#tribe leader

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Ash and Horizon(tribe leader x suvivor reader)

The plane crash was sudden—screams, fire, and then darkness.

When you woke up, the jungle canopy was spinning above you. The humid air clung to your skin like a wet blanket, and the distant cries of unseen creatures made your blood run cold. You weren’t alone—others from the flight stumbled around, wounded, dazed, terrified.

You had no idea where you were. The GPS was dead. No signals, no rescue.

Just the island.

Days passed. Food ran low. Hope did too. Then… they found you.

Tall figures, smeared in clay and adorned with bones and feathers, emerged silently from the underbrush one by one, like spirits. Their eyes were sharp, their movements fast. Primitive weapons were drawn—but not used.

You thought it was over.

Instead of killing, they helped.

You watched, stunned, as one of them took your injured friend’s leg and, with frightening precision, reset the bone and wrapped it with thick leaves and resin. Another gave you a drink made of crushed roots that dulled your pain. Their language was incomprehensible, broken and guttural, but not hostile. They worked with strange kindness—gentle touches, curious gazes.

But it was him who unsettled you the most.

The leader.

He stood taller than the others, his chest marked with jagged scars and tribal paint. His long, tangled hair fell over his shoulders like a mane, and when he looked at you, it felt like prey meeting predator… or something far more intimate.

He spoke few words. None you could understand. But he was always watching.

When the tribe brought food, he offered you the best portion—always. When you were tired, he silently pointed to a spot beside his own fire. When a man from your group touched your shoulder once, the next morning that man was covered in bruises and refused to say what happened.

You started to notice things.

Flowers laid by your sleeping spot.

A carved necklace in the shape of a bird—offered with trembling hands.

Sometimes, you would wake to find him watching you in the firelight, eyes burning, unmoving, just watching.

He didn’t need words.

You were his.

You tried to talk to your group about it, to laugh it off. But the fear in their eyes wasn’t about him—it was about leaving. No one dared mention escape anymore.

One night, as the jungle buzzed with life and the fire cast dancing shadows across the trees, he sat beside you. His scent was wild—earth and ash. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your hair back. You froze, but he only murmured something soft, something foreign… and almost reverent.

Then he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I… see you,” he whispered in broken English.

And for the first time, you realized: someone had taught him that.

Just for you.

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[donutdrawsthings]

done making a new character! it’s a Corgi Kima!

still have to name him though

[quarkmaster]

Tribe Leader

The chieftain gathers his tribe before the hunt...

Daniel Romanovsky

[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 2

The fire crackled between you, throwing sparks into the thick night. His hand lingered against your cheek longer than you could stand, and you pulled away, heart pounding.

He didn’t seem angry. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you with those dark, unblinking eyes, like he was trying to read what you couldn’t say.

Then he spoke again, halting, careful. Words you almost understood.

“Woman… mine.”

The others around the fire lowered their heads. Some even smiled, as though it were already decided. A marriage. A claim. A fate carved by his will.

Your stomach twisted.

“No,” you said firmly, shaking your head. “No. I can’t.”

The smile on his face froze. Confusion clouded his features. He repeated the word again—“Mine”—like it was the only English he truly knew.

You shook your head harder, pressing a hand to your chest. “I can’t. I don’t understand you. I don’t belong here. I want to go home.”

The last word—home—broke something inside you. Your throat burned with the tears you’d been holding back since the crash. The tribe watched in silence, the weight of their gazes heavy, suffocating.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. The night sounds seemed to swell—the cicadas shrieking, some animal wailing in the distance. Then, slowly, he rose to his full height, shadow blotting out the firelight.

He looked at you the way a storm looks at the sea—inevitable.

With a sharp motion, he barked something in his language. The tribesmen and women lowered their heads. Two younger men approached you, hesitant but firm, guiding you to stand.

“No!” You tried to resist, panic clawing at your chest. “Please—I don’t want this!”

The leader silenced you with a glance. He stepped closer, his hand gripping the carved necklace he had given you days before. He lifted it, pressing it hard against your chest, just above your heart. His voice was low, rough, almost trembling:

“Mine… wife.”

The tribe murmured approval, their voices rising like a ritual.

You shook your head until your vision blurred with tears. “I can’t! I don’t understand you—I don’t belong here! I want to go home!”

The words meant nothing to him, but your tears—your trembling—that he understood. His hand dropped, fingers curling into fists. His jaw tightened, and for the first time, you saw something flicker across his face other than control: pain.

He dismissed the others with a growl. They scattered into the dark, leaving only the two of you by the fire.

For a long while, he said nothing. Just watched you, like always. Then, haltingly, he whispered:

“Why… not?”

Your lips trembled. “Because… because I don’t love you. Because I want to go home. Because I can’t be yours just because you say so.”

The words were useless, but something in your tone—your breaking voice—seemed to reach him. His shoulders slumped. His gaze fell to the fire.

He didn’t move to touch you again.

But when you tried to step away, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist with steel. Not cruel. Not gentle. Just… final.

His eyes lifted to yours, and the firelight burned in them again.

“No leave.”

The jungle answered with silence, and for the first time you realized: he would never let you go.

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[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 6

He stood on the sand until the horizon swallowed you.

The waves crashed, the jungle buzzed, his people whispered behind him—but he did not move. His eyes stayed fixed on the sea, long after the ship became no more than a dark speck against the sky.

The others thought it an ending. He knew it was not.

That night, the fire burned high in the village, but he did not sit beside it. He paced the shadows instead, the necklace he had carved for you clenched in his fist until the wood bit into his palm. The children laughed, the women sang, the hunters told stories. But to him, the village was silent.

Empty.

You had taken something when you left—something he had not even known he could lose.

His people came to him, voices respectful, concerned. One asked if the “sky-woman” would return. Another said it was good you had left; your heart was not theirs, and the tribe could not bend the sea to keep you.

He silenced them with a glance.

When the night deepened, he walked alone to the place where you had sat by his fire. The mat of woven leaves still bore the imprint of your body. The flowers he had left for you were dry, their petals crumbling beneath his touch.

Slowly, he pressed his forehead to the earth where you once slept, lips moving in a prayer his people did not understand. Not even they had ever seen him kneel.

And then, softly, in the broken English he had fought to learn for you, he whispered to the dark:

“Mine. Still mine.”

His people believed you gone forever. They thought the sea had claimed you. But in his heart, there was no end. The bond he felt was not one time—or distance—could sever.

One day, he told himself, the sea would bring you back.

P/s I left an open ending for everyone since i didn't want to write SE ,it'd have broken my heart TT

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[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 5

The ship’s horn wailed again, echoing across the water like a lifeline. Survivors screamed, waved their arms, burned smoke from hastily lit fires. You could almost taste freedom on your tongue.

But your eyes stayed locked on his.

He stood so still, as if the earth itself rooted him there. His hand remained over your heart, the weight of it anchoring you in a way that terrified you more than the jungle ever had. His scars, his paint, his wild scent of ash and soil—everything about him was foreign… and yet, it had become familiar.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t want to leave you behind.”

The words tumbled out, useless, in a language he didn’t understand. Still, your trembling voice must have carried the truth, because his eyes softened. For one dangerous second, you imagined yourself staying—fishing in rivers, weaving leaves, sleeping by his fire. Becoming not just a guest, but his.

But then, the memory of metal wings splitting the sky flashed behind your eyes. Airports, city lights, the voices of your family. Home.

You pulled back.

His hand fell away like a broken chain.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, even though you knew the words meant nothing to him. Your chest ached as you stepped back, further, until the distance between you felt unbearable.

The other survivors were already scrambling onto makeshift rafts, desperate to reach the ship before it passed. You turned toward the sea, your legs heavy as stone. Each step felt like a betrayal.

Behind you, he didn’t move. He just watched—his tall frame outlined by firelight, his face unreadable in the shadow. But his eyes… those eyes burned into your back with a pain you knew you’d never forget.

When your raft pushed off into the surf, you dared one last glance over your shoulder. He was still there, standing alone at the edge of the sand. The waves swallowed your cries, but you mouthed the only thing you could:

Thank you.

The ship grew closer. Safety loomed ahead. But your heart was still stranded on that shore, beating in time with the man you left behind.

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[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 4

The days blurred into routine—gathering fruit, weaving with the women, learning to listen to the jungle’s voice. You had almost forgotten what silence felt like. Then one afternoon, it shattered.

A scream tore through the village. One of your fellow survivors, his voice hoarse from days of hopeless shouting, ran down from the cliffs.

“A ship!” he cried, stumbling into the clearing. “There’s a ship! Out on the horizon!”

The camp erupted into chaos. The other survivors ran toward the shore, sobbing, screaming, waving their arms. Even the tribe members paused their work, curious but not urgent.

Your heart nearly burst from your chest. A ship. Real, tangible rescue. Home.

You dropped the woven mat from your lap and bolted after them, legs pounding through the sand until your lungs burned. And there it was, far beyond the white line of waves—a dark shape cutting across the horizon. Not a dream. Not a mirage.

Your throat closed with relief. Tears blurred your eyes. Saved. Finally, saved.

But then… you felt it.

That gaze.

You turned, and he was there, standing apart from the frenzy. The tribe leader. His scarred chest rose and fell slowly, but his eyes… his eyes told a story you weren’t ready for.

Sadness. The kind that seeped into the bones.

Your joy faltered, twisting into guilt. For weeks, he had been everything—your protector, your shadow, your captor, your guide. And now… what would he be, if you left?

You stepped closer, heart hammering. He didn’t move. Just watched.

Quietly, you asked, “Do you… want to come? With me. To my homeland.”

His brow furrowed. He searched your face, as if weighing the meaning behind words he barely understood.

You tried again, pointing first to yourself, then toward the horizon where the ship drifted, then back at him. “With me. Come with me.”

For a moment, his expression softened, hope flickering like firelight. But then his jaw tightened. He looked back at the tribe—his people, his land, his roots—and then at you, the foreigner who had stumbled into his world.

When his eyes met yours again, they burned. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, just over your heart, and shook his head slowly.

“No… leave.”

The ship’s horn echoed faintly across the waves, a call to freedom.

And yet, you stood there, caught between two worlds—one that promised safety and the life you’d lost, and one that bound you with something far more complicated than survival.

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[parisgateauxqwerty]

Part 3

The first days after his “claim” were filled with tension. You tried to resist, to pull away, to remind yourself that you were only here by accident. That you had a home somewhere across the ocean, waiting. But the truth hit harder with every sunrise—no planes, no ships, no rescue.

Only the island. And him.

The tribe didn’t treat you cruelly. In fact, they welcomed you in ways that unsettled you at first. An older woman pressed painted berries into your hand, showing you how to crush them into dye. Children tugged at your clothes, giggling, leading you to streams where fish darted like silver arrows. A group of women taught you how to weave broad palm leaves into mats, their laughter echoing through the canopy.

Life here was raw, but it was… living.

Hunger gnawed less when you learned which roots to dig, which fruits to pluck. Your skin toughened beneath the sun. Your feet found balance on forest paths where you once stumbled. Slowly, your body began to follow their rhythm—wake with the dawn, work with your hands, sleep to the hum of the jungle.

And always, he was there.

The leader’s shadow never strayed far. He didn’t press you again about being his wife—not in words. But in action? His claim was undeniable. When you carried water, he was at your side. When you slipped on the rocks, his arm was there before you could fall. Every portion of food you touched was one he had chosen for you.

Sometimes, it infuriated you. Sometimes, it comforted you.

You began to notice the way his people looked at him—with reverence, with trust. He wasn’t just their leader, he was their protector, their anchor. And when his eyes turned to you, there was a softness, a hunger, that felt more complicated than simple ownership.

One night, you sat by the fire with him again. The jungle hummed, flames dancing between you. He held out a carved bowl, steaming with something earthy.

You hesitated.

He pushed it gently closer. “Eat.”

His voice was rough, but careful. The English word was clear, practiced.

You took the bowl, sipping. The bitter roots gave way to a sweetness you hadn’t expected. You looked up at him, startled, and he smiled—small, fleeting, but real.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded. “…Good.”

The word seemed to please him more than it should have.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t home. But as the stars wheeled above the jungle canopy, and his people laughed somewhere in the dark, you realized you weren’t surviving anymore.

You were adapting.

And that terrified you more than anything.

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