#the need to add 👀👀👀 behind every sentence

[iamdispleased]

What’s Happening With Lumon, MDR, O&D, and Gemma

Buckle up, cowboys.

Spoilers: Severance, The Lexington Letters

My theory is that Lumon is a sort of shadow government in expansion. The Lumon building is a military base/bunker. While not the only thing Lumon does, Lumon makes weapons, particularly bombs. They probably made or are making nuclear weapons. O&D designs the weapons and run Lumon’s equivalent to the ENIAC. MDR locate where to use the weapons and deploy them, similar to radarmen. I also think Lumon used MDR to cause Gemma’s car wreck.

02/09/25 Edit: I just read Ricken’s book, The You You Are, and it totally decimated my Gemma theory. So, never mind about that.

03/21/24 Edit: LOL.

Petey’s map of the Lumon building heavily resembles a military base or bunker. The technology and aesthetic they use gives me old school military/N.A.S.A. vibes. The way it’s shot when Mark pulls out his locker’s drawer reminds me of a scene in a war movie or flashback— especially with the way his watch looks like a compass.

As I said, MDR are similar to radarmen. Radarmen first appeared during WWII in the U.S. Navy and U.S. Coast Guard. Part of the radarman’s duties was to detect and track vessels through radar equipment, find target locations for attacks (like bombings), and operate the Identification Friend or Foe system, or IFF.

The IFF system, also known as the Mark Identification Friend or Foe system, is an electronic system developed during WWII that military forces used to identify whether an aircraft or vessel detected on radar was friendly or an enemy. This could be why MDR focuses on “scary numbers”. The “scary numbers” represent enemies.

A macrodata refiner’s job description is to “remove impurities from data and reorganize it in its purest form”, and at first I thought MDR was creating atomic bombs specifically, because what is more pure than the atom? But now I could see this as MDR is locating Lumon’s enemies (imperfections) and bombing them (removing them); therefore, making the world/society (data) pure. By ‘pure’, I mean the, “Cleanse the world of our sins,” type pure.

Since radarmen are specifically related to the U.S. Navy and the U.S. Coast Guard, it would make sense as to why Irv is told his outie can swim gracefully and likes the sound of radar, which is what he named his dog after. In the 1970s, the radarman’s duties was split into a few separate jobs. The one MDR seems to resemble the most are Operation Specialist.

O&D design the weapons MDR uses, and seem to be running a machine like the ENIAC. The ENIAC is a big ole computer developed during WWII. It performed calculations for artillery firing tables, the construction of the hydrogen bomb, atomic energy, thermal ignition, and more.

MDR’s file names also clue in on this, with pretty much all of them having events associated with, wars, uprisings and the like.

Pacoima, a file Irv works on, is the name of a neighborhood in Los Angeles. A few screw-ups from radarmen have occurred there, like the 1957 Pacoima mid-air collision.

Moonbeam was the name of a Mustang fighter-bomber aircraft built during WWII.

In the Lexington Letters, Peg, a former MDR employee, thinks that her finishing the Lexington file caused one of Lumon’s competitors trucks to explode, ending with two employees being *burned* alive in the truck and four bystanders’ deaths. The company’s name was Dorner Therapeutics.

I believe Gemma ‘died’ in that accident. The connection to a therapeutics company could be the reason Miss Casey is a wellness councilor.

In 2x02, Mark says that Gemma can’t be alive, because he had to identify her burnt body. My guess is that Gemma’s body was burnt, but Lumon used some sort regenerative technology to heal her. Since Lumon ended up causing Peg to die in a car crash, I wonder if Mark took her job. (Maybe she didn’t die at all, and is in a Miss Casey situation.)

The Battles of Lexington and Concord were the first major battles of the American Revolutionary War. If the Lexington file involved Gemma’s accident, then that was the start of Mark working for Lumon. It makes sense for the start of Mark’s journey to be titled Lexington, the start of the Revolutionary War.

One final note— the actual severance chip itself looks like a bomb. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are bombs.

And fin.

(I have just started my first rewatch of Severance, and plan to examine it deeper, but I wanted to throw this out there before it’s Too Late.)

tldr: Lumon is a growing shadow government. The Lumon building is a military base/bunker. O&D’s job is to design weapons, while MDR’s job is to locate where to use them and deploy them.

Edit: I rewatched the scene where Mark and Devon are talking in 02x02, and Mark didn’t outrightly say that Gemma’s body burned. He said, “If Ricken died and burned, I’d be sad for you.” I still take this as Gemma’s body burned, though. Mark could have just said, “If Ricken died, I’d be sad for you.” So, the addition of, “… and burned,” feels super specific. Still— my b.

[fortunxa]

QUESTION 18!! SHOW US WHAT YOU TOOK FROM US!!!!! /j

if I can request that, got anything you deleted from the ballerina series???

18. if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

okay, i fear i don’t keep anything i don’t add in my published fics BUT! i do have a scene idea i never got to use bc i couldn’t find a place to squeeze it in

scene idea: (setting: dressing room backstage, ballerina stayed behind after a performance) Jinx finds her, a bouquet in her hands, insecurities plaguing her mind. She thinks she doesn’t fit in ballerina’s world of tulle, silk, and graceful pointe shoes. Her ballerina simply ties ribbons around her braids—soft pink against the vibrant blue of her hair—reassuring that she fits right in.

BONUS! 👀 ballerina part 5 draft:

[Jinx was trying to be good. Trying to be careful. Trying.

But you weren’t making it easy.

You weren’t usually like this—so unrestrained, so needy, so desperate to feel. Usually, you were poised, every movement deliberate, every touch gentle. But now? Now, you were something else entirely—something reckless and hungry. And Jinx felt every inch of it in the way you moved, in the way your fingers curled around the back of her neck, in the way your breath hitched as you shifted closer, hips pressing against hers in a way that made it impossible to think.

She swallowed hard, fingers hovering at your waist. She wanted—god, she wanted—but wanting had always been dangerous for her. She didn’t know how to hold things without gripping too tight, without leaving marks, without breaking them in the process. Jinx had never cared much for silk and grace—things delicate, untouchable, meant for softer hands than hers. But that changed the moment those things started carrying your name.

You pulled her hands to your hips, pressed them there like you needed to feel them. Like you weren’t fragile at all. “I’m not gonna break,” you whispered, voice low, breath warm against her lips.]

will be rewriting when i find the motivation 🩷

[darkbluekies]

What would Edmund do with a Jester! Reader? *COUGH* asking for a friend 👀

Dance, my puppet

platonic!Yandere!king OC x jester!male!reader

Summary: being the spoiled king's personal jester puts a lot of pressure on your shoulders ... but what happens when he overworks you to the point of needing rest?

Warnings: unreasonable Edmund, choking, kidnapping, objectifying reader, mentions of killing

Word count: 2k

You hate how he looks at you. The way his icy blue eyes stare right through you as if you were nothing more than a piece of meat. You should be used to it, shouldn’t you? You’ve performed for him more times that you can count, but it never sits right with you. Every time he’s in need of entertainment, you’re brought out to embarrass yourself. 

This time when you go to the dressing room reserved for you, you can hear the door open behind you. You turn around … and there he is. 

“What do you want?” you ask and quickly add: “your majesty.”

“I want you to be the royal jester”, king Edmund says simply, cutting straight to the point. “I want you to perform for me only.”

“I wish I could, your majesty, but I have more clients I’ve already booked.”

He takes a step forward. 

“So cancel them”, he says. 

“I can’t”, you tell him. “They’ve scheduled months in advance, I can’t just … cancel. They’re high class families, if I cancel them, they’ll give me a bad reputation.”

“I don’t care. Cancel them. You’re going to be the court jester from now on.”

“Your majesty-”

“If you don’t accept the offer, I will force you to. You’ll be my personal jester whether you like it or not, so choosing the preferred way is entirely up to you, sir.”

You sigh and roll your eyes. There’s always been an eerie feeling after you’ve been performing for him. You’ve felt … dissected — like a frog or a fish. You only perform for him because you have to, he’s the king after all, but you don’t want to make it into a habit. 

“How dare you roll your eyes at me?” king Edmund scoffs. “You have a lot of nerve.”

“And a lot of stress, your majesty”, you mutter. “I’m honored that you want to have me as your jester, but-”

You don’t have time to finish the sentence before you feel his hand wrap around your throat. It shuts you up in an instant, and brings you at his mercy. 

“As I said”, kind Edmund says lowly. “I do not care about your other clients. I’m your king and you shall obey me, is that clear?”

You nod quickly. Even if he wasn’t squeezing his hand around your throat until you saw dancing dots, you’d not dare try your voice — unsure if it was going to hold. 

“You will cancel every, single event”, king Edmund tells you warningly. “Otherwise I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”

You nod again. Your blood has gone icy and soon your vision has gone black. Edmund lets you go and you draw in a deep breath while stumbling backwards. You grab a hold of the drawer and give him a wide eyed look. Edmund walks over and pets your hair.

“I’ll see you back here tomorrow”, he says and leaves. 

The second the doors close, you gulp. What are you going to do?

From day that onwards, you perform for him every. single. day. If you come late, repeat jokes or show the slightest disinterest, you get a taste of the rat infected dungeons. You want to rip your hair out from the stress of coming up with new jokes, new acts, new songs. You’ve gotten a room a the castle and while you’re not performing, they lock you in and tell you to come up with something new for the next day. You’re not burned out, you’re run over, thrown in a ditch and left to rot. 

“He looks weird today”, the king mutters as you start your act. 

You can barely hear what he’s saying. There’s a wall between you and him. Your limbs are heavy and hard to move, your voice comes out in a sluggish mumble. The world around you shrinks along with your vision and before you know it, you’ve hit your head on the marble floor. Edmund stands up and signals for a guard to pick you up. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Edmund asks. “Why is my puppet not up and running?”

“Your majesty, I think he fainted”, the guard who holds you says. He touches your forehead. “I think he has a fever.”

“A fever? How can that happen?”

“I’m not sure. I think we need to get the doctor.”

“Go put him to bed.”

Edmund follows the guard to your room and watches how you get tucked in. The guard runs to fetch the royal doctor. Edmund stays … and watches you. He removes your jester hat and places it on the nightstand. The bells on it rings, mocking him. He stares at you. 

The doctor arrives and examines you thoroughly. 

“He’s overworked, your majesty”, he says and sighs. “He needs to rest. No performances for at least two weeks.”

“Two weeks?!” king Edmund bursts out. “I can’t go two weeks!”

“We can hire another jester”, the guard suggests. “Until Y/N is well again.”

“I don’t want another jester!”

“I know, your majesty, but for now there’s not much we can do”, the doctor says. 

Edmund runs his hand through his dark hair and looks at you. 

“Give him something!” he demands. “Some medicine, some elixir, I don’t care! He needs to be working as soon as possible!”

“And that ‘as soon as possible’ is in minimum two weeks, your majesty”, the doctor reminds him. 

Edmund grabs the jester hat and throws it against the wall. 

“Fine”, he says and turns to the guard. “Get another jester. They better be half as good as Y/N or else I will kill them, do you understand that?!”

Edmund has time to kill three jesters before you have the energy to leave the bed. The king runs to your room and slams the door open. 

“You can stand!” he says in satisfaction. “Therefore, you can perform for me!”

“Your majesty … I can’t”, you say weakly and sit down on the side of your bed. “I feel horrible.”

“But … you’re a jester … you should be able to crack jokes … and sing. That’s your whole thing.”

“Your majesty, have you ever felt tired of your royal studies? Your teachers force you to do more and more homework when you feel like you’re going to fall asleep?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“If I could perform for you, I would. That’s what I mean. You need to believe me that I’m not feeling well.”

“How much longer is it going to take then?” Edmund almost whines. “I’ve been bored out of my goddamn mind these last two weeks! I’ve hired jester after jester, but none of them entertains me in the way you do. You have to get well quickly.”

“In that case, I need the right type of rest.”

Edmund looks lost. For once, he can’t buy what he wants, he can’t get what he wants in an instant. And it makes him crazy.

“What can I do to speed up the process?” he asks. “What do you need?”

“I need to sleep, eat and get some fresh air.”

“Fre- … fresh air?” Edmund almost chokes on his spit. “I don’t want you to go out. I can open a window.”

“I want to be able to change environment, your majesty. You’ve been keeping me locked in for a month.”

“Stop calling me that. Call me Edmund. It sounds so weird when you call me that.”

“Are you sure? We’re not friends.”

“Well, you’re my private jester. You’re obviously something to me. I’ll stop calling you ‘sir’ and you’ll stop calling me ‘your majesty’, okay?”

You nod. 

“Alright”, Edmund decides. “I will go out of my busy way to personally make sure that you get well.”

“Oh, uh, thank you … Edmund.”

For once, he smiles. 

“Shall we start now, then?” Edmund asks with his hands clutched together tightly behind his back. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ve been lying in bed for two weeks, I’d like to stretch my legs. Can we go out?”

“...fine.”

You walk side by side, wearing your pajamas while Edmund is wearing his entire costume. The garden is currently covered in red, yellow and brown leaves, there’s not a single flower left in sight. You shiver. 

“Why didn’t you bring a coat?” Edmund asks harshly, but before you have time to answer, he’s taken off his own and hung it around your shoulders. He starts buttoning it up. “You’re a clueless little puppet. When you’re not well you can’t even think on your own.”

“I’m not a puppet.”

“Yes, you are. You speak on command, you sing on command, you dance on command — what else would you be?”

“Sounds like a bird trapped in a cage.”

“At least you have nice feathers then.”

You stroll around the garden for fifteen minutes before Edmund decides that you’ve had enough. He grabs a hold of your arm and drags you with him. 

"Oh, please be careful!" you beg him. "My legs hurt."

Edmund halts.

"They hurt?" he asks. "Why didn't you tell me? I need to know everything if I'm going to be able to help you!"

"It's manageable, I thought it didn't matter."

"Didn't matter? Fucking hell, Y/N."

He takes a harsher grip on your arm and steps closer. You want to back away, but stand your ground.

"You are to tell me everything you feel, think and want", he tells you warningly. "You're my jester. My property. And if I want you to tell me something, you do it without fuss. That's how things work."

He reaches out his free hand to touch your hair, but you flinch your head away. Wrong move. Edmund pulls you closer by your arm until you're standing chest to chest.

"Stop resisting me", he whispers. 

"This isn't … professional", you mumble with your head turned away. "Stop."

"You're quite a thing, aren't you? Do you really think you're in any position to boss me around?"

You try to pull your arm away, but Edmund doesn't let you. He can't let you go. If he doesn't feel your warmth under his fingertips he'll freak out. When you fainted in front of his throne, he thought you died. He has never been so scared in his entire life. The thought of being without you sends him into a void he's afraid to never get out of.

Your attempt to get away doesn't succeed. Edmund pulls you even closer and wraps his arms tightly around you. You can feel his palm press on your back. He hides his face into your shoulder and breathes in. At first, he can only smell his own scent from his coat, but then … there's a small tingle of your sacred scent. It clouds his head and he brings you even closer to chase it.

"Ouch, you're hurting me", you mumble. "Your majesty, please let go-"

"Edmund", he reminds you without lifting his face out of your shoulder.

"Edmund, please let go, you're crushing my ribs …"

Edmund loosens his embrace ever so slightly.

"You need to go inside now", he says. 

He brings you inside, and back to your bedroom. Edmund tucks you in (rather forcefully) as you lie and watch.

"Now sleep", the king says. "In an instant."

You hold in your laughter. The king must be magical if he can fall asleep whenever he wants.

"What are you smiling at?" Edmund mutters. "What is so funny?"

"Nothing", you say.

His body language tenses. "What is so fucking funny? Tell me!"

"Fine. The way you want me to fall asleep in less than a minute amuses me."

He relaxes. "Oh, okay. Yeah, I suppose it could be taken … in a funny manner."

But you do fall asleep quickly, much to Edmund's delight. He sits down on a chair beside your bed … and waits for you to wake up again. You might not be able to crack jokes, sing or recite poetry, but your presence is all Edmund needs. Just being by your side is enough to make his day. Edmund lets his upper body rest on the bed right by your legs. Edmund shuts his eyes and decides to drift off to sleep. He can’t wait until his little puppet is well enough to perform for him again. But don’t you worry, he’s going to help you. He’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re how he wants you to be. 

[saypleasetickleme]

Do you have any favorite tickle games? Askin' for a friend 👀

Okay there are far too many to pick! I just love tickle games in general because they're fun and playful and give you so much teasy material to work with.

Any games involving the Lee keeping still/not laughing are great because they never last. There's a pretty entertaining one I'm a little partial to at the minute which basically involves you starting off tickling an unrestrained Lee who's laying down with their hands behind their head, and every time they bring their arms down, twist away or curl into a ball you get to add another restraint until they're appropriately immobilised 😌 (whatever level of restraint that is for you & your play partner)

Using paint or makeup brushes on spots like the Lee's back, tummy, inner arms, thighs, feet while getting them to guess a word/sentence (the trick is to either make it suuuper long, use one of their worst spots so they can't concentrate, or make it something they can't say like 'tickle me/i'm adorable/I love being tickled' ect).

There's also a more silly one that's like a giggly game of chicken, where you can hover over a spot, wiggle fingers or tools around getting as close as possible, but not touch. If the Lee can keep from laughing they're safe but if they can't then yep, you guessed it! They get tickled there.

I know @tickleexblush mentioned one we've done a couple times involving Mario Kart which can be adorable if they're competitive.

Tickle fights that lead to the loser is some form of restraints are a lot of fun too, especially if you know the Lee and the word that makes them forfeit is also one they use a lot while being tickled like 'stop' or 'okay!' ect 🤭 (regardless make sure it's different from the safeword for obvious reasons 💚)

If you're feeling particularly mean, or they've been particularly bratty then there's one that's a bit of a reversal to the norm where the forfeit is no more tickles instead. Where the Lee has to keep their arms up while you tickle them, and if they put them down then the tickling stops completely. They can do whatever else they like; laugh, struggle, squirm, hurl insults around like it'll make a difference, but as soon as those arms go down it’s over. (Though lbr it's not over because they're just too adorable and you'll end up cracking and saying they need to ask for tickles or something equally as flustering to continue instead.)

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Helloo, this is me @marvelstoriesepic ♡

Don’t feel pressured to answer this, I just want you to know what this series means to me and that my heart is jumping up and down every time I see you've updated. Like, I'm seriously sitting here every time, just basking in that atmosphere you create with those two.

I am loving your writing style so much. You mention so many things that might seem small but that's the point, they feel so important. It makes everything so intimate and real. It makes my heart ache in the best way.

Let me dive a little deeper into my feels here:

His phone is on full volume, waiting for a notification. He made sure his floor access was open. His windows are not blacked out. He has even left his door cracked open slightly, which feels wrong to the fundamental fibres of his being. 

God, I love this so much. Felt a little giddy when I read that, because hell, for all his annoyance with her entrances all the time he doesn’t act like he hates it omg

“Dunno where he is,” Bucky mumbles. Which is a lie, because Steve was very much in his room, waiting for him but Bucky had ghosted him to instead come be a clown outside your door. 

Little liar. But again, ahhhh, I am loving it. He was so worried and I live for it.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he walks back toward your door.

He just loves spending time with her, can’t tell me otherwise

That makes you pause. What’s the plan? Like he’s already factored himself in, as if whatever comes next includes him.

Grinned so hard, wow. He won’t leave her alone with this

Bucky doesn’t react. At all.

This is everything omg. He can read her so well and he tries to get something out of her without being pushy and I love that so much

And for a second– just a second- maybe he forgets how to breathe.

That causes me to lose my breath because AHHHHHHH. I am sensing tension 👀

You stop mid-sentence when Bucky shifts, leaning back slightly, arms stretched behind him, his body loose and relaxed. 

Oh hell yesssss he did enjoyed it so much

And suddenly, you’re aware of how close you’re sitting, how he feels bigger in the small space, how there’s this awful, annoying sense of recognition curling at the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

Speak of tension... we are getting something here omg I am relishing it

“Hey spirits. What’s the real reason why this one’s hiding from everyone?” Bucky cuts in smoothly.

I love him for this. He couldn’t get it out of his head so he just needed to speak it out.

He stretches his arms over his head, not looking at you as he says, “You’re avoiding.”

I also love how he never tries to avoid a conversation with her about deeper stuff, even if it could get weird or triggering or idk. He cares and that makes me so happy

And before he fully registers it, your head is in his lap.

I was so excited you wouldn’t believe me.

And then before he can think too hard about it, his fingers brush lightly over your scalp.

This did me in completely OMGGGG. I am swooning and grinning, damn!!!

You have such a gift for creating atmosphere and feeling. Every sentence has such a smooth flow, every little detail adds character and another layer of depth. It’s poetic without being overdone and vivid without being overwhelming (which happens to me a lot of times if I'm being honest lol)

This is everything, and I am absolutely obsessed with it. You outdid yourself, again, and I just want to live in this world you created forever 💖

unsolved (xi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, ghosts,

A/N: hai. we're into the double digits. thanks for sticking around this long!! jsyk there are like 17 parts planned to this series so

Previous part || Series masterlist

This is a dream scenario.

It’s the weekend, which means he should be out somewhere fighting off bats in a haunted cave or sitting in a dark room muttering Bloody Mary’s name fifteen times like a broken tape recorder because you insisted the first three didn’t work.

Instead, by 5 p.m., he’s in bed. With a book. There’s even a cup of coffee sitting beside him, growing cold. 

Really, he should be enjoying this. It’s rarely this quiet, and especially as the sun went down, the absence of your shenanigans, the lack of you dragging him into another bullshit horror hunt should be greatly freeing. 

But something feels wrong.

Because something went wrong in his childhood, and then something very definitely went wrong in his adulthood, Bucky feels uneasy with the peace.

He turns a page. At least, he thinks he does. He’s not sure he’s actually read a single word. Gun to his head, he would not be able to tell you the plot.

By 6 p.m., his eyes have zeroed in more on the door than the actual book in his hands.

His phone is on full volume, waiting for a notification. He made sure his floor access was open. His windows are not blacked out. He has even left his door cracked open slightly, which feels wrong to the fundamental fibres of his being. 

Nothing.

By 6:30 p.m., his coffee is still half full and lukewarm. God, he did not like that drink. The only thing he's done is flipped through pages for the sake of feeling like he’s accomplished something.

By 6:37 p.m., he’s out the door.

His grumbling is only half-hearted, which he hates. There is something much heavier that sits in his chest. Anticipation. Worry. Fucking blergh. 

He’s never been on your floor before. He knows you share it with Nat, the way he does with Steve, but he's never actually visited it. Sure he regularly makes sure you're dropped off to your floor now , but he hasn't actually stepped foot there, no matter how much you invite him in to your bedroom.

He assumes it’s similar, just with fewer World War II relics and less The Price Is Right. 

By 6:45 p.m., he’s knocking loudly on your door.

There’s no answer.

His jaw tightens.  

He wouldn’t blame you if you had just upped and left. He just thought Maya would beat you to it, because the second the article dropped, it was like the Avengers personally made it their mission to have the next week become a shitstorm of them making headlines for the most insane things. He thinks she's on sick leave. Or she should be, at least.

Clint posted a picture from inside a JP Morgan bank vault. Nat walked straight into a national live broadcast and joined in on a debate she had no context to. 

Sam did something. Bucky wasn't sure, but he saw Maya rubbing her temples and assumed it was bad.

Then, after Steve gets in an argument online and matches donations to Planned Parenthood and ends up donating nearly 100K, Maya declared a state of emergency. 

Every single one of them was put on lockdown, all social media passwords were changed, and every future press interview was canceled.

Bucky never even got the chance to plan what his disaster would be.

But even after all that, he had heard from you. Big, congratulatory messages flooding the group chat. Dumb memes. Responses to inside jokes no one else understood.

So where the hell were you now?

He bangs his fist against the door again.

Nothing.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. He raises his metal hand, just one second away from really turning the door into a pile of splinters-

It swings open before he gets the chance.

And there you are, staring at him like he’s the crazy one. The audacity. 

“Wha– oh.” You blink at him. “Why are you trying to break into my room?”

For a moment, it is just two idiots staring at each other.

Finally, he lets out a low, “What’s wrong with you?”

You raise a brow. “Could you be more specific?”

Only then does he really look at you.

The skin under your eyes is darker than usual, your arms crossed tightly over your oversized sweatshirt. Official Avengers merch, two sizes too big and the same colour you got him because you insisted you had to have matching fits. There’s a slump in your shoulders that wasn't there before.

“No video today?” he asks gruffly.

“Nah,” you sigh. “You’re free to do whatever.”

He stares.

You stare back.

“What?” you demand.

“Is this because of the news?” he asks slowly.

“I’m just tired, Buck.” You rub at your temple, like you're already exhausted with the conversation. “Haven’t I annoyed you enough this week?”

Logically, he should be happy about this. You did annoy him. Constantly. Every day. Even off the clock.

So why the hell is he still standing outside your door?

“Don’t you have something better to do?” you ask, leaning against the doorway. “I thought you were watching True Detective with Steve.”

“Dunno where he is,” Bucky mumbles. Which is a lie, because Steve was very much in his room, waiting for him but Bucky had ghosted him to instead come be a clown outside your door. 

You squint at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shifts his weight. “Thought you were dead.”

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. “Why? ‘Cause I didn’t come knocking today?”

He doesn’t respond.

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wait. You came looking for me because you missed me?”

“I didn’t–” he starts, then immediately gives up halfway through the sentence because he already knows he’s lost.

Your grin is too smug. “You came all this way because you missed me.”

His entire body tenses. “I just came to check.”

You press your lips into a thin line, fighting back laughter. “That is so cute. Just say you’re in love with me. I’ll even kiss ya if you ask nicely.”

Bucky turns immediately on his heel. “Goodbye. You can die now.”

You laugh outright at that, and he shakes his head as he stalks back down the hall. Which is good. Which means things are back to normal. He can go find Steve and get done with the stupid fucking vampire show or whatever--

“Actually--” your voice calls out behind him. “D’you wanna come in?”

His body actually stops.  Turns back slightly, warily asking over his shoulder, “…Why?”

You shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “No pressure. I was just gonna watch old conspiracy theories and figure out whether they’re legit or just old Avengers missions. You can sit in the corner and brood or whatever it is you do.”

“I do not brood,” Bucky says, brooding. 

“Sure, buttercup.” You wave dismissively. “See you next week, then.”

Bucky stares for a second longer, then pivots.

Then pivots again.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he walks back toward your door.

Bucky doesn’t expect your room to look like his room. His room, by standards, was the second worst room in the Tower, only second to Clint’s fucking swamp dungeon. 

But he also doesn’t expect it to look like this.

It’s too empty.

A bed, a desk, a laptop. A single, half-empty mug on the nightstand.

The only thing that makes it yours is the box shoved in the corner overflowing with fan mail, little gifts, and trinkets from people. Stickers, keychains, neatly folded letters– even a framed cross-stitch that says "if we die, we die together."

Which he doesn’t remember you saying, but sounds exactly like something you would. The thought makes his chest feel weird. 

But beyond that, it looks like a room doesn’t require much time to be packed up.

Something about that sits wrong with him.

“You’ve done a lot with the place.”

“Finally get you into my bedroom, and the first thing you do is insult my interior design,” you say. You gesture at the lamp on your desk. “Look at that lamp. I got it from the same trashcan I found Alpine in. It’s got character.”

Bucky squints at the lamp. Now that you mention it, the shade is bent at a weird angle and the base is slightly burnt.

“Really livens up the space,” he tells you.

“Thanks, I try.”

You flop onto the bed, stretching your arms overhead with a sigh. 

He hesitates for a beat before finally settling onto the floor, knees pulled to his chest.

You blink. “Why the hell are you sitting on my floor?”

“I’m comfortable,” he grumbles.

“You– I have chairs.” You gesture to them. “They’re free, I swear. You do not have to do this.”

“I’m good.”

You narrow your eyes, but let it go, shifting to sit near the edge of the bed. Your knee almost bumps his shoulder.

For a moment, there’s just the hum of your laptop, the faint flicker of the TV waiting on a selection screen.

“How are ya?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

“Mighty fine. You?”

He gives you a look.

You blow out a breath, arms crossing loosely over your stomach. “I’m fine.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Your lips curve up in the corners. “We can change that. Wanna sleep with me now?”

Bucky doesn’t react. At all.

Which is worse. Because he should roll his eyes. Should scoff. Should grumble some insult under his breath.

But he doesn’t. Your smirk falters slightly.

You clear your throat. “God, you’re no fun.”

“Why’d you call off the video shoot?”

“Why must I work all the time? Why can’t I take a simple break without being interrogated?”

He just keeps looking at you. It’s that new kind you’ve noticed him doing now. The kind that lingers half a second too long, that feels heavier than it should.

You shift. Rub at the edge of your sleeve.

“It’s…” You hesitate. “Not been the best week.”

Bucky adjusts how he sits. He doesn’t doesn’t dig, only keeps his eyes trained on you. 

You take a deep breath, then force a grin. “Been watching Glee compilations till, like, 1 a.m. Pretty sure that’s the real issue.” 

Bucky makes a low, unimpressed noise. Still, he lets it go—for now.

Instead, he asks, “So what’s your plan?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“For making yourself feel better.”

That makes you pause. What’s the plan? Like he’s already factored himself in, as if whatever comes next includes him.

You open your mouth, then shut it.

“Paranormal shit.”

You weren’t even thinking about it. It just… happened, probably because he’s here and it’s the subconscious working in mysterious ways. 

But Bucky’s reaction is not what you expect.

He does not shut it down instantly. Call it nonsense. Leave the room. All of which he has done before, to varying degrees.

Instead now he looks at you like he’s used to it. Like he’s thinking about it.

Something in your stomach tightens. You beat it down with a stick. 

You grin. “Oh, you want to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “What paranormal shit?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to agree.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“You told me so with your eyes. You gave me signals.”

“You’re insane,” he mutters. "I did not give you signals."

But you suddenly perk up like it’s given you an idea. 

“What?” he demands.  

“You ever talked to ghosts?”

Kinda.

“No.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing today.”

“What?”

“Ouija time, baby,” you say, already moving towards the box in the corner. “Now I don’t have a board but fear not. I shall make one. Custom-built. And then we will auction it off for a lot of money when you fake your death.”

“Why do you already sound like you’re prepared for that?”

“Because I am.” You rummage through the box. “Let’s see. We’ll need a marker, some cardboard–”

“You got a ring we can use?” he asks with a sigh.

“No, ‘cause you haven’t put one on me yet.” 

Bucky shuts up after that. 

You grin, pulling out a shot glass and wiggling it between your fingers. “Classy, right?”

Bucky stares at it. “Has that been used before?”

“Any remnants are just a little treat for the ghosties” you reply, flopping onto the floor and immediately getting to work, drawing out letters in marker.

Bucky watches you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

This is so fucking stupid.

Still, all he does is shifts to sit properly, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you finish drawing out the board with little squiggles decorating the corner and everything. 

He doesn’t even realize how close he’s leaning until you glance at him, something teasing and careful in your gaze.

And for a second– just a second- maybe he forgets how to breathe.

Then you smirk, knocking him right out of it. 

“Alright, soldier,” you say, grinning. “You ready?”

Bucky gives you a flat look.

The room is quiet, except for the hum of the TV and the scritch-scratch as you add in finishing touches. 

You hold up the board.

It’s terrible.

The letters are uneven and the numbers are already smudged from where you’ve dragged your sleeve over them.

You sit back, admiring your work, before grabbing the shot glass and plopping it in the center.

You nod solemnly. “It’s ready. Now put your hands on the planchette.”

Bucky sighs deeply, metal fingertips touching the top of the glass.  

You clear your throat dramatically. “Spirits, if you are here, make yourselves known.”

Silence.

Bucky nods. “Guess that’s our answer–”

The shot glass suddenly shoots out.

His muscles tighten immediately. His fingers twitch like he’s ready to grab a knife out of thin fucking air.

You, however, fail miserably in hiding a grin.

Bucky’s eyes narrow immediately. “You’re pushing it.”

“I am not,” you lie.

He stares.  

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I am wasting my night on this.”

“You’re just mad that the ghosts like me more.”

Bucky does not dignify that with a response.

“Put your hands back there, boy.”

So he reluctantly places his fingers back on the shot glass.

You clear your throat again.

“Oh great and powerful spirits, what secrets do you have for us?”

Silence.

Bucky watches unamused, watching as the letters spell out in lightning fast speed:

Y - O - U - R - 

A pause.

M - O -M.

Bucky lifts his hands and leans back.

“That’s the ghosts talking, not me.”

Bucky just sits there, silent.

You wiggle your fingers dramatically over the board. “Maybe you’re the problem. Maybe the ghosts just don’t like you.”

Bucky snorts, “Right. I’m the problem here, not the fool who used a shot glass to talk to them.”

“The shot glass is genius, alcohol is an ice breaker in most social situation."

"What about this is a social situation?"

"Well it's you, me, and a couple of babes from the underworld. By definition it's a social situation, and a cool one at that."

“Why aren’t your ghosts talkng to us then?”

“Maybe they’re ageist.”

Bucky glares at you.

“You’re practically ancient. Maybe they just hate old people.”

“Maybe if I was a centuries-old spirit and the first thing I heard from the afterlife was your voice, I’d go straight back to hell.”

Your mouth falls open, before you let out an outraged scoff.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from–”

You stop mid-sentence when Bucky shifts, leaning back slightly, arms stretched behind him, his body loose and relaxed. 

There’s a stupid smile ghosting at his mouth. 

“Oh my God.” You latch onto it instantly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up just enough to expose the solid cut of his forearms, the angle of his jaw sharp against the dim glow of your terrible table lamp. 

His expression is too neutral, too blank. Like he’s waiting for you to react.

Something about it catches you off guard. It’s not intentional. It’s not even anything. But your stomach tightens anyway.

And suddenly, you’re aware of how close you’re sitting, how he feels bigger in the small space, how there’s this awful, annoying sense of recognition curling at the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

Bucky notices the way your expression shifts even if it was just for a second, his eyebrows knitting together. 

You clear your throat immediately. “Anyway. Let’s ask them something real.”

“Oh, now we’re asking real questions?”

“Spirits!” You slap your hands onto the board. “What is Bucky’s deepest, darkest secret?”

He rolls his eyes.

The shot glass has not moved in half an hour.

It’s honestly humiliating at this point.

You refuse to acknowledge this.

Bucky, however, has fully accepted it.

“So what now?” he asks, leaning back against your bed, fingers drumming idly against his knee.

You stare at the board. “Maybe it’s a slow connection.”

Bucky blinks. “Slow how?”

“Like two bars, not four?”

“You think ghosts have bad WiFi?”

“I don’t know, Bucky, I’ve never died before.”

“I have. WiFi’s not the issue.”

You shove his shoulder. 

Bucky’s stupid smirk does not fade. 

 “Can we pack this up, or are you going to keep going until your humiliation kink ends?"

"I see you've been thinking about me and kinks in--."

"Stop talking."

You narrow your eyes at him, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fascist’, but place your fingers on the shot glass.

Bucky does the same.

You inhale deeply. “Spirits, is there anything you would like to say to us?”

Silence.

“Maybe they don’t know English.”

“Sure.”

“Should we try Morse code?”

“No.”

You hum, ignoring him. “What about—”

“Hey spirits. What’s the real reason why this one’s hiding from everyone?” Bucky cuts in smoothly.

It just slips out.

He looks as surprised as you do, but he recovers way quicker. 

He keeps his eyes on the board, like maybe if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, it won’t become a big deal.

The shot glass doesn’t move. Of course. 

But you pull your hands away first.

Bucky watches, quietly, as you sit back, pressing your palms against your thighs.

“That’s a dumb question,” you mutter.

Bucky hums. “Yeah?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

A beat.

You force a grin and shove the Ouija board aside.

“Well,” you announce. “That was disappointing.”

He stretches his arms over his head, not looking at you as he says, “You’re avoiding.”

You pause mid-movement. “Avoiding what?”

“You know.”

You freeze for just half a second, then shake your head, laughing awkwardly. “I haven’t–”

“You have,” he says simply.

It’s the certainty in his voice. Like he already knows the answer, and he’s just waiting for you to say it out loud.

You sigh. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky shrugs, looking back at the board. “Not what I asked.”

A moment passes.

“It’s the name thing,” you say finally, voice flat.

“The name thing?”

“Maya’s trying to relaunch me. Or, like, reintroduce me. Whatever.” You wave a hand. “She’s planning this whole… thing. New identity, new codename, new brand. Something public-friendly.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“She’s just doing her job,” you say quickly, like you’re cutting him off before he can say anything reasonable. “I get it. I do. But it pisses me off.”

Bucky hums. “Why?”

“It’s dumb,” you mutter, kicking at a loose thread in the carpet. “I shouldn’t care this much. But now, instead of just letting me deal with it, I have to make it a thing. I have to let everyone see me deal with it. They want me to launch like I’m some new product. Like they get to decide what version of me gets to exist.”

Bucky is silent for a long second.

Not because he doesn’t get it, but because he does.

Finally, after a while, he leans back slightly, “So what do you wanna do?”

You blink. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Or you just don’t like your options?”

Your mouth presses into a thin line.

Because hes right-- it’s not that you don’t know what to do. Stay silent? People fill in the gaps themselves. Let Maya spin it? You become someone else’s project. Reject it outright? You’re the problem.

It’s not even a big deal. It’s just a name. A stupid PR campaign. But every option feels like losing. Like a trap.

You exhale. “I just don’t wanna think about it right now.”

Bucky nods. Like that answer’s good enough.

And for some reason, that makes your shoulders loosen a little.

For the first time all week, it feels like someone actually heard you.

You shift, stretching your arms dramatically. “Anyway. That’s my tragic backstory.”

Bucky exhales sharply. “More tragic things have happened to you.”

“Yeah, like some blue-eyed Avenger-boy not asking me out.”

“No.”

“Let me have my moment.”

A silence rests lightly. 

“Alright,” he mutters. “What dumb shit are we doing next?”

“I don’t know. You want pizza?”

“I meant about your situation.”

You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Nothing. It’s fine. It’s not like I have a choice, anyway.”

Well that’s not entirely true. 

It’s an idea that creeps up a little too fast. It makes him worry about how much influence you’ve actually had on him. 

Bucky hums. “You’ve got one more option.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He tilts his head, casual, almost lazy. “Yeah.”

When he finally tells you, your entire expression changes.

Slowly, deliberately, a grin spreads across your face.

“Oh,” you say, “you are evil.”

Bucky just leans back on his hands, completely at ease. “I had nothing to do with this.”

Twenty minutes later, the board is still on the floor. 

The shot glass is still doing absolutely nothing.

You and Bucky are back to arguing over whether or not ghosts have good taste in movies when your phone explodes with a call.

You barely have time to read the caller ID before--

“You released a fucking internet poll?!” Maya’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud and borderline hysterical– but not in a bad way.

Bucky immediately presses his lips together, suppressing a smirk.

You, however, grin like a criminal.

“Define released,” you say, like this is the most casual thing in the world.

“Oh, you know exactly what you did.”

“I do,” you agree easily. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Maya groans. “You put your entire name change up for a public vote.”

Bucky coughs into his hand.

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And?!” Maya lets out a breath, “They're all chaotic fucking names and the poll already has two hundred thousand votes.”

Bucky immediately stares at you.

You blink, turning to look at him dramatically. 

“Two hundred thousand?” you repeat, voice too calm.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

You grin.

“Oh, I’m so famous.”

Bucky groans, while Maya is losing her mind on the other end.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “Why are you like this.”

You shrug, flipping onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I would say I was born this way but I was created. In a test tube and everything.”

Maya scoffs.

And Bucky, for some reason, has a look on this face, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

Then, after a second, he mouths, “Have an actual conversation.”

You roll your eyes but tilt your head back toward the phone.

“Alright, fine,” you sigh. “Lemme step out. Yell at me in private.”

Maya exhales. “It’s not yelling.”

“It’s a little yelling.”

You roll onto your feet, shuffling toward the door

“Back in a sec,” you tell him.

Bucky just nods, watching as you disappear into the hallway.

And just like that he’s alone. Sitting on the floor. Next to a completely useless Ouija board.

And he doesn’t know why, but his fingers twitch.

Not because he believes in it. Not because he thinks it’ll work. 

But… just because. 

Instead, he just shakes his head, rolling his shoulders back. 

“You’re losing it, Barnes,” he mutters under his breath.

But then, without warning-

The shot glass moves.

Bucky immediately stiffens, staring at the door but you’re still having an animated conversation with Maya, fingers pressed into your forehead. 

Bucky’s gaze drags back to the board. 

He doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just watches as the glass drags itself across the board, slow and deliberate.

One letter.

Then another.

J.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

A.

His stomach twists.

Then–

M.

And the shot glass tips over. 

His heart stops.

And suddenly, he’s not in your room anymore.

He’s eight years old, sitting on the floor of a Brooklyn apartment, scribbling nonsense into a notebook while Rebecca Barnes, all of six years old, with messy braids and jelly-covered fingers, sticks a homemade label on his lunchbox.

“Becca.”

“What?”

“That’s not how you spell James.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

Bucky presses a hand against his face. “Mom—”

 He blinks.

The board is in front of him again.

The shot glass is still. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at it.

His head feels weirdly light. His chest feels too tight.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Bucky keeps still, in a way that says nothing happened.

Because if he doesn’t deal with it now, then it isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, then he doesn’t have to think about it.

You flop onto the bed, letting out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Well,” you exhale, dragging the word out. “That was a wild experience.”

Bucky registers the words, but not the meaning.

It’s like he hears you, but the sound is coming through the wrong frequency.

“Yeah?” he mutters, barely processing it.

The sound of your voice fills the space, but it doesn’t quite pull him in.

“Oh, yeah.” You roll onto your stomach, kicking your feet behind you. “First, she yelled at me. Then she was impressed, which honestly I think pissed her off more.”

Bucky nods. Because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

You’re still talking. That should ground him.

And yet his mind is somewhere else entirely.

The air feels off. Like the word JAM is still written in front of him.

“--already drafting apology emails before I even hung up.”

Bucky blinks once, twice.

He knows he should be engaged, responding, moving.

But instead, he just mutters, “Yeah.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

Bucky blinks. Finally, he fully snaps back.

His eyes flick toward you, registering you properly for the first time.

The way you’re watching him now, eyebrows raised, like you’ve been waiting for him to catch up.

He searches for the last thing you said.

Finds nothing.

Shit.

You press a hand to your chest, looking deeply entertained. “Are you ignoring me?”

Bucky scoffs. “Not right now specifically.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

Bucky opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

“Wow. Incredible.” You clap your hands together once. “I’m heartbroken. Betrayed. Ignored.”

Bucky shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah this must be what he felt like."

"Wow."

"No, no, it’s fine.” You wave a hand, mock casual. “I’ll just go die then.”

Bucky groans. “I’m back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you need to space out again, just know that I have an open window–”

Bucky balls-up the ouija board and tosses it at your head.

You shriek.

He’ll think about it later.

Whenever later is. 

The laptop screen flickers in the dim room, casting weird shadows against the wall.

You and Bucky are back on the floor, legs stretched out, backs leaning against the bed, watching one of the most ridiculous conspiracy theory videos you’ve ever seen.

The narrator speaks with the conviction of a man who has nothing to lose.

“--and that’s why I’m telling you, there’s no way the Pentagon incident was just a gas leak. Witnesses reported a mysterious figure in black who allegedly disappeared into the shadows–”

“That was Nat.”

You pause the video. “What.”

Bucky doesn’t even look away from the screen.

He gestures lazily toward the blurry figure circled in red.

“That’s her. Right before she cut the power and knocked out two guards. The whole thing took, like, a minute.”

You stare at him.

Then at the screen.

Then at him again.

“I fucking knew it.” You gesture vaguely at the screen. “I called this years ago. Everyone told me I was an idiot. ‘Oh, the footage is too blurry, you can’t even tell if it’s a person.’ Amateurs.”

“Feel validated?”

“Oh, hugely.”

He shakes his head, amused.

You squint at the screen. “What else? What’s real, what’s bullshit?”

Bucky thinks for a second.

He points to another clip.

“Alright, see this?”

A new segment starts playing, showing grainy footage of someone scaling the side of a high-security building.

The narrator’s voice kicks in again. “--but the real question is, who was this shadowy figure? And how did they evade detection when–”

“That’s me.”

You blink.

Bucky nods. “Stockholm. 2012. Whole mission went sideways, had to improvise.”

You exhale, pressing a hand over your face.

“Oh, my God.”

Bucky smirks. “Something wrong?”

“You’re telling me that a significant percentage of government cover-ups are just you and Nat running errands?”

Bucky shrugs. “I wouldn’t call them errands.”

“What would you call them, then?”

He thinks about it for a second.  

“Side quests.”

You nod slowly.

“Right,” you say. “Of course. Are the lizard people real?”

Bucky huffs a short laugh. “I’m not answering that.”

“Wow. Interesting.” You stroke your chin. “You didn’t say no.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. You grin.

The videos keep playing, but neither of you are really watching anymore.

The narrator is still droning on, something about classified operations and shadow governments, but the energy has shifted.

Your eyes feel a little heavier now.

Bucky can tell.

You’ve stopped fidgeting, stopped making comments, stopped cracking jokes at his expense.

You’re just there, leaning into his side, slowly sinking deeper into the moment.

He exhales, tilting his head back against the bed, letting himself relax, too.

The silence between you is comfortable. Easy.

And before he fully registers it, your head is in his lap.

Bucky freezes.

It happens so smoothly that for a second, he wonders if you even realize what you did.

You don’t say anything.

Just curl up slightly, tucking your arms under your head, pressing your cheek against his thigh like it’s nothing.

Like this is normal.

Bucky forces himself to breathe.

To not react too much.

To not make it something. Because it’s not.

Right.

The glow from the laptop screen flickers, illuminating the soft edges of your face.

Something in Bucky’s chest tugs.

You sigh, voice quiet, almost lazy.

“Thanks for hanging out with me,” you murmur. “I needed that.”

Bucky swallows.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles.

And then before he can think too hard about it, his fingers brush lightly over your scalp.

A small, absentminded gesture.

Barely there.

But you don’t move.

Just breathe slower. Sink deeper.

Bucky knows he’s going to regret this later. His back is already complaining, his brain is already filing this away for future analysis.

But you look too at ease to move.

So he stays right there.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to those who comment and tell me what u think-- i love u. ur the sole reason i haven't abandoned this lil fic. thank u for everything mwah <333333

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it's the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don't post there at all except for fics </3

[netegf]

live image of me reading this chapter!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

The whole intention of spending time together away from the High Camp was to avoid the attention and the murmurs of the villagers about them. More importantly, to avoid running into Kaye and his new mate. But the moment their ikrans touched down in the forest, far away from the prying eyes, the pressure of performing got replaced with an uncomfortable tension. And neither Y/N nor Neteyam knew how to close that gap between them. How come weaving mats in a healing tent seemed to be easier and less stressful than taking a stroll in the lush forest of Pandora? “Say something, show her the real Neteyam,” Neteyam muttered to himself, trailing awkwardly behind Y/N.

PLS i feel like sebastian watching eric and ariel during kiss the girl IM GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET!!!! 🤭🤭🩷🩷🩷

“No, I get beaten up too sometimes… though not as often,” he shrugged again, this time releasing the pressure of performing, as he admitted to a vulnerability that most warriors wouldn’t, “And even when I do, I don’t worry about that stuff.” “Why not?” Y/N’s ears perked up in curiosity. “Well, let’s see…” Neteyam bit back a smile, pretending to be thinking about his answer, “I have a grandmother for Tsahik, my mother used to be the tsakarem, now my sister is a tsakarem,” he paused, hesitating to add, “And my destined mate is training under the guidance of the Tsahik. So, I think I’m in good hands.”

hearing neteyam call us his destined mate is literally making me melt into a big pile of mush!!!! i LOVE the way you write him - he's a little shy and nervous but so charming and sweet and kind and dutiful ... the best man there ever was ... i am so obsessed and in love with your neteyam 😭💖

Since they were practically regulars at the tent, each warrior was used to being treated by the same one or two healers, and everyone found their places right away. Kiri too, without a second thought, was immediately grabbing her older brother and getting to work. Which left Y/N standing in front of Kaye, according to the unspoken habit that had developed over the past months. Kaye had a gash across his chest that needed close inspection, but Y/N couldn’t really move, as if her feet were suddenly glued to the ground, weighed down. 

LMAO maybe i'm a messy person but im SO ready for this encounter YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW!!!! 🤭🤭💖💖💖 i feel like im sitting with my face in my hands like 👀 as much as I'd like to see kaye suffer through the awkwardness, KIRI & NETE STEPPING IN LIKE THAT???? yeah!!! i've ascended into the astral plane 🧍🏻‍♀️🙌🏼 🥰 the way they have our back :'))))

“Stop staring,” Y/N mumbled, without looking up at him, while her hands still worked their healing magic. Neteyam shook his head to deny her request, and continued to watch her every move intently. Irritated, she hooked a finger under his chin and forcefully turned his head to the side, so that he was met with the tent wall. He chuckled weakly at the gesture but kept the new position.

now this 😭😭😭🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 is my absolute kryptonite!!!! i know i'm literally stopping every other sentence but this is what happens when ur mutuals make!!! amazing things!!! that make ur heart melt !!!! 🥰🥰 im literally GIDDY - the tenderness and intimacy of a gesture like that is so cute n sweet to me - and also the casual dominance???? sticking ur finger under this chin and playfully making him look away???? like i can die in peace goodnight sweet friends 💖💖💖

“My grandmother won’t kill you, if I’m coming with you,” he explained, without even glancing back at her. “You’re coming with me? Where?” Y/N’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “Wherever you want.”

[sobbing] h-he's so !! he's s-so!!!!

i love this line :'))) neteyam take me out of this place pls and thank you 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹💗💗💗💗💗🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 and also the fact that he's willing to bend the rules if it's for her???? i love the idea of them being such givers and finally getting to take a break together 😭😭😭😭

Another powerful shove, and Neteyam swiftly toppled his opponent, sending him sprawling onto his back. His spear was aimed threateningly, directly at the vulnerable spot beneath Kaye's throat. Kaye’s eyes widened in fear, as for a fleeting moment, it seemed like Neteyam might not stop. He immediately lowered his ears in a gesture of submission to the future Olo’eyktan. “Neteyam, that’s enough,” Jake's voice cut through, jolting Neteyam back to reality.

+

“I think it’s safe to say that she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Neteyam’s voice trembled slightly, “If I were you, I would have kept my distance. Just like you've grown accustomed to doing over the years.”

MY FACE READING THESE PARTS

“Neteyam, what the hell happened to you?” Y/N asked, her eyes turning bigger in shock. How long has he been in pain? Why didn’t he come to the healing tent and get it treated? Her mind was flooded with questions. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, turning around to face her, though his expression was painted with guilt, “Just a few scratches.”

i am in my FEELS!!!!! the genuine concern and panic 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🩷🩷🩷🩷 the waiting despite her negative experiences with kaye and the fear of being abandoned !!!!! neteyam trying to tend to his own wounds 😭😭😭😭 the genius is killing me!!!

“It is Kaye.”

THE CLIFFHANGER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i am literally so excited to see what happens next im so geeked rn 😭😭😭😭🩷🩷🩷🩷 i'm conflicted because a part of me hates kaye for what he's done, but the other more sensitive part of me is like :oooo (remember the times we had! the times that you and me had! do you guys remember that tiktok sound??? so old lmao)

literally incredible as ALWAYS, i am so so so obsessed 🥹🥹🥹💖💖💖 i have been reading this for over an hour because of how much i want to savour and enjoy it <3333 SO HYPE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER!!!

Chosen by Eywa - Crossing the Bridge - Chapter 4

← chapter 3 | chapter 5 →

contains: arranged marriage, mentions of war and grief, angst, one-sided enemies to lovers, slow burn

wc: 4.2k

chosen by eywa masterlist | general avatar masterlist

a/n: i know i haven't updated in two weeks, but it was only due to the circumstances. like i promised, i will have another chapter out during the week, bc i'm so happy that i got my visa and went to my concert, so stay stuned, babies. i hope you still like this series and will keep reading T.T

It was awkward. The way Neteyam stood in front of the tent, hesitating to walk in to avoid drawing the attention of the other healers. Awkward, how he had to shift his weight from one foot to the other every few minutes because everyone, except her, had caught sight of the future Olo'eyktan at some point. And it took Kiri to finally shove her so forcefully to look up from her task, that Y/N almost fell face first onto the ground.

The whole intention of spending time together away from the High Camp was to avoid the attention and the murmurs of the villagers about them. More importantly, to avoid running into Kaye and his new mate. But the moment their ikrans touched down in the forest, far away from the prying eyes, the pressure of performing got replaced with an uncomfortable tension. And neither Y/N nor Neteyam knew how to close that gap between them. How come weaving mats in a healing tent seemed to be easier and less stressful than taking a stroll in the lush forest of Pandora?

“Say something, show her the real Neteyam,” Neteyam muttered to himself, trailing awkwardly behind Y/N.

She, immersed in her own thoughts, walked ahead without a clear direction, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her loincloth. Neteyam desperately tried searching for an opening to deliver, and took a few larger strides not to fall behind too far.

“So… how was your day?” he finally mustered the courage to ask.

Y/N paused in her tracks, glancing back at him with a small frown, as if she couldn’t quite make out the words he said. Neteyam stopped walking too, waiting for a response.

“The usual. Lessons,” her voice lacked any enthusiasm that could have encouraged him to go on. 

“Good,” Neteyam nodded, trying to offer something else in return, “I’ve had training today.”

“How was it?” 

“The usual,” he repeated Y/N’s words with an ironic snicker, recalling his morning, “It’s either getting beaten up by your fake opponents, or by the actual bad guys. Today was the pretend one.”

He shrugged to complete his explanation, something that he had borrowed from his brother whenever he made a joke, as if to give his words a humorous meaning. And though they were quite ghastly, it coaxed a small chuckle out of Y/N. Neteyam’s ears twitched at the sound with a flicker of delightful surprise. He made her smile.

“Well, you look alright for someone who got beaten up,” Y/N gestured at his woundless body, her canines peeking out.

“I’d have to turn that compliment down, since I didn’t get beaten up today,” Neteyam smirked, “You should have seen the other guy.”

“Oh, is that so? That’s always the case with you?”

“No, I get beaten up too sometimes… though not as often,” he shrugged again, this time releasing the pressure of performing, as he admitted to a vulnerability that most warriors wouldn’t, “And even when I do, I don’t worry about that stuff.”

“Why not?” Y/N’s ears perked up in curiosity.

“Well, let’s see…” Neteyam bit back a smile, pretending to be thinking about his answer, “I have a grandmother for Tsahik, my mother used to be the tsakarem, now my sister is a tsakarem,” he paused, hesitating to add, “And my destined mate is training under the guidance of the Tsahik. So, I think I’m in good hands.”

“Right,” Y/N snorted at the comment, and for a moment Neteyam thought that he might have crossed the line his father kept telling him about, but once she turned away from him to continue walking, he noticed a ghost of a smile on her lips, and that was enough of a confirmation to send his heart into a rapid beat.

Neteyam wasn’t even sure why the reaction made him suddenly giddy but it felt like a small victory he could showcase, if his family expresses any interest in his progress with Y/N. And as he continued to trail behind her, though they mostly remained in silence, the atmosphere seemed to ease.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

“It’s okay, Y/N, let’s switch,” Kiri’s tight grip on Y/N’s arm brought her back into reality.

Y/N stood awkwardly a few steps away from the two warriors in front of her - one, who looked at her with guilt but still some lingering warmth in his eyes, and the other - who studied her earnestly, looking for any signs of discomfort, as if he could make them vanish. Kiri, who was only a moment ago treating her brother, was quick to read the situation and attempted her best to resolve it. Everything just unraveled so fast, the way the group of warriors stumbled into the tent for the first time in days, seemingly wounded after an encounter with the sky people. 

Since they were practically regulars at the tent, each warrior was used to being treated by the same one or two healers, and everyone found their places right away. Kiri too, without a second thought, was immediately grabbing her older brother and getting to work. Which left Y/N standing in front of Kaye, according to the unspoken habit that had developed over the past months. Kaye had a gash across his chest that needed close inspection, but Y/N couldn’t really move, as if her feet were suddenly glued to the ground, weighed down. 

Neteyam, of course, watched the scene unravel before him, but he couldn’t do much but just contain himself from making a bigger deal out of it for the whole tent to see. His eyes darted around the room, searching for his grandmother, who perhaps could help Kaye instead, but Mo’at was already busy with placing stitches on another warrior’s thigh, and it would take a while before she would be free.

“It’s alright, I can wait for somebody else to -” Kaye cleared his throat, raising his palms in the air, as if to prevent the switch up, but Kiri simply ignored him, already nudging Y/N to the side.

“That looks bad, you need to take care of it,” Neteyam gestured at Kaye’s chest with much discontent, as if acknowledging the truth made him cringe.

Defeated, Kaye stopped disagreeing, the sting of the wound was only getting more painful when he spoke, and to be quite honest, he couldn’t wait. Y/N’s expression remained stone cold, as she watched Kiri lead Kaye to the other side of the tent. Neteyam pressed his lips into a thin line, watching them two, his irritation finally starting to seep away, the farther they got. He was almost caught off guard, when he felt a pair of cold hands against his skin.

Y/N silently kneeled in front of him, starting to treat the small scraps over his arms and shoulders. Her expression was unwavering, as if nothing had happened, and he wondered what she was really thinking about. Was this the first time she saw Kaye after their fight?

“Stop staring,” Y/N mumbled, without looking up at him, while her hands still worked their healing magic.

Neteyam shook his head to deny her request, and continued to watch her every move intently. Irritated, she hooked a finger under his chin and forcefully turned his head to the side, so that he was met with the tent wall. He chuckled weakly at the gesture but kept the new position.

“You can take a breather, you know? I’m not dying, I can wait,” he suggested.

Y/N paused to stare at the side of his face for a moment, giving him a false sense of actually contemplating his offer. Of course, she was going to turn it down, there was no way she could’ve just walked out of the tent. The scolding she’d get from Mo’at wasn’t worth it.

“I can’t,” Y/N pretended to be unbothered, her hands continuing to work over his forearm, where a few smaller cuts were in need of a soothing balm.

“Why not? I won’t mind,” Neteyam turned his face again to look at her. 

“Because I can’t leave my destined mate unattended, can I?” Y/N's voice dripped with irony, and she couldn't resist stealing a quick glance at him, searching for a reaction.

Neteyam's frown deepened, caught off guard by the repetition of his own words. Was that a bad slip? Maybe she took what he said in a way where Neteyam only valued Y/N for her skills, rather than her as a person. Disappointed with himself, he shook his head and then gently covered her hands with his own, halting their movements.

"Y/N, I didn't mean it that way," Neteyam's voice was low, and he waited patiently for her to meet his gaze before continuing, "This... it doesn't matter. I was just kidding. Go on, and take a breather if you need one."

“I know, Neteyam, I was only teasing,” the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement.

For a fleeting moment, Y/N allowed herself to forget that the love of her life was sitting and watching her from across the room. It felt exhilarating to indulge in the playful banter, teasing Neteyam and pretending that they were a blissful couple, free from the weight of their responsibilities.

“You’re teasing,” he breathed out with relief, “Oh… good.”

“Yes,” she rolled her eyes, “And obviously I can’t just take a break right now. Your grandmother will kill me.”

As Y/N returned to tending his scrapes and cuts, Neteyam bit his cheek, thinking for a moment. A sudden surge of courage coursed through him, and he made a decision, quickly standing up and pulling her gently to her feet. His hand found hers, and the movement surely caught the attention of those around them but Neteyam only shrugged, his eyes on Y/N. She was confused, and she couldn't help but glance nervously at Kaye, who had been watching the whole interaction with unease. 

“Let’s go,” Neteyam’s thick-accented voice grabbed her attention once more, and without waiting for an answer, he was already walking out of the tent, leading her by the hand with him.

Y/N had little time to react, on the way out, her eyes caught a sight of Mo’at, who shook her head at the interruption and returned back to her task.

“Neteyam,” Y/N hissed embarrassed, but his grip on her, though gentle, remained unmoving.

“My grandmother won’t kill you, if I’m coming with you,” he explained, without even glancing back at her.

“You’re coming with me? Where?” Y/N’s nose scrunched up in confusion.

“Wherever you want.”

Neteyam was never one to protest the rules. Lo’ak liked to tease him about it and call him a “goody-two-shoes,” but Neteyam was too focused on excelling rather than getting offended by his brother’s weak insults. But he also never had enough motivation to disobey. Breaking the rules only brought trouble, and after careful consideration, Neteyam had never deemed it worthwhile. But here, now, as he led Y/N away from her responsibilities to offer her a moment of peace, he decided that it was for a good reason. That it wouldn’t matter if his grandmother got mad at them and he would take the blame anyway, since he initiated it. But if it meant that she didn’t have to keep working while her past lover gawked at her, then maybe it was worth it.

When they were finally away from the tent, Y/N stood right in front of him, their hands still intertwined. Despite trying to stare down at his much bigger frame with disapproval, there were traces of gratitude in her eyes. Her tail swished with excitement, thinking of how great it felt to abandon her day’s duties and just be left alone.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice carrying an earnest tone.

"No need to thank me," Neteyam squeezed her hand, "My mother always reminds me that those who care of others also deserve care in return. I tend to forget it at times, but she's right."

He tugged at her hand once more, his gaze already wandering off to somewhere else. Without hesitation, Y/N willingly trailed behind him along the narrow path that meandered through the Hallelujah Mountains. Neteyam's grasp on her hand remained firm all throughout, neither of them sure if it was to guide her safely or simply to reassure her with his presence.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Walks with Neteyam had shifted from being an obligation to somewhat of an entertainment. They still didn’t speak much, finding peace in the quiet companionship, as they wandered through the forest, away from the eyes of the clan. In those moments, Y/N stopped feeling the pressure of pretending to be happy about her impending union with the future chief, while Neteyam was happy to reconnect with the forest. Since the relocation of the clan to the Hallelujah Mountains, his time in the forest was limited to missions or overseeing his siblings, never to revisiting his past and his roots.

And while to Y/N, this relationship had evolved into a strong foundation for friendship, Neteyam struggled with his growing protectiveness over her. It felt like she might crumble if he wasn't there to watch over, and the mere mention of her past could be her breaking point. These thoughts consumed Neteyam's restless mind, keeping him awake at night. Alongside with them, his frustration towards Kaye and the lack of respect, fueled his anger, as he delivered another forceful hit to his pretend opponent. Was it genuine protectiveness he harbored for Y/N, or was it simply his frustration with Kaye's behavior? Neteyam felt like a hypocrite. 

The future chief groaned in frustration, delivering another calculated strike, disarming his opponent, Kaye. But his anger and irritation were blinding, making Neteyam lose his focus, not necessarily in his movements but within the depths of his mind. He couldn’t stop the attacks. 

Kaye fell into his parents’ trap and mated with a woman of their choosing. Yet, he seemed content with their decision and he had no trouble leaving Y/N behind. Did he ever even love her, or was he simply leading her on all that time? Either way, Kaye had moved on, and Neteyam had to be the one who watched Y/N try to deal with the fact.

Another powerful shove, and Neteyam swiftly toppled his opponent, sending him sprawling onto his back. His spear was aimed threateningly, directly at the vulnerable spot beneath Kaye's throat. Kaye’s eyes widened in fear, as for a fleeting moment, it seemed like Neteyam might not stop. He immediately lowered his ears in a gesture of submission to the future Olo’eyktan.

“Neteyam, that’s enough,” Jake's voice cut through, jolting Neteyam back to reality.

With an almost aggressive shake of a head, as if trying to force away the nagging thoughts, Neteyam took a step back and lowered his spear. The fight was clearly over and he was the winner, but it barely even felt like a victory.

Neteyam exchanged a look with his father, who was confused with his son’s behavior. To Jake, Neteyam was one of his best warriors, always in control of his emotions and precise with his movements, and it was rare that he got to witness him being overtaken with anger. With a loud sigh, Neteyam still complied with the unspoken rule within the camp and extended his hand to his opponent to pull him to his feet.

Oblivious to the fact that the fight was twice as violent because Neteyam had developed a personal vendetta against him, or perhaps he only chose to be ignorant of it, Kaye offered a small, appreciative smile in response to the extended hand, accepting the help. He dusted off his back and thighs, and before Neteyam could sign a goodbye and leave, Kaye quickly moved to stand in his way.

“I need to talk to Y/N,” he announced, forcing Neteyam to stop in his tracks, “You must see her, right?”

Neteyam clenched his jaw, struggling to contain the anger that still hasn’t died down from the fight. Just when he started to get the things moving for himself and Y/N, just when it seemed like Kaye wouldn’t hurt her anymore, he was suddenly wanting to talk to her? She wouldn’t hide if she wanted to see Kaye, would she?

“I think it’s safe to say that she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Neteyam’s voice trembled slightly, “If I were you, I would have kept my distance. Just like you've grown accustomed to doing over the years.”

“Ouch, I guess I deserved that,” Kaye winced at the comment, “Listen, I am truly sorry for the way things turned out but I never meant to hurt her. I just want to apologize.”

Neteyam simply shook his head, indicating that the explanation fell short of convincing him. If Kaye wanted to speak to Y/N, it would only be on her terms, Neteyam certainly wasn’t going to take part in helping him.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Y/N sat in front of the healing tent in silence, the small wrinkle in between her eyebrows was turning deeper within each passing minute. She was annoyed with Neteyam, who didn’t show up, but mostly she was annoyed with herself for still being there and waiting for him. Her lesson had ended long ago, their usual routine of going for a walk right after was simply abandoned, and Neteyam was nowhere to be found. She knew that he came home a few hours ago, when she heard the shouts of the warriors, and some even came in for a check-up at the tent. So, if he was safe, it puzzled her why he hadn't come. Did he seize an opportunity and forget to warn her not to wait? 

She shouldn’t be annoyed though. Wasn’t this exactly what she wished for? To spend less time with him, to be left alone. But it didn’t feel like a win at all, just a let-down. The times when Kaye would sometimes stand her up floated her mind with insecurity. Though it didn’t happen often, she got hurt deeply every time. No amount of apologies from Kaye could ever help her overcome the fear of him simply not showing up one day and giving up on her completely. 

Shaking her head, disappointed with herself for wasting time, she stood up, ready to leave. To her surprise, just as she rose, Neteyam appeared right in front of her.

"You waited," he uttered softly, a mix of confusion and gratitude in his voice.

“You made me wait,” she retorted, her irritation impossible to hide as her eyes bore into his.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Neteyam raised his palms in the air, offering a defeat.

And that’s when Y/N noticed it. Before she could unleash the angry words she had rehearsed in her mind for the past hour, or fully grasp the tinge of pain in his voice, her eyes caught sight of something. A streak of red smeared across Neteyam's forearms, clumsily wiped but not enough to be completely rid of. Almost as if he tried taking care of it himself and failed miserably. Her amber eyes swiftly traced the path of the color, trailing from his ribcage and vanishing around his body, and without a word she circled him, to find his back, covered in awkwardly arranged leaves. She guessed that Neteyam had placed them himself, since some of the wounds were only partially covered, and there was dried off blood all over his skin.

“Neteyam, what the hell happened to you?” Y/N asked, her eyes turning bigger in shock. How long has he been in pain? Why didn’t he come to the healing tent and get it treated? Her mind was flooded with questions.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, turning around to face her, though his expression was painted with guilt, “Just a few scratches.”

“These are not just scratches, they look horrible,” Y/N gestured at him once more, “Why didn’t you come to your grandmother? You came home hours ago, no?”

Neteyam flinched at her words. They held the truth, but he didn't want to admit it. There was something embarrassing about getting that many wounds on his back. It meant he hadn't noticed the enemy behind him, which also signified his lack of attentiveness. But how could he pay attention when his whole reality was shifting around him? Neteyam took a step away from her, trying to force a small smile.

“Since you had to wait for so long, let’s go on that walk now, hm? I’ll try to make it up to you,” he tried nonchalantly.

But Y/N was quick to close the distance between him. She grasped his hand and without a word pulled him into the healing tent. Once inside, she gestured for Neteyam to take a seat on one of the rarely used old wooden chairs, thinking that being on her feet would be more convenient when treating his back.

“Seriously, I am okay, we can still go on that walk,” Neteyam tried to reason, but she was already hissing at him in annoyance to stop talking.

His ears lowered in defeat, which he desperately didn’t want to accept, but also secretly had craved. Because even though Neteyam was used to being the one taking care of others, it felt like a sun on his skin, knowing that somebody else was there for him. And he could tell she was mad just by the way she treated him with silence, but the anger was coming from a place of caring.

The wounds he bore were throbbing with pain, located in a difficult-to-reach place. Neteyam hadn't intended to be late; it simply took him longer than expected to dress his injuries. Yet, his heart fluttered with a mixture of relief and gratitude when he spotted Y/N still seated in front of the healing tent, patiently waiting for him. She could have easily left hours ago, so why did she choose to stay?

“You have a whole family of healers, why didn’t you just ask them for help? Why didn’t you ask me?” Y/N sighed.

Neteyam's ears twitched at the touch, a subtle response to the gentleness of her fingers on his back. Soon, the leaf bandages he had grown weary of were being carefully removed, and as she worked, a wave of empathy flowed through her, her tone turning into a softer, more understanding one.

“I know that there is some kind of pride that comes with being the Olo’eyktan’s son, and also this pressure of being perfect and never showing your vulnerabilities. But when you get hurt, Neteyam, none of it should matter.”

“I know, you’re right,” Neteyam admitted guiltily, hanging his head, “I just…”

Y/N tsksed at the incomplete explanation with discontent, taking off the last bandage. Now, fully exposed, Neteyam’s back was covered in multiple gashes arranged at sharp angles around his spine. Fortunately, they hadn't pierced deep enough to cause nerve damage, which meant that Neteyam was quick to react. A damp cloth grazed his skin as Y/N gently wiped away the brown stains of the dried off blood.

“Whether we like it or not, we are a team now,” she continued after a pause, “So you can rely on me.”

He nodded, even though he couldn't see her face. There was a sincerity in her words, something different from before. It didn't feel like mere obligation; it felt like she genuinely meant it, like she truly wanted him to rely on her.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

His earpiece suddenly crackled to life, interrupting the moment, and Neteyam immediately tensed up at the sound of his father’s worried voice. He sat up, and pressed a finger to his wired necklace, speaking into it.

“I am safe, dad, what happened?” Neteyam questioned.

Worried, and unable to hear Jake’s voice on the other end, Y/N quickly came in front of Neteyam, searching his face for clues of what was happening. The future Olo’eyktan seemed to grow more concerned, as he remained quiet to hear his father.

“What is it?” Y/N whispered impatiently, and then she felt it.

Y/N's stomach plummeted as she observed the transformation of Neteyam's expression. What was initially concern now gave way to a haunting mix of guilt and remorse. It was as if he carried the weight of something deeply troubling, something that was unfixable, probably too difficult to say out loud.

“How many of them?” Neteyam spoke again, his eyes still glued to Y/N’s, “And who exactly got shot?”

It felt like the world around her came to a stop, as in these seconds of waiting, Y/N had imagined hundreds of scenarios running through her head. And it could be anything, but the way Neteyam rose to his feet in a hurry, she feared that the worst one was coming to life.

“Is it him?” Y/N’s voice cracked, and Neteyam nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“It is Kaye.”

a/n: once again, i am so hopeful that people still care about this series, even though it took me two weeks to upload a new chapter. please let me know how you feel about this. i rushed with the proofreading, so i'm sorry if there are too many mistakes or repetitions

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