'you're the girl in garretts lockscreen' ! garrett graham x childhoodbestfriend!reader
summary .ᐟ you finally meet visit the off campus house and meet garrett's friends, but not in the way either of you imagined.
notes .ᐟ maybe cringe??? idk...
"You're not waiting outside. End of"
His words were stern as he said them, not harsh, no, never harsh when it came to you, but his tone gave no room for discussion.
"G, Please. I'll be fine" You cringed at the slight whine that echoed through your words, pleading to your best friend in front of you
"No"
"Garrett!"
"No."
The lock to the off campus house clicked as his words echoed in your ears, Garrett's hand tight on the doorknob as he pushed it open. The warmth of his shared house flowed out, contrasting sharply with the biting cold of the winter weather outside.
"Get in, it's fucking freezing. You're gonna catch a cold" He sighed, tilting his head towards the door as he turned to you.
He rolled his eyes as you made no effort to move, as stubborn as you had been since elementary school. Garrett watched as you tried your best not to shiver, the cold nipping at your cheeks.
His hand swiftly came down around you, softly resting on the small of your back as he basically pushed you inside.
You hated how much you liked the warmth of the house, the multiple layers of clothes you had thrown on yourself like armour now seeming unnecessary.
Scanning the inside of the house, your eyes drifted slowly over the entrance. It looked exactly like you had imagined. Red solo cups and beer bottles resting on the coffee table, pillows haphazardly strewn across the sofa, a led lit air hockey table standing out against the dark wood floors resting next to a keg.
Your eyes almost rolled out of your head at how predictable it was.
"Happy now?" Garrett teased, closing the door behind him and placing his keys down. "No" You quipped back almost instantly
When you woke up this morning, the last place you pictured yourself was standing in the living room of the house Garrett shared with his 3 friends.
Garrett had waited for you outside your mid-day class, pulling you sideways the second you walked out of the lecture hall like some stalker waiting for his victim.
You let out a gasp as he pulled you into the corner of the hallway, grinning down at you like he hadn't just manhandled you into him. You listened to him drone on and on about hockey and practice, clearly where he had just come from, his dark curls still damp against his forehead as they swayed and his skin sticky from sweat.
It was only when you were dragged up the steps of his house that you realised grabbing lunch apparently meant needing to go home first. A detail Garrett had somehow failed to mention.
Despite being on campus for a few weeks now, you hadn't yet payed a visit to his humble abode. But that was not due to lack of him trying.
Ever since arriving at Briar, he badgered you constantly about coming over to his place, wanting to be in the solace of his room alone with you since you had banned him from staying in your dorm out of worry of making your freshly new roommate uncomfortable with his presence.
It's not that you didn't want to be with Garrett. Never that.
But you would be lying if you said you weren't slightly intimidated by the prospect of meeting his fellow hockey player roomates.
You wouldn't say you were a shy girl, per say, but you had heard whispers around campus of Garrett and his friends constantly since the semester started.
Whispers that clearly indicated that they were far, far from nobodies.
If you hadn't known Garrett since you were practically in diapers, you'd probably be scared shitless of him the most out of all of them.
Garrett didn't mean to trick you into coming over to his house that day. Well, at least not really.
He did truthfully want to grab lunch with you. Just after he showered, changed, and hopefully coaxed you into napping with him.
"Baby, they aren't home. Won't be for a while, don't worry." Garrett whispered into your ear, his minty breath warm against your neck as he dipped his head down behind you. Referencing to the fact his roomates were out discussing plays for their next hockey game with the new rookies, a meetup Garrett was glad he missed out on the planning of.
They may have still asked him to come. Multiple times. He may have declined. Multiple times.
"I'm not worried" You replied, almost too quickly.
He raised his eyebrows at your comment, clearly as convinced as you were by your own words. Which wasn't at all.
"Cmon" Garrett said as he began grabbing your hand before leading towards the staircase.
If you weren't so distracted looking around at his house and dissecting every detail of your new environment, you'd have asked where he was taking you.
However, your non-existent question was answered as he led you through a hallway and into a room.
His room.
You could tell as soon as you entered.
It had Garrett Graham written all over it. Well, literally. The street sign detailed with his name being the same one you had seen in his room from home.
It smelled like him too. Cologne, aftershave and mint.
Of course, it was clean. Bed made perfectly, desk neat, light filtering through his mahogany brown blinds.
A white picture frame stood out against the cool greys and browns hues of his decor, hand painted hearts littering the frame. You remember painting that him years ago, before he left for college. Assuming he was going to fill it with a photo of his friends or high school hockey team, you left the insert blank.
But instead, the picture that lay inside the glass, was you.
You remember the day it was taken. Garrett was fiddling around with your digital camera, promising he wasn't going to break it. He turned the camera around so it was facing the both of you, reaching his hands out and snapping a selfie of you both as he kissed you on the cheek.
As you looked around the room, the door clicked behind you, Garrett immediately taking the chance to wrap his hands around your waist while he stood behind you.
You immediately pulled away, looking back at him with mock disgust.
"You're sweaty" You declared, regarding the fact he had just came back from hockey practice.
"You can't even feel me!" He exclaimed, gesturing to the multitude of layers you had on due to the cold. "Yeah, but i can smell you" You quipped, even though he somehow didn't smell as bad as he should from skating around in a rink all day.
"Ok, rude. I'm gonna go shower then. Happy?" Garrett asked, sarcastic in his tone as he shrugged off his hoodie.
"No, you said you just needed to grab something quickly before we get lunch" You accused, watching as he walked over to his dresser.
"Well, you've made me insecure now" He stated, turning around to look back at you.
"No i haven't. You are never insecure."
"You're right. I'm not" Your breath hitched as he pulled his black shirt over his head, leaving him shirtless a few feet away from you, a bright grin on his face.
It wasn't the first time you had seen Garrett shirtless. Probably not even the hundredth. But it never didn't make you feel giddy inside, especially since his skin was glistening as the fractured light shone into his room.
"Now, can you stop standing there like a deer in the headlights and sit down or something" He joked, the fact that you were still standing right in front of his door reminding you that you hadn't moved since you had entered.
Suddenly, it dawned on you.
"You planned this whole thing didn't you? You didn't need to just grab something, did you?" You accused, wagging your finger in his face as you approached him.
His face then shifted to one struck with mock guilt, teasing. "I'm guilty. Take me away officer. Make it quick, please." Reaching his hands up as if he were about to get handcuffed.
"You're not funny," You replied
"I'm pretty funny"
You rolled your eyes as you made your way to his bed, sitting down on the soft comforter. "Hurry up" You said, placing your book bag onto his floor.
"What, don't wanna join me?" Garrett asked, only him knowing he meant the idea of you showering with him as a little more than a joke.
You ignored his question, facepalming as you groaned.
You heard him laugh across the room, his footsteps echoing towards his bed where you were sat. Your eyes raised, watching Garrett as he approached, clad only in his grey sweatpants.
"I'll be just a minute, bathroom is down the hall. Call out if you need me" You nodded softly at him, his constant need to make sure you're okay apparent in his sincere words.
He gleamed at your nod, reaching down to hold the back of your head softly as he kissed you on the forehead. "Atta girl"
You really tried not to watch him walk away. But the phrase often muttered by your roommate 'hate to see him go, love to watch him leave' echoed annoyingly in your head
The prominent muscles of his back rippled as he reached for the doorknob, his gold chain gleaming as it rested above his tattoo, every movement creating a tidal wave of muscle and strength.
You released a breath you didn't know you were holding as you heard the door close after he had left the room.
The heat from what you were hoping was the warmth of his room and not that interaction began creeping up your spine, causing you to pull off all the layers it took until you were left only in your long sleeve shirt.
As you stood alone in his room, you felt yourself drift over to the photo frame you had been staring at earlier. A smile creeping onto your face before you could register it as you slowly picked up the frame.
You can't believe he had a photo of you framed in his room, standing proudly on his bedside table.
It was only then you began to notice the small reminders of you in his bedroom. A note you had wrote him in middle school you had completely forgotten about tacked onto his wall, a candle sat on his dresser that he always told you smelled just like your perfume, the soft pink blanket you had left in his car months ago thrown over the back of his chair.
The soft chirping of birds outside his window sang in your ears, your head turning to watch as they danced through the branches of the trees. You found yourself smiling at their actions, flying in the air joyful and utterly free.
"G, I'm gonna fuckin kill you for bailing. Those rookies are fucking insufferab-"
Your neck almost broke by how swiftly you turned it, shock and genuine horror struck across your features.
Stood in Garrett's door was a tall blonde, his jaw slack to the floor and looking just as shocked as you were. Your eyes swiftly scanned his frame, a Briar hockey hoodie resting on his body and his hand outstretched to the door knob he had just rattled open.
"Sorry, sorry! Fuck." The boy cursed, his face now painted with guilt as he cringed at himself.
You nearly jumped as he went to slam the door closed, interrupting his movements. "No, no. It's ok. I'm just waiting for Garrett to shower" You explained, walking a few feet closer to the door.
The boy's eyebrows raised at your words, before a look of recognition struck wildly through his face.
"You're her!" He practically shouted, removing his hand from the doorknob to point at you.
You almost jumped at the volume of his voice, confusion washing through you. "Her?" You quizzed
"Yes! You're the girl in Garrett's lockscreen!" He started, what seemed to be excitement lighting up his expression, moving his finger to point to the picture frame on Garrett's bedside table "And the photo, You're her!"
Before you could even conjure up anytime of response to his words, another voice cut through the air
"Dean, bro, what the fuck are you screaming about?" Another boy said, showing up behind the blonde.
"Oh my god" The brunette exclaimed, clearly recognising you as well the second his eyes drifted to you, now standing feeling embarrassingly awkward as you stood in Garrett's room.
"Garrett talks about you all the fucking time, since we've known him. I cannot believe we are finally meeting you" The blonde said, tumbling into the room and wrapping you into a hug, eliciting a laugh from you that finally made you feel the tiniest bit less horrified by the situation.
"Tucker! Bro! Come here!" The brunette behind the boy shouted, smiling as he followed behind the blonde into the room.
At that same moment, steam rolled out from the bathroom door, Garrett's curls tight and dark from the water as he ran his hand through his hair, his body now clad in a dark grey teeshirt and black sweatpants.
Due to the sound of the water cascading from the shower head, the shouts of his roommates hadn't cut echoed through the noise, leaving him completely oblivious to the scene unravelling in his own bedroom.
So, he was utterly horrified as he watched the doorframe of his room now swung completely open and Dean's voiced echoing through the hallway from his bedroom.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Garrett's voice sliced sharply through the air, his eyes set on the fact that Dean had his arms wrapped tightly around you, fucking hugging you.
Dean jumped as he heard Garrett's voice, turning to find him standing in the door of his room.
"Uh, hugging my new best-friend?" Dean said as if it were obvious, his voice contradicted by the fact he was slowly backing away from you at the sight of his friend's less than happy expression.
As if you weren't overstimulated enough, steps began bounding into down the hallway, gradually getting louder as they reached Garrett's room.
"What! What did i miss?" Tucker exclaimed, out of breath from running up the stairs from the kitchen with a deep fear of fomo.
His face mimicked Dean's exact expression as he noticed you, his jaw dropping in the same shocked way before he shouted
best friends don't call each other baby ! garrett graham x childhoodbestfriend!reader
summary.ᐟ when your new roommate observes your 'friendship' with hockey captain garrett graham, she can't help but think your relationship with your childhood best friend is more than platonic
notes.ᐟ 2 year age gap (garrett is a junior and reader is a freshman) occ as garrett didn't go to boarding school (whoops!)
"Jesus, women. Is there anything left in your house or did you pack it all?"
You turn to look at your bestfriend, your eye's shifting down to the brown cardboard box he was lifting up into his arms. The box was nearly busting at the corners, threatening to break at any moment from the sheer weight of its contents.
"G, be careful. That ones really heavy" You gasped, reading the 'books' label you had scrawled onto the side during packing.
Your concern didn't phase him, Garrett not even bothering to look over at your dramatic expression.
"It's fine, baby. I got it" He spoke, rolling his eyes as he shifted the heavy box into one arm before reaching up to close the trunk of his jeep.
You huffed in reply, your eyes drifting down to his arms before you could consciously register it. His biceps strained against the fabric of his t-shirt, looking as if the fabric could rip at any moment at the sheer size of his arms. His tan skin glowed under the sun, the box you had to get your mother to help you lift seeming as if it weighed nothing to him as he held it with only one arm.
The sound of the trunk door closing snapped you back into consciousness, silently cursing at yourself for checking out the boy you had been best friends with since the in 1st grade. Thankfully, Garrett didn't seem to notice your clear ogling.
"Ok, We should only have to do one more round after this" He said, referencing to the fact you only had two more boxes of stuff left to bring up to your dorm.
You nodded in reply, your arms wrapping around your own cardboard box you were holding. One admittedly much smaller and much lighter in comparison to the one Garrett had.
He looked at you for a moment to make sure you were ready before he began leading you to your dorm building.
Garrett was two years older than you, being a junior while you were just a freshman at college. Meaning that he knew his way around Briar while you were still currently clueless on the layout of campus.
The age gap between you never bothered you and Garrett much, until it meant he was going to college while you stayed stuck in your hometown.
Saying it was a shock to your system would be an understatement, going from living a few doors away from Garrett to him moving hours away to Briar U.
But, the distance didn't mean he let you go, even though a small part of you thought the second he went to college he would forget about you.
He called you multiple times a week, staying on the phone with you for hours while you updated each other on your lives until you eventually dosed off on facetime. Thankfully, Garrett also came home to visit during the year. Once whispering to you as he fell asleep in your arms that he only came to see you, and not his father or friends from highschool.
You really didn't plan on going to Briar U.
I mean sure, you would have loved to ended up here because of Garrett, but he isn't the reason you ended up enrolling.
Ok, maybe his presence had a little, tiny influence on your decision to apply in the first place
However, you had received a full ride scholarship to Briar. And you knew you couldn't pass up on it, refusing to burden your Mom with college fees she would refuse to let you get student loans for.
Garrett almost squeezed you to death when you told him about your enrolment, hugging you so tight you could barely breathe.
Although he strongly, strongly encourage your apply to Briar, he would never admit to you how much he wanted you here, knowing this decision was yours to make without his influence.
Garrett had drove back home the night before the day you were moving to Briar to help out. Despite your insistence that it was definitely not necessary, he didn't budge, arriving to your house with his signature grin slapped across his face as he told you how excited he was for you to be with him at Briar.
Both his and your mom's car was packed to the brim with boxes, both of them rolling their eyes at your obvious overpacking.
Garrett wiped the tears that rolled down your face as you said goodbye to your Mom, you insisting that she didn't have to stay to unpack the rest of your things from Garrets car as you knew more time would only make the goodbye worse.
You were now trudging up the stairs to your dorm, your legs embarrassingly sore from having to go up and down them all morning.
"Garrett, you really didn't have to do this" You huffed as you finally reached your level and began walking beside Garrett who had been a few steps infront of you.
"What are you talking about?" He responded dumbfounded, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion.
"Help me move in. You've been lugging boxes upstairs all day, and you start classes tomorrow as well. Go home, please" You sighed, feeling terrible guilt about him helping you all morning and having to drive hours to and from campus.
"First of all, Rude. And that's stupid, of course i'm gonna help you. Now shush" Garrett replied, shutting down your unnecessary worry and pushing the door to your dorm open.
You rolled your eyes at his comment, deep down relieved he truely wanted to help and didn't just feel obligated to. Because, knowing Garrett, he would have just said so.
Your eyes drifted into the expanse of your dorm room, boxes filling your side of the dorm as the other half lay bare. Due to it being the morning, you knew your roommate probably wouldn't arrive till mid-day, about an hour from now.
Garrett closed the door behind you as you drifted in, placing the box you were holding down on your bed. He followed closely behind you in your actions, effortlessly placing the heavy box he had onto your draw.
He swiftly waltz over to you, standing behind you at your position stood at the foot of the bed. Bringing his hands to wrap around you at your waist, he held you close to his body as his head dipped to your shoulders, burying closely into the crook of your neck.
It was the night of your sixteen birthday party that you first noticed you and Garrett acted in a way that was closer than being solely friends.
He stared closely at you as you blew out your candles, his normally stubborn and blank face cracking into a grin and a twinkle in his eyes. He held you close in his arms as you two were hidden away in the corner of the room away from your guests, tucking your hair behind your ear and kissing you tenderly on the crown of your head.
It was only when your friends observed your actions with Garrett that you first noticed this was more than what childhood friends do. You denied their comments to the grave that you were more than friends.
Because you genuinely believed it, oblivious to the fact that you two acted like more of a couple than anything.
"Who brings books to college?" He teased, observing the label that was scrawled onto the cardboard, remembering the other 'textbooks and assigned reading' box he had lugged up earlier, signalling these books were simply for pleasure.
You could feel his breathe littering goosebumps on your skin, his teasing intertwined with soft chuckle that make his words vibrate onto your skin.
Ignoring his smartass comment, you turned around in his arms to look up at him, his dark curls creating what looked like a halo around his head. His hands didn't move from your body of course, only shifting slightly to lay warm around your waist once again, his hands pressing against you as he caged you into him.
He only brought you impossibly closer to his frame as you rested your head into his chest, sighing into his black shirt as he brought his head down to rest atop of yours. Your hands now wrapped around as well, feeling how his back muscles rippled against your palms.
"I'm so fucking glad your here with me now" His voice was almost a whisper, filled with relief. You could feel his lips press against the top of your head as he placed a tender kiss upon your hair.
You lifted your head to look up at him, finding his eyes filled with adoration swimming in the dark brown of his irises.
"Me too, G. Missed you" You replied softly, always quick with your the admittance of your feelings.
His lips up turned into a smile at your comment, bringing a hand up to your face and cupping your cheek, dragging his thumb softly up and down on your skin.
A soft silence fell around you as you rested in each others arms, a sense of relief filling you both at being together again.
"Ok, gonna go get the last boxes. You stay here, yeah?" While the words Garrett said left his mouth like a question, you knew it really wasnt.
You nodded at his words, untangling yourself from his arms and watching him grin at you once more before opening the door and striding out.
The room felt cold without his presence, the white bareness of your sterile dorm becoming more clear to you now.
Softly peeling off the tape off one cardboard box, you lifted your folded sheets up and placed them on the desk. Your fingers softly smoothed the light pink fabric, dainty flowers decorating the sheet.
After a few minutes, more than it should have probably taken you, you had got all of your boxes off your bed, reaching over to grab your matress cover.
The sound of your turn knob turning rang through your ears, the door creaking softly as it was pushed open.
Instead of Garrett returning, a girl stood in the door, holding an overflowing box and a suitcase handle in another. She squealed excitedly as she almost ran into the room, placing the box down on the bed on the other side of the room and dropping the suitcase to the floor.
"You're my roomate!" She said joyfully, pulling you into a tight hug before you could process it.
"I am!" You replied, laughing softly as you hugged her back.
She pulled back, looking at you. "And you're so pretty! We are gonna have the best year"
You smiled at her compliment, happiness flooding through you that you're roomate you were nervous about meeting was so kind.
"It's so nice to meet you" You exclaimed, introducing yourself with your name.
"You too! I'm Phoebe" She replied, grinning from ear to ear.
"I got here a bit earlier so i just put my stuff down on a random side, but we can totally switch if you want" You said, Phoebe replying instantly with a shake of her head "It's ok, i don't mind"
You two began to chat as you floated to either side of your room, eventually making no progress in packing and sitting together on your bed.
You learned that she lived only a couple of hours away from Briar, and her parents were crying so much this morning she sent them on a mindless task to the administration office so she could have a moment of peace.
You laughed at her bluntness, but was interrupted shortly after by the door of your room opening once more.
"Baby, we really gotta talk about your hoarding tendancies-" Garrett started, his voice floating into the room before he cut himself off at noticing your roomate had arrived.
You jumped up at his arrival, watching as he stood awkwardly in the doorframe, the last two boxes in his arms.
"Oh! Phoebe, this is Garrett. Garrett, this is my new roommate, Phoebe." You said, drifting over to stand near Garrett's side as you introduced one another.
"Hello" Garrett said shortly, barely polite as he came back to your side after placing the boxes on your desk.
"Hi" Phoebe replied, waving at him softly with her hand
"He's just helping me move in" You started, breaking the heavy silence "I promise you he will not be in here often" Garrett rolled your eyes at your comment, knowing you didn't want to make your new roommate uncomfortable with the thought of him always lurking in your dorm.
She laughed at your comment, walking over to her suitcase and packing more things into her draws.
"I'm just gonna walk him out, be back in a sec" You said, grabbing Garrett's hand as Phoebe replied with a wave of her hand to signal 'no worries' as she continued unpacking.
The door of your room shut with a click as closed it, turning to Garrett infront of you.
"Isn't she so nice! I'm so relieved." You exclaimed to him.
He nodded at your comment, reaching down to your other hand so he was not holding both infront of him. "See, i told you. Didn't need to be so worried" His voice calm as always.
Whenever you were around Garrett, you noticed he always needed to be touching you in some way. Whether it was simply holding your hand, resting his palm on your lower back, or holding you in his arms.
He watched as your lashes fluttered softly against your cheek as you blinked, your smile so radiant he thought it would probably put literal angels from the heavens above to shame.
Your eyes floated down to his watch, reading the time and sighing to yourself. "Garrett, you're late to practice."
"Nah, can't be late. They don't start without me" He quipped, your eyes rolling at his arrogance.
"Thank you" You said softly, pulling him into a hug that he gladly reciprocated, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame.
"For what baby?" He replied, the less than casual but ordinary nickname rolling off his tounge smoothly
"For helping me. For being there for me, always" You breathed out, refusing to look at him as you spoke.
You felt his his hand come down to your face, bringing his finger under your chin and tilting your head to look up at him.
"Hey, don't do that. Don't thank me for that" He whispered, his voice soft and sincere.
Garrett brought his face down to yours, resting a searing kiss onto your forehead. "Always be there for you"
You smiled softly at his words "You're the best bestfriend a girl could ask for G"
His body tensed under yours so subtly you didn't notice, a soft "Yeah" falling from his lips at your words
"Ok, go to practice now please Mr. Graham" You said, jokingly pushing him away, oblivous to how his face had fallen slightly at your words.
"Call me later, okay? Need to know you're all good" Garrett said, you nodding softly at his comment.
"See you, Baby." He said, walking away as you replied with a small bye, watching as he neared the end of your hallway before taking one look back at you and grinning.
You found yourself sighed at the interaction, bringing your hand up to the doorknob of your room and walking in before shutting the door behind you.
"You know Garrett Graham!?" Phoebe almost shrieked, all composure from before dissipating as her tone made you jump in surprise.
You laughed, slightly shocked "You know Garrett Graham?" You mimiced back, only your tone was one of genuine confusion.
"Uh, Duh. Of course i know Garrett Graham. I don't think there's one person at Briar who doesn't. I think i saw almost 10 posters of him walking in to campus today alone" Phoebe said
You knew how popular Garrett was. It had been like that since Middle school. People parting way for him in a crowd, whispers as he walked past, eyes glued to him for no apparent reason anywhere he went.
It wasn't any different at Briar. Especially since Garrett was the captain of the Division I Hockey Team, and had a grin that could make your knees lock and your heart beat out of your chest.
You noticed the way girls watched him as he walked through the hallway of your dorm building. Conversations that had stopped the second he walked past, but never taking his eyes off of you to notice.
"Oh, right. Yes." You replied, not knowing what to say in the moment. Phoebe's face quickly morphed into one of horror before she replied in a ramble. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry, that was weird to say. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable"
"No, no. It's fine" You replied in earnest, laughing softly to lighten the mood.
"I'm just in shock that my roommate is dating Garrett Graham" She said, genuine in her words as turned back around from standing in front of you.
You nearly spit out your metaphorical drink at her words, your eyes widening. "Oh, um. Garrett's definitely not my boyfriend."
Phoebe quickly turned at your words, her face written with confusion. "Shit, sorry. I shouldn't have assumed" She said honestly, cursing herself for saying another thing that probably offended you.
"No worries, we're just close friends. We've known each other since we were little"
Her eyes glinted curiously at your words, raising an eyebrow but not saying anything more.
You squinted your eyes at her expression "What?" You asked, dumbfounded.
Phoebe looked at you more seriously now, staring at you as if she were looking into your soul. "Sweetheart" She started, a mischievous, knowing look on her face.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up together, had sharpened each other like two arrowheads. You thought that meant everything, until you see Ka'vina has taken your place.
Despite the high stakes, hunting always brought you a sense of peace.
There were repetitive motions that you followed for every hunt, ones that felt as familiar as breathing at this point in your life.
Every hunter must remember first scan their area, they must be familiar with the routines of the yerik packs, must be aware of where palulukan reside and hunt, must be wise to acknowledge the territory that the angtsìk claim as their own, it is also important that they be wary of the path they take home for nantang’s are known to try and steal a clean kill when the opportunity arises.
Next the hunter must track, keeping everything listed prior in mind. If the yerik tracks stray too close into palulukan territory, the hunter should retreat. If the hunter stumbles into angtsìk grounds, they must remember to show no fear.
Once the hunter has safely tracked a yerik, they should remember to watch their footing. To step lightly, and avoid sticks, leaves or other flora that can alert the yerik that something is around. It is best to find an angle that allows you to stay hidden, a clean kill from a concealed location always fills your chest with pride.
When the hunter is concealed they can then nock their arrow. A slow pull on the bowstring minimizes noise, and leads for more time to correct your aim. But a skillful hunter can nock, draw, and release an arrow before the yerik can even raise the defensive fans that sit upon their heads.
A true aim leads to a clean kill. A spoken prayer to Eywa, sending the yeriks spirit back to hers. And thanking the yerik for its sacrifice, for feeding the clan, and providing precious materials in the form of hides.
Finally the hunter must decide on if they will haul the entire yerik back to the home tree; or if they will only take the most valuable cuts of meat, and the largest spans of hide to carry back and leave the rest for other forest creatures to feast on.
You rarely chose to leave any of your catch. Years of training left you strong, you could easily haul your kills home. It did not matter if it left an ache in your shoulders, or if a twinge settled in your lower back.
As you approach hometree you begin to wonder if you should have at least taken a bit of the breast meat. You knew it was Neteyams favorite, and it would be a good way to show him not only your hunting prowess, that you are attuned to him. That you see him.
It is a nice thought. To court someone you have been pining after most of your life. But then you find yourself too close to hometree to dismount the yerik from your shoulders and you chuckle at how much your mind wandered on the way home.
You make your way through the clan, greeting people as you make your way to the carvers. They would slice the hide from the yeriks body and hang it to dry before cutting up your kill into as many satisfying, equal portions as possible to be prepared for the cookfire tonight.
Mou comes to greet you, “Thank you taronyu.” He grabs the yerik from where you’ve placed it. “Do you wish for a specific cut? Perhaps you would like some of the hide?”
It was traditional for the carvers to ask if the hunter would like a specific piece of their kill. But that would also take away the significance of offering a piece of meat as a courting display.
“I do not wish for it. You know you do not have to ask me that every time I bring you a kill, Mou.”
He laughs at you, finding your blank tone amusing, “It is tradition.”
“It is stupid. Have I ever asked you to do this for me?”
“No, but one never knows when ferocious hunters like you may grow lazy.”
Mou tosses a grin over his shoulder as he hauls your kill away and towards the group of waiting carvers. He was never one to take your brazen demeanor as rudeness, he knew you spoke your mind and let your feelings be known even in uncomfortable situations.
You scoff at him as you leave. As if you would ever become lazy. How could he have the audacity to even think of such a concept?
The clan is bustling as you shift through; children are running around with their wooden toys, singers are practicing the ancient songs, there are bigger hunting parties returning with their kills, even the weaving circle is louder than usual.
It brings a slight grin to your face, seeing the people happy makes you happy. You had more than enough time to take a quick nap, and then head to the river to wash up before dinner would be served. Maybe if you skipped the nap you could take your beloved ikran out for a flight and wash at one of the hot springs that sparsely resided in the Ayram Alusìng.
Yes.
That would be nice, it could ease the tension in your shoulders.
It is settled. Instead of heading back to your kelku, you pivot to climb up hometree. The ikrans rest at the highest level, but you’ve been climbing almost as long as you’ve been walking so you would reach it shortly.
As you arrive at the base of hometree and start to find some solid footing a call of your name comes across the clearing. Your eyes close, a sigh heaving through your lips. With a turn of your head you survey the area, you know the voice, and have heard it almost everyday since she learned how to speak.
You spot Kiri weaving her way through the clan, her hand raised in a beckoning motion. “Come search with me for some paywll.”
“They are far Kiri. We will not arrive back before the cookfire starts.”
She is face to face with you now, her tail undulates as she speaks. “You have never minded missing a bit of the cookfire.”
Your lips purse, a crease forming between your brows in mock debate.
“Please.” Kiri grasps your hand before turning around and tugging you behind her.
Laughter bubbles uncontrollably out of your chest, “Kiri – Wait! I have not said yes yet!”
“You would have said yes regardless, now come. I will carry the gourd now, you may carry it back when it is full.”
You were only supposed to be txantxewm, lingering over her shoulder to shoo predators away. Now she wants you to work too! Unbelievable.
It’s hours later when Kiri and you approach hometree again. You’ve ended up carrying not only the gourd filled with medicinal liquid, but also the leaves of paywll, which are packed into a basket that rests on your hip.
You pass the cookfire on your way to the Tsa’hiks kelku. It’s lively as ever; drums are being beaten creating a tune for the singers to perform to, there's a group of clan members dancing, and the younger members have begun to section off into groups.
Kiri is half a step in front of you, excited to drop off the items her grandmother requested and finally be done with her Tsakarem training for the day. You allow your eyes to skim over the faces, searching for Neteyams, you’d like to know where you should move to after you deliver the materials to Mo’at.
It takes you a few moments to find him. He’s settled all the way across the gathering, surrounded by other young hunters, a few climbers and weavers as well. He normally sits on the edge of the group, saving space on one of his sides for you. You’re unsurprised to see he’s flanked by Fay’ru, the other male trying to get into the future Olo’eyktan’s good graces.
You’re unable to conceal your look of shock at Ka’vina sitting on Neteyams other side. She has never joined your group before, always softly tucked into the weavers circle or sitting with her sister where the singers congregate. You school your expression before someone can see you trying to dissect Ka’vina from the inside out.
Neteyam had always rejected anyone from closing him in. He would kindly redirect them towards another seat, reminding them that he had saved his closest friend the seat they had just tried to sit in.
Neteyam was a strong warrior, a strong hunter, and as his father would say he has a ‘backbone’. So there would be no reason for him to allow her to sit in your spot.
But he was of age, in his prime years.
He was strong. He filled out his body well in recent years. He gained some of his fathers unnatural width. His old armbands no longer fit, having to become bracelets or being stored away for his future children. His cummerbund also barely fit now, but he refused to part with it until it absolutely no longer fit.
He was kind. He took on responsibilities of other clan members when he could see them struggling. He helped the elders with carrying their baskets, he had even carved them walking sticks to steady them on their paths.
He was the youngest hunter to ever get a clean kill on a sturmbeest. Very few of the current hunters had prowess that rivaled his. He frequently led the younger hunters when they went out, making time to help them hone in on their skills.
Neteyam also frequented the training grounds, not for his own skills. He had been bestowed the honor of training new warriors. Of teaching them the ways of the Omatikaya, making sure they had every required skill to complete their Iknimayas.
Ka’vina was a stark opposite.
She spent most of her time around hometree, never venturing out into the forest unless accompanied by a warrior.
She weaved many things. Tewngs, chest coverings, chokers, bracelets, armbands, cummerbunds, bowstrings, baskets, hammocks, floor mats. The list could continue on and on.
She was knowledgeable of healing herbs, the best spices to use on meats at the cookfire, aware of how to properly prepare some tough to handle roots and fruits for consumption as well.
However she was naive.
You knew she did not know how to hunt. Did not know how to skin a yerik, how to aim at a herd of sturmbeest; you were not even sure she knew what animals were aggressive and which were kind.
Her hands were soft, not even calloused with the countless hours spent weaving. You didn’t think she even wielded a bow. Hardly believed that she knew a knife could be used to do anything other than chop roots. It showed how simple her life was, how different she was from Neteyam. How different she was from you.
Then it dawned on you. Neteyam must be courting her. As they say ‘opposites attract’ and her softness would be a perfect compliment to the firm hand he would come to lead with.
A piercing feeling shot into your chest.
You’ve been following Kiri silently this whole time. She had glanced back at you occasionally, mostly to make sure you were still following her, but she could tell you didn’t want to speak based on the carefully crafted expression on your face.
Mo’at greets you as you duck into the tent, on autopilot you respond.Then you’re asking her where she’d like the gourd and the basket, placing them down with a delicately crafted care before bidding your goodbyes.
“I will join you at the cookfire shortly.”
“Ah. I will be heading home.” You shake your head, the beads braided into your hair clacking with the motion. “Let me know if you require aid harvesting more herbs. Goodnight Kiri, Tsa’hik.”
With sudden, jerky motions you duck back out of the tent. You can hear Kiri protesting, trying to encourage you to at least pick up a niktsyey before heading home. It’s pleasant to know that she cares, but you don’t think you could face Neteyam so shortly after your realization.
Unfortunately you have to walk past the cookfire again to reach your kelku, it being on the opposite side of the village from the Tsa’hiks. You were a skilled hunter, a warrior when needed, and you knew how to camouflage, how to avoid being seen.
Taking a steadying breath, you head more towards the forest, where it would be easier to blend into the flora. Easier to slip past your friends. Easier to avoid the new reality you’d have to live in.
You’re only a few steps away from rockier terrain when a five fingered hand grasps your wrist. Whipping around you come face to face with Lo’ak.
He’s grinning, clearly happy to catch you and hinder you from heading home, “Come, I need your support in an argument with Vor’lan.”
He doesn’t listen before starting to drag you towards his friends. What is it with these Sullys and refusing to wait for an answer!
“Lo’ak. I am tired, I have been out all day.”
“That is fine. It will be quick, and you can have my last niktsyey as payment.”
You scoff, “No. I have not had time to wash, I do not wish to be around people.”
“My friends do not care.” He turns to face you briefly before continuing to drag you, “To be fair, they will probably still drool over you.”
“Lo’ak!” An incredulous gasp tears from your throat.
A boyish laugh leaves him, “It is true! So do not worry about the smell, just back me up okay?”
In reality you could dig your heels into the dirt and yank your wrist free of his grasp. You were still stronger than him, your muscles more taut, more prepared to fight back than his. But the soft spot in your heart reserved for the Sully kids aches. So you allow him to drag you to where his friends reside at the cookfire.
You allow him to shove the niktsyey into your palm, along with a carved up filled with something that he definitely should not be drinking. The food and drink loosen you up, allow you to relax a little bit, to find a way to enjoy the company you’re in.
When Lo’ak retells his story about the tslikllte he caught, all of his friends doubt him. No one believing he saw one of the creatures this far inland. But then he’s looking at you, “She was there, tell them! Tell Vor’lan specifically how I bested it.”
You take another swig of your drink, swishing it around your mouth as you decide how much to talk up Lo’ak. “I was not there when Lo’ak stumbled upon it.”
“Hey! You so wer -”
“Hush. When I arrived you were already wrestling the poor thing.” You gulp down a few more sips before beginning to swirl the drink around in your cup.
You’re barely helping Lo’aks case and he has to defend his honor, “I had thought it to be dead already!”
“Any skxawng should know that they can hold their breath. Nevermind that does not matter. I have never seen a grip as strong as Lo’aks.”
His friends are leaning in closer now, staring intently at you, the expressions you make, the way your eyes flit over each of them.
“The tslikllte are coated to make them slick, and yet, Lo’ak never faltered. He managed to keep it in his grasp even as he removed a hand to retrieve his knife.” You begin to rest against the log everyone had gathered around, knowing that your job was done and you can fall into a nice limbo until you retire for the night, “The taste was like nothing I have experienced before, I couldn’t be happier to have tried it.”
Their conversation flows freely after that. They talk about climbing tomorrow, which mountains are best, where they can get the best views, or the best ones to try tricks on their ikrans around. It then flows to why they chose the colors that decorate their arrows. It ebbs briefly into relationships, and who’d they’d like to court after completing their dream hunts. It takes a turn into how some of them would rather mess around with many people before settling and that brings a chuckle to your tongue.
The conversation had been settled into which piece of a sturmbeest was best when it suddenly goes quiet. All eyes are focused behind where you and Lo’ak sit and would make you nervous if you weren’t such a strong warrior; scratch that, it would make you nervous if you did not have so much of the fermented drink settled in your belly.
You’re about to open your mouth and ask what has everyone staring when there's abruptly hands on your shoulders. The voice that follows sends a shiver of rigidity down your spine.
“What are we talking about, hm?”
One of Lo’aks friends speaks up, “The best part of a sturmbeest.”
“Ah, it is easily the thigh.” Neteyams hands begin to lightly massage your shoulders, feeling the tension that formed, “You do not mind if I steal her, right?”
It was a rhetorical question, and everyone knew it. You may have loved Lo’ak, willing to do almost anything he had asked. But you were still Neteyams closest friend, it was a no brainer that you would hightail it out of there as soon as you were asked. Still out of respect, they shook their heads, bidding you a goodbye.
“I am exhausted Neteyam, it would be best if I head back to my kelku now.” You’ve stood to make your point. Turning around to face Neteyam, hoping he did not see the cracks in your composure.
“I will be quick,” He smiles at you, one of the genuine ones that shows his true inner happiness, “ there is someone I want you to meet.”
Oh. You absolutely could not go over there. The stories you knew of Ka’vina were enough to satiate your need to ever meet her.
Neteyam begins to tug you by your hand, as both his siblings had earlier. These damn Sullys and not taking a hint!
This time you dig your feet, you don’t let him drag you towards that woman. Your reaction would ruin your reputation in the clan.
“I really am tired, Neteyam,” You turn to Lo’ak, “Did I not say the same to you before you dragged me here?”
Lo’ak nods, remembering how you had complained hours earlier. He doesn’t understand why you’re denying Neteyam though, he doesn’t think you’ve done that in all his years of knowing you.
“Then I will walk you home.”
He turns in the direction of your kelku, seemingly pleased to just be in your presence after not seeing you all day. You let him drag you a few steps, just far enough that you’re sure his brother and his friends can no longer hear you.
“I wish to walk alone.”
Neteyams tail slows to a still in front of you, his ears flick forward to catch any and everything you say, “...But I have not seen you all day.”
What are you supposed to say? ‘I know, I’ve lived this day as well?’ or better yet, ‘I have seen you, but chosen to not acknowledge your presence as it makes me sick.’ Neither option feels right so you stay silent.
“I wish to walk you home so we can talk.”
“I do not have energy for conversation.”
“You had energy when entertaining Lo’ak’s friends.” Irritation is obvious in his tone, and his tail begins to whip back and forth harshly.
“I was not saying much, just sitting in their presence.” You finally meet his eyes, trying to drive home your point, “Just let me walk by myself tonight, please.”
The disappointment settles heavily on Neteyams features as he comes to terms with the fact that you will not allow him to do this, he grunts some noncommittal reply before heading back towards his friends who remain at the cookfire.
You should have left after that, stomped your way to your kelku, grabbed a nice warm pelt, and tucked into your hammock. Instead you watch Neteyam through the crowd, eyes following as his figure settles back onto the log, and he allows Ka’vina to settle into his side a bit more than is considered friendly.
The stabbing pain settles back in your chest. It pulses a bit the longer you watch but it does not matter anymore. You would have to fall into a new routine in the morning, sure that Ka’vina would not want you close to Neteyam as they start courting.
Before you know it four eclipses have passed and you’ve successfully avoided Neteyam for all of them. You hunt early in the mornings, leaving before most of the hunting parties have even woken up for the day. You return with your kills lighter than normal, taking enough meat to satiate yourself until the next day.
When you complete your duties you take to flying. Not the usual routes that the hunters would take, or the ones that the warriors would patrol around, just drifting with the wind patterns. Your face ends up windburnt from how much time you’ve been spending up there.
If your head isn’t literally in the clouds, you take to climbing. The hobby wasn’t your favorite, and that’s what made it the perfect diversion. You could head back out to the forest, finding a good tree to observe Eywas beauty from. Sometimes, you’d just climb hometree, heading all the way to the top to give your ikran some special treatment.
Regardless of how, you strayed from your normal paths. If you avoided them, Neteyam shouldn’t be able to track you down. And hopefully he would get the point, would understand that your paths were unwinding from each other, that they were branching off in different directions for the first time.
It hurts to avoid him. But it was better than facing him. Better than seeing him with Ka’vina. Better than watching their love flourish, and hearing the gossip spread about what a perfect pair they make.
The fifth day starts like the rest. You wake, change your tewng and chest piece, eat some fruit you had foraged the day before, slide on your knife holster and knife, and toss your bow across your back.
As you emerge from your kelku a sense of loneliness sits in your chest. You missed hunting with your friends. Missed fooling around with them at the cookfire. Missed accompanying Kiri on her foraging. Missed doing stupid shit with Lo’ak under the guise of being a responsible figure. You really missed Neteyam.
Missed flying with him. Missed hunting with him. Missed training with him. Missed indulging Tuk with him. Hell you even missed rebraiding his hair.
But your heart can only take so much. The images of him with Ka’vina flow freely into your head, reminding you of why you needed the distance, of why you needed to become a ghost in your own home.
A shout of your name halts you in your tracks. The Olo’eyktan has one of the most noticeable voices in the whole clan. You take a deep breath before turning to face him
“Good Morning, Olo’eyktan.” You raise your hand in the traditional greeting, “What can I do for you?”
Jake greets you back, “None of that formal shit kid,” then he’s yanking you into a hug. Your arms wrap sheepishly around his back, uncomfortable with the gesture due to the state of your and Neteyams relationship.
“You can say no, but Neteyams a little tied up at the moment so I was hoping you could train the young ones for a little while?”
As if you could say no to the Olo’eyktan. Jealousy claws at your heart, Ka’vina has Neteyam so busy with his courting that he can’t even tend to his duties?
“Of course, I will head there now.”
This would be good. Your friends would probably be there, and it could solve your loneliness problem, maybe you could even get a few good spars in and disguise them as ‘training demonstrations’. A skip finds your step on your way to the training grounds and for the first time in many eclipses you feel excited.
A small part of you hopes that Lo’ak would be there, that he’d force you to go on an adventure with him after training. And you could ask to bring Kiri along, satiating most of your need to hang out with the Sully kids.
You can’t think about the Sully kids without including Neteyam. You want to reminisce about happy memories, want to think about all the future good memories to come, but then Ka’vina inches her way into your mind. The image of them together at the cookfire, sitting too close for comfort.
But you won’t see them, they’ll be too busy taking strolls through the forest. Or maybe they’re flying their ikrans in spirals around each other. Perhaps they were climbing through the ayram alusìng, going higher and higher until they reached the alluring hot springs.
It’d be preferable to not think about the way Ka’vina would undress.
Would she save her modesty and undress after submerging, hoping that her loincloth and chest covering would dry before they emerged again? Or would she make a show of it, slowly unclipping her chest covering, slowly dragging it down to reveal her breast. Would she move onto the loincloth and make a show of that too?
And Neteyam. Would he watch, become so enticed with the show that he couldn’t avert his eyes? Or would he be the gentleman he was raised to be, letting Ka’vina undress and submerge in the warm water, allowing the steam time to curl over her body before finally turning around and entering the spring himself.
Oh Eywa, you were going to be sick. Why would you torment yourself with such thoughts?
A few steadying breaths flow into your lungs. The nausea is still present, but you know once you start teaching that it will subside for good.
You see the familiar shape of Tal’kren. He is performing on the archery targets, taking them from odd angles and showing off to the young ones before their lesson begins. You nock an arrow and wait, deciding when the best moment would be to make your presence known.
Tal’kren takes aim and you eye his stance to figure out which target he is aiming at. You determine it must be the target woven between many trees, the one nearly 100 meters away, farther than any of the young hunters could even dream about reaching.
You let your arrow soar just milliseconds after his does. From the angle everyone is watching from they cannot see your arrow trailing his. Tal’kren’s arrow sinks into the bullseye of the target with a satisfying thump.
Your arrow splits his a millisecond later with a much more satisfying crack. Fifteen heads start turning, searching for who released the arrow.
“Pxi kan, taronyutsyìp,” Tal’krens voice rings out. Finding you much before the trainees did.
You smile, laughing, “I am not little, just taronyu is fine.”
Tal’kren claps a hand on your shoulder before bringing you in for a hug. As you pull back, he keeps the hand on your shoulder “I assume you are my partner for today?”
“I am,” You want to show camaraderie, and encourage the trainees to cultivate similar relationships so you make no move to remove his hand from your shoulder. “The Olo’eyktan has asked me to step in for the foreseeable future.”
The young trainees murmur excitedly; your name is one that is usually spoken in soft whispers so for you to join in on their sessions for a while seemed like a blessing from Eywa. They could complain, wishing it was you and Neteyam training them, that they could have both of the best future warriors teaching them.
But they normally had Neteyam, had spent months learning from him and Tal’kren. Now they could learn your ways, and they could learn how to make their own unique style based on the two of you.
Days pass like this. The trainees soaking up your knowledge. Letting you adjust their stances, pull their strings more taught, sharpen the arrowheads that dulled from constant use.
Today you’re standing face to face with Opani when you hear the familiar timber of Neteyams voice. Your ears flick in annoyance, because of course Neteyam had to show up, but then you’re focusing on the young warrior in front of you.
Looking down towards the target you can see she is off, leaning more left than she should. It may be because of your proximity so you chide her gently, “Adjust to the right, if you were to take the shot now you would not hit a kill shot.”
She exhales roughly through her nose, you believe it to be from nerves and not irritation so you do not scold her. Then she shifts, leaning slightly more into your personal space. As she releases the arrow you hear Neteyam’s voice again.
This time you flick your head to angle it over your shoulder. Where was he? Why did it sound as if his voice was getting closer?
Beside you Opani releases a shout of joy, and that forces you to face front again. She's already staring at you, jumping a little from excitement. Flicking your eyes to the target you can see she hit the bullseye perfectly.
You ruffle her braids, giving her some words of encouragement before telling her to go retrieve her arrow and try again. After she runs off you redirect your attention in Neteyams direction.
You must be off your game, any skilled hunter should be able to differentiate from all current sounds around them. Yet, you somehow managed to miss Ka’vina’s voice. Seeing her renders you motionless; Your ears press against your skull, your tail falls flat, eyes drifting over every piece of her.
It takes you a few moments to notice Neteyam is in front of her, his back to you. They assume the same positions you and Opani were just in. It feels different this time though.
With you and Opani it was obvious that you were teacher and student. With Neteyam and Ka’vina it seemed as if it was a date. Instead of their movements being out of necessity, they had a sensual tone to them.
Neteyam uses his hand to raise Ka’vinas elbow higher, he watches the arrowhead carefully to make sure her aim is true. She turns towards him, saying something that you can’t hear.
You can see how he raises his fingers to grasp her chin. He tilts it back towards the target, encouraging her to always keep her eyes where her arrow is aimed.
The feeling that settles in your stomach makes you disgusted with yourself. They’re a well suited couple. Anyone with eyes could tell you that. They would make a good Olo’eyktan and Tsa’hik.
A good couple to lead the Omatikaya.
And here you were, upset at their presence. Upset that they were falling into love in the public eye. Upset that Neteyam hadn’t even told you he was considering courting Ka’vina.
You wondered which piece she wore was Neteyams courting gift. Was it the bracelet, the deep brown twine, mixed with blue and green beads that match her skin and the tones of the forest?
Or was it the choker, lined with polished river rocks lining her collarbone?
You couldn’t let your mind linger any longer. Couldn’t allow it to make you detest your closest friend.
So you find Tal’kren, alert him of some sudden illness you’ve come down with, and leave for the day. You could rest, and allow your mind to drift to other things. It would be smarter to head to the Tree of Souls. To make an honest prayer to Eywa for her to help you move on.
She would help you, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to let go yet.
You wanted to seem more alluring, something to attract attention at the clan gatherings. Not that you were actively seeking a mate, but it would be nice to see who is interested. Nice to see how many options you had, if any.
You knew you were rough around the edges. Knew that you spoke harsher than most liked. That your hands were rough from years of use. That you had nasty scars littering your body. That you had more muscle than the typical lithe Na’vi woman.
And you knew it had to make you less desirable. That the men must have wanted someone easier. Someone who thought before they spoke, and chose their words carefully so you could fall upon them like a pillow instead of a rock.
But that does not mean that everyone would dislike you, there has to be someone in the clan who sees your beneficial qualities. Someone who you could live your life with.
If there wasn’t you would prefer to know sooner rather than later. To decide if you should seek out a mate from a different clan.
So you seek our Kiri. A skilled weaver, knowledgeable in the proper herbs to stain cloths, and good company.
You had decided on a nice deep red. It was a color not typically worn by the Omatikaya as it did not blend in with the forest fauna - therefore it would draw the most attention.
“So, I have not seen you around the gatherings much.” Kiri drawls, keeping her head towards her weaving but angling her eyes to see you.
Your fingers don’t stop their meticulous patterns, “I have been there. Just last night I ate with Lo’ak.”
“Yes, but you skip at least 4 cookfires a week.”
“I tire easily, you know of my many duties.”
Kiri scoffs, but decides against responding. Her silence allows you to pick up a new bead, weaving it onto the side of where the cloth will hang. You’ve decided on white beads, and silvery polished river stones. They compliment the red well, they will also bring more attention to your waist, clacking and clashing with every step.
You decide on a symmetrical look. Two braided strands on each side. The farthest one shorter than the one that rests closest to the cloth. It will look nice.
Will it matter? Will the males of the clan really focus on the little details or only focus on what rests underneath?
You knew Neteyam would notice, that he would mention that the symmetry helped your internal equilibrium. Helped keep you centered in the rough moments. Not that you couldn’t function if your garments were asymmetrical, but he knew you were always a hair more sure of your aim.
But you were not wearing it for him. So what he thought did not matter. However this left you with a good idea on what to focus on when approached. Knew what you wanted to hear, and what you did not.
As you tie off the last bead on the tewng a sense of accomplishment falls upon you. You gaze upon your work lovingly; proud that even though your hands are rougher than the weavers, you can still produce a good piece.
It’s during your admiration that Kiri speaks again, “I require more twine.”
“The great mother has bestowed you with two legs and two arms, you can go retrieve your own twine.”
“I will fall out of rhythm, and then who knows how long it will take me to complete this piece.”
Your sharp words never phased Kiri, never shoved her away. You guessed it was good enough reason to go and retrieve more twine from the weavers circle.
As you stand and begin to pad away, you can hear Kiri shout some sort of thanks and you lift your hand in acknowledgement.
You were aware of many women in the weavers circle. Most of them are siblings to people you’ve hunted with, some girls you grew up with, others were elders who taught you how to weave at the beginning of your life.
A polite, simple greeting would do. You could say hello as you’re reaching for the twine. Exchange niceties, as you unspool the amount you guessed Kiri needed. And unsheath your knife and cut the twine before any deep conversations began to form.
You keep your head down as you reach for the twine and greet the circle. Everyone murmurs a similar greeting back and you are content to leave it as that. They know why you are here and do not need to indulge in conversation.
“Ma’numeyu, how have you been?” Rinak is speaking, drawing your eyes up from where the rest. She taught you how to weave when you were just a babe, toddling around camp looking for things to do.
“I have been well, and you Rinak?”
“I am also well numeyu, but I am disappointed that you have not eaten with me in many moons.”
You unsheath your knife, angling it safely to tear through the taught line of twine, “I am sorry. I will eat with you tonight if you will have me.”
“Of course I would.” Rinak chuckles, as if amused by the idea that she would shun your company away.
You smile back at her, pleased with how easily this has went. You have not run into Ka’vina or any of her friends, and have not had to exchange fake niceties with them. This will be counted as a win in your book.
But then you turn, ready to stand and head back to where you and Kiri have been hanging out as you weaved. And there, at the far side of the circle rests Ka’vina. Sitting knee-to-knee with her is Neteyam. He is weaving something, what you cannot tell, but Ka’vina is intently studying it.
Neteyam is looking at you though, his head tilted as if he is curious, and his hands only loosely grip his work. It is as if he is hunting; his eyes remain wide even after he blinks, not wanting to miss any movement from his prey.
You meet his eyes, frozen in place from his gaze. It would be improper to run, but it would be too awkward to walk over and say hello at this point. The tension grows around the circle, other members slowly noticing the way that the two of you are staring at each other.
The tension snaps like a bowstring when Ka’vina tugs on the piece in Neteyams hand. His eyes bolt to hers, ears flicking forward to catch every word that she says. That is your moment to move, so you run with it.
One of your hands raises as you bid everyone good weaving and goodbye. You force yourself to maintain a normal pace, not wanting Neteyam to see you run away. For him to know how openly you despise choice.
Upon returning to Kiri, you silently drop the twine, pressing a hand to her shoulder in greeting as you pass. She does not speak however, simply tying the two pieces together so she can continue working on her piece.
You’ve tucked your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stew in your thoughts. Kiri must have known about Neteyams chosen one by now. Ka’vina must have been formally introduced to the Sullys, and therefore Kiri. And Kiri was the best judge of character, if she were to say Ka’vina was a good pick, you would believe it.
A whispered call of her name leaves your lips. You hope she misses it. Hope that it blends in with the pleasured yelps of the children, or the distant roars of the ikrans, even the chatter of the passing group of hunters.
But it does not, and Kiri responds much louder than you would like.
“What is it?”
“What are your thoughts on Ka'vina?” You can feel her eyes boring into the side of your head, but you refuse to look at her.
“She is a good weaver.”
This is common knowledge, Kiri must know you do not care about it. “What else?”
“If she did not wish to weave, she could easily join the singers.”
She must be egging you on. Wanting you to expose what you really feel before she says anything. You would think that a hunter as skilled as yourself would have more patience. You snap all the same, falling right into Kiris trap, “Yes. I know this. Everyone knows this. I want to know what you think about her deeply.”
“I think she is a good person. That she has many skills to help around hometree, and is known to assist the children and elders, but is unwise when it comes to other tasks.” Kiri is still staring at you even as she finishes her piece, “Why do you ask?”
You could not tell her the reason. Even if she sensed it, it would be wrong considering that Ka'vina was to be her sister. It could be worked out, where had you seen Ka'vina? Where had she piqued your interest?
“She has come around the training grounds recently and I could not think of why.” Finally you let your eyes drift to Kiris, hoping that there are no emotions swirling in your amber pools, “It makes sense with what you said. She needs to become fluent in many skills, not just a few.”
Kiri stares at you, eyes flicking over your face. Then to your ears, and briefly to your tail. Trying to assess how you feel internally from your body language. When she senses no showing of a lie a smile graces her face.
Then she's tossing the piece she crafted into your face. You grab it before it can slide and meet the dusty ground. As it rests in your palms you notice the red, white, and polished river stones that accent it.
“I made it so you could have a matching set tonight.”
At that, you gape at her. She had gone through all this trouble for you?
“Well don’t just look at me! Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much. Thank you Kiri.” You’ve stood now, crossing the small clearing to toss yourself onto her as a full body thanks.
“You skxawng get off of me!”
The two of you tousle a bit, acting like children getting into their first scuffle. But then you are off of her, and running in the direction of your kelku to get ready for the cookfire tonight.
It is almost eclipse, which means you have enough time to change slowly, put your braids up in a different style and meander your way back to the center of hometree.
On your way back Tal’kren calls for you. He must have also stopped at his kelku before heading to the cookfire.
“Hello Tal’kren, how were the trainees today?” You call back over your shoulder, refusing to stop for him, but walking at a slower pace nonetheless.
“They were fine. No more rowdy than usual. Though they listened les-” Tal’krens voice trails off, and when you turn to look at him he is already staring at you, “What are you wearing?”
You’re approaching the cookfire now, but you still choose to indulge him, “It is new, how do I look?” You give a childish spin, showing all angles of your new outfit.
You can feel more eyes than just his as you sit and wait for a response. But it is not worth searching for who is staring at you when you have a perfectly fine archer right in front of you. If you’re lucky he will say something that will make you believe he has more going on in his head besides arrows, bowstrings, and bows.
“It is very sevin,” Tal’kren gulps, a light shade of indigo coming to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “You are sevin.”
It was not the best compliment, but you would not deny that it made something flutter in your stomach. It was nice to be seen as something other than a txantxewm taronyu.
“Thank you Tal’kren.” You begin to walk towards where you know Rinak likes to sit, “I will see you after I have eaten, yes?”
“Yes. I will be with some of our other friends over here.” He gestures in a general direction, not moving until he sees you nod in acceptance of his words.
The night moves smoothly from then. You talk with the elders, inform them of the current happenings of your life, what new herb you decided you liked on your meat. They in turn spoke about other things you may enjoy, what fruits could enhance the flavor of certain meats, special herbs only the most skilled climbers could eat.
It was nice to speak with them, to gain some wisdom, but it was even nicer sitting around with people you knew.
First it was Lo’ak. His group sat between Rinak and Kiris groups, and he had made fast work of snagging your arm as you passed by. They indulged you in more fermented juice, happy to provide whatever you desired to keep you with them.
You missed the way that Loak's young friends eyed you. Missed how their eyes traced over your chest covering. How they seemed to stop at every bead, or rock, that dimpled the pattern. He had said they ‘drooled over you,’ but in your eyes they were just children, and there was no way they’d be interested in you.
Then Kiri and her group came to join. She had said something about how it was ‘Forbidden to hide from her’ when she crafted you such a beautiful piece. Her friends eyed your new cloths with jealous eyes. The color combination was something they had not considered to be allowed.
You still ignored their gazes. Knowing they mostly wanted to know what weaving pattern Kiri used, and what herb was used to dye the clothes and twine. Not that they cared about you as a person or the body that rests underneath the cloths.
There was a good mix of people, the feeling of the group never becoming tense or uncomfortable. There was currently an exchange of the bravest, most death defying things they had gotten away with.
You had decided that was your time to go join Tal’kren. If you heard too much about what Lo’ak or Kiris friends got up to, you would feel the need to implore them to be safer. So you asked them to top off your drink before you headed off.
As you approach, only two pairs of eyes flick to you. The first being Neteyams, it would seem as if his eyes followed you the entire way from across the fire, but that would be a silly thought. Especially considering Ka’vina was still pressed closely into his side.
The next is Tal’kren. He grins widely as you get closer to where he rests on the log. Already moving to rise before you even fully reach him, “Would you like to sit?”
“It is fine, may I brace my back on your legs though?” You did not wish to have the rough bark mar your skin.
He plants his feet a bit away from the log, steadying them before nodding, “Of course.”
Their conversation is equally as lively as the other groups. Once again discussing trick shots they have taken during sturmbeest hunts.
They first discuss the ones that do not count. This only means they got scolded for it after as it did not result in a kill, was reckless, wasted resources, disrupted the formation, or all of the above.
Once the group had ran through those, they switched to ones that did count. Ones that ended in a kill, clean or not. These were much more important, as the elders would try to scold you, but they had rarely any footing because the clan was still fed.
The only person who could not produce a story was Ka’vina, and it did not bring a sense of pity to your chest. Instead it just reminded you how different she was. Even if she did participate in the hunts, would she want to engage in such activities? What did she even consider fun?
You’ve been avoiding where she and Neteyam were sitting. It was not against them, but you were unsure of how you would act, and you preferred to keep this night enjoyable.
So when someone grasps your bicep and yanks, you are shocked. Before you even have time to identify who it is you’re being tugged backwards.
“Hey-” You stumble over a rock, nearly falling to your knees before you regain your composure, “Just wait a second!”
“I will not.” Neteyams voice is gruff, like he had to force the words through clenched teeth.
You’re furiously pulling your arm now, the cookfire is glowing dimly in the distance, and you cannot believe the audacity of this man. “You will!”
With that final motion, you are able to tug your arm free. And you spin rapidly to face Neteyam, appalled at his actions.
“What was that?”
“It was necessary.”
“By Eywa, in what world was that necessary?”
Neteyam does not grant you a response. He stands in front of you, huffing a little bit with his eyes towards the ground. His ears flick at every sound, and his tail lashes aggressively behind him.
“You are a grown man, and I know your tongue has not been cut out, so speak.”
His eyes meet yours briefly before softly uttering, “They were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.”
“I cannot understand mumbling Neteyam,” When he doesn’t make any move to speak again you turn to leave.
“I said they were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.” The last words spit from his mouth like acid, like they physically pained him to say.
“So what if they were?”
“They should not do such things.”
“Why is that?” You come close to him. Because of the height difference you still have to peer up at him, but you hope your intimidating presence is enough to cut him down a bit, “Why should they not look at me?”
“It is unbecoming of a hunter. They should know better.”
And you laugh, right in his face. “Unbelievable. You are truly, unbelievable Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan.” Then you stalk off, rushing in the direction of your kelku, hoping you can make it in and tie the flaps shut before the tears run down your lashline.
One would think they would want to spare the feelings of someone they grew up with. That they would find a way to soften the blow, not make the impact harder.
If he found you so undesirable, why could he not find another way to say it?
The winds flow freely through your hair. You had unbraided it, wishing to wash it before braiding new beads and feathers into it.
You’re flying on your ikran, heading to one of the hot springs you’ve been aching to dip into for weeks now. Your favorite one rests inside a cave on one of the mountains.
There is just enough space for your ikran to land, truly hiding the space from anyone who doesn’t know it exists. However it also meant that you could never know who’s inside without entering yourself.
But you had left long after the clan had settled for the night. Only the embers of the cookfire remained, and you passed many sleeping members of the clan on the way up hometree. There was no doubt that you would be alone.
You step slowly into the space, admiring the bioluminescence that lit up the cave. Stripping quickly you almost dive into the water with your haste. The hot water instantly releases some tension in your shoulders.
There are natural ledges around the border of the pool, you find one and take a seat. You’ve been very busy recently and deserve the chance to relax.
Before you can get too comfortable you take to scrubbing your scalp. The goal is to remove any dirt, dust, or grime that may have gotten caught up in your tightly wound braids. But that quickly switches to giving yourself a scalp massage.
The motions are nice. They would be even better if it was someone else completing them however, you were not a complainer. You’re unsure how long you sit there for, but you’re sure enough time has passed that you can scrub away at your body now.
Any caked on grime or blood, has become soaked through with the warm water. It slides off your skin easily, showing the vibrant blue shade underneath. You begin to feel more like yourself again, as if you’re shedding your old skin and coming into a new one.
When you turn around, eager to retrieve your waterskin and change positions you're faced with another body. You must have mistaken the sounds of someone else entering the spring with the sounds of your own splashing.
You scoff, “What are you doing here?”
“It is a free hot spring.”
“Yes, but should you not be getting your beauty sleep?”
“Shouldn’t you?”
All the tension you felt leave your body came back. You had specifically came so late as to avoid any of this. Why couldn't Eywa give you a break, just this once. With a deep breath you shut your eyes tightly, and let you head fall against the border.
You would not allow Neteyam to bother you. You have waited many moons to come here, and you would leave when you were ready, not because you were forced out.
Soft ripples distract you from where you’ve let your thoughts drift. Your ears snap to attention, trying to discern if the ripples are moving closer or farther from your location.
Your eyes shoot open when you realize that Neteyam is moving closer to you. “What are you doing.”
You do not pose him a question. You speak the words like a warning, giving him the chance to turn back.
“I am coming deeper so the water may reach my shoulders.”
“Go to that side of the spring then. Do not come closer.”
For a moment you think he will continue moving towards you. That he will attempt to cage you in against the wall and himself, but he moves to where you told him to go. When he gets there you expect him to stay silent.
You have nothing to say to him, nothing nice especially after the cookfire a few nights ago. And whatever he has to say to you, you do not wish to hear.
Minutes tick by in silence. It is not comfortable, some may even say it is suffocating, most would leave. You got here first however, and you refuse to vacate when you came under such perfect conditions to be alone.
Let's be realistic, there were plenty of hot springs he could have picked, why did he come here? He could have left after seeing you already submerged! Quietly backed out, and climbed upon his ikran to find another spring.
The thought irritates you more. It makes you grind your teeth, the anger beginning to simmer in your chest.
“I wish to talk.”
Neteyam had said those same words to you forever ago, when this all began. They had meant less than they do now, but you still feel the same way.
“I do not.”
“Well, we must talk. There is no other wa-”
When you open your eyes, you find Neteyam already staring at you intently, “You cannot force me to talk with you. You are not Olo’ekytan yet, and you do not command me in hunting parties, therefore I do not take orders from you.”
He softly calls your name. If you didn’t know any better you would assume there is a quiver to it, a bit of unsureness. But that would be a silly thought, and you promptly will yourself to stop thinking it.
Suddenly Neteyam is moving closer again. Slowly but surely moving into your side of the spring. When he reaches the halfway point you raise your hand slightly, muttering a quick ‘don’t’ in warning.
That does nothing to deter him. His shoulders begin to glisten from no longer being submerged, droplets cascading down his arms and clavicles in rivulets that remind you how thirsty you had been just a few minutes ago.
Oh Eywa! What were you thinking?
As you get your thoughts back under control Neteyam shifts ever closer. His body comes to rest just a few feet in front of yours. Slowly inching closer, truly trying to cage you like an animal.
“I said to not come closer.”
“And I said we need to speak.”
He thinks you will just sit here? Allow him to force you into speaking? Believes that your nudity embarrasses you enough, that you will allow him to speak?
There is some space between the cave wall and the border of the pool, and if you angled yourself properly you could follow it the entire way back out to where your tewng and chest covering rested. And if you called for your ikran as you were dressing you could be back to hometree within the half hour.
It is decided.
You scooch backwards, using your arms to lift up onto the ledge. It is then that Neteyam finally stops.
Neteyams eyes flick over your body. Your chest, where your nipples have begun to peak in the cooler air, the water that drips down your navel, the way your hips look without the tewng covering them. He does not speak, but an indigo tint falls on his cheeks, rises up his neck, and also hits the tops of his ears.
You stand, wringing out your hair so it does not drip on you as you fly. Pointedly ignoring Neteyams presence, but when he does not continue in his harassment you turn your eyes towards him again.
He is flustered, that much you can tell. At first it makes you a little happy, knowing that you actually do have an effect on him. Then you remember Ka’vina, and the feeling leaves.
“Oh you are disgusting!”
Neteyam sputters out of his trance, “What?”
“Staring! At an undressed woman. Alone! Especially when you are courting another.”
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” Then he avoids his gaze, focusing on the water directly in front of him instead.
“Wait.” His eyes raise back to yours, “My courting?”
“Yes. With Ka’vina.”
A disbelieved laugh leaves his lips, “I am not courting Ka’vina.”
“There is no need to lie. I will not tell her about this.”
“I am not lying.” He rises a bit more, grabbing your hand, “Come back in and I will explain.”
You laugh at him, “I am not going back in there with you.”
Eyes flick back towards the entrance of the cave, remembering your earlier plan. The urge to execute that plan comes back. The urge to suddenly be tucked into your woven mat with pelts submerging you in warmth, stronger than anything else.
As you’re debating your escape plan Neteyam sneaks up on you. He places a hand on your thigh another on your waist, and hauls you back into the water. You hiss, smacking his chest.
“You cannot move so rashly!”
“I would like to know how you came to the belief that I was courting Ka’vina.”
You try to thrash a bit. To use the slickness of the water on your behalf, but Neteyams grasp is unrelenting. He does not let you move an inch.
When you try to at least sit down, he still does not let you move. “I will not speak until I can rest.”
“You must lean back then. It would be unpleasant to sit directly down.”
It is then that you realize you are on Neteyam's lap. A flush adorns your face now, realizing the predicament that you’re in. But his grasp still isn't letting up, so you lean back on your haunches. Carefully maneuvering to avoid any unwanted touching.
“Now explain.”
“I saw the two of you at the cookfire, a few moons ago.”
“Yes, I was integrating her into our group.”
“Because you were courting her,” Your hand raises to cover Neteyams mouth, if he wanted you to explain he would have to hear it in entirety before trying to contradict your words.
“I only realized because she had taken my spot next to you. And then the two of you at the training grounds, the way your hand lingered on her.” You move your palm from covering his lips to grasping at his chin, the same way he had done to Ka’vina.
Tossing his head to the side you continue, “Then you were with her at the weaving circle. You had allowed her to critique your work, allowed her to undo the knots and braids you had worked on. You don’t even like to weave.”
Neteyam is peering up at you, his lashes fluttering lightly, “May I speak now?”
You nod, not trusting your voice anymore.
“I was around her because she needed help completing her iknimaya, many of the other karyus have tried and she has failed many times.”
“Her iknimaya?”
“Yes, her other karyus were too rough, they did not attune to her learning style.” One of his hands begin to travel up and down your side, “I was involving her with our friends so she could have other people to lean on.”
Your eyes stray to the side, embarrassment creeping up your spine. But Neteyam keeps staring at you, “She needed help with archery for her dream hunt. And I needed help with weaving. I wanted to make something beautiful, that would last, that could withstand harsh weather, and harsher movements by the wearer.”
The hand moving up your side travels up, ghosting over the side of your breast, and lightly settles on the side of your neck.
“It was a mutual exchange of skill.”
Your embarrassment at misunderstanding makes you snap at him, “Yes, I understand that Neteyam.”
Your voice comes again, lighter and nicer this time, “You do not desire her, even slightly?”
“Not even slightly. What else would make you think that?”
“She is soft.”
Neteyam mulls over your words. Ka’vina is soft, her body is soft, her words are soft, her weaves are soft, the way she aims her bow is soft, so he agrees, “Yes, she is soft. But I do not want soft.”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows me like you. No one can anticipate my movements like you. They cannot hit flying targets as well, and they do not like to sharpen their arrows so they pierce their kills more efficiently. I have wanted it to be you since we were children, since my parents explained the concept of a mate to me.”
“That is stupid. You were too young to understand then.”
Instead of being upset at your misplaced anger, Neteyam just smiles. Then his lips curl into a smirk, “May I kiss you?”
“May you… what?”
“Kiss you.”
Instead of answering you lean forward and press your lips to his. You’re motionless, and it’s awkward. But then Neteyam begins moving his lips, opening them slightly and tilting his head to deepen it.
Before you know it your hands are pressing against his face, trying to memorize the feel of him after months of not being close. You finally pull away when you start to feel light headed. Your eyes are hazy darting across all of his features as you greedily suck in air.
You lean back in. This time Neteyam licks into your mouth, he tastes like the smokiness of the meat that was served at the cookfire tonight. It’s something you believe you could get used to.
This is something you think you could get used to.
You’d do it anywhere. Here in the hot springs, back in your kelku, in Neteyams kelku, out in the forest, hell you’d even do it at the training grounds if Neteyam wanted.
Truthfully, you’re a bit mad at yourself. How long could you have been doing this for if you had just spoken to him? How much farther could you have gone? It did not matter now, and you clearly were not the best at thinking through scenarios.
When Neteyam leans back again you nearly whine. The fact that such a noise wanted to emerge from your throat shocks you. What was this man doing to you?
“Would you like to see what I was weaving?”
You’re lightly panting, allowing your tongue to lave over your swollen lips. “What?”
“What I was weaving with Ka’vina -”
“Do not mention Ka’vina when you just had your tongue in my mouth.”
Neteyam laughs, “I will not, but she did direct me in perfecting your courting gift,” His grip lets up a bit so that he can begin caressing you softly, “It is over with my tewng. If you will still have me.”
“Of course I will still have you, do not make jokes.” You stand, grabbing Neteyams hand, and suddenly you’re tugging one of the Sully’s around. “I am excited to see what you have made for me.”
“It will fit you well.” He kisses you one more time, acting as if he would not get the chance to after he bestows the gift upon you, “And then everyone will know you are mine.”
A realization dawns on you. The other night, Neteyam had not been mad at you for crafting a new loincloth and chest covering. He was mad at your comrades, your friends, for eyeing you in such a way, “You were jealous the other day?”
“Very much so. They were just looking at you, not seeing you.” Another peck, “I see you, that is why I deserve to court you.”
You laugh. It is a soft sound, one of the only soft things you can identify about yourself. And you don’t allow the hard parts of you to bring you down. Don’t allow them to make you insecure about how you would fit with Neteyam. He likes you as you are, and that is enough.
Forehead nuzzling to his, you repeat his words, “And I see you.” Unable to resist, you kiss him one last time before making a demand, “Now let me see my gift.”
Neteyam laughs ever amused at your personality, but he does not voice any opposition. He would continue to feed into you for as long as the two of you shall live if it meant he got to see your grin. Got to see your fangs peek out over your bottom lip, and your nose scrunch up in delight.
i’m floating around in ecstasy, so don’t stop me now | john tucker (ft. allie hayes, dean di laurentis, garrett graham, hannah wells, john logan)
“Of course she’s alive, dingus.” Allie rolls her eyes from beside him, snatching the phone from his hand, eliciting an offended, ‘Hey!’ from Dean, which she effectively ignores. “She had a wisdom tooth extraction, not an open heart surgery.”
request — would you be willing to write a little fic about John Tucker (and the others by default) taking care of his girlfriend after she gets his wisdom teeth out?
contents — tooth-rotting fluff, post-wisdom tooth extraction, bickering, found family <3, reader and dean frenemies confirmed | word count — 1.09k | title — don’t stop me now by queen
gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.
“So is she alive?” Dean asks as soon as the front door opens, his phone in hand as he records the whole thing. “She’s alive, right?”
“Of course she’s alive, dingus.” Allie rolls her eyes from beside him, snatching the phone from his hand, eliciting an offended, ‘Hey!’ from Dean, which she effectively ignores. “She had a wisdom tooth extraction, not an open heart surgery.”
“I was just asking!”
“Yeah, well, ask smarter questions.” Allie’s face softens as she turns to Tucker, who is half-carrying, half-dragging you towards the couch. “Is she okay?”
“Dean di Laurentis!” You grumble angrily, your voice muffled by the cotton stuffed into your mouth post-surgery. You are obviously still loopy from the anesthetic. “I hate you!” You continue throwing profanities and punches his way, while your boyfriend steers you away from your current archnemesis with great difficulty.
Meanwhile, Dean is laughing his ass off behind a camera, filming the whole thing. They don’t even know whose phone he is currently using.
“Man, don’t rile her up, we just got her to calm down!” Logan—who drove them to and from the clinic—complains, punching Dean’s arm.
“We?” Tucker raises an eyebrow at Logan’s claim. “I calmed her down, while you laughed like a fucking idiot.” He turns to Allie as he gently lays you down on the couch. “Yes, she’s very much okay, she’s just very… emotional.”
“Our poor girl.” Allie frowns, leaning down to brush your hair away from your forehead.
“Allie baby!” You cheer, a dopey grin plastered on your face like you weren't just squaring up with her boyfriend a few seconds ago. “I love you so much! Let's run away and get married! Where's Hannah? Where's the other love of my life? She needs to run away with us,” you say solemnly, holding onto Allie's hands tightly.
“Wow. First you engage in a WWE fight with me, then you steal my girlfriend. Very inspirational.” Dean snorts from his place behind the couch.
“Respect the hierarchy, bro.” Logan pats his friend's chest sympathetically.
“Fuck off.”
“Is this what kindergarten teachers feel?” Allie asks no one in particular. “I'm so glad I didn't take up education.”
“You can take me up to your room.” You giggle like crazy, wiggling your eyebrows at her—or at least, you think you are wiggling your eyebrows, but everyone's reactions say otherwise—not that you'd notice.
“So my room,” Dean speaks up once again, “I’m sorry, I know you’re under the influence and all, but can you stop stealing my girl?”
“Fuck off, Dean di Laurentis!” You glare at him as ferociously as you can, which makes him snicker, but a warning glare from Allie shuts him up.
“Seriously, what’s with the government name?”
“Stop terrorizing my girl, di Laurentis,” Tucker says as he descends from the stairs after getting you some fresh clothes to wear, and a washcloth to clean you up.
“Wha—?!” Dean sputters, pointing to you lying on the couch, practically half-dead, “She’s terrorizing me!” He mockingly glares at you. “You better get well quickly because we have a score to settle.”
“Dean, don’t make me put you in timeout,” Allie warns from beside you on the couch.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Baby!” You chirp upon hearing your boyfriend’s voice. “Baby, where are you? Come here.”
“I’m coming, gorgeous.” He chuckles softly, and Dean lets out a gagging noise, which he ultimately covers with a cough as Allie glares at him (again).
Allie eagerly takes the washcloth from him, so he settles on the couch, placing your head on his lap gently.
“Hi, you’re here!” Hannah greets you from the stairs with Garrett behind her. “How are you? Everything went well, I hope?”
“Han!” You cheer, nearly hitting Allie and Tucker in the face with your flailing hand as you wave enthusiastically at your second favorite person (she and Allie are tied). “Hannah, my baby! I’m better now that you’re here.” You giggle once again.
“Darling, please calm down,” Tucker murmurs, leaning down to kiss your forehead softly. “They’re not going anywhere, I promise.”
“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly, the word almost incoherent due to the cotton inside your mouth. Your eyes fill with tears, and all of them immediately jump into action. “I’m sorry!”
“Don’t cry, darling, I’m so sorry,” Tucker strokes your hair soothingly.
“I will put Dean into timeout for you, baby!” Allie says, pointing to the wall. “I will make him face the wall, okay?”
“What the hell did I do now?!” Dean gasps dramatically from the dining table
“Do you want some pizza? I’ll go order some right now.” Logan grabs his phone, but stops dead in his tracks. “Oh, shit, you can’t eat solid food until a few days later or something. Uh, what about some oatmeal?”
“Oh, our poor baby.” Hannah says your name sadly with a pout on her face. She walks over and kisses your cheek. “Please feel better soon. We have loads of stuff to try from that new restaurant downtown.”
“Uh…” Garrett swallows when they all look at him, including you. “Hello?” He rolls his eyes when you all groan at him. “What the fuck was I supposed to say? You’ve said everything!”
“Not everything,” you speak, dropping your head back on Tucker’s lap, who catches your head and gently lowers it down. All while he has a small, fond smile on his face. “You didn’t tell me that I can sweep Hannah off of her feet, and we can get married, and we can ride into the sunset together—with Allie, of course.”
“Genuinely, what the fuck?” Garrett laughs. “What the fuck did they give you in there, buddy?”
“For someone who has cottons stuffed into her mouth, you’re awfully talkative,” Dean says, his voice muffled by the wall in front of him.
“Shut it, Dean di Laurentis.”
“Man, not the government name again!”
“Darling, please just go to sleep.” Tucker attempts to soothe you before you lunge at Dean again. “Ignore him, he’s a meathead. Just go to sleep.”
“Man, I am at a great disadvantage here.”
“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “You’re handsome even when your head is upside down, but don’t patronize me.” You point to his face, your hand swaying weakly in the air. “I’m going to sleep, but it’s not because you told me to. Okay?”
“Okay, baby, I understand.”
“Okay, I’m going to sleep.” You close your eyes. “Goodnight, Allie. Goodnight, Hannah. Goodnight, T. Fuck everyone else.”
“Wow, okay. Watch me never let you see Allie again after this.”
summary: you and logan find yourselves meeting up again and again in the backyard of the hockey team's house parties. 2,2k words, fluff, request!
Logan feels like he should be thankful for the guys’ eternal disposition for throwing parties, even though he thinks it might kill him any day now.
He’s coming out of a tough week, the end of semester dumping him into an ugly mix of early practices and pulling all-nighters, leaving him more tired than usual. He thinks of his dreams of having a nice meal and good night of sleep as a boomboxing sound makes him feel like his head is pounding, swallowing all his long forgotten plans along with a sip of a warm beer.
“That’s disgusting,” Garrett’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “At least get a cold one.”
“Meh,” he downs the rest of his drink, “Had been nursing this one for like, an hour now.”
Garrett hums, “Not much for drinking tonight?”
“No,” he shakes his head, “Not much for anything, really. Just hanging out for a bit.”
“Fair. Tough week?”
Logan chuckles, “You know it. Did Wellsy come too?”
“Yeah, going rounds trying to find a friend.” Garrett looks around the room, “Matter of fact, I better go find her. Want me to bring you a cold beer?”
“No,” he stands up from the couch, “I’ll grab it myself. Thanks, man.”
Logan heads to the kitchen, an impromptu bar made from two massive coolers, and grabs a beer out of the ice. He’s still dwelling on the fizzy feeling down his throat when he spots the backdoor leading to the backyard slightly cracked open, and a girl sitting on the bench under a few lightstrings.
Your eyes are closed, head resting on the wall behind you and seemingly taking in the nice weather, so different from the stuffy atmosphere inside. With your peaceful face illuminated by the tiny golden fairylights, Logan thinks you look like a vision.
He’s not one to believe in love at first sight, but he does believe in talking to pretty girls.
“You good?” He says, watching your shoulders tense all of sudden, a startled look on your face. He bites back a laugh, “Sorry, just checking.”
“‘m fine,” you mutter, “Just trying to listen to what they’re playing now.”
He steps out, moving in your direction slowly, “May I sit?”
You watch him for a moment, scanning his entire demeanour before making your mind. Your eyes stop on his left hand, and he holds his canned beer up, “This is my second one,” he says, figuring out what you’re thinking, “And I just opened it. I’m not drunk, in case you’re wondering.”
Your mouth twists, biting your lip before you give him a single nod, “Okay,” you scoot over to the side, opening space for him on the bench. Logan sits on the very far corner, not wanting to scare you at all.
Nineties’ pop music plays inside the house, and Logan’s pretty sure Hannah is the one queuing the songs. He watches as you bob your head in the rhythm, “You like it?”
You hum, “Yeah. Playlist’s good, it’s just too loud inside.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “They tend to be.”
“You’re a regular at the hockey team house parties?” You ask, and it makes Logan realise you don’t know him at all. Bad for his ego, sure, but good that he has a clean slate. He doesn’t often get one of those.
“You could say that, yes.” He smirks, and you look at him like you’re trying to grasp what he meant by that. Or you’re just thinking he’s fucking weird, he thinks. Logan clears his throat, “You’ve never been over here?”
You shrug, “Maybe once during freshman year, I’m not sure. I don’t do parties that much, honestly,” you smile bashfully, “Boring, I know.”
“You don’t seem boring at all,” he says, smiling as he adjusts his position, turning his body to face you, “What brings you here, then?”
“Uh, my friend Hannah,” you smile, “She's been asking me to come ever since she started dating Garrett Graham. One of the Hockey guys, you know?”
Logan just nods, smiling, “I’ve heard of him. And how come you’ve never seen any of the hockey games?”
“It’s just not my thing,” you take a sip of your drink, like you haven’t just destroyed his entire world. He lets out a laugh, and you smile at him, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“John. Uh, John Logan.”
He watches as your smile drops, and he’d feel slightly bad if your widened eyes weren’t so adorable. “As in Garrett’s best friend? From the hockey team?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He offers you a tight-lipped smile, “I thought you didn’t watch hockey?”
“I don’t,” you say, averting your eyes from him as you stand up from the bench, “I’m sorry, erm– Hannah talked about you, that’s all. Um, I should go find her.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he stands too, and you see a flash of earnest crossing his eyes as he steps in your direction.
You shake your head, laughing incredulous, “No, I did that myself,” you chuckle, “I– I’ll see you around, yeah?”
And with that, you scurry back inside.
Logan drops back into the bench, his lips curved into a tiny smile. Yeah, he’ll see you around.
“Logan, what is actually wrong with you?” Hannah shouts from halfway down the stairs.
Logan sits in the kitchen next to Tucker as they share party leftovers for breakfast, and both Johns look up as she storms into the room.
Tucker’s head snaps at him, “Nice meeting you,” he says solemnly as he pushes the plate of mini sandwiches in his direction "Enjoy your last meal.”
Hannah stops in front of him, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed in a way Logan only sees when Garrett is being particularly annoying.
“I’m guessing your pretty friend rattled me?”
“She was mortified,” Hannah says, then in a slightly more invested tone, “You think she’s pretty, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass her,” He answers, “I just thought it was… Nice that she didn’t know me.”
Hannah rolls her eyes, turning away from him, “You hockey players and your big fucking heads.”
“Wait, Hannah,” Logan grabs the mini sandwich plate, moving around her, “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to her next time.”
Hannah raises her eyebrow, “Next time?”
“If you bring her again. Please?” He smiles coyly, offering her the plate, “Here, turkey and spinach as an apology?”
She stares at the mini sandwiches, letting out a huff before snatching it off of his hands, “You’re lucky I’m hungry. Don’t try to be funny next time.”
He doesn’t know if it’s his luck or if you’re allowing him to find you so easily. Still, Logan murmurs a thank you to whoever’s listening when he spots you on that very same bench.
“Second time in a row,” he says, immediately disregarding Hannah's commands and being (debatably) funny, “Thought you didn’t do parties?”
You turn your head to face him, relief washing over him once he sees a smile on your face, “You’re one to talk,” you answer, “Mr. You Could Say I’m A Regular. You literally live here.”
“Which is exactly why I’m a regular,” he says, sitting down on the bench. “Sorry for not clarifying that before.”
You shake your head, chuckling, “It’s fine. Cruel, but fine.”
Logan’s hand finds his chest, feigning being offended, “Well, thank you for allowing me to rectify myself.” He says, “Why did you come back here, then?”
The yellow lighting dances over your face as you switch positions, “Hannah,” you say, simply.
“What, she dragged you here?”
“No. Can you imagine?” You look down at your cup, laughing, “No, she just said you were nice. That I should talk to you again.”
Oh, I gotta text Hannah a profound thank you after this, Logan thinks. “Yeah?” He mutters, “So it wasn’t about the good music?”
An upbeat, indie rock song plays in the background, muffled by the closed door separating you two from the inside. He doesn’t tell you that, but they’re playing his playlist tonight, a cheeky smile on his face as you rest your head in your hand, bobbing your head.
“I don’t think I know this one, I think,” you say, “But I like it.”
“Me too.” He says, “You know, I promised Hannah I would make it up to you after leaving you mortified last time.”
You let out a surprised cackle, “Okay, mortified is a stretch,” you say through giggles, “I was mildly embarrassed.”
“Hey, her words, not mine.” He says, laughing with you, “Anyway, I was thinking– And feel free to like, I don’t know, say I’ve read this wrong, but– Um, do you think I could take you out sometime?”
You look up at him, the same glow of the fairy lights above you adorning your face and, god, you’re pretty. Logan would ask you out a hundred more times if he wasn’t waiting for an answer right now.
“That’s a third meeting question, I think.” You smile at him, “But I can give you my number.”
He nods, the corners of his mouth going up, “I’ll take it.”
Logan’s thrilled that he gets to invite you for your third night over their house. Again, he feels extremely thankful for his friends’ disposition to party, even though this one barely counts as one. It’s a get–together at best, with his everyday housemates and their usual attachments, girlfriends, siblings and other close friends of friends. Maybe that’s why you seem much more comfortable as you walk inside, looking around.
“It’s a really nice house,” you say, “I can actually see the flooring when it’s not packed with people.”
He laughs, “Can I tell you a secret?” You nod, getting closer to him, and he takes the opportunity to drop his arm around your shoulder, “I like it much better this way.”
“Not much a party man yourself?”
Logan makes a face, scrunching his nose as he shakes his head, “It’s nice to just have music playing and chatter. Dean likes playing cards sometimes, I’m not against it.”
“Me neither.” You say, like an open opportunity for invitation next time. He takes note, dragging you by your shoulders into the living room.
You fit right into his friend group, he thinks as you sit on the couch, sandwiched between Allie and Hannah as you talk and talk — apparently Allie has heard wonders of you from her friend and was dying to meet you, in true Allie drama club fashion. He doesn’t mind losing your company for the next forty minutes, as long as he gets to watch you have a good time.
“You’re staring, loverboy,” Hannah says, his head snapping out of it, turning away from you in her direction, then again at your mocking face. He smiles, embarrassed from getting caught.
“Sorry, hard not to,” he says, getting an eyeroll from Allie and giggles from you, which he counts as a win. “Mind if I steal her back?”
He’s asking you, you can tell because his big eyes don’t move from your face, even when his demeanour does. You give him a small nod, and he offers you his hand.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Is that even a question?” he says, moving from the living room to the kitchen, pitstopping to grab two drinks and hand you one, his arm going back to your shoulders as he leads you to the backdoor, “Our place, obviously.”
You chuckle as he closes the door behind him, your usual bench still in its place, fairy lights very much the same. The sky isn’t as dark tonight, a blue tinted colour around the both of you mixing with the yellow glimmer that decorates the backyard. You sit, and he follows you. This time, he doesn’t leave much space, and you don’t mind his legs so close to yours as you rest your head against the brickwall.
“Is it our place now?” You ask.
Logan does a hand motion, gesturing for you to look around, “I don’t see anyone else here,” he says, “I don’t think I was even aware of this bench until I found you here.”
“So you’re saying this is my bench,” you joke.
“I mean, feel free to get it engraved or something. As far as I’m concerned, this is yours,” he says.
You laugh, fingers moving across the wooden armrest, “Thank you,” you say, your hand traveling over the bench, reaching until it meets his upper arm, “And thank you.”
He shrugs, moving his face so his chin gently touches your hand on his shoulder. You touch his face, caressing his cheek like you just did with the armrest, pulling him a bit closer.
“I know I’m supposed to ask you on a date,” he murmurs, “But is it okay if I ask for a kiss now?”
You chuckle, not giving him any response but your lips touching his gently. His hand goes to your other cheek as you kiss him, the first of many kisses that backyard bench gets to witness. You giggle as Logan’s hands in your face keep you in place, continuing to press quick kisses over your mouth and face.
“I might take you up on that engraving offer, you know?” You say, “I like this place. It’s sort of romantic.”
“Sort of romantic?” He asks, his voice muffled as he presses his lips against yours again, getting a smile from you.
Logan might just carve your initials into that bench now, make it real romance, just for you.
notes: genuine question how do we feel about the dividers. also i believe this is my biggest john logan fic so far! thank you for reading and sorryyy it took me some extra time, i'd love to hear your thoughts on it! <3
warnings: none, this is pure fluff, reader has a dog named clifford, logan being determined and smug
a/n: this is very short and just something I came up with when I couldn’t sleep but also cute does logan look with a dog, hope you like it!
The first time John Logan visited your house to fix your sink, your dog, Clifford, won’t stop barking at him. He even pulled, bit his jeans and growled at him when he tried to pet him. Since you lived alone, Clifford was over protective of you, that’s the only explanation you could give him. Logan looked wounded his puppy dog eyes didn’t work for the first time, given that his competitor was an actual dog.
A few months later, you started dating, and Clifford still hated Logan. He growled at him whenever he got too close to you and would bark when you both would close the door to your bedroom. Logan was frustrated, to say the least, and you couldn’t stop laughing.
‘It’s fine, John, he’ll warm up soon enough. He’s like this with everyone, baby.’ , you’d say chuckling when he would vent out to you frustratedly, about how your dog hates him.
Logan even vented and took advice from the entire hockey team on how to win your dog over, which resulted in him being made a laughing stock and comments like ‘pussywhipped’. But Logan didn’t pay any mind to them, he was determined to win over your dog, at any cost.
After few weeks into your relationship, you came back to your house only to find Logan reading a book with Clifford perched up on his side, suspiciously quiet and normal.
‘Hey?’, you asked, clearly confused at the situation. ‘Hey baby! How was your day?’, he asked, looking up from the book, one hand casually petting Clifford. ‘Um what’s this? He doesn’t bite you anymore?’, you asked, smiling and crossing your arms over your chest, leaning on the doorframe. ‘We decided to be civil, for you.’, he grins, ‘Right bud?’, he asked Clifford, who wagged his tail and moved closer to Logan. ‘How did you even manage that?’, you laugh, seeing finally the two boys in your life getting along. ‘Just a few bribery treats and walks when you weren’t here to scold me and a deep long talk, i mean come on, who has ever been able to resist me?’, he smirked, the smugness evident in his voice. ‘I’m glad, whatever worked, atleast now both of you won’t growl when I get closer to the other one.’, you laughed, stepping closer and joining Logan, his hand instantly going over your shoulder and pulling you into his side. ‘Hey! I don’t growl! What do you mean?’, he said, faking offence, you laughed as Clifford joined the two of you, resting his head on your lap.
This was a few weeks ago, now when you come back home, you find Logan and Clifford, together, either sleeping, playing or doing whatever the hell they did. Logan started taking him on walks, he also took him often to the hockey house, Clifford also came along on your drives, contently perched in Logan’s lap, hell whenever Logan went back he would give you a kiss on your forehead and bend down, giving Clifford one too.
One day, Logan and you were sitting on your bed, watching a movie. Soon one thing led to another and you leaned in, kissing Logan, when you heard growling. You pulled away to see Clifford at the foot of the bed, growling like all those times, but this time, it was directed at you and not Logan.
‘Oh my god, you stole my dog!’, you gasped, hitting him playfully in the chest, which only spurred Clifford on as he barked. He lunged into the bed, snuggling in Logan’s lap, ‘Not my fault he loves me more than you. See how that feels like?’, he laughed, petting Clifford on the head.
You scoff, the scene in front of you that you never would’ve believed to have happen, ever, ‘I hate both of you.’ ‘Aw come on baby, don’t feel bad, I’ll talk to him, he’ll like you again.’, he smirked as he talked to Clifford in a baby voice telling him to ‘like you again’. ‘Unbelievable.’, you roll your eyes at them and tried getting away, but Logan wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back beside him and kissing you, ‘Told you I’d win him over.’, he smirked against your lips, making you laugh.
synopsis – fainting in front of your boyfriend for the first time has only made his love and care for you grow stronger
based on this request!
warnings – reader has POTS (a nervous system disorder that causes fainting/dizziness), fainting, minor health scare, angsty, fluff, language, established relationship, Logan is the sweetest boyfriend ever
note – I spent a bit of time researching and educating myself on POTS, thank you for trusting me to write something like this, I hope this is what you envisioned!🥹 if you want to request something, you can submit it by clicking the ‘♡’ button on my page or commenting under this post! enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
The first time you fainted around Logan was honestly, probably best-case scenario, all things considered. Having not mentioned too much about your diagnosis to him, he couldn’t lie, he was absolutely terrified seeing you stand up very quickly from the kitchen chair before collapsing. Knowing what he did know, his reflexes kicked in, grabbing your body as you fell into him, his hand cradling your head as he lied you down flat on the floor, slightly elevating your legs.
With his heart beating out of his chest, he hovered his hand over your mouth and nose, ensuring you were breathing as he continued to monitor your breathing, waiting for you to wake up. Your eyes slowly opened, a large exhale of relief coming from Logan.
“Shh, don’t move too much, baby, just relax,” he softly spoke, his hand coming up to gently caress the side of your face. Your hand slowly finds his arm holding your face, your thumb stroking small lines on his arm, a silent ‘thanks’ being said from the action.
Once you were feeling better, you had fully let Logan in on what this condition was like for you. Your experiences, your signs and symptoms. You felt bad for not telling him sooner, but found yourself thankful for his receptiveness and understanding, him not thinking any less of you because of this.
Logan spent that night scouring the internet, caffeine fueling his system as he stayed up late, searching up anything and everything – triggers, other possible side effects, ways to help prevent and/or handle fainting when it occurs. His eyes trail to the large box of Liquid IV packets leftover from his sponsorship deal with Garrett. He was determined to ensure you would always be taken care of whenever you were together, no matter what.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
The football stands were packed out, the team on track to head to the championship. After scanning your tickets, you, Logan and the rest of your friend group walked around, everyone splitting off to grab snacks, drinks, take pictures. You reach into your bag, pulling out your portable fan and turning it on, feeling a hot flash starting to radiate through your body.
Focusing on your breathing, Logan noticed your body language shifting slightly, looking more tense. Logan happens to glance over at one of the food carts at the perfect time, seeing Garrett and Hannah trying to get his attention, motioning to see if he wants anything. He glances at you before throwing up a “W” with his hands, an indication for ‘water’ that you all universally understood. Garrett shoots him a thumbs up.
You both stand around waiting for the rest of the group. You scour the football field trying to find Beau, him being the main reason you all came – to show support the way he always does for all the hockey guys. You see him, shouting his name and waving, Logan joining you as Beau spots you both, returning the wave before going back to his warmups.
Slowly, everyone comes back, meeting up with you and Logan again. Garrett passes the water bottle to Logan discreetly. Everyone heads into the stands, Logan falling behind from the group and calling your name, making you turn around.
“Here,” he says, unscrewing the water bottle, then reaching around to his back pocket, pulling out an electrolyte packet. He rips the packet open with his teeth before pouring the contents into the water, closing it and shaking it up before handing it to you.
Finding yourself baffled at what you just witnessed, you thanked him, reopening the bottle and taking a sip. The mix of water and electrolytes circulates in your system, making the stress you were feeling slowly dissipate. Making the dizziness go away. Making the lightheadedness fade away.
A look of shock is written all over your face, while Logan looks at you with that same cheeky smile you know and love.
“How did you-“
“I did my research. I’m not gonna have my girl ever be worried around me,” he replies, gently slinging his arm around your shoulders as you smile up at him.
Logan has always been consistent, always showing up for you, always being your safe space, always showing off how much he loves you. Warmth spreads through your body at his continued kind nature in making sure you're taken care of, no matter what.
You lean in, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before nuzzling into his side, sending him a 'thank you' through your hug. Glancing back up at him, the smile on his face like yours, not leaving.
“I do have some salty snacks for you too, but Dean got into some of them,” he admits.
You laugh, your heart warming at his attentiveness. He leans in to peck your lips lightly, giggling about how he can taste the flavor of the electrolyte packet on your lips as you both walk into the stands, joining your friends.
mr. handyman. literally every single thing that falls apart in your life, logan’s there to fix it. kitchen cabinets coming loose? great, he’s fixing them. doors squeaky? he’s already on it. something wrong with your car? perfect—he’s taking his shirt off (for your eye candy) and getting to work. and he’s not one of those sexist assholes who thinks men have to fix things while women just stand there and yelp when things fall apart. he actually makes a habit of fixing things with you there, showing you how to do it so next time you can handle it yourself in case he’s not around.
this sweet, sweet man with those pretty doe eyes cannot stay mad at you for more than a day. if he has to go to sleep without fixing things with you, he feels like he might actually die. he just can’t do it. so when you two argue, like normal couples do, he always gives you both time to cool down before coming back to you to offer your favorite takeout, lots of kisses and cuddles, a movie night, and his heart practically in his hands just so you could forgive him. anything. he’ll do anything. just don’t stay mad at him.
as much as he’s a homebody, he actually loves going out—especially with you. restaurants, new cafés, movie theaters, hiking spots, even loud busy bars he’s not usually a fan off. and he’s always patient, giving you all the time you need to get ready without rushing you. and when you’re finally done and looking pretty, he’ll have you leave a bright lipstick kiss on his jaw, visible for everyone to see he’s taken, before you head out together. his favorite part about this whole thing is walking with your hands intertwined and sharing food.
again, he’s big on acts of service. waking up a little earlier to make you breakfast because you’re too lazy to make something yourself and usually skip it. taking the time to draw you a bath after a long day. making your drinks exactly how you like them—no ice, because you hate the watery taste when it melts, buying you things you’ve run out of, whether it’s your favorite snacks or products. taking your makeup off for you when you’re too tired. giving you massages, filling your gas tank—he’s all about it.
he’s so starved for you, so don’t expect him to leave you alone when you’re both home with nothing to do. he constantly has you laying on top of him, just lazing the day away. cooking simple meals together, which he’s surprisingly good at. he believes staying practically glued to you the entire time is good for his mental health and it’d be cruel to deny him.
this man figured out your weakness long before you even started dating that you can never keep your hands to yourself when he’s sweaty, fresh out of the gym. so when you move in together, he starts timing it, leaving the gym just a little after you get home. the second he walks through the door, your eyes snap to him, the sight of him making your knees weak, heat pooling in all the right places. and you don’t even try to fight it. you just walk up to him, grab him, and kiss him deep, fully intending to have those sweaty, ripped biceps wrapped around you in a tight headlock.
summary. You learned to bottle your feelings for John Logan, ever since junior year of high school. Because you knew you would always be just friends, and out of fear of not ruining your friendship, you kept these feelings on ink and paper, locked in a box, first in your room, and now in your dorm, hidden away until you would put another letter in.
It was supposed to be a secret that you would take to the grave. Until a mistake has your box of unsent letters, spanning from your high school days to present college years, tumbling right in front of him, and now his curiosity is piqued.
pairing. John Logan x Reader
tags. Hurt/comfort, angst (it’s not really angst) with a happy ending, yearning, yearning, yearning but its reader yearning SO bad
ice time. 10k (woops)
notes. @ladynaviamin hi babes.
The first letter was on the day you realized you liked him.
It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write.
Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea.
Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?
You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant.
You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.
You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.
That was the beginning of it.
-
It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.
John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.
John had been the last one off the ice.
That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else.
And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.
Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.
John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”
“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip.
“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”
“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.
He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head.
"Sure. Thanks for that.”
You just shrugged.
John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”
You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.”
John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.”
He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks.
And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.
You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.
You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.
You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him.
You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.
You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.
It didn't.
-
The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once.
By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.
They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.
Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice
You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.
Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and—
— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.
You kept those folded five times.
--
Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.
I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again.
I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and.
I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.
Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.
You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.
When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer.
You'd gone home that night and written four pages.
I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.
But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.
What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that?
I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it.
I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.
You went to Briar.
You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.
You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age.
You'd meant to fix it.
You kept meaning to do a lot of things.
The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.
John – or maybe Logan?
You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know.
Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.
– With love, and judgement.
You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use.
You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.
They kept piling up. Letter after letter.
This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.
I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something.
UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice.
Actually, no. That was a joke.
Maybe.
– With love.
You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self.
They were overwrought.
They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.
John,
I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled.
I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that.
I'm working on it.
– With love.
P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.
John,
You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people.
What it does to me.
I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again.
— With love.
By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.
Sophomore year is when it all cracked.
Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew.
And then there was the puck bunny thing.
You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.
So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.
Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends.
Because that was all it was going to be.
-
"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.
"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.
"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"
Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"
"Like things aren't fine."
Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."
Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."
He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"
You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."
"Vent anyway."
"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."
Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"
"Basically."
"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."
That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."
"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."
You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.
-
Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.
Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.
"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.
"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.
"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."
"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.
Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.
Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.
"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now, you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."
"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”
Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?”
You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”
You blinked. "What?"
"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."
You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.
You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.
The realization hit you like cold water.
You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.
That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.
I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself.
But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.
Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel.
— With love, reluctantly, again, and always.
By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be.
Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.
"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"
"It's not that simple."
"It kind of is, though."
You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.
You didn't get the chance.
You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.
You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.
I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.
I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.
You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.
Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.
There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.
You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.
I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.
By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.
Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.
Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.
That was the plan. That had always been the plan.
The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.
—
It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.
You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.
Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.
The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.
The box opened.
Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.
You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"
You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.
John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.
The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.
"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.
But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.
All of them. Every single one.
John Logan.
Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.
His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.
He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.
"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.
"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."
"How many are there?"
His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.
You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.
"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."
He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."
"...Forty-three."
The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.
"How long?" he asked.
You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.
"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.
You watched him absorb it.
He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.
"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."
"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"
"Your journals have my name on them."
You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."
"Why didn't you send them?"
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.
"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.
"What things?"
"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"
"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.
"— you were not supposed to see these."
"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."
You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.
"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."
—
He was quiet for a long time after that.
You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.
Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory.
The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.
"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.
"Is it the same thing I think it is?"
"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.
"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."
"Yes."
"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."
"Yes."
"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."
"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."
"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."
You swallowed. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."
You gave him the second.
Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.
He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"
Your brows furrow. "What about him?"
"You dated him last year."
You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."
"Did it work?"
You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"
John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."
Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.
"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."
"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."
"So how—"
"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."
You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"
"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."
"That was one time."
"I know. I counted the limps."
That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.
He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.
The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.
"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.
"I did that the whole week."
"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."
"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."
You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."
"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"
He blinks. "What girls?"
"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."
"That's what this is about?"
"I'm asking."
He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."
"They looked like something."
Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."
There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.
"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."
"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."
"I know that now."
You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.
That's when he tells you about the texts.
"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."
"What texts?" you said.
"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."
You stared at him.
"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"
"Yeah."
"Since —"
"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."
"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.
"I know that now."
"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"
"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."
"Four years."
"I know."
"I have forty-three letters —"
"I know, I can see them —"
You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.
Then the laughter faded.
He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.
"What do we do now?" you asked.
John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.
"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."
You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.
"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"
"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."
The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.
"Okay," you said.
He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.
"Okay," he echoed.
He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.
He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.
Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.
"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.
"I'm not telling you that."
"Come on."
"Absolutely not."
"I'll find it eventually."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."
When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.
"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.
"I really am not."
"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going to find it."
"Get out of my room, Logan."
"I thought I said you could call me John?"
You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."
He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.
"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.
"Six a.m.," you agreed.
He left.
You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.
After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.
You set your alarm for five-thirty.
Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.
You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.
John stepped onto the ice.
He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.
You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.
He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.
After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.
"You're in your spot," he said.
"I'm always in my spot."
"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."
"I didn't."
"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."
"You knew the seat."
"I always knew the seat."
You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to.
With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.
"Hi," he said back.
He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.
You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.
He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.
"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”
"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.
"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."
"I was getting to it."
"It's been twenty minutes."
"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."
You giggled, but you still waited.
He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.
"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."
"We really are," you said.
"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."
You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.
"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."
He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."
"Monumental idiots."
"Historically unprecedented idiots."
"There should be a word for it."
"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.
"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.
"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."
You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain, the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.
"The long way," you agreed.
Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.
—
The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.
John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–
The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself.
I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on.
Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward.
You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now.
I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost.
It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts.
We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record.
I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you.
That's enough. That's more than enough.
— With love.
synopsis – Logan learns very quick to not make assumptions when you ask him to dog sit for you
based on this request!
warnings – language, established/new relationship, reader is described as small/petite
note – obsessed with this idea, if you want to request something, you can submit it by clicking the ‘♡’ button on my page or commenting under this post! enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
“Yeah, no I totally understand, thanks anyway,” you say, hanging up the phone before rolling your eyes, sighing at yet another person being unavailable when you needed them. Your options kept getting slimmer and slimmer, trying to find a dog sitter for the week you’d be out of town. Family, close friends, everyone you could possibly think of not available.
Except your boyfriend.
You haven’t been dating for too long and Logan had never met your dog, the timing always working out where someone was watching your dog while you guys hung out at your place. You definitely weren’t hiding it either – food and water bowls in your kitchen, a leash hanging on the hook by your front door and the dog bed in the living room all being dead giveaways.
Logan never questioned it, just chalking it up to your family and friends loving your baby just as much as you do and you wanting no distractions while you hung out. But you knew you couldn’t keep your dog from him for forever. Just because the relationship was new doesn’t mean he should be deprived of the cuteness that is your dog.
Still, you find yourself hesitating, not wanting your dog to scare him off. Looking at you, one would assume you’d have a cute little dog – a chihuahua, a mini schnauzer, a dachshund – something small and demure, like you.
But everyone knows, when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.
A phone call shakes you out of your thoughts, pulling your phone out of your pocket, a smile growing on your face seeing Logan calling you. ‘Practice must’ve ended early,’ you thought before answering the phone.
“Hey babe,” you say, running a hand through your hand, trying not to sound stressed.
“Hey gorgeous, how are you?” he asks, as you can hear his truck running in the background. You chuckle, shaking your head knowing you can’t ever hide your emotions from him.
“Little stressed,” you start, “I’ve called like five people and no one can watch my dog this week. I leave in two days Logan, I gotta find someone,” you finish, sighing again.
The other line goes quiet for a few moments, you pull the phone away from your ear, checking to make sure the call didn’t disconnect before putting it back up to your ear. The silence lasts a few seconds longer before you hear a soft chuckle over the other line.
“You do know you could’ve asked me, right? Between practice and classes, I wouldn’t be gone for more than three hours at a time,” he says, trying not to laugh at the fact that him being an option flew right over your head. Unbeknownst to him, he was your top choice, but you still were worried about him changing his mind or not being able to handle it.
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna burden you, or the guys” you say, a timidness hinting in your voice.
“You’re never a burden to me, with or without your dog, so get that out of your head. The guys won’t care either, I’m sure they’d love having a little ball of energy running around for a bit,” he says.
There it is. Little ball of energy.
“I’m sure I can handle it,” he reassures, the words making your heart warm.
You smile softly, “If you insist,” you give in, knowing his kind and caring nature wouldn’t end this phone call until he helped you come up with a solution.
“I do,” he says intently.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you sooner, I just… worry,” you trail off.
“About…?”
“You. With my dog,” you say, another few seconds of silence occurring, feeling very loud.
“What, you think your dog’s gonna scare me?” he asks, chuckling.
“You’ll see,” the teasing tone in your voice making Logan laugh, you half joking, half being serious.
“You can even bring ‘em by tonight so you can take tomorrow to finish packing and chill before you leave,” he offers, your heart warming once again at his kindness and consideration.
“Really?” you ask once more.
“I got you, baby,” he affirms. You smile, wiping a hand over your face, looking around your place.
“Okay, I’ll text when I’m on the way,” you reply.
“See you soon, gorgeous,” he says before he hangs up. You chuckle to yourself at his confidence, him clearly having no clue what he was getting himself into.
After gathering all of your dog’s favorite toys and treats, food and any other important essentials, you began to load your car up with the bags, followed by your dog and then you. Starting the car, you send a quick text to Logan before heading over to the hockey house.
Logan meets you outside, your bright headlights making it impossible for him to see anything inside the car. You put the car in park, stepping out, greeting him with a quick kiss before walking around to the passenger side back seat. Before opening the door, you glance at Logan, him meeting your eyes with raised eyebrows.
You say nothing, fighting back a smile, opening the door, a ‘come on baby’ leaving your lips as your dog hops out of the car. You shut the door as Logan’s nearly eyes bulge out of his head.
“That’s a big ass dog,” he says, the words leaving his lips before he can stop them.
Laughing at him, you say, “Now you see why I was hesitant,” with an ‘I told you so’ tone in your voice.
“I mean, I guess…but look at this cutie, harmless and adorable as ever,” he says, crouching down as your dog runs up to him, kissing him all over his face and panting with excitement, tail wagging a mile a minute. "I don't know why, I expected your dog to be... smaller I guess," he trails off.
“You know what they say about assuming?” you say, a grin on your face.
“What?” he looks up at you.
“Nevermind,” you chuckle.
He stands up as your dog explores the yard of the hockey house. You hand him your spare key, “Just in case you run out of food, there’s extra in the pantry,” you say.
“Thank you so much for this, really,” you sincerely say, leaning in for a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso as his arms wrap around your small frame, hugging you tight.
“I’d do anything for you,” he replies, a smile growing on your face, you both looking over, watching your dog roll around in the grass, soaking up the new environment. The moment was so calm, you holding each other, the sun setting, watching your dog roam around, before Dean’s voice echoes down the block.
“Holy shit, is that a dog??!”
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
note – had to put a mini schnauzer in there as a reference to my sweet girl who passed away a few years ago, love you my baby🩷
summary: a lazy moment with logan leaves you reminiscing on the first time you knew he was the one for you. inspired by the song honeybee by olivia rodrigo. requested!
For the sake of honesty, you gotta admit that the movie you had picked for a late afternoon decompress session with your boyfriend was long forgotten at this point.
“I really like the lighting in here,” you say, splattered on the living room couch with your legs draped over Logan’s lap, him roaming his hands mindlessly over them as he watches Hugh Grant walking through seasons on the screen.
It had been such a long day, with his morning practice and your early shift. Both hesitant to leave the bed but doing it anyway, because you had to, despite dreading every second spent away from each other.
You’d think it’s the honeymoon phase of the relationship, where all the clichés and the novelties of being with Logan would still feel fresh and different than anything you’ve ever felt before. But it’s true, and no matter how that sounds for the cynical ear, you can’t escape from the giddy feeling of the first time you’ve felt really sure of it, by Logan’s own words.
“I never thought it’d happen to me,” you remember him muttering against your temple, fingertips tracing your face so gently it almost lured you to sleep, then every so often pressing a kiss on your face to keep you from falling asleep.
You hum, mind still hazy, “What?”
He takes a moment, measuring what to say. You think he was mostly speaking to himself, not expecting you to hear it, caught off guard to have you asking. After a beat, he answers, “You. Or like– Love, altogether.” He says, in a low voice, “Thought it was something that’d only happen to other people.”
You blink slowly, “Baby,” you say, getting a bashful smile in return.
“I know.” Logan rolls his eyes, “But it’s like– You know.”
You beam at him, “Do I?”
He adjusts himself in bed, your head previously laying on his chest now moved to his arm as he turns to face you, “It’s like, I’d see it happening to, Garrett, or Dean, and just think,” he sighs, “It all seemed so distant. Like I’d just forever stay on the sidelines. Dramatic as fuck,”
“You tend to be,” you cut him off, joking. Logan softly pinches your sides, pulling a squeal out of you, “Sorry, please continue.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
You shrug, “I like hearing what you’d thought of me.”
Logan chuckled, then moving his hand to cradle your cheek, “I just thought that something had changed,” he says, simply. “That I had been wrong before and you were the one to make it right.”
You wouldn’t often hear Logan being so straightforward about his feelings. A show, don’t tell kind of guy, his devotion for you always seeping through his actions, it’s different to hear him say such things, all of those that you believed too, often choosing to keep them deep down, wondering if you were maybe getting ahead of yourself and any show of feelings would terrify him. You knew it then that there was no place for doubt within you two.
Moving closer to Logan, hiding your face on the curve of his neck as you press a kiss there, you think he knows it too.
Things became much smoother after that night, with the two of you introducing one another into your lives. His friends become yours too, and a number of his clothes in your closet while half his bathroom cabinet fits your things too. A natural transition from infatuation to love, like making up for all the lost time from when you didn’t know each other.
You’ve learned that you love sleeping beside him, reaching to find him laying by your side. You love finding time in your busy schedules to grab lunch with him, having him pick you up after work so you can talk as you walk home. You love when he texts you in the middle of the day about something that made him think of you.
You love everything about sharing a life with Logan.
And right at this moment, you love watching his face look at you in wonder, “The lighting?” he repeats, and you hum.
“When the sun is setting,” you say, “And the light peeks through the curtains, see?”
Logan turns his head to the window, his hand stopping midway up your shin as he focuses, trying to see what you see, “No, actually.”
You giggle, taking your legs off of his lap and pushing him a little, “Come here,” you urge him, “You gotta see it from here.”
Logan stares at you for a second, his eyes studying your face to see if you’re messing with him. You pat the couch next to you, “C’mon, I mean it.”
He laughs before crawling up your side of the couch, laying impossibly close to you. He tries kissing you, still convinced this is all a ruse, but you grab his cheeks and move him to face the window.
“Oh, wow,” he murmurs, voice constricted by your hands still on his face, “The lighting does look pretty from down here.”
You chuckle, “I told you.”
He looks back at you, face contorted into a doting smile, “I think you’re the first person to ever mention that,” he says.
The golden light peeking through makes his eyes shine brighter than ever as they fall on your face, the adoration behind giving them an extra twinkle too.
“What?” You ask, holding back a smile.
Logan shakes his head, “Nothing,” he says, “I just love that you could see that.”
Your mouth splits into a grin, “Yeah?”
He hums, “Hm-hm,” he presses his nose against your cheek, lips finding the very corner of your mouth, murmuring, “And you look really pretty right now.”
A 90’s song playing on the TV draws your giggles as Logan places a sticky sweet peck there, you humming contently as his mouth lingers on your face, with one more kiss being pressed, then another, then another.
You think you could stay forever like this, pressed between Logan and the couch, with his face bathed by this honey-like golden lighting, so eager to keep finding yours, again and again and again.
notes: i know some people tend to see honeybee with some sadness to it (given the context of the album), but it truly is my favourite love song from olivia. thank you for reading! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
A collection of little stories that gives Lo'ak a parent who loves him unconditionally.
Part Two
Masterlist | Part One
Spider's Momma
The Soft Moments
Paint and Laughter
You're grinding pigments for ceremonial paint when you hear the patter of small feet running toward your kelku—fast, excited, completely uncoordinated in the way only a four-year-old can manage. The sound makes you smile even before you see him, that particular rhythm of joy that belongs only to Lo'ak.
"Sa'nu! Sa'nu, look!"
You turn just in time to see Lo'ak burst through the entrance, and you have to press your hand to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
He's covered in paint.
Not just his hands—though those are thoroughly coated in what looks like three different colors, the pigments mixing into muddy purples and browns between his fingers—but his face, his chest, his legs, even his feet. There's a bright blue handprint on his stomach, the five little fingers splayed wide like a star. Yellow streaks through his dark hair, making it stick up in wild directions. Red is smudged across one cheek like war paint applied by someone who's never seen war paint before, the color so vibrant it looks like he's blushing on only one side of his face.
And he's beaming. Absolutely radiant with pride.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest—a squeeze and a swell all at once. This child. This beautiful, chaotic, paint-covered child who came running to you first, not to hide his mess but to share his joy.
"Ma'itan," you manage, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter and something deeper, something tender. "What happened to you?"
"I was making art!" He holds up his hands proudly, wiggling his paint-covered fingers so enthusiastically that droplets of blue spatter onto the woven floor mat. "See? I'm an artist like you!"
The paint on his hands is still wet, you notice—he must have run here immediately, not even pausing to let it dry. The blue is the color of deep water, the kind you use for ceremonial bowls. The yellow is sunshine-bright, made from flower pollen. The red is clay-rich and earthy, and you can smell it from here, that mineral scent mixed with the sweet botanical notes of the other pigments.
"I can see that." You set down your grinding stone carefully, your own hands dusted with fine powder, and crouch to his level, taking in the full scope of the beautiful disaster. The late afternoon light streaming through your kelku entrance catches the wet paint on his skin, making it gleam. "What were you painting?"
"A bow! For Dad!" His ears droop slightly, the first hint of uncertainty creeping into his expression. "But it didn't look right and then I tried to fix it and then the paint got everywhere and Mom said I made a mess and I should go wash off but I wanted to show you first because—because—"
He stops, suddenly uncertain, as if he's just realized that maybe you'll be upset too. His small chest rises and falls quickly, and you can see paint smudged on his ribs where he must have wiped his hands.
Your heart breaks and mends in the same moment. Of course he came to you. Of course he wanted to show you first, before the mess became something shameful instead of something wonderful.
You reach out and boop his paint-covered nose with one finger, leaving a little dot of blue pigment on the tip. The paint is cool and slightly gritty against your skin. "Because you wanted to show me your colors?"
His whole face lights up again, the uncertainty vanishing like morning mist. "Yes!"
"Well, I'm very glad you did." You sit back on your heels, studying him with exaggerated seriousness, letting your eyes travel from his paint-stiffened hair to his rainbow-splattered toes. The colors are so vibrant against his skin, and there's something utterly unselfconscious about the way he stands there, not trying to hide or minimize, just existing in his mess with complete four-year-old confidence. "You know what I think?"
"What?" He leans forward eagerly, his eyes wide and golden in the slanting light.
"I think you look like a sunset."
He blinks, his head tilting in that bird-like way children have when they're trying to understand something new. "A sunset?"
"Mm-hmm. See, you have yellow here—" You tap his hair gently, feeling the stiff, paint-crusted strands. "Like the sun. And red here—" You touch his cheek, your finger coming away with a smudge of clay-red. "Like the sky when it's turning dark. And blue here—" You press your palm against the handprint on his stomach, feeling the slight tackiness of the drying paint, the warmth of his small body beneath. "Like the night coming in. You're a walking piece of sky, ma'itan."
Lo'ak looks down at himself, his expression shifting from uncertain to wondering. He touches the blue handprint on his stomach, then looks at the yellow in his hair, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Really?"
"Really." You stand and offer him your hand, and something in your chest expands when he takes it without hesitation. His palm is sticky with paint, warm and small in yours, and you can feel the slight tremble of excitement still running through him. "Come. Let's make more art together. The right way this time."
His small hand slips into yours completely, trustingly, and he follows you eagerly as you gather supplies—a flat piece of bark for a canvas, smooth and pale; fresh pigments in their small clay pots, the colors rich and pure; a few carved sticks for brushes, their tips worn soft from use. You can feel his energy practically vibrating through his hand, that barely-contained four-year-old enthusiasm that makes everything an adventure.
You settle outside in the dappled sunlight, and Lo'ak plops down beside you with absolutely no grace, his legs splaying out, his paint-covered hands immediately reaching for the pigments before you've even arranged them.
"First," you say gently, catching his hands, "we make sure we have something to protect our workspace. See?" You lay down a woven mat, the fibers rough and practical under your fingers. "This way, the mess stays where we want it."
"Oh." He watches intently, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. You can practically see him filing this information away. "I didn't have that."
"That's okay. You didn't know yet. Now you do." You hand him a brush, watching his small fingers close around it. The stick looks almost too big in his hand, but he grips it with determination. "What do you want to paint?"
"Um..." He scrunches up his face, thinking hard, his nose wrinkling and his ears twitching. The paint on his cheek cracks slightly with the movement. "Can I paint you?"
Your heart melts, going soft and warm like honey in the sun. "You want to paint me?"
"Yeah! Because you're pretty and you're nice and you always smell like flowers." He says it so matter-of-factly, as if these are simply observable truths about the world.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and genuine, and pull him close to press a kiss to the top of his head—and immediately get paint in your hair. It's cool and slightly sticky against your scalp, but you don't care. You don't care at all. "Then you should definitely paint me. What colors do you need?"
He surveys the pigments with intense concentration, leaning forward until his nose is nearly in the pots. The colors glow in their clay containers—deep blue like evening sky, rich brown like earth after rain, sunshine yellow, clay red, green like new leaves. "Blue. And brown. And... and yellow for your smile!"
"Yellow for my smile," you repeat, enchanted by the logic of a four-year-old's mind. "I love that."
You watch as he dips his brush—really just his fingers, because he abandons the stick almost immediately, setting it aside with a small clatter—into the paint and begins to work. His tongue pokes out between his teeth in concentration, and you can see the exact moment he forgets about everything else in the world except the bark in front of him and the colors on his fingers.
He gets more paint on himself than on the bark, of course. A smear of brown across his forearm. Blue under his fingernails. Yellow on his knee somehow. But he's so focused, so earnest, his small brow furrowed and his breathing steady and deep.
"You're doing beautifully," you murmur, and you mean it. There's something sacred about watching a child create, about witnessing the moment when imagination becomes real under small, clumsy hands.
"I'm trying to get your eyes right," he says seriously, not looking up from his work. His finger swirls blue in a circle, then another circle beside it. "They're really big."
"Are they?"
"Uh-huh. And they're always looking at me like—like you're happy I'm there." He glances up at you briefly, checking, then returns to his painting.
Oh, this child. This observant, sensitive, paint-covered child who notices how people look at him, who's already learning at four years old to read love or disappointment in the eyes of the people around him.
"That's because I am always happy you're there, ma'itan." You let the words settle between you, warm and true.
He glances up at you again, paint-smeared and precious, his golden eyes searching your face. "Even when I make messes?"
"Especially when you make messes." You tap his nose again, adding another blue dot beside the first. "Messes mean you're exploring. Learning. Creating. Those are good things."
"Dad doesn't think so," he says quietly, returning to his painting. His voice is smaller now, and you can see his shoulders hunch slightly. "He says I need to be more careful. Like Neteyam."
You choose your words carefully, aware of the weight they carry, aware that this four-year-old is listening with his whole heart. "Your sempul wants you to be safe and responsible. Those are important things. But you know what else is important?"
"What?" He looks up, and there's something hopeful in his expression that makes your chest ache.
"Joy. Curiosity. The willingness to try things even if they might get messy." You stroke his paint-sticky hair, feeling the stiff strands, the warmth of his scalp, the realness of him. "Neteyam is careful and precise, and that's wonderful. But you—you have this beautiful wild spirit that wants to touch everything, try everything, feel everything. That's wonderful too. Just in a different way."
Lo'ak is quiet for a moment, his fingers swirling blue paint in circles on the bark, then adding brown, then yellow. The colors blend and mix under his touch. "You really think so?"
"I know so." And you do. You know it in your bones, in your heart, in every part of you that recognizes this child for exactly who he is—not who he should be, not who others want him to be, but who he is right now, in this moment, paint-covered and perfect.
He leans against your side, leaving paint smears on your arm—you can feel the cool wetness of it, the slight stick as it begins to dry—and continues working on his masterpiece. You don't care about the mess. You don't care that you'll have to scrub pigment out of both your hair and his, that the blue will probably stain your skin for days. You don't care that his "painting" of you looks more like a colorful blob with eyes, the features abstract and enthusiastic rather than accurate.
What you care about is the way he hums while he works, a tuneless little melody that's pure contentment. The way his little body relaxes against yours, growing heavier as he settles in, trusting and comfortable. The way he occasionally holds up his bark canvas and asks, "Is this good?" and lights up like a star when you say yes, when you point out something specific you love—the way he made your smile so big, the brightness of the colors, the care he took with the eyes.
The sun moves across the sky, the light shifting from gold to amber, and still he paints. He adds more colors—green for your necklace, red for your lips, brown for your hair. The painting becomes more elaborate, more layered, more completely and utterly his own vision.
When he's finally satisfied—or more accurately, when he's gotten bored and started painting his own feet instead, giggling as he makes blue toes bluer—you help him wash off in the nearby stream.
The water is cool and clear, and he splashes and giggles, turning the bath into another game. Paint swirls away in clouds of color—blue and yellow and red mixing in the current, creating temporary rainbows before dispersing. He kicks his feet, sending up sprays of water that catch the light. He dunks his head under and comes up sputtering, his hair plastered to his skull, paint still clinging stubbornly to the strands.
You let him play because why not? Why not let a four-year-old be four? Why not let him splash and laugh and turn even washing up into an adventure?
You scrub gently at the paint on his skin, feeling it loosen and lift under your fingers. Some of it—the blue especially—has stained slightly, leaving faint shadows on his arms and chest. He'll be tinted with color for days, a walking reminder of this afternoon.
"Sa'nu?" he asks as you're drying him off with soft moss, the fibers gentle against his skin.
"Yes, paskalin?"
"Can we paint together again tomorrow?"
You wrap him in the moss-cloth and pull him into your lap, feeling his damp weight settle against you, his head tucking perfectly under your chin. He smells like river water and fading paint and child-warmth. "We can paint together whenever you want."
"Even if I get messy?"
"Even if you get messy." You kiss his forehead, tasting stream water and sunshine. "Especially if you get messy."
He grins—that wide, gap-toothed grin that takes over his whole face, crinkling his eyes and showing the spaces where teeth will eventually grow—and throws his arms around your neck.
His skin is still slightly damp, cool against yours. His hair drips onto your shoulder. He's getting you wet and he still smells faintly of pigment and he's probably going to wiggle away in about thirty seconds to go find some new adventure.
But right now, in this moment, he's here. He's happy. He's loved.
And he knows it.
And later, when Neytiri comes to collect him and sees the paint still lingering in his hair, still under his fingernails, still faintly tinting his skin in shades of blue and yellow, she gives you a look that's half exasperated, half grateful.
"He's been talking about painting with you all week," she says softly, and there's something in her voice—not resentment, but perhaps a recognition of something she cannot give him, something he needs that she doesn't have time or temperament to provide.
"Then we'll have to make it a regular thing," you reply, ruffling Lo'ak's damp hair.
He beams up at both of you, bouncing on his toes, and for a moment, you see Neytiri's expression soften—seeing her son so happy, so confident, so utterly himself. Not trying to be Neteyam. Not trying to be anything except exactly who he is.
"Thank you," she murmurs, and you know she means for more than just the painting. She means for seeing him. For celebrating him. For giving him a place where mess is not failure and creativity is not frivolous and being Lo'ak is enough.
You simply nod, watching as Lo'ak skips beside his mother back toward their kelku, already chattering about what he'll paint next time—maybe a palulukan, maybe the forest, maybe Spider, maybe all three at once—his voice bright and endless and full of plans.
Your little artist.
Your messy, joyful, beautiful boy.
The one who came to you first, not to hide his mistakes, but to share his colors.
The Flower Hunt
"Sa'nu, wait up!"
You pause on the forest path, turning to see Lo'ak scrambling over a moss-covered log, his collection basket bouncing wildly against his hip. He's six now, all gangly limbs and oversized ears that twitch with every sound, his coordination still desperately trying to catch up to his boundless enthusiasm. The morning light catches in his dark hair, still slightly tangled from sleep, and his feet are already stained green from the dew-wet grass.
Behind him, moving more carefully over the uneven terrain, is Spider—the human boy who's become Lo'ak's constant shadow. He's so small compared to Na'vi children, barely reaching Lo'ak's shoulder, his breathing mask slightly fogged from exertion and the humidity of the forest. But he's grinning behind the clear panel, his eyes bright with determination as he navigates roots and stones with the practiced ease of a child who's spent his whole short life trying to keep up with beings twice his size.
"I'm here! I'm here!" Lo'ak announces, slightly breathless as he skids to a stop beside you, sending up a small spray of leaf litter. His chest rises and falls quickly, and you can smell the sweet-sour scent of child-sweat and crushed ferns clinging to his skin. "Did we miss anything?"
"Not a thing," you assure him, reaching out to steady him as he nearly trips over his own feet in his eagerness. His arm is warm under your hand, slightly sticky from the humid air, and you can feel his pulse still racing from the run. "We're just beginning."
"What are we looking for again?" Spider asks, adjusting his mask with both hands. His voice comes out slightly muffled, and you notice how his small chest works harder than it should, pulling in the processed air.
"Healing flowers," you explain, gesturing to the forest around you with a sweep of your arm. The movement disturbs a cluster of tiny flying insects that shimmer iridescent in a shaft of sunlight before dispersing. "The blue ones with five petals—they grow near water, where the soil stays damp. And the yellow climbing vines—those are good for fever, but you have to know which ones. The leaves should be smooth, not fuzzy. And if we're very lucky, we might find some night blooms that haven't closed yet from the morning sun."
"I'll find the most!" Lo'ak declares immediately, already scanning the undergrowth with the intense focus he only shows when he's not being evaluated or tested. His eyes dart from shadow to shadow, cataloging every splash of color, every unusual shape.
"It's not a competition, ma'itan." But you're smiling as you say it, because of course it is to him. Everything is an adventure, a challenge, a chance to prove himself—even when there's no one here who needs convincing.
"Everything's a competition with him," Spider says, but there's pure fondness in his voice, the kind that comes from knowing someone completely and loving them anyway.
You laugh softly, the sound blending with the morning chorus of birds and the distant rush of water over stones. Leading them deeper into the forest, you're acutely aware of how the temperature shifts as you move under the thicker canopy—cooler here, the air heavy with moisture and the rich, loamy scent of decomposing leaves and growing things. The ground beneath your feet transitions from sun-dried earth to soft moss that cushions each step, releasing tiny puffs of spores and the smell of green, living things.
The morning light filters through the canopy in golden shafts that seem almost solid, illuminating patches of emerald moss and clusters of small white flowers that glow like stars in the shadows. Tiny motes of pollen and seed drift lazily through the beams, and somewhere nearby you can hear the musical babble of a stream, the water singing over rocks.
This is one of your favorite things—these simple expeditions with Lo'ak where there are no training objectives, no skills to master, no one watching to see if he measures up. Just time together, exploring, talking, being. You watch him now, the way his whole body vibrates with barely contained energy, the way his ears swivel to catch every sound, the way he touches everything—running his fingers over bark, brushing his palm across fern fronds, testing the springiness of moss with his toes.
He's not trying to prove anything here. He's not the second son or the one who can't sit still or the boy who gets distracted too easily. He's just Lo'ak, and that's exactly who you want him to be.
"There!" Lo'ak suddenly shouts, his voice startling a small creature that skitters up a nearby tree trunk. He's pointing with his whole arm, his body already leaning in the direction he wants to go. "Blue flowers! I see blue flowers!"
He's running before you can respond, crashing through the ferns with his usual complete lack of stealth, his feet pounding against the forest floor, his basket swinging wildly. You can hear him trampling undergrowth, snapping small twigs, sending up the sharp green scent of bruised leaves. You and Spider follow at a more reasonable pace, and you notice how Spider has to work harder, his shorter legs taking two steps for every one of yours, his breathing slightly labored behind the mask.
By the time you catch up, Lo'ak is crouched beside a small cluster of blue star-flowers growing in a patch of dappled sunlight, his face alight with such pure pride it makes your chest ache. The flowers are perfect—five delicate petals each, the blue so vivid it seems to glow, their centers dusted with golden pollen. They grow close to the ground, their stems thin and delicate, and you can smell their faint, sweet fragrance even from here.
"I found them! Are these the right ones?" His voice pitches up with excitement and hope, and you can see him practically vibrating with the need for your approval.
You kneel beside him, feeling the cool dampness of the moss seep through your clothing, and examine the flowers carefully. You touch one petal gently—it's soft as spider silk, cool and slightly waxy. "Perfect. These are exactly right. Good eye, ma'itan."
He practically glows, his whole face transforming. "Can I pick them?"
"Gently," you remind him, covering his hand with yours for a moment. His skin is warm, slightly rough from climbing and playing, and you can feel the tremor of excitement running through him. "We thank the plant first, and we never take more than we need. The forest gives to us, so we must give back our respect and gratitude."
You watch as he places his small hand on the stem, his expression shifting from excitement to something more serious, more reverent. His fingers are careful now, mindful. "Thank you, flower," he whispers, and his voice has that particular quality of a child trying very hard to do something right. "We need you for medicine. For healing people who are sick."
Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too large for your chest. He's listening. Learning. Not because someone's drilling it into him or threatening punishment if he fails, but because he wants to understand, wants to do it right for you. Because this matters to him when you're the one teaching it.
He carefully pinches off three blooms, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and places them in his basket with exaggerated care, arranging them so they won't be crushed. His hands are gentle, reverent, and you see in this moment the man he'll become—someone who can be fierce and wild but also tender when it matters.
"I want to find some too," Spider announces, scanning the area with his eyes narrowed in determination. Even through the mask, you can see how his expression mirrors Lo'ak's—that same need to contribute, to be useful, to be valued.
"The yellow vines grow on trees," you tell him, standing and brushing moss from your knees. The air is warming as the sun climbs higher, and you can feel a trickle of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. "Look for the older trunks, where the bark is rough and deeply grooved. The vines like to climb where they can grip tightly."
Spider nods seriously and scampers off, his small form disappearing into the undergrowth with surprising speed. Lo'ak immediately follows, unwilling to let his friend search alone, and you hear them calling to each other, their voices bright with excitement.
You trail behind them at a leisurely pace, listening to their chatter, letting the forest embrace you. The humidity is thick now, making the air feel almost liquid, and every breath carries the scent of flowers and earth and green growing things. Your feet know this path, know the give of the moss, the firmness of the roots, the places where water pools after rain.
"What if we find a palulukan?" Spider asks, his voice pitched with excitement rather than fear, the way only a child who's never actually encountered one can sound.
"Then Sa'nu will protect us," Lo'ak says with such absolute confidence it makes you smile. There's no doubt in his voice, no hesitation. "She knows everything about the forest."
"Does she know how to fight a palulukan?" Spider's voice is awed, impressed.
"She knows how to do everything." Lo'ak states this as simple fact, the way he might say the sky is blue or water is wet.
You smile to yourself, touched by his faith in you even as you hope you never have to test the palulukan theory. The truth is, you'd do anything to protect these children, but you'd much rather it involve healing herbs than apex predators.
"Found some!" Spider calls out, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. He's pointing to a massive tree trunk where yellow vines cascade down the deeply furrowed bark like a waterfall of gold, the leaves catching the light and seeming to shimmer. The vines are thick as your thumb in places, their surfaces smooth and slightly waxy, and you can smell their distinctive sharp-sweet scent from here.
"Good job, Spider!" Lo'ak is already climbing, his movements suddenly graceful and sure in a way they never are on flat ground. His fingers and toes find holds instinctively, his body remembering what his mind sometimes forgets—that he was born for this, born to the trees. "I'll get the high ones!"
"Be careful," you call, but you're not truly worried. Lo'ak climbs like he was born in the trees—which, of course, he was. This is where he's most himself, most confident, most free.
He stretches up, his body elongating, his tongue poking out in concentration as he reaches for a particularly lush section of vine. The muscles in his back and arms flex with the effort, and you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. "How much do we need?"
"Just a few strands," you tell him, watching as he carefully tests the vine's strength. "Remember—"
"Never more than we need," he finishes, his voice slightly strained from stretching. He carefully breaks off three lengths of vine, each about as long as his forearm, and the plant releases a fresh burst of that sharp-sweet scent. "I remember, Sa'nu."
He climbs down with the same unconscious grace, his feet finding holds without looking, and lands beside you with a soft thump that sends up a small cloud of pollen from nearby flowers. He presents the vines to you like a prize, his eyes bright and seeking your approval, and there's something in his expression—a vulnerability, a hope—that tells you how much this simple praise matters to him.
You accept them with appropriate reverence, running your fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the slight give of the living plant. "These are perfect, ma'itan. You chose well—see how the leaves are smooth? And the color is bright, which means they're healthy and strong." You tuck them carefully into your own basket, arranging them so they won't be crushed.
"You're both doing wonderfully," you say, and both boys beam at you with such pure joy it makes your throat tight. This is what Lo'ak needs—not constant correction, not endless comparisons to his brother, but simple acknowledgment that he's doing well, that his efforts matter, that he's valued.
You continue through the forest, and it becomes less about the flowers and more about the adventure, the journey, the simple pleasure of being together. The sun climbs higher, the light shifting from gold to white, and the temperature rises until the air feels thick enough to drink. Lo'ak finds an interesting rock—smooth and round and striped with bands of color—and insists on showing you, explaining in great detail why it's special, how it feels different from other rocks, how it might have come from the mountains. You listen with genuine interest, turning the stone in your hands, feeling its weight and warmth, because his observations matter, his curiosity is valuable, his wonder at the world is something to be celebrated, not dismissed.
Spider discovers a line of insects marching across a fallen log, each one carrying a piece of leaf many times its own size, and both boys crouch to watch with rapt fascination. You join them, feeling the rough bark under your knees, smelling the sweet decay of the rotting wood, and you point out how the insects work together, how they communicate, how even the smallest creatures have important roles in the forest's balance.
You point out bird calls—teaching them to distinguish the sharp warning cry of a sentinel bird from the melodious courting song of a forest dove. You show them which mushrooms are safe and which aren't, letting them touch the safe ones, feeling the different textures—some smooth as skin, others rough as bark, some that release puffs of spores when pressed gently. You let them taste the sweet sap from a particular type of bark, watching their faces light up at the unexpected flavor, like honey mixed with flowers.
The forest is alive around you—insects humming, leaves rustling in the occasional breeze, water singing over stones, the distant calls of creatures moving through the canopy. The air is thick with scents: flowers and earth and growing things, the sharp tang of sap, the sweet decay of fallen fruit, the green smell of crushed leaves.
At one point, Lo'ak grabs your hand, his palm slightly sticky with sap and sweat, and swings it between you as you walk. The gesture is so unconscious, so natural, and it fills you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the humid air.
"This is my favorite thing," he announces suddenly, his voice matter-of-fact.
"What is, paskalin?" You squeeze his hand gently.
"This. Going places with you. Just... being with you." He looks up at you with those golden eyes, and there's something in his expression—open, trusting, completely unguarded. "You never make me feel like I'm doing it wrong."
Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow hard before you can speak. Because you know what he's not saying—that others do make him feel that way. That he's used to being corrected, redirected, told to focus, told to be more like his brother, told that his natural way of being in the world is somehow insufficient.
"You're not doing it wrong, ma'itan," you tell him, stopping to crouch down so you're at his eye level. You cup his face gently, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight dampness of sweat at his temples. "You're doing it exactly right. You're being exactly who you're supposed to be."
"Dad says I need to focus more," he says quietly, his eyes dropping. "That I get distracted too easy. That I notice the wrong things." His voice gets smaller. "That I should be more like Neteyam."
Your heart breaks for him, for this six-year-old child who's already learning to see his natural curiosity as a flaw, his wonder at the world as a weakness. You tilt his chin up gently until he meets your eyes again.
"Your sempul wants you to be a strong warrior," you say carefully, choosing your words with precision because they matter, because he'll remember them. "And you will be. You're already brave and quick and clever. But right now, you're six years old. You're supposed to be curious. You're supposed to notice rocks and bugs and interesting sounds. That's not distraction—that's learning about your world. That's how you understand the forest, how you become part of it instead of just moving through it."
Spider, who's been listening quietly, his eyes serious behind his mask, pipes up: "My teacher says I don't pay attention either. That I'm always looking at the wrong things."
You reach out and touch his shoulder gently, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric he wears, the fragility of his small human bones. "Then your teacher doesn't understand that there are many ways to pay attention," you tell him firmly. "Sometimes the most important lessons aren't the ones we're supposed to be learning. Sometimes the most valuable knowledge comes from following your curiosity, from noticing what others overlook."
Both boys consider this, their faces serious, and you can see them processing, weighing your words against what they've been told by others. Then Lo'ak squeezes your hand, his grip tight and trusting.
"I'm glad you're my Sa'nu," he says simply, and the words land in your chest like a physical weight, precious and profound.
"I'm glad you're my boy," you reply, your voice thick with emotion.
Spider hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes uncertain behind the mask. "Can I call you Sa'nu too? Sometimes?" His voice is small, tentative, as if he's afraid of the answer.
You stop walking completely, turning to face him fully. This human child, so small and fragile compared to Na'vi children, his bones like bird bones, his skin so easily damaged, his lungs unable to breathe the air without help. This child who's been told in a thousand small ways that he doesn't quite belong, that he's different, that he's less.
You crouch down to his level, looking into his eyes through the clear panel of his mask. "You can call me Sa'nu whenever you want," you tell him, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his thin chest. "You are always welcome with me, Spider. Always. You belong here just as much as anyone."
His eyes get shiny behind his mask, and he nods quickly, his small throat working as he swallows hard.
Lo'ak immediately throws an arm around his friend's shoulders, pulling him close with the unselfconscious affection of childhood. "See? I told you she's the best."
You gather both boys close, one arm around each, and hold them for a moment in the dappled forest light. You can feel Lo'ak's warmth on one side, solid and real, and Spider's smaller, more fragile form on the other. You can smell them—child-sweat and crushed leaves and the faint mechanical scent of Spider's mask. You can feel their hearts beating, their chests rising and falling with breath, and you think: these are my children. Not by birth, but by choice. By love.
"Come on," you say eventually, standing and offering each of them a hand. "Let's find those night blooms. And then maybe we'll stop by the stream and cool our feet."
"Can we catch fish?" Lo'ak asks eagerly, his earlier vulnerability already forgotten in the excitement of new possibilities.
"Can we skip stones?" Spider adds, bouncing slightly on his toes.
"We can do whatever we want," you tell them, and you mean it. "We have all day. No one is waiting for us. No one is expecting anything from us. We can just... be."
And you do. You spend hours in the forest with them, collecting flowers and plants, but mostly just being together. The sun climbs to its peak and begins its descent, the light shifting from white to gold again, the shadows lengthening. You let them explore, let them play, let them be children without expectations or pressure or the weight of who they're supposed to become.
You find the night blooms—pale, luminous flowers that glow faintly even in daylight, their petals soft as silk and cool to the touch. You show them how to harvest the blooms without damaging the plant, how to store them so they'll retain their properties. You stop by the stream and all three of you wade in, the water shockingly cold against sun-warmed skin, and you watch as the boys splash and play, their laughter bright as bird song.
Lo'ak tries to catch fish with his bare hands and fails spectacularly, falling face-first into the water and coming up sputtering and laughing. Spider skips stones, his smaller size actually an advantage as he sends flat rocks skittering across the surface in long chains of splashes. You sit on the bank and watch them, your feet dangling in the current, and you think about how Lo'ak came to you this morning not because he needed something, but simply because he wanted to be with you. How he chose your company over training, over playing with other children, over anything else he could have done.
How he's not trying to prove himself here. How he's not performing or achieving or demonstrating skills. How he's just... being. Being curious and enthusiastic and easily distracted and absolutely, perfectly himself.
When you finally head back to High Camp in the late afternoon, both boys are tired and happy, their baskets full of carefully gathered plants, their faces bright with sun and joy and the simple pleasure of a day well spent. The forest around you is beginning its evening transformation—the light going golden and soft, the temperature dropping slightly, the day creatures settling as the night creatures begin to stir.
Lo'ak walks between you and Spider, holding both your hands, chattering about everything and nothing—about the fish that got away, about the perfect skipping stone Spider found, about how he wants to come back tomorrow and the day after and every day forever. His voice is endless, bright, full of plans and ideas and observations, and you listen to all of it with genuine interest because this is who he is—this curious, enthusiastic, endlessly talkative child who notices everything and wants to share it all.
And you think: this. This is why you do it. Not for the grand moments or the dramatic rescues, but for these simple hours where a child feels seen and valued and loved just for existing. Where he gets to be exactly who he is, without apology, without shame, without the constant pressure to be someone else.
Where he's not the second son or the troublemaker or the one who can't sit still or the one who gets distracted too easily.
He's just Lo'ak.
Your Lo'ak.
And that's more than enough.
That's everything.
Braids and Stories
The evening is settling in, soft and golden, when Lo'ak appears at your kelku. He's seven now, and he's been playing with the other children all day—you can tell by the tangles in his hair, the smudges of dirt on his knees and elbows, the slightly wild look in his eyes that says he's had a very good time. There's a leaf caught in his hair, and what looks like tree sap on one shoulder, and his feet are stained green from running through wet grass.
"Sa'nu?" He hovers at the entrance, suddenly shy in that way he gets sometimes, as if he's not quite sure he's welcome even though he always, always is.
"Come in, ma'itan." You set aside the weaving you've been working on, the half-finished basket that can wait, that will always wait for him. "What do you need?"
He pads inside, his feet making soft sounds against the woven floor mat, and you notice he's carrying a small carved comb—one you made for him last year, the wood smooth and warm from being clutched in his hand. "My braids came out," he says, touching his hair self-consciously, his fingers catching in the tangles. "Mom's busy with Tuk, and I tried to do them myself but they look weird."
Your heart does that thing it always does when he comes to you—that squeeze and swell, that ache of tenderness. He tried to do it himself first. He didn't want to be a burden. But when his own attempts failed, he came here, to you, because he knows this is a safe place to need things.
"Come here." You pat the space in front of you, and the evening light slanting through the entrance catches the dust motes in the air, turns everything amber and warm. "I'll fix them."
His whole face brightens—that transformation from uncertain to joyful that happens so quickly with him, like clouds parting to reveal sun. He settles cross-legged in front of you, his back to your chest, and you can feel the warmth of him even before you touch him, can smell the day on him—crushed leaves and child-sweat and the faint mineral scent of the stream where he must have been playing.
You gather his hair gently, and the first touch tells you everything about his day. Na'vi hair is thicker than human hair, coarser, each strand strong and resilient. Lo'ak's hair is like silk-wrapped wire—soft on the surface but with an underlying strength, the individual strands catching on your fingers as you run them through. It's completely knotted, a wild mass of tangles and snarls that speak of hours of play, of running and climbing and rolling and living.
There's something sacred about this, you think. About being trusted with this intimacy. About being the one whose hands are allowed in his hair, against his scalp, in this vulnerable space.
"This might pull a little," you warn, finding the worst of the tangles—a massive knot near his left ear where it looks like he got caught on a branch.
"That's okay." He's already relaxing against you, his shoulders dropping, his spine softening, his whole body releasing tension you didn't realize he was carrying. The weight of him settles back slightly, trusting, and you can feel his breathing slow and deepen. "You're gentle."
The words land in your chest like a stone in still water, rippling outward. Gentle. When was the last time someone called him gentle? When was the last time gentleness was what he received instead of correction, redirection, discipline?
You start with the worst of the tangles, working them out with patient fingers. You begin at the ends, teasing apart the knots strand by strand, never pulling, never forcing. The hair slides through your fingers, and you can feel each individual strand separating, can feel the moment when resistance gives way to smoothness. It's meditative, this work—the repetitive motion, the focus required, the care.
Outside, you can hear the forest settling into evening. The day birds are quieting, their bright calls fading into silence. In their place, the first tentative sounds of night creatures—the deep thrumming of insects, the rustle of something small moving through undergrowth, the distant call of a night-hunter claiming territory. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of night-blooming flowers through your entrance, sweet and heavy.
The light is changing too, that golden hour fading into something softer, more violet. It catches in Lo'ak's hair as you work, turning the dark strands almost bronze where the sun touches them.
Lo'ak sits quietly—unusual for him, this stillness—simply letting you work. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, can feel the warmth of his small back against your chest, can feel the way he's completely surrendered to this moment. There's trust in this stillness. Safety.
"Would you like a story while I braid?" you ask, your voice soft, not wanting to break the peaceful spell that's settled over you both.
"Yes!" He perks up immediately, his whole body coming alive again, and you feel him shift forward slightly before remembering himself and settling back. "Tell me about the time you and Mom were young!"
You laugh softly, the sound barely louder than breath, and begin sectioning his hair. Your fingers know this work intimately—dividing the mass into portions, feeling the weight and thickness of each section. Na'vi hair is heavy, substantial, and Lo'ak has a lot of it. You gather the first section, feeling the strands align under your touch, feeling the slight resistance as you smooth them into order.
"Which time? We had many adventures."
"The one with the syaksyuk! You said you'd tell me the whole story someday."
"Ah, that one." You begin the first braid, your fingers moving with practiced ease—over, under, over, under, the rhythm as natural as breathing. The hair slides through your fingers, and you can feel the braid taking shape, can feel it tightening and forming under your hands. "Well. Your sa'nok and I were about fourteen years old, and we thought we were very clever..."
You fall into the rhythm of it—braiding and storytelling, your voice soft and steady, barely louder than the evening sounds outside. Your fingers move continuously, never stopping, the motion hypnotic and sure. Over, under, pull tight but not too tight. Over, under, feel the braid forming. The hair is warm from his scalp, and you can feel that warmth transferring to your fingers.
You tell him about how you and Neytiri decided to catch a syaksyuk to prove you were brave enough to be hunters. How you tracked it for hours through the forest, following signs that seemed obvious to your fourteen-year-old selves but were probably just coincidence. How it led you on a chase through the densest part of the forest, through thorns and over logs and across streams.
Lo'ak giggles at the image of his mother covered in mud, and the sound is pure joy, pure delight. You smile, adding in details you know will make him laugh—the way Neytiri slipped and fell into a stream, arms windmilling, the way you got your foot stuck in a hollow log and had to be pulled out, the way you both limped home trying to look dignified and failing completely, covered head to toe in mud and leaves and shame.
Your fingers never stop moving. The first braid is complete now, tight and neat, and you tie it off with a small leather cord, your fingers working the knot by feel alone. You can feel the braid's weight, its solidity, the way it hangs perfectly. You begin the second braid, gathering the hair, sectioning it, feeling the strands align.
"Did you get in trouble?" Lo'ak asks, and his voice has that drowsy quality starting to creep in, that softness that means he's getting sleepy.
"Oh yes. Very much trouble." You work steadily, your fingers finding their rhythm again. Over, under, over, under. The braid grows beneath your hands, each crossing adding length, adding structure. "But it was worth it. Because we learned something important that day."
"What?" His voice is quieter now, and you feel him lean back slightly more, his weight settling more fully against you. He's getting heavier as he relaxes, his body going soft and pliant.
"That sometimes the adventure is more important than the success. That trying something brave, even if you fail, is better than never trying at all." You finish the second braid, tie it off, feel the satisfying completion of it. Your fingers move to the third section, gathering, smoothing, beginning again.
He's quiet for a moment, processing this, and you can feel him thinking, can feel the slight tension in his shoulders that means he's working something out in his mind. Then: "Is that why you don't get mad when I mess up?"
Your hands still briefly, the braid half-formed in your fingers. The question lands like a blow, not because it's unexpected, but because of what it reveals—that he's so used to anger in response to mistakes, so accustomed to disappointment, that your lack of it is noteworthy. That at seven years old, he's already learned to brace for negative reactions.
You resume braiding, your touch deliberately gentle, deliberately steady. "I don't get mad when you mess up because messing up is how we learn, ma'itan. Every mistake is just information. It tells you what to do differently next time." Your fingers work the braid, over and under, creating order from chaos, creating something beautiful from something tangled. "And besides, you're seven. You're supposed to mess up. That's your job right now—to try things and fail and try again and learn."
"Dad doesn't see it that way." His voice is small now, almost a whisper, and you feel him curl in on himself slightly, his shoulders rounding.
Your heart clenches, and you have to breathe through the fierce protectiveness that surges up. You want to gather him close, to shield him from every harsh word, every disappointed look, every moment of feeling insufficient. But instead, you keep braiding, keep providing this steady, gentle touch, because this is what he needs right now—not dramatic gestures, but quiet constancy.
"Your sempul is a warrior and a leader. He thinks about safety, about consequences, about protecting the clan." You finish the third braid, your fingers tying it off with practiced ease. You begin the fourth, gathering hair that's softer here, finer, the strands at his temple that are almost silky. "Those are important things. But they're not the only things. You're allowed to make mistakes. You're allowed to learn at your own pace."
Lo'ak leans back against you more fully now, and you adjust to support his weight, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other continues braiding. You can feel his heartbeat against your arm, steady and strong. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, deeper now, slower. The warmth of him seeps into you, and you think about how small he still is, how young, how much growing he still has to do.
"Tell me another story?" His voice is definitely drowsy now, the words slightly slurred, and you feel him settle more heavily against you, his head tilting back to rest against your shoulder.
"What kind of story?"
"A happy one. With you in it."
Your heart melts, going soft and warm like honey in the sun. He wants happy stories. He wants to hear about joy, about success, about moments of lightness. What does it say about his life that he has to ask for these specifically?
"Alright. Let me think..." You continue braiding, your fingers moving through his hair with steady rhythm. The fifth braid now, and you're working with the hair at the back of his head, the strands thicker here, coarser. You can feel his scalp warm under your knuckles as you work close to the roots.
You tell him about the first time you successfully wove a basket, how proud you were even though it was lopsided and fell apart within a week. You tell him about learning to cook, about the time you accidentally used salt instead of sugar and made the most terrible sweet bread anyone had ever tasted, how your mother laughed until she cried and then made you eat a piece anyway. You tell him about your own childhood mistakes and mishaps, and he listens with rapt attention, occasionally giggling softly or asking questions in that sleepy voice.
Your fingers work steadily through his hair, creating neat, tight braids that will last for days. Six braids now, seven, eight. Each one perfect, each one made with love and care and attention. You add small beads as you work—ones you've carved yourself, in colors you know he likes.
A blue bead, the color of deep water, because he loves to swim.
A green bead, the color of new leaves, because he loves the forest.
A brown bead, the color of earth, because he's grounded and real and solid despite what anyone says about him being flighty.
Each bead you choose deliberately, threading it onto the braid, securing it with a small knot. Each one a tiny declaration of love, a small way of saying: I see you. I know you. I celebrate who you are.
The light outside has faded to deep violet now, the last of the day giving way to night. The forest sounds have changed completely—the night chorus in full voice, insects thrumming, something hooting in the distance, the rustle of nocturnal creatures beginning their hunts. The air has cooled, and you can feel the temperature dropping, feel the way Lo'ak unconsciously presses closer to your warmth.
"You're good at this," Lo'ak murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with approaching sleep.
"I've had practice." You start on the final section, the last braid. Your fingers are tired now, but it's a good tired, a satisfied tired. "I used to braid your sa'nok's hair when we were young. And Kiri's, when she lets me."
"But you like braiding mine best, right?" There's a hopeful note in his voice, even drowsy as he is, and it breaks your heart a little—this need for reassurance, this need to be special, to be chosen, to be preferred.
"I like braiding your hair because I like spending time with you," you tell him honestly, your fingers working the final braid with extra care, wanting it to be perfect. "These quiet moments where we can just be together—they're precious to me. Every single one of them."
He's silent for a long moment, and you think maybe he's fallen asleep. But then he speaks, his voice so small it's almost lost in the evening sounds: "Sometimes I think I'm too loud. Too messy. Too much."
Your hands still completely, the braid half-finished in your fingers. The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing your breath. Too much. This beautiful, vibrant, joyful child thinks he's too much. At seven years old, he's already learned to see his natural exuberance as a flaw, his energy as a problem, his very essence as something that needs to be diminished.
No.
No.
You set down the comb with deliberate care and wrap both arms around him from behind, pulling him back against your chest, holding him tight. You can feel his small body in your arms, can feel his heartbeat, can feel the way he immediately curls into you, seeking comfort, seeking reassurance.
"Lo'ak te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, you listen to me." Your voice is fierce now, fierce with love and protection and absolute certainty. You feel him tense slightly at your tone, and you gentle your hold but not your words. "You listen to me very carefully."
He nods against you, and you can feel the movement, can feel the way he's holding his breath, waiting.
"You are not too much. You are exactly the right amount of you." You press your cheek against his hair, breathing in the scent of him—child and forest and the faint sweetness of the oil you use in braiding. "Your energy, your curiosity, your big feelings—those are not flaws. They are gifts. They make you who you are, and who you are is wonderful. Who you are is perfect."
"Really?" His voice cracks on the word, and you can hear the tears in it, can feel the way his small body trembles slightly.
"Really." You press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips touching the warm, smooth strands. "The world needs people like you—people who feel deeply, who question things, who aren't afraid to be loud and messy and alive. The world needs your fire, your spirit, your joy. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you need to be smaller. Don't ever let anyone dim your light."
His hands come up to grip your arms, holding you tight, his small fingers digging in with desperate strength. "I love you, Sa'nu." The words are muffled, choked, and you feel wetness on your arm—tears, silent and heartbreaking.
"I love you too, my beautiful boy." You rock him gently, swaying side to side, the motion instinctive and ancient. "I love you too. So much. More than you can possibly know."
You hold him like that for a long while, rocking slightly, humming an old lullaby your own mother used to sing. The melody is wordless, just a series of notes that rise and fall like breathing, like heartbeat, like the eternal rhythm of love passing from one generation to the next. His breathing deepens, evens out, and you feel the exact moment when he crosses over into sleep—the way his body goes completely limp, the way his grip on your arms loosens, the way his breathing shifts into the deep, slow rhythm of dreams.
But you don't move. Not yet. You sit there in the gathering darkness, holding this sleeping child, and you let yourself feel the full weight of this moment. The trust he's placed in you. The vulnerability he's shown. The pain he's revealed. The love you feel for him that's so vast it seems impossible that your body can contain it.
This is what matters, you think. Not the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues. But this. This quiet holding. This gentle braiding. This fierce protection of a child's spirit. This unconditional love that says: you are enough, you are wanted, you are cherished exactly as you are.
Carefully, moving slowly so as not to wake him, you finish the last braid. Your fingers work by feel in the dimness, gathering the strands, crossing them over and under, creating the final plait. You tie it off with a small leather cord, and then you add one more bead—a special one, carved from a rare golden wood, polished until it glows even in low light.
This bead is for courage. For the bravery it takes to be yourself in a world that constantly asks you to be someone else. For the strength it takes to keep shining when others try to dim you. For the resilience of a seven-year-old who still comes seeking love even after being told he's too much.
You thread it onto the braid, secure it with a knot, and then you simply hold him. His hair is perfect now—neat rows of braids decorated with beads, everything secure and tidy, a testament to care and time and love. But more than that, it's a promise. A physical manifestation of your commitment to him. Every braid says: I see you. Every bead says: You matter. Every moment spent says: You are loved.
The light outside has faded completely now, the violet giving way to deep blue-black, and the first stars are appearing. You should probably take him home, let him sleep in his own bed. But he's so peaceful like this, so utterly relaxed, and you're reluctant to disturb him. You want to hold onto this moment, to stretch it out, to keep him safe in your arms for just a little longer.
Eventually, you hear soft footsteps outside—the distinctive pattern of Neytiri's walk, purposeful and graceful. She appears at the entrance, a silhouette against the star-filled sky, and then she steps inside and the dim light from your banked fire catches her face.
She takes in the scene—her son asleep in your arms, his freshly braided hair gleaming with beads, the peaceful expression on his face, the way you're holding him like he's made of something precious and breakable—and her expression does something complicated. It shifts through several emotions in quick succession: relief, gratitude, something that might be sadness, something that might be recognition, and finally, a soft tenderness.
"He found you," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, careful not to wake him.
"He did." You stroke Lo'ak's hair gently, your fingers trailing over the braids you've made, feeling their smoothness, their perfection. "I hope you don't mind. He fell asleep while I was braiding."
"I don't mind." She steps inside fully, moving with that fluid grace that's so distinctly hers, and crouches beside you both. Up close, you can see the tiredness in her eyes, the weight she carries. "He's always calmer after time with you. More settled. More... himself."
"He just needs to know he's loved as he is," you murmur, and you're not criticizing, not judging, just stating a truth. "Not as someone wants him to be. Not as who he could become. But as who he is right now, in this moment."
Neytiri reaches out to touch her son's cheek, her fingers gentle, and her expression grows more complex—love and regret and something that looks like grief mixing together. "I do love him as he is. But sometimes I worry I don't show it the right way. I'm always correcting, always teaching, always preparing him for a hard world." Her voice drops even lower. "I'm always comparing him to Neteyam, even when I don't mean to. I see what he's not instead of celebrating what he is."
Your heart aches for her too, for this mother who loves her son but doesn't always know how to show it in the way he needs. "You're his mother. You're doing exactly what you should do—preparing him, teaching him, keeping him safe. Those are vital things, and he needs them from you." You meet her eyes, holding her gaze. "But every child needs different things. And Lo'ak... he needs this too. He needs someone who celebrates his spirit instead of trying to tame it. Someone who sees his energy as a gift instead of a problem. Someone who loves the mess and the noise and the chaos that comes with who he is."
"And you do that for him." It's not a question, but there's something in her voice—not resentment, but perhaps a recognition of her own limitations, her own inability to provide this particular thing.
"I try." You look down at Lo'ak's sleeping face, so peaceful, so young, so vulnerable. "It's easy to love him. He makes it easy."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hand still resting on her son's cheek, and you can see her processing, thinking, feeling. Then: "Thank you. For being what he needs. For loving him the way you do. For..." She pauses, searching for words. "For seeing him. Really seeing him. Not who I want him to be, or who Jake needs him to be, or who he thinks he should be. But who he actually is."
"He's remarkable," you say simply, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. "Exactly as he is, he's remarkable."
Together, you carefully transfer Lo'ak to Neytiri's arms. He stirs slightly as you lift him, his face scrunching, his mouth opening in a small sound of protest. "Sa'nu?" he mumbles, still mostly asleep, his hand reaching out blindly.
"I'm here, paskalin," you murmur, touching his hand gently. "Your sa'nok is taking you home now. You're safe."
He settles immediately at your voice, his body relaxing again, and Neytiri settles him against her shoulder. He automatically curls into her, seeking warmth and comfort even in sleep, his face pressing into her neck, his small body fitting perfectly against hers. One of his hands clutches at her, holding on even unconscious, and you see Neytiri's expression soften even further, see the love there, fierce and protective and real.
"His braids are beautiful," she says, noticing the beads, her fingers touching them gently. "You chose his favorite colors."
"He's beautiful," you reply, and your voice cracks slightly on the words because your arms feel empty now, your chest feels hollow, and you already miss the weight of him, the warmth of him, the trust of him sleeping in your arms.
She smiles—soft and genuine and grateful—and carries her son toward the entrance. But she pauses there, silhouetted against the stars, and looks back at you. "He calls you his Sa'nu, you know. When he talks about you. Not 'Sa'nu who braids my hair' or 'Sa'nu who tells stories.' Just... Sa'nu. Like it's your name. Like it's who you are to him."
Your throat closes completely, and you can't speak, can only nod.
She nods back, understanding passing between you—two women who love the same child in different ways, who both want what's best for him, who both recognize that he needs more than either of them can give alone.
Then she's gone, carrying Lo'ak out into the night, and you're left alone in your kelku with the lingering warmth of where he sat, the faint scent of his hair, the echo of his small voice saying "I love you, Sa'nu."
You sit there in the darkness for a long time, your arms wrapped around yourself, and you let yourself feel everything—the love, the protectiveness, the fierce joy of being chosen by this child, the ache of his leaving, the weight of the responsibility you've taken on.
These moments—these quiet, tender moments of braiding and stories and unconditional love—this is what motherhood means to you.
Not the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues.
But the simple act of making a child feel safe enough to fall asleep in your arms.
Sweet Things in the Kitchen
"What are we making?" Lo'ak asks for the third time, bouncing on his toes as he watches you lay out ingredients on the woven mat. The afternoon light slants through your kelku entrance, turning everything golden and warm, and the air already carries the promise of sweetness.
"Patience, ma'itan." You're trying not to laugh at his barely contained excitement, at the way his whole eight-year-old body vibrates with anticipation. His ears twitch with every movement you make, tracking your hands as you arrange clay bowls and fiber baskets in careful order.
"But I want to know!" He peers at the collection you've assembled, his nose practically touching the rim of one bowl as he tries to identify the contents. The light catches in his dark hair, still slightly mussed from playing, and you can see a smudge of dirt on his cheek that he missed when washing up. "Is it honey cakes? Please say it's honey cakes."
"It's honey cakes," you confirm, and he actually squeals—a sound of pure, unfiltered joy that makes your heart expand in your chest.
"Yes! I love honey cakes! Can I help? Can I do the mixing? Can I—"
"Lo'ak." You place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through your palms, the slight tremor of excitement running through him like electricity. "Take a breath."
He inhales dramatically, his whole chest puffing up like a small bird, then lets it out in a whoosh that ruffles the edge of the mat. "Okay. I'm calm. I'm ready. What do I do first?"
You guide him to sit beside you, cross-legged on the woven floor, and spread out the ingredients properly so he can see everything. The clay bowls hold different components—pale seeds that will become flour, a pot of honey so golden it seems to glow in the slanting light, water in a carved wooden vessel, dried fruit for flavoring. The seeds have a faint, nutty smell, earthy and wholesome, and the honey's scent is already beginning to perfume the air—thick and floral and impossibly sweet.
"First, we need to grind these seeds into flour. Can you do that?" You hand him the grinding stone—a smooth, heavy piece of volcanic rock worn into a perfect oval by generations of use.
"Yes!" He grabs it with both hands, his fingers wrapping around it with determination, and immediately starts working with far too much force. The stone scrapes loudly against the bowl, a harsh grinding sound, and sends a puff of seed powder into the air. The fine dust catches the light like tiny stars before settling on his arms, his lap, the mat beneath him.
"Gently," you remind him, placing your hand over his to slow the motion. His skin is warm under your palm, slightly sticky already from the humidity, and you can feel the rapid beat of his pulse in his wrist. "Like this. Steady and smooth. Feel the rhythm?"
You guide his hands through the proper motion—circular, consistent, letting the weight of the stone do most of the work. The sound changes, becomes softer, more musical. The seeds crack and split beneath the pressure, releasing their oils, and the nutty scent intensifies, mixing with the honey-smell already in the air.
He tries to match your rhythm, his tongue poking out between his teeth in fierce concentration, his whole face scrunched up with effort. His small hands work the stone carefully, and for about thirty seconds he maintains the steady pace. Then, inevitably, his natural enthusiasm takes over and he speeds up again, the grinding becoming erratic and enthusiastic rather than controlled.
You let it go. The flour will be a little uneven, some parts finer than others, but that's fine. That's perfect, actually. Because he's learning, and he's trying, and the imperfection will be part of what makes these cakes his.
"What's next?" he asks, already looking around for the next task, his eyes bright and eager. There's flour dust on his nose now, a pale smudge that makes him look even younger than his eight years.
"Next, we mix the flour with water to make a paste." You hand him a clean bowl—this one wider and shallower, perfect for mixing—and a wooden spoon worn smooth from years of use. "Add the water slowly—just a little at a time. If we add too much at once, it becomes too thin and we can't fix it."
Lo'ak picks up the water vessel with the confidence of someone who has never successfully poured anything slowly in his entire life. He tips it, and water gushes out in a stream far larger than intended. It splashes over the side of the bowl, pooling on the mat, and he freezes mid-pour, his eyes going wide as he looks at you with an expression of pure dismay.
"It's okay," you assure him quickly, reaching for a cloth to wipe up the spill. The water is cool against your fingers, and you can feel it soaking into the woven fibers of the mat. "Try again. Smaller amounts. Maybe tip the vessel less?"
He bites his lip, his brow furrowing with concentration, and tries again. This time he's overly cautious, tilting the vessel so slightly that only a few drops fall out. But it's better, and you nod encouragingly.
"Good. A little more than that, but you've got the idea."
He adds water in careful increments, his whole body tense with focus, and you watch as the flour begins to absorb the liquid. As he stirs, the mixture transforms—from dry powder to damp clumps to a thick, sticky paste that clings to the spoon. The texture is dense and heavy, and he has to put his whole body into stirring it, leaning over the bowl, his shoulders working with each circular motion.
"This is hard!" he announces, his voice slightly strained from the effort. His arms are already trembling slightly, the muscles not quite used to this kind of sustained work.
"That's how you know it's working. Keep going—you're doing great." You watch his small hands grip the spoon, knuckles whitening slightly with effort, and your chest fills with tenderness. He's trying so hard, taking this so seriously, and the tip of his tongue is still poking out in that way that means he's completely absorbed in the task.
His face lights up at the praise, his whole expression transforming from concentration to joy, and he stirs with renewed vigor. The paste is thick now, almost dough-like, and some of it splashes onto his arm as he works—a pale, sticky glob that clings to his skin.
Without thinking, he licks it off.
"Lo'ak!" You try to sound stern, but you're laughing, the sound bubbling up from your chest. "That's not cooked yet."
"I was just testing it!" He grins at you, completely unrepentant, and there's paste on his lip now too. "It tastes good! Kind of... earthy? But good!"
"It will taste better when it's finished and we add the honey. Now, speaking of honey—" You reach for the pot, and even before you open it, the scent intensifies. When you lift the lid, the smell blooms into the space between you—thick and golden and sweet enough to make your mouth water. The honey inside is the color of amber, viscous and gleaming, and it moves slowly when you tilt the pot, like liquid sunlight.
Lo'ak's eyes go wide, and he leans forward, breathing in deeply. "It smells so good," he whispers, almost reverent.
"It does. The bees worked very hard to make this for us." You hand him the pot carefully. "Now, we need to add it to the mixture—and this time, try to get it in the bowl, not on yourself."
"I make no promises," he says solemnly, but his eyes are dancing with mischief.
He takes the pot in both hands, feeling its weight, and begins to drizzle honey over the paste. It pours out slowly, forming a thick golden stream that coils on itself as it falls, and the sweet smell intensifies until it's almost overwhelming—floral and rich and impossibly delicious. He's trying so hard to be careful, his face scrunched up in concentration, his hands remarkably steady.
Most of the honey makes it into the bowl. Some of it ends up on the rim, forming a sticky golden ring. A little bit somehow ends up on his knee—a perfect golden droplet that catches the light.
"How did you get honey on your knee?" you ask, genuinely bewildered, staring at the impossible placement.
He looks down, equally confused, his brow furrowing. "I don't know!" He touches it with one finger, and now his finger is sticky too, and when he tries to wipe it on his other hand, that becomes sticky as well. Within seconds, both hands are covered in a thin film of honey, and he holds them up helplessly. "Sa'nu, I'm stuck!"
You both dissolve into laughter—his high and bright, yours deeper and warm—and the sound fills your kelku with joy. You grab a cloth and wipe his hands clean, feeling the tackiness of the honey, the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers curl trustingly in yours as you work.
"Alright, now we mix it all together. This is the important part—we have to make sure everything is combined evenly, so every bite tastes the same." You hand him back the spoon, now slightly sticky from the honey.
Lo'ak takes it and starts stirring with intense focus, his whole body swaying with the motion. The paste is even thicker now with the honey added, golden and glossy, and it takes real effort to move the spoon through it. You watch him work—his small hands gripping the wooden handle, his shoulders rolling with each stir, his face set in determined concentration. He's getting the mixture everywhere—on the sides of the bowl, on the mat beneath, on his hands and arms—but he's trying so hard, and his face is alight with joy and purpose.
The honey and paste swirl together, the color evening out from streaky to uniform gold, and the scent is incredible now—sweet and nutty and warm, filling the entire space with the promise of something delicious.
"Is this right?" he asks, holding up the spoon to show you. The mixture clings to it, thick and glossy, dripping slowly back into the bowl in golden ribbons. There's honey on his wrist now, and flour dust in his hair, and his face is flushed from effort and excitement.
"That's perfect, ma'itan."
"Really?" His eyes search yours, needing the confirmation, needing to know he's done well.
"Really. You're a natural." And you mean it. Not because the mixture is perfect—it's probably a bit too thick in some places, too thin in others—but because he's put his whole heart into it, because he's learning and trying and finding joy in the process.
He beams, and you feel that familiar warmth in your chest—the one that comes from seeing a child proud of themselves, confident in their abilities, glowing with the simple pleasure of accomplishment.
"Now comes the fun part," you tell him, pulling the bowl closer. "We shape them into cakes."
You scoop out a portion of the mixture with your fingers—it's warm from sitting in the sun-heated kelku, and incredibly sticky, clinging to your skin—and show him how to pat it into a flat, round shape between your palms. The mixture is dense and heavy, and you can feel the texture of it—slightly grainy from the flour, smooth from the honey, with tiny pockets of air that will help it cook evenly.
He watches intently, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands, and then he plunges his own hands into the bowl. The mixture squelches between his fingers, and he giggles at the sensation—warm and sticky and strange.
His first attempt falls apart immediately, the cake crumbling into pieces before he can even lift it from his palm.
"It's okay," you say before he can get discouraged, before that light in his eyes can dim. "Try wetting your hands a little—it helps the mixture not stick so much."
He dips his hands in the water vessel, shaking off the excess, and tries again. This time, the cake holds together as he pats it into shape, though it's lumpy and uneven, one side thicker than the other, the edges ragged rather than smooth.
"Look!" He holds it up triumphantly, his whole face radiating pride. "I did it!"
"You did! That's a perfect honey cake." You take it from him gently and set it on a clean leaf to dry, treating it with the reverence it deserves.
"It's not perfect," he says, examining it critically, his head tilting as he studies the lumpy shape. "It's kind of weird-shaped. Neteyam's would probably be perfect."
Your heart clenches at the comparison, at the way he automatically measures himself against his brother. "Weird-shaped cakes taste just as good as perfect ones," you assure him, reaching out to touch his honey-sticky cheek. "Maybe even better, because they're made with love and joy instead of worry about perfection."
He considers this, his expression thoughtful, and then he nods, satisfied. "Okay. I'm making weird-shaped love cakes." He says it with such seriousness that you have to bite back another laugh.
You work together, and he gets better with each attempt—though "better" is relative. The cakes are still lumpy and irregular, some thick as your thumb, others thin as leaves, but they're his, and he's proud of them. His hands move with growing confidence, patting and shaping, and you watch the way his tongue pokes out when he's concentrating, the way his whole body sways slightly with the rhythm of the work, the way he hums tunelessly under his breath.
The pile of cakes grows on the drying leaf—a collection of golden, misshapen circles that gleam stickily in the afternoon light. The air is thick with sweetness now, so heavy you can almost taste it, and there's flour dust floating in the sunbeams, and honey dripping slowly down the side of the bowl.
"Can I taste the honey again?" he asks, eyeing the pot with longing.
"One finger," you allow, knowing full well it won't stop at one.
He dips his finger in—the honey clings to it, coating it completely—and licks it off slowly, his eyes closing in bliss. "It's so good, Sa'nu. Why is honey so good?"
"Because the bees work very hard to make it sweet. They visit thousands of flowers, gathering nectar, and then they transform it into this." You gesture to the pot. "It's a gift from them to us."
"I should thank the bees," he says seriously, and your heart swells at his thoughtfulness, at the way he's learning to see the work and care behind every gift.
"That's very thoughtful of you."
He shapes another cake, his hands moving more surely now, and then he pauses, looking at the growing pile. "Can I make one for Neteyam? And Kiri? And Tuk?"
"Of course. We're making plenty." You watch his face as he thinks, as he mentally counts his family members, as his expression grows soft with affection.
"And Spider?"
"And Spider," you confirm, touched that he includes his human friend without hesitation.
He grins and returns to his work with renewed purpose, narrating as he goes, his voice bright and earnest. "This one's for Neteyam because he's the best brother even though he's better at everything than me but he never makes me feel bad about it. This one's for Kiri because she lets me play with her sometimes and she knows things about plants like you do. This one's for Tuk because she's little and cute and she always laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny. This one's for Spider because he's my best friend and he doesn't care that I'm not good at warrior stuff..."
You listen to his chatter, your hands working alongside his, and your heart is full to bursting. Each cake he makes is accompanied by a reason, a memory, a declaration of love. He's thinking about each person as he shapes their cake, putting care and intention into every lumpy, imperfect circle. This is who he is—thoughtful and loving and generous, always thinking of others, always wanting to share joy.
The sun shifts lower, the light turning from gold to amber, and still you work together. Your hands and his, moving in tandem, creating something sweet. The pile of cakes grows larger, and Lo'ak grows quieter, his initial excitement settling into a peaceful contentment. The work becomes meditative—scoop, shape, place, repeat—and you can feel him relaxing beside you, his breathing deepening, his movements becoming slower and more deliberate.
When the cakes are finally all shaped and set out to dry in the remaining sunlight, Lo'ak is covered in honey and flour. There's a streak of paste across his forehead where he pushed his hair back with sticky hands. His arms are coated in a fine dusting of flour that's turned to paste where honey dripped on it. His hands are completely sticky, the fingers clinging together slightly when he tries to separate them. There's honey on his chin, flour on his nose, paste on his elbows, and somehow—impossibly—a smudge of the mixture behind his ear.
He looks like a disaster.
He looks beautiful.
He looks like a child who has spent an afternoon learning and creating and being completely, utterly himself.
"We did it!" he announces, surveying their work with pride. The leaf is covered with honey cakes in various shapes and sizes, all gleaming golden in the fading light. "Look how many we made!"
"We did. You worked very hard, ma'itan." You reach out and try to smooth his hair, but your hands are sticky too, and you just make it worse. You both notice at the same time and dissolve into laughter again.
"Can we make more tomorrow?" he asks, his eyes bright and hopeful.
"We can make more whenever you want." And you mean it. You would do this every day if it meant seeing him this happy, this confident, this full of joy.
He throws his honey-sticky arms around your waist without warning, and you hug him back immediately, not caring about the mess, not caring that he's getting honey and flour all over your clothing. You can feel the warmth of his small body against yours, can feel his heart beating fast with excitement and exertion, can smell the sweet scent of honey in his hair mixed with his own child-scent of sun and sweat and pure life.
"I love making things with you," he says into your shoulder, his voice muffled but clear. "You never get mad when I mess up. You never make me feel bad when things don't turn out perfect."
Your throat tightens, and you hold him closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. "That's because messing up is part of learning, ma'itan. And besides, we're having fun. That's what matters most. Not perfection. Not being the best. Just... joy. Just being together and creating something with love."
He pulls back and looks up at you with those golden eyes, so full of trust and affection, and there's honey on his eyelashes somehow, catching the light. "You're the best Sa'nu in the whole world."
"And you're the best boy in the whole world," you reply, meaning it with every fiber of your being.
He giggles—that pure, unselfconscious sound of childhood happiness—then looks down at himself, taking in the full extent of the mess. His eyes widen slightly. "I should probably wash off before Mom sees me."
"Probably a good idea," you agree, though part of you wants to keep him like this forever—sticky and happy and glowing with accomplishment.
But before he goes, before he runs off to the stream to wash away the evidence of your afternoon together, he carefully picks up the lumpiest, most misshapen honey cake from the batch. It's thick on one side and thin on the other, the edges ragged, the surface uneven. It's possibly the least perfect honey cake ever created.
He holds it out to you with both hands, his expression solemn and sincere.
"This one's for you," he says, his voice soft and full of meaning. "Because you're my favorite. Because you let me make messes and you don't get mad. Because you make me feel like I'm good at things even when I'm not. Because you're you."
You accept it like it's made of precious gems, cradling it in your palms, feeling its weight and warmth. Your vision blurs slightly, and you have to blink hard. "Thank you, paskalin. I'll treasure it."
And you will.
Not because it's beautiful or perfect or skillfully made.
But because it's his.
Made with small, sticky, eight-year-old hands and a heart full of love.
Made with joy and enthusiasm and complete lack of self-consciousness.
Made in an afternoon of laughter and learning and simple togetherness.
Made with the understanding that love isn't about perfection—it's about presence, about patience, about celebrating the mess and the effort and the trying.
And that makes it priceless.
That makes it the most valuable thing you own.
A lumpy honey cake that says: I love you. I trust you. I'm safe with you. I can be myself with you.
And really, what could be more precious than that?
Learning to Create
The afternoon sun filters through the trees as you sit outside your kelku, a piece of wood and a carving knife in your hands. You're working on a new serving bowl, the wood slowly taking shape under your careful attention.
"What are you making?"
You look up to find Lo'ak standing there, watching you with curious eyes. He's nine now, caught in that in-between stage—not quite a little child anymore, but not yet the young warrior he'll become.
"A bowl," you tell him, holding it up. "For serving fruit."
He steps closer, examining your work. "Can you teach me?"
"To carve?" You're surprised—Lo'ak usually gravitates toward more active pursuits. Sitting still and working with his hands isn't typically his preference.
"Yeah." He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Neteyam's learning from Dad, and he's already made a knife handle and it's really good, and I want to make something too."
Ah. There it is.
"Sit with me," you say gently, setting aside your bowl. "Let's find you a good piece of wood to start with."
His whole face brightens, and he plops down beside you eagerly. You sort through your collection of wood scraps, looking for something suitable for a beginner—soft enough to carve easily, but substantial enough that he won't get frustrated.
"Here." You hand him a piece about the size of his palm. "This is perfect for learning. What do you want to make?"
He turns the wood over in his hands, studying it from all angles. "I don't know. What should I make?"
"What do you want to make?" you counter. "It can be anything."
He thinks hard, his brow furrowed. "Can I make a fish? I like fish."
"A fish is a wonderful choice." You hand him a small carving knife—one you've dulled slightly for safety. "First, I'll show you how to hold the knife..."
You demonstrate the proper grip, the angle of the blade, how to cut away from yourself. Lo'ak watches intently, then tries to mimic your hold.
"Like this?"
"Almost. Adjust your thumb here—yes, that's it." You guide his hands gently. "Now, start with small cuts. Don't try to take off too much at once."
He nods seriously and makes his first cut. The blade skips across the wood, barely leaving a mark.
"I didn't do anything," he says, frustrated.
"You need more pressure. Try again—but still controlled."
He tries again, this time pressing too hard. The knife digs in deep and takes off a chunk bigger than he intended. "Oh no!"
"It's okay," you assure him quickly. "Look—now your fish has a mouth. See? You just started with the mouth instead of the tail."
He looks at the wood doubtfully. "That's a mouth?"
"It will be, once you shape it. Here, let me show you..."
You take your own piece of wood and demonstrate how to work with what you have, how to adapt your vision to the reality of the material. Lo'ak watches, then returns to his own carving with renewed determination.
For a while, you work in companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of knives against wood and the forest around you. Lo'ak's tongue pokes out between his teeth as he concentrates, his movements careful and deliberate.
"This is hard," he announces after a few minutes.
"It is," you agree. "But you're doing well."
"It doesn't look like a fish."
You lean over to examine his work. It doesn't look like a fish—it looks like a lumpy oval with a chunk taken out of it. But you can see what he's trying to do, can see the effort he's putting in.
"It's starting to take shape," you tell him honestly. "Carving takes time. You have to be patient with it."
"I'm not good at patient."
You laugh softly. "I know, ma'itan. But that's okay. We'll practice patience together."
He returns to his work, and you watch as he slowly, painstakingly tries to shape his fish. He makes mistakes—cuts that go too deep, angles that are wrong, pieces that chip off unexpectedly. Each time, he looks at you with frustration and disappointment.
And each time, you show him how to adapt, how to work with the mistake instead of against it.
"See this part that broke off? Now your fish has a fin."
"Really?"
"Really. Sometimes the best parts of our creations are the accidents."
He considers this, then keeps working. His hands are clumsy, his cuts uneven, but he's trying so hard. And gradually, very gradually, the wood begins to look like something.
Not a good fish. Not a realistic fish. But definitely fish-shaped.
"Sa'nu, look!" He holds it up, his face alight with pride. "It's a fish!"
You take it carefully, examining it from all angles. It's rough and asymmetrical, with a lopsided tail and fins that don't match. The mouth is too big, the body too lumpy.
It's perfect.
"Lo'ak, this is wonderful," you tell him, and you mean it. "You made this with your own hands. You should be very proud."
"Really? You're not just saying that?"
"Really." You hand it back to him. "I can see how hard you worked on it. Every cut, every decision—you did that. You created something that didn't exist before."
He stares at his carving, his expression shifting from uncertain to pleased. "It's not as good as Neteyam's knife handle."
"It's not supposed to be. Neteyam is older and has been practicing longer. But this—" You tap the wooden fish gently. "This is yours. And it's exactly as good as it needs to be for your first carving."
"Can I make another one?"
"Of course. What do you want to make next?"
He thinks for a moment. "A bird? Or maybe a—oh! Can I make a little ikran?"
"You can make whatever you want."
His grin is infectious, and he immediately starts sorting through the wood scraps, looking for the perfect piece. You watch him, your heart warm.
This is what he needs—not to be the best, not to compete with his brother, but to create something of his own. To learn that the value isn't in perfection, but in the trying.
You spend the rest of the afternoon carving together. Lo'ak works on his ikran—which ends up looking more like a blob with wings, but he loves it anyway. You finish your bowl and start on a new project, a small carved pendant.
"Who's that for?" Lo'ak asks, watching you work.
"You," you say simply.
His eyes widen. "Me?"
"Mm-hmm. I thought you might like something to wear. A reminder that you're loved."
He's quiet for a moment, watching your skilled hands shape the wood. Then, softly: "Can I make something for you too?"
"I would love that."
He picks up a new piece of wood, his face serious with concentration. "I'm going to make you a flower. Because you always smell like flowers and you like them."
"That sounds beautiful."
You work together as the sun moves across the sky, and Lo'ak's flower slowly takes shape. It's lumpy and uneven, with petals that are all different sizes, but he works on it with such care, such focus.
When he finally finishes, he holds it up shyly. "It's not very good."
"It's perfect," you tell him, accepting it with reverence. "Because you made it for me."
"Really?"
"Really." You pull him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'll keep it forever."
And you will.
Years later, when Lo'ak is grown and gone to the reef, when your kelku feels too quiet and too empty, you'll hold that lumpy wooden flower and remember this afternoon.
Remember a nine-year-old boy learning that his worth isn't measured by perfection.
Remember teaching him that creating with love is more important than creating with skill.
Remember the way his face lit up when you praised his efforts, when you celebrated his attempts, when you loved him not for what he made but for who he is.
But for now, you simply sit together in the afternoon sun, two artists working side by side, and everything is exactly as it should be.
Neteyam's Understanding
Neteyam is looking for his brother.
It's not unusual—Lo'ak has a tendency to wander off, to get distracted, to end up somewhere he's not supposed to be. Usually, Neteyam finds him getting into some kind of trouble, or dragging Spider into some ill-advised adventure.
But today, when he finally tracks Lo'ak down, his brother isn't causing chaos.
He's with Sa'nu.
Neteyam pauses at the edge of the clearing, staying quiet, watching.
Lo'ak is sitting cross-legged in front of Sa'nu, and she's teaching him something—weaving, it looks like. His brother's hands are clumsy, the fibers tangling, but Sa'nu is patient. She shows him the pattern again, her voice too soft for Neteyam to hear, and Lo'ak tries again.
He messes up. The weave falls apart.
Neteyam expects frustration—from Sa'nu, from Lo'ak, from both. That's what usually happens when Lo'ak can't get something right. Their father gets that tight look around his eyes. Their mother's voice becomes strained. Even Neteyam himself sometimes feels that flash of impatience.
But Sa'nu just laughs—warm and gentle—and helps Lo'ak untangle the mess.
And Lo'ak does. He tries again, his face scrunched up in concentration, and this time he gets a little further before it falls apart.
"Better!" Sa'nu says, and she sounds genuinely pleased. "Did you see? You got three rows that time. You're improving."
Lo'ak's whole face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. You're doing wonderfully."
Neteyam watches as they continue, as Sa'nu guides Lo'ak through the pattern again and again, never showing frustration, never comparing him to anyone else, never making him feel like his struggles are a burden.
And Lo'ak—Lo'ak is different here.
He's not bouncing off the walls or talking too loud or trying to prove himself. He's calm. Focused. Content.
He's simply... happy.
Neteyam has seen his brother in many states—excited, angry, hurt, defiant. But this quiet happiness, this peaceful contentment—this is rare. This is special.
"I did it!" Lo'ak suddenly exclaims, holding up his weaving. "Sa'nu, look! I did a whole section!"
"You did!" Sa'nu pulls him into a hug, and Lo'ak melts into it without hesitation. "I'm so proud of you, paskalin."
"Can we do more tomorrow?"
"We can do more whenever you want."
Lo'ak hugs her tighter. "I love you."
"I love you too, my sweet boy. Always."
Neteyam feels something shift in his chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of wistful understanding.
He has his father's attention. His father's pride. When Neteyam succeeds, Jake beams. When Neteyam masters a new skill, Jake claps him on the shoulder and says "That's my boy." Neteyam knows he's valued, knows he's loved, knows he's seen.
But Lo'ak...
Lo'ak doesn't get that from their father. He gets corrections and criticisms and disappointed sighs. He gets compared to Neteyam constantly. He gets told to try harder, focus more, be better.
And their mother loves him, Neteyam knows she does. But she's so busy with Tuk, so focused on training Neteyam for leadership, so worried about the clan and the Sky People and a thousand other things.
Lo'ak falls through the cracks.
Except here. With Sa'nu.
Here, Lo'ak is the center of attention. Here, his efforts are celebrated. Here, he's not the second son or the troublemaker or the one who can't sit still.
He's just Lo'ak.
And he's loved for it.
Neteyam watches as Sa'nu helps Lo'ak start a new section of weaving, her hands gentle, her voice encouraging. He watches his brother's face—so open, so trusting, so utterly at peace.
And he realizes: this is what Lo'ak needs. This space, this person, this unconditional acceptance.
Sa'nu isn't trying to replace their mother. She's not trying to undermine their father. She's simply filling a gap, providing something Lo'ak desperately needs and isn't getting anywhere else.
A place where he's enough, exactly as he is.
Neteyam backs away quietly, leaving them to their weaving lesson. He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't announce his presence. This moment belongs to them.
Later, when he returns to the family kelku, his father asks, "Did you find your brother?"
"Yes, sir," Neteyam replies. "He's with Sa'nu."
Jake's expression tightens slightly—that familiar frustration. "He's always with Sa'nu. He needs to focus more on his training, not—"
Neteyam looks down at his feet. "Um... he's happy there, though."
Jake pauses. "What?"
"I mean..." Neteyam shifts his weight, unsure. "Lo'ak. He's... he's really happy when he's with Sa'nu. Like, actually happy."
"He needs to be training," Jake says, but Neteyam pushes forward a little, surprising himself.
"I know, but... she teaches him stuff too. Weaving and carving and... plant things. And he's actually good at it." He glances up at his father, then back down. "When he's with her, he's... he's good."
Jake's jaw tightens. "He needs to focus on warrior skills."
"He does try," Neteyam says quietly, fidgeting with his hands. "He really does try. It's just... maybe he needs..." He struggles, searching for the words. "Maybe he needs her too. Because she... she believes in him. And he doesn't get that as much from—" He stops, suddenly aware he might be saying too much.
Jake is quiet for a long moment.
"I'm not saying you're..." Neteyam backtracks quickly, looking nervous. "I just mean... Lo'ak is different than me. He needs different things. And Sa'nu gives him those things."
His father doesn't respond right away, and Neteyam feels his stomach tighten. He's said too much. He shouldn't have—
But then Jake sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and Neteyam realizes his father is actually thinking about it.
That night, when Lo'ak comes home for dinner, he's still carrying the small piece of weaving he made. It's messy and uneven, but he's proud of it.
"Look what I made!" he announces to the family.
Tuk oohs and ahhs appropriately. Kiri examines it with genuine interest. Neytiri smiles and praises his effort.
Jake looks at it for a long moment. Then he reaches out and ruffles Lo'ak's hair. "Good work, son."
It's brief. It's small. But Lo'ak's face lights up like the sun.
And Neteyam catches Sa'nu's eye across the kelku—she's been invited for dinner, as she often is—and she gives him a small, knowing smile.
She understands what he's realized.
That Lo'ak needs both. Needs the structure and discipline of their father. Needs the fierce love of their mother. Needs the companionship of his siblings.
But he also needs her. Needs that soft place to land. Needs someone who celebrates his spirit instead of trying to tame it.
And Neteyam is grateful for her.
Grateful that his little brother has someone who sees him, truly sees him, and loves what she sees.
Grateful that when the world feels too harsh, too demanding, too critical, Lo'ak has somewhere to go.
Someone to go to.
Later, after dinner, Neteyam finds Lo'ak outside, looking at the stars.
"Hey," he says, sitting beside his brother.
"Hey." Lo'ak glances at him. "Did you need something?"
"No. Just wanted to sit with you."
They're quiet for a moment, then Lo'ak says softly, "Sa'nu says I'm doing good. With the weaving."
"You are," Neteyam agrees. "I saw."
Lo'ak's head whips around. "You saw?"
"I was looking for you earlier. Didn't want to interrupt your little craft session." Neteyam grins and shoves Lo'ak's shoulder playfully.
"Shut up, skawng." But Lo'ak is smiling, shoving back. "You probably think it's stupid anyway. Weaving instead of training like a real warrior."
"Oh, so now you're a real warrior?" Neteyam laughs and dodges as Lo'ak tries to elbow him. "I don't think it's stupid. Sa'nu's teaching you something actually useful, unlike Father yelling at you all day."
"Hey—" Lo'ak protests, but there's no real heat in it.
"What? It's true." Neteyam bumps his shoulder against Lo'ak's, more gently this time. "You're good at it. Better than you think you are, you skawng."
Lo'ak is quiet for a moment, then: "You don't... I don't know. You don't think it's weird? That I spend so much time with her?"
"Weird?" Neteyam snorts and reaches over to ruffle Lo'ak's hair, earning a swat. "No. You need her. I get what I need from Father and training and all that. You get what you need from Sa'nu. That's just how it is."
"Yeah, but—"
"But nothing." Neteyam leans back, looking at the stars. "She's good for you. Anyone can see that. Even Father's starting to figure it out, I think."
Lo'ak leans against him slightly, and Neteyam lets him, wrapping an arm around his little brother's shoulders.
"I know, you skawng." Neteyam bumps his head against Lo'ak's affectionately. "And so are you, even if you are annoying as hell."
They sit together under the stars, two brothers who need different things, who get different things, but who love each other all the same.
And Neteyam sends up a silent prayer of thanks to Eywa for Sa'nu.
For giving his brother exactly what he needs.
For seeing Lo'ak when others look past him.
For loving him unconditionally, completely, perfectly.
For being his Sa'nu.
Playing in the Rain
The rain comes suddenly, as it often does in the forest—one moment the sky is clear, the next it's opening up in a torrent of warm water.
You're inside your kelku when you hear it: laughter. Bright, joyful, completely uninhibited laughter.
You step outside to find Lo'ak standing in the clearing, his face turned up to the sky, his arms spread wide. He's ten years old and completely drenched, his hair plastered to his head, water streaming down his face.
He's grinning like he's never been happier.
"Lo'ak!" you call out, laughing. "What are you doing?"
"It's raining!" he shouts back, as if this explains everything. He spins in a circle, splashing through the rapidly forming puddles. "Come play with me!"
You should probably tell him to come inside. Should probably remind him that he'll catch cold, that he should be more careful, that—
But then you see his face. The pure, uncomplicated joy. The freedom.
When was the last time you played in the rain?
"Alright," you say, stepping out into the downpour. "I'm coming!"
His eyes go wide with delight. "Really?"
"Really."
You walk into the clearing, and immediately you're soaked. The rain is warm and heavy, drumming against your skin, soaking through your clothes. It's wonderful.
Lo'ak grabs your hands and pulls you into a spin, both of you laughing as you turn in circles. Your feet slip in the mud, and you nearly fall, but he catches you, and then you're both laughing even harder.
"Look!" He points to a puddle that's growing larger by the second. "We can jump in it!"
"We absolutely can," you agree.
He takes a running start and leaps, landing in the puddle with a tremendous splash. Water flies everywhere, mud spatters his legs, and he emerges looking like a swamp creature.
"Your turn!" he demands.
You take your own running start—more dignified than his, but not by much—and jump. The water splashes up around you, cool and refreshing, and Lo'ak cheers like you've accomplished something magnificent.
"Again!" he shouts. "Do it again!"
So you do. You jump in puddles like children, splashing each other, laughing until your sides hurt. The rain continues to pour down, and you don't care. You're already soaked. Might as well enjoy it.
Lo'ak finds a particularly muddy patch and slides through it on his feet, his arms windmilling for balance. He falls on his backside with a wet squelch, and for a moment you're worried he's hurt.
Then he starts laughing—that deep, belly laugh that's impossible to resist.
"Did you see that?" he gasps. "I slid so far!"
"Very impressive," you tell him, offering a hand to help him up.
He takes it, but instead of letting you pull him up, he pulls you down. You land beside him in the mud with a surprised yelp, and he dissolves into giggles.
"Lo'ak!" you exclaim, but you're laughing too.
"Sorry, Sa'nu!" He doesn't sound sorry at all. "You just looked too clean!"
You scoop up a handful of mud and show it to him meaningfully. "You know what this means."
His eyes go wide. "Sa'nu, no—"
You smear it gently across his cheek, and he shrieks with laughter, retaliating with his own handful. Soon you're both covered in mud, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the rain washing some of it away only for you to apply more.
"What is happening here?"
You both freeze, looking up to find Neytiri standing at the edge of the clearing, Tuk on her hip. She's under the shelter of the trees, dry and clean, staring at you both with an expression of complete bewilderment.
You and Lo'ak look at each other—both covered in mud, sitting in a puddle, hair plastered to your heads—and burst out laughing again.
"We're playing in the rain!" Lo'ak announces, as if this is a perfectly normal and reasonable activity.
Neytiri's lips twitch. "I can see that."
"Want to join us?" you offer, grinning.
She looks at you like you've lost your mind. "I am clean and dry. Why would I—"
"Mama, I want to play!" Tuk interrupts, squirming in her mother's arms.
"Tuk, you'll get all muddy—"
"Please!" Tuk's eyes are huge and pleading.
Neytiri looks at her youngest daughter, then at her son, then at you. You can see the moment she gives in—her shoulders drop, her expression softens, and she sighs.
"Fine. But you're both bathing before dinner."
Tuk squeals with delight, and Neytiri sets her down. The little girl immediately runs into the rain, her arms spread wide just like Lo'ak's were.
"Tuk-tuk!" Lo'ak calls. "Come jump in this puddle!"
He shows her how, and soon both children are jumping and splashing, their laughter ringing through the clearing. Neytiri watches from the shelter of the trees, and you can see the fondness in her expression even as she shakes her head at the chaos.
You push yourself up from the mud and make your way over to her.
"You think I'm crazy," you say, wringing out your hair.
"I think you're good for him," she replies softly. "He needs this. Needs someone who lets him be wild and free without judgment."
"He's a child. He should be allowed to play."
"I know." She watches Lo'ak help Tuk slide through the mud, both of them shrieking with laughter. "But sometimes I forget that. I'm so focused on preparing them for the hard things, I forget to let them enjoy the simple things."
You touch her arm gently. "That's what I'm here for. To remember the simple things."
She meets your eyes, and there's gratitude there. "Thank you. For loving him the way you do."
"It's easy to love him," you say simply.
The rain begins to lighten, turning from a downpour to a gentle shower. Lo'ak and Tuk are still playing, now making mud sculptures that look like nothing in particular but are apparently very important.
"Sa'nu!" Lo'ak calls. "Come see what we made!"
You wade back into the clearing, and he shows you a lumpy mud creation that might be a pa'li or might be a rock. You praise it appropriately, and he beams.
By the time the rain stops completely, all three of you are thoroughly covered in mud. Tuk looks like a small swamp creature. Lo'ak has mud in places you didn't know mud could reach. And you're not much better.
Neytiri takes one look at you all and sighs. "To the river. All of you. Now."
"Can we slide down the bank?" Lo'ak asks hopefully.
"Absolutely not."
"Can we—"
"No."
But she's smiling, and when Lo'ak grabs Tuk's hand and starts leading her toward the river, chattering about how much fun they had, Neytiri falls into step beside you.
"He'll remember this," she says quietly. "When he's grown, when things are hard, he'll remember the day Sa'nu played in the mud with him."
"Good," you reply. "Everyone should have memories of being allowed to be joyfully, messily, completely themselves."
And as you watch Lo'ak and Tuk splash through puddles on their way to the river, you know it's true.
These moments—these simple, muddy, rain-soaked moments—these are the ones that matter.
These are the ones that teach a child: you are loved. You are celebrated. You are allowed to be wild and free and exactly who you are.
And that's a lesson worth getting muddy for.
Nightmares and Comfort
The night is deep and quiet when you hear the soft sound of footsteps outside your kelku.
You're awake immediately—years of living alone have made you a light sleeper—and you sit up just as the entrance flap moves aside.
Lo'ak stands there, silhouetted against the starlight. He's eleven years old, getting taller every day, but in this moment he looks small.
"Sa'nu?" His voice is barely a whisper. "Are you awake?"
"I am now, ma'itan." You keep your voice gentle, non-judgmental. "Come in."
He slips inside, and as he gets closer, you can see his face in the dim bioluminescent light. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks wet with tears he's tried to wipe away.
"Bad dream?" you ask softly.
He nods, his jaw trembling with the effort of holding back more tears.
You don't ask questions. Don't demand explanations. You simply open your arms, and he comes to you like he's been waiting for permission.
He's getting too big to fit comfortably in your lap, but he tries anyway, curling into you like he's still small. You wrap your arms around him, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.
"I've got you," you murmur. "You're safe now."
He shudders against you, and then the tears come—quiet, but intense. You hold him through it, rocking slightly, humming soft comfort sounds.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" you ask when the crying subsides to sniffles.
He's quiet for a long moment, then: "It was about the Sky People. They came back, and they—they hurt everyone. Mom and Dad and Neteyam and Kiri and Tuk. And I couldn't stop them. I tried but I was too small, too weak, too—" His voice breaks. "And then they took you. And I was all alone."
Your heart clenches. "Oh, my sweet boy."
"It felt so real," he whispers. "I woke up and I had to—I had to make sure you were okay. I had to see you."
"I'm right here." You press a kiss to his temple. "I'm safe. Your family is safe. It was just a dream, paskalin."
"But what if it's not? What if they do come back? What if—"
"Lo'ak." You pull back just enough to see his face. "Listen to me. We cannot live in fear of what might happen. We can only live in the now, in this moment. And in this moment, everyone you love is safe."
"But in the future—"
"The future hasn't happened yet. And when it does, we'll face it together. All of us." You cup his face gently. "You are not alone. You will never be alone. Do you understand?"
He nods, but you can see the fear still lingering in his eyes.
"Your dream was scary," you continue. "And it's okay to be scared. Fear is not weakness, ma'itan. Fear is your heart telling you what matters to you. You're afraid because you love us. That's beautiful, not shameful."
"I don't feel beautiful," he mumbles. "I feel like a baby. Running to you because of a bad dream."
"You're not a baby. You're a boy who had a nightmare and sought comfort from someone who loves him. That's brave, not babyish."
He looks at you doubtfully. "Brave?"
"Very brave. It takes courage to admit when we're scared. To ask for help. To let someone see us when we're vulnerable." You stroke his hair. "I'm honored that you came to me."
His expression softens, and he leans into you again. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Of course. For as long as you need."
You help him settle onto your sleeping mat, and he curls on his side, watching you with those big golden eyes. You lie down beside him, and he immediately scoots closer, seeking warmth and reassurance.
"Sa'nu?" he whispers.
"Yes, paskalin?"
"Will you sing? Like you used to when I was little?"
Your heart melts. "Of course."
You begin to sing—an old lullaby, one your own mother sang to you. Your voice is soft and low, filling the quiet space with gentle melody. Lo'ak's eyes begin to drift closed, his breathing evening out.
But just as you think he's asleep, he speaks again.
"Sa'nu? What if I'm not strong enough? When the bad things come?"
You pause your singing. "You are stronger than you know, ma'itan. But strength isn't just about fighting. It's about loving. About protecting what matters. About getting back up when you fall down." You stroke his cheek. "And you have all of that in abundance."
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "I love you. More than anyone."
The words hit you square in the chest. "Lo'ak—"
"I know I'm supposed to love Mom and Dad most," he continues sleepily. "And I do love them. But you—you're different. You're my Sa'nu. My real mom. The one who—who sees me."
Tears prick at your eyes. "I love you too, my beautiful boy. So much it hurts sometimes."
"Good hurt or bad hurt?"
"The best hurt. The kind that means my heart is full."
He smiles—just a little—and finally lets his eyes close. "Sing more?"
So you do. You sing until his breathing deepens into sleep, until his face relaxes completely, until you're certain the nightmares have retreated.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ author's note: of course y'all know i had to write my no1. i miss him so bad and auswiegjhwergaweawpgrij. his characterization might be off cause i completely forgot how to write LMAO. so, i'm rlly sorry :,)
you sat cross-legged on a smooth, flat stone, your arms locked securely over your chest as your tail gave a sharp, irritated flick against the dirt. the skin on your forehead was tightly knit into a hard scowl, your gaze fixed determinedly on a small glowing insect crawling over a root, completely refusing to acknowledge the heavy presence hovering just a few feet away.
lo’ak was leaning against the broad trunk of the tree, his long, dark braids swaying slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his bright yellow eyes tracking the rigid line of your shoulders. he had been trying to get a single word out of you for the past twenty minutes, his initial confidence slowly morphing into a mixture of genuine amusement and mild desperation. your silence was a wall he hadn't figured out how to climb yet, and the stubborn tilt of your chin was only making him want to push your buttons even more.
"are you really going to do this all day?" lo’ak asked, his voice carrying a raspy, teasing edge as he took a slow step forward, his tail swishing behind him in a lazy pattern. "your ears are practically pinned flat to your head, bro. you look like a viperwolf that just got its tail stepped on."
you ignored him entirely, your lips pressing into a thinner, angrier line as you pointedly turned your head a few inches to the left, staring at a patch of glowing moss instead.
lo’ak let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating through the quiet space of the cove as he closed the remaining distance between you. he dropped down onto his knees directly in the dirt right in front of your stone seat, forcing you to either look at him or look completely away from the clearing. his large, four-fingered hands came to rest on the edges of the rock, his body looming close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his blue skin.
"come on, talk to me," he wheezed, his expression melting into a comically exaggerated pout that made his features look remarkably soft, his ears drooping sideways in a blatant display of fake misery. "you’re punishing me for no reason. i didn't even do anything this time, i swear. Neteyam and i were just out by the reef, we didn't even touch your hunting gear."
a sharp puff of air escaped your nose, your eyes narrowing as you glared at the space just above his head, the mention of his brother making your irritation flare up anew. you remained completely silent, your jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in your neck stood out in sharp relief under your stripes.
lo’ak tilted his head, his gaze scanning every inch of your furious face, a spark of pure mischief flaring in his eyes as he realized his words had struck a nerve. he leaned in closer, his nose almost brushing against your cheek, his breath fanning warm across your cold skin. "is that it? are you mad about the hunt? because ‘teyam was the one who lost the spear, not me. i tried to save it, but the current was too strong."
you didn't move an inch, though the tip of your ear twitched slightly at his proximity, a hot wave of blood rushing to your face that you desperately tried to suppress.
"wow, okay, the silent treatment is really harsh," lo’ak murmured, his voice dropping into a dramatic, theatrical stage-whisper as he slumped his shoulders forward, resting his chin directly onto your knee. he looked up at you through his dark eyelashes, his yellow pupils dilated with a stubborn determination to break your resolve. "look at me. i am wasting away right here at your feet. the great mother herself is weeping at how cruel you are being to a poor, innocent warrior."
you bit the inside of your cheek, a fierce battle raging in your chest as the sheer absurdity of his posture threatened to ruin your anger. you reached down, placing one hand against his forehead and shoving his face off your knee with a rough, dismissive push, turning your body completely away from him.
lo’ak let out a loud, dramatic groan as his head fell back, a wide, triumphant grin breaking across his face because he had finally forced you to make physical contact. "they move! they possess the power of speech, yet they choose violence instead. truly, my heart is broken into a thousand pieces."
he scrambled over the dirt on his knees, moving around the stone until he was directly in front of your new position, his tail flicking excitedly behind him. he began pestering you in earnest, his fingers lightly poking at your locked elbows, his face twisting into a series of ridiculous, corny expressions designed to make you snap.
"hey. hey. look at me, yawnetutsyìp (my little beloved). look at me. just one word. say my name. say i'm a skxawng, anything," he pleaded, his voice a rapid-fire chain of annoying whispers as he bobbed his head into your line of sight every time you tried to look away. "i'll bring you a whole bucket of those sweet purple berries. i'll clean your spear. i'll let you ride my ikran without complaining about your terrible steering."
you let out a harsh, frustrated groan, your eyes snapping down to meet his at last, your face flushed dark with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "shut up, lo'ak! just leave me alone!"
"never," lo’ak barked, his grin widening to reveal a row of sharp, white teeth as he saw the cracks forming in your defenses. "you finally looked at me. now you have to tell me why you're pouting like a pup."
"i am not pouting!" you yelled, your voice echoing off the mangrove roots as you shoved at his chest, trying to create some distance between your burning face and his smirking one.
lo’ak didn't budge, his heavy frame firmly anchored to the ground as his hands darted out to catch your wrists, his grip warm and secure. "you are absolutely pouting. your bottom lip is practically touching your chin. and since you are refusing to be reasonable, i have no choice but to use extreme measures."
before you could even register the shift in his posture, lo’ak lunged forward, his massive shoulders pinning you back against the flat surface of the stone as he attacked your face with a barrage of sloppy, dramatic kisses.
a loud, wet smack landed directly on your cheek, followed instantly by another right on the tip of your nose, his nose flattening against yours as he pressed his lips against your skin with ridiculous force. you shrieked, a sound of pure outrage escaping your throat as you tried to twist your head away, but he was entirely relentless, his braids cascading around your faces like a curtain.
"dude, stop it! that is disgusting!" you wailed, your hands trying to push his chin away as he landed a remarkably loud, wet kiss right on your forehead, making a comically exaggerated slurping sound that echoed in your ears.
"not until you tell me why you're mad!" he muffled against your jaw, his lips dragging across your skin to leave another damp trail near your ear. he was being incredibly corny, his kisses carrying no grace or restraint, entirely focused on making the most obnoxious noises possible against your face.
another loud smack landed on your chin, his tail wrapping around your ankle to keep you from kicking him off as he shifted his weight to hover completely over you. you were struggling beneath him, your muscles straining against his weight, but the absolute ridiculousness of his methodology was quickly draining the anger from your veins.
a tiny, breathless giggle finally slipped past your lips when his nose tickled the sensitive skin under your jaw, a wet kiss landing right on your pulse point.
"ah! i heard a chuckle!" lo’ak shouted triumphantly, pulling back just an inch to gloat, his face covered in a sheen of sweat and a massive, cocky smirk stretching across his lips.
"i am still furious with you!" you gasped out, your voice cracking as a loud, uncontrollable laugh burst from your chest, your hands losing their strength against his shoulders. you tried to pull a scowl back onto your face, but your lips were trembling with a wide smile that you couldn't stop. "you are a horrible creature, lo'ak!"
"i am a provider of joy," he corrected proudly, before diving back down to plant three more rapid, noisy kisses directly onto your lips, his mouth moving against yours with an affectionate, clumsy enthusiasm that left your lips shiny and tingling.
you were openly giggling now, your hands moving from his chest to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his thick braids as you finally gave up the fight. your face was completely purple-blue with a furious blush, your chest heaving with laughter as he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing shallow and hot against your face.
"are you going to tell me now?" he whispered, his eyes shining with a genuine warmth as he watched the remnants of your anger melt away into the soft, bright smile you only ever showed him.
you let out a long, defeated sigh, your ears perking back up into their usual relaxed position as your fingers lightly traced the edge of his ocean-woven collar. "you forgot our training session this morning because you were sleeping in the sun with the hunters. i waited by the river for two hours."
lo’ak froze, his eyes widening slightly as a sheepish, guilty expression instantly replaced his smug grin, his ears pinning back in embarrassment. "oh. shit. i... i completely forgot the sun was that high."
"i know," you huffed, though the anger was entirely gone, replaced by forgiveness, as he tightened his arms around your waist, pulling you into a tight, apologetic hug that buried your face in his chest. "you are a giant skxawng, you know."
"i am," he murmured softly against your hair, his tail giving a gentle, rhythmic pat against your leg. “but you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
i forgot how to write him LMFAOOO (shit ain't funny).
mayhaps this is a controversial take, but the moral high ground anti-cheating trope police are so BORING like omg grow UPPPP. they’re fictional characters!!!!! FICTIONAL!!! no one who writes about and/or enjoys media containing a cheating trope is saying real-life infidelity is okay. it’s simply a plot device. for FICTION. get off your lame ass high horses and have some FUN jesus fkn christ
Warning(s): insecurity in a relationship. happy end
The thing about being popular was that people always assumed they knew you. They saw you walking across Briar's campus and immediately made up stories in their heads. They saw how many people waved when you passed. They saw how easily you could slide into any social group and how often your weekends were booked with parties, hockey games, and campus events. To most people, you were the girl who had everything.
They didn't know that popularity had never really interested you. You liked people that was all. You liked making friends. You liked talking to strangers. You liked helping people feel included because you knew what it felt like to be left out. Unfortunately, being friendly often got mistaken for flirting, especially by men. It happened constantly. Guy would stop you after classes, they offered to buy you drinks, asked for your number, they were always convincing themselves that if they tried hard enough, eventually you would say yes. However, you always politely turned them down. Not because they were bad people or because you thought you were too good for them. It was the fact that none of them were John Tucker. And once you had Tucker, nobody else even registered anymore.
The realisation hit you one afternoon while sitting in the student union. You were waiting for Tucker to finish practice, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to a conversation happening nearby. A guy from one of your classes had approached your table twenty minutes earlier and was currently trying very hard to flirt with you, but you weren’t even paying attention, you just kept checking the time and the entrance, patiently waiting for Tucker.
The guy was saying something about a party that weekend when the doors opened, and there he was. Tucker. The moment you spotted him, your entire face lit up without you even realising it. But the guy sitting across from you certainly did because he stopped talking immediately. You were already gathering your things, still smiling, and you walked away from him.
"Tuck!"
The second Tucker heard your voice, his head snapped up. His tired expression disappeared instantly and a smile spread across his face, and just like that, nothing else mattered. Not even the crowded room or the conversations you had been having, just him. Always him. He opened his arms automatically when you reached him, and you stepped right into them. The hug lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like coming home.
"Have you been waiting long?" he asked.
You shook your head against his shoulder. "Nope."
"You lying?"
"Maybe."
His laugh vibrated through his chest, and your heart melted. That always happened, no matter how many times you saw him, or how many dates you went on, or how many nights you spent together. You never got used to him. Never stopped getting butterflies. Never stopped feeling lucky. The funny thing was that Tucker seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people, including you.
A week later, you were reminded of that fact when you arrived at a hockey party together.
The house was packed, there was music blasting from the speakers, and there were people crowded in every room of the house. The moment you walked inside, several people greeted you, and a few guys immediately wandered over to you. However, you barely noticed them because you were too busy reaching for Tucker’s hand.
As the night went on, you floated from conversation to conversation. Tucker stayed close but eventually got pulled away by some teammates who wanted to discuss practice. You didn't mind. You found yourself talking with a group near the kitchen. At some point, a guy you'd met once before decided to shoot his shot. Again.
"You know," he said with a grin, "I still don't understand why you're dating Tucker."
You blinked. "What?"
"I'm just saying." He shrugged and gestured vaguely, "You could have literally anybody."
The comment annoyed you instantly. Not because it insulted Tucker, but because it completely missed the point. Before you could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind you.
"She's allowed to have terrible taste." You turned around. It was Tucker. The group started to laugh, and you laughed along with them, but something about Tucker’s smile felt off. It was small and forced.
The feeling lingered all evening, and later that night, after the party ended and the two of you returned to his apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about it. You were curled up beside him on the couch. His arm rested around your shoulders. The television played quietly in the background. Everything looked normal, but something wasn't. You knew Tucker, and he was thinking… a lot. Eventually, you muted the television. He looked down at you.
"What happened?"
You studied him. "You tell me."
"What?" His eyebrows lifted.
"You've been weird all night."
He immediately looked away like he was caught. Your stomach sank, because suddenly you knew. "Tucker."
He sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he'd been carrying something around for a while. "It's nothing."
"John." That got his attention immediately. You would only use his full name when you were serious.
For a moment he stayed quiet, but then he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
"You ever think it's strange?" he started.
You frowned. "What?"
He laughed softly, but there wasn't much humour in it. "You dating me."
Your heart broke immediately. "Oh, Tucker."
"No, seriously." He sat up slightly. "I don't get it."
You stared at him. He looked genuinely confused. As if your relationship were some unsolved mystery. As if he couldn't understand why you'd chosen him.
"Everybody loves you." His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. "You know that, right?"
You said nothing because you already knew where this was heading.
"People remember you when you leave a room." His voice grew quieter. "You've got guys hitting on you all the time."
He laughed once, very dryly. "You could date literally anyone."
Then he finally looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly shattered your heart. "But you picked me."
The silence that followed felt heavy and painful because you realised he truly believed he wasn't enough. It wasn’t a joke or false modesty. He genuinely couldn't understand why you loved him.
Slowly, you shifted closer. "Tucker." He didn't answer. "You know what my ex used to do?"
His jaw immediately tightened. You rarely mentioned your ex.
"He forgot anniversaries." Tucker's eyes darkened. "He ignored me when I was upset." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "He made me feel like loving me was a chore."
The room went silent. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers, and then you looked directly into his eyes. "You know what you do?" His expression softened.
"You bring me coffee before my morning classes." A tiny smile appeared on his face. "You walk me home." The smile grew. "You text me good luck before every exam."
His cheeks turned pink. "You remember every random thing I tell you."
By now he couldn't even look at you, so you squeezed his hand. "Tucker, you make me feel loved every single day."
The room felt impossibly quiet. The kind of quiet where every word mattered.
"You make me feel safe," you continued. His throat bobbed. "You make me feel important." His eyes grew suspiciously shiny.
"And when I'm with you..." You smiled softly. "I feel happier than I've ever felt in my entire life."
He looked away immediately, he was overwhelmed. You could tell. He closed his eyes briefly, as if he was trying to process your words.
Then he whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "You really mean that?"
The question hurt because he sounded genuinely unsure. You reached up and cupped his face, making him look at you.
"Tucker." Your voice softened. "I am completely in love with you."
His breath caught. "And I don't care how many people know me." A tearful laugh escaped him. "I don't care how many guys flirt with me."
You leaned closer. "The only person I want is you."
For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke, and then Tucker suddenly pulled you into his lap. Holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
You laughed. "Tuck—"
"I love you." His voice cracked slightly. The words sounded almost desperate, like he'd needed you to know. "I love you so much."
Your heart swelled. You wrapped your arms around his neck.
"I love you too."
He buried his face against your shoulder, and for several long moments, neither of you spoke. You simply sat there together, wrapped up in each other. It felt safe, comfortable, and loved.
Eventually, Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you. The doubt was still there, but it was smaller now, fading. And you kissed him softly. Once, twice, and three times all over his face until he started smiling. Until the uncertainty disappeared completely. Until all that remained was the look he always gave you. The one that made your heart race. The one that made you feel cherished. The one that reminded you exactly why every other guy on campus faded into the background whenever John Tucker walked into the room. Because no matter how many people wanted your attention, there had only ever been one person who owned your heart. And he was sitting right in front of you, looking at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. The truth was, you felt exactly the same way.
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
