#me when. me when sometimes I look in her eyes and that’s where I find a glimpse of us. WHAT EVER DUDE

[pearlessance]

Cupid's Chokehold

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards. 

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel. 

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel. 

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones. 

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up. 

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler. 

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower. 

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of. 

His heart races a little faster at the thought. 

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough. 

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name. 

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table. 

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow. 

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth. 

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee. 

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious. 

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom. 

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head. 

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements. 

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely. 

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty. 

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are. 

 And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does. 

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name. 

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out. 

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day. 

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He glances over his shoulder when the front door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong. 

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth. 

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right. 

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is. 

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it. 

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon. 

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow.  “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans. 

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder. 

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs. 

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time. 

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy. 

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed. 

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle. 

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother. 

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s. 

Which means no time with you. 

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side. 

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’). 

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever. 

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely. 

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke. 

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies. 

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone. 

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’ 

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks. 

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same. 

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche. 

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you. 

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes. 

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored. 

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl. 

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?” 

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest. 

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom. 

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island. 

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely. 

Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.” 

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone. 

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top. 

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips. 

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin. 

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth. 

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully. 

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[sinner-as-saint]

You take the dark and carve me out a home

Bucky Barnes x New Avenger!Reader 

Summary: Unwinding after a tough mission is not exactly easy. Especially not when you’re part of a group that is always, constantly under scrutiny. Which is why you were always extra hard on yourself whenever you felt like you made a mistake or let the team down in any way. Bucky was aware of this, he was aware of everything regarding you, and usually he gave you your space and within a day or two you’d get back to normal. But this time was different, he noticed. It had been a couple of days since your last mission and you were still in that weird, distant headspace. And Bucky needed you back, the whole team needed you back, but him more because… well, because he cared about you a lot more than he let on. 

Themes: soft!dom!bucky, praise kink, angst, hurt/comfort, friends-to-lovers, fluff

“Where is she?” 

Bucky demanded, walking in, looking around, and noticing immediately that you weren’t at the dinner table. The rest of the team looked like they’d just been done eating. Alexei was almost falling asleep in his seat already.

“I thought she was with you?” Ava squinted at Bucky. 

Yelena added, “Don’t you two always work out together every night?” 

Bucky frowned. “I know, I…” He paused to think. “I left the gym hours ago. She said she was gonna finish up and come find you guys.” He rolled his eyes at the realisation, “So she’s been in there alone for the past couple of hours and no one checked on her.” 

“I did.” Bob said, always with that lost puppy dog look in his eyes. “I went to the gym earlier to get a workout in. But she glared at me, so I just kinda left, like, really quickly.” 

“Relax, man.” John spoke, adding to Bucky’s irritation. “She’s probably still working out to get her mind off things. You know how she gets.” 

Bucky sighed and walked away, leaving the rest of them in the kitchen. Damn it. He could’ve checked up on you too. But after his work out he had some calls to attend to, and deal with some things on behalf of the team. He’d totally lost track of time. Also, he genuinely didn’t think you’d stay in the gym for hours. He knew you worked out each day, sometimes twice a day. But lately, he was getting more and more worried watching you put your body through pain hours at a time. 

He took the elevator to the floor the gym was on and walked in to find you with your boxing gloves on, the punching bag swinging gently in front of you. Your head was lowered, your back to him but he still saw the way your shoulders moved as you breathed quickly. Your skin glistened with sweat, and Bucky just knew you weren’t having a good night. 

Again. 

He needed to do something about that. 

“Have mercy on that poor punching bag.” He said, keeping his eyes on you as you turned to face him. He realised he would never get used to it, that intense look in your eyes whenever you got into moods like these. The look that made most people run away from you. But not him. Never him. “Let’s go. You’re tired.” 

“I’m not.” You were quick to argue. Always quick to argue. Then you took your fighting stance again, facing him rather than the punching bag, your fists up in the air. Ready to spar. “Come on. And don’t be gentle with me.” 

“No.” He declined politely. “You’ve been here for hours. You need to shower, eat, and get some sleep. I can’t have you walking around looking like that anymore.” He stepped closer, your dark red gloves almost touching his chest. “I know you think you messed up on our last mission. But you didn’t. We made it out alive, all of us. Stop punishing yourself for things you didn’t do.” 

You lowered your fists. Looking defeated. Bucky always saw right through you. “But I put us at risk. I didn’t wait for the signal,” You stated. “I could’ve gotten us all killed.” 

“But you didn’t.” He said firmly. “Besides, one mistake doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re one of the best out of all of us.” He sighed upon seeing how truly hard you could be on yourself. “Give yourself some grace.” 

You hung your head again. Bucky wanted to hold you close and not let go until you felt better. And it killed him that he didn't know how to get you out of that dark, shadowy pit of guilt and disappointment. He reached out and touched your cheek, his fingers cupping your face. “What’s going on with you? Where are you?” He whispered, “Come back to us.” 

Come back to me. 

You gave him a faint smile. Bucky had always been your safe place. With his dreamy blue and often tired eyes, and his Disney prince, perfect hair, and his charming smile. He was definitely your go-to person. You loved the rest of the team, but Bucky was special. He somehow always got it. With him, you never had to explicitly explain everything, he always just understood what you meant. He spoke your language. 

You two had always been closer to each other than to the others. And while the others constantly teased you about the tension between you two, you never acted on it, nor did either of you ever deny it. Sure, flirty comments here and there were a regular thing. And you both cared deeply for one another, but you never talked about it in a serious way. Having the other there was always just… comfortable. 

Bucky managed to get you out of the gym and sent you to your floor. He took the stairs to the kitchen again and made you a plate, full of your favourite things, and took it to your room. The door was unlocked and he could still hear you in the shower. He didn’t want to disturb you so he placed the plate on your bed and left. 

–

Hours later, Bucky still couldn’t sleep. He’d received a text from you, you thanked him for bringing you food and said you were off to bed. But something was keeping him restless. He didn’t know what it was. He simply couldn’t stay still. 

He quickly checked the cameras and was relieved to see the gym was empty. Which meant that you were up in your room. Which was a good thing, but something in his gut was telling him to go check up on you. Bucky got up immediately as soon as the thought crossed his mind. 

He made his way to your floor again, the entire building was quiet. It was well past midnight and he said he’d just check on you. Nothing else. He would knock on your door and if you didn’t answer immediately, he would go back up to his room. 

But something told him you were still awake. And if you were awake you were probably overthinking yourself to death, drowning in guilt and disappointment. Bucky sighed, waiting for the elevator to stop on your floor. That look in your eyes earlier in the gym was haunting him. He missed the spark in you. The brightness. That empty look… he wanted it gone. 

Bucky found himself rethinking his actions once he was at your bedroom door. There was still silence, even on the other side. But he knocked twice, he had to. 

He waited, a little embarrassed because what the hell would he say he was here for? That is, if you were still up. 

He was still wondering what he would actually say when you opened the door quickly, as if you were waiting for him to show up. 

Bucky took one look at you and your face, tear-stained and lips trembling as you tried to keep it all in, and he pulled you into his arms immediately. Walking in and shutting the door behind him, Bucky kept his arms securely around you. 

Your breaths were shaky. Your body trembling with your quiet sobs. 

“Hey, I’m here.” Bucky whispered, his lips pressed against your forehead. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. I’m here.” 

And somehow, being in his arms made the darkness go away gradually. Bucky’s scent, his body heat, the feeling of his strong arms around you, hearing his steady heartbeat, it calmed you down instantly. 

“Come here,” He walked over to your bed, sat down on the edge and pulled you down onto his lap. He had hugged you many times before, but this felt different. Intimate. But natural. It felt like you belonged there in his arms. 

You straddled his thighs, limbs wrapped around him like he was the only thing left in the world. Like he was all you had. Your face hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands running up and down your back and sides while he kept mumbling reassuring words in your ear. You felt safe. 

“I’m sorry.” You said. 

And your voice was so quiet and weak that it broke his heart. “Don’t be.” He quickly said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We all make mistakes, it’s okay.” 

“I feel… inadequate.” You sniffled, pulling away to look him in the eyes. His ocean blue ones looked into your eyes with so much patience and warmth that it healed parts of you. “And empty,” You continued. “I feel like I’m not doing enough. Like I'm still not strong enough. Just not enough.” 

“Hey,” He cupped your face in his hands. “Just ‘cause that’s what the voices are screaming at you, doesn’t mean it’s true. Okay? None of what you just said is true.” He said, sincerely. “None of it. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re fierce and kind. You boss most of us around, but you care so deeply and it shows.” His thumbs wiped your tears away. “You add so much to our team, don’t you see that? You’re one of the few people Bob is comfortable around. You and Ava make a deadly combo. You and Yelena keep everything in order. You and John work really well together when it comes to keeping us safe or protecting us during combat. You and Alexei, well, he loves you just as much as he loves Yelena.” Bucky listed, “And as for you and I, we’re simply the best duo there can be, aren’t we?” He sounded a little playful. 

And it put a faint smile on your face. You sniffled, nodding slowly. “Just having a rough couple of days, I guess.” 

It was more than just that, but Bucky only asked, “What do you need? And don’t say you need to box or spar, or anything. Clearly that’s not helping like it usually does.” He pointed out. “You wanna take a few days off and go somewhere to clear your head?” 

You shook your head, whispering, “No. I like it here. It’s fine, I just… I don’t know.” You took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I can’t quite put it into words.” 

“Try.” He said, “Take your time. I’m here, I’ll listen.” 

You sighed again, unable to look him in the eyes as you spoke. “I just feel numb all the time. And it gets worse when I don’t do my job well. And now I’m struggling to just… feel something. I feel nothing all the time lately and I know it sounds like I’m whining about it but…” You took another deep breath, “It’s exhausting. It’s heavy. It’s not just numbness, it’s like I’m stagnant and I want to get out of… whatever this state is and I try, I try but something keeps dragging me down and keeping me in a chokehold right where it feels the heaviest. I wanna get out. Of my head, out of this weird headspace I’m in but nothing helps. Nothing works. I don’t know. I don’t know if that made sense, I’m just fucked up I guess.” 

Chokehold. He knew that feeling all too well. “You’re not fucked up.” He said, “I know how it feels.” 

“I know you do.” You finally met his eyes and the shadows disappeared gradually. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Buck.” 

“What can I do to help?” He asked. It killed him to see you like this. You were here but also so distant. He wanted you back, for your own sake, but also because he missed having his best friend around. 

“Make me feel something.” You said, softly like you were afraid someone else might hear. “Anything, please.” 

“Oh, baby.” Something about the way you sounded so vulnerable, which was rare from you, made Bucky forget about everything else. He didn’t care, all he wanted to do was piece you back together. “I’ve got you.” He whispered, and leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, hands trailing down your body until he placed his hands on the curve of your ass and pulled you into him even more. 

You gasped against his mouth, kissing him back slowly, melting into him. His metal hand came to rest on your exposed thigh, only then did you realise that in your PJ shorts really didn’t hide much. His cold fingers lazily grazed the crease between your hip and thigh, and it was all you could focus on in the moment, other than the heat of his mouth. 

Bucky pulled away to whisper, “Just so you know, we can stop if you don’t want this,” before he kissed you hungrily again, his beard and his long, soft hair tickling your face. “We can go back to talking and we’ll pretend this never happened.” 

“Please don’t stop.” You mumbled against his mouth. “I need this. I need you.” 

“Okay,” He whispered, in between kisses, “I won’t stop, baby. I’ve got you,” He repeated. “Don’t worry, I’m right here. Okay?” 

You pulled away from the kiss, teary eyed again. “I trust you, Buck.” 

Bucky accepted the weight of that trust, he cupped your face and said softly, “I know, angel. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” 

You could’ve sworn he used superhuman speed with how fast he flipped the two of you, tossing you down on your bed as he climbed on top of you. He carefully grabbed your hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing your knuckles softly as he whispered, “I’ll be gentle.” 

“Don’t be.” You pleaded, looking up at him. His hair framed his face in a perfectly messy way. His body was warm above you. Bucky was always warmer than most people, you figured it was a supersoldier thing. “I don’t want gentle.” 

He nodded. “Okay, angel. Remember, we can stop whenever you want to. Alright?” 

“Yes.” 

Bucky held your stare as he rapidly undid the buttons of your satin PJ top, and immediately diving in to take a nipple into his mouth once the top was open. Sucking, and biting until your back arched off the bed. 

“Bucky…” You gasped, and moaned as he alternated between each breast while his hand slipped down to pull your shorts and underwear down your legs until you kicked it off yourself. 

He pulled away to look at you, sprawled on the bed under him. Then he leaned in to whisper against your lips, “You don’t want gentle, huh? Well, you’re gonna be a good girl and do exactly as I say, okay? I need you to stop thinking, to stop calculating, and analysing, just listen to me. My voice and that’s it.” 

He knew what it was like – that feeling of wanting someone to just tell you what to do. It didn’t have to be sexual like right now, but just the loss of control in a safe, consensual way. With someone you trust blindly. He knew it could heal, partly at least. So he knew exactly what you needed right now. 

He kissed you roughly, taking what he wanted from your open, willing mouth before pulling away to look down at you with a dangerous, gorgeous smile on his lips. “You’re all mine now. You hear me?” He whispered against your mouth. “You’re my perfect girl. And my perfect girl doesn’t put herself down. She doesn’t think she's not good enough. She doesn’t think she’s done a bad job. She doesn’t think she’s fucked up. Because she’s not. She’s my good fucking girl, and she’s perfect. You hear me? You’re perfect.” 

You gasped as he lazily ran his metal fingers down your wet folds. 

“Look at you, such a good girl. Lying here so perfectly with your legs spread, just letting me touch you however I want.” He stated, grabbing your face in his other hand as he slid two metal fingers inside you. His voice was steady, controlled, and firm as he said, “This is how it’s gonna be from now on, okay? Whenever you need to be reminded how good you are, you come find me.” He slid his fingers deeper, pulling them out slowly in a way that he knew drove you insane, judging by the sounds you made. “Whenever the voices get too loud, you come find me.” He did it again. “Whenever it gets too dark, you come find me.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll fix it, baby. I always will. You don’t have to carry all that alone, I’ll help you. I’ve got you from now on, you get that? You’re not alone, I’m here. I’ll always be here.” 

He had you coming all over his fingers in no time. He stroked you in all the right places and your body responded to each one of his lazy, deliberate strokes beautifully. You squirmed as he kept finger-fucking you through your orgasm. 

“There’s my perfect girl,” He cooed, watching you squirm and whine under him. “You did so well,” He kissed your cheek, then the other, “You sound so perfect when you come.” 

He pulled away for a brief moment, getting off of you and standing at the end of your bed, taking his t-shirt and sweatpants off but leaving his boxers, lowered just enough to free his erected cock. 

He stood there, wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it twice while he held your stare. “It’s all for you, angel. All for you and no one else.” He said, watching with a slight smirk as you looked down at his cock and bit your lower lip. “Are you gonna be my good girl and take it?” 

You nodded quickly, “Yes.” Not even realising that all the prior shadowy thoughts had completely left your head. This was all you could focus on – him. Bucky. With his perfect body, and his beautiful hair, and his dreamy eyes. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. 

Buckley climbed on top of you again. “Careful what you ask for, baby. Supersoldiers don’t get tired.” He sounded so cocky it made you only want him more just to prove him wrong. 

“I want you, please,” You begged, looking up at him with those eyes that made him weak.

One of his hands found its way to your throat and he wrapped his fingers around it carefully as he stared into your eyes. “Nothing else holds my girl in a chokehold but me, you hear that? Nothing else has power over you, but me. And you,” He leaned in closer to make sure his point got across, “You are my good girl. You’re enough. You do a great job everyday. You’re stronger than all that’s trying to drag you down. And you’re louder than all the dark voices, you hear me?” 

You nodded, the look in his eyes was so intense, so raw and sincere, and so shamelessly feral that you might’ve come undone right there if he asked you to. 

“You will come for me like my good girl, won’t you, baby?” He asked, guiding the tip of his cock over to your clit and circling it, smearing his precum and your wetness around. 

You whimpered at the sensation. So fucking good. You nodded rapidly, “Yes… please,” You begged. 

“Of course you will,” Bucky chuckled, “Because you’re my perfect girl.” He teased you a bit more by just pressing the tip of his cock against your tight hole. Not pushing it in, just pressing ever so gently until you whined and clawed at his neck and shoulders, sliding your fingers into his ridiculously soft hair and tugging on it gently. 

“Bucky, please.” You mumbled, “Please, please, please…” 

“I know baby, I know.” He said, keeping his hand around your throat, pinning you down on your bed with it. “I’m here, I’ll make it feel good.” He whispered, before pushing his cock all the way inside you. 

You gasped loudly at the same time as he groaned when he slid all the way in you. He remained still for a few moments, just relishing the feeling of your warmth around him. Your breath was shaky as you felt him fill you up and stretch you out so deliciously, snug, deep, and big inside you. 

Bucky looked down at your face contorting in pleasure as he breathed heavily. Then he moved just a little, and the slightest friction made you whine even louder. “Does that feel good, baby? Is that cock good enough for my perfect girl? Hmm?” 

“Yes…” You breathed, looking at his gorgeous face above you. Fuck, you could spend forever here under him. He felt so good. 

“Look at that,” He said, “You’re tearing up already,” He pointed out, noticing the wetness in the corners of your eyes. “Feel good inside you, don’t I?” He teased, rolling his hips just the slightest bit in between your thighs. 

You cried out in pleasure. 

He tightened his grip around your throat slightly and said, “I know baby, I know it feels good. This is exactly what my good girl deserves.” He whispered. Then he said, “Now, keep your pretty eyes on me. I want you to watch me while I fuck you, okay?” 

You nodded quickly, a tear escaping your eye already. Fuck, he felt so good. 

Bucky let out a grunt as he started fucking into you hard and fast. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, holding your stare and telling you how good you felt. 

You could only respond with moans and whimpers, which only made him fuck you harder. 

He sped up into you, mumbling, “Knew you’d feel fucking amazing around me. ‘Cause you’re my perfect girl, aren’t you? Perfect, tight pussy as well.” He whispered, in a daze as he pounded into you. “You were fucking made for me.” 

Your body squirmed under him, your back arching off the bed, you were burning. Bright and hot. Like the fucking sun. And he was giving it to you like you wanted it, hard, fast and raw. 

His thrust was relentless, his weight on top of you felt too good. So good you never wanted him to pull out of you, so you raised your trembling legs and wrapped them around his hips. 

He chuckled when you did that. “Yeah? Don’t want me to stop, do you?” He taunted. “Just want me to keep going, keep fucking my good girl how she likes it, huh?” He pressed the sides of your throat as he fucked deeper into you. 

He watched as you got closer and closer to the edge. And just when you were right there… he stopped abruptly, and pulled out. 

You gasped in shock. 

“Oh what, you thought you could just come so easily?” He teased, grabbing you by the hips and flipping you around onto your stomach. “I tried to be nice and sweet to you, but that’s not what you want or need, is it, baby?” You moaned as he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to your lower back with one hand, while the other guided his cock over to your hole again. “You see? This is what you need.” He leaned over you to whisper into your ear, sliding back inside you as he said, “You wanted me to make you feel something, huh? Do you feel it now, baby?” He tugged on your pinned wrists, which made you whine in pain and pleasure. “You feel me inside you? Right where I belong, isn’t it?” 

You nodded, rubbing your face against your dark, cool bed sheets. “Yes…” 

He began fucking into you from behind, hard and fast. Mercilessly. Like he was claiming you. Marking his territory. Rough. Raw. The pleasure was overwhelming, building, and building, and building… 

Until you couldn’t hold it back much longer… 

“Come for me, angel.” He whispered, lips brushing against your ear. “Be my good girl and come all over…” 

You didn’t hear the rest. You came all over his cock with a loud moan, gasping and crying as he came right after you – filling you up with his cum as he did. You were gasping for air, and so was he. His body weight on top of you felt nice, his body heat felt nice. Everything was nice, light, and perfect. 

He let go of your wrists and then you felt him kiss along your spine, gently. Softly. Like he hadn’t been fucking you like an animal just seconds ago. “You okay, baby?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “My pretty girl, so perfect for me.” 

You were still catching your breath when Bucky lay beside you and pulled you into his arms. You immediately clung to his side. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispered. 

You sighed, with a faint smile forming on your face. Your cheek pressing against his damp chest. “Thank you, Buck.” Your mind was quiet, but in a good way. “I needed that.” 

“I know.” He murmured, rubbing your back in that soothing way he always did. 

But then, you still had one question. “How did you know when to come find me? I texted you I was going to bed.” How did he even know to come and check on you? How did he know you weren’t doing well at all? 

A smirk, then he said, “I always know what my girl needs.” 

You teased, “Your girl, huh?” 

“You’ve always been my girl.” 

—

a/n: [escapes my padded cell to throw this at your face]

[fanficgirl429]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

---

Y/N sat on the rooftop, knees drawn up to her chest, a thick hoodie wrapped around her. The stars were faint, blurred by the city lights in the distance, but still visible if you looked hard enough. She liked it here—above everything, where the air was just a little colder and a little clearer. Where she could breathe.

She didn’t expect to hear footsteps. But she knew whose they were and her heart began to beat faster, her cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. 

“I figured I’d find you up here,” Bucky said, his voice low, carrying just enough to reach her without shattering the quiet.

She didn’t turn around right away. “Can’t sleep either?”

He chuckled, sitting beside her. “Do I ever?”

She glanced at him. He was in a black Henley, sleeves pushed up, metal arm glinting faintly under the moonlight. He looked tired—but softer. Like maybe he found a kind of peace in the stillness too.

“I like the quiet,” she said after a while. “When everything slows down.”

“Yeah.” His gaze followed hers, out toward the faint skyline. “Me too. It's easier to think.”

“To feel?” she asked, careful with the question.

Bucky looked at her then. Really looked. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That too.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was warm. Safe.

“You don’t have to talk,” Y/N said, resting her head on her knees. “Not if it hurts. But if you ever do... I’ll be here.”

A breath left him—soft, like it took weight with it. Then, after a beat, he reached out and wrapped his metal hand gently around hers.

It was cool, careful, but steady.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“The news?” Y/N questioned. 

“Yea…I just can’t believe that Sam would give up Steve’s shield like that.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment. “Do you think maybe he’s just not ready?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just continued to stare ahead. “I just- it makes me think that if Steve was wrong about Sam then maybe he was wrong about me.” 

Y/N turned her body towards Bucky. She reached out and grabbed ahold of his hand-the flesh one- and squeezed it. “Please don’t say that. I didn’t know Steve and don’t know Sam but I’m sure Steve knew what he was doing when he gave Sam that shield. He also was not wrong about you, Bucky. I’ve known you for a few months and you’ve been nothing but kind to me. I mean sure maybe you can be a little grumpy but you’ve never made me feel threatened or uncomfortable.” 

Bucky looked at Y/N. “Grumpy?”

Y/N chuckled and gave him a playful smack on his arm. “Only a little and only sometimes.” 

Bucky’s hand brushed gently against Y/N’s, the faintest touch sparking something quiet and familiar between them. Neither moved away. Instead, their hands lingered, fingertips grazing in a silent understanding—an unspoken comfort that had settled between them like second nature.

----

The last of the customers trickled out of the bar, their laughter fading into the night as the door clicked shut behind them. Y/N made her way to the front, fingers brushing against the slightly smudged glass as she flipped the sign to Closed, the quiet of the empty room settling around her like a soft exhale. It had been a long shift—steady, a little chaotic at times—but now all that remained was the comforting rhythm of cleanup before she could head home, curl up on the couch, lose herself in a feel-good movie, and dig into some well-earned takeout.

But just as she turned to grab a rag from behind the bar, the front door creaked open again. The bell gave a soft chime as it swung closed, and Y/N instinctively pivoted, ready to let the late straggler know they were done for the night.

The words caught in her throat.

A slow, surprised smile bloomed across her face when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, his frame slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure he should be there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. There was something uncertain in his eyes, the kind of vulnerability that made Y/N’s heart squeeze just a little.

“Hey,” she greeted softly, drying her hands on a towel. “How did you know where I worked?”

He gave a small shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that almost resembled a smirk. “I have my ways.”

That earned a quiet laugh from her, but the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, familiar. He made his way over to the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down with a quiet sigh, resting his arms on the counter. His fingers traced absent patterns on the worn wood, eyes downcast.

Y/N turned back to her cleaning, though her movements had slowed. She kept stealing glances at him, watching the way he sat so still, like he was trying to sort through a storm in his head. She wanted to ask if he was okay, the words right on the edge of her lips. But instead, she waited—giving him space, hoping he’d let her in on his own terms.

“I know that look,” Y/N said gently, glancing over at him as she wiped down the last bit of the counter. “Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”

Bucky shook his head almost too quickly, eyes darting away. “Nope. Nothing’s wrong.”

She didn’t push, just gave him a quiet, knowing look. “Alright. I’m almost done here, then we can head out.”

He gave a small nod, the kind that said he was grateful she wasn’t pressing him. Y/N tucked the last few bottles back into place, the clinking of glass the only sound between them. Then she bent to grab her bag from beneath the bar, slinging it over her shoulder with a tired but content sigh.

As they stepped outside, the night air wrapped around them—cool, crisp, and a little biting. She grinned, nudging him playfully. “So… did you really come all the way down here just to walk me home from work?”

Bucky’s lips twitched with a trace of a smile. “Maybe.”

A chill danced up her spine, and she shivered without meaning to. Bucky noticed immediately. Without a word, he tugged off his hoodie and held it out to her. She blinked in surprise, hesitated for a second, then took it. As she pulled it on, the sleeves hanging long over her hands, she caught the scent of him—clean soap, leather, and something warm that was just him. It made her chest ache in the sweetest way.

“I was thinking we could grab something to eat,” he said casually, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “Or… whatever you want.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I was planning on takeout and a movie.”

He tilted his head. “Unless that sounds boring to you,” she added quickly.

His smile came easy this time—gentle, genuine, the kind that lit up his whole face. “That sounds perfect.”

-------

Y/N led the way down the quiet street to her favorite little pizza place, the one she always ended up craving after a long shift. The familiar scent of garlic and melted cheese hit her the second they stepped inside, instantly lifting her mood. She placed an order for her go-to pizza, the one she could eat a thousand times and never get tired of.

“Are you sure you don’t want your own?” she asked, glancing up at Bucky with a raised brow.

He just shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m good. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

When the total popped up on the register, Y/N instinctively reached for her wallet—but Bucky was quicker. He slid his card across the counter without missing a beat.

“Hey—come on, I’ve got this,” she protested, nudging his arm.

He just gave her a look. Steady. “Next time.”

With the warm box of pizza in hand, Bucky carried it like it was something precious as they walked the short distance to their apartment building. Inside the elevator, the hum of machinery filled the space as he hit the button for her floor. The moment was quiet, but not awkward—just a soft kind of stillness that felt easy between them.

Once inside her apartment, Y/N headed to the kitchen, pulling out two mismatched plates from the cabinet and handing one to Bucky.

“I’ll be right back,” she said with a smile, before slipping down the hallway to her bedroom.

She changed quickly, trading her work clothes for a pair of well-worn leggings and her favorite oversized t-shirt. After a moment’s pause, she grabbed Bucky’s hoodie from where she’d left it earlier and slipped it back on—it still smelled like him, and the extra weight of it around her shoulders was oddly comforting.

When she padded back into the living room, Bucky was already seated on the couch, the pizza box resting on the coffee table in front of him. He sat back with his arms crossed, muscles stretching beneath the tight fabric of his t-shirt in a way that made Y/N pause in the doorway a second longer than she meant to.

She shook herself out of it and moved to the couch, settling a safe-but-not-too-far distance from him.

Grabbing the remote, she pulled up her favorite comfort show—one she’d seen a hundred times but never got tired of—and hit play. She reached for a slice, the warmth of the food matching the growing ease between them.

Bucky grabbed a piece too, and for a while, they sat side by side, the glow of the TV flickering across their faces, saying nothing at all.

But the silence was anything but empty—it was filled with the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from being with someone who feels like home.

As the night wore on and a few more episodes passed, Y/N realized—somehow, without even noticing when it happened—that she was sitting much closer to Bucky than she had been at the start. The gap between them had gradually disappeared, replaced by the easy lean of shared warmth. She knew he usually shied away from touch—but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t flinched or pulled back. If anything, he seemed… settled.

The credits of the latest episode began to roll, the soft background music filling the quiet room.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, his voice low and almost hesitant.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, her brows drawn together gently. “For what?”

He gave a small shrug, blue eyes fixed on the screen like he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “For letting me crash your night. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t,” she said softly, her lips lifting into a smile. “I like hanging out with you, Bucky.”

And before she could overthink it, she reached down and slid her hand into his—his flesh one—her fingers curling gently around his. She gave a soft squeeze, grounding and sincere.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “Even if you don’t want to talk. We can just sit. Be. I’m okay with that.”

For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Then she felt his hand tighten around hers, not possessively, just… steady. Reassuring. And he didn’t let go.

The next episode began to play, the familiar theme music rising again, but neither of them really paid attention. They stayed just like that, fingers laced together, hearts quietly aligned in the shared silence—trying, and failing, to focus on the screen when all they could really feel was the presence of the other.

---

Y/N stirred slowly, her eyes fluttering open as the early morning light filtered softly through the curtains. For a moment, she blinked against the haze of sleep, her brain sluggishly trying to piece together where she was. The couch. Her living room. The remnants of the night before flickered back into focus like a warm dream.

What she hadn’t expected was the weight wrapped around her—the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of two strong arms encircling her.

Bucky.

Her head rested against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded in a calm, even rhythm. His breath was slow and steady, lips slightly parted in sleep, completely at peace in a way she rarely got to see. And somehow, over the course of the night, they’d both melted into one another, tangled up on her small couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She should’ve been surprised. But she wasn’t. Not really.

Y/N shifted slightly, her body stiff from sleeping in one position for too long. Carefully, she reached out, fingers brushing against his arm as she tried to slip out of his hold without waking him.

But before she could move more than an inch, Bucky’s arm tightened around her waist—gentle but firm. His other hand came up sleepily to rest at the small of her back, and without opening his eyes, he pulled her right back against him with a quiet, content sigh.

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, caught between amusement and something far softer, deeper. Her lips curled into a sleepy smile as she relaxed into him again, letting her eyes drift closed once more.

If this was how mornings with Bucky felt—quiet, safe, wrapped in warmth—she wouldn’t mind waking up like this a lot more often.

“Don’t move. I’m comfortable,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. 

Y/N let herself relax against him again, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside didn’t exist—not the mission reports, not the news, not the ghosts that sometimes lingered in both their silences.

Just the two of them.

She felt Bucky shift slightly, just enough to rest his chin lightly on the top of her head. His hand—flesh and warm—brushed slow, absentminded strokes along her arm. It sent a tingle down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You’re warm,” he murmured sleepily.

She smiled against his shirt. “That’s because I’m wearing your hoodie.”

“Keep it,” he said, without hesitation.

Y/N tilted her head back slightly so she could look up at him. “You sure?”

His eyes met hers, blue and unguarded, still heavy with sleep but clear in a way that made her breath catch. “Yeah,” he said, softer. “Looks better on you anyway.”

That made her cheeks flush, and she quickly looked down to hide the smile pulling at her lips. His fingers brushed her jaw gently, coaxing her gaze back to his.

“You always do that,” he said, voice quiet.

“Do what?”

“Look away when I’m staring at you.”

“That’s because you stare,” she teased, her voice a little too breathless for her liking.

“I do,” he admitted. “And you never seem to notice how much I like it.”

She blinked. The teasing vanished from his voice—replaced by something quieter, deeper.

Her heartbeat stumbled.

“Bucky…” she started, unsure of what to say. But he was already leaning in, his hand moving up to cup her face with infinite care—like he was afraid she might flinch or vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he murmured, eyes flicking from hers to her lips and back. “Unless you tell me not to.”

She didn’t say a word.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she nodded, just once—barely a breath of movement—and then he was kissing her.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded or rushed. It was the kind that lingered, like he had all the time in the world. His lips moved against hers with a careful sort of reverence, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and she kissed him back just as softly, pouring into it every quiet moment they’d shared—every time he’d sat beside her in silence, every word he hadn’t needed to say.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

“Well,” she whispered, her lips still tingling, “that was... worth staying up for.”

Bucky gave a small huff of laughter. “Yeah?” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I think I just did,” he said, and this time, the smile that curved his lips was real—and a little smug.

Y/N shook her head, grinning as she nudged his chest playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he said, pressing another feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

[littlemillersbaby]

“Accidents”

synopsis: after going on a run with joel and ellie despite joel’s request for you not to, you get hurt in the process, and joel helps you recover. word count: 1,4k warnings: smut, female receiving, use of curse words

joel has always had pretty eyes, guess seeing him this close and in the light you truly noticed how pretty and tired they are. the wrinkles in his face that haven’t yet been mirrored in yours—god, that thirty-year age difference was sometimes worrisome. you desperately want him to see you with crinkled eyes and wrinkles; brushing his hands through your grey hair like you did his when he goes—

“darlin, are you even listening to me?” he groans out on his knees, massaging your injured ankle. “this is why i tell your dumbass to stay and not go out on runs with me. i already have to keep myself safe and ellie safe, but you just…” he trails on about safety.

he wraps his thick hand, covering the entirety of your ankle. you can feel his calluses rub against your skin. it makes you wet just thinking of those same hands wrapped around your neck not even a day ago.

“you guys needed help and i didn’t want you to get hurt,” you manage to make a noise, putting your dirty thoughts away. “i’m young, meaning i’m strong… isn’t that a quote?”

on the run, joel, ellie, and you were spotted by clickers. trying to protect him, you jumped in front of him before a clicker got him, but as you killed the clicker, you twisted your ankle.

your handsome man lets out a groan and a laugh. “you’re lucky i put up with you.” he finishes the massage, wrapping it with medical tape. “you’re not going to be able to go to the movie night.”

“man, that blows,” you say, leaning on the pillow he brought out of the bedroom. “i wanted to see forrest gump. i’ve never seen it.”

he smiles, not reaching his eyes. “you and i are going to stay here until i patrol, and ellie will switch. you can see forrest gump another time.”

he grabs a blanket, covering your legs. you hadn’t noticed that it got cold, even though you were only in your panties and his flannel. you mumble a thank you, grabbing a book from the bookshelf next to you.

he picks you up, placing you on his lap, blanket still on you; rocking you back and forth, kissing your neck and biting your earlobe. aw man, what did you do… he always did that when he wanted to either have sex or he was upset but didn’t know how to express it.

“what’s wrong, baby?” you say, putting your book to the side and leaning closer to his touch.

“i just… i was scared… god, you just don’t listen sometimes,” he groans out, still sucking the skin around your ear. “i can’t always protect you, sweetheart.”

you nod against his lips as they travel down your neck. “next time i tell you we’re going to be okay… trust me… me and ellie came here after so much, so we can handle it.” he pulls your legs open, careful with your left ankle.

“i know—i know i’m just a little protective over ellie… i don’t want anything to happen to her.” you moan lowly as his hand finds the inside of your thighs. “i, uh—mhm—uh, i was worried about you too.”

joel's breath is hot on your skin as his mouth trails down your neck. his beard scratches against your pulse point, a coarse drag that makes your thighs twitch. his fingers press into the flesh just above your knee, working higher, the calloused pads teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

you’re still wearing only his flannel, swallowing you whole, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, the top few buttons undone from when you tugged on the collar earlier, needing to breathe.

his hand brushes just beside the wet patch forming on your panties. he doesn’t move fast. joel never moves fast unless he’s angry or desperate, and right now he’s just worried and horny; trying to express it the only way he knows: by touching you.

“you’re real mouthy for someone laid up with a busted ankle,” he mutters, lips curled just slightly as he looks up at you from where he’s pressing soft kisses into your collarbone. “goin’ out there like you’re fuckin’ invincible.”

“i just wanted to help,” you breathe, trying not to writhe against his lap like a bitch in heat. his hand is under the blanket now, pushing it aside, fingers ghosting along your hip, then back down between your thighs again. your panties are soaked, practically clinging to your lips.

“help?” joel chuckles darkly, teeth scraping against the shell of your ear. “you’re damn near helpless now, sweetheart. can’t walk, can’t run. you’re stuck right here.” his fingers hook under the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your thighs, slowly. the air is cold against your slick folds, but his fingers are warm—he's warm—thick digits sliding through your slit.

“you listening to me now?” he says gruffly, pushing two fingers into your cunt, slow and firm, the stretch making your breath hitch.

“mhm,” you murmur, thighs trembling. “i’m listening.”

“good,” he whispers, pumping those thick fingers in and out of you, the rhythm steady, relentless. “ ’cause i need you to listen when i tell you that if somethin’ ever happened to you, i’d lose my fuckin’ mind.”

your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, the rough rasp of his voice sending sparks down your spine. he curls his fingers just right, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur. his other hand cups the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair, holding you steady as he tongues the crook of your neck and bites down hard enough to bruise.

“joel—fuck,” you whimper, grinding helplessly against his hand, your fingers gripping his flannel, knuckles white.

he groans low in his throat, a gravelly, needy sound as his palm presses harder against your clit. “that’s it, baby. let me take care of you, yeah? you need this. after scarin’ the shit outta me.”

“i’m—i didn’t mean to—”

“shhh,” he cuts you off, sucking a mark into your throat that you’ll probaly feel for days. “you can say you’re sorry with your cunt.”

now that makes you moan. the sound rips from your throat as your hips start rocking against his hand without shame, soaking his fingers. he adds a third finger, making your whole body jolt.

“you hear that?” he growls against your ear, lips slick with spit. “listen to how wet you are, baby. drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand.”

slap, slap, slap—the obscene noise of his fingers plunging in and out of your pussy echoes in the small room. you grip his shoulder, nails digging into the soft flannel, trying to anchor yourself as your orgasm coils tighter.

“i was fuckin’ scared,” joel whispers again, almost broken now, voice cracking as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth. “thought i was gonna lose you. and the worst part? i wouldn’t even know how to go on. not after everythin’.”

“i’m here,” you manage to gasp, barely able to speak as the pleasure crescendos. “i’m here, joel.”

“show me,” he growls.

your whole body jerks when he flicks your clit with just the right pressure, and the dam breaks. you cry out, grabbing at him as your orgasm crashes over you, pussy clenching hard around his fingers, body trembling in his lap. he doesn't let up, fucking you through it until you’re twitching.

joel pulls his fingers out slowly, smearing your slick all over your inner thigh, then dragging them up to his mouth. he sucks each one clean, eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable.

“you’re stayin’ here next time,” he says, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “don’t care how young or strong you are. if you want to be useful, you stay alive.”

you nod, still panting, chest heaving.

he kisses your temple, soft and slow. “next time, you tell me what’s goin’ on in that stubborn head before you throw yourself into danger.”

you grin, still hazy. “next time, you just fuck me before patrol and i’ll be too sore to even leave the house.”

that gets a real laugh out of him; his hands settle under your ass, shifting you closer on his lap. his cock is hard under you, pressing insistently through his jeans, but he doesn’t move to unzip. but for now, he just holds you, body warm, rocking you gently till you fall asleep.

notes: my first joel writing ahhhhh

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @555aturn

[heavyhitterheaux]

Shh!

See Me Through You Blurb

Synopsis: This might be the last time that Ja'Marr studies with you and Joe in the same room

Pairing: Boyfriend!Joe Burrow x Girlfriend!Reader

Series Masterlist

Requested by: my boo @hoodharlow 💕

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Midterms were approaching so with that being said, it seemed like every library on campus was littered with students and of course you were no exception.

You had been studying for close to an hour when your twin sent you a text to find out where you were. Once you told him, you lucked out once you found out he was bringing your boyfriend with him.

You missed him even if you had literally just seen him that morning.

Joe would always help you study to the best of his ability, even if it was for classes that you were taking and he had absolutely no clue what was going on. To him, it was more time that he got to spend with you so he didn't mind.

Study sessions included a lot of stolen glances and small kisses. Sometimes it would lead to more, but only after you had completely finished.

That was one thing that Joe refused to budge on.

He had already gotten one degree and he was going to make sure that you got yours and that all of your hard work wasn't going to go to waste.

Today was no different as Ja'Marr sat across from the both of you and literally wanted to gouge his eyes out with a spoon at the scene in front of him.

Bottom line was that he needed a girlfriend because he was tired of being the third wheel to the two of you.

It was as if the two of you completely forgot that you weren't by yourselves.

You on the other hand were laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear and placed a quick kiss on the shell of it before erupting in a quiet laughter himself before you went back to studying.

It was quiet for about ten minutes before Ja'Marr once again heard you and Joe laughing and cleared his throat making the two of you look over at him.

“Did you two forget that I'm here?! Damn.”

“How can anyone miss that big ass head sitting across the table from them?” You asked and Joe had to turn away from the two of you to stifle his laugh, but failed miserably.

“Pebbles, you are always choosing violence against me. I thought yall were about to make a baby on the damn desk.”

“I wouldn’t mind, but this is a library and this one is anything but quiet. Might get kicked out.” Joe replied while shrugging as you hit his shoulder and Ja’Marr quickly made a gagging noise.

“Ew! What the actual fuck!? I can't unhear that now!” He exclaimed while massaging his temples and looking down at his textbook that was in front of him.

“Well you wanted to come and study with us, Bam Bam.”

“This is a library and not a porn video so will you two PLEASE keep it together for another hour? And the two of you aren't even studying! Joe hasn't cracked open his book once and has been in your face since we got here.”

“Hey! I missed my girlfriend. And it's apparent that you need one.” Joe told him as he pulled you closer and you smiled up at him.

“I'm ignoring that last part. You literally saw her this morning and I can promise you that she looks the same now as she did then.” He softly said which had you raise your middle finger at him.

“And you wonder why I always choose violence when it comes to you.”

“We’re going to end up getting kicked out, so how about we all be quiet?”

“I'm hungry. I don't think I have an hour left in me.” You confessed while looking at both of them.

“I am too, but not for food.” Joe added and Ja’Marr quickly slammed his book shut as the two of you were doubled over in laughter.

“I'm done. Sometimes I regret the day that I introduced you two to each other.”

“We love you too, Ja'Marr.”

[hyperesthesias]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth. 

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

[starsinthesky5]

Are joe and songbird ever in complete awe that they have the other person? Like they can’t believe they get to sleep next to them, kiss them etc

a/n: paying homage to the idea for the first chapter of you are in love with this blurb ;)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

you can hear it in the silence.

they don’t always need words. not when the air between them hums with something deeply understood. something that runs deeper than whispered words of affection and flirtatious glances. when they’re curled up in bed after a long day—limbs tangled, her cheek pressed to his chest, his chin resting in her hair—it’s quiet. not awkward, not empty. just full. full of the weight of everything they’ve shared and all the things they don���t need to speak aloud. his fingers trace soft, absentminded patterns along the curve of her spine, each movement delicate and intentional, like he’s memorizing her. and she feels it—feels him—in every slow stroke, like a lullaby he only knows how to play for her.

sometimes, he kisses the top of her head so gently, it almost makes her cry. it’s that kind of love, the kind that sneaks up on you even when you’re already living in it. the kind that says i’m not going anywhere without a sound. and when she listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, letting it secure her, she thinks she’s never known this kind of peace. this kind of stillness. this kind of home. they don’t say it out loud, but they’re both thinking the same thing as they drift off together beneath the quiet.

how did i get so lucky? how did i end up here, with you?

you can hear it on the way home.

after a long night out—dressed to the nines, eyes on them, cameras flashing—they find themselves tucked back into their little bubble of a car, where the world fades behind tinted glass. she kicks off her heels with a sigh, and he chuckles softly before reaching across the console to take her hand. his thumb moves slowly over her knuckles, a rhythm he’s never had to learn—it just came naturally with her. she leans her head against the window, the city lights blurring past in smears of gold and blue, but she keeps sneaking glances at him. at the way he rests his elbow on the window, one hand on the wheel, the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his forearms. he looks calm here. content. more himself than he ever gets to be in front of anyone else.

she reaches for his hand again and lifts it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. and that’s when he looks at her. really looks. the kind of glance that says everything—i still can’t believe it’s you. i still can’t believe you chose me. they don’t even turn on the music half the time. the quiet is their soundtrack. filled with the comfort of knowing that at the end of every night, every party, every spotlight—they always come back to this. to each other.

you can see it with the lights out.

when the world has gone to sleep and they’re wrapped around each other in the hush of their bedroom, it doesn’t feel like real life. it feels like something sacred. like a dream they keep slipping into and waking up in, over and over, and never wanting to leave. moonlight spills through the sheer curtains, catching the edge of her hair where it fans across the pillow, painting silver along the curve of his bare shoulder. he’s half-asleep, face tucked into the softness of her stomach, arms locked around her waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

her fingers move slowly through his hair, letting her nails graze gently over his scalp, and he hums at the touch, like it soothes something deep in his chest. and then, in a voice gravelly and low, he murmurs, “still not over it,”.

she smiles sleepily, brushing his temple with her thumb. “over what?”.

he tilts his head back just enough to look up at her, eyes heavy and soft and too full of love. “you. this. all of it,”.

and she knows exactly what he means. because sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night just to look at him. to trace the outline of his face with her eyes, memorizing every line and shadow. she watches the way his lashes flutter in sleep, how his chest rises and falls with each breath, and she thinks how did i get this lucky? how did this become mine?

they’re both still in awe. still stunned, even after all the days and nights and soft kisses and deep laughs. not because they’re afraid it’ll disappear—but because real love like this doesn’t always feel like it’s meant for people like them. and yet…here they are. here they still are. living in the silence, the drive home, the dark of night. completely and utterly theirs.

[jjwolves]

ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ LOVE UNDER WILL ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

This headcanon list was commissioned by @master-eclectic ! Thank you so much for your support, it means the world to me <3

What: Headcanons of ENA as a Yandere X Reader

Who: ENA by Joel G

How Much: ~700 words, ~2 mins

Credits: Banner Image -> Joel G, Divider -> @aquazero

You like ENA a lot—perhaps more than anyone else you’ve met in this constantly fluid world. She cares deeply for you right back, albeit in her own strange way, always bringing you gifts and comforting you when times are tough. Sometimes she does the comforting, sometimes you do the comforting. It’s nice. It’s simple. It’s kind of weird. ENA is kind of weird in everything she does, so her more alarming patterns of behavior end up being a drop of static in a sea of missing signal. You don’t notice that her infatuation with you runs deeper than her usual childlike curiosity—it’s something psychological, and fiercely jealous.

You don’t find it odd how she stares at you, because she stares at everyone, smile unchanging. But one day, when you’re watching a drive-in movie where the vehicles are projectors with legs, you turn to ENA halfway through to find that she’s been staring straight into you the entire time, a placid smile resting on her face. “You’re seeming very action-adventure today. If I held your hand, would you let the cosmic wheel creak to a stop?” Heart thumping, you give her your hand. She turns doom and gloom in a heartbeat, clutching your hand tightly, blue interlocking with yellow. Tingling tears fall onto your knuckles. “So beautiful… I don’t deserve to hold this! But I don’t care! I’m gonna hold it anyway!” You get annoyed glances from neighboring robots trying to watch the movie.

She starts stalking you in ways which are very uniquely hers. Once, when you were brushing your teeth, the chill of being watched ran up your spine. You whipped around to your window to find nothing there, but when you turned back around to the mirror, ENA was inside, startling at being seen and scurrying off to hide somewhere less visible in the mirror-realm. You hang a curtain over it just in case. Another time, you walked past one of the paintings hung up in your hallway and suddenly realized that there was something off about one of them once you reached your room. You ran back and found ENA posing inside one of the paintings, shifty eyes the only giveaway that she knew she was caught (and being slightly creepy). “Ah, dearest… You must admit that I gel well among the firmaments!” You reluctantly agreed that, yes, she did look like she belonged in a painting. ENA blushed and gave the closest thing to a bashful chuckle you’d ever heard out of her.

ENA normally isn’t obsessive, but her love, her adoration for you, sharpens the hazy, vivid colors dwelling in her heart into something screeching and unpredictable. A yellow that threatens to burn and a blue that promises to drown. Being near you has her flying high, bright as ever, spinning you around and keeping you to herself in a tight embrace. “You’re the dawning spring of my heart. And I’ll never let you go!” She stills and looks deep into you. “Ever,” she adds, but with a tone light and airy. She wouldn’t want to scare you away, now!

When you spend time with other friends a little more than with her, she sinks into mental storm. She’s not used to this feeling, so she doesn’t know what it is, but anyone else would tell you it’s jealousy. And it’s intense. Her blue side starts getting a lot more talkative when ENA feels like you’re paying too much attention to other people. She wails and cries on your shoulder, not so subtly smelling your hair in between sobs. “It’s—not—fair! Why do you spend so much time with them?!” She slumps forward and looks upwards, her blue eye meeting one of yours. You explain that you’ll always like her the most, but that there are other people who are important to you as well. “NO!! Boo-hoo… You’re only supposed to love ME! All those other people should just disappear!” You’re perturbed, to say the least, and not by the fact that your clothes have essentially become ENA’s impromptu handkerchief. (That part’s par for the course.) Either way, you hold ENA tighter as her floating hair pieces gently brush against your ear.

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Bitter and Sweet

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.

warnings: soft angst, emotional miscommunication, heartbreak, swearing, slow-burn, alcohol consumption, hungover

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series | masterlist | previous part | next part

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Part Four: Bitter and Sweet (2700+ words)

I’m hungover, lying face down of Maisie’s leather couch with a blanket tangled around my legs and a regretfully warm glass of water sat on the coffee table. My head’s pounding, my mouth tastes like regret and sour wine.

The steaming of a coffee machine is heard from the kitchen and I let out a groan – a loud groan.

“Oh someone is awake!” Maisie cheerfully squeals.

Maisie walks into the kitchen with two coffee mugs in her hand, handing one to me as she sat down in the matching leather armchair. She looked she had too just woken up due to the flower pyjamas – but she looked fresh.

The one difference about us two – she is able to handle her liquor… myself not so much.

I sip carefully at the steaming coffee.

“So? How’s the head?”

I let out a second groan as my response to the questions, signally the conversation to move on.

“Well I have some good news! We’ve scored an interview with a magazine for the bakery!” She shrieks out loud, holding the phone out to show the magazine’s email.

“No fucking way!” The magazine company was one of which I would cut recipes out when I was younger with my grandmother, and now I was going to be an exclusive in it.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In the next few weeks, the high continue to come.

The magazine interview goes better than I ever imagined, with Maisie and I carefully selecting which of our recipes we wanted to include alongside the interview – old favourites, comfort bakes, little secrets I swore I’d never share. When the article goes line, the bakery’s inbox floods with congratulations, a few weird messages and even brand offers. A cookbook deal. A local TV spot. An ad campaign with a jam company I didn’t know existed.

And I say no to majority of all of them.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful – it’s just… it doesn’t feel right yet. Too shiny. Too sudden. Like saying yes would mean giving up the quiet magic of it all – the way the bakery still smells like cinnamon before opening, the way I can play Fleetwood Mac at 6 a.m. while folding pastry with flour on my nose.

Maisie doesn’t push. She sees the way I hesitate each time, finger hovering above the reply button before closing the laptop or flipping the sign to closed  a little earlier than usual. She knows me too well.

And then it comes – the message.

max_balegde: hey, bit random – would you ever wanna come on the podcast? Talk about the bakery? Could be chill. No pressure x

I stare at it. For a long time.

It’s just Max. It’s not like he’s asking me to go on the morning show or anything. And he was always nice to me. Always made me laugh. But still, the nerves creep in – because it Max is reaching out, does that mean George knowns? Did he put him up to it?

Maisie finds me standing frozen at the counter with my phone screen still glowing.

“What’s with the haunted look?” She asks, biting into a croissant and raising an eyebrow.

“Max invited me on the podcast,” I say, voice flat.

“Ooooh,” she stands up straighter. “Like the podcast? With George?”

“That one,” I nod, sinking onto the counter in front me.

We stand in silence for a moment. She chews thoughtfully.

“You gonna do it?”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, eyes fixed on a crack in the tile floor. “It’s been a few weeks since I kind of told George off. What if it’s weird?”

Maisie shrugs, brushing crumbs from her shirt. “Weird can be good. Sometimes weird means closure – for the both of you… Or beginnings.”

I think about it for a few days.

The invite stays unread on my Instagram. Max doesn’t double message I spend the next few mornings baking along – no music, lost in my thought. Every now and then I think about George – how his laugh used to echo though my kitchen, his arms wrapped around me as I attempted to bake, his voice reading recipes over my shoulder like he actually knew what he was doing.

Eventually, I type out a reply.

Y/N: yeah, okay. I’ll do it. When and where?

I hit send before I can overthink it.

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Two days later, I walk into the podcast studio.

It smells fresh and like coffee, a sharp contrast to the nerves rolling in my stomach. There’s a camera on a tripod and three mics set up. Max is already adjusting levels and George – George is lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone, one leg stretched out casually.

I don’t think he’s noticed me, not at first.

But then I catch it – a photo on his screen. My photo.

Cupcakes. The lemon-raspberry ones with sugared petals on top. I posted that shot over two years ago, back when I tagged him in stories without thinking twice.

They were cupcakes we once made together at home.

Before I can say anything – before I can decide what to say – he looks up. Slowly. Like it takes effort.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Soft.

My heart skips a beat – traitor. “Hey,” I echo, quieter.

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to feel it.

Max swoops in and saves the moment. “Y/N! You made it ! Ready to expose your darkest secrets on air?”

I snort, graceful for the out, “only if you go first.”

We settle in – George and Max seated in matching chairs, side by side and I take the one across from them, facing George square on. I try not to look at him, but I can feel him – the warmth of his presence, the familiar trace of his cologne.

It’s so painfully him. Clean, a little woodsy. Like autumn mornings and old records.

Max starts the intro and we’re rolling.

The first few minutes are easy. Banter. Jokes. Max winding George up about his time management, George deflecting with sarcastic charm. I laugh where I’m meant to, play along.

The first few minutes are normal. Bickering. Jokes. Max and George talk about what they have been doing the previous week. Making jokes targeted at each other – Max showing off his quirky side and George showing off his charm.

But halfway through a story Max is telling about going to see his family, I zone out. Just for a moment.

And I remember –

It’s three years ago.

My grandma’s house.

George has been nervous – more nervous than he let on. He’d smoothed his jumper three times before we even rang the be; saying something dumb about not knowing if it was disrespectful to show up with supermarket flowers. In a response, I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and it gave him all the confidence he needed.

And she hadn’t made it easy, either. Grandma Gracie never did. She was sharp, suspicious of anyone who got too close to me too fast.

But George… George had a way.

I remember him spotting the half-dead tomato plant in her garden and with not hesitation – just bent down, pinched the browning leaves and said, “Think I can bring this back from the dead?”

And it was like a switch flipped in her. The corners of her mouth twitched trying not to smile – and I knew that George’s charm had worked on her.

And that was the moment she loved him.

That might’ve been the moment I did too.

“-Y/N?”

My name cuts through the air like a pebble tossed into still water.

I blink. George is now looking at me now. Max too. I’ve been quiet too long.

“Sorry,” I murmur, clearing my throat, trying to gather myself. “Zoned out.”

George’s brows twitch just slightly. His expression unreadable.

“It’s okay Y/N, we were just introducing you.” George utters.

“So welcome Y/N! Owner of Gracie’s Bakery, and bringer of cupcakes that haunts my dreams. Welcome.”

I laugh softly, “thanks for having me.”

“She brought pastries,” George says, his mouth full of one – he holds up the half eaten jam pastry, “this is my second – they’re as good as I remember…” George realises what he has said, and quickly covers it up, “well from when I first tried one only a few weeks ago.”

Max grins and leans into the mic, “so let’s start with the bakery. It’s blowing up! Viral cake! Queues out the door. What’s it been like?”

I shrug, suddenly a little shy. “It’s surreal. It started small just as a passion. I used to bake with my grandma in our tiny kitchen when I was younger. I never though it would become this.”

“And was the viral aspect always the plan?”

I shake my head slowly; George and I already both knowing the answer to the question, “no, I’ve always been one to try stay out of the limelight. I just wanted something that was mine. Quiet. Consistent.”

George lets out a breath. A soft one, but I hear it.

“And tell us – what’s your favourite thing to bake?”

“Every Christmas I make this chocolate dipped pastries,” I say immediately. “My family favourites.”

“Mmm,” George murmurs, like he remembers them too.

I feel my heart pull.

Max leans forward with a wicked smile. Alright, enough wholesome vibes. Let’s get into the juicy bits.”

I groan. “Here we go.”

“So Y/N,” he puts on a dramatic voice. “You’re successful, charming, clearly excellent in the kitchen. People want to know – what’s going o in the love life department?”

I scoff. “Absolutely nothing.”

My eyes quickly dart to George – and I see the smallest tilt up of his lips to reach into a smile.

“Oh come,” Max prods, eyes sparkling, “not even a cheeky situationship? Or a few dates here or there?”

I glance at George again – this time it was a mistake. His face in unreadable, jaw tense as he waits for the answer.

“I’m focused on the bakery,” I say smoothly, forcing a smile. “And Maisie’s dating life is dramatic enough for the both of us.”

Max chuckles but watches us carefully. The energy has shifted and he presses on – as if he was setting something up.

“There must be an ex though? Right?” Max asks, eyes flicking to look at George.

“There was someone back at home.” I start as Max gives a sly smile.

“Wasn’t he into content creation or something?”

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “Something like that.”

I see it then – again, George’s jaw tensing.

“Do you miss it? Being back at home? And this guy>” George asks, hinting he meant more – asking if I missed George.

“The chaos of back home? No. Not really. But I did really like him. Loved him, but I didn’t like feeling like a background character to him.”

The silence is loaded, as I feel my eyes begin to swell – I’m brave and I hold them back. Max glances between the both of us, “you still talk to him?”

“No.”

It’s George who speaks next. “Must’ve been a dick, then.”

I turn to look at him, his face softening as he takes in my eyes – able to still read everything about me even after all this time.

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe we just didn’t know how to talk when it matter.” I finish my sentence, still looking at George in hopes of giving him closure – almost silently offering I’m ready to talk to him now.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The producer signals to Max and George – alerting them the time is almost up.

Max leans forward, a half-smile playing on his face. “Alright, I’ve been dying to ask this one – where did the name Gracie’s Bakery come from?”

I smile instinctively. “It’s named after my grandma, Gracie.”

Max lights up, “no way, that’s class. Is she a baker too?”

“Kind of,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve – debating if I was ready to open up in front of their audience and social media – more importantly, George. “She taught me everything, really. Cooking, baking, being a bit stubborn in the kitchen –“. I’m interrupted by George letting out a deep chuckle and our eyes meet; we both share a smile together.

“She had this way of making everything feel like magic – even if it was just toast and jam.”

Max chuckles, “she sounds like a legend.”

“She was,” I say quietly, then pause. The studio’s too quiet now, like the air’s holding it s breath. “She passed away. A little less than two years ago.”

I don’t look at George, but I feel the shift in him – a stiffening in the silence, like he’s just stopped breathing.

Max nods, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Naming the bakery after her just… felt right. Like she’s still part of it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I finally glance at George. He’s not looking at Max. He’s looking at me – eyes wide, lips parted just slightly, taking in the news of what he has just learnt. I can tell he wants to say something. Like he can’t believe he didn’t know – but he can’t. Not in front of a camera at least.

I turn away to look back at Max. But not before I catch it, the faintest twitch of regret in his expression. Like he’s just registered that she died after we ended things. That I went through first loosing him and then the most important person in my life… without him even knowing.

Max clears his throat and lightens the tone again, “she’d be proud,” gently steering the conversation forward. But the wright of that moment lingers, thick and quiet beneath the rest of the interview – beginning to do the outro.

And when I finally glance over at George again, he’s not speaking. But he’s still looking at me.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The red recording light finally clicks off. Max stretched his arms above his head with a dramatic sigh, swivelling toward the camera.

“And that’s a wrap,” he says, “Great ep! Genuinely. That was…. Thank you, Y/N.” He trails off looking to George.

The boys communicate something silently with their look and Max busies himself with something at the back of the room quickly.

George doesn’t move. Not at first.

He’s still his seat, leaned forward – hands clasped together like he’s thinking hard. Processing.

Eventually, he stands. His gaze meets mine again, and this time there’s no deflecting, no jokes – just us.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. Like he wants to say something real, something heavy—but we’re not alone, and he knows it.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs. “About Gracie. About any of it.”

“I know you didn’t,” I say. “We weren’t really… talking.”

He nods, but there’s pain behind it. Like he’s kicking himself. “Still. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

I press my lips together, heart tightening. “Well, I did.”

It’s not said with bitterness. Just the truth. A simple fact he can’t undo.

George swallows. His eyes flick toward Max, who’s fiddling with audio files and deliberately pretending not to listen. Then back to me.

There’s a pause. I can see it in him — the internal battle. The pull of wanting to say something that maybe he should’ve said a long time ago. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts a little closer. “Would you… maybe want to talk sometime? Like… properly?”

I blink. “About Gracie?”

He hesitates. “About whatever you want.”

My breath catches.

Before I can answer, Max turns around with his usual timing, holding up his phone. “Group selfie for the podcast Insta, let’s go!”

Just like that, the moment breaks. George steps back. I pull my jacket tighter.

But as we crowd together for the photo, I feel the edge of his hand brush mine.

And when I glance sideways, he’s already looking at me — eyes soft, full of something unsaid.

Something that might not stay unsaid much longer.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Hi all! Yeah so that was a lot... but I do hope you guys enjoyed - I've been building on the characterisation and backstory and hope it's making the story even more engaging!!

And the secret is out - the name is as an honour to her grandma, which I thought was so sweet.

See you all soon,

mwah x

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @swiftlyjo @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy

[ken-jaku]

decode. caleb from love and deepspace

very loosely based on/inspired by this edit and that one line where he says he won't get a gf.. i don't have the card just saw another edit :P

content warnings. mentions of a slow (slightly longer that walking pace) burn relationship- not a full-blown fic, situationship, one-sided pining, top tier yearning border-lining on obsession. this is lowkey like an extremely less toxic version of a situationship-esque fic and oneshot i have drafted with eren jaeger.

word count. 2.063k

note. caleb looks so pretty here i love him- not more than zayne tho.. i haven't been on lads for months til now holy moly ;-;

"my speech would've ended here. however, right before i went onstage, a person said something strange to me. it had to do with what's "important."-- "

it was snowing-- the first snow of the year in fact-- and caleb chose you of all people to meet him. it was odd, but you let it slide because, quite frankly, everything between you two was odd.

having grown up with him, you two were inseparable. aside from whenever zayne came over to play- then the ice-cold prince, as caleb liked to call him, would have all your attention. looking back, caleb seemed to have formed a one-sided animosity towards him for it. it was funny, cute even.

high school came around, and as the three-year secondary education commenced, cheek-pinching became hair ruffling became hand-holding. everyone in school was confused by you two. every "are you dating her?" brought a smile to the older's lips and confusion to yours. caleb never answered them. he wouldn't give others the satisfaction of thinking they had a chance with you.

when you two had been separated for almost a year and found your way back to each other, you didn't know how to continue the relationship with him. you had just begun to get over the fact that you lost the only one who truly knew you only for him to be there, standing in front of you a few days later. caleb, being caleb, just wanted everything to go back to how it used to be, that dog tag you gave him still being worn all these years was a testament towards that, as if you claimed a part of him he wants-- no, needs-- you to have.

you didn't take too kindly to it in the beginning. he had completely disappeared. died. you'd gone to his grave for god's sake. you mourned him and your grandmother with no one to assist you when your life went to shit. so it took a few weeks to get used to having your best friend, whom you really only saw for the holidays after high school, and, to the public, died via explosion, find his way over to your city often just to see you. he was.. overbearing to say the least like he had to make up for his "death." he was also different.

you have a job and you do it well but ever since caleb came back into your life, he was more against your choice in joining the militia than ever. you didn't know why and he wouldn't tell you, often changing the subject to obstruct your train of thought.

the first few days when you saw him again, he was almost obsessive, deranged. you had a mission, one you originally had planned to use to block your mind from all things mourning before caleb crash-landed into it, ironically, being one of the main subjects to watch out for. he was the damn colonel. you never told him in entirety what your objective was but he had an idea-- he was smart like that-- and almost completely barred you from gaining any information-- barred you from leaving his home.

it scared you. the way he looked at you with those unstable eyes, the way he grabbed your wrist and whispered promises of not allowing others to hurt you whenever you tried to walk away from him, the way he'd play with your hair. it all scared you. it felt unnatural. every single action he did held some sort of difference in comparison to when he did it back then, and yet sometimes you felt yourself almost accept it, almost reciprocate.

he wasn't the caleb you knew but still, you let him into your life again after doing your job. you gave him the opportunity to be with you again even if he couldn't recall what exactly that entailed. you did all this because, deep down, you knew something happened in those ten months of his "passing". hell, he had a bionic arm. and whether you liked it or not, he was always going to be a part of your life so, out of love for the boy you knew, you made it work.

and things did progress. he did open up to you more, just not enough but you were willing to work with that.. it was still an advancement at the end of the day. and above all, you missed him-- you missed him so much-- so whatever he gave you, you took it kindly (with a little frustration).

as months flew by, you two frequently found yourselves at the other's house, cuddling on the couch as he read, him back hugging you as you prepared meals, sharing your bed and sleeping better than you two ever had alone even if you were ill at the moment. and at the end of the day, you would always find yourself standing in between his legs, his hand grazing your wrist as he begged you to stay a little longer. sure, those things were normal when you were younger but lines were blurred, crossed now. you're in your mid-20s. adults don't do those things unless..

still, you welcomed them like you couldn't get enough because he was caleb. he was your caleb.

he seemed to be dissociating by the time you got there. frosted-over water decorated his hair beautifully while his thumb grazed against the dog tag raised to his lips. a frown had painted his face. he wasn't dressed properly, the cold seeming to not bother him but you wouldn't stand for it. you didn't care if he was "different" now.

"caleb..." you were soft-spoken so as to not scare him.

as if you could ever, but he appreciated the gesture-- appreciated how you cared for him.

you broke his spell the moment you said his name. his eyes were unreadable, elusive the moment he found yours, but he was happy to see you. he always was. his phone was on but you hadn't noticed until he quickly turned it off, the screen going from white with a few hints of pink and blue to black in a few seconds. you were going to ask about it in an amused-- and deep down, curious-- tone but you decided against it. you already had caleb as your personal prober and you were not about to have him think prying was an okay and constant thing to do. he was already so interrogative.

"wear a proper jacket next time, yeah?" you held his neck and carefully manoeuvred him to bend towards you. the height difference you two had was sickeningly seductive. it was something passers-by took notice of whenever you were together. it was alluring to see and even more alluring to be a part of it.

caleb, being caleb, let you do anything to him and this was no different.

he allowed himself to relax into your touch, almost fluttering his eyes shut with a deep breath, as you guide him to where you need him to be.

you unravel your scarf, looking deeply into his eyes as you normally do, "why did you want to meet?" a mumble. the cold bit you as soon as you removed the article making it hard to speak.

"can't i see my.. best friend?" you wrap the woolly scarf over the boy's head as he spoke.

"i mean.. yeah, but it's the first snow. i know how important it is to you. you would always go on about how it cements the fact that two people are meant to be. isn't there anyone more.. important to see today?"

you always seemed to remember everything he said. he loved that about you. he also adored how oblivious you were.

caleb almost sighed, licking his lips.

what wasn't clicking for you?

"who could be more important?" he whispered amusingly as if he couldn't fathom being with another person today.

he, in fact, really couldn't.

"we talked about this, already." he says your name with such gentleness it makes you shy. you last spoke about this topic at his graduation. you remember it like it was yesterday. he had suddenly included the "meeting more people and experiencing new things after graduation" talk you had with him that same day into his ceremony speech, mentioning that people yearn for the future because they haven't found something to cherish in the moment, but that was so long ago. before he "died". people change. they feel differently as they grow.

you smile as you push against his chest, straightening his back, "things change as time goes on, caleb.. someone's gotta tie you down eventually. when we first saw each other, the nurses on the ship were all over you. we aren't getting any younger.. maybe-"

he stiffened, eyes fixed on you as he tilted his head, "do you i have to say it again for you to understand?" his bangs leer over his eyes as he pushes his nose down into your scarf- your warm, soft scarf.

"but-"

"i won't get a girlfriend."

"caleb.." you feel winded.

"i won't.. get a girlfriend." his words were almost a bit harsher. firmer.

a beat.

"okay.. fine. it's.. it's up to you." you winced, looking down at the snow beneath your feet before taking a few steps. caleb follows you a few seconds after, a little bit distracted.

he had turned on his phone once more to see your social page. the phrase "you visited this page several times over the course of two days" stared back at him, as if it was begging him to stop. he was just about to, really, he was, but just below the phrase sat the picture of you and a guy he'd never met that kept searing into his mind. his arm was wrapped around your shoulder and you were smiling as gleefully as could be. it irked the aviation soldier terribly. he hasn't even been able to make you smile like that yet, but there you were, handing them out like candy to your other friends. caleb sighs, picking at his cuticles before he looks up at you again. his fingers, once rapidly moving, stayed in place. your hair was covered in snow and, for some reason, it made him smile.

everything about you made him smile.

everything about you was so easy on the eyes.

he didn't want anyone else.

not when he has you.

you were his gorgeous girl, whether you knew it or not, and he wasn't going to lose you again.. not while the strain put on your relationship when you first saw each other again was burned into his memories. you two were basically strangers once you left skyhaven. he didn't know how to be "your caleb" then but he was willing to try-- still is-- and sure, he has his tendencies but you two make it work.

because he was willing to do anything for you and you would do almost anything for him.

still, he needed everyone to know that you were his. he needed everyone to confidently know you two had something. something no one else could replicate with you.

his phone camera shutters. it was quiet, almost going completely unnoticed by you. you turn around, eyebrows furrowed, a small pout gracing your lips just before you open your mouth, "caleb-"

you're interrupted.

"y'know, there's this park that opened recently. maybe we could make a new secret base." he skips to you, resting his arm over your shoulder to pull you into him. he was as childish as ever, always wanting the two of you to make a mark in every space you encounter.

you're mind goes blank, completely losing your train of thought. still, you nod, trying to remember what you wanted to say , "huh? alright, alright, but after we have to go to this cafe.."

"--i consider myself lucky. i already have someone who's very important to me, someone i can't live without."

the sun finally sets and just as caleb leaves, you get a notification on your phone. it was a post from caleb. he'd tagged you in it.

you click the link almost instantaneously to see the back of your head covered in tiny snowflakes from earlier this morning.

you bite your lip to fight back a smile as you look down to see the caption.

"first snow with her."

note. let's pretend i haven't been gone for an entire year. i have something for xavier that has been sitting in the drafts since '24 if thats any consolation - lei <3 (started writing: may 3, 2025)

[easytiger-xo]

Fire Trap

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader ❤︎

✦18+ (MDNI)✦

summary: Dean finally tells Sam what their father said to him before he died. Sam doesn't take it well—and takes off. With nowhere else to turn, Dean shows up on your doorstep. One thing leads to another, and Dean's world comes crashing down. Again.

cw: emotional distress/panic, fire-related trauma (implied), PTSD themes/aftermath, hurt/comfort, near-death experience, some angst, explicit sexual content, shower sex, soft dom!dean, unprotected p in v. (srry if i missed anything.)

wordcount: 4,344

✦ a/n: This story takes place during S2 E10, 'Haunted'. Obviously changed some things to make it work. Took a lot of inspiration from an episode of Burn Notice, where Michael thinks that Fiona is killed in a fire trap and it leads to him finally letting her in. I just needed that with Dean. I hope you enjoy! ❤︎

Now. “I said no. Just wait for me, okay?” Dean’s voice rang out over the phone—firm, protective, already laced with frustration.

“I can handle it. Looks vacant. Just a quick in and out.” You heard the sharp inhale, the beginning of another protest, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hung up.

Four days ago.

You weren’t expecting him.

It was nearly midnight when headlights swept across your window, followed by a knock—two short, one heavy. His knock. You opened the door, heart thudding, and there he stood: jaw tight, eyes glassy with something heavier than exhaustion.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him like it would keep everything chasing him at bay. You hadn’t seen Dean in months. Not since he ended things with you.

Said he loved you—always would—but that it wasn’t the right time. You didn’t press him. You never did. Because you’d always understood Dean Winchester better than he wanted to be understood. And that terrified him more than anything else. So you let him go. Even though it left a bruise that never quite healed.

You knew the reason he pulled away without him having to explain. John had died. Dean was carrying the grief like a loaded shotgun, and he didn’t want it going off in your direction. He didn’t trust the version of himself that came out when he was hurting.

You missed him. But you didn’t resent him. He still called sometimes. Usually late at night. Case questions. Lore trivia. Sometimes he just wanted to hear someone who remembered who he was before all the weight. You gave him what you could. But it was never personal. Not anymore.

Until now.

He sat on your couch like the ground had finally given way beneath him, talking more than he had in years. Told you what John said about Sam before he died. Told you how badly he messed up trying to protect him. Told you how Sam took off—furious, betrayed—and didn’t look back.

“The kid jacked a car and ran off into the night,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. It just feels like…” His voice cracked. And in that second, he looked younger. Lost. Like he was nineteen again and the whole world had fallen apart in front of him. You reached over and rested a hand on his knee. “I’ll help you find him.”

He looked down at your hand but didn’t pull away. He just let the silence settle around you.

Then his phone rang. Ellen. She’d seen Sam. He was headed to Lafayette, Indiana. Dean didn’t wait. He grabbed his keys. You grabbed your coat. And when the Impala roared to life, you were in the passenger seat—where you’d always belonged.

The two of you pull up outside the only motel in town—one of those faded, roadside places that hasn’t been updated since the '80s. The Impala idles beneath you. Through the open curtains of one of the ground-floor rooms, Dean spots him.

“There’s Sam,” he mutters, leaning forward against the wheel. Then his eyes narrow. “And... huh.”

You follow his gaze. A woman.

Dean’s mouth tugs into a crooked, boyish grin—the kind that’s always been your undoing. “Sam, you sly dog.”

You laugh under your breath. “Kid’s been on the run less than a week and already shacked up.”

Dean chuckles, then shifts back into gear. “Alright, let’s park outta sight and get a room. Wait this out.”

The motel room smells faintly of mildew and old cigarettes, but you’ve both stayed in worse. Dean paces back and forth, boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. “Dean, you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.” You glance down, then smirk. “Actually, keep going. That might be an improvement.”

He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t even crack a smile. You try again. “Y’know, if Sam’s getting lucky, no reason we can’t…” You raise your brows, a playful lilt in your voice. It’s half a joke. Maybe only a quarter.

Dean pauses mid-step and looks at you, unamused. Stone-faced. You sigh and throw your hands up in surrender. “Fine. Okay. I’m gonna go grab a couple sandwiches from that shop across the street. You still like pie, right?” You don’t wait for an answer. The door clicks shut behind you before he can say a word.

The air outside is cold enough to bite. You pull your jacket tighter around you as you walk, trying to shake off the sting in your chest. He’s still not ready. Didn’t bring you here for that, even if part of you wishes that’s what this trip was. You sigh and try not to read too much into it. It’s not about you. It never really has been.

The bell above the shop door jingles as you step inside. Turkey for you. Ham for him. And cherry pie—of course. You toss in a six-pack for good measure. Something to fill the silence, if nothing else.

You’re balancing the bags as you cross the street when you spot her. The woman from Sam’s room. She’s walking away quickly, coat half-zipped, keys in hand. You pick up your pace to catch up.

Back at the room, you fumble trying not to drop everything. You’re just about to twist the doorknob when it swings open from the inside. “’Bout time,” you say, grinning.

Dean chuckles, stepping aside. “Sorry. Bathroom.” You walk in and set the bags on the desk. “Hey, I saw that girl leaving Sam’s room. He’s still in there. You want backup?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. I got it. Brother stuff.” He reaches out and takes your hand for a second. Just a second. “Thanks.” You know what he means. Not just for the food. For being here. For staying. For not pushing. You smile and nod. “Go get him.”

Dean had every intention of tearing into his little brother the second he saw him. He was ready to yell, to demand an explanation, to tell Sam just how worried sick he’d been. He knocked hard on the motel room door. A few seconds later, it creaked open. Sam stood there, clearly not expecting to see him.

“Dean?” he blinked. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say—” He held up a hand, a half-hearted peace offering.

Dean pushed past it. “No, I don’t think you do, Sam.” There was anger in his voice. Not just frustration—real anger. The kind that came from fear.

“Just—just hear me out, okay?” Before Dean could fire back, Sam started talking. Fast. Desperate to get it all out. He explained why he was there. The woman—Ava. How she’d tracked him down, said he was in danger. How she told him about a dream she’d had. One that sounded way too familiar.

A house. 5637 Monroe Street. Fire. Death.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he listened. His brain was already moving, processing the pieces. When Sam finally stopped, Dean exhaled. “Alright. Let’s go check this place out.”

Sam blinked. “Really? You’re not gonna—?”

“What?” Dean cut in. “I’m still pissed, but I get it. You need to figure this out. We’ll do it together.” What he didn’t say: the guilt was eating him alive. John’s last words, the burden of carrying that secret, letting it fester for so long—he didn’t need one more wedge between them.

“I’m gonna grab Y/N and we can—”

“Y/N is with you?” Sam interrupted, brows lifting in surprise.

Dean stopped mid-step. “Yeah, Sam. You left me high and dry, remember?” His voice was sharper than intended.

“Right. Okay.” Sam nodded, grabbing his gun from the desk, tucking it away, and following Dean out.

They stepped into the motel room to find it empty. The bags of food were untouched, still sitting on the desk. A faint chill hung in the air—quiet. Dean’s stomach dropped.

He reached for his phone, dialing your number without hesitation. It rang twice before you picked up. “Where are you?” he asked, already sensing the answer.

You were standing outside a weather-worn house, the address etched into the crooked mailbox: 5637 Monroe Street. Paint peeled from the siding. The air smelled like dust and something old.

“Oh, uh… I didn’t tell you,” you replied, a little too casually. “I talked to that girl—Ava—before she left. She told me what was going on, gave me the address. Thought I’d check it out while you were, y’know, dealing with brother stuff.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I’m on my way with Sam. Do not go in there, okay?” There was a tightness in his voice now. But you were used to that—Dean always worried about you. Always would.

“I’m just gonna take a look around,” you said, balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you cocked your gun.

“I said no. Just wait for me, okay?” Dean’s voice rang out over the phone—firm, protective, already laced with frustration.

“I can handle it. Looks vacant. Just a quick in and out.” You heard the sharp inhale, the beginning of another protest, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hung up.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, flipping his phone shut with a snap.

He spun on his heel and strode toward the Impala, jaw clenched. Sam didn’t say a word. He just followed.

You approach the house with trained caution. This isn’t your first rodeo. You keep low, quiet, circling around until you find a broken window that hasn’t been boarded up. It groans as you slide through, landing softly inside. The place is silent, but not dead. It feels off—air too still, shadows too sharp. Someone’s been here recently.

Your senses are on high alert, scanning everything. Your eyes catch it just in time—a tripwire strung low across the floor.

Close one.

You step over it carefully, heart thudding. What you don’t see is the pressure plate beneath a scrap of old rug. You feel it the second your boot presses down.

Click. A hiss. Then the walls erupt.

Flames roar to life like they’ve been waiting for you. Gas-fed, fast, angry. You stumble back, instinct taking over, but the fire’s already crawling up the walls, licking the ceiling. Smoke fills the room in seconds. You spin, searching for an exit. You're trapped. Your lungs tighten, panic flooding your veins. You press your back to the wall as the heat surges closer.

By the time Dean pulls up, the house is a blazing inferno. He doesn’t even turn the engine off.

“NO! NO! NO!”

He’s out of the car in a heartbeat, sprinting toward the fire. Sam grabs him around the chest, holding on with everything he has. “Dean! You can’t!”

Dean thrashes, fury and fear making him wild. “LET GO, SAM!”

“Dean, there’s no way—no one could survive that!”

Dean’s voice breaks, full of something raw and desperate. “Y/N!” he screams your name again and again like it’ll bring you back. His voice rips through the night, hoarse and ragged.

Sirens wail in the distance—firetrucks.

“Dean, we have to go. Now!” Sam’s dragging him, fighting him every step of the way. Dean doesn’t stop struggling until they’re back at the car. He tears the door open, peels out, tires screaming against the pavement. He’s already calling your number. Straight to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached me. Leave a message.”

“Son of a bitch!” He ends the call and dials again.

“Hi, you’ve reached me—”

Again.

“Hi—”

And again.

Every time your voice plays, it cuts deeper.

They drive up and down the stretch of road near the fire, Dean scanning every shadow, every ditch, every side street. “You got out,” he mutters. “You had to.” His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, the phone trembling in his hand. “This can’t be happening, Sam.”

Sam watches him, heart heavy. He’s never seen Dean like this. Not even when they lost their dad. Not even when he was dying. Sam wants to say, ‘I’m sure she’s okay’, but he doesn’t.

Because what if you’re not?

Hours pass.

Rain starts to fall, soft at first, then harder. Visibility drops, and they’re forced to head back. Dean drives in silence, jaw locked, eyes dead ahead. He pulls into the motel lot, throws the Impala into park, kills the engine. The rain drums against the roof like a ticking clock. Sam opens his mouth. “Dean, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Dean’s voice is low. Icy. He steps out into the rain, the phone already to his ear again. He dials. Again. Again.

“Hi, you’ve reached me...”

He stands at the door to the room, water soaking through his jacket, pooling at his feet. He doesn’t open it right away. Just stands there, hand on the knob, staring. Terrified of what won’t be waiting for him on the other side. Finally, he breathes in deep—and steps inside.

“Hey, that you?”

Your voice cuts through the room like a thunderclap.

Dean stops cold.

He turns toward the bathroom in stunned silence as you step out, barefoot, wrapped in a worn motel robe, towel-drying your hair. You’re annoyed, totally unaware of the storm you’ve just walked into.

“Mean-ass lady at the front desk wouldn’t let me use her phone, and this dump doesn’t have any in the rooms...” you mutter, shaking your head. “That place was freaking booby-trapped, Dean. I barely got out. Dropped my damn phone jumping out a window. Whoever set that up—serious operator. Not your average monster-of-the-week.”

You keep rambling, still scrunching your damp hair in the towel, not noticing the way Dean hasn’t moved. Not noticing the way his chest is rising like he can’t catch his breath.

“I smelled like a roasted pig,” you laugh softly, tossing the towel toward the bathroom. It lands in a heap on the floor. “Had to shower or I was gonna start—Dean?”

You finally stop talking. His name leaves your lips gently, and it shatters him.

He drops his phone. It clatters to the carpet, forgotten.

In two strides, he’s in front of you. You lift your eyes and what you see stops your heart—raw emotion burning through him like gasoline on fire, and you would know. His hand rises, trembling slightly as he cups your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin like he’s testing whether you’re flesh or a ghost.

“You didn’t think,—” you begin to whisper. Your voice is soft. Slowly understanding. But he silences you with his touch.

And then he’s kissing you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just need.

His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and desperation that makes your knees weak. His arm wraps around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. This is a man who thought he lost you—who's still shaking from the idea of living in a world without you.

You kiss him back with equal fire, fingers digging into the back of his neck, pulling him closer. You’ve missed this. Missed him. 

He tugs at the belt of your robe, hands rough and urgent. The fabric parts easily, slipping off your shoulders and pooling at your feet. Dean steps back just a breath, eyes sweeping over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin again.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re really here.”

You reach up, pull his mouth back to yours. “I’m here,” you murmur into the kiss. “Not going anywhere.”

He peels off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thump. His hands find your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You gasp as your back meets the cool wall, his body pressed hard against yours.

There’s nothing gentle in the way he touches you now. It’s all adrenaline and relief, love buried in every hurried movement. His lips leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his hands everywhere at once—gripping your thighs, cupping your face, running over your ribs like he needs to feel your heartbeat to believe you’re alive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, gasping his name, tugging him closer. He grinds against you, groaning low in his throat.

“I thought I lost you,” he breathes against your skin. “I thought—I couldn’t—”

You cut him off with another kiss, slower this time, but no less full of fire. “You didn’t. I’m here. I’m right here, baby.”

He lifts you away from the wall, carrying you to the bed without breaking contact.

He lays you back on the mattress like he’s staking a claim—like you’re his last breath and he’s not about to waste it. The old springs groan beneath the weight of you both, but the sound is lost in the firestorm between you. 

Everything is heat, tension, the crackling charge that started building the moment he saw you step out from the bathroom.

You’re already reaching for him, tearing at his belt with shaking fingers. He meets your urgency, unbuckling it like it insulted him, then shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift, brutal motion. His shirt clings to him, soaked through and molding to every hard-cut muscle, but he rips it off and throws it across the room like it’s in the way. Like everything is in the way.

Your eyes rake over him—freckles and scars scattered across his chest, sweat glistening in the dip of his collarbone, that perfect cock already thick, hard, and leaking for you.

“Fuck, Dean…” you breathe, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

He doesn’t give you time to linger. His hands grip your thighs and he drags you closer to him, the rough pull stealing the air from your lungs. A low, primal sound rumbles in his chest, and he stares down at you like he might devour you.

“Thinking you were in that house,” he says, voice low and cracked. “You don’t know what that did to me.”

You reach for him, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. “I'm so sorry,” you whisper. “I'm here, I'm okay.” you reassure him again.

And that’s all it takes. He strokes himself once, twice, then presses the thick head of his cock to your entrance. There’s no teasing. No slow slide. Just need. He thrusts into you in one deep, devastating push—stretching you wide, filling you completely, until your back arches off the bed and his name punches out of your throat.

“Oh fuck—Dean!”

He curses under his breath, fingers digging into your hips like he’s anchoring himself. “Jesus, baby—I almost forgot how perfect you feel.”

He pulls back and drives into you again, setting a rhythm that’s all force and fire. The bed rocks beneath you, old springs squealing under every relentless thrust. It’s not careful. It’s not clean. It’s everything he’s been holding back—the fear, the guilt, the ache—hammered into you with every sharp, punishing snap of his hips.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs, your hands fisting the sheets. He’s everywhere—on your skin, in your lungs. His hand curls around yours, fingers entwined, grounding himself in the fact that you’re alive, here, under him, with him.

“Harder,” you beg, voice breaking. “God, Dean—I need it. I need you.”

Your words detonate something in him.

He groans—raw, low, feral—and flips you, pulling you to your knees in a blur of motion. He plunges into you from behind, deeper now, rougher. The angle hits something sharp and bright inside you, and the moan that tears from your throat sounds wrecked.

His chest presses to your back for a moment, his breath hot on your neck. Then his arm wraps around your middle and pulls you upright, your spine arching as he holds you to him. One hand slides up your stomach, cups your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until your legs threaten to give out. The other snakes down between your thighs and finds your clit—circling tight, fast, merciless.

You’re gasping, trembling, so close it hurts. “I missed you,” you choke out, head falling back on his shoulder. “So much—needed you.”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your skin, his voice a ragged whisper. “I know. I’ve got you now.”

He fucks up into you harder, his pace brutal, fingers moving in time with each deep thrust. Your walls clench around him as the pressure builds, blinding and unstoppable. “Come for me,” he growls against your ear. “Remind me how it feels when you fall apart for me.”

And you do. You fall to pieces around him, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you like wildfire. Your whole body locks, trembling, shaking. He holds you through it, hips stuttering before he buries himself deep one last time, groaning your name as he spills into you, hot and thick and so much.

You collapse forward onto the bed with him still inside you, both of you trembling, slick with sweat and shaking breaths. His body covers yours, anchoring you both to the moment. His lips brush your shoulder, soft and reverent. Again. And again.

The room has gone quiet now, save for the soft rasp of Dean’s breathing. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just clings to you like a lifeline. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, your other hand tracing soft lines down his spine. No words—just quiet comfort. A balm for the ache you know he’s still carrying in his chest.

After a long stretch of silence, he finally shifts, just enough to look at you. His face is raw, open in a way he almost never lets himself be.

“When I pulled up and saw the place burning,” he says, voice gravel-soft and cracked at the edges, “I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I was too late.”

Your heart twists, and you cradle his cheek in your palm, letting him speak.

“There wasn’t a sign of you. Just smoke and flames. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I kept playing it over in my head—what if you’d screamed for me and I wasn’t there to hear it?”

“Dean—”

“I don’t ever wanna feel that again,” he whispers, a tremble threading through his words. “I swear to God, if I ever lose you like that—really lose you—I won’t come back from it.”

You pull him into your arms, wrapping yourself around him like armor. “You didn’t lose me,” you say, fierce and quiet. “I’m here. I got out. I’m safe. With you.”

He lets himself be held. You feel the way his body slowly starts to unwind against you, all that coiled panic bleeding out with every breath. It takes time, but eventually his head finds its place tucked against your chest, and his breathing evens. You stroke his hair until the tension fades from his muscles, until his weight grows heavier, and you realize he’s drifted off—finally, safely—against you. You stay like that for a while, your fingers ghosting over his bare back, memorizing the feel of him in sleep. 

You slip out of bed when the first faint light of morning begins to warm the sky outside the cracked blinds. The bathroom is quiet. Steam curls around you as you step into the shower, eyes closing under the gentle cascade of water. You tilt your face up, letting it wash away the sweat, the ache, the lingering adrenaline. Just breathing. Just being.

You don’t hear him come in. But you feel him.

Strong arms slide around your waist, warm and steady. His chest presses to your back, skin to skin, and you exhale softly as his mouth finds the slope of your shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you murmur, eyes still closed.

He kisses just below your ear. “You didn’t.”

His hands move slowly over your body, reverent, unhurried. There’s no rush in the way he touches you now—just the quiet ache of love rediscovered. He turns you in his arms, your wet skin slipping against his as you face him.

His eyes lock with yours, and whatever he’s feeling—whatever’s left unspoken—he says with that look. With the way his fingers brush your cheek, the way his lips find yours, soft and aching.

He kisses you like he needs it to live.

You melt into it, letting him guide you gently back against the cool tile. His body presses to yours, his hands skimming the sides of your waist before sliding down to the curve of your hips. He lifts one of your thighs, anchoring it around his waist, and when he slides into you this time, it’s slow—achingly slow.

You gasp into his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. He’s deep and thick and perfect, and he fills you like he’s trying to carve himself into your soul. His forehead rests against yours, the rhythm of his thrusts gentle but steady, a slow roll of pleasure that builds in quiet, tender waves.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, breath catching, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “I know. I love you too.”

He rocks into you, again and again, his hands cradling your body like you’re precious—fragile and holy. Your moans echo softly in the fogged bathroom, mixing with the hum of the water, the slide of wet skin on skin.

It’s not just sex. It’s worship. A thank-you. A promise.

And when you come, it’s with a soft cry into his mouth, your whole body trembling against him. He follows seconds later, arms tightening around you as he groans your name, his hips stuttering as he pours everything he has into you.

You stay wrapped around each other long after, letting the water cool and the world slow down. His lips never leave your skin for long—tracing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“Next time,” you murmur, brushing his wet hair back from his forehead, “don’t wait ‘til after a near-death experience to come back to me.”

Dean smiles faintly and kisses your collarbone. “Deal. But I'm not going anywhere.”

credit & links:

⟡ gif & pics from pinterest, edited by me. ⟡ dividers by easytiger-xo.

[swtnjk]

pov you’re ushijima’s daughter’s teacher

ushijima sighs as he gets out the car. his daughter, nari, skips beside him. her brown curled pigtails bouncing and her hands hold a glitter covered envelope.

“you sure about this?” he asks her as they reach your classroom door. nari nods, “miss y/n said she didn’t want anything—“ she says, all breathless with determination.

“but i know she didn’t mean it! she loves when we give her presents! and she’s humble!” nari smiles. ushijima tilts his head. how the hell did she know what the word humble meant?

he doesn’t argue. mostly because he has no idea how to argue with a seven year old when she’s on a mission. they stand outside of the classroom, he hears laughter, the shuffling of paper, and your voice. bright and warm and impossible to ignore.

“remember, my birthday wish is that all of you show up every day this week. no skipping for cartoons!”

he knocks. three firm raps. you open the door mid-laugh, eyes sparkling with joy, and freeze when you see him.

“mr. ushijima?”

he clears his throat. “…happy birthday.”

you blink. your eyes drop to a bouquet of tulips, a card with your name written in sparkly gel pen, and the pink box that smells suspiciously like powdered sugar and strawberry.

“oh my gosh, you didn’t have to— wait, did you draw this card?”

nari peeks out from behind his legs. “i made the card! daddy got the donuts and flowers. i told him what to get. i said pink donuts make you happy.”

you look at him, lips curling into something soft. “pink donuts do make me happy.”

for a moment. a tiny pause in the rush of the day. where it’s just the two of you. his stoic eyes on yours. your sweet smile melting his entire brain.

“would you like to come in?” you ask, stepping aside.

“i can’t stay long,” he replies. but he still walks in. he still hands you the tulips like he’s never given someone flowers before. he still watches you carefully when you laugh and thank him again, tucking the card close to your chest like it’s treasure.

after your birthday, something shifts.

he tells himself he’s just being polite. dropping his daughter off a little later, picking her up a little earlier.

definitely not because he likes watching you wave goodbye to every student like they’re VIPs or because he caught himself smiling at how your hair caught the sun the other day.

then there’s the saturday he shows up at the school garden cleanup, wearing a plain white t-shirt that should probably be illegal. you do a double take.

“you’re here?”

“my daughter volunteered,” he says flatly but his ears are a little pink.

“uh huh,” you hand him a trowel. “let’s see if you’re as good at planting as you are at picking donuts.”

you work side by side, dirt under your nails, sun on your backs. you’re chatting about how the second graders accidentally planted jellybeans last year when he looks up and says, totally deadpan:

“you laugh with your whole body.”

you blink, “…was that a compliment?”

“yes.” you nearly drop your trowel.

one afternoon, you find him leaning against the classroom doorway after school, arms crossed, watching you stack art projects with that unreadable gaze.

nari plays with some other little girl on the glass as she waits for her dad.

“i don’t want to overstep,” he says, voice low. “but would you like to join us for dinner sometime?”

you freeze, “like… a parent teacher thing?”

“no,” he says simply. “like a me, you and nari thing.”

you break into a slow, disbelieving smile. “only if there’s donuts after.”

he nods, “of course.”

[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: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat

Part 22: To Lost

I'm sorry it took me almost a month to post the new part. Unfortunately, I barely had time to write. I'll try to post the next part within 2 weeks. <3

Part 23: To break

He knew he was overthinking.

Knew he was being that kind of mate again—the one who hovered when you adjusted your mask before you leave the outpost, who always walked one step too close on forest patrol, who checked the wind three times before letting you climb even one vine. You always laughed at him for it.

“Overthinker,” you’d whisper with a smirk, your fingers brushing his arm as you passed. “You’re worse than Norm.”

And maybe you were right.

Maybe today would be like any other. You’d spend one day in the field—just one. Collect some roots, catalog glowing spores, get a few weird cuts from a plant that looked deceptively soft. Then tomorrow… you’d come back. He could bury his face in your neck again, arms locked around you under the morning sun, and feel your laugh rumble against his chest.

He didn’t say it out loud then at the outpost. But he’d wanted to.

Stay.

Just one word.

So why did his gut feel like a knot pulled too tight?

He touched down in the clearing just outside the village, his ikran letting out a low, familiar screech as he dismounted. The breath he exhaled felt heavier than it should’ve. His feet barely hit the ground before a voice drifted from behind him.

“Dad saw you leave at dawn.”

Neteyam turned fast, shoulders tense, already expecting judgment—but it was only Kiri, crouched beside the roots of a flowering tree, her hands working through a bundle of herbs. She didn’t look up, but her brow arched with quiet amusement. “He didn’t say anything, though. Just asked me if you were going hunting.” Her golden eyes lifted. “I didn’t correct him.”

Neteyam exhaled, just a little. “Thanks.”

Kiri hummed, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “She stayed with you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Kiri rolled her eyes with a grin. “You’re so predictable. Honestly, it’s amazing no one else has caught on.”

“Maybe they have, Kiri,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Maybe they just pretend they haven’t.” He glanced toward the central hearth, where the rest of the village was beginning to stir. “She just... didn’t want to be alone before heading to the pit.”

His sister sobered slightly at that. “The old mining zone?” she said. “I thought they weren’t sending anyone back there.”

“Bridgehead changed their mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a tension still coiled beneath his skin. “Only for a day. She left with the others at sunrise.”

Kiri nodded slowly, brushing a loose braid from her face. “And now you’re pacing around like your tail’s on fire.”

“I’m not pacing—”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “You’re thinking. And thinking for you means worrying. About her.” She tilted her head. “You know, sometimes I think Eywa gave you a human girl just to test your patience.”

He barked a soft laugh. “Sometimes I think She gave me to her just to test hers.”

A small giggle cut through the morning air behind them. “You always sneak her away!”

Neteyam stiffened and turned just in time to see Tuk stomping across the grass with a fierce little pout on her face. She jabbed a finger up at him like he’d personally insulted her bedtime story.

“Tuk!” Neteyam half-laughed, half-grunted as his little sister slammed into his legs.

“You sneaked her away again!” she pouted, fists pressed to her hips. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

“Shh!” Neteyam and Kiri hissed in unison, both crouching to bring her volume down to something less announcing.

Neteyam pulled her close, brushing back her hair. “Tuk, you cannot shout about that.”

“Why not?” she frowned, lower lip trembling like she might cry. “She’s my favorite! She always braids my hair when I ask. And she said I could help her plant the glowing beans next time at the outpost—!”

“Tuk…” Kiri cut in gently. “You know she’s not supposed to be here at night.”

“But she always sneaks in anyway,” Tuk whispered, conspiratorial, “so why can’t she just stay?”

Neteyam sighed. “Because not everyone understands,” he murmured. “It’s not safe. Not yet.”

Tuk blinked. “But… if you love her, can’t you tell everyone?”

Kiri choked on a laugh, covering it with a cough.

Neteyam flushed, glancing at the trees. “It’s not that simple.”

“But you do love her,” Tuk said, wide-eyed. “I see the way you look at her. Like Dad looks at Mom when he thinks we’re not watching.”

Kiri snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Neteyam laughed then—low and warm, the tension in his shoulders finally unraveling. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Eywa… give me strength.”

“You’ll need it,” Kiri snorted. “Because when Mom finds out? You’re dead.”

Neteyam only smiled. And for the first time since that morning, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe you were right. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe you’d be back tomorrow with your arms full of samples, cheeks smudged with dirt, and that stupid glow in your eyes like you’d just found the answer to the universe in a glowing vine.

And when you were—he’d be waiting.

With his arms open.

Just like always.

“You’ll see her again soon, Tuk,” he said, gentler this time. “Maybe even tomorrow.”

Tuk narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. “She better braid my hair first.”

“Deal,” he said with a smile, ruffling her curls. “But only if you don’t tell Mom and Dad that she is with me at night.”

She grinned, all sharp little teeth and sunshine. “I won’t tell. Promise.” And then—just like that—she darted off down the path, chasing her friends with a squeal of laughter.

The forest was quiet again.

Neteyam stood slowly, watching the direction she’d gone, and exhaled. He didn’t realize until now how tight his shoulders had been. Kiri nudged his arm.

“She’s okay,” she said softly. “You’d feel it if she wasn’t.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… a feeling.”

Kiri tilted her head. “Is it your feeling? Or hers?”

He looked at her. She gave him that look���the one that always made him feel like she knew more than she should. He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back toward the trees, towards west, eyes scanning the horizon. Tomorrow, he told himself.

Just one more night.

The sun had risen full by now, casting long, amber shadows across the training grounds. The younger warriors-in-training were already gathering in loose clusters, pa’lis tethered nearby, their sleek grey hides shimmering beneath the light.

Neteyam stood at the head of the clearing, arms crossed as he surveyed the group. He let the morning air fill his lungs—wet grass, sweat, the distant scent of roasting rootfruit from the hearth. He could still feel the weight of your absence like a bruise behind his ribs. But work helped. Structure helped.

“All right,” he called, voice steady. “Listen up.”

The warriors fell silent as he approached, straightening instinctively. It showed in the way they looked at him, the way they leaned in when he spoke.

He cleared his throat. “Today’s hunt is different,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the courtyard. “No ikrans. We move on pa’li. You need to feel the earth under you again.”

The warriors exchanged quick, eager glances. The hunt needed to be smooth today. No ikrans—only pa’li, as his father had insisted. Grounded hunting. Riding with bow in hand, tracking and striking as their ancestors had before them. He didn’t mind. It built discipline.

He paced a slow circle around the group as he spoke, voice even but sharp with focus.

“We ride south,” he began. “The talioang herds passed through two nights ago. We follow the trail by the river and push them into the shallow basin where the ground is soft.” His eyes skimmed the gathered warriors, young but capable. “We strike from the flanks. No lone riders. Pairs only. And we do not chase the herd once it splits. If you lose your target, you regroup. No hero runs.”

There were some nods. Some sharper grins from the more hot-headed ones. Neteyam crossed his arms, leveling a look at them. “The point is not to show off. The point is control.”

That earned a few guilty shuffles of feet. “They bed down near the water in the heat. We stay mounted—always. We strike from the saddle. Clean shots. We do not separate from our pa’li. If you fall, you are out.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the warriors. Some of them bumped shoulders, grinning like fools. Neteyam almost smiled himself. This was what he was made for. Not diplomacy. Not marriage arrangements. This. “First group will form a half-circle on the northern side,” he continued, drawing a shape in the dirt with the tip of his spear. “Second group will drive them forward. Push them into our trap.”

He crouched lower, marking out the movement with quick, clean strokes. The warriors leaned in, listening sharp and hungry. He could almost forget the rest of the world standing here—almost forget the way his heart twisted whenever he thought of you.

Almost.

He stood, brushing the dirt from his fingers. “Questions?”

A few moments of heavy silence hung over the clearing—then, predictably, the questions started.

“What about you, Neteyam?” one of the younger warriors piped up—a boy named Tanawa. “Will you ride alone?”

The group chuckled lowly. Even Neteyam smiled a little. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No one rides alone today. I’ll pair up, same as the rest of you.”

That earned a few more nudges and sly looks, some of them glancing toward K’shi, who lingered too neatly at the edge of the gathering, pretending to check her bowstring. Neteyam pointedly ignored them.

Another voice called out—this time from Ärengko, a sturdier boy who already had the heavy shoulders of a future warrior. “Will you take the kill, Neteyam? Or leave it for us?”

A few of the younger ones laughed at that, jostling each other with mock offense. Neteyam’s mouth twitched at the corner. Good. They’re excited. “I’ll only take a kill if you fail,” he said simply, stepping around them again. His eyes gleamed with quiet challenge. “And I expect you not to.”

That lit a fire under them. A few stood a little taller, puffed their chests. Young, yes—but hungry. Determined. He liked that.

Another question—this one laced with a grin from Pakxo, older and always one to stir trouble: “And if you fall from your pa’li, do we leave you in the mud, Neteyam?”

The others chuckled under their breath, looking toward their leader. Neteyam let a rare smirk curl at the edge of his mouth. “If I fall,” he said dryly, “you will laugh at me for the rest of your lives.”

The warriors howled with laughter at that, a rough, warm sound that echoed across the clearing. Neteyam rolled his eyes fondly, about to signal the end of questions—when he caught it.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the clearing. K’shi. Standing half in shadow, half in the golden morning light, arms folded in an artful pose that was definitely meant to look casual but wasn’t. And she was watching him. Only him.

Neteyam set his jaw and looked away sharply, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But of course, the warriors had. He heard the low hiss of whispers passing through the group like wind through tall grass: “She’s watching him again…”

“Maybe she’ll ride with him.”

“Lucky Neteyam, huh?”

He stiffened slightly, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he answered a few last questions about the tracking formations. Pretending he didn’t hear the teasing. Pretending he didn’t feel the weight of those knowing looks pressing at the edge of his patience.

Ignore it. he told himself sharply.

One last hand lifted—Txo’ma, earnest and practical. “Will we be setting traps too, or only the push?”

Neteyam seized the question like a drowning man grabbing a vine. “No traps,” he said briskly. “The basin terrain is too soft. It would slow the pa’li and risk injury. We drive them with pressure alone—noise, speed, formation.”

More nods, more thoughtful looks. Good. They were settling now. Listening. Ready to move.

Neteyam took one last breath, letting the morning air fill his chest and steady him. He didn’t look toward K’shi again. He didn’t have to. He could feel her gaze clinging to him like burrs caught in fur.

And as much as he tried to focus on the hunt ahead, a small, sour thought coiled low in his gut: How many more times will I have to smile and nod while others decide my future for me?

Still. Work first. Always work first. He was about to move on when another boy—Ja'yen, always the smart one—leaned a little closer to his friend and muttered just loud enough for others to hear, “Looks like someone else wants to pair with Neteyam, anyway.”

A few others snickered. He could feel the weight of her stare from across the clearing, like the sun itself had focused into a single burning line aimed straight at his skull.

He gritted his teeth and turned back toward the warriors, pointing. “The trail should be easy to find. Fresh tracks. Broken reeds. Watch the wind.”

But even as he spoke, the snickering picked up behind him—because now, from the corner of his vision, he saw K’shi. Striding closer. Trying very hard to pretend it was casual. Neteyam braced himself.

She approached the group slowly, her steps light and measured, her smile a soft curve as she tucked a loose braid behind her ear. She was tall, confident, hair braided with feathers and bone—obviously skilled, beautiful in the way the clan valued. The kind of mate every parent dreams of for their eldest son. A few of the younger boys elbowed each other. Someone actually whistled—quick and low, but Neteyam caught it anyway.

He wanted to scream.

K’shi stopped just a little too close, her smile tilted coy. “Neteyam,” she said, voice like warm honey, “I heard about the hunt. I would be honored to join your party.” She placed one hand lightly on her hip, tilting her head just so. “You could use more skilled riders, could you not?”

Around them, the warriors pretended not to watch—but he heard the soft chuckles, the low whistles under breath.

"Girls chasing him like ikran on a hunt."

"K’shi too—lucky bastard."

“Next Olo’eyktan won’t even need to choose a mate. They’re lining up for him.”

Neteyam gritted his teeth so hard he thought his fangs might crack. He offered K’shi the barest, tightest smile. “Your skills are known, K’shi. But today’s hunt is for the training of the younger warriors. You are beyond that.”

Flatter her. Make it sound like a favor. Keep it professional. Keep it safe.

But K’shi only smiled wider, leaning even closer, her shoulder almost brushing his. “Still,” she murmured, “I could help... oversee. Assist you. You should not carry the burden alone.” She lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling. “You could... lean on me. If you needed.”

Neteyam bet his whole soul—and his ikran, and the next storm season—that his mother had a hand in this.

He could almost hear Neytiri’s voice now: “K’shi is strong. She is clever. You should speak to her more. Get to know her.”

This was what she wanted. Some nice, respectable Na’vi girl. One from a strong family. One who could give him strong sons. One who wasn’t a human scientist always scribbling in a datapad and laughing at the wrong jokes.

I would rather count every blade of grass from here to the floating mountains, Neteyam thought grimly. Twice.

And still—still—he forced himself to answer gently: “Your offer honors me. But today, I ride only with the trainees.”

“Oh, but I would not distract them,” she said quickly, stepping even closer until the distance between them was barely polite. “I would stay by your side.”

Eywa, take me now.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, just a flicker. But she smiled again, smooth and poised. “Perhaps another time, then.”

He opened his mouth to politely, firmly reject her when—

“Brother!”

Lo’ak crashed through the gathering with all the subtlety of a charging thanator, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something. “Dad’s calling for us,” Lo’ak said casually, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “Wants to see us before we leave. Now.”

It wasn’t a lie. Neteyam knew it wasn’t. But it had never sounded more like a lifeline.

Neteyam almost dropped to his knees right there. Instead, he grabbed his spear, turned to K’shi, and gave a short, stiff nod. “Forgive me. Duty calls.”

He barely waited for her polite nod before he was striding after Lo’ak like the devil himself was on his heels. They left behind the warriors, the gossiping, the stifled laughter.

When they were finally out of earshot, Neteyam let out a breath like he’d been holding it for ten minutes.

“I swear,” he muttered, “I will build you a shrine.”

Lo’ak laughed. “She had the look, bro. Like she was about to start carving your mating beads for you.”

Neteyam groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Mother put her up to it. I know it.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I’d rather wrestle a palulukan naked than sit through another forced conversation like that.”

“You poor thing,” Lo’ak said, dramatically patting his shoulder. “So tragic. All the pretty girls want you.”

“I’m going to throw you into a tree.”

“You’d miss,” Lo’ak grinned.

Neteyam gave him a sideways glare. “You sure Father wants us?”

Lo’ak nodded. “Yeah. But I just figured if I didn’t get you out of there soon, you’d throw yourself into a strumbeest stampede.”

“I considered it.”

Lo’ak grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Neteyam exhaled again, this time with a softer smile. “Seriously. I owe you.”

“Eh,” Lo’ak shrugged. “I just know your girl wouldn’t like it if you got stuck riding off with K’shi into the sunset.”

Neteyam paused, then smirked. “You think she’d be jealous?”

“I think,” Lo’ak said, “she’d braid your ears together while you slept.”

Neteyam laughed—and this time, it reached his chest. Even if just for a moment.

They walked together through the village paths, the packed earth still damp underfoot from the early morning mist. Neteyam and Lo’ak moved quietly now, the energy from earlier bleeding away with each step closer to the kelku.

Their family home loomed ahead—woven high into the trees, broad-leafed and strong, shaped with care by many hands over many years. It was home, and yet Neteyam felt the tightness coil back into his gut the closer he came to it. As if the walls themselves carried expectations heavier than any armor.

Lo’ak shot him a sideways look, reading his tension easily. But—for once—he didn’t tease. Maybe he knew this wasn’t the time. At the entrance, Jake’s voice reached them first.

“—need to move fast. Before the storm.”

Neteyam ducked through the low-hanging vines first, Lo’ak close behind. Their father stood near the center of the room, shoulders tense, arms crossed, that permanent set to his jaw that said something was wrong. Neytiri was beside him, quiet but sharp-eyed, her bow leaning against the wall within easy reach.

“You called for us?” Neteyam said, straightening.

Jake nodded, curt. “We have a situation.”

Neytiri shifted slightly, her tail flicking. She was uneasy too.

Jake nodded, still looking at the map. “Lo’ak said you were just wrapping the briefing for the hunt. Good. You’ll still make it out before eclipse.”

Neteyam stepped closer, his posture shifting into the straight-backed, chin-lifted stance he always used around their father now. “What’s going on?”

Jake tapped a spot on the map. “Here. Northeast. Just beyond the old mining pit.”

Neteyam’s heart sank. Northeast. That was close. Too close.

“You think it’s the RDA?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Already fearing the alternative.

“I don’t think anything yet,” Jake said. “Could be Norm and his people—got turned around, maybe. Maybe got cut off. Maybe some old drone reactivated. We’ve seen stranger things. But I want eyes on it before the eclipse. We’ll scout tonight. On ikrans.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think it’s Norm’s team.”

Jake frowned. “And why’s that?”

Neteyam hesitated just a beat too long. Neytiri turned her eyes sharply toward him. “You are certain of where Norm’s team is?”

He nodded once, too smoothly. “I saw them. Days ago. On patrol. The xenobotany team said they’d be collecting data at the old pit on this day.”

“Since when do you forget to report something like that?” Jake asked, the words calm but clipped. “You’ve been thorough lately.”

Neteyam met his father’s gaze evenly. “It slipped. My focus’s been on the warriors and the southern border.”

A long pause stretched between them—Jake still watching him like he was trying to hear what wasn’t being said. Neteyam held the silence, refusing to flinch. Eventually, Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “All right. We’ll know for sure once we’re in the air.”

Lo’ak stepped in, arms folding. “So it’s us three?”

Jake nodded. “We fly in after the hunt. Before the eclipse hits. I want a clean look before the storm rolls in. If it’s nothing, we’re back before mudnight. If it is something—”

“We deal with it,” Neteyam finished.

“Good,” Jake said. “You, me, Lo’ak. Fast and quiet. I don't want a whole war party unless we find something real.”

Lo’ak shifted, looking like he wanted to crack a joke and wisely deciding against it. The air was too heavy for it. Neteyam nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the request. This wasn’t a father asking his sons to tag along. This was the Olo’eyktan giving orders. Orders you didn’t refuse. Not that Neteyam would. Duty came first. Always.

They hadn't really talked in weeks. Not really. Every word between them now was duty, hunting formations, patrol rotations. Nothing else. Not the unspoken pressure about finding a mate. Not the arguments, the ones that simmered under every glance, every stiff nod of dismissal. Neteyam had grown colder to it all these past few months—more stubborn. More silent. It was the only way he could survive the suffocating weight of what they wanted him to be.

Jake must have felt it too. But neither of them said it out loud. Across the room, Neytiri stirred. Her voice was quiet but firm. “I am going as well,” she said firmly.

Jake turned to her, brows lifting. "Neytiri—"

“I go,” she said again, eyes hard and full of something fierce and ancient. “If humans are there—if they come near what we have lost again—I will see it with my own eyes.” 

Neteyam knew better than to argue. When his mother decided something, not even Jake could move her.  Jake hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. We’ll all go.”

“Alright,” he said. “We leave before eclipse. Just after Neteyam returns from the hunt.”

Neytiri looked satisfied. Lo’ak looked a little too eager. And Neteyam—Neteyam felt like his bones were wrapped in thorns. If you were still out there… If you were caught up in that movement… If your path had taken you anywhere near the northeast—

He didn’t let the thought finish. He just prayed to Eywa that you were still safe. Still tucked deep in the pit, buried in your plants and your data and your weird, wonderful focus.

Because if anything happened to you out there— He didn’t know what he’d do.

“You two prep your gear,” Jake said, already turning back toward the map spread across the floor mat. “This one needs to go clean. No mistakes.”

Neteyam gave a sharp nod and turned, walking out with Lo’ak on his heels. The moment they were outside, his brother leaned in.

“That was smooth,” Lo’ak muttered. “You saw them ‘on patrol,’ huh?”

Neteyam didn’t break stride. “Drop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Lo’ak said with a grin, “you’re getting better at lying. I’m proud of you.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be.”

Neteyam stepped out into the light once more, the sky now high and bright above the village. The weight of the conversation with his parents still pressed against his shoulders, but he pushed it aside. One thing at a time.

The hunt came first.

As he moved back toward the gathering grounds, he could already see the warriors-in-training assembling again. Pa’li pawed at the ground nearby, bows slung over shoulders. A few of them greeted him again with eager nods, standing straighter as he approached. Neteyam offered a few curt nods back, but didn’t speak yet.

Lo’ak moved beside him silently, then elbowed him with a small, dry smirk. “Heads up.” Neteyam followed his line of sight—and felt his stomach twist.

Neytiri stood near the edge of the training ring, clearly followed them, in low, hushed conversation with none other than K’shi. The young huntress smiled, graceful and poised, and stood a little too close to Neytiri. Her braids gleamed in the light, feathers carefully arranged, and her expression was full of that infuriating mix of humility and expectation.

And then—Neytiri looked up. Right at him. Their eyes locked for a second. Long enough to know it wasn’t coincidence.

Neteyam turned sharply on his heel before either of them could say anything, jaw tight, and mounted his pa’li in one clean motion. “Mount up,” he called to the gathered warriors. “We ride soon.”

The others hurried to obey, the energy rising again as they prepared. Neteyam leaned forward, gently tapping the creature’s neck, trying to focus. Just get through the hunt. But before he could move so much as an inch, a quiet rustle of footsteps came from the side—soft, deliberate. He didn’t need to look.

“I see you are leaving without her,” Neytiri said calmly, her voice close now.

Neteyam exhaled through his nose and looked down at her from his mount. “The hunt is for the trainees. She’s not needed.”

Neytiri tilted her head, unreadable. “She is skilled. They could learn from her.”

“She is not one of them,” he replied, too quickly.

“She is more experienced than half of them.”

“She is not needed,” he said, voice tighter now.

His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You do not trust her to lead?”

“I do not want her here,” he said finally, biting the words before they grew too sharp. “This hunt is about them. I do not want distractions. I do not want…” He hesitated. “Complications.”

Neytiri studied him for a moment, searching for something in his expression. “You are the future Olo’eyktan,” she said gently. “You must learn to lead alongside others. Especially those who may one day share that future.”

Neteyam looked away, gripping the reins a little too tightly. “This is not about leading,” he muttered. “And it’s not about training. It’s about you wanting me to choose.”

Neytiri’s silence said everything he needed to know.

He glanced back at her, his voice low. “You’ve already chosen for me.”

“I have not,” she said, quieter now. “But I know the path that brings strength. That brings peace. That brings balance to the people.”

He shook his head. “She is not my balance.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened. “She would stand beside you. She understands this life. She would not drag you into the sky and away from your people.”

His throat tightened. “And what if I don’t want someone who stands beside me because it’s expected?”

Neytiri’s eyes flickered. “Then you risk standing alone.”

They stood in silence for a breath, the air around them heavy. Warriors shifted in the background, unaware of the quiet storm brewing at the edge of the hunt. Finally, Neteyam leaned forward on his pa’li, his voice steady but cold. “Then I stand alone.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t waver. “And yet she came. She offered. Do you think she does not notice how you dismiss her?”

“She doesn’t need to be here just to be dismissed,” he muttered.

His mother narrowed her eyes. “You speak as if she is a burden.”

“I speak as if this is a training hunt,” Neteyam bit out. “Not a matchmaking ceremony.”

That caught her. A flash of surprise—and then something colder beneath her gaze. “She is Omatikaya,” Neytiri said, low and clipped. “She is strong. Loyal. Respected. You would be wise to know her better.”

“I know enough,” Neteyam snapped before he could stop himself. They stared at each other in silence for a moment—warrior to warrior, but also mother to son. “I do not need help managing this hunt,” he said, voice dropping to something quiet and final. “And I don’t want her there.”

Neytiri’s jaw tensed. “You would let a girl from the clan feel cast aside, when she offers her strength?”

Neteyam’s hands tightened on the reins. “I would let her know that not every gesture must be accepted just because it’s offered.”

Neytiri stepped back a fraction, the corner of her mouth twitching with disapproval. “You forget your place.”

“No,” Neteyam said, looking forward now, his voice flat. “I remember it. Every day.”

For a moment, Neytiri looked at him like she didn’t quite recognize him—then she turned away, silent as a shadow, and walked back toward the path where K’shi waited. Neteyam didn’t watch her go. “Move out!” he called, clicking his tongue as the pa’li surged forward beneath him. The hunt began. And he didn’t look back.

The hunt stretched long under a darkening sky.

By afternoon, the air had thickened—warm and damp, the kind of sticky humidity that clung to your skin and promised a storm before nightfall. Thunderhead clouds crawled along the horizon, low and brooding, casting a dull, silver-gray sheen across the plains. The sun was still above the trees, but the light had shifted. Softer. Dimmer. A warning.

Neteyam rode at the edge of the formation, his pa’li moving in smooth, quick strides through the tall grass. The riders flanked him, young warriors tense with anticipation, bows gripped in uncertain hands. They had followed the herd south, just as he predicted. The strumbeests had crossed the shallow riverbed and bedded briefly in the softer basin ground before moving again, likely stirred by the charged air.

It was Lo’ak who spotted them first—five thick-necked beasts, moving through a narrow glade beyond the last ridge. The warriors tightened ranks.

They split into pairs just as trained, two by two, fanning into a wide arc to push the herd back toward the clearing. It was a good plan—smart, simple. But the pa’li were nervous. The wind had shifted. Distant thunder cracked once above the trees.

The strumbeests sensed it too. The biggest one, a bull with jagged horns and a wide scar across its flank, reared back suddenly and broke into a charge before the others could react. It crashed through the shallows and made for the open field.

“Hold the formation!” Neteyam shouted.

But one of the younger pairs panicked. Their pa’li reared; their arrows loosed too soon. The beast took one in the shoulder—only a graze—but it was enough to enrage it.

It turned. Snorting. Charging straight at them. Neteyam was already moving. He spurred his mount and galloped low, weaving between riders. His bow was in hand before he even registered the motion.

He nocked an arrow. One breath.

The wind cut across his cheek.

Another breath.

The beast roared. He loosed.

The arrow struck deep, straight into the strumbeest’s chest right into its operculum. It stumbled, let out a terrible sound, then fell hard into the shallow creekbed with a splash of mud and water. Silence followed. Only the soft shuffle of hooves and the slow panting of the pa’li. Neteyam sat still for a moment, shoulders tense, bow still half-raised.

Then he exhaled. The warriors regrouped, their expressions sheepish, winded, wide-eyed. Lo’ak trotted up beside him, letting out a low whistle. “Well,” Lo’ak said, glancing at the fallen beast. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Neteyam didn’t respond right away. He looked back over the young hunters, watching them dismount, some already approaching the strumbeest to prepare the body for transport. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet conviction. “You held the line,” he said, turning toward them. “You didn’t run. You missed—but you tried. That’s what matters today.”

Some of them looked relieved. Others are embarrassed. But all nodded. “First time hunting from pa’li isn’t easy,” Neteyam added, quieter now. “You’ll do better next time.”

That earned him a few smiles. A few straighter backs. The mood lightened, if only a little, as the warriors set to work. The strumbeest was cleaned swiftly, tools pulled from saddlebags, hands practiced if not yet graceful. The smell of blood mixed with the coming rain.

Neteyam let his pa’li walk toward the edge of the clearing, where the creek still ran shallow and clear. He dismounted, stepping into the cool water, its surface rippling softly around his feet. He stood there for a long moment, the sky above beginning to change with the eclipse’s approach. The light was getting stranger now—dimmer, gold-tinged, almost dreamlike.

He looked down. Among the stones and moss, something caught his eye. A shimmer. He crouched, brushing water aside, and plucked the object from the streambed.

A stone—small, smooth, and iridescent. Its surface shimmered in the shifting light, catching greens and blues and soft, smoky purples. Not just light. Color. Like the glowing spores you were always chasing, laughing with that wild-eyed joy.

Neteyam turned it over in his fingers, frowning slightly, and then… a small smile tugged at his mouth. It would make a good pendant. A small one—simple. Nothing elaborate. But something he could shape with his hands. Something he could give you. Something only you would understand.

He imagined your reaction—eyebrows lifting, a laugh just under your breath, fingers brushing it like it was made of starlight. Maybe you'd tease him. Maybe you'd say something clever, something human. But you'd smile.

And he wanted that smile. That look. He slid the stone into the small pouch at his side, glancing skyward. The light had changed again. The first sliver of eclipse was creeping across the sun, shadows sharpening, strange and long.

You said they’d return before the eclipse. The xenobotany team had strict protocols—they had to be back before nightfall, before the storms, before the high-altitude winds made flying unsafe.

You promised. He reached up absently and touched the pouch again, grounding himself. You would be safe. You would come back. He would see you again—soon.

The storm cracked the sky in half.

Rain battered the canopy above, fat and warm, pouring in sheets against the woven walls of the kelku. Wind howled through the upper branches, shaking the structure with each gust, and thunder rolled so loud it made the bones in Neteyam’s chest rattle.

But he sat still.

The flickering firepit cast low light across the room, embers pulsing red and gold, shadows dancing up the curved wood beams. The flames guttered now and then when the wind snuck through a gap in the walls, sending sparks skittering across the floor. Beside him, a knife gleamed dull in the firelight, and scattered bones sat in a tidy pile, pale against the dark pelt beneath him.

In his palm lay the small iridescent stone. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching how the firelight danced across it—blue, green, violet, a hint of silver. The color shimmered, ever-shifting like the sky at twilight. It reminded him of you. Of the way light clung to your skin when you leaned over your datapad, eyes half-lit with wonder. Of the way your smile always hit faster than your words.

Neteyam let the stone settle against his palm and reached out, grabbing a small curved knife from the floor near the hearth. Beside it, a bundle of thin, pale bones—sanded down, dried clean—lay wrapped in leather cord. Notched, old, but strong. He unwrapped them slowly, eyes flicking to the shadows cast by the lightning flashing through the walls. The fire hissed as it caught one of the storm’s exhalations.

He smiled.

He could already see how it would look—the stone wrapped tight with sinew, flanked by bone beads shaped with simple curves. Clean. Natural. Something for you alone.

You would fidget the moment he gave it to you. Look down at your hands, smile crooked, mutter something about how “you didn’t have to,” even while your fingers curled around it like it was the most precious thing you’d ever touched.

And then you’d wear it. Always. Just like you did with the bracelet he gave you half a year ago. You wore that bracelet like it was a badge. Like it connected you to something deeper than science.

To him.

He began to carve.

The knife moved easily—clean strokes shaving thin curls from the bone, his fingers steady despite the storm. Each small bead he shaped was smooth and purposeful, the rhythm of his work syncing with the fire’s crackle and the beat of rain above. Outside, thunder cracked again, and the whole kelku flashed with white light for a moment—then fell back into flickering amber.

The beads came slowly. One at a time. He lined them up beside the stone, imagining how they’d rest against your collarbone. His expression softened, pride flickering behind his focused eyes.

But as his hands worked, his thoughts wandered. To the flight earlier.

The storm hadn’t broken yet when they left. He’d returned from the hunt—drenched in sweat and the stink of blood but satisfied—and barely had time to drink before he was saddled again, flying into the darkening sky on his ikran beside his family.

Neytiri. Jake. Lo’ak. And him. The four of them had flown north as the first eclipse shadows stretched over the trees, their ikrans soaring low, wings skimming the high canopy. The forest grew stranger in the eclipse light—half-night, half-day, colors muted to bronze and gray, as if Eywa herself were holding her breath.

They reached the clearing in silence. And there it was. The unmistakable hulking mass of a dragon assault ship, half-buried in the tall grass. Its hull was scorched in places, but intact. Nearby, a Scorpion—parked for safety, rotors folded back. There were crates nearby. Scorch marks in the dirt. Trampled underbrush. All the signs of a deployment zone.

But no people. No movement. No sound. It was like they had landed… and vanished.

Neytiri had crouched at the edge of their perch, her entire body tense. She stared down at the ship with a look Neteyam had only seen once before.. Her voice, when she finally spoke, had been sharp as obsidian. “They are back. And they are close.”

Lo’ak hadn’t said anything. Neither had Jake. Not right away. The silence stretched, the only sound the distant churn of the approaching wind. Neteyam could still feel it—the pressure, the burn of it behind his ribs. They didn’t see a single human. But there had been movement recently. The soil told that story. So did the discarded wrappers, the markings on the crates. Tools and sealed gear. The kind no recon team left behind.

Neytiri had wanted to destroy the ships. Set fire to the clearing and let Eywa decide what remained. But Jake had held her back. “We don’t know why they’re here yet,” he’d said. “We don’t make the first move unless we have to.”

Neteyam hadn’t disagreed. But as he glanced at the empty ship, something inside him had turned cold.

Why now? Why so close?

And the look she gave those ships… Neteyam knew it by heart. Grief, buried under rage. She’d lost too much to sky people. She didn’t trust coincidence. And neither did he.

They’d left soon after, under strict silence, flying back into winds that threatened to tear them from the sky. Jake said he’d speak to Norm in the following, see if there were signs anyone had passed word of this movement. But Neteyam had his doubts.

Did Norm know? Did you?

He knew you didn’t lie well. If you'd known something this big, this dangerous, you would’ve told him. Wouldn’t you?

He carved another bead. This one thinner. Smoother.

His fingers moved faster now, catching the light as the beads began to stack beside him—each one small, perfect, shaped to slide on a leather cord. He had no design yet, not really. Just a feeling. Something that reminded him of the moments he treasured most: your hands brushing his as you passed tools, the way your eyes lit up under bioluminescence, the sound of your breath when you laughed in the quietest part of the forest.

Neteyam clenched his jaw and set down the bone shard he’d been carving. He picked up the iridescent stone again, turning it over in the firelight. Lightning flashed through the kelku, and for a breath, your face filled his mind—smiling, lit from below by a bioluminescent spore cluster, skin smudged with dirt and joy.

You were already back. Safe at the outpost. Behind its shields. Surrounded by Norm, Max, and the others. You were smart. Careful. And you never broke your word.

But the world was different now. He glanced toward the woven wall, where water slipped down the fibers. The sound of rain had changed—harsher now. As if the storm had teeth. The forest wasn’t just dangerous now. It was hunted.

And if the sky demons were moving again—if this was the start of something—he’d do anything to keep you from it. He set the stone carefully between the beads and reached for the knife again. The next bead would be smaller. Closer to the stone. Delicate, but strong.

Just like you.

The storm outside howled louder. But in the warmth of the kelku, surrounded by firelight and bone and purpose, Neteyam carved. And the gift he shaped was not just a pendant.

It was a promise. He’d see you again. And when he did—you’d wear this against your skin. And you’d smile.

It was bright. Too bright. The forest shimmered with golden sunlight pouring down through the thick canopy. Every leaf, every vine, every stone pulsed with life. The air was fresh and warm, the scents of flowers and damp earth so vivid he could almost taste them.

Neteyam moved through the trees with growing urgency, heart hammering against his ribs. He called out, but the sound of his voice was swallowed by the forest. Everywhere he looked, there was color—bright birds flickering through the trees, insects buzzing in lazy circles, the river ahead gleaming like a ribbon of light.

But you weren’t there.

He searched. He searched until the ground blurred under his feet and his breath came sharp and shallow. He checked the vines you liked to climb. The caves you liked to explore. The meadows you would lie down in just to watch the suns drift by overhead.

Nothing. You were nowhere. Panic gnawed at him. That cold, sharp panic he rarely let himself feel. Not in battle. Not in hunts. But now.

He was losing you. He staggered through another wall of green, nearly slipping in the wet moss—and stopped. There. By the creek.

Colourful fishes flitted around your fingers, nibbling curiously. You wiggled your fingers at them with a soft, delighted laugh, your hair falling in messy strands across your face. The sunlight kissed your skin, and for a moment, you seemed almost made of it.

Relief hit Neteyam so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. He exhaled, a raw, broken sound he barely recognized as his own, and started toward you. Of course you had wandered off. Of course you were chasing something curious and beautiful. It was who you were. And how could he ever stay mad at you for it?

He walked closer, the ground cool beneath his feet, his voice soft and cracking at the edges. “There you are,” he said.

You looked up at him, your face splitting into a huge, radiant grin. Your eyes sparkled in the sunlight—alive, mischievous, full of everything he loved and everything that scared him to death.

Without a word, you pushed yourself upright and reached toward him with wet, dripping hands. Before he could react he was already leaning down to your level, your palms cupped his face—cold, slippery from the water—and he froze, wide-eyed. Your grin widened. “You found me,” you said, like it was the most obvious, wonderful thing in the world.

Neteyam swallowed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders all at once. “I always will,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You laughed again, bright and easy, and gently dragged your thumbs across his cheeks, leaving damp streaks behind. “You were worried,” you teased, your eyes narrowing playfully.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a groan. His hands lifted to cover yours, pressing your palms firmer against his face, grounding himself in the feel of you. “You don’t listen,” he muttered, his forehead brushing against yours as he closed his eyes. “You never listen.”

You only laughed again, tilting your face up so your mask bumped his head. “That’s why you love me.”

And Eywa help him, it was true. Neteyam exhaled against the glass panel, the warmth of your hands cradling his face still grounding him—when something shifted. He blinked.

And the world was no longer bathed in gold.

The sunlight vanished, swallowed by a heavy, oppressive darkness. A cold rain lashed against his skin, the roar of the storm all around him. The trees groaned under the weight of the wind, their branches thrashing like wounded creatures.

Neteyam realized he was crouched on a high branch, slick with rain, the bark beneath his hands cold and wet.

For a moment, disoriented, he looked around—searching, heart pounding against his ribs. Then he saw you. You were there, only a few feet away, clinging to the branch, your body trembling with cold and fear. Your hair, soaked and tangled, stuck to your mask and neck. Your clothes clung to your small frame, and you pressed yourself low against the bark as though trying to disappear into it.

Before he could call out, before he could even breathe your name, you turned your head sharply toward him, eyes wide with terror. You pressed your small fingers quickly to his lips, shaking your head with urgent ferocity.

Be quiet.

He froze instantly, obeying without question. Your lips trembled as you leaned in, close enough that he could just hear your whisper over the rain: “They’re here,” you breathed. “Viperwolves.”

Neteyam’s blood turned to ice.

Your eyes darted downward—and he followed your gaze. Far below, weaving through the underbrush like dark, restless shadows, the viperwolves prowled. Their sleek forms slithered through the misty forest floor, low to the ground, muscles rippling under soaked fur. Snarling. Sniffing the air.

Hunting.

Hunting you.

You pressed closer to him, your body rigid with fear. He could feel the way you shivered, not just from the cold—but from terror. Real, paralyzing fear. And Eywa, he had never seen you like this. Not you. Not the girl who laughed at storms and climbed higher than any scientist had any right to. Not the girl who would poke at a thanator’s pawprint just to marvel at how big it was.

He felt something hot coil inside him—a fierce, protective anger. His hand moved automatically, sliding down across his chest, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife strapped there. His instincts roared awake.

Protect. Shield. Fight if you must.

He leaned in closer, so their shoulders touched, so you could hear him even through the rain. His hand brushed lightly over your arm, steadying, grounding. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

You shook your head slightly, your wet hair clinging to your cheeks. “They’re hunting me. They followed me. I ran, but—”

“You did good,” he cut in gently. His hand pressed against the small of your back now, warm despite the rain. “You climbed. You got out of reach. That’s smart.” You blinked up at him. He could see the doubt, the terror clawing at you. He shook his head firmly. “I’m here now,” he said. “They won’t touch you. I swear.”

Slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand up and cupped the side of your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain, shielding you from the fear. Your forehead leaned instinctively into his palm, seeking the warmth and safety. “I will protect you, yawne,” he murmured. “Always.”

Another snarl echoed below—but Neteyam didn’t flinch. His whole focus narrowed to you—to the way you trembled under his hand, to the way your heart raced against his side. “We’ll wait,” he whispered. “Let the storm cover us. Then I’ll get you out. You trust me, yes?”

Your lower lip trembled, but you nodded. Pressed your forehead against his shoulder. Neteyam’s arms tightened around you instinctively. Nothing would take you from him. Not rain. Not fear. Not viperwolves. He closed his eyes, feeling your small form against him, the storm raging around them—but in the hollow space between you, there was something stronger. Something steady.

And he held onto that as he planned the way down—already thinking of how to move, how to shield you, how to make sure, no matter what, you would make it out safe. You were his to protect. And he would never let you fall.

Neteyam woke with a sharp breath, like he had surfaced from deep water.

For a moment, he just sat there in the dim morning light, blinking blearily at the woven ceiling of the kelku, his heart still pounding dully in his chest. The storm had passed sometime during the night; he could hear the steady drip-drip of rainwater sliding from the leaves outside, the soft hum of the waking village in the distance.

He dragged a hand over his face, his palm rough against the skin still damp with sweat. The dream still clung to him—sticky, heavy, colder than anything he'd ever dreamt of you before.

Normally, dreams of you were warm, sweet things. Quiet laughter. Whispered words. The soft brush of your fingertips against his chest. Sometimes, dreams he woke from with his cheeks burning, your smile flashing in his mind like a secret only he was allowed to carry.

But this... This had been different. Dark. Terrifying in a way that gnawed at his gut even now. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the tight knot of unease coiled low in his belly. It was just a dream. Nothing more. You were safe. You were fine.

Probably hadn’t slept all night, though, he thought with a small, dry smirk. He could practically picture you now: bouncing from workstation to workstation at the outpost, hair a mess, goggles pushed up onto your forehead, muttering rapid-fire notes into your recorder as you tested the new spore samples the xenobotany team had pulled from the pit.

You lived for discovery. You never slowed down. And Eywa, he loved you for it. Even if you wore yourself to the bone sometimes. You never could resist new samples. He chuckled under his breath. His relentless, unstoppable little human.

He sat up slowly on the edge of his pelt, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension. Already, his thoughts were drifting to you—how your face would light up when you explained some new discovery, how your hands would wave wildly as you tried to describe some chemical reaction that made absolutely no sense to him but sounded beautiful all the same because it was you saying it.

He missed you. Even though he had seen you the morning before. Even though it hadn't even been a full day. He missed you enough that a new idea slipped into his mind, quiet but insistent. I should see her tonight.

The thought settled there like a promise. He would find an excuse to slip away after the evening duties. Maybe just watch you work and listen to your ramble yourself into laughter. Anything. He just needed to see you. To remind himself you were real and alive and safe.

Just as Neteyam started to push himself up from his pelt, thinking about slipping away quietly to start his day before anyone could catch him, a soft sound made him stiffen — the faint swish of vines parting.

He looked up sharply.

At the entrance to his kelku stood Neytiri, her silhouette outlined in the pale morning light. Her expression was calm. Too calm. Neteyam immediately felt the tension return, settling deep in his spine like a coil ready to snap.

“Ma’itan,” Neytiri said, stepping lightly into the room.  It wasn’t a mother checking on her son. It was the Olo’eyktan’s mate arriving with duty. Expectation.

He said nothing. He only straightened where he sat, waiting.

"You will go with Sa’nari today," Neytiri said without ceremony. No greeting. No kindness to soften the blow. Just the words, heavy as stones.

Sa’nari. Another one of the “chosen” girls. A skilled healer, yes. Gentle, wise, kind — all the things a good tsahìk might look for in the future mate of an Olo’eyktan. Exactly the kind of girl his mother and grandmother would favor. Exactly the kind of girl that wasn't you.

Neteyam blinked slowly at her, forcing himself to stay still when every part of him wanted to groan, flop backward into his pelt, and will himself into nonexistence. Eywa help him, he had barely survived yesterday being paraded around like a prize calf for K’shi—and now this?

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at her, jaw clenching tighter. Neytiri stepped inside a little, her expression softening just barely. "Sa’nari is skilled," she said, as if that explained everything. "A healer. Gentle, but strong. Mo'at sent her to gather herbs today by the western basin. The creek." Her eyes met his pointedly. "You will go with her." A pause. "Guard her. Learn from her. Know her."

Neteyam’s fists curled against his thighs. He knew better than to speak quickly—but the words came out anyway, sharper than he meant. "I don’t want to go."

Neteyam stared at his mother, a muscle ticking in his jaw. But Neytiri’s gaze pinned him where he sat. Calm. Expectant. Unyielding. She wasn’t asking. She stepped closer, folding her hands neatly. “She needs protection.” Her tone shifted slightly, almost too casual. “And... time to be known. To you.”

Neteyam let his head fall back slightly, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Of course. Of course it wasn’t just about guarding. It was another push. Another quiet pressure disguised as duty. He fought the heavy sigh rising in his chest. “I have patrols,” he said tightly. “Lo’ak can go with her.”

“Lo’ak is needed elsewhere,” Neytiri said swiftly. “You are free this afternoon.”

He gave her a look — flat and unamused. “Mother—”

She lifted her hand in a quiet but firm motion. “You already hurt K’shi’s feelings yesterday,” Neytiri said, her voice sharper now. “You will not behave like a reckless boy again. You are a grown man, Neteyam. Start acting like one.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they were the same ones Jake always used too, whenever he wanted to twist the knife deeper. Grown man. But still being told who to speak with. Who to walk with. Who to consider worthy.

Neytiri turned away before he could say anything more, already moving toward the kelku’s entrance with the quiet, predatory grace that she carried everywhere. “This is not about what you want,” she said over her shoulder, soft but cutting. “It is about what you owe to your people.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenching, fighting the urge to argue—to shout. To say that the only hands he wanted to hold were already too small, too human, too forbidden. That the only future he could picture smelled like earth and lab-ink and laughter.

Instead, he said nothing. He just stared at the floor until Neytiri sighed quietly. "You will go," she said, final and heavy.

Before she slipped through the hanging vines, Neytiri’s voice floated back to him, quieter now, but still unrelenting. “She leaves within the hour. Meet her by the eastern path.”

And then she was gone. The kelku was silent again, except for the steady drip of water from the leaves outside. Neteyam sat there, unmoving, for a long moment. Eywa, he wanted to scream. Instead, he dragged both hands down his face, groaning low into his palms. Another wasted day. Another charade. Another moment spent pretending he didn’t already know where his heart belonged.

And it wasn't with Sa’nari. It was with the small, stubborn, relentless human who was probably covered in soil and glowing spores at that very moment, laughing to herself in a lab somewhere far too close to danger. Neteyam dropped his hands into his lap, exhaling hard.

Fine. He would go. He would guard Sa’nari. He would play the good son. The good warrior. The good heir. And then, when it was done, when he could finally slip away into the cover of night—he would find you.

He would find you, and maybe—just maybe—he could finally breathe again.

The scent of crushed herbs and damp moss filled Mo’at’s tent, rich and grounding. Bundles of dried roots hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the morning breeze, their shadows dancing across the floor. The old tsahìk sat near the hearth, her fingers busy weaving a new binding cord from thin, water-soaked reeds. Her movements were slow, methodical—yet even in her stillness, her presence commanded the air like a quiet storm.

Neteyam stood at the edge of the space, tense and unblinking. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You know.”

Mo’at didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth told him she’d been expecting this conversation. “I know many things, ma’itan,” she said evenly.

“You know about her.” He stepped forward, not angry—yet—but tight with confusion. With frustration. “You know what she means to me. You’ve helped us meet here. You said her learning from you gave her a reason to stay in the village at night.” He gestured around the tent, to the walls where his human had sat cross-legged for hours beside the old tsahìk, soaking up knowledge like the forest soaked rain. “You said—”

“I said it made sense,” Mo’at interrupted gently. “Not that it would last forever.”

Neteyam’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands moved unconsciously to the stone in his fingers—the iridescent one from the creek. It had been resting in his palm without him realizing since he left his kelku, shifting slowly between his thumb and forefinger as if it had grown attached to his skin.

Mo’at’s eyes followed the movement, her gaze landing on the stone for only a second before she resumed her weaving. “She will not be harmed,” she said softly, as if sensing the darker thread beneath his words. “Not by me. Not by this.” Then her eyes lifted again, sharper now. “But your mother is not so patient. And she sees your future clearly, as I once did with hers.”

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam muttered, jaw clenched. “She sees a future. Not my future.”

Mo’at set the half-finished cord aside and leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “You are not wrong to feel it,” she said. “But you are wrong to think you can ignore it. Your mother… does not yet understand how deep your bond runs.” Her eyes met his squarely. “But she fears losing you. To a path she does not know.”

Neteyam looked down again, his grip tightening slightly on the stone. His chest felt too small. The air too thick. “So I just go?” he said. “Pretend? Smile? Spend the day walking beside someone I don’t want, when the only person I—”

“—is probably halfway through cataloguing a leaf sample and humming to herself,” Mo’at said mildly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Neteyam blinked. He couldn’t help it. His lips twitched. Just barely.

Mo’at smiled. “Then make this journey useful,” she said, gesturing toward his hand. “You will walk by the creek, yes? The vines there hang strong. Good for bindings.” She nodded toward the stone. “That one would suit a thread of river-hanger vine. Smooth. Durable. Fitting for something meant to last.”

Neteyam stared down at the little stone in his palm, light dancing across its surface in soft hues of purple and blue.

Mo’at leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low, wise and wicked all at once. “Gather what you need. Pretend for your mother’s sake. But weave your own path, ma’itan. Quietly, if you must.” She smiled, eyes gleaming. “Even a Tsahìk cannot bind the heart.” Mo’at's voice was gentler now, like wind brushing over leaves.

“You do not have to give them your heart, ma’itan. But you do have to give them your presence. For now.”

He swallowed thickly. “And after?”

Mo’at only smiled again. “After? You will return to the outpost. And someone very small and very stubborn will probably throw herself at you the moment you step through the door.”

Neteyam barked a quiet laugh, low in his throat.

Mo’at’s smile turned sly. “And you may give her that stone. And perhaps she will kiss you. And perhaps your mother will still be angry, but perhaps… that kiss will be enough for a little while longer.”

He closed his fingers around the stone, warm now from his touch. “I hate this.”

“No,” Mo’at said, rising to her feet slowly. “You just love. And love is always heavier than duty.”

Neteyam stood silent for a moment longer, the stone clutched in his palm like an anchor. Then, reluctantly, he nodded once and turned to go. Outside, the path toward Sa’nari waited. But so did the creek. So did the vines. And later—so did you.

The forest was quiet in that damp, post-storm way—leaves heavy with lingering droplets, the underbrush glistening under the muted morning sun. Birds chirped high in the canopy, but otherwise, the air felt still. Waiting.

Neteyam walked behind Sa’nari in near silence, his steps measured, his bow strapped loosely across his back. The light played across her shoulders as she moved, her braid trailing down the center of her back, her satchel bouncing softly against her hip with each step.

She was speaking softly to herself as they went, fingers brushing certain plants, occasionally pausing to tug a leaf or run her thumb across a petal. Her hands were deft—gentle but sure. Trained. She didn’t fumble or hesitate. Every movement had purpose.

She had always been like that, even as a child. Smart. Precise. Focused. She finally broke the silence after they passed a patch of sun-drenched ferns. Her voice was soft, careful. “You do not have to look so tense, Neteyam. I will not bite.”

He huffed a small breath through his nose—not quite a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Sa’nari nodded slowly. “Storm?”

“Something like that,” he said, eyes flicking ahead toward the path, unwilling to give more.

They walked for a while longer in quiet, the creek now murmuring somewhere ahead, just past a dip in the terrain. Birds rustled through the canopy. The wind carried the scent of water. “I heard the hunt was a success,” Sa’nari said lightly. “Even if some of the younger ones panicked.”

He allowed a small smile. “They’ll learn. They did well enough.”

She glanced at him sidelong, her eyes sharp and warm all at once. “You sound like your father when you say that.”

Neteyam grimaced slightly. “Let’s hope not too much.”

That made her laugh softly. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she walked—a quiet confidence in her, not unlike Kiri’s, though less wild, more restrained. Everything about her was composed. She reached out to pluck a sprig of redroot from the moss, tucking it neatly into her pouch. “I’ve gathered here many times,” she said, “but it’s nice to have someone with me this time.”

Neteyam offered a noncommittal sound.

“Redroot, five clusters,” she murmured now, mostly to herself. “Three more of the silvercap. And I’ll need river moss if it’s still holding—” She paused, then glanced back at him, eyes shy but bright. “You can tell your mother I am not wasting the day,” she said with a faint, sheepish smile. “Mo’at will have more than enough herbs when we return.”

Neteyam gave a quiet huff, not quite a laugh. “She doesn’t think you’d waste it.”

Sa’nari smiled again and turned back toward the creek. They kept walking for a while, the sunlight filtering through in soft shafts, their shadows stretching long. Eventually, she slowed as they reached the low western basin, where vines hung down in heavy coils from the upper branches and the water ran cool and shallow. Dragonflies buzzed lazily along the surface, their wings catching in the light.

Sa’nari knelt beside a patch of flowering reedgrass and began to work, carefully clipping stems and tucking them into her pouch.

Neteyam stood nearby, gaze drifting to the vines overhead. River-hanger. Just as Mo’at said. His fingers itched slightly.

But then Sa’nari spoke again, her voice quiet. “You’ve changed, Neteyam.”

He looked at her slowly. “How?”

“You’re quieter now,” she said without turning. “Heavier.”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. It was the kind of observation only someone who’d known him a long time could make. And Sa’nari had. She’d been there since they were children—never loud, never pushy. Just always there. A quiet presence in the village. The girl who knew how to stop a bleeding wound faster than most warriors could draw a bow.

She gathered a bundle of moss into her palm and stood, brushing her fingers together. “Your mother wants what’s best for you,” she said gently. “We all do.”

He turned to look at her fully then. And she met his eyes. Sa’nari glanced at him again. This time, her eyes lingered. He knew that look. Longing. Quiet, hopeful longing.

He had seen it a hundred times before, in so many girls’ eyes. He’d caught them watching him across the hearth fires, smiling too brightly during training, lingering too long during blessings. At first, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Now… now he just felt tired.

Because he knew the truth. Knew how cruel it was. Sa’nari would make a wonderful mate. Any warrior would be proud to walk beside her. But she would never have his heart.

Because someone else already held it. And Sa’nari didn’t even know she’d never had a chance. “I’m glad to have your company,” she said after a moment, quieter now. “Truly.”

He swallowed, the weight of her sincerity pressing heavily in his chest. “You’re easy to walk with,” he said honestly. “That’s a gift.” Her smile flickered, then steadied.

They reached the creek shortly after, the water trickling over smooth stones, reeds swaying gently at the banks. Sa’nari moved to the edge without hesitation, beginning her work—snipping, sorting, murmuring the names of each plant she gathered.

Neteyam stepped away slightly, eyes scanning the trees, but really… he was searching the vines. His hand slipped to his pouch. The stone waited there, quiet and warm.

He would find the right one. A strong, supple strand of river-hanger vine. Enough to cradle the stone, to let it rest where it belonged—over your heart. He moved silently along the edge of the creek, scanning, gathering, his fingers brushing over the vines one by one. And as he worked, the ache in his chest softened slightly.

Because he wasn’t just here to follow orders. He was weaving something of his own.

Neteyam knelt some paces away, his fingers brushing over the heavy strands of river-hanger vine dangling from the branches. He tugged gently on a few, testing their strength, his mind already moving through the steps. The stone in his pouch would hang best from something soft and braided. He could reinforce the base with fine leather, maybe add some carved bone or seed beads to make it more personal. She liked when things told stories. Maybe he’d carve a small pa’li figure, or a little sprig of that glowing fern she’d once fallen in love with. His lips twitched faintly at the thought.

“You’re making something,” Sa’nari said suddenly, her voice calm but perceptive.

Neteyam froze just briefly, then resumed his work. “Maybe,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly. “Something for someone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a soft grunt that could’ve meant anything. She smiled faintly to herself and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees and moving toward another patch of herbs. “Can I ask you something?”

Neteyam glanced up, wary but open. “You can.”

Sa’nari’s fingers hovered over a cluster of blossom-fronds before she spoke. “Do you ever wish… someone else could choose for you?” Her voice was soft. Unassuming. But the words carried weight.

Neteyam straightened slowly, letting the vine fall from his fingers. “No,” he said. “I think… I’ve always known what I want.”

Her back remained to him, but he could see the stillness in her spine. “That’s rare.”

He considered her carefully, then asked, “And you? Did you ever love someone? Or did you just wait… for your parents to choose for you?”

She turned then, her eyes thoughtful and open. “I used to think I would wait,” she said. “Until someone was chosen for me. It seemed easier. Simpler. But…” She gave a small shrug. “I learned that simple things don’t always feel right.”

Neteyam looked away, down at the vines, at the way they curled like veins along the branch. “You’re kind,” he said after a moment. “Gentle. If you wanted to be chosen… you would be.”

Sa’nari smiled faintly. “Maybe I was.” Her gaze was steady. Not pressing. Not accusing. Just honest. “But sometimes I think we are all just trying to be someone our families can be proud of. Even if it means hurting ourselves a little.”

The words settled in him with an uncomfortable truth. Sa’nari knelt again to gather a flowering stalk, but her voice carried across the hush between them. “I’ve seen the way you walk with humans. How you speak with them. The way they trust you.”

Neteyam blinked, glancing back toward her.

“I think your father must be proud,” she continued, “that you never turned bitter. That you never resented those who were worthy of our respect—even if they shared blood with those who hurt us.”

Neteyam’s fingers curled unconsciously around the vines in his hand. He thought of you.

Of how you always apologized for things you never did. Of how you looked at Pandora like it was a sacred book, not a prize. Of how your hands trembled the first time you touched a glowing tree and whispered, “I don’t want to break anything.”

You were human. But you had never been a sky demon to him. You were his little star. And stars, he thought, don’t destroy. They guide. “They’re not all the same,” he murmured finally, voice low. “She never hurt anything,” he murmured under his breath, not even realizing he said it aloud.

Sa’nari tilted her head slightly, but said nothing. Just listened. After a while, she smiled. Soft. Knowing. “You will be a wise leader, Neteyam,” she said. “When your time comes.” He looked at her, caught off guard. “You carry many things quietly,” she added. “And you do not speak hate, even when your heart is torn.” After a moment, she said, “Your father must be proud of you.”

Neteyam huffed a breath, not quite agreeing, but not willing to argue.

The path back to the village was quieter than the one they had taken out.

The basket slung over Neteyam’s shoulder was heavier than it looked—overflowing with herbs, moss, and flowering stalks, the day’s careful work bundled tight. Sa’nari walked a few steps ahead, her pace light despite the long hours, her head tilted slightly as if still listening to the songs of the forest.

Neteyam didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t awkward, just… still. Like the earth had settled again after the storm. As they passed under the heavier canopy near the village’s outskirts, he felt it. A gaze. Heavy, focused. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Still, he glanced once—and immediately regretted it.

Neytiri stood just beyond the main clearing, near the tsahìk’s tent. Her posture was proud, her arms folded loosely over her chest, her head tilted in that quiet, pleased way that said she was already imagining the future—one where he and Sa’nari stood together, mated under the eyes of Eywa, strong leaders for the Omatikaya.

Neteyam turned his head away sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to see that look. Not when it wasn’t meant for the life he wanted. They reached the slope where the healers’ supplies were sorted, and Sa’nari slowed, finally turning to face him. She reached out carefully, taking the heavy basket from him with a small, grateful nod. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For today.”

Neteyam managed a small, genuine smile. “You didn’t really need guarding.”

“No,” she agreed easily, adjusting the basket against her hip. “But it was still... better. Having someone there.”

He inclined his head slightly. At least, he thought privately, she hadn’t been as pushy as K’shi. Sa’nari had let the day breathe. Let the spaces between words stretch comfortably. That counted for something. He turned to go, but her next words stopped him.

“I’m grateful you walked with me,” she said, her voice lower now, almost hesitant. “Even though your heart is already... elsewhere.”

Neteyam froze, blinking once. He almost did a double take—almost stumbled.

He turned slowly to look at her. Sa’nari only smiled up at him, shy but calm. No accusation. No anger. Just a quiet understanding. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Neteyam,” she said with a soft chuckle, her eyes bright with kindness. “Whoever she is… she must be very special.”

He swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. His hand twitched at his side, almost reaching instinctively for the small stone still tucked safely in his pouch.

Sa’nari’s smile softened further, and she stepped past him, the basket swinging gently at her side. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said lightly over her shoulder. “It’s not my story to tell.”

Neteyam watched her go for a moment—watched the way she disappeared into the crowd gathering near the healers’ tents—before finally exhaling.

The knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. She understood. More than he had given her credit for.

And even though the path laid out for him still felt impossibly narrow, impossibly sharp, at least there was someone else who knew he was already walking another one. Quietly. Stubbornly. Truly.

For you. Always for you.

Neteyam turned away from the gathering crowd, slipping quietly back toward the edges of the village, where the trees grew thick and the sky opened wide.

Tonight, he would find you. Tonight, he would slip through the outpost’s barriers, find the light in your window. And maybe—maybe—he could hold you again and remember that, no matter what the world tried to make of him, he was still yours. Yours first.

Yours always.

Later that night, after the suns dipped low beyond the treeline and the village fires began to burn soft and golden, Neteyam found Lo’ak lingering near the kelku.

He moved quickly, keeping his voice low. "If anyone asks," he said, tightening the strap on his bow, "tell them I'm on patrol."

Lo’ak turned, catching the tone immediately. “To her?” he asked, a sly grin tugging at his mouth.

Neteyam gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t deny it. “If anyone asks, I’m on patrol.”

Lo’ak rolled his eyes, but there was understanding in them. “They always ask. Especially Mom.”

“Then lie better,” Neteyam muttered.

Lo’ak sighed, raising his hands. “Fine. You’re deep in the southern trail. Dangerous patrol. Very heroic.” Lo’ak smirked, flicking a pebble into the ring. “You’re getting worse at sneaking out, you know.”

Neteyam just raised a brow. “You gonna rat me out?”

“Please. I’ll say you were wrestling a palulukan bare-handed if it helps,” Lo’ak grinned. “Tell her I said hi. And not to throw you out if you fall asleep mid-sentence again.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes but gave him a quiet, grateful nod. “Irayo.”

He turned and made his way to the high perch just beyond the village, where the ikran rested. His bonded mount, Tawkami, raised his head the moment he approached, eyes bright with recognition. He let out a sharp, echoing chirp, already rising to his feet and shaking out his wings. Neteyam reached up to press his forehead against his, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You can feel it too, can’t you?”

He warbled low, nuzzling against him with excitement. The bond snapped into place with ease, tsaheylu weaving their thoughts together. Tawkami’s wings lifted with anticipation.

They launched into the sky together, slicing through the rising winds. The world stretched beneath them in darkness and silver moonlight, but Neteyam’s heart was steady. He knew exactly where he was going. The anticipation of seeing you again, of slipping into the quiet safety of your light and your laugh, filled him with something electric.

He hadn’t seen you in almost two days. And even though that wasn’t unusual for you—especially during sample analysis—it had still gnawed at him all day. He needed to see you. Hear your voice.

But when he reached the outpost, it was not the calm haven he had imagined. As the outpost came into view—a small glint of artificial light tucked between the trees—he felt the anticipation swell. Tawkami descended in a tight spiral, and Neteyam leaned into her rhythm, expecting quiet. Calm. Maybe your soft humming from inside the lab tent.

But something was wrong. The outpost wasn’t silent. It wasn’t calm.

The floodlamps along the wall were on, buzzing faintly in the humidity. The front gate was open, the interior glow flickering through the plastic panels of the lab’s main structure. But more than that—Neteyam’s eyes narrowed as he landed beside the Samson.

Its engine was still warm. Freshly used.

He ran a hand along the metal, frowning. That ship had returned with the xenobotany team just yesterday. If they were testing samples, they wouldn’t be flying again. They had protocols. Safety rules.

Why had it been used?

He dismounted in one swift motion, his instincts sharpening as his boots touched the packed soil. Tawkami shifted behind him, feathers twitching as she sensed his tension. Neteyam stepped into the main yard—and that’s when he saw them.

Norm. Max. Brian. Kate. And few other scientist whose names he didn't bother to remember.

All in full field gear—vests, boots, packs still strapped across their backs. They stood around one of the large plant containers near the far wall, a datapad held between them, its screen glowing faintly with a map.

A map of the mining zone. They didn’t look up right away. But Neteyam saw their faces—drawn tight with stress, eyes shadowed, clothes rumpled like they hadn’t slept in two days.

And she was nowhere. His chest went still. Cold. At first he thought—maybe she’s inside. Maybe she's working late again. Maybe— But then Max turned. Saw him.

And froze.

That look.

Neteyam knew it instantly. Something happened. He took three steps forward, voice low but hard. “Where is she?”

Norm looked up then, his face pale, jaw tight. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a beat. Neteyam’s heart thundered in his chest. “Where is she?” he demanded again, louder now.

Norm exchanged a glance with Max. Kate stepped back slightly, rubbing at her brow. Brian whispered something under his breath. Something that sounded like “shit.”

Neteyam’s stomach dropped. “She’s inside… is she?” he said, even though he already knew the answer.

No one spoke. Not yet. The only sound was the quiet hum of the datapad and the soft, electric whine of tension rising in his blood. Then Max finally stepped forward, slowly. “Neteyam,” he said, voice low, careful. “We need to talk.”

The world tilted. Cold and sharp. And Neteyam already knew:You were gone. And he had no idea where.

Kate was the first to break the silence. “You should’ve come earlier!” she snapped, voice sharp with frustration and something deeper—fear, maybe. “Maybe then we could’ve found her!”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped to her. “What?”

But Kate didn’t stop. Her words tumbled out too fast, like she’d been holding them in for hours. “We waited too long. We split up twice. The ridge was already washed out by the time we circled back, and then we couldn’t pick up any signal—not from her tag, not from the datapad. That fucking flux vortex… If you were here—if you’d just come earlier—”

“What do you mean find her?” Neteyam asked, the word catching in his throat. His voice was low, dangerous, but laced with disbelief. “Why would you need to find her?”

His breath was shallow now. In his mind, up until this moment, you were safe. You were in the outpost. You were maybe inside the lab, maybe reading, maybe sketching those new plant samples you found. You were waiting for him.

But the way they looked at him told him otherwise. He turned to Norm, needing to hear something—anything—different.

The man had known him since he was a baby. He’d patched his wounds, watched him take his first steps, taught him human words when Jake had refused. He had never looked at Neteyam with fear.

Until now. His lips parted. “Neteyam…” Norm said gently, like one might speak to a wounded animal. “She disappeared.”

The words didn’t land at first. Didn’t make sense.

“Disappeared?” Neteyam echoed, the syllables dull and foreign on his tongue. “No. She’s not—she wouldn’t—she was supposed to be here.”

“She went missing yesterday,” Max said, quietly stepping in. „But it was already near eclipse, and the storm rolled in faster than expected. We stayed until we couldn’t see anymore. We searched for hours.”

“You left her?” Neteyam growled, his voice raw now, cracked wide open.

Max stepped forward, raising his hands. “We didn’t want to—Neteyam, listen. We stayed as long as we could. But visibility dropped to nothing, and the eclipse was setting in fast. The storm was—”

“You LEFT her!” Neteyam shouted now, taking a step toward them.

“We marked the area!” Brian snapped back, frustrated. “We left signal markers! We planned to return at first light!”

“And what did you find?” Neteyam hissed.

The silence that followed was the worst part. Nothing. No one looked at him. Max rubbed his temples. “The rain washed everything. No tracks. No trail. No broken brush. Her comm is dead. Or damaged. We don't know.”

Neteyam’s chest heaved. His breath burned in his lungs. You weren’t here. You haven't been here since yesterday. You were out there. In the forest. Near the old mining zone. You had been out there during the eclipse. Alone. During the storm. During the night. And he—he had spent that night thinking you were safe, warm, maybe curled up with your datapad and tea.

But now—now he remembered the dream. You, trembling, soaked, clinging to a high branch in a blackened forest, lightning flashing around you. He thought it was just guilt. A stupid dream. He wanted it to be just a dream. But now— Now it felt like truth. You were still out there. His mate. You were still out there. “I’m going after her.” His voice was low, guttural. He turned on his heel.

“No, Neteyam, wait,” Norm stepped in front of him. “It’s dangerous. There’s another storm rolling in tonight.”

“I don’t care.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll find her.”

“You can’t see anything out there in the dark,” Max said. “We can barely navigate that terrain in daylight, even with scanners.”

Neteyam was already moving toward Tawkami, who growled low as if sensing his rider’s boiling fury.

“Neteyam!” Kate shouted. “If you get lost too, what good does that do her?”

“I won’t get lost!” he snapped. “I know that forest. Better than any of you. I know the pit. I know how the water runs.”

“But you can’t help her if you’re dead,” Norm said firmly, stepping between him and the ikran. “You go out there now, in this storm, in the dark, we may lose both of you.”

Silence followed that. Tawkami hissed softly behind him, restless. His heart roared in his ears. His whole body was screaming to move. But Norm stood there like stone. Unmoving. Max beside him, rain starting to tap on the Samson’s hull. The others watched, hollow-eyed.

Neteyam's breath came hard. He hated it. Hated waiting. But some small part of him—buried under the panic—knew they were right. Still, he turned his back on them and walked several paces away, just far enough to breathe, to feel the air against his skin.

“She was alone,” he whispered, barely audible. “All night.” No one answered. The wind picked up again, as if the forest itself mourned with him. And in his heart, something curled—tight, angry, and aching. Because waiting might be wise. But every second was agony.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain beginning to pick up again—slow, steady drops on the metal roof of the outpost. The tension in the air was thick, almost electric, like a storm itself was standing in the room with them.

Then, from behind the group, a quiet voice broke through. “She didn’t have anything with her,” Raj said. His voice was small, almost hesitant. Neteyam turned slowly. His stare locked onto Raj’s like a spear thrown mid-flight. “Just… just her satchel. And a field knife. That’s it.” His voice cracked. “We thought… in the morning, with the storm and all—”

Kate hissed, “Raj, shut up—”

But it was too late. The words had already landed like knives in Neteyam’s chest. His vision tunneled. He stepped toward Raj slowly, his entire frame radiating something primal. The heat of fury rolled off him like smoke, barely contained. The others tensed as his shadow fell over the smaller man. “You thought you’d find her corpse?” Neteyam repeated, voice deathly calm.

Raj paled. Kate whipped around to stare at Raj. “You fucking idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Raj flinched, clutching his side. “I didn’t mean—I was just saying—”

Neteyam was already walking toward them. His face was unreadable, but the way he moved—deliberate, quiet—set the hairs on Max’s arms on end. His eyes locked on Raj, dark and wild like a brewing storm. “Say one more thing,” Neteyam said lowly, his voice like thunder before the strike. “Say one more word that implies she’s dead.”

Raj swallowed, suddenly very aware that Neteyam, standing tall and furious, was ten feet of trained warrior who could break him in half without even trying. “You thought you’d find her body?” His voice was so quiet it was nearly a growl. “So you left her out there. You left her—with nothing but a knife—while the storm was coming.”

Max tried to step in, his hands raised. “Neteyam, listen, we—”

“No,” he snapped. “You listen. If anything happens to her—” he jabbed a finger at the group, his chest rising and falling with fury “—if she’s hurt, or worse, because you left her out there… I will make every single one of you regret the day you set foot in our forest.”

His voice dipped lower, deadly calm.

“I’ll burn this outpost to the ground. I’ll drag each of you into the forest and leave you to survive with just a knife. I don’t care what deal my father made. I don’t care about your research. If she dies—your lives mean nothing to me.”

The group fell silent. Pale.

“You think you’re here because Eywa allows it?” Neteyam’s voice rose like thunder, snapping around them like a whip. “You live in our forest because my People lets you. Because we chose to trust you.”

He pointed sharply toward the map still glowing on the datapad. “You call yourselves scientists, protectors of life—but you left one of your own behind.”

Even Norm took a step back, his hands half-raised, trying to de-escalate. “Neteyam, I get it—she’s important to you,” he said carefully. “But threatening us won’t help her.”

Neteyam bared his teeth—not in a snarl, but something close, his tail lashing behind him. “You think this is me losing control? You haven’t seen what happens if I do.”

Raj looked like he wanted to disappear. Brian wouldn't even meet his eyes.

“We did what we could,” Max insisted, voice tense. “We stayed as long as we could. We waited as long as we—”

“You’ve done nothing!” he shouted.

The air went dead quiet. Even the machines around them felt silent.

Neteyam loomed over them, muscles tight, his chest rising and falling like a warrior before battle. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Couldn’t. The only image in his head was you—cold, trembling, bleeding maybe, hiding from viperwolves or worse. Maybe still curled on a high branch, like in his dream. Maybe already—

No.

No.

“You think scanning empty ground and waiting till morning counts as doing something?” Neteyam hissed. “She’s not a sample. She’s not data. She’s my mate.”

The silence that followed was stunned. Max’s mouth parted slightly. Brian swallowed hard. Even Kate looked like she’d been slapped. Norm’s expression changed. Not surprise—but realization. Quiet and heavy. Finally, without another word, Neteyam turned, storming toward Tawkami.

“Where are you going?!” Kate called after him, but he didn’t answer.

Tawkami crouched low at the signal, sensing his rider’s fury like a second skin. As soon as Neteyam swung into the saddle, the ikran launched upward in a burst of wings and wind, scattering dust and fear in every direction.

The outpost vanished beneath him like a bad dream. But the fire stayed. The forest was vast, and yes—he could search alone. He would search alone. All night if he had to. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed help. Real help. His family.

Kiri could hear through the forest better than anyone he knew. And Lo’ak—Lo’ak would fly through a hurricane if he thought it would help Neteyam find her. He tightened his grip on the harness, heart hammering.

The woven walls of the kelku were bathed in a flickering gold from the fire pit outside, but Neteyam didn’t feel the warmth. His steps were sharp, restless, pacing tight lines across the floor as he moved back and forth between his storage chest and the saddle pack laid out on the mat.

Bow. Quiver. Rope. Flint knife. Water skin. Another blade strapped across his lower back.  Everything he could possibly need—and none of it would be enough. He dropped a folded tarp into the pack and buckled it shut just as the flap at the entrance rustled open.

Footsteps sounded behind him—quick and uneven. Lo’ak. “Bro, I thought you’d be back at dawn,” he said, pushing aside the kelku’s curtain with a lazy grin. “What, she kick you out this time or—”

He stopped dead when he saw Neteyam’s face. The smile fell off his mouth instantly. Neteyam didn’t even look up. Just secured the pack with a tight pull and dropped it near the door. “She’s not at the outpost,” he said, voice hollow and flat.

Lo’ak’s brows pulled together. “Wait—what?”

Neteyam finally turned, his eyes sharp, glowing like coals beneath the low firelight. “She went missing yesterday. During the field run.” His jaw flexed. “They lost her. Eclipse was setting in. Storm was rolling. They left her.”

Lo’ak’s eyes widened, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “What do you mean, left her?”

“I mean she never came back. And they abandoned the search after dark.”

Lo’ak stared at him, stunned—then his hands curled into fists. “Eywa…” he muttered. “And you didn’t kill them?”

“Not yet.”

Lo’ak looked at the pack, then at Neteyam’s gear. His brother. Always calm. Always in control. But now? He looked like a blade waiting to snap. “Who else knows?” Lo’ak asked.

“No one,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. And I want to keep it that way—for now.” He stepped forward, grip tightening on his bow.

Lo’ak stood frozen for half a second—then swore under his breath and stepped inside. “Eywa. Are you—shit. That’s why you’re back. You wanna go after her.”

Neteyam nodded once. “I need someone I can trust with this.” He grabbed the pack again and slung it over his shoulder. “Where’s Kiri?”

Lo’ak didn’t hesitate. “Still in the healer’s tent. She was helping Grandmother with the vision sap harvest.”

“Good. Get her.” Neteyam glanced up sharply. “We need her. You know how she hears things—how she feels things. She’ll help us track.”

“When do we tell Dad?” he asked after a moment.

“Not yet,” Neteyam said. “Not unless we have to.”

Lo’ak didn’t argue. He knew what it meant—for their father to find out. For their mother. “I’ll get Kiri,” he said quietly, then turned toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he paused, looking back. “We’ll find her,” he said firmly. “We’re not letting the forest take her.”

Neteyam didn’t answer—he just nodded once, eyes burning. Because she wasn’t gone. Not yet. And he would tear through the jungle with his bare hands to bring her home.

The storm had returned with a vengeance.

Wind howled through the trees outside the kelku, rattling the woven walls like angry spirits. Rain lashed the leaves in sheets, the forest moaning under the weight of wind and water. Thunder cracked above like a whip, and still Neteyam stood near the doorway, his pack at his feet, ready to run into it.

He was shaking. Not from fear—but from the raw, unbearable need to move. Then the curtain pulled back again.

Lo’ak stepped in first, face grim, and right behind him came Kiri, her braids still damp from the rain. She stopped when she saw Neteyam—really saw him—and her expression faltered.

Her eyes were wide the moment she entered, searching the space for something—anything—that might change the words her brother had just spoken. But all she saw was Neteyam, fully armed, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he hadn’t stopped since the second he landed. “She’s gone?” Kiri whispered, her voice cracking.

Neteyam didn’t answer at first. Kiri already knew. Lo’ak had told her everything. Kiri crossed the floor quickly, rain dripping from her braids, and stopped in front of him. Her hands were trembling, but she was trying to keep it in—trying to be calm. Trying to be steady. “She’s one of us,” she said, barely above a whisper. “She’s my friend too. Don’t shut me out.”

Neteyam closed his eyes briefly, nodding. “I’m not.” He opened them again, looking at her with raw, carved honesty. “I need someone I can trust with this. That’s why you’re here.”

Kiri walked further in, standing beside Lo’ak. “What are we doing?” Kiri nodded once, lips pressed tight.

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “We find her.”

“Without telling them?” she asked, but it wasn’t judgment—just clarification.

He nodded. “If Mother and Father find out… they’ll demand answers. They’ll ask why I’m ready to tear apart the forest for a human girl. We don’t have time for that.”

Lo’ak gave a tired snort from near the door. “You say that like she won’t smell the panic coming off you tomorrow.”

Neteyam shot him a look. “Then we don’t give her time to. We’re out before sunrise.”

Kiri’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more. She understood. They all did. Neteyam’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t answer. Kiri rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to stop the shiver that crept through her. She moved to sit beside the fire pit, staring into the flames, letting the silence stretch until she could breathe again.

Neteyam took a breath and moved toward the corner of the kelku where a small pile of scattered belongings rested. He crouched down and moved aside a folded cloth.

Lo’ak beat him to it—his fingers brushing against the cracked, black casing of a datapad half-buried beneath a pelt.

“Is this…?” he asked, holding it up.

Neteyam nodded once. “She left it here. A few weeks ago.”

Lo’ak sat on the floor, thumbing the cracked screen. “Still works.” He tapped a few controls, the screen flickering weakly to life.

Kiri leaned in. “She kept maps on it, didn’t she?”

“She kept everything on it,” Neteyam said, unable to help the faint smile that ghosted his mouth for a second and then turned back to Kiri.

Lo’ak tapped the screen, and it flickered to life, dull and sputtering—but functional enough. The blue-white map display shimmered into view, blurry lines tracing the jungle in grainy detail.

Kiri stepped closer, kneeling near his pack. “We’ll need a plan. Not just charge out there and hope. She’s smart,” she finally said. “If she knew she was lost, she’d look for shelter first. Not run around like a fool.”

“She has nothing but her satchel and a knife,” Neteyam said. “But she’s not helpless. I taught her what to do. Where to hide.”

“So do I,” Kiri said. “I trained her. Every herb I know. Every sign in the trees. She’s not Na’vi, but she listens better than most of us.”

“She’s smart,” Kiri said, voice tense. “She wouldn’t just wander aimlessly. She wouldn’t panic. Not after everything we taught her.”

Neteyam looked at her. “So where would she go?”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful now. “If she realized she was being left behind… she’d go high. Somewhere dry. She wouldn’t risk the waterline in a storm.”

“I know.” Neteyam crouched beside her. “We start at the mining zone. She was lost somewhere near the old ridge—right where the western shelf starts to collapse into the basin.”

“She’s smart,” he said. “If she got turned around, she’d know better than to stay near the pit. Too exposed. She’d move.”

“To where?” Kiri asked, kneeling beside him.

“Would she go east?” Lo’ak asked. “Toward the outpost?”

“She’d try,” Neteyam said. “She’d want to get back. But not in a straight line—not without direction. Not without light.”

Lo’ak crouched beside Kiri, turning the tablet so she could see. “There,” he pointed. “The pit. And the outpost. She’s somewhere in between.”

Kiri leaned in, her eyes scanning the terrain. “You think she’d try to go east?”

“But even if she did,” Lo’ak said, voice hesitant, “she’d have to stay hidden all night. Through a storm. She must’ve been so scared…”

Neteyam looked away. He didn’t need to imagine it. He dreamed it.

“She’s smart,” Kiri added. “But that’s still days of walking. Through unfamiliar terrain. Alone. It’s full of palulukans out there. Lanay’kas too.”

“But look,” Lo’ak pointed. “These creeks—there’s a few between the pit and the outpost. If she found one, maybe she followed it. Water leads somewhere.”

“We’ll need more hunters,” Kiri said finally. “Even just two. If we split the area, we’ll cover more ground.”

“No,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. I don’t want anyone else involved. Not unless we have to.”

Kiri glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Neteyam—”

“She’s mine,” he said quietly. “They wouldn’t understand. I won’t let her name be whispered through the clan like a curse.”

Lo’ak looked at him, the weight of that word—mine—settling deep between them.

Kiri exhaled. “Fine. Then we do this ourselves.” Neteyam nodded. “But not tonight.” He looked up sharply. “You know we won’t find anything in this storm,” Kiri said gently. “It’ll bury any trail she left behind. If we go now, we’ll waste energy. We’ll miss signs.”

Neteyam hesitated. Every instinct in his body screamed go. Every heartbeat was a drum pounding now, now, now. But he also knew Kiri was right. She always was. He dropped the charcoal and let his hands rest on the mat.

“You need to rest,” Kiri said. “Both of you. We’ll go at first light.”

Lo’ak sighed. “She’s right, bro.”

Neteyam sat down hard on the edge of his mat, burying his face in his hands. The rain thudded against the kelku like a war drum. His heart beat in time with it—furious, aching.

“Get some rest,” she added. “You need to be strong. For her.”

He didn’t argue. No one spoke for a long moment. He just stared at the storm outside, praying—begging—that you were out there, still fighting. That somewhere under all that rain, you were waiting for him to find you. And he would. No matter how long it took.

The night held no peace.

Outside the kelku, the storm raged—rain battering the woven walls like distant drums, thunder rolling across the canopy in great, groaning waves. Inside, Neteyam sat still for hours, legs crossed near the entrance, unmoving, listening to the wind and the rise and fall of his own breath.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him down. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. But he dreamed. Again.

He found himself in a clearing. It wasn’t like before. Not rain-soaked branches or shadows full of teeth. This time, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The air was soft and heavy, the storm strangely absent here. Everything was quiet—too quiet. No insects. No rustling leaves. Just the sound of creaking metal and the slow moan of something swaying in the wind.

Between the trees, a Samson hung broken from the high branches. Its tail section was caught on a twisted trunk, the body dangling at an awkward angle—like a forgotten toy. The wind stirred it gently, letting it creak and swing in slow arcs. Half the cockpit window was cracked. Panels torn away. The metal gleamed wet and sharp.

And in the grass below it— You.

You sat curled on the damp moss, your knees drawn in, your satchel spilled to one side. Your hair was a tangled mess, stuck to your cheeks and brow. And your hand—your small, shaking hand—was cradled in your lap, slick with blood. A deep, angry slice carved across your palm, oozing fresh and vivid.

You were crying. The sound hit him like a spear to the chest—soft, trembling sobs, the kind he’d never heard from you before. Not in the labs. Not in the field. Not even in your worst moments.

He stepped forward slowly, his feet soundless on the moss. Your head jerked up. And when you saw him—saw Neteyam—you didn’t speak right away. Your lower lip wobbled, and you blinked hard, trying to clear the tears.

Then you reached out toward him. You showed your hand to him like a child might, small fingers shaking, your palm smeared with blood. A jagged cut sliced from the base of your thumb to the edge of your hand, the skin torn and pulsing.

“It hurts, Neteyam,” you whispered. Your voice was soft. Broken. Like a child. He dropped to his knees in front of you, reaching for your wounded hand, cupping it gently in both of his. You winced. “I climbed… I thought maybe I could reach the comm system,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes. “There was a shard of metal—I didn’t see it until…”

You trailed off. He gently turned your hand over in his, examining the wound. Deep, but not fatal. Not if it was cleaned. Not if it didn’t get infected. But the way your fingers curled inward told him you were in pain. Real pain.

And not just physical. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He looked up sharply. “For what?”

You shook your head, tears spilling over your lashes. “For being scared.”

He froze. You never said that. Not in the field, not in the labs, not even when he warned you of creatures in the trees. You’d always smiled and said you’d be fine. “You’re here, aren’t you?” you’d say, like that was all you needed.

But here, now, you were trembling in front of him. And you couldn’t look him in the eye. Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “Stop.”

“I just—” you exhaled shakily, still not looking at him. “You’re a warrior. You wouldn’t be afraid if you were alone like this. You wouldn’t cry.”

He gently tilted your chin up with two fingers. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to die out here,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Not alone.”

Neteyam felt his whole chest collapse inward at the sound. You finally looked up at him. And your eyes—those bright, curious, maddening eyes—were rimmed with red, filled with something raw and terrifying. “I want to see you one more time,” you said, barely audible. “Even just for a minute.”

His hands slid to your face, cupping your cheeks with infinite care. “You will,” he said fiercely. “You’ll see me again. I promise.”

“But what if I don’t—”

“You will.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “You will, yawne. You hold on.”

You nodded, tiny, trembling. And then—

He woke. His breath left him in a sharp gasp as he sat up straight, drenched in sweat, the woven mat beneath him cool from the night air. The storm had passed sometime before dawn. His heart still thundered in his chest.

Outside, the sky was turning faintly gray.

First light.

Neteyam ran a hand down his face, dragging air into his lungs as if it might slow the pounding. He looked around, the kelku still and quiet, Lo’ak and Kiri probably preparing already, waiting. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his trembling hands.

What was that?

A dream. Just a dream. But it hadn’t felt like one. It felt too sharp. Too vivid. He could still feel the warmth of your blood on his fingers. Still hear your voice in his ears. He clenched his jaw. His mind was playing tricks on him. It had to be. Showing him things—fears, nothing more. You were smart.You knew how to survive. You would survive.

And they would find you. He stood, shoulders squaring as he reached for his bow and strapped on the pack.

The morning brought a break—just enough light to fly under—but the forest was soaked, the canopy still weeping. Everything beneath the trees was washed clean. Or, at least, clean enough to make tracking impossible.

They flew out before the sun fully crested the ridgeline, a trio of silent shadows on their ikran: Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Kiri. No one else. No word to their parents. Not yet. Neteyam wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t take the weight of Neytiri’s disapproval—not when every second was a scream echoing through his bones.

They swept past the cliffs in tight formation, their path following the old scar of the mining pit—a stretch of land long since swallowed by vines and forest, but still raw beneath the surface. The ghosts of what had been done there still lingered, in broken stone and blackened soil. Neteyam hated this place. And now it hated him back, swallowing the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

They searched for hours.

Kiri guided them in long, looping arcs, dipping down every time she felt something—movement, a wrongness, even the softest disruption in the silence. Lo’ak stayed close to Neteyam, knowing better than to let him veer off on his own. Not now. Not when he was wound so tight he looked ready to snap his bow over his own knee.

Neteyam didn’t speak much.

Every few minutes he’d dive low, scanning the mud for a boot print, a scuff, a sign. But the rain had done its work. Nothing remained. Every root was clean. Every patch of soil was untouched. The forest was too quiet. As if it was hiding something.

By midday, they regrouped at a narrow ridge above the northern basin. Lo’ak circled overhead once before landing beside his brother. “Nothing,” he said, breathless, frustrated. “Not even a broken leaf.”

Kiri landed just behind them, her braid plastered to her neck with sweat. Her face was pale. Tired. “It’s like she vanished,” she said softly.

“She didn’t vanish,” Neteyam growled, pacing along the edge. His steps were sharp, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. “She didn’t just disappear.”

“Bro…” Lo’ak tried gently. “The storm—”

“I don’t care about the storm,” Neteyam snapped, turning sharply. “She had to go somewhere. She’s not stupid.”

Kiri approached carefully, her voice even. “And maybe she went west. Or south. Or climbed high to stay out of the water.”

“You saw the map,” Neteyam said, voice low and fierce. “There’s no shelter past this point. No caves. No high ridge that would hold her weight in that storm.”

Lo’ak glanced toward the trees. “Then maybe she backtracked.”

“We would’ve seen it.”

“Maybe not,” Kiri said. “Maybe she covered her trail. Or maybe Eywa covered it for her.”

Neteyam’s jaw worked, his fists clenched at his sides. “Or maybe she’s lying out there somewhere dying, and we’re here talking about maybes.”

That was the first moment they saw it—really saw it. The crack starting to form. Neteyam had held himself together through everything—through duty, through pressure, through the endless push and pull between his family and his own secret love. But now? Now he looked like a cliff edge after the rain. One more tremor, and it would all fall.

“Neteyam,” Kiri said softly, stepping forward. “Please.”

He didn’t move. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go back. Just for tonight.”

“No.”

“Neteyam—”

“No,” he snapped again, but this time his voice cracked at the edges.

Lo’ak stepped in next, placing a hand on his other shoulder. “We’ll come back. At sunrise. Just like now. But you have to rest.”

“I can’t rest.”

“Then fake it,” Lo’ak said, eyes sharp. “Because if you collapse out here, we’ll be dragging both of you back to the village.”

Neteyam hesitated—but his legs trembled just enough to give him away.

Kiri tightened her grip. “She’s alive,” she whispered. “I know it. Eywa hasn’t taken her. I would feel it.”

Neteyam turned toward her then, finally, his eyes wide and hollow. “What if I can’t? What if we’re too late?”

“You won’t be,” Kiri said. “Because we’re going to find her. Together.”

Neteyam stood there, trembling, for a moment longer. Then finally—finally—he let his shoulders fall. “Fine,” he whispered. “But we leave again at dawn.” They left in silence. The rain had started again, light but steady, soaking through their clothing as they mounted their ikran and soared back into the grey.

It felt like defeat. But it was survival. Just barely.

Day Four

They left again before dawn. This time, the light was clearer. The storm had finally passed in the night, leaving the air cleaner, cooler. The sun broke through the canopy in soft gold streaks as they returned to the last known location, the wind carrying birdsong and the scent of wet bark.

And it was Neteyam who saw it first. They were passing the northeastern edge of the basin, gliding above a ridge when something below snagged in his vision—a shape, tall and gnarled, rising from the slope near the ravine.

A tree. But not just any tree.

It stood out from the others—its bark weathered and dark, limbs twisted like old hands. One of its roots had grown high over a rocky outcrop, forming a natural hollow. Shelter. High enough to escape floodwaters. Thick enough to shield from rain.

He nearly dropped from his saddle. Lo’ak and Kiri followed without question, their ikrans diving after him. They landed on the ridge beside the tree, and Neteyam was off his ikran before her talons touched the earth. He ran straight to the trunk, sliding to his knees beside the hollow.

It was there. Neteyam didn’t answer at first. He just stared. There, halfway up a steep, moss-covered rise, was a tree.

A thick-barked colossus with roots that rose like spires around its base, and a hollow carved into the trunk high above—just large enough to shelter a body. Neteyam’s heart slammed against his ribs. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s the one.”

Lo’ak frowned. “What?”

“I saw this tree,” Neteyam said, already dismounting. He stepped through the mud, pushing toward the roots. “In my dream. The night she vanished. I saw her—shivering—in the hollow. And there were viperwolves circling the base.”

Kiri followed fast behind, her voice cautious. “Are you sure?”

“I remember the shape of the branches. The tilt of the roots. The way the light cut through here—” He pointed to the canopy above. “It’s the same.”

Lo’ak followed, brow furrowed. “You think it was Eywa? A vision?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He was already climbing. The roots were slick but solid. He hoisted himself up with quiet, practiced movements, and when he reached the hollow—

He went still. Inside, the tree was dark, lined with old nesting leaves and bark. But near the back, half-buried under a clump of moss, was a shape.

His hand trembled as he reached for it. A single white button. Round. Stretched along the edge. It was from the shirt you wore the morning you left. He remembered the way it sat just beneath your collarbone. You’d complained the buttons were old. He’d joked that he’d just rip them all off next time. Now it lay in his hand.

“Neteyam?” Kiri called from below.

He turned slowly, clutching the button so tight it nearly cracked in his palm. “She was here,” he said, voice hoarse. “She was alive. She made it through the storm. She climbed up here to escape.”

Kiri and Lo’ak stared up at him, eyes wide. “And the wolves?” Lo’ak asked.

“No blood,” Neteyam said. “No bones. No torn cloth. She wasn’t attacked.” He dropped to the ground in two swift motions, landing hard.

“She survived. And she moved on.”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed. “That hollow’s old. She might’ve only stayed a night.”

“But she was alive when she did,” Neteyam said, voice full of urgency now. “We’re close.”

Lo’ak looked around. “So what now?”

“We switch tactics,” Neteyam said, breathing fast. “We stop flying. From now on, we track on foot. She’s not in the trees. She’s moving through the ground. We need to see the forest the way she would.”

Kiri nodded. “Pa’li, then. No ikran. Ground only.”

“She’s not far,” Neteyam whispered, clutching the button like a lifeline. “She’s not far. And she’s still alive.” And this time, he was sure. The forest hadn't taken you yet. And he would find you. Even if it took every step, every hour, every last piece of himself to do it. He would bring you home.

The kelku was quiet, lit only by the flickering fire pit. The smoke curled lazily toward the open vents in the roof, but Neteyam barely noticed. He sat cross-legged on the edge of his sleeping mat, spine rigid, head bowed. The white button lay in the center of his palm, resting there like a fragment of bone. Small. Insignificant.

And yet it felt like it weighed more than stone. It was the only thing he had from you since you vanished into the forest. The only proof that you were still out there. That you hadn’t just… disappeared. He turned it over slowly between his fingers, rubbing the edge with his thumb.

Now it was the only thing he had. Not your laugh. Not your touch. Not the way you’d wrinkle your nose when you concentrate too hard or hum that one off-key Terran tune you swore was “meditative.”

Just… this. A button. The first sign you had survived that storm. That you had made it through one more night alone, in a world that wasn’t made for you.

His eyes drifted down to the half-carved neckpiece at the side of the pelt. The one he’d started for you, the one he couldn’t finish because the day he picked up the stone was the day you went missing. He reached toward it, slowly, running one hand over the notched bone beads already strung. The river-hanger vine rested beside it, partially braided, the iridescent stone glinting faintly under the firelight. It should’ve been done by now. Should’ve been around your neck, warm against your skin, fingers brushing it every time you laughed.

Instead it lay unfinished. Empty. He leaned forward, pressing his palms into his eyes, breathing slow, deep, strained.

He couldn’t lose you.

He should finish it. That was the plan. When you came home, he’d give it to you, watch the way your cheeks flushed and your fingers fidgeted, and you'd mumble something about how you didn’t deserve something so pretty.

Couldn’t let that dream become a prophecy—the one where he’d seen you sitting in the tall grass under a low-hanging Samson, blood dripping from your hand like petals. He hadn’t told anyone about that one. Not even Kiri. Not when it felt so close. Too close.

But now…

He clenched the button tighter in his palm. Now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance. The fire cracked softly. Outside, a breeze stirred the trees. And then, without warning, the curtain at the entrance shifted. Neteyam’s shoulders tensed instantly. A tall shadow stepped in.

Jake.

His father.

He stood there in silence for a breath, just watching. Neteyam said nothing. Didn’t even try to hide the way he bristled. Jake’s eyes flicked once around the kelku. The gear piled neatly by the wall. The bones. The carving tools. And the half-finished pendant resting beside his son’s pelt.

His gaze narrowed. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said finally.

Neteyam didn’t move. “You found me.”

Jake stepped inside, brow furrowed. “You’ve been gone every day since the last hunt. Always out before dawn. Always coming back after dark. And your siblings are with you.”

Neteyam didn’t answer. His fingers twitched around the button.

Jake took a breath. “You’re going back to the clearing, aren’t you?” he said, tone low. “Where we saw the assault ship. You think there’s movement there.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. “No.”

Jake raised a brow. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

“I’m not,” he said sharply. “You want to talk about recon? Ask anybody elsei. I’m not wasting time going back there.”

Jake crossed his arms, watching him. “Then what are you doing?”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t answer to no one now?” Jake asked, stepping forward. “You disappear for days at a time. Avoid your mother. Duck out of every gathering. Refuse every invitation to meet with Sa’nari. You don’t even look at K’shi anymore. Your mother says you haven’t shown interest in anyone.”

Neteyam laughed, bitter and low. “I wonder why.”

Jake’s brows lifted.

“I’m out there,” Neteyam said, rising slowly to his feet, “doing what you raised me to do. Surviving. Working. Leading. And suddenly, you’re interested in my love life?”

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m interested in what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Jake’s eyes flicked again to the pendant beside the pelt. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out.

Neteyam was on his feet in an instant. “Don’t touch it.”

Jake looked up, startled. Neteyam’s face was drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Is it for Sa’nari?” Jake asked carefully.

“I’m not telling you.”

Jake’s expression darkened. “That’s not how this works.”

“Funny,” Neteyam said bitterly. “Because nothing about this has worked for me.”

Jake took a step forward. “Neteyam—”

“I’m doing what I have to do,” Neteyam said, voice low and tight. “I’m trying to do everything right. And still—it’s never enough. I’m either too stubborn, or too cold, or not enough like you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” Neteyam barked a laugh. “Because it sure as hell feels like it.”

Jake’s tone shifted, quieter now. “I get it. You think I don’t? I know what it’s like to carry too much. I became Olo’eyktan before I was ready. I led a war before I understood what leadership really meant. And every day after that, I had to prove I was good enough to stand in the place I’d taken.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched—but he didn’t speak.

“I know it’s hard,” Jake said. “I know it feels like you’re being crushed from every angle. Like you have to carry the future while everyone tells you how to live it. But you don’t get to shut me out when things get hard.”

Neteyam finally looked at him.

Neteyam’s throat worked. He wanted to scream it. That you were missing. That you were alone. That every breath he took without knowing where you were was agony. That he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe without seeing your face somewhere in the trees. But if he said it—if he said your name—it would be over. He turned away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Jake’s voice dropped. “Try me.”

Neteyam froze. The silence stretched. Then finally—slowly—he turned his head just enough to speak over his shoulder. “There’s someone out there,” he said. “Someone who matters.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Neteyam didn’t elaborate. His eyes flicked to the pendant. The button. The fire.

Jake took a breath. “You’re scaring your mother.”

“I’m doing what you taught me to do,” Neteyam said coldly. “Protect what I care about. Even if it means breaking the rules.”

Jake stared at him for a long time. Then, finally, he stepped back toward the entrance. He paused at the curtain, one hand lifting it just slightly. “You’re keeping something from me, Neteyam. I know it.”

Neteyam didn’t look at him.

“I just hope,” Jake said quietly, “it’s not something that gets you killed.”

Then he was gone. The curtain swayed. Neteyam stood there for a long time and every breath felt like a countdown.

You were out there. And he was out of time.

The day was already thick with heat when they rode out.

The air clung to Neteyam’s skin like oil, humid and oppressive beneath the canopy. Their pa’li moved steadily over the forest floor, hooves squelching in soft earth, rain still dripping from swollen leaves. Kiri rode ahead, her eyes sweeping the ground. Lo’ak flanked behind, quiet for once.

Neteyam said nothing.

He hadn’t spoken since before dawn—not after another restless night spent staring at the unfinished neckpiece beside his mat. Not after his father’s visit. Not after pressing the white button to his lips and swearing he would not return without you.

They moved past a low stretch of reeds near the creek when Kiri reined in sharply. Her pa’li snorted. “Wait,” she murmured, swinging down. She knelt beside a clump of ferns, brushing her fingers through the damp leaves.

Neteyam dismounted fast, landing beside her. There, wedged under a moss-covered rock, was a shred of something pale. Kiri carefully pulled it out—a torn corner of paper, stained and softened by the rain.

Lo’ak squatted beside them. “Is that…?”

Neteyam grabbed it gently, turning it in his fingers. It was some kind of book—standard RDA stock, crumpled and torn, the ink smeared into illegibility. And stabbed through the center? A thorn. Clean. Deliberate.

“She marked it,” Neteyam whispered. He stood fast, scanning the trees—and then he saw another one. Farther ahead, tucked into the crook of a low branch: another scrap of paper. Pierced through and fluttering slightly in the breeze.

“She made a path,” Kiri said, eyes wide. “Eywa…”

Neteyam didn’t wait. He was already mounting. “Let’s go.”

They followed the path for half an hour—scraps hidden under stones, wedged behind bark, clinging to vines. Each one was like a heartbeat. A pulse. A whispered sign that she was still fighting. Still alive.

And then the trees opened. A clearing stretched before them—tall grass swaying in the midmorning light, golden-bright and deceptively peaceful. But it wasn’t the clearing that made Neteyam’s breath catch. It was the shape above it.

Suspended between the high trees, caught in a web of vines and roots and gravity’s slow mercy, hung a Samson gunship. Rusty. Broken. Twisted with age. Just like in his dream.

His pa’li halted with a soft grunt, sensing the shift in his rider’s pulse. Neteyam didn’t dismount. Couldn’t. He sat frozen, staring at the hanging craft like it had dropped out of his nightmares.

It was the exact same clearing. The exact same spot. The tall grass. The angle of the trees. This was where you had sat in his dream. This was where he’d seen you bleeding. “Eywa…” he whispered.

Behind him, Lo’ak was already moving, climbing up the low branches toward the side of the Samson. “I’ll check the cockpit,” he called.

Neteyam barely heard him. His vision swam. Please no. Please. Then, above him—

“Shit,” Lo’ak said. Neteyam’s head snapped up. And then the words came, sharp and terrible: “There’s a corpse up here.” It was more of a statement.

It was like getting shot in the chest. Everything inside Neteyam dropped. He was moving before he realized—bolting forward, leaping onto a twisted root, scrambling up the tangled vines as if his body no longer belonged to him.

He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

She’s gone. She’s gone. You were too late. You should’ve gotten here days ago.

His hands slipped on rusted metal, vines tearing under his grip. He hauled himself up over the edge of the broken ramp, eyes wild.

He was going to see you.

Dead.

Cold.

Eyes closed.

Face slack.

Gone.

The metal groaned beneath his weight as he pulled himself into the dark interior of the Samson—and stopped.

There, slumped in the pilot seat, was a corpse.

But not your corpse.

The uniform was faded tan. RDA insignia still barely visible on the shoulder.

The body was long decayed—just bones and sunken fabric, held together by rot and time. Probably had been here for twenty years, left behind after the war when this Samson crashed and never recovered.

Neteyam sagged forward, pressing one hand to the wall, breathing hard. He hadn’t realized how certain he was that it was you. How much he had already braced himself to see you—cold, broken, gone.

But it wasn’t you. It was some ghost of the past. A pilot who hadn’t made it out of the war. Neteyam didn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes began to move across the interior.

The cockpit was rusted, yes—but solid. It had held together over the years. The control panels were useless, the wiring fried, but the frame was intact. It could have held weight. A person.

You.

He crouched lower, eyes scanning the corners, the dust-covered floor— And then he saw it. A helmet. Not the soldier’s.

An RDA exo-mask. Propped on its side in the corner, just beneath the pilot’s seat. Inside it… was liquid. Red-brown. Thick. His heart jumped. He reached for it, carefully, lifting it with both hands. The inside panel had been cleaned, smoothed out into a curve—used like a bowl.

First, he thought it was blood. His chest went cold. But then—he brought it to his nose. And stopped. Herbs.

Rulvansip.

Medicinal.

It smelled like the inside of Mo’at’s tent. It smelled like healing.

You have been here.

You used this.

You had treated a wound.

Just like the dream. A wound in her palm. He ran a shaking hand over the glass. “She was here,” he said hoarsely. “She stayed here. She used this.”

Kiri and Lo’ak looked up from below. “Then we’re still on her trail,” Lo’ak said. “Right?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He just sat there, holding the mask, staring into that rusted cockpit, knowing that for one moment—one terrifying, beautiful moment—he was sitting exactly where you had once sat.

And it meant one thing.

You were still moving.

You were still fighting.

You were still alive.

The fire burned low, its glow soft and unsteady as it crackled in the center of the kelku. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering in slow waves across Neteyam’s face as he crouched near the hearth, unmoving, eyes locked on the flames. The broken screen of the old datapad lay between them, its display cracked and stuttering—sometimes showing the trail map, sometimes just static.

Lo’ak sat cross-legged, turning a dull knife slowly in his hands. Kiri leaned back on her palms, eyes scanning the glowing map projection as it flickered. They’d been going in circles for hours—marking paths, arguing possible turns, retracing your steps in their minds.

Maybe you’d doubled back. Maybe you had turned east again, toward the outpost, following the sun like Neteyam had taught you—head low, wound bleeding, stubborn and alive.

Lo’ak lay on his side nearby, one arm folded under his head, his voice hushed but tense. “We could backtrack to the outpost. If she was trying to follow the sun east, she might’ve tried to stay close to old trails. Even if she veered north, that whole quadrant’s easier to move through.”

Kiri nodded, sitting cross-legged near the fire, frowning in thought. “I’ve been thinking the same. She wouldn’t have gone north. Not with a wound. And the forest gets denser out there—steeper, more dangerous.”

Lo’ak added, “From the Samson to the outpost is not far. We can ride straight in from the creek basin. Be there by midday. But for her on foot…”

Neither of them looked at their brother. Because Neteyam hadn’t said a word in over an hour.

He crouched by the fire pit like a statue, shoulders taut, tail flicking in short, restless motions. His breath moved slow—too slow—and his eyes… weren’t really watching the flames. Not anymore. He was somewhere far deeper.

Inside.

Spiraling.

The heat licked his face, dry and too bright. But it was the only thing anchoring him now. I can’t breathe. He hadn’t breathed properly since the day you went missing. Not really.

For a year, you were just another human—just another voice in the outpost, tucked behind a datapad with dirt under your nails and stubbornness in your voice.

For two years after that… you were a strange ache in his chest. A curiosity. A spark. Someone who saw Pandora like it was made of wonder, not war.

Then you started saying his name like it mattered. In time, you stopped being a scientist to him. And then—somewhere in the quiet moments between shared glances and too-long conversations—you became something more. His distraction. His gravity.

His little star.

You burned so differently from his world—so strange and stubborn but gentle with every living thing. You weren’t Na’vi. You weren’t meant to belong. But you did.

To him.

In the last half year, since the first time you kissed him—messy, laughing, breathless—it had become unbearable to be apart. He’d never been meant for hiding, for secrets. But with you, he would hide forever if it meant keeping you. If it meant waking to your touch, even in silence. If it meant you were still his.

And now?—now you were gone.

He clenched his jaw, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he stared into the fire.

íYou have become part of him.

Every day they were apart since that first kiss had felt wrong. Empty. He needed you near him—needed your laugh, your warmth, your hand brushing his. He didn’t care that it had to be secret. Didn’t care that no one would understand. He needed you like breath. Now, all he had left was a trail of torn paper. An old dream. And the smell of herbs in a mask you’d used to heal yourself.

If I’ve already lost you…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t let it live inside his head. His throat felt tight. His chest burned.

I can’t lose you. Not now. Not when you are finally mine.

He reached toward the flames without thinking—just close enough for the heat to bite his skin—and curled his fingers inward, as if grasping for something that wasn’t there. Kiri watched him, her voice faltering as she trailed off mid-sentence. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned forward.

“Neteyam,” she said gently. “You’re doing it again.” He didn’t blink. “You’re slipping,” she said, softer now. “You’re going too deep.”

Still nothing. Kiri moved toward him, settling beside his crouched form, her hand brushing his arm. “Neteyam,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

His breath came out as a shudder. Then, slowly, he turned toward her. “I need to find her,” he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word. Kiri nodded, her grip tightening. “I need her, Kiri. I can’t—I can’t lose her. Not when… not when she’s finally mine.”

It slipped out of him, barely above a whisper. And that’s when the curtain at the entrance rustled.

Neytiri stood in the doorway, framed in firelight. Her eyes were sharp. Her expression is unreadable. “What did you say?” she asked, voice like a drawn bowstring.

Neteyam froze.

Kiri went still beside him.

Lo’ak straightened slowly, the knife slipping from his hand with a dull thud against the floor.

Neytiri stepped further inside, eyes narrowed, locking onto her eldest son with slow precision. “Neteyam,” she said again. “Who is… ‘yours’?”

The fire snapped. The datapad flickered. And in the suffocating silence that followed, Neteyam didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because everything—everything—was about to break.

And he didn’t know if he could stop it.

Part 24: (Soon)

The next part will be again from reader's pov.

[whimsiwitchy]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 (part two)

Pedro Pascal x singer!reader

series masterlist & series playlist

summary: you're a hot singer that has hot older men falling at her feet. pedro becomes one of them. (literally my cyg hughxreader fic but for pedro)

warnings: age gap (23/49), use of y/n, swearing, sexual themes, afab reader, she/her pronouns, verbal fighting, pedro is a smoker, cheating, Hugh Jackman is your ex (oops), he also pops up a few times and is mentioned, grammar is fake to me srry <3

warnings may change as the story progresses. all descriptions of real people in this story are fake! I don't know these people and this all for funsies. let me know if I missed anything!

author's note: hi everyone! since part one and two are a little shorter, I wanted to go ahead and give you part two. i'm trying to figure out a posting schedule so once that's put together, i'll update the masterlist with the dates! Alsooo, there's an extras section on the masterlist where you can find random things such as a picture of the dress that was mentioned in this chapter!! okie enough yapping, enjoy!!

part two: sparkle in your eyes

London was beautiful. You’d always dreamed of coming here, seeing the historical sights you grew up looking at through photos and hearing the accents you’ve always wanted. The overcast reminded you of home. Of when a sudden storm would roll in, hiding the summer sun in an instant. You found it funny how the Earth was so big yet felt so small, similarities in different cities, countries, continents showing the truth behind what it means to be human. The thought grounded you when the fame felt too suffocating.

Fame

It was a word you were still getting used to, a word you weren’t sure if you loathed or loved. It made you feel distant and disconnected from the world around you, creating a barrier between yourself and every ‘normal’ person. The word was true though, you were indeed famous. You were known around the world for your music and people gave you a job through their endless support. Moments like yesterday were a reminder of just how different your life was now. Moments where Pedro Pascal came to see you after only meeting you once before, like he was a friend and not some insanely famous actor. He hadn’t left your mind since the interaction. It was honestly pissing you off. 

When you told Stacy that you wanted to take a break from men, you weren’t lying. You wanted nothing more than to focus on yourself and your career…but those dark brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled made it so hard to care about anything else. They were a hypnotizing color, a striking contrast from the bright blue eyes you looked into just a few months prior. Pedro was everything you found attractive in a man: tall, dark, handsome with a godly personality. His emotional intelligence was a trait you picked up on the moment you met him and it was refreshing to hear a man be so willingly open on important matters. 

“Helloooo…earth to y/n.” Stacy says as she snaps her acrylic adorned fingers in your face. “Are you gonna tell me what has you all spaced out or can I take a guess? Because I’m pretty sure his name starts with a P.” Her gum pops as she closes her glossed lips, a smirk sat smugly on her face. 

“Shh. Could you be any louder!?” The two of you were sitting in a cafe that was packed with people with wandering ears. You would have spilled every thought racing your mind if you weren’t so worried about someone listening to your every word. It was another aspect of fame you had to get used to. It wasn’t always bad. For instance, sometimes you could sit in a cafe with your best friend and other times you can’t even walk down the street without having a horde of people rush towards you. 

“Plus, I'm not thinking of him.” You say defensively. 

“Whatever you say girl.” The same smirk still sits pretty on her face before gently falling into a smile. “Anyways, I got tickets for the London Eye at 2pm. Then, I thought it would be nice to go grab lunch somewhere. I have a few places picked out-” You’re looking at her, nodding every once and a while to allude that you’re listening to her but you aren’t. Your mind is occupied by those stupid brown eyes again. 

—

The two of you didn’t end up getting on the London Eye at 2pm. There was a delay, causing a wait of an extra 45 minutes and Stacy was pissed. Other than the fact she was your assistant, she was also a lot more organized than you. She plans each trip you’ve been on, including itineraries for days you don’t have to work. She also has bad time anxiety. The smallest change in time has her stressed out, even if it’s off by a minute. Once the anxiety wears off, the anger creeps in. She complained at the latter end of the wait and would have had the king on the line if you hadn’t confiscated her phone until she cooled off a bit. Her mood was unchanged by the time you stepped into the private car. 

“If I tell you something boy related will it make you calm down and enjoy the ride?” You ask softly as you look down at the water, the wheel slowly moving the bubble higher. 

“What happened to swearing off men? I told you that you wouldn’t last that long.” She scoffs with a slight irritation in her voice but you can tell she’s itching to know more. 

“I know but Pedro had really bad timing so it’s not really my fault.” She’s quick to respond. 

“AHA! So you were thinking of him earlier.” The smirk from earlier makes a return and you’re pretty sure it would become a permanent part of her face from now on.

“It’s kind of hard not to when he came down a few floors down just to see me again.” You dramatically lean back and throw your forearm over your forehead. The poor attempt at acting like a damsel in distress earns a cackle from Stacy. 

“You’re insane.” She leans against the rail and looks at the view. “How’d you two even meet anyways? I feel like I would have been there.” Her brow lifts in confusion. 

“It was when you were sick and Hugh insisted on accompanying me to the sag awards when my song was in that one show.” Her eyes light up. 

“Ohhh yea. I do remember you telling me that. Didn’t you say he was drunk or something? I’m surprised he remembered you.” It’s your turn to scoff. 

“Drunk or not, who could forget a face like this.” Your hands shoot up to frame your face as you dramatically blink your eyes. Stacy rolls her eyes at the gesture. “But yea he was pretty drunk. He called Hugh my old man, which caught me off guard. I do remember him looking hot as fuck though. His stylist did him good with that look.” You nod, thinking about the white button up that was thankfully not buttoned up all the way, giving you a great view of his upper chest. 

“You’re such a slut.” She lets out a light laugh. 

“Am not.” You turn away from her to look at the view, the bubble finally reaching the top of the wheel. 

“You so are. You literally checked out Pedro when your boyfriend was right next to you and now that you’re broken up, you’re openly admitting that he’s hot. That kinda fits the definition of slut.” You know she’s joking but it stings nonetheless. 

“Whatever. I probably won’t even see him anytime soon so there’s no use in doting on the fact that he’s the hottest man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” Stacy hums. 

“I think he might like you.” You glare at her.

“Stacy please don’t feed into my delusion right now.” She laughs.

“I’m not trying to but he was giving you major goo goo eyes yesterday. It was kinda gross.” She shakes her head. “And he followed you on instagram. I don’t know, but it seems like he might like you.” 

—

Turns out one of the places Stacy had picked out for dinner was one of the most prestigious and hard to get into restaurants in London. The reservation list was years long and impossible to get on. When Stacy told you about it, you ensured her that there were plenty of other places you two could go eat at that didn’t require a fight just for a seat. She wouldn’t listen though and insisted that she would make sure the two of you would get in. When she told you she got a table, you never asked how but now that she was calling the front of house to let them know ‘ms.y/l/n would be arriving soon’, you wish you would have. You hated having the status of your name to get you things.

You were sprawled out across your hotel bed as you waited for Stacy to finish getting ready. You weren’t very fashion forward and often opted for a simple look. You threw on a black a-line dress that had ruffled tulle down the middle. It was something your stylist helped pick out when you first started going to events and it quickly became one of your favorites. You opted for a bit of dark purple shimmer on your eyes and a small winged liner. After doing a quick touch up on your brows and throwing on a layer of mascara you were done, shying away from the full beat that Stacy was currently applying to herself. 

You were scrolling through instagram when your mind wandered to Pedro again. Before you could even think twice about it, your fingers were flying to the search bar and typing in his user name. Last night after you saw his comment, you were tempted to take a peek at his page but you knew it would keep you up all night. You didn’t have to scroll far into his page for your heart to start racing. There was a short gif-like video of him in his costume for Gladiator, twirling a sword around. You’re not sure how long you were staring at it, watching it, but you snapped out of your daze due to a loud noise that came from the bathroom. You feel something trickle down your chin and move your hand up to wipe it. Drool. You close the app and lock your phone in shame. You can’t believe you were actually drooling over an eight second video of Pedro. God you were pathetic. 

“Sorry about that, I dropped my blush and it went all over the place.” Stacy says as she exits the bathroom wearing a floor length dark red gown. “You ready to head out?” She asks, slipping on a pair of black heels. You nod and do the same. You both take a moment to look at yourselves in the large mirror that covers most of the hallway wall. 

“Mhm, we look good as fuck.” She licks her finger and makes a sizzle sound as she places the wet finger on the curve of her butt. You giggle and grab your phone from the entryway table. “Let’s take a pic for insta.” You say excitedly. You both pick a pose and you snap the picture, posting it on your story with a simple caption: ‘dinner time 😋’. 

One of the things you adored about Stacy is that she didn’t care about your status in the world outside of her job. She let you enjoy the simple things in life when it was possible. When you wanted to uber or take a taxi, she never complained. You got tired of always taking private cars when it wasn’t necessary, you craved normality. The uber ride to the restaurant was a quiet one, each of you staring out of your respected window, soaking in the reality of being in London. 

The restaurant was gorgeous with high painted ceilings resembling the ones found in the Sistine Chapel and you now understood why this place was so booked. Outside of the beautiful interior, the service and drinks were phenomenal. As the waiter was walking away from taking your food order, you sipped on a perfectly sweet martini. Stacy and yourself were making light conversation about a meeting you had with a brand when her eyes caught onto something behind you. 

“You’re not gonna believe who is walking over here right now.” Stacy says with a hint of mischief in her eyes. Before you can question her, there’s a familiar voice behind you. 

“Good Evening ladies.” There’s a warm hand on your bare shoulder and when you look up, Pedro is already looking down at you. 

“Hi Pedro, it’s funny running into you again.. or rather you running into me, I should say.” You joke and move a hand to meet him on your shoulder for a moment before both hands return to their person. “Oh! Pedro, this is Stacy, my assistant slash best friend.” You look over to Stacy for a moment. 

“Hi. It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you recently.” Stacy says while shaking Pedro’s hand. If looks could kill, the one you were giving Stacy would have made her explode. 

“Oh, have you now?” Pedro glances down at you and lets out a small chuckle. “It’s nice meeting you as well.” There’s a brief pause in conversation. 

“You know, I’m kinda offended that you just now followed me on instagram and not when we first met.” You regret your words as soon as you say them but your mouth always works faster than your brain. It earns a small laugh. 

“Hm, I should have then. Guess I just didn’t wanna step on anyone’s toes darlin’.” You want to ask him what he means but he’s already speaking again before you get the chance to. “Well, I should get out of your hair. I recognized your dress and wanted to come say hi. It was really nice seeing you again…again.” He laughs after adding the second again, joking about the fact he said the exact same thing to you just over 24 hours ago. You blush. 

“It was nice seeing you again…again as well.” You add, letting your own laugh slip out. He gives Stacy and yourself a small ‘bye’ before returning to his table. Once he’s out of earshot, Stacy is quick to burst out laughing. 

“He’s so fucking into you. God…I mean he said he memorized your dress from your 15 second long story for fucks sake.” The tables close by give her a few rude looks from her outburst but you could care less, the realization of Stacy’s words settling in. 

The rest of the dinner was very tame, the food was good and you felt woozy from the martinis you’d been downing. Stacy let you know half way through the dinner that she had a perfect view of Pedro from her seat and that he kept glancing over every few minutes. It made you giddy to think that he might have been looking at you and if you begged Stacy to trade seats, that’s nobody's business. 

When you got back to the hotel, you immediately stripped from your heels and dress. Laying in bed, you opened instagram one more time and scrolled through all the likes on the story. As you scrolled nothing really caught your eye until you saw that username and the words from earlier rang in your ear. 

“I recognized your dress and wanted to come say hi.”

You got up and went across the hallways towards Stacy’s room door in your shared hotel suite. You knock softly. 

“Hey Stacy…” Your voice is shy, feeling bad about disturbing her so late. 

“What’s up babe?” She’s leaning back on a mountain of pillows as she scrolls on her phone and eats a bag of chips. You lean into the doorframe. 

“What do you think Pedro meant when he said he didn’t follow me because he didn’t wanna step on anyone’s toes?” You had a feeling you knew what he meant but you needed a second opinion before you spiraled. Stacy smiles and laughs a bit. 

“Hugh, babe. He didn’t follow you because of Hugh. He didn’t wanna feel like a threat to your relationship.”

thank you for reading! feel free to leave feedback in a comment, private message, or in my ask box!

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[metalmonki]

Supernatural, Hunting, Living and Love Part 20 Finale

Dean Winchester x fem!reader

4.7k word count

fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers

warnings none

Authors Note: We've reached the end!

Original / Previous Chapter

The days blurred together in a haze of crying—sometimes the babies, sometimes her. Most of the time, it was both.

Y/N dragged herself from one moment to the next, barely hanging on, snapping at anyone who dared try to help. She didn’t care that everyone meant well. Didn’t care that Theresa gently offered to take one of the girls so she could rest, or that Sam would cook and leave meals outside her door, uneaten and cold. She didn’t want help. She didn’t want them.

She wanted Dean.

Her girls—Mary and Jody—deserved to know him. Deserved his rough voice humming lullabies, his arms rocking them to sleep, his wide grin when one of them smiled for the first time. But he was gone. And pretending otherwise only made the ache worse.

She kept the nursery pristine, almost obsessively so. Every bottle in its place, every onesie folded just right. The twins were fed, changed, held, and loved. But not once did she hand them over to anyone else, even when her hands trembled from exhaustion. They were all she had left of Dean, and she wouldn’t let them go.

Mornings were the worst. She would wake with one or both babies curled against her, and for a split second, she’d roll over expecting to find Dean beside her. And every time, that moment of Jody shattered like glass.

She’d sit up, hold the girls tighter, and pretend she hadn’t cried again.

It was sometime after midnight when the knock came. Not loud. Just a soft, almost hesitant tap at the door.

Y/N didn’t answer.

She was on the floor beside the crib, one arm resting against it, cradling Mary to her chest while Jody slept in the bassinet behind her. Her body throbbed with fatigue, her shoulders tight from days of tension, but nothing compared to the ache in her chest. The empty space beside her—where Dean should have been—felt unbearable.

Another knock. Then, silence.

“Y/N,” came Castiel’s voice—quiet, careful.

She shut her eyes, jaw tightening.

“Go away.”

But the door opened anyway. Of course it did. Angels didn’t need permission.

Castiel stepped inside, his presence soft but undeniable. He moved slowly into the dim room, scanning the shadows until his gaze landed on her. She didn’t bother to look up.

“You haven’t left this room in four days,” he said.

“I’m aware.”

“You’re not eating. You’re barely sleeping. The girls—”

“What I need is Dean,” she cut him off, sharply. “Not you. Not a report on how I’m doing. Not this constant hovering.”

Castiel didn’t move. “Dean is gone.”

She turned her head toward him, her eyes blazing despite the exhaustion carved into her face.

“And you can just go see him, can’t you?” she said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “You can just pop into Heaven like it’s nothing. Visit him. Talk to him. While I’m stuck here—trapped—with two babies and no answers.”

Castiel’s expression faltered.

“Don’t deny it. Don’t lie to me,” she pressed, her voice cracking. “I know what you are. I know what you can do. And yet you come here with your sympathy like that’s supposed to make it better.”

“I didn’t go to see him,” Castiel said quietly. “Not once. Because I knew it would be unfair to you.”

Y/N laughed bitterly under her breath, tears welling. “Unfair to me? He’s your friend too, Cas. Don’t pretend it doesn’t eat you alive. But at least you can. You could just walk through those gates and see his face again. Hear his voice. I would give everything for that. Do you even realize what that kind of power means to someone like me?”

Castiel looked down, then slowly crossed the room. He didn’t touch her—he never did without permission—but he knelt beside her, his tone solemn.

“I hear him in Heaven,” he admitted. “Not his voice. Not like before. But the peace? The light? It’s stronger when a soul like his is there. I feel it. It radiates outward.”

Her face crumpled. “Then tell me he’s okay. Please, just—tell me he’s happy.”

Castiel’s eyes softened. “He is. He is more at peace than I have ever seen him. But he misses you. He misses you and the girls. That pain lingers, even in a perfect place.”

A sob escaped before she could stop it. Mary stirred, whimpering, and Y/N instinctively hushed her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m drowning down here,” she whispered. “I can’t do this without him.”

“You are doing it,” Castiel said gently. “And not alone.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter how many people are around. None of them are him.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they love you. And so did he. So does he. That love hasn’t left you, Y/N. It’s in every breath your daughters take.”

She didn’t respond for a long time. Just sat there, rocking Mary slightly, the pain raw and exposed between them.

“Stay,” she said finally. “Just for a while. Not because I need help. Just… don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Castiel replied.

And for the first time since Dean died, Y/N let someone stay.

The descent was gradual—so slow that at first, no one noticed.

Y/N stopped sleeping entirely. She only ate enough to keep up her strength for the twins. And when they slept, she didn't. Instead, she read. She read until her eyes burned and her fingers trembled from turning pages.

Every book in the Men of Letters library on angels, resurrection, lore from apocryphal texts, fragments from Heaven’s war, rare Nephilim accounts—she devoured it all. A growing storm of theories and possibilities formed in her mind, fraying at the edges with every passing day.

She stopped seeing Sam and Theresa, stopped letting them into her room. She only emerged to feed the girls, bathe them, rock them. And then she disappeared again, always clutching another volume.

The girls were thriving, healthy and strong—but their mother was unraveling.

Then came the night Castiel appeared again.

He had felt it—the pulse of her energy across the bunker like a beacon, unrefined and full of intent. He found her standing in the war room, her hair unbrushed, circles under her eyes, books scattered across the table in a chaos that had once been meticulously organized.

"You knew," she said as he stepped closer. Her voice was low and brittle, like a fraying wire stretched too tight. "All this time, you knew. You can bring him back."

Cas stiffened. “Y/N—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, slamming a book down. “I’ve read it all. The Enochian rites. The resurrection rituals. The divine exceptions made during the Fall. Even the lore on Nephilim interference. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend it’s impossible.”

He moved slowly toward her, hands at his sides, calm and cautious. “There are rules.”

“You’re an angel,” she spat. “You break rules. That’s what you do. You raised Dean before, didn’t you? You pulled him from Hell.”

“That was Heaven’s will,” Castiel replied. “I was ordered to. Now? There is no order. No divine instruction. I cannot act on emotion alone.”

“Then lie,” she whispered. “Lie to them. Trick the Host. Steal him out if you have to. You’ve done worse, Cas. You’ve done so much worse for less.”

He stepped closer, voice softening. “You don’t understand what it would cost.”

“I don’t care,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’d give anything. I’d die right here, right now, if it meant he could hold his daughters.”

Castiel’s face twisted in quiet agony. “Y/N—”

“You get to see him,” she snapped. “You walk in and out of Heaven like it’s a hallway. You get to know he’s safe. You get to feel his peace. And me? I get nothing. I get to hear his voice in my dreams and wake up with my arms empty.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/N’s breath came in hard, shallow gasps. She clutched the edge of the war table like it was the only thing holding her up. Her mind raced with every word she’d read, every ritual that might be twisted into a loophole.

“You owe me,” she said. “You owe him. Bring him back, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes shimmered, but he didn’t speak.

“I swear to you,” she said, voice cracking, “I’ll find another way. If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself. I don’t care if I have to summon every goddamned archangel in existence. I’m not raising them alone. I won’t.”

The twins cried from down the hall.

Castiel turned his head, just slightly—toward the sound, toward the reminder of what Dean left behind.

“I will not desecrate his peace,” he said quietly. “Not even for you.”

Y/N stared at him, her face crumpling, fury collapsing into anguish.

“Then leave,” she whispered.

He did.

And she stood in the center of the war room, books scattered like broken promises around her feet, and let herself fall apart.

…

Castiel entered Heaven not with ceremony, but with solemn weight.

He stepped through the veil in silence, the hum of celestial energy thrumming faintly in the distance. Heaven had changed since Jack's ascension. The cold bureaucracy of the old Host was gone, replaced by something softer—more open, more human.

But even still, some doors were not meant to be opened lightly.

Castiel stood in the Garden—Heaven’s heart, where souls wandered freely beneath ever-blooming trees and gentle sunlight. Everything here was serene. Peaceful.

Except for him.

Jack was already waiting. He sat barefoot in the grass beneath an arching willow, sunlight dancing on his skin. He looked young, impossibly young for someone bearing the mantle of God. But his eyes—his eyes held eternity.

“I knew you’d come,” Jack said quietly, not looking up. “You’ve been wrestling with the question since the moment Dean died.”

Castiel didn’t speak right away. His trench coat barely stirred in the celestial breeze. He watched Jack closely, searching his face for a trace of the boy he once knew—the child he raised, protected, mourned.

“Y/N is falling apart,” Castiel said at last.

Jack nodded, fingers idly brushing the petals of a flower near his knee. “She’s grieving. And she’s not alone in that.”

“She’s beyond grief now. She’s... desperate.” Cas took a slow step forward. “She’s reading resurrection rites, apocryphal scrolls. She’s going to burn herself out trying to find a way. She thinks I’m holding back. And maybe I am.”

Jack’s gaze met his then—gentle, but immeasurably ancient. “Are you asking me for permission? Or for power?”

Castiel swallowed. “Both.”

Silence hung between them, thick and sacred.

“I could bring Dean back,” Jack said, voice steady. “With a word, I could restore his body. His soul. His memories. He could walk back into that bunker like nothing ever happened.”

Cas felt a flicker of hope, painful and sharp.

“But,” Jack continued, “there is a balance. Dean died fulfilling his purpose. He died at peace, surrounded by love. To bring him back would mean unraveling that final thread.”

“He didn’t get to meet his daughters,” Cas said. “He didn’t get to live the life he earned. That wasn’t peace—it was unfinished.”

Jack looked away again, toward a distant hill where a soul wandered alone, humming some long-forgotten tune.

“Sometimes peace isn’t a full story,” Jack said. “It’s a quiet ending. And sometimes love means letting go.”

Castiel stepped forward, his voice quieter now. “She’s drowning, Jack. The girls—Dean’s daughters—will grow up without knowing him. If there is a way, if there’s even a chance... I have to ask. What would it take?”

Jack was silent for a long time. The wind whispered through the Garden, and for a moment, everything was still.

Jack looked up at him again. “It would take sacrifice. A life for a life. Or something greater. Dean’s return would echo across realms—it would upset the natural order, fracture the peace of countless souls. He would not come back without cost.”

Castiel stood still, the quiet words settling over him like snowfall. He understood. He had always understood.

He looked at Jack—really looked at him. The boy who had become God. The child he had raised. The one who had once looked to him for guidance, for love, for identity.

Now Castiel looked with nothing but certainty.

Jack didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

And Castiel didn’t speak. He only bowed his head.

Just once.

A silent agreement passed between them—wordless, sacred, irreversible.

The wind in the Garden shifted.

The light grew warmer.

Jack closed his eyes.

And Castiel disappeared.

…

The night air was cold, biting at my skin as I stood in the center of the old crossroads.

It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made you feel like the world was holding its breath, watching you with wide, unblinking eyes. The box in my hands felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Inside it, every piece of me I had left to give. Dirt crusted my boots. My hands shook.

I was really going to do this.

I fell to my knees, digging. Just like the books had said. Four corners. Unmarked earth. Blood if needed.

I wasn’t afraid. Not of the demon. Not of the deal. Not of what it would cost.

Dean was gone. And there wasn’t anything left of me without him.

The girls were safe. Sam and Theresa were doing everything right. But I couldn’t do this anymore—pretending like my soul wasn’t already six feet under with him. I needed him back. I needed to be whole again.

I pressed the box into the earth. A tear slid down my cheek as I whispered the words.

But before the last syllable left my lips, the air cracked like thunder.

Grace.

The light around me shimmered with gold.

“Don’t,” came a voice, quiet and calm but firm as iron.

I spun around, stumbling to my feet.

“Cas—” I nearly choked on the name.

He stood just outside the circle, trench coat fluttering, face drawn tight with something I couldn’t place. Grief. Resolve. Love.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You were never meant to.”

My voice cracked. “Then who was? Who’s supposed to live like this—raising his daughters without him? Pretending everything’s fine when I feel like I’m drowning every second of the day? I need him, Cas.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” I snapped. “You can go to Heaven. You can see him. I’ve read every book in the library. I know you can visit. And yet you let me rot down here with nothing but memories. You let the girls grow up never knowing their father!”

Cas didn’t flinch. He just walked closer.

“I did visit,” he said softly. “And I spoke with Jack.”

I froze.

“What?”

He looked at me then, and something passed between us—something deep and ancient. The kind of weight only an angel could carry.

“You were never meant to carry this pain alone. And you won’t have to for much longer.”

I stared at him, hope and fear clashing violently inside my chest. “What are you saying?”

“I can’t promise when. Or how. But I made a vow. To Jack. To Dean. To you. And soon… you won’t have to call the dark things anymore.”

My knees gave out. I dropped to the ground, sobbing into the dirt. The box spilled beside me, its contents scattering—photographs, Dean’s amulet, his old flask.

Castiel knelt beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

“I will not let you be alone forever,” he said.

For the first time in weeks, I believed him.

…

The sun was just starting to rise, washing the sky in soft strokes of pink and orange when Cas brought me to the house.

It didn’t feel real.

Two stories. White shutters. A little porch swing that creaked softly in the breeze. There were flowerbeds, already blooming, and a patch of wild green yard out back that looked big enough for the girls to run wild in.

It looked like something out of someone else’s life—somewhere safe. Somewhere still.

“Where are we?” I asked, voice thin, like I was afraid speaking too loud might break whatever fragile thing was happening.

Cas didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the house with that quiet reverence he sometimes got when he looked at the sky or talked about humanity. Then he turned to me.

“This is your home now. Yours, the girls’, and Dean’s.”

The world stopped moving.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke to Jack,” Cas said, stepping closer, his voice soft but sure. “We reached an agreement.”

I could barely breathe. “Dean…?”

Cas nodded. “He’s coming back. But there’s a condition.”

My heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Anything.”

“You and Dean have to let go of hunting. No demons. No ghosts. No monsters. You live a normal life. This house is warded, protected by Jack’s power. No supernatural being can enter without your permission.”

My knees went weak. I grabbed the porch railing to steady myself.

“A normal life?” I whispered, like I didn’t quite understand the words.

“You raise your daughters. You rest. You heal. Dean gets to be a father, and you get to be with him again. But this is your only chance. If either of you return to hunting… the deal ends.”

I didn’t respond. I just stared at the front door like maybe if I looked hard enough, I’d see Dean stepping through it already. Alive. Whole. Real.

Cas placed a hand on my arm. “He’ll be here soon.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until he gently wiped a tear from my cheek. I turned and looked up at him.

“Why?” I asked. “Why did Jack say yes?”

Cas hesitated. “Because he saw you. Saw what this grief was doing. And because Dean—he earned peace a thousand times over.”

“And you?”

Cas offered a faint smile. “I believe in second chances. Even for the broken.”

I nodded, unable to speak. My chest felt cracked open, all the pain and rage and ache pouring out, replaced with something softer. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in months:

Hope.

Cas gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Go inside.”

I opened the door and stepped into a home that already smelled faintly like cedar and lemon. There was furniture—simple, warm, familiar. Two bassinets sat by the window, facing the sunlight. The couch had a dent in it, like someone had already spent time curled up there. There were picture frames on the wall—empty now, but waiting.

Waiting for a life to begin.

And then I heard it.

Footsteps on the porch.

My heart slammed into my ribs, and I turned so fast the world blurred.

The door creaked. The air shifted.

And there he was.

Dean.

His eyes locked on mine, and everything inside me broke and stitched itself back together in the same breath. He looked exactly like I remembered—tired eyes, crooked smirk, soul-deep weariness tucked behind every glance—but alive. So vividly alive.

He crossed the room in two strides and wrapped his arms around me. I clung to him like I’d never let go again. My hands tangled in his shirt. His lips pressed against my temple.

“I missed you,” he murmured, voice rough.

“I love you,” I breathed.

He pulled back just enough to cup my face. “I love you too.”

Outside, the sky kept shifting, the world kept spinning.

But inside our little house, time finally stood still.

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion. Everything around me—Dean, the house, the air itself—was just… perfect. The kind of perfect you don’t ever really expect to happen in your lifetime, but here it was. Here he was.

Dean.

He was holding me, holding on like he wasn’t sure if he could, like maybe he’d disappear again if he let go. But he didn’t. We just stood there, breathing each other in, feeling the weight of the moment settle around us like a soft blanket.

“Dean,” I whispered, pulling back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he said, voice thick, like he couldn’t believe it either. “I’m not going anywhere.”

My fingers trembled as I reached out to touch his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw as if making sure this wasn’t some dream I’d wake up from. “We’re really doing this. We’re really—”

Dean’s lips pressed to mine, cutting off the words I didn’t know how to finish. When he pulled back, I could see it in his eyes—the promise, the relief. “We are. You and me, and the girls.” His voice dropped a little, as if the weight of it hit him too. “We’re a family.”

Tears burned my eyes again. This time, they weren’t from grief—they were from something deeper, something quieter. I nodded, feeling it in every part of me. “Yeah. We are.”

And then, like a gift, like a miracle, the sound of tiny coos filled the air. The soft gurgling noise that was both a question and an answer, coming from the other room.

“Come on,” I whispered, taking his hand and tugging him toward the nursery.

His steps faltered just slightly, but he followed. We passed through the living room, where the sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow on everything, and into the room where our daughters were sleeping soundly in their cribs.

Dean paused in the doorway, his breath catching as his gaze landed on them. The twins—our girls—lay there in the soft pink blankets we’d picked out weeks ago. Their tiny faces were peaceful, round, perfect.

I stepped into the room, guiding Dean with me. Slowly, he approached the first crib where one of the girls lay. His hand hovered just above her, like he wasn’t sure how to touch her, but then he reached down, his fingers brushing gently against the baby’s tiny hand.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, looking up at me, his face full of awe.

“You’re going to be a great dad,” I said, voice thick with emotion. “They’re going to know how loved they are.”

Dean’s lips trembled, his eyes shining with something I hadn’t seen in so long. “I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting to be their father.”

I stepped beside him, wrapping my arm around his waist, and together we looked down at the girls, at our daughters. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and I knew mine was matching his beat for beat.

And then, Dean did something I’ll never forget. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the forehead of the girl in the crib. He whispered something, so soft, so tender, that I could barely hear it, but I knew what it was.

“I’ll always be here, baby girl. Always.”

And just like that, the world shifted. The pain, the loss, the years of fighting, of struggling—all of it seemed so far away in that moment. Because in front of us, right there, was everything we’d ever wanted. A family. A home. A future.

Dean stepped back, standing straight again, but still keeping his eyes on the twins. “They’re gonna be alright, right?” he asked, as though it was the only question that mattered.

“They’re going to be perfect,” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. “Just like you.”

We stood there together for a while, just watching them sleep. The sound of their breathing filled the room, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby that was just for us. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of peace. In the possibility of something real.

For the first time in a long time, I felt whole.

…

It’s strange how life has a way of weaving moments together. The simple, everyday things that used to feel like they were just part of the grind—things I didn’t even notice—now feel like a blessing.

Like the soft click of the front door opening and closing. Like the way the air smells after a spring rain, fresh and clean. Like the sound of tiny feet shuffling on the hardwood floor.

And then there’s Dean.

Every moment with him feels precious now. The way he moves around the house, the way he looks at me as though he can’t quite believe we’re here, together. It’s like we’re both waiting for something—waiting for the world to remind us that this is real. But I don’t need a reminder anymore.

We’ve settled into a routine, something I never thought I’d have. Dean helps with the twins when he’s not working on the house, and we’ve even started making plans for things we never thought we’d get to do.

Like a trip to the beach.

“Alright, baby,” Dean says, his voice rough with exhaustion but soft with love, as he reaches for one of the babies from the crib. “Let’s get you ready for your bath, huh?”

I watch him from the doorway, my heart swelling in my chest. His hands are steady as he lifts our daughter into his arms, cradling her with such care that I can hardly believe how far we’ve come. His touch is gentle, like he’s still learning how to be her dad, but he’s getting better every day.

When he looks up at me, his eyes are full of warmth. “You doing okay?”

I nod, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

Dean walks toward me, his steps slow and deliberate as he carries the baby. “You sure you’re okay? It’s been a lot, I know.”

I smile softly, feeling the weight of the words in my chest. “I’m better now. I just… I never thought I’d get to see this. Us. Together. Our girls.”

He stops in front of me, his free hand reaching out to touch my face. “Me neither,” he admits, his voice quieter. “But here we are.”

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to just feel. To feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the promise of a future we thought was lost.

Dean presses his lips to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

I open my eyes and look up at him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe him. I believe in us.

We’re a family now. And nothing—no matter what came before, no matter what might come next—could change that.

The sound of the babies gurgling softly in the other room pulls me back into the present. Dean looks toward the nursery, and we both share a quiet laugh. It’s a laugh that says we’re in this together, no matter what.

“We should probably get them fed,” I say, my voice light, teasing.

Dean smirks. “I’m on it. But you’re doing the diapers.”

I raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. “Oh, so we’re trading roles now?”

“You bet,” Dean says, the grin on his face wide and full of that familiar cocky charm. “But you’re better at it. Trust me.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Alright, alright. I’ll take it this time.”

Dean chuckles, and as he walks away, I watch him with a softness in my chest. It’s a feeling I never thought I’d get to have again. Not after everything.

We’re here. We’re safe. And I know, deep down, that we’ll be okay. We’ll face whatever comes next together. As a family.

“Ready for this?” I ask as he turns back to look at me, baby in his arms.

Dean smiles. “Always.”

And with that, we walk into the next chapter of our lives. Together. No more demons. No more hunts. Just us and our girls, building a life we never thought we’d have.

And I know now, more than ever, that this is where I was meant to be.