#aged matter halo

[in-sightjournal]

Ask A Genius 1061: The Hindemburg Melão Jr. Session 2, More on Dark Matter and Collapsed Matter

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Hindemburg Melão Jr. further asks, “Regarding the answer about dark matter, the evidence suggests different properties than what would result from the collapse of baryonic or leptonic matter objects. For example: gravitational effects (produced by dark matter) are very spread out, rather than concentrated, as would be natural if it was generated from the collapses of…

[saymio]

Silent Obsession

Pairing: Hwang In-ho (the front man) x Fem!reader

Summary: your husband was missing, and all you did for days was stay at home crying your eyes out...waiting for your dearest husband to come home. this was until inho had decided to come give you a little visit while you were all alone and vulnerable.

Warning: dead dove: do not eat, noncon, degradation, light bdsm, manipulation, In-ho is obsessed with you, rough sex, mentioned age gap (20 years), cheating (not rlly), there might be more but I'm too lazy to write it.

A/N: not proof read. this takes place during s1. (most/all of the beginning contains junho x reader content)

7.2k Words

...

it was 2015, just a few days ago your boyfriend junho had invited you to meet his family on the day of his brothers birthday. his brother was turning 40 and they were hosting a small party, just a few people... and your boyfriend thought this would be a great time to invite you to meet his mom and brother. he was ecstatic at the thought, he really wanted his family to get to know you since last year he had met yours. and he was really serious about you... but it would be an understatement to say you were nervous. hell, you were scared. you wanted to leave a good impression on his family, this was the man you wanted to marry. if his mom didnt approve of you what could you say? she was wrong? that her opinion didn't matter? these thoughts swarmed your head for hours every day....

junho was driving the two of you from your small shared apartment to his moms place. you were sitting in the passenger seat as you stared out the window of the car, you were shaking... not from the cold but from the anxiousness you were brimming with. your fingers tapped against the interior of the car, your nails making a clicking sound every time they touched the material. "are you cold y/n? I told you itd be cold today..you should've worn a bigger jacket" junho glanced at you for a second before staring back at the road and sighing. he hated when this happened, when youd be so insistent in not 'ruining' your outfit that you wouldn't pay attention to whether you'd be cold or not. this always happens! ..but he always wears a jacket for you. because he knows you'll end up shivering from the cold gusts of wind and he cant stand the thought of you suffering from the freezing temperatures. you let out a small chuckle, it was barely over a whisper but junho heard you loud and clear. "why're you laughing.." he frowned a little, not because he's upset or mad at you but just because you werent taking the situation that seriously. "what if you catch a cold? at least think about me when you dress this way..you know I hate when you're in pain.." the last part of his sentence was soft and quiet, as if he was murmuring to himself..making sure you wouldn't hear him. "stop worrying so much babe...I'm not cold or anything.. just a little jittery, its my first time meeting your family after all." you giggled at his genuine worry for you, he was such a drama queen. making these small actions seem so much more serious then they were..but its something that made you love junho. how kind and protecting he was of the people he cared about. "nervous? you don't have to be nervous y/n...I'm sure they'll love you." junho's right hand made its way to your left hand. holding it tight before giving you a soft gentle smile. his ability to sooth you with just his smile had to be studied, he truly was an angel on earth to you, like he had a halo on his head 24/7. you leaned forward a little and left a quick peck on his cheek, quickly leaning back down to your seat and looking away from him. but at the corner of junhos eyes he could see how red you've gotten...he thought it was adorable. how the two of youve been dating for 2 years but you still got flustered over small kisses. you were so innocent and kind, the exact woman he needed in his life...

but little did junho know, he was right. his family did love you..especially his brother.

you had arrived at his mothers house, .. your nerves were spiking, how should you introduce yourself? what if the cake you made was still raw? what if inho doesn't like his present? these thoughts ran through your head as you two waited for someone to open the door. your finger nails tapping against the box the cake you had made was in. the sound deafening you as you just wanted the damn door to open already. you really just hoped youd make a good impression... after what felt like an eternity the door opened, behind to door revealed the birthday boy himself, Hwang In-ho. junho just shook his hand before you bowed at him slightly before shaking his hand and introducing himself briefly. "happy birthday In-ho, my names y/n" In-ho just nodded coldly at you, if the harsh winds outside didn't freeze you his stares did. he stepped aside, allowing the two of you in. he lead the both of you up the apartment complex stairs, your heels making a loud click sound echo though the staircase with every step you took. after only a bit of walking up stairs you had reached the door to where the party was being hosted.. . . when junho had told you itd be a 'party' you expected a family gathering with like 15 people, but upon arrival you quickly realized..it was truly just him, his brother and mom celebrating inho's birthday today. you were pleasantly surprised, you hated large groups of people..it made you skittish and always super nervous. so just 3 other people being there calmed your nerves down, alot. the apartment was small and cozy, very homey and nice. his mother had made a mini feast with delicious foods and decorated the place with a few balloons and banners. it was a seemingly wholesome sight of a mother doing something nice for her sons special day, it made your heart warm up inside your chest as you took a seat at the table. "hi honey, what's your name?" junho's mother grabbed one of your hands, cupping it with the both of hers. you felt yourself blush and smile, you had barely even been inside yet his mother was being so kind already. her soft gentle voice, and kind soft eyes. it was everything that's junho was. "y/n, what about you miss?" you were trying your best to be as polite as possible, you didn't want to tip her off and cause her to hate you.. but you felt kind of uncomfortable.. inho..he was staring at you alot. and it was like he wasnt trying to hide it, his dark eyes piecing into your soul. as if he were looking for the innocence inside of you... to take it away from you. the entire day just led to you getting more and more uncomfortable. you weren't able to stare into his eyes because you felt if you did he would just jump onto you not giving a shit about his mother and brother being there too. "y/n, what would you say if your favorite thing about junho?" inho spoke, his deep voice sent uncomfortable shivers down your spine.. this entire atmosphere..it was odd. but it was like only you caught onto it. you stared at inho before turning to junho...he was blushing. he tried keeping a stoic face but you could tell he was getting flustered before you even spoke. his ears tinted in a light pink an so was his neck. "ah.. well his kindness..I think its the main reason I fell in love...he's very kind and soft spoken to people. at least until they do something wrong..but either way he's an angel." a gentle smile took over your face, you stared at junho and then at inho to continue your sentence..it was obvious you were head over heels for this man.. "he's just a very likable man." inho smiled at you, not speaking a word but it was like his face said them all for you. but they weren't the words you'd expect a caring older brother to say, it was more like a .. 'wow how nice.' but in a sarcastic tone.. his mother on the other hand.. "aww how sweet! young love, its so beautiful." she clasped her hands together before grabbing your forearm and staring up at you with twinkling eyes, it was like she was already envisioning your wedding and family with junho. "promise me you'll take care of my son, okay?"

it was a little past 10pm by now, everyone had eaten a slice of cake and junho's mother adored it. junho was right, his mom did love you. she was already talking about marriage and how she wouldnt be surprised if you made the wedding cake because the one you had brought today was "just too delicious!" you laughed and giggled at her antics, your face flushed in embarrassment. you turned to look at inho, who was staring at you intensely. your happiness almost instantly vanished as you shuffled in your chair. maybe he was upset you hadn't given him his gift yet...that should do it!! maybe he'd stop once you did. "a- inho, I brought you a gift." his eyes widened and it had seemed like he just heard life changing news, maybe he really was just sulking over a present..it was kind of cute. you grabbed your bag from your feet next to you and shuffled around until you found a yellow box, you pushed it towards inho and smiled. your tried your best to give a genuine, heartfelt smile even though you felt uncomfortable with all his glances and stares. he smiled at you, this time it seemed a little less fake...but still not genuine. he opened the box, it was a watch. a very beautiful one. it was shimmering under the dinning room light, a light white silver with simple but detailed engravings on the band of the watch. it was beautiful and it definitely wasn't the cheapest, you don't remember how much it was exactly since you had bought it the same day junho had told you about his brothers birthday..but you knew it was enough to make you wince at the receipt. "I left the receipt folded under the cloth Incase it isn't to your li-" you were cut off by inhos voice, it was calm, not as cold as it was before..it was rather soothing even.. "no. its perfect." he put the watch on, adjusting it so it fit his wrist perfectly. you felt your lips creep into a wide smile, you were so glad this day was going perfectly. "wow, that's such a pretty watch! it must've costed you a lot." their mother interrupted the two of you, staring at the watch that sat on inhos wrist and then at you. "inho, say thank you! be polite." she hit the back of his head harshly, as if she were scolding a little kid... you laughed at the scene, mothers truly see their children as their babies forever. "no- its okay miss don't wo-" it seemed like today was full of interruptions and cut offs as inho did just it again. "thank you y/n, I appreciate it a lot." his face was blank again, no readable expression was there.. but based off his passed reactions..you felt he was being sincere. . . . "thank you miss, thank you inho." you bowed at the both of them while you stood at the front door with junho, showing your gratitude for their kindness and patience with you and your boyfriend. "of course honey, please come back any time you want." junho's mother grabbed your hand one more time, inho nodded along with her. he wasn't a man of many words but it seemed his scary demeanor had vanished. maybe it was never even there and you were just nervous..either way you were glad you didn't leave the house with a weird feeling about your boyfriends brother. juho's mother then shoo'd the two of you away, telling you it was late and you shouldn't stay up so late at such a young age... you felt happy. a warm feeling sat in your heart and stomach, it was like you had just found your second family.

time skip (5 years)

there you sat in the police station, its been days since youve last seen your husband. you were sobbing into the palm of your hands, the salty liquid dripped onto your long dress as you drained ever drop of water from your body. you were terrified. what happened to him?? where was he?? what had he gotten into? you were devastated to say the least, you explained with a shaky and quaky voice that your husband had just told you he was off to investigate his brothers vanishment and would be back by the night..like always! so when you woke up and he wasn't there you just felt dread. you texted him and texted him all day to no response. when he didn't come back for the second day you reported him missing. you reported this story to the police about 9 times already, everyday since you reported him missing you came to the police station for any clues or help..an obviously everyday they told you the same thing...that they had nothing. the only reason they didn't push you off to the side when you came in was well..because your husband worked for them. he was a police officer under them, it'd feel disrespectful to you and junho if they just told you to give up hope on finding your husband. maybe you'd stop after another week or two..you'd realize whatever fate inho had found was the same junho ended to aswell... and not only that but you were pretty, kind and in obvious distress over your husband. they'd feel like they just kicked a sick puppy in the stomach if they told you to go away. so every day, at 8am you come in. usually in a pretty sundress but your state of mind isn't as pretty. your eye bags were prominent and you seemed to constantly be in a state of dissociation.... "you promise there's nothing? please double check! please..I need my husband back. you don't understand" your words were exasperated and rushed, you wanted answers, your husband, closure, anything! your breaths were getting heavy as you reached your delicate hand to the tissue box on the desk infront of you. you felt yourself breaking down, more and more, every. day. the police officer let out a breathy sigh, he was trying his very best to not tell you off. to tell you to go back to your home and cry there or something. to stop wasting his time every single fucking day.. but he couldn't. and he wouldn't. not when your state was some of the worst he's seen in his years of being an officer. "listen ma'am, there seems to be a dead end a-" you slammed your hand onto the table, one still holding the now damp tissue as you started to cry harder. you shook your head violently, indicating a very obvious no...or in this case obvious denial. "no. there..there isn't a dead end. he's alive and he needs your help!! please..please keep searching i-i'll.." you started to dig into your purse, the same one junho had gifted you for your 5th anniversary not long before this whole ordeal. when you felt what you were looking for you snatched it out your bag, like it was grabbing it, stealing it from your grasp. "h-here..d-dont stop searching please. I'll give you this..p-please.." in between words you started to cry more, tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping off your skin. your head was lowered and you were looking at your lap. you didn't want to stop looking for him. you wouldn't stop until you knew he was safe. "ma'am...you don't have to give me money for doing my job." he slid the stack of money that you had taken from your purse back to you and shook his head in disapproval. "listen.. sigh we're trying our best okay? we arent just laying around doing nothing, he was our coworker and we want to find him as much as you do.." he looked away from your depressing state, you were catching your breath and shaking, your fists were curled into balls. it was clear, even though he was an officer that he didn't want to find junho nearly as much as you did..he didn't think it would even be possible to. "just..take a break. you're overwhelming yourself and it isn't good for you. junho is strong and you know this, so just believe in him and his ability to live..."

the officer opened a drawer that was next to his seat, it was a little pile of candies.. he grabbed a handful and handed you a few. with a shaky hand you took the candies, your eyes were red and puffy. it was painfully obvious that you had just broken down in tears. you didnt want to speak but it was obvious by the way you acted, that all you wanted right now was for your husband to come back into your embrace. "if you want I can step out and let you calm down." the officer stares at you, awaiting the answer that would leave your lips. "no..its okay.. i-...whatever. thank you, I will take a break to calm down and compose myself. please have a good day." you mumbled the first few words, like a scared child who had just gotten caught with their hand in the cookie jar and is now making up an excuse. you let out a loud sigh before you stood up from your chair, rubbing your tired, sore eyes before fixing your hair and grabbing your bag. you turned around right as you were in front of the office door, you bowed at the officer to show your gratitude as you proceeded to touch the cold metal handle of the door and creaked it open. with a click of the door closing you were walking away from the room you had just broken down in.

there you were, sitting on the edge of the bed you and your husband shared. it felt cold every time you sunk your body into the soft mattress..cold and empty. you weren't used to this, you were used to your husband coming home from work and giving you a kiss. slipping into the soft blankets together as you worked as heaters for each other's bodies. you didn't like this. you didn't want this. you flopped your upper torso onto the bed, causing it to make a squeaking sound to the sudden pressure. your legs were dangling off the side of the bed as you stared up into the ceiling. the world around you felt hazy, like everything that surrounded your body was just an empty void of nothingness. the world was meaningless without junho. you felt your eyes getting heavier and heavier...until they had finally closed shut.

knock... knock... knock you jolted up from your bed, who was here at this time? it's like 2am... you stared at the closed bedroom door, thinking about if it was a good idea to open the doorm. you're a young woman alone at her house at 2am...what if it was a sex trafficker trying to kidnap and rape you!!?? knock... knock... knock the loud but slow knocks echoed throughout the house, the knocks took a 3 second pause inbetween..it was so creepy.. it made your skin crawl.. bu...what if...what if the police have clues about junho and came to talk to you about it they heard of it!! or..what if junho had finally come home..... these thoughts rand through your head, you were scared of what might be behind of that door. but not scared enough to not open it. you slowly got up from your bed, making it squeak under the pressure of your body. your soft slippers made a swooshing sound against the wooden floors as you shuffled your way to the front door... knock... knock.... knock there it was...the knocking. you couldn't help but feel this dry lump from in your throat, but you had to do it...you needed to make sure... if it was some stranger you'd just slam the door on them and go and hide in a closet or something.. your swallowed the lump in your throat and placed your palm on the cold metal of the handle, unlocking it with a small click and turning it clockwise so that it opened the door.. you didn't open it alot, just enough to see who was on the other side. your eyes stared at the dark soulless eyes In front of you, it was a random man. you had no idea why he was here or what he wanted..but he looked very familiar..maybe he was an off duty cop that just wanted to check up on you..? "h-hello..? how can I help you..." your voice was small and quiet, barely above a whisper as you used the door as some kind of shield from the strange man. "yes. you can." you stared up at the man with confused puppy dog eyes, what did that even mean?? you furrowed your eyebrows and squinted your eyes as you stared at him..you were about to close the door on the strange man until something clicked inside of you. you recognized where he was from.. "inho?! w-what? what are you.." your judgmental facial expression quickly changed into one of shook and worry, was he here to see junho? how would you break the news that his brother was now missing too?? you raised your small hand to your mouth, covering it in shock..you didn't even know what to do....what should you say..? your eyes started to water and tear up, you were reminded of the harsh reality junho was in..he was seriously missing and now the person he went missing looking for was In front of you...it seemed like everyone was just against you. mocking the disappearance of your husband. "what...are you doing here? a-are you here for junho..he's.." you let out choked sighs after every other word, taking your hands from your mouth to your entire face. you were a crying mess In front of a man you barely knew, it was so embarrassing. you were so pathetic and sad. everyone's been telling you to just get over it but here you are, sobbing for what felt like the 6th time today. a loud sigh snapped you out of your saddened state,, but...it wasn't a sigh of disapproval or frustration...it was like a sigh of...desire. like he was getting off to the sight your sobbing, scared and fragile body. "you're doing this on purpose, you have to be." you stared up at inho with confusion. you eyebrow was raised, as if asking him what the fuck he meant by that. before you could even mutter a word he pushed you, really harshly. you went flying back into your home, head hitting the hard wood. you felt yourself getting dizzier and dizzier for a few seconds...you felt like you couldn't move, speak or even see anymore...your head was spinning and alarms were ringing from the inside of your head..until you were passed out.

you woke up... you were sitting in the middle of the dining room, it seemed like someone had moved the table and other chairs out the way as it was literally only you. you and the chair you were sitting on. the room was barely lit up, you could only see some of your surroundings due to the singular light that was on. the ligh that bulb was right on top of you..it felt like you were about to get interrogated for murder,,you were terrified. for you wanted to scream, cry and just run away from what was happening. but you couldn't. your ankles were tied onto the legs of the chair. your arms and torso were bounded to the chair itself with a thick rope., it was digging into your skin hard..it hurt. alot.. you wanted to squirm around and get yourself free but you knew you'd just end up knocking the chair down and you'd be stuck in an awkward position..you tried to start screaming but you couldnt, you were confused..it was like your mouth was glued shut.....your eyes darted around the room, looking for anyone, anything to help you. it took you a second for you to put the pieces together but.. once you did you realized.. your mouth was duck taped shut. you didn't know what to do, you were overwhelmed and you just wanted your husband back to you. you closed your eyes shut as warm salty tears fell from your eyes. your eyes just couldn't catch a break, could they? they were tired and sore. even when you werent sleepy it hurt to open and close the..a result of crying for days.. you just wanted to feel happiness again. but clearly that wasn't going to happen soon. was your fate going to be the same as your husbands? were his kidnappers after you to sew your mouth shut?? you didn't want to die..at least not because you got closure.. "you shouldn't cry Infront of me. its a bad idea. I have a thing for little girls that look pretty when they cry." your head jumped forward, looking at the figure that had stepped out the shadows surrounding you.. your eyes widened, remembering that inho had been the one that knocked you over and caused you to black out. the same man that had gone missing 5 years ago, the same man that your brother went missing looking for.. what was he doing here? was he here to kill you? to keep you silent? to assault you? thoughts rand through your head as he took large, slow steps towards you. as if he was mocking your frightened state. he reached his right hand out towards you, your eyes landed on the silver watch he was wearing. it seemed so similar to the one you had gifted all those years ago..but no way he would still be wearing it, right? before you could even process another thought his hand gripped at your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to literally stare up at him. the roughness of his grip made you wince in pain..he didn't come here with intentions of being nice and if you didn't realize that person you definitely realized that now. you tried to scream and kick your feet, you knew the tape and rope would stop your attempts and make them useless but you still tried. your screams just came out as diluted, muffled noises. the tape had stopped you from making any loud noises... the chair under your only shook a little but it wasn't enough to lighten the grip inho had on your hair. his dark, soulless eyes stared you down. they were like black orbs, nothing behind them. he grinned at you, like he was watching a cartoon and a character had did something funny. he was laughing at you. he thought this was funny. "you look so stupid, you do know that the tape will just silence all your screams, right? or are you too young and dumb to understand that yet." he tilted his head at you and gave you a mockingly confused expression. he was having the time of his fucking life while you were here, scared for your damn life. you glared at him, trying to intimidate him..doing anything to scare him...trying to find the little humanity in him that feels sympathy was clearly never going to happen. so you had to try another approach..even if it wasn't going to work either... and your suspicions were right ..

he just smiled at you, another mockingly fake smile... he released his hand from the grip he had on your hair and pinched your cheeks, just as roughly as he did with your hair. leaving a red mark when he let go... it was like he was treating you like you were a pouting child, stomping your feet because your mom didn't let you buy the comically huge lollipop you really wanted. "youre not scary sweetie." the pet name made you want to throw up in your mouth. he knew well you were his sister in law but here he was, calling you pet names with his disgusting voice. " you know..ive had my eyes on you since i met you...you're just so gorgeous..and delicate." he took a short but slow walk around u and stopped to stand behind you. his cold hands reached to your face and covered your eyes. you couldn't see anything but you knew he was leaned up in your ear...you could feel his hot breath making you unnervingly uncomfortable. "I just wanna ruin you." your breathe hitched in your throat, he was going to rape you. you know it, you had to fight back, you had to. you couldn't let a man that wasn't your husband put his dick inside you. inho took his cold hands away from your face and walked back in front of you. you glanced down at his crotch and...there was a bulge...he was getting off to your scared shape. he truly was an emotionless sadist.. he held up his index finger to your covered lips. "shh. make any noise and I wont think twice about killing you and your husband." your eyes widened as you heard the last part...that meant your husband was alive..and he knew where he was. you nodded slowly, complying with his words. he ripped the piece of tape off your mouth, causing you to let out a yelp in pain. you stared at him with a frightened face, you realized you had just made a loud sound...you didn't want to die you didn't..you didn't want your husband to die! "I said. be quiet." the truth with inho was, he had already killed your husband..at least he thought he did. only a day ago did he shot junho, causing him to fall off the side of the island...he probably drowned and is floating lifeless in the sea right now.. but you didnt need to know that...and it was clear you weren't even aware. your mouth was shut and you tried to silence your heavy rapid breathing....you really did love your husband..he wanted to steal that love from junhos grasp. he leaned down, his face was now perfectly aligned with yours... you wanted to say something, you wanted to scream and cry but if you did he'd kill you...you knew he would... his left hand started to rub your cheek, it was gentle and warm but it just made you hate it even more...his fake kindness. you hated it. his lips connected with yours, at first it seemed like he was trying to be gentle but it was obvious he had quickly gotten bored of it before he got rough. your teeth were clashing with each other as he shoved his tongue into your mouth. exploring every inch of it before he started to nip at your lips...he was aggressive and messy. everything junho wasn't.. this wasn't the kind of kiss you wanted or craved. you felt like your eyes were sewn shut the way you refused to open them, you didn't want to stare at inho. you just wanted this to end..maybe once it did you'd finally have your husband back. after what felt like hours of making out he has finally took his chapped lips off of your soft ones. a string of saliva connected the two of you as he caught his breath. you opened your eyes to stare at him, they were watery..your tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes as you caught your breath. to inho you eyes were like glass marbles...and he wanted to shatter them into pieces. you took deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. if you were calm it wouldn't be as bad. you read this inside your mind over and over and over again. you just prayed he would use you quickly and then leave... "you know, that day..the day where junho has brought you to our mothers house for my birthday.." his eyes wandered away from you, as if he were recalling the day in exact detail, scene by scene...

his eyes snapped back to yours, holding intense eye contact until he continued his sentence... "when I asked you what you loved most about junho you told me you loved his kindness. you said he was a soft person..an angel in your eyes." he crouched down, staring at you with intense eyes. his sharp features were like daggers, stabbing one by one into your heart. "you told me you loved something about him that I lacked. I'm not a kind person. and right now..you probably think I'm the devil instead of an angel like my brother.." he smiled at you, it was a cold, fake smile. if you touched his face right now it'd probably be ice cold.. "thats how I knew someone like you would never willingly be with a man like me.. but it's okay, I'll just force myself onto you." you started to cry, the salty liquid streamed down from your cheeks to your chin. your eyes were red and puffy, you didn't know what to do. you didn't want to be with this man, you didn't want this. inhos left head reached to your face, this time he squeezed the both of your cheeks so that your lips were puckered at him. "got it, princess?" he leaned in to kiss you again, this time he went aggressive right away. forcing his tongue into your mouth, some of your tears dripped onto his mouth. letting him taste the saltiness of your sadness. and it was delicious.

there you sat, he had freed your ankles from the restraints on the chair. nipping and licking at your clit. you hated this, you couldn't stop crying. you felt disgusting, a man that wasn't your husband was licking and eating your pussy out. why would you let this happen? at this point death felt better than breaking your husbands heart. you lets out cries and soft no's as he slurped your juices. you hated that it felt good, you hated that he knew what he was doing. your moans and mewls filled the room, followed with wet sloppy sounds of spit and cum mixed together. he's been eating you out for what felt like hours, you've probably came like 3 times already. you were getting tired..your legs were shaky, trying to close in on themselves but inhos arms kept them wide open for you. "p-please stop. I don't like thi-this...ah...please..let me go already..please.." you were begging with him, your eyes were shaky, your face was flushed and your lips were wet from his aggressive kisses. god. the scene of you begging for him to stop as he abused your clit was one he wanted engraved in his mind forever. he let go of your pussy with a loud pop, your juices and his spit was all over his mouth and chin. he looked like a wild animal that had just eaten his prey alive. with his sleeve he wiped off the liquid on his face. 'ruining' his all black jacket. "you want me to stop but your cum is all over my face and lips. you want me to stop but you keep moaning. just admit you're a slut for me." you close your eyes shut, shaking your head viciously, you don't want him. you don't want this. you just want your husband to be safe. that's all you want... inho scoffs at you, as if you were lying to his face. maybe he truly did believe you wanted this..that you wanted him.. but you knew it wasn't true, you knew that you loved junho and that you werent fighting back back because you just wanted him back.. you'd break down in tears in his arms once he comes home, you'll explain it when he's home. he'd understand..right..? you were lost in your thoughts, but reality snapped you out of them.. 2 long fingers were inside of your core, curling and pumping in and out... it hurt so much. it was nothing like you were used to, slow paced and gentle..no..it was fast and rough. you let out a cry, you were in so much pain it made you want to go insane. the rope that was still tied around your arms and waist dug into your skin, burning you as you struggled under the restraints..trying to find a way out. it felt like inhos was trying to split you in half, the rough skin on his finger pads only made it worse. but ofcoourse it had to feel good, because he knew what he was doing. even if it was messy, even if it was rough, even if you didn't like it..he knew how to make a woman feel good past all the pain. he tilted his head up towards you, his dark almond eyes burned holes into yours. "you gonna cum?" instead of a question, it felt like a demand. demanding you to answer yes, scaring you into saying yes.. but you didn't say yes, you said no. you shook your head and mouthed no to inho, not daring to say it out loud..and it obviously made him upset. he sneered at you before grabbing is free hand and pinching your clit before speeding the pace of his fingers. this was something you've never felt before, the pleasure finally overshadowed the pain and it felt like he had just forced your orgasm out of your body. your cum coated his digits, leaving a slightly milky white color on them.. you were catching your breath, it was hard to breath..the pain, anxiety and fear were catching up to you...you felt your throat slowly closing on you..you felt like you couldn't even breath enough air to supply your lungs are this point.. you were so caught up in your own world that you didn't even realize how he was pressing against the bulge that was begging to be freed from his trousers..he stared at you with bleak eyes, there was nothing behind them...nothing but desire and want..you were scared witless of what he would do to your poor body next. and whatever it was, you didn't want it

the bed was creaking under you, the same bed you and juho slept in everyday... you legs were pressing onto your stomach, the skin rubbing against each other. inho was slamming his cock in and out of you.. touching spots you didn't even know could be reached before this. you felt horrible for feeling so good. but you didn't want this. you were a crying moaning mess. your nails were digging onto his hands, the ones that were pressing you down. you were begging for him to stop, you didn't want this..you felt like you were being forced into this. with the life of your husband on the line.. inho let go of your left thigh and reached to your neck. his freezing hand sending shivers through your body as he started to choke you whilst pounding in and out of you..destroying your gummy insides. he lowered his face to you and scoffed, you looked so pathetic. crying and sobbing acting like you weren't enjoying his fat cock. why wouldn't you just admit you liked it for once? "acting like youre the victim while my cocks deep inside of you. is this all women do? complain about everything..just admit you like it. I wont tell." you felt so degrading. you were getting fucked by a man you barely knew on the bed your missing husband and you slept on every day at somepoint. using his life against you and now he's blaming you? was it really your fault? could you have just turned him away and still gotten junho back? was that an option that you weren't told about? you started crying, your weak arms pushing against his chest with no avail. you just wanted it to stop, you were in pain and now you're being told its your fault you're in this situation. you can never win. you began to sob louder, begging him to let you go, louder and louder until you were wailing like a stupid baby. your hand grasped at the tight grip he had on your neck, then to his chest to push him away again. "shut up." he snarled before taking off his hand from your neck, he had left a bruise from how hard he was gripping...with the same hand he harshly slapped you. shutting your cries up quickly. a red spot started to quickly form, your skin was now irritated in what felt like every place on your body.. "you're such a slut. taking the dick of a man 20 years older than you on the very bed your husband would sleep on. do you not feel ashamed? hmm?" he hummed at you, waiting for your reply. but you didn't even mutter a word, nothing. you decided you'll just take it with no noise, if you stay quiet up maybe it'll end faster?.. it should...shouldn't it..you were trying to comfort yourself in your head.. "you can keep trying to tell yourself otherwise but youre nothing but a dirty cheater. taking dick like a good girl. this probably isn't the first time youve done this huh?" he laughed at your now soulless face, he was right when he said he wanted to ruin you. he was doing that, and it got worse with every second that passed. "ffuck I'm close. you better cum or else I'll js' keep on using you until you do." you started to tear up, your clit twitching and your hole began to clench around his cock. you felt good, but terrible at the same time..you doubted he was cumming because he thought you felt good though, it was a factor but it was probably your shape that made him so horny. you were sad, in pain...tired... he got off to it so bad. you let out quiet pants and moans, indicating to inho that you were close too. he started to get sloppy, his pace getting even faster as the wet slapping sound of skin filled your ears to the brim. you felt your clit pulsating, begging for release...once you came you'd be free..you'd be...you'd be....be.. "a-aa.. fuck fuck fuckfck fuck! ouOUGH~" you let out loud, filthy moans. probably for the first time that night, instead of your cries it was your moans and whimpers that the room was now brimming with. inho loved the sound of your noises, your cries, moans, everything. God it made him so horny...once he felt you cum all over his cock he let his go through as well. fucking his orgasm into you deeper, and deeper with a loud groan..

he kept moving slowly, fucking you through your orgasm as your breathes calmed down.. "I want to ruin every inch of kindness and hope for humanity you have left in you. you're so perfect. perfect to corrupt.." his hand raised to your cheek and started to rub it 'lovingly'. you had a feeling he wasn't going to let you go like he had told you he would.

...

Another not: I FINALLY FINISHED YAY took me like all day again but ....yay!! I hope u guys liked it. I'm pretty proud of it but idk if its ooc or not... but SMASH THE LIKE BUTTON N HIT SUBSCRIBE 4 MORE..!!!!!!!

TAGLIST: @pollys-doublelife @gongyoosgf

[meownotgood]

arcane season 2 spoilers

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"Can you feel anything?" 

Viktor's foreign body shudders against his will; your fingertips trace down his chest, tingling, sparking, akin to little specks of light burning into his second-skin. The sound of your muddled voice barely registers. His head tosses back with a slight thud, hair fanned out as a halo. He allows your knees to bracket his waist, and keeps his arms sprawled above him — despite the aching in his dead heart to just touch you. The pulsing of the arcane beneath his system is hardly under control yet. 

It would be a risk he's willing to take, a necessary step to learn, if it were anyone else besides you. 

And Viktor does feel — so much, in fact, but it isn't anything explainable. The festering in his core, threatening to come up through his throat. The whirring, the throbbing of every muscle, rich with glowing rivers of purple. Shining with a mixture of magic and energy and his own blood. 

He's only distantly aware of your hand when it reaches his stomach, examining the juncture between cool metal and unholy flesh. Gears and bolts mimic the outline of ribs. Your touches are curious, distinctly gentle. Picking up on old habits, and trying not to break him, still. Then, your palm reaches up; it boldly cradles his cheek, brushes his pallid skin. And this, he can sense. 

It's familiar, human. Excruciatingly soft when your thumb brushes the space on his cheek, just above his beauty mark. It puts an easy feeling back in his chest, something he almost began to believe he'd forgotten. As warm as a shimmering sun, as molten as liquid gold. 

Nothing else matters but this moment, but you, and him. There is no outcome, across each expansive universe and every edge of the arcane, where the two of you would not meet again like this. You were meant to. Born and reborn to. 

Your gaze finds his, soft eyes glancing down at him, your expression crossed between pain and relief. You eclipse all of his vision: light fuzzy at your edges, your face a hazy memory that he'd still see with his eyes closed. You're a reminder of what it means to be alive. 

Viktor doesn't envy you. You've told him of nightmares, before. Dreams you had before this, of your mind putting yourself through the tragedy of watching him die ages before you truly had to. It must be difficult to see him like this, despite your best attempts to hide any uncertainty. 

Your hand shakes. He can feel it trembling, unsteady on his cheek. And every molecule in Viktor's system explodes, laced with the yearning to remember — to let hazy lovesickness swell within his palms and his new figments. To pull you closer, in an effort to convince himself you won't be taken away. 

Every echo of you is innate. Your voice, your name, your fingerprints. Your presence has the Hexcore — or what's become of him, what has embodied the Hexcore — blissfully, endlessly silent. The way you look at him, soft and brutally innocent, puts a chasmic, vivid hole in his center. Gods, you still look at him the same, just as you did when the two of you were young and innocent. The rot in him tells him he isn't worthy of it. 

Viktor's eyes swirl like kaleidoscopes. Drops of crimson swirling in pure water. Your brows pinch, a sight he finds frustrating and pretty, as you silently examine him. Emotions curl in your lungs, tearing and hungry and knife-like; stricken with attachment, or perhaps blaming yourself, Viktor figures. 

Exhaustion runs heavy in your expression, reminding him of looking into a mirror. He knows this look. You haven't slept. Haven't given yourself any form of a break, it seems.

So, he takes a chance. 

Your hand brushes some stray, messy strands of hair from his forehead, just as Viktor guides his weak arm to reach for you. You don't tense, don't move. He can hear your breathing, thinks he can still feel his. There isn't an ounce of fear in the way you look at him. You have always looked at him like he holds the world in his hands. And now, perhaps he does. 

His hand finds your cheek, same as yours. Copying, following. Thin, delicate, purple-hued fingers trace the edge of your face clumsily, still learning how to touch. Still afraid the line between hurt and healing might be blurred, and you are the one person left that he can't let get caught in the crossfire. You lean into his palm, trusting, and let go of a breath that makes your shoulders shake with the weight of it. 

Viktor thinks of crying, despite the press and pull in his chest that convinces him he shouldn't be able to. He can feel you. It isn't like the few touches he's experienced so far, or the aching, anomalous strength he's been forced to get used to. It contradicts the very constructs of everything he thought made sense. 

Your skin is so soft, sickly familiar. Viktor holds your face shakily, afraid to move. He can feel your individual atoms. Innumerable sparks just beneath his touch, galaxies upon universes of stars in your name, that beg to be grasped, possessed, cured. He cradles you with all of the devotion of a prophet, with all of the tenderness of a past friend: an almost-destiny, a saved seat at the edge of something more. 

Would clumsily pulling you in, and pressing his lips to yours feel wrong, or tangible — like nothing, or like everything? 

"Vik?" 

Your tone, sweeter than honeysuckle, sweeter than anything he might deserve, brings his vision back into focus. He blinks. Gaze never tearing away from his, your fingertips drop to thread the hard edge of his collarbone. A silent plea, can you feel this? You find each curve of his bones and his body easily, the details already memorized. Viktor senses the ghost of you, your touch gentle, something like home. 

"I'm not sure," Viktor finally answers; and the scientist, Hexgate creator, still-ambitious part of himself is hardly satisfied with that answer. His voice is quiet, distant. As though he isn't there, despite the lingering, familiar tenderness to his tone. 

The fried synapses in his brain can't yet separate a caress from a threat, he just perceives the lingering energy. He believes you could be the one to teach him the difference. 

This time, you let your palm press flat to his chest. There's a hum that attempts to mimic a heartbeat, a lack of coolness or heat. The action presses your form closer to his, guides you to lean part of your weight on him to bring your faces far too close. Sharing in the same reflection. Allowing each breath to be measured, along with every hesitation. 

What should he start with? Should he embrace you, holding you tight and close like you're sacrificial? Should he grab your hand in his, press his palm to your skin to measure your heartbeat? Lace his smallest finger with yours, to make you a promise like he used to? 

He can't promise you peace, nor the life you deserve, but if you came for him now, was it not a swear to follow him anywhere? 

There are still so many things left to feel, and every red thread has always begun and ended with you. 

Can you feel anything? 

Viktor guides a hand over yours, keeps it to his chest selfishly; he meets your gaze, he hums, "Are you eager to find out?" 

[ninisdollie]

diet pepsi - nishimura riki 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which reader films a hot, sexy music video with the world’s favorite supermodel, but the tension between them is so palpable that it ends up exploding"

‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x ni-ki, popstar x supermodel, usage of both riki and ni-ki, drinking (wine), sexual tension, explicit sex, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, riding, unprotected sex.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! <3

There was something about the air of a freshly built set, the warm lights already buzzing overhead, and the distant rustle of crew members preparing for chaos, that made your heart race every single time.

You stepped onto the soundstage in platform heels and a silk robe, a Diet Pepsi can in hand (prop or not, you actually liked the taste). The soft curve of a smile found your lips as you took in the glossy tiled floor, the velvet chaise, the retro signs glowing like neon halos. The whole set screamed glamour. Over-the-top. Effortlessly iconic.

Very you.

At your age, you were pop music’s favorite contradiction. Sweet as sugar off-stage, barefoot in studios, always bringing snacks to rehearsals, thanking every crew member like it was second nature. But the moment a camera turned on, something inside you clicked. Your voice dropped, your stare sharpened, and your body moved like it was fluent in seduction.

Soft. Wildhearted. But when it was go time? You locked in.

That’s how you made it here, headlining your own tour, pulling millions of views in a matter of hours, and now, filming the summer's most anticipated music video.

And it was exactly how you pictured it.

Every shot, every frame, it started in your head. You’d pitched the concept to your label yourself. You wanted soft-focus lights and a sultry track that felt like summer sweat and silk sheets. You wanted that old-Hollywood-meets-modern-muse vibe. You even storyboarded scenes on your iPad at 3 a.m, manicured fingers swiping through reference photos and aesthetic inspo like your life depended on it.

Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t just another video. This was you, your vision, your control, your era. You fought for this.

What you didn’t fight for was Riki Nishimura.

That part was your manager’s idea. “Trust me,” he’d said. “The chemistry will be insane. He’s got the look. The mystery. The fanbase.”

You knew who Riki was before the meeting even ended. Everyone did. He was fashion’s crown jewel, elusive, unreadable, and unfairly beautiful. The kind of guy who didn’t chase cameras; they chased him. Long, tall body, not so muscular but somehow ripped, gorgeous face decorated with moles, plump, thick lips that glistened in every shot, and a perfect, almost jaw dropping smile.

You hadn’t worked with him before. But you’d seen him. On runways, in perfume ads, in magazine spreads where his gaze practically peeled skin. He had that thing, the kind that couldn’t be taught.

Still, when they told you he’d agreed to do the video, your first thought wasn’t excitement.

It was wariness.

Because something about him felt dangerous. Not in the way guys tried to be dangerous, loud, flashy, fake, but in the quiet way. The way that creeps under your skin and settles there. The kind of danger you don’t notice until it’s too late and he’s already in your bloodstream.

You handed off your empty can and settled into the glam chair, locking eyes with yourself in the mirror.

Eyes sharp. Lips glossy. Pulse steady… enough.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

Riki arrived on set like he always did, silent, sharp, unbothered.

He didn’t need to announce himself. People just knew when he entered a room. Maybe it was the height, or the face, or the way he moved like time bent around him. Smooth, slow, unrushed, like he was already in the center of the frame.

The stylists barely looked up as he passed by, just nodded, eyes wide, like they were seeing a deity in the flesh. He was used to that by now. The stares, the whispering, the cameras pretending not to follow his every breath.

Riki Nishimura wasn’t born a model, but the world acted like it.

He started when he was fifteen, walked for a niche Tokyo brand no one cared about, except someone did. Someone important. The next season, he was in Paris. By seventeen, he was on the cover of GQ. By eighteen, he had his pick of luxury campaigns. Runway, editorial, billboards. He became the face of mystery. The body of fantasy.

Now he was unstoppable, but he was ambitious, he wanted to reach peak iconography.

So when they first called him, asking for him to do a music video, he hesitated at first. That was something he'd never done before.

Then he heard your name.

Y/N.

The popstar with the velvet voice and the lightning eyes. The girl who wore glitter like armor and moved like she was born to ruin people. He’d seen you before, on award show stages, in commercials, in paparazzi clips where you laughed with your whole chest like you didn’t care who was watching.

You were different. Not because you were pretty, they were all pretty. But because you meant it.

Every look, every note, every time you walked into a room like you owned it and yet somehow still made people feel welcome. He respected that, maybe even admired it. He was a full believer of work ethics and safe environments in an industry where he started so young.

So he said yes.

Now, as he stepped onto set, he saw you before you saw him.

Sitting in the glam chair, head tilted back, lips parted slightly as someone lined them with gloss. A robe slipping off one shoulder. That same energy curling around you like perfume, soft, sweet, dangerous.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t let the flicker of heat show on his face. But inside?

He felt it. That flicker of something he couldn’t control.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

A chrome convertible gleamed under heavy rig lights, surrounded by buzzing PAs, cables curling across the floor like snakes, a faint haze from the fog machine made the air feel thick, almost humid.

You tugged down the hem of your barely-there silk dress, heels clicking against the concrete, your lips already glossed and your heart drumming way too fast beneath your ribcage. You’d been on hundreds of sets, you were used to eyes on you, used to being the moment, the vision, the concept. But today, it wasn’t just your concept anymore.

Because he was here.

Your manager’s voice echoed in your head. “He’s a little quiet, but he gets it, he has the look, the edge. You two will kill this if the chemistry’s there.”

You hadn’t seen him yet, not in person.

But the moment you turned the corner and caught sight of the figure getting inside the car? You knew.

He was taller than you expected, dressed simply in black jeans, a snug white tee, silver rings on his fingers, hair slightly tousled like he hadn't even tried. Ni-ki's features were even more enchancing in person, he didn't even look real. You had to swallow, breathing hard as you approached him.

He didn’t look nervous, or excited. He looked like he belonged.

Riki didn’t see you at first, his gaze was low, focused on something in his hands, maybe a ring he was fidgeting with, maybe nothing. The jeans sticked to his legs so perfectly his muscles were visible through the fabric, he was so tall he couldn't even sit straight inside the car.

Then his eyes flicked up, and locked onto yours, you didn't know why, but your stomach dropped.

There was no smile, no wave, just a stillness in the way he watched you walk toward him. Eyes steady, almost unreadable. But there was something under it, curiosity, heat, something you couldn’t name yet.

“Hi,” you said first, voice sweet, casual smile on your lips, stopping a foot away from him. “So you’re the mysterious co-star.”

His lips quirked, just barely. “And you’re the reason everyone’s pretending they’re not watching.”

His voice was smooth, low, deep, didn't match with his face at all, in a good way. Then you smiled softly, tilting your head, hair falling down your shoulders.

"You rehearsed that one?" there was tease in your voice, friendly, of course.

He scoffed, knees parted as he fixed his composure a bit, lazily, natural. Your eyes drifted for just a small second. Then he smirked, because he noticed.

"Maybe. Did it work?" Ni-ki raised an eyebrow, and you laughed again under your breath.

You didn't respond.

The director clapped nearby. “Places! We’re starting with the car scene. Y/N on his lap. Close. Intimate. You’re just back from some chaotic night out, everything’s charged."

Riki let out a sound, staring at you a little amused.

"Starting strong, huh?"

"I like strong starts."

You opened the car door, palm resting against the frame, took a deep breath, your face changing as you slipped into the character mode. You stared at the passenger seat, then him, relaxed, body resting on the driver's seat, like it was his own car, his own set.

Then you stepped forward, and carefully, climbed into his lap. Your bare thigh brushed his jeans, his hand steadied you, fingertips on your waist, featherlight but very real. The movement was awkward for half a second, your knee slipping against the console, your hand pressing into his shoulder to balance, the unfamiliar weight beneath you. After a few seconds, you settled, straddling him. Face inches from his, chest to chest, you could smell his scent, you recognised it without problem, Luna Rossa Black, Prada. Clean, a little smoky, expensive.

Ni-ki didn't even move.

"Is this okay?" you asked quietly, more out of professionalism, but for some reason your voice sounded breathless.

His gaze dropped to your glossy lips, just half-second, you still caught it. A shiver went down your spine.

"Yeah, you?"

"I've had worse monday mornings." You joked, and he laughed, quiet and short.

The director's voice crackled again. “Y/N, lean in. Let your hand trail down his collar like you’re teasing him. Riki, rest your hands on her thighs. We want electricity, not fire. Not yet.”

You sighed deeply, your fingers moved up, tracing the collar of his shirt, brushing lightly over the edge of his throat, your knuckles grazed skin. He inhaled through his nose. His hands came up, one landed on your thigh, then the other. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t drag, just rested them there. Warm, steady, too much. You looked down at him, eyes sharp, lips parted like you were about to say something, his gaze flicked between your eyes, your mouth. Again.

"Action."

The camera slid in close, tracking the curve of your jaw as you leaned in just slightly, you moved your hips an inch forward to adjust, purely for comfort.

He exhaled through his nose, barely. But you felt it.

The whole world narrowed to this, your thighs pressed against him, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers twitched on your skin like he was deciding if he should stay still… or not. Your voice played in the background, slow, sultry, the lyrics dripping with tension. The timing was perfect, the mood was perfect. You slid forward in his lap, slowly, feeling the heat between your bodies grow unbearable in a blink. His hands tightened instinctively, you pretended not to notice, but you felt it.

The director's voice echoed from somewhere in the background “Perfect, perfect, just like that, don’t blink, don’t move.”

So you didn’t. You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his, your palm dragged from his jaw to the nape of his neck, you felt his pulse there, rapid and betraying him. He tilted his head, slightly, as if expecting a kiss. It was all supposed to be pretending, but for some reason, it didn't feel like that.

Ni-ki’s hands slid higher on your thighs. His thumbs grazed your skin, barely brushing the edge of your dress, tingles, all over your body. You sucked in a quiet breath, but your face stayed composed.

You wanted to stay in control, but he was peeling it away, inch by inch, with nothing but touch and breath and timing. He was too good at this.

“Cut!” the director finally said. “That’s it. That’s the shot.”

The crew broke into applause, and you sat perfectly still. Ni-ki didn’t move either, you were still in his lap, still breathing the same air, still buzzing from the high of pretending to be something you weren’t.

Long seconds passed, and you finally climbed off his lap, too carefully, too slow. And as you stepped out of the car, your heart beating through your dress, you felt his eyes on your back.

Watching, burning.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The second set was darker.

Low, red-tinted lights, velvet curtains, a red chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a 90s R&B music video. You recognized the mood instantly, it was the “after” scene. The one where you weren’t just lovers, you were drunk on each other. The energy that simmered after the chase, heavy with implication.

You stood near the monitor, adjusting the strap of your dress, watching crew members adjust cameras and angles, you knew this scene would be riskier. Not explicit, not technically. But the subtext?

Oh, it was loud.

And for some reason it made you nervous, because you already knew how good Riki was at this, how he pretended with so much ease, as if he'd been doing it his whole life. But was he pretending? The way he touched you before, the way he looked at you, they way his dark gaze kept wandering down your face, your lips, your body.

The concept was simple: you on your back, legs draped over the edge of the lounge, Ni-ki kneeling between them. No kisses, no touches beyond the waist. But all closeness, all suggestion, a game of restraint. Timing was perfect, of course.

You felt him before you saw him.

His presence was becoming familiar, like the storm air before thunder, that heavy awareness your body picked up before your brain could name it.

“You ready?” he asked from behind.

You turned.

He stood close, too close. His shirt was now half unbuttoned, part of the look, apparently, his collarbones sharp, skin dewy under the glow of the set lights, his lips were glossed, hair slightly messier. He looked so good, so dangerous. You were sure he was the most beautiful man you'd ever laid your eyes on.

“I should be asking you that.”

Ni-ki’s mouth twitched into something small, dangerous. “I’ve been ready.”

Your stomach flipped, but you turned away before you let it show.

“Places!” someone called. “Quiet on set!”

You exhaled once and moved to the chaise, the silk of your dress whispering as you lowered yourself onto it. You leaned back, one leg bent at the knee, the other draped lazily to the floor. A little slutty, a little powerful.

Ni-ki took his mark, kneeling between your legs like it was the most casual thing in the world.

But there was nothing casual about it.

His hands rested on either side of your thighs. Not touching. Just hovering. The space between you felt electric.

“Okay,” the director said. “Ni-ki, lean in. Get close like you’re listening to her heartbeat. Y/N, you’re still, unmoving. You’ve got him in the palm of your hand. This is control. Seduction. Don’t blink. Don’t flinch.”

“Action.”

The music kicked in—low, bass-heavy, slow. Your voice cooing something breathy and loaded through the speakers. Ni-ki moved, he leaned forward, head low, jaw brushing just shy of your knee. He didn’t touch, not at first. But he looked up, eyes trailing along your body, then locking with yours. And he smirked.

It was small, barely there, but it was cocky, confident. A secret he wasn’t sharing.

Your heartbeat spiked.

Then, slowly, so slowly, his hand crept up the inside of your thigh. Your body lit up, it was such a subtle touch, but it was enough for you to almost flinch, for the skin on your legs start to jump, shivering, down your spine and settling beneath your legs because you were wearing only underwear under the dress. And god, he looked at you as if he'd noticed, his pinky brushing the silk fabric of your clothes, his breath crashing between your legs, and your thighs almost twitched.

It wasn’t in the script.

But he didn’t go far, just enough, just inside the line. Was he being professional? Or was he holding himself back?

You didn’t stop him. His head dipped, lips close to your skin now, his breath hit your inner thigh, and you nearly lost it.

He was testing you. You raised one hand and brushed your fingers along the line of his jaw, light, teasing.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re worshipping me,” you whispered low, just for him.

“I am,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes never leaving yours. “You just don’t realize yet.”

Oh.

Your breath caught, but you turned it into a sigh, letting your head tilt back, you closed your eyes for just a second. When you opened them, he was closer. One hand pressed just above your knee now, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. The camera was still rolling. Nobody stopped you, nobody noticed. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said back. “But I’m starting to like it.”

You let your hand trail down his neck, your nails grazing lightly. He shivered, just a little.

“Cut!” the director finally called. “That’s it. That was perfect.”

The crew clapped, but Ni-ki didn’t move right away, his hand slid just a little higher, fingertips brushing the lace of your underwear, and you had to stop yourself from spreading your legs.

And then he looked up at you, mouth right at the edge of your thigh, and said:

“Tell me when I go too far.”

You swallowed, then, very quietly, you whispered:

“You haven’t yet.”

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You hadn’t stopped thinking about him, not for one goddamn second.

It was like your body hadn’t left the set even after the cameras stopped rolling, the velvet, the heat of his hands, the way he whispered things no one else could hear. You were back in your hotel room, alone, trying to move on, but your fingers still remembered the curve of his jaw.

This was weird for you, you'd always been so professional, your work and your career meant everything to you, you were used to work with gorgeous people, gorgeous men. No one like him, though. Everytime your mind wandered and remembered the look in his eyes, you felt it, it was like your whole body knew, how much you wanted him.

And he wanted you too, you knew that. It didn't matter how good he was at his job, he wasn't even an actor. The look in his eyes was real, the heat, the fire. The music video wrapped three days ago, the press was already talking, chemistry, sparks, rumors. You were supposed to be ignoring it, letting it die out, being above it all.

You sighed as you stared at the ceiling, the night quiet, it was only you and these unholy thoughts. Then your eyes landed on the mini-bar, a full, brand new bottle of Amelia Chardonnay looking straight at you, like trying to tempt you.

Your hands reached for your phone before you could even stop yourself. Then you clicked on his name, and stared at the last exchange of messages. Casual thank yous, post-shoot “you did amazings.” All polite, all surface.

Then you typed:

hey do you wanna celebrate tonight?

You stared at it. Deleted it. Typed again.

just me, nothing big i have a bottle of wine in my room no pressure :)

The seconds stretched.

You told yourself it was fine. If he said no, you’d move on. No harm done. You’d drink the wine yourself and call it a night.

Your phone buzzed.

what room number?

Your breath caught.

He was coming.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You changed outfits twice. Ended up in a silk slip dress that felt just casual enough to pass, but it was short, and soft, and clung in places you knew would betray you if the night went sideways. Heart was racing in your chest, you were feeling like a teenager about to see her crush for the first date, and you slapped yourself mentally. You were a powerful, famous, millionare pop star, who everybody adored, you were a sex symbol, a bombshell.

And yet, your knees weakened when the door knocked.

You had to recompose yourself before opening, stared at yourself through the mirror, hair down, looking casual, no make up on, you didn't want to look like you were trying too hard, but you also wanted to look good for him, to see if it was real, if he truly was holding himself back.

Your hand reached the door, and you opened.

Ni-ki, in all black, a hoodie half-zipped, chain peeking out from underneath, eyes locked on yours like he’d been thinking about this for days too. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked so good, and your chest tightened, your mind going circles at his damn smell. Manly, strong, elegant.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, hands in his pockets.

“Come in,” you said, stepping back, trying not to think about how clean your room suddenly looked. How the dim lamp made everything feel more intimate.

He walked in, looking around. “Nice view.”

You grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter. “It’s overpriced. But it works.”

He smirked, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, a fitted black tee clung to his chest. Arms long, veins popping under his skin.

You swallowed and handed him a glass.

“To... successful collaborations?” you offered.

He clinked his glass with yours, smirk in his thick lips, a little low chuckle leaving his throat, then he took a sip from his glass, and his eyes wandered, slow, intentional, over your body, there was no way to hide it now.

The night went away, and you both had your second glass before the conversation started drifting. At first, it was surface-level: tour schedules, brand campaigns, a horror story about a malfunctioning fog machine mid-shoot. But the wine was working fast. Not enough to slur. Just enough to slow the world down, to take the edge off your restraint.

You leaned back on the couch, leg curled under you, facing him.

“Do you ever wish you’d picked something else?”

Ni-ki blinked at the question. “Like… not modeling?”

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re good. Stupid good. But do you like it?”

He tilted his head, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass. “Sometimes. Not always.”

You waited.

“There’s something lonely about it,” he admitted. “People see the pictures, but they don’t know you. They just… project onto you.”

You hummed. “Yeah. Pop music isn’t that different.”

Ni-ki glanced sideways at you. “Except you write your own songs. That’s real. Vulnerable.”

You sipped. “It can be. But sometimes I wonder if anyone hears what I’m actually trying to say. Or if they just hear the beat and move on.”

“Isn’t that what art is though?” he asked. “Hiding in plain sight?”

That made you laugh, a soft, surprised sound. “Okay, philosopher Riki.”

He grinned. “Shut up.”

“No, really. I didn’t think you were this deep.”

“You didn’t think I was anything,” he said, and something flickered behind his eyes. “Before the shoot.”

You hesitated. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn’t, he wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you were gonna be arrogant,” you admitted. “A pain in the ass. And okay, you kind of are.”

He smirked.

“But then you surprised me.”

His smile faded, he tilted his head, his eyes were already lazy, because of the alcohol in his system. “How?”

You looked at him, really looked. His hair was a little messier than before, cheeks slightly red from the wine, lips wet because he kept running his tongue over them. He was so handsome, so effortlessly tempting.

“At first I thought you were just good at pretending. The way you got so close to me, like it was nothing. But then… you kept listening. You never broke character, but your eyes? They didn’t lie.”

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes followed the movement.

The silence after that was heavier. Not awkward, just pulsing, charged, like the air had thickened between you and was now buzzing with every unsaid thing. You both reached for your glasses at the same time, your fingers brushed. And neither of you moved away.

“You keep doing that,” you whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You exhaled. “Like you’re going to ruin me.”

He stared for a beat. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he said: “Maybe I will.”

Your breath caught.

He set his glass down slowly, deliberately. And then leaned in, not all the way, not enough to touch.

“You invited me here,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. “Did you think we were just gonna talk about work and drink wine?”

“I didn’t...” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You do now?” he asked as if he was desperate for your answer, desperate for you.

Your pulse was loud in your ears. Your body was already answering before your mouth could, the space between you practically begged to be closed.

And then you whispered, “Yes.”

He didn’t wait.

His hand cupped your jaw, gentle but firm, and he kissed you.

Soft at first, testing, tasting. But the moment your lips parted, it shifted. You moved at the same time, like something snapped. You were suddenly straddling him, the wine long forgotten, your hands in his hair, his mouth on your throat. It was messy, hot, desperate. And yet, still controlled. His hands slid down your sides, slow, like he wanted to memorise the shape of you. You gasped when his fingers pressed into your hips, pulling you against him, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that in for days.

Ni-ki's hands then traveled down your thighs, grabbing, squeezing just a bit, not too hard, but enough to make you sigh in his mouth and unintentionally rock your hips against him, while pulling strands of his dark hair, tangling your fingers, lips crashing, tongues against each other, hot, warm, wet. Just like your underwear was now, you felt it, pooled against the thin fabric. Your dress was lifted up, showing more, the lace of your panties showing up, but you didn't care, you wanted it like this, because he kept touching you. Warm fingers ended up in your asscheeks, squeezing again, and you rubbed yourself against his crotch again, he moaned deep, hot breath colliding with yours, hard beneath his pants.

Then a knock on the door, and you separated from the kiss, breathing heavily, but he didn't stop, trailing with his soaked lips along your jawline, down to your neck, tongue licking, sucking, but not marking. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered.

"Don't answer."

You don’t even remember how you end up horizontal, just the feel of his hands under your thighs, lifting, the soft thud of your back hitting the plush hotel bed, the silk of your slip bunching under your hip, his shirt forgotten on the floor, his lips on your collarbone.

Underwear was the only thing covering you know, after he lifted your dress and helped you slip out of it, throwing it across the room like a hungry man, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

He stared like he’d never seen anything more devastating.

And when he leaned in again, this time with no hesitation, no restraint, you knew you were gone. You weren't the popstar. He wasn't the model. You were just you, and he was just Ni-ki, and this was the crash you both saw coming from a mile away. Your lips crashed again, messier now, hotter, you traded kisses like secrets, like confessions, like sins you both wanted to keep making. He grabbed your throat, but didn't choke, just held, not wanting to let go of your mouth, and you moaned softly, sucking his tongue as his hand now traveled between your legs, above your underwear, he touched you, slow, like teasing, your arousal soaking a spot in your panties, and he moaned against your mouth.

"Can i take this off?" he asked, voice weak, breathless, forehead against yours, his fingers rubbing slow circles in your clothed clit.

You just nodded, you couldn't talk, you just wanted him right there.

So he smirked, pecking your lips before sliding your underwear out of you, and his eyes sparkled, he bit his lip, hands on your knees so you could be spread open for him. He wasted no time, fingers between your folds as he soaked them in your arousal, glistening, thick wetness that made him inhale through his nose and hiss between his teeth, and you arched your back lightly, sensual, one of his hands squeezed your breast.

"You're soaked. Dripping." You tried to smile, but a whimper left your lips when he slid a finger in.

"You like it." a breathless chuckle came from your throat, and he smirked again, sliding a second finger, curling them inside of you, stretching you, so good.

"I love it."

Then he started thrusting them, in and out of you, fast, with skill, his palm crashing with your clit, and you moaned again, closing your eyes and letting your head fall on the pillow, your thighs twitching, but he kept you spread, not wanting to miss how his fingers disappeared inside your tight walls. His other hand kept groping your breasts, pinching your hardened nipples, and a jolt of pleasure washed you completely. He chuckled, but not making fun of you, just amused, lustful.

"You're sensitive." he bit his lip again, fingers still curling inside of you "Fierce, hot, bombshell popstar is sensitive, right here." He pinched your nipple again and you trembled, high pitch moan leaving your throat, he smiled when he felt how your pussy clenched around his digits. "Cute."

He kissed you again, tongue and spit in your mouth, and you whined when he added a third finger, your wetness now dripping between your thighs and soaking the silk bed sheets beneath your body, he reached your g-spot and teased it with the tip of his fingers, and you arched your back again, biting his lip and pulling it which made him hiss, your legs trembling when his thumb rubbed your aching clit.

Then he removed them, catching his breath, straightening on the bed, knees against the mattress, his weight heavy, his body hot. He slid out of his pants and underwear in one movement, and you looked up at him, devastated, eyes teary, shiny, full with lust and need. His length was thick, hard and veiny, dripping from his red tip, throbbing in his hand as he stroked himself just a little.

You moved before even saying anything, lifting your torso and replacing his hand with yours, rubbing your palm against his throbbing member, and he groaned low, placing a hand on your head, softly, gentle, but it made you shiver anyways. Then you licked, long, slow, wet, from the base to the dripping tip, and he hissed louder, now pulling your hair just a bit, thrusting his hips forward to meet with your mouth. Your lips wrapped around him, and you relaxed your jaw, taking him deep, until he touched the back of your throat and you had to suppress a gag, eyes watering, vision hazy, head spinning, the room hot around you.

"S-Shit." Ni-ki groaned, letting his head fall backwards, his adams apple moving up and down as he breathed hard, and you bobbed your head, tracing with your tongue the veins on his cock, tasting him, swallowing him. You pulled back and repeated the process, until spit and tears were dripping, until he had to make you stop because he didn't want to cum yet.

Your back touched the mattress again, and he placed himself between your legs, kissing you, tasting himself in your soaked mouth, and then pushed your legs against your chest, forcing you spread open just for him. He then grabbed the base of his cock, rubbing the tip against your soaked slit, up and down, side to side, slow, and you whined at the anticipation, at the tease, your pussy pulsing, aching, needy and wet, his precum dripping against your folds.

He slid inside of you, arms above your head, heavy on you, slowly, but his gaze was sharp, dark and full of lust, and he groaned your name as he stretched you, soaked walls swallowing his length so good, so tight, and he felt so thick inside of you that you had to reach for his shoulders, eyes shut and lips parted trying to breath. His hips met yours, your pussy clenched tight around him. He stayed still for a few seconds, dropping his forehead against yours, sweaty, sticky, your nails digging against the soft skin of his shoulders. Your vision was blurry, your body completely clenched, as if it had been waiting for this too.

"I’ve thought about this since the first take,” he admitted, voice wrecked “When you climbed into my lap in that car.”

And you whimpered as his hips pulled back a little, you felt his stretch leaving your insides, your walls fluttered, clencing around nothing for a few seconds, but he pulled in again, skin against skin. You moaned breathless, your bare breasts against his chest.

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby." his breath was hot against your face, and you arched your back, hot and sweaty bodies just so close to each other.

Then he started moving, setting a rhythm that was just so perfect, not so fast, not so rough, but deep, you could feel him in every inch of you, stretching you, shaping you, your pussy clenched around him in every thrust, soaked, dripping, creating a slick sound everytime his hips crashed against the skin of your entrance. And you could only whimper, combining the sound of your weak voice with his long and low groans.

"Ni-ki..." you cried his name, lips parted, eyes sticked to his.

"I'm right here, baby." his voice was raw, he talked through his teeth, his strokes growing a little rougher.

He was stroking, not too fast, but forceful, every thrust forcing moans out of your chests, and the bed creaked beneath both of you, his rhythm perfect, hard, persistent. Ni-ki's lips found your neck again, and he dragged them along your skin.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. “You feel so good...”

“I know, baby,” he grunted again, voice breaking around the words. His hand slipped under your thigh, now lifting it higher around his waist, and suddenly he hit a spot that had your back arching off the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.“There?” he panted, smirking despite the sweat at his temple. “Right fucking there?”

You nodded frantically, too gone to speak, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming heat between your legs and the maddening pace he kept. His mouth was everywhere, your shoulder, the swell of your chest, your jaw, littering kisses and bruises, like he wanted to mark you, leave proof that this happened.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “So fuckin’ perfect, taking me so well.”

His thrust were steady, perfect hips rolling over you, breaking you, wrecking your body just how you needed, his lips never leaving your skin, as if he couldn't keep them off of you, as if he was trying to devour you and never forget you.

Suddenly, something shifted.

Your hand moved to his chest, pressing just hard enough to make him pause. He blinked up at you, chest heaving, confused for half a second, until you leaned in, kissed him slow and deep, and whispered against his mouth:

“My turn.”

Ni-ki didn't argue, a soft grin in the corner of his swollen, red lips. He let you push him back, his head falling against the pillows, lips parted as you swinged your leg over him and straddled his waist in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Fuck,” he breathed, hands automatically landing on your hips. “You look..."

You rolled your hips once, teasing him, wet folds against his thick hard cock, and his words dissolved into a moan. You lined yourself up again and sunk down slowly, inch by inch. His head dropped back with a curse, hands gripping your thighs so tightly they might bruise. You started slow. Rolling your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you, your hands braced on his chest, nails dragging down his skin. He watched you like he was in a trance, eyes glued to the way you rode him, mouth open, completely undone.

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, throwing your head back. “So fucking deep.”

His hands slid up your body, one gripping your waist while the other palmed your breast, thumb circling lazily over your nipple. You leaned down, mouths meeting in a messy kiss, your movements never faltering. His abs tensed under your touch, hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet you thrust for thrust, but you pinned him down with a smirk.

And the rhythm built again, faster, sharper. The air was thick with moans, sweat, skin. Your name tumbled from his lips again and again, until his grip tightened, your breasts bouncing against his face, skins crashing, you jumping up and down on his length until your thighs felt like burning, but it felt so good, he was so deep, so thick inside of you, so meant to be. Ni-ki's hand stretched, and he circled your clit, at the pace of your bounces, and you whined his name and moved erratically, wetness dripping until his pelvis was soaked.

Your body started trembling over him, that familiar wave building fast, too fast. You slowed down for just a second, rocked into him deeper, his thumb dragging down to press right where you needed it most.

“I-I’m close,” you choked out, voice shaky.

“Then come,” he whispered, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

And then you fell.

Head thrown back, mouth open, thighs squeezing around him as your whole body convulsed from the force of it. The climax crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. You fell forward, shaking, mouth pressed to his shoulder as your body pulsed around him. He was not far behind, watching you unravel completely, eyes dark and wild, as he thrusted once, twice, then buried himself deep with a strangled moan. He let go seconds later, hips jerking, hands clawing at your back as he spilled into you with a broken groan of your name.

The world blurred.

Silence followed, heavy and satisfied.

You stayed on top of him, both of you breathless, sweaty, clinging like the high might never fade. And then, quietly, he whispered, voice hoarse:

“I don’t think I can ever look at you the same way again.”

You smirked against his skin. “Good.”

thank you so much for reading <3 i hope you enjoyed this and you understand my vision damn i love addison rae so much she’s so iconic to me

anyways, i really like this one <3

hope you guys love it !!

[paper-mario-wiki]

since i have a dog, i walk the circumference of the apartment complex i live at every single day, so im seen frequently by many of my neighbors. i have a friendly relationship with most if not all of them, though there is the unignorable matter of me looking like a girl half the time, and looking like a boy half the time.

there are of course those who will see me and either smile politely and ignore me, or just keep walking eager not to engage, and there are those who choose "hey dude" or "hey man" whenever we pass each other in a genuinely friendly way, which i dont pay any mind and say "hey, how ya doin!" in response because why chance creating needless conflict with someone i see every day?

but the most friendly, accepting, and outwardly supportive demographics BY FAR are high school students and women over 40. i have had my outfits, regardless of gender, complimented by many teenagers (one kid called my halo "gangster" and ive been riding that high for a few weeks), and on my daily rounds im stopped most often by a handful of different post-middle-aged women who like to talk to me about horses, or my dog, or the weather, or just about our days, and it's always very pleasant.

i have not told a single neighbor in the months ive been living here "im a trans woman" or anything remotely related to my gender, and yet the three grandmas i speak to often are always quick to offer a "hello my dear" or "good afternoon sweetheart", and they always smile at me the same way-- regardless of whether my face is covered in makeup or beard hair.

for that, i am grateful.

[dollwrites]

ɪɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs, ɪ…! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sᴜɴᴅᴀʏ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, innocent!reader & manipulative!sunday, religious setting ( confessional ), mildly dark ( suggested mind control and dub con to cnc fantasies ), dub con, humiliation, masturbation ( him! ). all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ act seven [ masturbation ]

this was the third time.

the third time you’d found yourself sitting here.

the third time within the Cathedral of Morning Dew, perched and squirming uncomfortably in the claustrophobic cubicle, fumbling with your own fingers against the lace details of your skirt as it splayed across your knees— one of them bouncing as a testament to your anxiety and causing your voice to shake.

the third time you were confessing to Sunday.

“I’m sorry,” you feel like you should apologize, so your voice shyly fills the cool air around you. “You must have so many other important matters to tend to—“

“Nonsense.” Sunday replies with an impossibly soft and alluring purr in his gentle baritone. he’s positioned close enough to the lattice partition that he can almost whisper it to you, like a secret for only you to hear. “Penacony’s sons and daughters and their concerns are of utmost importance to me.” though it was meant as reassurance, your cheeks are aflame with embarrassment. to be coddled by a man with as much power as Sunday did make you feel like a helpless child that cries to her father when she’s upset. “Go on, my dear. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

you glance around the cubicle, eyes landing on the candle that endlessly burns beside you, yet no hot wax trickles down on to the pristine floor, nor does heat emit from the flame. even if you blew on it, you doubted that it would go out. as was the whimsicality of the Dreamscape. “It’s these… fantasies again,” you start, timidly bringing up a topic that had been the prompt for you to seek Sunday out every time. gnawing desires for things you knew you couldn’t have— desires for him. “It’s getting harder for me to tell them apart from, well, what’s really happening. The one’s I’ve had recently seem so… immersive.”

Sunday is a quiet for a moment before calmly asking, “Your condition is getting more severe? These fantasies are worrying you?”

“Well, yes.” you answer, choosing your words carefully. “They’re… very…” for all the words there were that could describe what these daydreams about Sunday were ( vulgar, lustful, depraved ), you could force none to breach your lips.

“Naughty?” Sunday offers, and you can almost hear the fond, ghost of a smile that tickles the corners of his lips. it only makes your blush hotter and more furious.

you bite down in your lower lip, rolling it between your teeth as your eyes look towards the latticework. you can only see the outline of his halo, and the glinting of the candlelight as it reflects off the piercings in his wings. squinting slightly, you attempt to make out more details. the softness of his silvery hair, always just so with not a single tendril out of place. the flawlessness of his supple, milky skin, until he turns his head, just a bit, and a glimmering, golden gaze nearly captures yours. with a soft squeak, realizing you’d been staring— wanting, you quickly avert your gaze. “Mhm…!”

you can feel his eyes on you for several more moments, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him, deciding instead to stare at your bouncing knee.

“And what happens in these naughty, little daydreams of yours?”

a lump forms in your throat, and your mouth goes dry at the prospect of describing to Sunday the way you yearn for him. so, instead of answering right away, you shrink away from the lattice until you no longer feel him gazing at you. the cathedral is eerily silent, and you can hear the flapping of Charmony Dove wings outside. “My dear,” Sunday begins in a calm, patient tone, “you know that you must confess them to me, no matter how deplorable. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Now, don’t be shy. You’re safe here with me. You know this, yes?”

you had always felt safe in the warmth of his presence, so you nod again, though you didn’t think he was looking at you anymore. still, you were naive for thinking so. a perfectly gullible, little prey.

Sunday could hear the trepidation in your voice as you began, and he was smiling to himself, imagining the flustered look on your dreamy countenance as you recall how you fantasize about him. with slow, graceful movements, he pinches the very tips of the fingers of one glove, pulling it from his hand. his fingers wiggle once they’re freed from their cloth confinement, which he drapes neatly over his knee.

“In these… dreams, I come to you late at night, when no one else is around…”

“Do you?” he asks, amused, his bare fingers drumming lightly on his thigh silently. “All alone in secret? For what purpose?” he knows why. after all, he’s the culprit behind these eerily realistic fantasies. however, he wants to hear you say it.

“To— um,” you pause, your sheepishness getting the better of you. “Offer myself to you.”

Sunday exhales through his nose to keep a low sound of satisfaction from filling the air, and alerting you to his arousal. hearing how humiliated you are, it tightens the muscles in his lower abdomen, and a tent begins to form in his trousers, which he promptly rubs against his palm. “Oh…?” he asks, almost in a teasing, condescending lilt, murmuring, “In these fantasies of yours, do I accept the offer? Do I take you for myself? Steal your innocence like a wicked thief in the night?” even though his voice remained even, his heart was thumping. his cock jabbed uncomfortably against the fabric of his clothes, and he was busying himself with the task of freeing it.

“Mhm…. Many times,” you answer, and the way your voice breaks, Sunday can practically see your lower lip quivering. it only makes him harder to think about that, and your sparkling eyes welling up with tears. once his cock springs free, standing at attention, he wraps his bare hand around it in a loose fist, and purses his lips together to suppress a grunt. veins throb beneath his skin, the tip twitching as beads of translucent nectar bubbles up from the eager slit. “In many different ways. Sometimes, you— you’re rough with me.”

the tremors that shake your voice when you say this do not go unnoticed by Sunday, who closes his eyes, bringing the fantasy he’d handpicked to implant deep within your mind to the surface of his own. it was one of his favorites, and he was quite pleased that it affected you the most. though his memory wasn’t tampered with, as yours was, and so he couldn’t conjure all the sensations or watch the fantasy like a movie in his mind, he could imagine the sight of you beneath his wandering hands. how they tore at your delicate, little dress. ripping the neckline open to expose your pert breasts for him to grope and squeeze. the way he would imagine you to whimper and wince, perhaps even squirm, and he would have to spare a hand to wrap it around your throat and hold you down— pin you in place so you couldn’t escape him. he would whisper to you that as long as you’re a sweet, obedient darling, he would be gentle. but this was, of course, a lie. the way you would peer up at his figure as he forces his way between your trembling thighs, and the way you would cry out once he finally got his cock inside you, it would be your way of begging him to break you. your mouth could lie, and whine that he was hurting you, or that you want him to be careful with you, but deep down, you wanted him to dominate you. to decimate and own you. he knew this to be fact because he had designed this little dream to convince you of it.

all whilst his imagination ran wild, his thumb runs deftly along his leaking slit, applying enough pressure to milk the swollen, red tip until his precum begins to dribble down the length of his cock, slickening the skin. his palm glides down his needy length, fingers clamping down, until the side of his fist rests against the base, before he slowly drags it back upwards towards the tip, setting a torturously slow tempo for himself. “And in this daydream of yours,” he purrs, only parting his lips wide enough to allow the words to slip through, lest a sound of ecstasy also escape, “You love it when I’m rough with you.” it wasn’t a question. it was a matter of fact. “I can hear it in the way your voice quivers, my dear, you’re ashamed of yourself. Humiliated because, albeit untouched, your little cunt gets so wet when you think about me abusing it.”

“S—Sunday…”

“Mm?” he taunts in a soft voice, as if daring you to challenge the truth. “It’s true, isn’t it? Deplorable, vulgar, and embarrassing to admit, but impossible to deny that you’ve soiled your panties many a time when you imagine how a man like me could use your body all up, and leave you in a state of ruin.”

“Y—yes…” it’s exactly what he’d expected to hear, and yet his core throbs the second he does. he leans back, just enough to brace his back against the wall of his cubicle, and adjust his feet. spreading them further apart. “I—I can't help it…”

“Poor, little thing.” Sunday croons, his slender eyebrows furrowing as he pumps himself harder and faster. “So helpless.” his fist alternates by squeezing and releasing, in the same rhythm that he imagines your virgin pussy would spasm if he was inside, and the sensations were already driving him to the brink. Sunday tilts his head back against the wall, hissing out a soft groan under his breath. part of him even wants you to hear that little sound of pleasure, to realize what he’s doing— getting off on your distress. on your desperate, wanton lust for him. however, if you do hear it, you’re too shy to draw attention to it. too bad, he thinks, if she had only caught me, i would have the innocent, little thing gagging on my cock right here in this booth…

“Wh—what should I do?” your shy question snaps him back to the moment at hand. “About these fantasies. I feel— I feel like they’re only getting more depraved and… scary…”

Sunday has to seal his tiers tightly together, lest a breathy chuckle bubble up from his throat at just how frightened by your own desires ( or, at least, the ones he’s convinced you are yours ) you are. it was cute to him. adorable how eager you are to make these naughty visages go away before they spiral out of control, when that is exactly what he was waiting for. “You needn’t worry, you know this.” he manages to force the words out, even as he stroked himself, coming undone in his own palm to the thought of deceiving you. plucking away the petals of your fragile, little mind until you were compliant and easy enough to do the same deflowering to your body. “I will always be here for you, I will always take care of you.” as he says this, he milks his cock, slowly dragging a tight fist up from the base, coaxing a slowly oozing release from the engorged head. a couple of rogue streamers splatter silently against the floor between his feet, but he pays the mess no mind. instead, he retrieves a handkerchief from his breast pocket and carefully wipes the mess on his lap— cum glazing his bare hand and the length of his shaft, down to where it began to frost his now empty balls, just before reaching the fabric of his trousers. it was unsurprisingly that he looked pristine once he was cleaned and tucked back into his pants. the soiled handkerchief is forgotten on the bench, in exchange for his glove still resting across his knee. he slips it back on before he stands, taking only a moment to smooth his vest and jacket before escaping the now stuffy air of the booth. with a soft knock on the door to your side, he waits for you to come out, too. a gentle smile on his face, and the dusky blush fading into his normal complexion by the time you emerge.

when you open the door, it creaks a bit, and you glance down at the hinges, before looking up to find Sunday incredibly close. the subtle musk from his refined cologne tickling your nostrils, but that wasn’t all. there was another smell that was quite unfamiliar, and yet seemed to spark a low bubble in your belly, but you couldn’t place it. you shrink away from him with a sheepish smile, your back pressing against the door of the booth when he takes a step closer, effectively blocking you from leaving. “Your condition is my concern,” he assures you with a gentle smile, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little vial of pinkish, glowing liquid. it was familiar to you— the same elixir he’d given you the last two times you’d come to him. to help with the symptoms, he says.

“Th—thank you, Sunday—“ you whisper, reaching a trembling hand for the vial in his, but what he does next surprises you. grasping your wrist with the other, he presses the vial against your palm and covers your fingers with his, wrapping them tightly, and he leans in with a softer whisper.

“Remember to place a single drop on your tongue. Every. Single. Night.” when you nod, flustered by so much physical contact, he smiles fondly, and releases your hand. “Very good girl.” he appraises, before his right hand falls to rest behind his back, yet his left lingers, creeping up to trace the shape of your mouth. piercing, golden eyes for us on your lips, his own curled into a gentle smile.

“P—please don’t tell anyone… about my condition.” you whisper, your eyes big and hopeful. you didn’t believe he would, but it was something you always needed to plead for before you left.

Sunday chuckles softly at this, and presses a gloved thumb to the seam of your lips, applying pressure until your lips open and it nearly slips inside. “You and I have many secrets together,” he murmurs in reply, before his gaze flits back up to your eyes, locking them into an intense contact that has you shifting back and forth on your feet. “But that is why we must trust one another. Unconditionally. Do you trust me, my dear? Unconditionally?”

[wendichester]

Saw this one tumblr post about a soulmate AU where people age until they reach 18 and then stop aging until they meet their soulmate so they can grow old together🥺

I wanted to ask how your take on this idea would be with your favorite spn character

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ til i saw you,

summary. you stop aging at 18, until you reunite with your happily ever after.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff ; soulmate au

wordcount. 1080

notes / warnings. very brief mention of sex / this idea is honestly too cute!

You stop aging at eighteen.

Everyone does.

It’s the first thing they teach you in school, right after the alphabet. Right after how to count to ten.

"You will age until your eighteenth birthday," the teacher says, "and then you’ll stay that way until your soulmate touches you. That’s when time will start again. For both of you."

You remember wondering what that touch would feel like. Would it burn? Would it glow? Would the world shift on its axis?

But that was... a long time ago. And you're still here. Still eighteen. Still waiting. Twenty-seven birthdays later.

You wake up on the same mattress in the same little apartment you’ve been calling home for a decade now. Skin smooth, eyes clear, a body that never aches. On paper, you're one of the lucky ones. Immortality is soft on your bones. But it’s hard on your heart.

There’s only so long you can pretend you’re just a late bloomer. People stop asking after a while. They start to look. Whisper. Wonder. You lie. A lot. About your age, about where you’re from, about why you never seem to change.

And maybe the worst part—maybe the cruelest—is how easy it is to fall in love with the wrong people along the way. You’ve done it. Twice. Maybe three times, if you're being honest. But no matter how close they get, no matter how much you want it to happen, nothing changes.

No touch restarts your clock.

Until him.

It’s late when he walks into the gas station. Midnight and humming, the fluorescent lights above your head buzz like insects. You’re chewing gum and half-asleep behind the register when he strolls in, tall and broad and all leather jacket and swagger. He has a look in his eyes that says he’s seen too much and still hasn’t stopped looking.

You barely glance up when he drops a handful of items on the counter: beef jerky, a bottle of whisky, pie.

“Quiet night?” he says, voice deep and rasped, like he’s been singing with gravel in his throat.

You nod. Then look up.

And something... shifts.

It's not a sound, not a spark, not the glowing halo you used to imagine when you were little. It's a feeling. A pull. Your chest tightens like someone’s wrapping a thread around your ribs and tugging—just once. Gently. But enough to make your breath hitch.

He notices. Freezes.

The pie falls from his hand, lands with a soft thud against the counter. You both stare at each other like someone just flipped the universe upside down.

“You feel that?” he asks. And it’s not a line. It’s not casual. His voice is rougher now. Almost afraid.

You nod. Whisper, “Yeah.”

He lifts a hand slowly. Gives you time to step back, to say no, to deny it. But you don’t.

When his fingers touch yours, it’s instantaneous.

Like heat waking in your veins. Like time exhaling. Your heart stutters and then races, faster than it’s beat in years. You feel your skin come alive—blood rushing, lungs expanding, every cell remembering how to move.

And from the way he sways, the way his eyes widen and mouth parts, you know he’s feeling it too.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I thought—I thought I’d die before this ever happened.”

Your lips curve. “You’re old, then?”

He barks out a laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve been eighteen long enough to miss rotary phones.”

You grin. “I’ve never used one.”

He leans closer. “Wanna come with me?”

You blink. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” A pause. “Everywhere.”

That’s how it begins.

A duffel bag. A backseat. The open road. Dean Winchester drives like it’s a religion and swears like it’s punctuation. He flirts without meaning to, laughs like he’s been starved for it, and kisses you like the world might end at any second.

The first time he makes you come, it’s in a motel room somewhere outside of Denver.

You’re both breathless from running—something about vampires, or maybe ghosts; you didn’t ask, too drunk on adrenaline and the way he’d looked at you in the dark. Like you were already his.

He kisses you soft at first, like he’s afraid he might break you. But his hands are anything but shy. They trail up your thighs, parting them like he already knows what’s underneath. When he finally pushes inside you, it feels like you’ve waited centuries for this exact kind of stretch, that kind of fullness, the kind of groan he makes when you clench around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps into your neck, voice hot and hungry. “You feel like heaven.”

You arch under him. “Then don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Being with Dean is nothing like you imagined.

He’s not soft. Not exactly. But he’s gentle in the ways that matter. He makes coffee in the mornings, leaves the radio on your favorite station, kisses the inside of your wrist like a promise. He reads you bedtime stories in Latin just to make you laugh. He teaches you how to shoot a gun and then buys you a strawberry milkshake after because he says it’s “important to balance the badass with the cute.”

And maybe it’s not perfect. You still fight. He still shuts down sometimes, still carries the weight of the world in the slope of his shoulders. But now, when he breaks, you’re there to hold him. And when you tremble, he’s already pulling you into his chest, pressing kisses into your hair, reminding you that he’s not going anywhere.

Not now. Not ever.

Months pass. Then years. You both start to age.

Little things at first. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes when he smiles. The slight ache in your hips when you ride him too long.

But it’s beautiful, this slow unraveling. This proof that it’s real. That you found each other. That time is moving again—together.

He touches the first silver strand in your hair like it’s a miracle.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says, voice thick with feeling.

You cup his cheek. “What? The wrinkles?”

He grins. “No. You.”

And maybe you’ll never know why it took so long. Why fate made you wait. But when he holds you at night, when his breath is warm on your shoulder and his arms are wrapped tight around your waist, you finally stop wondering.

Because your clock is ticking.

And so is his.

And you’ll grow old.

Together.

Just like you were meant to.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I can handle me a dangerous man˚୨୧⋆｡ (no really I can)

OLDER!DEAN WINCHESTER X YOUNGER!READER (based on this)

SUMMARY: Mid 40s Dean is trying really hard to resist the temptation that you are, but you're making it really hard. 3.7k

WARNINGS smut (MDNI). oral f receiving. age gap. implied penetration.

NOTES: He is here! I am not very used to writing smut, so I tried my best. Can you tell that dilfs telling stories about their life is so hot to me? anyway, this was incredibly self-indulgent. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

It’s another night of you walking around the bunker in a tiny, white lace dress. Long legs visible, looking even longer because of the slight heel of your boots. There is a necklace resting softly against the hollow of your throat, and your cheeks are rosy, lips glossy and full. Dean doesn’t know if it is makeup or if you simply look like that, but it is killing him. 

You started hunting with Dean and Sam a few months ago after they found you trying to kill a whole werewolf den by yourself. You were young –too young– and didn’t have anyone else. You were alone in this world. It was almost instinct that the brothers took you under their wing. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, just until you gained a little more experience and could go on your own, or until they find you a hunting partner. 

But you never really left. Weeks started going by, and you stayed by their side. 

At first, Dean was annoyed. He was in his 40s, he was too old to be babysitting. He had to admit you were a damn good hunter, but you were too impulsive. Too ready to jump to action, too ready to put yourself in the line of fire. That was his job. But Sam wanted to make sure you would be safe after you got hurt in the werewolf incident, so he let you into the backseat of his car and drove you to the bunker. 

As annoyed as he was, he had to admit, you were gorgeous. Soft hair, pouty lips, shiny eyes. You had a halo of light around you, an innocence to you that was captivating. Not to Dean, of course. He couldn’t. Because the longer the time he spent with you, the more you dug your way into his heart. Your soft giggles echoing through the otherwise gloomy bunker, the sweet smell of cookies when you decided to bake, the gentle touches of your hands as you patched him up after an especially awful hunt (he hadn’t been touched so gently in… ever, actually), the adorable smile you gave him after he begrudgingly compliments your improving hunting abilities. 

You were too naive, too pure, too… good. 

So Dean kept his distance. Or he tried.

Because what Dean didn’t know is that you were anything but naive. You knew from the moment your eyes met his, that you wanted him. He was tall, and broad, and his hair was long, falling a little over those piercing green eyes. He was rugged in the ways you liked, and soft in the ways that mattered. But it was the wrinkles around his eyes, the ones that reveal a history of laughter and playfulness even as he glared at you, that charmed you. 

So you flirted with him, insatiably. Directly and indirectly. You ran your hand up and down his arm as you cleaned his wounds, squeezing his bicep tentatively. You complimented him in the worst possible moments, when he was concentrated in research or had just finished off a monster. You ran your fingers across his shoulders when you walked past him and you took any opportunity to press yourself to his huge frame. But you also flirted in other ways, wearing your shortest mini-skirts around the bunker, accidentally bending over to pick up a book in the library when you knew he was watching. You sucked on a lollipop as he tried to explain a case to you, and you blinked your big eyes at him, eyelashes fluttering and lips parting. 

But every time, you got the same response. For a single moment, Dean would lean in. He would stare down at your lips, or he would take a step closer, hand hovering over your waist, and then he would look away. He would tell you he is too old for you, that he can’t take advantage of you. That he is too broken, too damaged, that you deserved better, someone your age that could give you a normal life. He would tell you that you have no idea what you’re asking for, but you know what you need.  

So you walk into the kitchen late at night, past midnight, to get a snack after parading yourself around the bunker all day in your flimsy clothes while Dean did some work in the garage and tried not to lose his mind. You loved the way his eyes darkened when he saw you, the way his hands almost shook with the need to take you. His self-control was slowly crumbling, and you couldn’t be happier about it.

But this meeting is accidental. You are actually just looking for something to eat, not expecting Dean to be sitting at the dining table with a half-empty whiskey bottle and clouded eyes. You stop for a moment while he is lost in thought, not noticing you. He looks a little sad, and it is one of those few moments when the tough guy facade fell and you could witness the weight of the years on his shoulders. The years of hunting, of losing people, of nothing but fighting. As much as you desire Dean, you are also very much in love with him, and you didn’t like when he hurt like this, alone and drowning his thoughts with booze. So you clear your throat, making him turn to you.

“It’s drinking night and you didn’t tell me?” You joke, walking behind the kitchen island to grab a bag of chips from one of the cabinets. 

“I thought you were asleep.” He murmurs, voice even deeper than it already usually is. You turn to look at him, meeting his eyes. Dean is good at keeping his emotions in check, at controlling his expressions, but you are good at reading people. Especially him. And there is this glint in his eyes, the one that tells you he doesn’t want to be alone.

So you grab a beer from the fridge and walk towards the dinner table, sitting down across from him. You had always preferred sweet, fruity drinks, but thanks to the Winchesters you had learned to appreciate beer. Whiskey was a hard no, though. Dean stares at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, before lowering his eyes to his glass and letting out a low chuckle. 

“What were you brooding about?” You take a sip of your beer, opening your bag of chips and offering Dean some. He shakes his head, taking a swig of his whiskey instead. 

“Nothing, really. I don’t want to bore you with my old man stories.” He laughs, and some tension leaves his shoulders. 

You bite your lip. Oh, if he only knew how much you loved it when he went all old man on you. When he reminisced about the past, when he tried to give you advice, showing you how experienced he was in so many different things, and how much it made you want to find out exactly how experienced he really was.

“I like your stories.” You offer softly, a small smile on your lips. “Come on, tell me a good one.”

He looks up at you over the rim of his glass, and you give him your best puppy eyes.

He crumbles immediately. 

“Once, when I was twenty-three and Sammy was in college.” He starts, and he doesn’t stop.

You spend what feels like hours but also seconds sitting there, drinking beer after beer, listening to him. He tells you about this weird religious cult slash mental control witch he found once when hunting on his own. He tells you about the time he hooked up with some girl at a bar, and she ended up being an Amazon. He laughs at some of the memories and you laugh along. His expression gets somber when talking about certain people, the people he lost, and you give him a few seconds to wallow in it before you make a lighthearted comment that makes him smile again and move to another story. He talks about the times he died, the times he almost did. Sometimes, unconsciously, he rubs his hand over a part of his body as he tells a story, presumably where a scar marred his skin. All while you stare at him with shiny, attentive eyes, like he is the only person in the world that matters.

By the time you finish your third beer, Dean is already a tiny bit… not drunk, but definitely less guarded.

Still, he had such a high alcohol resistance. It was so hot.

“That case was crazy. I still wonder how the siblings are doing. I hope they’re okay.” There it is, the look on his eyes. The way they unfocus slightly as he absentmindedly traces the edge of his glass with his finger. It was in those moments that you can truly look at him, take in every small detail of his face. Every wrinkle, every scar, every evidence of every battle. The living proof of his resilience, of his experience, of his survival. You press your thighs together, trying to ground yourself.

You fantasize for a moment about sliding under the table, taking Dean into your mouth. Make his nostalgia turn into pleasure, make him feel good, remind him of the good old days.

“When was that?” You ask, gently coaxing him out of whatever place he got lost in his mind. He blinks at you, taking in your soft smile and sweet voice before replying.

“Right after Sammy started hunting again, so I was like… twenty-seven?” 

You quickly do the math in your head, calculating how old you were back then. Fuck. You were still a kid when Dean was already killing wendigos and vampires and shifters. Oh, there must be something really wrong with you, because that makes something on your lower stomach burn.

“So, you were quite the ladies man, huh?” You tease him, trying to shake away the desire building inside of you. You watch him chuckle and drop his head forward.

You already knew that, because he still is. You have to watch women throw themselves at him in every hunt and every bar. It was infuriating.

“You could say that.” He replies nonchalantly, but there’s a smirk on his lips as he down the rest of his whiskey. 

“Can you imagine me meeting you in your mid-twenties?” I giggle, and it causes Dean to snort and shake his head amusedly, refilling his glass. You lean forward on the table, your hand laying next to his. So close. “I can. I can imagine us meeting at a bar, or a diner.” You smirk. “Maybe even a concert! Can you imagine us meeting in a rock festival’s pit?”

Dean snorts again, eyes still down on his glass. He presses his tongue to his cheek, like he is trying to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, but they end up escaping him anyway.

“I was very different back then, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.”

And there it was. 

The comment makes your breath get stuck in the back of your throat, and you look up at Dean with wide eyes. 

I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.

A girl like you.

Dean returns your heated gaze for a moment, his eyes sharp and deep in the way they only got after you teased him too much. 

“But you trust yourself with me now?” You ask with the most innocent voice you can utter, batting your long eyelashes at him. You watch as he takes in a sharp breath, swallowing harshly.

“Barely.” He whispers, looking down at your lips when you lick them and then back at your eyes. 

Shitshitshit.

“You don’t have to, you know?” Dean looks at you slightly confused, and you lean further forward before whispering. “Control yourself, I mean. You don’t have to.”

There is a second in which you think Dean will lunge himself at you, finally. His eyes are darker than you have ever seen them, because they weren’t dark with anger, they were full of pure, raw hunger.

His hand twitches, and then he pulls away. 

He gets up from the table, downing back the whole glass of whiskey before setting it down on the table with a little too much force. He starts to walk away, and you don’t know if it’s the beers you had or the desperation that had been accumulating for months, but this time you try to stop him.

You get up from the table too, quickly moving until you are blocking his way out of the kitchen.

He says your name in reproach, eyes glued to the floor. “We can’t-”

“Yes, we can.” You interrupt him, waking a step closer until your chests are almost pressed together. You grab his arm, making him look at you. “Please, Dean. I want it, you want it. Come on.”

Dean still shakes his head, deep frown on his face. “I’ve told you, I’m not good for you, you-”

You groan, rolling your eyes and stomping your foot on the floor. It didn’t help make you look any more mature, but you didn’t care.

“Yeah, I know. I’m too young, you’re too old. You’re broken and dangerous and all of that.” You say sarcastically, making him raise his eyebrows. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself, Dean?”

That makes him scoff, and he shakes his head while looking away again. “It is true. You deserve better than some guy old enough to be your father.” He grimaces at his own words, rubbing a hand over his face.

But you double down, pressing your body completely against his. You push forward and Dean lets you guide him backwards, and you know he’s letting you because you could not make him move an inch if he didn’t want you to. He ends up pressed against the kitchen island, hand still covering his eyes. You use your hand on his arm to pull it down, forcing him to look at you again.

“Dean, I want you.” You look deep into his eyes, and he almost looks pained by it. “I know you think I don’t know what’s best for me, but I do. I know what I need, and I need you.” You squeeze his bicep before your hand moves to the back of his neck, fingers tangling with the hairs there. 

He says your name again, almost as a plea.

He was breaking. He was caving in. 

“Please, Dean.” You whisper as your lips brush his, looking into those green eyes that consumed your every waking thought. “We both know I need a real man.”

And that seems to do the trick. He lets out something akin to a growl, and his hands are finally on you. One moves to your waist, grip bruising. The other one goes to your hair, fingers intertwining with the long locks and pulling your head back, hard, exposing the delicate curve of your throat. It makes you whimper. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” Dean leans in closer, but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets the tip of his nose brush against your skin, from the apple of your cheek to your jaw and down your neck. “I’m no prince charming.”

“I want you, Dean.” You whine when his lips brush against the sensitive surface of your throat. You use the hand that is still tangled on his hair to pull him up, make him meet your eyes. “Ruin me.”

His lips are on you in less than a second. The kiss is bruising, violent with months of repressed want. He pulls you even closer, his beard a little scratchy against the soft skin of your face. You love it.

He pushes your lips apart with his tongue and you let him in, whining at the way he bites your lip before licking behind your teeth. You weren’t inexperienced like Dean thought, you had hooked up with people once or twice, but nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing could compare to the way Dean’s experienced tongue explored your mouth, or the way he spins you two around until you are pressed against the kitchen island, callused hands running down your sides until they’re gripping the sensitive skin of your thighs, lifting you up until you are sitting on top of the counter.

You gasp at the sudden movement, but you part your legs and let Dean slide in between them, shuddering as his fingers run up and down your legs. 

“You’re so fucking sensitive.” Dean grunts, lips moving down to kiss your neck. He bites the skin softly, and then a bit harder, making you moan. 

You pull his hair harshly, and it is his turn to moan, a sound you wanted to hear every day of your life. You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer, until his clothed cock presses against your core over your dress. You two groan at the same time, and you pull Dean into another kiss.

“Come on, Dean. Show me how a real man fucks, teach me what real pleasure is.” You whisper against his lips, and he seems to go a little insane at that. 

In seconds, his hands have already pulled the tiny white dress off your body, leaving you only in your lacy black underwear. He grunts again at the sight, hands running over all the new skin visible.

“You’re so sweet, so fucking beautiful.” He whispers, almost adoring, as his fingers brush over the curve of your breasts and down to your stomach. You bite your lip, enjoying the feeling of his rough hands on your smooth skin. It is hot, to be only in your underwear while Dean is completely clothed, but you want to see him too.

So you pull his shirt off him before he can say anything, and your mouth waters. He is all lean muscle and tanned skin. There is the tattoo on his chest you’ve fantasized so many times about licking, and you decide to go for it. You first bite softly over his collarbone, trying to subtly suck a hickey there. Judging by Dean’s chuckle, you’re not very subtle. You make your way down, trace his tattoo with your tongue, bite down on the flesh of his pectoral. You kiss over every scar you find, licking over the larger ones. It makes Dean shiver every time, and the way he holds you turns a little softer. 

Then you press your hand over his bulge, and his breath hitches. It makes you feel proud that he is this affected by your touch. You rub him over his jeans for a moment, just basking in the feeling of it cupped in your hand and the fact that this was actually happening. You use both hands to undo his belt and unbutton his jeans. You pull them down along with his underwear, and Dean takes a step back to be able to step out of them. And that is when you finally see all of him. 

You have to bite your lip before doing something too crazy. Dean was big. Curved up against his stomach and flushed. And so fucking hard. 

I did that, you think deliriously as you feel yourself getting wetter.

You lick your lips, craving to feel the weight of him on your tongue, but you need Dean to touch you right now.

Another time.

“One day I will suck you off until you pass out.” You breathe out, and it makes Dean groan. He presses back against you, kissing you harshly.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby.” He whispers against your lips before undoing your bra with just one hand, sliding it off your body. He pushes you backwards until your back touches the cold surface of the counter. It makes you shiver, but it is all forgotten when Dean takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

He sucks softly, and then a little harder. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention until your nipples are wet and flushed and hard. You are a whining mess by this point. He continues to make his way down your body with his mouth, lips brushing against your inner thighs and leaving dark purple marks on them. Because you were his now.

He takes off your boots and leaves your socked feet resting against the edge of the counter. The position leaves your legs wide open, and your chest rises and falls more rapidly the closer Dean’s face gets to your clothed pussy. 

“Dean.” You whimper when he presses his face to your mound over your panties.

“Have any of those little boyfriends of yours ever eaten you out, or are they too much of a coward to do it?” You don’t respond, because your head is spinning and your vision is hazy. “It doesn’t matter, because I will show you how it is done.”

And he does. He pulls your panties off and devours you. He has you whining and moaning in seconds, hands pulling on his hair for dear life. He sucks on your clit and runs his tongue through your folds like a starved man. You come on his tongue once, and then again. You basically have to peel him away from you before you lose your mind when he keeps going, keeps sucking until you’re twitching with oversensitivity. 

“Please, I need you inside.”

And how could he ever say not to that.

It is almost morning by the time you two are laying under the covers of Dean’s bed. He had fucked you there on the kitchen island (Sam can never know), and then he had fucked you again on his bed. You were both exhausted as you laid on his chest, drawing figures with your fingernails across his skin. You chuckle and look up at him, only to find him already staring at you. His eyes are softer than you have ever seen them as he seems to bask in the sight of you all fucked out and soft. It makes you blush.

“You might have actually ruined me for anyone else.” You joke, biting your lip. But it was true, you were sure that your body would reject anyone who wasn’t Dean Winchester from now on. 

The joke makes some heat come back to Dean’s eyes, but also something else, something softer. Something so warm and delicate and absolutely terrifying. 

“Good.” he rasps out. “Because you won’t need anyone else.”

NOTES: I can't believe all of this came out of a half-asleep horny thought that I had. Anyway, thank you so much for the overwhelming support, you are all the best.

Older Dean MAY come back because I am too obsessed with him, only if college doesn't kill me first.

TAGS: @h8aaz <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[himasgod]

hey so can I have scenario where Lilia vanrouge realises he has found his first romantic true love in his s/o? (Like his past confessions to his previous loves didn’t work out and he was always so busy in the past. And then he finally gets a yes in this reader s/o). He makes s/o smile all the time, and his s/o is always doing little things for him like if he’s getting tired in the sun, s/o gives him a paper umbrella from their bag so the sun isn’t hitting him anymore? (Normally he’s the one taking care of others).

LILIA X READER

Where he realizes he has found his first true love in you

"Yes."

Such a simple word.

A word that had slipped through his fingers so many times across the centuries, like trying to catch moonlight on his palm.

Lilia had lived long enough to watch stars fade from the sky and rise anew.

He had waltzed through wars and lullabies, raised a prince, led armies, sung songs to lull mortals and fae alike into slumber.

Love?

Oh, he'd been fond of many.

He’d admired beauty, laughed with companions, flirted with charm so natural it melted resistance like sugar in warm tea.

But the truth was simpler, harsher: his confessions had always been too late, too soon, or too lost in the wake of his duty.

A warrior. A guardian.

A noble fae with too many burdens and not enough time.

He never blamed them—those he'd once looked upon with fondness. They saw him as a figure of legend. Or a friend. A commander. A ghost of the past. Not one had returned his feelings in full.

Until you.

You, who had stumbled into his life with no reverence for titles or age-old legacies.

Who laughed at his dad jokes and gently tugged him back down to earth when he floated too far into memory.

You, who didn’t care that he had danced with queens or outlived empires.

And it wasn’t the moment you agreed to go out with him that shattered something inside his ancient heart—it was every tiny moment after.

Like today.

Sunlight poured through the trees as you both walked together in a quiet corner of Diasomnia. The heat was mild for most, but Lilia had always been more comfortable under moonlight than midday sun.

He thought nothing of it—he’d simply endure.

But you noticed.

Without saying a word, you reached into your bag, pulled out a small delicately folded paper umbrella—hand-painted with lavender blossoms and starbursts—and popped it open above his head with a soft shk.

"There," you said, adjusting it with a little smile.

"Can’t have my favorite bat getting crispy."

His laugh came unbidden—light, airy.

"Crispy, am I? What a fate for a soldier of centuries."

"Even ancient warriors deserve little shade," you replied, matter-of-fact, and took his free hand like it belonged to you.

He stared at you for a long moment, the paper umbrella filtering light into a soft halo around your hair casting gentle shadows across your cheek.

His heart ached.

Something he hadn’t felt in centuries.

He had loved the world, yes.

He had loved many things.

But this… this was the first time someone had ever noticed his weariness before he even mentioned it.

The first time someone had taken his hand like it wasn’t a ghost of the past, but something very real, very now.

Very yours.

The paper umbrella, the gentle hand in his, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him—not with awe or reverence but affection.

That was the moment he knew.

You were his first true love.

Not a passing infatuation. Not a wistful longing across a battlefield or court dance. This was not born of adrenaline or mystery—it was slow, kind, human.

And fae.

And real.

He said, voice unusually quiet.

“Did you know… you’re the first person who ever said yes to me?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He chuckled, but there was a crack in it. A little tremor like the first drop of rain on a long-dry plain.

“I’ve lived so long. Far longer than anyone should, perhaps. I’ve confessed before. And every time… well, it wasn’t meant to be. I never begrudged them—it just… was. And then there was you.”

“You said yes. And more than that—you stayed.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Of course I stayed. Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiled then, but it was different.

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever really… seen me. Not the general. Not the legend. Just… me.”

You leaned into his side under the soft shade of the umbrella.

“I don’t see a legend when I look at you, Lilia.”

He tilted his head.

“No?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, right where his smile lived.

“I see you loving me. I see... my eyes loving yours trough the glimpse of them”

And that did it.

He pulled you in close, umbrella tipping slightly as he buried his face in your shoulder and let out a breath.

Lifting his head. Looking into your eyes.

Kissing your lips softly while caressing the back of your neck.

For someone who had always been the one comforting others, always the one standing strong and smiling and never quite needing—

—for once, he let himself be held.

He let himself be loved.

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo au, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining — notes: part 2 here — now playing: merry christmas mr. lawrence - utada

What do you get a man who has everything? Who can buy anything at the drop of a hat? 

Nothing. The answer is nothing. And the realization, as it slowly descends onto your shoulders, is really starting to piss you off.

You blow some hair from your face for the umpteenth time since you’ve started this little adventure. Throw yourself against the bench in the midst of the mall’s second floor, peering up at the ceiling as if it can solve all your problems.

Your wares, bags of varying colors, sizes, and materials, sit off to the side. It’s an impressive haul—gifts for coworkers, family, and friends. But nothing buried beneath the sparkly tissue paper of said bags is for him. 

At least, not yet.

You lean back in a defeated slouch, arms crossed over your chest. Puffing your cheeks out, you exhale all slow and dramatic, watching the lights adorning the Christmas tree in the mall’s epicenter twinkle like bokeh. Your lips twist into a pout. 

Mr. Sylus isn’t particularly picky, at least from what you’ve gleaned from working as his secretary the past year. You know how he likes his coffee: black. How he prefers your morning briefs: quick and concise. How he often falls asleep in his office, propped on an elbow on his desk, the usual furrow between his brows traded for something more serene as sunlight bleeds in, framing him like a halo–your cheeks warm at the memory. 

You bow forward with a sigh, your head held in your hands.

You know enough about your boss to appease him. To level with him. You just wished you knew him a little…better. Enough to make this gift-buying venture you’ve been on since 8 AM worthwhile.

You tried asking Luke and Kieran, his financial and technology advisors, for pointers. They’d worked with him longer than anyone else at Starlight Enterprises. Naturally, they knew him like the backs of their hands. But they spoke in riddles when you asked. Confused the hell out of you, speaking of challenging his authority to get to his heart and things of that nature. 

You didn’t know what the hell any of that meant. And even if you did, it’s not like you were out to steal his heart, though you someday hoped to.

As cordial as Mr. Sylus had been since you began working for him, you always felt like he kept you at arm’s length, even as the months under his tutelage eased by. He steeled himself against you, though your coworkers swore they’d never heard him so talkative. 

Sure, he occasionally greeted you with rare smiles and snickered at your terrible, cringe-inducing jokes. Entertained you with sporadic coffee runs and maybe went out of his way to chat you up before disappearing behind the heavy, oakwood door to his office. But you didn’t expect a man like him to fully open his chest cavity to you, no matter how disarming you were.

You were so desperate for the perfect present that you even perused through his contacts and reached out to someone who’d frequented his office more times than you could count. Ms. Hunter. She had a name, but you’d grown accustomed to addressing her as such, adopting the moniker from your boss.

Sylus always smiled so youthfully when she swung around your desk and walked into his office. Her presence alone seemed to shave 10 years off his life in a way you were envious of. You didn’t know the semantics of their relationship. Could never make out what they were saying, their voices distorted murmurs behind a closed door. As far as you were concerned, they were good friends. Or your delusions had convinced you of such, and you still secretly hoped you stood a chance with him.

But you couldn’t help how your stomach gnarled, and words stalled in your throat when, after each time she left, Mr. Sylus was particularly cheerful. Or as spirited as a man like him could be, his eyes shining with residual fondness as he requested you reschedule his meetings before he shacked up in his office again. 

You shake your head to dispel your thoughts. You’ve sunken into the abyss of self-deprecation again. Now’s not the time to pity yourself. 

The bottom line was that Ms. Hunter wasn’t much help, either; she was cryptic on the phone as she threw out generic options, seemingly disinterested. But you wouldn’t give up despite how unhelpful everyone around you was. Mr. Sylus deserved something—anything to show how grateful you were to have been taken under his wing.

You sit up again, watching as families and couples mill about, swept up by the Christmas spirit. Briefly, you wonder if Mr. Sylus even celebrates Christmas. Your endeavor might've been for naught. He doesn’t strike you as the type to indulge in silly holiday traditions. He’s usually all business and stoned-faced when he isn’t entertaining your morbid jokes or his lady friend. But you’re persistent, having organized a holiday party on Christmas Eve at the office without his consent.

You told him after you already set your plans into motion. And he looked at you from the rim of his monitor with a quirked brow and a smirk canting one corner of his lips skyward. He sat back in an easy slouch, tapping the tips of his fingers together, seemingly mulling over your request.

“Do I even have a say in the matter?” he teased in that humored, attractive rasp. 

You stood before him, determined, a hand on your hip whilst the other clutched a set of Manila folders to your chest. “Not at all.”

Mr. Sylus scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. 

You could be terribly insistent when you wanted to be. Most of the time, it got you into trouble in your previous professions. However, as you grew more accustomed to your boss, you found he coddled your fighting spirit. 

And with time, you also discovered it easier to manipulate him—at least to a certain degree. Your pout and guilt-tripping when he wouldn’t bend to your will, he could manage. But you barging into his office, insisting he eat, stretch, or simply take a load off? He could not contest that. 

Or he at least chose not to.

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, the amusement never leaving his face. “You drive a hard bargain. I won’t interfere. But don’t expect me to help you orchestrate this little soiree.”

You smiled triumphantly, peering down at your boss from the tip of your nose. “I don’t. I just expect you to be there with your cutest Christmas sweater, smiling and ready to party.”

He gave you a look. One that read, ‘I don’t do cute.’ And you stifled a laugh, imagining your stoic and trendy boss donning something other than a suit. He must’ve caught wind of what was going on in your head, lifting a brow at your mischievous cackle. 

He waved his hand dismissively. Cheek dimpled whilst he busied himself with some financial reports on his desk. You spun on your heel, skipping out of his office with all the eagerness of a child, set to finish your work for the evening. 

The earlier you finished, the more time you had for gift shopping and preparing for your holiday shindig.

Funnily enough, though your boss insisted he wouldn’t entertain your holiday antics, extra funds mysteriously appeared on the company card. 

Two days later, you find yourself a huffy, downtrodden mess, stewing in your inadequacy. 

You’ve scoured the city for the perfect gift over the past few days. Woke up early to travel out of town even, hoping to find something. Anything to make your boss all misty-eyed and appreciative. You’ve come up short; nothing seems to fit his vibe.

You’ve looked at watches, ties, cologne, and luxurious sweaters. Checked stores with prices that made your paycheck shudder. Nothing seems to resonate with him. To capture the essence of Mr. Sylus.

A glance at your smartwatch reveals it’s mid-afternoon. You deflate. Here you are, cities away from the investment firm, and you’ve nothing to show for your efforts. 

It’s Christmas Eve. Your day off. You should be using it to prepare for the party, but your coworkers assured you they’d handle the decorations while you ran your errands.

Still, you’re at least an hour away from your home. Traffic is a hellscape around this time of year. You need to get back quickly to wrap presents and gather yourself for the festivities. 

Resigned, you peel yourself from the bench, your bags weighted in either of your hands. You trudge across the mall’s upper level in search of the escalator. Maybe Mr. Sylus will forgive you for not having gotten him a gift. Anything you could think of getting, he could buy himself. He’s the CEO of the most notable investment company in the city. Surely, he wouldn’t bat an eye if you showed up to the party empty-handed.

Your head slung low, you’re about to descend on the escalator. However, something catches your attention in your periphery. You curiously meander towards a display window adorned with gaudy Alternative Christmas decorations. Something inside captures your interest, and a smile slowly crawls onto your lips. 

With a renewed tide of optimism washing over you, you wander into the store. 

Maybe fate is on your side today.

—

Your holiday soirée is fairly low-key. 

It’s littered with modest decorations. Christmas garlands adorn the walls and columns of the tenth floor, dripping from the ceiling. String lights twinkle overhead, tables donned with red and green tablecloths and poinsettia centerpieces.

The six-foot tall Christmas tree is the focal point, frocked with artificial snow and sparkling ethereally amid the dark grey walls of your office space. Sure, you had to strain on tippy-toe to put the star up. And maybe you still had a bit of the faux powder in your hair. But, with a glass of bubbly poised at your lips, you inwardly pat yourself on the back. You truly outdid yourself, breathing life into these otherwise drab walls.

A few of your coworkers along with some of the other department heads are in attendance, trading work talk and gossip. Even Ms. Hunter carved out some time—at your insistence—to come.

Over your time as his secretary, you’ve gathered that Mr. Sylus is a bit of an introvert. You didn’t want to overwhelm him with a crowd. He gets enough attention as it is, being amongst the country's youngest, most successful business moguls. He’s always under scrutiny, much to your dismay. He deserves to take a load off from time to time, which is why you were so adamant about throwing this party in the first place.

Speaking of the devil, you haven’t taken your eyes off him since he made his grand entrance. Always had him in sight, sneaking little glimpses of his figure as it cut a sharp, regal outline amid the humble decor. 

He looks amazing. Then again, when hasn’t he? With his striking white hair and uncommon, scarlet eyes, he sifts through his guests as he entertains them with fruitless chatter. 

Though he didn’t entirely humor you with an ugly Christmas getup, he still wore something festive. A burgundy sweater that doesn’t betray his usual style. Complimented it with a black button-up beneath, matching slacks, and onyx loafers. Still so inherently Mr. Sylus. 

He routinely captures your gaze. Raises his champagne glass to you in greeting, a small, dimpled smirk lighting up his features. You hide your bashfulness behind your glass, turning away to chat up your coworkers beneath the ambient crooning of the jazz music spilling from the speakers. 

The night eases by with a bit of champagne. With hors d'oeuvres, karaoke, silly party games, and raucous laughter coloring the atmosphere. Everyone appears to be in good spirits, a few of the party’s attendees stopping by to let you know what a great job you’ve done putting everything together.

You brush them off with a lopsided smile, the bubbly fizzling in your system. You gnaw on your bottom lip once left to your own devices. You grapple with the idea of giving your present to your boss now. It’s a quarter ‘till 10 PM, and you’re sure you won’t have a more opportune time to present it to him. 

You spot your boss amid the partygoers, the world around him blurring and bending as you focus solely on him. He talks with his Chief Technology Officer, a hand stuffed in his pocket. His posture is relaxed, an occasional, rich laugh spilling from his throat. You decide you quite like this side of him. His defenses at half-mast, swept up in the holiday cheer. 

Your face warms. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the magnetic pull you feel towards him. With a bit of liquid encouragement, you swallow your resolve and swipe your gift from beneath the Christmas tree, making a beeline towards the man of the hour after his conversation ends. 

But fate has other plans for you tonight, no longer working in your favor.

You’re halfway across the room when she walks into frame—Ms. Hunter. The smile you once held dampens, and you clutch your gift to your chest, stock-still. You watch with bated breath as she produces a thin, rectangular box from behind her and presents it to your boss, the glossy wrapping paper catching in the incandescent light. 

He accepts it with a rare smile. Sets his champagne flute on a high-top table and carefully unravels the gift. Once the box’s contents are revealed, your throat grows dry, your eyes prickling with something warm. 

It’s a crudely knit, crimson scarf. It looks like it itches and is two sizes too big for just one person. But it’s clearly a labor of love, and Mr. Sylus bends to allow his lady friend to drape it around his neck. He exudes a quiet fondness as she grazes the tip of his nose with one of the scarf’s frayed ends. It’s simple, yet it speaks volumes of the affection blooming between them. 

Without having spoken a word, you sense whatever relationship they share stretches beyond that of mere friendship. It’s something more. Something you could only hope to obtain, but you’re grossly outmatched. All those months you spent in denial, rose-tinted glasses perched on your nose. You never stood a chance, and the realization slams into you with the force of a tsunami.

With a bitter chuckle, you peer down at the intricately wrapped gift in your hands. You’d taped and retaped it several times, determined to get the lines and creasing just right. Took your time curling the ribbons with scissors and scrawling his name on the To line. You protected your gift with your life on your way to the party. Cradled it like a baby. But now, the sight of it makes your stomach churn, the taste of bile heavy on the back of your tongue. 

Feeling incredibly foolish, you hide your present at the small of your back, quietly stepping away to nurse your wounded pride.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Hi! I just have to know- will there be a part 2 to Not Quite Poison? I absolutely loved it and the ending was amazing!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

AN: Much love <3 I am so sorry for the wait!

Not Quite Poison {pt. 2}

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Reader

Summary: How Barty came into the dark mark, making his way onto the right side for the wrong reasons.

WC: 20K

CW: this is Uhm.. not happy- not at all. Ambiguous ending. Not proof read, slight!stalker!Barty, obsessive!dark!Barty, the first 10k~ heavily mention the reader but she isn't physically there. Grammar and spelling mistakes. Barty gets kinda creepy at times. Slight Jegulily agenda if you pay attention. Voldemort- does mention the war, heavily cannon divergent, ambiguous ending.

Barty stood in front of the cracked and foggy mirror, the faint chill of the Crouch manor seeping into the room. The glass reflected a version of himself he barely recognized- tie slightly undone, shirt and robes pressed, and hair falling into his face in deliberate order. But none of that mattered. His attention wasn’t on his reflection.

It was on the photos tucked into the edges of the mirror, curling slightly from age and misuse. Polaroids, each imbued with movement and life. Pandora waved energetically in one, her hair a wild halo as Regulus stood beside her with a faint smirk. Another showed Dorcas and Evan laughing together, Regulus rolling his eyes in mock exasperation beside them. They were snapshots of stolen moments, pieces of a life that felt like his own secret treasure.

But one photo sat above the rest, pinned carefully at the center of the mirror’s edge. It was only slightly worn, its edges dulled from handling, but it was the one he couldn’t resist touching. You were in it, your smile soft and warm as you looked up at the camera- no, not the camera. At him. The movement of the photo revealed your mouth forming silent words, likely teasing him as you had been when he’d snapped it.

Barty’s lips curved into a slow smile, a rare, unguarded expression. He adjusted his tie absently- the way you had taught him, his fingers deft but distracted as his eyes stayed locked on your image. The rest of the world felt muted, the chill of the room, the weight of his family name, the suffocating expectations of his father- they all faded. 

He leaned closer to the mirror, watching the way your eyes flicked to the lens and back to him, like you couldn’t help but connect with him even through the photo. 

The other photos were carefully labeled in his neat, slanted handwriting. "Pandora, 1976," "Reggie & Dor, Hogsmeade." But your photo? 

It bore only one word, scrawled with a steady hand, both a promise and a confession: Soon.

Barty straightened, his grin softening but never fading as he tucked his tie into place. He lingered for a moment longer, his fingertips brushing the corner of your photo, almost like he was reaching for you. He didn’t say anything, but his mind buzzed with thoughts of you- your laugh, the sharpness of your words, the way you carried yourself like the world owed you everything and nothing all the same.

“Soon,” He murmured under his breath, his reflection smiling back at him like a man with a secret.

“Barty!” His mother’s voice, sweet and quick, echoed up the grand staircase, breaking through the quiet of his room. The chill seemed to deepen as her tone carried a faint edge of excitement. “Almost ready, dear?”

Barty sighed, his shoulders stiffening for a brief moment before he rolled them back, forcing his usual air of nonchalance to return. His fingers lingered on the tie one last time, tugging it into perfect place as his gaze flickered back to the photo.

You.

Still smiling, still teasing, still looking at him like he was someone worth the attention. Like he was someone free. For a split second, he thought he saw your lips curve, mouthing words he couldn’t quite hear but knew by heart: “Goodbye.”

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement at his own foolishness. “Losing it, mate,” He muttered to himself, though his voice carried no real conviction. With a deliberate motion, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, draping it over his shoulders as he turned toward the door.

He paused at the threshold, his hand brushing the doorknob as if something unseen was holding him back. His gaze flickered over his shoulder, back to the photo on the mirror. The light caught it just so, making your image shine in the otherwise dim room.

With a final glance, his voice dropped to a whisper, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don't wait up.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, his usual swagger returning to his stride. The door to his room swung shut behind him, but not before the Polaroid on the mirror caught a draft and fluttered faintly.

Barty descended the grand staircase with an air of practiced indifference, the polished marble underfoot reflecting the flicker of flames from the towering fireplace in the entrance hall. The heavy scent of his father’s cigars clung to the air, mixing with the faint notes of his mother’s perfume- something floral and delicate that always made Barty feel oddly grounded, even in the chaos of the Crouch manor.

His mother was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her sharp, hawkish eyes softening the moment they landed on him. “Your tie is a mess, dear,” She tutted, stepping forward to fuss with it before he could protest. Her hands moved with deft precision, undoing and retying it until it lay perfectly flat against his chest. 

Barty stood still, letting her work, though his smirk never faltered. “And here I thought I’d perfected it,” He teased lightly, his voice warm enough to draw a small smile from her.

“You’d perfect it if you cared enough. Merlin help whoever has been doing it for you,” She quipped back, smoothing down the front of his robes. She smirked softly up at his bewildered expression. He quickly corrected it. Her touch lingered for a moment, her expression softening further as she looked up at him. “Now, behave yourself tonight, Barty. The Blacks don’t tolerate nonsense, and you know how your father gets.”

As if on cue, his father’s voice boomed from the adjacent room, carrying the same air of authority it always did. “Bartemius!” He barked, stepping into view with his usual commanding stride. “Do you understand the importance of this evening? The Black family is powerful, and their influence extends far beyond-”

“Far beyond whatever petty scandal you think I’ll cause, I’m sure,” Barty interrupted smoothly, his tone playful but edging on insolence. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll be the picture of decorum.”

His father’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leveled Barty with a glare that carried years of frustration. “You will not embarrass this family,” He said firmly, his voice low and cold. “This is not some juvenile gathering for you to treat as a joke. You’ll act like a proper heir.”

Barty raised a brow, his smirk sharpening as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “A proper heir,” He echoed mockingly. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

His mother shot him a warning glance, her hand resting lightly on his arm as if to ground him. “Barty,” she said gently, her voice cutting through the tension. “That’s enough.”

For once, he relented, letting out a quiet sigh. His father grunted in approval, muttering something about “finally showing sense,” before retreating into the next room to oversee last-minute preparations.

Barty turned back to his mother, his smirk softening into something genuine as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Don’t worry, Mum,” He murmured, his voice low but warm. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but there was a flicker of affection in her eyes as she shook her head. “You’re impossible,” She said fondly, brushing a hand through his hair one last time. “Go on, then. Charm everyone.”

“Oh, I plan to,” He said with a wink, straightening his coat with a flourish before stepping toward the front door. He cast one last glance over his shoulder, his grin firmly in place. “Love ya, yeah mum?”

“I love you too.” She sighed with a fond tilt of her head. Wincing when she lifted her fist to cover her lips, giving a particularly harsh cough into her hand.

Barty’s smirk faltered as his mother’s cough echoed through the entrance hall, sharp and brittle, like the crack of ice. Her fist clenched tightly over her mouth, and for a moment, her graceful composure wavered. The sight sent a flicker of unease coursing through him, and his easy confidence dimmed.

“Mum,” He called softly, his voice unusually serious. He took a step toward her, his sharp green eyes searching her face for any sign of reassurance. “That damned cough- how long has it been this bad?”

She waved him off with a weak smile, though her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Don’t fuss, dear. It’s just a bit of the winter chill. I’ll be fine.”

Barty’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t convinced. “It’s not just a chill,” He pressed, his voice lowering as he stepped closer. “You’ve been coughing like that for months. Have you even-?”

“Enough, Bartemius,” His father’s cold, commanding voice cut through the moment like a blade. The elder Crouch stepped back into the room, his presence as suffocating as ever. His gaze flicked briefly to his wife, but his expression betrayed no concern, only irritation. “Your mother is fine. Do not make a spectacle of this.”

Barty turned to his father, his smirk gone entirely now, replaced with something harder, more volatile. “Fine? Are you serious? She can barely breathe, and you’re sending her off like it’s nothing?”

His father’s lips thinned, his gaze narrowing as he stepped closer. “Do not question me, boy,” He said sharply, his voice low but brimming with authority. “Your mother is being well taken care of. Winky sees to her needs, and the best healers have already examined her.”

“Then why isn’t she getting better?” Barty shot back, his tone teetering on the edge of defiance. His fists clenched at his sides as he stared his father down. “Why does she look worse every time I come home?”

His father’s eyes blazed with unspoken warning, but before he could respond, the soft sound of shuffling feet interrupted them. Winky, the house-elf, appeared in the doorway, her large, watery eyes darting nervously between the two men.

“Master Bartemius,” She said hesitantly, bowing low before turning her attention to Mrs. Crouch. “Mistress, your room is ready. Winky will bring you some tea to help with the cough.”

Mrs. Crouch offered Winky a kind smile, though it was strained. She rested a hand lightly on Barty’s arm, her touch as calming as it had always been. “It’s alright, dear,” She said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Winky will take care of me. You have your evening to focus on.”

Barty’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack. He wanted to argue, to demand answers from his father, to do something, anything, to fix the wrongness of the situation. But his mother’s gentle squeeze on his arm stopped him.

Reluctantly, he nodded, his gaze lingering on her as Winky guided her toward the stairs. “Mum-” He started, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

She turned back to him, her smile as warm as it could be despite the pallor of her skin. “Go charm everyone, my darling,” She said, her voice faint but full of love. “You'll do great.”

As she disappeared up the stairs, Barty turned back to his father, his expression cold and unyielding. “She’s not fine,” He muttered quietly, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. “And you know it.”

His father didn’t flinch, his gaze as impassive as ever. “You will do as you’re told,” He said simply, brushing past Barty without another word. “And you will not embarrass this family.”

Barty watched him leave, his fists trembling at his sides, his mind racing with a storm of anger and helplessness. He looked toward the staircase, where his mother had disappeared, and the faint sound of her cough echoed faintly in his ears.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his coat, his smirk slowly returning to his face like a mask. “Soon,” He muttered to himself, the word heavier now, filled with a quiet, burning promise.

With one last glance toward the stairs, he turned and stepped out into the frosty night, his mind already planning his next move.

~~~

The sharp crack of apparition echoed in the chill of the frosty evening as Barty and his father arrived at the grand gates of the Black Manor. The towering estate loomed ahead, its gothic architecture bathed in soft, flickering torchlight. Every inch of the property was designed to intimidate and awe, a testament to the Black family’s legacy. The ornate iron gates swung open soundlessly as a pair of house-elves bowed low, ushering them inside.

Barty’s father strode ahead without hesitation, his posture as rigid and commanding as ever. Barty followed at a slower pace, his smirk firmly in place as his sharp green eyes took in the scene. The grand entryway was already buzzing with finely dressed purebloods, their polished masks catching the warm glow of chandeliers that hung like constellations above.

A house-elf approached, bowing deeply as it extended a silver tray bearing elaborately crafted masquerade masks. Barty plucked one with a flick of his fingers, the edges gleaming with silver filigree, and slipped it on with an air of practiced ease. The mask concealed just enough to meet the evening’s requirements but left his sharp features unmistakable.

“Remember what I said,” his father muttered lowly as they stepped inside. “Behave.”

“Always,” Barty drawled, his tone light, bordering on mocking. He didn’t wait for a response, brushing past his father and into the heart of the gathering.

The ballroom was a study in decadence. Rich, dark wood lined the floors, and the walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the Black family’s ancient lineage. Every detail, from the gilded accents on the furniture to the symphony playing in the background, spoke of old wealth and untouchable power.

Barty snatched a glass of sparkling champagne from a passing tray, tilting it back as he wove through the crowd with the grace of someone who had long ago mastered the art of mingling while detached. The wine was crisp and cold, doing little to drown out the lingering tension from earlier.

His eyes flickered across the room, scanning for familiar faces. It didn’t take long to find them. Near the grand windows stood Regulus and Evan, their masks impeccably chosen to complement their dark, tailored robes. They both exuded the kind of effortless control that came with knowing they were the center of their world.

Barty approached with an easy smirk, catching the tail end of Evan’s complaint. 

“...what does she even see in him?” Evan muttered, his voice dripping with disdain as he gestured toward the dance floor. 

Barty followed his gaze and found Pandora spinning in a slow, dreamlike circle with Xenophilius, her hair glowing like a halo under the chandelier light. Xenophilius was gazing at her as if she had just descended from the heavens, and Pandora, true to form, looked entirely unbothered by the attention of the room. Even with their flimsy masks, there was no mistaking Pandora’s ethereal glow.

“Pandora,” Regulus supplied in his usual flat tone. “She’s entertaining Lovegood.”

Evan snorted, swirling the dark liquor in his glass. “Entertaining? She’s throwing the whole bloody circus.”

Barty chuckled, his smirk widening as he clinked his champagne flute against Evan’s glass. “Maybe she’s tired of the same old crowd,” He suggested, his voice light but with an edge of cynicism. “It's a sad sight when a witch like her plays to the back row.”

Regulus arched a brow, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And you'd suppose there is much better here?”

Barty spread his arms in mock innocence. “More entertaining, at least.”

The conversation drifted, but Barty’s attention lingered on Pandora and Xenophilius. The carefree way Pandora laughed, the subtle glances Xenophilius stole, the way they moved as though the rest of the room didn’t exist- it tugged at something unspoken in Barty. Jealousy? No. Longing? Possibly. He drained the rest of his champagne, the burn sharp against the lingering weight of his earlier thoughts.

The scene stirred a memory, unbidden but vivid. 

You, standing just like Pandora now, on a crisp autumn day. Hidden away with him in the dark forest. The sunlight danced on your cheeks as you turned to look at him, mischief glinting in your eyes. “You’re staring,” You teased, your lips curving into that sharp smile that never failed to disarm him.

“Can’t help it,” Barty had hummed, his voice soft but steady, though his heart was pounding in his chest. “You’re a vision.”

You’d laughed then, light and airy, brushing his words off with a playful roll of your eyes. But the way you looked at him lingered- like he was the only person in the world who could keep up with you. You had hardly been seeing each other for a few months, and he could rightfully say he'd die satisfied.

The memory dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving a faint ache in its wake. Barty’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he masked it with a careless shrug, his eyes snapping back to Regulus and Evan.

“What’s the point of all this?” He asked, his voice louder now, cutting through the haze of his thoughts. He gestured vaguely to the room, to the glittering masks and the polished floor. “We all know these little gatherings are just an excuse for the old guard to pat themselves on the back.”

Regulus regarded him silently for a moment, his gray eyes unreadable. Then, his eyes flickered with amusement as he took a slow sip of his drink, letting the weight of Barty’s question hang in the air before answering. “Perhaps you’re just jealous,” He remarked coolly, his tone casual but pointed. 

Barty stiffened slightly, his smirk faltering for barely a moment before he covered it with a raised brow and a scoff. “Jealous?” He echoed, the word dripping with disdain. “Of what, exactly? Lovegood’s charming lack of awareness? Please.”

Regulus’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk as he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough that it carried an air of intimacy. “Not of Lovegood,” He cheeked smoothly, his gaze unwavering. “But perhaps of how effortlessly he can occupy someone’s attention. Someone who’s a bit... untouchable, wouldn’t you say?”

Barty’s green eyes narrowed, his easy charm flickering as he straightened his posture. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” He shot back, his tone sharp and defensive. But the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed him.

Evan, standing just to Regulus’s left, let out a bark of laughter that he quickly muffled with his drink when it echoed a little too loudly in the grand ballroom. “Oh, come off it, Barty,” He teased, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Everyone knows about your little Potter situation. Been obvious since, what- first year?”

Barty’s grip on his empty champagne flute tightened, the delicate glass threatening to crack under the pressure. “You’re treading on thin ice,” He muttered darkly, his voice low enough that only they could hear.

Regulus exchanged a knowing glance with Evan before continuing, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “It’s not exactly a secret, Barty. You’ve been positively tame lately. More reserved. Dare I say... domesticated?” He arched a brow, his words carefully chosen to needle Barty just enough. 

Evan snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Spending all that energy elsewhere, are you?” He quipped, his grin mischievous as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “Don’t tell me she’s got you wrapped around her little finger already. It's hardly been a few months.”

“Enough,” Barty hissed, his voice sharper now as his composure cracked. His smirk was gone entirely, replaced by a cold, dangerous edge that made both Regulus and Evan pause- if only briefly.

Regulus tilted his head slightly as he studied Barty. “Relax,” He mumbled, his tone smooth but calculated. “We’re only pointing out the obvious. It’s not like you’ve done much to hide it- from us anyway.”

Barty clenched his jaw, his sharp green eyes flicking between the two of them as he fought to rein in his temper. “You two don’t know the first thing about it,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous.

Evan raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face didn’t waver. “Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist,” He chuckled lightly, though his tone carried a hint of mischief. “Just saying, you’re a bit less... feral these days. It’s almost endearing.”

Regulus’s smirk returned, though his gaze remained as unreadable as ever. “Endearing isn’t the word I’d use,” He murmured, his tone thoughtful. “But... she does seem to have softened you. If only slightly.”

Barty didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he traded his empty flute with a new glass as an elf passed. Only then he drained the champagne in one swift motion before setting the glass down on a table with deliberate precision. “You two really enjoy the sound of your own voices, don’t you?” He prodded, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Evan chuckled, unfazed by Barty’s sharp tone. “Always,” He said with a wink, raising his glass in a mock toast.

Regulus remained silent, his piercing gaze locked on Barty as though he could see straight through him. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension hanging heavy between them.

Finally, Barty let out a breath, his smirk softening into something closer to resignation. “You lot don’t know half as much as you think you do,” He muttered, his voice quieter now.

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes- curiosity, perhaps, or maybe understanding. “Perhaps not,” He shrugged, his tone measured. “But we know enough. All I ask is you be careful with this obsession of yours- just because you have her now doesn't mean your recklessness can keep her.”

With that, Regulus turned away, his attention shifting back to the dance floor where Pandora and Xenophilius still spun in their carefree circle. Evan followed suit, though not without shooting Barty one last amused glance.

Barty remained where he was, his fists clenched at his sides as he stared down at the empty champagne flute on the table beside him. Their words echoed in his mind, each one striking a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

Because, as much as he hated to admit it, they weren’t entirely wrong.

You had softened him. And for all his bravado, all his sharp words and reckless charm, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when you were the one thing in his life that made him feel like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Barty watched the crowd with a mixture of disinterest and muted irritation. The edges of his smirk thinning with every passing second as he observed his father. 

The elder Crouch, usually so rigid and commanding, was making an embarrassing display of himself. His attempts at impressing the notable pureblood families were painfully obvious- his booming voice, the forced laughter, the way he stood just a little too close to Walburga Black and Orion as he gestured with exaggerated importance. It was pathetic. 

Barty’s fingers tightened to a fist. 

“Look at him,” He muttered under his breath, his tone edged with disdain. “Groveling like a damned house-elf for their approval.”

Regulus, who had returned with a fresh drink, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He simply followed Barty’s gaze, his expression as impassive as ever.

Evan, meanwhile, let out a low chuckle. “You’d think he was a Gryffindor the way he’s going on,” he quipped, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Does he ever stop to breathe?”

Barty’s smirk returned, faint but biting. “Not when there’s an audience,” he replied coolly. He drained the last of his champagne, the glass clinking softly as he set it on a passing tray. “Though I suppose someone has to make a fool of themselves tonight. Saves me the trouble.”

Evan laughed again, but Barty’s attention had already shifted. Across the ballroom, someone new had appeared- or at least, someone unfamiliar. Even beneath the gilded mask, the stranger exuded a quiet confidence that set them apart from the rest of the crowd. They moved through the room with deliberate ease, stopping to exchange words with all the right people: Walburga and Orion, the Rosiers, the Malfoys. Each interaction seemed to command attention without effort, as though the very air bent to accommodate them.

Barty’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. He noted the way his father, who had been so eager to ingratiate himself moments ago, now seemed to shrink in the stranger’s presence. The elder Crouch stood at a distance, his usual bluster subdued, his posture stiff.

Barty’s smirk widened, his earlier irritation melting into something sharper- spite, perhaps, or maybe just reckless amusement. “Well, that’s interesting,” He murmured, more to himself than to Regulus or Evan.

“What is?” Evan asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Barty didn’t answer. He was already weaving through the crowd, his stride confident and easy, his mask barely concealing the mischievous glint in his eyes. If his father was going to cower, Barty would do the exact opposite.

He approached the stranger with all the charm and bravado he could muster, his smirk firmly in place as he came to a stop just within their line of sight. “You’re making quite the impression,” He said, his voice smooth and light, as though they were old acquaintances. “I thought it only polite to introduce myself. Bartemius Crouch, Jr.”

The stranger didn’t speak, his red eyes locking on Barty’s with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the polished veneer of his charm. His gaze swept over Barty in a way that felt almost invasive, as though he were seeing beyond the finely tailored robes and cocky smirk. 

Barty raised an eyebrow, unfazed- or at least, pretending to be. “Not much of a talker, are we?” he quipped, his tone light and mocking. “I’ve got to say, you’re doing wonders for the mystique.”

Still, the man said nothing. Instead, he extended his hand, his long, pale fingers steady and deliberate. 

Barty hesitated for half a second, the silence unsettling in a way he wouldn’t admit aloud. But he didn’t back down. He never backed down. With a sharp smirk, he clasped the stranger’s hand in his own, his grip firm as if to assert dominance.

It was a mistake.

The instant their hands and eyes met, Barty felt it- a sharp, burning force slicing into his mind like a blade. His vision blurred, and his breath hitched as he tried to pull away, but the man’s grip tightened, unyielding and cold as iron. 

A searing pain lanced through his skull as the stranger’s presence flooded his mind. His memories flashed before him in rapid succession, too fast to grasp: flashes of childhood, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the taste of rebellion on his tongue. 

And then, abruptly, it shifted. 

The memories slowed, becoming clearer. There you were, comforting him in Diagon Alley, pushing him against a tree in the forbidden forest, kissing him in a broom closet- like you meant it. The warmth of your presence, the way you seemed to fill every space you entered, the way your voice lingered in his mind long after you were gone. 

The stranger’s smirk deepened, his expression dark and knowing. 

“No,” Barty growled through gritted teeth, his voice strained as he tried to push the man out. He summoned every ounce of willpower he had, but it was useless. The stranger’s grip tightened further, his fingers like a vice around Barty’s hand.

“She's rather beautiful.” The man spoke slow, deliberate as he stepped closer to Barty, lips hovering near his ear. “A blood traitor no less?”

Barty’s eyes snapped to the stranger’s hand as his grip tightened, the sharp edges of his smirk now gone, replaced by a look of thinly veiled fury. “Careful how you talk about her,” Barty growled, his voice low and venomous. The man’s words struck a nerve, twisting something primal and protective deep inside him.

The stranger tilted his head, his red eyes narrowing with amusement. “You misunderstand me, Bartemius,” He said smoothly, his tone dark and deliberate. “I’m not questioning your devotion. I’m simply questioning... how long you’ll be able to keep her safe?”

Barty stiffened, his jaw clenching as his mind raced. Before he could retort, the man released his hand, taking a measured step back and gesturing toward the far end of the ballroom with a flick of his wrist. “Come,” he said, his voice like silk, commanding without raising in volume. “We have much to discuss.”

For a moment, Barty hesitated. His sharp green eyes flicked to his shocked father. His eyes snapped to  Regulus and Evan, who were being ushered quietly out of the ballroom by their respective parents. Regulus looked tense, his usual calm veneer betraying a hint of unease. Evan’s normally sharp tongue was eerily silent, his gaze focused on the floor as he followed without question.

Barty’s attention snapped back to the stranger, his pulse quickening as he considered his options. The man’s words hung heavy in the air, and despite his usual defiance, there was an undeniable pull- an unspoken command he couldn’t quite resist. And after he had seen you? There was no way he was leaving without answers.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” The man added, his voice sharper now, cutting through Barty’s hesitation like a blade.

Reluctantly, Barty straightened his coat and followed, his smirk slipping back into place as he trailed the stranger through the opulent corridors of the Black Manor. His sharp eyes scanned the halls, noting how quiet it had become, the laughter and music from the ballroom fading with every step. 

The stranger led him down a winding staircase, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. At the base of the stairs, a heavy iron door loomed ahead, its surface etched with intricate runes that seemed to shift in the flickering torchlight.

As the door creaked open, Barty stepped into a dimly lit chamber, its stone walls lined with shelves of dark artifacts and ancient tomes. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning incense, the flickering light casting long shadows that danced across the room. 

Inside, the gathering was already underway. The Blacks, Malfoys, Lestranges, Averys, and Mulcibers stood in a loose circle, their faces carefully blank but their postures tense. Regulus was rigid, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he stood beside Walburga, who surveyed the room with a piercing gaze. Evan lingered near his parents- Pandora and Felix nowhere in sight, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet, watchful stillness.

Barty’s sharp gaze flicked to the center of the room, where the stranger stood with his back to the crowd. His dark robes seemed to absorb the flickering light, his pale hands resting lightly on the edge of an elaborate marble table. Slowly, he turned to face the gathered families, his slick black hair gleaming, his red eyes glowing with an unnatural intensity.

It was him. 

Voldemort.

Even in his most human form, Voldemort’s presence was suffocating, an overwhelming mix of charisma and malice that seemed to fill every corner of the room. His lips curved into a smile, cold and sharp, as his gaze swept over the gathered families.

“Welcome,” Voldemort said, his voice smooth and commanding. “It is rare to gather so many esteemed families under one roof. Tonight marks the beginning of a new era- a turning point for our world.”

His red eyes lingered on Regulus for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as Walburga stepped forward, her expression a mix of pride and caution. But then his gaze shifted, landing squarely on Barty. 

The air seemed to thicken as Voldemort studied him, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Ah, Bartemius,” he said softly, his tone laced with amusement. “The defiant son.”

Barty met his gaze head-on, his smirk sharpening into something more unstable. “And here I thought this was a party,” he drawled, his voice light but edged with steel. “You’ve got a funny way of celebrating.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room, several heads turning toward Barty with expressions ranging from shock to disapproval. But Voldemort merely chuckled, the sound low and dark. “I like him,” He said, his voice carrying an unsettling warmth. “Such fire. Such conviction.”

He stepped closer to Barty, his red eyes gleaming as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I wonder, though... will that fire be enough to protect the things you hold most dear?”

Barty’s smirk faltered, his jaw tightening as the meaning behind Voldemort’s words became clear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said evenly, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Voldemort’s smile widened, his gaze sharp and knowing. “Oh, but I think you do,” He murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous hum. “It’s written all over you, Bartemius. Your every thought, your every action- it all leads back to her.”

Barty stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides as his mind raced. He wanted to deny it, to push back against the weight of Voldemort’s words, but he couldn’t. The truth was too raw, too close to the surface.

Voldemort straightened, his gaze sweeping over the room once more. “Loyalty is a powerful thing,” He said, his voice louder now, addressing the entire group. “But it is also a weakness. Those who cannot control their attachments will find themselves undone by them.”

His red eyes flicked back to Barty, his smile turning razor-sharp. “I wonder, Bartemius... how far would you go to keep her safe?”

Barty’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the question pressing down on him like a vice. He met Voldemort’s gaze, his sharp green eyes blazing. “Farther than you’d ever understand,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

Voldemort chuckled, a low, sinister sound that echoed through the chamber. “We shall see,” he said simply, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

~~~

The room in Grimmauld Place was dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn tightly shut. Shadows flickered against the walls as the fire in the corner crackled weakly, doing little to dispel the chill that clung to the air. Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders trembled as quiet, restrained sobs broke the silence, his other hand resting on his forearm, fingers tracing the dark outline of the new mark branded into his skin.

Barty sat on a worn chair by the fireplace, elbows resting on his knees, his sharp green eyes fixed on Regulus. His shirt was untucked, his tie discarded and forgotten on the floor. There was none of his usual bravado or sharp wit. For once, he looked exhausted- every ounce of his energy focused on Regulus, who seemed barely aware of the world around him.

Evan paced near the window, his footsteps soft against the worn rug. His expression was tight, jaw clenched as he stole glances at Regulus before shaking his head and resuming his pacing. Finally, he stopped, turning on Barty with a glare that carried as much confusion as anger.

“You’re an idiot, Crouch,” Evan spat, breaking the tense silence. His voice was low, but the sharpness of his words echoed in the small room. “I’ve seen you reckless, sure. I’ve even seen you stupid. But this? This is a new level.”

Barty’s head snapped up, his expression darkening instantly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he shot back, his voice rising, though his sharp tone was tempered by the sight of Regulus shaking on the bed.

Evan gestured angrily toward Regulus. “This! All of this! Regulus had no choice. His mother would’ve killed him if he’d refused. My father would of crucio’d me. But you? You didn’t have to do it, Barty. No one was forcing you.”

Barty stiffened, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He pointed a finger at Evan, his voice cold and edged with fury. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like I wasn’t forced,” he growled, stepping closer. “You heard what he said. You saw him.”

Evan didn’t back down, his jaw tightening as he jabbed a finger back at Barty. “Oh, I know exactly what I saw,” He said, his voice sharp. “You saw a threat to her. And instead of doing the smart thing- literally anything else- you let him mark you like some lapdog.”

“Shut your mouth,” Barty snarled, his fists clenching at his sides.

Evan’s laugh was bitter and humorless. “You’re not denying it,” he said, shaking his head. “Every bloody move you’ve made since second year has been about her. She doesn’t even truly know you. Her family hates you, for Merlin’s sake! And now you’re tied to him- forever. For what? Some girl who wouldn’t look at you twice if-”

“Don’t you finish that sentence,” Barty snapped, his voice dangerously low. He took another step forward, his green eyes blazing with a mix of rage and something far more vulnerable. “You don’t know the first thing about her.”

Evan scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s there to know? You’ve been reckless, selfish, and stupid- real stupidity, Barty, not your usual charming kind- the kind you use to hide your genius- in the name of protecting a girl who wouldn’t want this!”

“Don’t act like I don’t know that!” Barty shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his frustration. His fists trembled at his sides, and for a moment, the firelight caught the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. “Don’t you think I know what I’ve done? What I’ve sacrificed?”

Evan opened his mouth to respond, but Barty cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “He already knew, Evan. About her. About everything. He didn’t have to say her name- I could see it in his eyes. If I hadn’t done it, she’d be a pawn. He’d find a way to destroy her, to use her, just to punish me.” His voice shook, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I made a choice. I’ll live with it.”

Regulus’s quiet voice broke through the tension like a whisper in a storm. “You shouldn’t have done it,” He murmured, his words trembling as he finally looked up from his hands. His gray eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks pale and damp with tears. “You didn’t have to.”

Barty turned to him, his expression softening, though his voice remained firm. “Yes, I did,” He said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He crouched beside Regulus, resting a hand on his shoulder. “If I didn’t, it wouldn’t just be me paying the price. You know that.”

Regulus’s gaze dropped back to the mark on his arm, his fingers trembling as they traced the outline. “What happens when she finds out?” He whispered, his voice barely audible.

Barty hesitated, the weight of the question hanging heavily in the air. He glanced at Evan, who was watching him with a mixture of anger and something closer to pity, and then back at Regulus. Finally, he stood, his jaw tightening as he straightened his posture.

“I still saved her,” Barty said quietly, his voice steady. “That’s all that matters.”

The room fell into silence again, the fire’s soft crackle the only sound. Evan shook his head, turning back toward the window with a frustrated sigh. Regulus curled further into himself, his hands covering his face as he tried to muffle the quiet sobs that escaped him.

And Barty stood there, his fists clenching and unclenching as he stared at the floor. His mind was already miles away, picturing your face, your soft smile, the way your eyes seemed to see straight through him. He didn’t know what you’d say when you found out- or if you’d ever forgive him. But one thing was certain.

He’d do it all again. For you.

~~~

Returning to school after winter break wasn't the hard part. Facing you was.

It was hell to lie to you, especially when everything has just been getting good. If he said he wanted to tell you, he'd be lying. He knew he should; he knew you had a right to know the danger he was now apart of, but that ever arrogant and cocky part of him assured him it wasn't something he would have to worry about.

Because he was Bartemius Crouch Junior. Only rivaled in intelligence by Lily Evans- the brightest wizard of his age. He knew what he was doing, and even in his anxieties, he told himself above all else he needed to keep you safe. 

But he was still as much himself as he ever would be. He couldn't help but indulge in you.

The castle was quieter than usual, the last traces of the winter chill lingering in the air as students trickled back after the holidays. Barty leaned against the doorway of the empty boys' dormitory, his sharp green eyes trained on the frost-lined window across the room. His tie hung loosely around his neck, his uniform rumpled as though he’d thrown it on in haste. But that was a front, like everything else these days. The chaos of his appearance was deliberate, a way to distract from the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface.

He hadn’t seen you since before the break, not properly. Brief glimpses in the common room or the Great Hall weren’t enough. They never were. And now that you’d agreed to meet him- alone- his pulse was racing in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

The door creaked open, and there you were, framed by the dim light of the corridor. You slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind you. Your eyes found him immediately, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re a mess,” you teased lightly, your voice carrying the warmth that had kept him sane through countless sleepless nights. “Didn’t anyone teach you how to tie that thing properly?”

Barty grinned, stepping forward to close the distance between you. “You did, actually,” he murmured, his voice low and playful as his fingers toyed with the edge of his tie. “But I seem to forget every time you’re not around to fix it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the way your smile widened. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous,” you replied, reaching up to undo the messy knot. Your fingers brushed against his chest as you worked, and Barty inhaled sharply, his grin softening.

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you glanced up at him in surprise. He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just beneath your jaw.

“Barty,” you chided half-heartedly, though your voice wavered as his lips trailed down the column of your neck. “You’re impossible.”

“Am I? Tell me about it.” He murmured against your skin, his grin returning as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Or have you just forgotten how much fun I am when we’re alone?”

Your laughter filled the room, light and melodic, and Barty felt the tension in his chest ease for the first time in weeks. He moved to kiss you properly, capturing your lips in a way that was both soft and desperate, as though he were trying to make up for every second you’d been apart.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as the kiss deepened. Barty’s grip on your waist tightened, and without breaking the kiss, he guided you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let out a soft gasp as he lowered you onto the mattress, his weight settling over you.

“Missed you so much,” He murmured between kisses, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve no idea.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I missed you too,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over the faint shadows under his eyes. “What’s going on with you, Barty? You’ve been… different.”

The question sent a jolt of panic through him, but he masked it with a crooked grin, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Different? Me? Never,” he teased, his tone light. “I’m the same charming git you’ve always adored.”

Your brows knit together, but before you could press further, he silenced you with another kiss, pouring every ounce of longing and frustration into it. His hands roamed up your sides, his touch gentle but insistent, and soon the only sounds in the room were the rustle of fabric and the muffled sighs that escaped your lips.

It didn’t go further than that. It never did. Not because the desire wasn’t there, but because Barty couldn’t bear the thought of letting you see all the cracks in his carefully constructed facade. This- just you, just him, just this moment- was enough. It had to be.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones as he studied you. “You’re perfect, you know that?” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “What a romantic,” you teased, though there was no mistaking the affection in your tone.

“You make me that way.” he replied, his grin softening as he leaned in to kiss you again.

The sun had long since set, plunging the room into soft shadow. The lone candle on the nightstand burned low, its golden light flickering uncertainly across the walls, casting fleeting glimpses of the intimacy shared within. Barty lay beside you on his narrow bed, his body curled protectively around yours. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb tracing slow, deliberate lines as if committing every detail to memory. His other hand rested on your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into your skin- not to possess, but to ground himself, to remind him you were real.

His green eyes softened as they fixed on you. There was a kind of rawness in his expression, a vulnerability he never let the rest of the world see. The weight of the war, of his family, of all the lies he carried- it all seemed to melt away in your presence. In this space, there was no Voldemort, no Crouch manor, no mark on his arm. Just you. Just this moment.

And Merlin, he thought, you were stunning. The way the candlelight danced across your face, your lips curved into a faint smile- it was almost too much for him to bear. His chest ached with a quiet, desperate sort of love, the kind he’d never admit aloud because to say it might ruin it. You deserved softness, honesty, all the things he could only give you in the silence of moments like this.

“What are you smiling about?” You teased, brushing your nose against his, your fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck. The gentle tug of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he exhaled softly, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before finding yours again.

“You,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection. His thumb paused on your cheek, pressing lightly as his smile deepened. “Thinking about how breathtaking you look right now.”

Your laughter was soft and warm, filling the small space between you like sunlight breaking through a cloud. “You’re such a sap,” you teased, but your tone was tender, your own gaze brimming with affection.

“Only for you,” he replied without hesitation, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. But there was nothing lazy about the way he watched you- intense, as if the weight of his world rested entirely in your hands.

You kissed him then, slow and soft, and Barty let himself get lost in it. He tightened his hold on you, his arms wrapping more securely around your frame as though he could somehow hold you closer than skin allowed. The desperation seeped through him, the way his lips lingered on yours, the way his hands mapped the curve of your waist. You were his anchor, his reprieve, his reason to keep fighting against the tides threatening to drag him under.

But then your lips began to trail down his jaw, feather-light and slow, leaving a line of soft kisses along his neck. He let out a quiet sigh, tilting his head slightly to give you more access, his fingers threading through your hair. He was wholly yours in this moment, every wall he’d built around himself crumbling beneath your touch.

And then your hand slipped beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

The moment your fingertips brushed against the raised, rough skin on his forearm, Barty’s entire body went rigid. His breath caught, and his heart thundered in his chest. Panic surged through him, sharp and consuming, as if the world had suddenly tipped sideways. 

You froze, your touch tentative as your brow furrowed. “Barty,” you murmured, your voice soft but edged with a quiet dread. “What’s this? Did you get a new tattoo?”

His heart dropped. He should have prepared for this, should have thought of an excuse, should have done something other than lie here like an idiot and hope it never came up. His green eyes snapped open, the warmth in them vanishing as his hand shot out to catch your wrist. He gripped it firmly but not harshly, his touch trembling slightly. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended. “Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

But you didn’t let it go. You never did. You tilted your head, searching his face for the truth he was so desperately trying to hide. “Barty,” you said again, your voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “Show me.”

He never knew pain as intimately as he knew it that night. When you left, closed the door on him and a chapter of his life he never wanted to end- he didn't know what to do. He spent hours, early into the daylight just wondering how he could properly gravel for your forgiveness. 

He knew it was stupid. Regulus told him. Evan had told him. Pandora warned him. Dorcas had walked away.

So, he wandered.

Barty's footsteps echoed down the quiet corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower, the early morning light filtering faintly through the frosted windows. He wasn't thinking about where he was going. Having wandered aimlessly in what seemed to be a never ending circle, his legs numb down to their calves. That familiar exhaustion pangs- the aches powerful as ever. Every thought was consumed by you- your expression when you saw the mark, the pain in your voice, the way you had turned and walked away without looking back.

He had been through countless battles- against his father’s expectations, against the oppressive rules of his world, against the looming shadow of Voldemort. But this? This felt like defeat.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, his head tipping back as he exhaled a shaky breath. The smirk he so often wore was gone, replaced by an emptiness that reflected in his sharp green eyes. “You’ll understand,” he muttered to himself, though the words rang hollow. “You have to.”

Barty’s pacing resumed, his frustration and desperation bubbling to the surface. He had never been good at waiting, at sitting still, and the gnawing ache in his chest made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams. He wasn’t even sure what he would say to you- how he could explain the choices he had made, the things he had done. All he knew was that he had to try.

You, in all for fire and passion, had taught Barty things he never thought possible. You taught him a world so far separated from his own he never saw it to be truly real; and the consequences of his daydreams were crashing down through his pride and arrogance. 

You showed him patience.

You showed him kindness.

You showed him something he never knew he could believe, that someone with his father’s blood running through their veins could love. 

Not in the way he loved his friends. Not how his father claims to love his mother. Not how his father claimed to love himself. A love so terrifying he would drop his soul at Voldemort's feet a million times over if it meant you would never have to know what it meant to meet heartbreak. But he brought you to that door. He brought you to that fall and did all but shove you in. 

Was this it?

With all of the time in the world it wasn't something that crossed his mind. That it could feel like he was being torn from his chest, torn from his rib cage and left to watch his heart beat outside of him. Knowing you were the one it was going to ruin him further. What was left of his humanity if you weren't their to witness it?

He was an actor playing brave. A crow imitating a lion's roar- if just to shield himself from reality. That he was nothing more than hollowed bones before you and you had turned away. Calling him out for what he truly was. A coward.

Barty was snapped out of his melodrama when he felt a sharp shove against his shoulder. Barty barely had a chance to process the shove before he was slammed back into the cold stone wall. His sharp green eyes snapped to the source, narrowing as he found himself face-to-face with James Potter. James’s hazel eyes were blazing with fury, his glasses slightly askew from the force of his push. Sirius stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the same wall, lighting a cigarette like this was any other morning. But the hard set of his jaw betrayed the tension he was trying to mask.

~~~

Years passed, and the boy who had once been sharp-tongued and reckless, who laughed at the world’s absurdities and sought refuge in fleeting pleasures, was gone. War had hollowed him out, his wit and charm replaced with a cold, calculating precision. Bartemius Crouch Jr. had become everything his father had ever wanted- and feared- master of cruelty, a weapon honed to deadly perfection in Voldemort’s service.

But even as he climbed the ranks of the Death Eaters, even as his name became a whispered fear among those who resisted the Dark Lord, there was a part of him that refused to die. A part that clung to a single memory: soon.

You, standing in the sunlight, your laughter echoing like a melody he couldn’t forget. You, touching his face with a softness he didn’t deserve. You, walking away, your tears falling like shards of glass that had embedded themselves in his heart. Every attempt he had taken to open his chest and run his bunt nails across the organ most at fault for his weakness only buried them deeper. As if a reminder of what would always be too far from his reach. A love so violent.

The meeting had been brief, but its impact lingered in the cold air of the chamber long after Voldemort’s crimson eyes had burned into Barty’s. The Dark Lord stood before him, his presence oppressive, his serpentine features bathed in the dim green glow of cursed fire.

“You come to me with a request,” Voldemort said, his voice a silky hiss. “How unusual, Bartemius. It is typically I who gives orders.”

Barty knelt before him, his head bowed low, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “My loyalty to you is absolute, my lord. I have proven that time and again. But I seek… a guarantee.”

Voldemort’s laughter was low and chilling, a sound that reverberated off the stone walls. “A guarantee? How quaint. What is it you fear?”

Barty lifted his gaze, his green eyes cold but resolute. “If the war turns against us- if there are sacrifices to be made- I ask only one thing. Spare her. Spare her.”

The air grew heavier, as if the magic itself recoiled at his words. Voldemort tilted his head, studying Barty with a curiosity that was far more dangerous than anger. “You would make a deal with me, Bartemius? A deal for a blood traitor? A girl who abandoned you?”

Barty didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

The silence stretched, and then Voldemort stepped closer, his red eyes boring into Barty’s. “You should know better than most, Bartemius, that attachments are a weakness. They cloud the mind, dull the edge of a blade. I have warned you before: those who cannot control their attachments will find themselves undone by them.” 

Barty met his gaze without wavering. “Then I will accept the consequences, my lord. But my loyalty is yours, as long as you promise her safety.”

The Dark Lord’s lips curled into a cruel smile, his pale fingers brushing against Barty’s cheek like a mockery of affection- reminded of another onyx haired folly who kneeled before him with a similar request of his own. 

Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement, his pale lips curling into a cruel smirk as he loomed over Barty. The chamber felt colder, the green fire casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to reach for Barty like phantoms.

“Watching her,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a silken mockery. “Such a word hardly does justice to the devotion you’ve shown, does it, Bartemius?” His tone dripped with derision, his serpentine features etched with dark satisfaction.

Barty’s jaw tightened, his green eyes locked on the floor, unwilling to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. He didn’t respond. He knew better.

“Oh, do not deny it,” Voldemort continued, leaning closer, his presence suffocating. “I see everything, Bartemius. The way you slip away, cloaked in shadows, to steal glimpses of her life. The way you linger at the edge of her world, savoring the scraps of her existence like a starving dog. The way you indulge in the very idea of her- her name, her memory, her scent. You cling to her like a drowning man to driftwood.”

Barty’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. Still, he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not when every word Voldemort spoke was a truth he’d buried deep within himself.

Voldemort’s smile widened, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “How deliciously human of you, Bartemius. To be undone by something so… trivial. A girl who has cast you aside, who would recoil in horror if she saw what you’ve become. And yet you kneel here, groveling for her life.”

Barty’s head snapped up then, his sharp green eyes blazing with defiance. “I would do anything to keep her safe,” he said, his voice low but steady. The words were a declaration, a challenge.

Voldemort tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of feigned curiosity. “Anything,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “How noble. How foolish.”

He leaned closer, his red eyes narrowing as he studied Barty with a dark intensity. “Tell me, Bartemius,” he purred, his voice cold and cutting. “Do you truly believe she is worth it? This girl who has banished you from her heart and her mind? Who has turned her back on you without a second thought?”

Barty didn’t flinch, his voice unwavering as he replied. “Yes.”

The air seemed to vibrate with the weight of the single word, the defiance in Barty’s tone hanging between them like a challenge. Voldemort straightened, his lips curling into a smile that was both amused and sinister.

“How very predictable,” Voldemort said softly, his voice dripping with disdain. “Love has made fools of greater men than you, Bartemius. It is a poison, a weakness that festers and rots until nothing remains but regret and ruin.”

He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Barty with a cold detachment. “But I am not without a sense of humor,” he continued, his tone almost light. “Very well. I will grant your request. She will be spared- so long as you remain useful to me.”

Relief flickered in Barty’s eyes, but it was short-lived as Voldemort’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“However,” the Dark Lord added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “know this: her life is a gift that I give, not to her, but to you. A reminder of who holds the power in this... arrangement. She lives because I allow it. And if you falter, if you fail me even once, her safety will be the first thing I take from you.”

Barty bowed his head, his voice steady but strained as he replied, “I will not fail you, my lord.”

Voldemort’s laughter echoed through the chamber, cold and mirthless. “We shall see,” he said, his red eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “We shall see.”

~~~

The Potter Manor loomed in the moonlight, a quiet fortress against the chaos of the world beyond. Barty crouched in the shadows just beyond the property line, his sharp green eyes scanning the grounds for any sign of movement. The wards around the manor pulsed faintly, an almost imperceptible hum in the still night air. Breaking through them would be tricky, but not impossible. Not for him.

He’d spent weeks planning this. Weeks of arguing with Evan and Regulus, who’d both told him it was reckless, idiotic, and entirely predictable. To stay hidden, stay safe, wait on Dumbledore’s word before revealing themselves. But he had spent weeks of pacing, of running scenarios through his mind until they blurred together, all leading to this moment. If Regulus could act foolishly, could risk his life for a bloody necklace, in the name of love- he could too. He could almost hear Evan’s dry voice in his head: “You’ll get yourself killed over this. Over her.”

Maybe he would. But Barty had never been one for caution.

He rolled his shoulders, drawing his wand from the holster at his side. The wards were impressive, layered and intricate, but Barty wasn’t the brightest wizard of his age for nothing. He murmured the incantation under his breath, his wand tracing precise, deliberate movements. The magic buzzed against his skin as the wards flickered, then shimmered, leaving a narrow opening just wide enough for him to slip through.

Barty exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips as he straightened. “Still got it,” he muttered to himself, tucking his wand away. His heart pounded as he moved swiftly toward the manor, his footsteps silent on the frost-covered grass. Every shadow felt like a threat, every creak of the night amplified in his mind, but he pressed on. He had to.

The manor was just as it was days ago: grand, imposing, and utterly devoid of warmth. The windows glinted like cold eyes in the moonlight as he approached the side entrance. He pressed his hand against the ancient stone, muttering a soft Alohomora. The lock clicked, the heavy door swinging open just enough for him to slip inside.

The silence inside was deafening. Barty’s sharp green eyes darted around the darkened hallway, his hand brushing the wand at his side as he moved deeper into the house. He knew the layout by heart, every twist and turn, every creaky floorboard that could give him away. He’d never admit why. 

You weren't home yet, he knew that. You would be out, somewhere between here and the heart of London, allowing Remus and his loyal mutt to lick your wounds. To shower you in the attention you deserved; it happened every month. 

The air in your room was heavy with stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of Barty’s cloak as he stepped inside. His sharp green eyes darted around, taking in every detail like a thief cataloging stolen treasures. He closed the door softly behind him, his hand lingering on the worn brass handle before he turned to face the room fully.

It was smaller than he’d imagined for someone with your spirit, but it felt... intimate. Lived in. The faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, subtle and familiar, wrapping around him like a ghost of your presence. He inhaled deeply, his chest tightening as the ache in his chest grew sharper.

His boots barely made a sound against the plush rug as he crossed the room, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed against the edge of your desk, tracing the worn wood where years of use had smoothed the surface. Quills and parchment were scattered haphazardly, alongside an open book marked with a ribbon. He didn’t look at the title- he couldn’t bring himself to. It felt like prying, even for him.

Instead, his gaze moved to the bed, the center of the room, and something primal stirred in him. The duvet was slightly rumpled, as though you’d thrown it off in haste that morning. The pillow bore the faintest indent, a shadow of where your head had rested. His breath hitched, and he found himself moving closer, his chest tightening with every step.

He hesitated, standing at the edge of the bed, his fists clenching at his sides. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. Knew that stepping into this space, touching these pieces of you, was a line he shouldn’t cross. But he couldn’t help himself.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against the edge of the duvet. The fabric was soft beneath his touch, and the scent of your perfume was stronger here, mingling with something uniquely you. It made his head swim, his grip on reality faltering for a moment as he let himself sink into the feeling.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned down, his face hovering just above the pillow. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and the scent hit him like a spell- intoxicating, comforting, overwhelming. It was almost too much, a cruel reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he couldn’t let go of.

Barty’s jaw tightened as he straightened, his hand gripping the bedpost for support. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, the storm of emotions threatening to swallow him whole. Get it together, he thought bitterly, raking a hand through his hair. You’re here for a reason.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, his fingers betrayed him, reaching out to trace the edge of your pillow, the line where your head had rested. His touch was light, almost regretful, as though he were afraid to disturb the memory of you. 

“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and bitter. The sound barely broke the silence of the room, but it felt deafening in his ears. He straightened abruptly, stepping back from the bed as though it had burned him.

He turned away, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to pull himself back from the edge. But the damage was done. The scent of you lingered in his lungs, the feel of your presence etched into his skin. He wanted to hate himself for it- for the way his obsession consumed him, for the way he clung to every scrap of you like a lifeline. But he couldn’t.

Because even now, as he stood in your room, surrounded by the echoes of your life, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d looked at him once. Like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t the monster he’d become.

The room was dark, save for the faint silvery glow of moonlight streaming through the curtains, painting the walls in cold shadows. Barty crouched in the corner, his sharp green eyes trained on the door, his breath quiet and measured. The faint scent of your perfume still clung to the air, wrapping around him like a ghost, making his chest ache with a longing so sharp it bordered on pain.

His fingers itched to touch something- anything that belonged to you. He had resisted so far, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but it took everything he had. His eyes drifted back to the bed, the faint indentation on the pillow where your head had rested the night before. He wanted to crawl into that space, to feel the warmth you left behind, to lose himself in the memory of you.

The soft creak of the stairs snapped him out of his reverie, his body tensing instinctively. His heart leapt into his throat as he heard the faint sound of your footsteps approaching, each one measured and deliberate. You were home. 

Barty’s breath hitched as the doorknob turned, and the door swung open. There you stood, silhouetted by the faint light of the corridor, your features softened by the glow. His chest tightened as he drank in the sight of you, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts he couldn’t untangle. 

You didn’t see him. You moved with the ease of someone who thought they were alone, stepping inside and locking the door behind you with a quiet click. Your wand was set on the bedside table, your movements efficient but unhurried. 

He watched, silent and still, as you turned toward the window, your hands reaching for the heavy curtains. The moonlight illuminated your face, catching on the delicate curve of your cheek, the faint furrow of your brow. You looked tired, worn down, and the sight of it made something in him twist painfully. He hated that you felt this way- hated that he couldn’t be the one to fix it.

You turned your back to him, and instinct took over. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he moved. His hand shot out, clamping over your mouth, the heat of your skin searing his palm like a brand.

You reacted instantly, your body jerking against his hold. He felt your muscles tense, your sharp intake of breath, the fight that surged through you. Before he could say anything, before he could explain, you threw your head back with a force that stunned him.

The crack of your skull against his nose was sharp and jarring, pain exploding across his face. His grip faltered, and he staggered back, a groan tearing from his throat as blood began to trickle between his fingers. 

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice rough and muffled as he pressed a hand to his nose. He leaned against the wall for support, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. "Star, that's twice now. Are you always this violent, or am I special?"

Your wide eyes locked on him, your breath coming in shallow gasps. He saw the disbelief in your expression, the way your body trembled with a mixture of fear and fury. "No," you whispered, shaking your head as if trying to dispel the sight before you. "No. You’re- You’re supposed to be dead."

The words cut deeper than the blow to his face, but he forced a grin, blood staining his teeth. "I think we should talk," he said, his voice low, laced with something almost pleading.

The way you looked at him, as though he was a ghost- something you couldn’t decide whether to fear or pity- made his stomach churn. He had imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand, but never like this. Never with you looking at him like he was something monstrous.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost gentle. “I’m alive.”

But the way you stepped back, your hands trembling at your sides, told him that wasn’t enough. And for the first time in his life, Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t know how to fix it.

~~~

Your heart was throbbing at the rate of a hummingbird. What could you do? What would you do? How did he get in here? How did he pass the wards? He watched your eyes dart to the bedside table. He let out a low sigh, almost annoyed, as if he had thought this through a million times over.

“Star..” He warned carefully but you didn't think to heed any warning, running over to try and retrieve your wand. He didn't move, didn't stop you, as you grabbed the beautifully carved wood and held it out to him. The line was clear; no further.

But Barty never listened.

He stepped closer, slowly inching close and allowing the wand to press to his chest. As if begging you to do it- strike him down- because you were the only person who could bring upon his downfall. Could break him down in ways no one else could, and seeing you again, seeing you look at him with nothing but fear in your eyes, it was all the same. Immeasurable pain.

Some people trace scars. When they appear on the flesh of loved ones cherished beyond belief. Running the soft pad of their finger along the marks that were not made by them. Some would even bring their lips to the bundled and protruding skin as if a kiss could ease them into tender health. Promoting its repair.

But the look in your eyes was like watching your fingers curl inwards. Unbeknownst to you through ignorance or arrogance that he mirrored onto you it didn't matter. It was feeling your nails break into the skin, reclaiming his wounds as ones to remember you by, no one else. 

There was no bandage, there was no healing. Just a repeated daggering that left him on his knees in prayer to any higher being that you would forgive him. That you would see mercy for him.

If not that, then dagger him to something unrepairable. Something only you could recognize the madness behind. Your design.

You trembled, and his eyes softened, slightly as his hand ran over your wrist as it held the wand. “Barty-” You warned and he gave a low sigh, as if you saying his name physically affected him.

Barty’s lips quirked into a weak, almost self-deprecating smile as his fingers brushed your wrist. His touch was featherlight, as though he were afraid that the smallest pressure would cause you to shatter. “Say it again,” he whispered, his voice rough, almost raw. “My name. Say it again.”

You flinched at his words, at the sheer vulnerability in his tone. He looked at you like he was dying and you were the reaper, like you were the last thing tethering him to whatever humanity he had left- or ready to take him away from it. And for a moment- just a moment- you faltered. Your grip on your wand trembled, and the air between you felt impossibly heavy.

“Don’t,” you managed, your voice shaking but firm enough to keep the distance between you. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me-” Your words broke off, caught in the tangle of emotions that constricted your throat. You couldn’t finish. Not with him standing so close, with his sharp green eyes piercing through every wall you’d tried to build.

He tilted his head, his expression softening into something unrecognizably tender. “Don’t make you what?” He murmured, stepping even closer, until the tip of your wand pressed more firmly against his chest. He didn’t stop. He didn’t flinch. “Hate me? Forgive me? Love me again?”

Your breath hitched, and Barty caught it. He always did. His smirk wavered, his lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned in, just enough that his voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t hate me,” he said, his tone laced with certainty. “You can’t.”

The tears stinging at the corners of your eyes betrayed you, and you cursed yourself for the way your chest ached at his words. “You don’t know me,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Not anymore.”

Barty’s smile faltered, his expression flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Pain? Desperation? All of it. “I know you better than anyone,” he replied quietly. “And I know I don’t deserve it, but I need you to hear me. Just this once.”

Your grip on your wand tightened, your knuckles whitening as the tremor in your hand betrayed your composure. “Barty,” you warned again, your voice stronger now. “I swear to Merlin, if you take one more step-”

But he did. Of course, he did. He always did.

“I won’t stop,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. His hand slid up your arm, carefully, deliberately, until his fingers brushed the edge of your wand. He gently pushed it aside, though his touch was more a suggestion than a demand. “Not until you know. Not until you understand.”

“Understand what?” You snapped, anger finally breaking through the cracks of your composure. You stepped back, creating a sliver of distance between you, though your wand remained at your side, trembling. “That you lied to me? That you made me believe you were someone you weren’t?”

“I never lied to you,” Barty said, his voice sharp but not unkind. He stepped closer again, closing the distance you’d tried to create, his green eyes blazing with something fierce, unrelenting. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”

You scoffed, the sound bitter as it escaped your lips. “That’s not better, Barty. That’s not-”

“It was to protect you,” he interrupted, his voice rising just enough to cut you off. The words were urgent, desperate, spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “Everything I did- everything I became- it was all for you. To keep you safe.”

“Safe?” you repeated, your voice cracking as you glared at him. “From what? From you?”

“No,” he said immediately, his voice firm. “From them. From him.” His hand rose to his sleeve, and in one swift motion, he pushed it up to reveal the dark, jagged mark etched into his forearm. The Dark Mark.

Your breath caught, your chest tightening as your gaze locked onto the cursed symbol. The sight of it sent a wave of nausea rolling through you, and you stumbled back, your free hand flying to your mouth. Reminded of the night you found it, the pain of knowing the man you loved had sworn himself to a monster.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice breaking as he reached for you again. “Don’t look at me like that. Please.”

You shook your head, tears streaming freely down your cheeks now. “You chose this,” you choked out, your voice thick with betrayal. “You chose him. You chose them.”

“I chose you,” Barty said, his voice trembling but resolute. He dropped his sleeve, his hands falling to his sides as he stepped closer again, his green eyes burning with intensity. “Every choice I made, every risk I took- it was all for you. To keep you out of their reach. To keep you alive.”

You stared at him, your heart warring with your mind, every emotion crashing into you all at once. Love. Hate. Pain. Longing. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” you said finally, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “You don’t get to destroy yourself and call it love.”

The words struck him harder than any spell ever could. Barty’s shoulders sagged, his breath hitching as he struggled to find the right words. But there weren’t any. There never were.

“You were my everything,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You still are. And I don’t know how to stop loving you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his confession hanging between you like a fragile thread, ready to snap.

And then, for the first time, you didn’t look away.

“What do you want from me, Barty?” You asked, your voice breaking. “What do you want me to do?”

His chest rose and fell as though breathing itself had become an effort, and for the first time, you saw just how deeply cracked his facade was. This wasn’t the boy who had charmed his way into your life with a grin and a joke. This was someone breaking apart before you.

“What do you want from me, Barty?” You asked again, your voice cracking. “What do you need me to do? Because I can’t keep doing this.”

He hesitated, his lips parting as though the words were caught in his throat. Finally, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers trembling. “I need you to listen,” he said softly, his voice rough. “Just… listen.”

You didn’t lower your wand, but the strength in your arm faltered. “Fine,” you said, your tone hard but brittle. “Talk.”

Barty took a cautious step closer, testing the fragile space between you. “He’s got eyes on you,” he murmured, the words weighted with urgency. “Voldemort. Now that he thinks I’m gone, there’s nothing stopping him from... from- ” His voice broke off, his teeth clenching as he struggled to continue. “From using you. Hurting you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t lower your wand. “Why?” you demanded, your voice sharp. “Why would he care about me? I have nothing to do with him or his war.”

Barty hesitated, his jaw tightening as he avoided your gaze. “Because of me,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “Because... he knows.”

Your heart sank, the room spinning as his words settled over you. “What does he know, Barty?” you demanded, your voice rising as panic seeped in. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Barty snapped, his frustration flaring. He ran a hand through his hair again, his movements agitated. “He saw it. In my mind. The moment we met. He knew about you before I could even- ” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “He knew everything.”

You stared at him, your grip on your wand trembling. “And you let him? You let him see me?”

“Do you think I had a choice?” Barty shot back, his voice rising. His green eyes burned as he stepped closer, his desperation bleeding through. “You don’t know what it’s like, Star. You don’t know what he can do. He doesn’t just ask for loyalty- he takes everything.”

Your mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with a sickening clarity. “And that’s why you took the mark,” you murmured, the realization hitting you like a blow. “You didn’t do it for him. Or the war. You did it for me.”

Barty’s face twisted, a mix of guilt and defiance flashing across his features. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “It wasn’t just for you. It was for Evan. For Regulus. For all of us.”

“Don’t lie to me, Barty,” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger and grief. “Not now. Not after everything.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he exhaled shakily. “Fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. He saw you. I did it for you. Because I thought... I thought if I could keep him away from you, if I could make him think I was loyal, he wouldn’t... he wouldn’t touch you.���

You stared at him, your chest tightening as the weight of his confession settled over you. “You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you said, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to destroy yourself and call it love.” You repeated

Barty flinched, his green eyes glistening as he took another step closer. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t lose you. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the tears stinging at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You already lost me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “The moment you chose him, you lost me.”

Barty’s breath hitched, his hands trembling at his sides. “I never stopped loving you,” he said, his voice raw. “Not for a second. And I know you still- ”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice sharp. “Don’t say it. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

For a moment, Barty looked like he might argue, like he might push further. But then he stepped back, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “For everything.”

The tears spilled over now, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that even after everything, part of you still ached for him. “You should go,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”

Barty nodded slowly, his green eyes locking onto yours one last time. “I’ll protect you,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Even if you hate me for it.”

And then he turned, disappearing into the hall and leaving you struggling out in open water. He obeyed you, not out of fear, but out of feelings you were sure he didn't quite know anymore.

~~~

The morning crept in through the curtains far too soon, dragging the remnants of another sleepless night with it. Your body ached with exhaustion, every muscle heavy with the weight of your restless mind. Barty’s words echoed endlessly in your head, each one a thread in a web of fear and confusion that left no room for peace. The silence of the room pressed in around you, thick and suffocating.

A soft rustle at the window broke through your haze. Blinking, you turned your head toward the sound, your heart leaping when you saw a familiar figure perched on the sill. The owl was regal, its feathers sleek and chestnut brown, with intelligent golden eyes that seemed to hold secrets of their own. You recognized it immediately- it had once belonged to your father before he passed it on to James.

“Still taking care of them all, huh?” You murmured, forcing a faint smile as you slid out of bed. The owl hooted softly, extending its leg with a delicate flourish, the parchment tied securely with a ribbon bearing Lily’s familiar touch. 

Your fingers trembled as you untied the letter, smoothing the folds before sinking onto the edge of the bed to read.  Only to hear your family owl flutter its way over to perch on your nightstand, as if to comfort you.

My dearest Bam, 

First of all, don’t you dare scold me for calling you that. I know you will. You always do. But it's better then writing out Bambi, isn't it? I guess I've written it anyway.

I need you to come to the Burrow in a week. I'll send Remus. Dumbledore has requested all the Potters be there, and yes, that includes you. Don't ask- I haven't a clue.

I told James, of course, and now he’s stress-pacing through the living room like a caged lion. He’s muttering about plans, protective wards, and Merlin knows what else. You know how he gets. Sirius is egging him on, naturally. I’m tempted to hex them both just for some peace and quiet, but that would probably just encourage them.

Now, onto more important matters- I miss you. I miss our late-night chats in the Gryffindor common room, our stolen hours in the library when we swore we were studying but mostly just gossiped. I miss sneaking into the kitchens with you-Remus- and giggling like children when the house-elves indulged us. It feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Merlin, we're old now.

Speaking of nostalgia, Harry had his first broom ride last week. James insisted on letting him try it without any help, and you can imagine how that went. He was fearless, of course, but I nearly fainted when he wobbled mid-air. He’s fine- better than fine, actually. He’s already got James convinced he’s the next great Potter Seeker. Merlin help us all. Mark my words, if Sirius brings him Quidditch gear next I will not be responsible for what I do to him.

He keeps asking when you'll visit next. Well, as much as a tiny still developing human can ask anything coherent. He's been pulling down your picture frames and bringing them to James. Like he does with his toys, pointing and grabbing at them before James waves his wand and they appear in front of him. I wonder if he thinks bringing the frame to James enough times, he'll magically make you appear next.

Enough of that, I'm already watery eyed.

Promise me you’ll be good, alright? Or at least try. I know you better than anyone, and I know you’ll do whatever you think is right, even if it’s reckless. Just remember that we love you. Always. 

Take care of yourself, Bambi. We’ll see you soon.  

All my love,  

Lily 

The parchment trembled in your hands as you read and reread Lily’s words, each line feeling like a small dagger pressing into your chest. The warmth of her affection radiated from the letter, but it was bittersweet- filling you with longing and an ache so deep it felt like a chasm you could never cross.

Your gaze drifted to the family owl perched on the window sill, its soft coos filling the silence of the room. Your hand absentmindedly ran over its feathers, seeking comfort in the familiar presence. 

A part of you wanted to crumble under the weight of the letter, to curl up and let the tide of emotions wash over you until there was nothing left. But you couldn’t. Not when you knew that in a week, you’d be surrounded by the same faces you’d worked so hard to avoid. The thought of stepping back into that world- one you had once belonged to so effortlessly- made your heart clench.

You tucked the letter carefully into the drawer beside your bed, as though hiding it could also hide the feelings it unearthed. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you sank back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Memories of Lily’s laughter, James’s boisterous teasing, Sirius’s sharp wit, and Remus’s steady presence flooded your mind. 

You had been running from them.

You rarely spoke to James or Lily, but you allowed Sirius to come every Friday to take you dancing with Remus. Even then, you were reserved. And some Fridays, the order owned them not you.

But next Friday, you would belong to the order two. And what was the best next step? Tell people about Barty? While there was still a mole in the mix? Who could you trust to be honest with? And what was this meeting about?

You were scared.

Guess you'd have to learn later.

~~~

The familiar crack of Apparition left you dizzy, but as the quirky silhouette of the Burrow shimmered into view, a sense of calm enveloped you. Its crooked floors and impossible towers defied logic yet promised the safety and warmth you’d been missing for months. The mismatched windows glowed golden against the cool evening sky, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the soft rustle of the garden. You glanced at Remus as he steadied himself with his cane, the faintest hint of amusement on his face.

“Don’t let Molly rope you into shelling peas,” Remus quipped, his tone dry but playful. 

“I’ll take a chore over watching you sulk in a corner,” you retorted, the light in your eyes softening the jab. 

The moment you stepped through the door, the Burrow’s chaos welcomed you. Molly’s sharp voice called from the kitchen, “…and if you two so much as breathe near those pastries-” followed by the muffled laughter of Fred and George. Arthur’s chuckle drifted from the sitting room, the newspaper in his hands quivering as he fought to keep a straight face. The air smelled of herbs and roasted chicken, spiced with a coziness that made the tension in your chest ease.

Sirius was the first to notice you, his bark of laughter echoing through the room. Before you could react, he wrapped you in a bear hug that left you breathless, his leather jacket cool against your cheek.

“About time, Bambi,” Sirius grinned, his stormy eyes glittering. “Just have to get ol Albus to get you outside that house, huh?”

“Sirius, you’re crushing me!” You wheezed, though the laughter bubbling in your chest betrayed you.

“Good.” He pulled back slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he scanned your face. “Someone’s gotta remind you that there’s more to life than brooding.” He winked before ruffling your hair and stepping aside for the next assault.

James bounded forward, his grin wide enough to light the room. “You look like you’ve been through the wars,” He teased, pulling you into a warm embrace. “I was this close to just picking you up on my broom.”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back, though your smile mirrored his.

“You’re lucky I didn’t leave you on the doorstep,” James added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Molly made pie, and I’m not sharing.”

Before you could retort, Lily appeared, her arms wrapping around you like a blanket of comfort. “Ignore him,” She murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Her soft perfume, floral with a hint of vanilla, wrapped around you as she stepped back. “Harry’s over there,” She said, gesturing to a wicker basket by the hearth.

Your heart leapt at the sight of the tot. His bright green eyes locked onto yours as you approached, his chubby arms reaching out as if he recognized you. Lifting him into your arms, you marveled at how heavy he felt, how much he’d grown. His giggles drowned out the room’s noise, pulling a smile to your lips that you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Miss him, don’t you?” Peter’s voice startled you. He leaned casually against the wall, his smile tight and fleeting.

“I do.” You admitted, cradling Harry closer. “He’s gotten so big.”

Behind you, Remus chuckled softly, his gaze flickering between the chaotic twins and the steaming kettle on the stove. “Be careful.” He murmured as he passed. “They’ll have you doing dishes if you’re not quick enough to disappear.”

The twins erupted in mock outrage at something Molly had said, darting past you and narrowly avoiding a hex she threw their way. Arthur peeked over his paper, his warm eyes crinkling as he muttered, “Boys will be boys.”

The house itself seemed alive, its wooden beams creaking with the rhythm of laughter and footsteps. A cuckoo clock on the wall chimed cheerfully, its tiny bird flapping its wings as if to join the fun. In the corner, a knitting needle clicked furiously away on a half-finished jumper, abandoned but determined to finish its work. The scent of molasses and butter floated in from the kitchen, promising a feast.

Sirius plopped onto the couch beside you, his arm slinging casually over the backrest. “I’ll trade you one Harry cuddle for a slice of pie,” He offered, waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re insufferable,” You muttered, but you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“I learned from the best,” He cheeked with a grin, gesturing toward James, who was now teasing Lily about her perfectly sliced carrots. 

“And they are the same size! By the time you're done, Molly will have finished the roast!”

“Eff off Potter.”

“No can do, Potter.”

You gave a small laugh at their exchange and relented, handing Harry over to his god father and leaning slightly into his side as Harry cooed out at the disturbance. He reached for you still, making Sirius gasp in offense. 

He held Harry up dramatically, looking into his tiny, chubby-cheeked face with mock outrage. "Et tu, Harry? Betraying me for her already? And here I thought I was your favorite."

Harry babbled something unintelligible, flailing his little arms in a way that made Sirius grin even wider. “That’s right,” he said. “Tell her she’ll have to fight me for you.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching out to gently stroke Harry’s soft, tufty hair. “You’re too much.” You scoffed, though there was no hiding the affection in your voice. 

“Much to love,” Sirius quipped, cradling Harry in one arm while dramatically gesturing to the room with the other. “That’s what they all say.”

“Sure, Pads,” James called from the kitchen, his voice muffled but dripping with amusement. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sirius turned to you, feigning a wounded look. “See what I deal with? You’re my only ally in this house of betrayal.”

“Careful, Black.” You teased, leaning closer with a smirk. “You’re starting to sound like a drama queen.”

He gasped, clutching Harry to his chest like a damsel in distress. “How dare you? In front of my godson, no less!”

Harry giggled at Sirius’s antics, his tiny fingers tangling in Sirius’s hair. You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it startling you. It felt so easy here, so natural, as though the weight of everything you’d been carrying had lifted just for a moment.

Across the room, Lily smiled warmly at the scene, her hands busy stirring a pot on the stove. “You’re good with him,” she called softly, catching your eye. 

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “He’s an easy one to love.”

The warmth in Lily’s expression deepened as she turned back to her cooking. “He is.”

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Molly emerged with a flurry of activity, her wand directing plates and utensils to the dining table. “Dinner’s almost ready, everyone! And no-” she pointed sharply at William and Charlie, who froze mid-sneak toward the cooling pies. “you may not have dessert first.”

“Worth a shot,” William muttered, retreating with a grin.

As the household settled into a rhythm of setting the table and filling glasses, Remus appeared at your side, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. His sharp gaze swept the room, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he took in the bustling scene. 

“Feels a bit like the old days, doesn’t it?” He murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You nodded, your chest tightening with bittersweet nostalgia. “It does. I almost forgot what this kind of chaos felt like.”

Remus’s smile grew, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “Sometimes it’s good to forget. Just for a little while.”

Before you could respond, Sirius leaned over, handing Harry back to you with exaggerated care. “Here’s your little prince, m’lady.” He mused, bowing dramatically. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to defend my honor against Potter in a round of ‘who can eat the most Yorkshire puddings.’”

“Is that even a real game?” You smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“It is now,” James called from the table, already rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. “Lily, make it official.”

“I’m not indulging this,” Lily replied, though there was a fondness in her tone that betrayed her amusement. “Molly, you can't allow this.”

“I'll make more.” Molly tutted as Lily gave a scandalized laugh.

Sirius shot you a wink before bounding off, leaving you holding Harry as the chatter of the Burrow surrounded you. For a moment, you let yourself soak in the warmth of it all- the laughter, the clatter of plates, the way Harry’s tiny hand curled around your finger as he gurgled contentedly. Just turned one, what a milestone.

Remus stayed beside you, his quiet presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. “You look like you’re exactly where you need to be,” he said softly, his gaze steady and kind.

You glanced down at Harry, then back up at Remus, and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true. 

“Now.” He chuckled, tilting his head to the table. “Let's eat, yeah?”

“Mhm.” You mused and pulled Harry closer to your chest. Smiling as the toddler fell asleep the second you hit your seat between Peter and Sirius. As if last night never happened.

~~~

The warm chatter of the meal eventually faded as the last of the plates were cleared. Molly, ever the matron of order, bustled about with a flick of her wand, sending dishes to the sink where they began scrubbing themselves. The sound of forks and knives being charmed into their proper drawers blended with the soft hum of conversation as everyone settled into a comfortable post-meal haze.

Harry, still nestled in your arms, snored softly, his tiny chest rising and falling as he slept. Sirius had returned to his spot beside you, grinning smugly from his victory over James in their self-made pudding contest.

"I told you, Potter," Sirius drawled, stretching his arms behind his head. "There's no defeating me when it comes to food. Or charm. Or- well, anything, really."

James scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “I let you win, Black. Lily told me not to embarrass you in front of Harry.”

“Likely story,” Sirius quipped, tossing a sugar cube at him.

The energy in the Burrow began to shift. The cheerful chaos mellowed into a quiet murmur, and the adults started to exchange glances that carried weightier thoughts. The air thickened, anticipation weaving its way through the room like an unspoken spell. You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, cradling Harry as he slept against your chest, his tiny hand clutching a fold of your robe.

Sirius tapped his fingers idly against his arm, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He’s late.” He muttered under his breath, glancing toward the door.

“He’s Dumbledore,” Remus mused calmly, though his hand tightened slightly around his cane as he leaned back in his chair. “He’s always late, and it’s always for a reason.”

James glanced at Lily, who was tidying up near the sink, and gave a pointed look. She sighed, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and flicking her wand to send the rest of the dishes to the sink. “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s move to the livingroom, yeah?”

As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from the front of the house. The sound startled Harry awake, and his sleepy whimper drew a protective reflex from you, soothing him with quiet whispers as the others stood.

Dumbledore entered the room moments later, his presence commanding yet serene. His bright blue eyes swept the room, lingering briefly on each face before landing on yours. “Good evening, everyone,” He greeted warmly, his voice carrying a calm authority that settled some of the tension.

“Evening, Albus,” Arthur said, rising to shake his hand. “I hope your journey wasn’t too troublesome.”

“Not at all, Arthur,” Dumbledore replied, his gaze flickering to you and the sleeping Harry. “I see we have young company.”

You felt everyone’s attention shift toward you, and you carefully handed Harry to Lily, who had stepped forward to take him. “Thank you,” she murmured, brushing her son’s hair back before retreating to the other room to settle him in his crib.

Dumbledore motioned for everyone to sit, and Molly hastily brought over a fresh pot of tea, her hands fluttering nervously. “Would you like some, Albus?”

“No, thank you, Molly,” he replied kindly, taking his place at the head of the table. “Time is of the essence tonight.”

Lily reentered the room just as Dumbledore spoke, her expression soft but slightly guarded as she took her seat beside James. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered simply, glancing toward the closed door to reassure herself.

The room fell silent as everyone waited for him to speak. Dumbledore’s gaze moved across the table, his usual twinkle dimmed with the weight of the news he carried. “It is with a heavy heart,” he began, “that I must inform you of Voldemort’s latest focus. James, Lily, and Harry have been targeted. As for your current hide out.. it has been uncovered.”

A ripple of tension swept through the room, but Dumbledore held up a hand to forestall interruptions. “The protections we’ve worked tirelessly to create have been completed. The blood ward surrounding your next safe house is now fully functional. It is imperative that you move there immediately.”

James straightened in his seat, his expression hardening with determination. “We’ll go tonight,” he said firmly, looking to Lily for confirmation. She nodded, her hand finding his under the table.

Dumbledore turned his gaze to you, his expression softening slightly. “And you, my dear. It seems he is not stopping until the entirety of the Potter bloodline is destroyed.”

Your heart clenched as the words sank in. You carefully fluttered your eyes closed. Placing your hand over your side, as if not looking at anyone would protect you from leering eyes. You heard a sharp breath fall over the table and felt Sirius reach for you on instinct, grabbing your arm a bit rough.

Dumbledore gave you a small nod, his expression filled with sympathy and sorrow. “The new safe house will protect you three,” He reassured. “The wards are among the strongest ever created. However, you must not leave its boundaries until further notice. Voldemort’s reach grows stronger every day.”

“And my sister?” James started and leaned forward in his seat, when your eyes finally braved the crowd and landed on him, you saw his flushed cheeks. His desperate eyes. Only to Dumbledore to hold his hand up, as if to say arrangements have been made.

The room fell into a heavy silence as everyone absorbed the gravity of the situation. Molly’s hands twisted in her lap, her usual warmth subdued by worry. Sirius broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “We’ll keep them safe, Albus. Whatever it takes.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. “I know you will, Sirius. This being said.. there is the matter of where this information comes from.”

You felt Sirius reach over and place his hand softly on your hand, squeezing it as he made eye contact with James from across the table. Everyone waiting on bated breaths.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, his fingers steepling as he addressed the group. “The information we’ve uncovered is… credible. But I must warn you, the sources of this intelligence are not without their complications.”

James frowned, his hand tightening around Lily’s. “What does that mean, Albus?”

“It means, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore replied carefully, “That three individuals have offered us this crucial information. Their identities may be… difficult for some of you to accept.”

You felt Sirius tense beside you, his posture straightening as though bracing himself for impact. His fingers still gripped yours, his hold both grounding and protective. Across the table, Remus leaned forward, his hazel eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion.

“Who are they?” Sirius asked, his voice steady but laced with an edge.

Dumbledore gave a small sigh and lifted his hand. With that, the door opened and everyone was made to watch as three figures stepped in, in large cloaks hoods. Gasps filled the room as the figures lowered their hoods, revealing the faces that had long been presumed lost to time and war. 

Standing in the doorway, with a defiant smirk tugging at his lips, was Barty, his sharp green eyes flicking to yours immediately. Beside him, the ever-elegant Evan Rosier, his pale complexion stark against the dark folds of his cloak, stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze assessing the room with a subtle air of amusement. And on the far left was Regulus Black, his face calm but his silver-grey eyes shadowed with a weariness that spoke of battles waged both out and within.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Despite the pain in your chest and the shutter that ran through you. Your eyes, like everyone else’s, landed on Sirius. The eldest Black son was silent, his expression one of horrific shock. No one noticing how James seemed to stiffen or how Lily covered her mouth with more then just shock in her eyes.

You expected him to shout, to yell, to toss a chair or two, but your breath was taken from your throat when he stood up so quickly his seat toppled over. 

“Mate.” James warned in a stern tone.

“Pads.” Remus huffed, only to watch as Sirius crossed the room quicker than anyone could stop him. Regulus winced and prepared to be struck, only to have the wind knocked out of his lungs as Sirius engulfed him in a hug. Nearly knocking them both over as he buried his face in his younger brother's hair. 

“Pads…” James’s voice softened, unsure of what to say. 

Regulus was caught off guard, his arms hanging limply at his sides for a moment before hesitantly lifting to return the embrace. His movements were stiff, almost unsure, but the faintest flicker of relief passed across his usually stoic features.

Sirius’s voice broke the silence, muffled against Regulus’s shoulder. “You bloody git.” He choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought you were dead.”

Regulus closed his eyes, his own voice steady but low. “I almost was.”

Sirius pulled back slightly, his hands gripping his brother’s shoulders as he scanned his face, as if trying to assure himself that Regulus was really there. “You absolute prat.” He muttered, though the words carried more affection than anger. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Thinking I lost you?”

Regulus flinched under Sirius’s intensity but held his gaze. “I didn’t have a choice.” He defended quietly. “I had to make them think I was gone. It was the only way to get out.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like the anger might break through after all. But then he let out a shaky breath, his hands falling away as he stepped back. “You could’ve told me.” He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “You could’ve… I would’ve helped you.”

Regulus’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks in his otherwise composed demeanor. “I…” His voice cracked and he quickly cleared his throat. “I wasn't aware you would… my apologies.” He coughed into his fist and fixed his posture, his voice heavy with regret. “Regardless I didn’t want to drag you into it. You’d already done enough to protect me when we were kids. I couldn’t ask you to risk more.”

The tension in the room shifted, the charged atmosphere replaced by something quieter, heavier. Sirius nodded slowly, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he looked away, his emotions still raw and unguarded.

It was Barty who broke the moment, his voice dripping with impatience as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Touching as this reunion is, we don’t exactly have time for tea and biscuits. The Dark Lord isn’t going to pause his plans just because the Black brothers are having a moment.”

Sirius turned on him so quickly that Barty actually stood up straighter, his smirk faltering for just a second. “Shut your mouth, Crouch,” Sirius snarled, his eyes flashing with barely-contained fury. “You’ve got no right to be here. No right to-”

“Enough.” Dumbledore’s calm yet firm voice cut through the tension, his gaze sharp as it moved between Sirius and Barty. “They are here because they have information vital to your safety. Whatever personal grievances you may have will have to wait.”

Sirius’s fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing, his jaw tight as he returned to his seat. The room remained charged, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone. His hand going for yours and squeezing it tight, eyeing Barty with a clear threat. Barty’s eyes just stayed on you.

Evan Rosier stepped forward next, his movements languid and unbothered as he glanced around the room with a faint smirk. “Always the dramatic one, aren’t you, Black?” He drawled, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “Some things never change.”

“Shut it, Rosier.” Lily snapped, glaring at Sirius as he threatened to open his mouth again. “Both of you.”

Sirius’s hand tightened on yours until you turned your palm over and your fingers intertwined. His focus was clearly shifting to Regulus, his emotions warring between relief and frustration.

Regulus shifted uncomfortably under his brother’s lingering gaze but turned his attention. “Albus.” Regulus spoke carefully and the older wizard waved his hand. 

“Do as you must.”

Regulus nodded and turned to Barty, and for once, when you saw him, his eyes drifted right past yours.

“Evan?” Barty mused and cocked his head to the side. “Do you like these seating arrangements?”

“Not my favorite, I have to say.” Rosier smirked and you saw shuffling in your peripheral. Turning, your eyes fell on a nervous looking Peter, who tried to move out of his seat. 

“Peter? Are you alright?” You asked softly and he glanced at you, as pale as a damned ghost.

“Let's fix it Evan.”

“Of course, Crouch.”

The room was heavy with tension as Peter fidgeted in his seat, his nervous energy radiating outward like a beacon. His pale, sweaty face darted between Regulus, Evan, and Barty, who watched him with an air of casual cruelty that made your stomach churn. The faint smirk on Barty’s lips, the lazy confidence in Evan’s posture, and the calculating glint in Regulus’s eyes- it all felt too deliberate, like a game already decided before it began.

“Peter, mate,” Barty began, his tone almost sing-song as he tilted his head. “Why are you so jumpy? We’re all friends here. Aren't we?”

Peter’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, his voice breaking as his gaze darted to Sirius for support. “I-I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?” Evan echoed, his voice low and laced with mockery. He stepped closer to Peter, his movements smooth and predatory, as though he were circling prey. “Is that what we’re calling treachery these days? Nothing wrong?”

Regulus didn’t speak, his gray eyes cold and unflinching as they locked onto Peter’s trembling form. His silence was louder than words, and it carried the weight of judgment.

Sirius stood abruptly, his hand still gripping yours as his stormy eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?” He snapped, his voice sharp and cutting through the room like a whip. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“Oh, we’ll say it,” Barty drawled, his smirk widening as he leaned back against the wall. His sharp green eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before he turned his attention back to Peter. “But I think actions speak louder than words, don’t you?”

Evan’s smirk mirrored Barty’s as he stepped closer to Peter, who was now visibly shaking. “Let’s show them, shall we?” Evan said, his voice a low murmur that carried a sinister edge.

Peter’s eyes widened in panic, and he shot up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste to back away. “You’re mad,” he stammered, his voice high-pitched and trembling. “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

But he didn’t get far. Regulus moved with startling speed, his wand flicking out in a smooth, practiced motion. “Petrificus Totalus.”

Peter froze mid-step, his body locking in place as he teetered, then fell back into the chair with a heavy thud. His wide, terrified eyes darted around the room, pleading silently as sweat dripped down his face.

Evan leaned over him, his smirk gone, replaced with a look of cold disdain. “This won’t take long,” he murmured, gripping Peter’s arm with surprising strength. With a sharp tug, he rolled up Peter’s sleeve, exposing the pale, trembling flesh of his forearm.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just pale skin, glistening with sweat. But then, like ink bleeding through parchment, a dark, jagged mark began to emerge, etched into Peter’s skin like a brand. The skull and serpent twisted and writhed, as though alive, mocking the room with its sinister presence.

Gasps filled the room, Lily’s fell from her mouth as her wide eyes locked onto the mark. Sirius staggered back a step, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. James stood frozen, his hazel eyes dark with a mixture of shock and fury.

“No,” Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible as his eyes darted between the mark and Peter’s frozen, terrified face. “No. You can’t- this can’t-”

“It can,” Regulus said, his voice cold and steady as he stepped back. His gray eyes met Sirius’s, unflinching. “And it does.”

Barty straightened, his smirk firmly in place as he clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and jarring in the stunned silence. “Well,” he drawled, his tone light and mocking. “I think that clears things up, doesn’t it? Your little rat here has been leaking your secrets to the Dark Lord.”

“No,” Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous as he advanced on Peter, his body trembling with rage. “You lying, spineless-” He lunged, but James grabbed him, pulling him back with surprising strength.

“Stop, Sirius,” James said, his voice tight with fury as he held his friend back. “Not here. Not now.”

Sirius struggled against James’s grip, his eyes blazing with fury. “Let me go, Prongs. Let me-”

“No!” James snapped, his voice rising as he pushed Sirius back. “Think, Pads. Just think.”

Your breathing was shallow, your vision blurring as the weight of everything crashed down on you. Betrayal from Peter, the looming threat of Voldemort, Barty’s presence- it was too much. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in around you as your chest tightened.

The tension in the Burrow was palpable, the charged atmosphere crackling like lightning in a storm. Peter’s frozen body remained stiff in the chair, his panicked eyes darting from face to face as though pleading for someone to intervene. Moody had stood quietly for most of the reveal, his magical eye twitching and whirring in his socket, tracking every move. But now, his grizzled face was set in a grim expression, his scarred hands gripping the back of Peter’s chair.

“All right, that’s enough gawking,” Moody growled, his voice cutting through the murmurs and gasps of the room. He yanked Peter upright by his collar, the smaller man letting out a muffled whimper against the binding spell. “This rat’s coming with me. We’ll see what he spills when we squeeze him tight enough.”

“Moody,” James started, his voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. “Make sure he-”

“I know,” Moody snapped, his gaze flickered toward James. “He’s not slipping away.” With a rough tug, he began to drag Peter toward the door, his limp body scraping against the floor.

As the door closed behind Moody, the room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Peter’s betrayal and the newest additions settling like a heavy fog. Sirius stood still as a statue, his chest heaving as he glared at the spot where Peter had been. His grip on your hand was almost bruising, and you felt every tremor of his barely-contained fury.

Your heart raced, your breath shallow as you tried to calm yourself. You felt untethered, the world around you spinning out of control. Every pair of eyes in the room seemed to burn into you, their scrutiny suffocating.

And then, of course, he spoke.

“Well,” Barty drawled from his spot near the wall, his voice calm and unbothered as though nothing had happened. “That was dramatic. Bit of a show, wasn’t it?”

Sirius’s head snapped toward him, and before anyone could stop him, he lunged. “You smug-”

“Don’t,” James barked, stepping between them and pressing a firm hand to Sirius’s chest. His hazel eyes burned with a warning as he shoved Sirius back. “Not now.”

Barty’s smirk widened, his green eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched the scene unfold. “Touchy, aren’t we?” He remarked, his tone dripping with mockery.

“Say one more word, Crouch,” Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous, “and I swear-”

“Enough!” Lily’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. She stood with her arms crossed, her usually warm expression hard with fury. “All of you, just stop.”

The room stilled, but the air remained electric, charged with unspoken accusations and simmering rage. You stood frozen in place, your pulse thundering in your ears as you tried to process everything. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Barty move.

He stepped forward with a deliberate ease, his sharp green eyes locking onto yours. His smirk was gone, replaced by something colder, heavier. Your breathing sped up.

James noticed, and before Barty could take another step, he slammed his shoulder into him, forcing him back with enough force to make him stagger. “Stay the hell away from her,” James snarled, his voice like steel.

Barty straightened, brushing off his robes with an almost lazy motion. He met James’s glare with a calm, calculated expression, but his eyes flicked back to you, cutting through the room’s tension like a knife. “I wasn’t talking to you, Potter,” he said evenly, his voice carrying an unsettling weight.

Sirius was already moving again, but Remus caught his arm, holding him back with surprising strength. “Don’t,” Remus said quietly, his voice low but firm. 

Barty ignored them all. His attention was entirely on you. His sharp features were illuminated by the dim light of the room, his green eyes blazing with intensity. When he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“I’ll protect you,” He whispered, his tone steady and unwavering, as though making a solemn vow before the entire room. “Even if you hate me for it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. His gaze didn’t waver, his presence like a storm that refused to be ignored. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an apology. It was a promise. A threat. A declaration that no one could mistake.

James lunged again, but this time sirius and Remus both held him back. “You bastard!” James snarled, his voice raw with rage. “Stay away from her!”

But Barty didn’t flinch. His eyes remained locked on yours, as if daring you to respond, to refute him, to try and push him away. The weight of his words settled over you, twisting your stomach into knots as you struggled to breathe.

“I don’t need you,” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm enough to carry through the room. “I don’t want you.”

Barty’s smirk returned, faint and humorless, as though your words had no effect. “I see.” he said simply, his tone maddeningly calm. “Seems you'll hate me.”

[astrotruther]

Astro Observations

misc. (i)

⛔️ TW: mention of anorexia and drugging❗️

♡ Venus Square Mars may attract obsessive people. In particular, people who obsess over their looks or fetishize them in some way. Brooke Shields had a whole nation obsessed with her at the mere age of 12. Eugenia Cooney has infamously attracted hoards of anorexia fetishists with her content. People with this placement may have a higher risk of drastic weight loss or gain.

♡ Either I meet too many Capricorn Suns by coincidence or it's a rather common placement. One reasoning could be that April is an ideal month for marriage in many places, especially ones where it gets unbearably hot in June. Spring adds to April's allure. Traditional couples often conceive right after tying the knot, making the pregnancy due in Capricorn season.

♡ Lilith is associated with sexuality but people focus too much ONLY on that facet of it. Lilith is associated with many other things like power, revenge and how one becomes a social pariah.

♡ Planets at 0° may symbolize struggle. Lana Del Rey has Sun at 0°. The Sun represents our ego. She had many controversies in 2020 including the mesh mask and her Instagram rant undermining POC artists. Even after criticism, instead of apologizing, she remained defensive. I believe that planets at 0° provide a lot of room for growth if the individual is genuinely interested in self-improvement.

♡ Aries Moon (ruled by Mars) and Scorpio Moon (ruled by Pluto, traditionally by Mars) despite being similar are perceived quite differently by people. The sign of Aries gives child-like quality to the native. They come off as cute and their sarcastic remarks are perceived as good humor. E.g. Rihanna roasting Helena Bonham Carter's sense of fashion. Meanwhile, one eyeroll from a Scorpio Moon, and they may come off as hateful and jealous. My advice to Scorpio Moons who want to be in the public eye, please never put on the mean girl persona. Tap into your kind side, it'll be received in a positive way and you'll attract genuine support.

♡ Venus-Mars aspects symbolize beauty; the difference may lie in how people perceive it. Venus Trine Mars are often called cute. People with this aspect are well-liked and have a good reputation. These are the people who may never be cancelled due to the halo effect they have. No matter how massively popular they are, people won't be digging up dirt on them, which is also why very little is known about these people's personal lives. These people often become a household name due to that one iconic thing they did, even if they decide to adapt a lowkey presence afterwards. Let me emphasize this with an extensive list of examples:

✧ Nina Dobrev (The Vampire Diaries), Zayn, Leighton Meester (Gossip Girl), Adele, Kit Harington (Game of Thrones), Sabrina Carpenter, Tobey Maguire (Spider-Man), Kate Middleton, Mandy Moore (A Walk to Remember), Jackie Chan, Jenna Fischer (The Office), Ana de Armas, Josh Hutcherson (The Hunger Games), Constance Wu (Crazy Rich Asians), Rowan Atkinson (Mr. Bean) and Alan Rickman (Harry Potter) have this aspect.

✧ Taeyang being the only member of former K-pop group BIGBANG who's had no controversies (also managed to keep his relationship hidden for a long time before revealing it with a wedding announcement), Khloé Kardashian being the least disliked Kardashian/Jenner sister, Cardi B admitting to drugging and robbing men, starring in Hustlers that glamorized it, hitting her career peak with WAP the very next year really drives the point home.

✧ I've also noticed this aspect in almost all Bollywood IT girls of their time: Priyanka Chopra, Aishwarya Rai, Anushka Sharma, Ayesha Takia, Dia Mirza, Divya Bharti, Parveen Babi - all loved by the general public despite the media scrutiny and misogyny that prevails within the industry.

Click daily to help Palestinians🍉🙏🏽: https://arab.org/click-to-help/palestine/

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

All the Kings horses

Summary: When your injured in Eregion Gil-Galad has to confess his feelings.

There may be a smutty sequel to this in time but for now enjoy another shorter fic.

This morning you were reveling in the beauty of Lindon, admiring the golden leaves drifting through the gentle breeze and singing songs of hope and love with your kin. Now you sat on horse back, clad in your silver armor and preparing to march to Eregion.

You rode just behind your dear friend Elrond with the High King beside him. As the current captain of the King's guard had been sent with most of Lindon's forces to march into Mordor it fell to the few left to take up his mantle. The responsibility weighed heavy on your mind. Sure you weren't the only one who would be ensuring his safety but to you it was a personal matter.

You'd met the young High King when you were a simple foot soldier. You had fought under his banner against the forces of Morgoth. There you saw him on the battle field, his broad form clashing against the enemy. His spear glinting in the light as he spun it with a grace that left you speechless. He was every bit the King you'd imagined and when his firm grasp clasped your hand to help you rise, you swore you'd fight for him until the end.

It had been an age since then and you were sure he had not remembered one soldier from such a battle. Still he had always treated you with respect despite your low rank. Asking your opinion on trivial matters, or sharing with you a book or two to enjoy in your free time.

When the horses stopped to rest, you dismounted and took your post. You were unsure why you'd been ordered to stand guard inside the King's tent. The honor rightfully should have gone to higher ranked guard but you were not about to question your temporary captain. Not when the power had gone right to her head and not when it let you gaze at your King.

Elrond entered and you bowed your head to him with a smirk but there was no levity to be found. His face was serious as he placed a hand on your shoulder. He passed on to speak to your King and you were left feeling more apprehensive about the battle to come.

It was a bad omen indeed and when the fighting began you stayed back with King GIl-Galad and a few of the guards. As Elrond had explained they need only fend off the orcs until dawn. By then Prince Durin would've brought his army from Khazad-dum for much needed reinforcements. Too many had already fallen and you felt your hands itch for your sword.

"Enough!" Your King growled. "I will not stand by as my people are slaughtered."

There was no argument, none of the guards dared disobey and from the firm nods of your kin you knew it was settled. You rode in formation, the bow man taking out threats as you made your way into the fray.

From horse back you struck down at closing in orcs, keeping yourself between them and your King. As your group neared the cleared river bed the bow man was struck. You'd barely known him, just another face you passed in your duties but you'd done so for 200 years. Now that face struck the wet ground with a snap you could hear over the cries of battle. There was a shout and the elleth flanking the King went flying off her horse as it fell. You rode on, catching a glimpse of her fighting against a gathering group of orcs.

You stayed by King Gil-Galad through the night, fighting by his side as the field grew quieter. You met Elrond on the field, loosing a throwing knife to strike an assailant coming up behind him. You lost your 2nd and 3rd in close combat, to the eye and toe of orcs.

You lost the last when it became lodged in the skull of an orc that almost clipped the King's armor. You'd had it in hand and leapt onto the beast, knocking it down and stabbing up through the mouth. You heaved in deep breathes, the prolonged fight starting to wear on you and rose from off the corpse.

Gil-Galad stood, haloed by the first light of dawn. His hair loose and glowing stands dancing in the breeze. Morning had come and a horse stood on the hill. Vorohil had returned and worse for wear. Despite the arrows he managed to ride to you, collapsing into Elrond but he brought no comfort. The dwarves were not coming.

Still your King called you to ranks and the battle continued. Each sword slash felt like you were trying to stop the flow of a great river. No matter how many fell the fight never stopped. You were pushed back past the wall into Eregion, baring witness to the city in ruins. You could not abandon hope now however, with each moment you fought on those within the city were granted time to escape.

Pain erupted from your leg, an arrow piercing into the flesh of your thigh. You screamed before blocking the orc approaching, crashing your head past the joint blades and crushing their nose with your helm. It fell loose and clattered against the stone path, rolling to stop by the feet of an approaching horde.

You stepped back, meeting your King against you. In a moment of silent connection you knew he was seeing much the same thing. You'd lost sight of Elrond some streets back and hoped that somehow he'd appear now. Slaying his way to rescue his King.

You fought on but in the narrow passage you lost your sword. You heard Gil-Galad call your name but you couldn't see him in the mass of orc's beating down on you.

Your mind seemed to swim in to the depths, going dark and blank for many minutes at a time before you surfaced for a moment. In blinks it seemed you went from face down on the carved stone of the street to your arms painfully gripped as your limp body dragged after you. Flashes of carnage, orc, elf, blood, viscera, all blurring into a collage of suffering. In the dark of your mind you smelt burning but couldn't draw the strength to open your eyes. The warm sensation trickling from your hairline, down your face was a likely culprit.

"Lord Sauron said we don't need these ones..." A nasally voice spoke near by.

Your hair was pulled painfully, jolting your head back and for a moment you could see again. Gil-Galad, your King and the only elf to ever take such root in your heart, strained against his captors. Something cold touched your throat but in the haze you were back in Lindon, receiving your armor for the first time since the war. Elrond was there too, shouting, congratulations maybe? Everything was perfect and tranquil. The leaves fell gently on the wind and you shut your eyes.

When they opened again all you knew was pain. So loud it thrummed in your head that all else seemed drowned out by it. You groaned against it, shifting to try assess cause. A large hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched.

"Apologies." A strained voice spoke withdrawing. "Just take a moment."

Your hand came up to your face, rubbing against the brightness of the light ahead. It came away with russet flakes sticking to your fingers.

"And perhaps we don't reopen our head wounds while we're at it." Gil-Galad's voice came crisper now.

"Wher..." You began, jolting suddenly and reaching for your missing sword.

Gil-Galads hands took your own, encompassing them with ease and radiating in you such calm that you forgot your pounding heart.

"Safe, my dearest friend." He smiled, brighter than the sun and no less warm.

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. You'd think it was some trick of your injured head but his hands were still holding your own and his face a serene mask. His eyes left your own for a moment, focusing on your lap as his thumb brushed gently over your bruised knuckles.

"I thought I may have lost you. That years of deluding myself that it was for our best interest that I say nothing, would have robbed me of this chance." Gil-Galad murmured.

He didn't sound himself and you began to worry. You shifted your hands in his to clasp them. You gave a reassuring squeeze and kept focused on his softening features. His brow lifted and those dark eyes met your own again.

"Please, If this isn't what you wish say the word and you will never hear another syllable about it." Gil-Galad promised but you kept your lips sealed.

"I have loved you too long from afar. I wish for you to be by my side from now until the end of all things. I wish to hear you sing and laugh and tell those awful jokes that you tell when you think I'm not listening. I want all of you and all I have to give is me and my burdens." Gil-Galad professed.

You had no words, no eloquent speech of your own just a hand taken and laid on his shoulder and lips pressed to his own. Gil-Galad responded in kind, his hand coming to cup your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

"They are no burdens." You manage between kisses. "Not when shared with you."

This seems to spur him on, nipping at your lower lip and moving his hand up into your hair. You hiss suddenly, pulling back as the reminder of your pain pulses to life again.

"Sorry my love." Gil-Galad apologises with a chaste kiss to your temple. "There will be time when you're healed."

You pout at this, earning a hearty laugh and another soft kiss against your lips. You supposed you'd waited this long for him, what was another day.

[nebuliias]

— hope is a thing with feathers!

ft. sunday and robin as your older siblings (headcannons)

cw: youngest sibling in the fam, gn! reader, family fluff, reader is between ages 12-14, PLATONIC, i went silly on some of them, reader is a halovian but no specified appearance other than halo and wings

a/n’s note: sunday and robin’s relationship mean sm to me its not even funny like HOYO PLZ MAKE THEM REUNITE I WILL SCREAM IF THEY DONT :((( honestly wish i had them as family yk

SUNDAY:

— even though he’s the leader of penacony and doesn’t have time to always spend time with you, sunday always makes up for it when he can.

— if you ever need help with an essay or math homework, he’ll assist you with it. even if it’s fucking 2+2, bro would still help you. heck at this point, he’ll do the whole worksheet for you. sunday loves you that much dawg.

— sunday would be rlly supportive for you, no matter what!! he’d encourage you to pursue your dreams, whether that’s becoming a nameless, a performer for the iris family, or something else entirely, he’ll be there alongside you every step of the way :3

— he’d be a bit strict with you, since you’re still young. would probably give you a curfew for when its night, like making you go to bed at 9pm at least. maybe a little later on the weekends. (does time even exist in the dreamscape i dont remember.)

— if you ask sunday VERY politely, (he’ll still oblige), he’ll sing you a lullaby for when you have trouble sleeping. tuck your blanket under your chin too while he’s at it, hehehe.

— LMAO IDK WHY THIS IS SO FUNNY TO ME but imagine you’re dating someone and introduce sunday to your significant other, I FEEL LIKE HE’D BE POLITE AND ALL THAT BUT AS SOON AS YALL DILLY DALLY OR WTV HE’D BE GIVING THEM SIDE GLANCES EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE.

— like i said, he IS protective of you and will go on a rampage if they’re toxic or hurtful to you. :)

— btw, if you watched robin’s trailer, you can catch a glimpse of sunday polishing her halo. and yes, he would polish your halo too, since you’re also halovian, sometimes even preen your wings too if he’s not too busy.

— if you take band or theatre arts in school or figure skating, acrobatics or just SOMETHING that includes performances, sunday doesn’t give a shit if he has something to do, he will find a way to go to every single one bc he doesn’t wanna disappoint you as an older brother :(

— pats your head. a lot. literally a mom-sibling, you can’t tell me otherwise. will occasionally pick your outfits and asks for your opinion before you go out or make sure your school uniform is crisp and unwrinkled. (if your school has uniforms.)

— overall, sunday is a doting and compassionate older brother. he loves you with his whole being. <3

ROBIN:

— the best, nicest, loving, caring older sister you will ever have in your entire lifespan.

— like sunday, she would help you in any way possible. but she’s not the best when it comes to math homework :(( if you want, she’ll give you a pep talk though!! and trust me, robin gives out the best ad most encouraging pep talks ever like..

— if you do something hella devious, even if its 101% your fault, she’d side with you no matter what. this girl hardly gets to be silly due to her superstar reputation but when she has the chance, plz just let her be. (yall can be devious together.)

— would brush your hair for you!! it doesn’t matter whether you have short or long ass rapunzel-looking hair, she will somehow find a way to style it.

— definitely sang you songs during your childhood, and she still does! robin would hum a tune when you can’t sleep, or you simply just wanna destress and don’t feel like doing anything else. <3

— also like sunday, since she travels a lot, she’ll always make up for the lost time by brinking trinkets and gifts, maybe even bring you along with her during her one of her tours!

— also incredibly supportive in your passions! want to become a performer like her? she’ll be there rooting for you on the sidelines! wanna learn to sing and follow in her footsteps? sure, she’ll gladly teach you for free! (not like you had to pay anyway teehee.)

— robin would be somewhat protective of you as well, just not too strictly. after all, you should experience as much of the outside world as you can. 🎀

— i feel like she’s a horrible money spender.. (same..) if robin sees you glance at a piece of jewelry or smth hella expensive for 0.00001 nanoseconds, suddenly it’s in a gift bag at your desk when you get home from school with a little note from her along with some pastries she thought you’d like.

— if you gift her something, whether its handmade or you bought it with your own money, chances are she’ll keep it for the rest of eternity and repay you with a gift of her choice as well!!

— overall, robin is a sweet and soft older sister and is always there for you, no matter the distance that separates you!

all rights reserved © nebuliias. do not copy, re-upload, or plagiarize my fics. if you see anyone doing this to my work, LET ME KNOW.

[aventoru]

Reconciled in the Spring

ft. sunday / wc : 2.1k

tags : childhood friends to lovers, fluff to angst to fluff, misunderstandings, naivety (on your part), gopher wood being a manipulator, penacony disaster, lonely sunday

series masterlist / general masterlist

for as long as sunday could remember, you had always been there next to him. he met you sometime in the spring of his childhood when you both were like any other children, sweet and kind, and free from the troubles of the world. you weren’t family, but he treated you as such. and just like his little sister, you had a habit of straying away from the warm nest that sheltered you from harm.

the first time you tried leaving the cage, you were seven.

like most kids who thrived on external validation, you made an effort to befriend the other kids in school. they were nice kids, but sunday knew they were too brash for your nature. after all, he was once like you, trying to conform just to feel a sense of belonging. but their dirt-stained clothes and loud-mouth commands had completely overwhelmed his gentle touches and sensitive heart. so he chose to shield himself away, forlorn figure distantly observing them bonding in the playground. those days were lonelier than he would like to admit, but they led him to you, and that was more than he could ever ask for.

his pessimistic hindsight proved to be true when you came to him crying one afternoon, telling him how they had pushed too much and shoved too hard during playtime, even when you told them to stop. he nodded silently, he understood.

“just play with me from now on, okay?” he said as he bought you your favorite ice cream from the dreamscape vendor. you had stopped crying by then, accepting his treat as a token of your friendship. you two found a swing to sit on, basking in comfortable silence as you absentmindedly licked at the dessert.

“sunny,” you called out. sunday thought you looked most beautiful like this, ice cream smudged on your snotty nose and puffy eyes twinkling with a childlike charm.

“please, don’t call me that. you know i don’t—”

“you’re my favorite person.”

time seemed to slow down. it hurt him to hear you say such words so simply, so purely. all was too much for a boy who never knew he was capable of receiving affection. he should’ve known it then, that your naive nature would be the death of him. what a pity it was, that he had trusted you with his whole being.

you were still preoccupied with eating your ice cream, unaware you had just tilted his world on its axis. your eyes were closed, lips quirked up in a smile from the heavenly taste on your tongue. faint dust hung midair, blanketing your face in a soft glow that could parallel an angel’s halo. sunday felt overwhelming affection as he carved the image into his memory, folded and tucked it into a small corner of his heart.

“oh no! it’s melting!” you exclaimed as sweet nectar dripped down the cone and onto your fingers. sunday smiled tenderly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief reserved just for you (you always needed it, one mishap or another).

“thanks,” you gave him a toothy grin as you took it from his lithe fingers.

at the age of seven, sunday didn’t know a lot of things. but he knew he loved you then, and he would love you for a long time.

you were fourteen when the cocoon that wrapped around you metamorphosed into a social butterfly. you now mingled with the kids you once avoided after years of discipline and manners caused them to mellow down. you liked them, and they liked you. so you partied and danced your way through your teenage years with your new friends. in contrast, sunday never learned to fit in. however, that didn’t matter because you would always come back to him.

“you’re still my favorite person, sunny,” you had told him.

but deep down he knew he was losing you. he knew the occasional meetups would become passing glances, and that all too soon he would be nothing more than a passing memory. the seasons passed and the distance grew. your hand that once grasped tightly onto his began to slip away and there was nothing he could do. your summer arrived, yet he failed to move on, still desperately hanging onto the spring of his childhood memories.

and then, gopher wood approached him. sunday failed to notice the words that dripped with honey were instead laced with poison, coaxing him into self-destruction. you had busted open your cage, flapping your wings to freedom while sunday locked himself in as he walked down a path of isolation.

sunday was sixteen when he knew you had let him go.

at twenty, sunday stayed true to his lineage, inheriting his place as head of the oak family. you grew up chasing your hopes and dreams, and with a flourishing adult life, you met someone new. the last traces of sunday began to slip from your mind as the sweet touches and lingering gazes closed the wounds your old friend left behind. love followed, like it did in most cases, and the memories of boy you once treasured vanished completely.

you happened to stumble across robin one day after her concert, and she was kind enough to spare a few minutes of her time for some small talk. you opened up about your accomplished life and all the fruits you’d harvested for yourself. the biggest surprise came before her departure, when you handed her two invitations. your last name was now replaced with another, brandished cleanly on the crisp paper. she smiled in shock, congratulating you before you parted ways.

robin excitedly shared the news with sunday as soon as they met up, unaware it only pushed him further into his grey sadness. the memories of you still remained, although they had long eroded over time. you were just a fleeting moment on the longwinded road he treaded upon. sunday had lost himself somewhere along the way, now trapped in hazy mist and shrouded darkness. but the dreammaster assured him that he was the savior this world needed, and there was no turning back.

unbeknownst to you, tragedy would befall your homeland before sacred vows could be uttered from your lips. after the collapse of the dreamscape, the family lost control of penacony and sunday was exiled. he knew he had lost robin now, and you forever. your journeys diverged from there, destined to never meet again.

rumors spread like wildfires following his downfall. upon finding out about gopher wood’s ulterior motives for approaching his adopted children, you began to question how you never saw the signs. you had always assumed sunday was a quiet kid who would step out of his shell eventually. your blissful ignorance had failed to show you his terribly tragic reality. guilt crept into your veins as you realized how sunday was always lonely, not alone. you should’ve held on tighter, pulled him closer before he walked away completely. but you were too busy experiencing the joys of your teenage dreams to notice the shadow creeping up behind him. you knew nothing.

your relationship wasn’t faring well either, as the thrill died down and you fell out of love. you separated with the one you thought you cared for the most and your mind unconsciously drifted to your childhood friend. you missed him and his blue hair as soft as his feathers. you were the only person given the privilege to touch his halovian features, the only one he let down his walls for. he had always been there weathering the storms and witnessing the sunny fields by your side. sunday used to say he reserved a place in his heart, just for you.

epiphany struck when you realized that he loved you, he always had. he had been stagnant all those years, waiting for you to return, but you never did. and now, it was too late. he had stepped onto the astral express, salvaging what little integrity he had left for redemption.

and despite changing with the flow of time, the one thing that still remained was your unwavering optimism. so, you persisted. you dug for information on his whereabouts for months, eventually resorting to tipping a bloodhound member a handsome amount for the answers to your questions. you were told that sunday had joined the nameless, and soon set out to find him yourself. for years you traversed the universe to chase down the one you had left behind.

it was by pure luck that you somehow ended up at the same destination the astral express was set to explore, and stumbled upon a well-spoken man who went by the name of welt yang.

“i’m looking for someone i lost,” you told him.

“and you need to join us to find him?”

you nodded.

despite your disheveled figure and heaving breaths, welt could see determination burn bright in your heart. you were taken by surprise when he immediately agreed to let you on the train, as if he already knew what your real goal was. you became a temporary member on the express that day, and welt had assigned you to room with sunday. “he hasn’t said it out loud, but it seems he has been waiting for you as well,” welt said, a knowing look on his face.

now, you stood in front of the door hesitant to knock. you were once separated from him by layers of storm and rain, by misunderstandings and unspoken wishes. after years of tirelessly searching the corners of the universe, you had come back to him, just as he hoped you would. now, the only thing keeping you apart was a wooden door, yet you still felt as nervous as the day you first met. would everything go back to the way that it was? or would he fall apart, pushing you away once more? you’d come this far, and there was only one way to find out.

you knocked, knuckles rattling on the surface. he remained silent on the other side. so you knocked again. sunday’s footsteps gradually approached the door. you heard his voice now, muffled by the wood but still as soft as you remembered. “is there something you need me for—” he opened the door and your eyes met. a silence hung in the air.

sunday blinked rapidly, as if he couldn’t believe you were here. you took in his form. he was tired, and weaker than you had expected him to be. but the light was returning to his face, and the strength to his body. the express was treating him well.

“(name)?” he asked, an almost painful expression on his face.

“i’ve been looking for you for years,” you began explaining, “and i heard you joined the nameless so i’ve been tracking down your next destination. after what happened at penacony you completely disappeared without a trace and i was worried—”

overwhelmed by the situation, the words spilled endlessly from your lips. “and i heard what gopher wood did and i had no idea what you were going through and i just left you.”

“(name)—”

“i’m sorry i—”

“(name), it’s not your fault, you knew nothing.”

you stopped your ranting. the look in his eyes told you he understood. he always understood.

“but you knew everything,” you sobbed out.

planets collided, stars aligned, and with a gentle nudge from fate, you threw yourself into his arms. the embrace was warm and gentle, reminiscent of the time you spent with each other. your rainbow bled into sunday’s reality, coloring his world once again.

at twenty seven, you and sunday laid on the floor of the astral express, gazes trained on the constellations passing by. with your hands intertwined and hearts reunited, sunday asked what he had longed to all this time.

“(name),” he murmured, “what are we?”

“well,” you turned to him, “you’re mine, and i’m yours.”

“you’ve always been a free bird. you were never anyone’s.” he knew the cage had never existed for you in the first place.

“but no matter how far i fly, i’ll come back to you, always.”

and then, you kissed him.

sunday’s gut told him he shouldn’t fall into your love trap as he did before. he knew no matter how honeyed your words were, you would undoubtedly stray from him time and time again on this perilous journey. but he couldn’t help it. he had been locked in his own prison for far too long, and it was time he shattered the iron bars to pieces.

so he let you in his heart again, and forevermore.

a/n : i feel like this could have been longer/more detailed but i didn't want to lose inspiration halfway so apologies for the weird pacing 😭 anyways this was a very fun write, hope u enjoy reading!!

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple

Part 21: To expect

Part 22: To lost

You were supposed to leave early.

That had been the plan. The xenobotany team was scheduled to depart at dawn—before the sun fully breached the trees, before the jungle heat set in. The RDA had sent a formal directive from Bridgehead: retrieve soil samples from the abandoned mining site, collect regrowth data, and document any signs of accelerated rewilding. Standard protocol. Nothing unusual.

Still, the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

You didn’t like how formal the request had been. Didn’t like that Bridgehead had taken such sudden interest in what had long been considered a dead zone. But you hadn’t let yourself dwell on it. Not last night. Not when Neteyam had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The shrill cry of a wild ikran echoed high above the trees, a haunting song that pierced the soft veil of morning mist. It pulled you from your sleep slowly, like drifting up from the warmth of a dream you didn’t want to leave. You stirred with a sleepy groan, your eyes fluttering open slowly the familiar rustle of the pelts brushing against your bare skin. The air inside the kelku was still warm with the heat of the night before—humid and thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, forest, and him.

With a soft, sleepy groan, you sat up slightly, the blanket falling around your waist. Cool air kissed your naked skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth still radiating beside you.

You turned—and there he was.

Neteyam.

The soft glow of morning filtered through the woven walls, casting golden stripes across his skin. And gods, how you loved looking at him like this.

He was so still, so unguarded in sleep. All the quiet tension that clung to him like a second skin was gone. His face—so often hardened by expectation, by leadership, by responsibility—was smooth. Boyish, even. His full lips slightly parted, the rise and fall of his chest slow and even, the quiet exhale of his breath whispering between them.

Your gaze traced over the familiar shape of him. The way his long braids fanned across the pelts in a wild halo. The way his much heavier kuru rested over his chest, curled like a sleeping vine. His ears, so expressive when he was awake, twitched slightly even now—like they were still listening for danger, even in dreams.

You smiled.

God, he looked so young when he was like this. Like the boy he once was, before all the pressure, before all the duty. Before the weight of the People carved itself into his shoulders.

Carefully—slowly—you reached out, your much smaller hand hovering above his face for just a second your fingers brushing softly through the braids at his temple, careful not to tug. Then, gently, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the strong line of his jaw.

His skin was warm under your palm. You let your thumb drift higher, tracing the arch of his eyebrow bone, then further still, letting your fingers brush the edge of his ear.

Flick.

They twitched away from your touch.

You giggled softly, biting your lip to keep the sound quiet, your heart so full it felt like it could split open. His ears always did that—flicked away from you like he wasn’t already yours. Like his body didn’t melt for you every time you whispered his name.

You leaned down, just a little, resting your forehead to his for a moment through the thin shield of your mask. Just breathing him in even through the mask’s filtration system.

You thought about last night.

About how intense it had been—how desperate. Like your bodies couldn’t get close enough, like no amount of touch could satisfy the ache that bloomed between you. You’d clung to him with everything you had, and he held you like he was terrified you’d slip through his fingers. There had been nothing soft about it—not at first. Just need. Just hunger.

But afterward… after the storm of it, he’d held you so gently. Kissed your shoulder. Whispered your name like a prayer.

You loved him. Eywa, you loved him so much you didn’t know what to do with it sometimes. It still hit you sometimes—like this. Quiet moments, just before sunrise, with your body still humming from the night before and your heart pressed too close to your ribs. You loved him so much it scared you.

You lay back down slowly, curling closer to him, nuzzling into the heat of his chest. His arm shifted in his sleep, instinctively sliding around your waist, pulling you in tighter without ever waking up.

You could stay like this forever. You wanted to. But the sun was rising fast now, and your time was running out.

Today, the full research team was heading to the old mining site. The mining site trip was scheduled for early morning departure, and Norm would already be pacing the lab, asking where you were if he couldn’t find you soon. You were supposed to be packed and ready, and you weren’t even at the outpost.

And worse—if someone from the village saw you now, slipping out of Neteyam’s kelku just after dawn… You didn’t even want to think about what that would mean. What it could cost him. You couldn’t risk it. Not for yourself. Not for him.

Still… you didn’t want to go. Not without saying goodbye. You hated leaving like that—like you’d stolen something, like you weren’t supposed to be here at all.

Your fingers brushed over his chest—slow, reverent. “Neteyam,” you whispered.

His name came soft and full of affection. Your palm spread over his heart, feeling the strong, steady rhythm beneath your hand. “Neteyam…” you said again, voice barely above a breath. “Wake up. I have to go.”

You didn’t want to. But you would. Because the world outside of this kelku didn’t stop just because your heart did every time he looked at you like you were his whole world.

Your fingers caressed down the length of his chest now, tracing the outline of his muscles, memorizing the feel of him one more time—just in case it had to last you longer than you wanted. You hated waking him. He looked so peaceful. But if you disappeared without a word, he’d worry. He always did.

So you said his name again, a little firmer this time, a gentle kind of urgency in your voice. “Neteyam…” Your fingers kept moving, soft and slow as they traced gentle circles over the hard muscle of his chest. “Neteyam,” you whispered again, leaning closer. Your nose brushed the hollow of his throat through the curve of your mask, and you felt his breathing hitch—just slightly.

Then he stirred. A low sound rumbled in his chest, more growl than word, and his brows furrowed faintly. You watched, smiling, as his ears twitched, then flattened just a bit. His lips parted. “…s’early,” he mumbled, voice deep and raw with sleep. “Too early…”

Your heart melted. His voice always sounded like that in the mornings—low and gravelly and a little broken around the edges. Your favorite sound in the whole world. “I know, love” you whispered, trailing your fingers higher to his collarbone. “I didn’t want to wake you…”

He groaned softly, eyes still closed, and then—just like every morning you were wrapped up together—he moved. His arm curled tighter around your waist, pulling you into him in one smooth motion. You squeaked as your smaller body met his chest fully, your face tucked under his chin, your limbs tangled like vines. He buried his face in your hair with a sigh so content, it made your stomach flutter.

“No goin’,” he mumbled thickly, the words muffled by your curls. “Stay.”

You giggled, your smile blooming wide across your face as you felt him nuzzle into your neck like a sleepy, oversized cat. “Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice full of quiet laughter, “I have to.”

“Don’t,” he sighed, dragging you impossibly closer, like his body could melt into yours if he just squeezed hard enough. “Stay here. Warm. Good.”

You laughed again, your cheeks already aching from smiling so hard. “Oh, is that it? I’m warm and good, so I have to stay?”

“Mmhm.” His voice dropped into a soft, almost whiny grumble. “My girl. Mine.”

Your heart skipped. He always got like this in the mornings—soft and clingy, all instinct and heat, holding you like the day might steal you from him if he let go. Like he could keep the sun from rising just by wrapping himself around you tight enough.

“I love when you’re like this,” you whispered, still giggling, your fingers sliding up to clutch his shoulder. “Such a big, clingy baby in the morning.”

He made a low, sleepy huff at that, then shifted again—and you sighed as his much larger body slowly began to settle over yours. Not his full weight—never that. He was too careful. But enough. Enough to press you down into the pelts, to blanket you in his warmth, to bury you under the protective curve of his frame. His leg slid between yours, his arm curled beneath your head, and his chest—so broad and strong—molded against yours like a second skin.

Your breath caught. You loved this. Every single time. “Neteyam,” you whispered, smiling so sweetly your cheeks ached. “You know I can’t move when you do this.”

“Exactly,” he muttered into your hair, the smile in his voice barely hidden. “S’why I do it.”

You burst out laughing, your hands running up and down his back, fingers curling into the warm ridges of his shoulders. “You are such a menace.”

He didn’t answer. He just breathed in deep—so deep his whole chest expanded over yours—and then exhaled against your throat, murmuring softly, “Just a few more minutes. Rutxe.” [Please.]

And even though the sun was rising, and the world was calling you back—you didn’t move. Because being trapped under Neteyam like this, swaddled in his sleepy weight, his breath warm against your skin, his arms holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched?

This was home. And you’d steal a few more minutes of it. Every time.

*

The morning air was warm and soft, heavy with the scent of the forest just beyond the kelku. Inside, the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, casting the room in gentle orange light. You were already moving, half-dressed and sighing quietly to yourself as you tugged your panties up your thighs.

Neteyam sat cross-legged on the pelts, bare and relaxed, his long limbs loose and sprawling, golden eyes tracking your every move. He watched you with that slow, lazy hunger he always had in the mornings—when his blood was still thick with sleep and you were trying to pretend you had the strength to leave.

You reached for your pants next—but you didn’t get far. His hand caught your wrist before you could lift the fabric. With one firm tug, he pulled you back toward him, and your breath hitched as you stumbled into his lap. Even seated, he was eye level with you—taller, really—and it made your chest flutter.

“Neteyam,” you warned softly, trying not to smile as you braced your hands against his broad shoulders. “I really have to go—”

He tilted his head, nuzzling against your chest before you could finish. His lips found the swell of your breast just above your arm, and then your collarbone, his large arms circling around your waist and pulling you flush against his bare body. You sighed, already melting. “This isn’t fair,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his braids as he pressed another kiss just under your collarbone.

He hummed against your skin. “Not trying to be fair. Just trying to keep you.” His mouth moved lower, lazily, like he had all the time in the world. He kissed the top of your breast, then the soft skin along the curve, then lower—and you gasped softly as his lips closed over your nipple. Warm. Wet. Unhurried. Worshipful.

Your fingers tightened in his braids, your breath catching in your throat. “Neteyam…”

Neteyam smirked against your skin. “You always say my name like that when I do this.”

You bit your lip, trying—failing—not to whimper. His tongue flicked over you, teasing, followed by another slow, open-mouthed kiss. You shivered. “I love when you sound like that,” he murmured, shifting to mouth at your other breast now, slower, lazier, like he was savoring every inch of you. “Makes me feel like I could keep you here. Just like this. Wrapped up in me.”

“Neteyam,” you breathed, more of a sigh than a word.

“I know,” he whispered, his hands moving slowly up and down your back, holding you steady as he kissed you again. “I just don’t want you to go. Not yet.”

You melted into him, forehead dropping against his. “It’s just for a day,” you said gently, brushing your fingers across his jaw. “We’re just going to gather what we can from the pit and head back to the outpost before eclipse.”

His brows furrowed, just slightly.

“And after that,” you added with a small, reassuring smile, “there’ll be testing. Weeks of it. Two, maybe more. But during that time…” You leaned in a little. “I can still come to the village if I have enough time. To see you.”

That softened his expression, just a little.

“Or,” you said slyly, eyes glinting, “you could come to the outpost. Where I don’t have to wear a mask.” You leaned closer, voice dropping, “Which means you could get all the kisses. No glass in the way.”

Neteyam growled softly, low in his throat, his lips curving against your skin. “All the kisses?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

You grinned. “Every single one.”

He kissed the center of your chest, right over your heart, and wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let you go. “You make it impossible to let you leave,” he murmured, and for a moment, he sounded almost boyish. Almost broken.

You tilted your head against his, your fingers brushing gently over the base of his neck. “I’ll always come back to you,” you whispered.

And you would. Every time.

*

The wind rushed past your ears as the forest blurred beneath you, the beat of wings steady and powerful. Neteyam’s ikran, Tawkami, soared high and silent through the early dawn sky, the sun barely peeking over the edge of the trees. You sat close before Neteyam, his arms snug around your waist.

The ride had been quiet—gentle, even. As gentle as a ride on a powerful mountain-bonded predator could be. And you knew that wasn’t an accident. Neteyam had flown slow on purpose. He always did when you were with him. Like the longer the ride, the longer he got to keep you with him before the world caught up.

Tawkami let out a low, pleased rumble as the outpost came into view below. The landing pad shimmered slightly from the heat of early morning sun, and already the team was outside, bustling around the Samson, packing up the last of the gear for the field mission.

You sighed quietly. The ikran circled once, then began to descend, smooth and deliberate. His wide wings beat once, twice, before folding slightly to slip through the morning air with practiced grace. When he landed, it was soft and sure.

Neteyam slid down first, moving with feline ease. His feet hit the ground silently, and before you could even fully loosen your grip from the saddle, he turned and reached for you. His arms lifted you easily, his large hands wrapping around your waist as he helped you down from the saddle like you weighed nothing at all. Your boots barely touched the ground before he set you gently on your feet, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second longer than necessary.

Before either of you could say a word, a deep, happy chirp sounded behind you—and you turned just in time to see Tawkami nudge his massive, scaled head against your shoulder with a surprisingly affectionate push.

You let out a startled giggle and stumbled back a half step, grinning up at the creature. “Hey!” you laughed, already reaching up to run your fingers affectionately along the curve of his jaw. “Aw, you big baby—what was that for, huh?”

He made a low trilling sound, leaning into your touch like a giant, puppy. You beamed up at him, stroking along his snout with gentle, practiced hands. “You’re just like your rider,” you teased, voice playful as you leaned in to bump your mask against his thick brow. “All bark, no bite, and completely clingy in the mornings.”

Tawkami huffed loudly, almost in agreement, and Neteyam chuckled behind you. His golden eyes glinted with quiet amusement as he watched his bonded spirit-brother nuzzle you like a hatchling. “He likes you too much,” he murmured, a grin tugging at his lips. “I should be worried.”

You turned back toward him with a bright smile. “You’ve known this already.”

He smirked. “Still surprises me sometimes. He’s never this gentle with anyone else.”

You glanced back at the massive ikran, now crouched and watching you intently with his huge golden eyes, and your heart warmed. “That’s because he’s smart,” you said sweetly. “He knows a good thing when he sees one.”

Neteyam huffed a laugh, but didn’t argue. Just beyond the edge of the pad, the rest of the xenobotany team was already gathering by the Samson. Kate and Brian waved when they spotted you, and you waved back. Norm, standing closest to the side compartment, squinted as you approached.

“You’re late,” he called out.

“I’m not late,” you replied, arching a brow as you stopped a few feet away. “You’re just early.”

Neteyam crouched beside you then, one knee pressed to the ground, his hands resting lightly on your hips. You looked at him, your smile softening.

“I’ll be fine,” you said quietly, reaching up to press the edge of your mask against his forehead. “Don’t worry so much.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, full of warmth and something deeper—something heavy and hard to put into words. You kissed his forehead through the glass, then pulled back with a mischievous grin.

“Try not to miss me too much,” you teased.

Neteyam scoffed softly. “Too late.”

You giggled, brushing a stray braid away from his face. “You should hurry,” you said, tone light but pointed. “Before someone notices you’re missing.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Let them.”

You gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? And get me in trouble? No way. If your mother finds out her perfect firstborn son’s been sneaking around with a ‘filthy little human’—” you deepened your voice in mock-Neytiri impression “—she’ll shoot me full of arrows before I can even scream.”

Neteyam chuckled, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would,” you said, grinning wickedly. “You know she would. And you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

You leaned in, voice dropping low. “While I’m off at the pit, far away and defenseless, you’ll be here… surrounded by those three dream girls.”

His brow arched. “Oh no.”

You nodded solemnly. “What if you get lonely? What if one of them finally wins your heart? You wouldn’t want to break tradition, after all.”

Neteyam smirked. “Mm. You’re right.”

You gasped again, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Neteyam!”

He grinned up at you, catching your wrist and pulling you closer just enough to press his lips to the glass of your mask, right where your mouth would be.

You shrugged with a grin. “Still. Try to keep it in your pants while I’m gone.”

He leaned in, voice low and warm and close to your ear. “I’ve only ever wanted one.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly, but before you could say anything else, he pulled back, fingers brushing down your arm in a parting touch.

“You come back to me,” he said softly, almost like an order.

You nodded. “Every time.” And as he turned to climb back onto Tawkami, the ikran chirped once more and took off into the skies, leaving the air thinner in his absence—and your heart already counting the minutes until you saw him again.

*

You gave the retreating form of Tawkami one last wave before turning toward the Samson, your boots clicking softly on the metal platform. The jungle heat was already rising, thick with morning mist curling through the tree line.

Kate was standing near the ramp of the transport, arms crossed, her blonde ponytail pulled through the back of her cap. She gave you a long, very knowing look as you approached. “You’ve got that look,” she said, grinning wide. “The ‘I just rolled out of a Na’vi’s arms and now I’m pretending to be a serious scientist’ look.”

You laughed, not even bothering to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “Yeah, well. When he holds me like that, it's hard to care about data sheets.”

Kate snorted. “I don’t blame you. If I had a tall forest prince waking up next to me, I wouldn’t care about photosynthesis either.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you stepped into the transport. The air inside the Samson was cooler, fans spinning gently. Norm and Max were already strapped in near the cockpit, checking through the last of the gear.

“You good?” Norm asked, not even looking up from his tablet. “You look like you’re still half in the kelku.”

“She is,” Kate said behind you as she climbed in. “Body’s here, but her heart’s still tangled in arms.”

You swatted at her gently and slid into your seat across from Norm, strapping in as Max finished securing a crate of sample canisters near the rear. The Samson’s engines kicked on with a low hum, and within minutes, the transport lifted into the air. The jungle fell away below, turning to endless green—an unbroken canopy that stretched for miles in every direction.

Norm leaned forward, looking out the side window. “I can’t believe they want us to go back there,” he muttered.

Max shrugged. “After twenty years, I’m surprised they remembered the site even existed.”

You turned slightly, adjusting your mask. “Why now?”

Norm frowned. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The directive from Bridgehead was vague—just that they need a full ecological sweep of the area. Samples, scans, updated topography.”

Kate scoffed. “Sounds like they’re sniffing for a reason to reopen the pit.”

Max gave her a look. “We can’t prove that.”

“No,” Norm said, “but we all know how they work. If they want us there this fast, it’s not for nostalgic reasons.”

The flight took a little over than three hours, the canopy eventually breaking into hills and twisted valleys, the scars of human intervention beginning to show. You could see it clearly from the air—the old access roads, now overgrown, the faint gridlines of disturbed forestland. And then, like an open wound: the pit.

The mining site sprawled beneath the Samson, a massive crater carved into the earth, jagged and raw even after two decades. The giant excavators—once the heart of the operation—lay silent and broken at the center, its enormous arms rusted and collapsed, half-buried by time. Vines had begun to creep over the structure, curling around the rusted frame like skeletal fingers reclaiming a corpse.

Trees had begun to sprout along the edges of the pit. Not many—but enough to see Eywa was slowly healing. The land bore deep red and ochre scars where the topsoil had been stripped away, but small patches of green—brave little seedlings and mosses—dotted the edges like stubborn hope.

Streams had changed course through the pit floor, collecting in shallow pools where dragonflies and glowing moss now grew. Creatures had begun to return—small things at first. Insects. Birds. Signs of renewal.

The Samson hovered for a moment above the site before beginning its descent.

“God,” Kate whispered, looking down. “It looks like a battlefield.”

“It was,” Norm said softly.

You nodded. “And Eywa is still trying to stitch it closed.”

The Samson touched down with a hiss of hydraulics. As the doors opened, the heavy scent of disturbed earth and damp vegetation rolled in. You stepped out slowly, your boots crunching on broken stone and dried mud, the air thick with heat and the distant hum of insects reclaiming the silence.

Everyone spread out, scanning and cataloging. The hum of portable scanners broke the silence. Brian adjusted his goggles and crouched near a patch of moss clinging to a rusted pipe. “It’s amazing,” he muttered. “This whole place should’ve been dead for another century… but look at this. Fungal colonies, early-stage tree roots—Eywa’s network is creeping back in.”

Max walked up beside him, scanning deeper soil layers. “This level of regrowth shouldn’t be happening this fast. Unless…” He paused, eyes narrowing at the scanner. “Unless the unobtanium left behind is affecting the soil. Drawing in bioluminescent mycelium. They could be feeding on it.”

You frowned. “Why would the RDA care about that?”

Norm looked up at you. “Because if they know Eywa’s starting to re-establish control over this land… they might see it as a threat to their mineral claims. Or worse—an opportunity.”

Your stomach turned, just a little. You glanced back at the pit, at the broken bones of metal and stone, and felt the old ache of history settle into your chest. Some wounds didn’t heal easily.

*

The morning sun climbed higher as the team spread out across the site, boots crunching softly against soil that had long since begun to recover from the human brutality once carved into it. The air was thick with humidity and buzzing life, cicada-like insects clicking somewhere in the undergrowth, and strange bird calls echoing from the canopy above the surrounding crater walls.

You adjusted your scanner, the display flickering softly as you scanned the base of a vine-covered steel structure, its rusting frame nearly swallowed by moss and roots. The rest of the team moved with practiced ease around you, weaving between bent girders, overgrown tracks, and crumbling concrete.

"Hey, this lichen sample is glowing." Brian still overly excited about literally everything, held up a vial near his face. His freckles were visible even through the clear front of his rebreather mask. “Is this bioluminescent fungi or something else?”

You turned, brushing stray strands of hair out of your mask’s field of vision. “Run a spectral analysis—see if it’s reacting to UV or just ambient light. It might be a new strain. Eywa’s good at recycling.”

Norm chuckled from a nearby ridge, holding a bulky sensor over a cluster of strange ferns. “Recycling, huh? I’d call it aggressive terraforming. Nature’s got claws out here.”

“Good,” Kate replied from behind a collapsed stairwell. “She should. This place was a crime scene.”

Max looked up from his portable analysis kit, tapping in new results. “Soil nutrient levels are higher than expected. We’ve got nitrates, magnesium, even phosphorus returning to baseline. That’s fast healing.”

"Nature’s better at fixing our mess than we are,” you said absently, kneeling to collect a sample of a broad-leafed plant that had grown straight through the axle of a rusted-out hauler. Its roots split the steel like it was nothing. “But it remembers. All this growth? It’s still defensive. Opportunistic.”

Kate crouched beside you, eyes narrowing on the scanner in your hand. “Looks like it likes you.”

You smirked. “Everything does.”

A laugh rippled through the group.

“You and your forest aura,” Max teased. “Should put that on your resumé.”

The team moved methodically throughout the day, collecting everything from plant clippings and moss cultures to sediment cores and atmospheric samples. Two of the other researchers—Hye-Jin, a quiet but brilliant mycologist, and Raj, a botanist focused on invasive growth—were cataloguing the return of fungal spores to the shattered biome, amazed at how certain species were adapting to colonize rusted metals and concrete.

"There's a fungus literally growing inside the carbon-scored plating," Hye-Jin murmured, eyes wide behind her glasses as she examined a sample under her hand lens. "It's feeding on the iron oxide. I’ve never seen anything like it."

“It’s like the forest sent in a cleanup crew,” Raj added. “Look at the spore spread patterns—they’re targeting metal first. Prioritizing the unnatural.”

“Smart,” you said, bagging another specimen. “They’re breaking down the RDA’s trash before it can rot the rest of the forest.”

"You’ve been quiet today," Norm said casually, leaning on a rusted support beam beside you. "Thinking about someone?”

You gave him a wry look through your mask. “Maybe.”

He grinned, then after a pause, his tone shifted just a little more thoughtful. “So... how’s the apprenticeship going? With Mo’at?”

Kate, who had just zipped up her own pack, perked up instantly. “Oh yeah—‘learning from the Tsahik.’ How’s our little undercover romance-student mission going?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “It’s going well, actually. Mo’at’s been... more patient than I expected. At first, it was just basic observation—watching her during ceremonies, simple herb identification. But now she’s letting me take a more active role.”

Kate’s brows lifted, impressed. “Really? That’s huge.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been learning more about how they process certain roots for pain and inflammation. There’s one plant they use that has a latex-like sap—helps draw venom out of deep punctures. I’ve actually started helping with poultices, small treatments… she even let me tend to Neteyam’s wounds after a few hunts.”

Norm let out a quiet whistle. “Damn. That’s trust.”

You shrugged, trying not to smile too much. “Stubborn idiot didn’t want help, but I insisted.”

Kate smirked. “Of course he didn’t want help. Warrior pride, all that. And of course you insisted.”

“Obviously,” you said, grinning now. “But he didn’t complain once I started working on him. Mo’at just watched the whole time, didn’t even say a word. I think… she’s beginning to see I’m not just a passing curiosity.”

Norm chuckled softly, arms crossed. “What I don’t get is how Jake and Neytiri haven’t figured out this whole ‘studying under Mo’at’ thing is really just your cover to be near their son.”

You glanced at him with a small, knowing smile. “Maybe they have. Maybe they just haven’t said anything.”

“But still,” Kate added, cocking a brow. “You’ve been going there for, what, almost a month now? They’re not dumb.”

You turned to Norm then, voice curious. “You’ve known Jake longer than any of us. Since before—before all of this. You guys were friends when he was still human. Why haven’t you said anything to him?”

Norm looked thoughtful for a moment, his gaze drifting to the treeline, the rusting ruins of the RDA’s greed all around him. “Because,” he said finally, voice quieter now, “I know Jake. I’ve known him since the first time he rolled into Hell’s Gate in that busted-ass wheelchair, full of attitude and zero science background. He was stubborn, reckless, impossible to teach. And the most loyal guy I’ve ever met. But it took him a long time to learn how to trust people—really trust them.”

He looked back at you then, his expression gentler. “If he hasn’t said anything about you and Neteyam, it’s either because he doesn’t know... or because he’s waiting to see what kind of woman you are.”

Your throat tightened slightly at that. Kate bumped her shoulder into yours. “He’s waiting to see if you’ll run when it gets hard.”

You gave her a small, confident smile. “Then he’ll be waiting a long time.”

Norm nodded, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because Neteyam? That kid’s carrying the weight of the world. He needs someone who won’t flinch.”

You looked down at the dried leaves by your boots, feeling a quiet surge of warmth swell behind your ribs. “He has that,” you said softly. And you meant it.

The team had been working nonstop since morning, collecting, documenting, and organizing samples into careful containment. The old RDA mining site had proven to be a treasure trove of data—plant regrowth, fungal spread, even signs of early animal repopulation—but it was also enormous, overgrown, and half-swallowed by the jungle after twenty years of neglect.

Norm crouched over a sealed container near the old excavator, jotting down a quick note on a data pad. “We’ll need to run full isotope analysis on the soil layers. Especially the areas closest to the old blast zone. Max, you still have the portable centrifuge on standby?”

“Yeah,” Max called out, emerging from behind a broken section of wall overtaken by moss. “It’s already calibrated for mineral content and toxin density. We’ll get the full profile by morning.”

Kate zipped up another sample bag, brushing dirt off her knees. “We need to start packing the heavy gear soon. Eclipse is in a few hours. I don’t want to be flying over dense canopy in dark.”

Brian chimed in from across the clearing, hefting a container. “I think we’ve got what we came for. If we rush analysis tonight, we’ll have something decent to send to Bridgehead in a few days.”

You nodded as you clipped your sample pouch closed. “I’ll take one last sweep along the eastern edge—there’s a cluster of new growth I want to get closer to. Only take a minute.”

Norm waved vaguely without looking up. “Don’t go too far. Yell if you see anything weird.”

You offered a quick smile and ducked under the low-hanging vines, weaving carefully through the uneven terrain. The plant you’d noticed was just beyond the dense fringe—half-hidden behind a tangle of roots and glowing lowlight ferns. It caught your eye immediately. Thin stalks. Bioluminescent cap. A faint shimmer of color that reminded you of Tsahìk’s poultice ingredients—but twisted, unfamiliar.

Your curiosity overrode your sense of time. You stepped closer, brushing aside a vine and crouching down, and then slowly follow it one after the other. You took out your scanner, slowly waving it over the plant, reading the energy signature and chemical composition. It pulsed with a strange frequency—half-familiar, half… wrong. You frowned, logging the scan and taking a quick clipping.

Just as you were tucking it into your bag, you straightened—and realized the clearing behind you was gone. Your stomach sank.

You turned left—dense foliage. Right—nothing familiar. No sign of the excavator or the rusted husk of human machinery. Even the undergrowth felt thicker here, like you’d stepped into a different piece of the forest entirely.

You were alone. The faint sound of voices and equipment was gone.

“…Shit.”

You spun in a slow circle, trying to orient yourself. But the more you looked, the more everything looked the same. Trees. Roots. Leaves. Ferns. Glowing spores flickering lazily in the dusky light. The sun was already sinking fast.

And you were lost.

Your breath hitched as you turned again—desperately scanning the thick undergrowth, the gnarled trees, the same damn glowing moss lighting up every root like it was mocking you.

No sign of the pit. No echo of voices. No rusted metal shapes to guide you back. You reached for your datapad, your hands already trembling a little, and tried to pull up the locator. It flickered once, then again, before spitting out a mess of unreadable static and error codes. You cursed under your breath.

Of course. The flux vortex.

Norm warned all of you about it earlier—how the dense pockets of unobtanium left buried beneath the pit screwed with signals and electronics. No GPS, no comms. Too unstable. That’s why no one had wandered too far from the pit. They all agreed to stay within shouting distance. It seemed fine at the time. Logical. Safe.

But now you were alone. Surrounded by a jungle you didn’t know. And your tech was useless.

Your stomach twisted as the reality hit you. The outpost was almost three hours away by air. On foot, through this terrain? That was at least two days—if you had a direction. And right now, you didn’t even have that. You hadn’t left a trail. No markers. Just... wandered off chasing a glowing plant like an idiot.

You forced in a shaky breath and tried to center yourself. Okay. You live in the forest. Every damn day. You walk it. Catalog it. You know how to read signs. You’ve done hikes longer than this.

But it didn’t help. Because this place—it wasn’t like the forest near the outpost. Or the paths you’d walked a hundred times near the Omatikaya village. This was uncharted jungle. Wild. Twisted. Left alone for decades while Eywa slowly pulled it back into her arms.

And now, the sky was changing. You glanced up through the canopy—past the tangled leaves and vines. The light was dimming fast, the soft lavender tones of the eclipse already creeping into the horizon. Shadows grew longer. Cooler.

Your heartbeat picked up. They’ll notice. Norm will call out. Max’ll start looking. They’ll find me. But a voice inside you—quieter, colder—whispered something else.

What if they think you just went back to the Samson? What if they already left? What if no one saw you slip away?

You took another step forward, and the foliage shifted again—branches scraping across your clothes. Your mask hissed softly as the filter adjusted to the change in humidity. You were breathing too fast.

Your fingers gripped your sample pouch tighter, knuckles going white as you spun in another slow circle. Everything looked the same. You were lost. And the jungle was closing in.

Your hands dove into your satchel with growing urgency, breath hitching as you rifled through its contents, willing something—anything—to give you a plan.

Okay. Think. Come on. Think. Your fingers closed around the exo mask first—your spare. Still functioning. You placed it gently beside you, hands shaking as you pulled out the rest.

A thin coil of synthetic rope. A few sealed protein bar. A small canteen of water. Your datapad, still flickering uselessly. Three sample vials from the glowing plant you’d wandered off after. And a lot of empty vials.

Your torchlight—old but working. You clicked it on, watched its bright beam cut through the deepening purple haze of eclipse light, and clicked it off again. Save the battery.

And finally, the knife. You held it in your hand for a moment—small, practical, sleek steel fitted with a non-slip handle. Not military-grade. Just a field tool meant to cut vines, dig up roots, or scrape samples.

But out here? In this part of the forest? It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

If one of the six-legged panther beasts caught your scent—this knife wouldn’t do a damn thing. Not against teeth. Or claws. Or poison-tipped stingers. Not against this forest, which seemed to grow darker by the second. You gripped it tighter, knuckles bone-white.

Shit.

The fear pressed against your ribs now, heavy and real. You were alone. No comms. No signal. And the team—Norm, Kate, Max, all of them—they’d look. You knew they would. They were smart. They cared.

But even if they started searching right now, they’d have to leave before the eclipse hit in full. It wasn’t just policy—it was survival. No human stayed out here after nightfall. Not without shelter. Not with the predators that hunted in the dark. Norm had drilled that into you from day one.

Only one thing more dangerous than the Pandoran forest… Is the Pandoran forest in the dark. You swallowed, throat tight and dry. Every RDA safety seminar you’d ever half-listened to came rushing back in jagged pieces.

If lost in the field:

Don’t move too far. Conserve energy.

Make yourself visible if possible.

Stay calm. Focus. Panic kills faster than the forest.

Do not travel at night.

And yet here you were. Lost. Terrified. Trapped between that exact panic and the knowledge that if they didn’t find you before full eclipse, they’d have no choice but to leave you behind. Your satchel lay open in your lap, its contents spread around you like puzzle pieces you didn’t know how to solve.

You sat slowly, curling your knees to your chest, the sample vials clinking softly. You looked at the tiny green sprigs inside them, glowing softly. The very reason you’d wandered off in the first place. Stupid. Stupid. You should’ve called to someone. Should’ve told Max or Brian. Should’ve marked your path.

And now?

Now you were stranded in a place where even the trees looked like they were watching you. Even the air felt thicker. Like the forest could sense your heartbeat—and was already deciding whether to ignore it or snuff it out.

The truth hit you then. Hard. You might die out here.

In the forest you loved more than anything, on the moon that had somehow become your home—you might actually die out here. Alone. With nothing but a knife, a mask, and a few glowing plants to keep you company.

And the worst part? You hadn’t even said goodbye to Neteyam.

You tilted your head back, peering up through the thick canopy—and your stomach dropped.

Clouds.

Heavy, dark, churning with the promise of rain. Not the soft kind that dusted the forest with misty kisses. No, these were the kind that roared. That tore branches from trees and drowned fires before they could start. You cursed under your breath, gripping the strap of your satchel tight against your chest.

Shit. Shit. No, no, no. Not rain. Not now.

You scanned the trees again, ears straining. Maybe someone was calling for you—maybe Max, or Brian, or Kate, yelling your name, swearing as they pushed through the undergrowth looking for you. But no.

Nothing.

No voices. No distant machinery. Just the haunting, symphonic rhythm of the forest: insects humming in waves, leaves rustling like whispers, some distant animal shrieking in the rising dusk. The music of Pandora… beautiful and terrifying all at once. You were utterly alone.

And for the first time since you’d come here—you hated it. The forest had always felt alive to you. Safe, even. Breathing with Eywa’s presence, with the pulse of a world untouched by greed. You’d fallen in love with it the way you’d fallen for Neteyam—slowly, all at once, and with your whole damn heart.

But now?

You didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be back in the outpost. You wanted clean air, light, your bunk, voices—Neteyam. You wanted his arms around you. His voice telling you it would be okay. That you were safe. That you were his.

Think. Come on, think.

He’d told you a million things over the years. Stories. Warnings. Lessons in passing while your fingers were buried in moss or pressed to some blooming root. He knew this forest like it was in his blood—and it was.

But all you could think about now was that you might never see him again. That realization broke something in you.

You stared at the ground, your knees still folded under you, your fingers trembling at your sides. The dirt beneath you pulsed with life, but it felt like none of it was on your side.

For several moments, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The thought of Neteyam’s face, the way his ears twitched when he smiled, the sound of his laughter in the morning, the way he kissed your mask like it was real skin—

You might not get to feel that again. Your eyes stung. Your chest ached. But then something snapped. No.

Fuck that. You surged to your feet, hands curling into fists at your sides, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Fuck that,” you said aloud this time, voice low and sharp and furious. I’m not dying here.

You looked around again, sharper now. Searching. Calculating. You didn’t have his instincts. You didn’t have his strength. But you had your brain—and a will to survive. You would find shelter. You would wait out the rain. You would not die in this fucking forest.

Not tonight. Not like this.

The first cold drop hit the back of your neck like a warning shot. Then came the second. The third. A thousand more. Until the heavens cracked open, and the sky spilled its fury over the forest.

Within seconds, the world turned to chaos—rain thundering against leaves, the scent of wet earth rising sharp and fast, the ground beneath your boots softening into slick, treacherous mud. Every step you took became harder, heavier, dragging you down like the forest wanted to keep you.

You slipped once—your hands catching on a mossy root just in time to stop your fall—but your heart hammered like a drumline in your ribs. You couldn’t stay low.

That was the first rule Neteyam ever taught you when it came to storms in the deep forest. “If the water rises, the lowlands become a death trap. Find height. Anything. Just—climb.” But the trees around you… they were massive. Towering, ancient things. Their trunks too smooth, too vertical to scale without gear, and you had none. Just a satchel full of samples, a flashlight, and sheer desperation.

The shadows deepened. The eclipse was coming fast. And then—Eywa must’ve heard you.

Because just as your lungs began to burn and your muscles screamed from trudging uphill, you spotted it: a fallen tree trunk, arched across a shallow gorge like a bridge. The massive root system had ripped up from the earth, leaving the trunk wedged against another tree’s mid-level branches. Almost like a ladder. Rough bark. Cracks wide enough for handholds. Jagged limbs to brace yourself.

You staggered toward it, slipping on the slick undergrowth, your breath heaving from your lungs as you dropped your satchel to test the climb first. It wasn’t graceful. You scrambled. Clawed. Mud coated your palms and soaked through your pants. Your nails broke. But you climbed.

And when you finally reached the thick, sturdy branch it rested against—you almost cried. A hollow.

A natural crevice in the massive tree, hidden under a curl of thick, waxy leaves and massive moss curtains, just wide enough for your body to squeeze into. Not perfect. Not dry. But cover. Protection. Something.

You collapsed inside, panting, the storm now screaming through the canopy above you, rain battering the forest in sheets. You wrapped your arms around your knees, pressing your back to the inner bark, breath trembling from exertion and adrenaline.

And for the first time in hours—you allowed yourself to whisper a prayer.

“Please,” you murmured softly, staring out at the glow beginning to rise from the forest floor. Bioluminescence shimmered like starlight below. “Please, Eywa. If you’ve ever thought I was a gift… please help me get back to him.” Your fingers curled tight over your satchel. “I just want to go home.”

You sat there, curled into the hollow of the tree, your back pressed against the cool, rough bark as the storm howled outside. The downpour only grew heavier, thick sheets of rain slicing through the air like cold blades, soaking everything. Even under your meager cover, the chill crept in—up your spine, beneath your clothes, through the fabric of your pants until your skin ached.

You always loved the rain on Pandora.

It was different than Earth’s—richer, warmer, like the forest sang with it. Sometimes it fell soft and slow like a lullaby, a heartbeat through the leaves. You remembered how it sounded from inside Neteyam’s kelku, curled in his arms, your body tangled with his beneath the pelts. You loved that sound most when it thudded gently against the woven roof while his warmth seeped into your bones. He ran hot, always had. He was like a living furnace when he slept, wrapping you up like a second blanket, arms tucked around you as though the rain might steal you away if he let go.

In those moments, the rain had been comfort. A balm. Music.

Now?

It was merciless. Cold. Indifferent. The kind of rain that reminded you you were small and flesh and breakable. You shifted slightly, tucking your knees tighter against your chest, trying to conserve heat. Your wet clothes clung to your body, your mask fogging slightly from the way your breath hitched with every inhale. You blinked against the dampness—not from the rain this time—but the building pressure behind your eyes.

You couldn’t cry. Not yet. That would come later—if you survived the night.

Your eyes turned to the outside again. The eclipse was in full swing now. The forest, so dim before, had fallen into eerie darkness, broken only by the glow of bioluminescent plants. The strange, flickering light of Pandora’s heart pulsed all around you like veins under skin.

You’d studied it for years. Lived among it. Loved it. But right now, it felt alien. Even hostile. You tried to focus. Tried to think. Your breath slowed, your heartbeat thudded in your ears. What do I do when the sun rises? You repeated it like a mantra. Something solid to anchor you. The rain wouldn’t last forever. The sun would return. And when it did, you had to move. No more wandering.

You had to mark where you were now. Use the trees. Landmarks. Leave signs behind. Something the others might spot if they searched. You’d need to ration your water. Eat sparingly. Stay alert. Find a way to signal—anything.

But even those thoughts rang hollow when you remembered: You were three hours from the outpost by air. On foot, through dense jungle terrain, alone? Four days at best. More if you got turned around again. And that’s if nothing found you before then. A wave of cold sank into your chest.

Because here, in this unfamiliar stretch of forest—you were the most fragile thing.

Soft. Slow. Easy prey.

Not even a threat. Just meat in the wrong place. You looked down at your hands. Mud-caked. Shaking. Your flashlight rested beside your satchel, dim but steady. Your knife sat in your lap, small and pitiful.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t die here,” you whispered into the dark, the wind stealing your words. But the forest didn’t care. It only answered in thunder.

The rain had stopped somewhere deep in the belly of the night.

You hadn’t noticed the exact moment—it just faded, slowly, from pounding, merciless torrents to soft pattering... then nothing. Only the sound of dripping leaves remained, like a forest sigh settling into stillness. You sat, knees drawn tight to your chest, still shivering beneath your damp clothes. The canopy above was darker now—blacker than pitch—but around you, the world had come alive in glowing blues and purples.

Pandora at night. The bioluminescence of the forest was breathtaking. The veins of leaves pulsed with soft light, vines shimmered like constellations in the dark, and moss under your boots glowed faintly with each trembling breath you took. It was beautiful. Unbelievably so.

And terrifying. Because in that beauty, things moved.

You heard them long before you saw them. The crackling of underbrush. The rustling of leaves. The soft click of padded paws on wet ground.

And then— That sound. A low, guttural laugh—sharp and eerie and too much like a hyena. Then another. And another.

Viperwolves.

You froze. They were close. Maybe less than a hundred meters. You couldn’t see them—not yet—but you didn’t need to. You knew what they were. You’d seen their tracks before. Heard their calls from the safety of the outpost. Watched their patterns in recorded data. But nothing—nothing—prepared you for hearing them while alone. While lost. While soaked and freezing and so very, very human.

Your hand moved without thinking, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of your knife. It was small. Practically useless. Just a tool meant to cut samples, open packs, slice rope. Not to defend against that. You didn’t want to use it.

You didn’t want to hurt anything. You didn’t belong here—not like them. You were an outsider, a visitor, a speck of dust pretending to understand a world that was older and deeper and infinitely more sacred than you. These forests were theirs. Not yours.

But Eywa help you—you didn’t want to die. Your breath slowed as you pressed yourself further into the hollow, heart hammering as the laughter echoed closer. You could imagine them below—glowing eyes scanning the trees, wet paws sliding across mossy earth, heads tilting as they caught your scent on the damp air.

They’ll find me. They’ll climb the trunk. They’ll smell me. They’ll know I’m here.

But they didn’t. They ran past. Laughing, snarling, howling into the darkness. For minutes, you heard them—circling, moving. And then they were gone. Nothing but silence and the distant whisper of wind through glowing leaves.

You didn’t loosen your grip on the knife for a long time. You were too wired, too full of adrenaline to cry or speak. You just sat, breath shallow, ears straining, body curled in a tight ball.

And still... somehow, sleep pulled at the edges of your mind. Dull and heavy. Even fear had limits, and your body was exhausted. So you dozed. Never for long.

Every time your head dropped, a sound would jerk you awake—cracking branches, the rustle of wings, a whisper of movement below. Your eyes would fly open, heart in your throat, knife still clutched like a lifeline. Then you'd breathe. Wait. Listen. Try to settle. And again—darkness, silence, the distant hum of a world that didn’t even know you were there.

When the first hints of golden light bled through the thick, mist-drenched canopy, it almost didn’t feel real.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and disbelieving, heart stumbling in your chest as you leaned out from your makeshift hollow, staring at the forest bathed in early dawn. Pale orange rays sliced through the bioluminescent haze, chasing away the blues and purples of night, casting long shadows and waking birdsong. It was morning.

You almost cried. Your shoulders shook as you exhaled, a breath so full of relief and fear that it left your chest aching. You hadn’t realized how tight you’d been holding yourself. The tension. The cold. The fear. It was still there—but daylight made it feel… survivable.

You sat for a few more minutes, curled in your makeshift shelter, watching the forest come back to life in a different way. Birds called to each other through the trees. Insects buzzed lazily. Leaves dripped and shimmered with dew. It was beautiful. Almost peaceful.

But your throat was dry, your head pounding, and you knew—if you didn’t find water soon, you wouldn’t last another day.

You dug into your satchel with stiff, cold fingers and pulled out your datapad, flipping it open and pressing the flickering power button. The screen buzzed weakly to life—glitching, blinking, fractured into thin lines of static and unreadable symbols. But the map was still up. Sort of.

Fucking flux vortex.

You cursed under your breath. The damned unobtanium in the earth around the pit made every piece of tech behave like it had one foot in another reality. This was why no one brought comms here. Why they all agreed to stay close.

But you’d wandered. And now the price of it was glitching tech and no way to reach anyone.

You stared at the flickering screen, trying to piece together the fragments of the topography that flashed and disappeared every other second. There—there was something. A thin blue line. A creek, maybe. At east. It was hard to tell, but you prayed it was real. If you could get there—follow the water—you might have a chance. Water meant hydration, but it also meant direction. Movement. Sometimes, even safety.

You tilted your head, squinting through the leaves. The sun was rising from that way. East. Good. At least now you knew which direction to go.

You folded the datapad shut, tucking it back into your bag with numb fingers. Then you looked up again—toward the sky now streaked with soft yellow light. The clouds were breaking, and the forest glittered under the sun’s gentle heat. Your soaked clothes clung to your skin, heavy and cold, but it was better. Everything felt better.

Still… your chest ached when you thought about them. The team. Please let them have made it back.

You knew them. Norm would’ve tried to find you. Kate, Max, even Brian—they’d stay as long as they could. But they couldn’t stay past eclipse. They’d be forced to return to the outpost. And if they were back now… they were probably already planning a rescue. You had to believe that.

But rescue or not—you had to survive long enough to be rescued. That meant finding that creek. Getting water. Eating. Moving. Staying alive. Getting back.

You adjusted the straps of your satchel and reached for the rope hanging from your makeshift perch. Time to climb down. One more deep breath. You looked up at the sky one last time.

“Just a little longer,” you whispered, like you were speaking to Neteyam. To yourself. To Eywa. Just a little longer. Please.

It took nearly three hours of slow, careful hiking—stumbling over slick roots and wet underbrush, slipping more than once in the thick mud—but finally, finally, you found it.

A creek. The soft sound of rushing water filtered through the trees first, then grew stronger with every cautious step. And when you pushed aside a curtain of damp ferns and saw it, your knees nearly gave out.

It was real. Crystal clear, winding like a silver ribbon through the dense foliage, the creek cut across the forest floor—shallow, but fast-moving. Rain had filled it more than usual, water bubbling over smooth stones, reflecting the shifting light of the canopy above.

You fell to your knees at the bank, trembling from exhaustion and relief. You fumbled for your bottle first, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers and dipping it into the stream, watching the water fill the container as if it were the most precious thing you’d ever held. And then—slowly—you sat back on your heels, heart pounding, and reached for the latch of your exo mask.

Your fingers hesitated. Just a second. Just a few gulps. That was all you needed. Just to feel it—not filtered, not processed. Real water.

You took a breath, then released the seal with a soft hiss. The air hit your lungs sharp and clean, and you didn’t waste time. You tipped the bottle back and drank—three big gulps, fast—cool water flooding your mouth and throat, nearly choking on the second one, but you didn’t care. You could’ve cried from the way it tasted.

Then, with practiced speed, you snapped the mask back on, the seal hissing into place.

You sat there, kneeling in the mud, your breath finally slowing. You didn’t move for a long minute. You just… watched the water. The way it curved around rocks. The way tiny bubbles clung to the edges of moss. The way sunlight dappled through the trees and danced on the surface like fireflies.

For a moment, it almost didn’t feel like you were lost. For a moment, the forest was beautiful again.

Then—a sound. Your whole body stiffened.

A rustle—definitely movement—on the other side of the creek. Your heart shot into your throat. Your hand reached for the knife in your belt on pure instinct. Your brain screamed run, but your legs refused. What was the point? Whatever was out there could outrun you, outclimb you, outfight you. And you were tired.

So damn tired. But what stepped out of the trees… was not what you expected.

It was a yerik. Its sleek body stepped through the brush with silent grace, blue hide glowing faintly even in daylight. Its two, large eyes blinked, ears twitching once as it looked around—cautious, but not alarmed.

You didn’t dare move. They were known to be skittish. Sensitive to sound. One wrong breath, and it would bolt like a ghost into the trees. But this one didn’t run. Instead, it walked forward—deliberate, calm. It reached the creek’s edge, bent its long neck, and drank.

Right in front of you. You blinked, too stunned to think, too amazed to move. Your fingers loosened around the knife.

Then—its gaze lifted. Glowing eyes met yours. Curious. Quiet. Unafraid. You weren’t sure if it was studying you or simply acknowledging your presence. Maybe it didn’t see you as a threat. Maybe it didn’t see you as anything at all. It just looked. As if it couldn’t quite understand what a fragile little human like you were doing here, kneeling in the mud, alone.

And then—without a sound—it turned. The yerik walked back into the forest. Graceful. Unbothered. Vanishing like smoke between the trees. You stayed frozen there, lips parted, breath caught in your throat.

Then a single word whispered in your mind, like a prayer, like a gift: Eywa. And for the first time since getting lost, you didn’t feel completely alone.

You knew—knew—this was a terrible idea.

The rational part of your brain, the one trained by every RDA survival protocol and Norm's endless lectures, was practically screaming at you to move on. To keep walking, to find higher ground, to follow the creek until you hit something familiar. Anything that got you out of this goddamn forest.

But the scientist in you? She had other ideas.

You spotted it by chance, just a glimpse of color clinging to a tree trunk a few meters ahead, where the bark was dark with moisture. A cluster of fungi—pale lilac with speckled caps—hugging the tree bark in a half spiral about two meters off the ground. Too high to reach easily, but not impossible.

Your breath caught. You knew that fungus. Well—not knew it. You’d never seen it in the forests near the outpost, not in the usual samples your xenobotany team collected. But you’d seen it with Mo’at.

She called it eyotswal—“wound’s sleep.”

Used in healing salves, especially for burns. You remembered the smell when she’d crushed it into a paste between her hands. Sharp. Earthy. She’d smeared it across a burn on a hunter’s arm and muttered prayers to Eywa as she worked.

You’d always wanted to study it. To run tests. To understand it. And now, somehow, in the middle of a forest you weren’t even supposed to be in, hopelessly lost and barely hanging on to your own survival—you’d found it.

“Of course you’re here,” you murmured under your breath, your voice dry as you stepped closer to the trunk. “Just like a field researcher’s fever dream. Completely irresponsible… and completely worth it.”

You glanced around, making sure nothing was watching—no skittish yerik, no slinking viperwolves—before setting your satchel down and digging into it quickly. You found an empty specimen tube, still sealed and pristine. The tube clicked as you twisted the cap off and shoved it under your arm, then turned your attention to the fungus.

“Okay,” you whispered, eyeing the cluster, “don’t fall. Please don’t fall.”

You stood on your toes, reaching up, your fingers brushing the underside of one of the larger caps. Damp. Spongy. Alive. With delicate care, you pinched it at the base and twisted, pulling until it popped free.

You let out a soft, victorious ha! as you dropped it into the tube. Then another. And another. Three samples in total. All fresh. All perfect.

Sheer pride lit in your chest like a flare. You sealed the tube and tucked it into the padded section of your satchel. “You little miracle,” you whispered to the fungus, voice low and breathy with disbelief. “I’ve been looking for you for months.”

But the smallest part of you—scientist, dreamer, relentless fool—was so proud. “I’m gonna run the hell out of tests on you when I get back,” you said softly to yourself.

Lost in the wilds of Pandora. Terrified. Tired. Wet. And still collecting samples. You shook your head and laughed softly under your breath. “God, Neteyam would kill me if he knew.”

You crouched near a strange cluster of red-veined ferns growing out of the base of a massive root, their undersides glowing faintly with a shimmer you’d never seen before. Not in the outpost's region, and certainly not in the controlled domes of the RDA’s old Earth-based biodomes.

You reached out, fingers grazing the smooth, waxy surface of one of the fronds. “God… You’re beautiful,” you whispered. They pulsed slightly under your touch—just a breath of movement, like they were aware of you. Reacting. Evolving.

You shook your head slowly, reaching for a stylus and tapping quickly on your datapad screen, even if it still flickered and glitched every few minutes. “Red-vein fern variant, subjectively bioluminescent. Possibly altered by long-term exposure to mining runoff… or maybe flux radiation.” You paused, squinting at the twisting structure of the root system it clung to. “Growth pattern seems… adaptive. Maybe even parasitic?”

And before you could stop yourself—you popped open another sample tube and snipped the edge of a frond, sliding it inside with a quiet snap. The thrill was real. The curiosity was louder than fear now.

You didn’t even mean to keep going, but your eyes kept catching new flashes of color. Fungi with thick, waxy caps the size of your head. Spore sacs that throbbed slightly, humming at a frequency you could feel more than hear. Creeping vines that smelled like iron and sugar. Every few meters, something new pulled you in.

“Okay—no more collecting,” you muttered to yourself, trying to sound firm as you slipped another capped vial into your satchel. “Seriously. This is insane. Norm will skin me alive if I somehow survive long enough for him to find out I’m off collecting samples while lost in Eywa’s most cursed pocket of forest—”

You froze mid-sentence as you spotted another low bush, barely a foot high, with wide purple petals and a cluster of black thorns coiled in the center like a defense mechanism.

You blinked at it. “…Okay. One more.”

The plant practically shimmered in the growing sunlight, the purple deepening into a wine-red at the edges, and as you knelt down, nose wrinkling at its heavy, pungent scent, you whispered to yourself, “If this is toxic, I swear to Eywa I’m going to cry.”

Still, you snipped it. Logged it. Capped it.

Back of your mind, you knew you were wasting time. You knew the sun was already climbing higher, and you had no map, no comms, no way to tell if you were heading anywhere safe. Nightfall wasn’t far off—not with how long it took you to move through this terrain.

But this forest… It was a living record of change. Of survival. Of how the planet resisted and adapted to human touch in the strangest, most beautiful ways. Everything here looked familiar—but wrong. Or maybe it was right now. Maybe this was the next version of the forest. The version that grew in spite of what humans tried to take.

“I can’t leave this undocumented,” you whispered, crouching beside another unfamiliar bloom and snapping a photo with your tablet. The image glitched slightly, shimmered—like even the tech wasn’t sure what it was seeing.

You tucked the tablet away and sighed.

“If I die out here,” you muttered to yourself with a crooked, tired smile, “they better name a fungus after me.” And despite everything—despite the fear, the exhaustion, the ache in your legs—there was still that fire in your chest. That same relentless pull that had made you fall in love with Pandora in the first place.

Even if it killed you.

Each step forward felt like another reminder of how utterly lost you were. The undergrowth was thick, tangled like the knots in your stomach, and your boots slipped more often now as the ground grew uneven, roots rising like ribs from the earth. Your muscles screamed with every movement, and your hands were scratched raw from gripping bark and vines and pulling yourself up steep embankments.

You glanced down at your datapad, your fingers smearing mud across the already-dirty screen. The glitching was worse now, jagged green and red lines cutting through the map, the screen flickering like a dying firefly.

Battery: 35%.

“Shit…” you hissed under your breath, your shoulders sagging.

You turned off the screen to conserve what little charge you had left, though you knew it was useless. Even if—if—you managed to walk far enough to leave the flux vortex behind, your tech would be as dead as you if the sun went down and you were still out here.

“Okay… it's fine,” you muttered, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down. “The datapad dies, but I’ve got the samples. I’ve got…” You paused, reaching into your satchel and checking the sealed tubes again. “Yeah. I’ve got something to show for it. Even if I have to walk my ass back through the entire jungle to get it out of here.”

You wiped the sweat from your brow, smeared dirt across your temple, and kept walking. Then… you saw it. You blinked, squinted through the golden shafts of sunlight streaming between the trees, your steps slowing. Up ahead, suspended in a snarl of thick vines and flowering roots, was a Samson.

Its faded black and grey frame was tangled like a massive ornament, swaying slightly in the breeze where it hung halfway out of a collapsed tree trunk. The vines had grown through it—into it. Rust painted it from tail to nose, jagged metal edges worn dull and flaking. The cockpit glass was shattered, long since taken over by moss and webs. One of the rotors was missing entirely, snapped off like a broken wing.

And yet, somehow… it was still there. Like a relic. Like a warning. Your throat tightened. “Eywa,” you whispered. “Was this… from the war?”

It had to be. You knew the stories—Jake had told them, Norm too. The final stand at the Tree of Souls, the way the sky people fell from the sky in fire and smoke. This one must’ve gone down nearby, never recovered. Left to rot. A part of the jungle now.

But as you slowly stepped closer, something else clicked in your mind. Shelter. If you could get up there—somehow—you could stay for the night. Safe from predators. Out of reach. Dry, if the rain returned.

You bit your lip, glancing up at the Samson's tilted frame. It wasn’t too high—maybe twenty feet off the ground—but the vines that held it looked old, some as thick as your arm. Strong. You dropped your satchel and scanned the area, eyes darting across the surrounding trees. Then you saw it: a fallen trunk leaned like a ramp against one of the nearby roots. If you could climb that, and then use the vines…

It would hurt. But you could try. “Okay, girl,” you muttered, tying your satchel’s strap tighter across your chest. “Let’s do something stupid.”

You scrambled up the log, hands slipping as bark flaked beneath your fingers. Your foot jammed into a crook of wood, wrenching your ankle enough to make you hiss, but you gritted your teeth and kept going.

Once on the elevated root, you reached for a hanging vine. You tested your weight. It groaned. You groaned. Then you pulled yourself up.

Your arms trembled as you inched higher. A sharp edge of metal bit into your palm, and you cursed as warm blood smeared the cold surface. “God, dammit—” You clenched your jaw, breathing through it.

A few more climbs, one foot braced awkwardly against a twisted vine, and you finally reached the side of the Samson. The door was missing. You stumbled inside, panting, heart hammering in your chest as the old air wrapped around you like a tomb. And then—you stopped.

Your eyes locked on the pilot’s seat. Inside, slumped over the rusted control panel, was a skeleton.

Still wearing the remains of a charred, faded RDA flight suit. One arm hung loosely off the side, the helmet rolled somewhere in the back. Moss grew from the hollow of the ribs. A vine curled through one eye socket like a grotesque crown.

You didn’t scream. You just stared. Froze. Your breath came out shallow and harsh as you backed up a few steps, your knees bumping into the long-cold wall. “…you didn’t make it out either, huh?” you whispered.

The skeleton didn’t answer. But it didn’t need to. You were sitting in the same seat it had—fighting the same wild that had already won. You slid to the floor slowly, your breath finally evening out. And then… very gently, you whispered, “I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s okay.”

You weren’t sure who you were talking to. Eywa. The dead. Yourself. But you were too tired to care. You set your satchel beside you, curling your arms around your knees. For now… this would have to be home.

You pulled off your exo-mask slowly, letting it hang at your side as you reached for your canteen. The water inside was lukewarm, tasting slightly of metal, but it was clean. You took a few gulps, letting the water soothe your dry throat, then hastily sealed the mask back over your face before the air could thin too much around you. You couldn’t afford to be reckless—not now.

Your body ached as you rummaged through your satchel for the medkit. The cut on your palm had started to crust with dried blood, but it still throbbed. You hissed softly as you cleaned it, wincing as the antiseptic foam bit into the wound. You were careful with the bandages—only using what you absolutely had to. The thought that you might need more later wouldn’t leave you.

Then you remembered the cockpit. You turned slowly, inching toward the rusted compartment, past the unmoving frame slumped in the pilot’s seat. You tried not to look at the skull. But your eyes drifted there anyway.

“…sorry,” you muttered, crouching beside what was left of a medpack stashed near the seat. It was coated in dust and time. The label was half-scratched off, the seal brittle, but the contents inside were… surprisingly intact. Gauze, some freeze-dried painkillers, a nearly fossilized bandage roll.

“Guess you really were hanging on for dear life, huh?” you said softly. You weren’t even sure why you said it out loud. But it made you feel less alone. You patched your ankle next—nothing broken, but definitely twisted. Enough to make walking hell for a while. As you worked, you found your eyes drifting to the view outside.

The forest below was glowing. That familiar bioluminescent hue bathed everything in shades of electric blue, deep violet, and green-fire. Leaves shimmered like stars. Vines sparkled in the breeze. Even the old twisted wreckage of the Samson itself seemed to pulse faintly with reflected light.

It was… beautiful. Still, even now—especially now—you couldn’t comprehend just how alive this planet was. Even in the middle of nowhere. Even in fear. It sang around you. Every sound was part of something bigger.

And yet… You were small.

You looked back to the skeleton. “…you saw it too, didn’t you?” you murmured, voice low and tired. “Even through all the gear, and the orders, and the… bullshit. You saw it.”

You didn’t expect an answer. But talking to him—whoever he once was—made it bearable. Maybe because he’d been left behind, just like you. “Guess that makes us two broken pieces of the same story,” you whispered.

A howl echoed in the distance—deep, animalistic. Not close, but not far either. You flinched instinctively, tightening your grip around your knees, and leaned back against the rusted hull. The metal was cold beneath your back, but steady.

“I swear, Eywa,” you whispered, staring up at the warped ceiling of the Samson, “if you let me get back… I’ll change everything. I’ll be better. I’ll worship the ground you walk on. I’ll build you an altar in my sad little bunk.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You didn’t expect to fall asleep. You never did—not in moments like this. But your body was done fighting. And when the dark pulled you under, it brought his face with it.

Neteyam.

His smile. The way his eyes crinkled when you made him laugh. The press of his forehead to yours. His hands cupping your hips. His voice whispering your name in the quiet moments between sleep and sunrise.

God, you missed him. It wasn’t the first time you’d spent nights apart. He had duties. You had research. Sometimes weeks would go by. But this—this was different.

It had only been two days, and it already felt like twenty years. You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. But as your breath evened out and sleep dragged you deeper, you clutched your satchel tighter like it was him. You prayed—not to science or logic—but to Eywa.

To let you see him again. Just once.

Before you die.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, drawn awake not by light or sound—but by the gnawing ache of hunger. Your stomach growled, deep and loud in the quiet morning.

For a single, blissful second, you thought it was a dream. That maybe you were back in your quarters at the outpost. Or, even better, in Neteyam’s kelku, wrapped in pelts and arms and warmth.

But then the wind pushed against the metal hull of the Samson, making it groan and sway on its tangle of vines. And reality settled heavy and cold across your chest. You sat up with a groan, your back stiff, every muscle in your body aching in protest. The stale scent of rust, earth, and wet bark surrounded you like a blanket. You looked down at your ankle, carefully adjusting the bandage to peek beneath it.

The makeshift wrap was still in place. The swelling had gone down, and it didn’t hurt as much anymore when you shifted your weight. Small victories.

You flexed your fingers next, checking your palm where the other wound had been. The gauze was still white. Clean. The cut hadn’t reopened overnight. You sighed in relief. “Still alive,” you murmured to yourself, voice dry. “Go me.”

Your stomach growled again, more insistent this time. “Okay, okay…” you mumbled, reaching for your satchel. You dug through the compartments with tired fingers until your hand closed around the rough packaging of a ration bar. Your emergency stash.

Five left.

You stared at the silver-wrapped bar for a moment. You hadn’t eaten in two days. Not properly. Adrenaline had kept you going, kept you sharp, but now that your body was slowing… you needed something. Anything.

You peeled the wrapper open, pull the mask off slightly, took a small bite and press the mask back. It was dry and gritty, but it tasted like salvation. As you chewed, your eyes drifted to the skeleton in the cockpit. And before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

“Hey. You want some?” you asked around a mouthful, holding out the ration bar with a crooked grin. The bones, of course, said nothing. You snorted. “No? Suit yourself. More for me.”

There was something absurdly comforting about the banter—even if it was one-sided. You kept eating, swinging your legs gently as the Samson swayed again, the vines groaning in protest.

“I gotta say,” you muttered, “I’ve had worse company.” You laughed softly—actually laughed—and shook your head. “Eywa help me, I’ve officially lost it.” The skeleton, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer again. You chuckled to yourself anyway. “This is officially the weirdest breakfast I’ve ever had,” you muttered, taking another bite.

But the moment faded quickly. Because even though you were laughing, even though you were alive, you didn’t want to stay here forever.

You wanted to go back. You needed to go back. You loved this forest, you truly did. More than anything. Its rhythms, its layers, its secret language—all of it had become a second home. But this part? This wound near the pit, where the forest still bore the scars of human greed? It was wild and wrong in a way you couldn’t explain. It was alive—but it was angry.

And being alone in it? That was a death sentence. You pulled your datapad from the satchel next, flipping it on. The screen flickered and glitched like a busted comm feed. The flux vortex was still in full effect, warping the signals, twisting everything out of shape.

But you managed to make out enough of the forest grid to find your heading. East.

Always east.

That was the direction of the outpost. The map was warped, sure, but the topography hadn’t changed that much. You could use the sun as your guide once it was high enough. You’d travel in the morning and seek shelter before dark. Ration your food, collect water when you could, and avoid everything that moved unless it was rooted into the ground.

It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was the best you had. Still, not today.

Today… you’d rest. Heal a bit more. Gather water. Maybe even forage for some fruit, if you were lucky. The Samson, as creepy and old as it was, was shelter. Protection. And right now, it was safer than anywhere else.

“I’ll give it two days,” you said aloud, more to yourself than to the skeleton. “Just two. Then I’ll move.”

The forest outside was already buzzing with life—soft humming, faint clicks, distant howls and chattering from unseen treetop dwellers. You glanced down at the moss-carpeted jungle floor far beneath the wreck. It was beautiful, in a way that still stole your breath.

Terrifying. But beautiful.

You took a deep breath, staring down at your satchel. It was heavier than it should be. If you were going to find water, maybe even food, you couldn’t carry everything. Not today.

So, you made a choice.

You pulled out the samples you didn’t urgently need, set aside one of the larger pouches, and repacked only the essentials—medical supplies, your dwindling food stash, your knife, a torch, the datapad, and a few collection tubes. You kept the fungi you’d found earlier, safely tucked away in its vial. That one felt too important to leave behind.

As you rifled through the cockpit one more time, your fingers brushed against something stiff and slightly warped with age—a manual booklet. The cover was still barely readable beneath the dust and moss. “VTOL RDA Samson: Flight Systems & Repair.”

You snorted. “Yeah, don’t think we’ll be doing any mid-air fixes today.”

Still, you shredded it up carefully and stuffed the paper into your satchel. More breadcrumbs to leave behind. Just in case.

Climbing down was harder than getting up—your muscles were sore, your ankle still tender—and the vines creaked ominously with every shift in your weight. You tried to go slow, deliberate, but in the last meter, your foot slipped.

With a yelp, you landed hard on your back, the wind rushing out of your lungs as you hit the moss-covered ground. For a moment, you just lay there, stunned, staring up at the morning sky peeking through the canopy.

Then, you laughed. Like—really laughed. “If Neteyam saw me now…” you wheezed between chuckles, “he’d definitely stop calling me a gift. ‘You are Eywa’s curse dropped into my lap,’ he’d say.” You wiped your eyes. “Demon girl falling out of the trees.”

Your laugh faded slowly as you sat up, still catching your breath. And that’s when you heard it—a faint rustle from the brush nearby. Your whole body tensed.

You grabbed for your knife, heart thudding in your chest, the memory of viperwolves from that awful night still etched in your bones. But then… a familiar shimmer of blue and white appeared between the ferns.

A yerik.

You blinked. It stepped cautiously into view, delicate and strangely calm. You recognized it—or at least, thought you did. Maybe the same one from the creek the other day.

“Hey there,” you whispered, voice soft. “Are you stalking me?” The yerik just stared at you, unbothered. You smiled in disbelief, still sitting on the ground. “Don’t suppose you know where the creek is?”

No answer, of course. Just those intelligent eyes watching you. And then—it turned. Took a few slow steps toward the brush, paused… and looked back at you. Like it was waiting.

You stood up, wincing at your ankle but pushing through the pain. “No way,” you muttered. “There’s no way you’re guiding me.”

The yerik shifted again—waiting. You hesitated only a second longer before you moved. As you followed, you reached into your satchel, pulling out the first scrap of shredded manual paper. You dropped it behind you, marking the trail.

One step at a time. And the yerik led.

It wasn’t fast. It stopped every few minutes to glance back, making sure you were still there, still following. You kept leaving little paper trails, trying to memorize the path, the turns, the roots. And then—you heard it.

Water.

Fast-moving, bubbling over stone. The forest opened just slightly, light spilling in through the trees, and there it was. The creek.

“Oh, thank God,” you gasped, stumbling the last few steps forward, dropping to your knees by the edge. You filled both bottles quickly and without hesitation pulled off your mask for a moment, drinking deeply, greedy gulps that soaked your parched throat.

Cold, fresh, clean.

You put the mask back on and let out a shaky sigh. It was glorious. You washed your arms, even carefully peeled away the bandage from your palm to rinse the wound. The cold made you hiss, but it felt better already.

You looked around the area, scanning the underbrush for anything you recognized from your months—years—of studying the Na’vi and their ways.

There. A few small fruit pods growing near the rocks. And not far from them, a fallen log split open—and inside, a teylu nest. Plump, wriggling little worm-like creatures curled into themselves.

Your stomach growled again at the sight. You glanced toward the brush where the yerik had disappeared, a quiet smile playing on your lips. “Thanks,” you whispered.

With careful hands, you collected a few fruits, using your knife to slice one open and check the flesh. Sweet, dense—like the ones the Omatikaya often roasted. You hesitated at the teylu, but your survival instinct had long since swallowed your squeamishness. You took only a few—enough for the day. Enough to keep going.

As you packed them away, you smiled to yourself. You had no fire. No home. No way to call for help. But you had water. Food. A direction. And you were still breathing.

And Eywa—maybe—was still watching over you.

Even with the little paper shreds marking your path, winding your way back to the hanging Samson was slow and exhausting. The forest didn’t make it easy—every branch snagged your shirt, every root tried to trip you, and every slope felt like a personal insult from Eywa herself.

When you finally caught sight of the rusted metal frame tangled in thick vines above the canopy, you let out a dramatic gasp. “Home sweet fucking home,” you muttered under your breath, half-laughing, half-ready to collapse.

You wiped your sweaty forehead with the back of your wrist and squinted up at the climb. Even worse the second time. “This is why Na’vi make it look so damn easy,” you grumbled to yourself as you started scaling the trunk and vines again. “Jumping around like goddamn blue squirrels while I’m over here on the verge of death, asking Eywa if she wants a roommate.”

You slipped once, almost lost your footing again near the top, bark scraping against your palms—but you made it. Breathless and trembling, you hauled yourself into the Samson and flopped hard onto the rusted floor.

You lay there for a second, panting, staring at the ceiling. “I swear,” you wheezed, “if you’re up there, Eywa, I’m not even mad anymore. Just... be gentle when you take me.”

The skeleton in the pilot’s seat said nothing. Of course. “God,” you said, dragging yourself up on one elbow to look at it, “you must’ve been a real idiot too. What were you even doing flying this thing during a war? Were you trying to play hero?”

You sighed, softer this time. Then gave a tired smile. “Well, we make a nice pair now, huh?” You sat up, opened your satchel, and glanced at your little stockpile—fruits, a few teylu, your remaining ration bars.

Then your gaze fell to the wriggling bugs. The teylu were moving. Curling, undulating, disgusting.

You gagged a little. “Ughhh, Eywa help me.” You pushed them gently with the tip of your knife. They squirmed. You gagged again. “Neteyam swears they taste good. ‘Nutty and warm,’ he said. Like that’s supposed to help.”

He’d tried to get you to taste one so many times. Always grinning, always teasing. Just try it, yawne. It’s delicious, I promise. You always chickened out.

But now? It was either eat one raw… or wait to pass out from hunger and never wake up.

You stared at the worms for a long moment, then slowly—slowly—closed the lid on the container and set it aside. “Maybe... maybe later. When I’m brave. Braver than right now. Or, like… on the edge of death again. That seems like the right time.”

Your stomach growled in betrayal. “Traitor,” you mumbled.

Lying back on the floor again, you stretched your aching limbs, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. A breeze stirred the vines outside, rocking the Samson gently like a cradle.

The forest was still alive with sound—buzzing, chirping, a distant animal call here and there—but in this metal shell, suspended above the jungle floor, it almost felt safe. Almost. You tilted your head toward the skeleton again.

“I’m need to rest today,” you told it. “Maybe tomorrow too. Just until I can walk more than an hour without wanting to cry.” You sighed. “Then I’ll figure it out. A plan. I’ll move east. I’ll find a ridge or a signal or... something.” You let your head fall back against the rusty metal.

“And if not...” you whispered, watching the light play off the ceiling, “at least I tried.” But deep down—you knew you weren’t giving up. Not yet. Not until you saw him again. Not until Neteyam knew you didn’t just disappear.

The rain came without warning—crashing down with a sudden roar that tore you from the edges of sleep. Thunder cracked across the sky, shaking the jungle canopy like a warning growl from Eywa herself. You jolted upright with a gasp, your hand instinctively clutching your satchel where it lay against your side.

For a moment, you forgot where you were. The inside of the Samson was dark, creaking in protest as the wind pushed against its rusted frame. But then you remembered—this was your refuge. Your rusted, broken haven dangling like some forgotten toy in the treetops. The paper markers…

Your stomach twisted. "Please," you whispered, eyes searching the dark forest floor through the cracked side panel. "Please let the rain stop before they all wash away…"

You scooted back, crawling toward the rear of the copter, where the hull was mostly intact and dry. Cold water dripped from a crack in the ceiling, but it didn’t touch you here. You wrapped your arms around your knees and exhaled slowly, trying not to let the panic crawl its way back into your throat.

Lightning flashed—and that's when you saw them. Below, barely visible under the glowing blue and purple haze of the forest, moved a dozen shapes. Low to the ground. Fluid. Sleek.

Viperwolves again. A full pack.

They padded through the underbrush like shadows given form, and for a second, your breath caught in your chest. They were hunting.

Your scent. Probably picked it up before the rain, and now they were following the ghost of it. You were only safe because of this flying coffin hanging high in the trees.

You shuddered and turned away, curling tighter against the wall of the copter. "You're still the best roommate I’ve ever had," you whispered toward the skeleton. "You don’t talk back, and you don’t eat the last ration bar."

The skeleton, of course, said nothing. Just stared eternally out the cracked cockpit window like some weathered, silent guardian.

Your eyes drifted down to the bundle of leaves near your satchel. The teylu squirmed inside. Two fingers thick. Glossy, pale-skinned, still alive.

Neteyam’s voice rang in your memory—playful, warm.

But he always gave them to you roasted. Never raw. The Na’vi always roasted them. Maybe it made them less… disgusting. You stared down at the bundle, your stomach clenching at the thought. The ration bars were running low, and you had to save them. But the teylu…

You looked out the window again. The rain was coming harder. The Samson swayed more now, creaking and groaning, and the pack of viperwolves were still circling below, their bioluminescent markings slashing through the dark like ghostly fire.

This wasn’t the time to be squeamish.

You reached out, hand trembling slightly, and picked up the wriggling larva. It pulsed between your fingers, slick and warm. Your nose wrinkled involuntarily. "Oh my god, I’m going to throw up," you muttered to yourself, pulling your mask off just enough to shove the thing in. "Please, Eywa, don’t let me die with this as my last meal."

You took a deep breath—and popped it into your mouth. The texture was the worst part. It burst between your teeth with a soft pop, like biting into a warm, gummy fruit… if that fruit was still alive. But the taste?

Surprisingly… sweet. You blinked, chewing slowly, processing.

Okay. Not great, but not awful either. Like raw honey mixed with a nutty, earthy flavor. Still wouldn’t be your snack of choice, but… Neteyam hadn’t lied. Of course he hadn’t. You laughed softly to yourself, shaking your head.

"Alright, fine," you whispered. "You win, forest. You broke me. I just ate a live grub." Outside, the storm kept raging. But you leaned back against the cold, rusted metal, stomach not quite as hollow, limbs still shaking—but not from hunger anymore.

You chewed the last teylu slowly, grimacing more at the texture than the taste. It wasn’t bad, really. Just… teylu. Warm, nutty, slightly sweet—but the squirming? The burst in your mouth? That part you could’ve lived without. You gulped it down and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, groaning softly as you slumped back against the metal.

“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself. “If I ever get out of this jungle, I’m roasting every damn one of you before it even looks at me.”

And you meant it.

If—when—you made it back to the outpost or the village, you’d try the roasted ones. The way the Na’vi ate them. The way Neteyam always tried to get you to. You’d even let him feed you one, smug smile and all. He’d make a whole event out of it, probably. Hold it between his fingers like it was some rare delicacy, tease you until you rolled your eyes—then kiss you like it was your reward for being brave.

That sounded a hell of a lot better than this. You sighed, glancing toward the wrinkled, half-split fruit in your satchel. Its deep blue skin had begun to fade in the corner, a sign it wouldn’t last much longer. You reached for it, tested the flesh with your thumb, then pulled your hand back.

“Breakfast,” you whispered, voice scratchy from the rain. “You’re breakfast. If I live through the night.”

With a soft grunt, you shifted your weight and leaned back against the Samson wall, stretching your legs out and staring down at your hands. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gauze from your left palm, trying not to wince.

The fabric peeled back slowly, sticky with dried pus—and your stomach dropped. The wound wasn’t better.

It was worse. The skin around the gash had swollen more overnight, the edges raw and angry red, and a faint yellow sheen glistened at the corners.

“…Fuck,” you whispered, breath catching. “No, no, no…”

Your eyes squeezing shut.

The antiseptic from your kit hadn’t been enough. Maybe it had slowed the infection, but it sure as hell hadn’t stopped it. And if it kept spreading like this, you knew exactly what came next.

Fever. Shaking. Delirium. Organ failure. And then— Sepsis. Death.

Not in a blaze of glory. Not in a noble sacrifice or even a tragic last stand. Just… a scratch. An infection. A slow, pathetic ending in a rusted-out copter somewhere in the ass-end of the jungle. You were going to die of sepsis.

The idea hit harder than expected. It sat in your chest like a cold stone, heavier than the storm, heavier than the exhaustion. You hadn’t crossed galaxies, learned to read a foreign moon’s forest like scripture, fought for your place beside a man who made your soul ache just by looking at you… just to die from a fucking scratch.

“No,” you whispered, jaw tight. “No. Absolutely not.” If you were going to die out here, it wasn’t going to be like this.

If you had to go, it would be in some ridiculous, spectacular way—a slinger charging from the shadows, and you with a knife in each hand. An epic final stand. Something everyone would tell stories about for years. Not rotting alone from a festering wound.

You refused. Your heart beat harder now, fast and clear under your ribs, fueled by defiance more than fear. You sat up straighter, pulling your satchel closer. The pain in your hand pulsed, but it felt distant now. Like your body knew what came next.

Your fingers tightened around your satchel as you pulled it closer, flipping it open and dragging out your sample kit. Vials. Dried leaves. Spare wraps. The fungus you’d collected, the strange lichen you’d clipped from a vine. You stared at them all like they might suddenly assemble into a miracle.

Tomorrow, you’d need to find real medicine. Not from your kit. Not human-made. You needed plants. Roots. Bark. The kind Mo’at used. The kind that worked.

You closed your eyes and focused. What did she teach you? “Eyotswal,” you murmured aloud. “Purple fungus. ‘Wound’s sleep.’ Antiseptic properties. Crush and apply raw.”

That was one. You had that one already. But it wasn’t enough. “Rulvansip,” you whispered, voice steadying. “Sap from the thick vine. Dark red. Stings like hell, but kills infection. Should grow near water.”

Your thoughts were sharper now. Each name that surfaced brought back flashes of lessons, of Mo’at’s hands moving with purpose, of Neteyam watching quietly in the corner, arms crossed, hiding a little smile every time you got something right.

“Seltun bark. Antimicrobial. Peel it fresh.”

“Nant’k leaves. Big, waxy. Grind and use as poultice base. Crushed into paste, it helped reduce fever and draw toxins out through the skin. If you could find that, you could start.

You’d need something to bind it, too. Maybe that silken moss she showed you—ramun. The one that stayed moist even in heat, good for holding salves against wounds. If not, you’d improvise. Bark strips, maybe. Vines, if they weren’t too fibrous.

You didn’t have the tools. You didn’t have the lab. But you had your brain. And you were too fucking stubborn to die without a fight. Even if you couldn’t make the whole salve, even if you didn’t have fire or pestle or ceremonial oils—you’d improvise. You always did.

You breathed deep, drawing in the humid scent of the forest wafting through the cracked window.

Tomorrow, you’d search. You’d follow the creek. Find what you could. You weren’t a Tsahik—not even close. But you were a xenobotanist with four years in the field and a stubborn streak wide enough to shame a direhorse.

You were not going down without a fight. “I’m not dying until I see him again,” you whispered.

You needed him to know you survived. That you fought. That you came back. You smiled faintly to yourself, vision going soft at the edges as fatigue finally won. Tomorrow, you would fight.

The morning light was soft through the gaps in the trees, golden fingers reaching into the rusted shell of the Samson. You blinked slowly, still half-wrapped in the warmth of sleep and the ache of your limbs. Everything hurt—your back, your shoulders, your ankle—but it was your hand that dragged you back to full consciousness.

Throbbing. Hot. Angry under the gauze. You sat up slowly, heart already sinking, and peeled back the makeshift bandage with care. You hissed between your teeth.

Worse. The skin was swollen now, shiny and red around the gash, and the yellow edge of infection glistened in the light. It looked worse than it had yesterday. Much worse. You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your chest from caving in.

Then your gaze flicked upward—just a little—and caught on the thing wrapped around your wrist.

The bracelet. Thin, brown forest vine, woven with simple knots. Tiny blue pearls spaced between the twists. You hadn’t taken it off since he gave it to you—months ago, on an afternoon when he’d shown up at the outpost unannounced. He’d handed it over so casually, like it wasn’t the most intimate thing he could’ve done. You’d smiled and thanked him, thinking he was just… thoughtful.

Later, you’d realized what it meant.

He’d been courting you in a way too silent way. You brushed your thumb over the bracelet now, fingers trembling slightly. The blue of the beads—his blue. The color of his skin. His people. His world. And still, somehow… it was yours too. Your throat tightened. You missed him so much your bones ached.

You swallowed hard, then reached for your satchel. The wrinkled fruit you'd saved for breakfast was soft now, one corner beginning to turn, but it still smelled sweet. You finished it in a few bites, chewing carefully. Every bite reminded you why you had to keep going.

It would hurt to move today—you already knew that. But when you looked at your hand, red and hot and pulsing, you didn’t hesitate.

You started packing.

Every empty sample tube went into your satchel. Your dwindling medical supplies. The last of your gauze. Anything that could still be useful. Then you turned to the Samson, combing through the wreckage for anything salvageable. Most of it was two decades old, but some scraps of metal might double as tools. A rusted clip. An old strap you could repurpose into a tie. A cracked plastic med-case with one last alcohol wipe tucked deep inside.

When you finally climbed down from the Samson, your hands and knees screamed in protest, but you kept moving. The vines were slick, bark still damp from the night’s storm, but the sun had risen clear and bright. No clouds today. The forest was warm and still, painted in light.

And then—relief bloomed in your chest. The paper markers you’d left were still there. Faded a little, but clinging to the low bush branches, safe and visible. You exhaled a shaky breath.

"Thank you," you whispered—whether to Eywa or the forest or dumb luck, you didn’t know.

You followed them. One by one. Carefully, slowly. Your ankle ached with every uneven step, your hand pulsing like fire, but you didn’t stop. You walked until the trees began to thin. Until the moss under your boots grew damp again.

Until you heard it. Water. You limped forward faster, pushing past a curtain of hanging vines—and there it was.

The creek.

Just as you remembered it, clear and cool, winding between roots and stones like a silver ribbon. You dropped to your knees at the edge, fumbled with your mask, and took a few long, greedy gulps of water straight from your bottle. Then, slowly, you pulled the mask back into place—and plunged your hand into the creek.

The cold hit you like a shock. You gasped.

But oh, it felt good. The throb eased almost instantly. You stayed there, wrist submerged, letting the chill sink in. Letting the forest hold you. Your fingers moved slowly, brushing over the smooth rocks below, sending small ripples across the water’s surface.

You smiled. It was faint. Barely there. But real. You’d made it. You were still alive. And now… it was time to think. To work.

You leaned down, studying the banks, the way the moss grew thicker near the base of the ferns, the pale glow under certain clusters of bark. You scanned for anything familiar—anything that matched what you’d listed to yourself yesterday.

Eyotswal. You already had that. Seltun bark. Rulvansip sap. Nant’k leaves. Ramun moss.

You knew what to look for. Because you weren’t just a xenobotanist. You were something else now. You smiled again, more fully this time, as you dipped your fingers in the creek and wiggled them gently in the water. Basically a Tsahik-in-training.

Not officially. It would never be official. But it felt like it. Mo’at had taught you. Let you sit beside her during healing rituals. Let you observe, then help. Kiri, too—always nudging you forward, whispering what each herb meant, each gesture, each symbol. They’d tried. They wanted you to be part of this, even if the world around you didn’t.

Even if you could never be worthy enough to claim that kind of place beside Neteyam. But they tried. For him. For you. And you were grateful. You dipped both hands into the creek now—one strong, one weak—and smiled through the burn. You were a human girl in a world that had no place for you, and still… you were learning. You were fighting.

Despite knowing Neytiri would probably skewer you on sight. Despite knowing Jake Sully would be the most disappointed father in the history of fathers if he found out his golden boy was in love with someone like you.

But Neteyam had loved you anyway. And if you could find what you needed in this forest—if you could live—you’d make it back to him.

You’d show him that you fought for this. For you. For him. For the chance to choose each other, even in a world that said you never could. And that was worth every goddamn step.

You closed your eyes.

The creek babbled beside you, gentle and constant, cool water sliding over your fingers as they rested just below the surface. The sunlight filtered through the canopy above in shafts of gold and green, dappling your skin. You breathed in slowly, deeply—filling your lungs with the scent of moss and clean water, wet bark and growing things.

And then you listened. Really listened.

Mo’at’s voice echoed in your memory, soft but certain: “If you are quiet—truly quiet—you will hear her. Eywa speaks to all who listen.” You remembered the way she’d looked at you when she said that. Not with pity. Not with hesitation. But with something like… hope.

You weren’t Na’vi. You didn’t have a kuru. You couldn’t bond with the forest the way they could, not really. Not like Neteyam did when he flew with his ikran, or Kiri when she walked barefoot through glowing roots with her eyes half-closed, like she felt the world breathing around her.

You’d always envied that. But right now—this moment, with the forest pressing in warm and bright around you—you were willing to try.

Because it was your only option. So you focused. On the trees. The air. The feel of water against your skin. You tried to open yourself to it. To her. To Eywa.

Nothing happened at first. Just silence. Wind. The gentle groan of distant branches.

And then—

The hum of the insects grew louder. The rhythm of the water deepened. The light behind your closed lids shimmered golden. And just beneath it all, softer than sound, you felt it.

Something steady. Something ancient. And in that stillness, you heard him. Neteyam’s voice, whispered on memory. “You see things others don’t. You feel them.” He’d said it one night when he thought you were asleep, your head tucked under his chin, his hand resting on your back. His breath had ghosted against your temple. “Eywa made you... not Na’vi, but still hers. A gift. You just don’t know it yet.”

You remembered wanting to cry. But you’d stayed still, pretending sleep, too afraid to let him know you’d heard something so intimate.

You couldn’t hear Her the same way. But you still tried. Because right now, Eywa was your only hope. The forest was your only ally. And you… you were all you had left. So you whispered to the water. To the trees. To Her. "Please… help me."

Maybe… maybe you didn’t have to feel Eywa the way they did. Maybe it was enough that you were trying. That you’d always loved this world with your whole heart.

You opened your eyes. The forest didn’t speak in words. But it gave you direction.

With a deep breath, you pulled your hand from the water, shaking off the droplets. The moment it left the cool stream, the heat returned, pulsing just beneath your skin like a warning bell. But you ignored it. You were too stubborn to stop.

Your eyes scanned the banks of the creek, sharp and focused despite the ache in your bones. And then—you saw it. Rulvansip. A thick red-veined vine curling up from the roots of a fallen log, its skin rough, bleeding dark red sap where it split.

You crouched and pressed your blade to the vine’s surface, drawing a clean line. The sap oozed slowly, like blood. You dipped your fingers in it, watching the thick, bitter-smelling liquid coat your fingertips. It stung almost immediately. “Yep,” you muttered. “That’s the one.” Antibacterial. Painful, but it worked. Mo’at called it “Eywa’s fire.”.

You let the sap drip into a small glass vial, then wrapped the vine with a bit of cloth so it wouldn’t dry out too quickly. Next, you moved along the water’s edge, eyes scanning every inch. There—beneath a knotted tangle of low-growing roots—you spotted broad, waxy leaves curling like little bowls to catch dew.

Nant’k.

You gathered several, gently folding them and tucking them into your satchel. When crushed, they created a cooling paste, one that helped draw infection out through the skin. Mo’at used them for burns and swelling, and once, even on a young hunter’s fractured ankle.

You crept deeper into the foliage, careful of every step. The air was thick with the scent of damp moss and wildflowers. It felt alive in a way the jungle never quite did during the day—gentle, somehow. Quiet.

In the shallows, your gaze caught on the delicate bloom of ewa’lim petals—small white flowers that opened only when the humidity was just right. You crushed one lightly between your fingers. The scent was sharp and earthy.

Internal use. When chewed, it helped regulate fever. Bitter as hell, but if you didn’t want to end up hallucinating by nightfall, you needed it.

You plucked every one you could find.

You kept going. You found a cluster of yellow-bodied rhumak pods, bulbous and sticky, nestled under a shaded fern. The inner pulp, when mashed, formed a kind of salve that helped seal shallow wounds—especially those that were already open too long.

You grinned to yourself. “You’re a gift,” you muttered, carefully cutting one open and sliding the sticky pulp into another small sample tube. By the time you stood up, your satchel was noticeably heavier—and you were almost lightheaded. Still, you pushed on.

You moved along the creek, watching carefully now for food. The wild root fruits weren’t common here, but if you were lucky—

There.

You spotted the fat, bulbous body of a kalu root peeking up from the muddy bank. You dug it out with your fingers, scraping away the sticky top layer. It would need fire to taste like anything other than soil and sadness, but it was full of starch. Energy.

You added it to your pack. Not far from it, hidden under a sun-warmed stone, you found another gift—a few more teylu squirming lazily in their damp burrow. You grimaced.

“Well,” you muttered, scooping them into a leaf wrap, “you’re officially part of my diet now. Congratulations.”

By the time you turned back toward the Samson, your legs ached, your ankle throbbed, and your arm was stiff—but your heart was lighter. The forest had answered. Maybe not with words. But it had given you what you needed.

You followed your paper trail, thankful all over again that the rain hadn’t washed it away. The sun climbed higher. Warm. Steady. Almost gentle. By the time you reached the Samson again, your limbs were trembling.

Climbing back up was hell. You slipped twice, cursed once, and nearly burst into tears when your injured hand grazed a rusted edge. But you didn’t fall. You were alive. Still. “Well,” you muttered, turning your head toward the skeleton, “you’re not gonna believe what I found.”

You opened your satchel, laying out the herbs and plants one by one. “Rulvansip. Nant’k. Seltun. Ewa’lim. Rhumak. And some kalu for dinner. Look at me. Tsahik-in-training.”

You laughed softly to yourself. Then stopped. Because you were talking to him. Again.

You stared at the skeleton for a long beat, then shook your head. “God, I’m really losing it, huh?” you murmured. “Day four of talking to a corpse. Day six, I start giving you a name.” But still… it helped. Just a little. It made the quiet less sharp.

You leaned your head back against the wall, letting your body rest. The cool moss-stuffed cracks in the hull pressed against your shoulder. Your wounded hand pulsed with fire, but now you had something to fight it with.

Still, you knew the truth. Soon, you’d have to leave.

You couldn’t stay here forever. The Samson wasn’t a shelter—it was a memory. A grave. And once your hand was better—once you were strong enough to walk farther, longer—you’d have to keep going. Toward the outpost. Toward him.

Because every minute you spent in this forest, Neteyam was probably tearing himself apart trying to find you. You couldn’t let this be where the story ended. You closed your eyes again. Soon, you told yourself.

Soon, I go.

The moment your fingers brushed the old cockpit console, you felt it—a weight, like time pressed into metal. The dead pilot hadn’t moved, of course, but something about his silent presence grounded you. Gave you purpose.

You crouched beside him, scanning the faded wreckage until your eyes caught a familiar shape tucked beneath a half-collapsed panel.

An old exo-mask.

The rubber seals had long since cracked, and the filtration unit was missing entirely, but the faceplate—the curved glass dome—was still intact. You pried it loose, gently, cradling it in both hands like something precious.

You smiled, small and tired, and ran your thumb over the inside of it. “You just became a mortar,” you murmured.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was shaped like a bowl.

You sat down cross-legged on the cold, uneven floor, placing the makeshift glass bowl between your knees. Your satchel landed beside you with a soft thud, and you started pulling your finds free, laying them out like puzzle pieces on the dusty metal.

Then you grabbed your knife, flipped it around, and pressed the blunt hilt to the edge of a thick nant’k leaf. The wide, waxy surface crumpled easily under pressure. You ground it down, one leaf after another, until you had a greenish pulp sticking to the bottom of the glass.

Next, the rulvansip.

You uncorked the vial, carefully tilting it over the pile of crushed leaves. The sap oozed out in thick, red drops—slow and sticky, with a sharp, metallic smell that burned your nostrils. Just a few drops was all it took. Already the salve was starting to shift color, deepening into a dark rust-brown, the mixture thickening as you stirred it with a sliver of wood.

It looked disgusting. But it might save your life.

You stared at it for a long moment, your heart pounding harder now. You knew what was coming. Knew this was going to hurt like hell. Rulvansip wasn’t just a disinfectant—it was fire. Living fire. You’d seen it used a dozen times, but always on someone else. Always applied by Mo’at’s gentle, practiced hands.

You dipped your finger into it—just the tiniest bit—and winced as it prickled against your skin. This was going to be awful.

You grabbed the last clean strip of gauze from your own kit, then set it aside with the makeshift salve bowl. For a moment, you just… stared at your hand.

It looked even worse now. The skin was so taut around the edges of the wound that it looked like it might split. The gash itself had grown darker, the yellow pus congealed like rot. The swelling had reached your knuckles, and your fingers were starting to feel… distant.

You sighed. “This is going to suck.” And then you peeled back the old gauze fully.

You dipped your fingers into the salve. It clung like wet clay, thick and tacky. It didn’t drip. It didn’t slide. It stuck. You hovered it over the wound. “One,” you whispered. “Two…”

Three. You pressed the mixture onto the gash.

The pain hit instantly—white-hot, blinding. Like you'd plunged your hand into boiling oil. Like fire crawling beneath your skin, chewing its way into your veins. You gasped—no, choked—a sound that tore from your throat more animal than human.

Your whole body recoiled. Muscles locked. Your vision blurred. It burned. It burned.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—every nerve in your hand lit up like a struck match. Your legs kicked out, your back slammed against the inner wall of the Samson, and still—you didn’t stop. You pressed harder. Made sure the salve filled every crevice, coated every raw edge, soaked into the heat of the infection.

Your vision swam. A high-pitched ringing screamed in your ears. Your lips pulled back in a grimace, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached. You thought you might black out. A sob clawed its way up your throat. But you held on.

Because you remembered something else—something faint and ridiculous and maddeningly clear. God, how had Neteyam endured this?

You remembered. That day—he’d stumbled into the tsahik’s tent after a hunt, shoulder torn open from a skirmish. You were there. Mo’at had passed you the bowl, told you to apply the sap, and you’d done it—hands steady, lips pressed tight.

He hadn’t even flinched. Just a soft hiss between his teeth, and those golden eyes locked on yours. Calm. Still.

And you?

You were practically dying. You let your head fall back with a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Neteyam, you lying bastard,” you whispered. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”

You were practically dying, and he’d taken it like he didn’t even feel it. Tears finally spilled. You wanted to scream his name. To cry into the forest and ask for him to find you. To hold you.

But all you could do was pant, curled over your hand, sweat dripping down your temple as the pain finally, finally began to dull. When your head stopped spinning, you reached for the last of the gauze, wrapping it with trembling fingers. The pressure made the burn worse, but you didn’t stop. You needed to seal it in. Let the herbs do their work. Give Eywa time to decide if she was going to let you live.

When the last strip was tied, you sagged against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want to eat. But you had to.

Slowly, numbly, you reached for the wrap of fruit and root and the few unfortunate teylu you’d gathered earlier. The root was bitter and hard, even raw, and the fruit was warm from your pack. You chewed it anyway, swallowing like it was ash. The teylu went down with a shudder.

Food was fuel. You needed it. You ate until your stomach stopped aching, then pushed the rest to the side and curled in on yourself again. Your bandaged hand pulsed like a drumbeat. But your body… your body was warm now, alive with pain and healing.

And your heart? Your heart was still fighting.

The morning came with a hush.

Birdsong drifted through the broken cracks in the hull of the Samson, gentle and tentative, as if the forest were testing the edges of peace after too many days of rain and fear. You stirred slowly, the ache in your limbs settling into a dull throb, not gone—but bearable.

Your hand was the first thing you checked.

You peeled away the bandage carefully, your teeth worrying at your lower lip as the gauze came free, sticking slightly at the edges where sap had dried and crusted. The moment the air touched your skin, you braced for the same white-hot agony from the day before—but it didn’t come.

It still hurt, yes. Still throbbed. Still made your jaw clench. But not like before. Your breath hitched as you stared at it. The angry swelling had gone down.

The edges of the wound were still raw, still red—but the yellow had faded. The skin wasn’t pulled as tight. There was no new pus. It was ugly, sure, and still far from healed, but it looked like something… fighting. Something surviving.

“Eywa,” you breathed softly, voice thick. “Thank you.”

You traced a fingertip gently around the wound—not touching it directly, just close enough to feel the heat. It was still bad. It might scar. But the salve had done something. Maybe even enough.

You sat back against the wall, exhausted even from that small act, and glanced down at your lap where your datapad sat. A last remnant of your world—the neat, blinking lines of home, of logic, of control.

You tapped the screen. Nothing. You held the button longer. Tried again. Shook it. Pressed your forehead to the cold glass. Still nothing. Dead.

"Of course," you murmured. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

With no tech, no map, no beacons—there was only one thing left to do. Walk east. Toward the rising light. You were past the edge of the flux field by now—probably. But without the datapad, it didn’t matter. No more maps. No more readings.

From here on, it was instinct. And the sun.

You gathered your things slowly, methodically. You folded each leaf scrap, repacked your salve-making herbs, rolled your gauze tight, and double-checked the water satchels. You moved on muscle memory, your mind quiet.

You folded every leaf and root scrap carefully into pouches. You repacked the food. You tucked away every single paper shred that hadn’t been lost to damp or time.

You rubbed the back of your neck and looked toward the cockpit, your gaze falling on the still form in the pilot’s seat. The skeleton hadn’t moved, but something about him felt… quieter today. Like the grief in the air had finally settled into dust.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, and walked over to him. Your fingers brushed the edge of the cracked suit, then dropped to your side.

“I know what you were,” you said softly. “I know what you did. You were here twenty years ago. You were one of the ones who came to kill them.” Your voice didn’t shake. “I should hate you,” you said quietly. “You were probably part of it. The war. The killing. You were probably sent here to destroy the People.”

You swallowed hard. “But I don’t.” Because for a few days, he’d been your company. Your silence. Your shadow. Your anchor. “You stayed with me,” you whispered. “And maybe that doesn’t mean anything. But it mattered to me.”

You reached out and rested your fingers against the edge of his cracked flight suit, just for a moment. A touch. A goodbye. “Sleep, soldier. It’s over now.”

Then you turned away.

You paused, then—without really thinking—you lifted two fingers and tapped them gently to your brow in a Na’vi gesture of farewell.

Time to move.

The vines creaked as you made your descent, slower this time. Your arms ached, and your ankle still protested every time you shifted weight onto it—but you were steadier now. More sure.

The paper scraps were gone. Washed away by the last rain. But you remembered the way. You could trace it in your mind. You turned your eyes east, toward the light breaking through the trees.

It was time to go. You moved quickly, retracing your trail of shreds. Some were damp, curled from the storm—but still clinging to low branches, tucked under leaves. The forest had spared your breadcrumbs. Another gift.

By the time you reached the creek, the sun had risen higher, and the air was already warming with the promise of another humid day.

You dropped to your knees at the water’s edge and drank—slow, careful sips from your bottle. Then you splashed your face. Your arms. Your neck.

The chill made you shiver, but it felt good. Clean. Alive. You scrubbed the grime from your legs. The dried blood from your fingers. You unwrapped your wound and gently cleaned it again, watching as dirt and dried sap flowed downstream in small, cloudy trails.

Then you rewrapped it—carefully, methodically. Every motion precise. A ritual now. A promise to keep going. You filled both bottles to the brim, sealed them tight, and sat back for a moment, watching the water swirl around your boots.

You were still in pain. Still exhausted. Still scared. But the worst had passed. And you were still you.

The girl who studied the roots beneath her feet. Who learned the ways of the tsahik not just to understand—but to belong. The one who loved Neteyam so fiercely that even distance, even danger, even death couldn’t shake it.

You were never going to be Na’vi. But maybe, just maybe, you were something else. Something Eywa had found use for anyway. You stood up, adjusted your satchel, and looked to the east—where the sun was rising higher, stronger. Home was that way.

And so were they.

Neteyam.

The forest opened before you like a dream half-remembered—humid and alive, breathing with every creak of the trees and call of distant birds. You moved slowly, carefully, weaving your way through twisted vines and uneven roots, the sun at your back guiding your steps east. The weight of your satchel pressed steady against your shoulder, and your makeshift walking stick—just a long, solid branch you’d trimmed into a crude spear—helped bear your limping weight as you pushed forward.

You didn’t plan on using it for hunting. Not yet, anyway. But it gave you balance. Something to lean on. Something to hold.

The forest thickened and thinned in turns—tangles of brush opening into sudden clearings, old trails overgrown but still passable. You’d stopped thinking about the pain hours ago; it had become part of you, like the steady beat of your heart or the weight of Neteyam’s bracelet on your wrist. It throbbed in time with your breath, a reminder—but not a limit.

Then, just past a bend in the slope, the ground shivered. It wasn’t an earthquake. It was… heavier. Slower. Rhythmic. You froze. Then heard it.

The steady thoom-thoom-thoom of enormous feet moving through soft earth. The low rumble of breath. The crunch of ferns.

You stepped carefully through the next line of trees, brushed aside a wall of fronds, and found yourself on the edge of a clearing. And there they were.

Titanothere.

A whole herd of them. You sucked in a sharp breath and crouched low, ducking behind the nearest root for cover, heart pounding.

They were massive—even larger than you remembered from the RDA data archives. At least twice the size of Earth’s elephants, their thick, barrel-like bodies covered in patterned armor-plates of grey and olive green. They moved slowly, methodically, great snouts sweeping through tall grasses like lazy vacuum hoses.

You counted five… no, six. Two juveniles nestled in between the adults, their movements more playful, less cautious. One of them sneezed. You stared, wide-eyed. They were beautiful. And terrifying.

Your training rushed back like instinct—these creatures were generally peaceful. Herbivores. But they were also easily startled. If they felt threatened or confused, even the most docile of them could become a stampede of thunder and bone.

And right now, you were just a tiny little dot at the edge of their world. One of the adults turned its massive head toward you. Its nostrils flared once. And then it looked at you. Not aggressively. Just… curious. Like it was trying to figure out what you were.

You held still. So still. Even your breath froze in your lungs. Your heart beat in your throat. “Just passing through,” you whispered under your breath, barely moving your lips. “I promise.”

The titanothere blinked slowly, tilted its enormous head slightly, and—miraculously—returned to grazing. You let out the breath you’d been holding in one slow, silent exhale.

The rest of the herd ignored you entirely. To them, you were no threat. No predator. Just another warm-blooded thing in the underbrush. You pressed your back tighter to the tree and slowly began to inch away, one soft step at a time. Every movement deliberate. Every breath measured.

Once you were a safe distance into the trees again, you allowed yourself to slump slightly against your walking spear, your knees weak. “Okay,” you muttered with a faint breathless laugh. “So that happened.”

You took a few minutes to calm your nerves, then pressed on. The jungle grew denser, thicker with vines and heavy leaves. In some places, you had to cut your way through, your sharpened spear now doubling as a machete. You hacked and pushed and shoved your way through the underbrush, ducking low-hanging branches, hopping shallow roots, wincing with every step on your sore foot.

Your hands shook from exhaustion. Sweat clung to your spine. But you kept going. Because the light was starting to fade. The first hints of dusk began to stretch across the canopy. The warm gold had shifted to a softer, deeper amber—casting long shadows over the jungle floor.

You knew what that meant. Eclipse would come soon.

One of the several moons would rise, and the forest would change. Glow. Pulse with life. But also become dangerous. Nocturnal predators. Bioluminescent ambush-hunters. Things that saw better than you, moved quieter than you, and didn’t care that you were just trying to survive.

You needed shelter. Now. You picked up your pace, ignoring the pain as your body protested.

The forest whispered around you—twilight setting in, the sounds of daybirds fading into the hum of nocturnal life—but your eyes were elsewhere. Not on the path. Not on shelter. They kept wandering, catching every bright glint of color, every strange curl of petal, every vine that twisted like it had a secret.

You knew better. You really did. You should’ve been scanning for somewhere to sleep, a safe place to curl up and hide until the moons had passed and the predators moved on.

But the xenobotanist in you couldn’t help it.

Even now, even exhausted and hurting and half-starved, your mind cataloged the flora around you like a living archive. There—a bloom of deep orange with cyan-tipped filaments: kawma’tel. Pollinated only by nocturnal drummers. You had notes on it, but seeing it open was rare.

And there—just under a ridge of glowing moss—lor’aksil spores, drifting like powdered starlight in the dimming air. You stopped, just for a second, and watched the way they shimmered in the low light, heart fluttering with quiet awe.

It was stupid. You knew that.

You’d already gathered more samples than you could reasonably carry. Roots, moss, petals—all from the day you got separated, before the crash, before the infection. The ones you’d refused to leave behind, even when you had to crawl. And now your satchel was already too heavy, your shoulders aching from its pull.

You didn’t need more. Still, you found yourself pausing every few steps to admire something. Just look. That’s all. You whispered names to yourself like old songs, brushing your fingers across bark you’d only seen in scans, leaves you’d only studied under microscopes.

This forest—it never stopped surprising you. And then you saw it.

High above, nestled on the branch of an ancient tangle-tree, swaying lazily in the humid breeze, hung a cluster of heavy golden fruit—round and glistening, with thick skin and a crown of curling pink stems.

Tumpasuk.

Your heart skipped. You stopped in your tracks, blinking up at it. You knew that fruit. Of course you did. It was Neteyam’s favorite.

He used to bring it back to the village like it was treasure, biting into it with juice dripping down his chin, grinning wide, always trying to get you to take a bite even when you complained about the sticky texture. Sweet as syrup, he’d say. Better than Earth fruit. You remembered how he once dropped one into your hands with a proud, smug “I picked this one for you,” and you’d rolled your eyes even as your cheeks went warm.

He always climbed for them. Always.

You could still picture it clearly: one Na’vi scaling the towering trunk with effortless grace, cutting the fruit free with a curved knife, while another stood waiting below with a net woven from dried vines to catch it before it hit the ground.

It was a team effort. A dance. And right now, you were very much alone. Your wounded hand ached as if to remind you exactly how alone.

You looked up at the fruit again. It swayed gently, back and forth, golden and perfect against the deepening sky. You didn’t need it. It wasn’t worth the risk.

And yet… you stood there, staring for a long moment. Something in your chest tugged. A sharp, quiet ache. God, you missed him.

You missed the way he’d laugh when he ate it, missed the soft click of his tongue against his teeth when he was trying to impress you with knowledge he didn’t think you already had. You missed the warmth in his eyes when he leaned close, voice low, telling you which trees held the best ones.

You missed him in the shape of the damn fruit. But you weren’t stupid. You couldn’t climb like a Na’vi. You couldn’t catch the fruit if you somehow did knock it loose. One misstep, one fall from that height, and you’d break something worse than your hand.

No.

You couldn’t do it. Even if it hurt to leave it behind. Even if it felt like walking away from a memory. So you exhaled slowly and let the moment pass. Let it drift like the fruit’s scent on the breeze—sweet and faint and impossible to reach.

The eclipse was near total now—sunlight dwindling to a dusky blue glow as the great moon slid between the sky and the sun. Shadows stretched long and strange across the jungle floor, stretching over the roots and ferns like reaching hands. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

You should’ve stopped earlier. Found shelter before the world turned to bioluminescent velvet and every predator crawled out from the dark to roam.

But you’d lingered—on flowers, on memory, on that stupid fruit. And now you were paying for it. The underbrush grew thicker the farther you went, the path twisting into a knot of vines and uneven ground. Your walking spear pressed into the soil with every step, helping you limp forward.

And then—crack. The earth gave beneath you. Not with a warning, not with time to brace. Just a sudden, snapping collapse as the root system under your foot gave way.

You gasped—but the sound never finished. You dropped like a stone. The world spun—leaves, sky, branches blurring—then vanished in black.

You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs. You didn’t even scream. There was no time to scream. The darkness swallowed you whole.

And then… warmth.

Light.

A couch under your back. A soft, familiar weight across your legs—a blanket you hadn’t seen in years.

You blinked.

The ceiling above you wasn’t rusted metal or tangled vine—it was white plaster. Painted sky blue. A string of old LED stars flickered above, half-burned out. The faint smell of laundry detergent and warm toast drifted through the air.

You knew this place. You were home.

On Earth.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding, confusion swirling like fog. You looked down at your clothes. Not the field gear. Not the woven band with the blue beads. Just an oversized T-shirt, your old high school logo peeling on the front.

“Sweetheart?”

You turned your head toward the voice and nearly forgot how to breathe. Your mother stood in the doorway. Smiling. Alive.

Her eyes were soft, her sweater sleeves pushed up like she’d just finished washing dishes. Behind her, the kitchen light glowed. And there—next to her, arms crossed and already smirking—your father.

And your little brother. He looked just like the photo in your satchel. The one you’d kept on Pandora, folded and re-folded so many times the edges had started to fray.

“I told you she was still napping,” your dad chuckled. “You were always the queen of Sunday snoozes.”

“I—” Your voice cracked. “What…”

“You’re home,” your mom said gently, stepping closer. She sat beside you on the couch, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep again.”

“But—” You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No, I… I’m not—this can’t—”

Your brother dropped onto the armrest next to you, leaning over. “Don’t tell me you were dreaming about those glowing forests again.”

Your breath caught. “I was on Pandora,” you said slowly, blinking at them all.

“Aw, sweetheart,” your dad cut in, grinning. “You’ve been watching too many holovids again.”

“Charles,” your mom scolded lightly, but she was smiling too. “Let her be.”

“No, really,” he laughed, nudging her. “She’s so obsessed with that moon, it’s bleeding into her dreams now. You better hope RDA takes you when you graduate—otherwise you’re gonna be one very heartbroken little science nerd.”

“I did go,” you said again, quieter now. “I studied for years. I was in cryo. I’ve been there. I know I’ve been there.”

Your mom just gave you that look—warm and endlessly patient. “You’ve got a vivid imagination, sweetheart. Always have. I love that about you.”

“But it wasn’t a dream,” you insisted.

But behind them, on the holoTV mounted to the wall, the familiar RDA news stream began. A logo flashed—crisp white on a field of sterile blue. Earth-Forward Coalition: Pandora Initiatives.

Video played on loop. Footage of Avatar units. Researchers. A new generation of Na’vi-human relations. Drones flying above thick jungles. RDA-built compounds rebuilt after the war. A voiceover: “…as human efforts return to Pandora following fifteen years of conflict…”

You stared. Because it was all there. The place you swore you’d been.

The Na’vi.

The labs.

“You’ve always had an active imagination,” your father added, chuckling. “You keep watching those Na’vi documentaries and reading RDA manuals like they’re gospel. I swear, if you studied medicine half as much as you studied glowing alien plants…”

“Dad—” you started, but your voice cracked.

He laughed. “What? I’m just saying. You’d make a damn good doctor. And less likely to have dreams about blue space elves.”

“She can study whatever she wants,” your mother cut in gently. “If she wants to dream about Pandora, let her. She’s still in high school. She has time.”

You froze.

High school?

No.

You weren’t in high school.

You’d left Earth ten years ago. Six of them in cryo. Four in the fields. You remembered the launch. The endless sleeping. The first sunrise on Pandora. The first time you touched the soil and felt the hum of Eywa under your boots.

“I’m not in high school,” you whispered. “I left. I left a long time ago…”

You looked at your hands.

No bandages.

No bruises.

No scars.

Your fingers were clean. Soft. Like you’d never held a blade. Never dug through jungle soil. Never clung to the edge of survival by the skin of your teeth. Maybe none of it was real.

Maybe… you were just a girl with a dream too vivid for her own good.

You swallowed hard, staring blankly at the screen, watching as footage of a Direhorse galloped across the wetlands. You could hear your mother’s voice, soft and humming. Your father’s chuckle. The TV. The rain.

But your mind kept returning to one thing:

What if he was never real?

What if there was no Neteyam?

No Pandora?

What if you’d never left home?

And everything you remembered—everything you loved—was just… a dream?

Just you, on a couch, with your parents still alive, the world still broken and gray and full of news reports about a distant moon you’d never touched.

Just a fantasy.

A story.

A girl with her head in the stars.

Part 23: To break