nichojoo lover

He sat down at a table across the room, pulled out a textbook he knew he wasn't going to read, and watched you for the next two hours.

When he got home, he rushed to his bedroom. He had spent the entire time at the library observing you; the image of you leaning over that library table, your shirt gaping, burned into his brain. The soft curve of your breast peeking through. He'd jerked off to that memory four times since midterms. Four times, each session longer than the last, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking until his balls tightened and he spilt rope after rope of cum into a wad of tissues.

That became his routine. Every day, he found an excuse to be in the library at the same time you were there.

He'd sit far enough not to be obvious but close enough to see everything. He memorised the way you bit your pen when you were thinking, the way you stretched your arms above your head when you'd been studying too long, the way your shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.

His friends noticed.

Wooyoung caught him staring one afternoon and elbowed San. "Holy shit, he's actually drooling," Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

"Suck my dick," Mingi muttered, not taking his eyes off you.

"You wish." Wooyoung retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's creepy staring.

"What would you even say to her?" San asked, leaning in. "'Hey, I know I've never spoken to you, but I've been fapping off to you for three weeks.' Want to study together?"

"Fuck off."

Hongjoong, ever the sensible one of the friend group, sighed. "If you're that obsessed, just talk to her. She's friends with Seonghwa. I can set something up."

Mingi's heart hammered; he looked like a kid in a confectionery store mixed with one caught with their fingers in the cookie jar as he stared at Hongjoong. "Set something up how?"

"I'll tell Seonghwa you need tutoring. He'll recommend her. She's like, top of the class. Then you get private sessions with her. Easy."

It really was easy. It was terrifyingly too simple.

A week later, Mingi sat in his dorm room, which smelled like stale energy drinks, his favourite Jo Malone cologne and regrets. He lay sprawled across his bed, phone clutched in his hand, when Seonghwa texted Mingi with a time and an address.

Hwa: 'She says she can help you with your assignment. Be on time, and don't fuck this up, asshole.'

He'd been half-hard since reading it, and now, two hours before he was supposed to meet you, Mingi lay in bed and let his mind wander. His hand drifted down to his sweatpants, palming his half-hard length.

He imagined what it would be like to have you beneath him. To feel your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open against his, your fingers digging into his back. He wondered what sounds you'd make — soft little gasps or needy moans?

Would you let him fuck you slowly, or would you want it rough?

Would you want his cum inside you?

The thought made his cock twitch, already hardening. He imagined gripping your hips, pumping into you, feeling his release build until he couldn't hold back anymore. Thick, hot ropes flooding your pussy, leaking down your thighs, marking you as his.

"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was getting hard just thinking about it. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping around his shaft. Already slick with precum, he started stroking — slow at first, then faster, his breathing ragged.

In his mind, it was your hand wrapped around him. Your palm sliding up and down his length, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum. His room filled with low groans and sharp gasps as he continued jerking off. He imagined you stroking him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he begged you to let him come, and when you finally whispered, "Go ahead. Show me how much you want it." His hips bucked into his fist. Precum dripped onto his stomach. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to unload.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck–"

He came hard, his back arching off the mattress. Cum pumped out of him in thick, white ropes, splattering across his stomach, his chest, pooling in his navel. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry, until his arm was soaked and he was panting like he'd run a marathon.

When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at the mess he'd made.

Get it together, he told himself. You're about to see her. Don't fuck this up.

Mingi showed up at your flat thirty minutes early due to a mixture of nerves and lack of choice. Wooyoung had kicked him out of their shared dorm because he and San were "conducting important musical research" that apparently required privacy and a locked door.

"You're not staying here," Wooyoung had said flatly, blocking the doorway. "Go study or something."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Literally anywhere else."

Hongjoong had passed by on his way out with a smirk and a stack of composition notebooks under his arm. "Heard you're getting tutored by Seonghwa's friend. The hot one from the library."

Mingi's face burned as he fidgeted with his clothes slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," Hongjoong clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to drool on the textbooks. They're expensive."

The rest of the walk to your flat, Mingi replayed their teasing in his head. He hated that they knew. Hated that they could see right through him. But more than that, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to form a coherent sentence.

When you answered the door, his brain short-circuited. You looked soft, comfortable, real, and his cock twitched in his jeans despite the fact that he'd just jerked off not even two hours ago.

You lived in a small studio near campus. "Hey," you said, stepping aside. "Come in."

As Mingi followed you further in, his eyes darted around the room, and he noted the walls were covered in posters of bands he didn't know. Polaroids of you and friends smiling, fairy lights draped over the window, and stacks of books on every surface.

It smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent. Mingi stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for the space, while you cleared a spot on your desk.

"Seonghwa says you're struggling with the experimental design section," you said, pulling out a chair.

"Yeah." He sat down, trying not to stare at the way your jeans hugged your thighs. "I just– it's hard to focus." With the intensity of his stare, he's shocked he hasn't burnt a hole in your pocket. His eyes snapped back up to your face as you spun around.

You smiled at him, and it made his chest tight. "That's what I'm here for."

The first hour was torture.

You sat across from him, leaning over the desk to point at diagrams and equations, and every time you moved, your shirt shifted. He caught himself looking at your chest more than the paper. You were wearing a simple cotton top, nothing special, but he could see the outline of your bra underneath. His palms started to sweat.

"Experimental design relies on proper variable isolation," you said, tapping the textbook. "If you don't control for confounding factors, your results are meaningless."

"Right," he said, not registering a single word.

He'd been answering questions mechanically, half his brain on the work, the other half imagining what your skin would feel like under his hands. You must have noticed because you paused mid-sentence, looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"Mingi. You're not listening."

"I am," he lied.

"You're staring at my boobs."

The words hit him like a slap. His face flushed neon red. He opened his mouth to deny it, tried to form an apology, but nothing came out. You didn't look angry. You looked amused, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.

"You know, you're not as subtle as you think." You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly. Mingi's mouth went dry. "I saw you in the library. You always sit at the same table, don't you? The one with the direct sightline to my spot."

"Fuck," he breathed.

"Yeah." You laughed, soft and mocking. "You're kind of a pervert, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to– I just– you're really pretty, and I–"

You held up a hand, cutting off his stammering. "It's fine. I know how to fix this."

Your eyes sparkled with something that made his pulse race. "I have an idea. For every question you get right, you get a reward. A touch. Something simple. You tell me what you want, and I'll let you do it. Consider it motivation."

Mingi's brain short-circuited. "A touch?"

"On the honour system. You answer correctly, you get to cross one of your fantasies off the list. But you have to keep studying. And you can't cum. Not until the end. Deal?"

He nodded, barely able to speak. "Deal."

The first question was simple. You slid a worksheet toward him, and he scribbled the answer in seconds. When he looked up, you gestured at your hand resting on the table.

"Go ahead. Claim your reward."

He reached out slowly; his fingertips brushed your knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through him. He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. It was soft and warm.

"That," he said, voice low. "Wanted to know if you'd let me."

You let him hold it for a full minute before pulling away.

"Next question."

He answered it correctly again. This time, he got braver, his fingers sliding up to graze your neck before he leaned in slowly.

Mingi leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your throat. He lingered, breathing in your scent — vanilla, coffee and a hint of something spicy — before pulling back. You shivered, and he felt a surge of pride.

By the third correct answer, he was bolder. "Can I touch your thigh?"

You spread your legs slightly in answer. He slid his hand onto your knee, then slowly upward, fingers grazing the denim of your jeans. Your breath hitched. He squeezed gently, feeling the muscle beneath.

The fourth question was harder. He had to think, to recall details from the textbook he'd barely read. Something about factorial designs that he should have known but had completely blanked on. You were watching him, waiting, and his mind went blank.

"Give me a second," he muttered.

"Take your time."

But he couldn't focus. Not with his hand still resting on your thigh, not with the memory of your neck against his lips, not with the way you were looking at him — patient, amused, knowing.

He guessed wrong.

You smiled softly and shifted back in your chair. His hand slipped off your thigh, landing on empty air. You stood up, stepping away from the desk entirely, folding your arms.

"Wrong answer. No reward." Your voice was teasing but firm. "Try the next one."

Mingi groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That's cruel."

"Study motivation, remember?" You sat back down, but this time you kept the chair a few inches farther from him. "You have to earn it."

He gritted his teeth and flipped to the next page.

I'm going to get every single question right, he swore to himself. And by the end of this, I'm going to have you underneath me.

Two hours later, Mingi had answered fifteen out of twenty questions correctly. His hand had mapped the curve of your calf, the dip of your waist, the soft skin behind your ear. He'd kissed your palm, your wrist, the hollow of your throat. Each touch left him harder, more desperate, his cock aching against the zipper of his jeans.

By the time he reached the last question, he was sweating, his breathing shallow. You closed the textbook and set it aside. "Last question."

He was barely listening. His eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to taste you. Wanted to feel you writhe beneath him.

"If you get this right, you get your last reward. Anything you want."

Mingi's head snapped back up to your face. That definitely got his attention. "Anything?"

"Within reason." A small smile played at your lips as you tapped your pen on the cover of the textbook.

You asked the question — something about p-values and statistical significance — and this time, Mingi didn't hesitate. The answer came easily, pulled from a corner of his brain that had actually absorbed your teaching.

"Correct. Sixteen out of twenty, a passing score." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So. What do you want?"

Mingi stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. He rounded the desk, grabbing your hips and pulling you to your feet. Your body pressed against his, your warmth seeping through his clothes. But his hands trembled slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd never done this before, never been this close to a woman's body like this, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.

"I want you to ride me."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. "Here?"

"Here." He guided you toward the edge of your bed, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Right now."

You straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of your cunt pressed against his clothed cock, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your tits through your top.

"You sure?" you whispered.

He answered by kissing you hard and desperately, his tongue sliding against yours. But his hands were shaking. His heart hammered so loud he thought you might hear it. He wanted this more than anything, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Every move felt like a gamble.

Instead of rushing, he pulled back, breath coming in short gasps. "Let me–" He swallowed. "Let me taste you first. Please."

He didn't wait for an answer. He slid off the bed, landing on his knees in front of you. His fingers found the button of your jeans, but they fumbled, clumsy with nerves. A frustrated laugh escaped him. "Sorry. I'm–" He didn't finish. He just focused, finally getting the button undone, pushing the denim down your thighs.

You shimmied out of your pants, and Mingi's mouth went dry. Your panties were dark at the centre, a damp patch glistening in the low light. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing your cunt inch by inch. The sight of you bare, slick, and waiting for him made his cock twitch painfully.

He leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. His nose brushed your curls, and he inhaled your scent — musky, sweet, intoxicating. His tongue darted out, tracing a line up your slit.

You gasped, your hips shifting toward him. Encouraged, he parted your folds with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to your clit. He licked experimentally, then with more confidence as your moans grew louder. He circled the sensitive nub with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what made you squirm.

But he wanted more. He wanted to feel you clench around his fingers. He slid one hand up your thigh, fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me if it's okay," he mumbled against your skin.

You nodded, breathless. "Just– go slow."

Mingi pushed one finger inside you; the heat and tightness made his head spin. He pumped it gently, then added a second, stretching you, curling them to find that spot that made your back arch. Mingi watched your face — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted — and felt a surge of power mixed with nervous wonder. He was doing this. He was making you feel good.

Your wetness coated his fingers, and he kept working you, alternating between licking your clit and tonguing your folds, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate whines. He pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them on his own jeans before standing up.

"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Now, ride me."

He sat back on the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his jeans. He freed it with trembling hands, and a bead of precum oozed from the tip, thick and viscous, more than you'd expect. It dripped down the shaft, glistening. He pumped himself once, twice, spreading the slickness, then guided you forward.

You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. Mingi's breath hitched. He was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building in his balls already. He gripped your hips, steadying you, trying not to thrust up.

"Slow," he repeated, more to himself than to you. "Go slow."

You sank down, inch by inch, and Mingi's eyes rolled back. The heat of your cunt, the silkiness of your walls — it was overwhelming. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the urge to come right there. A groan tore from his throat as you took him fully, your hips flush against his.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you rocked forward, and he felt another wave of precum leak from his cock, mixing with your wetness. He shuddered, fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, Mingi. You fill me so good," you whispered.

He couldn't speak. He just nodded, his hands trembling as you began to move; a slow, rocking grind that stole every thought from his head. You rode him with a rhythm that started gentle, then built, your hips rolling in circles while he gripped the sheets and tried not to come immediately.

The pleasure was overwhelming. Every sensation — the clench of your cunt, the slap of your thighs against his, the sight of your tits bouncing in front of his face — pushed him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to erupt.

"Fuck, I'm gonna–" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips bucked upward, burying himself deeper as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum shot into you, pumping again and again, flooding your pussy with hot, white fluid. His body shuddered with the force of it, his hands digging into your hips so hard he'd probably leave bruises.

You gasped, your rhythm faltering as you felt the torrent of semen filling you. It leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, your thighs, his stomach.

But Mingi wasn't done. As the aftershocks faded, a new hunger flared in his chest. He needed more. Needed to feel you come on his cock while he controlled the pace.

He flipped you onto your back before you could react, your legs falling apart as he hovered over you. His cock was still hard, still slick with his cum and your wetness. He lined himself up and slammed back inside you, a guttural curse ripping from his throat.

"Oh God," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Mingi–"

He didn't answer with words. He fucked you hard, deep, each stroke driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your sounds as he pounded into you. Your nails left lines of red down his back.

He could feel your walls clenching around him, hear your breath hitching. You were close, so close, and he wanted to see you fall apart.

"Come for me," he growled against your ear, his fingers trailing down to rub firm circles against your clit, causing your back to arch further into his chest. "Come on my cock."

That was all it took. Your body arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy milked him, squeezing and fluttering, and Mingi groaned, burying his face in your neck as he came again — a second, weaker orgasm that still spilt another hot pulse of cum into you.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in each other. The sheets were a mess, soaked with sweat and cum. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering.

After a long silence, you spoke. "Mingi?"

"Yeah?"

"That was insane. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you. A nervous laugh escaped him. "I, uh... didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that was my first time."

Your eyes went wide. "What? No way. That was your first time?"

He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I'm a virgin. Or, I guess, was a virgin."

You stared at him, then burst out laughing — not mocking, but genuine, surprised laughter. "Holy shit. You're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Mingi– You let me take your virginity for a study session, and you fuck like that?" You reached out, running a hand through his damp hair. "You're a natural, I guess."

Mingi grinned, pulling you closer. "Lucky guess.”

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who couldn't focus on a single word Hongjoong said as he let his thoughts wander to what your thighs would look like around his head or draped across his thighs as he pounds into you. Are you a moaner? Maybe you whine? Maybe you whimper? All he knew was you were running through his mind, causing his jeans to feel tight, and he didn't even know your name.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who went home and had the longest session of his life just masturbating to the thought of you as you sat there studying, he had never felt this intense of a feeling in his life. His large hand pulls out his big, veiny cock from their confines, and he spits in his hand as he strokes himself to what he would do if you let him. He damn blacks out when he reaches his peak, groaning loudly as his chest heaves and his hand moves faster as he jerks himself through his earth-shattering orgasm. The mess on his chest settled as he lay on his bed, limp.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who repeats this cycle daily. He'd go to the library and sit at a few tables away, where he won't be in your direct line of sight, but close enough that he can see how your crop top pushes your breasts up, and your jeans hug your curves as you have a new hairdo this time. Twists with beads. The soft clacking of your beads as you shifted your head slightly when you read a new paragraph. He'd watch you throughout your entire study session only to return home and wonder if he'd be able to hear your beads as he thrusts into you from behind, his thoughts race as he imagines you clenching around him as he tightens his fist, moving up and down faster.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught staring at you as you study with Seonghwa by Wooyoung, who teases him for being so hot but such a damn loser who can't pull because once he opens his mouth, he exposes how much of a gooner he is. Hongjoong decides that he has to step in and help, so he gets Seonghwa to set up a tutoring session for him.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who comes to your house early because he was so nervous, but what you don't know is that he jerked off before coming over in order to try and decrease his chances of getting hard in your flat. His theory failed. The second you opened the door, he was a goner. He felt his dick twitch in his trousers as you let him into your house that smelt like vanilla and bergamot. As you led him to your table, Mingi couldn't help but stare at your ass on the short walk, almost getting caught by you as you twirled suddenly, and his eyes snapped back up to yours in record time.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who can barely concentrate on what you're saying when he's so aware of how close he is to you, close enough to smell your cocoa butter lotion and papaya leave-in conditioner. He was buzzing from head to toe with awareness as he attempted to focus on not cumming in his pants when you brush his leg when you move.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught by you as his eyes practically burn holes through your top and bra. His laser-focused expression as you watched for a second, deciding not to say anything just yet. A few minutes go by before you mention it and watch him attempt to stammer out excuses and apologies.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who agrees to your rewards system rule, attempts to answer every question you have for an opportunity to explore your body. With each right answer, he requests a new favour — a graze here, a kiss there — he was practically shaking as he pulled you closer.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who loses his virginity that night. You push him down on your bed and give him the ride of his life. He cannot believe he's balls deep in your warm, wet pussy as you bounce up and down on his thick length. He breaths out little moans and groans, broken whines and words escape him as his eyes roll back and his hands alternate from gripping your waist as you move fervently and holding onto the sheets as his hips stutter in his attempt to keep up with your actions.

pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who cums so hard, he hears his ears ringing and his vision blurs as he grabs your thighs and feels your body keep going until you reach your peak a few thrusts later, and your body shakes as you release broken moans of his name before collapsing in his arms.

You were just a young kit, barely old enough to toddle through the underbrush, when your paths first crossed in earnest. Your father was a skilled hunter, and when he was lost in the brutal wars against the Sky People, it left a void in your family kelku that echoed with his absence. As the only child of a widowed mother who wove baskets and tended the clan's communal fires, you carried the weight of his legacy early — expected to embody the hunter's spirit, to track and provide as he once did. But in those tender years, play was your world, and it was through Lo'ak that you found your way into the Sully family's orbit.

Jake and Neytiri, the clan's revered leaders, embraced you as one of their own from the start. Your mother's ties to the old ways, her quiet strength mirroring Neytiri's, made it natural.

Evenings became routine: you'd join the family pod for meals, sitting cross-legged by the fire, Tuk, a tiny bundle of curiosity, then crawling into your lap for comfort. You'd hum lullabies your father once sang, stroking her soft ears until she dozed, her small tail curling around your arm.

You belonged with them.

You ran when they ran. Climbed when they climbed. Fell, laughed, argued, and made up just as quickly.

And somewhere behind it all, Neteyam watched.

Not in a strange way. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. Just… present. A steady figure lingering at the edges of every moment, always close enough to step in, never quite part of the chaos.

As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Olo'eyktan, and Neytiri, the fierce warrior Tsahìk's daughter, Neteyam carried the weight of expectation on his broad shoulders. He trained relentlessly, leading patrols and mediating clan disputes, his golden eyes always scanning for threats to the harmony Eywa demanded of him.

He'd saved your behinds more times than pride allowed you to count.

Lo'ak, with his mischievous spark and untamed energy, had spotted you one dawn while you gathered wildflowers near the village edge, your small hands clutching stems as if they were spears.

"Come on, let's race the ikran shadows!" he'd called out, and you'd followed without hesitation, your laughter mingling with his as you dashed through the ferns. From that day, you were inseparable. Two wild spirits chasing the forest's secrets, climbing vines and splashing in shallow streams. Neteyam, even then, the responsible elder brother at perhaps eight cycles old, watched from afar. His golden eyes tracked your escapades with a mix of exasperation and quiet protectiveness. He'd linger at the pod's entrance, bow in hand for his own training, pretending to focus on sharpening arrows while stealing glances as you and Lo'ak vanished into the green.

Despite it all, your responsibilities extended beyond play. With your father gone, the clan looked to you to honour his role — hunting small game as you grew, but also gathering herbs for Tsahìk Mo'at, the clan's healer.

Mornings often found you in the misty glades, basket slung over your shoulder, fingers deftly plucking healing ferns and luminous fungi that glowed faintly under Eywa's touch. Mo'at would nod approvingly as you delivered them to her tent, her wrinkled hands sorting your finds. "Your father would be proud, child. The Great Mother guides your hands." These duties grounded you, a reminder of the expectations: to contribute, to survive, to weave your thread into the clan's tapestry without faltering.

Yet, despite your duties, trouble followed you and Lo'ak like shadows, and Neteyam was always there to pull you from its grasp.

One afternoon, at around ten cycles, you'd ventured too far toward the floating mountains, daring each other to touch the Hallelujah Mountains' vines. A sudden storm whipped up, winds howling as rain lashed the cliffs. Lo'ak slipped on slick rock, dangling precariously, while you clung to a root, heart pounding. Neteyam's voice cut through the gale; he'd trailed you, as always, sensing the recklessness. His small but strong frame reached out, hauling Lo'ak up first, then you, his grip firm on your wrist.

"Skxawngs! You'll get us all killed," he'd scolded, but his eyes held relief, lingering on your mud-streaked face. "Foolish," he'd continued, snapping and reprimanding the two of you, his golden eyes flashing with frustration, bioluminescent spots flickering like stars on his skin.

You'd yanked away, muttering about how you didn't need his babysitting, but the heat of his grip lingered on your flesh, a phantom touch that haunted you long after.

That night, as the family gathered in their pod, Neytiri smoothed her hand over your braids as she checked you and Lo'ak for wounds. "You are family, but the forest tests the careless." She mused, moving around the Sully kelku with grace and familiarity.

Jake chuckled, clapping Neteyam on the back. "Good instincts, son. That's what makes a leader."

Neytiri nodded approvingly, her tail swishing, but Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because climbing cliffs is such a threat to the clan." He grumbled, his tail lashing behind him in his annoyance at his father's praise towards his brother.

Neteyam shot him a warning look, the sibling rivalry simmering — Lo'ak's wildness clashing with Neteyam's duty-bound restraint. Kiri, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject to Eywa's signs in the stars, but you caught Neteyam glancing your way, his expression unreadable.

As cycles turned, the pattern persisted. At twelve, during a mock hunt with slingshots, you and Lo'ak startled a thanator cub, its mother charging from the brush. Neteyam, practising nearby, fired a warning shot from his bow, drawing the beast away long enough for you to flee. He fought it off with a spear twice his size, earning scars that Jake cleaned later, praising his bravery.

"That's my future Olo'eyktan," he'd say, while you hovered guiltily, offering herbs from your pouch.

Neteyam waved you off gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."

But in quiet moments, he'd watch you teach Tuk basic weaves, your patience shining as you guided her tiny fingers. Tuk adored you, calling you 'sister' in her lisping voice.

Once, when Neteyam suggested you show her a safer knot, you snapped, "She's learning fine without your critiques!" Tuk giggled, siding with you, and Neteyam backed down, a rare smile tugging his lips.

Throughout this, Kiri became your confidante in those growing years, her spiritual attunement mirroring your own subtle connection to Eywa.

You’d wander the bioluminescent groves together, baskets heavy with herbs, sharing whispers. “I feel her everywhere,” you’d start, pressing a hand to a glowing tree. “Like she’s breathing with me, in the wind, the roots.”

Kiri’s eyes would light up at finding a kindred spirit who felt Eywa similarly to herself. “Eywa speaks through you, too. The signs are strong. The shifting of the wind, in dreams, pulls towards certain paths.” She’d weave flowers into your hair as she redoes your braids, sensing the unspoken tension with her brother, but you’d deflect, laughing it off as sibling-like bickering.

By adolescence, the pretence solidified. You insisted you couldn’t stand Neteyam’s rigidity, his constant shadowing like an unwanted guard. He'd retort that your impulsiveness endangered everyone, especially as his duties as future Olo'eyktan mounted — leading young warriors, mediating minor disputes under Jake’s watchful eye. Family dynamics deepened the strain. Meals were lively: Lo'ak teasing Neteyam about his 'watchdog' habits toward you, Kiri mediating with knowing glances, Tuk piping up with innocent questions that made you soften. Neytiri often pulled you aside for archery lessons, treating you as a daughter, while Jake shared hunting strategies, emphasising your role in the clan's survival.”Your father’s spirit lives in you. Hunt well, protect the young ones.”

Yet, beneath the barbs, attraction simmered. Neteyam watched from patrol perches as you rode off with Lo'ak on gathering runs, his heart twisting with unspoken worry — and something warmer. Saving you became a ritual: pulling you from a collapsing vine bridge at fourteen, his body shielding yours from falling debris; diverting a stampeding herd during a herb forage, his direhorse barreling between you and danger. Each time, touches lingered, his hand on your back, steadying; your fingers brushing his arm in thanks, igniting sparks neither acknowledged.

Interactions with Tuk grew tender. At sixteen, you'd teach her to ride a small pa'li, your voice soft as you adjusted her grip. “Gentle, little one—feel the bond.”

Neteyam watched, then suggested, “Hold the reins firmer for control.” You'd whirl on him.

“She's not a warrior yet! Let her feel Eywa first.”

Tuk hugged you, whispering, “You're the best teacher.” Neteyam sighed, but his eyes softened.

Conversations with Kiri deepened during herb runs. “Eywa's presence... It's overwhelming sometimes,” you'd confess, kneeling by a sacred pool. “Like she's urging me toward something.” Kiri nodded along with your words.

“Toward balance. Perhaps a bond waiting to form.” She added, voice fading softly as she looked out into the horizon.

Nights brought dreams that blurred the lines. Yours began innocently but twisted heat. In the first, at eighteen cycles, Neteyam cornered you in a dream-glade, pinning you to moss, his mouth claiming yours before trailing down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing until they peaked. His fingers plunged into your pussy, thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot, thumb rubbing your clit until you came hard, juices soaking his hand. He flipped you, cock sliding into your slick folds, pounding relentlessly until you shattered again.

You woke up panting, aroused and confused. Your arousal dampening your thighs from the remnants of your dream still clinging to your clouded mind.

Across the scattered array of pods, Neteyam’s dreams mirrored the intensity of your own. He envisioned you kneeling against the soft moss of the forest floor, lips wrapping around his hardened cock, sucking deeply as he fucked your mouth, cum spilling down your throat. Then, bending you over, he thrusts into your pussy, gripping your hips tightly as the rhythm of his thrusts builds to a mutual release. filling you there also. The guilt that overtook Neteyam mingled with ecstasy upon waking as he looked down, his cock spent in his loincloth.

These dreams haunted your days. Training sessions dragged, bodies clashing in spars. Your breasts brushing his chest, his thighs pressing your core accidentally as he overpowered you down to the mossy floor, leaving you both flushed and pulling away before you were told to.

“Focus!” he’d bark, but his voice roughened.

Hunts prolonged the torment. The great migration hunt spanned days. Tracking sturmbeest across plains, Neteyam commanded the group, which consisted of you, Lo’ak and a small handful of warriors. Mornings started with strategy by the fire, Jake overseeing via the comms that rested around Neteyam and Lo’ak’s necks. “Neteyam, keep formation.”

You'd scout ahead with Lo'ak, spotting tracks, but veer into thickets, Neteyam calling you back. The chase unfolded over hours — galloping through dust clouds, arrows loosed in volleys. One bull charged your flank; Neteyam shoved you aside, downing it with a precise shot. During rests by rivers, you'd share water skins, fingers touching, eyes locking too long. “You're reckless,” he'd murmur, but his tail flicked toward you. Lo'ak teased, and Kiri smiled knowingly. The hunt yielded a massive haul, but the tension built like storm clouds.

Another extended pursuit targeted prolemuris in the canopy forests; their agile forms were a challenge for three days. Neteyam assigned vines for swings, his body brushing yours as he demonstrated. You swung ahead, gathering herbs mid-hunt for Mo'at, rare blossoms only found high. A branch snapped; you fell toward thorns. Neteyam caught you mid-air, arms wrapping your waist, pulling you to safety. Pressed together on a limb, breaths shared, his hardness nudged your hip. “Why do you test me?” he whispered.

You pulled away, heart racing. Evenings around campfires, family stories flowed — Jake recounting war losses, including your father's, his hand on your shoulder. “He fought bravely. You honour him every day.”

Dreams multiplied, ranging from a simple kiss in front of the clan or escaping duties to explore one another.

Yours: Neteyam binding you with vines, spanking your ass before he knelt, hands roaming your body as he licked your pussy, tongue thrusting inside, sucking your clit to orgasm. Watching as your body shook under the skilled hands of the man who you were sure hated you. Then he rose, moving your pliant body as he entered you slowly before fucking you hard, cock slamming deep until you squirted as moans ripped from your throat.

His: You laying him against the soft mossy floor, kissing down the expanse of his chest as the bioluminescent dots on his body pulsed in time to his wildly beating heart before you straddled him. You slid down his hardened cock, riding him to the rhythm of the forest, pussy clenching his cock, then in dreams, shifting to the tight ring of your ass, the forbidden tightness making him shudder at the sensation of you wrapped around him as he came explosively.

The breaking point loomed during the RDA skirmish. Scouts warned of encroachment; Jake led the assault, Neteyam at his side. You joined on your ikran, diving into chaos — bullets zipping, explosions blooming. You targeted a saboteur at a vital root vein, arrow flying true, but his dying twitch detonated charges. The blast hurled you from your ikran, world tumbling.

The world dissolved into fragments — shrapnel's white-hot kiss, the jarring impact of Neteyam's ikran beneath you, his arms locked around your waist as blood soaked his chest, warm and sticky against your skin. Consciousness ebbed in waves, each beat of your heart pushing more of your life force through the wound in your side. The wind roared past as he dove, his voice distant, frayed with panic.

"Stay with me. Stay with me."

You tried to answer, but your tongue was thick, throat dry. The canopy blurred into smears of green and gold, and then you were moving — not flying, but running. Neteyam had dismounted mid-stride, cradling you against his chest, his long legs eating up the ground toward the healers' tents. Each jostle sent fresh agony through your side, and you whimpered, your hand weakly gripping his shoulder.

"I'm here," he gasped, voice cracking. "I'm here, I've got you. Just hold on."

The tent flaps whipped open. Mo'at's sharp voice cut through the haze — commands, reassurances, the clatter of bowls and the acrid smell of burning herbs. You were laid on soft furs, hands pressing against your wound, and Neteyam's face swam above you, pale as moonlight.

"Don't leave," you whispered, though you weren't sure the words made it past your lips.

"I won't." His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm not going anywhere."

Then darkness swallowed everything.

Neteyam sat vigil, holding your hand. Pain ebbed under the tonics, but your face — pale, skin torn from the shrapnel — cracked his heart.

The first day passed in fevered fragments. You drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully under. Mo'at worked tirelessly, stitching the jagged tear in your side, packing the wound with numbing pastes and healing moss. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Your breath steadied into a shallow rhythm.

Neteyam didn't move from your side.

He sat cross-legged on the furs, your hand clutched between both of his, thumb tracing absent circles on your wrist. His eyes were fixed on your face; the flutter of your eyelids, the occasional twitch of your lips, watching for any sign of returning consciousness. The healers bustled around him, but he was a statue, unyielding.

By the second day, the tent had become a pressure cooker of tension. Lo'ak came, then Kiri, then Jake. They tried to coax him away, to make him eat, to make him rest. He refused.

"Neteyam, you need to–" Jake started.

"I'm fine."

"You haven't slept. You haven't eaten–"

"I said I'm fine."

His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. Lo'ak tried a different approach, settling beside him with a bowl of broth. "Come on, bro. You're no good to her if you collapse. Just a few mouthfuls."

Neteyam's golden eyes flashed. "I told Mo'at I'd stay. I'm not leaving her."

"You're not leaving her," Kiri said softly, crouching opposite him. "But you have duties. The patrols need direction. The young warriors look to you."

"Let them look elsewhere." The words came out bitter, almost snappish. He didn't look at her. "I have one duty right now. This one."

Lo'ak opened his mouth to argue, but Kiri placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head. They left the broth beside Neteyam, uneaten, and retreated.

By the third day, he was a frayed rope. Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His queue hung limp, unbraided. Neytiri came, her face unreadable as she watched her son, her strong, steady, reliable son, crumble at the bedside of a girl he'd spent years claiming to despise.

"Son," she said, her voice gentle, "you must tend to yourself."

"I can't."

"Eywa gives us strength, but even the strongest tree bends before it breaks."

"She needs me." His voice cracked. "I can't– if she wakes and I'm not here–"

"She will wake." Neytiri's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you need to trust the healers. And trust her."

He shook his head, jaw tight. Neytiri sighed, but she didn't force him. She simply sat beside him, silent, offering presence instead of words.

On the fourth evening, Mo'at finished her examination of you and turned to Neteyam with a look that brooked no argument.

"You will walk with me."

"I can't–"

"You will." Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "The girl is stable. The spirits have spoken. She will live."

Neteyam’s breath caught. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "She– you're certain?"

"I am Tsahìk. I do not speak uncertainly." Mo'at's weathered hand took his, pulling him to his feet. "Come. There is something you must hear."

He followed her out of the tent, into the dusk that painted the forest in shades of violet and amber. They walked to a quiet grove, the bioluminescent plants casting soft light on their faces. Mo'at turned to face him, her ancient eyes studying him with a knowing that made him feel like a child again.

"You love her."

It wasn't a question. Neteyam flinched as though struck, then slowly, painfully, nodded. "I do."

"Then why have you fought it so long?"

He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion bleeding through. "Because I am the future Olo'eyktan. Because my duty is to the clan. Because I thought–" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought I could bury it. That if I kept her at arm's length, I could focus on what mattered."

"And what matters, Neteyam?"

He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She matters. She's always mattered. I just– I was too afraid to admit it."

Mo'at was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the canopy above. "The Great Mother does not gift us feelings by accident. Love is not a distraction. It is a foundation. A leader who cannot love is a leader who cannot lead with his whole heart."

"But the clan–"

"The clan will see what I see: a young man willing to sacrifice his own well-being for another. That is not weakness. That is the heart of a true leader." She stepped closer, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "You have choices, Neteyam. You can continue to hide, to pretend, to let duty consume you. Or you can choose her. Choose to mate her, to bond with her, to make her your partner in leading this clan. That is not abandoning duty — it is enriching it."

He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like roots into the earth. "And if she doesn't want me?"

Mo'at's lips curved into a faint smile. "Then you will survive. But I think you know her heart better than you admit."

She left him there, standing alone in the grove, the night settling around him like a cloak.

You woke to the soft glow of firelight and the weight of a hand in yours.

Your head felt stuffed with tree sap, thoughts slow and syrupy. You turned your head, wincing at the pull in your side, and found Neteyam slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head bowed, braids falling over his face, his hand wrapped around yours as if terrified to let go. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths. Even in slumber, his brow was furrowed, tension etched into every line of his face.

You didn't move. You just watched him — the way the firelight played across his features, the faint scars on his arms, the way his thumb was still pressed against your pulse point, as if checking that you were still alive.

A surge of emotion — gratitude, confusion, something deeper and hotter — swelled in your chest. You squeezed his hand.

He jolted awake instantly, eyes snapping open, locking onto yours. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared, as if afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.

"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"I'm awake." Your own voice sounded like gravel, dry and cracked. "How long...?"

"Four days." He lifted your hand and pressed his forehead to it, a shudder running through him. "Four days. I thought– I thought I'd lost you."

"You stayed."

"Of course I stayed." His laugh was broken, raw. "Where else would I be?"

You should have said something sarcastic, something sharp to break the tension. But the look in his eyes — vulnerable, open, unguarded — stole your words. Instead, you just let your fingers curl around his, a silent promise.

The next few days were a strange, awkward dance.

Neteyam was still at your side constantly, but now that you were awake, the closeness felt charged, electric. He brought you broth, adjusted your bandages, and helped you sit up. His touches were gentle, lingering — a hand on your back steadying you, fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. But whenever your eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening.

You tried to needle him, falling back on old patterns.

"You know, you could let someone else fetch the water. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I'm fine."

"You've said that four times today."

"Because it's still true."

You raised an eyebrow, and he huffed, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. But the teasing felt different now, lighter, but weighted with something unsaid. Every barb was a deflection, every laugh a shield against the truth that hung between you like a held breath.

Kiri visited, her knowing smile driving you mad. "You two are insufferable," she said one afternoon, helping you walk outside for fresh air.

"Excuse me?"

"Neteyam hasn't left your side in days. He's been a terror to everyone — snapping at poor Lo'ak for breathing too loudly. And you-" She poked your arm. "You watch him like he's the sun when you think no one's looking."

"I do not."

"Do too."

You scowled, but your cheeks burned.

On the fifth day of your recovery, he found you sitting by a stream, watching the glowing fish dart between rocks. He settled beside you, close enough that his tail brushed your ankle.

"You should still be resting."

"You should stop telling me what to do."

A pause. Then, softly: "I don't want to fight with you."

You turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jaw set. "Neither do I."

The silence stretched, filled with the sound of water and the distant calls of night creatures. His hand inched across the moss between you, stopping just short of yours.

"I was so scared," he whispered. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I thought-" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought Eywa was taking you from me before I ever had the chance to-"

He broke off, shaking his head. You reached out, your fingers brushing his.

"Chance to what?"

He turned, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You know what."

Your heart hammered. The words hung in the air, fragile and precious. But neither of you moved further. Not yet.

Three days later, you were well enough to walk the path to the Tree of Souls.

Neteyam had suggested it; a pilgrimage, he said, to give thanks for your recovery. But the look on his face told you he meant more. You agreed without hesitation, your pulse quickening as you walked through the forest, following the familiar trail to the sacred grove.

The Tree of Souls stood in the centre of a clearing, its tendrils cascading like waterfalls of light. The air hummed with Eywa's presence, thick and alive. You stepped into the grove, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Atokirina drifted down around you, glowing seeds of light that danced through the air like stars. Some brushed your skin, warm and tingling, and you gasped as they settled on your shoulders, your hair, your arms.

Neteyam turned to you, and the seeds landed on him too, cocooning you both in a gentle, shimmering embrace.

"This is–" you started.

"Eywa's blessing," he finished, his voice reverent. "I've heard it's happened once before. At the bonding of my parents."

Your breath caught. He stepped closer, the atokirina swirling around you both, creating a barrier of light and warmth. His hand came up, fingertips brushing your cheek.

"I can't pretend anymore." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence. "I've tried. For years. I've told myself you were a nuisance, a distraction, something I had to watch over and tolerate. But every time I saved you, every time you argued with me, every time I watched you laugh with Tuk or teach the young ones, I fell deeper. And I didn't know how to stop."

"Neteyam–"

"I don't want to stop." He stepped closer, his body inches from yours. "I want you. As my mate. As my partner. As the one who drives me mad and makes me whole."

The atokirina pulsed, humming with energy. Your hand found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.

"I've hated you," you said, your voice trembling. "Because hating you was easier than admitting I dreamed of you."

His eyes widened, a flash of emotion passing through them. "Dre– You dreamed... Of me?"

"Every night. You, in my arms. Your mouth on mine." You pulled him closer, your lips a breath away from his. "Show me I'm not dreaming now."

He didn't hesitate.

His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, all the pent-up longing bursting free. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you opened to him, tasting the salt of tears — yours, his, you couldn't tell. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you moaned into the kiss as his teeth grazed your lip.

The atokirina swirled faster, a vortex of light and approval.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his braids, tugging him closer. "Neteyam-"

"I need you." His voice was rough, desperate. "I want to bond with you. Tsaheylu. Here. Under Eywa's eyes. If that is what you want also."

"Yes."

You reached behind you, shaky fingers gasping your queue as he mimicked your actions. His hand outstretched as your queue was already reaching for his, the tendrils intertwining before either of you could think. The tsaheylu snapped into place, and the world exploded into sensation.

You felt everything. His racing heart, the ache of his longing, the overwhelming tide of love he'd buried for years. It washed over you, through you, drowning you in warmth. And then you felt him feel you. Your own tangled emotions, your fear, your desire, the love you'd denied so fiercely. His forehead pressed to yours as you both took in the new sensation, the intense experience of being one in mind and soul as his eyes stayed on yours.

"Oh," you breathed, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, Eywa–"

He kissed you again as he lowered you to the moss, the atokirina blanketing you both like a living quilt, moving around you in a silent, ancient dance as they rose and fell in time with your shuddered breaths. His hands moved over your body, reverent and urgent, pulling at your loincloth, baring your skin to the night air. You did the same, your fingers shaking as you untied his.

When he entered you, it was slow, measured, his eyes locked on yours.

The tsaheylu made everything feel magnified, like your body wasn't your own. Every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy sent pleasure-pain sparking through your shared nerves. You gasped, your fingers curling around his forearms as you felt him push in further, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck.

"I can feel you," he gasped, thrusting deeper. "Every part of you. Fuck–"

He thrust in, slow and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails raking his back as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass. The rhythm built, powerful strokes that filled you completely, his hips snapping forward. “So tight... made for me,” he panted, one hand pinning your wrist, the other teasing your clit in circles.

The sensations amplified. The pace raw and primal. He fucked you with abandon, no pretence, no restraint. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the grove, mingling with your moans and his growls. The tsaheylu amplified every wave of pleasure that crashed through you, doubling each crest, each clench, each shudder.

You flipped him, straddling, sinking down to ride him. Breasts bouncing, you ground your hips, clit rubbing his base. He gripped your ass, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the sacred space. You came first, your pussy clenching around him, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed across the clearing. He followed, hips stuttering, spilling his seed deep inside you with a roar that shook the trees.

But he didn't stop. He pulled out, licked the mess from your thighs, then flipped you over, entering you from behind. The new angle hit deeper, and with the bond still humming, you felt his pleasure as he thrust into you, felt the coil of your own orgasm building again.

"You're mine now," he rasped, hand fisting your hair gently, pulling your head back. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Forever."

"Forever."

The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and he followed, filling you again. Then he turned you onto your back, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and took you again, slow and deep, your sweat-slick bodies sliding together.

The night stretched, endless, sacred. By the time the tsaheylu finally released, you were tangled in each other, breathing in unison, the atokirina settled like crowns on your heads.

You woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn, the air cool against your skin, and the solid warmth of Neteyam wrapped around you.

His arms were around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm on your neck. The Tree of Souls loomed above, silent witness to the night's passion, its tendrils glowing faintly. You felt heavy, sore, but deeply content.

You stirred, and he tightened his arms, a sleepy grumble escaping his lips.

"Don't move."

"Need to breathe."

"No."

You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a tangled mess, a lazy smile curving his lips. He looked ruined—in the best way.

"Good morning, mate," he murmured, the word sending a thrill through you.

"Don't get used to it."

"Get used to what?"

"Me being nice." You poked his chest. "I still think you're insufferable."

His grin widened. "And I still think you're reckless, stubborn, and impossible."

"Yet you mated me."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then his hand slid down, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. "Now, about those dreams you mentioned..."

You shoved him, laughing, as he tumbled onto his back, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

"We should probably go back," you said, without conviction.

"Probably."

"Tuk will be worried."

"She's fine. Kiri's probably told everyone the atokirina showed up."

You lifted your head, a mock glare on your face. "You planned this."

"I hoped." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I didn't know if you'd–"

"I would." You kissed him, soft and quick. "I did."

He smiled, and for a moment, the world was perfect. Then his hands wandered lower, and his grin turned wicked. "We should probably offer thanks to Eywa properly."

"You're insatiable."

"You have no idea."

He spread hot kisses across your neck and the curve of your breasts.

Dawn painted the forest in a soft golden glow as you and Neteyam finally stirred, now fully awake. The Tree of Souls is still humming with the memory of your union. The atokirina had scattered with the rise of the morning light, leaving only the moss and the lingering warmth between you.

Neteyam helped you sit up, his hand lingering on your lower back. "We should go back before they send a search party."

"Lo'ak probably already knows," you muttered, stretching your sore muscles. "He's insufferably nosy."

"He's also insufferably bad at keeping secrets." Neteyam's grin was soft, almost shy. "So maybe we... keep this between us? For now?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You want to keep me a secret?"

"I want to keep us a secret. Just for a little while." He traced a pattern on your thigh, gaze dropping. "I want to enjoy you without the whole clan watching. Without my parents' expectations. Just... us."

Something warm unfurled in your chest. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But I'm terrible at hiding things."

"So am I." He laughed, pulling you closer. "We'll be terrible together."

And then you saw him.

Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.

Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.

You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.

But you weren't fine. You were never fine.

The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.

That became the pattern.

One-night stands.

Blind dates.

Friends with benefits.

You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.

No one ever did.

After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."

You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.

Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"Mm-hmm."

He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.

He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.

And then you're gone.

You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.

You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."

He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."

"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."

He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.

It wasn't.

Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.

But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.

You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.

But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.

So you left.

And you've been running ever since.

The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.

"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."

"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.

Two years.

Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.

But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.

Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."

"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.

He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.

"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."

"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."

He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"

No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."

He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.

But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.

But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.

You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.

But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.

You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.

And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.

But he won't ask. He never does.

The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.

You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.

It's going to be a long night.