#me: cracks my knuckles and prepares to write up a character's

[michipan]

sfw link ^^

(cracks knuckles) ok so lemme tell you. from the moment i saw this event's masterlist, i was HOOKED by your fic. mean slytherin kai??? YES PLEASE??? gave myself a moment to sit down and really enjoy this fic so i could give you a proper review soooo… prepare yourself, because im completely normal! ^^

starting off with the smut being in his pov… ouuuu yes i love. i can’t remember the last time i read smut in the male lead’s pov, this was so interesting and refreshing (also i couldn’t help but get stuck on the fact that you used “cloying”. such a cool word just wanted to tell you!) but christ… what an opening scene!! this was such a good choice on your part, so many things were told about his character right off the bat— his refusal for intimacy when literally having sex, the degrading way he regards this girl, his dominance… oh lord i was squealing and kicking my feet!!! the fact that he physically pushed down this girl’s hand when she tried to kiss him??? ohhohohohoho ur so good… calling it a line he never crosses�� AND WHEN HE WENT “should I?” AHHHHH i can’t. he’s so cold and arrogant and i LOVE IT

“She can’t let him be the one to leave first, not tonight.” im not gonna get into it too much right now because it’s gonna come LATER, but it’s crazy how such small details like these manage to encapsulate your characters so much. it’s like you know all your characters like the back of your hand, im enamoured…

“He strides through the grand halls with the effortless poise of someone who believes the castle itself was built for him.” this sentence. DO YOU KNOW IM CRAZY??? so good so yummy i can imagine him so perfectly… you’re so good at setting the tone, you make it seem effortless; the same goes for status, i absolutely adore that you go into small details like his pristine clothes, the way people react when he passes, the way kai doesn’t regard them— it really sells the whole idea that kai is above everyone, i love it!! EVEN MORE SO when he tries to intimidate a gryffindor, just to get a reaction out of him?? it’s like he needs to prove himself every chance he gets, and the fact that he gets so disappointed when he doesn’t get the reaction he wants is soooo…. fawk… i was a little intimidated… i was a little scared…

your writing is just so??? good??? you keep pulling out imagery left and right and it stuns me because it’s all so unique and not repetitive at all, which is so difficult to do! i love the little motifs that recur throughout (blades, cracks, blood, rot, etc) and how you manage to keep it fresh every time! I read “he could see the ache written in the curve of her back” and immediately ran to my notes to be like “woah!!! me like!!” and TRUST i will be pointing out the other ones i liked!!!

oh also him pretending like he didnt gaf and didn’t want to see mc was so funny to me. he’s just going “i have no choice, i don’t want to see this, idgaf!!” over and over just to get so entranced by her is so akdhadggk okay man. keep telling yourself you don’t care. (btw that whole sequence was SOOOO good!!!)

getting introduced to jay and chaweon was so interesting… i love getting thrown in a situation and be given the context later its my favorite kind of storytelling… it makes everything feel much more intense and trust, my hatred for chaewon is indeed INTENSE!!! when she called??? mc??? DIRTY???? oh i SCREAMED CAUSE HUH!!! but god, this interaction being the way the readers get the mc’s backstory… so delicious. again, you have the ability to set up tone/mood so nicely, and your imagery just amps that up to a 100. “You were the one who showed up on the doorstep with nothing but a trunk and a name no one knew how to say.” you are just so fucking cruel, you know twisting the knife inside of someone after stabbing them is just overkill!!! the fact that her life is just so rough that she even wishes she never got the letter is just so telling…

“Not the muggle-born mistake among children who made spells sing on their tongues, while yours stuttered, cracked, and bled.” this is just perfection. such an intense contrast that shows how the mc perceives herself,,, im giving you a kiss. right now.

MEETING JAY WAS SO. im just gonna repeat myself, but i just love the deliverance in your wording when it comes to certain characters, whether it be introducing them/giving them dialogue. his dismissiveness toward the mc, him laughing at her unease, his dialogue?? oh it’s so telling and i was immediately wary of him… “I wanna be with you. Do that thing with you.”/ “If you really liked me, you’d do it too. You know?” I can just hear that stupid arrogant tone as if what he’s saying is the most obvious thing… good job! I hate him. 💗

HIS PERSISTENCE. THE REVEAL THAT IT WAS ALL A BET. OUHHHHH IM RAGING I HATE THIS GUY!!! him trying to chase after her and asking to talk is such a slap in the face (haha) like??? oh WHO IS YOU!! (also let me tell you the sentence “his form clinging to your shadow” is so fucking cool. just imagining him trying to grab her but not being close enough… your imagery breathes life into this fic)

the switch to kai…. oh 💞💞💞 i can’t i just love his character so effing much. the way he perceives the mc, the way he watches her… the way he grins 🤤 i need him soooooo bad its not even funny. the way he sees her crying and gets HORRNNNNEEEY like wtf do you mean you wanna be the one to make her cry instead($^(#^)& UNDER HIS??? HANDS???MOUTH??NAME??? EXCUSE ME!!? (yes PLEASE!)

this little opposites attract moment you have with kai and mc is just so interesting because of how intense it is, and holy fucking shit i cannot believe i just came to this realization while i typed this up im so fawking dumb: kai’s upbringing was so meticulous, crafted into the perfect leader, someone who can charm his way through anything but can still control the room with a single glance… he was given a formula, given the world, given more attention than he knows what to do with; he’s calm, collected, perfect. and then the mc… is quite literally his counterpart. no family (she’s an orphan right? or rather, adopted? did i pick that up correctly?) mistreated and ignored, forced to care after herself and figure out life, which inevitably flipped itself on its head when she was accepted into hogwarts, a complete 180 from her muggle life.. a storm of trauma and emotions she doesn’t know how to regulate, with powers that are way out of her league [or so she deems] unapologetically herself, unapologetically imperfect. it’s no wonder kai would be drawn to her, she’s everything he’s never been allowed to be!

when kai decides to chase after her, “like a shadow stretching to meet its mark.” (let me just say, the same metaphor for jay and kai, only one is clinging and the other is stretching out? come on. you’re joking.) ouuuu you. you you you you you when i get my hands on you!!! so interesting how the mc knows she’s being followed, and kai doesn’t really care about being subtle?? their dynamic is just so interesting, and kai is so forward it makes me squeal… “The wind caught your hair, brushing it across your cheek. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out and touch it, feel if it was as soft as it looked, feel if you would flinch.” TO FEEL IF YOU WOULD FLINCH YEOOOWWWW HOW INTENSE!!! this whole interaction was just perfection. crazy first (official) meeting, but hell yeah! 

people whispering how dare she? for beating the shit outta jay… grrrr we lowkey gotta kill them. mc not explaining herself bc she knew no one would care anyway… oh we gotta bomb the school! (too much? sorry.) also, i would love to learn more about mc and her powers; i know it was already pretty well established in this fic in regards of what they are and her struggles with them, but i just find it so interesting… something that has the potential to bring her to the top yet is frowned upon, alienates her, and she tries to suppress… i just find it so interesting, along with chaewon’s (ex)friendship with the mc! so much worldbuilding… me love. oh, and her snap at chaewon?? “I have power. You just have a last name.” YESSSSS QUEEN!!! oh everyone cheered. clapped. whistled. screamed, even.

AND KAIS ENTRANCE UGGGGHHHHHHH 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 YOU ARE SO CRUEL FOR MAKING HIM SO FUCKING HOT the fact the you wrote that he was STAKING HIS CLAIM MEOWWWWW im a melted puddle of kai brainrot you cannot be doing this to me its just. not fair!! also why the hell is this man saying he “didn’t do it for me”??? is there a secret third person getting bullied by chaewon in this room that we just didn’t know about?? 

but ough… mc finally breaking down after having to pretend to be strong… this poor girl.. can i just say, despite you mentioning previously that kai was taught to listen and look into someone’s eyes while thinking a million different things, this didn’t feel like that at all… it was just such a raw and intimate moment, the fact that hueningkai didn’t try to use some flowery language to comfort her, didn’t do anything unnecessary,, but just stood there… just to be there. and the kiss… and the fact that it had yet to develop any passion, bc hueningkai is just so confused on why he’s so drawn to her,, “He tasted like someone who hadn’t felt anything in years and hated that you made him want to” god its like you want me to kill myself i hate you. him also being shaken by the kiss… just to tell her to stop crying bc it ruins her face 😭😭😭 god i love him. I LOVE HIM!!!

my goodness, you really did your big one with this fucking character. i love when kai is written in a more cold manner, it’s such a weakness for me; i love that you made him soooo forward, it’s so ridiculously hot. he knows what he wants and doesn’t care that they have different statuses, which is sooo incredibly HOT?? i wondered if it would be a dilemma between the two (as if he’d be repulsed by her or reluctant to chase after her) but the fact that it’s not is SO REFRESHING you have no idea!! him just following her around like a guard dog…. dude my knees are weak. i need to shake you by the shoulders and scream at you so you can realize what this man is doing to me. 

the scene where the mc was having a panic attack was so !!! important to me !!! kai doing something as simple as feeling her pulse and telling her to continue walking with him…. then holding her hand… oh em gee… need that… also yunjin coming up to her after and asking if she was kai’s gf.. and not being super mean and jealous ?! again,,, this is like a breath of fresh air.. it’s not like i hate cliches (love them) but i also find it interesting when you’re just met with the unexpected… like. yunjin’s chill as fuck! okay queen! saying he’s obsessed with the mc… 😖 and calling him unwell LMFAO she’s so chill i wasn’t familiar with her game…

“I’m ambitious,” she said. “And if being ambitious makes me a bad person… then I guess I’m a Slytherin.” this line is so crazy good i ate that shit UPPPP i always think abt that trope where it’s like. idk how to explain it… people that know they’re bitches are more real/better than a person who hides behind a fake persona and tries to convince themselves they’re not rotted… idk. yunjin reminds me of that. 

now lets get to this final scene shall we… everything about this was genuinely perfect. i loved hearing kai talk about his upbringing, talk about how cruel it was but not seeing it that way bc yk… it’s what he grew up with. “He sounded like someone explaining the weather. Like grief was just another season he’d already lived through.” you and that fucking figurative language i cannot believe you just write this shit down like nothing i cant STAND YOU (marry me? ^^)

“I look for you when you’re not around.” DO YOU KNOW IM CRAZY??? IM HUNTING YOU DOWN!!!!

the smut…. im speechless…. kai constantly asking for consent FAWWKKKKK GRRRRRRR I CANT DEAL WITH THIS. YOU CAN TELL ME TO STOP ANYTIME>????A{OEGT&)&)U JJST FUCKING. SHOOT ME!!! “Here?” / “You want me here?” HES SOOOOO>??!>!$@$ im malfunctioning. NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED GIMME GIVE ME HIM NOW

the teasing. the dirty talk. him being a fawking EATTERRRRR MEOWWWWW

HIM CONSTANTLY. FUCKING. KISSING HER. EVERYWHERE. HE JUST. CANT STOP. KISSING HER. DO YOU KNOW. IM FUCKING CRAZY. YOU HAVE THREE DAYS. 

everything about that was just so sweet… so good and charged with emotions and pining, the way they lingered around each other, meticulously cleaning up not because it needed to be perfect, but because it meant having an excuse to stay longer…

the callback to the mc fixing the bed, focused on symmetry. him not caring about it and instead being fixated solely on her. oh FUCK YOU!!!

“Why would you change for me?”

“Because you made me want to,”

oh sigh…. i need to be institutionalized after this. this was just so… soooo perfect… (but also can i say it’s interesting that kai’s first instinct is to mold himself completely around her? it really is all he knows, in a way… it’s okay to be you kai…) BUT ALSO i can recognize the sweetness and adoration that comes with wanting to be like your partner, wanting to understand them more in order to reach a better closeness. i just love overanalyzing ! 

ALRIGHT now let me move onto these following quotes that i just found so interesting and that i wanted to talk about on their own!

“you didn’t notice the silence blooming around you like mold.”  / “boys with bloodlines like poisoned roots” /  “Screw this whole bloody castle and the way it always stank of legacy and rot.” / “A boy born with a silver knife in his mouth,” /  “You felt too much. You burned too brightly. You cracked in places he didn’t understand. You cried like it meant something. You fought like the world still owed you something soft.”

i just wanted to dive a little further into the whole “you have motifs that keep appearing in your figurative language for each character” thing, because this is truly so interesting and (in my personal opinion) a huge standout in your writing! (or at least, this fic? i’ll have to read more of your works to prove this theory… hehe) like how the mc is constantly associated with rot/ruin/cracks, and how kai is always associated with silver/blades ? (THE FACT THAT YOU USED SILVER BLADE INSTEAD OF SILVER SPOON YOURE A GENIUSSS)  and how the themes of power and legacy are also associated with rot/decay… and how there’s a lot of recurring metaphors of blood… i can’t it really is just so amazing to read and pick up on. it just sets up this subconscious premise in the reader’s mind on how they should feel about certain things, gives them physical imagery/ imagery that appeals to the senses and just really elevates the feelings one gets… idk, the fact that you used blooming like mold is so crazy to me. how do you come up with this?? were you blessed by the gods? i hope you know that at some point, i just started cussing you out in my notes. 

okay! let me just say, despite my really, really aggressive review and reactions, i loved this story!! so much!!! i truly think you’re such an incredibly talented writer, you have such a good grasp on imagery and your characters that you manage to intertwine both and elevate your story so much more. the plot was absolutely perfect, im such a sucker for jaded characters like kai, your fic had me hooked from the day it was announced, and i was so excited to see that it was finally out! i’ll add a final comment on the playlist; i was so surprised to see that it went for a much softer, loving sound, but i truly think it fits. it’s so gentle and just added to that yearning that we got in the fic… 10/10, amazing. (die for you, paramore, and w2e in one playlist?? Oh, your mind…) i enjoyed this fic sooooo soso much, i wish i were hit in the head and given memory loss so i could experience this for the first time again. amazing work, im in love with you!

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐓

pairing: slytherin!kai x gryffindor!reader

He was supposed to look away. He was never supposed to crave the one who didn't belong.

warnings: hogwarts au, set in college age, romance redemption, strangers to lovers, pureblood/halfblood societal norms, mdni. bullying!, family!trauma.

smutwarnings: virginity-loss, missionary, oral!fem receiving.

wc: 10k — playlist

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: so happy to be part of this event! thank you to my girls, rain, ash yun and nina for being awesome ily all ^.^ see the event masterlist here.

He grips the back of her head, his fingers sinking into her hair as he thrusts into her with a steady, punishing rhythm. Skin into skin. Her soft moans turn ragged, a needy, breathless chorus in the dimly lit room. The air is thick with the cloying scent of her perfume, almost too sweet, making his head swim.

“m-more, Kai, please,” she whimpers, her nails scraping at his shoulders, her legs tightening around his hips.

He smirks. They always beg the same way.

He watches her, how her lips part with every gasp, her brows knit in desperate pleasure but as she reaches up, her fingers brushing against his jaw, he knows what she’s after.

A kiss.

He shoves her hand down, ignoring the flash of irritation in her eyes. He doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t want to see anything but her writhing beneath him as he chases his own high.

He keeps pounding into her, the bed creaking under them, her breaths turning into sharp cries. When he feels himself tip over the edge, he holds her hips still, burying himself to the hilt as he cums hard into the condom. He stays there for a moment, head bowed, catching his breath. He pulls out and steps back, his chest heaving. She lies flushed and trembling, a sheen of sweat on her skin, her hair a tangled mess. He’s already made her release twice tonight, but he can’t find it in himself to press his lips to hers.

A line he never crosses.

She sits up, tugging down the hem of her uniform skirt, smoothing it over her thighs. She ties her hair back in a tight ponytail, her green scarf slightly wrinkled. She watches him with narrowed eyes, her lips still parted and pink. “Why don’t you ever kiss me?” Yunjin says finally, her tone somewhere between curiosity and frustration. “I used to think it was just me… but I talked to some of the other girls you’ve hooked up with. You never kiss them either.”

He shrugs, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark as he tugs on his jeans. “Should I?”

“Asshole.” Yunjin’s voice is clipped, her eyes sharp with hurt as she stands up. She can’t let him be the one to leave first, not tonight. She smooths down her skirt and grabs her bag, shoulders squared as she heads for the door.

Heuning Kai just watches her, his lips quirking into a lazy smirk. He’s known her since their first year, long enough to read every flicker of her mood, how she tries to cover her hurt with anger, how she thinks he can’t see it.

He doesn’t bother trying to stop her. He doesn’t have to.

She leaves with her head high and her footsteps light, and he doesn’t move until the door clicks shut behind her. He shakes his head, a small huff under his breath as he stands and tugs his jeans back up, his shirt still undone.

Kissing. It’s always been too intimate, too close; something that feels like more than he can give. He’s never been interested in playing at something deeper than what they already have. He’s never found the will to do it.

He glances at the rumpled sheets. He will need to have them smoothed out, made right again. Things should be neat, aligned.

He has always hated disorder, the way it jars the symmetry he craves.

He strides through the grand halls with the effortless poise of someone who believes the castle itself was built for him. Every step is confident, his polished shoes clicking softly on the stone floor. When someone calls his name, he turns enough to flash them a half-look. His name is on everyone’s lips. His robes are cut to perfection, dark green and silver threads woven just so, a mark of being a pureblood heir and wealth. He sees the girls watching from the corners, cheeks flushed. Some whisper to each other, others just stare in open admiration. The boys in his own house, look at him with a mix of camaraderie and begrudging deference. They share the same colors and the same crest, but not the same steep.

He doesn’t slow down for them. The air around him seems to shimmer with an arrogance that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Everyone knows who he is and what he represents.

He’s about to turn the corner when someone barrels into his shoulder. He glances up, finding himself face-to-face with a student dressed in vivid red.

A Gryffindor.

“Honestly, must you always be this clumsy?” Kai sneers, his voice dripping with scorn as he glares at the boy. There’s no kindness in his eyes, just the sharp gleam of someone who delights in cutting others down. He’s never had patience for Gryffindors, the way they strut around, so certain of their own virtue, as if bravery alone could make them special.

“Watch where you’re going next time,” he adds with a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or did you leave that famous Gryffindor courage somewhere behind you?”

He hates their pride, their blind sense of righteousness. It’s always been a sore spot for him — the ones in this house always seem so sure of their own moral, so quick to wear it like a crown. They don’t understand real power. They don’t understand how quickly their loud ideals can be torn apart.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Not everyone here is as forgiving as I am.”

The Gryffindor boy shoves his hands down into his pockets and walks off without a word. Kai’s smirk falters, turning into a disappointed scowl when he realizes he won’t get the reaction he was hoping for.

He turns back to his locker, swinging the door open and rifling through his books. His fingers move. A sudden burst of laughter echoes from the other side of the hallway, loud and grating. He can’t see them, but the harsh, triumphant cackle is enough. Another group of Gryffindors, undoubtedly.

He hates how their lockers are practically pressed up against his own. How he has to see them every day, laughing like the world is theirs for the taking. It makes his skin prickle with annoyance.

He heard them leave.

With a grunt, he shut his own locker and started toward his first class, but not without catching a faint, choked sound from the direction of the lockers he hated so much.

It’s not that he’s curious. It’s not that he wants to see it.

It’s just that it’s on his way, like a grain of sand stuck in his shoe, like a pedestrian standing in the road he needs to cross. A path he has to take, whether he likes it or not.

At the end of the row, a girl is crumpled in defense, her face hidden in her hands. Her shoulders are trembling, the soft, broken sounds slipping past her lips even as she tries to swallow them down. Even from here, he could see the ache written in the curve of her back, in the way her breath hitched and faltered. The world feels too bright around, the hallway too bright and uncaring.

He breathes.

How hurt must she be to let someone else see her so wrecked, so undone?

"I am not the Darkling" he said softly, his eyes searching mine. "I am not the monster you think I am."

You echo the words under your breath, the pages of your battered book trembling slightly in your hands. You feel your eyes burn, but you don't dare blink. The darkling tried dragged her into the dark, but it was her light, Alina, that ended up swallowing him whole.

Fairy tales for the lonely. Lies stitched into paper and ink. Because in the real world, no one survives being consumed by someone else.

And no one asks to be.

“Hey.” You hear your name. When you glance up, Chae Won is standing over you, eyes sharp with contempt.

She’s supposed to be your friend. A fellow Gryffindor.

Without warning, she snatches the book from your hands and grabs your wrist, yanking you up from where you’d been sitting quietly on the floor. “Can we just stop this, please? I—”

“Stop what?” she snaps, already stepping closer. “Crying to Jay? Playing the victim again?” His name stops you cold.

She doesn’t let up. Her hand fists your hair, enough to hurt. “Do you forget you’re a Muggle-born?” she hisses. “And him? He’s everything people want. We were fine before you. You just had to show up, cry to him like some helpless little thing, and now he thinks you're this princess he has to save.”

Chae Won shoves you hard against the lockers. The metal slams cold into your back, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. She leans in, eyes burning, and says the one thing that never stops hurting, no matter how many times you've heard it. “You’re dirty.”

And just like that, you’re six again.

Not here. Not now. But back in that cold, too-quiet house where no one looked like you. Where you sat at the dinner table and watched mouths move around you like you weren’t even there. Where you learned, early and without being told, how to be invisible.

Where no one taught you how to belong.

You don’t say anything. The words are there, caught in your throat, but they taste like shame. They always have.

The afterthought. The charity case. Strange eyes. Odd temper.

You were the one who showed up on the doorstep with nothing but a trunk and a name no one knew how to say. You tried your best to earn your place, to blend in, to make yourself useful, but they still looked at you like you were something foreign. Something misplaced.

In the darkest corners of the night, you wished you’d never gotten the letter. That magic had skipped over you. That your name had never burned through that parchment. Never touched a wand. Maybe then, you could’ve had a normal life. One where you didn’t have to watch your adopted siblings shine in a world that only ever dimmed you.

Because then maybe, just maybe, you’d get to be normal.

Not this. Not the ghost haunting a place that was never yours. Not the muggle-born mistake among children who made spells sing on their tongues, while yours stuttered, cracked, and bled.

You didn’t even feel that you were crying.

Chaewon stares down at you with a cruel smirk, almost entertained by your tears. You’re frozen, your chest tightening, looking like a ghost of yourself. Pathetic. That’s probably what she’s thinking. Then she shoves you again hard. Your body hits the cold locker room tiles with a sickening thud, pain through your spine. You flinch, but you don’t even try to get up.

“Tell anyone,” she sneers, leaning down. “and you’ll regret it.”

They left you right after that.

No one would believe it anyway. You’ve spent your whole life fighting, pretending you're fine, building yourself up just to keep surviving. You wear strength like armor. But now?

Now you’re nothing but shattered pieces on the floor. No one saw you break. No one knows how hard you cried.

No one fucking knows.

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you meant, caught off guard.

It was the morning after — after everything and Jay had found you outside like he always does. The golden boy of Gryffindor, the one everyone seemed to adore without question. For months, he'd been chasing you. Sweet smiles, thoughtful words, persistent in his way. He asked you out more times than you could count and a month ago, you said yes.

That was why Chaewon hated you more now than ever.

Jay leans in across the picnic table, casual and unbothered like nothing had shifted in your world. Like you hadn’t spent the night before crumpled on a locker room floor, swallowing sobs and blood.

"I said you should sneak into my dorm later," he repeats. You blink at him. You had planned this picnic, thought maybe today would give you a moment of peace. A needed softness, but now his words float in the air like smoke, invasive and unexpected. He doesn’t notice the way your hands tremble slightly. Or if he does, he says nothing.

You swallow hard.

"Why would I do that? I could get caught," you say, your voice uneasy, the words tumbling out. Jay laughs, it was as if your nerves are a joke to him.

"Come on," he says, grinning. "It’s been a month now. I wanna be with you. Do that thing with you."

Your stomach turns. You might be naive but you’re not stupid. You open your mouth to say something, to maybe ask what he really means, to question the way he’s looking at you like he’s owed something, but he cuts you off. "If you really liked me, you’d do it too. You know?"

You look at him, stunned, like a deer caught in headlights. The boy you thought wanted you for you is now dangling your feelings like bait on a hook. "That... that won’t prove if I like you or not,"

"What do you mean?" he asks, brows furrowing. "So you don’t wanna do it?"

"Of course I would," you say quickly, your throat tightening. "But not right—"

"Not right now?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s always your excuse."

"Excuse?"

He leans back, annoyed. "You know, if you don’t want me, just say it."

You freeze. His next words come out in a bitter, quiet mumble, like he doesn’t even realize he’s saying them aloud. "If this wasn’t for a stupid bet, I wouldn’t—"

"What?" Your voice is almost breathless. Cold rushes through your chest like someone ripped the air straight from your lungs. He doesn’t answer. His eyes widen, just for a second — just long enough to tell you everything you needed to know.

Your mind races. You remember the guilt that bloomed in your chest every time you turned him down, thinking you were the one being difficult. You remember how sad he looked when you said no, how it made you feel like you were failing him. How you apologized for it, over and over, thinking you were the one ruining things.

You remember trying, really trying to open up. The effort it took to prioritize someone else's wants over your own. The nights you rehearsed words in your head, how to say things gently, carefully, so he wouldn't feel rejected. You remember the ache of being left out, how his friends would talk around you like you were invisible. The silence when you spoke. The forced smiles when they laughed at jokes you didn’t understand because they were never meant for you.

You remember Chaewon's cruelty and you remember convincing yourself it was all worth it because he chose you.

"I was a fucking bet?" Your voice comes out hoarse. You stare at him, this boy who once looked like something good. Something kind. All that softness you thought you saw in him feels like a lie now.

You can feel the fire start to rise in your blood. You wore the same house colors.

"I—It was from the start, but then—"

“We’re done.” A blade slipped between the ribs.

You stand, your eyes focused on anything but him. You don’t look at the people beginning to notice, don’t care about the whispers. Your chest is hollow and screaming, but your face doesn’t show it. You walk the grounds like your heart isn’t shattering with every step.

You feel him behind you, his frantic footsteps, his form clinging to your shadow. You feel the stares, the weight of every eye on you.

"Can we please talk?" he pleads, his hand wraps around your wrist.

You turn your head and slap his face so hard it echoes. He doesn’t even get to process it before your foot collides with his, a sharp kick that throws him off balance. Pain, humiliation — all of it written across his face now for everyone to see.

“I said we’re done.” Your voice cracks but not out of weakness. It cracks from the sheer force of holding back everything you could’ve screamed. "You're evil."

He’s looking at you now like he’s the one broken. You turn, this time for good. Your body is trembling, anxiety crawling beneath your skin like a thousand needles, but your steps are steady. You're done.

Kai lounged on the stairway, tuning out the crude, drunken laughter of his housemates as they bragged about the girls they’d had the night before. Their voices blurred into nothing. His eyes scanned the grounds lazily, flashes of yellow, green, blue, red, the usual mess of students he barely cared to notice.

He saw you.

He saw you and remember how you cried that night.

He leaned forward without thinking, resting his chin on his hand, the world narrowing to just you. Everything else fell away against the blinding, face of yours. You moved with a kind of arrogance he recognized instantly: head high, steps sharp, like the world didn’t deserve you. The fire in your eyes. Typical of your house — spoiled, untouchable. He should’ve been bored.

He couldn’t look away. He couldn't stop hearing remembering your soft whimpers the night before.

A boy in red caught up to you, fumbling for your attention, desperate to be seen. Kai watched, as you turned to him with a look of pure disdain. The boy stammered something, like he was apologizing. You slapped him. Hard.

Kai’s mouth curved into a slow, wicked grin.

You didn’t stop there. You kicked the boy’s foot out from under him, angrily spat a few words he couldn’t catch, and walked off, not even glancing back. Kai’s eyes stayed locked on you, tracking every furious step you took across the grounds. You tried to hide it; the tremble in your hands, the way you blinked too fast but he caught it.

You're crying.

His chest tightened, something crawled under his skin. How much sweeter would it be if he were the one to do it? He could already picture it: your pride, your voice breaking, your pretty face crumpling; under his hands, under his mouth, under his name. Not for some sniveling boy, but for him.

Only him.

You didn’t even know his name. He stayed where he was, eyes following your broken form.

Kai had grown up as the only son of a pureblood family, where reputation bled deeper than blood, and control was not a suggestion but a rule etched into the spine of every morning. He was taught to be composed, restrained, untouchable — never too loud, never too soft. Smile, but not too often. Speak, but only when it matters. Feel, but never let it show.

He’d been raised that way.

His life was built on legacy. Emotions were weakness. Kindness was liability. He was not held, not comforted, not loved — only shaped.

They carved obedience into him like marble.

He watched his father hold entire rooms in silence with nothing but a stare. Watched him speak to people as if their existence was a favor, an inconvenience he barely tolerated and everyone listened. Everyone bowed. He learned early that power wasn’t just about magic.

He wore it well. Better than most.

He learned how to mimic empathy without feeling it. He learned how to laugh on cue, how to listen without caring, how to look someone in the eye while thinking of a thousand other things.

He drifted through life half-asleep, wearing the world like an ill-fitting coat. Friends, lovers, enemies; it was all noise. Meaningless. Predictable.

You were raw, undone, human. Everything he wasn’t. Everything he had been taught to crush.

What would it take to ruin you completely?

With every difiance in his body he stood up. He found himself taking step forward. Kai moved before he realized he was moving.

The sound of his housemates' laughter faded behind him, smothered under the pounding in his ears. He descended the steps with the same cold precision he was raised with, but something feral stirred beneath his ribs. His strides were steady, calculated, like a shadow stretching to meet its mark.

You were walking fast, too fast, your back stiff and your steps clipped. Anger clung to you like perfume, sharp and choking. He trailed you from a safe distance, ignoring the students who brushed past, oblivious. All he saw was the set of your shoulders, the shake in your hands. He could practically taste the heat radiating off you.

You turned a corner. So did he.

You passed the greenhouses, cut through the arch, your pace stuttering as if your own breath was betraying you. You didn’t notice him. Or maybe you did. Maybe you felt it — that feeling like you're being watched, hunted. The air changed around you.

Kai waited until you slowed near the old stone path that led toward the empty wing of the castle. Then he spoke.

His voice didn’t waver. “Why did you hit him?”

You stopped walking.He watched your back rise with a breath, then you turned.

Your eyes met. For the first time.

Up close, you looked even more dangerous. Even more breakable. Fire and ruin, cloaked in pride. Your lips were trembling, but your jaw was clenched. He took a slow step closer, tilting his head slightly, studying your face like it was a spell he hadn’t learned yet. Something unreadable flickered in your eyes — recognition? fear? anger?

He spoke again. “Is he the one who made you cry?”

Your fingers curled at your sides. You narrowed your eyes, not answering, as if silence could keep you safe.

Kai smiled, cruel. “You're not very good at hiding it.”

“I heard you last night,” he said, voice so calm it almost sounded kind. “In the hallway. You were crying.”

Your expression twisted. “Were you spying on me?”

“Observing,” he corrected, as if it mattered. “You’re... difficult to ignore.”

You scowled and turned to walk away, but this time he moved,faster than you expected, cutting into your path. “Your name,” he said. “Tell me.”

You stared at him like he was insane. Like something in him wasn't right and you were right. Something wasn't right. “What, so you can tell your little pureblood friends? Have a laugh?”

“So I'll know what to call you.”

Your breath hitched. He didn’t smile this time. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He could see it, the flicker of panic behind your bravado, the instinct to run, the ache in your throat from holding everything in. And yet, you didn’t move. You stayed rooted.

Still burning. Still human.

Still too much for someone like him.

“You're insane,” you said.

“I've been told.” Kai murmured. The wind caught your hair, brushing it across your cheek. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out and touch it, feel if it was as soft as it looked, feel if you would flinch. “Tell me your name,” he said again.

You stared at him for a long time. Seconds stretched like hours. A war in your eyes, as you spoke your name. Maybe if you gave him your name, he would leave you alone.

“Wasn’t hard,” he said softly, almost mockingly. “Was it?”

He stared at you for a second longer, and when you didnt answer him he turned and walked away; no grand gestures, no parting words. A slow retreat, like he’d taken exactly what he came for. You stayed frozen in place, blinking hard, as if shaking off some invisible fog. The anger you felt with Jay minutes ago completely erased in your mind.

You told yourself he was just another entitled, pureblood brat playing mind games. But somehow… you knew he wasn’t done with you.

It was a surprise that you didn't cry a tear when you returned to your dorms that night.

The sun filtered through the high windows in thin, silver lines, catching on the dust that hovered in the still morning air. Breakfast chatter filled the Great Hall.

You walked in alone. As usual.

Your boots echoed softly against the stone as you passed through the threshold, robes hanging heavy off one shoulder, the collar of your uniform just slightly wrinkled. Your hair was pulled back, but loose strands clung to your cheeks from where you’d barely bothered to dry it. There were shadows under your eyes. A bruise of exhaustion, of restraint.

People noticed. They always did.

You could feel it, the way heads tilted toward each other when they thought you weren’t looking, how eyes followed you just long enough to make your skin crawl. It wasn’t new.

That’s her, they’d whisper. Muggleborn. Dangerous. Did you hear what she did to that Golden boy? How dare she?

You could’ve explained. You could’ve said he tricked you. Said he turned you into a bet, but you’d learned a long time ago, they never really wanted your side of the story.

You crossed the room, spine straight, steps controlled, passing the long tables like you didn’t notice the silence blooming around you like mold. You sat at the edge of your table. Your plate filled with food, untouched by your hand. A flick of your fingers beneath the table, no wand. No words.

A few first-years flinched.

Your fingers hovered over the rim of your goblet, then curled back. You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t slept much. A voice still rang in your head like a spell that hadn’t worn off.

“So I'll know what to call you.”

Kai sat three tables over, surrounded by his housemates; all perfectly-groomed pureblood sons and daughters of old families, boys with bloodlines like poisoned roots. He wasn’t speaking. He rarely did, but his gaze was fixed on you like a blade laid flat across your skin. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t smirk. He just watched. As if you were something worth waiting for.

You held his gaze. Steadily.

He didn’t look away. The last time you locked eyes with someone like that, they ended up on the floor, clutching their ribs, coughing blood, but Kai didn’t flinch.

He simply raised a single brow, like he was inviting you to do it. Daring you. Testing the temperature of your fury. You clenched your jaw and shoved your chair back, the scrape echoing louder than it should’ve.

Screw the eggs. Screw the toast. Screw this whole bloody castle and the way it always stank of legacy and rot.

And just as you stood, “Filthy little freak. Thinks she’s special.”

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t need a wand. The goblet in front of the boy crushed. Water soaked his robes. Gasps echoed. You didn’t look back. You kept walking.

You weren’t afraid of what you could do. You were afraid of how easy it was now.

The doors slammed behind you as you left the Great Hall, but you didn’t get far. You’d barely made it into the courtyard, “Well, if it isn’t our little wandless wonder.” The steps behind you were deliberate. Stiletto-sharp. The sound of privilege. You turned around.

Chae-won stood there, arms folded, robes pristine, her platinum hair twisted in a perfect knot that screamed power. Her prefect badge gleamed on her chest like it mattered. And behind her, always behind her. trailed two other girls.

“Chae-won,” you said flatly.

Her smile was razor-thin. “Did you think we wouldn’t hear? Poor Jay.”

“What?”

“You slapped him. Humiliated him. In front of everyone,” she hissed. “He was apologizing, you freak.”

“You know nothing.”

Chae-won’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, please. He did something, or what? That gives you the right to act like some dark creature in the middle of the grounds?”

You didn’t flinch. “I said you know nothing.”

Chae-won blinked, her voice lowered to something crueler. “So? Do we care about a mudblood like you?”

You looked at her. Really looked. And wondered how many people had handed her the world and called it earned. You remember the first year you were friends, the first year she knew all of you, and the once smile on your face whenever you see her. It all became a blur when people looked at you as a misfit.

Your hands twitched again.

“You planning to explode something else?” Chae-won taunted. “Go on. Show us what you can do. Everyone’s already terrified. Might as well give them a real show.”

You stepped forward. “You want to know the difference between you and me?” Chae-won raised a brow.

“I have power. You just have a last name.”

Her jaw tightened, but before she could respond, before she could reach for her wand or hurl another insult, a voice broke through from behind: “Chae-won.” She froze.

Kai stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes locked not on her but on you.

“I’d stop if I were you,” he said, calm, lazy, terrifying.

Chae-won blinked like she hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not repeating myself,” His shoulder brushed yours, intentional as he passed and stood between you and her. Not defending you, but as if staking a claim.

Chae-won’s face burned. “This has nothing to do with you, Kai.”

“It does.”

She stood there for a second, jaw clenched, then scoffed. “Figures. Your house never know where to keep your standards.” Then with one last look at you, all venom and fury, she turned and stormed off, her little shadows flurrying after her.

You looked at Kai. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He didn’t look at you. “I didn’t do it for you.” And yet, he was still standing there. Still between you and the world.

You hated how you lived your years.

You hated the way your life had built itself around survival; around silence, around swallowing things that no one else ever seemed to choke on. You hated that you were born like this, like a wrong answer in a question nobody asked.

You hated that once, long ago, you’d called Chae-won your friend. That you’d laughed with her, studied with her, braided her hair in the dormitory mirror. You hated that she knew all the parts of you worth breaking and now she used them like blades.

You hated that even now being Muggleborn wasn’t enough. Wasn’t already a mark on your back. No, you had to be different, too. You had to wield wandless, wordless magic, the kind they couldn’t control, couldn’t track, couldn’t replicate and that made them stare, like you were unnatural.

You hated that, out of all the people in this castle, the one who wouldn’t look away was him.

Kai. A stranger. A Slytherin. A boy born with a silver knife in his mouth, and the gall to look at you like he saw past your fury, like he saw you about to break.

You walked away; fast, sharp steps that echoed off the stone corridor — hoping he wouldn’t follow.

He did.

You didn’t stop him. You hated that, too.

You didn’t speak, didn’t glance back, you kept walking until the hallway emptied behind you. Until there were no portraits, no prefects, no Chae-won, no whispering mouths. A stone and silence and the feeling of someone watching you like a match watches a flame.

When you reached the end of the corridor, where the light didn’t quite reach and the air felt still and forgotten, you stopped. Your shoulders rose once, then fell. The first sob cracked out of your chest so violently it startled even you.

You tried to cover it, your hand flying up to your mouth, like that would make it less pathetic, but it didn’t matter. You were already shaking, already crying, already too human to stop it now.

Behind you, he didn’t say anything.

You sank down against the wall slowly, like your legs had given out — not from fear, not from pain but from carrying it all too long. The silence between you pulsed, thick and unkind, and still he stayed. No comfort. No lies.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered, not even knowing if you meant your life, or this day, or this moment. Maybe all of it. You could feel his eyes on you. You could feel the way he was listening.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice raw.

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, angry at yourself for crying like this in front of him of all people. Your lips trembled, and your vision blurred, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

And Kai just sat there.

Watching. Unmoving. Unbothered.

Or so you thought.

Kai exhaled slowly, like a man tired of waiting, because watching you; ruined, furious, crying and still managing to burn like a goddamn wildfire — it made something unravel inside him. Something unholy. Something that clawed its way up from beneath all the manners and legacy and careful obedience.

You, with your defiance. You, with your trembling hands and splintering voice. You, who didn’t even look his way.

You felt too much. You burned too brightly. You cracked in places he didn’t understand. You cried like it meant something. You fought like the world still owed you something soft.

A single, smooth motion and before you could ask what he was doing, before you could read the shift in his expression, he was standing over you. Looking down at you like you were a problem he couldn’t solve, like you were noise in his carefully constructed world of silence.

His jaw twitched. “I don’t like messy things,”

You opened your mouth, to apologize, to yell, to tell him to leave but your voice didn’t come.

Instead, he crouched down. Slowly. His hand reached out, not toward your face, but beside it, bracing against the wall near your shoulder, boxing you in. His other hand hovered near your chin, pausing midair. A breath. A hesitation. Something nearly human.

He kissed you.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of your robes. Your chest ached from the sobs you hadn’t finished, from the weight of the day, from the way his mouth pressed against yours like it was the only language he knew.

It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry.

He tasted like someone who hadn’t felt anything in years and hated that you made him want to. His hand moved to your jaw, holding it, not harsh but unrelenting.

His breath was unsteady when he pulled back. So was yours.

Your tear-slick lashes fluttered as you stared at him, chest rising and falling with everything you hadn’t said, everything you didn’t understand.

Kai didn’t blink. You didn't too.

You weren’t sure who looked more shaken.

“Stop crying,” he said. “It ruins your face.”

It was past curfew when the door creaked open.

A soft, deliberate sound, barely loud enough to disturb the quiet hum of sleeping breaths in the girls' dorm. The enchanted lanterns were low, casting dull golden shadows across the hardwood floor.

You were curled on your side, blanket kicked off, facing the wall like it might protect you from the dreams that had been growing more vivid lately — filled with brown eyes, the weight of a stare, the press of a mouth that never should have touched yours.

It has been a week since he kissed you, and all he did now was consume you.

You heard a slow footstep across the floorboards that didn’t belong. You sat up in an instant. Your hand instinctively curled, breath caught in your throat.

It was him.

Kai stood there leaning just inside the doorway like he owned the place. His eyes flicked over the room, over the slumbering forms of your roommates, and then back to you.

You were too stunned to speak. He shut the door behind him with a careful click.

“You can’t be here,” you whispered.

“Then tell me to leave.” He said it like he already knew you wouldn’t.

He didn’t move toward you. “I won’t skulk around and pretend I don’t know what I want.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how your heart was hammering. Of the ache in your hands from clenching them too tight under the blanket. Of the way you hadn’t breathed properly in hours.

His voice lowered. “I wanted to see you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His hair was messy from wind or sleep, his collar half-open. His expression, unreadable as ever, but void of any smug.

His look scared you more than any smirk ever had.

You were walking to your next class, trying to keep your head down, your thoughts together, your breathing even.

Kai walked beside you. Beside you. Shoulder to shoulder, step for step, like he belonged there and he wasn’t hiding it, either. He was adamant in the way he moved.

You rounded the corner and saw them.

Jay was seated on the ledge just outside the main stairwell, one arm slung lazily around Chae-won’s waist as she perched in his lap. They looked like a painting, like every pureblood fantasy the school worshiped. Perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect detachment. Chae-won was smiling; a perfect, cold little curve of her mouth that never quite reached her eyes while Jay just stared.

He saw you before you saw him. His gaze locked with yours, cold and pointed, like you’d wronged him. As if he were the victim. Chae-won didn’t even glance your way, but she leaned in just enough to whisper something in his ear, and though he didn’t smile, something in his jaw flexed. His hand tightened on her hip and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

Your vision went blurry. Your throat tightened. The corridor felt too bright, too narrow, the sounds too loud, too far away. Your breath stuttered; shallow, clipped, your heart racing like you’d been running.

Kai's gaze move from your face to your hands, where they clenched and twitched at your sides. You tried to blink it all away, tried to keep walking like nothing was happening, but your body had betrayed you.

“Has this happened before?” His voice came low.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your limbs felt heavy and useless, and the corridor seemed to stretch further with every step. You were floating and falling all at once. You barely noticed when his hand reached for you, until you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist — not tightly, not to restrain, but to feel.

He pressed his thumb lightly over the spot just above your pulse. He didn’t need words to know. The panic was there, thundering under your skin, alive and frantic and loud enough to silence everything else. His brow furrowed. “You’re panicking.”

The words landed heavy, simple and precise. You flinched like he’d struck a nerve, tried to pull your arm back, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t get to worry about me,” you snapped, voice sharp and broken at the edges, as if saying it out loud could make it true.

Kai tilted his head, expression unreadable. He didn’t react to your words. He didn’t need to. He just looked at you like you were the one thing in this corridor that mattered. And then he said, calm and quiet, “Continue walking with me.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even a request and you hated that your legs obeyed before your mind could fight it. Hated that some fragile part of you wanted to keep walking, if only he stayed beside you.

You closed your eyes for half a second, just enough for the tears to sting. You wouldn’t let them fall, not here, not with them still behind you but your chest ached, and the shame pressed hot against your throat.

His hand found yours again.

His fingers slipped through yours like it was instinct, and then he held on careful, steady, like he was holding something breakable. You kept walking. One step after the other.

He walked with you ike the entire castle wasn’t watching, but even if they were, he didn’t let go.

“So, you’re Kai’s girlfriend?”

You looked up from the ancient, half-crumbling book in your hand and blinked at the girl now standing beside you in the dim library aisle. She was dressed in green and silver and wore the kind of smile that had probably gotten her everything she ever wanted.

“Pretty,” she added, tilting her head slightly, eyes raking over you not with curiosity.

“I’m not,” you replied evenly, turning back to the shelf, hoping she’d take the hint but her presence didn’t waver. You could feel her shadow shift with yours. She followed as you stepped further down the aisle, her footsteps light but intentional.

“I’m Yunjin, by the way,” she said. Her voice had that lilting quality warm, but not soft. “I always see him around you. I mean, everyone’s noticed. It’s kind of hard to miss, the whole... obsession he has with you.”

Your fingers paused mid-reach. Obsession?

“And I guess,” she continued casually, “that must be the reason he stopped seeing me.”

“…What?” The word left your mouth before you could hold it in, too stunned to coat it in disinterest.

“Oh, don’t worry.” She gave a light, musical laugh. “It wasn’t serious. Kai doesn’t do serious. He’s unwell. Emotionally, I mean. Brilliant, but broken. The type of boy you keep behind glass until he cuts you with it.” She said it like she knew. Like she’d bled.

You stared at her. Her smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “But I do see something different now,” she added, “He looks at you… differently.”

You expected cruelty to follow. A sharp comment tucked behind a smile. A passive-aggressive jab meant to draw blood beneath the surface because that’s how it usually came, wasn’t it? From the people who knew how to dress poison up in perfume.

You thought of Chae-won. A girl from your own house. People from your own house who doesn't even dare to smile at you. It was strange, wasn’t it? That someone from your own house had been so much crueler than the students from the house everyone warned you about.

So much crueller than Kai. Than Yunjin.

“Why are you being kind to me?” you asked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Yunjin tilted her head like she was trying to decide whether to laugh again. Then, with a small shrug, she said, “What?”

You held her gaze, unflinching.

She exhaled through her nose, almost amused. “Oh. Yeah.” There was a flicker of something beneath her expression then something real. “I’m ambitious,” she said. “And if being ambitious makes me a bad person… then I guess I’m a Slytherin.”

You were sitting in your bed, knees tucked loosely to your chest, the blankets crumpled around you like a forgotten thought. The castle was quieter than usual. Music pulsed faintly from somewhere down the hall. There was a party for your batch tonight; a celebration, one you were meant to attend, smile through, pretend for.

Instead, you were here. Alone.

You were counting the minutes.

The door opened without urgency, a soft sound not trying to sneak, not trying to impress. You didn’t turn your head. You didn’t need to. You already knew who it was.

Kai stood in the doorway like the rest of the room didn’t matter. His eyes swept across the space, landed on you, on your still form in the sheets, on the way your gaze had already been waiting for him.

“You knew I would come,” he said.

“Yes,”

He strode toward you with his usual measured grace, never rushed, never nervous and you moved slightly on the bed. “You never told me anything about you,” you said, and your voice didn’t accuse, “You’re always around. You help me. You... show up but you never talk.”

Kai looked at you, and there was something different in his eyes tonight. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

You didn’t blink. “You.”

There was a long pause.

Long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. Long enough to feel the ache of expectation rise in your chest, but then Kai huffed, soft through his nose, and there was a shape to it that almost — almost — sounded like a laugh. Not the full thing, but the ghost of it.

You wondered, not for the first time, what he sounded like when he really laughed.

Your eyes flicked to the empty space beside you, and you shifted further inward on the bed, a small movement, but clear.

He caught it.

He sat on the edge of your bed, hands resting on his thighs, the weight of him sinking into the mattress beside you. His posture was still too careful, still too contained, but he was there.

“I don’t talk about myself,” he said suddenly.

You didn’t answer. You knew better than to fill silence that didn’t ask to be filled. Kai exhaled softly, the sound shallow. Measured. Then he looked up, his eyes distant but focused on you, like he was reading from a page only he could see. “I was raised to be an heir. Not a person.”

You didn’t flinch. He noticed that. It made him keep going.

“My father were strict. He didn’t believe in wasting time on things like comfort, or affection. If I cried, he said it was noise. If I asked questions, he told me to read faster. If I smiled too easily, he asked if I was bored, or foolish.” He paused. Not for effect. To breathe.

“He had this saying. You were not born to be loved. You were born to lead. And I repeated it to myself every morning. For years. Until it didn’t sound like cruelty anymore.” he shakes his head, “When I was five, I learned how to duel with a real wand. When I was seven, he started leaving me alone in the manor for days. Said it would teach me independence. I didn’t speak to anyone for weeks.”

His voice didn’t shake. Not once. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t even sound sad. He sounded like someone explaining the weather. Like grief was just another season he’d already lived through.

“I don’t know how to talk about feelings,” he admitted. “I know how to talk around them. How to look someone in the eye and not let them touch a single part of me.”

He looked at you again. “But then I saw you.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t dramatic. “I didn’t mean to care. I don’t know how to. But I do. I hear your voice in my head even when I try to ignore it. I look for you when you’re not around.”

“And when you’re upset, I want to fix it.” His hands unclasped slowly, then gripped the edge of the bed. “I want to fix it because it’s you.”

You moved closer. He didn’t stop you. He just looked at you like you were the first warmth in a life made of glass and granite and rules. “I hate how much I feel now,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to go back.”

His words made you reach out the back of his neck and pull him to you. You hugged him and you let out a shaky breath. "I'm here. I'm here Kai."

Two strong arms snaked around your waist as soon as you said those words, and Kai's lips were against your nape. He left trails of kisses on your neck up to the back of your ears, his body pressed on yours. "Good."

He presses a few more soft kisses to the back of your head, then his voice drops to a whisper against your ear. “Can I touch you?” Your breath hitches, but you nod. His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers brushing lightly across your stomach. “Can I touch you here?” he asks, voice gentle.

You nod again, barely able to get the word out. “Yeah.”

His hand travels higher, fingertips gliding up until they meet the bare curve of your chest. He pauses, just long enough to make your heart race. His lips are at your neck now, breath hot. “Here too?”

When he feels you nod, his hand moves with more purpose, fingertips gliding over the curve of your breast. He cups you fully, palm warm, thumb brushing the softness, squeezing just enough to make you arch subtly into his touch. He teases, exploring everywhere except where you need him most, drawing out the ache with every careful touch. When his fingers finally graze your nipple, a quiet moan slips from your lips before you can stop it. He pauses, his breath brushing against your neck. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”

Then he pulls his hand away from under your shirt, and the sudden absence makes you whine, your body instinctively chasing after his warmth. Before you can speak, he cups your face gently, tilting your head until your eyes meet. It’s dark but he's close, so close — you can make out the shape of his face, the softness in his gaze.

He leans in, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. Then another. You smile softly, breath mingling, and when your lips part, he takes it as invitation. This time the kiss is deep — hungry. His mouth moves against yours with desperation, like he’s been craving your taste for far too long. His hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, bodies aligning in all the right ways as the heat between you builds.

“I want you,” you whisper, voice barely there, lost in the way his lips trail along your neck, warm and wet. “Please.”

He pauses just enough to meet your gaze, then his hand slips between your thighs, cupping you through the fabric. The pressure makes your hips jerk, breath hitching.

“Here?” he murmurs, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “You want me here?”

It’s too much, and not enough. Heat pools low in your belly, a need that feels raw and overwhelming. You nod, biting your lip, your voice trembling. “Yes. There. Please.”

He groans, low and deep, and that’s when clothes start disappearing—slowly, messily. Every layer peeled off is interrupted by his mouth; on your lips, your jaw, your collarbones. His hands, greedy and gentle all at once, explore you like he’s memorizing every inch. The room is filled with nothing but breath, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional hitch of a moan.

When he finally sinks lower, eyes locked on yours as his lips trace a burning path down your body, you don’t stop him.

“Kai…” You moaned as you clenched your fist on his dark locks. His tongue was doing to your buds as his fingers part your wet folds. You don't know what it is, but it makes your legs quivered as his tongue lapped at your entrance.

Kai grunts as he hears your soft moans, sucking on your clit to hear more. Your taste in his mouth got him drunk as he shook his head from side to side, making your moans go higher as you moved your hips to grind your wetness on his tongue. "Hmm?"

He pulled back, replacing his tongue with his thumb, rubbing her wet clit as he kissed and sucked your inner thighs. Your eyes rolled back as your chest rose up and down, glistening with sweat.

You're fucking beautiful. Kai thought as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. The sight of your blushing cheeks, eyes asking for more with your lips between your teeth made Kai slightly rut his hips on the bed.

"Do you know how long have I imagined this?" He pumped a finger inside your pussy, curling it to hit your spot as he put his mouth back to work again, flattening his tongue over your swollen pearl before flicking it with the tip. You cried out in pleasure, throwing your head back.

“I couldn't help myself but think of you.” He begged as he doubled the finger inside your soaking cunt, making you cry out in pleasure as your hands grabbed the pillow under your head.

“I can't resist having all of you.” He kissed your clit, making you whimper at the brief contact. He took off his shirt and pants before pulling you by your arm, sitting you on his lap as he took off your blouse and bra. He kissed around your nipple before taking it into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you.

He moved your position to grind on his bulge, letting out quiet moans as he desperately kissed you. He stopped your hips as he moved to your other nipple, lightly biting it while staring at your glossy eyes, making your breath hitch. He hummed as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it. He laid your back down, admiring your body as you panted. Your eyes are glistening, and so is your cunt. He groaned at the sight, pushing his hair back and taking his erected cock out of its confinement. He pumped it a few times before you sat up and took it into your hand.

“Let me make you feel good.” Kai stopped your hand, giving a kiss on your forehead. “Fuck.” He murmured as he moved to your lips, sucking on them, making you whimper as you laid back down again.

“Kai, please…” You cried when Kai started to rub his shaft on your slit. Every time his head hits your bud, you let out a whimper, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide as you look up at him.

Kai took his time, grunting before pushing the tip inside. You gasped, grabbing the sheets under, feeling the pain as his length invade you. Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him let out low growls. You felt tears in your eyes as you watched half of his length disappear inside you. Kai took your hand, intertwining your fingers. He kissed your tears.

“Am I hurting you?” Kai shushed when you hissed, feeling a hint of pain as he filled you. His other hand began rubbing circles on your clit to ease the burn from the stretch.

"No,"

Kai kissed your hand when he was entirely in, giving you time to adjust. You look gorgeous underneath him. Legs wide open,mouth slightly parted, and body glistening under the dim lights of his room.

Kai started moving slowly when you nod your head, until your whimpers turned into moans. His name echoed in whispers, as you clawed on the skin of his back, leaving red marks. He was cradling your head, and his lips pressed on your ear. He was whispering the sweetest things to you.

“The things you do to me,” Kai whispers, kissing your ear lobes. "I can't even look at anyone else now."

“Yes, yes, Kai, please…” You begged as his hips started to thrust harder into you.

“Fuck.” He groaned, feeling your walls clench around him. He could tell that you were both close. Your walls spasmed around him, and his thrust started to stutter.

“Look at me.” He stared into your eyes, feeling your orgasm take over your body. His mouth reaches for your sweet lips, your toes curling as your legs wrap around his waist. Kai thrustied into you a few more times before pulling out to spill his thick load on your thighs.

It was slow, and it was soft, the way he helped you clean up. No magic. Just his hands and yours, sleeves rolled up, fingers brushing as you folded the same blanket twice just to have an excuse to linger near each other. The silence between you wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It was full.

Your scent clung to the air; a little floral, a little tangy, something warm and alive, like late spring clinging to skin. It was in the sheets, in the corners of the room, in him. He’d never been the type to notice things like that, but here he was, trying to memorize how the air felt with you in it.

You were fussing with the pillows now, distracted, focused on symmetry but he was just watching you.

“I’m going to work every day,” His voice was low, almost rough with restraint. “I’ll work every fucking day, just to follow you.”

You feel your eyes burn.

“I’ll learn how to move the way you do. I’ll learn how to speak the way you understand. I’ll change the way I live if that’s what it takes. Every single day, I’ll do it, just to fit you.”

“Why?” you asked, voice almost a whisper. “Why would you change for me?”

Kai’s eyes found yours. “Because you made me want to,”

It's the truest thing he’d ever said in his life.

taglist: @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @lostgirlysstuff , @tinycatharsis , @randomheyl @txtsoobean , @bweargyuu ,

@reep04 , @lovesickchoi , @xylatox , @soobinieswife , @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @saejinniestar , @bunniwords , @starrynightgyu , @cardiaccannibalism , @stormy1408 , @fancypeacepersona ,, @angelz-howl , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @yeonjunnnielover , @yystarz , @boba-beom , @bbyzzn , @darkethes , @taehyunluvrs , @prettypeachprincesz , @beomgyusluver , @thetxtdevil , @demidelulu , @bamgeutori , @soobundle1009 , @luumiinaa , @akitfffr , @babigriin , @seokqt , @soohashits , @i4tzy , @pengningie , @prettypeachprincesz , @cjrnctzenforlife , @taehyunluvrs @lostgirlysstuff , @beomgyusluver @i-am-not-dal , @bakugosbottombitch , @sanscupid , @idknunsadly , @mixxie2203

[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 @k-s-tumbler

Part 24: To breath

Oh my fucking god. This chapter took way too long to write it. :(

I want to apologize for taking so long to write a chapter. I'm just tired all the time. Sometimes I just want to sleep all day and do nothing. I really tried my best, but even though I had ideas, I didn't have the strength to implement them. Until now.

Part 25: To thread

The fire crackled softly between them, casting long, shifting shadows along the kelku walls. The glowing datapad flickered once, then again—its fractured screen catching Neytiri’s eye as she stepped further inside.

Kiri and Lo’ak both turned toward her, frozen in place. Kiri remained still beside Neteyam. Her hand, still resting on his arm, didn’t move. But her fingers curled slightly, as if preparing to hold him together should he fall apart. She said nothing. But the tension in her shoulders was loud enough. Lo’ak’s jaw tensed. Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Their silence said enough.

Lo’ak first didn’t even glance at his brother. He just looked at Neytiri—his eyes wary, cautious—then flicked a quick glance back toward Neteyam, like he was waiting for a signal. A command. Anything.

But Neteyam stayed silent.

Neytiri’s gaze swept over them with the precision of a huntress—first her daughter, then her youngest son, and finally… her eldest.

Neteyam still crouched by the firepit, unmoving.

He looked like a statue cracked from the inside. Like if someone touched him the wrong way, he’d fall to pieces.

His eyes flicked up. Met hers.

She didn’t blink.

Her voice came again, low and sharp like the edge of obsidian. “What did you say, Neteyam?” Her tone carried no fury yet. Just the heavy weight of demand.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. His shoulders were tight; his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Kiri looked down at her hands. Lo’ak shifted, the knife he'd dropped still lying between them, glinting faintly in the firelight. Both of them glanced toward their brother, then toward their mother. Waiting.

Neytiri’s golden eyes narrowed, blazing with questions.

“Who is yours?” she asked again. This time, the words were quieter. But sharper. More dangerous.

She looked around the space—slowly. Methodically. As if trying to find what didn’t belong. Her eyes lingered on the glowing datapad between Kiri and Lo’ak, then at the carving tools. The unfinished pendant. The button near Neteyam’s knee, now half-hidden in the folds of his sleeping mat.

And then, her gaze returned to him. Hard. Unrelenting. “What are you hiding from me?”

Neteyam didn’t flinch. But the words pierced.

He could feel it—the pressure building. Not just from her stare, but from the weight of five days. Five days of searching. Of silence. Of fear gnawing at his ribs. His knuckles trembled where they pressed into his knees.

Five days without you. Five days knowing you might be cold. Wounded. Lost. Five days since the forest swallowed the only part of him he could not live without. And now… now this.

He finally lifted his eyes to her.

And her gaze—Eywa—her gaze was daggers. Not cold. Not cruel. Just sharp. Sharp with confusion. With pain. With the realization that something was happening to her son—and she hadn’t seen it.

Couldn’t see it. Not until now.

“You speak of someone,” she said, voice taut. “Someone you would not lose. Someone who is… yours. But there is no mate. No promise made. You have refused all who were offered. You’ve ignored every call to courtship.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? The clan sees. The elders speak.”

Lo’ak and Kiri remained silent.

But they were looking at her now. Not startled. Not confused. Just… waiting. Waiting for the choice that wasn’t theirs to make. Neytiri noticed that too. Her mouth tensed.

“Your sister and brother—they might know.” She turned her eyes back on Neteyam, the weight of them like stone. “But I do not.” She took a step forward. “You hide something from me, my son.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly, feeling every breath like broken glass through his chest. He held her stare, even though it burned. And the weight of her gaze hit him like a storm.

Her eyes—once the eyes that had soothed him after every scraped knee and fevered night—were now sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t angry yet. Not fully. She was confused. Wounded. There was something raw in her expression. Something he hadn’t seen in years.

Hurt.

Because she knew. She didn’t know what she knew—but she felt it. That her son hiding something. Something deep. Something true. Something he had not given to her.

And Neytiri didn’t understand why. She looked at him like he had betrayed her.

Neteyam felt it all. Every line of disappointment in her face. Every unspoken accusation. Every flicker of grief—for the bond between mother and son that now felt strained, distant.

And that truth��whatever it was—was written in every inch of his body.

In the way he had refused every girl she placed before him. In the way he had pulled away these past moons.

In the way he now sat, crouched and burning, looking like the very world had come undone beneath his feet.

“What is happening to you, ma’itan?” she said again. Quiet now. Just a mother’s voice. “What are you not telling me?” Her eyes shimmered. “Why do you look like something is tearing you apart?”

He didn’t know what to say.

How to start.

How to explain that the one thing that gave him peace, the one person who made him whole—was the very thing she had taught him to distrust. To fear. To resent.

Human.

He dropped his gaze for a moment. Just long enough for the words to crawl up his throat like thorns.

He blinked. Once. Then he stood. Slowly. Carefully.

Neteyam body tense like a bowstring pulled too tight. The firelight cast his face in sharp angles—his jaw clenched, his breath uneven.

He looked at Neytiri, eyes burning.

And when he spoke, his voice came low. Controlled. But shaking at the edges. “Does it matter what’s happening to me?” The words landed like a stone in still water. Neytiri’s expression faltered, just slightly—but he didn’t stop. “You ask what I’m hiding. Why I turn away. Why I don’t chase the girls the elders place in front of me like prizes. But tell me—did you ever ask what mattered to me?” His voice rose—not shouting, but close. Strained. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Lo’ak’s eyes darted to Kiri. She didn’t move. Her hand was still braced lightly on the floor beside where Neteyam had crouched, but her shoulders were taut. Tense.

His tail flicked once, then again, erratic and agitated. Every part of him radiated strain.

Neytiri took a breath. “Neteyam—” Neytiri’s brow furrowed, confused. Wounded. “Of course it matters. You are my son—”

“Then why do I feel like I’m drowning every time I speak to you?” His voice finally rose. Not shouting—just… breaking. Coming apart at the seams.

Kiri’s head snapped up. But Neteyam wasn’t done. He turned toward her fully, chest rising and falling in shallow, angry bursts. “You ask why I don’t want Sa’nari. Why I don’t chase K’shi. Why I don’t sit at the fire with the girls the elders pick. You act like it’s some great mystery.” He took a step closer. “But did you ever stop to ask who I wanted?”

Neytiri’s lips parted—but no sound came.

“Did that ever matter?” he snapped, his voice cracking wide open. “Or was I only ever supposed to obey? To mate when you said, with who you said? As if my heart was something that could be passed like a tool between hands?”

“Neteyam—” she started.

“No,” he said sharply. He looked to the fire between them, the scattered pieces of his life laid bare. The unfinished pendant. The datapad. The button. He was unraveling. Finally. All the pressure. All the silence. All the pain of five days without you.

It was coming loose.

“I am not some perfect son. I’m not a symbol after the war. I’m not a pawn to bond with some hunter’s daughter so the elders can nod and say ‘he follows the path.’”

Neytiri stood rigid. Her jaw clenched. “Neteyam, you don’t understand what this means—”

“I understand exactly what it means!” he snapped, voice like a roar now. “It means I have to stand here, pretending I’m not falling apart, while you demand to know why I won’t give my heart to someone I’ve never loved—when the person I do love might be dead in the forest right now!”

The last word hit the air like a thunderclap.

Silence. A thick, suffocating silence that stretched like vines. Kiri stood slowly, eyes wide. Lo’ak shifted but said nothing. Neytiri didn’t move.

She just stared.

Neteyam’s shoulders heaved, his eyes burning. His throat tight. His fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t care about tradition,” he said, lower now. Barely audible. “I don’t care about what the clan expects, or what you wanted. I care about her.” The words barely left his mouth before the next ones followed—inevitable. Final. “Even though she’s just a human.”

Everything stopped.

Neytiri’s eyes widened—just for a moment. Then narrowed. Sharpened.

Like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath.

The fire popped between them, but the sound was drowned in the silence that fell like a sudden storm.

Neteyam watched it happen. The shift. The flicker of confusion… replaced by horror. Then betrayal. Then something deeper. Darker.

Rage.

“Human?” Neytiri whispered. The word left her mouth like poison. Like it tasted wrong. She took a slow step back, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, no—you’re lying.” She turned from him—her tail lashing behind her. “You would not.”

But Neteyam didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. He just stood there. Silent. Still. Burning.

Neytiri turned back toward him with eyes blazing gold and wet with fury. “You… love a sky demon?” she hissed.

The words were sharper than anything she had ever thrown at him before. And somehow, they hurt worse than if she had struck him.

She began to pace. Back and forth, across the kelku floor. Her steps were sharp. Erratic. The kind of motion born from disbelief that was quickly curdling into rage.

Her tail whipped once, then again. “I cannot believe this.” She spoke more to herself now, pacing the space like it was the forest and she was hunting for answers. “I gave you everything. We raised you to honor your People. To protect them. To protect your blood.” She turned toward him, face twisted in anguish. “And you—you choose one of them?”

Neteyam said nothing.

“A human? A human?” Neytiri’s voice cracked with the force of it. She was circling him like a predator circling prey—or like a mother circling the grave of the son she thought she knew.

“Do you know what they did to us? What they’ve taken from this land? From me? My father. My home. My sister.” Her voice shook with old pain. She turned from him, pacing like something caged. Her voice rose—not a yell, but a snarl behind her words.

“I warned you about them. Since you were children. I taught you what they did to our People. How they desecrated the land. Our ancestors. Our god.” She spun around, eyes blazing. “And you let one of them touch you?”

Neteyam flinched—but only slightly.

“She touched your heart, your soul, your thoughts—and you let her?”

He swallowed hard, but said nothing. Neytiri moved again, circling. Stalking. Her breath was fast and ragged. She looked around the kelku—his kelku—at the datapad, the pendant, the tools that suddenly felt foreign to her.

“Where is she?” Neytiri demanded, suddenly. “Where is this… demon who poisoned my son?”

Neteyam’s fists curled tighter. “She’s not—”

“Don’t,” Neytiri snapped, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare speak as if she belongs here. As if she is one of us.”

“She is mine,” he growled. “Eywa chose her for me.”

Neytiri’s breath hitched. Her eyes flashed with something almost fearful. “Do not speak her name to justify this,” she said, voice low, shaking. “You think the Great Mother would bless this? A union with the very blood of those who tried to destroy her?”

Neteyam stepped forward now. Something in him rising. Something that had had enough.

“She listens,” he said. “And she saw me. She saw us. And you—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, pain bled in. “—you talk about her like she’s filth. Like she’s unworthy. You talk about her like she’s a stain on me.”

“She is!” Neytiri shouted. The words slammed into the space like lightning. Neytiri’s eyes were wild now, gold blazing with fury and disbelief. “She tainted you,” she hissed. “I should have seen it. The way you changed. The way you pulled away. Refusing everyone. You would not look at them. You would not speak to them. You had already chosen, hadn’t you?”

Neytiri’s breath caught in her throat.

And now she saw it. Clear as starlight.

The mornings and nights he disappeared without a word. The solitude. The way he refused every Na’vi girl the clan paraded before him. The move to his own kelku. The coldness. The change.

Everything. Everything made sense now. And she hated it. “You lied to me,” she whispered. “All this time.”

“I protected her,” Neteyam said. “From this.”

Neytiri shook her head, tears brimming now—not of sorrow, but of fury. “She doesn’t belong here. She’s not of us.”

He nodded. “She is mine. That’s all she ever needed to be.”

For a long, cold breath—no one moved.

Then Neytiri turned her back to him. “Tell me!” she shouted. “Tell me what I did wrong—because I must have, if my firstborn son has forgotten who he is!”

Neteyam closed his eyes. “You taught me to trust in Eywa. To listen when she speaks. So tell me—if she placed this bond in my path, if she tied my soul to hers, if she is the one who led her to me and me to her—how can you call that a mistake?” His hands trembled at his sides, but his stance was solid. “How can you speak of Eywa’s wisdom, and then spit on the gift she gave me?”

Neytiri’s lips parted, but no words came.

Because there was no answer.

Neteyam breathed in through his nose, holding it. Holding everything in place.

Then:

“You may hate her. You may see a demon when you look at her. But I see the one Eywa made for me.” His throat tightened again, the weight of five days crashing over him. “And she’s out there. Alone. Maybe dying. And every second I waste here being berated for loving her…” He shook his head. “…is a second I could have spent bringing her home.”

Neytiri stepped closer. Her eyes wild, glittering. “Home? I cannot believe it. I won’t believe it.” She spat the words. “The son I carried, the son I taught—falling in love with a sky demon?” She shook her head again, furious. “What did she do to you, hm? What lies did she tell to make you forget who you are?”

And that—that—was the line.

Neteyam inhaled sharply. Then slowly—finally—his voice cut through the storm.

“Enough.”

Neytiri froze.

His voice was quiet—but it cracked through the kelku like lightning through bark.

He took a step forward. His eyes burned. Not with guilt. Not with fear. But with something fierce. Defensive. True. “Don’t you dare speak of her like that.”

“You let her inside you,” Neytiri spat, practically hissing now. “Into your heart. Into your soul. Do you even know what you’ve done?”

His hand moved to his chest, over his heart. “She is not just someone I love. She is my mate. In soul, in breath, in spirit.” He took another step forward. “She belongs to me. As I belong to her.”

Neytiri’s face twisted, her breath ragged. “No—no, that cannot be—”

“It is,” he growled. “And if you can’t see it, that’s not my failure. That’s yours.”

She recoiled like his words burned her.

But Neteyam was past the point of softening them. Past the point of begging for her understanding.

Because his mate was still missing.

And he didn’t have time for her fear. Or her anger.

He looked past her now, to the trees beyond the kelku. “Believe what you want,” he said, his voice quieter now. But deadly calm. “But do not ever call her a demon again. Not in my presence.” He breathed harshly, staring directly into her eyes, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You never understood why—but now you know. And I will not apologize for loving her.”

The room fell silent again, the only sound Neteyam’s ragged breathing.

Neytiri’s expression softened fractionally as the full truth settled over her—the distant look, the cold refusals, the withdrawn son she couldn’t reach—it all made sense now. Horrible, heartbreaking sense.

But her face hardened quickly again, determinedly set against this truth she could never accept. “You are blinded, Neteyam,” she whispered bitterly. “This path you have chosen—it will only destroy you.”

He shook his head once, sharply, his eyes burning into hers.

“You may refuse to see it,” he replied quietly, evenly. “But it does not change the truth. She is mine. And I will tear this forest apart to bring her back.”

They stood there, locked in a painful silence—mother and son, both wounded, both stubbornly refusing to yield. In Neytiri’s eyes, there was still anger, still disbelief, still grief—but now there was understanding too.

Now, at least, she knew.

But her eyes remained hard. “Then you are truly lost,” she whispered finally.

Neteyam didn’t blink.

He just stared at her—his mother, the woman who had once been the center of his world—and now, he couldn’t even recognize the shape of her love anymore. Not when it came with such cruelty. Such rejection.

His voice came out low. Icy. Final.

“Leave.”

The room froze.

Neytiri’s eyes widened slightly. Not in shock at the words themselves, but at the way he said them. Cold. Unforgiving. Sharp like obsidian. She had never heard her son speak like that—not even as a child. Not even in war.

Her tail lashed violently behind her once, twice, then a guttural groan broke from deep in her chest—half anguish, half fury. She turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the kelku.

The flap rustled violently behind her. Silence fell like dust.

Neteyam let out a long, slow breath through his nose, then tilted his head down and raised a hand to his temple. His fingers dug in, massaging slowly, like he could somehow press the headache out of his skull. But it was no use. It wasn’t just pain—it was everything.

Grief. Fury. Guilt. And beneath it all—an unbearable ache.

Kiri stepped forward wordlessly. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it. She just set her hand gently on his arm again, grounding him. The contact was small, but steady. A silent I’m here in the dark.

But before Neteyam could say anything, it was Lo’ak—still sitting on the floor—who broke the silence first.

“You did such a great job, bro.”

His voice was soft. Honest. Maybe even proud. But Neteyam’s head snapped toward him, his expression like a blade. A sharp glare cut across the firelight—silent, precise, dangerous.

Lo’ak shut up immediately.

The younger brother’s mouth closed with a click, and he nodded once, quickly. Message received.

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. Kiri rubbed his arm once more, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, but it wasn’t just his muscles shaking anymore—it was his whole body.

He couldn’t stop trembling. It wasn’t rage anymore. Or even fear.

It was the unbearable weight of it all. The truth laid bare. His mother’s horror. The look in her eyes when he said the words out loud—“She is mine.”

But more than that… it was her. You were still gone.

Still lost out there somewhere, and he was standing here in a kelku full of firelight and broken pieces, arguing about love instead of finding you.

He couldn’t think about Neytiri’s fury. Or her grief. Or the ancient wounds she had torn open again with every word.

He had something more important to worry about.

“Please leave,” he said hoarsely. Quieter this time. Almost a whisper. But it cut clean.

Kiri just nodded. She didn’t argue. She knew the storm that still raged inside him hadn’t passed.

Lo’ak stood first, brushing the dust from his hands. At the entrance, he paused, casting one last look back at his brother.

“We’ll start again at dawn,” he said quietly. Not a question. A promise.

Then he slipped through the flap and vanished into the night, with Kiri following close behind.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy.

As if the kelku itself was holding its breath.

Neteyam’s legs finally buckled beneath him, and he dropped down to the pelts with a low thud. His elbows braced on his knees, his hands gripping his head.

He felt the sting behind his eyes.

But he didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

He had no more tears left to give—not to this.

He never wanted it to go like this. Not with Neytiri. He had been ready—so ready—to lie for the rest of his life if that’s what it took to protect you. To protect the only thing that ever made him feel whole.

But somehow… the truth had slipped from him like blood from a wound.

And the most surprising thing?

He didn’t regret it. Not really. He should have.

But as he sat there, heart pounding like war drums in his chest, the only thing he felt was this sharp, aching need.

To find you. To bring you home.

The rest—the clan, his mother, tradition, the elders—none of it mattered now.

Only one thing did.

You.

And Eywa help anything or anyone that tried to stop him.

*

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.

The fire had burned low, its crackling now just a soft murmur against the silence, flickering faintly like the last breath of a dying star. Smoke curled lazily through the air, rising toward the thatch ceiling in whispers. The world outside was quiet. The rain had stopped. The clan was asleep.

But Neteyam was wide awake, eyes locked on the flame as if it might whisper the one thing he needed to hear.

Where is she?

He hadn’t moved.

His body ached, but he didn’t feel it. His fingers were numb where they pressed into his knees. His tail lay limp on the floor. The datapad had gone dark some time ago, the screen slipping into standby mode, forgotten where it lay beside the fire—black, empty. As empty as the space beside him.

He was crumbling. Quietly. Slowly. Every passing minute stole another piece of him.

His chest felt hollow—like someone had carved out everything that once filled him with purpose and left nothing behind but the echo of your name. His breath was shallow. Every inhale felt like it scraped down his throat like thorns.

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Couldn’t rest. Not with you still out there. Not when the forest could be swallowing you whole. Not when he had wasted hours arguing with the only person who was supposed to understand him—only to find that she didn’t. Not anymore.

All he wanted was to see you. Just once.

To hear your voice, even if it was hoarse from exhaustion. To feel your small frame pressed tight against him—warm, trembling, real. To tuck his face into the crook of your neck and just breathe. To press his lips to yours and remember what it felt like to belong somewhere.

Because that’s what you were to him.

Home.

And without you, he didn’t know how to stay whole.

He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, head hung low. The trembling had stopped—but only because he felt numb now. Hollowed out. Like something essential had been ripped from his chest.

The silence in the kelku was thick, heavy, suffocating. And the firelight cast shapes on the walls that danced too much like ghosts.

Neteyam didn’t move.

He barely breathed.

His thoughts spiraled tighter and tighter, circling the same ache. The same images. You, smiling up at him. You, laughing at something he said. You, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. You, looking at him like he was more than just a son, more than a warrior, more than a duty to the People.

You had never wanted anything from him except him.

And now you were gone.

What if you didn’t make it?

The thought slid into his mind like a knife.

He shuddered and shut his eyes hard, forcing it out. No. No, he wouldn’t allow that thought. Couldn’t. Not now. Not when hope was the only thing keeping his soul tethered to his body.

Come home. The words didn’t leave his lips, but they pulsed like a prayer in his chest. Please, come home.

He closed his eyes, only for a second.

But behind them was your face. That soft smile you gave him when you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your hand always found his in the dark as you lied beside him on the pelts. The look in your eyes when he called you ma yawne.

And something inside him shattered all over again.

His hand moved without thought—down to his hip, where his songcord hung in the woven threads of his belt.

Fingers brushed the familiar loops.

Threaded strands of memory.

He pulled it loose gently, like handling something sacred. Something fragile. And maybe he was.

The cord spilled into his lap—long, worn smooth by years of wear and prayer. He turned it over slowly in his hands, his fingers moving with practiced ease down the length of it. Each bead held a memory, a story, a moment carved into his soul.

But his hand stopped when it found that one—the bead that shone like starlight in the fire’s dying glow.

A single bead, yellow-gold, polished smooth by time.

He had threaded it nearly four years ago.

He remembered that day—standing at the Tree of Souls, kneeling in the dirt, palms pressed together, eyes closed as he prayed to Eywa for purpose. For direction.

He hadn’t expected her to answer.

And he definitely hadn’t expected her to answer with you.

A tiny human girl with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, with hands that smelled of soil and glass, who couldn’t even reach his stomach but managed to curl her whole body around his heart like it was made for her.

Eywa had given him you.

And now that he had you, he could not—would not—survive a world without you in it.

He turned the bead between his fingers slowly, over and over, grounding himself in that old prayer and the new truth it had given him.

His chest hurt. Not from exhaustion. Not from the fight.

But from this unbearable, desperate, aching need.

To find you. To hear your voice just one more time. To make sure the forest hadn’t stolen you from him.

His fingers trembled against the songcord. He held the bead tighter. Pressed it to his forehead. His eyes closed.

“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible. “Please. Just let her be alive.”

Because if Eywa had brought you to him, if she had truly chosen you to carry his heart, to walk beside him on this path—

Then surely… surely she would not take you away now.

Not when he’d only just begun to live.

Neteyam’s fingers drifted down the songcord again—slow, reverent—until they found it.

One of the last beads.

Not the one he’d added most recently. No. The one.

The one he carved after your first kiss.

It was different from the others—smoother, rounder. A bluish, iridescent pearl he had found near the river after a long patrol. It caught the light just right, shifting from sea-glass green to storm blue when he turned it between his fingers. He had never planned to use it. But something about it had reminded him of you—the quiet gleam of it, the way it shimmered in soft light but hid something deep beneath the surface. So he carved it. Not perfectly, but carefully. Threaded it onto the cord with hands that shook just a little.

He remembered that day like it lived just beneath his skin.

How he had barely dared to kiss you. How he had crouched before you, slow, cautious, like the world might shatter if he moved too quickly.

And when your lips met his—

Eywa.

You had tasted like warmth and starlight and something dangerously real. Your lips were as soft as he had imagined all those long nights he lay alone on the forest floor, thinking of you. Wishing for you.

And in that moment, holding you close, feeling your breath catch as his hands moved gently to your back, he knew.

He was never going to be the same.

You had felt so fragile in his hands—so small, so human, so breakable. But not weak. No, never weak.

You had been right. Like you had always belonged there. Like you had grown into his hands and he had grown into yours.

And now—

Now that same forest he had once thanked for bringing you to him had stolen you away.

He clenched the pearl between his fingers, chest aching, trying to anchor himself in the memory. But it was no use.

The memory didn’t ground him—it tore him open.

Because while he had sat here just days ago, carving your pendant, shaping a river pearl what was looking just like the same as the one on his songcord to match to it—thinking you were safe, maybe laughing with Norm or fixing some experiment with the new samples at the outpost— you were already gone.

Already bleeding. Already running. Already fighting for your life.

And he had done nothing.

How foolish he had been.

Neteyam pressed the bead to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against it. “I should’ve known. I should’ve gone to you sooner.”

The guilt crawled beneath his skin like fire ants. It had been eating at him since the second you didn’t come back.

He’d held it together. Pretended for Kiri and Lo’ak. Took charge. Led the searches. Gave orders. Made plans.

But Kiri… Kiri had seen through him.

He knew it. The way she looked at him. Gentle, careful, like a healer holding something that might break apart in her hands. She knew how close his mask was to crumbling.

And it was crumbling. Because he couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep breathing while not knowing.

He knew he needed sleep. That maybe—maybe—if he could find rest, Eywa would show him something. A sign. A glimpse. Like the last times. The dream-walks that weren’t dreams. The memories not his own. The pieces of the forest whispering your path.

But what if this time…

What if this time Eywa didn’t show him anything? What if she showed him a body? What if the forest glowed red? What if you were gone?

His breath hitched in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low, the songcord clutched so tightly in his fist the beads dug into his palm.

The fear was worse than exhaustion. Worse than grief. It wrapped around his chest like vines, squeezing, pressing until he couldn’t breathe.

Because he couldn’t bear to see you dead.

Not in a vision. Not in the roots of the forest. Not anywhere.

You weren’t supposed to leave. You were supposed to stay.

You were supposed to argue with him over human things that didn’t make sense to him. Whisper stories in his ear when he couldn’t sleep. Roll your eyes when he said something too poetic.

You were supposed to live. He tried to focus. To breathe. To call on Eywa with more than grief and panic. To ask—not beg—for guidance.

Just one more thread. One more glimpse. One more path through the trees.

He whispered her name into the firelight, like a prayer, like a promise.

And then slowly, he lay back onto the pelts. Eyes wide open. Muscles tight. He didn’t know if sleep would come. He didn’t know if Eywa would show him mercy.

But if she did—

He would follow that thread. No matter where it led. Even if it led to the very edge of the forest. Even if it led to death.

Because you were out there. And he was the one meant to bring you home.

*

Sleep eventually took him.

Not peacefully—not gently—but suddenly, like being swallowed by the waves.

When Neteyam opened his eyes, he was standing in the forest. Not the calm, familiar trees near Home Tree, but something deeper—older. The trunks here were massive, their bark rough, covered in thick layers of moss. Every breath of air carried a cool, ancient weight. Silence pressed in from all sides, heavy and absolute.

He turned slowly, scanning the trees for a sign—any hint of why Eywa had brought him here.

Then he saw it. A flicker between the branches—a shadow moving quickly, carefully. His heart lurched.

Human.

Your shape—small, unmistakably human—running quietly through the trees ahead. He couldn’t see you clearly, only glimpses of you slipping through the brush, moving fast.

Without thought, without hesitation, Neteyam took off after you.

His feet hit the ground silently, swiftly, his breath even, strong. Yet no matter how hard he pushed himself, how much he stretched his legs to run faster—you never came any closer. Always just out of reach, always slipping around the next bend, behind another trunk, vanishing into the shadows again.

“Wait!” he called, voice cracking, panic rising in his chest. “Please—wait for me!”

But your shadow didn’t pause, didn’t slow. It moved steadily away, deeper into the darkness of the trees. His pulse hammered in his throat. His lungs burned. But he couldn’t stop—couldn’t bear the thought of losing you again, not when you were so close.

“Come back!” His voice cracked in the air, raw and breaking. “Don’t leave—please, don’t leave me!”

Then suddenly, the forest opened.

A clearing stretched before him, bathed in soft silver moonlight. Massive, ancient trees circled its edges like silent watchers, their twisted roots breaking up the soft earth. But the space itself was empty.

You weren’t there. No human shape. No movement. Nothing. No trace of the small figure he had chased. “No,” he breathed, heart dropping painfully in his chest. “Please…”

But as he spun around again, his body froze.

Then something growled—low, deep, dangerous. His head snapped up.

At the far edge of the clearing, near a dark shadowed alcove in the roots, stood a palulukan. A female, huge and sleek with night-black skin and eyes glowing like molten emerald. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, teeth bared, the long tendrils around her head whipping in agitation.

Around her feet huddled small pups, their little bodies barely visible beneath their mother’s bulk. Their soft yelps of fear echoed across the clearing as they quickly scurried back, disappearing into the den behind her.

Neteyam froze, muscles tensing, eyes locked onto the predator. He knew he should retreat, move away slowly—but something stopped him.

Something at the palulukan’s feet gleamed in the moonlight.

His eyes snapped to it, heart dropping like a stone into his gut.

An exomask.

Small. Shiny. Cracked and smeared in blood. Its curved glass surface caught the pale light like a beacon, mocking him.

Your mask.

The mask you needed. The mask you never went without outside the outpost. It lay shattered at the feet of the beast, splattered with red—your blood.

“No,” he whispered.

His knees buckled beneath him. He sank heavily into the tall grass, kneeling, shaking, eyes fixed on the broken mask. His chest tightened, the air searing painfully in his lungs.

This was Eywa’s sign. The message clear as blood on glass.

She’s gone.

His breath came shallow, ragged. Every beat of his heart echoed painfully in his ears.

You’d died alone. Here—in the dark forest, among roots and shadows. Without him.

Without the chance to hold your hand, without a final goodbye. He felt something break open deep inside. A grief sharper than any blade he’d known. “No,” he gasped again, louder this time, voice shaking with desperation, defiance. “No, you’re strong. You wouldn’t—you couldn’t—”

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew the truth. Without the mask, without air—you stood no chance. Something warm blurred his vision, hot and stinging. He blinked hard, vision swimming.

Tears.

For the first time since you disappeared, tears finally slipped free, burning down his face. His shoulders shook, head bowed as he sobbed quietly, alone in the silver-lit grass. His fingers tangle into his braids, like he wanted to rip them out one by one.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly to the empty clearing. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The palulukan growled again, softer now, almost mournful, before turning and slipping back into the shadows, leaving him kneeling alone beneath Eywa’s silent trees.

He had asked for a sign. And now he wished desperately he never had.

*

Neteyam woke with a jolt.

His body snapped upward like it had been yanked from the depths. His chest heaved, lungs desperate for air, every breath sharp and ragged like he'd just surfaced from drowning.

The light inside the kelku had changed—no longer dim and flickering with firelight, but soft and pale. Dawn. The forest outside was beginning to stir.

And beside him, Kiri knelt—eyes wide, face pale, the deep furrow between her brows carved deeper than usual.

“Neteyam,” she said urgently, her voice low and shaking, “Neteyam, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

He turned to her like a ghost—his eyes wide and unfocused, as if the world around him didn’t make sense anymore. His mouth opened, but it took a second before the words formed, breathless and broken.

“She’s dead,” he whispered.

Kiri blinked. “What?”

“She’s dead,” he repeated, voice cracking at the edges. “She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.” The words came like a mantra now, a litany of grief whispered under his breath as he rocked slightly on the pelts.

Kiri grabbed his arms, grounding him. “Neteyam—hey, look at me.”

His eyes finally met hers, and what she saw in them made her heart sink. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even panicked. He looked lost—like the light inside him had been blown out. Like he was watching something precious drift away and couldn’t reach it anymore.

“I saw it,” he breathed. “I saw her mask. Bloody. Lying at the feet of a palulukan. Eywa showed me. That was the sign. That must be the end. She’s gone, Kiri.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “She’s really gone.”

Kiri shook her head. “No. No, Neteyam, listen to me.”

“She showed me the tree branch before—the one where she was hiding from the nantang. In the storm. I saw it in the dream. And then I saw her under the hanging Samson. That was real too. We found it, Kiri. All of it. Those dreams were real.” He gripped her arms tighter, like the weight of his words might otherwise collapse him. “So this one—this dream—must be real too. And the mask was broken. She was gone.”

Kiri swallowed hard, staring at him. She wanted to believe he was wrong. She needed to believe he was wrong. She pressed her forehead to his, grounding them both, breathing slow. “Maybe… maybe Eywa wasn’t showing you that she’s gone.”

Neteyam pulled back slightly, confused and shaking his head. “What else could it mean? A broken mask is death for her.”

“I don’t know,” Kiri admitted, her voice low and gentle, but firm. “But maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a direction. A place. Like the others. Maybe she’s showing you where to go, not what’s already happened.”

He stared at her, torn.

“Eywa didn’t just give you the end,” Kiri continued. “She gave you pieces before—clues. That tree hollow. The Samson. We followed them. We found them. And you didn’t find a body, Neteyam. You didn’t find a grave. Just a trail.”

She squeezed his hand now, hard. “So maybe… maybe that broken mask means she lost it. Not that she died there. Maybe it’s a sign we’re close.”

“But without it…” Neteyam started, his voice hollow. “She can’t breathe.”

Kiri’s voice broke with emotion, but she held firm. “Then we don’t stop. We don’t grieve until we know. We keep moving. We search that clearing. We find that den. You said it was near a glade, surrounded by ancient trees. We’ll track it. We will. But not if you collapse before we try.”

Neteyam stared at her for a long time, breathing unevenly, his body still trembling. Then he nodded once. Slowly. He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to sit up straighter. “You’re right,” he whispered, voice raw. “We follow the trail. We search.”

Kiri nodded. “We follow what Eywa gave us. Every thread. Every sign. Until we find her.”

Until we bring her home.

*

They searched until the sky bruised into dusk, until the shadows beneath the canopy deepened and spread, until the ache in their bones was as heavy as the ache in their chests. Still, the forest yielded nothing but silence—no tracks, no marks, no hints beyond the haunted vision Eywa had given Neteyam.

As they slowly made their way back to the village, the only sound was the tired plodding of their pa'li and the soft rustling of leaves beneath their hooves. The quiet stretched between them, thick and somber.

When they reached the village outskirts, Kiri and Lo'ak dismounted first, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Neteyam hesitated, sitting motionless on his pa'li, his gaze distant and heavy. The thought of entering the village, facing the whispers and glances from those around the communal fire—he couldn't bear it.

Not tonight.

Lo'ak cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing up at his brother. "Are you…?"

Neteyam shook his head quietly. "No. You two go ahead."

Kiri's expression tightened slightly, worry etched deep into her features. She reached up, touching his knee lightly. "Neteyam, you need to eat. You've barely—"

"I'll be fine," he interrupted softly, voice drained. "I'm just not hungry."

She hesitated, searching his eyes with a gaze sharp and careful, as if trying to gauge how close he was to breaking completely. Then she gave a reluctant nod.

"Alright," she said quietly. Her fingers lingered on his knee for a moment longer before dropping away.

As Kiri turned to walk toward the communal fires, her eyes caught the glow of the flames ahead, just briefly. But in that flicker of firelight, Neteyam saw something new in her expression—something he'd never wanted to see. At least not now.

Pity.

It was there for just a heartbeat—a tiny, unmistakable glimmer of doubt and sadness—and then gone again as she averted her gaze.

His heart sank. It wasn't anger or impatience or frustration—not even disappointment. No, this was gentler, crueler.

She pitied him.

Because even Kiri, the one who had anchored him these last days, who had reminded him again and again to hold on to hope—now she doubted. Now even she was beginning to believe he chased nothing but a ghost.

Lo'ak lingered a moment longer, shifting uneasily as Kiri began walking away. "Maybe tomorrow we could head back to the outpost," he suggested hesitantly. "Check in with Norm or Max. Maybe they found something. Maybe they noticed something we missed. You weren’t at the outpost since you knew she went missing."

Neteyam didn't look up at first. He didn't answer immediately. Just nodded slowly. Lo'ak shuffled his feet, clearly uncertain how to help, how to comfort. Finally, he sighed. "We'll figure it out. Tomorrow, we'll… we'll find something."

Empty reassurance, but sincere.

Neteyam nodded again, finally meeting his brother's eyes. "Irayo, Lo'ak," he said quietly, the gratitude in his voice genuine, if weary. "For everything. Tell Kiri the same."

Lo'ak offered a small, tired smile. "Always, bro." Then he turned, heading after their sister, leaving Neteyam alone in the quiet darkness at the edge of the village.

Neteyam stayed there a long moment, staring after his siblings until their shapes melted into the golden glow of the communal fire. The distant murmur of the clan was a low hum, just background noise. Something he no longer belonged to—not fully. Not without you.

He swallowed around the painful lump in his throat and finally turned away, urging his pa'li back toward his kelku.

Because the truth was, he saw their doubt clearly—both Lo'ak’s weary uncertainty and Kiri’s silent pity. Even they thought he was losing his grip. Even they were beginning to believe the worst.

But he didn't say anything. He couldn't afford to. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he pushed it down deep inside, burying their doubt beneath layers of raw, stubborn hope—however fragile, however foolish.

Because even if everyone else had begun to believe you were truly gone, he refused. Even if he was chasing a ghost, he would chase you to the very edge of this world and the next.

He would not stop until he found you—until you were safe in his arms again. Or until the Great Mother herself tore the last breath from his body.

Neteyam slid off the pa’li slowly, his body heavy from exhaustion. He placed a gentle hand on the creature's powerful neck, stroking softly. “Go rest,” he murmured quietly. The pa’li chuffed once, nudging his shoulder gently, before trotting away into the gathering twilight.

Neteyam stood alone for a moment, watching the beast disappear into the shadows. Then he turned, his eyes settling on the warm glow emanating from his grandmother’s tent. He hesitated briefly, then moved toward it, his steps quiet but steady.

As he brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the healer’s tent, Mo'at’s sharp eyes instantly found him, and she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You look like a ghost, grandson,” she said bluntly, her voice a mix of concern and mild irritation.

Neteyam snorted softly, the sound bitter and humorless. “Maybe I am,” he muttered, sinking slowly onto one of the mats near the entrance. “I need something. Something to help me sleep tonight. I need energy for tomorrow.”

Mo'at narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him in silence before nodding. She turned toward her shelves, fingers brushing thoughtfully over bundles of dried herbs.

“Your father worries,” she said evenly, her voice low as she plucked a small pouch of crushed leaves. “He thinks you neglect your duties. That you no longer care for your people.”

Neteyam let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Typical,” he murmured quietly, half to himself, half to the emptiness. “It’s always like this. If I step away, I am lazy. If I do everything they ask, it’s barely enough.” He sighed deeply, the sound weary and hollow. “But right now, I don’t care about duty. I don’t care about what he thinks is important.”

Mo'at glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. She didn’t reply, just began carefully measuring the herbs into a small wooden bowl. A sudden rustle at the tent flap caught Neteyam’s attention, the curtain shifting slightly, as if someone had started to enter—but then, suddenly, the movement stopped. He glanced briefly toward it, brow furrowing slightly. Probably just a warrior needing something, he thought absently. Whoever it was, they must have changed their mind.

Neteyam shrugged, turning his attention back to his grandmother as she began mixing the herbs into a thick paste. Mo'at watched him silently for a moment longer, her eyes thoughtful, before she finally knelt before him, placing the bowl into his hand.

“Drink this slowly,” she instructed softly. “It will calm your mind. Give you rest.”

He stared into the mixture, eyes dark and tired. When he spoke, his voice was small—barely a whisper, rough with unspoken grief and doubt. “Do you think I’ve gone crazy too?”

Mo'at paused at that, her sharp features softening just slightly. She reached out, gently cupping her grandson’s face, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. Her eyes met his, steady and gentle in a way few had ever seen. “Wanting back your mate is not craziness, ma’itan,” she murmured quietly. “It is love. And love is never madness.”

Neteyam nodded slowly, her words seeping through some of the ache in his chest—but not all of it. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I feel like… I am drifting farther and farther away from my family,” he whispered. “Am I wrong, Grandmother? Wrong to love someone so different from us?”

Mo'at’s eyes softened further, deep wisdom shining quietly in them. She considered his question thoughtfully, carefully choosing her words before speaking.

“Love does not follow rules, child,” she said gently. “Eywa places it within us, and who are we to question her wisdom? Differences matter little in the eyes of the Great Mother. What matters is what you carry here—” she pressed one palm softly against his chest, directly over his heart, “—and here.” Her fingertips brushed gently over his temple. “If both your heart and your mind speak the same truth, there is no wrong.”

She paused, watching him intently, before asking simply:

“Do you truly love her, Neteyam?”

His breath stilled briefly. His gaze lifted, meeting his grandmother’s unflinching stare. And in that moment, all doubts and hesitation burned away, leaving only raw truth.

“Yes,” he said, quietly but fiercely. “More than I thought it was possible to love anyone. She is…” His voice faltered slightly, the intensity cracking his composure. “She is everything to me. Without her, I feel I am nothing. I would trade everything—my name, my position, the respect of the entire clan—just to hold her again. Just to know she’s alive and safe.” He swallowed hard as he murmured, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “She’s my heart, Grandmother.”

Mo'at held his gaze quietly for a long moment, seeing the fire, the unwavering truth of his words. Then she nodded once, a gentle smile finally curving her lips.

“Then you already have your answer, grandson,” she said softly, squeezing his hand firmly. “Hold tight to it. Do not let doubt cloud your spirit. Eywa never places such bonds lightly.”

He nodded slowly, closing his eyes as the warmth of her reassurance washed over him—small, quiet comfort amidst so much grief. But he knew, as sure as he drew breath, that nothing would be whole again until you were back in his arms.

Neteyam raised the bowl to his lips and drank slowly, forcing the bitter poultice down with a grimace. The taste was sharp—earthy and biting—and it made his jaw tighten reflexively. He exhaled sharply through his nose as he lowered the bowl. “Eywa…” he muttered, lips curling in distaste. “That’s awful.”

Mo’at didn’t so much as glance at him. “It’s not meant to taste sweet,” she said dryly as she began returning her herbs to their place. “It’s meant to work.”

He pulled the bowl away, swallowing hard against the aftertaste, and stared down into it. The mixture left a dark, sludgy trail inside the curve of the wood, and he just sat there for a moment, holding it in both hands like it still carried some weight, some meaning.

Then, softly—without looking up—he said, “Sa’nok found out.”

Mo’at didn’t look up right away. She continued folding dried roots with care, placing them into small leather bundles for storage. Her voice came calm, unsurprised.

“I know,” she said simply. “She came to me yesterday. Asked if I had known.”

Neteyam exhaled a quiet, tired breath and nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a smirk. Of course she did. His mother—wounded, furious, betrayed—had stormed to the one place where answers were always demanded: her own mother’s tent. Because if anyone had helped him keep this secret, it had to be Mo’at.

He turned the bowl in his hands again, watching the firelight flicker against the smooth surface. “I guess she wanted to know if the tsahìk of the clan had covered for her son’s little affair with a human.”

Mo’at didn’t respond immediately. She bundled the last of the herbs and tied them shut with nimble fingers, then finally turned her sharp gaze back to him.

“I told her I took the girl as my apprentice in the past weeks,” she said simply.

Neteyam smiled, just faintly, eyes still fixed on the bowl. A warmth fluttered beneath his ribs, small and painful.

He remembered how proud you’d been those days. How carefully you’d stepped into the tent, eyes wide with curiosity, not hesitation. How you had listened to Mo’at’s instructions with such intent focus, soaking in every word. You’d taken notes in your little battered notebook even though the rest of the clan never did. You’d asked questions with humility, with reverence. You never assumed you knew better, even though half the time, you probably did.

Mo’at watched him with a softness she rarely showed, her sharp lines relaxing, her expression unreadable but not cold.

“I suppose she was not happy to hear that,” Neteyam added, almost absently. He didn’t need to say who. His voice was dry, tired. Not mocking—just resigned.

Mo’at said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, she answered, “No. She was not.” The silence that followed was not strained. It was heavy, but honest.

Neteyam stared at the empty bowl in his hands for a long while, his fingers curled tightly around it, as if letting go would unravel something inside him. The bitter taste of the poultice still clung to his tongue, but he barely noticed it anymore. His thoughts were elsewhere—always elsewhere these days. Drifting after you, even when his body stayed behind.

And then, the words came, quiet and uncertain. “Eywa sends me visions,” he said.

Mo’at didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She only stilled her hands and turned her full attention toward him, watching him with the solemn stillness of a true tsahìk.

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right place to begin. His voice was softer when it returned. “Every night,” he continued slowly, almost like he was afraid speaking them aloud would make them disappear. “She wraps them in dreams, but they are more than that. They feel… real. Like memories I didn’t live. Like pieces of a path I’m meant to follow.” He trailed off for a moment, his hands tightening around the bowl until the wood creaked faintly beneath his grip.

“I never find her,” he said, voice raw. “Always too late. Always behind. Like I’m just a shadow following her path instead of walking beside her. I see her in the dreams, I chase her, but she’s always ahead of me. Always out of reach.”

Mo’at’s brow furrowed, her expression quiet but intense as she listened. Neteyam’s eyes finally lifted from the bowl, his gaze locking with hers.

She inhaled softly, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she rose and walked across the tent, kneeling slowly beside him. Her hand found his shoulder, light but grounding.

“Neteyam,” she said, her voice calm but resonant, like water trickling through stone. “The Great Mother does not speak in straight lines. She does not hand answers like fruit from a tree. She speaks in threads. In echoes. In glimpses.”

Her fingers squeezed gently. “You say you arrive late. But each vision still leads you one step further than before right? Eywa is not failing you. She is guiding you, piece by piece, so that you may see for yourself—not only where your mate has been, but what she has endured. What you must understand to bring her back whole.”

Neteyam blinked, swallowing. The words soothed something deep and raw in his chest. But the fear still remained, rooted and coiled.

His grip on the bowl tightened slightly. His next question came so quietly, it was almost lost to the tent walls.

“Would the Great Mother show me her death?”

The silence that followed was deep.

Mo’at’s hand stilled on his shoulder. She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes closed for a moment, as if listening to something beyond the wind and fire.

Then, finally, she opened them again—and her voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of generations.

“No,” she said. “Eywa does not show death to punish. Only to prepare.”

She leaned forward slightly, brushing her fingers along his temple the way she had when he was a small child with fevers and night terrors.

“If she had passed,” Mo’at whispered, “you would not see her shadow. You would not feel her breath in the trees. Eywa does not torment her children with hope where there is none.”

Neteyam’s breath caught.

“She is not gone, Neteyam,” Mo’at said firmly now, her tone stronger, more certain. “Not yet. The Great Mother would not lead you this far only to find ashes.”

Tears stung at the edges of his eyes, but he blinked them back. He bowed his head slowly, as if the weight of that truth had finally found a place to rest.

Neteyam stood slowly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness between him and Mo’at. The medicine was already beginning to drag on his limbs, making each movement feel a little heavier, a little slower. He reached out and gently returned the bowl to her hands, his fingers brushing briefly against hers.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, voice low but sincere. “For everything.”

Mo’at gave a small nod, accepting the bowl without ceremony. Her expression was calm, composed, but in her eyes was the warmth of something deeper. Understanding. Faith.

The flap rustled as he stepped outside.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the soft scent of the forest after the rains. Night had fully claimed the sky, stars glinting through the canopy like scattered stones. His breath plumed faintly in the air, the medicine already starting to pull at his muscles, weighing them down like sand.

He barely took two steps before he saw her.

Neytiri.

She stood just outside the shadows of the tent, half-hidden behind a thick root, as if she'd been caught between staying and fleeing. Her posture was tense—shoulders high, hands slightly clenched at her sides—but her face… her face was not the sharp mask she had worn yesterday when she’d looked at him like he was someone she didn’t recognize.

It was soft. Raw. Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain.

Neteyam froze. For a breath, he thought it was the medicine—making him see things. Making him hope. But then her gaze dropped, flicked over him, the way a mother checks a child for unseen wounds. That wasn’t anger in her eyes.

It was worry. A deep, quiet worry. The kind a mother feels when she sees her child slipping beyond her reach and doesn’t know how to pull him back.

She had heard everything.

Of course she had. She must’ve been the figure at the flap earlier. Not some warrior. His own mother—lingering in the dark, listening to his heart unravel in front of Mo’at. They stood a few meters apart, neither speaking, the space between them a silent battlefield of grief and things unsaid.

Neteyam tried to keep his face blank, unreadable. He knew his mask was thin. Too thin, after everything. He didn’t want her to see what was beneath it—didn’t want to give her that piece of him again. Not after yesterday.

Neytiri took one small step toward him, her hand rising slowly, uncertain.

“Neteyam,” she said softly, her voice low, hesitant. She reached out, fingers trembling slightly as if they remembered cradling his cheek when he was still young enough to fall asleep in her arms.

But he didn’t move toward her. Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her for one breath longer—one heartbeat that stretched too far—and then turned away.

He walked without a word, his steps deliberate, quiet, heading toward the far side of the village, away from the warmth of the communal fires, away from her, away from everything.

She didn’t call after him. And he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Not after everything she’d said. Not after the disgust in her voice when she looked at his love like it was a stain. Not after the way she had chosen tradition over his heart.

He didn’t need her words now. He needed you.

He needed sleep, just enough to carry him into the dreams again—into the shadows where you still ran ahead of him like a star half-lost in the trees.

*

Sleep took him like a slow tide, creeping over the edges of his thoughts and pulling him gently under. The medicine Mo’at had given him dulled the pain in his limbs, but it couldn’t quiet the ache in his chest. Still, his body surrendered—too worn to resist—and before long, the darkness gave way to light.

But not the harsh light of truth or grief or loss.

This dream was different. It was… peaceful.

The forest was gone.

There was no mist, no shadows, no chase through tangled roots or blood on the grass. No predators, no breathless panic clawing at his ribs. Just warmth. Quiet. Light.

Neteyam stood still. He knew it was a dream—he always knew now—but this one didn’t claw or tear or ache. It settled over him like a soft blanket. A memory, maybe. Or a promise.

You were at the outpost. Sitting at your desk, your back straight but relaxed, legs tucked under you as you typed rapidly on the worn keyboard in front of you. The hum of soft power from the solar battery buzzed low in the background. The screen glowed pale blue, casting light across your face, painting it in cool shadows and flickers of code.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just watched you.

His breath caught quietly in his throat, chest tightening—not with panic, but with longing so deep it carved a hollow inside him. You looked so alive. So you. Hair pulled messily back, strands falling forward as your fingers danced across the keys like it was second nature. You didn’t even glance at your hands. Just stared into the floating holo-screen, eyes moving quickly as you translated readings he would never understand.

Eywa, you were beautiful. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Not in the way the songs spoke of. Not like the women of his clan with their war paint and braids, lean bodies and fierce eyes. You were quiet beauty. Earthbound and glowing.

Not in the way humans sometimes meant it—he didn’t care about symmetry or softness or whatever scientific things Norm once tried to explain. You were beautiful in the way the forest was when it breathed. In the way light scattered through the canopy after rain. You were beautiful because you existed—because he could see the fire behind your eyes, the way your face tilted when you were deep in thought, the way your mouth curled ever so slightly when you solved something no one else could.

The blue glow from the screen lit your features like starlight. And his heart ached. Truly ached.

Because this was the you he missed. Focused. Calm. Brilliant. Breathing. Unbroken.

Let him see you at your desk again. Let him walk through the outpost door and hear you scold him for tracking mud into the clean lab space. Let him sit behind you while you work, legs crossed, listening to you mutter to yourself while you pulled the world apart and stitched it back together through numbers and light.

You shifted, then turned slowly, sensing him the way you always did, as if even in dreams you could feel his eyes on you.

Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.

And then, without preamble, you asked: “Have you ever met a thanator?” The question struck him like a branch to the face.

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling, your fingers finally stilled over the keyboard. “A thanator. The big black one with the scary eyes and all the sharp teeth.” You mimed claws in the air, half-serious, half-playful.

Neteyam chuckled, a sound that felt strange on his lips. “I mean… not in the forest, no. I’ve seen the holovids showed by my father when I was a child. And the hides the clan uses for ceremonial rites. But no, I’ve never actually faced one.” He paused. “They’re dangerous.”

You hummed thoughtfully, then looked away for a moment, eyes dancing in the holo-light.

“I want to see one someday,” you said.

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “What?”

You just laughed. Not mocking—more like you expected that exact reaction. “I know, I know. It’s crazy. I’d probably die in five seconds.” You shrugged casually, still smiling. “But they’re… incredible, aren’t they? The apex predator of Pandora. So powerful, so intelligent. The way they move, the way they protect their young…” Your eyes flicked back to him. “I think there’s something beautiful in that. Even if they’re terrifying.”

“You shouldn’t want to see one,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You really shouldn’t.”

Your smile faded slightly into something curious, head tilted as you studied him thoughtfully. "Why are there no thanators around the outpost?"

Neteyam shook his head lightly, momentarily distracted by the soft confusion in your voice. "They live further west, toward the perimeter of the clan's lands," he explained softly. "Far from here. That's where their dens are. The prey there is abundant, easier for the mothers to hunt, easier to protect their pups. They rarely stray from that area."

His voice trailed off, and suddenly he went quiet—mind spinning as something clicked sharply into place. A pulse raced through his chest, quickening like a drumbeat.

West.

Toward the perimeter of the clan’s land. Toward the mining zone. Toward the very place you had disappeared from.

He thought again of the dream—the vision—Eywa had sent. The mother palulukan, snarling in defense of her den, fiercely protective of her young. Your exomask, lying broken and bloodied at her feet. He’d seen it as a warning, a symbol of your death. But now…

He looked at you sharply, your eyes still gentle and curious, your brow furrowed slightly as you waited for him to speak. Why were you asking about palulukan now? You, of all humans, knew more about Pandora's creatures than anyone in the outpost. You were one of the most intelligent scientists he knew—so why this sudden question?

Was it you? Or was it Eywa?

Was the Great Mother guiding him, gently nudging him forward—telling him exactly where he should go next? You must have passed near the dens if you'd headed east from the mining zone toward the outpost. The sunlight would have been your guide. Eastward, homeward, through the territory the thanators fiercely protected.

His heart thudded painfully. Perhaps you had encountered one. Perhaps the mask he saw was not a symbol of death, but merely an event on your path. Not a loss, but a clue.

A sign.

His thoughts spiraled deeper, sharp and hopeful and terrified all at once. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly as the possibility unfurled before him, tangible and desperate.

Maybe you weren't gone.

Maybe you were just waiting, quietly hidden somewhere near those ancient dens. Eywa was not cruel—Mo'at's words echoed clearly now. She guided in pieces, in threads. And he had been too blinded by fear to see clearly.

Lost in thought, Neteyam hadn't even noticed you shifting closer, hadn't felt you move until your small, gentle hands slid over his own, softly curling around his much larger fingers.

He glanced down abruptly, startled, heart stumbling again. The contrast between you both was striking—the deep azure of his skin against the softness of yours, his hands engulfing yours entirely. You were so fragile, yet your touch was strong, steadying him with such gentle warmth that it felt impossibly real.

Your voice was quiet, tinged with a smile as you spoke again, breaking through his spinning thoughts. "You always have such a serious face when you're thinking."

He stared at your joined hands, throat tightening painfully. If only you knew how fiercely his thoughts had been racing, how desperately they were trying to bring you back.

If only you knew how much every moment without you was tearing him apart.

He squeezed your hands gently, crouching down, leaning in closer, letting himself savor the impossible softness of your touch, even if it was just a dream. Even if it wasn't real.

"Because my thoughts are always about you," he whispered, voice raw, eyes locked on your intertwined fingers. "Because I can't stop until I find you."

And even though he knew you were a dream, even though he knew you couldn't truly hear him—his heart whispered fiercely into the silence, promising that tomorrow he would follow this new thread Eywa had woven for him.

West. To the thanator dens. He wouldn't be late this time. He glanced down.

When he looked up again, you were smiling at him. That warm, crooked little smile that always tugged at the corners of his restraint. There was no fear in your eyes. No sadness. Just you. Present. Steady. And before he could speak, you reached up with your other hand.

Your small palm brushed gently along the edge of his jaw, cupping his face.

Your thumb moved slowly, tracing the faint line of bioluminescent freckles that shimmered along his cheekbone. You followed the curve of them like you were memorizing a constellation written just for you.

And then—without hesitation—you leaned in. His breath caught.

Your lips pressed to his—light, soft, a promise instead of a question. And in that small touch, the whole forest seemed to go still.

Neteyam’s ears flattened, a low sound catching in the back of his throat. His tail lashed behind him once, instinctive and sharp, before it curled tightly near his leg. His whole body was wound like a bowstring, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Would never.

Because this was real—even if it wasn’t.

Even if it was only a dream. His lips moved slowly against yours, reverent. Desperate. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your thumb still brushing his cheek. “I’m okay,” you whispered, like a secret only he was meant to hear.

And he believed you. But only for now. Because belief wasn’t enough. He needed to know. He needed to find you. And when he woke—he would. He had a direction now.

*

The morning came without color.

Neteyam was already awake before the first light crept over the horizon. He hadn’t slept long—just enough for Eywa’s thread to wrap around him once more and point him westward. He didn’t need more.

Before the first rays of sunlight touched the treetops, Neteyam was already gone.

The village still slept—quiet, still, unaware. And that’s how he wanted it. He didn’t wait for Lo’ak’s teasing yawn or Kiri’s questioning glance. He didn’t want their pity, not again. Not after last night. Not after what he saw. What he felt.

He couldn’t take another look that said we’re only here because we’re worried you’ll break.

Let them think he was broken. Let them think he’d lost his mind.

And maybe he had gone insane. Maybe he was mad now, chasing signs from dreams and whispers on the wind. Who walks willingly into palulukan territory with nothing but a bow and a knife?

But Neteyam didn’t care.

He would walk into the jaws of death itself if it meant a chance of finding you. So he rode alone.

The pa’li’s hooves hit the dirt path in long, quiet strides, and Neteyam’s bow swayed against his back with every movement. His knife sat at his chest. It wasn’t enough. He knew that. No one with sense walked willingly into thanator territory without a war party. And even then, not with any hope of return.

But maybe he had gone insane. Maybe the grief had finally chewed through whatever strength had been left inside him. Because he didn’t feel the fear anymore. Not really. Not the way he used to. It had been swallowed whole by something deeper. Something colder.

The thought of losing you. He rode west.

Through dense underbrush and vine-strangled paths, past forgotten trees with roots as wide as huts. He tracked the sun and the shape of the land, following instinct more than any mapped trail.

By the time the sun crested high overhead, the trees had grown quieter. The air thicker. The kind of silence that made prey freeze in place.

Their territory. The pa’li knew it too. “I know,” Neteyam whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be here either.”

Shadows crept along the ground as midday passed, and finally, he saw it. Tracks. Fresh and unmistakable. Deep grooves cut into the earth, broken foliage crushed and pushed aside. Huge paw prints led toward an enormous tree surrounded by thick, dense undergrowth.

Thanator.

Neteyam halted, heart thudding painfully. He gazed ahead from the pa’li’s back, breathing shallowly. One set of prints was enormous—unmistakably a mother’s. Beside them, smaller tracks trailed after her, scattered and playful. Cubs.

The pa’li beneath him tensed, head lifting high twitching nervously. It shook its head sharply, hooves shifting uneasily. Neteyam laid a calming hand on its neck, murmuring softly, but the creature snorted in agitation. It didn't want to be here. He couldn’t blame it. Even a seasoned warrior stood little chance against a thanator mother protecting her cubs. Sky-demon weapons would barely tip the odds. And Neteyam was alone, armed only with wood and bone and desperation.

Then something caught his eye through the foliage—gleaming sharply in the sunlight. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Without thinking, he slid from the pa’li’s back, hitting the ground lightly and sprinting forward, bow forgotten on his back.

His breath caught in his throat when he reached the den’s mouth.

Three small thanator cubs tumbled playfully at the entrance, snapping and growling softly at one another. At the sound of his footsteps, they froze abruptly, amber eyes sharp and wary. They snarled quietly, retreating quickly into the shadows, vanishing deeper into the den.

But his eyes were no longer on them. They were fixed on the mask lying broken and bloodied in the dirt, glittering cruelly in the dappled sunlight.

Your mask.

Exactly as Eywa had shown him. His knees nearly gave out, a violent tremor racing through him. He staggered, then pushed himself forward anyway, stumbling closer. His heart was hammering, breath jagged as he knelt down to pick it up, turning it over in his trembling fingers.

The mask was cracked, smeared with dark, dried blood across the shattered glass panel. His vision blurred, throat closing tightly around a sudden wave of nausea.

You were here. You had to be. You wouldn't have abandoned this mask willingly. You'd never leave it behind unless—

No. He refused to accept that. And as he knelt there, desperate, eyes scanning wildly—he saw something else.

Footprints. But not yours.

These were larger. Longer. Broader. A human male's, distinct in the soft earth, leading away from the den. His mind spun rapidly.

Norm. The science team. Xenobotanists, perhaps. Maybe they'd been searching too. Maybe they'd found you, hurt and bleeding, barely alive, and had taken you back to safety—to the outpost, to Norm's med-lab.

Hope surged fiercely, blooming through his chest like sunlight, almost painful in its intensity.

But as he sprinted back toward the pa'li, heart pounding with new purpose, a cold shadow whispered suddenly in the back of his mind.

If they'd found you, if you were safe, why hadn't they told him?

He hauled himself up onto the pa'li’s back, chest heaving, mind spinning with desperate questions. Fear coiled tightly around his ribs, choking out the brief flash of hope.

What if they hadn’t told him because… because it was too late? Because you were too badly injured? Because you wouldn't survive, and they couldn't bear to deliver that news to him?

He kicked the pa’li into a swift gallop toward the outpost, barely feeling the wind rushing past him. He knew only one thing with absolute certainty:

He had to see you. Even if it broke him completely. Even if the next breath he took was the last sane breath he ever drew. He needed to know.

*

It was nearly dusk when Neteyam reached the outpost, the jungle behind him humming softly with the approach of night. The air was thick with the weight of heat and tension, the sky bleeding orange and violet as the last light dipped behind the mountains.

The pa’li beneath him was slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion, foam gathering at its mouth. He slid off its back without a word, giving the creature a brief, grateful pat on its flank. “Go,” he murmured, voice low and firm. “You’re done.”

The pa’li didn’t hesitate—it turned and disappeared into the forest with a staggering gallop, leaving Neteyam standing alone in front of the gates of Hell itself.

Because that’s what the outpost felt like now. A place of answers he wasn’t sure he could bear.

He approached slowly, steps silent but purposeful, the scent of metal and sterilized air creeping into his nose as he drew closer to the airlock. Something was off. He could sense it instantly—movement, voices, tension in the air like an electric charge. Something was happening.

The outer doors hissed as they cycled open, and a figure stepped out.

Raj.

The man froze the moment he spotted Neteyam—like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. His hands were gripping a large crate, dragging it behind him, but he stilled instantly, body going rigid, face paling.

Neteyam’s tail lashed violently behind him. He hadn’t forgotten.

He didn’t care that Raj was just a scientist. He didn’t care that the man probably never meant harm. All he saw was the one who dared to say she’s not coming back. As if your death was an inconvenience.

Now, seeing him again—seeing him standing there, alive, breathing, dragging some goddamned crate like nothing had happened—Neteyam’s blood boiled.

Raj froze the moment he noticed Neteyam approaching. He went rigid like a cornered animal, eyes darting quickly toward the airlock as if measuring his odds of escape. The crate behind him thudded against the metal flooring as he released it, hands instinctively raising in some half-hearted placating gesture.

Neteyam’s fingers curled around the hilt of his knife before he stopped himself. Not now. Not yet. He needed answers more than he needed vengeance.

Neteyam didn’t stop. He brushed past the man without a single word, shoulders stiff, steps sharp with restrained fury.

Raj flinched as he passed.

Good. Let him be afraid.

He didn’t deserve even a sliver of grace.

Neteyam stormed through the outpost’s airlock, the door hissing open in front of him. His steps echoed through the narrow hallway, the sterile white lights above flickering slightly as the backup generator kicked on for the evening cycle.

He followed the sound of voices—heated, overlapping. The main lab. As he rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of him.

Norm stood near the center of the room, looking worn and resigned, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Max lingered nearby, expression tense. And across from them stood Kate  voice low but full of fire.

Neteyam’s heart began to hammer again. He stepped closer, trying to hear them. The hum of the base was loud—but not loud enough to drown them out completely.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Kate was saying, voice sharp, brimming with frustration.

Norm’s voice was lower, slower. “It’s been over a week. We haven’t had a signal. No sightings. No movement. She’s—”

“You don’t know that,” Kate snapped.

“You don’t know she’s alive,” Norm countered, his voice cracking slightly, weary. “We have to move forward. I had to make the call.”

Kate stared at him in disbelief. “You filed the closure?”

“I had to. Her file's been marked as ‘presumed lost.’”

Neteyam didn’t understand it at first. Closed… your file? He didn’t understand. What did that mean? Was it some human thing? Something bureaucratic? Some protocol?

But then he saw the look on Kate’s face—saw the way her anger masked grief—and something cold and sharp slipped beneath his ribs.

They were giving up. They were calling you gone.

He stood outside the glass, unmoving, silent. The words felt like wind blowing past him at first. Just air.

But then Norm kept speaking.

“We can’t leave her listed as active. Not after this long. It’s protocol, Kate. I know how much she meant to us, but—”

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

“You had no right,” she said sharply, her back to Neteyam.

“I have to,” Norm replied quietly, his voice almost hollow. “We searched the entire sector.”

“You didn’t search all of it,” Kate shot back, turning toward him with a glare. “You searched what the drones could cover. That’s not the same.”

You were still out there. He knew it. Eywa had not lied. The mask, the dream, the footprints—all of it pointed to you still fighting. Still surviving. And here they were. Closing your file like you were just another failed mission. Another line on a report.

A faint snarl escaped the back of his throat before he even realized it.

Norm’s head jerked toward the sound—and his eyes widened when he saw Neteyam through the glass.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just stared at them through the barrier, his entire body trembling—not with grief, but with fury.

Because they didn’t believe in you. But he did.

Neteyam’s heart began to thud, sharp and fast, his body suddenly too still. He stepped closer, lips parted slightly. “What does that mean?” he whispered aloud, but no one heard him.

The three scientists froze. Norm looked up, his expression tightening instantly as he saw Neteyam standing there, wide-eyed, breathing heavily, rage barely restrained beneath the surface. Norm’s voice was low. “I had to file the loss for HQ. For the database. For the funding review. It doesn’t mean I believe she’s gone— It means… we’ve listed her as MIA,” he said quietly. “Missing. Presumed dead.”

But Neteyam was already backing away, shaking his head. The words sounded like static, meaningless and hit like a blow to the chest.

Everything in Neteyam went still. The world, the lights, the sounds around him—it all blurred into a haze of white noise.

Presumed dead.

No.

No.

His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so tightly he felt the sting of breaking skin. He felt it—but barely. Because the rage and disbelief were louder.

They’d written you off. His hands were shaking.

Kate looked at him with something close to guilt. Max looked away entirely. A voice cracked through the tension like brittle glass shattering in silence. It came from the far side of the lab—quiet, low, but raw. “I told them not to touch anything. Kate too.”

Neteyam’s head snapped toward the sound. Brian.

He stood near the back wall, half in shadow, hands braced on a stack of metallic crates that matched the one Raj had been dragging. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days. His voice trembled—not from fear, but from grief.

“They’re… sending someone else,” Brian said hoarsely, eyes flicking toward the group, then down again. “Bridgehead. HQ. Protocol, you know? Can’t leave a position unfilled. Especially not one as important as hers.”

Neteyam didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Brian swallowed hard, his throat working like it hurt to speak. “They want us to clear out her quarters. Pack up her things. Prepare for the replacement.”

The words hung in the air like ash after a fire. Final. Cold. Neteyam stared at him for a moment, his breath frozen in his chest. Then slowly—almost unwillingly—he turned his gaze to the metal containers stacked in the corner.

There were three of them. Big. Square. Gray. Labeled with her initials. They weren’t just boxes. They were you. Everything you’d touched, everything you’d loved, everything that had made your world yours—crammed into crates like you were already a memory.

Neteyam stepped forward, unable to stop himself. He moved slowly, one step at a time, like the air had thickened around him. When he reached the nearest crate, he let his hand rest on the lid. The cold of the metal seeped into his fingers. His chest tightened painfully. Inside those crates was your life. Four years of it.

Your books. Your data pads. Your field kits. Your little sketches of Pandoran flora you used to pin above your bed. The scent of your soap clinging to your spare uniform. Your coffee mug with the chipped handle. Your notes—written in that half-scientific, half-messy shorthand he could never understand. The little woven trinkets Kiri had gifted you. The tiny jar of river pearls you’d been collecting ever since he gave you the first one.

All of it. Everything that proved you had lived here. That you had loved this world. His world. And now it was being packed away like evidence. His hand curled into a fist over the crate.

He couldn’t stay here. Not now. Not when the walls were closing in and every corner of this place reeked of abandonment. His voice was low, broken.

“She’s not gone,” he said again, but this time… it wasn’t to them.

It was to himself. And to Eywa. Rage flared so sharply behind his ribs it felt like something cracked.

“She is not replaceable,” Neteyam hissed, stepping forward before anyone could stop him. His voice was low and tight and shaking. “You don’t replace her. You find her.”

Kate opened her mouth like she wanted to say something—to calm him, to offer some tired rationalization—but he wasn’t interested in calm. Or reason.

He pulled something from the strap at his waist and tossed it across the table. It landed with a clatter, spinning slightly on the smooth metal.

Your mask. Bloodied. Cracked. Real. Everyone stilled.

“I found this,” Neteyam said, voice razor-sharp. “At a thanator den. Not scavenged. Not crushed. Dragged. Someone found her. There were footprints.”

Norm and Max paled. Kate’s hand shot to her mouth. Brian just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

“And you want to sit here and close files? You want to replace her?” Neteyam growled. “Then do it. But I’m not staying. I’m not waiting. And I’m not stopping.”

His chest rose and fell with hard, furious breaths.

*

He didn’t know how he got back to the village.

It was all a blur—fragments of memory without context, without clarity. The jungle whispered around him, a backdrop of muted color and indistinct shapes. The familiar trails and trees and scents faded into a dull hum, indistinguishable from the ache in his chest.

He remembered voices—his mother’s gentle murmur in the village, the concern etched into Neytiri's golden eyes. She’d tried to speak to him, reach out to him, but he hadn’t heard the words. Couldn’t hear them over the roaring emptiness inside his heart.

Kiri and Lo’ak had been there too, faces painted with worry, with uncertainty. They had called to him, but he’d walked past them without stopping, without answering. Their voices faded behind him as he moved, his steps heavy, dragging him inevitably to the dark solitude of his kelku.

And then he was alone. Numb. Empty.

He sat on the woven mats on the floor, eyes fixed unseeing into the dim light that filtered weakly through the thatched roof. The silence pressed around him like water, thick and suffocating.

Gone. They said you were gone.

The humans at the outpost—those he’d thought friends, allies—claimed he’d lost his mind. Claimed no other human would be out here, deep in the forests of Pandora. Norm’s voice echoed again and again, words like shards of glass slicing through his thoughts:

Maybe you have to accept she’s gone. Neteyam squeezed his eyes shut, breath catching painfully. Accept it? How could he accept that? How could he let her go like she’d never existed?

You were not just someone he'd cared about. You were his mate—his very heart. You were the one thing he knew he would always want, always need, forever. How could he abandon that? How could he let the pain of your absence be reduced to something as small and sterile as a closed file, a quiet memorial in the corner of a human outpost?

His chest tightened, agony twisting through him. How could he ever be so cruel as to accept your death? It would mean killing the last shred of hope that still lingered inside him—hope that Eywa had not lied, hope that the footprints had led you to safety, hope that the dreams were guiding him, not mocking him.

His gaze drifted across the kelku, empty and silent. Cold now, where once it had felt warm, filled with your quiet laughter, your careful touches, the soft way you'd leaned against him in the darkness.

His eyes caught on something small, lying half-forgotten near the sleeping mats.

The tiny, white button. He reached for it, fingers shaking, heart pounding. It sat in his palm, small and fragile.

Just like you.

His hand moved instinctively to the songcord tied securely to his hip, the thread smooth and familiar beneath his fingertips. His fingers grazed the beads—memories etched carefully into bone, into stone, into pearl.

Every songcord had a beginning and an end. Even then if knowing you were part just a few years of his life.

The first bead was the prayer he'd whispered to Eywa beneath the Tree of Souls—asking for something real. He'd prayed, and the Great Mother had given him you. Human, strange, brilliant, perfect in your differences, made just for him. His anchor. His balance. His future.

His fingers brushed gently over the beads, feeling the shapes, the grooves of memories.

His chest squeezed painfully. Because if there was a bead marking the beginning, logic whispered cruelly in the back of his mind, there would eventually have to be an end. A final bead marking the day he lost you forever.

Maybe you weren't Na'vi. Maybe you'd never woven a songcord of your own. But Neteyam knew his would always bear your story. Your name. Your heart.

Slowly, hands shaking with quiet grief, he took the white button and carefully threaded it onto the end of his cord. His vision blurred, stinging sharply at the corners of his eyes. But he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to accept this. But if he didn't anchor himself to something—if he didn't ground himself in the cold, stark truth—he feared he'd crumble entirely. That he'd fall apart and never come back together.

He stared at the button, small and painfully white against the darker beads. Is this all that's left of you now? He wanted to scream at Eywa, to rage against the silence in his heart. How could the Great Mother give him this bond—let him taste this love—and then rip it away?

Yet even as the anger swelled within him, sharp and fierce, there was something else whispering quietly in the depths of his heart.

A tiny, treacherous voice that said: Maybe you've been lying to yourself. Maybe those dreams were never visions from Eywa. Maybe they were just desperate things your mind created. Hope that wasn't real. Threads that never truly existed.

His breath hitched, the thought aching through him like poison.

Had he gone mad, like they said at the outpost? Had he chased shadows all this time?

His shoulders slumped forward, eyes closing, breath ragged. "No," he whispered hoarsely into the empty space. "No." He couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t accept that the Great Mother would play with his heart that cruelly. She had brought you to him—he knew that. Felt it in every fiber of his being.

Eywa had chosen you. Just as surely as he had. And the Na'vi chose mates for life. He’d known from the first moment you touched his heart that you were his mate. His forever.

Eywa had seen it, accepted it, blessed it. He couldn’t betray that.

But now, sitting alone in his kelku with your button threaded onto his songcord—this tiny symbol of you that felt so painfully inadequate—he wasn't sure what he knew anymore. He felt utterly lost. He didn’t know how to live in a world without you.

His fingers tightened around the cord, pressing the button sharply against his palm until he felt the edge cut softly into his skin. He welcomed the pain. It was something. Anything. Anything but emptiness.

"Eywa," he whispered, his voice broken, desperate. "Please—if you're listening… tell me I'm not wrong. Tell me you're guiding me. Please don't let me lose this hope."

But the kelku remained silent. Only shadows answered him.

His breath shuddered out in a slow, painful exhale, shoulders trembling as he bowed his head.

Tomorrow he would search again. He had to. He couldn't give up.

But tonight… tonight he let himself crumble. Let himself grieve. He was a warrior. The eldest son. Meant to stand strong for his clan, his siblings, his family.

But right now, here alone, he wasn't strong. He was just a heartbroken soul who couldn't bear to lose you. And for tonight—just for tonight—he allowed himself to break.

*

Neteyam sat still, crouched low in the shadows of his kelku, the white button threaded onto the end of his songcord digging into his palm like a wound he couldn't stop pressing. The weight of it felt like the end of something sacred—like a thread cut before the weaving was complete.

The air was thick and unmoving, heavy with grief and the scent of forest and ash. Night hummed quietly outside, the insects murmuring low and constant.

Then—softly, barely a shift—he heard movement near the entrance.

Footsteps. Light. Too careful to be Lo’ak. Too hesitant to be a warrior. He didn’t look up.

“Go away, Kiri,” he muttered, voice raw, dull. “I’m not in the mood to be pitied.”

Silence. Then a voice—not his sister’s. It was deeper, gentler—a voice that had soothed him to sleep as a child, that had scolded him for scraped knees and praised him after his first hunt.

“My son,”

His body went stiff.

Neytiri.

He didn’t want company.

Didn’t want comfort or reason or soft words that meant nothing. He wanted to disappear into the furs and will himself to wake from this living nightmare. He wanted time to fold in on itself and give him one more hour, one more breath, one more chance to make everything right again.

She stepped slowly inside, moving quietly, as if afraid that sound itself might shatter him further. The low flames flickered across her face, casting dancing shadows that softened her usually fierce features.

“What happened?” she asked gently, crouching just beyond his reach.

Neteyam’s shoulders shook once, a sharp breath leaving him in a brittle scoff. He didn’t look at her. He just stared down at his hands, curled tightly around his songcord.

“Why do you care?” he said, voice small, bitter. His ears flattening back. “If you came here to mock me—to celebrate that even the humans have accepted her death—then please, just go away.”

Then, softly, Neytiri crouched beside him. Her hand reached out carefully, landing gentle and warm on his shoulder. He almost flinched at her touch—it was too comforting, too familiar, too maternal to fit with the mother who had spat hateful words about his love.

“Neteyam,” she murmured softly, her voice gentle enough that for a moment he thought he’d imagined it. “You really love her, don’t you?”

Something cracked in his chest. Something fragile, something that had been holding him together by a thin, worn thread.

His head turned sharply toward her, eyes wide, wary, filled with the raw ache he couldn’t hide anymore.

Neytiri’s gaze met his quietly, carefully. Her expression was softer than he’d seen it in days—maybe even longer. No anger. No disgust. Only sorrow. Only quiet understanding.

“I told you that,” he whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “But you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t care.”

“I care,” she said quietly, voice strained with emotion. “I always cared. Maybe… too much.”

He stared at her, trying to make sense of the sudden softness in her voice. His brow furrowed, confusion twisting through the pain.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly, voice cracking at the edges.

Neytiri drew a slow, careful breath. Her hand tightened gently on his shoulder, holding him steady.

“I was scared for you, ma’itan,” she confessed quietly, her voice shaking slightly. “Not just angry. Not just disappointed. Scared. I feared… I feared what she would do to your heart. That she would hurt you simply by being what she is.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened painfully. “She would never hurt me. Not willingly. Not ever.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenched, but said nothing. His tail slowly swaying behind him with some loew thump-thump.

Neytiri watched her son closely, her eyes tracing every line and shadow that played across his features in the flickering firelight. There was an ache deep in her chest—a familiar yet foreign pain, something rooted far deeper than disappointment or anger. It was a mother's grief, the kind born of watching the child she loved grow into someone she barely recognized.

Slowly, carefully, Neytiri reached out, her thumb brushing gently across Neteyam's cheekbone, smoothing over the fine lines of bioluminescence that glowed faintly in the dark. Her touch was hesitant, cautious—as though she feared that he might pull away, might vanish before her eyes like a misty apparition.

"You have grown so much," she murmured softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "So quickly. Too quickly. I blink—and you are no longer the child who used to fall asleep in my lap after listening to old stories."

Neteyam didn't move. He barely even breathed, eyes lowered to his hands.

Neytiri drew a slow breath, the heaviness of it settling in her chest. "Sometimes it feels as though I have missed the moment you became a man. I look at you, and I still see the child I once knew—the child I protected. But then…" Her voice faded, eyes shadowed with sorrow. "Then you speak, and I see a man who has walked paths I cannot follow."

Neteyam finally lifted his gaze, his eyes finding hers. They were dark and raw—brimming with a grief and determination she both recognized and feared. "Then why," he asked quietly, his voice tense but even, "do you not trust in my decision?"

His question was gentle, but it struck Neytiri with the force of a blade.

Her lips parted slightly, words catching in her throat as she met his gaze. She saw the truth there—the quiet accusation, the hurt, the confusion. And beneath all of it, the burning intensity of conviction, the kind she'd once known herself, years ago, when she'd defied tradition for love.

Yet even now, she struggled to give him an answer. How could she explain the fear that had settled so deeply within her? How could she tell him about the past she couldn't forget, the loss she had buried beneath duty, beneath mothering, beneath the life she'd built from grief and ashes?

At last, her words came—softly, haltingly. "Because," she whispered, the weight of old wounds making her voice tremble, "she could never fully belong to you. She could never belong to this place—to the People. No matter how much you might wish it."

Neteyam's eyes narrowed, hurt flickering through his expression, quickly replaced by stubborn defiance. "You don’t know that," he said quietly, firmly. "Eywa—"

Neytiri shook her head, pain tightening around her heart like a vice. "Eywa might bind souls," she murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. "But there are some things even the Great Mother cannot change. There are scars too deep. Differences too vast. She is human. She is—"

"Mine," Neteyam cut in sharply, his voice still quiet, but with an edge that cut through the air between them. He held her gaze steadily, unwavering, the words absolute. "I don't ask you to understand. Just… to trust me."

For a moment, Neytiri didn't speak. She watched her son—her eldest, her firstborn, her brave-hearted warrior—seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time, the man he truly was. Strong-willed, fiercely loyal, unyielding in the face of uncertainty.

And yet, her heart still ached. The past was still there, whispering darkly in her mind. The wounds humans had carved into her spirit could never truly heal.

Finally, slowly, she withdrew her hand, her thumb leaving a lingering warmth against his cheek. Her eyes lowered, heavy with sorrow, understanding, and the shadow of a mother's fear.

Neteyam’s face didn’t change. Not in the way someone outside would see. But she was his mother. She saw it. The way his breath hitched — the smallest shift. The shadow in his eyes that flickered, like firelight trying not to die.

Still, he said nothing. He just looked at her.

Neytiri lowered her hand from his cheek, but didn’t move away. Her voice softened again.

“Even if her heart beats like ours… even if she walks like one of us… Eywa did not shape her for this world.”

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to the songcord in his lap.

“But maybe,” she added, barely audible now, “maybe… Eywa shaped you for her.”

Neytiri’s gaze stayed fixed on his, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

She saw it now. Not just the defiance. Not just the stubbornness. But the desperation.

And the love.

It was there—unmistakable. Blazing behind his eyes like a flame refusing to die, even under the weight of grief, fear, and her disapproval. A love that had no edges, no caution, no exit plan. She recognized it—not as a mother, but as a woman who had once stood across from her own father and said, I choose him.

And just like that, the breath caught in her chest.

Because she knew her son.

Neteyam did not give half of himself to anything. Not to his training. Not to his people. Not to war. And certainly not to love.

When he gave… he gave everything.

There would be no going back.

Not for him. Not for the girl he searched for like his soul would stop beating if he didn’t find her. Neytiri had days believed there would be time to pull him back, to remind him of duty, of blood, of legacy. She saw her once strong son grow more and more abandoned and weaker day by day, as if he were just a ghost. But the look in his eyes told her the truth now.

It was already done.

This was no passing infatuation. No rebellion. No mistake.

Her son had given his heart to a sky person.

Irrevocably.

She inhaled, slow and deep, her throat tight, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides as if holding something invisible and fragile.

And when she spoke, it was not to argue. Not to warn. Just to ask—soft, almost inaudible.

"Does she love you back?"

Neteyam blinked, startled by the question.

But he nodded. Once. Firm. Certain.

Neytiri’s eyes lingered on his face for a final breath, searching for something—doubt, perhaps. A crack. A place where she could slip through and pull him home, back to her, back to the path laid for him.

But there was none.

Only that same quiet fire. Only love.

Something in her chest gave a low, sorrowful twist. She reached out again, not to touch this time, but to steady herself as she slowly stood. Her knees felt heavier than they had in years.

Neteyam watched her, confusion flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak—too afraid that the wrong word might shatter this fragile shift in her.

Why wasn’t she yelling?

Why wasn’t she reminding him that she had once watched her sister die at the hands of humans?

Why was she looking at him now like he’d said something simple—like he’d accepted one of the girls the Elders had picked for him, or spoken of a hunt he meant to lead?

Why did she look... calm?

Neytiri turned her eyes toward the fire. The flames crackled softly between them. Then she looked back at him one last time.

And this time, there was no anger.

Only the quiet, aching grief of a mother letting go.

She paused at the entrance of the tent, her back still to him, hand brushing lightly against the flap. She didn’t turn. Her voice, when it came, was low and worn, barely a breath in the darkness.

“If you find her… bring her home yourself.”

And then she was gone.

The flap fell shut behind her.

Leaving Neteyam alone in the firelight, clutching a human button and a threadbare cord, with nothing in his chest but the echo of her words and the thundering, defiant rhythm of his own heart.

*

The entrance swayed gently, the rustle of the kelku’s flap settling into quiet again, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Neteyam sat motionless, staring at the place his mother had vanished, his chest aching with a heaviness he couldn’t name. He felt suspended between two breaths, two worlds, two truths—and for a moment, wondered if he'd fallen asleep without knowing it. If the whole conversation, Neytiri’s quiet surrender, her unexpected words of acceptance—had all been some fevered, grief-born dream.

Maybe he had finally lost his mind, as some whispered at the outpost. Maybe his desperate, hopeless love for you had cracked him open, allowing madness to seep in through the cracks.

But if this was madness—if this was just another cruel illusion conjured by his breaking heart—then Eywa, please, let the next dream be of you.

Let the next vision be your path.

He wanted to see you again. Needed to see you again. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care if Eywa showed him shadows or nightmares. He needed something—anything—to show him where you had walked, where you had hidden, where you still breathed.

Because you had become the very core of him.

He knew it now, sitting in this dark kelku, his mother’s words still hanging like smoke in the air. He knew it without doubt, without fear—knew it with every breath, every beat of his heart.

He needed you like he needed air. Like the forest needed rain. Like life needed Eywa’s breath.

Everything else—the clan, his father’s pride, the title that had once weighed so heavily on him—it all faded into silence next to the need burning in his chest.

If the clan turned their backs on him, he would understand. If his father’s disappointment carved new scars across his soul, he would bear them without regret. If he lost his position as the future Olo'eyktan, he would accept it gratefully.

Because none of that mattered.

None of it meant anything if he couldn't find you again.

And if he found you—if Eywa returned you safely to his arms—then he would accept anything the world chose to throw at him.

The whispers, the shame, the judgments—he would welcome them, because you would be beside him. Holding his hand, breathing your calmness into him like the first sweet breath of air after a dive into deep water.

You made his life gentler.

His thoughts easier.

The relentless noise inside his head quieted when you touched him, when your human hands traced soft patterns along his jaw, when your quiet voice murmured his name in a way that made it sound new.

You gave him peace.

Something he'd forgotten how to feel without you.

Neteyam closed his eyes slowly, breathing in deep, reaching desperately toward the Great Mother. He let himself sink into the stillness of the kelku, into the silence pressing against his chest.

He lowered himself slowly onto the pelts, exhausted. His head rested heavily against his folded arms, eyes fluttering shut as he succumbed to the pull of sleep—no, the pull of hope.

Because he knew that you were out there. Alive. Waiting for him. Even if everyone else doubted. Even if they called him mad.

You were breathing.

And he would find you. He would hold you again. He would look into your eyes and promise you that whatever storms came, whatever trials you faced—

He would never let go.

As sleep claimed him, he clutched your button tighter, pressing it against his heart, the final thought in his mind a plea and a promise:

Just show me the way, Eywa, and I will bring her home.

*

Sleep overtook him reluctantly, claiming him slowly, carefully, like he was drifting down through layers of water. When Neteyam opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the dark of the kelku or the oppressive shadows of his nightmares.

It was sunlight.

Warm, golden sunlight streamed down through gently swaying branches overhead, dappling everything with dancing patches of brightness. A soft breeze whispered through the leaves, making them rustle like a gentle melody.

Neteyam blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented.

He stood at the edge of a familiar clearing—before him, an open pond glittered brightly beneath the daylight, its still surface reflecting the clear, blue sky above. And sitting there, upon the thick, fallen tree trunk that stretched gently across the pond, was—

His breath caught painfully in his throat.

It was you.

You sat there, perched on the trunk with your legs dangling casually over the side, your bare toes barely brushing the cool, clear water beneath. The sunlight caught in your hair, lighting it like threads of spun gold. And when your head turned, when your eyes met his—

You smiled.

It was bright, breathtaking, radiant—like the sunrise after endless storms.

“Neteyam!” Your voice rang out in excitement, eyes glinting with pure, genuine happiness. You waved him over enthusiastically, your smile widening impossibly further. “Come sit with me! Hurry up, I've been waiting!”

He froze for just an instant, stunned and breathless, caught between disbelief and an ache so profound it almost brought him to his knees.

This couldn’t be real.

Yet, real or not, dream or memory—his body moved without hesitation. He crossed the grass and climbed onto the trunk, sitting down carefully next to you, his movements gentle as if afraid that one sudden motion might cause you to vanish.

The moment he settled beside you, your brows furrowed. You leaned closer, suddenly serious, examining him carefully.

“You look bad,” you said softly, your voice touched with worry. Your small, gentle hand rose to touch his cheek carefully, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollow shadows of his cheeks. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Neteyam swallowed hard, feeling your touch—warm and impossibly soft—against his skin. His chest ached at the tenderness in your eyes, at the quiet worry that filled your gaze.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t find the right words. He just stared at you silently, cross-legged on the trunk, taking in every detail of your face like he might never get the chance again. Every soft line, every freckle, every gentle curve—he burned it all into memory, his heart clenching painfully.

“Why are you here?” he finally whispered, his voice strained. “In my dream? Did…did something happen to you?” His voice cracked on the question he’d been afraid to ask. “Are you here to say goodbye?”

Your brow knitted, confusion flickering across your features clearly even under the exomask, as if the question baffled you completely. “Goodbye?” You laughed quietly, as though it was the strangest thing you'd ever heard. “Why would I be dead, Neteyam?”

He watched you carefully, heart aching at the genuine confusion in your expression, the way your eyes searched his face for answers he didn’t have.

You turned slightly, gesturing at the beautiful pond around you, eyes softening again. “It’s just another day, right? Just us, here.”

Neteyam felt something shift inside him as he studied you quietly—your peaceful demeanor, your gentle, familiar smile. Suddenly, understanding pierced him like an arrow.

This was how the ancestors behaved in Eywa’s embrace—at the Tree of Voices. They lived in memories, reliving beautiful, happy moments, unaware of their own deaths.

His stomach churned, twisting in grief.

Were you already lost? Was this just your memory—a fragment of you held by Eywa, replaying endlessly?

He lifted his gaze slowly, recognizing suddenly the place you sat together. It had been before you became mates—before you had confessed how deeply your hearts belonged to each other. You’d seen a water lily in your datapad and asked him eagerly if he knew where you could find it. Neteyam remembered clearly bringing you here, how your eyes lit up, how your smile was wider than he'd ever seen it, how you’d laughed with pure, radiant joy as you examined the delicate flower with tender awe.

That day had been perfect.

But seeing you now—trapped forever in a memory—threatened to break him completely.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to break, not to crumble in front of you. But just before he could spiral deeper into grief and confusion, your voice broke through again—soft, quiet, a whisper meant only for him.

“I’m underground.”

He stiffened, a sharp ache slicing through his chest. Underground. His breath caught sharply.

“Eywa…” he breathed, voice barely audible. “So you really—”

You continued quietly, eyes distant, looking toward the water as if it might whisper your truths to him. “I want to go home, but…”

Your voice faded, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily in the air between you.

He felt his heart fracture.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, your eyes filled with quiet, gentle sadness and something else—hope.

“I just need more time,” you whispered softly, reaching up to gently cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone in a familiar caress. “Will you wait for me?”

He leaned instantly into your palm, eyes closing as he drank in your touch, your warmth, your presence. It hurt—it hurt so badly—to know this wasn’t real, that this was just a vision. Yet the simple sensation of your skin against his steadied him.

“Could you do that for me?” Your voice was soft, hopeful, pleading.

His throat tightened painfully. “I’ll wait forever,” he whispered brokenly. “Forever, ma yawne.”

You gazed at him, eyes overflowing with love, affection so deep it threatened to break him again. But then you smiled softly, playfully, your fingertip booping gently against his flat nose.

“But you need to take care of yourself,” you scolded lightly, softly chiding him. “Eat something. Rest. You look like you’re falling apart.”

And that—that simple, gentle worry—almost shattered him completely. Tears burned behind his eyes, threatening to spill over as he watched you, your gentle smile, your familiar scolding.

Because even now—even in dreams, in visions—your first worry was always him.

He reached up, gently grasping your hand, pressing it tightly against his face as if it might keep you here, as if the strength of his love alone could anchor you.

“I’ll try,” he breathed, voice cracking, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I promise.”

You smiled softly, eyes glowing with warmth and tenderness, your small palm still pressed gently against his cheek.

“Good,” you whispered, leaning your forehead gently against his. “Just wait a little longer. I’ll come home to you. I promise.”

His eyes slipped shut, chest aching, heart beating painfully fast.

His little heart, his stubborn miracle, still trying to protect him even while buried gods-know-where, bleeding and hurting and alone.

And as the dream slowly began to fade, slipping away from him like mist between his fingers, one truth remained, shining clearly even in the darkness.

You were alive.

Somewhere, beneath soil and root and stone—you were alive, and you were fighting.

And he would wait for you.

Forever, if he had to.

*

The following days melted into an endless blur of desperate searching.

Neteyam returned relentlessly to the thanator den—the same spot where your shattered mask lay in fragments, silent witness to your probably violent encounter. He crouched near the entrance, fingers tracing the half-hidden footprints embedded in the damp earth, his pulse quickening with dread and hope each time.

A human man's footprints, unmistakably dragging something—or rather, someone—away from the den. Neteyam knew in the depths of his heart it had been you, limp and defenseless, dragged through mud and leaves toward an unknown fate.

But where had you been taken?

His determination burned fiercely as he followed the trail again and again, each footstep searing a mark in his soul. He parted thick foliage, scanned each leaf and stem for signs of disturbance, his heart pounding with every lost or regained glimpse of the trail.

But the jungle was ruthless. The foliage dense, tangled—unyielding. And when the footprints vanished beneath fallen leaves or blended cruelly into dense patches of moss, Neteyam felt his heart fracture a little more each time.

Yet, he pressed forward anyway, driven by your voice in his dream, your whispered plea echoing softly in his heart.

But on the second night, a fierce storm crashed through the forest, the heavens breaking open, a torrential downpour washing the world clean. Rain sluiced across the jungle floor, carving rivers from dirt paths, mercilessly obliterating the precious footprints.

He stood there the next morning, soaked to the bone, trembling from exhaustion, rage, and grief as he stared at the newly blank jungle floor—no footprints, no hints, no path.

He was left only with the ache in his chest and the echoes of your voice.

"Will you wait for me?"

As if he could do anything else.

But he wasn’t giving up. Not ever. He would find another way—Eywa would guide him.

On a misty evening, drawn by a force deep within, Neteyam found himself kneeling beneath the magnificent branches of the Tree of Souls. The air hummed softly with Eywa’s presence, countless glowing tendrils drifting like ghostly threads of pure light around him.

He knelt reverently, eyes heavy with exhaustion, heart heavy with yearning. His breathing slowed, the deepening twilight enveloping him as he reached behind, gently grasping the delicate braid of his kuru. Carefully, reverently, he connected it with one of Eywa’s softly glowing tendrils.

At once, a deep peace settled over him, wrapping gently around his bruised soul. His eyes fluttered shut, his head lowering humbly in silent communion.

Years ago, he'd knelt at the same place seeking guidance from Eywa—his path, his purpose within the clan. And now, once again, he pleaded silently, soul bare before the Great Mother, desperately seeking your path—your location, your heart, your life.

No words crossed his lips.

Because no language—no spoken prayer—could capture the depth of what he felt for you, the aching emptiness without your presence beside him.

His silent prayer reached out, powerful in its stillness, trembling gently through every thread of Eywa’s connection.

"Bring her back to me."

"Please."

His chest rose and fell softly, the breeze gently moving the braids of his hair, swaying softly around him like living threads. He allowed himself to sink deeper into the communion, deeper into Eywa’s embrace—

And suddenly, softly, impossibly clear through the whispering hush of leaves and the murmuring heartbeat of Eywa herself, he heard his name.

"Neteyam."

His heart jolted violently, eyes flying open in instant clarity.

It was your voice.

Clear as day, as gentle and real as if you stood right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough for your breath to stir softly against his ear.

He whipped around, breath hitching, eyes wide and hopeful—

But the clearing was empty.

Only the softly glowing tendrils of Eywa surrounded him, swaying gently in the breeze, untouched by any physical presence. He was alone beneath the Great Mother’s ancient tree, utterly, painfully alone.

Yet your voice resonated clearly in his heart.

"Wait for me."

He swallowed the lump that rose painfully in his throat, heart pounding fiercely as tears blurred his vision.

Eywa had answered him in her own subtle, gentle way. Not clearly enough to show him exactly where you were, not clearly enough to reveal your captor or the path he had taken—but clearly enough to reassure him you still breathed. Clearly enough to promise you were still fighting, still hoping, still reaching for him across the abyss.

He inhaled shakily, fingers gently gripping the sacred tendril connecting him to Eywa, his voice a trembling whisper, firm and determined in the deepening darkness.

“I will wait,” he vowed quietly, reverently, beneath Eywa’s eternal watch. “As long as it takes. Until she comes home.”

He disconnected his kuru slowly, letting the glowing tendril drift gently back into place. He rose silently, the weight of grief mingled with fierce hope and unyielding determination as he gazed out into the deepening twilight.

*

The morning of the fourth day was quiet, as though the village itself held its breath, waiting for something Neteyam couldn’t yet understand. Dawn broke gently, a slow ripple of pale blue and gold across the waking sky. The clan still slept, undisturbed by nightmares, untouched by his relentless grief.

But Neteyam was already awake, preparing in silence.

He wrapped his bow carefully, secured his knife at his chest. His motions were mechanical now, almost ritualistic, each step a quiet affirmation: I will find you.

He was just about to step out, to vanish again into the restless forest, when a quiet rustle at the kelku’s entrance startled him. Neteyam turned swiftly, pulse leaping, muscles coiled tight—only to relax slightly as Kiri ducked inside, her movements slow, quiet, cautious.

Something in her demeanor made him pause, senses sharpening.

She didn’t greet him. Didn’t smile or tease or scold. He didn’t even saw the pity. Just stepped closer, eyes heavy, unreadable, the dark circles beneath them a reflection of his own exhaustion.

“Neteyam,” she began softly, hesitating briefly as if unsure how to proceed. “You need to eat.”

She held out a leaf bundle, carefully folded around roasted yovo fruit and seasoned teylu, still warm from the fires. He stared at it, confused for a heartbeat before finally taking it, holding the bundle numbly in his palm.

“Thank you,” he said carefully, quietly, though food was the last thing on his mind.

Kiri nodded, eyes scanning his face in silent worry. The usual brightness, the teasing spark in her gaze was absent—replaced by something far heavier, something deeply troubled.

He frowned, heart picking up pace.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, carefully. The air thickened, and Kiri seemed to struggle to meet his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kiri inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself for something difficult. Her gaze dropped momentarily to the leaf-wrapped food in his hand, then lifted again, meeting his eyes with quiet intensity.

“Don’t take the pa’li today,” she said suddenly, softly, voice barely audible in the stillness.

He stiffened instantly, pulse quickening. “What?”

She held his gaze steadily, something deep and ancient flickering in her amber eyes—something he couldn’t entirely read. “Take your ikran. Fly above. See further, faster.”

His stomach tightened uncomfortably, fingers unconsciously clenching around the food in his palm. “Kiri, why—”

“She is close,” Kiri interrupted him quietly, her voice soft yet firm, carrying the unmistakable weight of a truth she hadn’t wanted to voice. She inhaled slowly, carefully, as though each word was painful. “Mo’at feels it. I feel it. Eywa feels it.”

He stared, throat dry, breath shallow.

Close?

Close… and yet—

Something unspoken hovered heavily in her tone, hidden behind her careful words. Something darker. Something wrong.

He took a half-step closer, heart hammering unsteadily, pulse loud in his ears. “Kiri—what else? Tell me. Please.”

She hesitated, mouth opening and closing, her face taut with uncertainty. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft and troubled. “Mo’at said… something is not right. She senses a shift, a change. She doesn’t know how or why, but—”

His voice caught painfully in his chest, breath hitching. “But what? What’s changed?”

Kiri’s eyes brimmed with quiet, sorrowful compassion. “We don’t know. Just that… if you find her, Neteyam—when you find her—she might not be the same.”

Her words settled coldly in his chest, heavy as stone, suffocating in their vagueness.

Not the same.

He opened his mouth, ready to demand more—but Kiri stepped back abruptly, retreating slowly toward the entrance.

“I have to go,” she whispered, eyes never leaving his face. “Please, brother—just fly.”

Then she was gone, the flap falling shut behind her, leaving only an eerie stillness, a lingering shadow of unease that chilled him to the bone.

Neteyam stood there numbly, the food forgotten in his hand. Every quiet word she’d spoken echoed through his mind, louder with each beat of his heart.

Close. Changed. Wrong.

His heart thundered painfully in his ribs, his breaths coming shallow, quickening into panic. He barely registered the leaf-wrapped food in his palm, its gentle weight meaningless against the sudden, consuming dread that wrapped around his chest like cold vines.

He dropped it without thought, leaving the food forgotten on the kelku floor as he raced outside toward the cliffs, toward his ikran.

His heart beat violently as he climbed the cliffs, every breath tasting sharp, metallic, his chest tight and burning. He called desperately to his ikran, connecting swiftly, impatiently—desperation pounding in his blood.

They soared upward into the wide expanse of sky.

But peace eluded him.

Wind whipped fiercely across his face, tugging at his hair, harshly cold against his skin. Yet none of it reached him, none of it touched the spiraling thoughts racing violently in his mind.

Kiri’s voice echoed endlessly in his ears, her vague words cutting deeper than any blade:

“She might not be the same.”

His heart twisted brutally, mind racing. What did she mean? Was it your spirit, your heart, your soul that would return altered? Or something worse—something physical, tangible, cruelly irreversible?

Neteyam’s pulse thundered wildly, anxiety sharpening to painful clarity.

Kiri felt Eywa in ways even the tsahìks before hadn’t always understood. She touched the Great Mother’s essence with a clarity few others could fathom. If Kiri had warned him, if Mo’at herself sensed a disturbance—

A horrifying thought clawed suddenly into his mind.

Would he find your corpse?

He flinched sharply, violently shaking his head to dislodge the thought—yet it stuck like venomous sap, searing cruelly into his thoughts. A corpse. Your corpse. Broken, lifeless, empty of the bright fire that had once burned so fiercely within.

“No,” he whispered desperately, voice drowned by the roaring wind. “Please, Eywa, no.”

His ikran beneath him rumbled anxiously, sensing the violent spike of fear, anguish radiating sharply through their tsaheylu.

Neteyam fought to steady his breathing, forcefully shoving the cruel thoughts aside. He pressed one palm against his heart, feeling the delicate, hard outline of your button, the tiny proof of your strength, your resilience, your life.

“Not dead,” he breathed aloud, clinging desperately to that hope. “She’s not dead.”

He repeated the words like a lifeline, praying silently, fervently, as the ikran soared swiftly onward.

Yet still, one relentless fear tore at him relentlessly, its cruel edges biting deeper with every passing second:

Not dead, perhaps—but changed.

He tried desperately to decipher Kiri’s words. If it wasn’t death, what else was there? Different. What could it mean—injured, scarred, emotionally broken? Or something deeper, darker—something only Eywa could understand?

His breath came short, ragged, panic steadily consuming him from within. He clung desperately to hope, to faith, whispering fervently into the rushing wind:

“Please, Eywa. Let her still be herself. Let her heart still recognize mine.”

Yet even as he prayed—he couldn’t shake the lingering dread clawing viciously at the back of his mind, whispering darkly through every heartbeat, every breath.

Because deep down, Neteyam knew:

Kiri would never have warned him unless something had changed irrevocably.

And as he soared onward, searching desperately, the world around him blurred into silence, leaving only one thought, endlessly repeating in the darkest corners of his terrified mind:

What if the you he found was no longer the you he’d lost?

What if you no longer remembered how fiercely he loved you?

*

The air whipped past Neteyam's face, cool and sharp, but he barely felt it. His thoughts spun faster, a cruel whirlpool of doubt and dread pulling him deeper with each passing moment. Without thinking, without consciously choosing, his ikran  steered himself southward, guided by instinct more than reason.

Almost two weeks ago, he'd stood at the edge of a clearing with his family, watching two RDA aircraft—a Samson and an assault Dragon—resting menacingly on the ground. The memory was distant, blurred by exhaustion, yet his mind drew him there now, as though something he couldn’t quite understand whispered from that place.

The clearing came into view, empty now—the aircraft long vanished, the ground below peaceful, sunlit, devoid of the threats it once housed. The ships had left long ago, the clearing now reclaimed by nature again… but something about the place felt heavy in his bones. Important.

Neteyam’s heart ached. Why had Eywa drawn him here? Why this place, so far from your last known path? He blinked down absently, eyes skimming over grass and scattered leaves.

But then—he saw it. A small figure, unmistakably human, standing in the center of the clearing.

His breath stopped. "No…" he whispered, heart slamming painfully against his ribs. “No, no—Eywa—”

A hallucination, surely—a mirage conjured by exhaustion and desperation. Yet as he watched, the figure began to move, slow and unsteady steps carrying it towards the forest, eastward—toward the outpost, toward home.

He reacted without thought, a fierce surge of hope and disbelief flooding through him. Instantly, he angled his ikran downwards, plummeting toward the clearing with dizzying speed. The beast landed hard, talons scraping soil, wings beating to steady itself.

He leapt from Tawkami’s back, barely registering his own movement. His heart hammered as he sprinted across the clearing, powerful legs pumping desperately, eyes fixed fiercely on the distant figure vanishing slowly into the trees.

Branches whipped past him as he burst into the dense foliage, each second stretching painfully. His breath came harsh, ragged, panic and hope tangled violently in his chest.

Then—suddenly—he saw you clearly.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

You stood a short distance away, walking slowly through the shadows cast by towering trees. Your clothing was slightly torn, exactly what you'd worn the day you'd vanished. The sight felt surreal, impossible. A ghost he desperately hoped was real.

“Yawne!” he called, voice trembling, breaking open with emotion.

Your head whipped around immediately, eyes widening impossibly as they settled upon him. Recognition lit your features instantly, and you stared at him, mouth falling softly open in shock.

Neteyam moved toward you urgently, relief flooding him in waves so powerful they nearly brought tears. “Oh, Eywa—yawne—”

But suddenly, sharply, his steps faltered, a fresh wave of cold dread slamming through him, piercing deeply into his relief like poisoned arrows.

Your face—your beautiful, precious face—was exposed. You wore no mask. He stumbled forward frantically, panic and disbelief gripping him harshly.

“Yawne—no! No—do not breathe!” His voice cracked desperately, heart hammering violently in terror. He dropped swiftly to his knees before you, hands reaching urgently toward your face. “Your mask—where is it? Please—stop breathing, hold your breath, you cannot—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bear the thought of losing you moments after finding you again. His fingers shook desperately, helplessly, as they touched your cheeks, your jaw, eyes filled with terrified dread.

But you didn’t gasp. Didn’t choke. Didn’t fall.

You just stared down at him, eyes wide and shimmering with tears, trembling softly beneath his frantic touch. Then, suddenly, without a word—without explanation—you threw your arms fiercely around his neck, crashing into him, hugging him with a strength that stole his breath entirely.

Neteyam froze in shock, his body rigid for a heartbeat, stunned into silence—then finally, fiercely, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you impossibly close, crushing you against his chest like he would never, ever let you go again.

“Oh, Eywa,” he choked out, voice shaking uncontrollably, face pressed desperately into your neck, breathing your scent in deeply, greedily. “Oh, ma yawne, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re—”

His voice broke into a desperate sob, relief and love flooding through him, sharp and overwhelming, shattering his composure entirely.

You clung to him, fingers gripping desperately into his hair, your smaller body trembling violently against him as a sob tore free from your throat—raw, broken, relieved.

Neteyam hugged you harder, holding you tightly as your tears began to fall in earnest against his shoulder, your body shaking harshly in quiet, desperate sobs. His tail curled protectively around your legs, anchoring you tightly against him, his lips pressing fiercely to your hair, your temple, your cheek, murmuring endlessly, breathlessly into your skin.

“You’re here—I have you—thank you Eywa, thank you—I thought I lost you—I thought—” he stammered softly, desperately, hardly breathing between his words.

You only clung harder, breath hitching violently against his shoulder, unable yet to speak, simply holding onto him like you would never let go.

Minutes passed—time lost meaning as he held you, heart slowly steadying with every breath of your scent, every quiet sob that left your lips. You felt impossibly solid, impossibly real, impossibly here. Yet confusion lingered stubbornly beneath his relief:

How? How were you breathing? How were you standing without a mask, without choking on the toxic air?

But those answers would wait.

Right now, he could think of nothing but holding you, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, knowing without a doubt that Eywa had finally, mercifully, returned you to him.

He pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks gently in his large hands, tilting your tear-streaked face upward, his gaze searching yours desperately, hungrily, as though afraid you'd vanish again if he looked away.

“You’re here,” he whispered brokenly, eyes brimming with tears he couldn’t hold back. “You’re really here.”

You nodded, tears still falling silently, pressing your cheek against his palm, eyes filled with quiet, profound relief. “Neteyam,” you finally whispered, voice raw, breaking gently over his name. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he breathed shakily and tender. “Always.”

He pulled you back into him, unable to bear even a heartbeat’s separation, holding you again, rocking gently as fresh tears spilled silently down his cheeks, joining yours in quiet relief. You were alive. You were safe. You were home—in his arms. And nothing else mattered.

In the next chapter we will get to know what Dr. Veyren did.

Part 26: (Soon)

[neeeooon]

hii idk if this has been done before but can I request for bllk boys x picky eater reader / reader with sensory issues esp when it comes to food (or even reader with arfid) 😅😋😋?

Any characters you want to write for, but pls pls pls include my bbg rin😴🥺🙏

ofcccccc i gotchu 💛 thank you for the request

when you’re a picky/sensitive eater ;

bf bllk x gn!reader. cw: angst in rin’s, mentions of ed’s

itoshi rin

-> when you were diagnosed with arfid, things finally made sense. you were teased for your picky palate growing up, and now you finally had a reason; a disorder, but a reason

-> no one understood why you couldn’t bring yourself to try new foods. why you ate at the same three restaurants over and over again, ordering the same items. rin didn’t completely understand, either, but at least he tried

-> “i’m sorry,” you choked out, humiliated and on the brink of tears. two of the items on your plate touched, and now in your eyes, it was all contaminated and inedible

-> rin reached for your hand and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “it’s okay.” “it’s not! i’m too old to be this picky, i know that, but i can’t help it.” he just continued stroking his thumb over your hand. “you’re okay.”

-> you left the little cafe soon after that, and rin continued comforting you until you arrived at the drive-thru of your most reliable eat-out place. you ordered and they greeted you with a warm, familiar smile at the window

-> you ate together, with rin sneaking food from his meal into yours when you weren’t looking. “thank you for understanding. i know it’s annoying.” “it’s not annoying. i don’t care where we go as long as you’re comfortable and healthy.”

barou shouei

-> maid barou cafe??? he knows how to cook

-> when you start dating barou, you reject his proposals to cook for you because you’re embarrassed by your eating habits and don’t want to offend him

-> however, when he sits you down and asks “y/n, why won’t you let me cook for you?” with concern in his voice, you crack and tell him how picky you are and how much of a hassle it is

-> barou isn’t upset. if anything, he’s relieved. still sitting together, he creates a new note on his phone and asks you to tell him everything you can and can’t eat, how you like things prepared, what textures bother you the most, etc.

-> he lets you hover as he cooks for you, accepting every one of your little comments, adjustments, all of it

-> “like this?” “mhm. a-and those need a little more time in the oven… i’m sorry.” “don’t apologize. into the oven they go.” “thank you, shouei.” “you’re welcome, baby.”

itoshi sae

-> sae doesn’t make any comment when you pick at your food at dinner. when you subtly try to hide it with your napkin and ask about dessert too early in the night

-> he can’t ignore it when he’s laying with you in bed, head on your stomach, listening to the little growls of hunger. when he pulls you up by your hands and props you up on the kitchen counter as you stare at him in sleepy confusion. “what are you doing?” “i’m going to cook you something.”

-> you can’t hide your anxiousness. despite sae’s assumptions, you don’t have an eating disorder. you’re picky, especially when it comes to textures, and struggle to voice your issues aloud, so you avoid it. try to avoid it

-> “cook me something? why..?” “because you’re hungry.” “i’m not—“ “you are. don’t lie. what can i make you?” “… grilled cheese?” you have a few safety dishes, and grilled cheese, minimally golden brown, is one of yours

-> nodding once, sae grabs everything he needs to make two grilled cheese sandwiches. when you asked why two, he said one was for him, but was making enough for you to have seconds

-> “you’re too good to me.” “this is the bare minimum, y/n. if you’re hungry, i’ll feed you. i’ll learn what you can and can’t eat.” “… i love you.” “i love you, too.”

mikage reo

-> despite all the cooks reo has, the fancy restaurants he can take you to, the unlimited supply of groceries in his kitchen, you pack a lunch every time you visit your boyfriend

-> you grew up with an extremely sensitive palate. your parents loved this, bragging to people how you’d grow up to be a renowned sommelier, but you hated how crazy you felt when you couldn’t eat certain foods because you could taste things others couldn’t

-> “are you getting hungry? want me to order something—“ “no, it’s okay! i have my lunch, but you should get something if you’re hungry.” and he gives you a look before sighing. “are you mad at me?”

-> you’re confused. “mad?” “you never want to eat or go out to places with me :/ are you upset?” and you feel really bad cause he got it all wrong. “no, i’m not upset. i’m just… picky…” “oh. well, what do you like? i’ll make a list!”

-> “it’s not exactly… it’s hard to explain.” “try. i’ll listen!” so you tell him about your palate and reo takes notes as he listens. “okay. so only use this brand of salt. anything else?”

-> reo takes you to the store after that, letting you pick everything you enjoy, before taking you back to his home and asking you to show him how you like to prepare your meals

-> “this is too much…” “it’s not. i have a list now! no more packed lunches, okay?” “.. okay <3”

if you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, here are a few resources that may help if you don’t feel comfortable reaching out to a trusted friend/family member: international helplines and support

[anakinstwinklebunny]

new hayden fan nonnie again, i am ready to officially join the fam (if you’ll have me)! may i be 🐮 anon?

also i have a fic request! would you be open to writing one where nerdy!anakin meeting his favorite book author who happens to be reader? or anakin could be the book author and the reader is the fan? either sounds cute to me, have fun with it!

thank you, bunny!!

- 🐮

PAIRING: writer!nerd!anakin x f!reader/ nerd!anakin x f!writer!reader

Author's note: OFC YOU CAN POOKIE!! and that's such a cute emoji 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ (couldn't help myself and made two scenarios you mentioned)

𝓕𝓛𝓤𝓕𝓕 ❦

You weren’t nervous.

Nope. Not at all.

Just because you were about to meet the ANAKIN SKYWALKER, the actual author of your favorite book series—the one whose words had ruined you, rebuilt you, and left you obsessing over every single character, every emotion described on the paper—did not mean you had to freak out.

Except, you were totally freaking out.

Fingers clutched his book against your chest as if it may shield you from crushing your nerves adrenaline, while you stood in line, shifting on your feet, trying not to think about the fact that in a few minutes, you’d be face-to-face with him.

And then suddenly— way too soon—it was your turn.

You stepped forward, heart pounding. Hands sweating

He looked up.

Oh.

You were not prepared for how pretty he was in real life.

The grainy black-and-white author photo in the book didn’t do him justice—those messy curls framed his face in a way that made your stomach flip, glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, and his sweater sleeves were pushed up, exposing lean forearms dusted with veins running up his body

God really took his time creating him.

He blinked at you, pushing his glasses up with two fingers. “Hi.”

His voice was soft, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t really used to this—like he didn’t know the power, the impact he had.

You swallowed, barely keeping your composure. “H-Hi,” you managed, setting his, well..yours, book down in front of him. “I—um—I love your books. A lot. Like, I might have reread them too many times.”

A soft flush crept up his neck. He ducked his head, scribbling something in the book. “That’s—uh—thank you. That means a lot. Really.”

Your heart clenched. He was adorable.

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have to know—how did you come up with him?” You tapped the book cover, referring to the broody, tortured love interest that had single-handedly ruined your life. “Because I swear, he haunts my dreams.”

Anakin let out a breathy laugh, looking up at you with this disgustingly-twisting-gut eyes “Uh—he just… appeared, I guess.” He smiled sheepishly. “You’re actually, um, not the first person to say that.”

You grinned. “Well, he’s perfect. And kind of my biggest crush.”

His pen froze mid-signature.

Oh my gosh..what have you done?

He cleared his throat, fumbling slightly as he handed the book back to you. “That’s—uh—good to know.”

You peeked at what he’d written, expecting just a simple signature. But beneath his name, a small note made your breath hitch and your lips to crack in a small, nervous smile:

«To the girl with excellent taste—if you ever want to discuss my characters over coffee, let me know.»

Your head snapped up. He was already looking at you, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Your stomach flipped.

ANAKIN SKYWALKER had planned this day for weeks. Checked the bookstore’s event schedule at least a dozen times. He had to make sure he was on the right time, the right day, wore the right clothes for this occasion. For weeks he had practiced what he’d say in the mirror, only to stammer like an idiot each time. But now that he was here, standing in line, gripping a hardcover copy of your book so tightly his knuckles were white—he felt like he might pass out.

The line moved too quickly. One second, he was behind a group of fans, and the next—

“Next, please!”

His breath caught in his throat.

Sitting behind the table, a warm, inviting smile on your lips painted your face as you reached for his book. “Hi,” you greeted, voice soft, smooth, the same voice he’d listened to in countless interviews. “What’s your name?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

God.

You were even prettier in real life.

“I—uh, it’s Anakin,” he managed, adjusting his glasses like it would somehow fix the fact that he was a mess. “I—wow, okay, sorry, I just—uh, I love your books. Like, a lot.”

A soft laugh left you, and his heart nearly stopped, did a flip, hit his insides and went back to its place.

“That’s really sweet. Thank you, Anakin.” You took the book from his shaking hands and flipped to the title page. Gosh, you said his name in the most sweetest way possible. Was it how heaven felt like? “Do you want me to write anything specific?”

“Uh, um—” He cursed himself for being so awkward, so nervous. He was a grown man for Force’s sake. “I—your characters. The way you write them. It’s like they’re real.” He pushed his glasses up again, desperate to say something intelligent but it made no sense in the sudden conversation. “I feel like I know them. Like they’ve… changed me.”

Your pen stilled. Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet his.

For a second, he panicked—had he said too much? Sounded too intense? Was it too weird? But then, your expression softened

“That’s probably the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Anakin swore his heart exploded.

You smiled, scribbling something inside his book before sliding it back to him. “I’m really glad my stories meant something to you, Anakin.”

He stared at the book, at your signature, but what was the most important was the small note beneath it:

«To Anakin—thank you for feeling my words the way they were meant to be felt.»

His throat went dry.

Before he could even think, the words slipped out. “Would you—” He swallowed hard. “Would you ever want to talk about writing? Over coffee? Or tea—if you like tea, that’s totally fine, I—”

Your lips twitched. “Are you asking me out?”

His face burned. “I—uh—”

But then you grinned.

Oh.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty

Maybe at the end of the day this was a story worth writing, too.

[anchovies-4-dinner]

Baby, your pants are on fire

This is my offering to the gacha deities to make me win his lightcone.

Scenario: On Valentine's Day, you feign sickness so your long-distance lover won’t find out about your affair. We all know how that goes.

Warnings: OOC, cheating, graphic violence (including towards you), suggested nsfw (not between s/o and you), degrading (burn victims beware), revenge porn

If my writing is abominable it’s because I finish these at the ass crack of dawn

Characters: Argenti, Jiaoqiu, Anaxa, Phainon, Mr Reca

Argenti

Was this another of his trials? What abhorrent timing.

Despite many triumphs, never had his very foundations been so shaken. His virtuous, beautiful partner enraptured by another… He would have laughed if your being wasn’t desecrated.

Many have been used to sway his conviction, whether real or illusions, but this was where he drew the line.

The bang of the door announced Argenti’s appearance; you gasped and froze in shock, as did your… companion.

Honour, piety, righteousness. This silent chant grounded the knight as he pulled you away with great urgency despite your nudity. Your mouth fluttered, trying to formulate an excuse despite his attention fixed on the elephant in the room.

"Rise, incubus, and I shall avenge my lover's honour with a duel." Argenti spat those words out disgracefully, already picturing the beast moulting into its true form. It took every fibre of his being to not behead it right then and there.

The beast blinked in a stupor, "An… Incubus? Duel?"

"Do you still feign ignorance?" Argenti's patience wore thin, "What a mighty trial Idrilla has prepared. First you trick my lover into copulation, then you play coy to test my mettle. Stand your ground before I give you an undignified end."

By all things considered, he was being very generous. Yet laughter bubbled out its chest, "You- You really are a freak show! (Y/n) told us all about your antics. If it weren't for your face, I'd wonder why they even date you at all!"

Argenti's skin buzzed.

Light fingers grazed his armour as you desperately explained yourself, "He's lying! It's just as you said Argenti, I woke up from his spell as soon as you pulled me away… Oh Aeons, what have I done!"

"They enjoyed it!" The beast squawked, visibly frustrated at your lack of truth cooperation, "Hey, don't make me out as some sort of criminal-"

"'Enjoyed it?' You call that a satisfactory performance?"

"Well you begged for another round didn't you?!"

Now Argenti understood: This wasn’t a trial, and it was more than a lesson.

It was a punishment.

A loud thud silenced the room; the knight had dropped his spear. He calmly approached the incubus and stopped a mere foot away. It's eyes flickered to yours nervously.

"D-Dude… You're mad at the wrong guy here. If I'm getting punched, you may as well punch them as well because-"

A firm hand on its shoulder shut it up. Argenti's brilliant smile stunned you both. "Thank you."

Red splattered the walls. Your mind blanked as the body crumpled with a gaping hole in its chest. Your lover faced you, arm soaked in blood while clutching a stuttering organ - the heart. He had once again emerged victorious with a revelation sweeter than your kiss.

Without a care, Argenti abandoned the object as he suddenly knelt before you, eyes stained with regret.

He took your hand with his clean one, "My rose - if I even have the privilege to call you that anymore - I surrender myself to any judgement you see fit."

At your perplexed stare he elaborated, lips puckered to your fingers before he realised the taste of metal*, "I had been so caught up in my duty that I neglected my one and only. Thanks be to Idrilla that her intervention set my mind straight… although it came at the cost of your dignity. But now, a more beautiful and profound era of our love is born."

His hold tightened as he reverently pressed your knuckles to his forehead.

"I vow to never leave your side again - 'Till death do us apart."

*This sentence may be a bit confusing, but basically he was about to kiss your hand but stopped because he realised that his lips had blood on them

Jiaoqiu

For being so vocal about Valentines Day, Jiaoqiu was awfully quiet while it passed.

Any feelings of guilt were melted away by the spread of warm oil. Your foxian lover had urged you to visit for a surprise once your 'sickness' ended; he'd usually go with a banquet, but it seems he's finally had enough of making food his entire personality.

A kneading motion elicited a sigh as his slender fingers worked the tension out of your muscles. Though you couldn't see his expression, you imagined a smile adorning his face. How lucky you are to have such a doting boyfriend.

His soft voice, barely above a whisper, broke your reverie, "You could've gotten this a lot sooner had you taken care of your health."

"Barely my fault. Some gal at work had the flu-" You were silenced by his teeth kissing as his hands glided up your sides, finishing at your shoulders.

The press of his palms were sorely missed due to his departure, returning with a towel and water. While you climbed onto your elbows to down the refreshment, Jiaoqiu pecked your scalp, dabbing away the excess oil. A comfortable silence reigned before he inquired:

"You seem to be working a lot these days. Boss giving you any trouble?"

"No. Nothing like that." You dismissed the accusation, "I just needed the extra money, hence me working overtime."

"You could have asked me."

"I don't like leeching off others." You slid back down, head between arms, silently hoping his curiosity was satiated.

He hummed and placed the towel on a counter, "So now you're being mindful of your habits?"

"A person can change, you know?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe I simply didn't know you at all."

Dread curled your stomach. A chuckle bubbled out from worry, "I have no idea what you're on about."

"Liar."

His hot breath tickled your ear. Your hair fell back into place when he withdrew to wash his hands of oil. Throat closing, you tried to sit up only to realise you just… couldn't. Gasps of panic prompted Jiaoqiu to lecture you - about what? Who cares, he paralysed you! It wasn't until his voice grew in volume that you quietened.

Fingers carded through your hair, nails grazing the scalp while Jiaoqiu continued, "… I really didn't get it. Did I not love you enough? Was it the distance? All these thoughts yet I was no closer to comprehending your poor decisions. But why would I ever want to understand a cheater?"

His fist balled, bunching your hair to drive home the malice in his voice - just for the flames to quench in a beat, "However… I know we can work through this like a real couple."

Tears pricked your eyes in relief, "Thank you, I promise- I-"

"That doesn't mean I forgive you." Soft lips pressed against your nape. The tip of his nail dug into your silkened flesh, "It wouldn't be fair."

White pain battered your senses upon your skin tearing in too many directions to count. Blood spotted the back of your throat from guttural shrieks. Ghost spasms induced nausea with bile clogging your oesophagus; it was only the gagging that eventually stopped the torture.

Retched sobs filled the room, during which Jiaoqiu backed off; from the corner of your eyes, he flicked the sodden flesh out under his nails. Your weak pleas fell on deaf ears while he vacated the room, leaving you vulnerable on the table. The sticky sensation of blood running off your back accentuated the throb of your wounds.

Things were no better when he returned with salt.

"Why are you crying? You should be happy I'm willing to stay." His casual tone did little to calm your hysterics as the pop of the lid quivered your lips.

Jiaoqiu leant down and gave you one final kiss.

"How lucky you are to have such a doting boyfriend."

Anaxa

Beep… Beep… Beep…

For a moment, you could pretend that everything was still fine. That the incessant beeping was your alarm. But, of course, all good things had to come to an end.

"Sudden housefire leaves two victims with severe burns. One has passed from injuries." Anaxa slowly raised the newspaper for a side-by-side comparison of you and your portrait, "Sounds familiar."

You glared at him through your last good eye. He smirked in amusement, "Nice look, may I ask where you got the inspiration?"

If it weren't for the bandages scaling your entire body you would've happily given him a beating. When he first walked in, you at least hoped for flowers, but you should've known that not a single romantic bone lay in his vessel.

A nudge on your arm brought you back; Anaxa had propped his legs on the hospital bed to comfortably lounge on the chair near your feet. The newspaper laid flat as he studied your body, hand resting his head.

The gauze muffled your remark. Despite being drugged up to the stars, the pain still throbbed under ribbons of muscle.

"70% of your body suffered second-degree burns. Half your face is gone. You can't move without pissing yourself." At your heated glare, he rolled his eye, "I'm telling you to shut up. Honestly, how could you be so careless?"

Heart leaping in anger, you forced out a defence, "I didn't… Not me!"

"I'm not talking about the fire." Anaxa sneered, "You're not that stupid."

… …Beep… Beep…

Taking the skip in cardiac rhythm for an answer, he continued, "Where should I start? You were sloppy. You didn't think of the possibility of me returning… It was Valentine's Day for goodness’ sake. Are you daft?”

"When did you-"

"I told you to shut up."

"No, this isn't my fault." You furrowed your brows, "You… never cared. Always ignoring me… I may as well have been single!"

"By the Titans, you really are a fool!" Anaxa gripped the armchair, "Unless dementia has claimed me early, which is impossible, I don't recall ever breaking things off! So stop playing the victim!"

You clenched your teeth. The Sage sighed. Just when you considered kicking him out, you felt his hand slowly dip under the covers, lightly tracing your dressing.

"… I never saw you so happy before. Albeit, not with me. If you had just talked to me, none of this would've happened." His hand wrapped around your ankle, "No one would be hurt."

Beep Beep Beep-

Realising the implication, you tried shaking off his grip to no avail. If anything, he only squeezed harder. Pain shot up your nerves. Your skin itched under the suffocating bandages.

BeepBeepBeep-

The door swung open. A nurse had come at the alert of the heart monitor.

Hope clogged your chest, "He's hurting me! Out… I need him out!"

She merely pursed her lips, glancing at Anaxa. He dismissed her with a shake of his head.

Oh.

At least his grip loosened enough for the pain to fade, though it did nothing to soothe your mounting dread. "You're hideous. Inside, and now out. A vile creature no sane person would sex even if a gun kissed their forehead. An undesirable used rag-"

The world blurred as you failed to hold back tears, "Fuck you.”

Wasn't it enough that you couldn't look in the mirror? You didn't expect his ego to be so bruised as to tear down someone at their lowest.

"Shut up. Just-" He snarled, walking to the window. It took a while for him to cool down, "We're going back to the Grove."

It hurt to even shake your head. Anaxa forced a laugh. "So stubborn. Your friends haven’t visited you and your family is non-existent. Why stay?

I'm the best option you have, darling, and the only one. I made sure of it"

I just realised Amphoreus probably doesn't have modern hospital gear but we ignore that for the sake of plot. Also, I don't think burn victims are hideous, Anaxa is saying that because he wants to hurt you and make you feel insecure.

Phainon

"(Y/n)?"

Phainon's voice startled you off the woman. Covering yourself with the duvet, you spluttered in shock at the Deliverer.

"… So, this was what you were up to while your boyfriend was fighting for Okhema?" Through gritted teeth he plastered a skewed grin.

"You…" Your voice wobbled as you tried to think up an excuse, "You never made time for me!”

"Are we really ignoring my countless requests for you to move in with me? If you truly felt that way, you wouldn't have thought twice!"

The woman, having dressed herself during your argument, tried to step past Phainon. She made it to his side before he grabbed her collar, "And who the hell are you?"

"Let her go!"

He easily evaded you, ignoring the cries of the woman who pleaded to be freed. It was obvious she was more than some fling by how frantic you were; the thought boiled his blood. Upon getting no answer, he pinned the woman to the wall with his hand wrapped around her neck.

"S-Stop-" She heaved, whistles of air escaping her dirty lips.

Phainon squeezed harder. It was only when you scratched his face that he diverted his attention; his other hand grabbed your hair which effectively ceased your assault. With such a clear view, he could see your eyes dilate in fear - he didn't know if it brought him joy or pain.

"I believe I asked a question." Your boyfriend no longer smiled, "Who. Is. She?"

"She's just a friend-"

"You expect me to believe that?! I see the way you look at her, how long has this been going on for?" His voice cracked, throat closing up. No, he can't cry, not until he sees this through.

"If I tell you, will you stop choking her?" He didn't respond. With a lack of a better option you gave in, "… 2 years."

"But that's-" Phainon fell silent.

There was a drawn-out hush while you assessed his blank expression. Just as the woman teetered on the edge of passing out, he released you both. You immediately hooked an arm around the woman to raise her body. Phainon's cold gaze instilled a sense of urgency when you ducked away-

"You know, I always tried to be perfect for you. For everyone." You paused, if only to placate him. He continued, "At first I thought it was something I did. But 2 years? Honey, that's almost the entirety of our relationship."

"I-I was greedy."

"Yes, yes you are. I'm glad we can agree on that." Wondering where this was going, you met his eyes despite the woman urging you to go, "Then you should also understand that the Deliverer can't have any flaws - much less anyone who'll drag him down."

Was he breaking up with you? Thank the Titans. You sighed in relief, "Of course, I get it."

Phainon's smile was as blinding as it was genuine, "Good!"

He snapped the woman's neck.

It took a second for you to register her head flop unnaturally - even longer when her body went limp. A scream erupted from the bottom of your chest; he covered your mouth in an instant and shushed you.

Upon noticing your attention on the fallen corpse, he tilted your head up to force eye contact. "Oh, it seems you've misunderstood me. Did you think I'd let you leave after everything I've done for us? No. This time it's your turn to pull your weight."

He backed away, leaving you to collapse onto your knees while he pulled out your luggage, "C'mon, we leave after you're finished packing."

At your silence he sighed and knelt, hands taking yours with a sudden gentleness. The same ones that took the woman's life. "I can forgive you for this. I will. Just do one thing for me in return -

Show Okhema you're worthy of being mine, even if you have to bleed for it."

Mr Reca

"(Y/n), Mr Reca, look over here!"

A brilliance of light momentarily blinded you as cameras clicked. The grip on your arm shifted when Reca eventually pulled you along, eager to mingle with the guests.

Tonight was the premiere of his latest movie. As you walked away from the red carpet, a reporter bounded up and asked for an interview; your boyfriend smiled, handing the burden to you before waltzing off.

Had you actually been in love with him you'd be hurt. But business is business, and you gladly took this opportunity to push your popularity.

"… Mr Reca has also alluded to a surprise for us in the film. As his muse, are there any juicy details you can spare us?"

You laughed, "Not even I am privy to the secret. Regardless, I have good faith that the audience will be blown away."

The edge of your lip twitched when you caught sight of the Assistant Director at the back.

Afterwards, you mingled with others until it was time for the movie to start. Settling down on your VIP seats, you were quick to remove your hand from Reca's. Usually he wouldn't care, however, this time he couldn't help smiling like some sort of killer.

You were about to tell him to knock it off, but the sudden dimming of the lights hushed you. The audience was enraptured with the opening sequence of the film, and you couldn't help grinning whenever you appeared on screen.

It was midway through when he suddenly grabbed your hand. You quirked a brow as he leant towards you, eyes glued to the screen, raising your hand to his lips which hid his expression.

The next scene was grainy and of lower quality. The camera followed a person facing away.

It was… you?

But you didn't have any recollection of shooting this scene. Glancing around, you could see the crew's shared confusion.

You looked at Reca. He met your gaze, eyes crinkling with glee.

A chorus of gasps drew your attention back to the screen. Blood drained from your face.

The Valentine's Day affair was plastered on the screen for all to see. You shakily tried to stand up, however, Reca pushed you down. He grabbed your face and forced you to watch the screen.

"Don't play coy now. Look how well my muse performs." He pressed his face into your side, breath tickling your cheek, "The emotion. The passion. I can feel it all from here."

That was how the following minute played out, though for you it felt much longer. As soon as the segment ended, Reca's grip grew lax, and you took this chance to stumble to the washroom.

You stared into the mirror: red marks splotched the lower half of your face with tears raining on the basin. Your knuckles turned white from gripping the counter, eyes closing while you tried to level your breathing.

When you next opened them, Reca was already behind you.

Ignoring your glare at his reflection, he walked along the stalls, lightly pushing each door open until it was confirmed no one else was here. He finally faced you with a shit eating grin.

"Dear, why are you so upset? Rejoice! The audience loves what you brought to the table."

"So what, is this some sort of revenge?" You choked out, "One mistake and you get to throw me under the bus?"

His footsteps grew closer, "On the contrary. Such a scene would be wasted otherwise-"

"Scene? Scene?! Do you think that just because we are together you can film my entire life?" You whirled around with burning ferocity.

Instead of being intimidated, Reca raised a brow as if you were in the wrong, "Well, you signed my contract, did you not?"

"I…"

"Then you should know that the clause 'your world is my stage' should be taken literally, yes?"

You knew that shit would come back to bite you in the ass. "Remove that scene! You can keep everything else, just remove that footage!"

"And disappoint the audience? I think not."

A splitting headache delayed your response, "… I want to rescind the contract."

"Oh don't be a fool darling-"

"Don't 'darling' me!" A loud smack echoed. Pinpricks littered your hand while Reca's cheek glowed red. "I want to drop the contract! Now!"

He rubbed the wound. Amusement danced in his eyes despite your demand, "'Director's lover breaks up with him after filming an intimate scene'. Pull out and it won't take long for the world to realise it wasn't acting."

… He was right. He was right and you hated him for it.

The Assistant Director glinted in a corner, 'eyes' adjusting to your movements. That fucker was still recording you even now. A surge of rage had you seizing Reca's collar, shoving him onto the wall and assaulting him with all your might. Yet his smile merely grew.

Muffled voices sounded from outside the washroom. You had little time to react when Reca pulled you close and craned his neck down - the door swung open with a gasp before the giggling crowd quickly ushered themselves out. Once the door shut, you tried pushing away, face burning with humiliation. His embrace remained strong.

"I don't need your devotion. After all, directors rarely play in their own movies." He kissed the top of your head, “You just so happen to be my favourite actor.”

Mr Reca is a cuckold pass it on [how the hell do you write this man]. Also I gave up on shortening his part because how do you actually shorten his part bruh

[yaut-jaknowit]

I did know we could ask about your OCs! I would love to know more about Gawtin 🥺🥺🥺 is there any headcanons or backstory you can share that won’t come up in one shots 👀

Did people not know this?! Of course anyone can ask about my characters. Actually, I encourage it! Make me write more about them. Make me get up and actually use my brain to figure out their stories.

I already have some information about Gawtin written. I use this wonderful app called Campfire to help keep my stories in order. Specially The Monarch.

Alrighty *cracks knuckles* Buckle up, I've got some history for our loving Yautja.

Her full name is Gawtin Yot Vernt-oilq. She's left handed and prefers to use a crossbow for her main weapon. Though, you don't get to see her fight often since she stays home. But, when hunting for food, she'll bring it out.

Positive Values: Loyalty, self-control, determination, persistence.

Negative Values: meanness, abrasiveness, upfront, unnmercifulness.

Very Confident. Like, how could she not be. This is Gawtin we're talking about.

She's more in the middle for extrovert-ness and introvert-ness. Like, she's not a hermit but won't put herself out. If she's invited to go somewhere, she'll join you. Only leans slightly towards extrovert but still closer to the middle for those two.

She comes in at a whomping five hundred and seventeen pounds without any armor or clothing. It helps when she's 8'8, easily towering over any human she comes into contact with.

As for her tribe/clan, she's part of the War-ak'ox. Don't ask me how to say that because even I don't know. Before I forget, I pronounce her name like Guh-jaun-tin. It is a made up name so, the way you say doesn't matter to me.

We all know she has her current child Qui-oki that you helped slightly through the pregnancy. She's also has sixty-seven children throughout her life. I would probably say about half are still alive. A high number for Yautjas.

Her mother's name is Mother Ma'tan-Aih. She was part of the council of the tribe. Gawtin didn't follow her steps but is still thought as a high member of the tribe due to her mother (who is still alive).

As for her age, she's four hundred and seventy-nine years old. About middle life for a Yautjas life span if they're not killed. She knows you won't grow old with her but she'll have to watch as you wither away. She prefers quality time for a reason, prepared for the day you leave her to join Cetanu. But she'll do everything in her power to increase your life span, even if it's for a day.

That's all the information I have written down for her. I have more about her than the boys combined. If you or anyone has any questions about any of my OCs, please, please shoot a DM. I love talking about them. I also love that you guys enjoy them maybe more than I do!

If there any grammar mistakes, please ignore. I just typed this up in the middle of the night and I'm too tired to check. Plus, words get mixed up in my head. You all have probably realized this by now... and English is my native and only language. Ugh...

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Craving Ice Cream

@jayalaw

Summary: Set after Httyd 2. Hiccup has a craving and Astrid wants him to voice it.

Warnings: Pregnancy

Rating: General

Words: 546

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Snotlout, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, Valka

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Author's Notes: Written for a request because I got an ask on Tumblr a few days ago telling me that they loved my Pregcup fics the day after I posted two, so I made a post asking for requests and this is one of them. Really enjoyed writing this one!

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

“I…” Before he dares to finish his sentence, Hiccup closes his mouth and presses his lips together, wondering if he should finish.

It’s not quiet in the house, Tuffnut and Snotlout are in a heated discussion with Fishlegs about something while Ruffnut watches and instigates wherever she can. Gobber and Valka are in the kitchen. Eret stokes the fire and Astrid sharpens her axe. But when Hiccup decides to speak, they still hear him.

Curled up around him, Toothless lifts his head to look at his Rider and Astrid stops her sharpening to gaze at her husband, the fur of her hood still damp from the falling snow outside. She was chopping wood until minutes ago. Devastating Winter is steadily approaching and they need to be prepared.

“Finish that sentence, Babe,” she tells him, already using a more motherly tone even though the baby isn’t even here yet. The baby that grows in his womb.

Somehow even more dramatic in his pregnancy, Hiccup opens his mouth again to speak, hands up to animate, only to sigh, drop them on his quiet belly and lay his head back on the dragon he sits against near the fire. Toothless snorts at him, which gets him a look as Hiccup wipes at his face.

He’s seven months far, which means he’s getting quite round by now even for a tall and skinny lad such as himself and they can expect the baby to come in the middle of the most devastating time of the cold season. It’s why the other Riders are here. Because they’re about to get buried by snow inside their homes and they want to be here when the first of a new generation of Dragon Riders is born. And they want to help where necessary.

“Hiccup.”

“It’s fine, it’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“What’re you craving?” Astrid asks. If he says it’s something stupid, it’s almost always because he’s craving something. And his new appetite, that was something he needed to get used to.

Looking over his shoulder at her, he takes a moment to consider it. How badly is he craving? “... ice cream.”

“That weird invention from the twins?” Snotlout asks, now standing nearby after having torn himself away from his discussion with Fishlegs when he grew too annoyed.

“Uh, weird?”

“Try “genius!” At that comeback, the twins high five.

“Weird how exactly?” But Hiccup takes offense, crossing his arms and glaring up at him. He feels a hard kick inside of him, like the baby agrees. When Snotlout feels a lot of eyes on him, he notices that almost everyone seems to share Hiccup’s sentiment. Especially his soulmate and life partner.

“How would you like your ice cream?” He asks, deciding that is the only way to avoid invoking Astrid’s wrath. She’s been very protective of her husband ever since Gothi confirmed their suspicions. Which is also the reason why she just needed to hear him utter a single vowel before jumping on his case.

“Good boy,” Valka praises his change of mind before disappearing into the kitchen again, Gobber guffawing a laugh from within. And the twins crack their knuckles, deciding to make a batch for their craving friend.

Needless to stay, he got his craving satiated with a bowl of ice cream.

[call-me-copycat]

Heyoo, I hope your having a great day/night!

Congratulations on 400 followers!! That's a great achievement right there 😁

I was wondering if I could join your writting event? If so, can I please ask for a "Pick a Prompt" for number 8, the characters being present mic and a f!reader? (as in "xreader")

It can be romantic, but can you please avoid any drinking/sexual themes?

If not, it can just be platonic!!

Wish you the best!

Hello! Thank you so much @bingewatchintilldawn for requesting for my writing event! I'm so glad you're here ଘ(੭ˊ꒳​ˋ)੭✧

I'm so sorry for the delay, I do hope you enjoy! Sorry for any grammatical errors as well, it's a little late where I am right now, so I'm a little tired ‪(´•ᴗ• ก )‬՞ ՞

Request for my writing event!

Slot Chosen: Pick-A-Prompt 1

#8: "Why are you hiding behind me? What did you do?"

➜ CHARACTERS: Mic & Fem! Reader (Platonic - I'm sorry, I didn't know how to write this off as romantic)

➜ Word Count: 2230 [I got a little side-tracked with this one, I hope you don't mind (ㅎ.ㅎ ) ]

➜ WARNINGS: Mentions of food, I believe that's it

Students chattered amongst themselves as the day passed by, with conversations ranging from light-hearted compliments, to angered rants, to teasing taunts and the scoffs that would come from the receiving end. It was a relaxing day, one that you were grateful for since that usually meant that there wasn't much work for you to do.

Glancing at the small stack of papers that needed to be organized and stapled so the class can receive them the next day, you sighed before cracking your knuckles and getting right to work.

One might begin to think you were a teacher at UA, what with all that you do, but that wasn't exactly what you were. While you weren't a teacher, you were a teacher aid, tasked with helping and following the orders of whichever teacher called upon you for the day.

It seemed you were doing something new each day, whether that be helping out Snipe with rearranging his books for history class, or answering the students' questions when Eraserhead was sleeping, or even dashing throughout the halls to get a folder to Nezu. It's one of the many reasons why you enjoyed your job so much. Not only was it interesting, but the people were also quite amusing as well. Some more than others.

That was probably the reason behind why you were always offering to help assist Present Mic with his class, often enjoying the thrill of his funky attitude and excitable demeanor. Kind to everyone and ever so intriguing, you felt it was just a little easier to talk to him at times. He wasn't very judgemental (then again, neither were any of the teachers really), and could hold and start any conversation with anyone with ease if he so wished.

Oftentimes a couple of his students would stay behind in his class during lunch and eat there, enjoying the jokes and conversation their teacher brought. It was only a plus to it all that he never really required you to do much work for him. While it seemed he wouldn't be one to do much work or preparing, you couldn't help but notice how each morning a newly stacked pile of papers were always printed and stapled before everyone else had even started. Or how you never had to help grade any papers since they'd all be finished the same day they were turned in. It was one of the many things he never really spoke about but still quietly did in the background.

Thinking back to that fact, you smiled as you found yourself once again not needing to do much work, the stack of papers thin and simply needing to be stapled in groups.

"Sorry it's a bit much today! The printer wasn't workin' on me, so I'm a little behind today. Oh well! Ya live ya learn!"

Turning to the voice coming from the door to the classroom, you smiled as you saw Mic walking through, work bag and a folder in one hand and a water bottle in the other as he fumbled with the door. After getting up and helping hold the door open, you smiled at the "a-thank-you" that you were given as he walked by.

"It's not much really, did you need anything else done today? Or is that it?"

He placed his work items down as he waved his hand at you, "No, no! That's all for today! No need to overwork yourself, I'm no Eraser!", he laughed, enjoying his jab to his good friend while you shuddered. Aizawa was much more strict, and wasn't always keen on having a new face around. While he did have his moments of leniency, they were often overshadowed by the stacks of paper given to grade, or the number of times you had to run down the halls to fulfill the errands he had asked. No, he was indeed no Eraser.

The day ran smoothly, with schoolwork being handed out and students being taught. It was something you hoped you'd reach one day. Until then, being an assistant wasn't too bad.

Debates were common occurrences in his class, seeing as he taught English after all, and not only did they commonly happen, they were sometimes encouraged. 'It's good teaching material', he had told you as the students discussed the pros and cons of having heroes advertise products. There were times when they had to be shut down though, sometimes provoking the wrong kind of passion in the students. And when screaming matches occurred, there wasn't a single soul that challenged the Voice Hero.

UA was certainly a one-of-a-kind school. All the teachers there treated you as an equal despite your lower profession, and each had a unique spark to them. Midnight always loved having you around for her art classes, though there were times where you couldn't handle the risque attitude that she radiated. Vlad was much more professional in a sense, but that never meant be didn't enjoy a good conversation every now and then.

You learned that during breaks Snipe loved to play cards, and that Midnight loved to challenge anyone in anything. Lunch Rush appreciated having company whenever he was cleaning, and Recovery Girl loved to have someone to listen to her stories about her past work. It was a tight-knit community, and although everyone ran under the same set of rules, it couldn't feel more familiar.

-

The bell rang for lunch, signaling the day to be half-over. Resorting to mindlessly doodling on a piece of paper at the teacher's desk could only ever get you so far before it became redundant. You normally sat at Mic's desk since he rarely ever sat still, always up and walking around the class, or up and down the length of the chalkboard when the students were taking a test. Even then he wasn't completely silent, settling on whistling some jaunty tune he either made up or heard somewhere.

With the class being dismissed, all the students left for the cafeteria for the day, leaving you and Mic to eat your lunch in the teacher's lounge for the day. It was only when you entered that you remembered you had left your lunch at home.

Turning to Mic, who was whistling that same tune to himself once again as he flipped through his planner, you spoke up.

"Hey, I forgot my lunch today at home, do you mind if I run down to the cafeteria to pick something up real quick?"

This caused him to look up, but before he could say anything, a woman's voice cut him off.

"You can have my lunch, honey. I actually just came from the cafeteria so I don't need it."

Midnight walked the rest of the way in and held up a little tray that she had gotten for herself from Lunch Rush. "I couldn't resist, he made my favorite today so I had to go down. Take whatever's in the fridge, I should've left my bento in there from yesterday"

Nodding, you smiled and thanked her as you rummaged through the fridge, finding it empty except for a single bento box in a plastic bag. It didn't look homemade, but rather store bought as the box still had the price sticker on it.

"I'm gonna head off to the office, I need to work out some typos on an assignment before I print it out. You okay with staying here?" Mic questioned as he packed his things and headed to the door.

"I'll be fine, you can go if you need to" Was your answer as you ate your lunch, the bento being an oddly simple one that just consisted of three compartments; one for rice, one for beef, and one for pickled vegetables.

This was the best photo I could find, I hope it helps (=ﾟДﾟ=)

It wasn't something you were used to seeing Midnight eat, as she normally picked bentos that mainly consisted of vegetables, and her go to protein being fish. It was new, but you didn't question it.

Once lunch was finished, you checked the time to see you still had about 20 minutes left to yourself. Taking advantage of what time you had left, you decided to go give Mic a visit, tired of sitting alone in the lounge as Midnight had only come by earlier to grab a cup of coffee.

However, you nearly bumped into a figure that was entering the lounge at the same time you were exiting, the deep "Watch where you're heading" giving you a clue as to who it was before you even saw him.

Looking up and meeting eyes with Aizawa, you hastily apologized and went to leave, only for a single sentence to freeze you in place.

"Who ate my lunch?"

Aizawa was crouched in front of the communal fridge, frowning at the empty shelves before slowly turning to look at where you were frozen in the doorway with one foot out.

Hesitantly, you slid your eyes over to him. As soon as your eyes met you panicked and quickly scuttled out of the lounge, giving him the answer to his question and causing a chase to form.

Dashing throughout the empty halls, you immediately spotted Mic walking down in the opposite direction of where you were headed, casually chatting alongside Cementoss.

"Hey, [Name]! So nice of you to stop by- Whoa, whoa, whoa, why the rush?!" He questioned as you quickly made your way over to him, only to position yourself right behind him and attempt to use him as a human shield of sorts.

Just the same, his question was answered as an annoyed Eraserhead stomped his way to where the three of you were standing.

"I just want to talk to her-"

"It wasn't me!" You retaliated, trying to weasel yourself out of this mess.

"Okay, okay, why are you hiding behind me? What did you do?" Mic was beyond confused, having been forcefully tugged into the situation.

"She ate my lunch, that's what she did" Aizawa answered, an agitated tone to his voice. "The one day I actually bring some food to eat, and it's gone"

"N-no, I... "

Aizawa raised an eyebrow and silently waited for your answer, never one to raise his voice or cut someone off to argue. His belief was to just let the person try and fail to explain themselves, causing them to dig themselves into their own hole without him having to retaliate.

Mic then thought back to what Midnight had told you earlier, suddenly understanding what had occurred.

"Ah, man, it looks like ya caught me Shouta"

You, Cementoss, and Aizawa all turned to look at Mic with a confused expression, the situation growing even more complex at the sudden confession.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he continued, "I'll pay you back, promise, just don't go blaming her. Y'know, maybe you should've labeled your lunch in the first place, then we wouldn't be here, now would we?"

Aizawa scowled at his friend's cheeky tone, throwing his hands in the air. "You know what? I'm not going to stand here and argue about the food." Turning and beginning to walk away, he muttered just loud enough for you all to hear, "I'm going to take a nap, don't disturb me"

You watched Aizawa's retreating figure disappear down the hallway, possibly to his class, and turned to Mic. He spoke before you could get a word out, "Now that that's taken care of, let's get back to work, shall we?", right before bidding Cementoss a temporary goodbye.

Walking down the halls, you still had to ask him why he had taken the blame, especially knowing he'd be getting an earful as soon as school got out.

"Oh, none of that! No need to get so worried about me, I've been annoying everyone here since I first started working." He slipped one hand into his pocket as the other held a folder and a clipboard for his teacher-ly duties. "Did I ever tell you about the time I put plastic wrap across the door frame, only for Nemuri to walk right into it?" He laughed out loud as he spoke, clearly enjoying the memory that was brought back to him.

"Man, she was pissed! I had to hightail it out of there if I wanted to see the next morning sunrise! Y'know, I ought to ask her if she remembers that, cause I sure do! "

You chuckled alongside him, happy to have such a kind, yet intuitive coworker... No, friend. Yeah, it was nice to be surrounded by such charismatic people you could call your friends.

There was just one thing you needed to do.

-

Aizawa scowled as he walked through the halls towards the teacher lounge, hoping that at least no one stole his rice koji packets. Those were strictly his, at the very least.

Honestly, this was my best guess as to what it is that he eats ┐⁠(⁠‘⁠～⁠`⁠;⁠)⁠┌

Opening the fridge though, he was met with a surprise.

Inside was a plastic bag with his name on it, in handwriting that was clearly not his. Opening it revealed the same bento he had bought from the store, only this was a new one. Alongside it, was a note:

"Sorry for eating your lunch. I didn't know it was yours. Hope this repays for the mistake.

Till next time, [Name]"

Aizawa smiled.

He knew it was you the whole time.

Thank you again for requesting! I really appreciate you taking the time to do so! Please have a lovely day ( ⑉¯ ꇴ ¯⑉ )ﾂﾝﾂﾝ

*A little side note: I think writing for Present Mic is actually very fun. I love his character a lot! ʕ ◦`꒳´◦ʔ

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 5

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: Graphic violence, displays of misogyny, gendered slurs Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, Jean DuBois, Mr. Logan, Mr. Muldoon, Dr. Howell, Mr. Singleton, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Jean duBois/OC (bffs) Additional tags: Original character-centric, first person POV, canon character x original character romance, self-discovery journey, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 5/13 Summary: As she continues to learn the ropes, Constance begins her fighting lessons with the gunner Bjorn. And just as well, as very soon afterwards, her new brawling skills are put to a harrowing test.

Author's note: WOW, this one is LOOOOONG. I actually considered dividing into parts, it's such a monster of a chapter. Hopefully not a boring one, tho! Another sort of filler, I promise we go back to the romance on the next one! Btw, I love writing fight scenes, they're so much fun. Oh yeah, there will be blood.

Chapter v.

The very next day, some time before sundown, Bjorn pulled me aside as I was preparing for my grueling tasks, such as scrubbing the decks or sharpening the kitchen blades with Randall (almost cut my own finger off the previous night). He said I wouldn't be working that evening; instead, he was going to teach me something else, something that was equally crucial in the life of any pirate, but far worse on the body.

He was going to teach me how to fight.

"I... beg your pardon?" I said with a tiny note of hysteria in my voice.

"You're going to learn how to punch, kick and stay standing when someone attacks you." He numbered each by raising a thick finger, grinning beneath his ginger beard. "Thierry and I talked last night and figured what happened with Folsom wouldn't be the last instance you would go looking for trouble. So, since it seems highly likely that soon you're gonna pick more fights you can't possibly hope to finish, we decided to initiate you on the art of brawling."

"Um..." I felt a cold chill in the pit of my stomach, for I was painfully aware I had never thrown a punch in my life, much less gotten into a fight. "A-alright? I mean... You do know that this will be the first time I will find myself in such a position, yes?"

Bjorn produced a boom of a laugh that shook the wooden floorboards. "Stick around us a while more--" he motioned for me to follow him into the hold. "And you will find yourself in all sorts of positions, if you know what I mean. Just wait until we get to Nassau and you meet Noonan's girls."

He winked at me from over his shoulder, but the fact was that, no, I did not know what he meant. And frankly? I didn't think I wanted to know.

He brought us to the stern of the ship, near the door to the armory, then cracked his knuckles (the sound made me gulp). "We won't be disturbing anyone here. Now, show me how you make a fist."

I stared at my left hand like I was seeing it for the first time. My fingers were long and delicate, but the days of hard work had destroyed my nails and put dirt into every crease and fold of my skin. I curled it into a feeble fist. Bjorn approached, took a quick look and nodded.

"That's good. You didn't make the mistake of tucking your thumb into it. That's a good way to break these fingers." He tapped a pointer twice the thickness of mine on my first and second knuckles. "Now squeeze tight, as much as you can, and try to hit right here." He raised his meaty tattooed hand, palm to me.

I stared at it wide eyed, then up. "What if I hurt you?" I whispered.

"Psh. You won't. Trust me, I've had much worse. Come on. Put your weight into it, like you're stretching out your arm. Go on!"

I bit my lip and got ready. I pulled back my fist, took a couple of anticipatory breaths, then held in and shot my arm forward. However, at the last minute, I hesitated out of fear of making some sort of damage, so my fist barely made noise when it touched his palm.

Bjorn shot me an unimpressed look. "I can feel you holding back."

"Sorry, I... I got scared. I really don't want to hurt you."

He shoved my hand away. "Let's get something straight. One day, you're going to be ordered to go over the side and join an attack. It might be in a year, it might be next week. But it is going to happen. Hell, you might end up having your first real disagreement right here on this ship, and let me tell you, those boys up there?" He pointed at the ceiling. "They won't give two shits that you're a girl. They will strike with the aim to fuck you up.”

Smile gone, he leaned over me and looked straight into my eyes with his pale, icy ones until I shrunk, fighting every instinct to run away screaming. “When were on the hunt, whoever we happen to board will have one thing in their minds and one thing only: survive to see another sunrise, even if they have to kill every single pirate in front of them. So you better learn to defend yourself, or else you're going to die out there. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

This was a harsh reality for me, one I knew I would have to accept sooner rather than later. Even so, the thought of violence of any kind chilled me to my core. With only a few select occasions, I had hardly ever wished it upon someone. Even so, this was a part of my choice and I needed to embrace it, whatever the cost. Bjorn was right, it was for my own good that he was teaching me.

Don't be a burden, or worse: a liability. I repeated Flint's words like a chant in my brain to encourage myself, then set my jaw tight and brought both my fists up. I gave Bjorn a nod to indicate I was ready. He lifted his palms.

"Left fist, right here." He clenched his right hand fingers.

This time, I put everything into it. My knuckles produced a dry smack against his hand, which hardly moved an inch. "Better. Right fist, now."

I punched his left palm. He grunted in thought. "Left handed, you?"

"For almost everything, yes."

"Lucky for you, that might be an advantage. Most men expect attacks from the right. I suggest you always start on the left, to throw them off.”

I nodded and got into position again, but Bjorn dropped his hands and came closer while examining my shoes with a furrowed brow.

"What?" I asked.

"Your feet are all wrong." He stood behind me, which made me nervous given I didn't know him that well to feel comfortable opening myself up to an attack, but all he did was use the tip of his boot to push my left foot forward. Next, he came around on my right and pushed my other foot backwards. "You want to have them firm on the ground so you can support your own weight. This will lend strength to your punch and make you more difficult to knock down if you're hit in turn. Flex your knees a little. No, not that much. Like that. Now watch."

He gave my shoulders a shove that made me stagger backwards, but thanks to my new pose, I managed to stay upright.

"See? Always return to this position whenever you have a break. Let's practice those punches some more."

For the following fifteen minutes, Bjorn had me repeating the same moves until I got used to them and gained confidence. He had me change the direction from which my punches came, first from above, then from below. And afterwards, with a set of established commands, we mixed up the combinations. At the beginning, the instructions came at regular intervals that I could keep up with, but as the minutes passed, he started picking up the pace. Between my poor reflexes and the building exhaustion from the exercise, I messed up more times than I liked. Whenever I missed, Bjorn would hiss or shout a mockery, which prompted me to focus harder and pause a few seconds before obeying the command correctly.

"Don't hesitate," he warned me. "You're thinking too much. Let your instinct take over. Trust yourself to get it right."

I could feel my punches growing weaker as my arms tensed up, muscles burning under my sweat soaked skin. Still, I didn't slow down. I was huffing and puffing, my hair sticking to my neck and forehead, yet I didn't stop. Not until Bjorn told me to, or until my arms gave out. Whichever came first.

Never once did he complain or even wince. It was as if he wasn't registering the abuse his palms were enduring.

At some point, when the last of the sunlight peeked through the hatches on the ceiling and the hold grew dark, Thierry and two more men came down to join us. I didn't look to see who they were, since Bjorn was still dishing out commands, one after the other.

"Man, you're working her out good, aren't you?" Thierry chuckled. "We can hear her panting all the way upstairs."

"Halt!" Lars pulled back his hands and held them up in surrender. "That's enough for today."

As soon as he called it, I leaned over my knees and let my head hang for a moment, the French braid I'd tied my hair into slipping over one shoulder until it hovered inches from the floor. My entire upper body was in agony, yet... I felt strong and satisfied. I had hardly missed a beat for the last two minutes as my reflexes developed.

With my breath mostly recovered, I finally looked up to see who accompanied Thierry. I recognized them: the bald man with tattoos on his neck and his friend with a full beard. I remembered them from standing behind me at the line for dinner.

"We haven't been introduced yet," said the first as he extended his hand forward. "Muldoon. This is Logan."

I smoothed my hand down my pant leg before shaking theirs. "Constance."

"We saw you with Folsom, yesterday." Logan grinned and wagged his eyebrows. "I don't think anyone has ever gotten so angry so soon after meeting him. I mean, the man is an asshole alright, but novices are usually too afraid of him to do anything about it."

"If I was afraid of pirates, I never would have set foot in this ship." I put a healthy dose of defiance into that statement. Might as well leave the warning now so they couldn't say I didn't prepare them, later. "I'm not letting anyone treat me like a second rate citizen. Especially now that I can punch."

"And can she punch, Bjorn?" Muldoon inquired. "I mean, if you're gonna stir up shit then you better follow up your sharp words with a strong wallop."

Bjorn crossed his meaty arms and shrugged. "She has the technique. Time and hard labor will take care of the rest."

Muldoon smirked. "Sounds like you're packing a pretty feeble wallop. Guess little women don't have much reason to know how to hit, don't they?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he just teasing me, or was there a challenge behind those words? I glanced at the others to assess their reaction. Thierry was smiling, like always, but his eyes shot between Muldoon and me in a manner that struck me as nervous, especially when coupled with the beads of sweat on his forehead. Bjorn stared at Muldoon with a scary intensity, as if trying to get him to stop with his mind alone. And Logan, he observed me like a very interesting looking painting. Or like he was waiting for something to happen. Something vicious and bloody. Eager. Excited.

I pinned my eyes back on Muldoon and let a moment pass. His smirk faltered a notch.

"I don't know, Muldoon.” I shrugged as I took a calculated step forward. “Ladies may not throw punches on a regular basis, but we do have a pretty biting slap."

"Oh yeah?" He snorted, traded a jocular look with Logan, turned back to me. "With those delicate, manicured hands? How bad can it be--?"

My open palm flew through the air like a bull whip, hitting him square in the face with a smack so loud, it echoed throughout the hold. Muldoon stumbled to the side, hand to his cheek as the others shouted "ohhhhh!" in unison, then laughed. Thank goodness for that; I thought I would get into trouble.

As I waved out the tension from my hand, Muldoon stared at me in shock. When he removed his hand, I saw a bright red mark shaped like my palm blooming on his face.

"Bloody hell, girl!!" He complained. "What was that for?"

I faltered, felt my skin prickle with anxiety. Oh my God, was he actually offended? Had I misinterpreted the whole thing and acted too hastily? I felt sick to my stomach. Stupid, dumb , idiot! My hands flew to my mouth as I got closer, worried I'd seriously hurt him. "Shit, Muldoon. I'm so sorry. I--"

"He was asking for it!" It was Logan who intervened by laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't say you're sorry. In this ship, you talk shit, you get hit. That's how it goes around here. He just wasn't expecting YOU to catch on so quick."

"Damn right I didn't. Fuck, that hurt." Muldoon massaged his cheek, yet soon enough he was laughing as well. "Guess next time I'll know better."

I let out a discreet sigh of relief. One thing was to defend yourself; another was to react disproportionately to a verbal jab. I offered my hand as a gesture of reconciliation, same as I had done with Folsom. "I still apologize. I got a little too excited from Bjorn's lessons and didn't think it through. Forgive me?"

Muldoon accepted my apology and shook. "All's well. But..."

He squeezed my fingers so hard that my knuckles popped, shooting arrows of agony up my arm. My body jerked from the pain as I pulled my hand out of his vicious grip with a hiss. "Fuck!!"

"Ohhh, what a dirty mouth we've got!" he chortled, and so did the others. Then he passed an arm around my shoulders and gave them a friendly shake. "Now we're even."

Through gritted teeth, my hand cradled to my chest, I glared at him for an instant before I too broke into laughter. "Alright, if you say so."

I was so going to kick that clown's ass one day. One day...

*** Over the course of the following weeks, my lessons continued. I improved faster than even I had anticipated. Folsom took me up the shrouds and showed me how the sails worked. De Groot continued to mentor me in the ways of navigation and taught me how to use the different instruments. Bjorn advanced the fighting to all out brawl, teaching me grips and how to knock down an opponent by using his strength against him. Jean, Muldoon, Logan and Thierry would often participate and spar with me so I could get a feel for different body types and combat styles. Despite my initial fear, these lessons became a source of fun for me. Not only that, my confidence grew practically overnight thanks to them. I walked a little straighter, felt more relaxed while moving about, looked people in the eyes more often. I was still being hazed, but at least I never sat alone during meals anymore.

I was introduced to Mr. Beauclerc, whom I was told was the best marksman aboard and knew everything about guns. Obviously, he was put into charge of teaching me how to properly hold, load and clean a flintlock. He was a man of few words, but knew how to transmit information succinctly and effectively. Quite clearly, too: once, I saw him shoot a seagull out of the air at fifteen yards on a bright sunny day. That was enough to make me feel glad we were on the same crew. He promised to teach me target practice when we arrived in Nassau, a month from then.

For swordplay, I was paired up with Billy Bones. Before we began our first lesson, he confessed that he wasn't much of a swordsman, but everyone else told me that the only crewman he couldn't best in combat was Joji.

He was a silent man from the far east with long black hair, who strutted around the Walrus like a ghost, enigmatic and so quiet I had almost run into him an embarrassing amount of times. He had a strange looking sword, unlike any I had seen: it was long and sublimely curved, with the tip squared off instead of ending in a point. I had seen him practice with it on deck, footsteps light and precise, each fluid movement carefully measured. I also noticed the others kept a wide berth from him whenever he practiced.

"I saw him cut a man in half with a single stroke once," Thierry told me with this haunted look on his face. "I ain't getting nowhere near Joji or his blade unless it's sheathed."

Billy might not be better than Joji, but he was good enough for me, thank you very much. He taught me how to use the cutlass, how to keep it close to the body and jab, or slash, or use it to block an attack. We sparred a few times a week, though I soon realized I wasn't very good at it. Or maybe Billy was too talented for me. Or maybe if I stopped staring at his big arms and paid attention I might actually learn. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed the reasons for my ineptitude. Yet.

And then, one night, the crew gathered up during off duty hours for a friendly batch of hand-to-hand combat. The hatches on the weather deck had been removed, exposing the upper deck to the starry sky so that more seating and viewing points were made available. Rum was being passed around in mugs, as well as money, while the men made their wagers on their favored fighters. Meanwhile, a group composed mostly of the biggest, burliest sailors towered over poor Mr. Dufresne whilst he noted down their names on a piece of paper and set up the first combats. Bjorn was among them, of course. He had insisted I come watch to learn more, so I found a spot somewhere against the wall and sat with Jean on one side, Muldoon on the other.

“So, this is a sort of tradition?” I asked, straining to make myself heard amidst all the noise filling the gundeck.

“More or less,” Jean replied. “We do this at least once every voyage; mostly for entertainment, but it's also a way to settle grievances among members and establish a pecking order. If a novice is looking for recognition or respect, he might try participating and see how far he can get.”

It seemed so barbaric and disorderly. And yet, no one was making an effort to conceal it.They were as blatant about it as they were with their drinking or their gambling. “And the captain allows this?”

“Why wouldn't he allow it? Think it through: you have a large assemblage of hardy men who sail for months at a time in a confined space and little to entertain. What would be better in the long term: restricting their fun, not to mention a very effective way for them to work out the long hours of labor and frustration of high sea life, or letting them run rampant with it under his supervision, with established rules so no one is seriously hurt or accidentally killed?”

He pointed up at the open hatch. There, among the men settling down in the best spots for viewing the spectacle, Flint stood stoic, a judge over a tribune, a parson over his parish.

Or a ringleader, I thought.

“How violent does it normally get?” I pondered, unable to keep the weariness from my tone. Though I had been ready to shoot anyone who dared come too close back at the Delilah, or stab any wily attackers on my first night, the idea of seeing blood made me queasy. Jesus, what if I fainted in front of everyone? I would never hear the end of it.

Jean's side eye and dark grin did nothing to put me at ease. He neglected to offer me an answer. Instead, he grabbed one of the many tankards of rum doing the rounds, took a swig, and offered it to me. I accepted it, but hesitated to drink. I gave the liquid a sniff. The smell was acrid and strong, but not unpleasant. Still, I scrunched my nose at the thought of how many scurvy-ailed mouths might have been there and passed it to Muldoon.

Moments later, Billy Bones stepped into the makeshift arena and cleared it of any wobbly-legged stragglers. With a blush, I saw he wasn't wearing his shirt again. Once the men who wouldn't be participating in the fights were sitting out of the way, he stood at full height, every mound of muscle carved out in the lantern light, his skin glowing like it was coated in gold. He did one final sweep to make certain we were ready and said:

“Alright, settle down! Settle down. We have new faces aboard, so here are the rules of combat on the Walrus: bare hands only. No shirts, no shoes, no metal of any kind. Only two men get to fight at the time. Anyone can participate and anyone can be challenged. No exceptions. Whoever is challenged cannot refuse the fight unless he is gravelly injured. Victory is achieved when one opponent gets their lights knocked out or taps three times to quit. Does everybody understand these rules?”

A round of "aye!" shook the hull of the Walrus, so loud I felt it in my bones.

"Tonight, we have ten fights for your entertainment. That's ten slots open for one night only, so if you want to participate or have scores to settle, this is your chance. Otherwise, you will have to wait for the next time we set sail. Agreed?"

Another round of cheers, louder than the last, no doubt fueled in part by the free flowing of alcohol. Billy allowed himself a mischievous smile as he took in his audience, then nodded. I wondered if he would fight and surprised myself when I realized the idea made my insides simmer with warmth. I bet he's a magnificent fighter.

A slow, rhythmic thumping rattled the boards, like drums. In mere seconds it grew louder, stronger, faster. I realized it was the stomping of many feet, and it rose in intensity as more and more boots joined. Soon, the entire crew was stomping, then chanting together. The whole deck was filled with that deafening sound. Billy prowled around the ring, waving his arms to encourage them to go louder as he too lent his voice to that tribal call. Even I couldn't help getting caught in their sway, chanting along as I clapped my hands on my thighs, a cheek-splitting grin on my face. As the chants reached their peak, they turned into an all out roar, given strength by hundreds of voices, a deep static that I was sure would render me irreparably deaf. Had another ship passed us by that night, her crew might have thought it was the Walrus herself producing that ungodly howl, not mere men.

After settling down into an applause, Billy took back the center stage, hands spread out in a silent command to quiet down. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, mingling with the dirt from the day's labor, making my mouth go dry. I had to look away, fearing that the unhinged behavior from the others was starting to affect me a little too much.

"First match. Let's hear it for Little Pablo, if you please!"

Somewhere at my right, a short man with light brown skin and a blue scarf over his thicket of curls stood. He walked over to Billy's side, pulling out his vest, shirt and shoes along the way. All he kept on his person were his trousers, the blue bandana and a few leather adornments. The crew clapped, hooted and whistled their encouragement.

Billy smacked a hand on his shoulder. "And who will you be challenging tonight, Pablo?"

The man pointed somewhere by the wall opposite to me."Dick McAllistair."

The men stomped and shouted as if calling on the challenged to rise up.

"Dick! Get the fuck over here," Billy demanded.

This man was much taller than Bobby, though not as much as Billy, and he had intense blue eyes that bore into his opponent from beneath sun-bleached brows. He removed all that was required removing and entered the ring.

"Gentlemen, shake hands," our boatswain said. They obeyed without ever taking their eyes off of each other. There was no outright hate between them, but definitely some tension that desperately needed to be resolved. "Three steps back, now."

The two men did so and raised their fists, getting into position.

"Ready? Fight!"

I watched as Pablo and Dick circled 'round each other under the immense noise of constant shouting, trying to ignore the ball of anxiety knotted in my stomach. Dick threw the first punch; Pablo blocked and parried right away, hitting him on the ribs with a 'thwack!', but Dick barely reacted. Instead, he launched a barrage of quick jabs, most of them hitting Pablo on the shoulders and arms, which he used to protect his head. He held on like that without trying to counter, letting Dick tire himself out, but lost some ground during the relentless assault. He back away with Dick constantly on top of him, until the fight was occurring practically on my lap.

They were so close, in fact, that when Dick finally slowed down enough for Pablo to take the opportunity to return the favor with a well-placed punch to the face, I could see the torrent of blood that flew out of Dick's nose. Thank God it was too loud in the deck for anyone to hear me yelp my shock. Even so, my hands came up to my mouth both to muffle it and hopefully stop myself from throwing up.

Dick staggered back and pressed his palm to his bleeding nose. The red gushed out uncontrollably through his fingers, dripping down his chin and onto his chest, yet all he did was swat it out of his hand and continue the fight. There was an added intensity on his face, anger and resentment, but also a hint of hurt. That threw me off a bit. Both Billy and Jean had said these matches were an opportunity to settle scores and resolve grudges. In this instance, as I studied the expressions on both men's faces, there was no doubt they had beef with each other. Neither of them fought out of pleasure. There was something going on between them that they hadn't been able to resolve with words, so this was the only solution left. As the fight progressed into a grapple, I turned to Jean and spoke into his ear:

"What's the reasoning behind their match? They seem so angry with each other."

Jean leaned into me so I could hear his reply. "A few days before we boarded your ship, Pablo and Dick were up on the foremast sails doing some repairs when Pablo slipped and got caught in the rigging. Dick helped him climb back onto the yard, but the sail got torn while they were at it. Dick berated Pablo for being such a klutz, said he'd added onto the pile of work they already had. Pablo took it to heart, there was an argument, but they never resolved it. Pirates and sailors, as a general rule, aren't very good at talking about their feelings. I think Dick was hoping Pablo had forgotten about it, but when he challenged him..."

I returned my attention to the fight. Dick's nose had stopped bleeding, but the lower half of his face was dark as they went back and forth. Pablo had a small gash on his cheek and all over his arms, black and purple bruises were splaying up from Dick's punching. I thought the fight might go on a while, since they were evenly matched in both strength and speed, but just then, Pablo punched Dick on the throat and followed it by kicking a leg behind the other's knee to make him fall.

As soon as he was on his back, hands clutched around his neck with a panicked look, Pablo was on him. He used Dick's disorientation to flip him on his stomach and lifted his arm behind him, holding it at an unnatural angle. Dick choked out a breathless protest, his face contorted in agony, and still he tried to somehow gain the upper hand. Pablo's grip allowed for no escape, however. Every time Dick moved, he would wrench his arm a little more, until Dick was bellowing from the pain. At last, he could take it no more and smacked his hand on the floor three times to signal he was quitting.

Before Billy could step up to break the fight, Pablo let go and got off of Dick, staggering back to give him space.

"Fight's done!" Billy announced. He took Pablo's wrist into his hand and raised his arm. "The winner is Little Pablo!"

The men roared into applause. Coins (or pieces of eight, as they called them) were passed from hand to hand as wagers received or conceded the amount agreed upon. On the ring, I watched with fascination as Pablo approached Dick, still crumpled on the floor, tapped him on the arm and offered his hand. Despite the defeat and their argument, Dick accepted it and let the other help him up. The two stood close, exchanged a few words I couldn't understand, then laughed and embraced as brothers. Just like that, the tension between them was gone. They walked out of the arena together and sat side-by-side to watch the next match.

I turned to Jean. "I see what you meant earlier. About this being an effective method to settle grievances. They're back to being friends already."

"Told you. Nothing like a good fist fight to work out pent-up frustration." He smirked at me. "So? Was it too violent for you?"

I scrunched up my nose in distaste. "It wasn't too bad, I suppose... I still think words are a less painful way to work through spats. And there are other forms of entertainment besides this barbarism."

"All true, all true," he nodded. "But none as satisfying."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, Jean."

The next match was far more intense than the first. One of the men apparently had insulted the other's wife, who waited for him to return in Nassau, and received a broken rib as a reward for it. The sound of his bones snapping before he tapped out would haunt my nightmares later. He was sent to the sick bay after Dr. Howell examined him on the spot.

The ones that followed weren't so bad. A lot of punching and slapping, many bruises but little blood. During Bjorn's match, his opponent accidentally slipped when the ship tipped over the waves and twisted his ankle, so Billy called it a draw and ended the fight early, much to my mentor's disappointment. On the ninth fight, a man was brought down by a punch and hit his head on the deck floor, knocking him out. He had to be dragged out of the ring by a couple of friends to also be examined by Howell. After he declared he was in no mortal peril, we finally got to the last match.

"Final match, people! Last chance to air out your grievances. Who wants the opportunity to conclude the night in style?"

"I do."

The voice, rough as gravel, sounded directly from across me. I recognized its owner: the pirate with yellow teeth, a scraggly beard over a chin too small and oily black hair, who had granted me the opportunity to sneak aboard by picking a fight with one of the Delilah's sailors. The one who'd said he liked it when women fought back. I felt a chill running down my spine at the sight of him.

A long, ominous hum accompanied his entrance, rather than cheers. For some reason, I had the impression that this sailor didn't fight often, but when he did, he made sure to make a violent spectacle of it.

"Cutthroat Fred," Billy announced. This time, however, there was something off about his tone. He was no longer smiling; instead, he stared disapprovingly at the man whilst he pulled his dark grey shirt over his head, revealing a lattice work of tattoos that covered his whole torso and arms, down to the knuckles. He walked up to Billy and returned his glare with one of his own, silently daring him to say something about him wanting to fight. But if Billy was in discord, he kept it to himself.

"Who will you challenge?" he practically growled, like he already knew the answer.

Cutthroat Fred's cold stare roamed the crowd amidst a tense silence. Everyone was holding their breath in anticipation. He held us all in suspense as he searched... searched... Until his eyes found mine and stopped.

My heart plunged into my bowels.

He grinned like a wolf who had found its way into the sheep pen. "Constance Tilly."

The gundeck exploded into protests.

Several of the crew got up and yelled profanities at him. Others argued it was fair and applauded him for daring to challenge me. Whatever the case, his eyes didn't leave mine. As for me, I was paralyzed with terror. I searched for Jean, hoping he would tell me it's alright, that he couldn't actually challenge me because I had just joined the crew, because I couldn't fight, for literally any other reason, but all he did was stare at me, eyes wide and jaw slack.

No. No, this couldn't be happening. Ohhhhh, shit.

"All of you, shut the fuck up!" Billy bellowed.

The men went quiet and sat back down, though a few continued to grumble their displeasure. Mr. Gates materialized at Billy's side and they conversed in hushed whispers, trying to decide what to do. Once in a while, our gazes would meet. I saw deep concern in his eyes. Still, for a brief moment I was relieved to see him there, thinking he would get me out of this mess. I felt my entire body shake as I tried to somehow get my thoughts through to him telepathically. Please get me out of this, please don't make me fight, please.

At last, Gates stepped into the ring and addressed Cutthroat Fred. "Constance is too new to the crew to fight. She doesn't have enough experience. Choose someone else."

More than half of the crowd pronounced their agreement, but a large enough group countered by boo'ing. Cutthroat Fred took a step forward, teeth bared in anger.

"Rules say anyone can be challenged, no exceptions,” he argued. “And whoever's challenged can't say no. We've had novices with barely a week of admission get challenged and told to fight. She has been here at least three weeks. Or does she get special privileges for being a lady?"

Gates' mouth clamped shut as the men resumed shouting at each other. I was relieved to see so many of them thought I shouldn't fight, like Bjorn, Logan and even Muldoon. But what my would-be opponent said was true: if they didn't permit the fight, it would set up a precedent, and not only would the integrity of the crew become severely chaffed, I would be put into danger as well. It would breed resentment toward me and the animosity would escalate.

My shoulders slumped as the inevitable became clear: I had no choice but to fight.

"Captain!" Billy looked up to where Flint presided over the events. "The final word is yours. What is your judgement?"

Perhaps as a last ditch attempt to spare me, he thought he could appeal to Flint's authority to put a stop to this. I appreciated the gesture, though I knew it to be hopeless. As he looked over the men, he studied the situation in his head with a stony expression, weakly illuminated by the lanterns below. His eyes met mine and held firm. I swallowed a lump in my throat and remembered his warning once again: if I found myself in trouble, not Gates, nor Billy, not even he could help me. This was one of those instances.

"Cutthroat Fred makes a compelling argument. The rules are the rules, and they must be honored. She has to fight."

Now, the men murmured among themselves. Billy and Gates turned to me with a mix of pity and trepidation on their faces, utterly defeated. Jean gave my arm a squeeze to get me out of my daze, but mentally, I was already preparing myself. I glanced over my shoulder to Bjorn; he had his eyes trained on me, brows furrowed over them, yet there wasn't a hint of fear for me in that stare. He gave me a swift nod that said, you can do this. Remember what I taught you.

My body jerked awake as I sucked in a deep breath and balled my hands into fists on my lap. Swiftly, determined to be brave, I pulled out my shoes, stood up to my feet and emptied out my pockets, leaving my trusty kitchen life behind for the first time since I had arrived on the Walrus. My cross, I passed over my head and gave it to Jean.

“Will you keep this safe for me?” I pleaded in a quiet voice. I only allowed myself this small measure of vulnerability because it was such an important object to me, for it's spiritual value, but chiefly for being a memento from my sister. I don't know what I would do if I lost it.

Jean accepted it and held it in his palm like it was the most fragile thing he had ever been entrusted with. He nodded firmly to let me know he understood what that little cross meant to me, then put it away in the breast pocket of his vest.

With shoulders squared and my jaw set tight, I pushed my way forward through the crowd, doing my best to conceal how scared I truly was. In the ring, I pulled back my hair and tied it into a braid, locking eyes with Cutthroat Fred. I tried not to think about how he had received that nickname. Instead, I stood in front of him and willed my expression into a scowl, one I had been trying to perfect during my training.

Cutthroat Fred smirked and licked his ugly teeth like he could taste victory already. I knew I didn't stand a chance in real combat. I didn't have the strength, the reflexes or the experience to win. But there was one thing I did have on my side that I could inflict if I was smart: pain. He might defeat me and leave me a bloody pulp on the ground, but he wouldn't come out of this match without hurting, too.

Billy came up to us, his hands figuratively tied. He glared at Cutthroat Fred one last time, then offered me a more sympathetic grimace. His eyes fell to my shirt, but before I could speak up against ditching it, he snapped back to my opponent. "Can we at least allow her to keep her shirt on?"

Cutthroat Fred bristled. "Doesn't make a lick of difference to me."

"Very well, then. Shake hands."

I grasped his hand and shook. I felt him squeeze his fingers a little too tight, like Muldoon had done, but I didn't let a single sound escape my lips no matter how much it hurt. I gripped his own hand as much as I could, but all that got me was a gruff of a laugh.

"Take three steps," Billy commanded, particularly at Fred, as a warning.

We each took our three steps backwards and got into position. I tried to recall all my lessons and formed a strategy in my mind. It was the only thing I had going for me. Smarts and a little luck. God, my legs felt so numb. My heart pumped so hard and loud I almost didn't hear Billy telling us to go.

"Ready? Fight!"

Again, the deck was filled with the uproar of men shouting encouragement, some of it at me, some of it at Fred. I stood my ground and let him circle me, turning on my heels to keep him within my sights at all times. He mock-attacked with his right fist, probing for weaknesses, and I reacted by hopping back and swatting his hand. My legs might have been numb, but they kept me standing, and as soon as I was aware of that, the numbness washed away, my body going rigid in anticipation. I huffed, then shuffled to the right to gain more space.

Cutthroat Fred didn't make any other attemps for a while. His focus was squarely on my person, just waiting for my concentration to break. I began to wonder if maybe I should try a jab, yet all my instincts screamed against it. That was just what he wanted; to pressure me into attacking without thinking, to rush into it. As much as it rattled my nerves, I had to hold back and wait.

Another mock-attack, but this time I didn't push away. I swatted his hand once more - that's when the real attack came. With the speed of a kicking horse, his punch landed on my mouth and knocked me backwards with a grunt.

The crowd roared to life. I tasted blood on my tongue. Thank goodness, my position was firm enough that I didn't fall. Just as Bjorn had showed me.

Stunned, struggling to clear my vision, I straightened up just in time for the second punch. I have no idea how, but I managed to block it with my arm. Unfortunately, with his superior strength, he was still able to throw me off balance and stumble, a lapse he used to his advantage to kick me on the back of the knee. I hit the ground with a bang, a small scream of surprise escaping my lips, but I didn't stay down for long. The fall hadn't hurt much, so I rolled back on my feet and resumed my position, fists up, feet apart.

Across from me, Cutthroat Fred began to advance, but before he could get too close, I rushed him and threw my first punch, which he dodged and returned with a swift blow to my stomach. I fell once more, knees hitting the floorboards, fighting for breath that wouldn't come. My lungs convulsed, desperate to work, as if my whole front had been glued to my back. Panicked, I hunched over and shut my eyes, feeling them water as my throat constricted. I had to get a hold of myself. It would pass, it would pass. I just had to remain awake and it would pass.

Slowly, my lungs opened again. I gasped for precious air. My stomach throbbed where he had hit me, but now a new emotion erupted in my gut, overpowering the panic, the fear, even the pain: rage.

That, I allowed to possess me. I looked up from my lap to see Fred standing there with his arms wide open to the crowd. He was gloating to his friends. This was all just a joke to him. Making me hurt, making me suffer, humiliating me - it was all a game. The rage got me to stand. The rage made me to forget I was hurting, that I was a woman and this was my first real fight. I spat the blood from my mouth and marched up to Cutthroat fucking Fred.

"Oy!!" I roared from deep within me, momentarily willing the whole world into silence.

Cutthroat Fred turned around just in time to greet my knuckles. Right in the goddamn teeth. It felt like my hand had shattered into a million pieces, but at least I had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble on all fours. Didn't quite fall, but close enough.

Again, our audience erupted into howls as Cutthroat Fred stood up straight, one hand to his mouth. He stared at it, his palm a bright red color, before pinning me with a glare of pure hatred. Suddenly, there was no amusement in his eyes. Now, he was completely serious in his intent to fuck me up.

I prepared for the abuse that would come, with no intention to surrender.

He ran forward with a snarl, too fast for me to react. I raised a knee to at least try to hit his face, but missed. He grabbed me around the waist and pushed me, as well as himself, onto the floor.

In came a barrage of punches, one after the other. My nose burst with agony. I choked in my own blood. I was certain my right eye had gone. Fading in and out of consciousness, I tried to cover my face with my arms, to little avail.

In a desperate attempt to get him to stop, I planted my feet on the planks and shoved my hips up, as hard as I could. Cutthroat Fred lost his balance and was forced to halt his savage assault to steady himself, which gave me the opportunity to wrap my arms around him and wrestle. I couldn't see anything; all I felt was my face pulsing, the blood filling my mouth, getting into my lungs, and Fred squirming around me. By some miracle, I got us to roll around so I was on top. I didn't pause to think. Instead of fists, I clawed my hands and thrashed them around, hoping to hit something, anything at all. I felt flesh under my nails, felt blood on my fingers, heard Cutthroat Fred hiss and yelp from the sharp pain I was inflicting. I was out of control, enveloped in a wild frenzy that urged me to claw, to bite, to fight. I screamed my lungs out, only dimly aware of the hysteria in my voice.

My left hand reached back, hand tensed into an oar shape, and shot it down at high speed, hitting Fred across his cheek with that same smacking noise I'd gotten out of Muldoon weeks ago. The crowd was ravenous around us, punching the air, slamming the floor, bellowing for more.

But my arms were getting tired. I could barely feel my face. Though only one of my eyes was working, it drank up the image of my opponent on the ground under me, soaked with blood, arms and hands covered in gashes from my fingernails, eyes rolling back in his skull. There was no denying I was slowing, however.

With a hell of a kick, Fred pushed me off, breaking my mind out of the frenzy. Adrenaline ran vicious in my veins, yet I was too weak to fight much longer. I couldn't breathe through my nose; every time I tried, more blood rushed into my throat, making me cough and wheeze. I twisted onto my belly and started to crawl away, to at least get some distance, just enough to recover and get back on my feet. I didn't get very far. In a flash, Cutthroat Fred was on me, his body a crushing weight on my back. He slid one arm around my neck and began to squeeze. Panic took full hold of me as I began to thrash in vain, fingers clawing at his arms, but no matter what I did, he wouldn't let go.

"Yield, little missy," he hissed into my ear. "Yield now, and it's all over. But after that? After that, I'm really going to have fun with you."

Some leftover rage blessed me with enough clarity to think, no. No way, asshole. Not in this lifetime.

I gritted my teeth and sank my nails deeper into his arm. Black spots swam in my vision. My body began to wither, exhausted and ready to give in. Still, I fought. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. I couldn't breathe. I was beginning to float away, far away from this horror. Still, I fought. I fought until I couldn't anymore, until my vitality faded away, until my consciousness dove into the unknown, into the dark waters of death.

Then, there were angry voices shouting over each other. Even through the haze I was sinking into, I could still make out some of what they were saying.

"Fred, back off! Let her go!"

"Billy, he's gonna kill her!"

"Let her go!!"

Far way, I heard a faint thump by my ear, and suddenly the pressure on my neck relented. I gagged, wheezed, brought my hands to my throat, feeling like a fish out of water. Many hands touched me, but they were gentle as they lifted me into a sitting position. I reached out blindingly and grasped someone's hand while coughing blood onto the floor, fighting to remain awake. I had no idea what was going on; all I knew was that it was over.

"Constance!" A blurry face appeared in front of me. "Constance, can you hear me?"

I recognized the mop of straw colored hair and the thick French accent. My somewhat good eye resisted, but I forced it to open and to focus so I could see his features. I couldn't find my words, but even if I did, my mouth was too swollen to speak. Even so, I tried my best.

"Jean..." I babbled. The soft J didn't come out right, more like a spitting noise than an actual letter, and more blood sputtered out of my nose. I'd never been in so much pain in my life.

"Dr. Howell is here to take a look at you, alright?" He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and shuffled aside to make way for our surgeon. He was a somewhat young man, though the deep expression lines around his nose and eyes added years to his face. With careful, experienced hands, he held my jaw and tilted my head up to assess the damage. Despite my best efforts to breathe normally, I kept coughing up the blood that poured into my mouth from my nose, spattering a large part of it on poor Dr. Howell.

"I'm sorry," I choked.

"Don't worry about it, Miss. I'm used to it." And he really meant it. Red droplets smudged his forehead and cheeks, rolled down the bridge of his nose, yet he didn't even flinch.

Whilst he examined me, I heard scuffling somewhere nearby, the sound of many feet stomping the floor, of men screaming and skin clashing with skin. As the struggle moved away from my position, so did the ruckus, then all I heard was Mr. Gates' bellow: "Lock him up in the brig! Billy, go with them and bring me back the key when you're done."

With two fingers, Howell touched my nose. The second he applied the slightest pressure, pain shot up into my forehead and I kick my head back with a groan.

"Aye, that's a broken nose," he muttered. Next, he pried my lips open. My heart stopped for a moment, then kicked back into action, my hand involuntarily tightening on Jean's. Oh God, my teeth. What if I had lost teeth? Jesus Christ alive, I didn't want to end up looking like Folsom, no offense to him. I was too vain for that.

Dr. Howell must have divinated my thoughts from the way I began to shake. "Still have all your teeth, however. Your pretty smile is fine," he jested.

I ran my tongue over them even so, just to make sure. Thank the heavens. Only one more detail worried me, in that case: the fact I couldn't see out of my right eye. "What about my eye? Is it still there...?"

If I lost my eye, my vanity could survive it. But if life aboard a pirate ship was difficult, it would become even more so with one eye less. And then I would only have a spare. If by some stroke of rotten luck I lost that one too, I would be blind. What would become of me, then...? I dared not imagine it.

Howell prodded my brow up with one thumb and my lower lid with the other. It hurt, but it was bearable, especially compared to the pain of my broken nose. Light poured into my eye, filling me with relief. "It's intact," the surgeon confirmed. "Just swollen and bloodshot. It won't compromise your vision long term."

I sagged with a long breath. All things considered, I was lucky. I was still alive and somewhat in one piece. And I didn't surrender. It might have killed me, but that was not an option for me. Not after what Fred had whispered in my ear. Lastly, Howell examined my arms, torso and legs for broken bones, and found them all intact. My skin was no doubt peppered with bruises, but those I could live with. Again, he focused on my face. "How is your head?" I closed my eyes for a minute. "Swimming. Hurts a little." "Do you feel faint?" "Not anymore... Just tired." "That's good. Still, let's wait one more hour before letting you go to sleep, yes?"

I nodded slowly. From the corner of my good eye, I saw Gates leaning over his knees to take a better look at me. I must have looked gorgeous, judging by the wince he made. "Jesus... He did a number on you, didn't he?" I made an attempt at a smile and hissed when it pulled at a cut on my lip. "What? Don't I look gorgeous?"

Laughter rolled around the deck. The sound of it helped soothe my frayed nerves. I had survived my first fight and had drawn blood. I'd say I was successful, whether I won or not. I searched the men surrounding me until I found Bjorn. He smirked and nodded his approval, letting me know I had done good. My heart swelled with pride and my smile widened, even if it made the cut on my lip tear further open and gush more blood.

"Alright, let's see what we can do about that nose," Howell said. He glanced up somewhere behind me. "Billy, mind holding her down?" My smile vanished. Holding me down? Why? I swerved my head around from the anxiety that came back full force. My breath became shallow and I held onto Jean's hand with a vice-like grip.

"It's alright, don't worry," he hushed me, while Billy's imposing presence loomed over my much smaller frame. I looked at him over my shoulder, hardly able to make out his features. However, he didn't touch me. Rather, he knelt and gave me a reassuring look, eyebrows arching as if asking for my permission before laying a hand on my mistreated body.

"I'm going to hold you down so you won't jerk while Dr. Howell sets your nose straight," he explained, voice low, soothing, like the purr of a cat. I stared at him with fright, processing his words at a snail's pace thanks to the panic grasping my heart. "You can hurt yourself and make it worse if you move, do you understand? It's gonna be quick. And Jean will be right here at your side the whole time. We all will."

My eyes traveled through the men standing over our ensemble: Thierry, Bjorn, Mr. Gates, Folsom, Muldoon, Logan... Shit, even Flint was there, somewhere at the back. They were all there to offer moral support, so I would know I wouldn't go through this alone. Jean's thumb rubbed the skin on the back of my hand, offering me comfort.

My guts turned to steel. I hadn't backed away from a brawl with a man named Cutthroat Fred and I wasn't going to back away from this. Not with all of them watching. I wouldn't cry like a child after all that. No chance in hell.

I nodded once and gritted my teeth one last time. Jean released my hand while Billy snaked his arms around me, making me cross mine to my chest so he could hold my wrists. He pressed me firmly to his front, enough that I couldn't get away even if I wanted to, but not so much that I couldn't breathe. Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the chance to be so close to a handsome man like him. As it were, all I could think about was how much the next few minutes were going to suck.

Dr. Howell held my jaw in one hand and pinched the bridge of my nose with the other. I shut my eyes tight and held my breath, trying to focus on Billy's grip and the sound of his breath on my ear.

"On three," Howell said. "One, two--"

SNAP. Son of a bitch never made it to three.

"Fuck!!" I shrieked. My body convulsed violently, but Billy's hold was relentless. I kicked my feet, only half aware enough to avoid hitting our surgeon. My arms and torso struggled against the trap that was Billy's body, until the pain began to subside and settle into an uncomfortable pulsing. Taking slow, heavy breaths, I went lax and let myself slouch, eyes brimming with tears that rolled down my cheeks from the crawling sensation inside my nose. Blood dripped copiously from the tip, staining Billy's arms as he released me, though he put his hands on my shoulders to keep me upright, in case I fainted.

It was over. It was finally over.

I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder, then another pat my back, and one more pressing the crown of my head.

"Good girl," I heard Mr. Gates say. "You did great, Constance."

"Aye, hell of a fight." Bjorn's added. "Better than I expected."

"Thank you," I huffed. Something was pressed into my hand and I glanced at it to see what it was. Jean's pipe. I grinned at him and he winked right back. It was already lit up and billowing, but the smell was different. Not sweet, but grassy, almost bitter.

"This is something a little stronger than tobacco, so you only get one puff," he warned me. "It will help with the pain."

I brought it to my lips and pulled the smoke in. Almost instantly, my body relaxed. My brain fogged up to the point my vision blurred. As soon as I removed the pipe from my mouth, Jean took it back. The hurt was no more than a distant memory. I felt as if I was floating on a cloud, hovering over the floor, weightless.

"Wow..." I giggled. Around me the men cackled at my reaction, but I didn't matter. I was feeling so good, nothing could bother me.

"Let's get you on your feet, then." Dr. Howell stood up and Jean followed his example. They both offered me a hand and pulled me up until I was upright, if somewhat wobbly. They held me steady for a moment, to let me find my footing, then let go.

“Take her to the sick bay with the others and clean her up,” Howell ordered. “I'll be there shortly. Keep her awake until I arrive. I mean it. Don't let her fall asleep under any circumstances.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Jean took me by the arm and guided me to the bow, always keeping a hand on me as we walked. Just as well, because I was so out of it from whatever he had given me, every tilt the ship made in the waves made me side step out of control, and I was in enough suffering already. He kept me from knocking on literally everything and everyone we passed on the way, even though once in a while I almost knocked the both of us down. Wouldn't that have been embarrassing?

In the sick bay, there other three sailors who'd gotten hurt fighting occupied the few cots and hammocks available. Jean set me on the last spot, but wouldn't allow me to lie on my back. Instead, he propped me on a few stiff pillows against the back wall. It was very uncomfortable. There was no danger of me falling asleep in that position. Next, he went to fetch a clean cloth and a bowl of water, which he set up by my cot before taking a seat and rolling up his sleeves. Under candle light, he did his best to wash the blood out of my face, neck and hands, slowly unveiling the full extent of my injuries. He tried not to show it, but I could tell by how his eye twitched and the corners of his mouth pulled further and further down that they didn't look good.

“I suppose it's best I avoid any mirrors for a couple of days, hmm?” I quipped, hoping to put a smile back on his face and smooth over my own anxiety over my looks. I was successful in the first, at least.

“Oui. Only for a couple of days. So you don't scare yourself into an early grave.”

“It would be too ironic, wouldn't it? To survive Cutthroat Fred only to die from shattered pride.”

“Indeed.” He dabbed under my nose, soaking up the blood that had dried there. It was still tender, but he was very, very careful, and the cold water was a relief against my boiling skin. “It's all superficial. Give it a week or so and all that will remain is bruising. Maybe a slightly crooked nose.”

“No scars? Damn. And here I was hoping to get a memento to serve as preempt to a great story.”

Jean chuckled as he rinsed the blood off the cloth, staining the water a sickly pink color. “It's too early to tell.” There was a pause when he stood up from the cot to throw away the water and find me a clean shirt to borrow. When he returned, a shadow had settled over his features, which made his brow furrow and hazed his eyes with some deep thought. He handed me the shirt and used a blanket to serve as a dressing screen, keeping his back to me so I could have some privacy to change.

I knew there was something he wanted to say and I was very curious to hear what it was, but I didn't ask. He would tell me when he was ready, or not at all. Instead, I traded my bloodied shirt for a muted light gray blouse, whose sleeves covered up my hands and the hem fell to my knees. It also left my cleavage uncomfortably exposed, so I had to cross my arms over it to keep it closed. It would do for the night, but I would have to find a better replacement in the morning, while my original shirt wasn't washed.

“I'm decent,” I announced. Jean turned, covered my legs with the blanket he used as a screen and sat by my side once more, face still tense in deliberation. I held out my hand, palm up. “My cross, if you please?”

“Oh, that's right.” He fished into his pocket and gently pulled out the thin chain, beaded with jasper stones. He let it rest on my open palm and watched as I pulled it back on and held the silver icon in my fingers.

“My eldest sister gave this to me when I turned sixteen,” I told him with a smile. “She said it was so I would be protected, given that I had a worrying tendency to get into trouble.”

“Your sister sounds like a very wise lady,” he snorted. I shoved his arm in retaliation, but that only got him to laugh louder. Not long after, however, he went back to frowning. After a short while, he met my gaze.

“Why did you let it go on for so long?” He inquired. “You could have tapped out and given up. He would be forced to stop the fight and you wouldn't have gotten this hurt. So why didn't you?”

My fingers tightened their hold on the crucifix as my gaze dropped onto my lap. Yield now, and I let go. But after that? After that, I'm really going to have fun with you. It was like I could still hear that whisper, right in my ear. It sank into my flesh, infecting me with that man's depravity. A violent shudder ran up and down my body, reminiscent of my first night on the Walrus - the abject fear of the unexpected attack that coiled in my center, ready to bite down on my heart once more. Like it had never left, only lied dormant.

After I got a hold of it, I forced my undamaged eye to meet Jean's and tried to grin with a confidence I didn't feel. “And give him the satisfaction of beating me into submission? Of letting him humiliate me? That's why he challenged me in the first place. Had I tapped out, it would have been worse in the long run, trust me. This way, he knows I can put up a fight and can give as good as I can take. I may never win, but neither will he be laughing by the end of it. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”

“So it was all for show?” Anger colored his cheeks red, and his teeth ground so hard the muscles of his jaw started twitching. “You risked getting yourself killed or permanently injured to make a point? Are you actually mad?”

“I thought we had already established that I am,” I snapped back, unable to keep my own irritation from seeping into my tone. “Or else I wouldn't be here in the first place. What would you have done, if it was you?”

“I would have tapped out as soon as I realized that all I was going to gain from that fight was a lot of pain. I would have been humiliated, but at least my face wouldn't be swollen like a sponge.”

“Right. It's so easy to say that when you're a man, isn't it?”

Jean grunted and rolled his eyes. “This has nothing to do with the fact you're a woman.”

“It has everything to do with the fact I'm a woman,” I countered. However, before I let my emotions have the run of the conversation and made me say something I would later regret, I took a deep breath and calmed myself. I needed him to understand, and he would refuse if he felt he was being attacked.

“Fred didn't target me for being new. He targeted me for being a woman. The only woman in the crew. Remember what he said when Gates tried to impede me from fighting? He said, “does she get special privileges for being a lady?” That's why I had to fight. When I first came aboard, captain Flint told me there would be situations where I would have to defend myself without help, because if he or Gates intervened for my benefit, it would be seen as preferential treatment and it would breed resentment, maybe even mutiny. The day I snapped at Folsom was one of those situations. This fight was another. And there will be others in the future, mark my words. And they will always arise because I'm a woman and my presence threatens them.”

I made a pause to let my words sink in before continuing. “In their minds, a ship is no place for my gender. That's what they have been taught all their lives, and my being here as an equal member of this crew completely throws those beliefs upside down. It scares them. To them, it's the same as being told God doesn't exist. It puts everything they thought they knew into question. I understand that fear, but I cannot allow it to be turned on me. I can't afford it. If I do, they will eat me alive.”

Again I paused, an hesitation during which I bit my lip and considered not revealing this next part, but how else would I make him understand how dangerous my situation was? So, filling myself with courage, I spoke up. “Do you know what Fred told me as he choked the life out of me? He incited me to tap out so he would let go, but made it explicitly clear he... planned to have his way with me, later. What was I supposed to do, then? Shadow Gates or Billy for the rest of my life so he wouldn't come close? Avoid going into storage or the gunroom or anywhere else where no one would be able to hear my screams? I didn't tap out because as much as I was hurting at that moment, as scared as I was to die or become disabled, it would be a better outcome than to live constantly looking over my shoulder. I need them to know I can fuck them up just as good because then, it will become my armor. And... I needed to know I had it in me, as well. That I was strong enough to hold my own.”

Jean listened without interruption, his expression going from frustrated, to incredulous, to enraged, and, finally, to something close to understanding. He nodded lightly as he turned my words over, no longer looking at me but rather at the floor, hands wringing together.

“As a male novice,” I added. “You were likely scared of being beaten down or made into a joke by the veterans, and those fears are valid. I had them as well - plus the terror of being abused in ways only a woman knows to fear. That threat will haunt me every day I spend in this world. It will bear weight into every decision I make. Please, don't judge me too harshly without at least taking that into consideration.”

“I had no idea,” he admitted in this somber tone. I smiled despite the heavy tone of our conversation and reached out to touch his arm.

“I know you didn't. You are a good man, as well as a smart one. You know the world isn't kind on women, but because you yourself could never conceive to apply that kind of violence on someone else, you never considered that was a genuine preoccupation of mine. It's alright.”

When he finally looked back at me, there was something different about him. A new weight to his shoulders. I realized it was maturity. He looked older, wiser even, for having listened to me, for making the effort to try to see my side of things. God bless him, he really was a good friend. I'd never had a truer one in my life.

He sat up straight and took my hand in both of his. “I will try my best to always take your perspective into consideration, going forward,” he swore. Then, a small, sad smile pulled at his mouth. “And I hope you know I would never let them hurt you like that if I could avoid it.”

“You won't always be around to stop them,” I pointed out. “Just as Gates won't always be there. You're not my body-guard, Jean. Nor would I insult the both of us by asking you to be. But I do appreciate the knowledge that at least one member of this crew has my back.”

“Not just one,” he retorted, but left it at that. Oh, I knew there were others who I might count on to help me stay safe if needed, but the way he put it, it sounded like there were many more than those I was thinking of.

Which reminded me...

“Who got Fred to let me go?” I asked. All I remembered was hearing someone shout at him to release me, but my vision was blacking out by then. I hadn't seen the face of my savior.

Jean blushed and shrunk into himself, scratching nervously at his hair.

My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “It was you?”

“Well, don't sound so surprised!” He laughed. When I continued to stare at him, mouth agape, his grin fell to give way to a frown. “Billy was already rushing to separate you, but I was closer. I couldn't stand the sight of his arm around your neck, the way you thrashed helplessly against him. The rotten smile on his fucking face. Before I knew it, my boot was in his mouth.”

A smile twitched at my cheeks and grew, grew, grew, until the wound on my bottom lip split open yet again with a sharp prick. I sucked on the blood oozing from it and leaned forward so I could press them to his face, leaving a red smudge behind. There was nothing romantic about the gesture, at least not on my part, but he had stood up to defend me and that demanded a reward. The way Jean snorted and squirmed away made me think of a brother trying not to show how glad he was to be praised by his sister after a good deed. There was no shame from either of us in that little display of affection. I think we were well past that, either way.

“That was very sweet and heroic of you. Thank you, Jean duBois.”

He shrugged it off with a meek smile. “It's what friends are for, right?”

I nodded and swore to myself in that moment that, should the need arise, I too would defend him with my life. Whatever the situation was, regardless of the consequences. He deserved no less from me.

I didn't get much sleep that night. Every other hour, either Jean or Howell would wake me up to give me water, ask me some banal questions and overall to make sure I hadn't suffered any brain injuries. Then they would let me go back under to repeat it all over again, far too soon. When the sun rose at the final time I was roused, I decided to just stay up, as I couldn't take getting interrupted from my much needed rest anymore. Plus, I was hurting too much, anyway. Jean let me have another puff of his special smoke, which helped, then brought me breakfast. While we ate, I asked for news. Cutthroat Fred had been locked up in the brig and there was an intense argument going on between his friends, Flint and Gates, about what punishment to apply to this sort of offense. Everyone knew how Fred despised having me aboard, so there was no doubt that what had happened the previous night had been a cruel attempt to subjugate me, perhaps even incapacitate me enough that I would be useless to the crew. There was nothing friendly about our spar; he had meant me real harm and they all saw I had fought for my life, figuratively but also quite literally. He should have let me go the minute it was clear I was passing out and he didn't, so he broke the rules. Some among the crew were accusing him of attempted murder.

However, Fred's supporters argued that the fight had been fair and since I was still alive, there was no foul, therefore punishment for Fred would be unfair. Jean assured me they were a minority, no more than half a dozen of them, but one among them, Mr. Singleton, was particularly outspoken and called for a council to decide Fred's fate. I was enraged to think even a single member of the crew believed that rat of a man had the right to do what he did. It made me want to pick up something heavy and bash him in the head with it.

I had seen my reflection in a mirror - half of my face was an angry purple, blue and black mask, and my right eye was swollen shut. My nose had been reset, but I noted it was slightly crooked. The underside of my good eye was also bruised red and tender. My lip was split open and the faintest movement caused a sharp jolt of pain that made it bleed all over again. The only man who was worse off than me was the one with the broken rib and had to stay in bed for a week. None of the others who had fought looked half as bad as I did. Besides, he had threatened me with further violence if I yielded, effectively trapping me between possible death during that match or further suffering in the future. He had to pay for that. He had to.

So later that morning, when the crew assembled on deck for the council, I insisted on being there. I let Jean help me out of bed, put on my bloodied trousers and we made our way up. When we were halfway up the stairs, I let go of Jean's arm to climb the rest of the way on my own. When I emerged, I wanted to show that I might be beaten up, but remained strong and unbroken. I held my head high, straightened my back and stepped onto the upper deck. Again, the hatches had been removed to make room so everyone could have a clear view of what was going on. The bright sunlight shone down into the gundeck, which looked even more like an amphitheater than before. The whole crew was there. Those closest to me turned when they heard my shoes on the floorboards. Some of them winced at the sight of me, others remained impassive. They parted to let me through and I calmly marched forward, looking straight ahead, with Jean covering my rear. As I passed, I felt a few hands tapping my arm and murmuring words of support. I let their admiration warm my heart and steel my nerves. Whatever happened next, I would endure it with dignity.

On the other side of the crowd, I saw Flint, Gates, De Groot and Billy at the exact midpoint of the ship. They looked up as I arrived, like they were waiting for me. Cutthroat Fred was there too, hands clapped in irons and face covered in red, ugly gashes from my fingernails. With satisfaction, I saw he also had a bruise of his the corner of his mouth from Jean's kick. I smirked at him and he snarled in response. Serves you right, asswipe.

I went to stand with Bjorn at the front row and smiled when I felt his giant hand on my shoulder. Jean remained at my side, glaring at Fred. "Right, then." Mr. Gates stepped forth to address the crew. "Mr. Singleton called for this council to decide what should be done about Cutthroat Fred after the... exciting events from last night. As we were all there to witness and gossip tends to spread fast on this ship, I trust no one needs a reminder?" No one spoke up.

A tall, bald man covered in gnarly scars broke off from the crowd to join him in the circle. I remembered him, too. The bastard mocking my curtsy, that first day. I'd never spoken to him. He was one of those men who gave me the creeps whenever I happened to catch him looking at me.

Singleton took in the crew with a wide look and, with a deep, raspy voice, said: "The fights we hold on this ship are meant mainly for entertainment, as we know, but also to settle scores and clear up the air among angry mates. What we saw last night was no different from any other instance. There was no bad blood between Fred and Constance Tilly. In fact, they hardly ever interacted until yesterday. He challenged her into a fight as nothing more than a joke, simply hazing a new recruit like so many of us have previously done. Was he a little too rough with her? Perhaps, I will concede that--" "He beat her into a pulp when she was already on the ground!" Someone shouted down from the weather deck. "Look at her face!"

"Aye, and he almost choked her to death!" I heard Folsom roar across from me, behind Singleton. He had taken a step forward and shook an angry fist at him. "He had her fucking pinned down and just kept going even after she was clearly done! He wanted her dead!" A choir of protests agreed with him. They stomped their feet, threw insults at Singleton and Fred, accused them of falsehood, disloyalty and even betrayal. It was endearing, seeing them all in an uproar over me when weeks ago I had been their number one target for jokes, pranks and all kinds of hazing. I certainly hadn't expected them to defend me like this.

Singleton searched the sea of faces until he found mine, and shot me a nasty glare, with narrowed eyes and a sneer that exposed his teeth in a growl, made all the more sinister by the scars that twisted his features. I tilted down my chin and stared right back from under tensed eyebrows, feeling the hairs at the back of my neck stand on alert. Want a piece of me too, motherfucker? I thought. Come and get it, if you dare.

"Settle down, settle down!" Gates interrupted, hands thrown out in a placating gesture. Slowly, the men went quiet, until there was silence once more. Then, he turned to Singleton. "Go on." He tore his eyes away from mine and began to walk around the deck with slow steps. "I would like to ask you all something. Are your knickers all in a twist truly because of Fred going overboard? Or are you all so revolted because it was done on a female crew member?" Just as those words came out of his mouth, he stopped right in front of me and loomed over me. "If it had been Jean duBois, or Will Robbins, or Mr. Dufresne, would you be so against it? We have all seen some grueling matches before. Hell, Duffy is in the sick bay right now with a broken rib. Why does she get to have special treatment?"

I wanted to yell at him that I had never wanted special treatment. Didn't ask for it and didn't need it. I wanted to scream that even if I did, Fred had no right to brutalize me the way he had. We stared at each other in silence for nearly a minute, and I fought between the urge to defend myself and my instinct telling me to be quiet. Why? Why should I be quiet? To avoid further animosity? To spare myself from embarrassment, should their minds be changed after being swayed by Singleton's words? Because he wasn't worth it? Just as I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, he turned and continued walking. "This life is hard and violent, always has been for all of us. It's not for the faint of heart or the weak minded. And if this girl cannot stand and take a beating in a friendly match, then what the fuck is she doing here? What's it going to be like during a plunder? Or when we have to defend ourselves from the navy? Will she fight like one of us, or cower and whimper at the first slap? We're all equal here, supposedly. Which means she has to be a capable fighter and endure the same violence the rest of us are subjected to, or get out. In which case, Fred did nothing wrong and he should be freed. That's all I have to say."

With that, he returned to his original spot and merged with the crowd. There were no further protests. In fact, there was not a peep from anyone - because as much as I despised both Cutthroat Fred and Singleton, and as pissed as the others might be at the former's behavior or at the latter for defending him, there was truth to that speech and that put the crew in a very uncomfortable position. I looked around with dread weighting my chest and saw doubt spreading across the very same men who were clamoring against him minutes ago. Were they so easily convinced? Did they now believe Singleton had a point and Fred should go free to torment me some more?

My eyes wandered to the chained man and my guts froze when I realized he was looking right at me, his yellowed teeth bared in a wide grin. If he was freed and cleared of the accusations against him, what was going to happen next? Mr. Gates spoke up once more. "Anyone else have anything to add? Anyone at all?" "I do."

I turned around to stare at Bjorn as he moved past me. He took the center of the ring, gave Cutthroat Fred a glare, then made his address. "What Mr. Singleton said is true. We are all equal here. We share in everything on this ship: food, drink, profit, violence. None of us get special treatment, no exceptions. You won't hear me say we should cut Constance some slack for being a woman, or new, or any other reason. I think last night she made it clear she can, in fact, take a beating, and not only that, she can put up a hell of a fight and she won't hesitate to stand up for herself." A few stomps of agreement.

"However. When was the last time anyone got out of a friendly match looking like that?" He pointed at me. "Does that look like someone who got out of a friendly match?" "More like she got in a brawl with a fucking bear," someone said, and others agreed.

"Exactly," Bjorn nodded. "Now, yes, Duffy is in sick bay with a broken rib and bedridden for a week. But he insulted Trelawney's wife, so he kind of had it coming anyway." He paused to let the men have a quick laugh. "To anyone's knowledge, Constance did nothing to incur Fred's wrath. Like Mr. Singleton himself said, they barely interacted. So why the fuck did he feel the need to leave her in that sorry state? I'll tell you why. Those of us who have known him longer know that Cutthroat Fred is a cruel, petty, woman-hating mongrel who takes pleasure in causing pain, no matter the reasons. He enjoys making recruits go through hell, the younger the better. He was banned indefinitely from Noonan's brothel because he likes to torture his girls. And of course, we all know about how he was expelled from his last crew because he murdered the cook over a badly boiled egg.” He spoke to Fred directly, then. “That's how you got the nickname, didn't you? You sliced that man's gullet open with the bread knife." We all stared at Fred, whose nostrils flared up in rage, hands balled into tight fists. He looked about ready to wrap his fingers around Bjorn's' neck.

Just like that, all the doubt descending over the crew was dispelled by resentment and distrust. I had no idea if what Bjorn had said was true, but from their reaction, I was inclined to believe so. It washed me with a wave of equal parts terror and pride: I had fought with a man as dangerous and evil as that, and survived. I had survived a sadistic murderer. Jesus fucking Christ, how close had I been to actually dying?

"So I say, yes. Yes, Cutthroat Fred deserves judgement and he most definitely deserves punishment. He challenged Constance Tilly to a friendly match and went deliberately overboard in an attempt to end her life. He was unnecessarily cruel toward her for no reason, other than because he couldn't stand the thought of having a woman on the crew. The only reason she still draws breath is because she is a tough fighter and Jean intervened in time. She did not deserve to have her face battered like dough. She works as hard as any one of us, she is dedicated to her tasks, and lets not forget she wanted this bad enough to sneak aboard the ship in a pink frilly dress, so."

Another round of laughs, which I joined. Bjorn raised his hands in a shrug. "You know what I think. Now it's your turn. Mr. Gates? I'm done for today." "Thank you, Bjorn." Gates took back the center stage while my friend came toward me to stand at my left side. I gave him a big smile and mouthed a 'thank you'. In response, he winked with a grin of his own and gave my shoulder a gentle shove.

"Anyone else? No? Very well. All those in favor of condemning Cutthroat Fred for attempted murder of a crew member?"

I raised my hand. So did Jean and Bjorn. So did many in the crowd, almost all of them. Then Billy raised his arm, and De Groot, and Gates. At last, even Flint voted in favor. At his side, Cutthroat Fred nearly foamed at the mouth, panting like a rabid dog. "All those in favor of clearing him of all charges?" As Jean had told me, at least half a dozen hands went up, including Singleton's, yet they looked pitiful compared to the sea of arms calling for condemnation. They never stood a chance. My heart felt light as a feather and I was finally able to breathe easy. I would never have to deal with Cutthroat Fred ever again. I was safe. For now. "The ayes have it," Mr. Gates declared. He turned to the convict. "Cutthroat Fred, you are hereby found guilty of trying to kill one of your own brothers – a sister in this case - and on behalf of the crew and captain Flint, I pass judgement: to be left in a deserted island with no food, no water, only a pistol and a single bullet. You have disgraced us all and it seems fitting that you should die alone and abandoned, without a single friend in the world to aid you."

There were no cheers to accompany the sentence. Instead, the men began their stomping again, while Billy, De Groot, Bjorn and one other big sailor I didn't know grabbed Fred by the arms and took him away. Before they disappeared below decks, Fred locked eyes with me and something in him snapped: he struggled against his guards and fought to free himself, cuffed hands reaching out for me as he roared a blind rage, teeth bared and a mad glint in his eyes. "I'll kill you, you cunt!!" He shrieked while he was dragged down with Billy's arm around his neck. "You better pray I die, you hear me?! You better pray I die on that island because if I live, I'll fucking kill you!"

My breath came out in shallow puffs. Jean had moved to stand in front of me with his pistol drawn out and as I came out of the initial shock, I noticed the wall of men that had formed around me. They had all assembled to shield me the moment Fred had moved to attack, and they didn't stand down until we couldn't hear his howls anymore. Even so... I was terrified. Knowing there was someone out in the world who had it in for you was scary. The scariest thing I had ever had to face. And what was worse... Fred wasn't the only one. I peeked from between the many heads surrounding me to look at Mr. Singleton and the others who had voted to free Fred. They were staring right back at me and they didn't seem pleased. I would have to watch my back, from now on. The impression was that my problems were only beginning. *** Days later, we arrived at a conglomerate of islands that were little more than sandbars with scruffy vegetation on top. Mr. De Groot had told me they were far enough away from the usual trading routes that it would be near impossible for Fred to escape or be rescued. He had one of two choices: either let dehydration and starvation take him, or end his own misery. From the Walrus, I watched as Flint, Gates and Billy boarded a launch with a tied up and gagged Cutthroat Fred in tow. They rowed him toward a patch of land made out of rock and sand, denying him even the luxury of shade, and through a spyglass, I saw them drag him onto the beach and cut his ropes at gunpoint. Flint then presented him with his one loaded pistol. Fred spat at his feet, so he threw the pistol onto the sand and turned his back on him to return to the launch.

Gates and Billy followed, always keeping their own barrels trained on Fred. They too boarded the launch and started to row away. Perhaps finally realizing how dire his situation was, Fred made a run to the water and began to swim to the launch. He managed to hook one hand on the ledge before Flint promptly smashed his fingers with the handle of his pistol. I could hear Fred's cry all the way from the ship. Around me, the crew cackled with amusement and cheered as Fred swam back to the beach, holding his broken hand to his chest. I didn't. Despite everything... I couldn't help to feel some pity for him. Not enough to make me want to plead mercy, but still.

The launch was almost upon us when I felt a familiar sinister presence creep behind me. Cautiously, I lowered the spyglass and glanced over my shoulder at Singleton. "The fuck do you want?" I asked. My words might have been snappy and my tone firm, but on the inside I felt as powerless and scared as a rabbit did when the eagle descended upon her. We were surrounded by our crew mates and it was broad day light, yet none of that comforted me or made my heart stop pounding painfully in my rib cage.

"You might have gotten away this time," he growled low enough so only I could hear. "But your luck will run out, eventually. You don't belong here and I will make sure everyone knows it. You will be begging to leave by the time I'm through with you." In a flash, I spun around, pulled out my knife and held the tip to his stomach, deep enough to make him wince, though he didn't move. I stared into his eyes and got in his face, so close our noses almost touched.

"Go ahead," I spat back. "Make your move. Do your worst. I'll be waiting. But know this: when you finally have the balls to face me, I won't hesitate. That is a promise." Singleton smirked, then snatched my wrist, twisted it in a sharp angle that made me cry out and drop the knife.

"Pitiful creature," he laughed. "Pretending to be a pirate, thinking you can stand up to me. I could bash your skull into the railing right now and I wouldn't even break a sweat--"

His breath hitched in his throat when I shoved my entire fist into his dick. Immediately, he let go of my arm and bent over, face bright red, both hands on his crotch. I could have left it at that, but I wanted to make a statement. I reared up my leg, kicked him on the shoulder and watched as he dropped on his back like a sack of potatoes. Lastly, I picked my knife from the floor and pressed a knee to his neck.

"I told you, I won't hesitate. And just so we're clear on exactly what will happen if you ever come near me again, Mr. Singleton..." I removed my knee and brought my knife to his throat, pressing the blade to his skin hard enough to draw blood. "This is to remind you I am a pirate and you would do well to never forget it. Don't ever speak to me again. I don't want to see your face anymore than I'm already forced to. Are we clear?"

His glare was almost sharp enough to kill. He wanted me gone. He might want me dead, even. Still, when you had a blade to your jugular, no argument could save your life. He nodded slowly. I removed my knife from his neck and stood up, wiping the blood on my pant leg. He rushed to his feet as well, breathing heavily, then noted the audience our little spat had garnered. No one intervened, no one said anything. They just stared at him as if daring him to attack me. Singleton compressed his jaw tight, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched. The silent threat was clear: touch a single hair on her head, and you're done for.

Having no choice but to accept defeat, he grunted in frustration and left. As for the rest of the crew, they didn't address me or even acknowledge me, either; one by one, they returned to their posts and pretended nothing happened while the captain, quartermaster and boatswain were out.

With a frail sigh, I tucked my trusty kitchen knife into my pocket and grabbed onto the railing to stop my hands from shaking. My teeth chattered as my skin broke into a cold sweat. Hopefully, my show of force and the crew's backup would be enough to deter Singleton and anyone with half a mind to harm me from doing anything. I watched Flint and the others climb aboard, then give the order to get us underway, toward Nassau. It was time to go home.

I took one long breath through the nose, filling my belly and chest with air, then let it out through my mouth. Little by little, my nerves calmed and the anxiety exited my body, returning feeling to my numb limbs. I should join the others and get to work. "Hey." I looked to my right. Mr. Gates was at my side and peered into my eyes with concern. "Heard there was an altercation with Singleton. Everything alright?" I nodded with closed eyes and hung my head. "We reached an understanding. All's well." "Did he hurt you?" I snorted. "You should ask him that." Gates' eyebrows shot up as he stood straight. "All right, then. In that case, why are you standing about here? Those sails won't man themselves, missy."

"Yes, Mr. Gates." I pushed away of the rail to run toward the fifes and join my mates. As we tugged on the rigging and tied it off, I got a glimpse of the islet where Cutthroat Fred would likely meet his maker and realized whatever pity I had felt for him was gone. My struggle with Singleton had served as a reminder that for as long as men like that existed, my safety was never a sure thing. They didn't deserve my pity. Nor my mercy, for that matter. After all, they had none reserved for me.

I wasn't entirely used to violence quite yet. It was still a very recent notion for me, and it made me uncomfortable, but at least I wasn't scared of it anymore. My face would heal and it was clear now I was more than capable of defending myself. And as I remembered the wounds I had inflicted on Fred, and Singleton's face when I got him on the ground, under my blade... A half smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. Maybe some justified, well directed violence wasn't so bad. I could learn to like it.

[trollprincess]

Okay, so some of you might not know this because I did this before I returned to Tumblr from the bird site, BUT. Last year I dictated almost two entire books to my phone.

Let me explain. One of my jobs is a twelve-hour weekend night shift. Six PM to six AM Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, so thirty-six hours with the other four hours paid just as long as we do the entire weekend. I first took it so I could have the rest of the week off, and then proceeded to go back to work at dog camp those days. For the most part, over the last five years, I have only have Mondays completely off solely because that’s when my therapy sessions are.

Anyway, my weekend job is full-time, dog camp is part-time. The weekend job is factory work, making helmets, a lot of which are for the military. (Which, as a pacifist, I manage to stomach because hey, it’s just protective gear.) The thing is, like a lot of manufacturing work, it’s boring and repetitive. Think about how bored you are after five or so hours of an eight-hour shift. Now imagine it’s one o’clock in the morning, you still have five hours to work, and you would literally rather shove nails in your eyes than work. It sucks.

Meanwhile, my free time is spent trying to work at my third job (making @disasterarea-podcast) and attempting to work on getting published. I had all these grand ideas about getting traditionally published back in my twenties, and now I’m 46 and I’m struggling just to come up with any ideas at all a lot of the time. Three jobs doesn’t help. Depression and anxiety don’t help. So for a while there, I had terrible writer’s block when it came to my novels.

So last year, I decided to try something. I have these massive baby-pink noise-canceling Bluetooth gaming headphones with a mic which I wear to work. Why not try dictating a first draft to my phone? Obviously it wouldn’t be exact, since voice-to-text dictation isn’t perfect under the best of situations, and certainly not with loud factory noises around you. But I tried it on dictating notes for my podcast a few times and it worked pretty well, all things considered. And a bad first draft is still a first draft.

So I figured, fuck it, and one night I just started dictating a story off the top of my head. No preparation, no outlining, no worldbuilding - just pantsing HARD with nothing but an annoyance following a Teen Wolf rewatch and a resolution not to edit until after I churned out a first draft.

It took fifty-one days.

Eighty thousand words or so later, I had a dreadful first draft which needed an absolute fuckton of editing and continuity correction and character work. BUT I had a finished first draft of a novel. Which is something I hadn’t had in a good long while.

So I tried it again for NaNoWriMo. I got up to 65k words. So I won NaNoWriMo, but I put the story aside because I hit a bit of a wall. Still! That’s almost two full fiction manuscripts in one year, AND the nonfiction memoir I wrote about my road trip to disaster sites during the pandemic. 2022 was a good writing year.

So I did what I do with first drafts and put them aside for a while. I knew they were awful. I knew they needed a ton of work. And maybe that was a tad intimidating, which is why I only JUST picked up the NaNoWriMo first draft to work on it and finish it off. It’s queer, it’s got time travel, it’s got disasters. It is right up my fucking alley. I may be just a tiny bit obsessed with that story.

Unsurprisingly, going through it now is taking more than a little while. I sit down, I spend an hour working on it, I maaaaaaybe get two paragraphs polished. If that.

But the fact that I’m working on ANY fiction is kind of remarkable. And fingers crossed, maybe I can get this damn thing, and the other manuscript, AND my road trip book, finished and polished over the next year so I can submit the fuck out of them.

NOW. Someone send me a twenty-pound bag of rooibos vanilla chai and ten pounds of red licorice laces. Mama’s gonna need it. *cracks knuckles*

[scarletsaphire]

tell me about kit!

*cracks knuckles* You have fallen into my trap. Prepare to hear about the singular best character that has ever been created.

Kit Baxter, also known as the Flying Squirrel, is the sidekick to Canada's greatest superhero, the marvelous masked man known only as the Red Panda from the radio show Adventures of the Red Panda. She is also his chauffeur for his secret identity (which remains secret even to the listeners for most of the show.) One other important bit of context is that the show is set during the great depression in Toronto, Canada, so life kinda sucks ass a little bit.

Kit is a first generation Russian immigrant, her father ran a boxing ring and taught her to drive. She's quick witted and quick on her feet, can throw a mean right hook, and drives better than most other people in the city, which earned her a spot as a taxi driver. Panda ended up in her car in his Secret Identity, asked her to drive (recklessly) to a crime scene he wanted to stop, and she, obviously, refused. She wasn't going to be running around like an idiot for some rich asshole. Panda than waved some money in her face to try and get her to listen, and what did she do? She said no, because she isn't some trained dog that'll bark for some rich asshole the moment he gives her a bone. She'd rather go hungry tonight than do that kind of shit for him, and if he's gonna act like he doesn't even know what manners are, he can get the hell out of her cab. (Once he says sorry and asks nicely, than she puts the petal to the metal.)

She's also like. So smart and cool and good with people, she's a jokester and flirtatious (mostly with Panda because she likes flustering him, its really funny) but she's allowed to be all of those things without ever feeling like "Oh she's just there to be the attractive side kick." Kit is very much her own person, its just that she happens to like being a thorn in Panda's side and sometimes that means batting her eyelids (and climbing up walls in a skintight cat suit).

Kit became the Flying Squirrel after, and I quote "I figured out your secret identity and then blackmailed you into letting me play." She cares so, so deeply about the people of her city, especially the people on the streets she comes from because she did not grow up in a nice area of town, and she is constantly trying to fight for the most vulnerable parts of town, despite many of them looking down on her as a woman, especially a woman in her field. She never takes anyone's shit, either towards herself or anyone else, and she is always ready to throw hands with someone she thinks deserves it.

(I'm going to be getting into spoiler stuff underneath the cut. I am asking so very nicely for you to listen to the Adventures of the Red Panda. They're on spotify here ad free, and you can also find them on their website decoderringtheatre.com along with all of their other shows and their audiobooks. It truly is one of the most impressive, fun, and thrilling stories I have ever read, watched, or heard, and it is Criminally Underrated. If you think this is even like. A Tiny Bit Interesting, throw on the first episode, its only 20 minutes, see if you like it. If you don't mind spoilers, or ended up not liking it, keep going.)

Something that I really, really like about Kit is how she's handled later on in the story, once we get into WWII. Her and Panda get married, and she ends up pregnant right as he ends up MIA (presumed dead by most of the world) and she is left to try and defend all of Toronto largely by herself with a child on the way and Archangel, a nazi spy whose manipulating p much everything, bringing havoc upon her city.

It would be super easy to let her fade into the background during all of this. It would be so, so easy to write her off as so many different things do as a mother and a wife and leave her at that. But they don't. She steps up as the mastermind behind everything, pulling the strings of their connections they've forged over the years, continues to fight in her suit until she physically can't anymore, working as hard as she can in and out of costume to make sure that her city, because with Panda gone (not dead. She never believes he's dead for a second and has and will fight anyone who says otherwise.) It is her city and her people and she will not let it fall to ruin. She will not let anyone else, Nazi or American or Canadian or anyone take her city from her.

Katya Baxter is a wonderful character who is just so, so funny and amazing and if anybody knew what the Adventures of the Red Panda were she would be an absolute HIT of a character on here. I love her so, so much.

[hunkydorkling]

here for the ask game 😈

🎈and 💞

and also 💌 as a treat

MY DEAR EM, i am cracking my knuckles to prepare my answers!

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

tricky! I do think my current writing style is quite the slew of things stolen from the authors I grew up reading, both fic and original work. the most noticeable change I'm able to identify is when I started expanding my reading list that included the likes of Raymond Carver, Melissa Broder, Charles Bukowski, and Alison Bechdel. (I attribute a lot of that broadening to the people I've met in the last 4 years. 🥹)

I've only felt more confident experimenting in style where a story may need it, and how one certain way it can be best delivered. Chuck Palahniuk and Daniel Clowes are two key authors I admired so much, so if it ever comes around I write something irreverent or cheeky one day, the signs are there!

💞what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language

if we're fic-specific, I tend to go in-depth with how Character A and Character B (and sometimes with Character C) defy the odds of the story's main conflict. secondary to that would be the dialogue -- it's less describing on my part as the storyteller when the brunt of the work happens in the verbal back and forths, so I do my best to keep it as close to how I assume the characters would play it out were it to be enacted in a film or on the stage. i can only do so much!

when it comes to my own fictional pieces though, uh... characters, worldbuilding, and intention are among the things I need to tie down... but this only applies as of recent; I've done a lot of cardinal writing sins by not doing those and basing it off of mere vibes in my earlier days of writing. 🥴 I've only ever written as a hobby until this year when suddenly more people were starting to read my work lol hold me accountable whydoncha

I'll answer 💌 in the next Q!

ask away here!

[the-stars-in-between]

Chapter 1 : The Tiger Left First

It might have seemed impossible for the man who had arrogantly defied Death so many times. But it couldn't have been otherwise. The loyal Zoro could never have let any of his nakama die before him.

As promised, here is the first real chapter of "Until Death Do Us Part". This story makes me feel so bad, I hate killing my favorite characters but it's also super interesting to write. I also realized that in many of my Straw Hats-centric stories that I'm writing, I always start with Zoro's chapter. And this time is no exception. There's just something comforting about starting with Zoro. Words Count: 1,519 Trigger Warnings: - Character Death - Blood and Injuries Enjoy reading?

Zoro was the first to die.

“I intend to become the Greatest Swordsman in the World! No matter how I achieve this, whether it's good or bad, my name will resound throughout the world. If you stand in my way, you will pay dearly.”

“The Greatest Swordsman, that sounds pretty damn good! It takes at least that to be part of the Pirate King's crew.”

.

.

.

They were so close to Laugh Tale and yet so far away. With all four Road Poneglyphs in their possession, Robin had had no trouble finding the location of the Forgotten Island. Zoro had never doubted for a second that she was capable of it. Nami had mapped out a course; Franky had filled their Cola reserves; Usopp had settled into the crow's nest to keep watch.

It was only his newly awakened Observation Haki that saved Usopp from the sniper bullet that shattered the window behind him. Usopp let out a scream and quickly moved away from the impact of the bullet. Zoro put his hand on Wado's handle as Jinbei maneuvered the Sunny to prepare to meet the coming battle head on.

In Jaya, the crew had been taken by surprise but this time they were ready to face Blackbeard's crew. 

(Never again would Zoro let his crew down.)

Luffy stood on the figurehead, the black cloak draped over his shoulders billowing in the wind, his straw hat casting a shadow over his eyes. The crew gathered behind him, watching the darkness engulf the sea around them. The sky slowly darkened, turning crimson in the middle of the afternoon.

Zoro drew his sword, the cursed metal catching the last rays of the dying sun. Lightning streaked the skies as Nami rose up on Zeus’s back, her clima-tact clutched in his hand. Usopp’s fingers on Kabuto’s handle were unwavering, vines curling at his feet like snakes.

Cigarette smoke wrapped around the cook, flames dancing at his feet. Chopper’s horns elongated, his bones breaking and reforming as he changed form. Robin crossed her arms in front of her, the devil's soul shining in her eyes.

Franky pushed his sunglasses up his nose, steel shifting and settling beneath his skin. Ice formed on the ground around Brook as he hummed softly under his breath. Jinbe's grip on the rudder tightened, the waves crashing hard against the hull of the ship at his will.

Luffy's eyes didn't leave the horizon as he cracked his knuckles, the sun forming a halo around him.

The battle began.

The crew scattered, the fight spreading across both ships and an abandoned islet. But even as he fought the invisible bastard (the cook had cried tears of blood upon realizing what devil fruit Shiryu had eaten), Zoro kept his crew in his sights as much as he could.

Luffy was furious, and seeing him up close was like watching a supernova explode. Dangerous and yet beautiful.

Zoro parried an invisible blow, hating the way Shiryu fought. It had nothing to do with the art of sword fighting, it was cowardly and dirty. But Zoro would have his duel, his fight with Mihawk was coming, and soon his name would echo all the way to Heaven.

The Greatest Swordsman.

So Zoro treated this fight as what it was, a training in observation haki. The loss of his eye didn't matter here since neither of his eyes could see Shiryu. But he could sense him.

Attacking just behind him from the right. 

A spot that Zoro would have had a hard time reaching if he hadn't turned around in time. Zoro blocked and counterattacked in one motion, his opponent's blood clearly visible on his blades.

Zoro might not be able to see his opponent, but he could see the signs of his victory. Grinning to himself, Wado between his teeth, Zoro stopped playing with his food. Shiryu couldn't teleport, he was only invisible. His movements were predictable. And Zoro didn't give him a chance.

Zoro attacked relentlessly, not letting Shiryu get away from him. His long-range attacks were useless here, and would allow Shiryu to escape and potentially harm the rest of the crew. Not all of them knew haki, a mistake on their part that they had begun to correct, but he was sure that at this point, only Luffy, Jinbei, the cook, and Usopp could sense Shiryu coming.

A wave of haki hit the landscape, brutal and angry. The sun was exploding and no one could look away even though it burned . But it didn't burn, not for Zoro, not for the crew. It was both the first light of dawn after a nightmare and the corrosion of a solar flare.

It was everything . 

It was all it took for Shiryu to escape.

Zoro rushed after him, but the few seconds Shiryu had on him were enough. Shiryu left bloody footprints in the sand, flickering in and out of existence. He was on his last breath, but dying animals were the most desperate, the most dangerous.

Zoro saw clearly what Usopp would see too late, also distracted by Luffy.

Shiryu's blade sinking into Usopp's back, cutting right through him. Usopp spitting blood on the wet sand and missing his shot, letting Van Augur get Luffy.

Zoro stepped in, taking the blow head on.

(Always from the front, a back wound was a shame for a swordsman.)

Metal dug into his flesh, lodging in his ribcage just below his heart. Blood leaked from the corners of Zoro's lips as he smirked at Shiryu. Usopp gasped, Teach laughed, and Luffy screamed .

“ZORO!!!”

(two people on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean; sea salt, sand, and sun on his skin; elastic limbs wrapped around him in his sleep as the sun rose over the horizon)

Shiryu collapsed onto the scarlet sand, foam at the corners of his mouth and blood streaming from his eyes, ears, and nose. Shiryu had died before Zoro, Zoro had won. The darkness retreated as Teach's laughter still echoed on the horizon, haunting his final moments.

Zoro collapsed into Usopp's arms, choking on blood and seawater. Zoro was trapped in his own body, unable to move or breathe. He couldn't speak, he couldn't see, he couldn't hear.

He was going to die.

(He would never get the chance to beat Mihawk.)

(He wouldn't see Luffy become Pirate King.)

(He wouldn't be by his friends' side when they realized their dreams.)

But he knew they would, with or without him.

He could die knowing at least that.

A familiar weight settled on his head—a crown made of straw, the Pirate King’s greatest treasure—and his consciousness was brought back to his dying body one last time. His friends were around him—Nami holding his hand while shaking, his head on Usopp's lap, Robin's hand on his scarred ankle, Brook placing Wado in his other hand, hiding his tears—and the sun above his head. He squinted at the harsh, unforgiving rays of light.

Luffy rested his forehead on Zoro’s, eclipsing the sun for a moment—for ever—as his tears fell down Zoro’s cheeks.

“Stay with us, Chopper will heal you and everything will be fine,” Luffy pleaded.

Chopper worked tirelessly, desperately trying to stop the endless flow of blood by begging him to keep breathing. But Zoro had defied Death enough times to know that it was over. He had fought his whole life, to prove that he was the Best, but now that it was all coming to an end, he just wanted to enjoy the warmth of Sanji's hand around his elbow, Jinbei's on his shoulder, Franky's knee against his.

(He didn’t want to die.)

“Hey Luffy,” Zoro called softly, his lungs burning with the effort. “Remember when I told you I’d kill you if you got in my way.”

Each word was labored, barely audible over the sound of the waves but Luffy nodded, holding back a broken sob. Around him, everyone bowed their heads in grief, realizing the truth before Luffy could admit it. Zoro would have laughed at the tears shining in the cook's eyes if he had the strength.

“Guess I was wrong.”

“Zoro,” Luffy whispered. “Stay with me. Please.”

“Give them hell, Pirate King,” Zoro smirked.

.

.

.

They buried Zoro in Laugh Tale, his grave blooming with the tears of the Pirate King. Wado Ichimonji was laid to rest at his side, clasped in his hands and entwined with a rosary of 108 white and black beads. The two golden tears in his ears would serve as a passage to the afterlife and the third in his captain's ear as a memory of the deceased.

Far away on the ocean, Blackbeard's ship burned for three days in black flames, the celebration of a Pyrrhic victory. Legend has it that the waters around Laugh Tale remained red until the next King arrived.

And the name of Roronoa Zoro echoed to the heavens.

One down, nine more to go. I don't think I'll post the rest of this story on Tumblr, I don't find it very practical, but if you want it will be on AO3.

DAY 13: Till Death Do Us Part

The end of a crew. The end of a legend.

If you haven't seen the "Character Death" tag and you don't like when your favorite characters die, there's still time to turn around. The entire crew dies in this story, it's not a spoiler to say that. (And, the warnings will be put at the beginning of each chapter, in more or less gruesome ways.) I was looking for a poem to be the story's guideline but I couldn't find one that fit what I was looking for. And even though I don't really need it anymore, I decided to write it myself. The first real chapter will be coming tomorrow or in the next few days but in the meantime I left some clues on how each character dies if you want to decipher them. I originally wrote the poem in French and was unable to make it rhyme in English, to my great disappointment. So I left it for you in French with the translation for each line just below. Fandom : One Piece Character(s) : Mugiwara Kaizoku | Straw Hat Pirates Relationship(s) : Mugiwara Kaizoku | Straw Hat Pirates & Mugiwara Kaizoku | Straw Hat Pirates Words Count : 629 No. 13: TEAM AS A FAMILY Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime)

À bord du navire des rêves,

(On board the ship of dreams,)

vivaient dix animaux

(lived ten animals)

Tous suivaient leur capitaine,

(All followed their captain,)

un singe avec comme couronne un chapeau.

(a monkey with a hat as a crown.)

Le tigre partit le premier, 

(The tiger left first,)

protégeant jusqu’au bout ses camarades.

(protecting his comrades until the end.)

Mais son dos resta intouché, 

(But his back remained untouched,)

marquant l'ultime preuve de sa bravade.

(marking the ultimate proof of his bravado.)

Le cheval solitaire fût le suivant,

(The lonely horse was next,)

son vieux squelette ne tenant plus le coup

(his old skeleton no longer holding up)

Ses amis ne le laissèrent pas seul un instant, 

(His friends did not leave him alone for a moment,)

tenant sa main jusqu’à son dernier pouls.

(holding his hand until his last pulse.)

La fin commença avec celle du caméléon,

(The end began with that of the chameleon,)

son courage inspirant le monde entier

(his courage inspiring the whole world)

Même devant la Mort il ne baissa pas le front,

(Even in the face of Death he did not lower his head,)

lançant sur la mer les navires par milliers.

(launching ships by the thousands into the sea.)

L’ironie n’échappa pas au canard,

(The irony did not escape the duck,)

quand ses yeux se fermèrent de leur plein gré.

(when his eyes closed of their own accord.)

Il aurait aimé que cela arrive un peu plus tard,

(He would have liked it to happen a little later,)

sombrer dans les bras de la mer dont il avait toujours rêvé. 

(to sink into the arms of the sea he had always dreamed of.)

Le taureau résista sans jamais faillir,

(The bull resisted without ever failing,)

quand se déchainèrent les sévices des enfers

(when the torments of hell were unleashed)

Il accueillit la fin avec un sourire,

(He greeted the end with a smile,)

tel était l’adage de l’homme de fer.

(such was the adage of the iron man.)

La chatte affronta sa fin sans ruser,

(The cat faced her end without guile,)

maîtrisant une dernière fois les éléments

(mastering the elements one last time)

Elle ne s’enfuit pas même si elle était effrayée,

(She did not run away even though she was frightened,)

libérant un pays entier du tourment.

(freeing an entire country from torment.)

Le petit renne choisit de rester,

(The little reindeer chose to stay,)

refusant de tourner son dos à ceux dans le besoin

(refusing to turn his back on those in need)

Face à la maladie il ne cessa d’essayer

(Faced with illness he never stopped trying)

et sa compassion causa sa fin.

(and his compassion caused his end.)

La seule grue qui avait réussi à fuir,

(The only crane that had managed to escape,)

finit par retourner à la maison

(ended up returning home)

Pour une fois elle ne pût pas courir,

(For once she could not run,)

et enfermée, elle se plia à la raison.

(and locked up, she bowed to reason.)

L’ours fût là quand personne ne pouvait plus l’être,

(The bear was there when no one could anymore,)

Guidant son capitaine jusqu’à la dernière minute

(Guiding his captain until the last minute)

Il ne laissa jamais sa peur paraître, 

(He never let his fear show,)

Continuant jusqu’au bout pour lui, la lutte.

(Continuing the fight to the end for him.)

Le singe resta le dernier,

(The monkey was the last to remain,)

Seul et froid au milieu de la nuit

(Alone and cold in the middle of the night)

Quand il partit, personne n'était là pour l’en empêcher,

(When he left, no one was there to stop him,)

et il prit le soleil avec lui.

(and he took the sun with him.)

[rossumtrinity]

So what is Megatron like in Trekformers?

the million dollar question!

the short answer is: i don’t really like megatron, especially in idw, for a whole variety of reasons. so megatron doesn’t get his mtmte season 2 redemption arc, but i haven’t 100% settled on what i’m doing with him. 

in the present day of trekformers, he’s Full Shithead. in the past, he was kind of cool, but there’s not really any going back at this point.

the long answer i’m gonna go ahead and put below the cut, because in order to talk about megatron i have to talk about the whole federation-decepticon war. which is a lot. there’s another TL;DR at the end also. sorry i like to talk

(properly capitalized for ease of readability)

Megatron, at age six, was one of the first wave of settlers of a new Federation colony along the Federation-Cardassian border. A newly established colony a fair distance from the core of the Federation and very close to contested Cardassian territory is Not A Good Place To Have A Childhood.

Despite this, when Megatron applied to Starfleet Academy at age 18 he was a strong believer that, by joining Starfleet, he would be able to make a change. He had his life planned out: he would graduate from the Academy at the top of his class, become Starfleet’s youngest captain, and eventually command the fleet’s flagship and go down in history for his exploits. He’d be able to help people, to make change, to ensure others didn’t have to suffer.

During his first year at the Academy, Megatron was roommates with the Trill Orion Pax, with whom he became fast friends. They started dating in their thrid year, to the surprise of none of their acquaintances. Another goal was added to Megatron’s plan: He’d be commanding the fleet’s flagship, with Orion by his side.

In Megatron’s fourth year, he wrote an anonymous critique of the Federation standing by and doing nothing about the Cardassian occupation of Bajor. This caused quite a stir and, unfortunately for Megatron, ended his career before it ever started.

After graduation, Megatron and Orion served on the same ship for two years, before Megatron transferred to an out-of-the-way outpost, Messatine, where he hoped he would be able to advance his career.

A year into his posting at Messatine, and Orion broke off their relationship, stating their careers were headed in drastically different directions, but that he wanted to remain friends. This was bad enough, but Megatron also came to the realization that his critique of the Federation had made him no friends in Starfleet Command. The glorious career he’d planned was going nowhere fast.

By 2351 Megatron was a captain–but he was commanding Croteus 12, an outpost in the middle of nowhere, on an inhospitable, icy planet. However, his continued writings had gained traction, and he’d made a valuable friend in the form of Soundwave, a Betazoid with exceptional telepathic abilities. He’d also become aware that Starfleet was keeping a careful eye on him and conducting investigations on him. His resentment for Starfleet, and Federation ideals as a whole, only continued to grow.

By 2353 the Decepticon movement was named and had attracted a fair amount of attention, both positive and negative, including attention from forces outside of the Federation. Three Tal Shiar operatives, Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker, were sent to Croteus 12, undercover as Vulcan scientists, to investigate the Decepticon movement, hoping to manipulate what could become a Federation civil war in the Romulan Empire’s favor. Megatron ended up gaining three new, loyal recruits.

In 2357, Sentinel Prime, head of Section 31, was assassinated, the Decepticons defected, and the Federation-Decepticon war officially began. Initial Decepticon efforts were covert, keenly aware of the fact that they were fighting a war on two fronts against the Federation and Cardassia, a war that they would not win openly. This created an image of the Decepticon as ‘underdogs’ which, combined with Decepticon ideals and Megatron’s charismatic leadership, meant that the Decepticon forces only grew over time, including Federation defectors as well as recruits from outside of the Federation.

Over time, the idea of loyalty to the Decepticon cause soon became indistinguishable from loyalty to Megatron. When the idea of a “Decepticon empire” began to spread, no one questioned it. When the Decepticons shifted to more violent tactics in the 2360s, causing harm to innocents, no one questioned it, as long as Megatron was leading.

Starscream was one of the few who openly disagreed with Megatron’s tactics, stating he was unfit for leadership and losing sight of the bigger picture, prioritizing his anger and personal resentment over the movement’s goals as a whole. But despite being second-in-command, Megatron had ensured that Starscream had few friends and little support among the Decepticons for his attempted betrayals, none of which succeeded.

In 2368, Megatron authorized the use of biogenic weapons on Cardassia Prime, rendering the planet uninhabitable and effectively eradicating one of the Decepticons’ enemies. Cardassia out of the way, Megatron took control of Bajor, defenseless, its government in shambles. He claimed his intention was purely to help the ravaged planet rebuild–despite establishing martial law and occupying the planet with Decepticon forces, putting puppet leaders in power of the provisional government while he insisted he knew what was best for the planet.

In 2370, following the discovery of the Bajoran wormhole and a Whole Bunch Of Galvatron Bullshit (sincerely sorry to people who haven’t read phase 1 and want to know the specifics; phase 1 is a nightmare and I prefer to leave most of it Vague in trekformers to spare my sanity), Megatron disappeared. Without their leader, the Decepticons were left largely directionless, and many dispersed in various directions, with various new goals.

Megatron shows up again in 2371 for some Dark Cybertron But Trekformers Bullshit, and from then on Trekformers is kind of a shapeless mass in my brain because I haven’t figured everything out yet. 

I’m not sure if I’ve actually done a great job Summing Up Who Megatron Is As A Person in all this… so TL;DR: He’s an idealist who came to realize that the people and organizations he believed in were corrupt and selfish. Becoming the leader of a movement of defectors only granted him more power and magnified his resentment and anger, leading him to resort to more and more violent tactics and lose sight of the ideals he once espoused, turning into a self-righteous despot and imperialist who believed he knew better than the people he claimed he was trying to “help.”

And I have barely touched on his relationship with Starscream here because we would be here for days, but it’s! Bad! Megatron is abusive, that’s really not up for debate here. He’s interesting in several aspects, but also he sucks, and he’s not getting a redemption arc in my self-indulgent AU.

[from-the-clouds]

texas sun - joel miller x f!reader - vol. ix

series masterlist | series playlist | writing masterlist | previous chapter |

chapter summary: “When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.” - Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell. But maybe it's about to be. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 5.0k chapter warnings: HEAVY ANGST. Panic attacks. Referenced death of a parent. References to abusive/neglectful parents. Complicated sibling/familial relationships. Alcohol consumption, smoking. As always please dm if you have questions. a/n: I know it's annoying, but the thing about me is that I’m never able to write compelling things if I don’t include complex family/sibling relationships. Like I’m so obsessed with putting them in everything, even my stupid little love stories. But it does serve a purpose, I promise. There is an important character in this chapter….just saying.

**ALSO! I got rid of my taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifs if you would like to be notified when I update my works :) **

-September 15, 2003-

Joel can sense that something is off with you the minute you get home from work. 

For starters, your voice sounds a bit too syrupy-sweet when you come through your garage door, and chirp out ‘Hey!’ when you spot him sitting on the couch in your front room, your cat curled up on his lap. 

Just ten minutes earlier, he’d let himself in, using the spare key you’d given him and Sarah. Your house felt vacant, dark, and shockingly quiet without you there, and so he’d turned on the lights, put on a record, and washed the plate, two mugs, and a bowl that were sitting in your sink. 

Joel stirs, and Martini immediately jumps off his lap as though he’d personally offended him in some way. “Hey, darlin,” he stands, accepting your affectionate kiss on the cheek. “How was your day?” 

When you pretend you don’t hear him, that’s the second thing that tips him off. You turn to hang your messenger bag over the hook in your front closet. And then you flex your fingers like you’re trying to stretch them out, cracking your knuckles one at a time with your thumbs, and rolling your shoulders back before heading into the kitchen and gesturing for him to follow. 

“Do you…uh….do you want something?” you turn your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “Let me get you something.”

He follows after you tentatively, remaining silent until he figures out what's going on. Martini, who was walking underfoot, scatters out of the way as your heels click over the tile and retreats to a safe distance alongside Joel, who pauses to lean against the threshold. 

Even despite the clear tension in the room, he can’t help but check you out. Before, Joel wouldn’t say that he necessarily had a type, it still is a little shocking that he ended up with someone like you. 

Before you speak again, you retrieve two lowball glasses out of your cabinet along with a bottle of his favorite whiskey, and pour two drinks, turning to offer him one. He accepts it cautiously, and you nod at him before taking a long pull of your drink. 

“So uh,” you say. “There’s something I kind of need to talk to you about.” 

You take another sip and then unbutton your blazer, shimmying out of it and tossing it over a barstool. Pushing the sleeves of your blouse up to your wrists, you cross your arms and chew on your bottom lip, like you are trying to decide how to break some sort of horrible news to him. Joel prepares for the worst. He racks his brain for anything he could’ve done or said recently that might have upset you, maybe even scared you off. But he’s coming up with nothing. What could he have done? 

At this point, his parents even know about you, even if he hasn’t had the chance to introduce you. His mother tries, in her I’m-not-prying-but-I’m-definitely-prying type of way, to get more information out of him. She asks him questions like ‘Do you think she’s the one?’ and he doesn’t answer directly but it does make him think. He already knows you’re his one. He just wonders if he is yours.

It’s consistently been his fatal flaw. Joel falls hard, even when it’s not right. It’s how he has always been, and that’s how he ended up alone with Sarah in the first place. The very thought of you ending things makes him feel sick. He knows he’s in love with you, that he doesn’t want to look elsewhere. It’s becoming harder and harder to hold back. You’ve filled up all this space in his life that he didn’t even know existed. What is he going to do with it once you leave? 

“What’s going on?” Joel asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as pinched as his throat feels. 

“I should’ve told you this earlier,” you begin. “But….my dad has been sick the past few months.”

“Oh,” Joel says, but relaxes just a little, which feels a little selfish because it’s still unfortunate news. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’m not really sure. Just…my brother called me today and apparently he’s taken a turn for the worse. The doctors…they think he doesn’t have that much time left. I…I need to go see him, I think. Before…” you don’t finish your sentence, you just shrug and look down. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” you say dismissively. “I actually booked a redeye that leaves tomorrow night. I wanted to make sure I could still take Sarah to the office with me for her career day and everything, so you don’t have to worry about that. So yeah.” 

“Do you need to leave earlier?” He asks. “She can always come to work with me.”

“No, no…” you give a soft smile. “I made a commitment, and….I want her to see how boring my job really is.”

Joel wants to smile back at you, but he doesn’t. Because despite the jokes, when you meet his eyes for a second, they look so dull and desolate it feels like it’d be inappropriate. 

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Joel sets his glass down just as you pick up yours for another hearty gulp before continuing. “I got my company to approve me working remotely for two weeks. I don’t think it will be that long, but…I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Joel reaches out and rests a hand on your own.  “You should go be with your family. Sarah and I will be fine.” 

“I know that. I just…I don’t really want to go,” you say. “But I’ll feel bad for the rest of my life if I don’t…and at the very least, I need to be there for my brother. He’s closer with my dad than I am.” 

Bringing the glass back to your mouth, you take another sip – at this point, the drink is nearly gone. Joel steps behind you, because he can’t really hug you the way you are now, facing forward and bracing yourself on the countertop. “Come ‘ere,” he murmurs softly, pulling you back against his chest. For a second, you tense. It’s like you’re surprised, still, that all he wants to do is be gentle with you. Once you remember, he feels your body relax, and your head falls back to tuck under his chin, one of your hands clutches his arm that wraps across your collarbone. “I wish you could come with me,” you say. 

“Me too,” Joel says against the top of your head. He knows he can’t. Not with Sarah, and not with work being the way it has been. Unfortunately, the excuse probably wouldn’t go over well with the guys there. Not that he cares that much what they think, but he can’t jump ship right now. “But I’d have to find someone to look after Sarah….maybe I could ask my parents.”

“No,” you shake your head.  “No, no. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine,” you insist. “Everything will be fine.” 

“Well at the very least, do you need me to take you to the airport?”

“You’d endure rush hour traffic for me?” you tilt your head back to look up at him. 

Joel laughs softly, leans down for a kiss. “That and more.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 17th, 2003-

The room you’re in is dark, but the lack of awareness of your surroundings seems to be the only thing keeping you from suffocating. You’re standing in your childhood bedroom, which doesn’t look much like it used to. It's a guest room now, but it never really felt like yours all the way, did it? You clutch at your stomach – you’ve been nauseous ever since your plane touched down at JFK – and reach towards your old dresser to steady yourself. 

The vanity that had once been scattered with trinkets and trophies and photos of childhood memories was now vacant – pristine and polished. You wondered if the items had been thrown out, or dumped in a box somewhere in your old closet. It almost doesn’t matter – you aren’t interested in digging up any more memories. The feeling of your fathers hand clasped around your own had done enough.

You inhale deeply, bracing yourself against the glass top as you try not to throw up or pass out. For some reason, you had underestimated what you were walking into, and hadn’t expected your body to react so….viscerally.  On the other side of the closed door, you hear your name, muffled from down the hall.

It’s hard to make out who it is, perhaps your stepmother, Meredith, or some other distant relative you hadn’t seen in years who had crawled out of the woodwork and now lingered in the apartment, hoping to get their piece. But you’ve locked yourself away. That’s what you had gotten so good at whilst living here. Hiding. 

Until the door opens, and you squint against the light that floods the room to find the only person who has always known where to find you. Your brother. 

“Hey. Ethan and Elizabeth are on their way up,” he says, then pauses. “Why are you standing in the dark?” 

The lightswitch clicks, and the harsh ceiling lamp illuminates, starting the fan up with it and causing you to shiver. Vincent is frowning, standing halfway into the doorframe, his brows pinched. 

You widen your eyes at him. Come on, don’t give me away yet. “Will you please turn that off?” 

Vincent rolls his eyes, but obeys, switches on your desk lamp instead and closes the door behind him. “Are you okay?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know that you aren’t.

“It was a lot…being in there with him,” you look at the floor. 

“Well, at least you know he still likes you. He’s not going to take you out of the will.”

It feels like a smack across the face, and your jaw drops. How could he be so oblivious to your pain, when he’s the only person in this house, in the world, maybe, who understands exactly how you are feeling right now. “Is that all you think I care about?”

“No, I-”

“I’m here because of you,” you say. “You wanted me here. So I came, and I shouldn’t have.” 

“Oh come on,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“I wish I wasn’t here,” you continue on, despite his wishes. “I wish I didn’t have to wait my entire life to hear him say those things.”

Vincent’s expression shifts. He had been in the room. He had heard it. Your dad had been so….sweet. Gentle. Whispering praises even though his eyes were closed. You had expected, had wanted cruelty. This was somehow worse. Maybe he had known what you wanted all along, held it over your head, and waited only until the end of his life to give it to you. Even his admission of love was somehow malicious. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop you from regretting everything you’d done to get away from him.

Just outside the door is the flight of stairs that leads to your father’s room. And suddenly you aren’t an adult. You feel as helpless and as scared as you did when you were just a little girl – looking up at him, the view of his figure obscured by your brother’s shoulder. 

“God, it’s so fucked up.” you choke out. 

Vincent steps forward wordlessly, pulls you into a hug, and it’s only after you hear a quiet sob leave him that you let your own tears fall. There’s nothing either of you can say to fix the damage that has been done, so all you can do is cling to each other and cry. 

“I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “I know. Maybe I should’ve….I could’ve done more.” 

You pull back, relieved to see your tears didn’t ruin his cashmere sweater. “What could you have done?” you ask, dejectedly. “We were kids.” 

Vincent doesn’t know how to answer that, but he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and looks at the ground a moment before lifting his head. “We’ve got each other.” 

But that’s hardly true anymore, and he knows it. You’ll always resent each other for different reasons – he had adapted to the circumstances, and you had left them. Neither strategy did anything to fix the damage. 

You’re still weeping, but softer now, face wet with tears that fall everytime you blink. Swiping under your eyes, you sigh and attempt to compose yourself. 

“Come on,” Vincent says. “Say hi to Ethan and Elizabeth. Dad is stable for the time being. We can take a walk or something. Get some fresh air.” 

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll be out in a second. I have to get my shit together.”

After he leaves, you check your makeup in the vanity, wiping away some smudged mascara before following him out. When you enter the front room, still sniffling, you pray that you don’t have a run-in with any other family members. But the only person you see besides Vincent is your sister-in-law coming through the door. 

Elizabeth’s face is pinched in concentration as she tries to wrangle your nephew out of his coat. “What up, champ?” Vincent holds a hand out for a high five, just in time for her to free Ethan’s arms so he can reach towards his father, who stoops to accept his hug. 

“Hi, Daddy.” 

Elizabeth steps back and makes eye contact with you as you approach. In the past, you pitied her for the decision to marry into your family and then go on to have children with your brother. She was a little too good for him. But now, you feel like that was kind of a callous way of looking at things. You wonder if your brother would feel the same way about Joel for getting mixed up with you. Fortunately, Joel is still a well-kept secret. 

“Hey, it’s good to see you,” Elizabeth says. “I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“It’s alright,” you accept her hug and return her kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, too.”

She looks down at her son. “Honey, do you remember your aunt?”

“Hey, Ethan,” you crouch alongside your brother, and he nods, but still side-steps closer to his dad and smiles over at you bashfully. “How are you doing?” 

“Good.” 

“Don’t be shy,” Vincent encourages, but your nephew doesn’t seem interested in your attempt at an embrace, so you let them drop by your side. 

“It’s okay,” you stand up, feeling a fresh batch of tears threatening their way to your waterline. Ethan’s treating you like a stranger because you basically are one. 

“You’ve met a lot of new people the last few days, haven't you?” Elizabeth asks, then looks over at you. “He might be a little overwhelmed. He’ll warm up.” 

Vincent stands at the sight of you starting to cry. “I am going to take her to get some air,” your brother puts a hand on your shoulder, speaking about you as if you are not in the room with them. You feel so useless, you might as well not be.

“That sounds good,” Elizabeth says. “We can catch up later. I ought to say hello to Meredith.” 

You both nod, stepping into the hallway. 

The fresh air helps, even if you can’t go far from the apartment. You walk around the block in silence, which gives you a chance to compose yourself. It’s a surprisingly warm day, although it’s much colder in New York than it is in Austin this time of year. In early fall, the leaves have only just begun turning. 

You’re about to turn the corner to the stretch of sidewalk that leads back home, when Vincent plops himself down on a bench without warning. He fishes through the front pocket of his jacket and retrieves a flask. 

“Jesus, Vincent,” you mutter under your breath. “Right now?”

“Uhm, yeah,” he answers. When you scoff, he continues, rolling his eyes. “Oh, get off your high horse. It’s just a little.”

“Aren’t you sad?”

“Of course I’m fucking sad,” he defends. “But I go to therapy now, so….I’m better at processing.”

“Yeah?” you gesture towards the flask. “Is that what this is called?”

“No. But it is the only way I can deal with Meredith.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but can already feel your exasperation fading. In your absence, he’s been dealing with all this alone. “Give me that.” Reaching forward towards the flask, he jerks his hand away just before you make contact. 

“I’m not sharing.”

You pout at him. Come on. He rolls his eyes and passes it over. “Fine.” 

While you take a sip, he produces a pack of cigarettes and plucks one out of the carton. “You don’t smoke these anymore, do you?” 

“Not really. But I still have not managed to kick the weed habit.”

“Well I’m jealous,” he says, lighting it. “Now that Elizabeth and Ethan live with me again, I really have had to get my shit together.”

I’m sure you’ll fuck it up soon enough, you’re primed to say, but even as a joke, you feel like it’s a little too mean. It’s okay to let this be a nice moment. 

“You know, if you wanted,” he says. “You could stay here for a couple months. I can get you set up with a place in the city. It might be good to be home…after…” You do your best to ignore his reference to the inevitable storm that hangs over your heads.

Any other time, and the offer might tempt you. This is your home, always would be, and you will always feel called to it. If you came back, all your family and childhood friends would be here. And without your father, things may be different. But now you have other priorities. “I can’t do that,” you shake your head. 

“Why not?” He asks. You sit down on the bench, swipe the pack of cigarettes from where they sit between you, and take one for yourself. “Didn’t you say you were approved to work remotely?”

“No, it’s not that,” you light the cigarette and take a pull, coughing when you inhale too deeply. It’s not a joint. “I actually….met someone.”

Vincent frowns like he doesn’t believe you. “Really?”

“Yeah….he’s actually my next door neighbor.”

“Oh, you managed to wrangle a fucking cowboy-”

“How many times have I told you? I don’t live on a farm. You know what? Nevermind,” you roll your eyes, shake your head. “Forget I mentioned it..” 

“Relax, I’m joking. Always so emotional-”

“Emotional? Emotional?” you ask. “Remind me which one of us was the one who had to be sent to a-” 

Vincent’s eyes roll back, and his head tilts with them. “Oh, here we go.”

“It’s not a joke to me,” you say, desperate to end the argument, and it actually works. 

“So is this….serious?” 

You shake your head. “I mean, I…I think I’m in love.” It’s not as insane to say out loud as you had expected.

“I didn’t think you cared about that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t either. But…I don’t know. It just sort of happened.” 

“What’s his name?”

“Joel,” you say. “He’s got a daughter, Sarah…she’s sweet. So is he…hardworking, thoughtful, kind….” you trail off, and veer away from becoming too sincere.  “In other words, he’d fucking hate you.” 

“Yeah, you know I repel the honest type.”

“No,” you correct him. “I actually think you’d get along. And you’d like Sarah. She’s funny.”

“I’m sure you’re a great influence on her,” he quips, sarcastically. 

“I’m good with kids. I’ve always been a good aunt to Ethan?” you insist. “....when he knows who I am, at least.”

Vincent chuckles. “He knows who you are, he’s just in a shy phase. That or I’ve already fucked him up.” 

You’ve heard some variation of the same from Joel while talking about Sarah, and it makes you smile, just a little, and wonder how terrifying it must be to have a child of your own. 

“You couldn’t,” you tease. “Elizabeth wouldn’t allow it.”

He nods as if you’ve made a good point. “So that’s it? You’re really never coming home?”

“I mean, never say never,” you say. “At the very least, I should probably visit more often. I could bring them sometime to meet everyone. We could try to be a normal family.” 

He wrinkles his nose. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Only your brother could find a way to make you laugh even under such dire circumstances. For a while, you’re quiet, and then you speak up again. “Being in love….it’s fucking scary.”

“That’s part of it,” he says. You sigh, shake your head, and put out your cigarette. “I’m happy for you,” he says, after a while. 

“Thanks,” you smile. “I’m happy for you, too.” 

Despite the fact that your stomach still hurts, you’re sleep deprived from the flight, and your father is standing at death’s door, you are thankful for what feels like a huge step forward. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 19, 2003-

Joel’s hand stretches out to stop whatever thing is ringing in his ear at such an ungodly hour. His phone. He doesn’t even think, just answers it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers it might be important.

“Hello?” he grumbles. 

“Hey,” He can tell instantly that something is wrong. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? I didn’t check the time.”

Joel looks at the clock. It’s six in the morning for you, and he’s never known you to be an early riser. He already knows what you’re going to tell him, but he asks anyway. “Yes but it’s alright. Are you okay?” 

“My dad is gone.” 

“Oh, baby,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, shockingly stoic. “It will be okay. I just, I wanted you to know I’ll be staying longer than I thought. I’ve got to help my-” you clear your throat. “I’ve got to help Vincent with the arrangements and then my dad wanted his ashes scattered somewhere in Colorado. It’s where he grew up, so I’ll probably go there before I fly back, and-” You keep rambling, and Joel cuts you off. 

“Hey that’s fine, that’s okay. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna miss your birthday,” you say. “I had this whole thing planned where I was gonna take you and Sarah out to dinner, and it was gonna be really nice and-” 

“We can celebrate another time,” Joel insists. “It’s okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, so quick it sounds like a reflex. “I knew it was going to happen, so...” 

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t want to push you, but it’s very clear you’re holding something back. 

“Yeah, I…” you trail off. “I don’t know.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away, just gives you a little space to process. The silence is excruciating, and lasts so long that he wonders if you’ve hung up. But eventually, you speak again.

“I don’t….I don’t feel anything,” your voice breaks, all strained and choked and horrible. “I feel like I should.” You’re hundreds of miles away, and Joel has never felt so helpless. “Something….something is really wrong with me. I can’t-” 

“Babygirl,” he hears himself say, doing everything he can to calm you down. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He hears you take in a sharp, staggered inhale on the other line, struggling to catch your breath. “I wish you were here with me.”

Me too, I wish I was too. He wants to say, but all he feels is panic, tight around his throat. He feels like if he can’t get to you, something horrible will happen. What had he been thinking, letting you walk into this alone? Things must have been worse than you had let on. “Maybe I can try to figure something out.”

But almost as quickly as you lose control of yourself, he hears you clear your throat, a hard swallow. “It’s….it’s…it will all be fine. I will be okay, sorry, I just…” Joel can’t tell if you’re answering him, or if you’re talking to yourself. 

Joel knows the routine pretty well at this point, each time you show any sort of vulnerability, you immediately pull back – like there’s some invisible boundary you’ve crossed that snaps you back into place if you test it. He’d be able to actually help you if he was there. In some ways, you being so open with him, but only over the phone….makes sense. It’s just another way to avoid him.  He won’t resent you for it, but it doesn’t make him hurt any less. 

“What can I do?” Joel asks. “I’m worried about you.” 

“I’ll be fine, Joel. I promise,” you sniffle, clearing your throat, pulling yourself together. “I’ll be home soon and everything can just…go back to normal.” 

“Yes, it will,” he says. “You’ll get through this. And you’ll come home to Sarah and I. I’ll have a martini and a back rub waiting for you the second you walk in the door. 

“God,” you say. “You’re so hot.”

Joel chuckles, relieved to hear your smile. 

“You know,” your breathing steadies. “I would like you and Sarah to come out here. Not now. But another time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I was thinking about it. My brother has plenty of room. We could crash here, and you could meet everyone. I mean, Vincent comes across as like….such an fucking asshole, really, truly…but I don’t know. I think ultimately you’ll get along.”

“I’m sure we will,” Joel breathes softly. 

“You just have to promise you won’t leave me if you don’t.”

“That wouldn’t make me leave you.” It’s you I love. He’s not going to tell you that over the phone. So he settles. “You are what I care about.”

“I feel the same,” you say softly. 

You’re silent for a spell. 

“I probably should go and eat something. I’ve felt awful for like three days straight and I finally have an appetite. And there’s really no problem that can’t be solved by a bodega sandwich.”

Joel chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll feel better if you eat something.” 

“I will call you later, okay?” you say. “Thank you, Joel. I miss you, and I’ll see you soon.”

“I miss you too,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you soon.”

See you soon. For the next few days, everytime you call each other, every conversation ends with the same promise. Neither of you are aware it’s one you can’t keep. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 26th, 2003-

Joel sits in the front seat of Tommy’s car, and tries to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. There’s blood spattered on the front of his shirt, blood that didn’t belong to him. He’s done a lot of things to protect Sarah. To protect his family. He’d used that turn of phrase, that he’d kill for them, in passing, but never actually thought he’d have to do it. He did. He did. And he’s suddenly scared of what else he might be capable of. 

He does not want this burden, to be a protector, but he has no choice. It has been his entire life. First an older brother. Then, a father. It’s worth more than his own peace, than his own life. He would sacrifice that every time if it kept his family safe. 

And you, too.

He’s only just now looking down at his phone, trying to block out the noise of the voices on the radio that cut in and out of static. And it’s not because it’s broken. The world he knows is crumbling, he’s freefalling towards the earth, and he’s gotta grab the only things that matter or they will perish upon impact. 

Sarah says your name from behind him. “Do you think she’s okay?” 

It’s the first minute he’s had to think since he arrived at the prison to bail out Tommy. He has several missed calls from you and one voicemail. He doesn’t even think to listen, just immediately tries to call you back. 

“I don’t know, babygirl.” The phone doesn’t even ring. Sarah’s hand falls to his shoulder and he squeezes it tightly, hoping she can’t feel that it’s still trembling. Joel has no cell service, and none of the calls are going through even after trying several times over.

Joel looks down at his watch to see what time it is. It’s working now, thanks to Sarah, who had told him that she’d got it fixed at a place you had recommended before you left. It’s delusional, but he hopes maybe this isn’t happening in Colorado. You’d called him this morning to wish him a happy birthday, things had been fine then. How could it all fall apart so quickly?

He accepts that he can’t reach you, and listens to the voicemail you’ve left.

“Hey Joel, I….something is going on here. I don’t know if it’s happening everywhere. People are sick. It’s….it’s…If I don’t see you again I hope I- I want you to know that I love you. Okay? You and Sarah. Thank you, Joel. Please…please stay safe.”

I love you, too. Why didn’t he just say it when he had the opportunity to? What had he been thinking?

Joel tells himself that this is not the end. Things will settle, even if it takes time, and you will keep yourself safe. You won’t get sick. All the promises you made to each other will be kept. Even as he tells himself this, he knows it’s probably a lie.

Still, he indulges. Things will go back to normal. As long as he keeps himself safe, he’ll find his way back to you again. It’s just a matter of time. 

But his hope for the future, for anything else, dies an hour later.

-

-

-

[hiatuswhore]

♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ sɥʇnɹ⊥

♕ A/N: Hey all! Thank you so much for all the feedback it is a great motivator and always makes me smile. I am really enjoying writing this and I already have a vague idea of where I want it to go. Keep in mind we only have season one of HOTD and will not being getting season two for a while so I am going to try to incorporate the plot of the book with my own ideas. I do not have a set number of parts for this mini series yet. If you cannot make out the title it says The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Truths. I introduced a new character, I am picturing Daniel Sharman but that’s because I am in love with that man. Also who are your favorite characters, I LOVE older Rhaenyra (young her was cool but I feel like older Rhaenyra is such a mood. Anyhow enjoy, and tell me what you think!

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 4.5K

♕ WARNING: Cursing, Violence, Sexually Suggestive. HOTD Spoilers.

previous — Masterlist — next

Aemond did not return the next day or the day after that. You busy yourself with work from Mysaria, listening to the whispers of the King’s failing health. Viserys the Peaceful, what a joke. Everyone but seemingly the royal family prepares for the pending war.

You sit at your window, staring mindlessly at the rain that falls from the sky. The darkness looms over the city, the annoyingly bright torches of the castle teasing all who reside outside of it. Yet, where the darkness meets, the light lies in the perfect view of your window. An almost mercurial design.

The door opening does not phase you. The silver-haired Prince slowly enters his steps across your room, filling the silence.

“Quite a long conversation with your mother,” You scoff, ignoring his stare as he stands to your right.

“Much came up. I’—“ Aemond's nonchalant tone makes your jaw clench.

“Too busy to at least pass a message of assurance?” You narrow your eyes at the sight of him, near seething as a grimace holds your features.

“(Y/n) you are overreacting,” He says. You stumble back as your eyebrows furrow. His demeanor contradicts the previous conversation. “There is no war coming.”

“Dammit, Aemond, you let her do it again! So what, your mother said all would be well, and you just believed that?” You gawk, shaking your head as you watch him sigh.

“(Y/n)—“He sighs, rising to your feet as you pace, cracking the muscles in your knuckles.

“Aemond, your life is the last thing I have ever desired,” You whine. His hands capture your own with a patient stare. Neither of you says a word as you squirm beneath his gaze.

“I’ve come with your gift,” He says, revealing a forearm-length box. The top’s identical to the one from his mother. A stillness captures the room as you eye the box wearily before accepting it from his hands. You open slowly, gaping at the lustrous glow of the metallic. The handle carved skillfully into river-like ripples, paying homage to your bastard status.

“I—this is beautiful, but we must discuss—” You huff. Aemond merely takes your arm, disregarding your words. He guides you to the fireplace, careful to not reach too forward.

“Heat it up,” His tone’s commanding as he studies your face. You frown, chewing on your bottom lip as you turn toward the fire. The blade reveals fiery red lines forming intricate patterns. “Do you like it?”

“Aemond, you’re dodging my questions,” You suck your teeth, dropping your shoulders as he drops his gaze. His silence makes your stomach churn as you fail to blanket your despondency.

“(Y/n) it is only a dinner,” He says, his eyebrows furrowing as you run your hands down your gown.

“In what world do I agree to this willingly, Aemond?” You say, leaning down to capture his gaze. Despite the scowl that paints your features, Aemond says nothing. A pregnant pause follows; pulling away from him, you place the dagger on your desk. Back at your window, you sit, your legs bouncing incessantly.

“I really tried, but mother insisted. She expects you present in a week’s time—in the gown, she gifted you,” His shoulders fall at his wide with a doleful look in his eyes. He watches as you visibly sink, your mind stuck in an endless loop of the Red Keep corridors.

“You promised. No royal drama,” You swat away his hands, your eyebrows knit together.

“You’re impulsive and an over-thinker. A painfully dramatic combination. This dinner shall be easy for you—smile and drink,” He reasons. You scold yourself for knowing better than to befriend a Targaryen.

“Dramatic is an exaggeration. You are protected by your title. I am merely a bastard. So my worries are reasonable,” You push at his arms, frowning. “I have nothing that protects me.”

“I’ll protect you,” He says, squeezing your hand.

“Aemond,” You say, tilting your head, and he mirrors you. A dry chuckle leaves him as he says you worry far too much. “You worry too little. If I’m doing this, I want something in return.”

“A comfortable room, coin, perhaps safety and security?” Rolling your eyes at his jest, he chuckles before asking you to name your price. Biting the inside of your cheek, the high possibility of war unnerves you more than you dare to share with Aemond. Nevertheless, you mutter, you will get back to him on the topic as you inspect your new dagger. The weight’s unlike your cooking knife you keep handy.

“I could kill you, you know?” You say, inspecting it closely—a tired smile taking your lips. He pulls your other chair by the window, scooting closer as his finger lazily traces your knee.

“You could try,” He says. Leaning back, you turn your gaze to the fire. His eye stays on you, the soft hum of the fire giving you an ethereal glow.

“A bastard dining with the royal family. That’s something you don’t see every day,” You chuckle dryly, but a hearty laugh booms from Aemond.

“There was a time when I saw it every day,” He says, and you meet his eye rolling your own. You swing the dagger between your fingers easily, wearing a blank stare as Aemond watches you. The rest of the night continues in a quiet hum. You are uncertain when Aemond left or when you even climbed into bed. The following day drags without a word from the one-eyed Prince.

You stop by Daltis’ stand to find his son, Cayde. A smirk tugs at your lips, seeing the large metal crate in his hands.

“Lift me next? “You say, leaning on the wooden stand. Cayde chuckles, shaking his head, placing the crate down. “Just you today?”

“Yeah,” You nod, grinning ear to ear. Cayde unloads the crate behind the stand carefully. Amusement dances in his eyes at your mischievous smile.

“Where’s your royal shadow?” He asks, crossing his arms. He towers well above you.

“Why, jealous?” Then, tilting your head, you wet your lips.

“Of a Targaryen? Never. I like my simple life,” He scoffs. His eye travels from your tunic to the dagger on your hip. Shaking his head, another chuckle leaves him, “What can I do for you (Y/n)?”

“I need to talk to your Dad about traveling to Pentos,” You say, casually earning a frown.

“Does your shadow know about that?” He asks. You scoff, placing the usual rate for the travel arrangements on the table.

“Does it matter? I’m coming back. I’m looking to leave in two fortnights,” Cayde grabs the coins from the table, raising an eyebrow. He nods his head, pursing his lips. You pull back from leaning on the stand, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Are you coming to Goran’s tonight?”

“Yeah. First round on you?” You walk away before he can continue. Despite your departure, he calls out, “First round on your Prince!”

Back in your room, you stare at the box beneath your bed. Aemond’s absence and a long time before meeting with Cayde leave you with your thoughts. Removing the gown from the box, the room proceeds to flip as you foolishly put it on. The front detailing’s meticulous, revealing a sliver of your chest. Clover-like patterns bind the slit, almost hiding it from view as the sleeves reach your wrists, and extra cloth hangs beautifully from your elbows. A walking message to Rhaenyra and her family—a pawn.

You nearly rip the dress as you struggle to remove it. Hastily fumbling with the clasp as though it burns your skin. Then, back in your tunic and pants, you abandon your room to the best seamstress you know. Daltis’s wife. Taliya welcomes you warmly into her home. You mirror her expression seeing many of Cayde’s features from his mother.

“Mother, I’m going to meet—“Cayde trails off at the sight of you. His mother stands holding a piece of thread around your midsection.

“Alright, dear. I will have it ready, I assure you,” Taliya says, taking your hands with her own. The corner of her eye crinkles as she smiles at you.

“You ready?” Cayde says, grinning ear to ear. He waits to follow you out. The night sky greets you both with a soft hum of nightlife chatter. People drink, laugh, and fuck unapologetically through the streets. You both navigate the crowd with an unflinching calm. “Hey, should we be worried about the succession? I don’t know how much your friend tells you.”

“Honestly, I am uncertain. Aemond blindly listens to his mother, who stays blissfully ignorant of all that is to likely come,” Cayde matches your pace perfectly. The torches set an orange glow beneath the night sky.

“I do not believe he likes me very much,” Cayde says, raising an eyebrow as a laugh leaves your lips.

“That is just Aemond. Ignore him,” You say, turning down an alley. The sound of loud music fills the dirt passage. Cayde knocks three times before Aryn’s face appears at the door. He gives you both a once-over before opening the door.

Cayde orders the first pitchers of ale as you both settle at a table. You listen intently as he explains his concern for the safety of King's Landing. You both speak over the music, just enough to hear the other.

“You are not alone in your fears,” You confess, placing your hand on his. He sips his drink, eyeing your hand. Your eyes scan the room—a woman laughs obnoxiously on a man’s lap as they speak with others sitting around them. A couple dances lovingly by the musicians, and the bartender moves at the speed of light to keep up with the growing crowd.

“What’s in Pentos?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. You pull back, taking a long sip of your ale.

“You know the rules of this business. No questions outside of the necessary,” You say. Taking another sip, Cayde rolls his eyes. “Shall we play our game?”

“I’ve known you most of my life. What more could we possibly not know about each other?” Cayde questions, a grin growing on his lips as mischief dances in your eyes.

You sit up on your knees and narrow your eyes at his nod. Your gaze softens as your lips part, “You fear taking over your father's business.”

“I told you this; that’s cheating!” He says, shaking your head; you remind him he told you his father's intentions, not his own feelings.

“Drink,” Your smile widens in delight as Cayden begrudgingly brings his cup to his lips. You lean forward again, your ‘focusing’ stare pulling a chuckle from Cayde’s lips. “You—“

Trailing off after a few seconds, Cayde grins victoriously, “Too long, drink.”

You roll your eyes, raising your cup. He backs you into a corner with his first two questions, leaving you to drink for both. You both ping pong for a while, others within the room virtually disappearing. A mop of messy white hair pulls you both back into the room. Wearing a grin, he lazily blows a strand of hair from his face. The heavy bags blend seamlessly with the bloodshot of his eyes.

“What’s a place like this doing with a girl like you?” Aegon’s question earns an eye roll as he fills your pitcher with the contents of his own.

“You likely put the poets to shame your grace,” You raise an eyebrow as he closes his eyes, near shuddering.

“Say it again,” He coos, grimacing as you bring the pitcher to your lips and meet Cayde’s gaze. His knuckles turn white around his cup. Aegon opens his eyes, grinning near maniacally. He turns to Cayde, lifting his cup and bumping Cayde’s. “Come on, you two, I wanna play your little game. I’ll start—you two fucked.”

Neither of you moves as the Prince’s gaze bounces between you both. He chuckles darkly, reminding you both of the rules. After several seconds you bring the cup to your lips. Cayde hesitates before doing the same, an obnoxious laugh leaving Aegon.

He tauntingly mimics your tactic, narrowing his eyes at Cayde. The two lock in a silent stare before Aegon looks forward. He lets out a laugh as if he remembers something, “Mhmmmm. You’re in love with her.”

“I’m done playing,” Cayde’s baritone voice fills the silence as he slams his cup, rising to his feet. Your eyes flicker to Cayde, who glares at the unfazed Prince. The music stops as all around you watches. You lay your hand on your dagger as your heart pounds. Cayde heads for the door, halting as Aegon’s voice fills the silence.

His deviant smile gone, now wearing a chillingly calm demeanor, “Finish the game. You’re in love with her.”

Cayde’s back faces the both of you, and you glare at Aegon, who ignores you. He grabs Cayde’s cup holding it out as he turns back. Cayde snatches it from his hands, eliciting a quiet gasp as you watch him lift it to his lips.

“And you’re afraid my stiff—rather taciturn little brother will find out and rip you out, root and stem,” You rise to your feet before a word can leave your lips; he roughly grabs your face. He turns to you, his eyes boring into your own as he reveals nothing beneath his surface. “I am giddy with the news of your presence at court. No longer Aemond’s little discretion.”

“Enough,” You swat his hand away, tilting your head as he eyes you. Cayde storms out as Aegon sits back down. You stand gobsmacked as the entire room watches you. Swallowing thickly, you follow after Cayde, abandoning the tavern. The passageway to the streets reveals a blur of faces, but none of them are who you are searching for. You opt to return to the Inn Keep, uncertain what to say to Cayde after the night’s events.

You are sure Cayde avoids you avidly, the days following without seeing him. If Aemond knows of your time in the tavern with Aegon, he says nothing. The day of the supper arrives like a looming storm cloud.

You lay on your back, fiddling mindlessly with your coin pouch. The green gown sits beneath your bed, still in its box, awaiting the hour the Queens summons begins.

Sitting by the fireplace, Aemond pauses on his page. Re-reading the same section for the fourth time, his eye lands on you. Still fiddling with the coin pouch with an absent focus. Your nose crinkles, the skin crawling sensations pulling your gaze to the wayward Prince. His aloof expression and clenched jaw meet your furrowed eyebrows. Snickering at the face, he bares for the public.

“Your dramatic smolder-glare thing may work on others. But how can one expect me to be afraid of you when I know you cry like a blubbering baby,” You chuckle. He tilts his head, raising his eyebrow and sighing as you roll your eyes. “I’m rather nervous.”

“Are you? I never would have noticed,” Aemond hums, and you scoff, rising to your feet. You pull your riding pants off, rubbing your skin in mint oil. As the hour draws near, you know you must begin preparing. The crackling of the fire fills the silence. You sloppily unlace the tunic turning to Aemond, who almost stealthily averts his gaze.

“Certainly not Aemond the Honorable,” You tease, slipping on your nightgown. He fails to hide his sheepish pout while avoiding your gaze. Finally, he mutters sorry, earning a chuckle. “You wonder why I giggle when you intimidate people. If they only knew. Now you must go. I need to get ready. Do not start. Ser Barlo will escort me.”

Aemond chews his bottom lip in silent contemplation before rising to his feet. He stares at you, and you raise your eyebrows as he appears ready to speak; his lips part for a second before shutting.

“I will see you at supper,” You nod your head, grinning to yourself. At the window, you wait until his silver strands shine in the sun outside your window. Then, deftly abandoning the widow, you retrieve the Targaryen box beneath your bed. Supplanting the dress with a satiny blue gown from the crown's coin.

Your advent to the hall disseminates a silence as an orator announces your late arrival. The clench of Aemond’s jaw and the droll of his eye leaves you smirking at your machinations.

“My apologies for my tardiness, your grace. This invitation is a very high honor. I put much effort into an appropriate appearance to offer reverence to your statures,” You curtsy with perfect precision ignoring all the eyes on you while holding the Queen’s gaze. Her frayed smile contradicts her warm tone. She has you sit between Helaena and Aemond.

“That is a very lovely dress,” Helaena breaks the silence with a giddy smile. You return her fervor by mirroring her expression before taking a sip from your chalice. Across from you, Otto Hightower eyes you unabashed as you match his stare. His cold look matches his stern features—akin to Aemond’s observant nature. Helaena closely inspects the neckline of your gown, “The ripple detailing is quite beautiful.”

“Thank you, Princess. I thought it would pay great homage to my upbringing in such a foreign setting,” Your eyes cut to Alicent, who freezes down at her food. You turn back to Helaena, entertaining her inquisitive nature of your life beyond the Keep’s walls.

The room fills with steady chatter as you find yourself, much to Alicent’s chagrin, exchanging stories with Helaena. The Princess covers her lips as she struggles to contain her giggles as you describe Aemond’s struggle to climb your rooftop home. A frown captures you as her giggles immediately dissolve. Helaena stares forward in a sudden stupor. Beneath the table, her hand grabs your own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“For only water can withstand the beast. Pride will drain it dry,” Your eyebrows furrow as she releases your hand, turning forward with an airy smile as if the last few seconds never came to pass. Whether the others ignore it or do not notice, you shrug off their ignorance.

“Princess—“Your whisper drowns away as the King rises from his chair. He removes his mask, revealing the decaying beneath, pleading for his family to come together. You find yourself fiddling beneath the table; glancing at Aemond, you avert your gaze as he watches you. Princess Rhaenyra rises to her feet, raising her cup. The King reattaches his mask with the help of his wife as his oldest child toasts to the Queen. While studying each of their faces, your gaze cuts back to Aemond. This time unrelenting at his commandeering stare. A common thread linking them, all of them fractured beyond repair. The King, wreaking glue that binds the lot of them. You cover your sigh with a sip of wine at the Queen’s toast, a meaningless gesture.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, blanketing it with the clearing of your throat as Prince Jacaerys slams his hands against the table. Aegon returns to his seat while Aemond rises from his own, and a stillness accompanies the tension. You bite at your potatoes, meeting Otto’s easygoing gaze—no longer cold and calculating. He offers you a half nod, neither of your reacting to the brewing hostility. It’s almost as if you are the only two who understand the inevitability on the horizon. The Prince offers a tribute, uncertainty lingering as all resume sitting. You glance at Helaena with a frown as she whispers about beasts beneath boards. Once again, no one around the table acknowledges her.

“I would like to toast, first, to our guest (Y/n). You are as lovely and kind as my brother detailed. I desire more of your presence at court,” Helaena beams down at you as the table watches you. Offering a wry smile, you glare at Aemond’s amusement as all sip their cups. Helaena turns with a smile, “Also, to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad he mostly just ignores you—except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

The King calls for music as you finish your wine. Prince Jacaerys offers his hand to Helaena, and the two abandon the table to dance. You nearly flinch as the younger Velaryon holds his hand at your side. He smiles sweetly, and you ignore how Aemond grits his teeth at the sight.

“My aunt is right. Your dress is lovely, my lady,” Prince Lucerys says as he guides you comfortably from his brother and aunt. You tower him by several inches, chuckling softly at his words.

“Thank you, Prince Lucerys, but I am no lady,” You say, falling in sync; you both jump opposite each other twice before locking arms.

“While that may be true, that does not incline me to treat you any less than,” His smile almost infectious as his genuineness shines. He misses how your own smile falters. How is this the same boy who took Aemond’s eye? The Velaryon Princes grin as they skillfully switch without disrupting the pace.

“My lady,” Jacaerys says, spinning you carefully as he pulls you an appropriate distance back. His hand ghosts cautiously near the small of your back. “Is this alright?”

“Of course, Prince Jacaerys,” You force a smile on your lips as your mind tries to make sense of your juxtaposed understanding. Jacaerys chuckles, insisting outside the ears of formality to only utilize his name. Chuckling softly, everything said beyond his request fails to reach you. How are they the monsters of Aemond’s youth? Jacaerys spins, returning you to his brother, who greets you gleefully. You cannot fight the giggle that bubbles in your throat.

“May I?” Princess Rhaenyra appears at your side, ruffling her son’s hair as he steps back, bowing respectfully.

“It has been a pleasure, Lady (Y/n). You are an excellent dance partner. I hope to find you at the next,” You curtsy, glancing at his mother, who beams at her son the same way Taliya does at Cayden. Disregarding the twist in your chest, you clasp your hands in front of you.

“We shall, Prince Lucerys. I am many things. Never an oath breaker,” Lucerys returns to his seat as his mother leads you further from the table, “You honor me, Princess. I deeply admire the prospect of a woman on the Iron Throne.”

“Thank you, my dear. Your support, as well as others, mean everything to my claim, but I come to you not of politics but regarding Ser Harwin Strong,” Your smile falters as her words as she locks your arms, and the two of you circle each other. Her resolve softens as she manages to keep you both on tempo, “He cared for you deeply, and I fear I have failed in maintaining his desires for your well-being. If you ever need for anything, dear girl, know you will always have a place with my family and me.”

Before you can process her words, the music halts at the King's pained groans. Guards carry home back to his chambers as you and Rhaenyra return to the table. At your seat, Aemond sits with his body turned toward you—his gaze bouncing from his eldest sister to you. Silence sits between you, and neither of you moves to break it.

The kitchen servants appear around you, carrying a giant roast pig in front of you. You stare at the roast fighting the urge to glance at Aemond, who willfully ignores its presence. Beneath the table, you reach out in search of his hand, but instead finding his knee, you awkwardly rest it there. You look up, meeting his gaze, and despite the music, the room almost silences around the two of you. The moment's brief, snickering rips you both from the calm. Lucerys’s laugh reaches across the table as he deliberately glances at his uncle. It’s nothing short of child-like stupidity—cruelty. You squeeze Aemond’s knee as he stares at his nephew, failing to draw him back to you.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” He trails off as if he imagines the fire he will light, his condescending tone sending an eeriness across the room. The Queen calls out Aemond’s name in a warning tone, but it does nothing to stop her son from playing with unspoken tensions, “Strong. Come, let us drain our cups to these Strong boys.”

You gaze at the guards that line the walls, their hands ghosting on the hilts of their swords. Then, at Jacaerys’ challenging tone, you slip a dinner knife beneath the table cloth, casually sipping your glass, “Why? It was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

The sound of Jacaerys’s fist against Aemond’s face sets off many moving parts. Prince Daemon grabs Lucerys, who rises to his feet as you shift right, stopping Aegon from lunging for his nephew. Unfortunately, you cannot see all that occurs behind you as Aemond lets out a dry chuckle. Aegon glances down at the knife that halts his movements dangerously close to his crotch. A smirk takes his lips as you raise an eyebrow at his amusement.

“You only grow more interesting with time, lady (Y/n). But, if I may, your presence only grows the hunger for what some call my salaciousness,” He whispers, grimacing; you retract the knife and your close proximity as the guards defuse the tension.

“I do hope you are prepared to starve, your grace,” You grit your teeth as Aegon grabs your wrist, pulling you back in. The others blindly focus on the Velaryon Princes, who struggle against the guards holding them back. Aegon chuckles, tormenting you right beneath Aemond’s nose.

“Make no mistake (Y/n). I will have you. This game of cat and mouse only makes it more exciting, wouldn’t you say?” He wets his lips, scanning over your features with a heady stare. You rip your arm away, watching as he drinks in your lack of subservience. His dark machinations for your body reflect in his eyes as he studies every inch of you. Finally, you rise to your feet, grimacing at the Prince, garnering the attention of the Queen. She frowns, her eyes watching her eldest son with wistfulness.

“(Y/n),” Ser Barlo appears at your right, holding out his arm to escort you home. Aemond’s no longer in sight, and you do not look for him. Ser Barlo says nothing as you grip his arm tightly through the corridors, your head nearly spinning as you do your best to hold your composure. Only back in your room do you allow the quiet sobs to rattle your entire being. Ripping the dress from your body fervently, gripping yourself as you watch the gown burn in the fire. Silently cursing yourself for ever wearing it—for allowing yourself to fall in the clutches of the dragons.