before Jud noticed what his question implied - that he had basically hit on you with a standard opening line for phone sex - it was already too late. Nervous, he chewed on his bottom lip.
“Coincidentally, the perfect outfit for an erotic phone call,” you said a little more hushed. “I'm getting changed right now and am basically just in underwear.“
A single question lit up in his mind. But he couldn't possibly ask that. He had to say something else, anything else, a harmless compliment or a distraction, just not the question that was most pressing on his tongue right now.
“What color?” he whispered.
“Black.”
Black. Of all things. The expensive underwear you were supposed to wear when you met other men at your local bar (with a devil theme, how ironic), flirting with them, maybe even taking them home with you. But you didn't wear it for other people. You wore it while calling him. Was it so wrong of Jud to get carried away for a moment and believe you were wearing it for him?
A slight pause, then your voice, with a hint of promise and vulnerability, capturing his full attention: “Jud, what do you want me to do?”
A million possibilities rushed through his mind. I want you to get dressed and make some tea so we can end this day on a calm note. I want you to hang up and go out with your friends instead of spending your Saturday night on the phone with a priest. I want you to stop telling me all these things about your life that make me want to be a part of it. I want to stop thinking about you all the time. That's what he should have said.
But that would have been a lie and priests don't lie.
“I want you to take it off,” he murmured.
The events flowed into each other like the unstoppable waves of the sea, following their natural rhythm. Jud couldn't say exactly how it had come about, all he could hear now was your voice clouded with lust. Today you appeared more agitated than usual, repeatedly pushing yourself to the edge only to stop or slow down again. You had already come once and felt more sensitive than before, but that hadn’t satisfied you yet. It was the sweetest torture for Jud. His arousal was almost painful, his trousers uncomfortably tight.
“Oh god, I'm so wet,” you moaned into his ear, earning a stifled groan from him.
He needed relief, however small, or he would give in. With trembling fingers, he pushed up his shirt a little and unbuttoned his trousers, making room for his arousal. His knuckles accidentally brushed against it, a feather-light touch that, against the backdrop of your heavy breathing, sent a shiver through him.
“It feels so - so good,“ you mumbled.
Yes, it did. It had been ages since anyone had touched him like that, since he had touched himself that way. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine your hand teasing his skin. Before Jud managed to gather his thoughts again, his hand reached down, gliding up a single long stroke. Pure pleasure shot through him. A low groan he had held for far to long poured from the back of his throat. Your reaction followed immediately, your breathing quickened, having picked up the pace, whimpering and begging for release. Hearing how his own arousal stirred you felt overwhelming. When you moaned his name, something you had never dared before as it felt too intimate, all restraint was lost.
He was at your mercy, body and soul.
The last remnants of control Jud believed himself capable of exercising vanished. Hearing his name on your lips this way fundamentally rewired his brain. The hand he imagined was yours slid over his length, sweat dripped down his neck, trickling over his tattoo. Fueled by each other's sounds, you pushed each other further, getting closer to heaven. There was only the touch, the heat, the breathy moans of the other. It felt so good that Jud swore he could see stars. His brows were furrowed in concentration, he was so close to reaching fulfillment already that he could almost taste it.
Just a little more. A single touch from you. Please.
“I want you so much,“ he blurted out.
Your answer was a rambled mess of affirming words and some profanity. Your breathing quickened, Jud knew you were just as close as he. But then you managed to utter a husky, barely audible sentence:
“You have me.”
That was all it took to push him over the edge. A jolt shot through his body and twitching, whining, he spilled over himself. Your climax poured out of the phone shortly after, a divine sound leaving Jud temporarily in a cloud of pure bliss before abruptly pulling him back to reality. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breathing still somewhat irregular, attempting to calm itself. Slowly yet uncomfortably quickly, Jud realized what had just happened.
He had sex with you.
Not in the conventional way, he hadn't been anywhere near you physically. But you had felt sexual desire for the other, turned each other on and brought each other to climax. You had called out his name and he - he had admitted wanting you. He wanted to sleep with you and if you had been there in the same room at that moment, by God, he would have done it.
The revelation hit him like an uppercut, with brutal force: it had never been just about friendship or desire.
It was about you.
The real danger didn't lie in seeing you, in fantasies of physical intimacy, against which he thought himself safe due to the harmless nature of a phone call. Far more disastrous was the bond formed between your souls, an attachment he should have severed from the very first moment. Selfishly, he had repeatedly found excuses to maintain - no - to strengthen a relationship that would forever remain beyond reality.
And at that moment, he understood that this was precisely why he had to end it. In his heart, he believed God would never punish him for a feeling of true affection, that his love was enough for both his mission to serve God, the world, and you. However, he also recognized the commitment he had made to God and the Church, accepting principles that conflicted with his desire of loving freely. He was accountable not only to Christ, but to the Church as an institution, and even if He approved of this connection, it would still be impossible in the eyes of the later. A game of hide-and-seek for a relationship that only took place over the phone - neither he nor you deserved that. Delaying the inevitable end of this relationship would just be unfair to you.
This time it felt like a punch in the gut. He had to hurt you in order to protect you from longer suffering, but you would feel used, without him being able to soothe that pain. The thought was agonizing.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
“Jud?” Your voice reached him only faintly. “Are you okay?”
“I, um - I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Sleep well, okay?”
You took a breath, about to reply, but he hung up.
Coward.
The next morning, Jud's fist struck the Deacon's face.
The gossip indicated at least some agreement that this confrontation had been in the making for a long time; everyone knew that Deacon Clark was a prick, but Jud knew his reaction would have been not as drastic on any other day. Before entering the gym, where he was about to give his statement on the incident, he sent you a text message. It was quite detailed and well written: warm tone, understanding, explaining the difficulty of the situation without resorting to blame or clichés, rounded off with honest wishes for your happy future. Yet the essence could be reduced to a single sentence: Whatever we had is over.
When Bishop Langstrom informed him of the committee's decision, it seemed like a sign. The task Jud was given, the relocation - as if God was telling him to take a new path and lay the past to rest. He should devote himself to his work, refocus on the calling he had taken the priesthood for. Not question some rules attached to the title and long for an unattainable bond.
As it turned out, Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude had some trials of her own in store for him, and Jud faced them even more eagerly in light of his recent failings. He wasn't going to stray from his path again. With shame, he thought of this good intention as he stood in front of shattered glass from the window he'd smashed the previous night after getting pretty toasty.
“Rowdy teenagers, riots,” Martha grumbled as she swept the shards into a bucket.
“Should we, um, call someone about the repair?"
Guilty, Jud scratched his dark curls.
“With Easter so close, no contractors will take on new jobs, but I’ve contacted someone in town who’s just returned from a long work trip and might be able to lend a hand at short notice,“ Martha replied. “Even though it makes me sick to ask that harlot for help.“
Before Jud could follow up on what she meant by that, the church doors burst open with a crash and a gentle, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed from the stone walls, filling the whole building.
“Would you look at that, Martha? I crossed over the church’s threshold and didn’t burst into flames.”
You strode toward Martha, swinging your arms in a broad gesture inviting her to examine your unharmed body. Jud noticed the vigor in your step, the playful sparkle in your eyes - if not for the thousand other things going through his mind at that moment, he might have admitted how attractive he found you.
“Yes, yes,” Martha growled as Jud helped her to her feet. Annoyed, she brushed off her black skirt.
Meanwhile, you had walked over to the broken window and greeting Jud with a friendly nod, before inspecting the damage with raised eyebrows.
“Well, I don't know what you expect me to do here, but there's no way I can fix this in a day. Especially not with my amateur knowledge of installation and the materials I have in my shed.”
Something about you evoked an association in Jud that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His brain was working overtime, but to no avail.
“So you're not a contractor?,” he asked.
“Lilith is an artist,” Martha answered in your stead, emphasizing the last word with a condescending intonation. Although the whole sentence had a single condescending emphasis.
She stepped up to you, eager to negotiate the possibility of repair with you, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just pulled the rug out from under Father Jud. He had quite a bit of trouble controlling his heart and utterly shocked expression. It felt as if God had tilted the axis of the earth out of alignment, and no one noticed but him.
“Lilith?” he choked out.
“Just a creative alias that kind of stuck, don’t worry,” you called back over your shoulder, then carried on discussing realistic work output with Martha. You argued a little about the ratio of time, effort, and your abilities until Martha eventually gave in to your reasoning and abandoned her ideas as unfeasible, since you completely agreed with Samson's earlier assessment of the situation. He would have to seal the window with tape or boards until a professional company could install a replacement.
Jud couldn't hear a single word. Your request not to worry fell on deaf ears, because at that very moment he realized what he had only suspected before.
Your alias from when you started painting glas, which had somehow gained traction (Lillith), your work for churches that you never offered to your local church because there was some tension with the Monsignor (Wicks), your favorite bar with the devil theme (Nikolai's bar il diavolo), your home town you only moved back to because you inherited a house (Chimney Rock). The pieces of this puzzle that was your life, which Jud had so often wished to solve, all fell into place. But he didn't like the picture they formed one bit.
It was the worst case scenario.
After breaking off contact, he had hoped - prayed - that he would never cross paths with you again, and even if he did, that he wouldn't recognize you. He had hoped that - as awful as it sounded - even in such a scenario, he simply wasn't attracted to your looks, that your presence in person was different, that the fantasy would lose all its appeal and the spell would be broken.
But you were here, in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, in his church, right in front of him, and he knew it. He knew it was you, and looking at you for the first time now, you were just as you always had been:
Created to fall in love with.
It would be so easy for Jud to reach out and touch your face, to hold you in his arms, as he had so often longed to do. No. He couldn't. That was why he had came here in the first place.
But why did God send him to Chimney Rock, reminding him of his mission, and then deliver you into this very church? The sunlight pouring through the broken window enveloped you in an almost golden glow, as if to say:
Here she is, I have sent her to you once again.
If you enjoyed reading this, I would be ⭒delighted⭒ if you would let me know by leaving a heart, reblog or comment! c:
Taglist: @eliosberry
Want to find out what happens next? Read Part II here!
“One thing is for certain: you will always be his favourite client.”
Pairing: Jungkook x f.Reader
Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life, suggestive Fluff
Warnings: sexy tattoo artist!Jungkook in a tanktop, domestic sweetness, they’re couple goals, so much fucking flirting, innocent touches & neck kisses, casual nudity, way too many innuendos and smutty jokes, he calls her "his brave girl", if i were her i'd already be getting a mouthful of his di- *gets shot for speaking the truth*, he has so much soft Dom energy in this i want to crawl up walls
Wordcount: 3.1k
a/n: it's actually a crime that i haven't written anything about tattoo artist koo yet. listen. i wanted to keep this story fluffy but i just can't help myself from making it a lil smutty. see it as a foreplay story fjadsfj no joke, this koo would make me wet 24/7 if he was real and my boy JFADSJF anyway have fun my besties 🧡
You and Jungkook share a business relationship today. You are his customer and he is your tattooist. It isn’t a new thing for you and him. As a matter of fact, Jungkook did all of your tattoos.
His studio has become a very cozy and welcoming spot over the years. When Jungkook bought the place, it was rundown and lacked a lot of things. Once a whale-themed nail studio it had the space but definitely not the aesthetic Jungkook wanted to go for.
You remember all the long nights you spent in the studio with him doing hard manual labour to save money. You would do it again if he asked you because you will always support his dreams. Just as he supported you when you painstakingly renovated your restaurant. You remember all of the cup ramen you downed, dirty and surrounded by debris. You remember all the back aches, sore hands and blisters. You remember all the useless little fights a long work day forced you to have and all the very clingy apologies you shared after a long shower. You remember the times your friends helped and you listened to music as you worked. And you remember how Jungkook just kind of sat in silence in the studio once everything was done and how he didn’t really know how to articulate his feelings about it.
“What if I did all that and it ends up failing?” he whispered long into the night, cuddled against your chest where he felt the safest.
“It won’t. Your art is amazing and people will fight for a spot on your wait list”, you assured him and you knew that you weren’t lying. You believed in him.
And you were right. These days, Jungkook’s studio is regularly booked out for months on end and his social media page – which Taehyung manages – reached a hundred thousand followers last month.
With the money, Jungkook was able to turn the studio from nice to homely. He would never say it because he is a perfectionist, but you think that it is perfect these days. Held in black, it is the perfect canvas for colourful accents and retro accessories. Art prints of his designs adorn the walls of the front area and custom-designed neon signs hang on the walls of the tattooing area in the back. He has sofas and chairs where his customers can take a break or calm down after their tattoo and he even offers a shower if one wishes to clean up before the session and a very comfortable changing area for all those needing to take off stuff. He keeps everything squeaky clean because hygiene is most important to him and many people leave surprised at just how clean and nice a tattoo studio can actually be.
In total there are three tattoo chairs he switches between depending on the area he needs to tattoo. You sat in all three by now. They are all very comfortable and you can confidently say that he knows what he is doing.
Jungkook closed shop early today. You are his customer and that means the outside world wasn’t allowed in his shop. The closed sign is hanging on his door and the blinds are drawn closed to lock out prying eyes. You unlock the door with your set of keys after finishing your pilates class with Taehyung and Jimin. Yoongi is watching the dogs.
It is dim inside and Jungkook has scented candles burning. He also has your shared playlist running. You and he made your very own tattooing playlist which you always listen to when he tattoos you.
You lock the door and take off your outdoor shoes before making your way to the back.
The lights of the tattoo chair are turned on so he can see. Other than a few candles, it is dark in the back. He hates the big lights. The heaters are running so you won't get cold. Because of the warm temperature, Jungkook is hot enough that he only wears a tanktop. It is tight and shows off parts of his impressive back tattoo. He is preparing the stencil, moving his head to the music.
“Hey, there”, you greet him.
He lifts his head at the sound of your voice and turns in his chair.
“Hey, baby. How was pilates?” he asks and struts to you with a sway in his hips as he moves to the music.
“Nice, but exhausting”, you say and kiss his lips in greeting. “Can’t wait to take a shower.”
“Take your time.”
You are here free of charge. Now to be fair, you offered to pay multiple times but he refuses to take payment.
“What’s the point? I’d put it into our shared account anyway”, he said.
“Well then, put it into your account for a change”, you argued, but he couldn’t be convinced.
“Tattooing you isn’t work, it’s like a date. I’m not letting you pay me for going on a date with you.”
You return from the shower in nothing but your panties because Jungkook will tattoo your upper back today. His other customers obviously aren’t that bared when getting their backs tattooed, but this is different. You are his wife and your nude body is familiar to him. This isn’t just getting a tattoo, it is bonding time between two lovers who are just way too comfortable with each other. This is why Jungkook made sure that it was obvious to everyone that his shop was closed today because it’s You time.
Jungkook has his back turned to you again when you return from the shower and so you decide to surprise him with a back hug.
He chuckles, stepping into it. He hums when you follow it up by kissing his back with a rub of his pecs at the same time.
“I hope that’s you, otherwise this is awkward”, he jokes.
“It’s me. Unless you are hiding someone in here”, you joke.
He turns in your arms, lifting you up on the bed, “that’s not funny.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Because you’re here now and I get to tattoo you.”
“Right. Phew, I’m actually nervous.”
“Why?”
“I’m scared that it’ll hurt.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be gentle”, he says in a soft voice, caressing your waist. He gives your naked chest one little playful glance.
You look at him with Those eyes, making him snicker.
“I know what you’re thinking”, he coos.
“It’s not my fault when you say it like that.” You nudge his chest. “I hope you’re not talking like this to other customers.”
“Ew no, of course not. Innuendos are solely reserved for you.”
You chuckle, “good.”
He hums and kisses your lips, gazing at you afterwards.
“It’ll hurt like a bitch, won’t it?” you ask him, feeling up his toned arms casually.
Jungkook rubs your thighs, “we can go for as long as you can go. We don’t gotta finish all of it today.”
“I know. I feel good, just nervous. You know me.”
“Mhm, yeah.” He kisses your cheek as he hugs your waist with one arm. “My brave girl.”
“Shut up”, you chuckle, “don’t call me that.”
Jungkook laughs and steps back.
“Now, stand up. I gotta place the stencil.”
You get off the bed and place yourself in front of him, watching him in the mirror. Jungkook works diligently in placing the stencil. You wanted something that starts at your sides and which then snakes its paths under your shoulder blades to bring out the shapes of them. The idea of the tattoo is to accentuate and support the lines of muscles, bones and joints your back carries on this area. Jungkook had the idea because he likes when tattoos support the natural curves and lines of the human body instead of looking pasted on without thought. He showed you a few drafts and in the end, you decided to go for a tattoo solely done in black ink.
Jungkook pulls off the paper, inspecting his work with furrowed brows.
“Yeah that’s good”, he says, “look at the mirror. Do you like the placement?”
Jungkook set up his mirrors so that one can see every spot of their body without having to do acrobatics. Again, he thought of everything in his studio, even mirror placement. You inspect the blue stencil sitting on your body. Jungkook places himself behind you, touching the right side of your waist gently as he studies the stencil in the mirror. Again, the treatment you get here is exclusively reserved for you. Jungkook doesn’t touch his other clients except for strictly tattooing touches.
“I like it.”
“Yeah? Is the placement off somewhere?”
“No, it’s perfect. I really like it.”
Jungkook kisses your shoulder gently, “I hate it.”
“Is this going to be another one of your it has to be more than perfect moments?”
“Obviously.”
Jungkook already printed out a few stencils because he knew that it would happen. He removes the first stencil carefully, replacing it with the second one.
“Mhm”, he hums, furrowing his brows.
“What’s the matter?” you ask him.
“Just making sure that I’ll like the placement.”
“Isn’t it normally that the customer should be happy with it?”
“Yeah, but I’m the customer too. What if it ends up being wonky? Then every time I bend you over, I gotta look at it and get mad.”
You whip around and slap his chest gently.
“You are so gross.”
He laughs, eyes sparkling.
“I mean it. How should I ever nut in doggy again when your wonky back tattoo makes me mad at my own failed placement?”
“Urgh, I can’t stand you, doofus”, you whine making him laugh and touch your hips.
“No, you love me.”
“Mhm, yeah I love you”, you give in, rubbing his shoulders, “give me a kiss, you idiot.”
He gives it to you happily, smiling into it. You retort the smile, ending the kiss with a fond chuckle.
“So about that placement.”
“Right. Turn around, it’s almost perfect. It’s just a little too high on the left.”
It feels good how he touches you as he replaces the stencil on your skin. It is gentle and done with his fingertips, which is really nice.
“Are you getting cold?” he asks.
“Mhm? No, why?”
“You have goosebumps.”
“No, it’s shivers. I like how you touch me.”
“Ah”, he lets out and follows it up with a fond chuckle, “I hope you’re not like this with your other tattoo artists.”
“No I am. I am like this with Jay and Kay, the other artists I go to”, you joke, making him laugh. He is the only person who tattoos you, so this joke is a total success.
“Wow, you are? Damn, I gotta fucking talk to those two. Are they hot?”
“They’re totally hot. Like, totally my type.”
His snickers continue.
“Damn, but I bet they can’t fight. Mhm, baby?” He slaps your butt. “Are they gonna fight for you like I will?”
“Probably not, no. You’re definitely the best fighter of them.”
“That’s what I like to hear”, he purrs and gives you another playful spank, “naughty girl.”
“Okay, you gotta relax”, you chuckle, “otherwise, this session isn’t even gonna happen.”
He snickers, “no, I’ll make it happen. It’ll work better when you’re horny.”
This joke totally lands, making you laugh.
“Wow okay, good to know. Since when is this a tattooing rule?”
“Since today.”
“Mhm I see and is this gonna be like a general rule in this store?”
“Mmh yeah, but only for one customer. She is totally my type and has a great ass”, he says and spanks you a third time.
“Hah”, you chuckle, “damn, she sounds dangerous. You want her?”
“Like crazy. She’s always on my mind.”
“Well fuck, but I bet she can’t fight like me. I did pilates today, I can totally take her.”
He laughs and kisses your shoulder, “you’ll definitely win, baby.”
You snicker, gazing at him in the mirror. He retorts it, giving you a cute nose scrunch.
“I just really like you, baby”, you say fondly, ruffling his hair.
“I like you too”, he whispers, stubbing your neck with his nose as a gesture of adoration.
“Heh.”
“Heh.”
A soft neck kiss and then he steps back.
“Now let’s be serious. Stand how you would normally stand.”
You follow his orders, watching him through the reflection. He is frowning in concentration, walking away and closer multiple times to check the placement from different distances.
“Yeah, I think this looks good. Do you want to take a look?”
“I like it. Although, I already liked it two tries earlier.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t. See how it ends with the natural curve there?”
“Yeah.”
“It didn’t do it perfectly before. But now it’s symmetrical and follows this line”, he says, running his fingertips under where your teres major blends into your trapezius muscle. “Do you see what I mean?”
“I do. It looks so cool already.”
He turns to the bed and fixes the hygiene cover.
“Get comfy, baby. I’m preparing the gear.”
You do as he offers, watching him work.
“I’m nervous. Does it hurt a lot to do the back?”
“It depends on the person. I would say it hurts for a lot of people, but I also had people who fell asleep during their back tattoos. Mine hurt, but it was bearable. Don’t worry, baby. You can take as many breaks as you need and we can go for as far as you are able to. No need to finish it today, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I try to aim for that though. I really wanna have the tattoo already.”
He sits down on his chair and rolls closer, “yeah, I get that but don’t push yourself. It’s alright to do it in multiple sessions.”
“I know.”
“And I’ve got snacks and water whenever you need it”, he says, pointing at the table beside you.
“I know. You’re the best.”
“Do you want snacks already?”
“No. You want one though, don’t you?”
“Yeah”, Jungkook says, making you chuckle.
You look at the snacks.
“What do you want?”
“Preferably you.”
“Kook, why are you so horny today?”
“I’m not horny, I just like flirting with you. I want choco pops.”
You hand feed a couple to him, “you are totally horny.”
“I’m innocent”, he says, chewing vigorously.
You laugh, snacking on a few choco pops yourself before lying down on the bed face down. There is a hole cut out where your face goes. Jungkook made it more comfortable with a cooling gel pillow and a soft towel. Sometimes you misuse the bed for very private, late-night massages. No further details will be given here, other that Jungkook keeps his tattoo studio very hygienic and clean.
Jungkook drapes a heated blanket over your legs and lower back so you wouldn’t get cold. Then he sits down on his chair.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks, picking up the tattoo gun.
“Yes, very. This is so cozy.”
“Good. Relax. I’m starting.”
“I’m ready.”
The machine buzzes to life.
“Here it comes”, he warns and a stinging pain follows.
“Uh”, you let out, tensing up.
“How is it?”
“I can definitely feel it.”
“Just tell me when you need a break”, he says, sounding a little distracted but this is normal. Jungkook has the tendency to go entirely silent when he tattoos people because his entire focus shifts to the task ahead. You don’t mind. You like sharing silence with him. Even if this silence is accompanied by stinging pain on your back.
“How are you doing, baby?” he checks up on you after a while, switching out his needle after he accidentally hit the bottom of the ink bowl with it. Again, he is very meticulous with his tattooing process. He would never keep using a needle that got damaged.
“It’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be. Am I weird for thinking it’s kinda relaxing?” you say, looking at him.
He chuckles, “not at all. A lot of my female clients say that. Maybe it’s a relaxing spot for you girls.”
“Yeah maybe. Oh, uff okay the first stab is always a surprise though. Damn.”
“You’re doing really well, baby”, he murmurs mindlessly, eyes focused on the task ahead. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pursed into a concentrated pout. You just kind of gaze at him with droopy, fond eyes.
“How much did we do already?”
“I’m almost done with your left shoulder.”
“Wow damn. You’re so cool, Kookie.”
“Thanks”, he barely answers you, which lets you know that you won’t get a lot out of him right now. He is completely engrossed in the task.
You fix your head again and close your eyes. There have definitely been spots which hurt more than your back. Of course it isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t very painful either. It kind of feels as if you were getting pinched by something small and hot repeatedly. Weirdly enough, it relaxes your muscles.
Not long after, you drift off into a peaceful slumber.
When you wake again, the gun is turned off and Jungkook sits beside you eating snacks. As if he senses you, he meets your eyes.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
“How long was I out for?” you ask in a raspy voice, having to clear your throat afterwards.
“Around two hours.”
“Mhm that explains everything. I feel out of it”, you grumble, sitting up with struggle. Your face carries deep marks of the gel pillow.
“Drink something.”
“Thanks.”
“And eat a snack.”
“Mhm snack.”
He cleans up the table while you munch on the kimchi onigiri he made. It is very tasty.
“How much do we have left?”
“Mhm? Oh, we’re done.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Do you wanna see?”
“Uhm, yes? Hello? You gotta ask?”
He helps you off the bed and follows you to the mirrors, pacing nervously while you look at his artwork. He made it look so much more beautiful than you could have imagined.
“Wow, baby this is amazing. I love it so much”, you gush, eyes sparkly in awe.
“Really? Do you like it? Oh my god, my heart’s gonna come outta my ass.”
“Don’t worry, you can keep your heart inside”, you chuckle, turning to face him. You pull him close by his waist, keeping a grip on it. “I love it so much. It’s exactly what I wanted.”
Jungkook smiles shyly, “I’m so glad. I worked really hard. Wah, I worked so hard that my eyes hurt”, he whines and rubs them.
“Aw, my hardworking bubba. Should I take care of you, mhm?” you coo.
“No. You aren’t done. Turn around, I need to put on the ointment.”
“Oh? So when I flirt with you, you’re just gonna reject me?”
“Yeah, I don’t fuck around with aftercare.”
You turn with a laugh on your lips. He definitely doesn’t.
Hi!!! I'm absolutely in love with your Bucky and Fairy series!!!! I think your an awesome writer❤️. I was wondering if you could write a story about Fairy being worried of Bucky cheating after they're married since he was such a player. And Bucky swears to her that he has eyes for no one else now but her.
love it let's go
forever faithful
18+
he wouldn't. he couldn't. bucky is entirely incapable of hurting you - especially in that way. isn't he?
content warning: mob!bucky x wife!reader, mature themes, insecure thoughts, angst, mention of cheating, misunderstanding trope, hurt/comfort, fluff. also this is pretty long by my standards!!
Series Masterlist
Being married to Bucky usually feels like the most natural thing in the world, but there are times when you feel a little out of your depth. One of those times being when he brings you to parties. You're still not quite used to being the Queen of New York and having all the power that title brings, especially not when you've been on Bucky's arm for years now - but people are finally starting to actually respect you rather than brush you off as just another one of his girls.
The main thing that's changed is how much more comfortable the women are around you. Now that your relationship with Bucky is legitimate, and the possibility of you being a mistress planning on seducing their husbands has significantly lowered, they are much warmer to you.
"Take advantage of this time - you're still in the honeymoon phase, meaning he'll do anything you ask," Giselda tells you with a wistful look. "It wears off quick."
"Don't scare her, Selda," Fran scolds her lightly. "You sound like a bitter, old lady."
"I am a bitter, old lady!" Giselda retorts with a dry laugh, before turning her attention back to you. "Don't take this part for granted. Before the kids, and the stress, and the late nights he'll spend at another woman's house-"
"Selda!" Fran cuts in with a glare. "That's enough."
You take no mind. Deep down, you know they could never understand just how deeply you and Bucky feel for each other. They don't realize how your relationship is stronger than they could fathom, built on the foundation of friendship and blossoming with each passing day. He isn't capable of betraying you.
But doubt has an ugly way of creeping in when it's not welcome.
"Who's she?" You ask Sam with a raised brow as you nod towards where Bucky's speaking warmly with a woman you don't recognize. She looks around fifteen years older than you and Bucky, and she's admittedly gorgeous.
Sam looks across the bar and seems surprised when he sees her. "Oh. That is, uh, an old friend of his. A very old friend; I haven't seen or heard about her since before he met you," He tells you.
"I see," You utter, trying not to let the irritation seep into your tone as they laugh together.
You're not a jealous wife - at least, you didn't think you'd be. Back when you were only friends, you would get horrifically jealous, but that was because you were so scared of losing him to someone else. Now, though, there's a ring on his finger signifying to the world that he's yours, and you're entirely secure in your marriage.
But something about her and the way she's looking at him irks you.
"Did they fuck?" You ask Sam, throwing casual out the window.
He lifts up his drink. "No," He tells you. "Not to my knowledge, anyway."
You turn to him and raise a brow.
"They didn't," He doubles down more firmly. "Agatha helped us out when we were in trouble a few years ago. Sure, they flirted, but you know him. He'd flirt with a brick wall. Nothing ever happened between them."
That brings you solace - until you recount the whole story to your nail woman.
"Oh, no. Oh, no, no," Josefina utters, shaking her head.
"What?" You ask with a frown.
"They haven't slept together," She says gravely, looking up at you as she files your nails. "Means they'll be still be curious as to what it would be like."
"Jamie doesn't waste his time thinking about what sex would be like with other women," You tell her curtly.
"All men think about is what sex will be like with every woman they encounter, whether they're happily married or not- it's only natural," She claims. "But when the women in question are thinking the same thing, that's the danger zone. Who is this woman, what's the history?"
"She's in the same line of work as him, to my knowledge," You tell her. "Helped Jamie almost a decade ago, and now she's resurfaced out of nowhere."
Josefina nods slowly before looking back down at your nails. "I'll file these into claws, just in case."
The first time Bucky lies to your face is on a late Thursday night.
"You shouldn't have waited up for me, fairy," He says as he wraps his arms around you.
"I didn't wanna eat without you," You tell him honestly as you take a bite from the bowl of pasta you're sharing.
"Missed you today," He mumbles against your forehead before opening his mouth to let you feed him.
"Missed you more," You say before turning to him. "How was your day?"
"Uh, it was fine," He replies with his eyes on the food. "Just been balancing the books with Alex and Sam. Took a little longer than I expected."
Your blood runs cold. Just an hour ago, Sam dropped by to see you. He didn't mention anything about being with Bucky tonight - in fact, he seemed surprised to hear Bucky wasn't home.
"Oh, Aggie? She's helping us get into Chicago," He tells you casually. "She's got good connections there, and you know how I've always wanted Chicago."
You can't help but be straight up with him - he may be able to lie to your face, but you can't hold back when there's something you want to know. "Who's that woman?" You ask him curtly. "She seems to be at the bar quite a bit."
Aggie. Your eye twitches at the nickname that leaves his mouth so easily. Does he think about fucking her? Was he with her tonight?
"What are you giving her in return?" You ask him curiously.
"She's a good friend; she hasn't asked for anything," Bucky explains before taking another bite. "I'm sure there'll be an opportunity for me to help her out in the future, though. Heck, by now, I must owe her a hundred favors."
"She seems nice," You say with as much sincerity as you can muster. "I'd like to properly meet her."
You almost regret telling him that.
The next day, you're checking the stock in one of the warehouses when he shows up with her. The idea of her sitting in his passenger seat, where you'd usually sit, makes your stomach churn.
Stop it. You trust him.
"Fairy, this is Agatha Harkness," He says with a smile. "Aggie, this is my beautiful wife, Y/N."
"I've heard so much about you," She tells you with a smile as she holds her hand out to you. "The fact that you tamed James must mean you're an incredible woman. I'm in awe of you."
Oh, it's James now?
You take in a deep breath and do well to shake her hand rather than claw her eyes out. Fucking James.
Somehow, you manage to force a smile. "Can't say I've heard anything about you, Agatha," You can't help but say.
She shoots him a smirk. "I don't blame him; there's not really much to say."
"You're being modest," Bucky says with a chuckle before looking over to you. "Aggie is very good at what she does. She could sell a machine gun to the Dalai Lama."
Your hand slips into his, subconsciously staking your claim.
"I met James when he was only seventeen," She tells you with a smile. "He's grown into such a handsome young man - but I'm not surprised. He's always been gorgeous."
Inwardly cringing as you try to mentally work out how old she must've been back then, you squeeze Bucky's hand. He gives you a cheeky wink, one that would usually elicit a giggle from you, but you can't help but feel ill.
The first time you imagine them fucking, you're disgusted with yourself.
"What's wrong, fairy?" Bucky asks you between heavy breaths while you scramble to sit on the edge of the bed.
You shake your head, trying desperately to get the image out of your head. Think about rainbows. Butterflies. Puppies.
"Baby, talk to me," He mumbles, gently rubbing your back. "Everything okay?"
It happened against your will - you didn't want to think about Bucky having sex with another woman. But as you were riding him, as his head fell back and the groans left his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder.
How could you?
Looking over at him, into his deep blue eyes, you feel absolutely awful. How could you ever think he could hurt you in that way?
"You okay, fairy?" He mumbles softly, gently stroking your arm. "Something I can do? Need me to fuck off?"
Looking over at him, meeting his shiny eyes, you can't help but be disgusted with yourself. After seven months of marriage and nine years of friendship, you know him better than you know himself. You know his character.
"I'm okay," You find the energy to say. "Just..."
"You're alright," He says, placing a soft kiss to your cheek. He doesn't need an explanation - you want to stop having sex, and that doesn't need a reason. More than anything, he's your safe space, and he'd never push you out of your comfort zone during such an intimate moment. The bedroom is where you're both most vulnerable, and Bucky understands that sometimes, it can feel too intense, and you need a break.
And you know all this. Which is why you're so angry at yourself for doubting his loyalty, for allowing yourself to picture such a horrid scene. He wouldn't. He couldn't betray you.
You're starting to see Bucky less and less during the days, and you can't help but spiral. As you lay next to him in bed, your mind wanders to dark places.
He's on his Kindle and you're staring up at the ceiling. His arm's around your shoulder, fingers gently stroking your skin.
Why hasn't he made a move on you yet? He's usually all over you when he hasn't seen you all day. Could it be he's already been satisfied tonight?
Stop. How could you think like that?
"Fairy?" He whispers suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts. "What you thinking about, baby?"
You turn on your side to look at him. "You," Is your truthful answer.
"Yeah?" He asks with a smirk, putting away his Kindle before turning to you and resting his hand on your waist. "What about me?"
"Wondering why we aren't fucking yet," You admit simply.
He raises his brows and shuffles in closer to you. "Well, to be honest, after the other night... I thought I should give you some space. I didn't wanna push you," He tells you.
"Oh, that?" You ask with a soft laugh. "No, that was just a random blip. I want you, Jamie. Want you really bad."
"Yeah?" He asks, taking your hands and pinning them above your head, slowly nestling between your legs. "Is that right, fairy?"
"Mhm," You hum, craning your neck up, desperate to get a kiss from him.
"All you had to do was ask, pretty girl," Bucky mumbles before kissing you deeply. It feels safe, and secure, and like nothing has changed between you.
One of his hands trails down your body and between your legs, before it slips under your panties. He continues kissing you while rubbing your clit, making you whimper into his mouth.
"I missed you," You whisper as your back arches.
"I missed you too, fairy," Bucky says lowly, his hard cock digging into your thigh. Before you can beg him to fuck you, though, you hear the worst sound in the world.
His phone rings.
"Ugh, turn it off," You whine, the jarring sound going straight through you. "Why isn't it on silent mode?"
Bucky lifts his head up, his lips parted. "Shit. I've been waiting to hear back on something important," He tells you, making your blood run cold.
"James, if you answer that call, I swear to God..." You trail off, glaring at him.
"I'm sorry, fairy. Give me five minutes," He says before getting off of you and grabbing his phone from the nightstand.
You stare up at the ceiling, seething. The only thing worse than him answering a call with his fingers in your panties would be if the person on the other side was-
"Aggie, hey," He answers, making your hand twitch.
Immediately, you get off the bed and storm into the en-suite, making sure to slam the door behind you. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Have you lost it? Are you not as beautiful to him as you used to be? Is he bored of you?
There was a time when Bucky would let the city burn just so he could look at you. When the sound of his phone ringing would melt into the background if his lips were on yours. When he'd do anything just for a chance to look at you a little longer. What he just did was a betrayal of every promise he's made you. Maybe you're being dramatic, but it's he who set the precedent. Telling you nothing would ever come above you, that he'd rather die than hurt you.
When you re-enter the bedroom, he's hanging up the phone. You stare coldly at him. "How could you do that?" You ask him.
His face softens. "I'm sorry, fairy, it was-"
"I don't give a fuck what it was about, you don't do that. Not to me," You cut him off.
"Can I explain myself?" He asks, the frustration in his tone only pissing you off further.
"Shut the fuck up, don't talk to me like that," You retort, pointing your finger at him. "You're a fucking asshole. Go."
"Go?" He repeats with raised brows.
"Yeah. Get the fuck out, because you're not sleeping in here with me tonight," You tell him curtly.
It looks as though he's about to say something else, maybe even argue with you, but instead, he takes in a deep breath and leaves the room.
The next morning, you wake up just as angry as you were when you fell asleep. It was a shitty night, tossing and turning and constantly waking up, your hands reaching out for a warmth that wasn't there.
After showering and getting dressed, you head downstairs. Your plan is to be out of the house all day so you don't have to speak to Bucky, but just as you get to the kitchen to make yourself a quick drink, you're taken aback by what you see.
The island in the middle of the kitchen is covered in gift-wrapped boxes, baskets of your favorite foods and self-care items, and bouquets of flowers. You roll your eyes. It won't be that easy to win your forgiveness. You begin to walk straight over to the sink, but a familiar smell stops you in your tracks, right by the corner of the island.
Looking down, you see a platter of pastries from your favorite local bakery. You suck in a sharp breath. Ignore it. Walk away. Leave.
But they look so fresh.
Fuck it. With a huff, you grab a beignet and take a bite, your eyes fluttering shut at the softness and sweetness. While you chew, a pair of hands rest on your hips.
"I love you. I'm so, so sorry," Bucky says lowly, resting his chin on your shoulder as his arms wrap tightly around you. "I was an asshole. Shouldn't have done that to you, and I never will again."
Sighing, you turn to face him. "You think some sweet treats and flowers are gonna make me happy?" You ask him with a raised brow.
"I also got you that bracelet you've been eyeing up," He points out, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry. I know saying it isn't enough but I need you to know that I mean it. I love you."
"Yeah," Is all you give him back before you continue eating the beignet.
"Let me take you to brunch, fairy, wherever you want," He requests, rubbing your hips. "And then we can go to the bar and celebrate Vinnie's 21st with the guys. What do you say?"
Looking up into his eyes, you nod. "Alright," You whisper.
His hands slip down to your ass and he leans down and kisses you softly. "You, uh... think we have time for a quickie, first?" He asks carefully.
With a scoff, you push him away. "In your fucking dreams, Barnes," You say with a glare, before taking a few steps towards the door. "Let's see how I'm feeling after brunch."
Though you weren't in the mood for sex after brunch, you did let Bucky eat you out on the way to the bar. It almost made you forget why you were ever mad at him, but when you get to the bar and see Agatha among the others, you're in a mood again.
Sam sits next to you while you watch Bucky speaking to Vinnie, likely giving him a lecture about being a man and taking on more responsibilities. Agatha lingers around them, making your fingers twitch.
"All good?" Sam asks you as he refills your glass with whisky.
"Meh," You let out, sinking back in your seat.
"What's wrong, hmm?" He presses, nudging your shoulder with his.
"Nothing; I'm being dramatic," You tell him before turning to him and lowering your voice. "Swear to me that this conversation stays between us?"
"Like every conversation we have," He replies, frowning. "What's going on?"
You let out a deep sigh. "I'm jealous," You admit, as painful as it is.
"Jealous? Of who?" He pushes incredulously.
"Alright, maybe jealous is the wrong word, because there's nothing about her I'm jealous of," You backtrack, malice seeping into your voice. "That fucking Agatha. I don't like her. Don't trust her."
Sam raises his brows and sits back, realization on his face. "Oh," He says simply, letting a short silence sit between you before he speaks again. "Her and Bucky are close."
"Yeah, no shit," You spit.
"Do you really think he'd do that to you?" Sam questions you.
"No," You answer immediately. "But I don't doubt she'd try."
"And that's all it would ever be," He assures you. "And the second she oversteps, she's out of here. Bucky wouldn't disrespect you by keeping someone like that around."
You hum, nodding slowly. He's right. Of course he's right.
"Anyway," Sam continues. "How's everything else? Your friends all good?"
Confused by his sudden interest in your girlfriends, you narrow your eyes at him. "Uh, yeah," You reply. "Why?"
"No, just making sure," He claims. "Y'know, one of yours is one of us. Gotta make sure everyone's eating good."
"They're eating good," You assure him, before his words remind you of something that makes you grin. "Banita is definitely eating good. She's finally not feeling sick anymore, and she's got all these weird pregnancy cravings, and a huge appetite."
"Oh, Banita, yeah," He breathes out. "How far along is she, now?"
"Seven months," You tell him with a smile. "It's the baby shower in a few weeks, and I'm so excited. It's gonna be so cute!"
"Are we invited?" He asks, surprising you. "Y'know, just to keep an eye on you guys, make sure you're safe."
"Uh, it's kind of like a women-only thing, and it's only a small thing at Banita's house, so no need for security guards," You explain. "But I'll bring you some leftover cake."
Sam nods. "Thanks. Appreciate it."
You sit back in your chair again, and glance over at where Bucky was talking to Vinnie. He's now talking to Agatha, much to your dismay. They're laughing.
"Like, what could they be talking about that's that funny?" You wonder out loud, shaking your head.
Sam snorts at you.
"What?" You ask him with a glare.
"It's just funny," He comments. "I remember back when Bucky would say shit like that about the guys you'd talk to. God, it was so frustrating how jealous he'd get. And he'd take it out on us whenever you had a date with someone else, so thanks for that." With a small smile, Sam looks over at you. "That man went through hell every day that you weren't his. I'd be damned if he screwed it up now that he's got you. You're too important to him, boss."
You continue looking at Bucky as he speaks to Agatha. Sam is right. You should listen to Sam. Stop letting your twisted mind overthink and drive you crazy. Bucky has more than earned your trust.
So why is he not moving her hand off his arm?
The final straw breaks you a week later.
Bucky had a long meeting with a supplier. You wanted to join him, seeing as you're trying to get more involved with the business, but he said he didn't want you there - that it might get ugly. He told you only him and Sam were going in, and it was going to be a difficult, tense conversation.
Naturally, you're concerned for him - even more so when you get a call from Sam at 10pm. Oh God. This is it. He's gonna tell you Bucky's dead.
"Hello?" You ask with a whisper.
"Hey, you," Sam replies, and it sounds like he's been drinking. "Uh, I was thinking about... what you said the other day. About Banita-"
"Sam, where are you?" You cut him off. "Are you not with James right now?"
"Huh? Nah, I'm at the bar," He tells you. "Haven't seen Buck all day."
"All day?" You repeat, your heart thudding in your chest. "But... uh, isn't he meeting with Novikov tonight?"
"What? No, that meeting isn't until next month," Sam tells you, making your blood run cold.
"Oh," You utter, feeling sick to your stomach.
"Is Bucky not home? I thought-"
"No, he- he just rolled up to the house, actually," You claim, not wanting Sam to be suspicious. "I'm just being dumb; I forgot he had gone out on an errand and mixed up the date of the meeting. But he's back now, so, mystery over."
"Oh, good," Sam replies. "Anyway, I really need to talk to you about Bani-"
"I gotta go, Sam, I'll talk to you later," You say in a hushed, rushed voice, hanging up on him and sinking to the floor of your bedroom.
Before your mind gets a chance to overthink, you quickly call Bucky. Why would he lie to you about having to work tonight? Where has he been all day?
It rings three times before he picks up.
"Hey, fairy," He answers. "Everything alright?"
"Where are you?" You ask him, giving him a chance to come clean.
Maybe he didn't mean to lie to you - maybe he mixed the date of the meeting up himself, and right now, he's about to give you a perfectly good explanation about where he is and what he's doing.
"I told you, I've got a late meeting with Novikov," He says, making your heart drop.
"Oh. With- is Sam there, too?" You ask, your voice no louder than a whisper.
"Yeah, he is," He lies straight to you.
You lean back against the bed, your breaths shaky. "Okay," You utter.
"Are you sure you're okay, fairy?" Bucky asks you.
Clinging onto your t-shirt, you part your lips in a silent scream. Yell at him. Tell him you know he's lying. Demand him to tell you the truth.
And then you hear it. It's faint, but the silence between you allows you to make out exactly what it is: the sound of a woman laughing. And you'd put money on who that woman is.
"I'm fine. I'm going to sleep," You say, numb.
"Alright. I'll probably end up staying at the office until the early morning so I might not see you until tomorrow, baby," He tells you, making your guts churn.
"Okay," You squeak. "Good night."
"Good night, fairy. I love you," Bucky says, and it sounds exactly like he's always said it.
You hang up and throw your phone at the wall before bursting into thick, ugly sobs.
Bucky gets home earlier than he thought he would. It's just past 1am when he walks through the front door, and he's surprised to hear music from the living room. He thought you would be fast asleep in bed by now.
He takes off his shoes and makes his way to the living room, expecting to see you passed out on the couch with one of your shitty reality TV shows playing, but the sight he gets is much, much different.
As he walks in, he immediately kicks over an empty bottle of wine, which makes him stop in his tracks. He sees you sitting in the middle of the carpet, wearing your wedding dress, holding another half-empty bottle of wine, with your head hung down. Your wedding video is playing on the TV.
"What is going on?" He utters, walking over to you. "Baby? Are you okay?"
You look up at him, and it looks like you've been crying for hours.
Bucky sinks to his knees and places his hands on your shoulders. "Hey, hey, fairy, it's me," He whispers. "What's going on, hmm? How come you're in your dress?"
He can tell by the look on your face that you're far too drunk to give him a reasonable answer.
"Okay, come on, let's go to bed," Bucky says, taking the wine bottle from your hands and placing it on the coffee table. He then grabs the remote from the table and turns off the TV.
"I know what you did," You suddenly say, your words slurred.
Bucky frowns down at you. "What?" He asks, stroking your arm. "What do you mean, fairy?"
"I know you fucked Agatha," You cry out. "You're having an affair, aren't you?"
His face falls and his voice turns cold. "What the fuck are you talking about, Y/N?"
With a hiccup, you let out a whimper before your eyes slowly flutter shut, and you pass out.
The next morning, you wake up feeling like you've been hit by a truck.
You wince as you clamber out of bed, the bright light in the bathroom making you cringe while you brush your teeth. The only thing keeping you from hiding in bed is the smell of breakfast, which lures you downstairs and into the kitchen.
Bucky's at the stove, making pancakes.
"Good morning, Jay," You mumble, trying to remember the gap in your memories from last night. The last thing you remember is eating dinner with Bucky before he left for work.
"Morning," He replies, placing the last pancake onto the stack before turning off the gas and turning to face you.
You sit at the island while he slides over a glass of orange juice and some Advil. "Thank you," You whisper.
Bucky puts a couple of pancakes on your plate before serving himself. You're sipping on your juice when he finally speaks again. "So, how come you drank last night?" He asks you.
"Huh? Oh, I guess I figured I was home alone all night, so I had a couple of glasses," You suggest, trying to put the pieces together yourself.
"You said some fucked up shit," Bucky says as he cuts into his pancakes.
"I did? Oh, no, nothing too freaky, right?" You ask with a laugh.
He looks up to meet your eyes, no hint of humor in his. "You accused me of having an affair with Agatha," He tells you bluntly.
And just like that, it all comes rushing back. You remember exactly why you drank so much, and exactly why Bucky seems so upset.
"Oh," You utter dumbly, not knowing what else to say.
The silence that sits between you is cold and heavy. The kind you want desperately to fill with words, only you don't know which ones to use.
"Fairy... what the fuck?" Bucky utters, pain in his eyes. "Where did that come from?"
You bite your lip, wincing. "I just... you've been gone so much lately. Lying about where you are. And she wants you, I know she does. Sam told me the meeting with Novikov isn't until next month, and... it's not the first time you've lied to me about where you've been," You say, terrified.
He lets out a deep sigh as he processes your words. "It's... it's your birthday tomorrow," He says.
For a moment, you say nothing. And then the realization hits you harder than your hangover. Your birthday. He's been planning for it. With everyone going on with the businesses, you assumed you wouldn't be able to do anything special for the day - but how could you ever believe that Bucky would settle for less than special?
You slap your hands over your mouth and immediately burst into tears. Ugly sobs rattle through your chest, making your head hurt even more.
"Baby. Baby. Don't cry," He says as he walks around the counter.
"How- how could I ever think that of you?" You manage to choke out, your words almost unintelligible. "You're so perfect and I... I doubted you in the worst way. How could I do that to you?"
"Come here, my darling, it's alright," He assures you as he holds you tight, rocking you back and forth. He continues comforting you while your tears subdue, your breaths choppy as you sniffle.
He doesn't say anything, simply hugging you and stroking your hair, kissing your forehead, wiping away your tears. Once your sobs have ceased and your breathing is back to normal, he smiles down at you.
"Look at me. Marriage is scary, okay?" He begins. "We're both doing this for the first time. We're not gonna be perfect. All I can promise you is that I will never betray you-"
"You don't have to say that, Jamie," You cry. "You shouldn't need to say that."
"I want to say it," He assures you. "I want you to hear it. I may act stupid at times, or say the wrong thing-"
"You're never wrong, you're perfect," You cut in, clinging onto his shirt. "I'm evil."
"Evil?" He repeats with a scoff. "Baby, I know evil, okay? I've looked evil in the fucking eye. You are not that. You are my darling girl. My fairy. I- it's my fault for keeping secrets-"
"You were just trying to surprise me-"
"Still, I shouldn't have lied to your face," He says. "I felt sick whenever I did. Hated it. But... I just wanted to see your face when you saw it tomorrow."
Your face crumples again. "I ruined the surprise," You whine.
"You didn't ruin it; you still don't know what it is," Bucky points out. "I went too far with trying to keep it a secret. Ended up hurting you, which I never want to do."
"But I should've just trusted you," You say, shaking your head. "How could I think that of you?"
"I made it pretty easy for you to jump to that conclusion," He says, rubbing your shoulder. "I should've known you'd realize I was hiding something."
With a pout, you look up at him. "I'm sorry I ruined my surprise," You say.
He frowns down at you. "Hey, you don't know exactly what it is yet, do you?" He asks as his lips curl up. "You're still gonna be blown away, fairy. You deserve to be spoiled, especially on your birthday, and I'll make sure of it."
"You spoil me every day," You say with an eye roll.
"Because I love you every day," Bucky replies before placing a kiss on your shoulder. "Now, eat. My pancakes aren't as good when they're cold."
While he reaches out to grab his plate and takes a seat next to you, you turn to face him. "So, if you were planning my surprise this whole time... why did you have to speak to Agatha so late at night?" You wonder curiously. "She also seems to be awfully comfortable touching up on you."
With a bite of pancakes in his mouth, Bucky chews while smirking at you, a look of surprise on his face. When he swallows, he leans in. "Baby, are you jealous?" He asks, delight in his eyes.
Shooting him a glare, you put your fork down. "I don't get jealous, Barnes. I was irritated that she was touching my property," You correct him curtly.
"Your property?" He repeats with a laugh. "Fuck. You know it turns me on when you get all possessive, pretty girl."
"Well, stop, because I'm being serious," You say, poking his chest. "I don't want her grabbing your arm, hugging you, fucking giggling in your ear - calling you late at night. You're not her piece of meat. You're mine."
Bucky wraps his arm around you with a cheesy grin. "Keep talking like that, I'll need you to prove it right here and now," He grumbles against your lips.
You push him back with a scoff. "Get a fucking grip," You tell him sternly. "I need you to be serious. Why was she calling you so late? Why did I hear her laughing when you were at your fake Novikov meeting last night?"
He pulls back and drops the smirk, knowing you're not playing games. "Aggie-"
You throw him the coldest glare you can muster.
"Agatha," He corrects himself. "Was helping me plan your surprise."
"The fuck does an arms dealer have to do with birthdays?" You question him incredulously.
"She has a lot of good contacts-"
"What are you gonna do, shoot me?" You ask, to which he snorts.
"No, baby, she's just very well connected, even more so than me," He tells you. "And I know she can be a little... forward, but I swear to you, she never crossed the line. I'd have cut her off the second she tried anything."
Letting out a huff, you look away from him.
"I love you," Bucky says, squeezing you tightly in his grip. "I love you so, so much. And I can't wait to see your face tomorrow."
"Y'know what I want most for my birthday?" You turn and ask him, to which he nods eagerly.
"Anything," He replies instantly. "Name it and it's yours, my love."
"For her to be gone," You tell him bluntly. "Out of New York."
He laughs, but you're not joking. "Fairy, I know it isn't ideal, but I need to finish this deal with her," He explains. "Just one more week, and Chicago will be putty in my hands. And then I never have to see her again."
Maintaining your glare, you sigh. "Fine. Whatever," You huff.
"Now, what was it you were saying about me being yours?" Bucky asks, nestling his face in your neck. "What did you call me, again? Your property? Your piece of meat?"
Your hands rest on top of his which stroke your hips, and he pressed soft kisses to your neck, not stopping until you let out a moan, at which point you can feel his grin again your skin.
"Why don't you prove it, fairy?"
eek sorry to cockblock but this was getting reallllly long (also writing smut feels like a chore rn)
hope you enjoyed this installment! also someone requested a jealous!bucky which I'm SO EXCITED TO WRITE so stay tuned for that <3
series masterlist
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Over the holiday I basically chewed through the Treegrave Universe by Derin Edala, and I am Obsessed with the stories' theme about the scope of history; what's remembered, what isn't, and what gets misremembered.
I read it out of its proper order, starting with "Child of A Wandering Star". For those that don't know, it's told from the perspective of a young bug-like alien, after she finds what she and her people believe to be an egg from space that's laid a baby star.To the reader, though, it's immediately apparent that it's actually a human astronaut.
It was also not so much apparent as just logical that this had to be set in our future-- because obviously, we in the year 2025 do not have the technology to send colonists to any planet outside of our solar system. (Fuck, even within it, frankly). But how far? Realistically, I'd say centuries, if not more, but it's not uncommon in the genre to skip the realism on that front. So I continued to be occasionally surprised-- not hugely, just a little 'oh!'-- as it became apparent just how much more advanced the human colonists' technology was.
Clearly this was further than I had necessarily anticipated, but because of the non-human POV and the language barrier, it was hard for me to still make any real sense of the type of society the astronaut "Smon" came from. But I assumed, again, well, probably the near/recognisable future of an extant human country. Even as Smon warned their alien friend off making assumptions based on her own background and biology, I was doing the same.
… and then I picked up "Time To Orbit: Unknown", which is following another ship in the same space colonization program, and I go. Oh.
We are CENTURIES in the future. How far in the future is never actually mentioned, as far as I can recall-- that would be like me casually mentioning in my internal narration how long it's been since the fall of Rome or the Qin dynasty of China. It's generally not relevant day to day, and for the kind of historians (or amateur history nerds) who do care, they know that info well enough not to need to specify. But it's definitely been a while. Long enough that huge swathes of information of our current "pre-Neocambrian" society to have been lost to the mists of history. That might indicate it's been a LONG time (800-1000+ years)… Or it might be shorter than that, and a consequence of digital information not surviving the climate crises and world conflicts that broke out.
But the world world is different. Markedly so. Some modern countries still exist-- Korea, Germany, and Japan are mentioned. Others have changed or evolved-- a big portion of North America is flooded, and it seems Texas is the dominant (or only?) country remaining on the continent, and Mars, while its own independent colony, was originally colonized by Korea and maintains strong ties. There are a bunch of NEW ones too, like Antarctica, and the Moon, and the space-elevator stations, or the giant floating islands made of genetically engineered mangrove (?) ecosystems used to manage our ocean environments (!).
That last one is where our protagonist Dr. Aspen of the Greaves Cluster hales from, and their narration makes it clear that this country-- and all others-- have existed long enough to develop their own unique languages and cultures. There's a gender trenery, though other gender options are common. There are new religions and governments and social orders. There are laws and regulations around tampering with peoples' genetics or neurology-- and equally people looking to flaunt those regulations, both for benign and selfish reasons. Social mores on everything from marriage, nudity, sex work, and funerary practices have altered hugely, and are by no means monolithic.
All of this is fascinating and exciting, but mostly mundane to our protagonist and their shipmates. But stuff Aspen finds weird? Those fingernails people used to have. They're so thing and they grow so fast and they're the wrong colour!
Throughout TTO:U, we're occasionally blindsided by the characters' misconceptions and musings and questions about modern day life. And as someone with a hobbyist interest in history, I KNOW that we know so little, really, about what things were like even 200 years ago. I'm always wondering what the historical record preserved, what it didn't, and what we've massively misinterpreted because we just have too little data. But there's nothing like reading characters excitedly discuss how the installation and playing of Doom was a computer consecration ritual to wonder what we got wrong about, say, Mesopotamian temples.
(Hell, me even just saying it this wayconflates multiple cultures that existed over the course of centuries into a Single Thing, "Mesopotamia". Which is exactly! what the characters in the book! Do to us!)
and then. AND THEN. You get into 'The Void Behind', which is set just as far in the future from TTO:U as it was from our time, if not further. And now they have misconceptions about them. About the Earth as a whole, the far-away origin of humanity, dozens and dozens of generations behind them. They've built up origin myths about the "first crew"; misconceptions about Earth culture ('most kids were orphans'); seeing their first non-human mammal is a Coming of Age moment that really freaks most of them out. And it's unclear how much of this is is just the natural time wearing at the past, and how much it was deliberate propaganda to build specific narratives-- the answer is somewhere in the middle, i'm sure-- but it's so fascinating to see laid out.
It makes me feel very small. Like I'm standing in the middle of a vast river, and I can look just behind me or in front of me, but beyond that, it's just mist.
synopsis: a night of change and wonder leads to rebirth, discovery, and the first shadow of returning danger
word bank: *seykxel - strong (spiritually, emotionally, not physically)
content warning(s): use of Y/N, themes of grief, transformation, mild peril, environmental destruction, slow-burn romance, and mild use of explicit language
series masterlist
. . .
Age 17 rolls around...
quickly, not long after the incident in the river.
The lab is almost silent, a low electrical hum and the soft pulse of the link-pod the only sounds. Beyond the glass windows, the forest glows in scattered threads of blue luminous waves.
You sit cross-legged on the floor with your necklace—the one that reminds you of your mother—in your palm, tracing the dandelion pendant until its edges warm your skin.
Your dad's voice lingers in memory:
You look just like her. Every year that passes, you resemble her more.
Sometimes, it's like she's looking right at me through you.
His words used to comfort you, but tonight it twists. Tomorrow, when you wake in another body, that last resemblance will vanish. Will I stop being the proof that she once breathed the same air?, you wonder.
You rub the pendant harder, as if the heat alone could keep her near.
You spent the past week as an avatar driver, your dad running tests on you, and allowing you to carry out small practice runs within the perimeter of the lab, in case anything happened. But tomorrow that changes.
The clan had decided, and you had received approval from their Olo'eyktan—Jake, of course. He's watched you grow over the years. The Omatikaya's tsahik, as well as Neytiri, took a little more convincing. But Mo'at liked your dad's loyalty to the clan, and so she agreed. But to Jake, you were practically family, especially being the daughter of one of his closest friends.
A quiet knock—too polite for Lo'ak—precedes the door's hiss. Neteyam slips in, broad shoulders haloed by the bioluminescent spill from outside. His tail flicks once before settling, a silent tell of relief when he sees you awake.
He pulls the oral-nasal mask from a wall rack, slinging the CO2 cylinder casually over his shoulders. He takes the occasional whiff as he walks in your direction.
"You should be asleep," you say quietly.
"So should you." His voice is soft enough to blend with the machines. He crouches beside you, knees folding with a hunter's grace. His eyes catching the dim light of the lab.
"Couldn't sleep," you add after a beat. "Not tonight."
But you know he already figures as much. That's the only reason he's here—and the thought of his gesture sends a small warmth through the silence.
He tilts closer, forearm resting casually across his thigh, the faint musk of forest and rain cutting through the sterile lab scent.
He studies you, pupils widening as he takes in every small detail, and you know he sees everything: the worries that fill your head, the calluses along your bow hand, the way you keep tracing the pendant like it might disappear.
"What is it?" he tries. His ears cant slightly forward, searching, the way they do when he's reading more than words.
"Trying to memorize," you admit. "All of this. This body. The way it feels to just... be me."
He tilts his head, the faintest smile touching his mouth. A slow blink, pupils wide in the dim light, as if he's absorbing you in still frames. "This is you," he says simply. "No matter the shape."
The words land heavy and comforting both at once. You swallow, still not meeting his gaze. Then tuck the stray strand of hair always in your face behind your ear; a nervous habit. "I keep thinking..." you pause, "when I wake up at the ceremony tomorrow, I won't look like her anymore. My dad always said I was her exact copy. Same nose, same crooked smile, and stubborn jaw."
Neteyam smiles, shoulder angling closer until his knee brushes yours, a quiet anchoring touch. His body stays open toward you, patient, listening—the way he’s always known.
"Before..." you stop briefly, "all I had to do was find my reflection." Your glossy eyes finally meet his gaze. The corners of his mouth soften, an unspoken assurance in the flicker of his eyes. "What if I forget what she looks like, 'Tey?"
His eyes drift past your shoulder toward the counter. He exhales through his nose—soft, thoughtful—then rises in a single fluid motion. He grabs the frame that sits there and crouches beside you again. "That will never happen."
The glass of the frame catches a blue gleam as he offers it, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. It's a photo of your mother, with Norm at her side as passenger in her rotorcraft.
She looks like a total badass, you think.
You give a small, pained smile. The warmth of the picture against your palms feels almost alive. Then you press the pendant tighter into your palm.
"When I let this go—when I lose this..." Your gaze drops to your hands, suddenly aware of every small human feature—the number of fingers, your shorter limbs, your sun-kissed skin. "What if I lose her too?" Your voice cracks, rawer than you intend. "What will be left of her?"
Neteyam's eyes shift to the pendant in your palm. His tail gives a slow, steady sweep across the floor before he reaches for it, then takes the necklace from your smaller hands. "You will be left of her."
He slips it gently over your head.
The pendant slides cool against your chest; his knuckles graze your collarbone, leaving a faint sense of longing for the warmth of his touch. You focus on the pendant snug on your chest.
Still, you shake your head.
His ears flatten in response, golden iris’ jumping between your expression and the pendant.
"Don't you see, Y/N?" The low rumble in his chest draws your eyes up before the words do. You turn to him.
His gaze falls to the photo in the frame. "Yes, you resemble her. Very much," he says, smile curving, slow and sure. His gaze slides back over to you. "You're both beautiful."
Your eyes shy away, as you tilt your head aside, flustered warmth blooming on your cheeks. The air between you tightens with an unspoken tension.
"But that's not all you got from her. I've heard Norm—I've heard my dad, too. The way they speak of her, and the things they have to say... sound a little like someone we know. Don't you think?" There's a knowing grin on his lips—a flick of his ear betraying amusement as he searches your face for a response.
You reluctantly turn to him, meeting his gaze again. "Brave—they said she was. You have steel-hard courage like no one else I know, Y/N. You're skilled. Strong-minded. You're a gutsy warrior with a big heart, Spellman. Just like her."
You look away, heat rising along your neck and ears, and hope he doesn't notice the color creeping up. Your fingers curl reflexively around the pendant, grounding yourself in its small weight.
"Look at me." He reaches out, fingertip warm as it slides beneath your jaw—steady and gentle. He tilts your face back toward him. "You will never lose her because you are part of her. With that necklace, or without it. Whether you take on a human form or my form. You will be left of her. There's no changing that."
The breath you didn't realize you were holding escapes in a wavering sigh of relief, almost like a breathy laugh. Still, your eyes glisten at his sweet reassurance. "Thank you, ‘Tey."
He gives a small, wordless hum, and you let your head fall gently against his shoulder. The soft glow past the windows catches his amber eyes as he glances down at you, and for a moment, everything feels steady again. "You always know the right thing to say."
"Only when it's true."
The door hisses again.
“Last night being human—whoooop!” Lo’ak bursts in, a grin wide enough to light the room. “No more yanking off masks and nearly suffocating. Am I right, Spellman?” He's yipping now, celebratory hands in the air.
Your head snaps toward him, seething. "Lo'ak."
Neteyam's ears flick forward. "What?"
Lo’ak freezes mid-stride. “Uh—nothing. Did I say suffocating? I meant...” He coughs into his fist, eyes darting between you and his brother, then mumbles something incoherent. “Anyway, party tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late!” He backpedals through the door with a sheepish wave.
You bury your face in your hands.
"What was he talking about?”
"I am going to kill him."
Neteyam's low chuckle fills the space, warm and unguarded. "Later," he says, still smiling. "First, you have a new world to wake up to."
The following morning, you wake human for the last time. You sit up slowly, reaching for the picture frame on your nightstand—and the small hand mirror beside it. For a long moment, you study your reflection, tracing the human features and familiar lines of your face before your eyes drift back to the photo.
She’s proud of you. You decide that. You know that. This transfer—this choice—is one she made once too, with your dad. And in realizing that, you allow yourself to feel it all: the ache, the anticipation, the bittersweetness that comes with letting go of one life to step into another.
You glance back at the picture, at the soft curve of her smile. The name she wanted for you echoes in your mind—a name your father had teased her for, maybe even argued about. She’d lost that debate then, but you can choose differently now.
You’ll take her name with you through the transfer; add it to your own. That’s how you’ll honor her. The decision settles something deep inside you, like a held breath finally released. Somehow, it feels like a way to carry her with you—into your new form, your new beginning.
After eclipse, the forest is alive with soft, pulsing light—every root and leaf at the Mother Tree—a giant weeping willow—shimmering, as if Pandora itself is breathing with it. A hush settles over the gathered clan, air thick with unity and the low resonance of drums.
Your dad kneels in front of you first—his earned place with his loyalty to the clan over the years presents you with this opportunity, and allows you to be introduced to one of the most sacred places of the Omatikaya.
The glow from the dangling vines of the tree paints him in soft violet. He reaches out, rough scientist's fingers gentle as they brush the side of your face. "You've grown to be just like your mom, nena," he murmurs, voice tight. "Fearless."
His thumb lingers at your temple—one last catalogue of familiar fierce eyes and bronzed skin. "She'd be so damn proud."
You manage a shaky smile. "Thanks, dad."
He swallows, gives you a kiss on your head, then steps back to kneel beside your avatar.
Neteyam is already waiting, tall and steady beside Kiri, who will aid Mo'at as tsahik-in-training, she'd told you. The thought brings a wave of calm; at least one of your closest friends will guide you through this—a significant ritual like the consciousness transfer.
The glow from the great roots paints Netayam and Kiri both in soft cyan blue. He kneels until his eyes are level with yours, then extends a hand. You take it, your small human fingers fitting into his three-fingered grip. The contrast is striking—a living reminder of what makes you different, and what you’re about to leave behind. The warmth of his touch sends a sudden ripple of nerves through you.
"You ready?" he asks softly.
Your throat feels too dry for a moment. You adjust the mask on your face, fingers sliding over the mask valve. "I'm... nervous," you admit, barely above a whisper. "I've wanted this for so long. Now that it's happening..."
To say you’re terrified is an understatement. You're not undergoing a drastic change, but a permanent one. Something you can't undo.
The only thought that truly settles your nerves, is knowing that one constant will remain. Neteyam—your sweet, childhood friend-turned-crush. The one who's been there for every version of you, every stage of your life.
He’ll be there. Like he always has.
"Who knows how this will turn out..." you swallow. Kiri's words echo in your mind: The Great Mother may choose to save all that you are in this body. You must pass through the Eye of Eywa, and return.
He’s crouched there beside you, bioluminescent freckles paints his features, matching the glow of the roots. He gives you that captivating, familiar smirk—the one that's both comfort and chaos, the one you’ve memorized by heart.
"Do you remember what I said to you the first time we met?”
You exhale a small laugh that's almost a sob. "Nga seykxel. Sivako, ngatsyip." (You are strong. Courage, little one)
A slow smile warms his face. He presses a hand—careful and steadying—against the center of your chest. He nods slowly in reassurance. "Nga seykxel," (you are strong) he echoes softly. "I knew it from the moment I met you."
You nod, your own hand finding the warmth of his hand on your chest, before your fingers curl around your pendant one last time. You hold it tight, a last tether to the life you’ve known. When he finally pulls his hand back, he doesn’t move far—he stays close, across from you.
Kiri steps closer, the soft rattle of beads in her decor and accessories like windchimes. "Lie down," she instructs gently.
You finally lower yourself onto the soft grass of living roots, the cool ground breathing beneath you. Her hands hover over your body as she repositions you. "Close your eyes." She offers a reassuring smile before moving to Mo'at's side.
The roots around and in front of the ritual space shimmer a trail, sending a cascade of bioluminescent tendrils toward where you lay. Neteyam remains kneeling at your side until the first tendrils reach for you. The glowing roots find your avatar as well, twining toward its kuru in perfect harmony. Neteyam’s tail flicks once, a quiet anticipation.
With one last conscious breath, your eyes flutter close. All that remains is the effort to let go.
Your last clear memory is trying to relax, an exhale of your old life. Awareness slips, but you still hear Mo'at's voice rising over the hum of the forest; you chase calm.
Mo'at raises her hands and initiates the ritual with speaking to Eywa, her words loud and clear: "Listen to us, please, O Great Mother! Take her spirit into you... and give it back to us with your air and breath."
The Omatikaya respond, their chant a single heartbeat: "Srung si poeru, ma Eywa!" (Help her, O Eywa) Kurus flare in the ground, light glowing through the roots until everything pulses in sync—their voices, their bodies, the forest itself.
"May she walk among us... as part of the People!"
"Srung si poeru, ma Eywa!"
The world blooms in waves of cyan-blue light towards your body; it doesn’t just surround you—it breathes, folding you into it. The hum becomes a song, the chant dissolving into vibration and color until there’s no sense of body at all.
Neteyam watches as a thicker cluster of glowing roots anchors to the base of your head. His gaze never leaves you, only briefly, catching the flicker of anticipation and hope in Norm's eyes—who kneels in front of your awaiting form.
It's like you're surging through a rush of colors, a feeling of falling upward through galaxies, each one more brilliant than the last. Could this be? What Kiri talked about?
Mo'at and Kiri stand side by side, rattling their bodies in motion, chanting numerous times: "Eo Eywa oe 'ia," repeated by the clan. (I love myself *spiritually* before Eywa).
Time loses meaning. Space folds inward.
"Eo Eywa oe 'ia," Mo'at chants repeatedly, eyes rolling back.
Neteyam sees the roots glued to the base of your head glow brighter than before.
The sound grows distant—then infinite. You release.
And everything becomes light.
"Lu hasey!" Mo'at silences the clan with a sign of her hands.
The glow from the roots doesn’t fade—it lingers, dancing softly around you. Kiri steps forward, kneeling to remove the exo-pack from your human body with careful hands.
"Did it work?" Norm’s voice trembles as he leans closer, his wide blue hand cupping the face of your avatar. His eyes dart between bodies, searching. Hoping.
He finds his answer—your eyes shoot open. Amber. Bright.
Alive.
Your first breath scorches like fire and ice at once—heavier, richer, laced with something floral and electric, as you take your first deep breath. You inhale again, deeper this time, chest expanding in ways your old lungs never could. The air isn’t just air—it’s alive.
Sounds flood in next—the hiss of insects, the far-off boom of a drumbeat, the murmur of Pandora's forest breathing. You can hear everything—every sound crisp and layered. Even the rustle of Neteyam's shift as he leans closer.
You slowly wiggle your fingers and toes. The grass beneath your palms isn't just cool—it's thrumming, whispering, pulsing like a second heartbeat. You blink once, twice.
Light bursts across your vision—vibrant and impossible. Colors you never had names for shimmer through the air like drifting embers. You blink at the glowing, sacred tree—its great vines glowing violet, swaying with slow, reverent grace above you.
It doesn’t quite sink in, until Neteyam fills your vision. His smile is soft, almost reverent. His eyes gleam with something you’ve come to know well—a quiet, aching awe.
His voice reaches you, low and steady, and the sound vibrates through your limbs rather than just your ears.
"Welcome back," he murmurs. The resonance of his voice rushes through you, as if he’s breathing you into being.
"Neteyam." The name falls from your lips on a shaky breath. You sit up slowly, gaze still locked on him, a small, disbelieving smile spreading.
Then your eyes drop to your hands. They're blue, and kissed with a familiar streaked-pattern you’ve memorized all your life from those around you. For a moment, you just stare, breath trembling.
Then another voice breaks through—rough, choked, and achingly familiar.
"My sweet, little girl." Your dad's voice has your ears twitch at the familiar cadence of it. Slowly, you lift your gaze from your hands.
For a heartbeat, neither of you move. His lips tremble around a smile, eyes glassy with disbelief—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. A shaky breath escapes you, half laugh, half sob, and before you can stop yourself, you stumble to your feet. He meets you halfway, arms wrapping around you with a force that nearly knocks the wind from your lungs.
You cling to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the tremor in his chest as he laughs and cries all at once. His voice breaks against your shoulder.
"You did it, kiddo… you really did it."
Later—the drums deepen, a heartbeat rolling through the clearing as the clan celebrates. Sparks from the bonfire float like tiny stars within the Omatikaya village. People of the clan are gathered, celebrating your transfer.
Veyra slides through the dancers with an easy smile, eyes bright in the firelight.
"Neteyam!" She calls above the rhythm, extending a hand. "Dance with me?"
He offers a polite nod, but his gaze flicks past her—to where you sway awkwardly, but lively with Kiri, laughter spilling like music.
"Maybe later," he says, warm but noncommittal.
Veyra steps closer, tail curling with playful insistence. "Why not now?" Her fingers brush his forearm. "Come on. Just one dance."
Neteyam's ears angle back slightly—not in anger, just quiet refusal. He eases his arm from her touch and shakes his head. "Not tonight."
The drummers shift to a faster beat. Veyra lingers, her smile thinning. "We used to enjoy our time together," she says, referring to their shared excitement—there's a teasing edge sharpening her words.
"I still do," he answers evenly, eyes never leaving the firelight where you sway. "But my eyes are already set. They have been for a long time."
It's hard to believe nothing persisted past Neteyam and Veyra's relationship—at least from the perspective of the clan. He just never saw her the way he sees you.
He does find similarities between the two of you. You're both incredibly compassionate, and fierce. But being with you has always felt easy. Like everything around him settles when you're near. And he knows he's way in over his head when—even in your avatar form—he recognizes the tug in his chest as he watches you.
Neteyam's actually always liked you. He thinks anyone who has ever spent time around the two of you could see that. It was never a secret. You're a resolute girl; clever, curious, and competitive—a strong spirit who loves the forest and all it inhabits. A little clumsy, but he finds it endearing; even with your stubbornness at the denial of it.
Veyra's brow arches, sharp and skeptical. “The tawtute?” (human) There’s a questioning lilt to her voice, but the word leaves her mouth edged with disbelief, a sort of almost disdain.
Neteyam's jaw tightens, a brief flare of his tail betraying a flash of heat before he stills it, anchoring himself; a habit he's mastered. "She has a name."
He finally meets her gaze, steady and calm. "Besides, she is more than that," he says, voice low but certain. "And she is one of us now. She is my choice."
For a moment the drums are the only sound between them. Then Veyra exhales, a small shrug of surrender. “Eywa guide your path, Neteyam,” she murmurs, before melting back into the swirl of dancers to join Lo'ak.
Neteyam stays where he is, eyes softening as he watches you spin clumsily with Kiri, the fire painting your new skin in gold. Your laughter carries over the music, bright and easy.
As if pulled by a thread, your gaze skims the crowd until it catches on him. For a breath, the dancers fade away—crowd blurring to shadow. Neteyam’s lips curve, slow and certain, but it’s his eyes—bright, unhidden—that say more than words ever have.
Later that night, Neteyam walks you back to the labs. The night hums with soft bioluminescence, fireflies flickering between roots.
“So... what is this 'middle name' I hear of? Soleia. Mm?” His tone is slightly teasing, but there's a warmth in it. He glances sideways, hands hanging loosely at his sides as his tail flicks in lazy rhythm to match your steps.
He watches your grin widen, your shoulders brushing his arm for a fleeting moment. "Back on earth, many use a first and middle name. My dad is Norm E. Spellman. I saw it written on his lab coat once. Edward."
"You humans are weird," he teases.
"Mom picked Soleia. My dad insisted on Y/N."
His ears twitch with amusement. "Sounds pretty—it suits you."
"Thanks," you say, your voice gentler now. You turn your head slightly toward him as you explain that it stems from the origins of your mother's culture. "Sol, for short. It means 'sun.'"
He chuckles under his breath, low and fond. "Y/N Sol Spellman—the mighty warrior." His gaze lingers, eyes tracing the faint glow of your new freckles. "Has a ring to it," he teases, but the cadence of his voice holds a sincerity.
You look up at him, half-smiling, and for a heartbeat he forgets the world beyond the path. Just you, the shimmer of bioluminescent moss beneath his feet, and the quiet fact that you've always been his sun—long before you ever bore the name.
It takes some time for you to adjust to your new form. You’d imagined everything you once struggled with would come easily now—and you were right. But it’s the things that once felt effortless that take the longest to relearn.
In contrast, the forest grows familiar again after the ache of Veyra’s farewell to return to her people. Laughter filters through the branches as Tuk balances on a wide tree limb, Lo’ak shows off with his ikran in spirals and dives, while Kiri floats in a pool of water with Spider in tow.
Every day feels like being born again. Your balance wavers, your tail lashes unpredictably, and Neteyam laughs—and doesn’t even pretend to be surprised—when you topple headfirst into the moss tuft on the ground.
"Some things never change."
"I’m a fast learner,” you snap back, stubborn but smiling through the dripping hair. Neteyam shadows your progress, half-proud, half-nervous. “Don’t push so hard," he mumurs. "You’ve only just started.”
Still, you keep running and climbing, even when your legs feel like they might fall off from the ache of it; you jump to your feet when you stumble—which, to your dismay, happens occasionally as you settle into your new body—giving Spider and Lo'ak plenty to tease you for.
Yet with each sunrise, it grows easier.
The air no longer burns your lungs—not when you match Neteyam’s long strides or race Spider and Lo’ak up the towering trees. Rather, it fills you sweetly, like the forest itself is singing through you. Your steps grow lighter, your tail steadier, helping you balance on the narrow branches that once wobbled beneath your feet. Your hands move with new instinct—quick to catch vine and branch, sure in their grip.
Everyone notices the change in you. Tuk runs up one morning and pats your arm proudly, “You’re getting strong like Neteyam!” Her grin is so wide it almost breaks you in half.
You begin to sense the world differently—the rhythm of the forest, the growing familiarity of roots and earth beneath your feet. And sometimes, when you forget to think about balance, your body simply knows.
Neteyam smiles—not out of amusement, but quiet pride—and you realize this body no longer feels borrowed. It feels like you.
For the first time, you understand what it means to belong—not just among everyone, but within yourself. This is what you were born to do. Every part of you hums with it: the movement, the air, the light. It’s as if you’ve finally remembered something the forest always knew—that this was waiting in you all along.
One of the evenings after your iknimaya, Tuk watches you vault over a low branch as if evading a strike, landing cleanly on your feet—bow drawn, stance steady. Her face splits into a grin.
“You move like one of us now! You’re just like Neteyam! A cool warrior! Maybe even better!” She chirps, clapping her hands.
Neteyam laughs at that last line, eyes still fixed on the basket he's weaving.
“She’s always been one of us,” Kiri says softly, pride warming her tone. Then she glances toward her brother, voice lowering just enough so that you don’t hear. “But you’ve known that longer than anyone else, haven’t you?”
Neteyam doesn’t answer, only gives her a small, wordless look—half warning, half surrender. His ears tilt back, eyes flickering with something unspoken before he hides it behind a quiet exhale as he places down his craft.
You turn then, catching only his softened grin as he steps closer to correct your grip—an excuse to hold you, and Kiri knows it too, with the way her tail flicks in amusement.
The moment passes easily, but the way your ears fold against your head and your breath hitches, tells him you don't mind the closeness anymore than he does. He loves, and finds it almost amusing, how easily he can read you now—the flick of your tail, the twitch of your ears, the subtle ways your new body betrays you. Not that it's anything your pink-flushed cheeks hadn't already told him before. At least now, he thinks, you can't hide it as easily.
Kiri only rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about hopeless romantics before turning away, unheard by either of you.
One night, the air is still humming from the night’s celebration—one of the older warriors had just undergone his uniltaron. Laughter still echoes through the trees, drums fading into the distance. But down a quieter trail, away from activity of the clan, a different rhythm takes shape—you slip down the side path Neteyam had told you about, ducking beneath the low branches until the lights of the village are only a glow behind you.
He was always finding all types of paths, some secretive, some lively with glowing insects, or your favorite, sun-lit blossoms; it's how he got his call sign—pathfinder. He knows his way around the forest better than anyone you know, and is especially great with shortcuts.
He said he'd meet you here.
Just a moment, he'd promised—Jake had wanted a word, something about patrol routes and the older warriors. But there had been a glint in his eyes before he turned away—something that made your heart skip in that infuriating, dizzy way.
You don't mind at first. The forest is alive in its own quiet way, and there's something thrilling about waiting for him here, apart from everyone else. Moss sits beneath your feet, the scent of the glowing flowers brushing past as you lean against a tree.
Then you hear it—laughter, quick and familiar, muffled by moss and leaves. Whispered plans tangle in the dark.
“Come on.” You hear Lo’ak’s voice, low and teasing, from somewhere down the trail. “You’re all so slow.”
Then, Spider's familiar scoff. “You’re the one who said it was forbidden, genius. Maybe we’re just being cautious.”
You straighten, half-hidden in the brush. For a moment, you consider slipping away deeper into the forest—you wanted quiet; a moment with Neteyam—not company. You might be wrong, but you feel as if Neteyam had been watching you all night. His gaze kept finding yours through the crowd, even when he was supposed to be paying attention to the elders. Maybe some small, foolish part of you hopes that when he asked to meet, it wasn’t only for the peace of the forest. That it was for you—like the quiet was his excuse to find you.
A chorus of giggles follow their voices. Before you can move, you hear Kiri's words.
"You realize if we get caught, you'll be the first to blame." Through the branches, you see the look she gives Lo'ak.
"That's why I have a plan." He flashes a grin over his shoulder. "We're just going to look at it."
"The Old Shack?"
Your ears perk up at this. "Yeah, right. Like you can fight temptation." Spider finishes.
"Come on, bro," Lo'ak argues, pushing through a curtain of glowing vines. "We won't even get close. Just—see it. For once."
"You're all going to get grounded," you mutter as you quietly step into view, feet treading over a cluster of glowing fungi. "Lo'ak, especially."
"Y/N!" Tuk exclaims excitedly at your unexpected appearance, lunging herself to wrap her arms around your waist.
Lo’ak throws you a grin, seemingly unphased by your arrival. “I’ve been grounded so many times, I think it’s a natural state.”
Spider snickers. “That’s true. I’ve seen Jake’s face when he says Lo’ak’s name—like he’s bracing for impact.”
Lo'ak rolls his eyes, but catches your disapproving eyes.
“You guys should just go home,” you grumble, and fold your arms across your chest. He tilts his head, “you're one to talk."
The shift in his expression is all the warning you get. You see the mischief gather in his eyes, that familiar look he gets right before he says something he knows will get under your skin.
"What exactly are you doing here, Spellman?" He smirks knowingly, stepping forward. "Sneaking off without us?"
"No," you say almost too quickly, a hand brushing back a hair strand. "I was just—"
“Waiting for my brother?” Lo’ak finishes for you, his smug grin spreading. “Yeah, don't think we didn't notice you sneaking off.”
Heat creeps up your neck. "You're imagining things."
“Uh-huh.” Lo’ak clearly doesn’t buy it, but he’s already moving past, motioning the others forward. “Well, you can wait and walk with us.”
Before you can protest, Tuk grabs your hand, tugging you along. “Come on, Y/N!”
You laugh despite yourself, caught in their energy. It feels reckless and alive—the kind of laughter that echoes off leaves and doesn’t ask for permission.
Still, Kiri catches your reluctance.
“We’re not actually going in,” she chimes, brushing aside a curtain of glowing leaves. Her tone is somewhere between amused and exasperated. “We’re just… looking. From afar.”
You look at her and she gives you an apologetic look. But that doesn't stop the sparkling amusement in her eyes.
“You’re not backing out, are you, mighty warrior?”
Lo’ak’s tone is clearly mocking, and your eyes narrow at him. "I'm not scared. I just don't think we should go. We're not allowed," you argue.
Spider grins. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“Fun? You mean stupid.”
You all turn.
Neteyam brushes a curtain of vines aside, stepping onto the trail. Moonlight spills over his broad shoulders and catches on the paint streaking his chest, tracing the lines of muscle. It slides down the curve of his arms—strong, and effortlessly sure—and for a heartbeat, you forget what you were arguing about.
There’s a raw, magnetic kind of beauty in him—strength and ease woven together in a way that’s unfairly captivating. You hate how easily your eyes trace the shape of him, how you forget to breathe. And when his gaze sweeps over the group—sharp, and focused—it lingers on you just long enough to make your pulse skip.
His expression settles somewhere between exasperation and disbelief—the classic big brother face, one you've come to recognize and quietly admire. For all their teasing, no one guards them quite like Neteyam does.
“Really?” he says, glancing between Lo’ak and Spider. “You’re dragging everyone out here?”
Lo’ak smirks. “We weren’t dragging anyone. They came willingly.”
“Under false pretenses,” Kiri mutters.
The others laugh—and you bite back a smile when Neteyam glances at you. His expression isn’t angry exactly, just weary in that way he gets when everyone else seems to forget he’s the one responsible for dragging them home in one piece.
“Relax, golden boy,” Lo’ak teases, bumping his shoulder against his brother’s. “You’ve got your big Dream Hunt soon. We’re just having fun. You should try it before you forget how.”
“I do plenty of fun things,” Neteyam says flatly.
“Yeah, like drills,” Lo’ak shoots back.
You stifle a giggle, glancing up at Neteyam through the faint glow of the vines. His jaw tightens and he looks ready to scold them all—until you meet his gaze. There’s a small smile still lingering on your lips, and something soft in your eyes that makes his resolve falter.
“Maybe they’re right, 'Tey—you deserve a little freedom before they make you all official and serious," you say gently. "Let's take a look. Just for a little while."
There’s no judgment in your voice—only the quiet kind of understanding that always seems to unravel him. Around you, the others start to chant, playful and insistent:
“Come on, Neteyam! One night!”
Lo’ak throws his arm around your shoulder, smirking at his brother. “Even Y/N Sol agrees. Look—she’s practically begging you.”
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. “I’m not begging,” you say, then glance back at Neteyam. “But… you could come. Just this once.”
And that’s it—the pull he can’t quite fight. The world feels heavy most days: the expectations, the duty, the shadow of what’s coming. But right now, seeing you here—hair caught in moonlight, laughter on your breath—something in him loosens.
“Okay,” he mutters, fighting a smile as Lo’ak whoops in triumph. “But we’re not going anywhere near the Old Shack. We stop at the old tree."
The group cheers, scattering up the path, and you linger just long enough for your eyes to meet again—a spark of what you almost shared before the forest fills with laughter.
The trail opens into a high plateau where the mist thins. The ground is marked with old scars—scorched patches where vegetation never grew back, half-buried metal twisted into the earth. And there, rooted right at the cliff’s edge, is the tree.
Its trunk is massive, dark with age, its roots splitting through rock and stone like a hand grasping for purchase; half-suspended by vines and bioluminescent moss. Vines drape across it, glowing faintly in the moonlight, a relic of something that lived through war but never quite healed.
Lo’ak lets out a low whistle. “Still standing.”
“Barely,” Neteyam says.
Kiri’s voice softens, reaching out to touch one of the roots. “This is where the Sky People fought, isn’t it?”
Neteyam nods, his expression quiet. “Mom said the Sky People dropped fire here. That’s why it's blackened.” You peer up the length of it. Despite its towering height, it's darkened from soot; charred and cracked with a brittle, flaky bark that feels rough to the touch.
Lo’ak looks in awe. “That’s a climb worth doing.”
Neteyam groans. “Lo'ak, don't be a skxawng—”
But Spider’s already hopping forward, testing the bark with a weightful foot. “Come on, it’s solid!”
You stare up at it, half awed, half skeptical. "That thing's about to crumble if you breathe on it too hard, Spider."
“It’s ancient,” Kiri agrees. “And probably hollow.”
“Perfect,” Lo’ak grins, looking right at you. “Bet you can’t make it to the top before me.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Bet you can’t make it down without falling on your tail.”
“Ooooh,” Spider laughs. “She got you, bro.”
Lo'ak moves forward, turning to you with a smirk. "First one to the top wins."
"You can't be serious. Are you?"
"What, afraid you'll lose your balance, Spellman?"
"I have better balance than you."
"Prove it."
Spider, ever the instigator, pipes in. "Yeah, lets show him how it's done, Y/N."
Neteyam folds his arms, but you can see the battle behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to scold them, and the part that wants to laugh at their absurdity. When you step toward the trunk, he sees you contemplating, and shakes his head. "You're not climbing that."
But Lo'ak is already making his way up, laughing. "Too late!"
Kiri rolls her eyes and settles on a rock beside Tuk, muttering something about idiots. Tuk cheers, clapping. "Go, Lo'ak! Go!"
You tilt your head back to see Spider and Lo'ak scrambling up the massive trunk. The bark gleams faintly under the scattering light of the living fauna nearby, webbed with vines and glowing spores.
Neteyam gives you a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me you’re really considering—”
You toss your braid over your shoulder. "If he falls, at least someone competent will be up there to drag him back."
“Just…" Neteyam's voice comes out quieter, "be careful.”
“Always am,” you say lightly as you set your hands to the bark and start after them.
The tree creaks under your weight—Spider and Lo’ak ahead, Kiri lingering below with Tuk—and the wind dancing through the hanging vines. Halfway up, the forest opens beneath you, the celebration of the clan flickering faintly in the distance. The wood creaks underfoot, groaning with age.
You pause to catch your breath, the world spinning wide around you. And when you look down, Neteyam’s there, already climbing after you.
“You shouldn’t have come up here,” you call, half-laughing.
“Watch your left,” he warns quietly. His voice is calm, but his hand is ready—always ready. And he's right, the branch breaks and falls off completely after you attempt to pull yourself up with its presumed steadiness.
You glance over your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be letting me do this myself.”
“I am. Just making sure you don’t fall,” he replies, steady and unbothered, as if the forest floor beyond the plateau isn’t yawning beneath you both.
"How chivalrous."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Your lips twitch. "I didn't say that."
Spider laughs from above. "See? Not so scary!"
"Yet," Neteyam mutters.
You don't know how he can tell the difference between a secure branch and a withered, weak one. They all appear equally blackened. You grip one to hoist yourself higher, but it gives with a sharp crack, sending you sliding down a few inches.
Neteyam's arm is there, fast and certain.
Your eyes meet, and he pulls you close, anchoring your balance.
“See?” he murmurs, quiet enough that only you hear. “Chivalry has its uses."
You let out a shaky laugh. "Don't let it go to your head, princely olo'eyktan."
The teasing fades when the wind shifts, cool and strong against your faces. From this height, the forest glows—soft blues and greens, the breath of Pandora alive around you. For a moment, everything feels suspended. Still.
Lo’ak, balancing on a split branch, calls down, “This is your chance, bro! A fun night before your Dream Hunt! You’ll be all serious and adult.”
“He already is!” Kiri calls from below. “He’s the responsible one!”
“Exactly,” Lo’ak says. “Which is why he should let loose for once!”
You grin, bracing a hand against the bark as you steady yourself beside Neteyam. “They’re not wrong. You’ve earned a little fun.”
He shoots you a sidelong look—somewhere between amusement and exasperation—before shaking his head. “You all define ‘fun’ very differently.”
Your laugh is unguarded, then your voice softens, so that only he can hear. "I could show you a type of fun you'd actually like."
The words slip out before you can reel them back in. You open your mouth—then shut it again, realizing how he might interpret that. You're not even entirely sure how you meant it. From the quick flicker in his eyes, you know he realizes it too.
For a heartbeat, Neteyam’s expression doesn’t change much, but you catch the smallest tell: the slightest twitch of his ears, the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before he schools it away. He looks at you like he’s perfectly calm, but the look in his eyes tell you something different.
“Is that so?” he says finally, voice low, almost amused.
Your pulse stumbles; heat rushes to your cheeks before you can will it away, and you have to look anywhere but at him. “Relax, prince,” you say quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds far too light. “I meant an archery challenge or something.”
“Of course,” he murmurs, perfectly straight-faced. “What else would you have meant?”
But the glint in his eyes gives him away. There’s a quiet satisfaction on his features when you finally glance back—because you’re the one who's flustered, fingers tightening uselessly on the bark, while he just looks maddeningly steady.
But he doesn’t tease, doesn’t press. Just lets that knowing grin ghost across his face—he knows exactly how off-balance you are—and he’s enjoying every second of it.
Before you can come up with a lame excuse—or what would’ve been an obvious lie—Lo’ak whoops above, victorious, from a higher branch. “Beat you both!” he shouts.
He’s yipping at the top, pounding a hand against the trunk like he’s claiming victory. You roll your eyes, half-smiling despite yourself—he really is impossible.
For a moment, everything feels light. A groaning sound travels through the wood, a low vibration beneath your feet that you almost mistake for the echo of laughter—until it deepens.
“Guys! Something's not right!” Kiri screams, catching it earlier than you from the base.
Spider launches off first with no hesitation—vanishing with a wild yell as he catches a hanging vine. Then a thunderous crack splits the air, and the entire trunk shudders beneath you. The sound is ancient—like the forest itself is splitting in two. The trunk groans, shuddering beneath your feet, and the bark gives way.
The tilt comes fast—brutal.
You slip—the upper half of the tree breaks loose, pitching toward the cliffside of the plateau. Your fingers dig into splintering wood, but your grip can’t hold against the sheer slide. You’re moving—sliding—down the trunk toward Lo’ak, bark tearing at your palms, air rushing past your ears before Neteyam can even reach for you.
He doesn’t budge at the tilt. Above you now, he’s a steady anchor, muscles straining as the tree bucks beneath him.
“Y/N!” he shouts—but you’re already passing Lo’ak’s perch, sliding too fast for him to catch your hand. But Lo'ak's instincts kick in.
“Got you!” he lunges, fingers closing tight around your wrist. The jolt of both your weight nearly pulls him loose, his other hand a tightening hold on the bark.
“Hold on!” Neteyam’s voice is sharp and commanding.
You glance up—he’s already moving, balanced even on the swaying trunk. In one powerful reach, he grips Lo’ak’s forearm, anchoring him. The motion jerks to a stop, the three of you strung together in a trembling chain above the drop.
For a moment, there’s only the creak of the wounded tree, the echo of your own heartbeat, and the sound of Neteyam’s steady breath as he holds you both—refusing to let go.
You're left in a heap, tangled and breathless, staring at the broken trunk stretching out into the mist like a bridge that never finished building. When you all reach the forest floor again, Neteyam's arms wrap themselves around your waist, steadying you even as his chest heaves.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
You nod, breathless. “Yeah… you?”
Your hands rest on his toned arms, muscles still tight from holding you all steady. Neteyam nods, his eyes refusing to move from yours.
His chest rises and falls against you, his breath still coming fast. You’re both still catching up to what just happened—heartbeats pounding. There’s fear there, still raw and real, but also disbelief—the rush.
His hands are still on your waist. You just stare up at him—pupils blown wide, panting—and then something breaks loose in both of you.
A breathless laugh escapes your throat, and he lets out a low one of his own, the sound shaking through his chest.
Your laughter—a mix of incredulity and exuberance—swirl into the air between you both. “That was insane,” you breathe, still laughing.
Lo’ak coughs from the side. “I’m fine too, by the way.”
Kiri smacks him upside the head. “You’re lucky you are.”
Tuk claps her tiny hands, completely unbothered. “That was awesome!”
“Great,” Neteyam breathes, half in disbelief, half in relief—releasing you to turn to his brother. “You broke it.”
Lo’ak coughs a laugh. “Technically you broke it. You grabbed it too hard, bro.”
Spider laughs and joins, brushing bark out of his hair. “Remind me never to let Lo’ak pick the climbing spot again.”
You laugh again, softer this time, the sound mingling with the others. The air between you feels lighter—charged, but alive. You meet Neteyam’s gaze.
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair out of your face before letting his hand fall to his side again. “Guess it’s not forbidden anymore,” you say, a little breathless.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re all going to drive me insane.”
But when Lo’ak slings an arm around your shoulders and Spider starts talking about how you’ll come back to build a fort on the broken trunk, Neteyam doesn’t scold anyone. He just looks out over the mist, where the shattered half of the tree glows faintly in the bioluminescent light—still hanging, even in ruin.
Kiri catches his expression and smiles softly. “What’s the look for?”
“Nothing,” he says, though his eyes linger on you. “Just thinking.”
Later that week, your ikran shifts beneath you, wings half-spread, a living coil of restless muscle.
“Hold still,” Neteyam says, voice warm against the gusts. He steps close to tighten the last strap of your harness, hand resting on the small of your back as he checks the clasp. The heat of his touch cuts through the cool dawn air. It’s nothing, just a steadying hand, but it brands you all the same. And you have to fight the ridiculous urge to lean back—just enough to keep it there.
“I can handle a buckle on my own,” you say, though your breath catches—not from the drop ahead, but from the heat of him at your back, the weight of his touch still burning against your skin.
Lately, it’s been like this. Every time he gets close, your thoughts scatter.
Every time he says your name, you feel it somewhere low and aching. You don’t know when it started—when the easy warmth of childhood tilted into something deeper, something that curls under your skin and refuses to be ignored.
It’s stupid. Hormonal, maybe. You know that.
But seventeen hits hard, and suddenly every instinct you have seems wired toward him—towards his hands, his voice, the way he moves like he was carved to perfection by Eywa herself.
And yes, maybe, it’s always been there. You’re just finally old enough to feel it.
His voice breaks you from your thoughts. He glances at you sidelong, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Maybe. But I'd like to sure you come back in one piece.”
Your ikran flaps its wings impatiently. “Well, she’s ready,” you say, stroking the smooth skin on her patterned neck.
“And so are you,” he answers, giving the strap a final tug. “Hard to believe you were still tripping over bowstrings just last year.”
Then he feigns contemplation. “Well no. It isn’t, not really.”
“I was not. We were kids back then, 'Tey.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced. “It’s all right that you’re clumsy, Y/N Sol. Some things never change.”
You scoff, though your smile gives you away. “Oh yeah? You’d know, wouldn’t you—considering how closely you used to watch my stance.”
His ears twitch, a flicker of amusement breaking through. “I was making sure you didn’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
You try to hold back a laugh at his teasing.
Still, the corners of your eyes crinkle in unguarded delight, and Neteyam watches you for just a moment. The way the sun threads through your braids, catching on the tiny beads and feathers that weren't there before.
Your smile is the same one he's known for years, but here, framed by bioluminescent markings and sharper features, it feels like seeing something familiar through new light.
There's still the small lift of your brows when you tease him, the tilt of your head when you listen—all the little human mannerisms that used to undo him still live in this new body. Only now, they're amplified, impossible to ignore. And he hates how easily his focus slips, how every time he looks away, he finds himself drawn back.
“Mhm,” you hum, turning back to your ikran.
“Whatever the prince says, goes.” You feign annoyance, but the spark in your tone betrays you—and from the look he gives, he likes it.
He places a steadying hand at your waist. “Ready, Speallman?”
You bite back a smile and your pulse thrums with the beat of wings. “Always!”
Neteyam takes that to mount his own ikran. Then, with a shared nod, you both launch skyward.
At last, the two ikran glide to a cliff's edge the cliff falling away in a blaze of sunlit mist, wind rushing past in wild, thundering currents. Your ikran’s cry splits the air as she banks hard into the open sky, the pull of gravity replaced by something freer, weightless. Your chest heaves, exhilaration still trembling in your fingers.
For a dizzying heartbeat, all you can do is laugh—unrestrained, joyous, disbelieving. The world stretches endless beneath you in ribbons of green and blue, rivers glinting like veins of light, the forest canopy rolling endlessly below.
“Keep your left steady!” Neteyam’s voice cuts through the roar of wind, half command, half laughter. You adjust instinctively, wings sweeping wide as your ikran steadies beside his.
“Got it!” you shout back, exhilaration bubbling out as you push into a dive, the wind biting against your cheeks. Your braid whips over your shoulder; your heartbeat thrums in rhythm with the wings beneath you.
“Show-off!” Neteyam calls, though the grin in his voice betrays his pride. He angles closer, the two of you slicing through the air so near that the tips of your ikrans’ wings almost brush.
You tilt your head toward him, unable to stop smiling. The sky was always where you imagined belonging—ever since you were just a little girl, sitting with him under the glowing vines and whispering dreams of flight. Now, you’re living it. Every fear, every ache, every limitation of your human body feels impossibly distant. You’ve never felt so right, so alive.
This is what I was meant to do, you think.
The air on your skin, the endless blue, the burn in your muscles—it all feels like home. Like it’s always been waiting for you to catch up to it.
Wings cut through clouds, your laughter wild as your ikran dives and soars. Neteyam joins you midair, his grin wide, unguarded, as you circle each other in spirals like twin flames.
Then, you steady in flight, and your gaze drifts toward him. The sun flares against his skin, gilding the sharp outline of his face, his braids streaming back, eyes alight with the same awe that fills your chest. Your breath catches, a confession tightening in your throat before you can stop it. You realize it’s not just the sky that feels like home. It’s him.
"You almost seem as good as me!" His voice carries across the wind, laughing as he swoops in front of you, cutting through your thought.
You bark out a laugh. “Almost?”
He glances back over his shoulder, grin cocky. “Alright, Y/N. Don’t let it go to your head.”
You nudge your ikran forward, racing him through a column of sunlight until both of you burst through the clouds, laughter echoing across the open sky.
When you finally land together at the cliff’s edge, breathless and glowing, Neteyam dismounts his ikran and steps closer, eyes bright with pride. You follow pursuit, alighting from your own ikran.
“You did it,” he says, voice gentle now, in contrast to the exhilaration of the sky. “You’re flying like you’ve always dreamed.”
The words hang there—soft, awed, something almost sacred. Your smile fades into something quieter, and his gaze locks with yours.
For a suspended, breathless moment, the world narrows to the inches between you. He doesn't think—he simply leans in, pressing his forehead gently to yours—a whisper of warmth between you.
When he draws back, his gaze flickers downward—to your eyes, then your lips, then back again—as if to gauge your reaction.
Your world narrows to breath and heartbeat.
He knows you feel it too; he’s always known.
There’s a small, private satisfaction in the way your ears twitch, the way you go perfectly still under his stare. You’re fighting it—the pull that’s been growing between you—but he can see right through you. A part of him almost grins at that, at the way you pretend not to notice the tension that’s been crackling between you for moons now. At the way you fight it.
He wants to close that distance. Especially right now, with the sunset burning gold behind you and your breath mingling with his, it takes everything in him not to let instinct win.
It’s almost unbearable for him.
You can’t look away, even as your pulse hammers in your throat. Under the weight of his stare, you feel impossibly small—seen, and undone all at once. The pull between you feels stronger now, older somehow.
He’s always made you feel safe, but lately, that safety feels dangerous too. That pull between you, the one that started as comfort and curiosity, has grown into something you can’t name without blushing. You tell yourself it’s just familiarity, friendship, the bond of years spent side-by-side. You tell yourself he meant it platonically when he said I see you last year—how could he have meant anything else?—especially because he told you in your human form.
You could not afford to be delusional.
After all, Neteyam has responsibilities, expectations, one more milestone ahead of him—things that don’t leave space for whatever you think this is. So you promise yourself you’ll wait. You’ll keep this secret locked tight until the time comes for him to choose a mate. You can wait for that day. You’ve always been good at waiting, anyway.
He knows he should step back before he does something reckless. But for once, he lets instinct take him.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, an achingly familiar gesture he's done a hundred times over the years. But this time, when he cups your face, you lean into his touch—just barely—just enough, that tells him you don't want this any less than he does.
He keeps his hand there a moment longer than he should, but you don't pull away. You look up at him.
Something soft and irrevocable passes between you.
"You’re something, Spellman," he murmurs, voice low, with the ghost of a grin on his lips.
"Better aerial hunter than you? I know," you tease, because humor is easier than admitting what's racing through your veins. Your smile is too quick, too wobbly.
He huffs a breath that's almost a laugh. Almost. But he schools away the playful lift of his mouth—his face sobers, softens.
"I mean," he says lowly, "you're special. I think you know that."
The words hang between you, warm and dangerous all at once.
His eyes drop to your lips, then slowly, his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, drawing you closer.
Your noses brush, then your lips ghost, hovering over one another.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers.
You don’t tell him to stop. You don’t say anything at all.
But the second his lips brush yours—light as air, soft as a whisper—something inside you breaks, like breaking from a trance.
You jerk back.
The loss of him is immediate, sharp, like stepping out of warm sunlight into cold air—and you can’t tell if you’re grateful for it or aching from it.
“I—um—I told my dad I’d help him with dinner,” you blurt. A shaky exhale escapes as you laugh—sharp, too loud—shattering the moment before it can settle. Your hand goes to the back of your neck—a nervous tell he knows all too well.
Neteyam watches you, his breathing steadying. You're sure he's fighting a smile—possibly a smirk.
“Race you back?” you offer, desperate to move, to breathe, to escape the weight of almost.
His mouth curves into that crowning, unstoppable grin—something strained at the edges, and something unreadable lingers in his eyes.
"It's not a race if you can't keep up, Spellman."
He mounts his ikran and dives first, whooping into the wind, wings cutting through the sky like liquid silver.
You follow after him—your laughter tumbling out, breathless and bright, swallowed by the vast, open ocean of green.
The following evening, light pools golden yellow across the forest as you and Neteyam follow the walkway toward the lab.
The almost from yesterday lingers in the back of your mind—warm and dangerous. You replay the moment his lips skimmed yours, the sensation of brushing yours ever so slightly. It's unlike anything you've ever experienced before—the memory is unforgettable.
But Neteyam approaches the evening like nothing happened. Like that moment never existed at all.
And you’re okay with that. Or at least… you tell yourself you are.
It’s safer this way—safer for your friendship, safer for him, safer for the future he’s expected to carry. Whatever you felt yesterday is something you can tuck away again. You’ve had years of practice.
The air carries a cool, mossy damp–sweet with blooming vines as eclipse nears. Bioluminescent threads pulse faintly in the undergrowth, each step accompanied by the trill of insect calls.
You bump his shoulder with a grin, easing back into familiar territory. “If Spider tries to help Kiri make that nasty, leafy stew again—”
Neteyam stops mid-stride, ears flicking sharply east, then turns his frame in that direction.
You falter, matching his stillness, a little confused. “What?”
A soft, irregular pop threads the breeze. Then a sharper crackle, like twigs snapping in a dry hearth.
“You hear that?” Neteyam’s voice is low but iron-hard.
The smell reaches you next: resin and char, acrid and wrong.
His breath stills—recognition blooming in his chest like a bruise.
Yours does too, almost as if to confirm the truth of the sounds unfolding, disbelief shielded by denial. Another gust carries the sound—sharp crackles, the unmistakable breath of heat—and a thin orange pulse bleeding far beyond the tree line from where you stand.
You shudder a breath. “Oh my god.”
The trees beyond are flickering, alive with movement, but not from the wind. For a heartbeat, your brain refuses to connect the pieces. You blink hard, once, twice, as if the motion might erase what you’re seeing.
Your shoulders lock, chest barely rising with shallow, rapid breaths.
The orange glow swells, brightening into a sullen smear above the canopy. Smoke lifts in gray ribbons that catches the skies. Animals screech far off, a frantic counterpoint to the growing roar of machines and crackling of forest burning.
You still—rooted to the ground as if your feet have turned to stone. Your eyes are wide, glistening, pupils blown with panic. Blinkless—as though even closing your eyes might be fatal.
Neteyam is the first to step forward, shoulders tight, tail snapping once behind him in swift decision. “We need to move. Now. Let’s get to the others.”
He's quick to spring into action, like the true warrior you've always known him to be. But you?
You look caught between fight-and-flight, body choosing neither—a living figure of dread, frozen in place with eyes that speak the fear your mouth can't.
“Y/N!” His call cuts through the haze, turning back when he doesn’t see you following. His voice is sharp with urgency, tone raw and desperate. “Come on!” His tail flicks in quick, restless arcs, shoulders tight and ears pinned flat against his head as he waits, pulse thrumming—every second stretching thin.
You blink, and your vision fractures—tears running unchecked as smoke chokes the sky. The tears are hot and sudden, company of your witness to destruction, blurring the burning forest into streaks of ruin.
The air hums with the roar of distant engines and the crackle of falling branches. You stumble back, knees weak, as if the ground itself recoils beneath the ruin.
Neteyam reaches your side again, golden-molten orbs finally meeting your frantic ones. You're horrified—and he hates it, hates the way fear sits in your eyes.
"Why is this— what is this, 'Tey?" you finally choke out through sobs.
“We need to go!” He hauls you to your feet in one swift motion, his strength cutting through your panic.
But you don’t move an inch.
The sight of grief on your face makes something in him splinter—an image he knows will brand itself into his memory; a flash of helplessness he’ll never forget.
His ears twitch back, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
“Y/N." His warm hands close around your shoulders—steady, and grounding.
His touch brings you a fleeting moment of internal tranquility, a contrast to the chaos unfolding outside. Then his hands move to cup your face gently, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to anchor you—to make sure you don’t disappear into the smoke.
His cadence is born of an urgency so sharp it swallows the shock and fear whole. “I need you here with me. Right now. We need to get to the others.” The words are like a spell broken, and you surge to motion.
The moss feels warm under your feet as you sprint for the lab. The air already tastes bitter, a pine-sap smoke that clings to your tongue. Overhead, glowing embers drift on the wind.
Neteyam reaches the entrance with swift strides. “Kiri! Lo’ak! Tuk!” His tail flicks in quick bursts as the door slides open with a hiss.
“Spider!” You call out, eyes searching frantically for the blonde, both hopeful and desperate to find him in there.
“We must go now—the lab is in danger,” you say, breathless.
“Danger? How?” Lo’ak questions, but he catches the streaks on your face, and watches your hastening strides.
Neteyam scoops Tuk into his arms. “Lo'ak, get to your ikran. We must get to higher ground.”
Kiri spins from Grace’s tank and catches the orange glare creeping through the window, smoke trailing in the distance. Terror shines so raw in her widened eyes, it hollows her gaze.
“Holy shit,” Spider gasps.
You dash to your small room in the corner, snatch the photo frame of your mother, and hurry back into the lab area. You grab Kiri—who hasn’t moved an inch—and pull her by the wrist. But she doesn't budge.
“Kiri, we need to go!”
“No—I can’t leave my mom!” Tears glaze her eyes, panic rising. Her stare fixes on you, desperate, as though searching for escape that isn't there.
“We can’t stay!”
“You wouldn’t leave yours, would you?!”
The words hit like a stone, loosening your grip.
Neteyam’s reflex takes charge, ready instinct. “Lo’ak, take Tuk and go!” He demands, handing his little sister to him.
Moving fast, Neteyam tears open the equipment closet and yanks out heavy ropes, thrusting them at you and Kiri. “We’ll haul the lab trailer to higher ground. Come on. Quickly!”
All of you scramble up the side ladder to the roof. Neteyam yips, a sharp call that echoes through the smoky air. His ikran answers from the darkened skies.
The smoke hits harder up here—hot, bitter, resin-thick. Your lungs burn with each breath and the metal roof scorches the pads of your feet as you crouch to knot the rope. Sweat stings your eyes, mixing with the ash drifting like gray snow.
You, Kiri, and Spider work in near-silence, tying ropes to the lab trailer’s frame. You give your own yip, summoning your ikran as ash swirls overhead. Tanhi swoops in with a piercing cry, and you clip the rope to her harness. Kiri follows suit while Neteyam secures his own line.
“On my count,” he shouts over the rising wind as you all mount your own ikran—Spider joining Kiri. “Ready? One, two, three!—Now!”
Wings beat the night. The three ikran surge upward in unison, hauling the heavy trailer from the clearing. “Move it to the mountains!” Neteyam commands.
Smoke thickens, heat pressing against your skin as you fly higher.
You glance back: the forest you’d grown up in burns in streaks of red and orange. Tears stream down your cheeks, cold against the hot wind.
Below, through drifting ash, dark shapes of RDA machines prowl—massive, methodical, merciless.
Neteyam’s ikran pulls alongside yours.
You meet his eyes, and the look on your face undoes him—grief, disbelief, flame-lit tears.
He wants nothing more than to reach for you—to pull you close, and shield you from the sight below; to promise safety he can’t yet give. Both of you fly hard into the sky, sharing a single, unspoken understanding.
The stories you were told as children—the ones you’d grown to fear.
