Eli

You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldn’t even remember ordering.

The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.

The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.

It wasn’t your scene, not really, but you’d promised yourself you’d try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you weren’t already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.

But then you felt it.

A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.

Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the bar’s chatter like a blade.

“Didn’t think a girl like you would be here alone.”

You turned.

The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim haze—and they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.

You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. “I’m not alone.”

He didn’t leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.

“Boyfriend?”

You nodded.

“Is he here?”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.

“Then you’re alone.” His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact you’d been trying to ignore.

You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. “That’s not really how it works.”

He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”

You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. “You know my boyfriend?”

“No.” A grin spread across his mouth. “But if he was doing his job, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

Your lips curved… again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said I’m not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.

He didn’t take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space you’d left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.

His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.

“I’m flattered,” you said, keeping your tone light, easy. “But like I said—I’ve got someone.”

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, almost a murmur. “Is he here?”

You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “We’ve been over this.”

He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didn’t care.

“You’re drinking alone,” he said, each word placed with care. “Dressed like that. Smiling at me.” He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.”

Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.

“I’m very loyal,” you said, voice steady. “He’s just not the jealous type.”

He let the word sit, “oh,” slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, “So he’s a fucking idiot.”

You blinked.

The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldn’t suppress curving your lips.

“That’s one way to put it,” you said.

He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“You let your girl come out here looking like that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, “on her own, with guys like me walking around?” His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. “He doesn’t care. That’s what I’m hearing.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.

Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.

“Get her another,” he said, without breaking eye contact with you. “Whatever she’s drinking.”

You held up a hand, palm out. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I insist.” His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. “Your boyfriend can be mad later.”

You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.

He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. “I’m not here for the small talk. You don’t want me—fine. I can take no.” A pause. “But if you do… just say the word.”

The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadn’t looked away once, not even to blink.

You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. “You’re really pushy.”

He shrugged, unhurried. “I’m direct.”

“Same thing.”

“I’d argue it’s different.” His voice dropped, conversational now. “Pushy guys don’t take no for an answer. I’m just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.”

You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.

“I mean, he can’t be that good,” he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. “You’ve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.

“That’s not really any of your business.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. “It’s a little bit my business, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “especially if I’m about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.”

Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.

“You always talk to women like this?” you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.

“No.” He said it simply, without hesitation. “Just the girls who pretend they don’t want it.”

You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re an asshole.”

He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. “Confident,” he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And maybe a little desperate.” His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. “Can you blame me?”

His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh you’d half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.

“If I were your man,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, “I’d never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.” A pause, his gaze flicking down again. “That’d only be for me to appreciate.”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “You really think negging my boyfriend’s gonna make me want to fuck you?”

“No.” The word camwe out confident. “But I think you’re already thinking about it. And that’s got nothing to do with him.”

The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite override.

You didn’t meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.

“So,” you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, “how exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker.

“I’d actually pay attention,” he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. “I wouldn’t let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. I’d keep you so satisfied you’d never even remember his name.”

You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. “That so?”

“Yeah.” The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. “I’d learn your body like a map. I’d make you beg without even touching you. I’d ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.”

The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.

Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.

“You rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?”

A grin spread across his face. “I can show you if you want.”

You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.

“I think,” you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, “you’re full of shit.”

“I think,” he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, “you’re hoping I’m not.”

And you didn’t say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.

His smile widened, slow and triumphant.

“Just one night,” he said, soft as a murmur. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. “God, you’re really committed to this.”

His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.

You were past the point of denial now. You didn’t even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.

You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where he’d licked his lips, then back up to meet his.

“Fine,” you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the bar’s music. “Just one night.”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t question it, didn’t gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew you’d break.

Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstool’s support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.

Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didn’t matter.

His hand didn’t just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.

Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat you’d been sitting in.

The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didn’t cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.

He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.

The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadn’t even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell you’d just agreed to.

He didn’t give you time to second-guess it.

Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.

One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.

Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he murmured.

It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.

The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.

He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Who’d imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didn’t want you pulling away. Like he didn’t want you thinking.

Your knees buckled.

Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.

You weren’t kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.

But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you space to gather yourself.

He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.

His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.

The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.

You didn’t even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.

He didn’t say anything.

Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.

Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.

The elevator ride was barely two floors.

Maybe three. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember stepping inside, didn’t remember pressing the button, didn’t remember the doors sliding shut behind you.

All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.

And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.

The key turned. The lock clicked.

And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.

He was on you.

There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch you’d never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.

This was fast.

His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.

His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.

He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.

God, his mouth was everywhere too.

At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.

He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you weren’t complaining. Not even a little.

Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.

Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.

“Mmm,” he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Does your boyfriend touch you like this?”

A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You really hate that guy, huh?”

He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.

“I think he’s a goddamn idiot,” he said, voice low and rough. “Letting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.” His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “If you were mine—”

You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.

“But I’m not yours,” you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.

And god, the look he gave you.

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.

“Not yet,” he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours

He didn’t guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.

One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.

The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.

Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.

“Fuck,” he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you.”

His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.

“Can’t believe your man lets you walk around like this,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. “Dress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. You’re a walking invitation, sweetheart.”

“He trusts me,” you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.

Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. “Should’ve locked you up before someone else got to you.”

Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.

His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.

“Bet he doesn’t even touch you right,” he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. “Bet he doesn’t make you beg. Doesn’t know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?”

You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. “Yeah. This is mine now.”

You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say this pussy’s mine for the night.”

A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.

His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. “And you’re about to let me prove it.”

His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.

Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.

His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.

And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, “You ever been filmed before, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.

Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.

“Filmed?” The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.

“Mmhmm.” His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. “Wanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you later—legs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?”

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.

He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.

His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.

“C’mon,” he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. “Let me keep it. Just for me. I won’t show anyone.” A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. “Just wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.”

Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—and fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.

This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.

“Please,” he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. “Let me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when you’re gone.”

And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.

The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.

He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painful—you whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.

He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.

You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.

But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.

“Hold this,” he said. “Keep it steady. And don’t stop filming until I say so.”

The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.

His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.

“You’re really gonna let me eat you out on camera?” he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. “Look at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?”

A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.

“He doesn’t need to know,” you murmured.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.

“No, he doesn’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. “But I will.”

He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.

“Now keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.”

And then he was on you.

His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.

You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.

He moaned into you.

A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. “So fuckin’ sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth in months.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.

“Bet he doesn’t even taste you, does he?” His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. “Bet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.

Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how to touch you here—” His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. “—or how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.”

You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.

You didn’t mean to make the sounds you were making.

They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldn’t hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like you’d lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. “So desperate for someone who isn’t even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.”

You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.

His fingers curled again… just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.

“You think about this?” he went on, “When you’re lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?”

You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. “You think about it all the time. I think you’d let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think you’d let me fuck you right in his bed while he’s at work, and you’d still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.”

His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.

“You close?” he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.

You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then… smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.

“Let’s show him, yeah doll?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Let’s give him something to think about tonight.”

And then he sucked your clit again—hard—while his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You came.

It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.

Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.

He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.

You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.

His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.

He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.

“Gonna let me fuck you now?” His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. “Even though you’ve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut who’d already crossed every line and couldn’t find her way back.

You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.

Your voice didn’t work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answers—gone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.

He clicked his tongue.

“Such a dirty girl,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Cheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.

“Tell me what you are,” he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.

“I’m—I’m a dirty girl—”

“Louder.”

“I’m a dirty girl.”

“And?”

“And I—I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled, satisfied.

And then he pushed in.

Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. “Tight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.

And then he started to move.

His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.

He groaned harder at the sound.

“Look at that,” he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. “Fuckin’ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.”

He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. “Gonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think he’d wanna see what a whore you are when no one’s watching?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I—please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum—I need—”

He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.

“Look at the camera,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Look at it and tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.

“You,” you gasped. “You’re making me—”

“That’s right. Me. Not him. Me.”

He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.

“Now cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

“That’s what I thought”

He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didn’t even have the shame to swallow it.

But Bucky didn’t give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.

“Up,” he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. “C’mon. Up, baby. I’m not done with you.”

Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.

Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.

“You’re a mess,” he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Bet he’s never fucked you dumb like this, huh?”

Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didn’t let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.

The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess he’d made of you.

“There we go,” he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. “Much better view. Look at that, fuckin’ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.”

You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.

“Stay still,” he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. “Be good and take it. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

And then he was sliding back in.

No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.

He didn’t wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.

“Fuck, baby—so tight like this,” he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. “Like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.

“Bet he’s never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. “What would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you beggin’ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creamin’ all over me?”

Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.

“What would he say, huh,” Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, “if he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyes—that fucked-out, starved look you get when I’m deep inside you?”

Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.

“Say it,” he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. “Tell the camera what you’re doing.”

You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.

“—Cheating,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat. “I’m cheating on him—fuck, fuck—please don’t stop—”

He groaned like he could’ve fucking died from how good that sounded.

“That’s it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.”

You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.

“Say it again,” he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“—Cheating,” you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. “I’m cheating on him.”

“Can’t hear you.”

“I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. “Letting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.”

He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.

“God, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.”

You didn’t even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.

“Bucky—”

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.

The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

“Wanna cum again for me, baby?” he panted behind you. “Wanna cum on a stranger’s cock while your boyfriend’s out there probably textin’ you right now, askin’ if you’re okay?”

His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Use me,” you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. “Please, just use me. I don’t care—I don’t care about anything—just fuck me—”

That did it.

He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.

You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.

“Oh fuck—fuck, doll—”

He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess he’d made of you.

“On your knees,” he barked.

You dropped without hesitation.

Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.

He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.

“Jesus fuck—look at you,” he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. “Fucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippin’ down your thighs. And you’re still lookin’ at me like you want more.”

You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted… just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.

His breath hitched.

That was all it took.

He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder… and then he came.

“Fuck—fuck—”

Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.

He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.

“Gonna remember this forever,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.”

You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.

You held eye contact… and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.

And then you smiled and winked at the camera.

He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You’re unreal. You’re fucking unreal.”

He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.

“Get up,” he said, softer now. “C’mere. Let me kiss you.”

You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.

You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.

He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldn’t help yourself.

“‘Gonna remember this forever,’” you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. “God, baby. The drama. Are you sure you’re not secretly a director?”

He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.

And you.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You were so into it,” you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. “Like, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?”

He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.

“I personally think we’d make a lot of money,” you said, your tone almost dreamy. “With your dick and my tits, we’d be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.”

He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. “Please,” he said, low and gruff, “shut up and let me spoon you into silence.”

You hummed, basking in victory.

“You were so serious,” you whispered into the quiet. “The dirty talk? You’re gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, aren’t you? I can see it now—‘James.B.B, 107, 6’2”, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.’”

He groaned again, but it was quieter now.

You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.

You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.

You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.

“Not a chance, stranger.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.

You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.

The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.

Almost.

Which is exactly why you struck.

“Okay,” you said, your voice sweet as honey. “Give me your phone now.”

He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.

“...No.”

You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.

“James.”

He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.

You didn’t let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said I’m not asking.

“I just want to see how I looked,” you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. “For science.”

“You looked perfect,” he muttered from beneath the pillow. “You don’t need to see it.”

“Oh, but I do,” you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where he’d abandoned the phone. “Because someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.”

He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.

“Aha,” you declared, waving it like a trophy. “Siri, show me the porn.”

He groaned from beneath the pillow. “You’re a freak.”

“You love it.”

You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasn’t buried in a folder, wasn’t hidden behind a password.

“Jesus Christ, you didn’t even try to hide it,” you murmured.

You tapped play.

The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.

Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.

You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.

“Oh my god,” you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was… eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Who is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?”

“Stop it,” Bucky mumbled.

But you kept going.

“Look at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like you’re about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.”

He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re so hot when you’re pretending not to be a freak.”

He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.

You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.

“Wait—” You squinted. “Did you zoom while you were inside me?”

He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.

“You did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.”

“Stop watching it,” he moaned.

“Never. I’m gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, I’ll see your constipated orgasm face.”

That did it.

He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.

It didn’t hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, “You’re the fucking worst,” and “I hate you so much right now.”

He got the phone eventually.

And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.

“I’m deleting that video first thing tomorrow,” he mumbled, his voice fond.

You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.

“Sure you are, Sergeant,” you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. “Right after you jack off to it one more time.”

He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.

The kind of breath that said finally, peace.

He was wrong.

“So,” you whispered against his collarbone, “since I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.”

He sighed again

You ignored it completely.

“We could do the delivery guy thing,” you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. “Like, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And you’re just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.”

He didn’t respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.

So you kept going.

“Or—or we could do the ‘I’m your best friend’s girlfriend’ angle,” you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. “You’re not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom door’s cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just… watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.”

“No,” he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.

Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.

But only a moment.

You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. “What about the corrupt cop thing?” you whispered, your lips still brushing his. “You pull me over on some empty road at midnight. I’m nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me there’s only one way I can get out of the ticket.”

He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.

You chuckled against his lips.

“Ooooh. Or the one where I’m drunk and stumbling out of a party,” you said, your voice breathless. “You’re the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.”

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Go to sleep, please,” he muttered.

“—but I wake up,” you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, “and you’re standing in the doorway. Watching me. And I’m so grateful. So vulnerable. So willing—spread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just… take what you want.”

His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images you’d painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.

You hummed, “I think you like it.”

He didn’t answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.

“No more talking,” he whispered.

You grinned against his chest. “Not even the professor one?” you teased. “Where I’m failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form of—“

“I will gag you.”

You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.

“That’s a yes, then.”

He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.

And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images you’d planted in his head.

You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.

a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.

bucky taglist:

"I'll be fine. I was considering stopping by the infirmary before dinner anyway. Thanks though," you offered through a constricted throat.

You could hear the steady rhythm of Dorcas's pulse through her wool turtleneck. The smell of her sweet perfume and tart blood wafted over with every step she took. It was torture.

"Perfect, I'll walk you."

"Don't sweat it, Dorc. I'll manage," you laughed dryly. "Besides, your gifts are needed elsewhere. I'm sure Marlene needs to be talked off a ledge somewhere." Using your best friend's girlfriend's rampant quidditch anxiety against her was low, but you were desperate to get Dorcas as far away from you as possible.

"Shit, you're right. This fucking match is going to be the death of us all. You're positive you can make it there? I don't need Barty up my arse because of your poor judgment." Her tone was firm, but a playfulness was behind her bright eyes.

You waved her off, beelining for the Hospital Wing as quickly as your strained muscles would allow. The ache slowly creeping into your bones was just another telltale symptom of your ever-growing thirst.

When Madame Pomfrey saw your tired frame enter the infirmary, she rushed to your side, abandoning her post by a first-year with Black Cat flu.

"Oh goodness, deary! You should have come earlier this month. I was beginning to fret," The moment her motherly hands cupped your cheeks, the promise of relief only increased your bloodlust. "Any symptoms yet? It's been nearly five weeks!" she shrieked, leading you into her private office and closing the door behind her.

You let out a sigh, "Just a little thirsty."

That was a massive understatement.

Potion bottles tinkered around in the tall medicine cabinet as Madame Pomfrey rifled through its vast contents. You bit down on your lip to keep the thirst at bay. It was all-consuming.

The healer was right- you should have come to see her sooner, but your course load had been overwhelming and you'd mistaken the early symptoms for stress. You normally visited the infirmary once a month to feed on animal blood collected by Professor Kettleburn and would live off of bloodpops from Honeydukes between visits. It wasn't an ideal feeding schedule, but you'd make anything work if it meant you were allowed to attend Hogwarts. You'd never gone this long before and you were one mishap away from disaster.

A loud crash pulled you from your thoughts. Shattered glass and spilled potions were at Madame Pomfrey's feet. Before you could call out to stop her from attempting to pick up a broken vial, she nicked her hand on the sharp glass. Hot blood dripped onto the marble floor. You could feel your pupils dilating and your canines elongating- preparing for a kill. It wasn't a large cut, but five weeks was too long to go between feedings...

"I really do need to be more careful! No matter..." She turned back to the cabinet, unfazed by her bleeding hand. "It seems Professor Kettleburn may have made a mistake, deary. I'm sure he can get it sorted by Monday, though."

"What kind of mistake?" Your voice came out as a whimper as you tried to ignore the tempting sound of blood pumping through the prominent artery in the healer's inviting neck and the even more tempting smell of the sticky blood staining her hand.

Her voice became a distant mumbling as your enhanced sense of smell fought to take over your thoughts completely. There's no blood.

You faintly heard her calling your name as you stumbled out of her office and into the main area of the hospital wing, covering your nose to the best of your ability. Hot tears threatened to spill onto your hollow cheeks. This can't be happening, you thought. You burst into the hallway with a life or death mission: get to the emergency bloodpop stash you kept hidden in your trunk. In the frenzy, a hard chest collided with you.

"Sugar? What's happened?" Barty's arms circled your middle before you could push past the sweaty group of Slytherin boys returning from the quidditch pitch. You used his steady strength to your advantage, leaning into him fully as he tucked you carefully under the arm not carrying his broom. He didn't need to ask for confirmation before he began herding you to the dungeons, already aware of where you were headed in such a hurry.

"You're scaring me, love." A line creased between his brows- worry etched into his pretty face.

"Dormitory...now," you whispered, trying to remain discreet in the busy corridor.

"Working on it, Sugar." At the pained sound of your voice, Barty picked up the pace significantly- hoisting you up and practically carrying you down the castle's stairs. His broom doubled as a walking stick as he bore your full weight.

When the common room revealed itself, you used the last bit of your energy to break free from Barty's grasp and took the stairs leading to the girl's dormitory two at a time. Your weakened muscles screamed at the over-exertion, but you didn't have time to spare. Everyone within the castle walls would be in grave danger if your thirst wasn't satiated this instant. The smell of the one remaining bloodpop in the bottom of your trunk was the only thing you let yourself focus on. It wouldn't be enough to hold you over for longer than a few hours, but that was a problem for later.

Barty bounded up the stairs behind you after a brief moment of shock, not caring about how unhinged he must look chasing a visibly ill girl in his soiled quidditch uniform, muddy broom in hand. His goggles were hastily pushed up, mussing his sandy hair in all directions but the one it was meant to lay in. No one in the common room seemed to care much, seeing as it wasn't abnormal to witness Barty in such a state- especially not when it came to matters involving you.

He found you hunched over, head between your bent knees, sitting against the foot of your bed. There was a discarded bloodpop wrapper at your feet and your belongings were strewn about the room as though you'd thrown them in a fit of rage.

"Hey, Sugar," Barty started, trying his best to be gentle so as to not spook you. He carefully closed and locked the door behind him before joining you on the floor.

"Go away, Barty. You don't need to see me like this."

"Like what, dollface? I always want to see you."

"Not now you don't." Your voice was no more than a whimper. Barty felt a painful tug in his chest at the sound. "It's dangerous for you to be here when I'm this thirsty," you sniffled, trying to feel satisfied after devouring the candied blood in seconds. The beating of his heart only made you more parched.

"Oh, come off it. You know you're not getting rid of me that easy. Danger is my middle name."

He smiled softly at the tiny scoff you let out- proud of himself for breaking your resolve so quickly.

"No, seriously. Barty 'Danger' Crouch Jr. that's what they call me. Come on, Sugar. I skive off class, I beat lads up while flying on brooms-"

"Barty 'Danger' Crouch Jr.?" You interrupted, unable to fully suppress your smile.

"-I shout in the library," he whispered against the shell of your ear, successfully earning a giggle. "So what if my super fit, crazy smart, incredibly lovely girlfriend has a slightly unconventional diet? I'm pretty sure I can handle it, Sugar." His hand cupped the side of your cheek. You gazed into his lovesick eyes and melted into him. You sighed.

"Unconventional is not what I'd call it. I drink blood, Barty. And everyone's going to find out if I don't get more by tonight."

No one at school other than a handful of professors and Barty knew of your condition. Dumbledore thought it best to keep things under wraps, lest concerned parents were to find out and cause trouble. Telling Barty was the scariest thing you'd ever done, but it was necessary if you were going to have a somewhat normal relationship with him. Thankfully, he seemed relatively unphased by the whole 'undead girlfriend' thing.

"You haven't fed at all this month?" Worry was written all over his face. That was one of your favorite things about Barty- his face never lied. He always wore his emotions plainly for all to see.

"Just bloodpops. I went to see Madame Pomfrey today, but I guess Professor Kettleburn got his dates mixed up or something so there wasn't any blood. She said he could get some by Monday, but..."

Silence fell over you. Barty was lost in thought.

"I'll get kicked out of Hogwarts if I lose control. I almost did lose control just now. I...I don't know what to do. I'm still so thirsty-"

"Bite me," he offered with a nonchalant shrug.

"What?"

"Bite me, Sugar. I've got plenty of blood to go around. You need it."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Why not? You need fresh blood, I'm offering it straight from the source."

"That's not the point," you snapped.

"What is the point then? I'm not seeing the problem."

"The problem," you started, pointing a finger into his hard chest, "is that I've never done that before, Barty. We have no idea what the effects of drinking human blood may have on me. What if I can't stop?" Tears welled in your eyes and streamed down your pale cheeks. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

Barty tsked, wiping his thumbs across your cheeks. "Oh, my sweet girl." He placed a placating kiss on the top of your head, pulling you into his chest. Normally, you'd recoil at his sweaty state, but the saccharine scent of his blood masked any odor. You could hear the rush of blood flowing into every vein, rhythmically circulating through each valve, ventricle, and atrium of his heart. It was as though every part of his being was taunting you- daring you- to have a taste. Maybe you could stop after just a small sample. The skin of his neck would be so easily punctured...if he was offering maybe...

You blinked the thoughts away, pulling your head back. This was just the thirst talking. You weren't in your right mind.

"Sugar, I promise you I wouldn't offer if I didn't have absolute trust that it would be okay." He lowered his head to look directly into your teary eyes. "I want you to do this. I want to help you."

You paused, considering him. And because Barty's face never lied, you could tell he meant every bit of what he was saying. He trusted you. And you trusted Barty.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it'll be hot." He shrugged off his jersey, exposing his sculpted torso. "Eat your heart out," he winked, leaning back to rest against the foot of the bed.

You hesitantly started toward him, straddling his hips, careful in your movements. You felt your canines sharpen in preparation.

"Tell me if it hurts or if it's too much," you demanded, trying your best to sound stern through your cracking voice.

"I'll be fine, Sugar. I like it rough." He was joking, but the glint of mischief in his eyes hinted at his excitement.

You leaned in, mouth slightly parted. His collarbone made an excellent resting place for your chin as your trembling lips pressed against the warm skin of his neck. Barty tilted his head, allowing you full access to the side of his throat. He could sense your nerves, so he ran his fingers through your hair, encouraging you with each stroke.

"Go on," he whispered. "Bite me."

And you did.

Barty's blood was unlike anything you'd ever tasted. It was sweet and metallic and tangy and delicious. Most animal blood had a bitter quality to it that you'd grown used to, but this was divine. Your teeth punctured just below his jugular to get as much blood as possible without damaging any major veins. The moment the hot liquid passed through your lips, it was as though you'd discovered a drug made just for you.

After a few gulps, you forced yourself to detach from Barty's neck. He hissed at the retreat of your teeth. Two small puncture wounds steadily bled onto his chest, blood pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Without thinking, you lunged forward and licked the sweet substance from his skin, running your tongue along the holes you left behind. Barty stared at you in awe, holding your face in his large hand as though you were the most precious thing in his world.

"That was..." he started, breathless, "so hot." He leaned in, kissing you fervently. Barty was a man starved. The sight of you wild-eyed and satisfied, mouth dripping with his blood was a thing of beauty. He knew then he'd do anything to become your own, personal blood supply.

———————

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been one hundred and forty-six years since you had seen your brothers. Actually, it had been one hundred and forty-six years since they had seen you. You kept tabs on them over the years, always so close but not close enough for them to find you. As far as your brothers were concerned, you were dead and technically you were.

In truth, you didn’t want to see them but you had to. You had to for him.

So here you were, driving past the Mystic Falls welcome sign. Your jaw clenches at the sight of it, you hadn’t been here since 1864. Every fiber of your being was screaming at you to turn around, that you didn’t want to be back here, that it was going to hurt you. You shoved the feeling away and continued driving until you reached your destination.

The old Salvatore Boarding House, your old home.

You take a deep breath before walking up to the door. It’s wide open and you can hear Stefan and Damon arguing inside. Your best guess is Stefan tried to walk away from Damon by slamming the door on him and all it did was make Damon angrier and he flung it open.

You followed the yelling to the living room, they were so caught up in their argument that they hadn’t noticed you leaning on the door frame.

“I see you two still fight like cats and dogs… I’m sure this is about some silly girl,” you finally speak up, announcing your presence.

They both immediately stop and look at you.

“Who the hell are you?” Damon asks instantaneously and you couldn’t blame him, the last time he saw you, you were just a kid.

You pout, placing a hand over your heart, “that hurts Damon.”

Letting out a dramatic sigh you place your hands on your hips, “I guess that’s fair though… I mean, it has been a really long time, one hundred and forty-six years in fact and I was just a little kid then.”

“I was about this tall…” you gesture with your hand then gasp, bringing your hand to your mouth, “And the last time we spoke was in this house, in this room!”

Stefan’s eyes widened a bit, his face becoming one of shock and realization, “Y/N?” he whispers.

You smirk and Damon scoffs, “That's not possible, our sister is dead.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that, though, I believe the proper term is undead—“

You’re cut off by Damon rushing at you, slamming you into the wall, and holding you up by your throat.

“Damon.” Stefan warns.

“This isn’t Y/N, Stefan! It can’t be! This is some sick imposter! I don’t know how they found out… but Y/N… she’s been dead for over a hundred years!”

You knee him in the stomach, causing him to double over and drop you, “Undead.”

Damon grunts, stumbling back but he quickly recovers, “Okay, let’s say you are our sister… Why now, huh?! Why find us now, after a hundred some years?!” he shouts.

You scoff, standing up straight, “Because I saw you both die! I saw father shoot you both dead! You remember that night right? The night you both tried to save Katherine? The night you were turned?”

You paused for a moment, directing your next words to Damon, “The night you told me I wasn’t your sister anymore.”

You knew being back here would be hard, you knew it would hurt. What you didn’t expect was for Damon to seemingly forget everything that happened in 1864. He looked away from you causing you to scoff.

“That woman ruined our family the moment she stepped foot in Mystic Falls.”

1864

Mystic Falls

You stood next to Stefan, rocking back and forth on your heels as you watched the carriage approach.

Your father had told you that a woman was coming to stay with you all, a woman named Katherine Pierce. You were excited for her arrival, you loved Stefan, Damon, and occasionally your father but you were ecstatic to have another girl around.

The carriage opened and two women got out, you followed Stefan down the stairs, standing right next to him.

“You must be Miss Pierce,” your brother says with his hands still behind his back.

Miss Pierce smirks, “Please,” she reaches her hand out for him to take, which he does, “Call me Katherine.”

They stare at each other for a moment, seemingly having a silent conversation before you interrupt, “Hello!”

Katherine seems taken aback by the sudden voice but puts on a smile, “And who might you be?”

“Y/N!”

Stefan chuckles and places his hand onto your shoulder, “This is my little sister, father jokes that she’s my shadow,” your brother teases, “She’d be following Damon around as well but he’s off at war.”

You frown at the mention of your other brother, not noticing the way Katherine’s gaze hardens.

Katherine would grow close with Stefan over the next weeks and unfortunately for you, she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like you. You couldn’t figure out why but Stefan continually reassured you that Katherine had no problems with you so you tried to let it go.

Then after some time, Damon returned home and you were overjoyed. You had always been close with your brothers, they were practically your only friends. You had been lonely since Katherine had arrived due to Stefan’s infatuation, you hoped now that Damon was back you wouldn’t be so lonely.

“Damon!” you cheered upon seeing him, “Day! You’re back!”

He chuckles, “That I am!”

You rush to hug him which he quickly reciprocates, patting your head. But his gaze focused elsewhere.

“Who is she?” he points.

You turn to see who he’s looking at and sigh, “That is Miss Katherine Pierce, she’s been staying with us for some time now.”

You beckon Damon to lean down so you could whisper in his ear, “I think Stefan may be in love with her.”

Your eldest brother raises a brow and stands up straight, “Hm? Well… I suppose I should introduce myself to our guest…”

Just like that, Damon was infatuated as well. It was as if Katherine was a siren and both your brothers had been tricked by her song.

You watched Katherine as she led on both your brothers, knowing that at least one of them would be getting a broken heart. Though, you had a feeling they’d both end up heartbroken.

The one event that really broke you was when both your brothers were nowhere to be seen on your birthday, and when you did find them it was like they had no idea what the day was.

You hated Katherine, but you weren’t scared of her. Until you saw her true face.

You knew what she was, a vampire. Your father had told you stories about vampires, they’re evil monsters. He told you if you ever even heard whispers of a vampire that you had to tell him and he’d take care of it.

So you told him and he came up with a plan that you would enact within the week.

“What is that delicious smell?” Damon asks as he walks into the kitchen.

You let out a little laugh, “I baked cookies! Would you like one?”

“I’d love one,” Damon takes one of the cookies from the tray, patting your head as he did.

The first step of the plan was complete, now all you had to do was sit back and wait.

It wouldn’t take long for Katherine to come back to the boarding house with Stefan, he goes and sits on the couch while Katherine begins to go upstairs. She turns to give Damon a look and he immediately rushes to follow her up the stairs.

Moments later there’s a scream, followed by shouting from your father, Damon, and some men you don’t know. Stefan is off the couch quickly and at the steps immediately.

Multiple men are dragging Katherine down the stairs while Damon yells at your father. Stefan stands in shock as you reach his side. Katherine is taken out of the house by the men and put into a guarded carriage. Your father holds Damon to the wall as the carriage leaves your home, finally, his eyes land on you and he lets go of Damon, rushing to you, he places a kiss on your head.

“You were right, my dear. You did good.”

With that, he rushes out the door to the carriage, leaving you alone with your brothers.

Stefan’s voice is quiet, “You know what she is…”

“And you told father!” Damon shouts.

“She’s a monster Damon!” you yell.

He scoffs, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re ten! A child!”

Your frown, “My birthday was a month ago Damon… I’m eleven… or have you forgotten?”

“It doesn’t matter! How you could be so cruel… I don't understand… I don’t recognize you… you’re no sister of mine. Not anymore.”

“Damon!” Stefan yells.

Damon shakes his head, shoving past you to the door, “Let’s go Stefan! If we’re quick we can save her!”

And just like that, they rush out of the house without sparring you a second glance. They didn’t know it at the time, but moments later you would run out of the house after them.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

“I never went back home… it wouldn’t be home if you were both dead... So I ran and ran and didn’t look back… I travelled all over… never staying in one place for too long.”

Stefan steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug and you allow him too. It had been a century since you had hugged anyone, you almost forgot how to. He pulls away to get a better look at your face, how you’ve grown since he last saw you.

“How old are you? Physically?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, Stef…” you giggle before giving an actual answer, “Nineteen, I was turned in 1872… which I guess makes me your big sister.”

He chuckles, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Damon crosses his arms, “How’d you turn?”

“Willingly, if that’s what you’re asking… my boyfriend at the time turned me, we wanted to spend forever together.”

“Ironic, sounds a lot like my story with Katherine.”

You furrow your brows, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying, you’re a hypocrite.”

You scoff and Damon takes that as his signal to continue, “Where is this boyfriend of yours now?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.” you lie.

“I’m sorry Y/N,” Stefan smiles softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Suddenly, the floorboards creak causing all of you to look at the sound. There she stood, Elena Gilbert.

“Oh… I’m sorry I didn’t realize you had company…” She clears her throat, “Uh… Stefan, you called me?”

Thinking quickly, you speed away from Stefan and slam the girl into the wall. You weren’t dumb, you knew who she was and you knew she wasn’t Katherine but your brothers didn’t know that you knew. Everything would be fine as long as you didn’t kill her, he wouldn’t mind if she was roughed up a bit.

“You keep the bitch around?! After everything?!”

Stefan and Damon sped to your side, Damon ripping you away from her.

You scoff, “You still protect her!”

“This isn’t Katherine,” Stefan says before pulling Elena to him, the girl holding her throat.

“Looks exactly like her!”

Damon rolls his eyes, pulling you farther away, “We know. We have eyes. It’s weird, some weird, freaky nature thing but she’s not Katherine. Smell her, she’s human.”

You turn your attention to Stefan and Elena who are both looking at you, waiting for your next move. Stefan is ready to jump in front of Elena to save her, you almost roll your eyes but resist, this would be like 1864 all over again.

You walk over to them, slowly, tilting your head at Elena.

“I’m Elena…Elena Gilbert.”

You give her a half smile, “Y/N. Sorry.”

You hold out your hand for her to take, which she does after looking at Stefan to make sure you were safe.

“This happens a lot, you’d be surprised…”

“No, I wouldn’t be. Katherine’s a bitch. A lot of people want her dead,” you pause, “Consider getting a tattoo on your forehead,” you brush your pointer finger and thumb across your forehead, “‘Not Katherine’.”

Elena giggles, “In size forty font.”

You crack a smile, she seemed sweet, you almost felt bad about what was going to happen, almost.

“You’re a friend of Stefan and Damon’s?”

“I’m their sister,” you smirk, chuckling at the shocked expression on her face.

“Our sister who we thought was dead up until about five minutes ago,” Damon adds, still suspicious of you.

“I didn’t know you were alive either until I heard rumors from some vampires that fled from here…” another lie.

Stefan and Damon share a look and you look between them, “What?” You ask.

“The tomb vampires.”

Stefan pats your back, “C’mon, we got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Well, this is lovely but are we going to discuss what we’re here for?” A new voice cuts in, she looks familiar but you can’t quite place her.

Elena on the other hand looks terrified, “You…”

“Like he said, a lot of catching up to do,” the woman smiles.

You all sat down in the living room while the woman who you learned to be Rose began to pace back and forth while speaking, “Okay, you have to understand, I only know what I’ve picked up over the years- and I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. That’s the problem with all this vampire crap but Klaus I know is real.”

You keep your expression neutral, you had been told the story of Katerina Petrova, Katherine Pierce as you knew her and how she escaped her death by Klaus and Elijah both. That’s why this woman was familiar, she had played a role in the escape.

“Who is he?” Elena asks.

Damon speaks up, “He’s one of the originals. He’s a legend,” he widens his eyes for dramatic flair.

”From the first generation of vampires,” Stefan gestures with his glass.

“Like Elijah?”

Rose sighs, dropping her shoulders, “No, Elijah is the Easter Bunny compared to Klaus. He’s a foot soldier, Klaus is the real deal.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face, Elijah? The Easter Bunny? Now that was a funny joke.

“Klaus is known to be the oldest…” Stefan adds and that almost makes you giggle.

“So…” Elena begins, “You're saying the oldest vampire in the history of time is coming after me?”

Well, not the oldest.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Damon sighs, standing up, “No, what they’re saying is, I mean, if what she’s saying is true—“

“Which it is,” Rose cuts in.

“—And you’re not just saying this so we don’t kill you…”

“Which I’m not.”

Damon sighs, “Then… we’re looking at a solid maybe?”

“Look,” Stefan says, going to sit next to Elena, “Elijah’s dead so no one else even knows you exist.”

This makes you look up, unless these idiots found a white oak stake, Elijah was not dead, he was simply resting and he’d be pissed when he got back. You only hoped that he’d stay clear of you, you still held a soft spot for the man and you didn’t want to rat him out, but you would if you had to.

“Not that you know of,” Rose adds.

“That’s not helping…” Damon mutters.

“I’ve never even met anyone who has laid eyes on him, we’re talking centuries of truth mixed with fiction!” Stefan argues, “For all we know he could just be some sort of stupid bedtime story…” he looks at Elena, trying to reassure her that she’s safe.

Rose scoffs, “He’s real and he doesn’t give up. If he wants something, he gets it.” Well ain’t that the truth.

“If you’re not afraid of Klaus then you’re an idiot.” Rose adds. Also true.

“Well, what about you little sister?” Damon asks, gesturing to you, “You ever heard of Klaus?”

“No.” Yes. “I doubt he’s even real.” He’s very real.

“You mentioned you traveled a lot,” Stefan looks at you, “You’ve never heard of the original vampires?”

“Never.”

1870

New Orleans

You had showered off all of the blood, trying to rid yourself of the horrible memory. Why was it that vampires seemed to be everywhere you went? And now you were staying in a house with not one, but four vampires.

Sighing, you get out of the shower and change into the outfit Elijah had provided for you, it was a simple night gown, reaching past your knees. You find your way to the guest room that Elijah had shown you and curl into the bed, unable to sleep. You stay in that position all night, not getting even a wink of rest.

When morning comes, you make your way downstairs to the living room, “Elijah?” you call out softly, knowing that he’d be able to hear even the faintest of whispers.

There’s a whoosh behind you causing you to spin around on your heel, expecting to see Elijah but you don’t. A man stands by the couch, smirking.

”I see my brother has taken to copying me. Bringing home his very own charity case,” the man announces as he drops down on the couch to sit, urging you to sit down as well, you do in fear of upsetting him.

You fidget with your hands out of nervousness and he cracks a smile.

“No need to be scared, love. I’m Klaus…” he holds a hand out for you to take and you do, rather reluctantly.

When you don’t say anything, he continues, “Did my brother say something about me?”

You shake your head, “No, not you.”

“Oh? Not me? Did he say anything about my other siblings, do tell me. I’m just dying to know.”

You look around the room before turning back to him, “He said I should be careful around Kol…”

“Ah, my little brother, yes, he can be quite reckless… and rather… insatiable…”

“Are you talking badly about me to our new guest?” a voice that you assume belongs to Kol fills the room.

Klaus clicks his tongue, holding back a laugh, “No, no, little brother. Simply warning the girl of your tendencies…”

Kol scoffs, before leaning over the back of the couch, his chin practically touching your shoulder as he whispers to you, “Don’t listen to him, darling… or Elijah for that matter.”

You jump a bit and tilt your head away from him, inadvertently giving the vampire easy access to your neck. He chuckles and surprisingly, leans away.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Kol! Elijah already said you’re to leave her alone!” a blonde girl comes bouncing into the room, pulling Kol further away from you.

In a flash she’s in front of you, holding her hand out for you to take, “I’m Rebekah! It’ll be nice to have another girl around!”

She then looks you up and down, taking in your current outfit, “Now this just won’t do, come now,” she reaches her other hand out for you and when you take it she pulls you off of the couch.

She quickly begins to pull you towards the stairs just as Elijah comes back into the room, he sighs upon seeing you and his sister.

“Do not overwhelm the poor girl, Rebekah.”

“Relax Elijah, I’m only going to get her a change of clothes… and we must do something with this hair!” she twirls a piece of your hair.

And with that, Rebekah practically drags you up to her room.

“Sit.” she guides you to a vanity chair, “You’ve got gorgeous features but this hair… this dress… they are not doing you any favors…”

Your face flushes, “Oh, I haven’t had much money for clothing let alone food… It's been hard to find work and I never really learned how to do my own hair… my brother used to do it for me and he’d allow me to braid his… I just can’t seem to do so when it’s my own head.”

Rebekah smiles softly, “You needn’t worry, I have plenty of options for you!” she rushes to her closet, opening it to reveal a plethora of different dresses.

She holds up a gown with a bit of lace detailing that goes up to the neck, “This will do nicely. Much better than this night gown…” she says as she brushes the sleeve of the dress you currently wore.

She hands you the gown, “Go now,” she points to the bathrooom, “get dressed and I’ll do your hair!”

You do as she says and come back, having her help you tie the back.

“Now, let’s fix this hair.” she pushes you back down into the chair, “Would you like a braid?”

You nod, “That would be lovely…”

Rebekah hums, “You said your brother used to do your hair… Where is he now?”

Your eyes widen a bit before you look down, “Oh, uhm, he’s dead… That’s why I ran from home…”

“You’re a runaway?”

You crack a smile, trying to be as confident as possible, “Was my ratty appearance and lack of cash not enough to give that away?”

Rebekah chuckles, “I suppose… were you always poor?” she asks, nonchalantly.

“Oh Heavens no. My family was very wealthy… the wealthiest family in our town. My father was a landowner.”

“You didn’t think to take any money before running?” She raises a brow.

“I was only eleven at the time and had just witnessed… something awful…” you take a deep breath, you hadn’t ever spoken about this out loud, “I needed to get away.”

Rebekah frowns, dropping your hair, “Elijah said you’re seventeen, you’ve been on your own for six years?”

You nod and Rebekah’s frown deepens, “That’s a long time to be alone… that must have been awful.”

“I’ve managed,” you shrug, “I went back once, a week after I had left when I got second thoughts… I found out that my father had also passed. I came across a newspaper, they believed that someone had killed my father and taken me…”

“He was killed?”

You hum, and Rebekah picks up your hair again.

“Did they ever catch his killer?”

“No… but I have a suspicion it was a vampire.”

“Why would you think that?” she asks as she finishes your braid.

“His head was nearly ripped off.”

A few days later, Klaus found you. Elijah was dealing with other matters so he wasn’t there to monitor his brother's behavior.

You were alone when he found you, in the kitchen. Baking was something that you enjoyed doing at your old home and after running away you hadn’t been able to. Elijah welcomed you to use the kitchen and bake whatever you’d like, saying he wanted to make sure you felt comfortable during your stay.

“Not too broken up about your father being murdered?”

The sudden voice causes you to jump, spilling the cup of sugar you were holding.

“You startled me,” you sigh, beginning to clean up the sugar.

“You’re easy to frighten,” in a second, Klaus is directly next to you, making you yelp, he smirks, “Now answer the question.”

“What?”

“Your father…” he practically circles you, “You think a vampire killed him? You didn’t seem too sad about it.”

“I… it was six years ago… wait, you were listening when I was talking to Rebekah?”

Klaus hums, “Six years is not that long,” he ignores your question, besides, you already knew the answer. “Well, to a vampire at least. I suppose I could buy that if your heart wasn’t racing.”

You let out a breath, “Klaus—“

“Yes yes, I know Elijah has told you to stay clear of me even if you deny it…”

“That’s not—“

“You didn’t like your father!” he exclaims, making your eyes widen, “I’ve figured it out, huh? What was so awful about the man? Do tell.”

You scowl, you knew you shouldn’t mouth off to the vampires but Klaus was testing your patience, “Not that it’s any of your business but, he… he killed my brothers.”

“Brothers? Plural? Interesting, you only mentioned one to Rebekah. You’re lying to us now?”

“I- No! I only mentioned the one that did my hair! I didn’t lie!”

“Withholding the truth then,” he smirks.

You sigh, “Elijah knows everything already, I’ve told him everything. I haven’t lied, both my brothers fell for a vampire- my father got involved…” tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes, “…he ended up killing them both… I assume the vampire- that she got away, that she killed my father… that’s why I’ve been alone.” tears begin to stain your cheeks.

You sniffle, rubbing at your eyes when the door opens. Klaus has a sheepish expression when Elijah enters the room.

“Niklaus,” he practically hisses, “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I simply asked the girl a few questions!”

Elijah narrows his eyes, “I’m sure.”

You went upstairs and stayed there for the rest of the day, trying to avoid everyone. You were deep in thought when Kol’s voice startled you.

“My brother made you cry? He does tend to have that effect on women.”

Kol chuckles, and you turn to see him leaning against the doorframe of the room Elijah has you staying in. Your eyes widen and you turn your back to him, probably not your best move considering he’s a vampire but Elijah had told you to stay away. It was bad enough that you had spoken to him earlier but at least then his siblings were around, now you truly were alone.

“Like I said darling, you needn't be scared.”

“Elijah told me not to speak with you, he wouldn’t have told me that for no reason.”

Kol scoffs, “He’s always so dramatic.”

You don’t respond and Kol sighs, “I’ll go if you want, I simply wanted to make sure Nik didn’t upset you too badly… you’re too pretty to be upset over him.”

You blush, he sounds genuine but you couldn’t trust it. You also didn’t want to upset Elijah, he was the one who was giving you a home after all. He could easily kick you out and back onto the street to fend for yourself.

“I’d just like to be left alone… please.”

You hummed mindlessly in the kitchen, swaying while you baked. It had been three months since the Mikaelsons had allowed you into their home, Elijah promised he would find you your own home soon enough but he had been so busy with other duties.

You didn’t mind, you had grown used to living in their home. Ironically, living in the house of deadly original vampires had been the safest you had ever felt. The Mikaelsons had completely changed your opinion of vampires in just a few, short months. Rebekah had become a close friend of yours, Klaus had stopped his frequent questioning and began to see you as a friend (he never apologized but you knew he felt bad when he gifted you a necklace), and Kol… well… Kol was complicated.

After he had checked on you that day, you became curious about him. Elijah’s warnings only did so much to curb your curiosity. At first you had listened, avoided Kol at all costs but there was just something about him that kept pulling you in.

You would often find your mind wandering back to him. His face, his hair, his eyes, his cheshire-like grin…

Kol was determined to get you to break your walls down, he would find you all the time, whether you were painting like Nik had taught you, braiding your hair like Rebekah, or even just laying in your bed. He would find you and you’d just chat.

You brought up Kol to Elijah once, you wanted to know what was so horrible about him because when he was with you, he was sweet. Elijah wouldn’t give you a clear answer, just reminded you that he was dangerous. You wouldn’t mention how much time you had begun to spend with Kol to Elijah, in fear of making him upset.

But he found out, just like you knew he would.

“Miss Y/N, may I speak with you?” Elijah asks as he enters the kitchen.

You turn to look at him, just having finished the dough for the cookies you were making, “Of course, Elijah.”

“I notice you have become quite close with Kol as of late.”

You gulp, looking down, feeling guilty, Elijah had asked one thing of you and you weren’t even able to do that.

“I’m sorry, I know I—“

Elijah holds up his hand to silence you, “Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and Elijah lowers his hand, “I’ve never seen my little brother care for someone like he cares for you… especially after such a short amount of time. You… you’re good for him. He’s changed… so no more of this sneaking around like children,” he waves his hand to gesture around.

Your face flushes, “Oh we’re not… we’re just… we’re not together…”

Elijah smirks, giving you a knowing look, “I never said anything about a relationship.”

1871

New Orleans

“What are you reading?” Kol asks as he drops onto the couch, sitting next to you.

“Frankenstein,” you hum, not bothering to look up from the book, turning a page.

Kol nods, “I’ve heard of that one…”

You two sit in silence for a moment before Kol sighs dramatically. You close your eyes, composing yourself when Kol sighs again. You mark your page and close the book, finally turning to look at him.

“What Kol?”

He shrugs, “I’m bored.”

“Bored?”

“Very.”

You sigh, “Can I at least finish my chapter before we go off to cause whatever chaos you have planned?”

Kol rolls his eyes, “Fine,” he draws out the word.

Just as you’re about to pick up the book again, Kol drops his head into your lap, laying across the couch.

You tense up immediately, “Kol. What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to finish your chapter, darling,” he mumbles, “Your thighs are very comfortable.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to relax, it wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his touch or him being this close, it was that it made you nervous. You were falling for Kol, you knew you were and every touch, no matter how small, made you nervous. Touching was common with Kol, you had a feeling it was how he showed affection.

It didn’t take long for you to finish your chapter, “Kol,” you say quietly but get no response.

Your brows furrow and you look closer at him in your lap, he was breathing evenly, his eyes closed. He was asleep. He looked peaceful, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he looked innocent and angelic.

You weighed your options, you could wake him up and put distance between the two of you… or you could let him sleep, curled in your lap, while you read another chapter.

You decided on the second option and it definitely had nothing to do with the fact you wanted to keep him so close.

It was calm, everything about the moment was so domestic. You wished you could stay here forever, reading a novel while an original vampire laid asleep on you as you brushed your fingers through his hair.

Unfortunately, no nice thing could last.

The door to the compound flung open, angry footsteps filling the silence.

“Niklaus, wait a moment. Let us think about this.”

“There is nothing to think about!”

Kol tenses in your lap at the loud voices, stirring in his sleep. He sits up, forcing the sleep from his eyes.

Klaus enters the living room, glaring daggers at you. You don’t seem to pick up on his angry gaze, “Did you get it?” you ask excitedly.

You had mentioned a few weeks ago that your mother had a cookbook that contained all of your family's recipes. After she died, the book remained in the study of the boarding house. You were sad, you wanted the book back because you couldn’t remember any of the recipes and Elijah had offered to go get it for you.

You told him not to be ridiculous and that he’d have to travel the whole way to Mystic Falls to get it, he seemed to tense a bit at the name but insisted nonetheless. So you told him about the boarding house and where he would find it, Klaus insisted on accompanying him.

“Yes.” Klaus answers coldly, dropping the book onto the coffee table.

You squeal and lean forward grabbing the book, “Thankyou!” you begin to flip through it, “You have no idea how much this means to me…” you look up, trailing off when you finally notice the look on Klaus’ face.

“We found something else too,” his tone is detached as he tosses a picture onto the coffee table.

You recognized the photo instantly, it had been taken shortly after Katherine arrived in Mystic Falls. It was of you, Stefan, and Katherine. The three of you had smiles on your faces, though, it was obvious Katherine’s was fake.

“Her,” he points to Katherine.

“What?”

“Don't play dumb with me,” Klaus practically growls, “This is the vampire you mentioned?”

You gulp, nodding, “I- yes, that’s Katherine…”

“Katherine?” Elijah muses, “Is that the name she’s using now?”

You didn’t miss the subtle way that Kol slid forward on the couch, or the way he placed his hand on your thigh, attempting to hide you behind his arm, to shield you from Klaus’ fury.

“Where is she?” Klaus keeps his gaze locked onto you.

“I don’t know… I haven’t seen her since I ran from home…”

Kol squeezes your thigh to try and calm you down, to reassure you that he wouldn’t let Klaus hurt you even if he tried. You were grateful for him and Elijah, Klaus was impulsive at times, especially if he thought he was being betrayed.

After a considerable amount of time, Klaus had calmed down. He and Elijah explained the story of Katerina to you, how she had escaped her death, and how Klaus wanted her to be scared before he killed her. How he wanted her to suffer.

Just like last time, Klaus didn’t apologize, the day after you found three books on your nightstand, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and Les Miserables.

A few weeks had passed since the Mikaelsons found out about your history with Katherine. And you all went on with life like nothing had happened, Klaus would occasionally ask about Katherine and you would always answer his questions. Katherine was why your brothers were dead. Katherine was the reason you hated vampires. And the Mikaelsons were the reason you didn’t anymore.

“My mother used to make these when I was little… this is actually her recipe- well, my great grandmother's recipe,” you tell Kol as he watches you close the pizzelle iron.

He hums, reaching for one that’s cooling, “In all my life, I’ve never had one of these…”

Your eyes light up, “Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you this! I know you eat my baked goods… but does human food actually taste good to you?”

Kol tilts his head, “I’ve told you numerous times, darling, you’re an excellent baker…”

“But that’s not what I asked, I wish to know if you enjoy them…”

“Your treats are delectable… as are you,” Kol flirts, leaning closer.

Your face heats up at his comment, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Kol Mikaelson.”

“No?” he raises a brow, his face just inches from yours.

“Well, maybe somewhere…” you whisper, your gaze flickers to his lips.

He smirks, “And where would that be?”

“You tell me…”

The tension between the two of you was thick, it had been for a few months now but nothing had come of it. The two of you danced around each other and your obvious feelings, Rebekah would tease you about it, often remarking on how you could do better than her brother.

Just as his lips were about to brush against yours he pulled back, “Darling…”

“Yes, Kol?”

“The iron.”

Your eyes widen and you quickly turn back to the pizzelle iron, standing up from your chair, opening it quickly, coughing a bit as the smoke hits you directly in the face. You use the tongs to toss the burnt cookies onto the cooling rack as Kol doubles over in laughter.

You glare at him, before letting out a small laugh, “You distracted me! This is your fault!”

He smirks, standing up to his full height, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close, “I’m a distraction?”

“Yes… you are.”

He presses a kiss to your temple and hums, “Too bad you’re stuck with me…”

You pull away a bit to look up at him, “You think?”

Kol stares at you, debating internally about what to say, “I think… no, I know,” he takes a deep breath, “…that I have completely fallen in love with you, Y/N Salvatore…”

A smile appears on your face, “Well I know that I am utterly in love with you as well, Kol Mikaelson…”

He smiles before capturing your lips in a soft but passionate kiss. The arm around your waist tightens, he pulls you impossibly close and you loop your arms around his neck.

A low whistle followed by clapping causes the two of you to break apart, Kol didn’t let you get too far though, still keeping his hand on your waist.

“Took you long enough,” Klaus smirks.

You cover your face with your face with your hands, completely embarrassed but Kol just seems annoyed by the interruption.

“Is there something you need Nik?” Kol asks, rolling his eyes.

“I was just wondering what that burning smell was, wouldn’t want our lovely home to burn down. But I see now our little baker was just… preoccupied…”

“Rebekah!” Klaus shouts, causing your eyes to widen.

“Nik no!” you retort, peaking through your fingers, but you knew it was too late.

“What the bloody hell do you want now?” Rebekah asks as she walks into the room.

Klaus smirks and then gestures towards you and Kol by tilting his head. Rebekah immediately notices the hand around your waist and gasps.

“Finally! I thought you two would be dancing around each other forever!” she squeals.

“What is all this shouting about?” Elijah asks, entering the room while adjusting his cufflinks.

Kol pinches the bridge of his nose before leaning over to whisper to you, fully aware his siblings could still hear him, “It’s like they all come out of the woodwork at the most inopportune times…”

Elijah spots the cooling racks of pizzelles and makes his way over, immediately picking up one of the burnt cookies. He holds it up and raises a brow at you, waiting for an answer.

Klaus begins to cackle, speeding over to Elijah to take the charred cookie from him, “Brother, Y/N got distracted…” he points at Kol, “the distraction.”

Elijah lets out a little chuckle, clearly amused, “Yes, well, try not to get distracted in the kitchen… we eat in here.”

1872

New Orleans

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Kol holds your face in his hands.

“More than anything… I want to be with you.”

Kol chuckles, “My darling, you’re already with me, you already have me.”

He takes your hands and places them over his heart, “This dead heart belongs to you.”

You giggle a bit at his words and he smiles before frowning, “I just… I don’t want you to think you have to do this for me…”

You smile softly, “I know, but this is what I want, I promise…”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve already had my witches make you a ring… a gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl, my gorgeous girl…”

You giggle again and pull him in for a kiss which he quickly reciprocates. After a moment he forces himself to pull away. He scoots til his back is against the headboard then pulls you so you’re sitting with your back against his chest.

Kol brings his wrist to his mouth, fangs protruding and bites into his own flesh before holding his wrist near your mouth for you to take. Both your hands grab onto him, pulling his wrist as close to your mouth as physically possible and begin to drink from him.

He groans at the sensation and brushes some of the hair from your face, “Atta girl… that’s it… just a little more… good…”

When Kol decides you’ve had enough he pulls away, chuckling at the way you try to follow his now healing wrist, “My, my, already so bloodthirsty…”

You look up at him and pout, some of his blood dripping from your lips. He could get used to sight of you and blood, his two favorite things, together. He gives you another kiss, tasting his own blood from your mouth.

Pulling back, he sighs, “This is the part I don’t like.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek, “You’re the only one I’d trust to do this… it’s okay, my love, it’s what I want.”

Reluctantly, Kol brings his hand up to your neck, “I love you, my darling.”

“I love you… now please, kill me.”

He winces at the sound of your neck breaking, squeezing his eyes shut. He lays in your bed, holding your body, brushing the hair from your face while softly humming until you wake up.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

You stare at your daylight ring, spinning it on your finger.

“Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” Damon snaps his fingers in front of your face to gain your attention.

You jump and look at him and then at Stefan, now noticing that Elena left.

“Are you alright?” Stefan asks, tilting his head.

“I’m fine… just… lost in thought.”

Damon’s gaze stays focused on your ring, “Is that your daylight ring?”

You hum, looking up at him and then at Stefan, before holding your hand up to show off the ring, “I know, it’s not nearly as gaudy as yours.”

Stefan chuckles but Damon narrows his eyes, “It’s not a wedding ring,” he notes.

“No…” you state but it sounds more like a question.

“So the guy can ask you to die and be forced to drink blood for the rest of eternity but he can’t get down on one knee and pop the question?”

“Damon…” Stefan sighs, they had just gotten you back and he was worried that all of Damon’s passive aggressive comments were going to drive you away again.

You scoff, “He didn’t ask me to do anything, it was my choice. I wanted this. We… we didn’t need to be married to be in love… it just wasn’t the right time for a wedding anyways…”

Stefan seems a little shocked, “You asked him to turn you?”

Before you can respond to Stefan, Damon interrupts, “This was your first boyfriend?”

“He was my first everything,” you state matter-of-factly.

Both Stefan and Damon groan in disgust at your words and the implication of them.

You roll your eyes, “Oh grow up.”

Stefan stands up, “And on that note, I’m going to school… make sure Elena’s okay…”

You fake pout, “You don’t wanna hang out with your sister after not seeing her for so long?”

“That’s not—“

You cut him off, “Relax Stef, I’m kidding. Go.”

He gives you a curt nod and heads out of the room, leaving you alone with Rose and Damon. You almost forgot Rose was here, she had been quiet ever since she had finished her speech about Klaus. Damon gives Rose a look and she nods, leaving the room.

“I thought you hated vampires,” Damon states, taking the spot on the couch where Stefan once was.

“I did… until I met him.” Them.

Damon stays quiet for a moment, his eyes soften a bit, “This guy must have been special.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He was… I really loved him, Damon. I really do still love him…”

Your brother sighs, scooching closer to you on the couch. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to him.

“I am happy to have you back, you know… it’s just… you’re not the same kid I left behind, you’ve grown so much, to me you’re still the little girl whose hair I used to braid…”

“It’s okay, Day… I get it… I do,” you smile, using the nickname you used to call him as a child.

He ruffles your hair, “Why don’t we go out, I’ll show you around town… it’s practically the same, just modern.”

“I… uhm…” you sigh, “I’m tired to be honest, I traveled a long way to get here… and I think all the ‘excitement’ just made me even more tired…”

He nods, “Alright, I’m assuming you want your same room, you remember where it is?”

You stand up from the couch, “How could I forget?”

You leave Damon on the couch, making your way to the stairs. You take note of Rose who was standing near the kitchen doorway, she had clearly been listening to your conversation. There was no such thing as privacy with vampires.

Your room was exactly as you had left it, you could tell that no one had even entered the room in years. If you had to guess, you’d say that the last ones to enter were Klaus and Elijah— they had also retrieved your favorite teddy bear on their mission to get the cook book. There was dust floating around and cobwebs everywhere. You let out a sigh just as Damon makes his way up the stairs to you, he must have remembered the state of your room.

“No one’s been in there since…”

“I know,” you cut him off.

“We didn’t want to disturb it…”

You sigh, “Can I just… have another room for now?”

He nods and leads you down the hall to one of the guest rooms that had been maintained over the years, “I can get you extra blankets? Extra pillows?”

You shake your head, walking further into the room and sit on the bed, “This is fine.”

”Alright, well, I’ll let you sleep,” as he’s about to leave, his hand goes to the light switch to turn it off.

In a second, you’re off of the bed. You grab his hand causing him to groan in pain, you were sure you broke fingers but you didn’t care. You couldn’t let him turn off the light.

“Ow!”

You let go after a second, “I… I’m sorry…” you mumble.

“Jesus! If you didn’t want it off you could have said that!” he waves his hand around, wincing as his fingers snap themselves back into place.

You just blink at him, and he sighs, “Just get some rest.”

He reaches for the door this time, you grab it as it’s about to close and he stops, “Yeah?”

“Don’t close the door.”

Damon raises a brow, “You want the light on and the door open?”

You nod, “Please…”

“You can sleep like that?”

“It’s the only way I can sleep.”

Damon goes to open his mouth, but quickly shuts it, deciding that for once in his life he should just be quiet. He nods and leaves it at that, you let out of a sigh when goes, dropping down onto the guest bed.

You want to close your eyes but you can’t. It’s too dark.

Stefan eventually returns and finds Damon sipping on bourbon as usual.

“Our sister is strange,” Damon announces the second Stefan steps foot in the door.

Stefan sighs, “Alright, I’ll bite. What happened?”

Damon sets down his glass, “She’s upstairs, sleeping.”

“Okay?”

“With the door open, the curtains open, and the light on.”

“Damon, just leave it alone.”

The older Salvatore scoffs, “Come on Stefan, that’s weird.”

Stefan shrugs, “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just said to leave it alone. We just got her back, literally today and if you keep pushing like you always do, you’re going to push her away. Again.”

“Don’t act like this is all on me. We both pushed her away… pushed her right into the arms of some scummy vampire and now she’s stuck like us. Well, at least it sounds like she actually got to make that choice.”

“I thought we were past that,” Stefan lets out a humourless chuckle.

“We’ll never be past that.”

“I was just joking before about you two constantly fighting…” you mumble as you walk down the stairs.

Damon smirks, “Stefan loves to bicker.”

You raise a brow, “So it’s only Stefan then?”

You swiftly make your way across the room to the bourbon and grab a glass, you turn to Damon, “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Humming, you pour yourself a glass, looking at Damon over the rim of the cup, “You and Rose woke me up earlier, safe to say I’m disgusted…” This was a lie, you never fell asleep in the first place.

Damon rolls his eyes, “Now who needs to grow up?”

Stefan sighs and takes that as his que to cut in, “You sleep well? Besides that…”

You take a sip of the alcohol before responding, “Like a baby.”

Another lie, you hadn’t slept ‘like a baby’ since 1914.

1914

New Orleans

“He’ll never let us leave, he’ll never let us be happy.” Kol holds you tightly in his arms, “This is the only way…” he pulls back to hold your face in his hands, “I’ll find the diamond, my witches will do what we need, and then we will leave this place, my love. I want to show you the world, just as you wish but we can’t do that with him looming over us.”

You swallow, “I am tired of watching him hurt you… all of you.”

“And I do not want him to ever hurt you.“

Klaus had been a friend to you over the years but the one thing you disagreed on was how he handled his siblings. It broke your heart to watch any of them be daggered and put away in those wretched boxes for however long he deemed necessary. It drove a rift in between the two of you and you knew Kol was right, with how tightly of a leash Klaus kept on Kol, it was only a matter of time before Klaus saw Kol as a threat and daggered him again.

Besides, it wouldn’t be killing Nik. It would just be giving him a taste of his own medicine for once.

“Okay…”

“Okay?”

You nod and Kol lets out a small chuckle, half smiling at you, he presses his lips to yours.

Pulling back, he looks you up and down, “All you have to do is look pretty, which is an easy task for you considering you always look gorgeous.”

He takes your hand and has you do a twirl, admiring the way your dress moves as you spin, “Absolutely stunning.”

You roll your eyes, giggling as he spins you right into his arms, “Always such a charmer.”

“Only for you…” he presses a kiss to your head, “You head down to the party I’ll be right there.”

You hum, connecting your lips one last time before heading downstairs, blending into the crowd around you. Soon after, Kol would make his way downstairs, he snuck up behind you, placing his hands on your hips and whispering into your ear.

“Rebekah knows but do not fret… she’s going to help us.”

Only she wouldn’t, Rebekah ran straight to Klaus and told him everything.

All of you were currently on the stairs, posed for a family photograph. Kol had his arm wrapped securely around your waist when Klaus raised his glass, taping the side of it with a knife to attract the attention of everyone in the room. He starts by thanking those invited for attending but then makes a special toast to Rebekah.

He looks at you and Kol while speaking, “It is especially gratifying in times when treachery runs deep to know you have someone you can trust…” he turns back to face Rebekah, smiling at her, “A toast, to you, my sister.”

Kol tenses, the two of you share a look and quickly begin to make your way up the stairs. You make it to the top of the stairs before Kol does and just as he’s about to join you, Elijah speeds in front of him. Elijah grabs Kol’s arms, successfully detaining him as Klaus slowly walks up the stairs. You’re frozen in place, unsure what to do and Kol looks at you. He knows this will be the last time he sees you for a very long time so he decides to commit your features to memory. He regrets not asking you for a dance earlier.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I do apologize for the disturbance! But, what’s a Mikaelson party without a little squabble…?” He reveals a silver dagger.

“Y/N run!” Kol shouts and you listen.

You rush away making Klaus sigh, looking at Rebekah over his shoulder, “Catch her,” he commands.

Kol looks at his sister, a pleading look in his eyes as he struggles in Elijah’s hold— watching her run after you, knowing that it would be near impossible for you to outrun her.

You hear Kol’s pained scream as Klaus shoves the dagger into his heart, trying to fight your tears as you run. You were outside when Rebekah caught you, slamming you into the wall.

“Bekah please…”

Her eyes scan your face, your fear, your grief, and she loosens her hold, “I have never had a true friend until you, Y/N… please… forgive me for what I am about to do.”

Rebekah takes your face in her hands, staring into your eyes and you begin to panic, knowing what is about to happen.

“You promised you’d never do that! All of you did! That you’d never take my choice away!” you fight against her.

“Look at me,” her voice becomes hypnotic and you find yourself unable to look away from her eyes, “You’re going to forget Kol, you’re going to forget that you were ever in love with him. You’ve never even heard his name. You are going to forget all about Elijah and… me. All you will know regarding the Mikaelson family is that you have to keep running from Klaus. You don’t stop, you don’t stay in one place for long, you keep running.”

Your eyes have completely glazed over, pupils dilated, “I keep running from Klaus…”

Rebekah pulls back from you, staring at you as your eyes go back to normal, “Y/N?”

“I… I’m sorry, do I know you? I… nevermind that I need to get going, I’m sorry again,” you say, walking past her before using your speed to get farther away.

Rebekah lets out a shaky breath, knowing that Klaus will not believe that you were able to outrun her. She brings her own hands to her neck and snaps it, falling to the ground.

Maybe he’d believe that.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

A few days had passed since your arrival in Mystic Falls, while everything had seemingly calmed down a bit, there was still the looming presence of Klaus.

You had been briefly involved with their plan of getting the moonstone from Katherine, you knew it wouldn’t do them any good and it was clear they were grasping at straws to try and save the doppelgängers life. After contacting him, he told you to just continue on as is so you wouldn’t raise suspicion. You had witnessed Elena’s attempt at a self-sacrifice play, which she failed at terribly due to your brother's intervention… and Elijah’s.

Damon was incredibly annoyed when he found out Elijah was still alive. And after a lot of back and forth and changing of plans, you managed to convince Damon to let you accompany him to the bar to confront Jules. You refused to be on babysitting duty with Jeremy.

You made it your mission to avoid Elijah, knowing that if you saw him you’d end up telling Klaus in fear of him interfering with their plan. You already knew that Elena and her group of friends would try to interfere but you could handle them - you had plans. Caroline was meant to be the vampire… but you had plenty of options for a vampire, maybe even your own brothers. Tyler Lockwood was a werewolf, but you needed a backup, which is the whole reason you went to the bar with Damon. You wanted to get an idea about Jules so that it would be easier to get her.

Jules was smart, she wouldn’t drink the wolfsbane and she instantly knew what you and Damon were. That wouldn’t matter, you knew when it came down to it - you’d be able to capture her with ease. You backed down from the argument, not wanting to fight in the middle of the bar but Damon didn’t. He kept pushing just like he always did.

That brought you to where you were now, back at the boarding house with Damon and Rose. The two were clearly having a moment so you decided to take a step back into the living room. Just as you do, a large wolf jumps through the window, slamming you into the ground. You hold its jaw, pushing its mouth away from you in fear of being bit.

“Damon!” you shriek, “A little help would be nice!”

Damon goes to the fireplace mantel, picking up a sword, taking a swing at the wolf. It lets out a pained sound and releases you- now going to attack Damon. Before it’s able to turn your brother into a chew toy, Rose jumps in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack. The werewolf sinks its teeth into her shoulder, infecting her with its deadly bite.

Your brother slashes the wolf once more and it takes off into the night, knowing it wouldn’t survive another hit from the blade. You let out a sigh of relief, turning to look at Damon and Rose.

“How bad is it?” Damon asks Rose, helping her off the ground to examine the bite.

“It hurts…” Rose whimpers.

You frown, already knowing what is going to happen, you knew of the false hope that she would get.

Damon’s eyes widen, “It’s healing!”

Rose tilts her head to look at her shoulder better, “Oh my God… I thought a werewolf bite was fatal!”

‘It is’ you want to say, to warn her of what is going to happen about how she’ll lose her mind. But you stay silent.

“I thought…” tears fill Rose’s eyes and Damon pulls her into his arms.

“You’re going to be okay…” he reassures her, giving you a look.

You press your lips together, nodding, leaving the room to give them their moment once more. Allowing them to live in a fantasy where Rose would be okay.

You made the decision to disappear for a few days, leaving your brothers and Elena to deal with Rose. Both of them left numerous messages on your phone.

“This is what? Call two hundred and twenty four? You’re really not going to answer them?” Klaus muses.

You sigh, shaking your head, “No. I’m not. They just want help with Rose… I don’t… I don’t want to see her like that, losing her mind… I’ve seen that happen too many times before.”

Klaus hums, “Let me guess, you’re going to ask for my blood to heal her?”

“No,” you shake your head, “She needs to die, she knows too much about you and your family, she’s a threat… besides she’s probably dead now.”

“Our family,” Klaus corrects.

You continue, ignoring him, “I just thought she’d die with a stake in her heart not from going insane.”

“Still sensitive.”

You choose to ignore his comment once again, playing the latest voicemail left by Stefan.

“Y/N, I don’t know where you are or why you left… I’m worried though… about you, about Elena… I miss you… can you please come home? Listen, Rose is dead and Damon is doing what he does best— deflecting. He’s got this new girl… Andie Star I think? I- I don’t know what happened that night, maybe you got bit too? I really hope not… Maybe you got scared… you ran… just please at least call me if you’re not going to come home… I need to know you’re okay. I love you.”

“I presume you’re going back now?”

You nod and Klaus smirks, “Excellent… I’ll be making my appearance soon.”

By time you arrived back in Mystic Falls, Elijah had been ‘dealt with’ as Damon put it. That made you anxious, you doubted they had found a white oak stake but the only alternative was a dagger, and that thought made your stomach churn.

Leaving had fractured the trust you built between your brothers, you knew it would but that was fine with you. The less you knew regarding Elijah, the better. You told them the truth, that you knew Rose was going to die - painfully and out of her mind. Damon was angry that you didn’t tell them and Stefan understood.

There was also the little fact that Katherine had been released of her compulsion. You had to admit, you were a tad anxious she’d find a way to Klaus and find out about your deal. If she ratted you out to Stefan and Damon, every part of your perfectly calculated plan would be ruined. Hopefully, Klaus would be enough to distract your brothers from you so they wouldn’t get too suspicious.

It was no secret that Niklaus Mikaelson liked making an entrance and being as you were currently not getting all the intel since they still didn’t trust you fully— Klaus decided to use one of his favorite tricks which you suggested. Body possession.

On the night of the school dance, Klaus possessed Alaric's body, revealing himself to Bonnie and Elena with dramatic flair and then he killed the Benett witch— at least that’s what you two thought.

The truth of Bonnie’s fate would be revealed on the night of the ritual when she showed up to kill Klaus with the help of Elijah.

Elijah had dug his hand into Klaus’ chest and you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t fight Elijah, that was one fight you’d certainly lose, not to mention Bonnie and all of the others being there, they’d stop you before you could lay a hand on him.

Klaus looked at you, silencing your fears with one glance before looking back to Elijah and confessing the truth, “I didn’t bury them at sea.”

His gaze flickered to you and Elijah looked to where his brother was, he hadn’t seen you in so long but still, he trusted you, so when you nod your head ever so slightly… he believes Klaus.

Two days had passed since the ritual and Klaus was now a hybrid. You had spent those two days following Elijah through the woods, cleaning up Klaus’ mess.

In fact, that’s where you currently are. It had been practically silent between the two of you, neither of you wanting to start the conversation, after all it had been nearly a hundred years. That was until you decided to open your mouth after arriving at another camp that had been ripped apart.

You move a body and scoff, “He’s not even draining them. He’s killing for sport.”

Elijah hums, “You sound shocked, you should know by now this behavior is expected of Niklaus.”

“He’s wasting perfectly good snacks,” you grumble as you throw the body to Elijah who catches it with ease.

“You’re thirsty?”

“No, Elijah, I’m annoyed,” you throw your hands up, walking closer to him, “It’s been two days since the full moon, why is he still a wolf?”

“I don’t have the answer to that.”

“Okay, well, what if he’s stuck as a wolf? Hm? Then what? We’re going to put him on a leash and have him lead us to the coffins?”

Elijah lets out a chuckle, “While that image is amusing, I’m sure he’ll be turning back soon.”

You sigh and go back to cleaning up the bodies in silence, when you’re done you both continue to follow the trail that Klaus was leaving behind, you had no doubt you’d soon run into more bodies.

“What have you been up to for the past century?” Elijah asks, walking so close that your arms brush against each other.

You come to a stop, and it takes Elijah a moment to stop and turn back, looking at you slightly confused.

“Are you serious? I was trapped, Elijah, and when I wasn’t trapped I was running from him,” you jab your finger into his chest, “from you.”

Elijah looks down at you, a frown on his face, “I haven’t been doing Niklaus’ bidding since he said he dropped all of them into the ocean… he implied that he had found you as well… that you were gone… I never did want to hurt you, Y/N.”

“Well it didn’t seem that way to me. I didn’t know that. I’ve spent the last century looking over my shoulder, not staying anywhere for more than a moment because I knew that no matter where I went, you, or him, or some minion of his would be waiting. And when I wasn’t running I was trapped… there… all alone…”

“Y/N—“

“I know what we did was unforgivable,” you say, taking a step away from him to continue following the trail and he follows, “but what he had planned for me was just cruel…”

“If it’s any consolation, none of us agreed with Niklaus’ ‘gift’.”

You let out a humorless laugh, “Is that what he called it?”

“Yes, it was intended to be given to you for your engagement… obviously you were shown sooner than intended… it was his disturbed way of welcoming you into the family officially.”

Your brows furrow, “What engagement?”

Elijah stops, seemingly realizing his mistake, “I apologize, I thought you knew… Kol…”

You stop and turn to him, “He was going to propose?” your voice breaks a bit as you will away your tears.

Elijah sighs, stopping to face you, “He had rings, new daylight rings… I do not know much of how he planned to propose, just that he planned to do it after the new year… You two had been together for so long I assume he thought it was time to ask…”

You blink a few times, before clearing your throat, “Let’s just find Klaus.”

He nods, continuing to follow the path, he can practically feel the emotions rolling off of you. Grief, sadness, anger, and even jealousy. Then there was the look on your face, the look of heartbreak. Even after all these years, he still hated to see you like this. He would always feel guilty, after all, he was the first one you met, the one who introduced you to everyone. He would forever feel at least somewhat responsible for your pain.

1869

New Orleans

It had been five years, nearly six since you ran from home, since your brothers were killed, and you were still having a hard time settling down. You found yourself in New Orleans, you loved everything about it, but there was one problem. It was hard to find work as a woman and even harder as a seventeen year old so you adapted to stealing.

You would wait by stands or alleyways and wait for the perfect target, you’d typically go for men who held their heads high as if they owned the world. Men who were so well dressed that you knew they had money to spare. Sometimes you’d even hang out near bars to find men stumbling around, too drunk to notice you taking their entire wallet.

It was late now, you were leaning against a wall when you saw him. A rather attractive man dressed in a fancy suit, you had no doubt that it had been tailor fitted to him. He begins to walk down the street, walking right past you, seemingly not noticing you. There weren’t as many people out now, normally you’d use the strangers during the day as cover but this man clearly had too much money for his good, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

As quietly as possible, you push yourself off the wall and follow behind him. You smirk when you see his wallet in his back pocket but just as your fingers graze what you assume is real leather, his hand snatches your wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You curse yourself for being so reckless. You swallow your pride and decide to try and flirt your way out. Men with the kind of money you knew he had, always enjoyed being flirted with, it boosts their already over-inflated egos.

You giggle while leaning a bit closer, “You’re even more handsome up close…”

He chuckles, “Is that so?”

“And this suit… it fits you so well…” you brush your hand along his chest.

“That’s very flattering…” he smiles, bringing his hand up to cup yours.

Hook. Line. Sinker. You had him.

“But I know what you’re doing.”

You did not have him.

Your smile fades away and you pull back from him. This had never happened before, most of the men were too dumb to figure it out (at least until they got home and found their wallets missing), it was just your luck that you’d try and rob the only smart guy around.

“How old are you?” He looks you up and down.

You gulp, “Seventeen, sir.”

He pulls his wallet from his pocket and holds it out to you, “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it, you want my wallet? Take it.”

With shaky hands, you reach for the wallet, it was embarrassing being caught like this but you needed the money.

“Thank you…” you trail off, realizing you hadn’t learned his name.

“Elijah Mikaelson.”

Your eyes widen at the name, you had heard of the Mikaelsons before. A rich, powerful family and there were whispers all around that they were the thing you hated most. Vampires.

He smirks at your reaction, “And you are?”

“Y/N.”

He nods and smiles but it quickly fades when he glances at his watch, “Well, Miss Y/N do try to stay safe… you never know who or what may be lurking in these streets, especially at this time of night.”

And just like that, he was gone. The next time you saw him was after the new year when he pulled a newly turned vampire off of you. You saw him a third time when this exact thing happened again, you didn’t know why but you it seemed you were practically vampire bait.

After these two incidents, Elijah decided it wasn't safe for you to be on the streets any longer and invited you to come stay with him for some time before he could find something more permanent. An idea you were not so eager about when he confirmed that he and his family were in fact, vampires. But you couldn’t pass up the offer when he was offering you an actual bed to sleep in and numerous necessities. Little did either of you know that the compound would become your permanent home.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

After your conversation you had fallen behind Elijah, walking slower to keep the distance. When he called out that he had found him, you hardly even picked up the pace.

“You’ve been busy…” Elijah remarks, leaning on a tree.

“That was… amazing.” You hear Klaus’ voice before you see him.

And when you do see him you groan, spinning around and closing your eyes, “You could have told me he was naked.”

“Did you think I was carrying around his clothes these past two days for fun?” Elijah raises a brow.

“It’s been two days?” Klaus asks, you can hear him shuffling around while getting dressed.

“Full moon came and went. You remained a wolf.” Elijah states but it’s more of a question.

“I can change at will then, that’s good to know.”

Klaus smiles and then chuckles, “I remember… every single kill.”

“Yes, we’ve been cleaning up your little mess along the way.” Elijah gestures between the two of you.

“Just like old times then.”

Elijah hums, and pushes off the tree, handing Klaus his boots, “Well, you’ve had your fun. I believe we have a bargain.”

“That’s right!” Klaus exclaims, leaning down to put on his boots, “Now what was it again? Oh yeah, wait, I remember, that’s it! You wish to be reunited with our family!”

“And you!” he shouts towards you, “You want your precious Kol back…”

You turn around, finally facing him, pleased to see that he has put his pants on. You want to say something but hold your tongue, there was a time where you weren’t afraid of him but now it felt that if you even stepped a toe out of line he’d hunt you down.

Elijah brushes off Klaus’ jacket, “You gave me your word, Niklaus.”

Klaus smiles, cheekily, “And what kind of brother would I be if I broke my bond… even if you did try and kill me.”

You sigh, and Elijah holds out Klaus’ jacket for him to put on, “I could have… but I didn’t.”

Klaus puts on his jacket and fixes the collar, “And now no one can,” he turns to face Elijah, “Relax, Elijah, all is forgiven.”

He smiles at you, “That applies to you as well, love. You have more than proved yourself loyal.”

“Where are they?” Elijah cuts in.

Klaus grins, patting his brother's arm, “You need to lighten up… I’ll bring you to them soon enough.”

He walks ahead of you and Elijah, the two of you sharing a look before you scoff and follow after the hybrid. He ends up taking you to Alaric's apartment, you feel a pit in your stomach knowing that Katherine is going to be there but you do your best to push it away.

“Look who decided to come for a visit.” Katherine gestures to Stefan as you, Klaus, and Elijah enter the apartment.

“I need your help.” Stefan states, his eyes flickering to you, wondering why the hell you’re with them, there was no way for you to know what had happened to Damon so that couldn’t be it.

Elijah shuts the door, and Stefan steps closer, “For my brother.” he then looks at you, “our brother.”

Klaus clicks his tongue, “Oh well, whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait a tick. You see, I have an obligation to my brother.” he points at Elijah. “And your sister…” he points at you.

“It requires my immediate attention.” Klaus brushes past Stefan.

You hug yourself, feeling anxious of the entire situation, it was bad enough that Katherine was here and now Stefan was too.

“You understand how important family is or you wouldn’t be here.” Elijah walks a bit closer to Stefan, “My brother gave me his word that he would reunite me with my family.”

“And so I shall.” Klaus speaks from behind Elijah, Elijah spins around to face his brother but it is too late, Klaus shoves a dagger through his heart.

You feel frozen when Elijah screams, tears begin to fill your eyes, you know what is about to come and there's no point in running because he’d just catch you. Rebekah wasn’t here this time to buy you time.

His body drops to the ground with a sickening thud, his skin completely grey and you knew you would not get the privilege of a quick death.

Klaus smiles at you and the tears begin to fall from your eyes.

“Please! I- I didn’t know about Elijah’s plan! I didn’t even know he was here! I only heard rumors! I swear! You said it yourself, Klaus- I’m loyal! I’ve proved it!”

Klaus shushes you and walks closer, your body doesn’t move, you’re rooted in your spot. He brings his hand up to hold your cheek and brushes a tear away, you shudder at the touch, letting out a sob.

“Loyal…?” Stefan questions, the floorboards creaking when he steps forward.

Klaus’ gaze immediately snaps to your brother, “Another step and I’ll rip her heart out.”

“She’s my sister-“

“All the more reason for you to stay put, Stefan.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before Stefan steps back. Klaus smirks, turning back to you. You tense up when he rests his hand on your neck, another sob wracks through your body.

“Don’t do this… I did what you asked! I found the doppelgänger! I found Elena! I called you as soon as I found her! Sure- Katherine found the werewolf but I made sure you had the backup one! And you needed the backup one! And- and using Alaric was my idea! I came up with that, it was perfect! You thought it was hilarious! I’ve helped you!”

Stefan’s brow furrows at your admission, his voice barely audible as he connects the dots, “You’re the reason he’s here… that’s… that’s why you came back to Mystic Falls to find us… not because you missed us, but because you’re helping him…” 

You don’t bother to look over to your brother, you felt bad for betraying his trust, for lying to him but he could never understand, you don’t say anything, it wouldn’t matter now.

You look up at Klaus with tears staining your cheeks, “I did everything right!” your voice falls to a whisper, “Don’t make me go back there, it’s dark, Nik, I hate the dark…”

“You know, I considered you family once, I treated you as such.”

“Please Nikkie… you gave me your word…I just want him back, you promised me!”

“Oh love…” Klaus brings his hand up to brush some of the hair from your face, “You have me confused with Elijah…”

In a split second his hand falls to your neck, the sound of it snapping fills the room and he drops your body on the ground, discarding you.

Klaus turns back to Stefan who looks devastated by the news, “Don’t look so glum Stefan, you wouldn’t be the first to be tricked by your sister. She’d do anything to survive, even if it meant betraying those closest to her,” he glances at Katherine, noting the similarities.

He shakes his head, looking back at Stefan, “But that’s a story for another day…”

Klaus speeds forward, slamming Stefan into the wall, “Now… what am I going to do with you?”

Present Day

Chicago

“My sister? She knew you? All of you?”

Klaus approaches the coffins, “If you can’t handle it, don’t ask.”

Stefan looks at all of the coffins but two of them catch his attention, they’re away from the rest, almost like they’ve been isolated. One of the coffins is made of some sort of metal and they both have engravings on them that compliment each other.

Klaus notices his gaze and smirks, “I see you’ve spotted the lovers.”

“the lovers?” Stefan raises a brow.

His smirk deepens, he steps away from Rebekah’s coffin and to the others, he opens one of them, revealing a boy in clothing from the the early 1900s.

Stefan looks over the boy, completely confused he turns to Klaus who grins.

“You wouldn’t recognize him… you never had the pleasure of meeting Kol…” he brushes his hand over the engraving on the other one, “You’d recognize whose in this one though…”

Klaus could see the gears turning in Stefan’s head, his eyes widening as he pieced the puzzle together.

“My sister?” his voice breaks a bit.

Klaus laughs, “You always were quick, Ripper.”

“This is what you meant by family? You got her a coffin and a dagger? That’s family to you?”

The hybrid clicks his tongue a few times, wagging his finger, “No Stefan, I got her a coffin… I never said anything about a dagger.”

Stefan’s heart sinks at the new information, it all hit him at once, why you hated the dark, why you had to have the door open, why couldn’t stand to be in silence.

You didn’t get a century long sleep like Klaus’ siblings would, you got to lay there and rot, slowly and painfully, all alone.

“I had a witch make it, it’s spelled… only I can open it.” Klaus boasts, clearly proud of his work.

“That’s cruel, even for you.”

“Maybe so, but I must punish those who betray me accordingly.”

Klaus takes a step closer to Stefan, “You met Rebekah and I in 1920… but we did not meet by chance. I sought you out, I was looking for your sister… The girl can really run when she wants to. I was hoping you’d be able to help me find her, but you were too busy draining civilians, Ripper.”

“I wouldn’t have been helpful either way. I thought she was dead.”

“I’m aware… I thought that she’d maybe be nearby, watching, that was something she often did— check up on you and Damon. Regardless, I found her on my own in 1924.”

1924

London

Today marks four years since Rebekah’s compulsion had worn off which meant one of two things, she was dead (unlikely) or she had been daggered (very likely).

It had been four years since you remembered Kol and ten years that you had been running. You were tired, tired of running, tired of having to look over your shoulder every five seconds, tired of not having your beloved around.

Klaus was hunting you and you had done a damn good job at keeping him off of your trail, always being careful when finding a snack and making sure you were never in one place for too long.

So you decided to do the opposite, you had been in London for two weeks now, ripping through crowds of people with no remorse. You wanted Klaus to find you, you wanted him to kill you.

You’re currently in a bar full of people, well, dead people. You slaughtered everyone and now had your teeth buried in some man’s neck.

“Perhaps you’re more like Stefan than I thought.” Klaus’ voice fills the bar.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself off of the now dead, drained man. You look at Klaus with blood coating your face and staining your dress.

After staring at each other for a moment, you stand to your full height, Klaus gives you a once over before raising a brow.

“You’ve gotten sloppy, left a trail of bodies a mile long leading me right to you.”

You simply stare at him and he smirks, “You wanted to be found.”

“I can’t do this anymore… not without him. I‘m tired, Nik. Please, just end it.”

Niklaus clicks his tongue, “End it?” He takes a step towards you.

“Kill me.”

Klaus laughs, “You think I want to kill you?”

Your brows furrow and you take a step back from the hybrid, Klaus snaps his fingers and two men enter the room carrying a coffin.

You take another step back, eyes widening and Klaus grins, “You can try to run but you won’t get far…”

“No… you… you can’t dagger me…”

“You’re right, daggers are such trivial things to make… you would know after all. But a lockbox that only I can open, now that’s much simpler.”

You decide to risk it, attempting to speed away but he catches you in a second, holding you up in the air by your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back with him soon enough… consider this me officially welcoming you into the family.”

Present Day

Chicago

“What was the point of letting her out just to lock her back up? To be cruel?”

Klaus shrugs, “I was bored and decided to make her a deal in 1984.”

“1984? You kept her in there for…”

“Sixty years, Stefan. She betrayed me and those were the consequences. When I woke her up we made an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?”

“She’d find me Katherine and bring her to me. She couldn’t ever find Katherine but she found me something even better…”

“Elena…”

“Yes, the doppelgänger.”

“So she knew the truth about your curse? That you’re a hybrid?”

“She was my family once, lived with us for nearly half a century. She knows a lot more than she led you all to believe. But don’t get any ideas, she’d never tell you anything that could hurt us… she wouldn’t risk Kol or Rebekah getting caught in the crossfire… or Elijah, though I suppose she’d be alright losing me considering she attempted to do so herself.”

“Moving on!” Klaus chirps, moving back to Rebekah, “It’s time for my little sister to wake up…”

“And I knew her?” Stefan asks, looking into the now open coffin, “I don’t recognize her.”

“Well don’t tell her that,” Klaus muses, “Rebekah’s temper is worse than mine.”

He pulls the dagger out, waiting for a moment before sighing, “Any Day now, Rebekah… she’s being dramatic.”

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been months since Klaus had locked you away. You were a bit surprised when he came to free you, your bones creaked, skin practically gray… still, you weren’t nearly as desiccated as the last time you had been in that coffin.

He fed you blood and brushed your hair for you as if you were a doll then provided you with a white colored dress that went to your knees, it reminded you of the one Elijah had given you when you first arrived in their home.

When Klaus revealed he was hosting a dinner with Elijah for Stefan and Damon you realized what he was doing. You were a bargaining chip.

You sat in the living room, humming to yourself, waiting for them to arrive. You still felt weak from not having blood for so long and the fact you were shaking was proof of that, the little blood that Klaus had provided was not enough.

Soon enough, your brothers arrived and were let inside by Elijah, “Niklaus, our guests have arrived…”

“Damon… Stefan…” Klaus greets, standing by the head of the dining room table, “Elijah tells me you seek an audience… very bold. Let’s discuss the terms of our agreement like civilized men, shall we?” he gestures to the large table that was set for five.

“It’s better to indulge him,” Elijah states, moving past your brothers.

“I didn’t come here to eat Klaus,” Stefan narrows his eyes, taking a step down the stairs, “I didn’t want to come here at all… but… I was told I had to, because you’d hear us out.”

Klaus hums, “Well we can sit and eat… or I can reach down your throats and pull out your insides…” he takes his seat at the head of the table, “choice is yours…”

Your brothers decide it would be best to sit and eat. Once the four brothers had sat down, Klaus sat forward in his chair, dramatically placing his hands in front of him, “I almost forgot! Sweetheart!” he calls out, “You can come out now!”

That was your que to enter, walking through the doorway and making a beeline for the table, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Elijah stands when he sees you, pulling out your chair for you and when you sit he pushes you in.

“Y/N…” Damon says quietly, it isn’t until then that you realize he hasn’t seen you since the night of the ritual.

“Damon…” you mumble in a voice so quiet that anyone without supernatural hearing wouldn’t be able to hear you.

“How are you—“ he begins but is quickly cut off by Stefan.

“She’s practically part of their freaky family, Damon, and Klaus won’t kill his family… he’ll just torture them endlessly.”

“That’s not very nice Stefan,” Klaus clicks his tongue.

You grab the glass of wine, downing it as quickly as possible. Hoping that it will not only curb your blood cravings but also make this dinner party a little more bearable. When you finish your glass, you reach for Elijah’s.

He raises a brow, shooting you an unimpressed look, “By all means, help yourself.”

You take a sip of the wine, ignoring Elijah, “Can we please get on with this dinner… I’m starved.”

“Well at least one of you is hungry… Stefan seems to have lost his appetite,” Klaus notes, nodding his head in Stefan’s direction.

Damon glances at his brother, gesturing with his fork, “Eat. I thought we agreed we’d leave the grumpy Stefan at home.”

Reluctantly, Stefan picks up his fork making Klaus smile, “That’s the spirit. Isn’t it nice? Five of us dining together? Such a treat. Is that what you had in mind when you pulled the dagger from my brother?”

Damon smiles sarcastically, “Well, I know how he felt about you, so I figured the more the merrier,” he winks playfully at Elijah.

“Well, Elijah and I have had our share of quarrels over the centuries… but we always make it through,” Klaus takes a bite of his steak.

“Kind of like you and Rebekah, right? Where is she, by the way? Last I checked, she was still daggered because you were afraid to face her,” Stefan quips, smirking over the rim of his bourbon glass.

Damon shoots a warning look at Stefan but you can’t be bothered by their conversation, you’re too focused on your bloody steak in front of you. Savoring the small amount of blood you’d get from its juices.

“If you’re referring to the fact Rebekah knows I killed our mother, I’ve already come clean to Elijah,” Klaus smiles at Elijah who has remained silent, resting his head on top of his fist.

“Hey Stef,” Damon cuts in, grabbing everyone’s attention, “remember when you killed dad? Might want to dial down on the judgement until dessert.”

You had been fighting the urge to lick the dish clean, hoping for just another drop of that delicious, bloody flavor. But Damon’s words distract you, making you look up from the plate.

“You killed dad?” you ask, looking directly at Stefan, he doesn’t verbally answer, only narrowing his eyes at you making you hum, “I always thought it was Katherine…” you fidget with your fork, pushing it across the plate. 

“You want another plate, love?” Klaus asks, his tone was sickeningly sweet, he snaps his fingers and a compelled blonde girl comes running to get your plate.

She leans over you, hair falling past her neck and you could feel the veins beneath your eyes begin to ripple. The girl's eyes widened, Klaus may have compelled her to do his bidding but he never compelled away her fear.

“Y/N,” Klaus says your name in a sing-songy tone, a warning.

Your lips part at the sound of her heart pumping, the smell of the blood in her veins, and your fangs begin to descend.

“Y/N. No,” Klaus tries again, setting his fork down.

But it was too late, you were out of your chair in a split second. You wrapped your hand around the girl’s neck, slamming her into the nearby wall hard enough to crack it, your other hand holding one of her wrists. You nearly moan at the taste of fresh blood, like an animal you can’t get enough.

Removing your hand from her neck, you flatten your palm and push the tip of her chin up until it’s out of your way— effectively breaking her neck. You continue to drink, not caring as the blood stains your mouth and neck, dripping to your dress.

Klaus sighs, “One nice dinner, that’s all I ask, is that too much to ask for?”

He rises from his chair and speeds to stand behind you, “That’s enough.”

You don’t listen and Klaus decides there is only one solution to the problem he caused, snapping your neck. Your head is practically on backwards and he allows your body to fall to the ground next to the blonde, dead girl.

Damon stands up, his chair screeching but Stefan grabs his arm, dragging him back down, and Klaus clears his throat, walking back to the table as if he hadn’t just broke your neck.

Elijah sighs, excusing himself from the table, he picks up your body with ease and brings you back to the table, setting you in your seat. He twists your head so your head is facing the proper way, hoping that it’ll allow you to heal and wake sooner. The dinner would proceed as normal, other than Damon looking at your body every few seconds, it was as if nothing had happened.

When you woke, you were alone at the table and you could hear voices coming from the living room.

“Elijah… why haven’t you left?” Klaus sounds confused.

You stand up, finding your bearings.

You can hear the smugness in Elijah’s tone when he speaks, “You’ve lectured Y/N on her manners all night… but where are yours, brother? We forgot dessert.”

You take slow steps towards the living room.

“What have you done?” Klaus’ voice is panicked, he sounds betrayed.

“What have you done?” Elijah retorts, “You see, I’ve learned not to trust your vulgar promises, Klaus. We’re doing this on my terms now.”

You’ve nearly made it to the living room door way when you stop in your tracks after hearing Klaus utter a single word.

“Kol…”

“Long time brother.”

His voice, Kol’s voice. Your Kol, he was here, he was awake.

You rush to the doorway, freezing when you finally see him. Kol, he looked the same as he did on that fateful night in 1914, still wearing the same outfit. He still looked as beautiful as you remembered him to be, tears began to prick the corner of your eyes but not tears of sadness or fear, they were tears of joy.

You could see Stefan still by the fireplace where he had been burned, you could see Damon standing off to the side of Elijah, but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care about your brothers in that moment. It was as if everything around you faded away and it was just you and Kol.

“Kol…” you whisper, softly.

His gaze snaps up to find you, his eyes softening when he sees you.

“Y/N…”

Without giving it a second thought, Kol takes one of the hands restraining Klaus and uses it to snap the hybrids neck. He speeds towards you, something Damon takes note of but when he moves to get to you, to try and protect you from what he thinks is a threat; Elijah places his hand onto Damon’s chest, stopping him from moving.

You slowly bring your hands up to hold his face and he covers your hands with his, ”You’re real…” you breath out, you still couldn’t believe he was in front of you after all this time.

He smiles, chuckling a bit, “I’m real… and I’m not leaving you ever again.”

You smile, causing more tears to flow and you throw yourself into his arms, nuzzling your face into his neck, squeezing your eyes shut and welcoming the darkness that came with it because for the first time, in a century, you weren’t alone in the dark. You were with Kol, your Kol.

His arms wrap tightly around your waist, inhaling your scent that he remembers so fondly, “I missed you, my darling.”

It must have been those words that finally helped Damon connect the dots, that this was the boy, the one that changed your opinion on vampires, the one who turned you into a vampire. This was the boy you lost a century ago, the boy you’d do anything and everything to get back. Including betraying your own family.

“You’re free to go. This is family business.”

Elijah’s words made Damon realize something, you weren’t his family anymore, you hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe you never officially got married because you ran out of time but you were no longer Y/N Salvatore, you were Y/N Mikaelson. He can pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being his family and it was long before the Mikaelsons, it was when he and Stefan chose Katherine Pierce over you. That fateful night where he told you that you weren’t his family anymore.

The truth hurts and the truth was that there was no fixing your relationship with either of your brothers. The next few months would make that abundantly clear. Like when you snapped Damon’s neck after he snapped Kol’s. Or when you stood by while Kol beat Damon with an aluminum bat. And of course you stood by Rebekah when she had compelled and trapped everyone in the school. You even helped Kol slaughter all of the newly turned vampires meant for Jeremy… and you let Kol torture Damon.

So maybe you really weren’t their family anymore, maybe that’s why they wouldn’t feel as guilty about what was going to happen when Jeremy would kill Kol.

At least you wouldn’t be alone when the darkness came, you would die in the arms of your love in the middle of the Gilbert family kitchen. It didn’t matter to you that his body was still crackingly, still burning, you‘d endure the feeling of your flesh melting to his if it meant you got to hold him one last time. There would be no coming back for either of you, you knew this and accepted it. You closed your eyes and faded away into the darkness, welcoming it.

You only hoped that when you’d wake on the other side, you’d still be in Kol’s arms.

The Darkness.

The End.

“Their supply lines are vulnerable here, along the gorge,” Jake Sully was saying, moving a stone on the ridge on the map. “But they’ve got turrets scanning the skies. If we fly in blind, we’re target practice.”

“We need a distraction,” Neteyam muttered, his brow furrowed as he stared at the map. “Someone fast enough to draw the attention away from the ground strike team, but agile enough to avoid getting hit. But it’s high risk.”

“My people are born on the wind,” Ikeyni spoke up. She placed a hand flat on the table, her sharp eyes shifting from Jake to his eldest son. “If you need someone who can deliver what you need, you take my daughter.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. His golden eyes immediately finding yours from where you leaned against the pillar, as if he knew where exactly you had been standing. A frown instantly marred his handsome face and he turned back to your mother, his posture stiffening.

“Olo’eykte, with respect, the RDA has upgraded those tracking systems,” Neteyam argued, his voice tight with that dutiful edge you loved to mess with. “They aren’t just shooting blindly anymore. It is high risk. A single mistake, and the ikran and its rider are—”

“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”

You purred the words as you finally pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer to the table, tossing your half-braided sheath fiber aside. Every eye in the room tracked your movement, but yours were locked on the Omatikaya’s golden boy. You stopped right beside him, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. You tilted your head up, letting a slow smirk pull at your lips as you looked at his clenched jaw.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer, “I’d think you were trying to keep me out of the sky to keep me safe. I didn’t realize you care that much?”

A sudden bark of laughter broke out from an elder across the table and the others followed suit. Meanwhile, your brother shook his head at your sheer audacity. Jake Sully’s lips twitched upward, a faint, amused glint in his eyes as he looked between you two, clearly remembering what it was like to be young and stubborn. Even the older, stern warriors around the table began to chuckle, the suffocating tension of the war efforts breaking open to let a little light in. It was a comforting reminder to the elders that despite the demons coming back, the youth were still acting their age.

Neteyam, however, did not laugh.

He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he looked down at you. His ears twitched back in mild annoyance, but he didn't step away from you. He was tolerant, as he always was, enduring your teasing with the patience of a tree weathering a storm. He had always known that you are a lethal asset to the people’s war efforts... But unfortunately, you are also a source of a massive, distracting headache.

“I care about the success of the mission,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a low register meant only for you. His gaze was incredibly intense up close, close to the kind of focus that had made you shiver imagining just moments ago. “We are planning a raid that could cost lives. This isn’t the time for games.”

Partly slighted at his doubt, you frowned. “I am completely serious,” you said, dropping the just enough to show the deadly huntress beneath. You motioned at the map right where the turrets were marked. “These are coastal winds. I’ve navigated treacherous cliff gaps like it’s a playground snce I was a child. My ikran and I will rise to the challenge, you’ll see.”

“Alright, alright, break it up,” Jake intervened, though the grin was obvious in his voice as he tapped the map. “If Ikeyni says she’s the one for the job, then she’s the one. Neteyam, you’ll be leading the ground insertion. That means your timing with the distraction has to be perfect.”

Neteyam tore his eyes away from you, nodding sharply to his father. “Yes, sir.”

But as the council began to break into smaller groups to discuss once more among themselves, Neteyam didn't immediately walk away. He stayed right where he was, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He looked down at you, the exasperation fading into something quieter, something serious and heavy.

“It really is dangerous out there,” he said softly, his golden eyes searching yours. “The winds in the gorge are unpredictable.”

You matched his seriousness for a rare, passing second, to let him see that you are capable underneath all the flirting. “I know, Neteyam. But I’m faster than them. Trust me.”

He nodded, his jaw hardening. “I do trust you. Just... don't make me regret it.”

With a final, lingering look that left your heart hammering against your ribs, he turned to follow his father. You watched him go, your smirk slowly returning as you realized that for at least a few minutes, you had been the absolute center of his universe.

The next day, you were up before the first light, immediately going to where your ikran was roosting, smiling when you saw her already prepared, like always. “Ready, girl?“ you murmured, stroking her sleek, brightly patterned neck.

She screeched in response, a sharp, eager sound and you chuckled, mounting her back and connecting your kuru to hers, the familiar, rushing warmth of the tsaheylu flooding your senses. Your head swiveled to the side when you sensed a presence, seeing Neteyam stopping several paces away, already geared with his warrior cummerbund, longbow, amd chest knife sheath.

Your head tilted, admiring how handsome he looked as you smiled brightly. “Hi! Good morning,” you grinned. “Came to send me with a good luck kiss?”

He remained serious though, his eyes scanning your form on your ikran. “Be careful out there.” he said in a clipped tone, not waiting for a response before he turned away.

You chuckled, shaking your head. So serious, you thought, smirking. So handsome, too, anyway, the other part of your mind retorted and you rolled your eyes. You clicked your tongue and pulled at your ikran’s reins, making her surge up into the sky. You flew higher than usual, hiding in the thick clouds to scan high above the gorge. The sky was still a deep, bruised purple when the signal came through the comms secured to your ear.

“Pathfinder,” Jake Sully’s voice crackled, steady and calm. “Ground teams, position. You are clear to engage. Eye in the sky, you're up.”

A heartbeat later, a lower, tighter voice filtered through. “Be careful up there. Hit your marks.”

Neteyam.

Your smirk returned, invisible to him but it laced your voice enough for him to imagine it. “I heard that twice already, Neteyam. Are you so worried?” your honeyed teasing voice dripping through the comms.

You heard his groan and it was followed by a chuckle that sounded so much like Jake’s but it was cut short. “Just focus on the mission,” Neteyam’s voice snapped back through the earpiece.

You chuckled. “Watch the skies, Sully. Try not to blink, or you’ll miss me.”

Without waiting for a response, you clicked your tongue. Your ikran folded her wings and dove straight off the cliffside into the gaping maw of the gorge. The wind shrieked past your ears, whipping your braids wildly. Below, the metallic structures of the RDA outpost clung to the valley floor like a parasite. Within seconds, the base's automated defense grid woke up. Loud whirs echoed through the canyon as three massive turrets pivoted, their motion-tracking lasers sweeping the dark sky until they locked onto you.

“Now!” you hissed, leaning flat against your ikran's back.

You maneuvered your ikran in the sky as heavy explosive rounds tore through the air. The blasts should have scared you, but it surprised even you that it didn’t. You pulled sharply on the reins, banking hard to the left. A volley of bullet shattered the rocky cliffside right where you had been a millisecond before, reducing it to a powdery debris. You laughed out loud,  pushing your mount into a tight, dizzying barrel roll, diving directly between the narrow gaps of the cliffs.

The tracking systems couldn't keep up. The automated turrets jerked violently, scrambling to overcorrect their aim as you flew through the blind spots, From your view high above, you watched Neteyam and his ground strike team. While the turrets were completely distracted by your earlier display, they swarmed out of the dense forest like shadows. Leading the charge, Neteyam moved with terrifying precision, breaching the perimeter fencing, dropping two RDA guards before they could even raise their weapons. Behind him, Lo'ak and the other warriors systematically planted charges on the supply crates and fuel lines.

Even from up above, your eyes found him effortlessly, admiring his swift and unyielding movements, completely commanding. He was a force of nature.

“Charges are live! Pull back, pull back!” You heard Neteyam’s voice bark through the comms. He looked up into the sky, his golden eyes scanning the smoke until he caught the bright, unmistakable red of your ikran’s wings looping through the clouds. “Y/N, disengage! Get out of there!”

Swooping low one last time, you let out a victorious battle cry as a massive explosion ripped through the base behind you. You looked and saw an image of a huge ball of fire consuming the turrets and the supply lines. The explosion gave your ikran the motivation to increase her speed, launching you up and out of the fiery gotge into the safety of the skies. The raid was a flawless success.

By the time you got back to Hometree, the adrenaline was still humming under your skin. You hopped down from your ikran, patting her flank affectionately as the other warriors cheered and celebrated the clean victory. No casualties for the party and a massive blow to the sky people. A smudge of black engine soot marred your cheek, your eyes searching the crowd.

Neteyam was standing near his father, catching his breath, his skin glistening with sweat and ash. He looked exhausted, but the heavy tension that usually held his shoulders tight had momentarily melted away. As if sensing your gaze, his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours across the clearing. You stared at him, raising your brow and tilting your chind up with a proud, triumphant grin that said, I told you so.

Neteyam watched you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine, breathless smile broke across his handsome face. It was a rare, stunning sight that made your heart do a violent flip against your ribs. He broke away from his father and walked straight toward you, stopping just a foot away.

“You showboated,” he murmured, his voice low but devoid of the seriousness that usually laced it.

“I just gave them a show,” you corrected smoothly, crossing your arms. “There is a difference. And I did it.”

“You did,” Neteyam conceded, his eyes dropping to the soot on your cheek before rising to meet your gaze with an intensity that made you almost forget how to breathe. “It was an incredible show. You were incredible up there.”

Your breath hitched. For all your constant flirting and loud teasing, having his quiet praise directed entirely at you caught you completely off guard that the witty comeback died on your tongue, your cheeks warming under his stare.

Neteyam noticed your sudden silence, and a small, amused smirk, one that looked a lot like your own, as if he had just copied it, pulled at the corner of his lips.

“What's wrong?” he asked softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Quiet now? I didn't realize it was that easy to shut you up.”

You stared up at him, your mouth slightly open. The proximity was intoxicating, and for someone who usually spent his time dodging your advances, he was occupying a lot of your personal space now.

Your eyes flicked down to his smirk, then back up to his eyes. “I’m just savoring the moment. You’re more handsome up close,“ you smirked, regaining your composure a little. You leaned in, forcing him to maintain that dizzying eye contact. “And it’s not every day the great Neteyam admits I'm incredible. I might just let it get in my head.”

Neteyam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Coughing softly, he cleared his throat as he took a strategic step backward, breaking the contact but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “Don't get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone was lacking any real bite. “Go get cleaned up. My father wants a full debrief within the hour.”

He turned on his heel and walked back toward Jake, though you didn't miss the way his tail swished behind him. You let out a quiet, triumphant laugh, wiping the soot from your cheek with the back of your hand. There was still an armor, but you had managed to crack it... That’s a small victory!

In the following days, the high of the victory had settled into the familiar routine of war. The leaders gathered once again in the pavilion. This time, however, the mood was lighter. The success of the gorge raid had given the rebellion more time to breathe. Your mother pointed at the eastern coast on the map, discussing the movement of RDA sea vessels who was last seen going farther east.

“They are retreating toward the deep water,” your brother noted, crossing his arms. “The destruction of the supply lines has damaged their operations in the coastal outposts.”

“We need to take control of the momentum,” Jake said, leaning over the table. “Neteyam, what’s the status of our perimeter watches?”

Neteyam stepped forward, completely back into his professional, disciplined element. “The forest guards are doubling their patrols. But we need to ensure our aerial scouts are maintaining a strict radius. We can't afford to get complacent just because we succeed in one mission.”

You smiled, resting your chin in your palm as you leaned over the map table, deliberately putting yourself right in his line of sight. “Oh, don't worry, Commander. Our scouts are alwasys in the air. We don't get tired easily.” You paused, letting your eyes slowly track down his body before bringing your gaze back to his face. “Though, if you're so worried about our stamina, you're welcome to come up with me next time. I can show you how we stay energized.”

A collective ripple of amused snickers passed through the council. Your brother hid his face in his hands, muttering something about losing his mind, while your mother let out a small, huffing chuckle. “Daughter...” she said pointedly.

Neytiri smiled, shaking her head at Ikeyni. You watched Neteyam close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping. He was so incredibly tolerant of you, enduring the teasing with the quiet patience of a palulukan letting a cub bat at its tail.

“Y/N,” Neteyam said slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with deadpan exasperation. “I have to train the youth at the archery grounds after this. I do not have time to be a part of your games.”

“A shame,” you purred, flashing him a brilliant, unbothered grin. “You don't know what you're missing.”

Hours later, you found yourself wandering down toward the village training grounds, hearing the familiar sound of snapping bowstrings and the light thud of arrows hitting bark targets. You stood there, crossing your arms as you watched the scene. Neteyam was in his element. He was surrounded by a dozen young, aspiring warriors, all holding smaller training bows. He was patient and focused, moving down the line to correct their posture.

“Keep your elbow high,” Neteyam instructed a young boy, gently adjusting the kid's arm. “Do not fight the bow string. Let it become an extension of your arm. Look at the center of the mark, breathe out, and release.”

The boy released the string, and the arrow thudded squarely into the inner ring of the target. The kids cheered, and Neteyam offered a rare, warm smile, patting the boy's shoulder.

“Very good. Again.”

“Nice,” you called out, stepping out from the shadows.

The group of young hunters immediately turned, their eyes widening when they saw you. In your clan, you were a legend among the youth, the daughter who flew like the wind and didn't care about the rules. A few of the older teenagers standing nearby immediately started whispering and nudging each other, grinning widely because everyone knew you loved to push Neteyam’s buttons.

Neteyam stiffened, his shoulders squaring as he turned to face you. He gripped his longbow, his ears twitching back. “I am teaching, Y/N. Go find something else to do.”

“I just want to see if I can help,” you said innocently, sauntering closer until you were standing right in front of him, entirely ignoring the giggles of the children behind him. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the curve of his heavy longbow. “You see, kids, the Omatikaya are used to shooting on the ground, on their feet. But if you want real precision while moving, you need a loose hip. Like this.”

You fluidly snatched a training bow from a nearby rack, notched an arrow in the blink of an eye, and without even pausing to aim, you spun on your heel and released. The young warriors erupted into gasps and cheers when they saw the arrow hit the center of the furthest target cleanly, totally thrilled by the display. You tossed the bow back onto the rack, turning around to look at Neteyam with a smug, raised eyebrow.

“See?” you murmured, stepping into his space, tilting your head up. “It’s about flexibility, too. Maybe I should give you a private lesson sometime. I can teach you how to loosen up what’s stiff.” you murmured, biting your lip.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, his aw practically tightening into stone. His face burned a furious, deep shade of violet, his golden eyes wide as he stared down at you. He knows, with a piercing awareness, how completely trapped he is between his duty and his sheer, chaotic attraction to you, and he shouldn’t like it. But he does, so Eywa help him. He took a deep breath, gripping his bow tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

“Class dismissed,” Neteyam barked out, his voice a strained, tight rumble. “Go practice your stealth skills. Now.”

The kids scrambled away, still laughing and whispering, leaving the two of you completely alone in the training grounds. Neteyam stepped even closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you as he glared down, though the heat radiating from his skin told a completely different story.

“You are impossible,” he whispered fiercely.

You laughed, enjoying the sight of the crack getting bigger each day. You’ve never had this much progress in the past... Perhaps because you don’t really see each other for longer than a few days. Sometimes, your mother gets invited to festivals in the Omatikaya and she brings you and your brother with her, or it’s her who invites the Sullys to come for festivals in your clan.

You’ve always liked Neteyam better than his brother. Lo’ak is a good acquaintance, but it was Neteyam who you’ve always found more interesting. What with his intense focus and unyielding determination on everything he puts his mind to, but you could tell it was also born from his desire to live up to his parents’ legacy.

He is the firstborn, after all. The heir to the Omatikaya leadership. The return of the sky people was the reason why he’s grown even more serious and focused, determined to protect the people, Eywa’eveng, and his family, even more so. You respect that a great deal, but you also think he needs to loosen up a bit before he stresses himself into an early grave.

You wonder if he even has interest in women, or if he only cares about his bows and his arrows. But you don’t like to think of that. It makes you fiercely jealous to think of him directing that intense focus on a woman who’s not you... Or to think of him letting a woman see past the armor you’re working so hard to crack.

But you are too confident. You thought the crack in his armor was getting wider by the day, and you genuinely believed it was only a matter of time before he finally let his guard down.

You should have remembered that in war, the higher you fly, the harder you fall.

More council meetings ensued in the following days, and now, you found yourself back in the sky. The RDA had deployed a small convoy of armored vehicles, and Neteyam’s squad was tasked to do a quiet interception.

“Hold your position above the tree line,” you heard Neteyam’s voice through the comms, crisp and authoritative. “Do not engage until the ground team has disabled their communications. If they see you, they will lock down the area and call for reinforcements. Do you copy?”

You had copied. But as you circled in the grey mist, you saw one of the AMP suits pivoting its heavy cannon directly toward the dense foliage where Neteyam’s ground sweepers were crawling. Your heart leaped into your throat. You waited to hear from him, or for the communication to be cut, but you can’t wait when they could all be gunned down any second.

I am fast enough, you had thought, fueled by that same headstrong confidence that had always served you before. I can take out that suit before it fires.

So, you dove.

But you had underestimated the trees’ density in this sector. Your ikran’s wing clipped a massive branch, throwing off your trajectory by a fraction of a second, and it was all the automated sensors needed. The AMP suit spun, firing a volley of heavy-caliber rounds into the sky. A hot, tearing agony sliced across your thigh, a bullet graze, and the concussive blast sent your ikran screeching into a spiral.

Your sudden, messy descent completely blew the ground team's cover. The convoy opened fire on the forest blindly. Screams of pain echoed through the comms, cutting through your panic. By the time it all ended, the convoy was destroyed, but the cost to the war party was devastating. Blood soaked your leg wraps but you cared little for it, forcing your ikran into the air, flying back to the Hometree with your chest tightening in suffocating fear and shame.

When you landed in the clearing, the celebratory atmosphere of the past weeks was entirely dead. You scrambled off your mount, wincing as your injured leg buckled slightly, and rushed toward the center, catching sight of him immediately. Neteyam was lifting a huntress off the back of his ikran. Her arm was painted in deep, crimson blood from a horrific wound on her shoulder. It was Tarya.

“Get the medical bay ready! Move!” Neteyam roared, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation you had never heard from him before. He was covered in soot and someone else's blood, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

“Neteyam—” you breathed, stepping forward, your hands shaking. “Neteyam, I—I am so sorry. I saw the suit turning toward you, I thought I could—”

Neteyam snapped. He lowered Tarya into the frantic arms of the medical healers, then turned on you so fast his tail whipped the air. He closed the distance between you in two giant, looming strides, towering over you.

“You thought?” he asked, his voice drawing the shocked eyes of every warrior present. “I don’t think so! You are entirely, helplessly obstinate! You almost fell! You almost died, did you even think of that?!”

You flinched, stepping back, but he kept coming, his golden eyes blazing with a dangerous, lethal heat that made you feel incredibly small.

“And because you couldn't follow a single, simple order, these warriors are wounded!” He said in a hard voice, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. “Tarya might not survive the night! Do you understand that? Do you even care?”

“I do care!” you cried out, tears of shame finally burning your eyes. “I was trying to protect—”

“You didn’t listen! Like always!” he cut you off, his chest heaving as he glared down at you with complete contempt. “You treat this war like a game to win my attention! You are a massive, childish distraction, Y/N! Everyone knows it, and I am sick of it! Do you think people bleeding out in the mud is a joke? Do you think this war is just another festival for you to play around in?”

The words felt like physical daggers piercing straight into your chest, ripping away at your pride and your confidence. You stood frozen, completely exposed and deeply ashamed in front of the people present. Your mouth opened to apologize again.

“I'm sorry,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

“Save your apologies,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous hiss that hurt far worse than his shouting. “If you cannot take this seriously, you should just withdraw from the war efforts entirely. Frankly, your behavior is putting everyone's life on the line.”

He didn't wait for you to answer. He turned his back on you completely, jogging alongside the stretcher as they wheeled his warriors toward the human facilities.

You stood alone in the dirt. You couldn't even feel the throbbing wound on your thigh. The numbness of absolute embarrassment and guilt swallowed you whole. He was right. You had been stupid and childish. You had been playing a dangerous game with people's lives just to hear him say your name.

You didn't seek out the Tsahik. You didn't think you deserved her medicine. Weakly, you dragged yourself back onto your ikran and flew away from the Hometree, heading toward the borders of your own clan's territory. You spent the evening in isolation, using bitter, stinging ocean herbs to tend to your own thigh, weeping silently in the dark. You resolved that you would return to apologize to the wounded warriors, and thinking of doing that is already making you feel flayed.

You had been too confident in your abilities and now, you have put people’s lives on the line. You should be ashamed. He was right about you leaving the war efforts, too, perhaps that was for the better. Because of what happened, you don’t think you still have enough confidence to go out there and fight.

You went to your clan, simply to change clothes, but was welcomed by the heavy grief that befell the people. An honored elder had passed away from natural causes, and by custom, the clan had to gather for the burial rites. Your mother and brother returned from the war front to attend, their faces grim.

After the body was given back to Eywa, your brother found you sitting on a secluded cliffside, staring blankly out at the crashing waves of the Eastern Sea. He sat down beside you, sighing. “I heard of the northern ridge,” he said quietly.

You clutched your knees to your chest, refusing to look at him. “Is Tarya... is she alive?”

“She is. Jake’s human friends saved her. She will recover. The others are okay, too,” your brother assured you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “The war party didn't lose its momentum, sister, if that’s what you’re worried about. But... the injuries could have been prevented. You know this.”

“I know,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I think I should leave, before I put everyone's lives on the line.” You looked up at your brother, your eyes hollow. “I’ll fly back tomorrow. Just to apologize to those who were wounded because of me. And then... I'm coming home.”

Later that evening, you stood inside your mother's yurt, packing away your combat gear. Ikeyni watched you from the entrance, her arms crossed, as you told her what you told your brother, your voice flat and devoid of its usual spark.

“It would be better anyway if I stay back here, Mother,” you said, tying off a leather pouch. “I can act on your behalf with the local hunters. I'm just a bother to the war council over there.”

Ikeyni stared at you, her sharp eyes assessing your rigid posture, your bandaged leg, and the complete lack of confidence in your eyes.

“Whose words are those?” your mother asked softly. “Are they yours?”

You paused, your hands trembling over your gear. You shook your head slowly. “Mother, he was right,” you said, a lump forming in your throat as Neteyam's furious face flashed in your mind. “I wasn't taking the war seriously. I think it would do the council better if I leave. We have plenty of competent riders to do my job. I don't belong there.”

Ikeyni let out a long, heavy sigh. She walked over, placing a firm, warm hand on the nape of your neck, tilting your forehead up to look into her eyes.

“If that is what you truly want, then so be it,” your mother murmured softly, leaning forward to kiss your temple. “But remember who you are, daughter. You are a child of the wind. Do not let one storm ground you forever.”

The journey back to the Omatikaya clan felt different this time. Usually, you would be racing your brother through the clouds, your laughter wild and loud, but today, you simply flew silently behind your mother. When you landed and entered the pavilion, the change in you was loud. Normally, there was always a sharp, teasing smirk ready for whoever caught your eye, but now, your face was barely moving, your eyes fixed on a permanent point in front of you.

The shame was suffocating and it felt like a huge boulder they tied around you. The council proceeded, discussing territory lines and defensive strategies for what felt like hours, while you stood rigid behind your mother, your eyes watching them move pieces on the map, unknowing of Neteyam’s eyes seeking you despite Ikeyni’s body blocking him from sight.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward into the light of the pavilion when the elders finally paused. Your voice was flat as you addressed the chieftains and the elders, completely stripped of its usual playful edge. “I want to apologize for the failure of my recent mission. I disobeyed orders, and I take full accountability for the consequences. I am even sorrier that it took me days to stand before you and say this; my clan was laying an elder to rest.“

You took a breath, your hands clasped tightly behind your back so no one could see them shaking.

“As you can see, I am unfit for this council. I lack the discipline required for operations of this scale. Moving forward, I am letting my mother decide on my replacement from the Tayrangi riders.”

A heavy silence descended upon the pavilion.

“Y/N,” Jake Sully spoke first, his deep voice carrying a wave of gentleness that surprised you. He leaned over the table, his eyes soft. “The war party didn't lose its momentum. We took out the convoy. You don't need to pin the blame solely on yourself. This is war. Mistakes happen and warriors are always meant to be wounded.”

Neytiri leaned forward next, her sharp, golden eyes searching your hollow face. “Do I understand what you mean, Ikeyni’ite? Are you leaving the council?”

“Yes,” you nodded, your voice firm.

Your mother stepped into the space beside you, her voice steady and protective, supplementing your words before anyone else could question you. “I have asked her to stay back with the Tayrangi. Ruk’e and I are heavily occupied with the war efforts here, and I need someone I trust to oversee the people.”

“Olo'eykte. Tsakarem.”

The voice cut through the pavilion, low and fractured, making your heart seize painfully in your chest. You didn't want him to speak. You didn't want to look at him.

Neteyam stepped forward from behind his father's shoulder. His posture wasn't stiff with the perfect discipline of a soldier anymore, it looked strained, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I wish to speak,” he said, his eyes locked on you, seeking yours, though you kept your gaze fixed somewhere near his collarbone. “I want to apologize to you, Y/N, before the council, for my reaction days ago. I was angry, and I spoke out of turn. You do not need to leave the council because of it.”

You felt a faint ripple of shock go through you, but it didn't revive your heart. Instead, a fresh wave of mortification washed over you. You felt even more ashamed that he felt obligated to apologize in front of the entire leadership just to close the issue gracefully and maintain alliance peace. To you, him telling you not to leave was just something he was saying for the record, a diplomatic necessity.

“You have nothing to apologize for, warrior, and I have nothing to forgive either,” you said, your voice entirely level, devoid of any anger or spite. It was just empty.

One of the Omatikaya elders turned to your mother. “Ikeyni, is this decision final? We would hate to lose such a skilled asset for the war efforts.”

“Yes,” you answered for her, your tone absolute. Nothing could have changed your mind. “If the council pleases, I excuse myself. I wish to apologize to the warriors who were wounded because of me.”

You were already looking at the door, not catching how Neteyam’s head reared back as if something had clawed at him. Without waiting for a formal dismissal, you turned and walked out of the pavilion, the sudden shift to freedom doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

You walked straight toward the medical areas, knowing you would find the injured split between the Tsahik’s tent and the human facilities. You went to the Tsahik's tent first, stepping into the dim space. When you approached the wounded Omatikaya warriors, your throat tightened, but they easily brushed your apologies off with tired, warm smiles.

“It is no one's fault,” one of them murmured. “We know what we came there for. Being wounded is expected for a warrior.”

When you went to the human facilities, you found Tarya resting in a clean bed, her shoulder heavily bandaged. When you spoke your apologies to her, she reached out to pat your arm. “Do not carry this weight, sister. We are alive. That is what matters.”

The sheer kindness of their forgiveness almost made you cry. A bitter, agonizing thought crossed your mind, wishing Neteyam thinks the same.

But you immediately caught yourself, mentally slapping the thought away. Stop it. You need to stop thinking about what Neteyam thinks or what he doesn't. You knew it would take time. You had liked him for so long, possibly loved him, but that part of your life was over now.

You walked out to the clearing where your ikran was waiting, ready to leave this place behind for good. You were just reaching for her leather harness when heavy, frantic footsteps behind you, hearing your name being called.

You closed your eyes for a brief second before turning around. Neteyam was jogging toward you, breathing heavily. He had asked to leave the council to follow you the exact moment you walked out, but Jake hadn't allowed him to dismiss himself until the meeting officially concluded.

Now, as he stopped a few paces away, you actively turned off your imaginative mind. You completely shut down that part of yourself that used to over-analyze his every breath, forcing yourself not to read into the fact that he looked almost desperate, entirely at a loss for words.

Neteyam's eyes flickered down, and you saw his face almost crumple, a sharp grimace crossing his features at the sight of the cloth bandaging your thigh. You subtly shifted your weight, trying your best to hide the injury behind the wing of your ikran.

His eyes flickeredup to yours, swimming with a quiet, raw desperation you tried your hardest to ignore. “Y/N, please. I am so sorry for what I said in the clearing. I shouldn't have—”

“It’s alright, Neteyam,” you cut him off smoothly, your voice polite and empty. “You were right anyway. Truly, I should be ashamed of my behavior right from the start. I didn't take things as seriously as I should have, and that only proves how unfit I am for the council. So, you see, you were completely right about me leaving—”

“No,” he breathed, the word breaking from him like a gasp. His shoulders fell, and he took a sudden step forward, his hand reaching out.

Unconsciously, your posture tensed, and you took a sharp step backward, pressing yourself closer to the flank of your ikran as if to seek safety.

Neteyam froze. His extended hand trembled in the air before slowly dropping to his side. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice strained with a deep pain that, once again, you forced yourself to ignore.

“I know,” you said quickly, forcing a small chuckle to ease the tension. “Sorry.” You cleared your throat, gesturing vaguely to the sky. “But just as I said, everything has become much clearer to me now. I want to leave before I put more people in danger. Perhaps, I should even thank you for opening my mind about that—”

“No, Y/N, listen to me,” he stepped closer again, his voice rising in an urgent, pleading rush. “I was just... I was so scared for the wounded. I was terrified. And I said things that I shouldn't have said, terrible things—”

“You said things that were true, Neteyam,” you interrupted softly, your face completely calm as you reached up to ruffle the crest of your ikran's head. “And as I said, I am completely cool about them. I accept them, and I understand. You have nothing to apologize for. In truth, it was just a superior delivering valid criticisms that I needed to learn from.”

“I was unnecessarily cruel,” Neteyam burst out, his jaw trembling as he stared at your polite, unbothered expression. “I was unfair of me to pin all the blame on you. Their tracking systems were upgraded, the terrain was bad—I couldn't tell you how much I have regretted my words every second since. Y/N, please... it is I who needs your forgiveness—”

You let out a sigh and Neteyam stopped abruptly, as if your sigh had put a physical gag on him. He watched you, terrified of whatever words were about to leave your mouth.

“Neteyam. It is over and done with,” you said, your voice shifting into a serious, cold finality that left no room for argument. “I have no hard feelings over it whatsoever. Everything you said that day was true. I didn’t listen, and it put people in danger. I was reckless. I was foolish. You were right, so stop insisting you were wrong, because I’ll start thinking this is just your guilt talking. Stand by your words, and let’s leave things be.”

You reached behind you, grabbing your kuru and connecting it swiftly to your ikran's, before fluidly mounting her back, settling into the saddle with a practiced, rigid grace.

Neteyam stood rooted to the dirt. He had stopped breathing. He stared up at you, his chest aching so violently he wished with everything in him that your ikran’s wings wouldn't work. He wished the wind would die. He wished he could reach out, grab the reins, and drag you back down. His heart throbbed with a suffocating mix of guilt, regret, and something far heavier that he couldn't even name.

He had hurt you. He had completely broken your spirit, and it was devastatingly obvious. Sitting on your ikran, you were unrecognizable. The brilliant, chaotic spark was entirely gone. Your playful confidence was buried deep beneath a layer of careful, polite nonchalance.

“Have a good life, Neteyam,” you murmured.

With a sharp click of your tongue, your ikran surged forward, her powerful wings launching you into the open sky.

Neteyam watched you fly away, your form growing smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck in the distance. A sharp, physical spasm ripped through his chest, and his golden eyes stung, blurring his vision. His fingers curled into tight, trembling fists, his teeth gritting together so hard he thought they would crack under the pressure.

He had wanted you to take the war seriously. He had wanted you to stop distracting him. But as he stood alone in the empty clearing, looking up at the empty sky, Neteyam realized he had never been more brokenly, horribly distracted in his entire life.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The war efforts did not stop just because Neteyam’s world had lost its friction. If anything, the pace of the rebellion quickened after the destruction of the northern convoy. The Omatikaya and their allies pushed the RDA further toward the coastal margins, reclaiming three separate valleys within a single turn of the moon.

Neteyam did his duty with the same cold precision his father had drilled into him since he was old enough to hold a knife. To the common warriors, he was still the golden heir... Unshakable, vigilant, a pillar of the clan along his parents and Mo’at.

But inside his own skin, he was experiencing a slow, suffocating death.

Every hour of every day, his mind raced backward, tracing the bridge he had violently brought down. He missed you with a ferocity that physically brought ache to his gut. It felt like a boulder was placed in his ribs, overcrowding his lungs. Some days, he could barely breathe.

And the worst part was the quiet.

Before his stupidity, every spot of the Hometree was a minefield of your laughter. He had spent months training himself to ignore the sound of that, even though it was the balm to his soul at the end of every exhausting day, the honeyed delivery of your voice, and the way you would lean your shoulder against his, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from you. He had thought of you as a massive, beautiful distraction. He had braced himself against you like a tree hardening its bark against a persistent storm.

Now, it was just gone. And the silence you left behind was deafening.

Dozens of times during the mid-day meetings, Neteyam would find his head turning instinctively to the left, his eyes scanning the roots or the wooden pillars for a glimpse of your vibrant red paint. At the training grounds, his shoulder would tingle, expecting the sudden touch of your hand.

But there was none.

By the second week, the pressure in Neteyam’s chest grew so immense that he began to lose his grip on his characteristic discipline. He became desperate for any connection to you, any excuse to hear updates from you that he found Ikeyni’s intense focus on war tactics and Ruk’e’s silence very irritating.

Stop talking of war, he thought. Let’s talk about your sister.

So when Ruk’e announced he was flying back to the Tayrangi to retrieve a shipment of leather harnesses and specialized arrows for the coastal hunters, Neteyam didn't even hesitate.

“I will go with you,” he had said, stepping into the ikran roosts before Ruk’e could even clear his mount for takeoff.

Ruk’e had paused, his hand tightening on his reins as he looked at Neteyam. There was no mission along the coast. There was no tactical reason for the commander of the ground forces to waste half a day acting as a pack-beast for supply crates.

“The eastern passes are clear, Sully,” Ruk’e said, his voice carrying that protective, guarded edge that you both possessed. “I do not need an escort.”

“My father wants an updated report on the drafts near the bay,” Neteyam lied, his jaw clenching as he connected his queue to his ikran. His voice was tight, nearly fracturing under the weight of his hidden urgency. “We are moving the division soon. I also need to see the terrain.”

Ruk’e stared at him for a long, heavy moment, reading the dark circles beneath his eyes and the frantic, nervous twitch of his tail. With a slow sigh, Ruk’e nodded silently. The flight to the Eastern Sea was the longest hour of Neteyam’s life. His mind ran through a thousand different scenarios, each one more pathetic than the last. He thought of finding you by the cliff’s edge. He thought of going down on his knees, uncaring of who saw him. He would let you see past his walls. He would let you see that he was nothing but a stupid man who had torn out his own heart stupidly. He was stupid, stupid, stupid.

Your final words had been repeating in his skull like a death chant. Have a good life, Neteyam.

It had sounded like a permanent severance. A final closure. He remembered how, weeks ago, when the realization that you intended to live the rest of your days without ever seeing him again hit him, he nearly doubled over, a physical gasp tearing from his throat as if he had been struck in the gut. Now, as they finally crested the high cliffs of the Tayrangi territory, his hope was crushed into dust. Apparently, you were not around. And he thought he was imagining the smirk that passed Ruk’e’s face.

They were there for close to two hours, gathering everything and securing it on their ikrans. At one point, Neteyam had looked high above and saw the unmistakable, bright red-and-orange span of your ikran’s wings flying down. His heart leaped into his throat, a sudden, violent surge of blood hammering in his ears. He leaned forward, preparing, his mouth already forming your name.

But then, Neteyam watched in absolute horror as your ikran turn back toward the blind side of the cliffs, diving deep into the sea mists until you completely vanished from sight. He looked at his ikran, its recognizable bright blue-green scales... Even from leagues away, you had seen the beast. Even though you didn't really see him, you decided to turn away. Avoiding him. Flying away from him.

Neteyam spent the rest of the supply run standing on the landing platforms, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon, his hands gripping his longbow so tightly his knuckles turned a sickly, pale shade of blue. You never came back up. You stayed hidden in the shadows of the rocks until they had to leave and fly back home to the forest, feeling more like a ghost than a living man.

Many nights later, Neteyam sat on a log near the weapon racks, idly running a whetstone down the edge of his hunting knife when a shadow fell over him. Jake Sully stepped into the light, his large frame blocking out the stars. He watched his eldest son for a quiet minute, taking in the rigid, defensive curve of the his spine.

“You're off your mark, son,” Jake said, his deep voice slicing through the crickets. “During the perimeter check today, you missed three separate trails on the western border. That’s not like you.”

Neteyam didn't look up. He kept his head bowed, the whetstone scraping against the blade. “Just tired, sir. The patrols have been long.”

“It’s not the patrols,” Jake countered gently. He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the weapon rack, his expression softening. “I know what happened after the ridge raid, Neteyam.”

The whetstone stopped.

Neteyam’s hands tried to grip the knife tighter to hide the trembling of his fingers. For the first time in his life, he couldn't hold his mask in place. A small, ragged breath escaped his lips, and when he finally turned his face up to look at his father, Jake blinked sharply from the surprise of seeing Neteyam’s eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I hurt her, Dad,” Neteyam said weakly, his voice breaking. “I was... I was so unnecessarily cruel. I was too stupid, opening my mouth like that. Shouting at her... saying those terrible things.”

He let out a shaky breath, his face crumpling from the sheer, agonizing effort of trying not to cry, but the first tear slipped anyway.

“Have you seen her at the pavillion, Dad?” he asked. “That's not her. That is no longer her because I broke her. I took her spirit and I crushed it with my cruelty. And what’s worse, what is killing me every second, is that she thinks she deserved it. She thinks I was right.” He dropped the knife into the dirt, his hands coming up to cover his face. “I don't know how to turn it all back around. I want her to forgive me. I want her to know... I’d rip my own heart right out of my chest if it means I could take away the pain I gave her.”

Jake let out a long, heavy sigh. His own features crumpled in deep distress for the two of you. He reached down, placing a calloused hand on his son’s trembling shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Have you tried apologizing again? Truly talking to her?”

“No,” Neteyam choked out, pulling his hands away from his face, his eyes red-rimmed from his tears. “I think she doesn't want to see me ever again. I flew to the Tayrangi with Ruk'e last week... and the moment she saw my ikran, she retreated. She dove back into the cliffs... She didn't want to be near me, Dad.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his teeth. “Have you tried hiding your ikran from view?”

Neteyam shot his father a miserable, exhausted look. “Dad,” he said, his you're-not-helping tone incredibly obvious. “I don't want to force her. If she wants to be away from me, I... I have to respect that. Even if it kills me.”

“Well,“ Jake said slowly, shifting his weight as he stared out into the dark canopy. “Perhaps you should just give her time... The perfect time to talk to her would probably be when she’s mated and having children with her husband—”

“Dad,” Neteyam’s voice rose and deepened, his head snapping up in sheer horror. The tears on his cheeks dried instantly as his heart did a terrifying, sickening dive into his stomach.

“What?” Jake asked, completely straight-faced, though there was a tiny, knowing glint in his eye. “You're taking too much time, son. Men could swoop in anytime, you know? Especially now. She’s back home, heartbroken, and trying to move on from a stupid boy who is too terrified to admit that he belongs to her. That’s exactly when other men take their chances.”

Neteyam closed his eyes, his breathing turning shallow and fast. For the first time in his twenty-two years of life, he felt a wild, primitive urge to beat his own father up.

It wasn't funny, but he knew that his father wasn’t joking either, and as he sat there, his mind began to spin into a dark spiral of jealousy and terror. He had always known that you liked him, that you had liked him since you were children, but because he had been so focused on his duty, he had never allowed himself to measure the depth of it. He had taken your presence for granted. He had assumed you would always be there, annoying him, teasing him, waiting for him to finally turn around.

But you were a chieftain's daughter. You were a legendary huntress, beautiful, fierce, and wild. He knew exactly how many Tayrangi young men watched you with fierce attraction when you flew. The only reason they had stayed away before was because you were down here, making a public nuisance of yourself over the Omatikaya heir.

Now, you were back home. Heartbroken and vulnerable.

Neteyam’s fingers curled into tight fists against his knees, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure. The thought of another warrior touching your hand, the thought of another man making you laugh, or seeing that brilliant, wicked smirk return to your face, made his blood run thick.

“She is the daughter of the Olo’eykte,” Neteyam muttered, his voice dropping into a low register. “She would not just choose anyone.”

“No, she wouldn't,” Jake agreed softly. “But she will choose eventually, Neteyam. And right now, you're letting her believe she is better off without you.”

Jake turned away, leaving Neteyam to sit with the desperate fire that had lit inside him. He had broken your spirit, yes. But he would be damned if he let another man be the one to fix it.

With this new fire in him, Neteyam returned to the Tayrangi three more times over the following weeks, armed with a bag of increasingly flimsy excuses. The first time, he claimed his father needed a precise audit of the coastal clan's surplus ikran armor. The second time, he practically forced himself onto a tracking detail meant to map the migration patterns of the sturmbeast herds near the Tayrangi territories. By the third time, he was carrying a bundle of forest herbs from Mo’at that Tayrangi healers hadn't even asked for.

Yet, three times, you managed to dodge him completely.

It was maddening. It felt as though someone was deliberately feeding you a schedule of his arrivals and departures. Every time his blue-green ikran broke through the coastal fog, you were already gone, out on a hunt, or patrolling the northern borders. He even began to suspect your brother, Ruk’e, was secretly warning you through some hidden signal, but he knew for a fact that the man had no way of communicating with you.

You were simply anticipating him. You were treating him like an incoming storm, closing your doors and retreating into a safe place before the first drop of rain could touch you.

By the fourth visit, Neteyam had reached his absolute limit. He didn't bring an escort, and he didn't use the main landing platforms. He left his ikran tethered half a league away, hidden in a dense thicket, and trekked up the rocky coastal paths on foot, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was taking his father’s advice now, though he really hated the thought of surprising you.

He caught you by pure accident near the lower tide pools, where the cliffs formed a secluded cove. You were alone, repairing a frayed net, your long legs tucked beneath you on the smooth stone.When his shadow fell over you, you snapped your head up. For a second, your eyes widened in genuine, startled surprise. But the shock vanished, replaced instantly by that smooth mask of careful, polite nonchalance that made Neteyam’s stomach twist into a painful knot.

“Neteyam,” you said, your voice casual, but your fingers tightened so hard around the wooden netting needle. You made no move to stand, looking up at him as if he were nothing more than a passing trader. “What brings you here? Do you need help with anything, or were you sent here?”

You spoke the words with an easy, detached courtesy, even though your entire posture screamed that you wanted to be anywhere else but in front of him.

Neteyam closed the distance between you, his strides long and desperate. He didn't care about his dignity anymore. He didn't care that he was the commander of the ground forces or the son of Toruk Makto. He stopped just two paces away from you, his breath hitching as his eyes immediately swept down to your thigh. The bandage was gone, replaced by a white scar where the bullet had grazed you.

The sight of it made his throat tighten with a fresh wave of suffocating guilt.

“I wasn't sent, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, fractured register. He took a half-step forward, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting so desperately to reach out but forcing himself to stay back. “I came because of you. I came because I want to talk to you. I... I cannot sleep, I cannot breathe, and I—”

You let out a sharp, sudden breath, dropping the netting needle into your lap. The polite facade finally cracked, and you stood up, your tail whipping the air behind you in a sudden flash of genuine irritation.

“Aren’t we over this, Neteyam?” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared up at him. “We discussed this already. I thought we agreed to get past it.”

“Y/N, please—”

“No, listen to me,“ you cut him off, your voice rising, hard and sharp. “If this is about your guilt, you can lay it down. I told you before, I have nothing to forgive. I accepted your words because they were true. But if you are going to keep coming here with more pathetic apologies and diplomatic reassurances, you are actually going to make me angry.” You stepped closer. “I told you to stand by your words. If you cannot back your own words, Neteyam, I would be deeply disappointed. You are going to lead your clan one day, and an Olo'eyktan’s words must be solid as stone. If you are this fickle with your own tongue, how can anyone trust you?“

“That is the problem!” He said pointedly, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing emotion as he grabbed your hand, his fingers locking around your wrist before you could pull away, his grip desperate but fiercely tender. “I regret my words, I regret them every single second of every day—”

You tried to wrench your wrist free, but he held fast, his eyes blazing down into yours with a terrifying, weeping intensity.

“I know I cannot take them back,” he breathed, his chest heaving as he stared into your eyes. “I know I cannot magically wipe away the pain I inflicted on you, and I know I cannot just hand you back the confidence that I shattered, but I will work on my hands and knees to bring you back to who you used to be. I will do whatever it takes, Y/N. I swear it to the Great Mother.”

You stopped pulling against his grip, your frame going completely rigid. A bitter huff escaped you, “I don't like who I used to be,” you whispered, and his head moved as if you’d slapped him. “And you said it yourself that day, you don't like it either. You said you were sick of it. You said I was a massive, childish distraction—”

“I was a fool!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I was terrified for the warriors, but most of all, I was terrified for you. When you fell from the sky... I thought I lost you. I let my fear turn into venom, and I threw it at the one person who didn't deserve it.”

You stared at him, your jaw tight, your breathing ragged. For a second, just a fraction of a second, Neteyam thought he saw a flicker of the old warmth that used to belong entirely to him. But then, your expression hardened again.

“It doesn't matter why you said it, Neteyam,” you said, your voice flat. “The fact remains that your assessment was correct. I was reckless, and I put lives at risk. Your cruelty was just the mirror I needed to see myself clearly. Now, let go of me. I have nets to mend."

Neteyam’s fingers slowly uncurled, his arm dropping to his side as if it had been cut. You didn't give him another glance, you simply sat back down on the rock, picked up your wooden needle, and began weaving the fibers with steady, unbothered precision.

That day was completely unproductive for him. He spent the remaining hours sitting on a boulder a few paces away, watching you work in absolute silence. You didn't speak to him again. You didn't look at him. You treated him like a piece of rock, completely ignoring his presence until the sun began to dip and he was forced to hike back to his ikran, his heart heavier than when he had arrived.

Neteyam did not give up. In fact, his failure only made him more relentless.

He began flying between the Omatikaya and the Tayrangi almost every single day, uncaring of the brutal, grueling transit on top of his patrols, trainings, and war meetings. He would wake up before the first light of dawn, complete his mandatory border patrols, and then immediately push his ikran through the treacherous mountain drafts just to spend an hour or two on the cliffs.

He became a desperate fixture in your clan. He didn't care how it looked to your people. He didn't care that they watched with raised eyebrows and murmurs of amusement as the proud Omatikaya heir practically degraded himself for a glimpse of their chieftain's daughter. He didn’t know how to fully show you how sorry he is, and how sorry he will be for the rest of his life, so he started with the absolute surrender of his pride.

If you were out in the lower fields gathering ocean kelp for the healers, Neteyam would appear beside you to help without a word. He would haul the heavy, water-logged crates onto his shoulders, carrying them up the steep cliff paths so you wouldn't have to. You would tell him to leave, your voice sharp with annoyance, but he would simply set his jaw, and go back down for another load.

When you were assigned to clean and grease the riding saddles, he would sit on the floor opposite you, taking the rough scraping stones out of your hands. He would spend hours working the stiff leather until his fingers blistered, quiet despite the clear annoyance and suffocating silence you serve him. Some days, you wouldn't even show yourself, your people telling him you went to patrol or hunted, leaving him sitting alone on the rocky ledges for hours.

But he always came back the next day.

One evening, after a particularly brutal afternoon where you had completely ignored his existence while he helped the elders fix something, he caught you as you walked back toward your family's yurt. The sky was a bruised purple, and the bioluminescence was casting a soft light across your face.

He called out your name, his voice light despite the clear exhaustion on his face. He looked terrible, his shoulders were bruised from hauling timber, but there was still the sharp, military crispness of his posture despite the air of a man who was running on nothing but sheer desperation.

You stopped, but you didn't turn around to face him. “Go home, Neteyam. Take the war seriously instead of spending so much of your time here. Your father needs you.”

“My father has other warriors,” Neteyam said, stepping closer. “I will not stop. I will come here every day. I will carry every basket, I will mend every net, I will bleed on these rocks until I’ve proven myself to you.”

You finally turned your head, looking over your shoulder at him. Your face was half-hidden in the shadows, but your eyes were fixed on him.

“You are wasting your time,” you said, though your voice devoid of its usual malice, carrying only a profound, weary sadness. “The girl who would have been happy with all of these is gone, Neteyam. Even I couldn’t bring her back. You cannot bring back something that no longer exists.”

His breath hitched, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow from his father’s training sessions. His ears pinned flat against his head, but he took a deep breath, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. You silently gasped, watching the proud, golden boy of the Omatikaya, who had been raised to hold his head high, lowering himself in the dirt of the Tayrangi cliffs.

“Then who is she now?“ he asked quietly. “Would you let me meet her?” he pleaded, looking up at you soulfully, his chest heaving. “If she is a stranger, then let me earn her. Let me learn the way she breathes, the way she speaks, what makes her laugh now. I do not care if it takes the rest of my life. I will build a bridge over whatever ocean you put between us.”

You looked down at him, your eyes tracing his bruised shoulders, the raw, blistered skin on his fingers, and the deep shadows under his eyes. He looked so tired, what with his duties back home and the tasks he’s killing himself to do here, only to be ignored by you.

“You are a fool, Neteyam,” you murmured softly.

“I am,” he agreed instantly, his eyes tired but fiercely intense. “I am a fool who took you for granted and hurt you, who took too long to realize that my world has no tilt on its axis if you don’t belong in it.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. For many moons, you had kept your heart behind an impenetrable wall of ice, convincing yourself that what had happened broken something inside you that could never be mended. But looking at him now, no armor to break nor wall to climb, and entirely surrendered at your feet, a terrifyingly familiar warmth threatened to crack the frost.

You stepped around him, your tail flicking with a wave of mixed emotions. “The elders need the nets mended by first light tomorrow,” you said, not looking back as you pulled open the flap of your yurt. “If you are going to bleed on our rocks, you might as well make yourself useful.”

You left him outside and he watched the flap shut close with a twinkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there in moons. He let out a long breath, staying on his knees for a moment longer. A fierce, protective spark reignited in his chest. That wasn’t exactly forgiveness, but you had indirectly told him not to leave and tend to the nets, a complete opposite of how you’d pushed him away every single day in the past moons.

He’s not confident yet, but it was a crack in your armor.

Standing up, he wiped the dust from his knees, his eyes watching the flap with tangible longing, before deciding to walk down toward the docks where the torn nets lay waiting.

Days turned into weeks, and Neteyam’s presence in the cliffs before the first light ever crested the horizon has become a constant view. You were drinking your morning tea on a higher ledge when you saw him trekking up the hill, his ikran stubbornly left in a hidden thicket half a league away even though you’d stop avoiding him or fleeing away at the sight of his ikran. You’d seen where he hids his ikran and knew that he had to trek the rocky, miles-long paths on foot before he could even reach your home.

“You should have just brought your mount here instead of trekking that much distance,” you casually said.

He stared at you, as if surprised that you’d suggest that. “Maybe... Maybe tomorrow,” he replied.

Your eyes narrowed at how he was uncharacteristically wearing his warrior cummerbund. It was a gear he wears during missions, but one he rarely wore for casual labor. On top of that, he also looked too pale for your liking, his skin lacking its usual vibrance and his lips almost as white as sea foam.

“Did you come straight here from a mission?“ you probed and he immediately shook his head.

“Just patrol,” he answered, his voice a little gravelly.

Your eyes narrowed, refusing to press for more answers but you watched him almost the entire time, silently going straight to work, lifting heavy timber, hauling supply crates, and helping grease the stiff riding saddles of your clan’s riders. It was past mid-day when he finished, just in time for him to get back for the council meeting, if their schedule is still the same as you remembered.

You caught him just as he was walking down the mountain path. “Neteyam,” you called out.

He turned around immediately and you saw the slight sway that followed that sudden movement, which he tried to mask by shifting his weight.

“You should eat before you go,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I haven’t eaten yet, too... Only if you’d like,” you added.

A look of pure surprise crossed over his pale face. For a second, he just stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The exhaustion weighing him down seemed to lift, replaced by a twinkle in his eyes that made you almost smile. Thank Eywa, you were able to stop yourself!

“I... I would like that,” he murmured, his voice soft.

He walked back with you into the communal yurt, aware of your people’s eyes tracking your movements. After all, this was the first time you actually invited him in for anything, knowing how their imaginative minds have long came up with stories of their own to explain the presence of the Toruk Makto’s heir in the Tayrangi.

He sat across from you and you noted how slow he seemed to be moving, having known how efficient he usually is, so you handed him a bowl of steaming soup and a plate of honeyed roasted fish that you’ve already cut into bite-sized pieces. His eyes were heavy on you that your skin seemed to tingle at your every move, too conscious of yourself knowing that he’s watching you.

Your eyes snapped to his, your brow rising. “Eat. The food will go cold,“ you said.

He nodded, redirecting his attention on his food. Despite the pain on his side, a sense of profound peace seemed to settle over him. He was sitting across from you, eating your food, sharing your space. He was so glad he perservered to go today. Whatever agony pokes at him under his tight cummerbund was a cheap price to pay for this single moment with you.

When the bowl was completely empty, he placed it down with meticulous care, waiting for you to finish without speaking, but halfway your meal, your eyes snapped up to his.

“You can go, if you wished,” you said casually.

“Believe me, I do not wish to be anywhere but here,” he replied. “I knew I would have to wait, you were always a slow-eater.”

Your lips pushed forward. He knows that. You tilted your head to brush it off. “I’ve grown faster since I became a huntress,” you retorted.

“Hm. I wish I can see it,” he said, his voice laced with humor.

You stuffed the rest of your food into your mouth, chewing non-stop as your cheeks filled with food bubbling like a syaksyuk eating utumauti. A snort escaped him as he watches you, one that turned into a genuine laugh, though it was cut short, his ears twitching and his jaw tightening as he suppressed a grimace.

“Why?” you asked, your voice muffled by the food in your mouth. He looked like he was pained.

He shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on the low table. He handed you a bowl of water. “Slow down, syaksyuk, or you’ll choke...”

He chuckled when you rolled your eyes before ccepting the water he offered, continuously chewing. Once you were finished, you finally spoke, “You should get moving,” you said softly, reaching over to stack his empty bowl onto your plate. “If you are late for the council meeting, they might think that Toruk Makto’s heir lacks discipline. We don’t want that.”

Neteyam let out a quiet sigh, the humor fading into a weary but profoundly content expression. He slowly pushed himself up from the ground, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping his teeth before his hand flew to his ribs, but he quickly converted the movement into a stretch. He looked down at you with a lingering fondness.

“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly. “I must head to the council now. I will... I will be back tomorrow. With my ikran, if you meant what you said.”

You went to stand, following him out of the communal space to walk him only until the ledge. “Take care...” you whispered in the wind as you watched him go. Your eyes narrowed, noting how unusually heavy his steps were. He really looked remarkably weak.

You figured you'd ask him tomorrow, but your suspicion was answered much sooner than you expected. In the dead of night, Ruk’e quietly entered your yurt, his expression unusually grave.

“Pack your weapons,” he said, his voice low. “The war council needs you back urgently. The RDA is pushing the western flank, and they need every competent ikran rider back in the air.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Mother agrees it is time.”

He left out the part where Jake Sully himself spoke with him. What you didn't know was that back at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam had fallen ill through the night. Yesterday, during a swift ambush on an RDA scout unit, a stray shrapnel had torn into his midriff. It was just a minor injury that required only bed rest, but Neteyam had completely ignored the Tsahik's orders. He had wrapped it tightly, hidden it beneath his cummerbund, and flown straight to the Tayrangi to help haul your clan's imports.

When he returned to the forest, he could barely stand. His wound was bleeding beneath his cummerbund, and his body hot with fever.

Now, he lay on a mat in the Tsahik’s tent, practically delirious. Neytiri sat near him, her tail whipping in a furious frenzy as she scolded him. “You went to the Tayrangi? What did you even do there that you’d managed to have your flesh torn open?! Have you lost your mind, Neteyam?!”

Through the haze of his fever, Neteyam weakly opened his eyes. “Mother... it’s fine. I am fine. Just... do not tell her. She wants me to bring... My ikran tomorrow...” his mouth formed into a lazy smile.

“What?!” Neytiri cried out, her voice breaking in panic. “Neteyam, you could barely open your eyes, and you're flying back there again to do only the Great Mother knows what?!“

“Mother, it’s okay,” he muttered, brushing her hands away.

Jake stepped into the tent, his large hand resting on his wife's shoulder to calm her, though he himself was worried. “You can't do this to yourself, boy. You're going to kill yourself before the RDA even gets a chance to.”

Neteyam let out a long, ragged sigh, his eyes closed. “Have you ever had someone be your entire world, Dad?” he whispered, his voice laced with contentment. “We ate together earlier... And it felt like my entire world was narrowed down on that table... With her sitting across from me. I don't think... I don't think I can miss a single day not seeing her. If I stop showing up... She will think I gave up.”

Neytiri’s fury slowly melted away, her face falling as she watched her son finally drift into a deep, feverish sleep. She turned to Jake and his eyes snapped to her, sharing a look of understanding.

The next morning, you walked with mother and brother to the war pavilion. You had flown back with Ruk’e at dawn, your mind focused on the reports Ruk’e has told you, but some parts of you were thinking about how Neteyam would react seeing you back in the council. Now, he wouldn't have to exhaust himself flying from the forest to the Eastern Coast.

The council welcomed you, asking you about things back home and slowly easing the current climate regarding the sky people into the conversation. You assured them your brother has told you and that you know what you came here for. You turned to the pavilion’s entrance when you heard an entourage enter, freezing at the sight you saw.

Neteyam entered first, his midriff wrapped with a medical woven fabric, and there was an unmistakable fresh smear of blood already blooming through the center of the cloth. He looked very pale. His head casually snapped to your direction, and the absolute shock on his face mirrored your own. Written on his forehead was a huge why are you here?

He instinctively took a half-step backward, his tail twitching as if he wanted to flee the pavilion entirely rather than let you see him like this. But Jake was standing directly behind him. His father placed a firm, unyielding hand on his shoulder, gently prompting him forward into the room. Neteyam swallowed hard, forced his chin up, and continued walking as if everyone in the pavilion didn’t witness his panic at the sight of you.

Well, it’s not like these people are oblivious to his daily trips to the Tayrangi. They had known, it’s only that they didn’t know exactly what for though they had a hunch. And now, he practically confirmed it. He was persistently going there for you.

Meanwhile, the pieces in your mind instantly fell into place. His paleness yesterday, the cummerbund, the obvious weariness... He had been bleeding out while lifting things that normally needed the strength of two men.

“Thank you all for gathering so quickly,” Jake began, clearing his throat as he addressed the elders. “I spoke with Ikeyni and Ruk’e yesterday. We have expanded our flight perimeters, and we drastically need our most skilled ikran riders back in the vanguard. Y/N has agreed to step back into her role.”

As the chieftains murmured their approval, the briefing began. You forced your mind to focus, stepping up to the map table to report on the coastal movements. “The Tayrangi borders are currently stable,” you said, your voice serious and level. “We ran three separate scouts and extended it along the northern reef daily. So far, it's untouched.”

You reached across the wide table for a wooden marker to illustrate the scout lines, but your fingers missed it by a few inched. Before you could lean forward again, a hand moved into your field of vision.

Neteyam picked up the marker for you.

As he extended his arm, a subtle flinch crossed his features. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained, the simple effort of reaching across the table obviously hurt him. But when his golden eyes turned to meet yours, the pain vanished behind a cool mask of a hardened warrior. He stared at you with an intense, unblinking focus that made your face feel incredibly hot.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. Jake cleared his throat loudly, and from the corner of the pavilion, Lo'ak let out a highly audible, mocking snicker.

You quickly tore your gaze away, your cheeks burning. “Thanks...” you muttered, looking at the map through your lashes.

“You're welcome,” Neteyam drawled, his voice low and smooth despite the sweat glistening on his brow.

You bit your lip, your cheeks still burning as you forced your voice to level to continue your report. The moment the council was dismissed, Neteyam stayed back, lingering by his father's side to converse with the elders. He was very obviously trying to avoid leaving the pavilion at the same time as you.

But you weren't going to let him escape. You walked out with your arms crossed and waited right outside the entrance, your eyes already narrowed into slits. When Neteyam finally emerged, he stopped dead in his tracks. Seeing you standing there like a warden, he took a breath and adjusted his posture, walking toward you with every ounce of military bravado he could muster, desperately trying to hide the slight limp in his stride. The red stain on his white bandage had grown wider.

“What is that?” you demanded without so much as a greeting, gesturing sharply to his torso.

Neteyam stopped two paces away, his expression carefully neutral as he looked away toward the trees. “Just a minor injury from the recent mission. It is nothing.”

“You got shot?” you pressed, stepping closer, your voice rising in genuine disbelief.

“It's a shrapnel,” he corrected quickly as if that made it all better.

“Great! An iron slug tore through your side, and you still came to the coast yesterday? You still did the heavy lifting? You still hiked miles on foot to your ikran?!”

“It was just small,” he lied smoothly, though his breathing was shallow.

“Then why is it actively bleeding?!“ your voice rose slightly.

“It just got strained yesterday, but it’s nothing serious—”

“Are you insane?!” you huffed, your anger finally boiling over. “My father died from a small wound and left my mother a widow, Neteyam! You are not thinking! You have a responsibility to this war, to your family, to your people! How can you preach to me about discipline and taking things seriously when you are out there compromising your own body for something so small?!”

Neteyam listened to your tirade, his ears pinning back slightly against his head. But he didn't flinch away from your fury, instead, he watched you with that stupidly twinkling eyes. He took a step closer, the hardened soldier completely melting away to reveal the raw, aching man underneath.

“What are you calling small? Your forgiveness? Your attention? The chance I was asking for from you? It’s not small to me, Y/N. It is everything to me... And right now, it is all that is holding me together,” he said softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.

“Must you really put yourself at risk like that?” you cried, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

He groaned, closing his eyes momenyarily, when you could no longer hold your tears back. You are so scared right now, so worried for him, it’s not even funny.

“Just let me, alright? I said I will do everything to earn the right to at least be near you again, and this is me standing by my words. Like what you told me to do,“ he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his conviction. He stepped into your space, ignoring the sharp twinge in his side. “I told you, I will do whatever it takes. I did not want to miss a single day of trying to show you that I will show up. Even if I am bleeding, even if you do not look at me, I will be there.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. The sheer, stubborn idiocy of his devotion was infuriating, but beneath the anger, that stubborn wall of ice around your heart suffered another massive, catastrophic crack.

“Well, you don't have to do all that anymore,” you said, looking down at his bleeding bandage, your tone softening into something weary. “I am back on the council now. I will be here in the forest. You don't need to fly to the coast for me.”

“It does not change anything,” Neteyam countered instantly. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, close enough for you to feel the heat of his fever, though he refrained from touching you. “Just because you are back in the pavilion does not mean I am done. I will still work for your forgiveness, Y/N. I will still do everything in my power until you can look at me and trust me the way you used to. I am not stopping.”

You looked up at him, your mouth slightly open, completely at a loss for words. You mouth opened again to retort, but before you could even speak, a sudden, frantic rustling erupted from the pavilion entrance. Lo’ak came scrambling out, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to prevent himself from falling into the dirt.

You and Neteyam quickly turned to him, only to get surprised to see not just Lo’ak, but an entire audience: Jake, Neytiri, Ikeyni, and Ruk’e. They were all standing completely still, their expressions a mix of profound interest and varying degrees of amusement. But because Lo’ak had tripped and completely blown their cover, the privacy shattered instantly.

Ikeyni was the first to recover, clearing her throat with a loud, entirely performative cough. “Ah... Ruk'e, we must go and inspect the riders at the vanguard. Immediately.“

Neytiri smoothed down her braids, her sharp eyes twinkling as she looked anywhere but at her eldest son. “Ah, and I must find Tuk. We have... things to gather. Many things.“

Jake offered a highly unconvincing nod, clapping a hand on a thoroughly embarrassed Lo’ak’s shoulder. “Right. And I have an urgent meeting with the elders about... perimeter lines.”

“I am hungry,” Ruk’e announced flatly to the sky, ignoring the fact that he had consumed a massive breakfast less than an hour ago.

Lo’ak let out a low whistle, backing away alongside the adults. Within three seconds, the entire crowd had vanished, leaving you two alone.

You turned back to Neteyam, your ears pinning flat against your head as you glared at him, trying desperately to mask the raging blush creeping up your neck. “You need to go see the Tsahik. Right now. You are bleeding through your bandage.”

Neteyam nodded, but he didn't move. He stayed standing there, towering over you, watching your fiery exasperation with a soft, maddening look of pure adoration. You groaned, a sound of defeat tearing from your throat.

Reaching out, you firmly grabbed his wrist and began dragging him yourself toward the Tsahik’s tent. “Move, you stubborn man,” you muttered. You figured you wanted to see exactly how small this wound actually was.

When you pulled him into the warmth of the Tsahik’s tent, Mo’at didn't look even remotely surprised to see you practically hauling the clan's golden heir by his arm.

“Ah, and he returns,” Mo’at remarked dryly, setting down a bowl of poultice. “Did I not tell you last night, Neteyam, when you came home violently ill and shaking with fever, that your flesh would tear? Look at this!”

With practiced, firm hands, she unclipped the medical wrap. When the bloody fabric fell away, your breath hitched, and you winced sharply.

The wound was not small. It was an angry tear about as long as your pinky finger, stretching deep into the muscle of his side, the edges raw and weeping fresh blood from where he had strained it.

“You are a liar,” you hissed, the fear in your chest turning into a surge of anger. You reached out and forcefully pinched his shoulder. “You said it was small!”

Neteyam’s hand instantly shot up, his fingers gently trapping yours against his shoulder. His twinkling eyes locked onto yours, completely unbothered by the pinch, and he flashed a rare smile that showed his pearly whites. It was so genuine, so disarming, that the hot anger in your chest simmered down into a helpless flutter.

“There is nothing to worry about, Y/N,” he murmured softly. “I’ve had worse before.”

You merely hissed at him in response, pulling your hand back.

Mo’at wiped the blood away and applied a fresh layer of soothing poultice, wrapping the midriff with tight, clean linen. Once finished, she stood up, turning her sharp gaze directly onto you. “Y/N, I am entrusting this hard-headed man to you. He does not listen to me, to his mother, or to his father. He needs strict bed rest. That wound will never close if he keeps moving and straining himself.”

You nodded with absolute solemnity, crossing your arms. “You can trust me, Tsahik. I will personally castrate this man if he even thinks about lifting a finger.”

Mo’at let out a rare, breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she gathered her bowls and exited the tent, leaving the two of you alone.

You turned to him. “Sleep,” you hissed.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, a soft chuckle escaping him as he sank into the furs with a weary sigh, his eyes half-closed as he looked up at you through his lashes. “No need for castration... that would make you miss your babies...”

The last words were a barely audible, sleepy whisper, but the tent was so quiet that they rang like a bell in your ears. “What?!” you snapped, your entire face exploding in a violent heat.

Neteyam just smiled lazily, turning his head onto the fur pillow. “Sleeping now...”

True to your word, you made sure he took his rest. For the next week, you refused to let him leave the Tsahik’s tent unless necessary, sitting by his side, forcing him to eat, and threatening him with your dagger whenever he tried to sit up too fast.

But once his fever broke and the wound finally closed into a healthy, silver seam, he went back to waiting at your feet, and he became entirely shameless. He would bring you the sweetest fruits before morning drills, sharpen your arrow tips and hunting dagger, and sit quietly beside you during meals, completely content just to exist in the same space. He was still the same as before. There was no pushing or demanding, only working to seamlessly wove himself into your daily routines.

If you are to be asked when exactly did the remaining ice around your heart melted, you’d say it had turned into a puddle long ago. But now, as the Hometree came alive with the people singing and dancing to celebrate a turn of successful hunts, your chest was singing with a familiar hum. One you never thought you’d feel again. You stood near the outer roots, watching the dancers, when a familiar warmth bloomed at your side.

Neteyam stood beside you, wearing his formal warrior gear. He didn’t speak, but his hand hung loosely between you, his fingers inches from yours. You bit your lip, looking at his profile through your lashes, noting his sharp jawline and his beautiful patterns. It was the same image of the boy you swore to make fall in love with you. You wondered what thirteen-year-old you would have thought if she knew that this man literally bled into the dirt just to prove he wouldn't give up on you.

You let out a soft, long sigh. Slowly, deliberately, you moved your hand to intertwine your fingers with his.

Neteyam froze. His head snapping down to look at your joined hands, and when he lifted his eyes to yours, they were bright, watering. “Y/N...” he breathed, his voice trembling.

“What?” you whispered, a soft, familiar smirk finally returning to your lips. “Some would say this is the perfect time for a kiss... Unless you’re scared,” you mumbled.

He blinked, his forehead creasing for a moment before a ragged, breathless laugh escaped him. It was you who moved and tiptoed to press a soft kiss on his lips, and you felt his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer, kissing you better. You smiled against his lips.

“I forgive you, Neteyam...” you pulled away only to murmur, and he chased your lips.

“I love you...“ he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. The sheer, unadulterated happiness radiating from him was intoxicating, and you cannot help but grin.

But the beautiful moment was violently ripped away when a deafening horn blew, shattering the festival music and the celebration.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” The people announced.

High above, in the eastern branches of the Hometree’s canopy, a terrifying orange glow erupted. Your breath seized at your chest, a cry of panic escaping you as the people frantically ran to and fro in all directions. Neteyam moved, signaling to the nearby hunters.

“All hunters! Gather water from the river! Move!” he roared, crisp and authoritative.

The communal clearing exploded into calculated chaos. You and Neteyam sprinted toward the lower roots, organizing lines of warriors to haul water containers up the massive vines, while flyers are gathering water from the river to splash it to extinguish the fire. At first, everyone thought it was an accident, but as the smoke cleared, a familiar deep thrumming vibrated through the air.

From the clouds, the shapes of sever RDA gunships dropped into view firing blindly into the canopy.

“To the air!” Jake’s booming voice echoed.

You and Neteyam sprinted to the high roosts, connecting to your ikrans in a synchronized flash of movement and flying into the open sky where the warriors on their ikrans were already fighting fiercely. You dove through the smoke to shoot pilots and sent arrows to the exposed underbellies of gunships you happen to get close to. Within an hour, the invading gunships were spiraling into the jungle in balls of fire.

You watched the fire it caused to the forest, your chest aching with fury and grief at the sight of it.

The war party was victorious, but the destruction it brought made all of you grim. The eastern branches of Hometree were charred black, but it didn’t burn the entirety, and fortunately, no one was dead or gravely injured.

The council convened immediately beneath the glowing roots, the air thick with tension.

“It is no longer safe to keep the children and the elders here. Hometree is too big a target,“ Jake said, his face shadowed by the firelight as he leaned over the map.

“We must relocate... for the meantime,” Neytiri agreed, her voice tight with grief.

“The Hallelujah Mountains. It’s filled of magnetic interference, their metal birds wouldn’t like it very much up there,” Neteyam spoke up, placing a stone on a specific grid of the map.

Jake nodded decisively. “We’ll send scouts, then we’ll evacuate those who cannot fight immediately. The warriors will stay on the ground to secure the perimeter and prepare our counter-strike.”

The plan was drawn swiftly. Jake didn’t want to wait longer. As soon as the clan is evacuated, the party will strike back. As you ordered some Tayrangi men to help with the evacuation, Neteyam caught your arm near the edge of the pavilion, his grup firm and his eyes holding a fierce, protective spark in them.

“After... After the battle is over...” he began, his eyes blinking too many times per second as he stammered for the right words to say.

“Hm?“ you prompted.

“Would you like...“ he trailed. “To have me as your mate?” he added, his words stumbling over one another, and even in the dark, you could see how his cheeks were tinted purple.

You blinked, your heart jumping at your throat, causing it to close as your eyes stung with hot tears. “How could I ever say no to that?” you said in a hoarse voice, your hand holding his firmly.

He pulled you close. “Yes?” he asked breathlessly and you nodded. His breath audibly caught in his throat, leaning forward to kiss you and pulling you even closer to deepen his kiss.

Neteyam broke the kiss reluctantly, his forehead resting against yours for one final, desperate second as the chaos of evacuation whirled around you two. He held your face in his hands, pressing another deep kiss. “Great Mother. I love you so much...”

You chuckled, gripping his forearm. “Glad you’ve finally caught up,“ you mumbled, giving him a peck.

“I have always been here, I was just stupid,” he chuckled, his eyes caressing your face.

The tender moment shattered, though, when a loud cough echoed from the shadows. Neteyam stiffened, and you pulled back just enough to see your brother stepping into the dim light. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed at Neteyam that practically shouted an order to let you go this exact second.

Neteyam cleared his throat, his hands slowly lowering, though he kept his fingers loosely holding your hip for just a heartbeat longer before fully stepping back. You bit your lip, stopping yourself from smiling as you took Neteyam’s hand to hold it. Ruk’e looked at you with a look that would normally be accompanied with a snort.

“Mother is looking for you. Right now. She says the Tayrangi scouts need their final instructions for the eastern ridge, and you're the only one who knows the layout of the lower caves.”

You pushed your lips forward. “I'm on my way,” you said, turning to Neteyam and tiptoeing to kiss him again. You bit his lower lip before pulling away, patting his chest. “Later.“

You turned away, your tail moving behind you, its hairy tip brushing his lower abdomen. You heard his gasp and you grinned as you walked away. You brought this small pocket of joy as your ikran perched on a cliff along with the others, waiting for the signal to fight. Neteyam was several ikrans away from you, although Toruk’s big head was almost hiding him from sight. He caught your gaze, giving you a fierce, sharp nod.

The signal came not from a horn, but from the unnatural tremor of distant explosions. War cries from your people and from the warriors from various clans erupted as hundreds of ikran took to the sky.

You plunged off the ledge, diving straight into the smoke. Your ikran, holding a large boulder in its hind legs, flew over a gunship’s rotors and threw the boulder with a force that tilted the gunship before it exploded into a ball of orange flame. You banked hard, narrowly dodging a volley of gunfire directed at you.

You pulled your ikran’s reins up, pulling the string of your bow before releasing an arrow through the glass of the gunship pursuing you. You watched the vehicle spin wildly, clipping another gunship before exploding into the nearest floating mountain. A sharp war cry tore from your throat, raising your bow before flying higher.

Below, you found Neteyam, riding with the reckless bravery of Toruk Makto himself, but with the terrifying precision of Neytiri. He guided his ikran into a dive, sending arrow grenades directly onto the rotors of a Dragon Assault ship, flying upstream before the large aircraft blasted, his war cry echoing over the din of combat.

For what seemed like hours, the sky bled. Whenever you feared you couldn't find Neteyam in the swirling ikrans flying in the air, he’d appear by your side, moving perfectly synchronized with you. Every time a threat closed in on your blind spot, Neteyam’s arrow finds them. Every time gunships threatened to box him in, your own lethal accuracy puts an end to it.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the final RDA gunship was on a slow descent in flames. This should be a victorious moment, but the sight of the burning jungle below you filled you with a grief that seized your breath. The adrenaline of the battle took hours to fade, but after securing the perimeter of the clan’s hideout, and convening with the council to speak of the next steps the party should take to completely batter the RDA, you felt Neteyam’s hand catch your forearm again.

You turned to him, your excitement bubbling in your chest despite your exhaustion. You followed him as he navigated some steep edges and climbed a few vines, wondering where exactly you two are going, but when he pulled you up on what seemed like a hidden hollow, the sight of a secluded, bioluminescent pool surprised you. The water glowed with a soft, blue light, casting shifting, watery patterns across the jagged walls.

Your mouth curled into a huge smile, turning to him. “This is beautiful...”

“Found it when I was sixteen aimlessly flying around here. I thought then that maybe this could be a place for dates with my mate,” he said, smiling at you, his face devoid of tension.

“Dates?” you echoed.

“It’s... a human thing. My parents often go on dates. Just the two of them, spending time with each other...” he explained.

You smiled, “I like that.”

His hand traveled up your forearm to hold your elbow, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I’ve always thought of bringing you in this place,” he mumbled.

You looked up at him, the soft blue light from the pool catching the warmth in his eyes. “Even back then?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a reverent tone that made your chest tighten pleasantly. He reached down and gently slid his fingers between yours, leading you to the edge of the water. It was you who pulled him to sink into its chilly waters. “Even when I was trying to convince myself that I had to have laser focus on my duty, to be the most competent warrior I could be for my people, you were always the exception... You were always the tilt in my world.“

He held your jaw in his hand, leaning forward to press a soft kiss on your lips. His arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I know you forgave me. I know you said I didn't have to keep doing... all of that. But I need to say it, ” he paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I am so sorry. I will always be sorry... For the words I threw at you, for the pain I caused, for making you feel like you had to change who you were. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel that way again.”

You moved your head slightly, you nose brushing his. The raw, unshielded vulnerability in his golden eyes was breathtaking. The proud, stubborn commander of the Omatikaya was completely laid bare before you, entirely surrendered. You have only ever dreamed of that.

“Neteyam,” You said softly, cupping his jaw with both hands. He stared at you, his eyes bright and swimming with an overwhelming wave of emotion. “The girl who used to be reckless might be gone, but the woman standing in front of you loves you more than she ever did,” you whispered, a soft, tearful smile breaking across your face. “I see you, Neteyam. I see everything you've done to make up for what you did. You don't have to carry the guilt anymore. Lay it down.”

A breathless sigh escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, leaning heavily into the palm of your hand as if a massive weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. When he opened them again, the absolute devotion burning within them made your heart skip a beat. “I love you,” he breathed, his words an unbreakable vow. “Baby, I love you so much.”

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was entirely different from the stolen moments before the battle. This was slow, deep, yet desperate. You groaned softly, your fingers tangling into his braids, he pulled you even closer until there was no space left between you. His hands moved down to your hips, gently stepping you back until you hit the velvety edge of the pool.

He pulled away to look down at your face, his large form towering over you so much now that you’re nearly lying down on the flat edge. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his kuru forward, the glowing tendrils at the tip unfurling, searching for anything to connect with. “Are you sure you want me as your husband?”

You raised a brow, “Is that a warning?”

He pressed a hard kiss on your lips. “It’s only that there is no turning back... You are mine. Forever.” he whispered conspiratorially.

You took your kuru behind you, “I’ve never been one to turn back in fear...” You met him halfway, bringing your kuru forward until the tendrils entwined in a sudden, breathtaking flash of pure energy that caused borh of you to jerk involuntarily. You watched his pupils dilate, the black almost swallowing the gold.

His world felt as though it expanded, then narrowed down to just you, while you could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat as if it were beating in your own chest. You felt the raw, overwhelming depth of his love for you, the fear he felt he drove you away from him, the desperation that ate at him when you no longer cared for him, the hope that bloomed in him when you were so worried about his small wound, and the pure, weeping joy that had consumed him when you finally held his hand at the festival.

You let out a ragged, trembling breath, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him down into a deep, bruising kiss. Neteyam groaned softly against your lips, his arms instantly locking around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the stone as if he couldn't get you close enough. The kiss shifted from soft and tender, to the desperate hardness of a man who wanted to devour you.

His hands were everywhere on your body, unclasping your beaded top and untying your loincloth behind your tail. You chuckled in his ears when his hand on your tail tickled you, and he angled his head to press a hard kiss on your jaw, shedding your loincloth off of you. He hauled you up to the ledge before following you to hover over you, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, naked under him. The cool blue light of the secluded pool danced across his broad shoulders, making you shiver with awareness about how large of a man he actually is. He looked down at you with a hunger born from years of restraining himself.

His large hands slid down from your waist, his thumbs tracing your curves down to you thighs before firmly pressing your thighs apart. You let out a soft gasp as the cool air hit your skin, but the chill was instantly replaced by the intense heat of his body as he settled between your knees. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and searching, demanding you witness exactly how completely he belonged to you.

Slowly, he lowered himself, his calloused hands guiding your knees wider, draping your legs over his broad shoulders. Your breath caught in your throat as his breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the smooth skin of your knee, then another higher up, tracking a slow, agonizing path inward until you were trembling beneath him.

“Neteyam,” you called, panicking as you pushed him back by his shoulder.

His eyes snapped up to you, his eyes dark and dangerous, as if waiting for you to tell him no, but the heat in his eyes flustered you with a heat on your cheeks. He kissed your inner thigh again, and when his lips finally found the center of your heat, a sharp gasp escaped you, your hand squeezing his shoulder.

He pressed a gentle hand on your chest, travelling a bit sideways to cup your breast. “Lay back,“ he mumbled and you did, propping yourself up on your elbows.

His lips found you again and he groaned against your flesh, his hands wrapping securely around the back of your thighs to hold you steady as he parted you with his fingers. His tongue was warm, broad, and too deliberate, drawing upward, tasting you fully. The connection through your entwined kurus sent a jolt of unadulterated pleasure down his spine, and in turn, you could feel his own arousal spiking through the bond, heavy and demanding.

You arched your hips off the ground, your fingers digging into the thick roots beside your head. “Neteyam...” you whimpered, your head rolling back.

He grew even relentless, his pace quickening, his tongue swirling and pressing harder against your sensitive nub. Your hips bucked when his finger slid inside you, feeling uncomfortable with the slight stretch as his mouth sucked at your heat. The sensation was too noverwhelming, and the bond is only amplifying everything. You could feel his deep satisfaction at your undoing, his pride swelling as your body began to tighten around his fingers, and with a firm stroke of his tongue, you felt a powerful tremor in your body, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your thighs clamped around his head.

Neteyam held you through the tremors, swallowing your heat, his purr vibrating heavily against you until your breathing began to slow. As he dragged himself back up to hover over you, his face flushed and his lips glistening, you caught your breath. “That was insane...” you huffed.

His eyes lightened a bit, the darkness yielding to his curiosity. “Really?“

“You know how good it felt for me,” you smiled, tugging at your entwined kurus. A sudden, wicked spark flared in your chest, traveling straight through the bond to hit him. “I want to do it to you, too,” you whispered, your voice husky, your eyes locking onto his.

Neteyam blinked, a sudden wave of heat washing through his expression as his pupils dilated further. “You don’t need—”

“No,” you cut him off, your hands sliding down his muscled abdomen, until it lowered where you felt him. He breathe sharply when you felt him through his loincloth, your hand gripping the massive hardness. “I want it in my mouth, too...”

He closed his eyes for a moment before giving in with a low, defeated groan, shedding his loincloth off before rolling onto his back on the moss. You chuckled, the sound so womanly to him he felt a currently of electricity running exclusively on the margins of his body, causing his ears to pin back against his ears as he watched you rose on your knees, parting your thighs to straddle him.

His hand moved to touch you between your thighs and you jolted with a loud moan, nearly falling over if you didn’t catch yourself by propping a hand on his chest. His fingers caressed your velvety folds, gathering your fresh wetness.

“I need to concentrate, ‘Teyam...” you groaned and he chuckled. You saw him bring his fingers into his mouth.

“Sorry... You just taste so good,” he licked his lips, reaching to kiss you, but you moved your head to kiss his jaw instead.

You pressed soft kisses on his skin, contrasting his hard and heavy kisses. His hands hovered at your waist, his head falling back, letting you slide down his body. He watched you through heavy eyelids, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as you positioned yourself between his muscled thighs. You bit your lip at the sight of his length fully erect, thick, and leaking a bead of thick pre-cum at its tip.

You leaned down, your braids brushing against his thighs as you wrapped your lips around the smooth, hot head of his shaft. Neteyam’s breath hitched violently. He threw his head back against the moss, his jaw clenching so hard the cords in his neck strained as you took him into your mouth, your hands fisting and moving by instinct. Your tongue swirled around the ridge, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him as your mouth moved.

He moaned, his hips bucking as the bond flared with a white hot intensity. Through the connection, you felt the sheer, agonizing pleasure ripping through him, the tight, desperate control he was trying to maintain as the wet warmth of your mouth drove him insane.

“Oh, baby, please, I can't—“ he gasped out, his hips lifting involuntarily off the ground as your mouth sucked him harder. He reached down, his large hands tangling into your braids.

You thought he was going to push you away, but he only held your head there with more pressure for a few more desperate seconds that his largeness almost choked you, but then he gently pulled you up, his breathing completely shattered. You groaned, frowning that he had to pull his cock out of your mouth.

He looked you in the eyes, serious and with finality. “No more. I want to come inside you.”

He hauled you up by your waist, flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion. He was completely done with waiting. His large hand pinned both your wrists above your head, his other hand holding your waist in place as he aligned his hard length against your softness, his mouth coming down to capture yours.

With a slow, heavy thrust, Neteyam began burying himself inside you, until he’d sank in entirely. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders , letting out a breathless cry, feeling your walls stretching to accommodate him. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of the fit sent an exquisite pleasure for the both of you through the bond, and it felt as though your souls were melting into one another, leaving no distinction between where you and him stand.

Neteyam paused for a second, his eyes closing as he absorbed the tight, wet heat of your walls squeezing him. A ragged groan tore from his chest before he began to move in a pace that was immediately hard, deep, and desperate, as if he was pouring into you all the pent-up energy he had left from the battle.

He drove into you with a fiercely possessive rhythm, his hips pounding against yours with a strength that had you crying out his name. Every time he pulled back, he returned deeper, marking you, claiming every inch of your body as his own. His arm wrapped under your body, while the other hand hiked your knee up to your chest, making sure you receive each of his forceful thrust.

The bond left no walls or armors to crack, both of you feeling only the pure, intoxicating love, devotion, and absolute surrender you have for each other. The tension in your lower abdomen coiled tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. Neteyam’s pace became frantic, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity as he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.

“Oh, baby,” he choked out, his grip on your thigh tightening.

You screamed his name as your body convulsed around him, the pleasure shattering your vision into a thousand white sparks. Your grip on him triggered his own release, and a deep, guttural roar escaped him as he thrust brutally deep into you one last time and held himself there, his body stiffening as he spilled himself completely inside you.

“Fuck, I’m seeing stars...” he groaned, collapsing against your chest, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his own chest rising and falling in ragged, exhausted gasps. You broke into a weakened laugh, your hold on him loosening up a little as you pressed soft kisses on his temple.

The weeks that followed were a blur of war council meetings, suffocating maps, and aerial patrols around the High Camp. The ongoing struggle against the RDA had left very little time for you and Neteyam to enjoy your first days together, but it’s when you’re high above the sky that everything seemed to be yours.

You banked hard to the left, your ikran letting out a shrill cry as the wind rushed past your ears. Behind you, Neteyam dipped beneath a floating vine, a wild, unburdened laugh tearing from his throat. For a few glorious hours, the shadow of the RDA did not touch you. There were no battles, no strategies, and no bloodshed. There was only the dizzying feeling of flying, the wind, and the intoxicating freedom of racing the Neteyam through the floating mountains and its hanging vines.

He pulled up right beside you, his ikran's wingtip nearly brushing yours. When he turned his head, his golden eyes were bright, his smile throwing all his typical military crispness to the wind. You flashed him a sharp, challenging smirk, diving straight through a cascading waterfall.

“Keep up!” you taunged, leaving him to chase your laughter through the mist.

By nightfall, the adrenaline gave way to the familiar craving for quiet. You returned to the hidden hollow, slipping into the bioluminescent pool. The chilly waters swirled around your waist as Neteyam hugged you sideways, his chin finding your shoulder, bending his large frame to fit himself at your side.

Every night felt different, but tonight was calmer, filled with your soft mumurs and his low, rumbling chatters as you talked for hours about nothing at all, your fingers tracing the faint, silvery marks of his scars, before the talking faded into the slow and heavy rhythm of your lovemaking.

You are a impatient woman, but you couldn’t deny your love for his deliberate, agonizing slowness sometimes, his hands anchoring your waist as he worshipped you. Every thrust was deep and strong, his lips pressed to your throat, whispering your name like a prayer until the sensations from the bond left you both breathless, tangled together in a sweating, blissful heap.

The sky was just beginning to shift from darkness to the bruised purple of pre-dawn light when you woke up, your body singing with delicious soreness and you snuggled closer to his warmth. You kissed the soft skin of his shoulder, you hand caressing his muscled chest down to his abdomen. You smiled when he stirred, pressing soft kisses on his shoulder and neck, until you reach his jaw.

“Wake up, handsome...“ you mumbled. “It’s your turn today.”

He groaned softly, pulling you closer to him. “I hate leaving you.”

You chuckled. “So dramatic, my handsome man. I will be close behind,” you said, patting his abdomen. “Quick, quick. Before they wake up.”

He grunted, hauling you on top of him effortlessly. His eyes, though sleepy, watched you darkly as his hands moved to knead your breasts. You gasped softly, your hand clutching at his bicep as you peered down at him.

“I’m still sore from last night,” you said with a little drama, pouting at him.

He bit his lip, cooing at you. “I’ll help...” his hands moved down to your waist, ready to roll you over to your back but you were quick to sit up.

“No thanks. I know it’s not really help,” you smirked, grabbing your top. “Get up, warrior. You don’t want to get caught, do you?”

Neteyam groaned, a soft smile on his face before getting up, his hand clamping on your ankle to pull you toward him. You smiled when he bent his head a little to level with you. “Kiss,“ he mumbled and you gave him your lips.

You two kissed and kissed, but when you felt him nudging you to lie on your back, your eyes snapped open, pulling away from the kiss with narrowed eyes. “Neteyam...”

He smiled, his head falling dramatically. You rushed him, watching how the sun is almost peeking through the bruised sky, and Neteyam moved as quickly as he could, stealthily slipping back into the camp, walking with a light, quiet stride, a faint smile still on his lips as he neared his family’s tent.

“Out late?”

Neteyam froze, his ears pinning flat against his head. His father stepped out from the shadow, his arms crossed. From just inside the tent flap, Neytiri stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowed at her eldest son in a way that made Neteyam’s posture instantly snap into military rigidity.

Jake sighed. “Neteyam... I've been meaning to talk to you, boy. I know you’re sort of courting Y/N. The whole clan knows it, everyone knows it, but you cannot just spend nights after nights with her to only Eywa knows where. You are both unmated. It's a small camp, people talk, and it’s not going to be a good look for her reputation.”

Neytiri stepped fully into the dim light, her tail twitching. “Just last night, when you had to sleep here, you looked like you were being sent to war instead of just holding Tuk because she’s asked to snuggle with you,” she pointed out. “You best ask for her hand from Ikeyni, son. Formally. You can’t dishonor her with this fooling around that you young people tend to engage in these days.“

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak and explain, but the look on his father’s face had him turning his head to follow Jake’s line of vision. He then saw you stepping into the clearing, completely unaware of the tribunal happening right in front of the Sully tent. You had planned to quickly slip into the yurt you shared with your mother to change your clothes and fix your hair, but you had taken the wrong turn.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

To say you looked thoroughly ravaged was an understatement. Your hair was a wild, tangled halo of loose braids, your lips were visibly swollen, and your chest was heaving from the hurried walk. You looked exactly like a woman who had spent the last hours being thoroughly fucked. Jake blinked, looking from you to his son.

Neytiri tilted her head, her gaze shifting slowly from your wild hair down to Neteyam’s deeply flushed face. She looked at her son pointedly, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Neteyam...”

Neteyam looked at you, then at his parents, his chest rising as he took a deep, steadying breath. The boyish embarrassment vanished, replaced by the fierce, unyielding pride of a man who knew exactly where he stood.

He walked over to you, completely ignoring his father’s stunned expression, and firmly wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“I will personally apologize to the Olo’eykte, Mother. Because there is no need to ask for her hand,” Neteyam said, squeezing your waist a bit as he looked at his parents. “We are already mated.”

Your heart jumped into your throat, your cheeks burning.

Jake stared at his son, utterly speechless for three long seconds, before a slow, defeated smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Well... damn. Congratulations, I guess,” he said. “But you need to talk to Ikeyni about this. Immediately.”

“What is the matter at hand?” Your mother’s voice coming from your clan’s side of the camp.

You startled, pursing your lips. Neytiri watched you, the stern face for her son breaking into a soft smile as she shook her head in comical disbelief for your and Neteyam’s stubbornness.

You all barely made it through high school in one piece. And even now, being full fledged sorcerers still brings so much danger. It’s always a gamble, a knife’s edge away from death or certain disaster.

It’s a miracle, Megumi realizes, to have this. To have Yuuji and Nobara and you laying in the grass with him now, breathing softly and enjoying the early summer afternoon.

You’re all in a circle, heads at the center.

It was upon your insistence that the four of you slipped away to this sea of wildflowers and tall grass. It’s usually you Megumi has to thank for moments like this. You are determined to still be young, to still be in love with the world despite everything.

Begrudgingly, he admires that in you. And he’d say he wants to protect it, keep that part of you safe and untouched, but he doesn’t need to. You have seen every horrible thing he has and still come out of it with a brightness that doesn’t dim.

It’s fitting, really, with your cursed technique.

You nudge him now, gently, and whisper, “I think Yuuji fell asleep.”

You turn your head to the side to look at Yuuji sleeping in the grass and Megumi takes a moment to admire the slope of your nose, the line of your jaw, the exposed skin of your throat in the warm sun.

Just as you said, Yuuji is snoring peacefully.

You look back to Megumi with an impish smile, a giggle like twinkling bells falling from you easily. You bring your hand to your lips to stifle the noise and Megumi has the urge to take them in his, to draw them away to hear more of the sound.

This gets Nobara’s attention, though, and she sits up, peering to look at Yuuji, too.

She snorts at his slack jaw, the way he’s almost snoring.

“We should leave him here so when he wakes up, he has no idea where we’ve gone.” Nobara suggests and Megumi can hear the mischievous tilt of her lips.

You sit up now, too, and Megumi’s eyes follow you. There is grass and flowers caught in your hair. The sunlight turns you brilliant and molten; you belong in it. It belongs to you.

You cast him in your shadow.

(He doesn’t know it— but you think he looks good in that velvet darkness, the slip of shadow that falls over him to soften up his features, to turn his eyes endlessly dark.)

“That isn’t very nice, Nobara,” you scold, but it’s with amusement. And then, “we should put flowers on him and see how long it takes for him to wake up.”

Megumi finally eases himself up now, too.

He can feel his cheeks growing pink with a sunburn. He should’ve worn that sunscreen you told him to. Or the fancy one Nobara so graciously offered him.

“Doesn’t he have allergies?” Megumi finally speaks up.

Nobara snorts, “Loser. C’mon, I bet we can cover him in them.”

And just like that she’s pulling at the flowers around her. You follow suit, giggling as you begin to set them along his collar bones, in the crux of his neck.

Megumi gives in and gently sets a few on his chest. One he slides into the messy tuft of his pink hair. The petals are white and blue against the rosy color.

His tanned skin in the summer light is beginning to grow freckled and sun kissed. And with all the flowers piling up on him—Yuuji is a deep sleeper, Megumi doubts he’ll wake any time soon—he looks a little otherworldly.

Well, he always has, hasn’t he?

You start putting the flowers on his cheeks, biting back your laughter when he doesn’t even twitch. Nobara tangles some more in his hair, along his ears. The sun warms Megumi’s shoulders as he watches Yuuji fill up with flowers, blanketing him in them. You and Nobara laugh and giggle the whole time.

Especially when Yuuji finally snorts a little, before waking himself and sitting up so fast he almost takes out Nobara.

“Watch it, idiot!”

Flowers and petals go flying. Pink and pale blue and lilac and red float around the four of you.

Yuuji is confused— the kind of disgruntlement that comes from a deep nap. His brows are pinched, a strange little pout on his lips that Megumi lingers on a moment too long.

And then he sneezes, more petals shaking free from him.

Your laugh is melodic, as sweet as the songbirds. Yuuji sneezes again, which makes Nobara start to laugh, too. And then he sniffles, “Uh—what happened?”

His nose is twitching a great deal, rubbing at his eyes both with sleep and Megumi assumes are his allergies.

Another sneeze has you cooing over Yuuji, throwing your arms around his neck and laughing more as you try to comfort him.

Megumi watches Yuuji’s face as it morphs from surprised to a sudden, excited flush of pink. Eagerly, he snakes an arm around you, too, pulling you closer.

It isn’t unnatural—you're very affectionate with all of them. Certainly the most affectionate of the four of them.

But this does something strange to Megumi’s chest, watching the way Yuuji’s broad and scarred palms fit around the curve of your waist, your torso.

Something is changing. He can feel it. He pretends he doesn’t catch the way you and Yuuji look at each other as you pull away. Shy in a new way. In the way of puppy love and sugar-soft crushes. He pretends he doesn’t catch the way Yuuji’s eyes are lingering on you, all star struck and moony.

And Megumi pretends his heart doesn’t twist painfully in the pit of his chest.

Nobara wants to race back, excluding Yuuji, since it isn’t fair.

Megumi declares he’s not running, so it’s just you and Nobara.

You both take off through the field on Yuuji’s countdown. Megumi watches your silhouettes spread out against the hazy blue horizon, and watches as you reach for Nobara with seeking hands. Your breathless laughter carries back to him.

Yuuji is watching the two of you with a fond expression, nearly melting the moment he hears your laughter fall back to them. Megumi almost looks away, as if he’d caught Yuuji in a compromising moment. As if he’d seen something he shouldn’t.

But then Yuuji says, “Fushiguro, can I tell you something?”

Yuuji looks at him far too earnestly. He always has.

Megumi would usually drawl out something like, you’re going to tell me regardless, aren’t you?

He would act unimpressed and irritated.

But for whatever reason, with the tone of Yuuji’s voice and the color of the sky, your laughter high on the wind, Megumi can only find it in himself to say, “sure.”

Yuuji says your name and there is something so hopeful in it, something so pure and blooming. “I think I—“

Yuuji looks back out at you and Nobara, distant figures now.

“I think I like her, you know?”

Megumi would laugh or roll his eyes if he didn’t feel his stomach twist up into knots. It’s such a childish thing to say. And you’re all adults now but— but still young.

You were kids together.

It’s childish but perhaps fitting. It’s strangely innocent, which perhaps makes it even more honest.

“Like more than a friend,” Yuuji explains, and Megumi has to force himself to nod a little in understanding. He has to force himself to keep a neutral face.

“Which is strange because she’s always been here. And we’ve always been friends but—I guess something’s changed.” Yuuji tries to explain, looking back out at you with that fond look on his face again.

Megumi looks away.

“Do you think it’s—I mean, I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Do you think it’d be bad, if I asked her out or something?” Yuuji asks, his tawny eyes getting caught in the sun. It turns them molten and bright, seeking Megumi's opinion. Maybe his approval. It’s almost painful, the way Yuuji is looking at him.

Yuuji trusts him so deeply, respects him so much.

Megumi wants to tell him, yeah, I don’t think it’d be a good idea. Not because he believes that, but rather, because he’s selfish. Because his heart is beginning to blossom into a bruise at the idea of you and Yuuji being together.

He knows Yuuji would listen to him, too.

He thinks of the way you’d both looked at each other, he thinks of Yuuji’s hands on you and–

“I don’t think it’d be bad.” Megumi says and perhaps his voice is softer than he intended, carried on the summer breeze.

A smile as bright as the sun lights up Yuuji’s face, “No? You don’t think so?” He asks excitedly, “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Megumi feels his heart splinter, a lump threatening to form in his throat. He thinks of how you’d looked at Yuuji–

It was the same way Megumi looked at you. Too tender, full of a little too much longing.

“Yeah, Itadori, I think she’ll say yes.”

Itadori tells him he’s such a good friend. He throws his arm around Megumi, his biceps flexing, pulling Megumi in close to him.

Megumi pretends to be annoyed, and tries to squirm away half-heartedly.

But he’s never really wanted to push Yuuji away. He’s always liked his spot beside him, maybe a little too close, maybe beneath his arm.

He watches Yuuji chase after you as you all get closer to the dorms. Nobara trails beside him now. You shriek in joy and laughter when Yuuji catches you, lifts you clear off the ground to twirl you. The sky grows plum and blue, sweet looking, especially with you and Yuuji against it. There are still petals caught in your hair, on your clothes.

You and Yuuji are summer kissed, made for the sun.

Megumi likes the dusk, the shadow, the dark.

When you’re all back at the dorm—

(Which none of you can quite leave yet despite graduating, though Nobara is looking at apartments in Tokyo. She’s determined to get out, but also reluctant to part from you all. He thinks he’s scared to leave you, too. And you cling desperately to them, to being young.)

You rock up onto your toes and press a playful, farewell kiss goodnight to Yuuji’s cheek. Megumi watches a charming blush rush across his face. And then you turn brilliant eyes on Megumi, your smile impish and so lovely it hurts.

“C’mere, you get one, too,” you murmur, your small hand tangling in the front of his shirt, pulling him down as you push back onto your tippy toes.

Your lips are soft and gentle when they land on his cheek, near the corner of his lips.

It’s Megumi’s turn to blush now, he can feel it prickle his cheeks.

Nobara snickers, which only makes his blush worse.

“Goodnight, boys,” you sigh, before turning back to Nobara and throwing your arm around her, “let’s go, Nobara,” you yawn, letting your head fall onto her shoulder, “‘m tired.”

“Goodnight,” Yuuji calls after you faintly, a little wistful.

Nobara gives a dismissive wave as she leads you away. He knows you hate sleeping alone. You’ll sleep pressed to Nobara’s side, like you do most nights.

(And when Nobara’s gone, you come to Megumi or Yuuji’s door, beg for them to watch movies with you all night and fall asleep on the couch. He knows you—)

“‘Night, Fushiguro.” Yuuji then says, sweet and chipper. “See you tomorrow!”

Yuuji then knocks a shoulder into the door of his own dorm, falls into his room with a dreamy smile. Megumi watches as the door falls shut, locking him out.

“Goodnight, Itadori,” he mutters, let’s out a harsh breath that he’d been keeping in the whole night.

Without the group, he feels bereft. Suddenly lonely. Pain blossoms in the pit of his chest, a slow ache that spreads its lampshade wings inside of him.

He turns and disappears into his own room. He readies for bed.

There’s a tickle in his throat. He drinks water. He gets into bed with a needlessly heavy heart.

He coughs, tries to clear his throat, but something comes up, right into the palm of his hand.

A blue petal—slick and damp with spit, a little blood. Bruised with dark red, the light blue a sharp contrast.

For a moment, he has the absurd notion that he swallowed a flower today. Did he fall asleep, too? Did you cover him in flowers?

No, he frowns, feeling something horrible and tremendous take root inside of him, no, you’d done that to Yuuji.

Because you look at Yuuji with all that shy love, not him. Because Yuuji looks at you with all that tenderness, not him.

Megumi washes his hands of it. He drops into bed. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of anything, anything other than you and Yuuji and those pretty, pretty flowers.

***

Yuuji begs for Megumi’s help to ask you out.

“What should I do?” Yuuji paces the length of Megumi’s dorm again, pulling at his hair. Megumi wants to still his hand, he wants to draw it away. Instead, his dark eyes only follow the movement.

“Just ask if she wants to get dinner.” Megumi says plainly, feeling unfairly irritated, perhaps prickling with a sort of sadness that he wishes he could pry inside of himself and rip out.

He feels like hugging his pillow, tucking his face into his blankets and hiding. He feels like being cold and mean, lashing out because he’s hurting. He doesn’t want to tell Yuuji what he would do, if it was him asking you out. He doesn’t want to give Yuuji good ideas.

It’s so selfish of him.

He’s terrible.

It’s why he’s not the one asking you out, he thinks. Yuuji is golden-hearted and infinitely kind, made for your light and brightness. Megumi is not.

But Yuuji looks so helpless when he asks, “but what if she thinks I mean as a friend still?”

Megumi sighs lightly.

He clears his throat, now tight, “you could just tell her how you feel.”

“Is that what you would do? If you were the one who liked her?” Yuuji suddenly prompts.

Megumi feels his heart give a painful lurch. He almost winces.

He considers just saying yeah, sure, I guess. He considers being dismissive.

“I’d get her a gift,” Megumi replies, and his voice is almost hushed, a little too honest, “something small but nice. And I’d–” he pauses to make sure his voice is safe from wavering, “I’d tell her how I feel.”

When Megumi’s eyes cross to Yuuji’s, he realizes Yuuji’s looking at him a little surprised. There’s something raw in the widening of his eyes. Megumi feels suddenly like he’s admitted too much, like he’s done something horrible. Should he flee? Should he apologize? He shies away from Yuuji’s gaze.

“Fushiguro, that’s surprisingly romantic!” Yuuji then exclaims, his face lighting up, “who knew you were such a casanova?”

“Tch,” Megumi scoffs, “hardly.”

Yuuji takes a seat beside Megumi on his bed, eager and buzzing, “will you help me pick out a gift for her?”

His eyes are so hopeful, so sweet.

Megumi tries to swallow around the horrible thing budding in his throat, “yeah, sure, I can help.”

“You’re the best!” Yuuji shouts, throwing his arm around Megumi once more. Megumi tries to nudge him away, and tries to duck from beneath his arm, but Yuuji holds fast, squeezing him tight as he laughs happily.

It’s a sweet sound, almost pressed into the nape of Megumi’s neck.

He remembers it later, when he coughs, harder and harder, until a small, broken stem of blue-slippered flowers tears from his tender throat.

He stares at it, wide-eyed and undeniable.

Bluebells. Horrible, horrible bluebells.

***

Megumi keeps his predicament to himself. He is exceedingly careful not to let on that anything is wrong with him. He can’t have you or Yuuji finding out especially—he doesn’t want to ruin anything for either of you two.

He knows if Yuuji discovered Megumi’s feelings for you, he would immediately give up pursuing you. He would put his own feelings to the side so Megumi could be happy.

And Megumi wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let that happen.

But he doesn’t know if this pain in his chest is worth it as he watches Yuuji approach you. Your silhouettes ease towards each other in the distance. He can tell Yuuji is nervous.

Nobara stands beside Megumi, watching from afar.

“What do you think about all this?” She asks, hand on her hip, scrutinizing gaze zeroed in on the two of you.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Megumi answers plainly, but then he makes the mistake of saying, “I don’t care.”

There’s a catch in his voice. A piercing jab in the space between his ribs.

That sharp gaze of Nobara’s cuts to him now, pins him in place.

She studies him for a long moment. Megumi squirms.

“I don’t believe you,” she decides.

“You don’t have to,” Megumi sighs, trying for disinterest, perpetually annoyed.

Your bubbling laugh springs out from you happily and Megumi’s gaze is instantly drawn to you. Yuuji has offered you the gift–a necklace Megumi helped him pick out.

It’s simple, nothing overwhelming or too extravagant. A thin, gold chain, with a gold sun pendant attached. Megumi imagines it’ll lay on your collar bones. He imagines slipping it onto you, fastening it at the nape of your neck, needing to brush stray hairs with careful fingers.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Nobara asks and genuinely, she seems perplexed.

“There’s nothing to say,” Megumi immediately responds.

And then he coughs, something caught in his throat, as if it disagrees.

Megumi watches as you turn away from Yuuji, as he does what Megumi was just daydreaming about–slipping the necklace onto you, fastening it in place. He watches the shadow of your silhouette fiddle with it.

It rests at your collar bones.

You turn around to face Yuuji and excitedly throw your arms around him, planting a kiss or two on his cheek.

He hears Yuuji’s joyful laugh now, too.

He watches Yuuji wrap broad arms around you, squeeze tight and lift you a little off the ground. It’s all playful, all a little too sweet.

“Whatever,” Nobara responds, “suffer in silence, then. You’ll choke on all that noble humility eventually. And who are you going to come running to when you do? Me. Then I’m going to say–”

He could laugh, if she even knew the half of it.

“Are you done?” Megumi asks, feeling his stomach turn.

She sniffs and tilts her chin up, “just know that I’m not mature enough to hold back my ‘I told you so.’ No matter how upset you are when you finally come to me!”

Megumi’s lips lift into a sad, wry smile.

His eyes fan back out to you and Yuuji, watching as he sets you down, listening to the sounds of your giggles drift down to meet him. Always heard at a distance, never close like Yuuji.

He feels something inevitable tangle around the curve of his ribcage.

“I know, Kugisaki.”

***

Megumi watches as you try on dress after pretty dress. He’s in your dorm room, averting his gaze dutifully every time you peel one off to put on another.

Usually this is Nobara’s job—to sit here and decide what you should wear for your date with Yuuji, how you look, what the dress is saying about you or whatever.

But Nobara is on a brief mission. She should be back tomorrow but your date with Yuuji is tonight.

You huff, suddenly shimmying out of another and Megumi is quick to let his eyes fling up to the ceiling.

He tries not to linger on the fact that he’d caught a little more than he should’ve, the reflection of you in the mirror so pretty.

Nudity hasn’t been an issue in years for the four of you. Not after so many missions where he’s had to peel shirts or pants off for injuries—or the one where he and Yuuji nearly froze to death in wet clothes, so they’d stripped fully naked and had to sleep beside each other.

It’d been a strange night, that was for sure.

But regardless, you’d all become too close (to death, to each other) to care about changing in front of one another.

Megumi is still the shyest—Yuuji and Nobara care very little and will strip whenever they please. You’re somewhere in the middle, laughing nervously when they do that, but not scared enough to make Megumi leave the room or even turn around with each change of clothes.

Megumi is trying to be very, very careful with you now, but his cheeks feel permanently rosy.

You ease into another sundress, this one peach and dainty looking. Ruffled on the skirt. You turn this way and that in the mirror, then you turn towards Megumi.

“What do you think?”

Megumi hates this question.

What he really thinks is that you look stunning in all of them, that this last hour has been near torture for him, every time you turn around with mused hair and a pretty dress clinging to you. He thinks he wants to be the one to zip them up, to take them off of you, too—

He clears his dry throat.

“It looks really nice.”

You’re looking for more of an answer, he can tell, “Do you think Yuuji would like it?”

“Yuuji would like you in a brown paper bag.” Megumi responds automatically and it’s true. He knows it’s true. Something inside his chest tightens.

“Megumi,” you whine and he feels the tips of his ears go red, “give me something here. Nobara would tell me what sort of message it’s sending. And you’re a boy and also Yuuji’s best friend. Don’t you guys talk about this stuff?”

In truth, all Yuuji’s talked about lately is you. But Megumi doesn’t really want to hear about what kind of clothes Yuuji likes you in, desires of those sort make him feel sick, make the ache in him grow fierce and worse.

(They make heat flood him in the worst of ways, too, imagining Yuuji chasing after your pretty skirts. Fitting his big hands around your waist, skimming them up your thighs beneath that skirt—

Megumi feels suddenly feverish. A little woozy.

There’s something so fucking wrong with him.)

“Um,” Megumi swallows, letting his eyes glance over your body in the dress. It’s sweet, the neckline higher, but maybe a little simple. He thinks Nobara would call it boring. He swallows, “what sort of message do you want it to send?”

“A little flirty, maybe. I want him to—I don’t know, I want to tease him a little.” He can practically feel the way your cheeks light up with warmth, too. And for a moment, the two of you look a little too bright eyed and flustered at each other.

“I-I don’t know—“

“I mean, you’re still a guy, Megumi. What would you think fits that, then?”

Megumi can’t decide if this is better or worse. Worse maybe, with the way his heart is pounding and how he feels the pink flush of his cheeks darken. He doesn’t like the idea of revealing this to you, what he’d like you in, what he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you in, what one wouldn’t keep his hands off you—

He tries to slam the door on all those thoughts.

But you asked him. And now you’re flustered, too.

A really quiet, horrible part of Megumi also realizes that you’d then wear the dress he picked out for you, on your date with Yuuji. Something in his gut twists, lurches, at the idea.

He lets out a shaky breath.

“Do you still have that blue one?” He asks softly, his voice a quiet rasp.

You perk up a little, tilting your head, “the light blue one?”

Megumi swallows, nodding his head a little too solemnly.

You turn back to your closet for a moment, digging through fabric, before pulling out the very one Megumi was talking about. You reach for the zipper at the back of the dress you have on, tug at it a little, but it doesn’t budge. It must be caught.

You peek over your shoulder at him and he admires the curve of your shoulder, the lovely profile of your face, “will you help me?”

Megumi stops breathing. His fingers tighten in the material of his pants.

But he forces himself to move from the edge of your bed. He walks over to you, still standing in front of your full length mirror. He can feel the nebulous squeeze of his heart, can feel the way his insides twist up, like a vine curling around his tender organs, the fragile cage of his ribs.

He is careful not to meet your gaze in the mirror–he doesn’t want to see what he looks like behind you, the curve of your back in the cradle of his chest. He doesn’t want to see what it might look like to undress you, to know you in this way.

His fingers are long and gentle, careful as they move to take the zipper in hand. He gently tugs, unsticking it, letting it glide down your spine. He watches as more skin gets revealed to him.

His knuckles brush against your lower back.

You let the dress fall from your shoulders, pool around your feet in a bundle of rosy peach.

Megumi looks off to the side, steps away to give you space.

After a moment, he hears the soft call of your voice, “Megumi?”

You say his name so sweetly, sugar soft, ready to gut him. To devastate him. He feels the unfurling in his stomach, the pain of something growing, blooming horribly.

“Will you tie this for me?” you ask and he finally forces himself to look at you.

The light blue dress is wrapped around you, hugged to the curve of your body. You’re holding the two ribbons of silk in place that will tie the dress to you. It’s short, skimming the tops of your thighs. The skirt lays pretty, flutters a little–he wants to feel it catch beneath his palms.

Megumi eases back towards you, takes the ribbons between his hands. He loops them together, ties it tight, and wonders if it’ll be Yuuji’s hands who untie it later.

And then he does something selfish, something he’s always wanted–he sets his broad hands along your waist, smooths the fabric down a little.

“There,” he murmurs and picks his eyes up to find yours in the mirror.

Oh, and it’s horrible.

You look so pretty in his hands, standing in front of him.

You’re looking at him a little surprised, lips parted, eyes wide. You’re looking at him like you’re seeing him for the first time again, seeing a whole new part of him and Megumi wonders briefly if you somehow know, if you caught the scent of bluebells. He wonders if they’ll creep up his throat to try and get to your light.

The necklace Yuuji gave you–the one Megumi picked out–rests on your collar bones. The gold sun stands proud against your skin. It looks nice with the blue dress, like the sky on a cloudless day.

And before he can lose his courage, he rasps, “you look beautiful.”

You’re still looking at him in the reflection of the mirror and he watches as your eyes glance down to where his hands are, how his fingers bend to the contour of your body.

“Thank you,” you say and he thinks it’s breathier than you intended. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he knows he will.

He lifts his hands from you reluctantly.

“I should go,” Megumi says and he tries to keep any dismay from his voice, “I’m sure Yuuji will want my help, too.”

You swallow, nodding, as if remembering, as if jolting yourself back to reality.

“Of course,” you laugh, but it’s nervous, unsure. Then you turn round eyes on him, almost pleading, “I’ll see you later, then?”

Megumi nods, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, “yeah, see you later. Have fun tonight.”

You open your mouth to say something more, but Megumi turns away. He can’t stay. He can’t stand to see you more, to watch you get ready for a date with someone that isn’t him. It’s horrible, it’s so selfish of him, but he just can’t stomach it.

He doesn’t go find Yuuji.

He rushes to his own room, throws open the bathroom door and dry heaves into the toilet. His whole body spasms, trying to force something out–

He starts to choke on it, the long stem, gagging and gasping for breath around it. His chest heaves desperately, fighting for air, for relief–

He wretches until enough of it comes out his mouth, the damp, blue petals clinging to his lips. He grabs for the stem, does the worst thing possible and pulls on it to try and get it out.

He feels it connected to something deep in him, rooted in a horrifying way, feels pain lance up his poor throat, feels the way the stem tears it up. He pulls again, desperate to get it out, pulls until he feels a snap and then it gives, forcing its way up his throat.

He gags again, eyes watery, heart pounding. He tries to swallow, tries to breathe.

The stem in his hand is just that; no roots, nothing substantial. Just bloody, bell flowers clinging to his open palm, to his chin, his swollen bottom lip.

He slumps over finally, trembling, feeling the burn of tears.

He spends his night sick, throwing up spare petals, retching up leaves and stems of plants. Blood and mucus and membrane comes up, too, slicks his mouth, his chin. He’s miserable, he’s aching, and all he can think about is the look on your face, your pretty dress. The color of bluebells. Yuuji’s hands.

Yuuji kisses you that night with no blood or petals on his lips, aching, his warm hands on the curve of your waist, right where Megumi’s had been, like he’d found the phantom indents on you. Like his hands sought Megumi’s, too.

Twin touches that make you gasp, that make you ache just as bad, too.

***

There is an afternoon that the four of you spend training. Gojo watches, seemingly disinterested or casual, but Megumi knows better.

It’s always been good for him to fight against you; your technique is his opposite. It allows you to create powerful bursts of light, like sunbeams that can cut through curses and his shadows in an instant. When Gojo had first introduced the two of you, he’d been thrilled, almost jittery with the need to see the two of you in action against each other, with each other.

(Gojo hadn’t been the only one interested in your interactions at the time, Sukuna had taken great interest, too.)

Over the years, you’d found ways to compliment each other well. Light creates more shadow. You move easily with each other, a naturality when you fall into each other’s orbit, like the moon and the sun.

Though, today, you’d kicked his ass every single time.

He had yielded easily to you, went down quick and hard.

He hadn’t felt well and then you’d skipped after Yuuji at the end of it all, tucked yourself up against his side, snug and happy as could be.

He’d thrown up, when he’d been alone.

Or thought he’d been alone.

Gojo had popped up over his shoulder, peering at the mess of it all.

“Uh oh,” he says now, a little too lightly, almost singing it, “Hanahaki disease. That’s not good.”

Not good like it’s a cold and not something that will kill Megumi.

“No shit,” Megumi spits, then wipes at his chin with the back of his hand.

“And bluebells, too, huh? Bit of a shy flower. But enduring and humble.” Gojo says, tilting his head before a smile splits across his face, “say, that’s very fitting for you, Megumi!”

He pats Megumi on the back, jostling him, making Megumi cough a little more. He grits his teeth, tries to stay silent. But after a moment, Gojo ruins it again.

“I had that once.” He says casually.

Megumi whips his head to the side so hard he nearly gives himself whiplash.

“What?” He snaps, desperate suddenly for relief, for an answer, for Gojo’s help, like he’s still a child, “What did you– how did you get rid of it?”

Gojo leans away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

If this is a sore subject for him, he doesn’t seem to convey it. Though Megumi doesn’t think he’d ever be able to tell what goes on inside of Gojo’s head, something so mysterious and distant about him. He always thinks of lone figures when he thinks of Gojo; a lighthouse, a bolt of lightning, the sun without a moon.

All he ends up saying before he leaves is;

“You should talk to Shoko, she knows how to handle it.”

But the answer feels hollow to Megumi and he wonders if Gojo feels hollow somewhere inside him, too, where all that love was taken out.

***

Megumi watches you and Yuuji fall in love. The summer is high and ripe, so hot and vivid, the crush of color blurring before his eyes. He watches you swing your hands with Yuuji happily, brushing up against his side. He watches Yuuji slip an arm around your waist. He watches from afar, always, never quite close enough to either of you two.

Nobara notices the way Megumi forces himself to glance away–whenever you and Yuuji grow too obvious in your affection, she snaps at the pair of you.

“Gross! I don’t want to see Itadori slobbering all over you!” she’ll complain but Megumi thinks she doesn’t actually mind, rather, she does it for his sake.

“I don’t slobber on her!” Yuuji always protests.

“Whatever. Keep that lovey-dovey shit away from me.”

“I’m gonna say the same thing about you and Maki next time!”

An argument usually ensues at this point between them. Which feels refreshingly normal. Especially when you look at Megumi, pretending to be exasperated with them. It’s always been this way, the two of you sharing glances over their arguing. Comradery in listening to them for so many years.

He rolls his eyes at them, if only to watch you hide a giggle behind your hand.

His heart swells at the sound.

There’s a night when you show up for movies in one of Megumi’s hoodies. Megumi does a double take on you only to realize–yes, that’s his. The sleeves are too long on you. It’s a midnight blue, soft and worn. He’s had it for years.

Before he can think, he blurts out, “that’s mine.”

You blink up at him owlishly, lifting your hands as if to inspect the sleeves that dwarf them. It’s threadbare, unraveling like his heart the longer he looks at you in his clothes.

“It was in Yuuji’s closet,” you respond, “I didn’t know–”

“Oh,” Megumi breathes, remembering now how he lent it to Yuuji some time ago. He remembers the night he gave it to him. They were traveling home from a mission together, weary and exhausted. Yuuji hadn’t been feeling well, chilled and achy, feverish with curse or flu, they hadn’t known. But Megumi had offered him the sweatshirt off his back, and watched as Yuuji wriggled into it. He’d watched as Yuuji flipped up the hood and sunken into its warmth, leftover from Megumi, given from him to the other.

He’d curled up into it, let his head tilt towards Megumi, side pressed to his, and fallen asleep.

And now here you are, wrapped up in it.

Does it smell like Yuuji? Like him? Does Yuuji still wear it? How often?

“Do you want it back?” You ask him earnestly, shifting like you might pull to lift it off.

“No,” Megumi decides, his heart being tugged at, twisted up with roots, spasming painfully, “it’s fine, really.”

Megumi sits in the center of the couch that night, with Yuuji laid out on his back on one end, legs propped up onto Megumi’s lap and tangled with Nobara’s, who claimed the other side of the couch for herself, curled in on her side. You sleep peacefully on Yuuji’s chest, fallen asleep early into the movie marathon.

And when it’s late and dark, Megumi glances at the two of you, at Yuuji’s fluttering lashes as he fights to stay awake. The soft rise and fall of your back, your face tucked into Yuuji’s neck. Megumi notices Yuuji’s hand, which is beneath your (his) hoodie, laid against warm skin. He wishes it was his.

(His hand at your back or his back at Yuuji’s hand, he can’t say.)

He feels sick with it all–the silent wanting, the desperate growth of his heart, the flower that bends shyly, never to speak up, the gnawing of his love on the insides of him.

When both you and Yuuji are asleep, Nobara nudges Megumi's thigh with her foot.

“Let’s go for a walk.” She says, sitting up.

Megumi is about to protest, but she is already up, grabbing at her shoes. She’s clumsy from sleep, too. He doesn’t know why she’s doing this–

But the moment they’re out, breathing in the balmy night air, under a sky full of wayward stars, she says, “you know, I never pegged you for such a masochist.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, perhaps harsher than he should’ve.

She only sends him a half-hearted glare.

“You should’ve said something, when I told you to.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Megumi repeats.

But his voice catches, something fragile tucked away in the corners.

“Alright, fine. There’s nothing to say, then.” Nobara rolls her eyes, wrapping her arms around her middle as a summer breeze eases past them. The trees shake with it. So does Megumi.

He walks in silence with her. She only leads him back to the dorms when his shoulders have relaxed, when his scowl has lessened. You and Yuuji are still fast asleep on his couch. Nobara goes to sleep in her own bed.

Megumi drapes a blanket over you and Yuuji, gently tucks you both in. He’s careful not to disturb you. He turns off the movie still playing absently in the background. He shuts off the lights and falls into his own bed.

But when he dreams that night in colors of poppy and pale blue, it’s all of you, you, you. Massive, bowed bluebells provide you shade, pretty vines curling along the lines of your legs. The sun is a starburst flare of light against your skin.

Yuuji tells him to go to you, sitting in the sun, with all those dancing vines. His smile is lopsided, encouraging. Megumi stumbles to you on uncertain legs, fawn-soft and terrified.

You let him fall into your open arms.

“Megumi,” you sigh, easing into his lap. The weight of you on his thighs, in his arms, more than he can bear.

You kiss him, just a brushing of your lips to his. You’re sun warm, almost sleepy. “Megumi, will you tell me?” you ask, but when you pull away to look at him, your lips are stained poppy red, slick and shiny.

He reaches out, touching your lips with his thumb. He can’t speak.

You scatter bloody kisses to his jaw, to his throat, like red petals against his pale skin. “C’mon, say it, Megumi, please?” you whisper.

And then it’s Yuuji at his back, voice soft and coaxing, sweet against the nape of his neck, “it’s okay, you can say it.”

Megumi tries to ask, tries to speak, but his throat tightens up. Blood falls from his bruised lips. He’s being strangled from the inside. He’s choking on all of it, on the blood in his mouth, souring the words he wishes he could say.

You kiss him again, harder, more desperate, “just say it, Megumi, it’s okay– c’mon, please? Please?” you beg desperately.

Yuuji’s hand is on his naked back, over one of the silver scars that lances across the expanse of his skin. He thinks Yuuji was there when he got it, too.

You’re crying now, grasping at him as he chokes. “Megumi, please–”

He coughs wetly, spitting up crimson onto your chest, your neck. Now it’s you who's covered in petals, blossomed coral and crimson and lilac blue.

He slumps into you, face buried in the crook of your neck as you hold him. As Yuuji tries to soothe him.

There’s plenty to say, but no way for him to get it out, not with the vine in his throat, the bluebell hooked and pressed to the meat of his tongue.

He wakes late in the morning. He comes down with a fever.

Yuuji makes him soup. He tries to coax him into eating while you lay a pack of ice to his brow, carefully brushing his unruly hair from his dampened forehead.

His fever spikes.

And he can hardly speak, not with so much to be said.

***

Megumi can't sleep.

He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, fitfully trying to get comfortable, hugging pillows and nudging his face into their softness like that might soothe him. But nothing works. The night is filled with the chirp of crickets, the quiet hum of the city not far off. It should lull him to sleep.

But he tosses and turns, bleary eyed and frustrated.

He can hear footsteps in the hallway.

And then the familiar voices of you and Yuuji.

Megumi can hear you two stumble in late to Yuuji’s dorm next door. The walls are unfortunately thin. And the night is too quiet. And Megumi is too awake, wide-eyed and heart now turning ragged and quick, jumping like a spooked rabbit.

He can hear your excited giggling, your gasp of Yuuji’s name and the muted creak of his bed.

Megumi imagines Yuuji tossing you into it. Covering you. Yuuji’s broad and strong, he’d almost shroud you—

He squeezes his eyes shut sharply.

He knows Yuuji’s bed shares a wall with his own. He knows all that separates him from the two of you is a thin wall. He knows he won’t survive this. He prays you two will go to sleep, that it’ll be silent once more.

And it is quiet, almost uncomfortably so before Megumi hears a whimper, muffled by the wall.

It’s your whimper, bursts sweet and hot from you and nestles itself deep into Megumi.

Yuuji hushes you, “we’ve gotta be quiet–we don’t want Fushiguro to hear us.”

Something inside of him squirms, wrestles around to make him bite the inside of his cheek.

“‘Gumi’s probably asleep by now,” he can barely hear your voice, faded and soft around the edges.

“Yeah and we don’t wanna wake him–”

There’s more silence, then, another creak in the bed that makes Megumi’s stomach swoop. A little stuttered gasp that he’s sure came from you. He stays incredibly still. He barely breathes, as if one of you might hear him.

As if you might hear him existing, longing, aching, on the other side of the wall. Like his desire is a scream and not a sharpened, held breath he refuses to let go of. That he’ll suffocate on.

He can hear rustling. A little yip from you, followed by Yuuji’s breathy laugh–

“Sorry,” Yuuji murmurs, “I get a little too excited.”

He imagines the bashful look on his face, the one where he ducks his head down a little, the rush of pink to his cheeks.

He can’t quite hear your response. He’s ashamed because he strains to hear it but doesn’t, misses it, before there’s more creaking and shifting. He can tell the movements are a little more hurried.

Your moan makes shameful heat rip through Megumi.

He slams his eyes shut, throws his hands over them as if that might block out more.

His vision blurs, all red-hot and simmering, mind racing. What did Yuuji do to get you to moan like that? Was it something his hands did? Or his lips? Is he undressing you? Are you undressing him?

His mind flashes with the image of Yuuji’s bare back, muscles rippling, your legs hitched over his waist. Or Yuuji’s large hands all over you, sliding up the curves of your body while perched in his lap. He imagines the flash of tongue as you kiss–

“Yuuji–” your sigh punctures a wound through him.

He feels his desire rush south, feels the way his briefs tighten, curls his fist into his hair like he might pull it out.

His cock hardens fast, almost aches so bad it hurts.

He trails a hand down his chest, over his stomach like he might soothe his feral desire. His hips twitch as he hears another one of your soft cries.

He’s sick, there’s something so fucking wrong with him–

“Easy, pretty girl,” Yuuji’s voice is so fond, too intimate, a laugh curling at its edges, “‘m not going anywhere.”

“Want you–”

Megumi tastes blood in his mouth.

It’s Yuuji’s soft moan that makes Megumi sit bolt right up in bed like it’d struck him. He’s furious and aching and ashamed, feels it color his insides. He can feel the bow of a bluebell flower, it’s hunched back so, so scared and humiliated and shy.

He covers his cheeks with his hands, tries to hide his own horrible blush from himself.

More movement from the other wall, another creak that might as well be the creak of a rope, a noose around his neck.

His stomach turns sharply.

He’s gonna be sick again–

He wrenches himself from bed. He throws on clothes, fumbles in the dark with shaking fingers. He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet when he pulls open his door and storms out of his dorm. He let’s it slam on his way out. He isn’t careful.

He wonders if you both pause, if you froze, or if you’re continuing like nothing happened.

He rushes outside, into the arms of the cool night air. The wind kisses his feverish cheeks, bursts in to try and soothe all the festering that seems to bleed from the inside out.

He doubles over in the grass outside of the dorms, curls his fingers deep into the dirt, and throws up a gush of hot blood and petals and leaves.

He wishes he felt better afterwards, like it could purge his desire, so twisted and disgusting from his traitorous body. But he doesn’t, still aching, body throbbing with want and need. With all that white-hot love. He rolls onto his back in the grass. He thinks of that day in the flowers, wonders what changed in him, too.

Why did this grow inside him? Did he nurture the seeds? Did he tend to them lovingly?

He supposes, thinking of all those years at your side, at Yuuji’s, it’s possible for something to grow. Like he prepared a garden bed for them in the soft, unsuspecting grounds of his body, your cursed-light as nourishment, Yuuji’s blood to water them.

Now the fruits of your labors have paid off and Megumi is nothing but an ill man, lovesick and poisoned. He’ll die from the growth of these seeds.

He thinks of bouquets of bluebells, sopping and drooping with all his guts and blood and shameful desire.

And is this the price he pays for love?

He feels cursed.

He could laugh if he didn’t already feel the pressure of tears.

He feels—

Sick again.

He turns over on his side and begins sputtering and coughing, hacking up a few more leaves, a stem that drips in pink fluid.

And still, even as his body lurches, and his fever returns tenfold, he thinks of you both. Holding each other. Being held. Clinging and shaking and gasping and desperate for each other. Kissing hard. Or soft. Your sweet cries, Yuuji’s hums against petaled lips.

Still, even as he’s sick all over again, all he can think about is loving, of being loved. Of holding and being held.

***

The ocean rushes up to kiss the shoreline. The sea is plum dark, the sky dashed with the color of wine, of Megumi’s tender insides.

Yuuji is chasing you around in the shallow water, sand and ocean kicking up in a spray with each step. The sun is molten and blossoming over you two, turning you crimson and rose, valentine soft. You seem to glow with it, a lantern lit inside you that flares onto everyone else. Yuuji basks in it, chases after your rays. Your peels of laughter are heard over the roar of the ocean, like the sound is being carried off to sea.

Nobara is a constant at Megumi’s side, knocking into him every so often as they wander down the length of the beach. Her hair has grown out again and she fiddles with it. He knows she’ll get it cut soon, can’t stand to feel it on her shoulders too much.

“Maki and I found an apartment,” Nobara mentions and she says it with a sort of bluntness that makes him feel like she’s ripping off a bandaid. It’s like he’s a kid again and he can feel the pull of his skin, the little wince he used to give, before the pain fades and he sighs, deciding it wasn’t so bad afterall.

Megumi intakes a slow breath and the instant flush of pain blossoms sharply and then quickly fades. He’s happy for her. He’ll be happy to visit her and Maki. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He has to stop clinging to her or Yuuji or you, but letting go feels like growing up too much, or trying to be someone he isn’t.

What’s he supposed to do when you’re all wound up inside him? Intricate parts of him? Pull all of that out with his bare hands?

He thinks of his bluebells, of trying to pull them out. He knows he has to, if he wants to live. But does he want to live without it? Without you?

Megumi can only muster a soft noise, a bit of a hum of acknowledgement. He casts his eyes out towards the sea, letting them skitter to you and Yuuji.

“Have you ever considered looking for a place? It’d do you well to get out of the dorms, too.” Nobara then says and though she can tell melancholy has taken hold of him, she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of coddling him in any way.

Nobara has always said that if Megumi is upset, he should just come out and say it, instead of pouting about it.

Yuuji wraps his arms around you and the two of you teeter together clumsily, laughing.

He thinks he should start listening to her.

“Yeah, I guess.” Megumi responds, almost grumbling. Nobara rolls her eyes.

She’s about to open her mouth and say more, but your shrieking pulls both of their attention. Yuuji’s got you tossed over his shoulder as he wades further into the water. You’re beating at his back a little, fitful little pulls and kicking to get him to stop.

“Yuuji– no, stop! Don’t! Yuuji–!”

He tosses you into the lilac waves, pretty dress and all, the glitter of the sun catching and sparking. Then he dives in after you, still clothed, resurfacing a moment later next to you, whose sputtering and laughing and wiping sea water from your face.

Yuuji waves them over when he notices them staring, “the water is so warm! You guys should come in!”

“I’m not ruining this shirt!” Nobara shouts back.

Megumi huffs and turns away.

You and Yuuji share a look, something said between you two, before twin smiles warm your faces. You both start wading out of the water, towards them.

“Oh no,” Nobara starts to back away slightly.

Your dress is clinging to you, your hair stuck to the curve of your smiling cheek. Yuuji peels off his shirt and dumps it on the sand in a wet heap.

He heads towards Nobara, whereas you turn your eyes on Megumi.

“Itadori, if you come near me, I’ll kill you–”

“Ah, Kugisaki, c’mon–”

“Megumi,” you sing his name like a bird, happy and excited, reaching for him with wiggling fingers.

He shakes his head, “I’m not going in the water.”

You reach for his arm, latch tight onto his forearm and give a tug. He doesn’t budge, but his eyes fall to the curve of your fingers around his skin.

“Itadori!” Nobara yells, furious and squirming in the hold he has on her. It’s too easy for him to heft her up and start walking back towards the water as she shrieks more.

Your hold gets tighter. You dig your feet into the sand and put your weight into the next pull of his arm. He stumbles towards you, off-kilter, your smile makes him feel off balance. His body knocks into yours, legs tangling. Your laugh is felt in his chest.

There’s a splash and Nobara goes quiet for a moment, Yuuji’s laugh winds with yours then.

And then you’re pulling him to the water and he’s pretending to put up a fight, if only to try and force you closer, if only to let you laugh his name out.

If only for the moment when you both trip and go toppling into some of the shallow waves together. It splashes up into his face, into yours, too, all salt water and warmth. Some of his hair flattens to his forehead, sticks to the nape of his neck. Yours clings to your temples.

You laugh, leaning forward, hands clutching at his now wet shirt.

And he can’t help his own laugh, small, but bursting from him, wet and raw, to join yours and Yuuji’s and the sea.

Nobara resurfaces, shouting and cursing out Yuuji.

And then Megumi is standing without thinking, hauling you up into his arms, lifting you bridal style. He cradles you tight to his chest, presses you to him, sees the way the wet skirt of your dress hitches high.

If he was Yuuji, he’d fix it.

If he was Yuuji, he’d kiss you.

“Megumi!” You squeal the way you’d said Yuuji’s name, too, surprised and delighted.

But Megumi’s not Yuuji and he tosses you into the water next to him.

You go under, Yuuji turns to see him, splashes over to him only to throw a strong bicep around his neck.

If Megumi was you, he’d cling to Yuuji.

If Megumi was you, he’d kiss him, too.

But instead he wrestles with him a little, before Yuuji dunks him into the water.

He shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath, the whole world going warbly and soft. Everything sounds far away until he can just hear the roar of water, of his stinging and livid heart, the one being choked out by bluebell roots.

He rushes to the surface, to the sound of your voices.

The sun is a ruby flare, bursting hot and beautiful, turning you all hot pink and tangerine. The water makes you glitter like jewels.

He lets himself laugh and love you. He lets himself enjoy the water, splash and scowl and shout like he’s a teenager again and the whole world is trying to devour him, like all that’s wrong with him is a cut he has to see Shoko about.

He wishes he could see Shoko about this one.

He could, he knows, but he also knows what she’ll tell him, what his options are.

He swallows hard and tips his head back into the water to float. He thinks of Gojo. Untouchable, mighty Gojo. What flowers did he choke on? Does he regret getting rid of them?

The waves carry him, turning him weightless. His thoughts slip from him, spool out and float away on the ocean.

You all stay out in the water until the sky sheds it’s light and returns to darkness. The moon is a sad smile above your heads, small and soft.

Eventually you drag yourselves out, dripping wet, and walk back to the dorms. You knock into each other’s sides, brush elbows, talk in hushed voices, like you’ll wake the whole world with your youth and excitement.

Megumi watches Yuuji shepherd you into his room, watches him wave goodnight. He hears your sweet voice before the door shuts, wishing him a good night, too. The sound of the door echoes inside of him, settling heavy over him.

Always shut out. A wall up. A breath away. Too little, too late.

He should’ve said something–

But what would he have said?

I’m in love with you– I love you, I don’t know when it started but now I can’t stop it. I love you and it’s tearing up my insides.

I think I love Yuuji, too, and there is a plant making a garden bed out of my body.

I love you both and it’s killing me.

His stomach suddenly lurches. He pales sharply, gripping at his own doorframe.

Nobara eyes him, “what’s wrong with you?”

He can’t answer, feels a sharp shooting pain lance around his ribs, squeeze tight to his throat. He lurches too sharply into his own dorm, rushing for the bathroom.

“Fushiguro!” Kugisaki calls after him, but he barely gets to the sink in his bathroom before he’s retching up thick blood, leaves bundled into it. A twig. A petal.

His insides tighten up, trying to purge the intruder in his body, trying to purge his love. For a moment, he almost tries to swallow it all down, like he couldn’t fathom getting rid of it. It’s his now, a part of him so thoroughly that removing it might kill him.

(He knows removing it would actually save him, but the idea of not loving either of you again makes him tremble like a child, clinging to anything he can–)

He feels more than he sees Nobara, too focused on the hot rush of blood and petals that comes up with another barking cough, splattering into the white of the sink.

“Fushiguro, are you–”

She gasps when she sees the sink, when she finally takes it in. There’s a long silence.

He spits into the sink, hangs his head.

“Oh God,” she says, horror filling her voice.

He swallows, turns shining eyes on her.

“I told you,” she says, shaking her head, eyes wide with fear. She looks at the sink, at all the blood and rot of it all, the proof of his love, “dammit, Fushiguro, I told you!”

And he can’t help but laugh, barking out a broken, ironic noise, something horrible and grating. It sends him into another coughing fit, makes him gag on a stem, makes him vomit it into the sink, too.

He lets his head fall between his shoulders again. He bows his head in defeat. The silence rings in his ears. Nobara is angry with him. But he knows she’s only angry because she’s scared.

After a moment, she touches his shoulder, his shaking back. He tries to breathe. He can feel tears prick at his eyes.

He shudders.

“You’ve really done it this time,” Nobara tries to joke, “which one are you even in love with anyways?”

Megumi catches her eyes and he must look stricken or panicked or too raw, because her face falls, her lips part in surprise.

“No–” she starts, “I was joking.”

Megumi swallows, tasting blood. He shakes his head and when he speaks, his voice is painfully rough, just a rasp, “I wish I was.”

Nobara curses again, softly, shaking her head like she can’t believe it.

“You’re an idiot, Fushiguro.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

She leans into him, though, touches her temple to his shoulder, “And we’re gonna get you through this. You’re not dying like this after all these years.”

Megumi is silent for a long moment. He almost wants to snap that he won’t get it removed, and almost wants to plead about not telling you or Yuuji.

Instead, she elbows him in the ribs, uncaring of the pain that lances through him, “you’re supposed to say I know, Kugisaki.”

He spits more blood out of his mouth, rubs at his side, like he can feel the bluebells blooming on the inside of him, searching for your light, for Yuuji’s brilliance. He thinks he’s going to be sick the rest of the night again.

But Nobara is solid beside him, like she’s always been. He lets out a slow, trembling breath. He tries to will his tears away.

“I know, Kugisaki.”

***

“Fushiguro, you really haven’t been looking too good lately.”

Yuuji is peering up into Megumi’s face. They’re on a mission together, walking along a set of train tracks as night falls over the city. The frogs and crickets are loud. The stars blink to life above their heads.

“I’m fine.” Megumi says plainly.

“Are you sure? You look paler than usual.” Yuuji tells him and he’s sure if you were here, you would be elbowing him because it sounds unintentionally rude.

“I’m fine.” Megumi bites out this time, if only to get him to stop prying.

Yuuji says your name, soft, rounded along the edges, “she’s worried about you, you know?”

“What?”

“Yeah, she just says she thinks somethings wrong. She worries about you a lot. I mean, not that I don’t! But she’s more observant than me, so I’ve been told.” Yuuji rambles a little, the brush of the long grass just a rustle among the sounds of night as they walk.

Megumi feels his insides twist up. You worry about him? You notice?

“She is more observant than you.” Megumi agrees dryly.

“So there is something wrong with you?” Yuuji asks, turning to walk backwards in front of Megumi, forcing them to look at each other.

“I’m fine, Itadori.” Megumi says again, glances away from the raw concern that has flooded Yuuji’s face.

“Jeeze, you’re stubborn.” He says, and then adds, “well, if you ever need to talk or anything–I’m here for you. We both are.”

“Hey, watch it–!”

Megumi doesn’t think he’s ever been so thankful for the appearance of a curse. Yuuji almost knocks straight into it. And then he’s calling for his divine dog and the battle has begun, the curse warbling and shrieking.

When they return home later, bruised and scraped up and tender, it’s you who greets them. You were in Yuuji’s room, in one of his shirts. Megumi tries to sneak into his own room, but you call after him.

“Do you have bandaids? That cut doesn’t look too good.” You tell him.

He doesn’t respond fast enough, and doesn't have it in him to try and lie to you, so he lets you pull him into Yuuji’s room, too. Yuuji is already peeling off clothes to shower. Megumi watches the muscles in his back for only a moment, feeling a creeping, antagonizing heat ease over his face, his ears.

But then you’re urging him to sit on the edge of Yuuji’s bed and fetching a first aid kit for him. Then you’re easing close to him, almost standing between his legs. Then your hands are careful and dabbing at the cut across his brow.

Then it’s just you and him.

You wipe away the blood with a love and gentleness he wishes he didn’t know. You brush his hair from his face. You tend to him the way a mother might a child, like he’s fragile, breakable under your hands.

Maybe he is.

“You seem distant lately,” you murmur and Megumi casts his eyes up to your face in surprise, “are you upset with me?”

“What? No.” Megumi says quickly, guilt twinging hard inside of him, knowing that he’s made you feel bad. “No, not at all.”

“I thought maybe–” you start, then catch your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself. You shake your head, let go of a breath, wiping at the blood under his eye. You glance behind you, at the closed bathroom door, and then lower your voice when you say, “you know you mean the world to me, don’t you? To both of us. I don’t like–” your voice breaks, “I don’t want to lose you–or something, because of–”

Megumi swallows hard around the tight lump in his throat. He can feel the cough that threatens to come up, the bluebells inside of him reaching, straining–

“You wouldn’t ever lose me,” Megumi whispers and before he can think, his hand comes up, touches at your side, like he wants to guide you closer, or comfort you.

What he really wants is to curl his fingers around your waist, tighten his hold, pull you into his lap.

But he’s always a little too far away, held at a distance, so he lets his hands fall away, like petals that fall from the flower.

“Are you–are we okay?” you ask softly and now your own touch on his face has just turned soft and reverent.

Megumi swallows hard around the sudden ache in his throat, like he could cry, “of course we’re okay.” He croaks out, quiet and fragile.

Neither of you had noticed the shower turning off, only jumping away from each other a little when the bathroom door swings open.

Yuuji is oblivious, wrapped in a towel, already asking, “you guys wanna watch a movie tonight? Fushiguro, you can use my shower if you want–”

He glances at the pair of you two, you standing so close, and doesn’t even bat an eye. “I really wanna watch an action movie, but I can be persuaded into a rom-com, too.”

You share a look with Megumi, fighting back a smile. He can’t help the hitch in his own lips, a nervous slip of a smile, but a smile nonetheless.

You reach for the antiseptic, and murmur, “you’ll stay, won’t you?”

Your eyes are nearly begging him.

How could he say no?

Megumi nods smally, trying to keep his stomach from revolting on him, “sure.”

The antiseptic stings, steals his attention momentarily, before you’re settling the bandaid to his skin.

“I have some of your clothes you could wear, Fushiguro.” Yuuji then adds, already rummaging messily in his dresser. Megumi almost protests, saying he can just run next door but Yuuji pulls out an old t-shirt of Megumi’s and a pair of boxers.

Yuuji has a bad habit of borrowing and coveting his friends' things, collecting them and surrounding himself with them. His room is a testament, proof of all the people he loves, with all their knick knacks and clothes and items strewn around his room.

It’d be endearing, if Megumi wasn’t glaring at his boxers in Yuuji’s hand, cheeks flushing darkly, “when did you even take those?”

Yuuji laughs nervously, “awhile ago? I promise they’re clean! They’re also too tight on me.”

You laugh then, too, and it brightens up the room, making Megumi soften up. He finally stands, towers over you a moment before he takes the clothes from Yuuji, maybe with too much of a glare, before heading to the bathroom.

It’s still steamy.

He uses Yuuji’s shampoo and conditioner, the body wash that reminds Megumi sharply of him. He coughs a little, lets crimson splatter against the tile, before being washed away like it never even happened. He shouldn’t stay with you two, shouldn’t watch this movie but–

But he can’t deny you.

He shuts off the shower. Towels himself off. He dresses in clothes that smell faintly of Yuuji still.

When he leaves the shower, Yuuji is already reclining in bed, remote in hand and pointed at the TV. It’s not like Megumi’s room, where he has a small couch everyone can pile onto, the only thing in front of Yuuji’s TV is his bed. He almost wants to ask if you’re both sure, but then you’re turning off the overhead light and crawling into bed, settling yourself beneath the covers, between Yuuji’s legs. You curl up against his chest.

And then you fold the covers over and pat the spot next to both of you.

Megumi’s heart lurches.

But his feet move before he can stop himself.

He slips into bed beside you two. His shoulder touches Yuuji’s. His hips to his. His legs against his. Against yours. He feels as if he’s going to shake apart.

But the movie begins (a rom com, certainly), and the light is soft from the TV. It’s at a low volume, playing softly and lulling his stuttering heart. Megumi realizes how tired he is as the movie continues. His eyes grow heavy, his body fatigued from the mission. His body fatigued, weighted, with all his love.

Yuuji’s head falls onto Megumi’s shoulder. He’s asleep, out like a light.

You glance back, giggle softly, smile at Megumi sleepily, before settling back in.

Megumi wishes he was stronger, but all he does is adjust himself so Yuuji’s head is at a better angle, pressing himself tighter to his friend. He doesn’t know if this is all worse for him, maybe it’s better if he keeps his distance, grows a bluebell inside him until it kills him, maybe that’d be better than whatever creature opens its eyes inside of Megumi now. Something that wants more and more, wants to be closer, desires spilling from it’s maw like the blood that falls from Megumi’s lips.

He drifts off, warm, sated, taken care of.

(Loved, if he knew, if he’d speak up).

When he wakes in the middle of the night, the screen is blue and soft. Somehow, the three of you had slid down, head to pillows, curled up beneath the covers. He can feel you pressed to his back, and can feel Yuuji on the other side of you.

Megumi should slip out now, leave while you’re both asleep, none the wiser.

But how could he leave now? When he’s had a taste?

He thought he’d be able to live in your outskirts, in the peripheral, on the other side of the wall, but now that he’s had something more–even just a little more, a fraction of what he could’ve had–he has no idea how he’s supposed to live with anything less.

(He can’t actually, won’t–)

He does something horrible, something selfish.

He turns over carefully to face you, inches closer, presses along the soft lines of your body. He feels Yuuji’s leg thrown over yours, feels limb and skin, feels love and fondness stuck along his ribcage.

He eases his arm over you, let’s his hand lay on Yuuji’s side, cocooning you between them. Your breath is soft against the hollow of his throat.

He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines he gets to do this every night. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breath from trembling.

Tomorrow he’ll blame it on sleep, he’ll deny with a red face or choke out apologies.

But tonight he holds you, tangles his legs with Yuuji’s, with his heart slamming in the crux of his chest.

(Tomorrow will feel painfully normal. Neither you nor Yuuji will say anything about waking up intertwined. Yuuji will offer to make breakfast. The morning will be slow, birds singing, the sun honey sweet.)

But tonight he takes what he can, a shadow stealing over you both.

(Tomorrow you will wake him with careful fingers.)

But tonight, unknown to him, you’ll lie awake, too, knowing what Megumi’s done, lying beneath his arm, with your own heart slamming in the crux of your chest and your eyes wide open in the dark.

***

Megumi gets so sick that he can’t leave the bathroom. He stays by the tub of the shower, hacking and throwing up into its porcelain, letting long stems rip their way through his poor, fragile body. He’s feverish, body aching, chilled despite the high summer.

It’s Nobara who finds him and this ghastly sight, the tub covered in the gore of his love, bluebells strewn around like a bloody flower shop.

She swears low, yells at him a little for not calling her sooner. He must look miserable enough that she stops mid-rant to get him towels. To get him water and ice. She tries to take care of him.

She rinses off the tub when he settles down enough to drink water, to suck on ice.

But he inevitably starts again, woozy and delirious, clawing at his throat as bundles of flowers spew from his raw lips.

When his body isn’t trying to kill him, he let’s Nobara actually coddle him. She’s scared, he can tell. Scared enough to cradle him to her chest, to brush hair damp with sweat away from his face.

She keeps asking, “should I get Maki? Should I get Shoko?”

Who can help you? She seems to beg him and all he can do is shake his head.

Eventually, she says, “you have to tell them.”

“No,” he croaks, “I can’t.”

“You have to, or I’ll get Shoko and she’ll remove it–”

“Please, no– I don’t– I can’t.”

Nobara’s hold on him turns a little sharp, “you’ll die if you don’t do something.”

Her voice is vicious, but she’s squeezing him tight.

He feels nauseous, delirious, and weak. He feels the pressure of tears burn and ache in his head, “they’re so happy.” He gets out, choked and rough.

“Fushiguro–”

“I can’t ruin it for them– please, I can’t, I can’t–” he babbles, gasping out as a sob wracks through his body. Pain floods him. Tears start to drip down onto the slope of his nose, the curves of his cheeks, falling away into the fabric of Nobara’s shirt.

He turns away from her to sob again, knowing that something is going to come up.

Blood and petals and mucus rush hot up his throat. It splashes into the tub. Nobara winces, but she's still there beside him.

She pushes his hair away from his feverish forehead and when he calms again, sucking in ragged breaths, she says, “you need to tell them.”

His head falls to rest on the cool lip, shudders as he feels roots seem to spread and push through the tender parts of his organs, like they’re winding around inside him, searching for more purchase, more claim. He has no idea how large the plant inside him would be, wonders if it takes up all the space it can in the pits of his stomach.

He knows, he just can’t get the words to come out, tongue thick and heavy with the taste of earth and bluebells.

***

Megumi doesn’t know it, but after he’d left Yuuji’s bed, there’d been a long, long talk between you and Yuuji.

A conclusion found like a missing puzzle piece, a lost key to a lock, to the room beyond. No more walls and shut doors. No longer locked out.

It feels delicate, like the crush of petals, like the look on your face when you watch him.

***

Megumi becomes so weak that he can hardly get out of bed. He flutters in and out of tormented sleep, all he sees is you behind his eyes, a wash of Yuuji in his dreams. Periwinkle blue and zinging orange, the soft bloom of a beating heart. A meandering bee that hums a buzzing tune only he knows. The embrace of an ocean willing to welcome him home.

When you both come to him, he doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or not. You lean over his bed to press your palm to his face, check his fever.

“He’s burning up,” you turn to say to Yuuji, who says something Megumi doesn’t catch, before he eases away to fetch something.

You sit on the edge of his bed and rest your palm along his cheek.

Megumi says your name, child-soft, pushing his face into your palm.

“Hey,” you murmur, your smile is sad–he hates that he’s made you sad. “Yuuji’s getting you ice and then he’s going to get Shoko.”

Megumi shakes his head a little, “no, I’m fine–”

“Megumi, we know you’re not.” You hush and something about it pulls at a precarious part of him. He goes very, very still.

“We’re worried about you,” you continue, your thumb rubbing gently at the plain of his cheek.

He thinks his chest is heaving, rattling for air like an old car trying to start.

His heart is in no better shape.

Yuuji comes back to your side with a cup of ice chips. He sits beside you on the bed. His tawny eyes are softened when they fall on him.

“I have to tell you something,” Megumi blurts out and it feels like needles in his throat, in his chest, a ball of nails. A curse’s teeth in his jugular.

“Okay,” you encourage gently.

But the moment he’s presented with the opportunity, he wants to clam up and hide. He wants to waste away. He wants to throw up–

“It’s alright,” Yuuji urges, “you can tell us anything.”

Megumi doesn’t know when he started to cry, but suddenly you’re cooing, and brushing away his tears, “hey, don’t cry–please, don’t cry, Megumi. Why are you crying?”

And he finally lets go of that held breath, let’s it out of him in a terrified exhale, speaks what was unspoken;

“Because I love you– because I’m in love with you.”

He doesn’t know which one of you he says it to. The words leave his lips jumbled and broken, ripped from his throat like a bad curse.

He feels his insides tighten up, shudder and move, grow or shrink, nearly strangle him out in the silence that follows. They’ve finally been freed from his mouth, shuddered to life and given wings to circle around his head like crows, to fall like shooting stars.

And there it is.

He’s finally said it, ruined it all, ruined everything–

For a moment, there's quietness, stillness. Megumi can hear the thunder of his heart, can feel the tightening of fear that squeezes at his lungs.

But then you lurch forward and crush your lips to his in a kiss that is more of a desperate confessional.

You must taste blood. You must smell bluebells.

His eyes go wide and he twists his head to get away from you, to look at Yuuji.

Who doesn’t look surprised or hurt or angry.

“I–I don’t understand.”

“I love you, too.” You hush, eyes flying over his face.

But Megumi’s eyes are on Yuuji’s, prying, desperate for his response, “I can’t–”

“Relax, Fushiguro, it’s okay.”

“No it isn’t,” Megumi almost pleads, “you love her–you love her and you’re happy. I don’t want to–”

“Yeah, I do. I am.” Yuuji agrees and for a horrifying, terrible moment, Megumi thinks that Yuuji is giving you up for him. Megumi knew it would happen– he knew it, which is why he didn’t want to speak it aloud. He knew Yuuji would be that selfless, and would give up all that makes him happy to save him. Yuuji would give up love to let Megumi have it. And if there’s anyone in the world that deserves love, it’s Yuuji. Megumi’s stomach turns over, he’s about to protest, but Yuuji stops him, “but it’s okay. I can love you, too, can’t I?”

His voice is tentative, almost shy, but the tension in Megumi’s body finally gives way. It dissolves like honey in hot water, slow and easy. Something unfurls inside of him, but this time it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t come with blood and pain and fear. There’s nothing there except the bloom of love—

To love and be loved back.

“Don’t cry, Megumi,” you hush, but he thinks you might be crying, too. He can’t see through the blur of his own tears, but can feel you messily trying to brush them away, smearing damp and soft onto his cheeks. “We love you, we love you—“

Megumi sniffles, rubs at his eyes a little, and feels the curl of his damp lashes sticking together. He wants to say it again, but all he can manage is to push into your palm, turn his face like a flower to the sun.

There’s the crinkle of a cup that breaks the seriousness, Yuuji’s sheepish laugh. Yours followed. Fondness tightens around Megumi’s heart.

“I should still go get Shoko,” he says, “and you should take these.”

He offers the cup of ice to Megumi and you pull away fractionally to allow him to take it.

But Megumi grabs Yuuji’s wrist before he can get up, “I don’t need Shoko anymore.”

“Megumi, you’ve been sick for too long—“ you respond.

“It was—it was hanahaki disease.”

You and Yuuji both go perfectly still.

“I’ll be okay now.”

You throw your arms around Megumi’s neck hard enough to knock back into his bed, crying, getting out something about, “why didn’t you tell us? What were you thinking? You could’ve died—“

Yuuji urges you away a little, “hey, easy with him.”

“‘M okay.” Megumi murmurs into your temple, glancing up at Yuuji. “I’m okay.”

And he is. He’s okay. He lets out a shaking breath, he curls an arm around you.

There’s plenty to discuss and smooth out, questions he desperately wants to ask, but it’s not the night for that. You and Yuuji take care of him, bustle around him, and lay beside him, curling around him in a way he thought he’d never know.

He falls asleep between both of you that night, tucked into his bed, warm bare skin to his to soothe his heart. Yuuji’s arm, heavy and comforting, is thrown over his middle. He can feel his breaths at the nape of neck, his quiet snores. You’re curled against his chest, tucked into the crooks of his body.

Tomorrow will feel painfully normal.

Megumi will feel the best he’s felt in a long time.

Yuuji will make him a big breakfast.

You will brew his coffee how he likes it.

But tonight, he can kiss the crown of your head, or tangle his fingers in Yuuji’s hair.

But tonight, his heart will quiet in the crux of his chest.

And you will dot kisses there, like you’re trying to soothe what’s left inside him.

Tomorrow will come with questions.

But tonight he will hold you and be held, twin touches that make him ache with the start of healing.

***

Megumi takes wobbling, baby steps with you and Yuuji. The three of you ease into a new form of a relationship. He’s overly tentative at first, terrified that he’ll cross a line, but you and Yuuji are adamant and overeager, showering him with attention and affection.

It takes some getting used to, being allowed to kiss you, to touch Yuuji. He’s almost apprehensive, especially when the kisses turn open mouthed and heated, when he feels like he can hardly catch his breath.

Usually he shies away from anything too heavy, careful with his touch, only skimming your waist. The back of Yuuji’s neck. Not because he doesn’t want either of you, but maybe because he’s terrified of how badly he wants.

His desire feels like a tremendous thing still, so bad it almost killed him.

He denies himself what he wants the way an acolyte might fast, out of respect or reverence or a display of control or dedication. Maybe it’s edged with masochism, a bowing to all that is greater, brow to the floor at the feet of love.

You’re eager tonight, though, playful in a way that’s making his head spin, rolling around in bed with him and Yuuji. Megumi tries to keep his cool, but it’s hard when you’re settling the weight of your thighs into his lap, when you’re twining your arms around his neck.

Yuuji fits himself close behind you, tucks his face into your neck and Megumi feels the tips of his ears go bright red as he watches Yuuji scatter wet, little kisses to the skin there.

You catch Megumi in a kiss, keening a little and pulling away fractionally to yelp when Yuuji bites a little too hard.

“Sorry,” Yuuji says with his smile curving around the bend of your shoulder, though he doesn’t seem very sorry at all.

He does lay another kiss over the stinging mark, as a real apology.

You dip into another kiss with Megumi and he lets his palms, wide and rough, travel along your ribcage. His fingers bump into Yuuji’s, sliding into them, brushing over them. You make another little noise, but this time, it’s more of a hum, and he thinks it has something to do with the touch of his tongue to yours.

Your hips squirm fractionally.

And he’s gotta be careful because if you press down any harder, settle heavier into his lap, you’ll feel–

He pulls away, feeling his cheeks light up, turn hot and rosy.

“A little kissing got you flustered, Fushiguro?” Yuuji asks, almost too pleasantly.

“Shut up,” Megumi mutters, feeling his face just get impossibly warmer.

“Leave ‘m alone, Yuuji.” You hush, kissing at his pinkened cheeks. You nudge your nose to his gently, “do you want to keep going?”

Megumi’s heart rabbits in his chest, fingers tightening fractionally around your waist, around one of Yuuji’s fingers. Of course he wants to keep going, he wants you so bad that he’d been sick with it.

“If you want–if it ‘s okay.” Megumi finally exhales, feeling the shaky breath that comes out against the curve of your jaw as he noses there.

“Yeah,” you sigh, the sound turning soft as his lips drift down to the line of your neck. Yuuji is on your other side. You squirm again when Megumi skims teeth to tender skin, leaving a sucking kiss there that he hopes creates a mark. He’s certain Yuuji’s already left a few, and feels the need to catch up. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Your hands sink into Megumi’s hair, tugging lightly to get him to tip his head back, to offer his lips up to you for another kiss. Yuuji’s hands are moving again, one squirming beneath your shirt, easing it up. Megumi’s fingers skim the bare skin of your back. You let yourself sink heavier into this kiss, put weight into it, hips twitching into his–

He feels your gasp more than he hears it.

And he’s been embarrassingly hard since you started kissing him with a little more intention, feels a prickly heat arc through him, knowing his lust is obvious to you now.

You grind down harder and Megumi can’t help the groan that leaves him, feels his flush worsen, almost feels like he wants to hide. He could tuck his face to your shoulder, bury his face in your neck. But then Yuuji’s caught on, and his hands guide your waist into rocking against Megumi’s again.

He pulls away from the kiss breathless.

Megumi can feel Yuuji push closer to your back, eager, nose nudging at your cheek, “‘s he hard?”

Megumi’s ears go red, too.

Yuuji’s hands snake around your ribcage to the front, though, forcing you into an arch as they glide up to your breasts. He cups them with rough fingers. Your shirt is bunched up around his wrists.

“Yuuji!” You gasp in what was supposed to be admonishment for the blunt question, but then tapers off into a mewl as Megumi watches Yuuji’s thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric of your bra.

Megumi swallows hard. He pulls away fractionally if only to watch, fixated, with the way Yuuji’s hands cup and squeeze at you.

“Hey, Fushiguro, get her shirt off,” Yuuji says and his voice is a little rougher, a little more wrecked.

Megumi blinks like he’s coming back to reality, then nods dumbly, reaching with careful fingers to pull at your shirt, slip it right off and toss it away. And then Yuuji’s hands are dipping within the cups of your bra and you’re keening. And Megumi’s still in awe, still tracing the curves of your body, wondering how soft you must feel in Yuuji’s hands.

“You can touch her,” Yuuji suddenly says and his eyes are on Megumi’s face, the raw desire written there. And then, “here,” he mumbles, hands disappearing for a moment to fiddle with your bra clasp, to unhook it, let it fall forward before discarding that, too. And then his hands are back, cupping and palming and squeezing at you.

“I know,” Megumi mutters, even if he’s a little too mesmerized.

“You should really stop denying yourself, Fushiguro.” Yuuji adds, tweaking the peak of your breast with calloused fingers.

Megumi glares at Yuuji, despite having pink, pink cheeks, and the little embarrassed huff he gives. Yuuji’s returning smile is dopey, a little love struck.

“C’mon,” Yuuji urges.

And Megumi finally dips forward, laying open mouthed kisses to your throat, to your chest. Down, lower, and then Yuuji’s moving one of his big hands out of the way, cupping beneath to let Megumi’s warm mouth encase your budded nipple.

Your moan strikes him like lightning.

Yuuji hisses through his teeth and Megumi can feel the brush of his thumb along his jaw, before his hand disappears into his hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting him suck and lave his tongue over you.

From the corner of his eyes, Megumi sees Yuuji pinch and tweak your other breast, hears your squeak, the way you jerk in their holds on you.

When he pulls away to switch to the other, his lips brush Yuuji’s fingers. Warm against rough skin. Your head tips back onto Yuuji’s shoulder, eyes fluttering. Megumi already feels dizzy as he latches onto your other nipple.

And he realizes he wants more, wants to go lower, wants you further spread out for him, he wants to take and taste and learn you in this way. Wants to learn Yuuji, too–

He pulls away from your tit to look up at you, at Yuuji’s face over your shoulder, desperately trying to watch. “Can I–” Megumi licks his lips, his voice raspy and soft, trying to gather his courage, “can I go down on you?”

Your answering moan is soft, a broken little cry. Yuuji’s curse is under his breath, pupils blown wide.

But then he says, “it’s about time,” and sits back, dragging you off of Megumi’s lap and into the cradle of his chest, between his legs, too. It’s almost comical, how quickly Yuuji’s got you laying back onto him, the wildly desperate look in his eyes.

If Megumi didn’t feel as desperate as Yuuji looks, he’d say something. Maybe he’d try to be smart.

But then Yuuji’s saying, “lift your hips for him.”

And just like the way they always work together, at each other’s sides, Megumi knows what he wants. He hooks his lean fingers in your shorts, takes your panties with them in one go, sliding them away slowly.

Both he and Yuuji watch with parted lips as your panties cling to the sweet shape of you before coming away, obviously damp.

“No fair,” Yuuji actually whines, hands squeezing at your waist, one coming down to pry your plush thigh open. He hitches it over his own leg, keeping you spread, even when you try to reflexively close your legs again, shying away from Megumi’s gaze.

“You’ve gotten this for months while I nearly died,” Megumi deadpans, but there’s breathlessness to his voice that doesn’t make it sound as biting, “that’s no fair.”

“You could’ve had it, too! You’re just stubborn!” Yuuji protests, reaching to flick at Megumi’s ear, who swats him away.

Their bickering dies as Megumi settles onto his stomach in front of you, though, pushing at your other thigh gently to open you up further.

“‘Gumi–” you whimper, twisting your face to bury it in Yuuji’s neck.

Megumi kisses lightly at your inner thigh, just fluttering lips to warm skin. He peers up at you through his long lashes, blue eyes alight, “this okay?”

“Yeah, ‘ts okay,” you get out, peeking down at him, your chest already heaving, eyes warm with need, brows tugging in at the corners like you might already cry. Megumi has to bite back a moan, has to fasten his lips to the curve of your thigh, and try to suck a mark into your skin there, too.

“She’s fine but you’re taking too long,” Yuuji huffs, hand traveling down the length of your body. He eases his fingers over your stomach, coming to rest in front of Megumi’s face–

Gently, Yuuji slides his fingers through your folds, parting you, letting Megumi look. You give an embarrassed whine of Yuuji’s name, but then Yuuji’s finger slips down, shallowly pressing into you, only to drag it back out. His finger glistens and you arch into his touch, tilting your hips up for Megumi.

“C’mon, Fushiguro,” Yuuji murmurs, making more of a mess, slicking his fingers through you, making it obvious just how wet you are.

“M-move your fingers,” Megumi tells him, but there’s no bite to it, once more mesmerized with the way Yuuji is touching you, playing with you. There’s something about the way he touches you–he somehow makes it dirtier than it needs to be, messy and overeager.

Instead of doing as he’s told, Yuuji just eases your folds apart with two fingers again and Megumi doesn’t need to be told twice–

His head dips forward, nose nudging at you, tongue sliding out to kitten lick at you, tentative and slow. But once he’s got his first taste, he groans, shimmying closer, pulling you down a little towards the warm clutch of his mouth.

He’s aching, hips pushing into the mattress desperately, cheeks flushed high, eyes glassy as he looks back up at you and Yuuji through his dark lashes.

His tongue brushes up against Yuuji’s fingers, getting bolder with every pass, making it slicker and wetter. Yuuji groans when they lock eyes, fingers twitching, moving over you, against Megumi’s tongue.

It’s a mess of fingers and spit and soft tongue and dewy folds. Megumi’s groaning softly, more than he realizes, right up against you. Yuuji presses his fingers into Megumi’s mouth, against his tongue. He pulls them away only to let Megumi suck on them for a moment.

You moan softly at the sight, your hand tangling in Megumi’s hair, watching as Yuuji’s fingers come away from his lips spit slick, a string of it shining as it passes between them, before falling away.

“Spit for me,” Yuuji gets out, voice gone, rough and hushed. His fingers are back over your clit, swollen and tender and Megumi feels his stomach swoop. He pushes his hips into the bed again, desperate for relief, trying to keep back his own whine.

But he let’s a slow glob of spit fall from his kiss-stung lips to your clit, to Yuuji’s fingers, who groans behind clenched teeth, before rubbing it in slow and easy.

Your moan is loud, almost teetering into a sob. Megumi sets lips and tongue back to you, lapping at you while Yuuji’s fingers work on you.

“Getting close, pretty girl?” Yuuji asks, nose nudging against your cheek, “gonna cum for him? All over his face?”

“Yeah–” you whine, hips desperately pushing towards his mouth, towards Yuuji’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Yuuji encourages, “yeah, c’mon–” and then his other hand tangles in the hair at the nape of Megumi’s neck, tightening, making him moan, making his cheeks flush, but forcing him to look up at the two of you. His voice is raspy, almost winded, “Hey, watch–watch her.”

And he’s so fucking glad he listens to Yuuji for once.

You fall apart so prettily, all bare against Yuuji, head thrown back, hair in your face, shivering and whining. Megumi hears himself groan, feels it rip up through his chest, doesn’t slow, lapping and sucking at you. At Yuuji’s fingers.

“Can you feel her?” Yuuji asks and Megumi’s response is groaned out against you, nodding dumbly as you throb beneath his tongue, as Yuuji curses softly.

You try to get away, squirming, pushing at Megumi’s head, but he doesn’t slow.

“Hold her for me,” Megumi grunts and Yuuji’s hand slips away, hooking in your other leg, tightening up and pulling you apart. You cry out, just as Megumi glances up at you, up the line of your body, your heaving chest. His eyes land on yours, like dark blue moons as he drops another faint kiss to you, and then murmurs, “I want one more.”

“I-I don’t–”

“You can give him one more, can’t you, baby?” Yuuji asks, squeezing at your thighs.

Whatever you’re about to say is cut off as Megumi flattens his tongue against you again, as Yuuji swallows your sharp cry with a kiss. Megumi watches from beneath his lashes, watches the sliver of Yuuji’s tongue, the way you can hardly kiss back.

He doubles his efforts, feels you shake, thighs trembling in Yuuji’s hold. He feels like a man starved, feels like whatever desires he’d had so carefully controlled inside of him have come roaring forwards, ripping through him.

He shuts his eyes and gives in to it, rocks his hips onto the bed as he works on bringing you to another peak, as he feels Yuuji’s hand in his hair, guiding his head in messy passes of his lips over your center. He musses his hair, tangles his fingers in it, moans shamelessly when Megumi glances up at him with shining lips and chin.

Your second peak is strong enough that Yuuji has to actively tighten his hold on you to keep you in place, and has to force you to squirm and buck against his chest. It has you keening, tears pricking at your eyes, one escaping to swim down the slope of your cheek.

Megumi finally picks his head up from between your legs, lips shining and slick with you still.

“C’mere,” Yuuji mutters, reaching for him, “kiss me.”

Megumi moves without thinking.

Their kiss is a rough clash over your shoulder, jostling you. Yuuji kisses open mouthed and sloppy, forcing a low noise out of Megumi. Yuuji’s rougher with him than he is with you, can feel the clank of their teeth together, clumsy, and desperate. He can feel the crush of heat, feel his head thick and cloudy with everything.

When they pull away, Yuuji is settling back against you, letting his hand fall away from Megumi’s neck.

You’re already boneless and dazed, blinking away tears, when Yuuji says, “I hope you’re not tired already.” he nudges at your jaw to press sloppy kisses there, “because we’re just getting started.”

You reach out for Megumi and he leans towards you, letting you slip your arms around his neck, twining your fingers through his silky hair. He lifts you from Yuuji’s chest and into his lap, his arms curling around your waist. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, his nose brushing against yours as he glances over you.

You nod, but you’ve got a dreamy look in your eyes now, half-lidded and warm as you gaze at him. It’s all love, soft as you reply, “‘m okay. You want to keep going?”

Now Megumi nods, swallowing hard, letting out a shaking breath, “yeah, I really want to keep going.”

“Then you should get your clothes off,” Yuuji pipes up, with his shirt already off, lost somewhere on the floor. He’s all muscle and tanned skin, pale scars lightning across his chest and arms.

Your smile is sweet, eyes glittering with mirth, before your fingers tighten in the fabric of Megumi’s shirt. You begin to pull it up, over his head, where his hair gets staticy and fluffy.

“Lay back,” you tell him, pressing sweet little kisses to his cheeks, his jawline.

He goes down easily, always, for you.

And then you’re sitting atop his lap, bare and pretty, nearly glowing. Your smile is devastating.

You lean over him, scattering kisses over his collar bones, over the lines of his chest. The silvery scars on his own skin get covered in the press of your lips, in all your love.

You ease down the length of his torso, lips dragging, making his muscles jump beneath your touch, before you get to the button of his pants.

Megumi feels as if his poor heart might give out, watching your careful fingers unwork the button, peel away the zipper. You give a noise of surprise, just as Yuuji kneels behind you, fingers slipping through the mess between your legs, now that you’re on your knees in front of Yuuji.

“Can’t help it,” Yuuji mutters, a little too focused on the way his fingers are disappearing in and out of you. Megumi tries to crane his neck, but he can only see the movement of Yuuji’s arm, the slight sway in your hips, the pleasure drunk look on your face.

He helps lift his hips when you finally manage to work his pants down enough, taking the rest of his clothing all in one go. And then he’s bare, in front of you, cock hard and flushed an angry pink.

You inhale sharply, hand coming up to wrap around him and Megumi tries to keep back the eager twitching of his hips. He’s so turned on, so sensitive that he has to fist his hand in the sheets. His chest is already heaving, eyes jumping between you and Yuuji who–

“Yuuji–” you gasp, lurching forward a little, trying to escape his touch, “let Megumi first.”

Megumi’s eyes fly to where Yuuji had been touching you, but now sees that he’d replaced his fingers with the tip of his cock. He can’t quite see still, but he can see the motion of Yuuji’s hips, the way he must nudging against you, slipping through your folds–

Megumi’s teeth click together. He eases up onto his elbows, as if to see.

Yuuji huffs, eyes flicking down to Megumi, lips still parted, almost drooling from the way he’s watching his cock rub against you.

“C’mon, I was patient,” Yuuji gets out, rutting forward a little, dipping into you. Megumi watches you fight the urge to sink into the feeling, watches with held breath as your hand tightens on his cock, as you almost let him ease into you.

But then you jolt away a little, coming to your senses, a soft cry of, “no–’Gumi first.” And then you’re shifting so you’re out of his hold, scrambling to settle yourself back into Megumi’s lap.

His groan is bitten off, feeling you like this, hot and slick against him.

Yuuji’s groan, on the other hand, is in frustration. He still comes up to press up against your back, fit tight to you, be as close as possible “fine, fine–”

He grabs at your jaw, fingers squeezing at your cheeks as he forces your head to tip back, far enough that he can give you an open-mouthed kiss, shiny with spit, before he pulls away, “but you both owe me.”

Megumi’s too focused on the way you settle your weight onto him, the way the heat of your cunt seems to melt onto him, to even bother responding to Yuuji. Your stuttered gasp is so sweet, hips twitching.

Yuuji’s hand fastens around the curve of your waist, guiding you into rolling your hips forward, against him. Megumi watches, fixated, as his cock glides against you, pressed firmly to his stomach, your hands flying out to brace yourself on his shoulders. Your hips roll, rock slowly.

For a moment it’s just heavy breathing, little gasps, the slick sound of your bodies.

Yuuji ups your pace a little, forcing you to bear down more, move faster.

Megumi’s hips buck up, the head of his cock catching on your center–

You moan and the noise Megumi makes almost sounds like a broken growl, his control thinly leashed.

“Condom?” he gets out, just barely keeping himself sane, barely keeping himself from pushing into you.

Yuuji’s snicker is done into the curve of your neck, cheeks flushed, nipping at the skin there.

“Don’t n-need one,” you shudder, lifting your hips a little, reaching down finally to take hold of Megumi’s cock, to line him up to where you’re aching. Megumi is careful to hold perfectly still, to let you do it, to set your own pace–

Yuuji’s hands flex on your waist, though, before he suddenly pulls you down all in one go onto Megumi’s aching cock.

Both of your mouths fall open, hands clutching for each other, as pleasure floods hot and warm inside of Megumi. You’re velvety warm and tight– so tight and–

Your cry is higher pitched, almost a wail. Megumi’s is something from deep within his chest, fingers digging into your thighs, creeping up against Yuuji’s, too.

“There,” Yuuji murmurs, lifting your hips only to drop them again, playing around with setting the tempo, watching Megumi’s face twist up into pleasure, watching the way you throw your head back and gasp. “How’s that feel? You like being full, don’t you?” Yuuji urges you a little faster, eyes alight and hungry.

“Yeah—so deep” you gasp, shifting one of your hands to cover Yuuji’s, fitting it along your own body, the other laying flat against Megumi’s stomach for support. “You feel so good,” you mewl, arching as Yuuji forces your hips down, keeping you down on his cock.

Megumi has to bite back a moan that feels terribly pathetic.

Your hips squirm helplessly against Yuuji’s hold, but he’s just so strong–

“Fuck,” Megumi hisses, his own hips flexing upwards–

(You make the cutest, “ah!” sound when he does that.)

“Itadori, let go of her.” Megumi grounds out, his grip on your thighs turning painful.

“I don’t know,” Yuuji says, watching the two of you with a spark in his eyes, all boyishly handsome mischief, all trouble, like he’s just discovered a secret, “I kinda like watching you both squirm.”

“Itadori–” Megumi growls.

“I like when you say my name like that,” he says pleasantly, just before Megumi lurches into sitting up straight. He grabs Yuuji’s jaw tight, squeezes so his lips part and pucker a little. Yuuji’s pupils blow wide and dark. He shifts against your back, squirming in Megumi’s hold. Yuuji’s eyes gloss over with desire, raw and unfiltered before he gives in, uncharacteristically softened, “alright, alright–”

Yuuji lets you go, holding his hands up in defeat, in submission.

Both you and Megumi move at once, desperately, clinging to each other. Yuuji’s hands creep back up your body, fondling your breasts, squeezing at your thighs. He leans away fractionally if only to watch the way Megumi disappears inside you, velvety walls clinging to him with every thrust.

Megumi fastens his lips to your neck, sucks hard, feels your walls clench and flutter around him in a way that makes him groan into your skin.

“She feels so good, doesn't she?” Yuuji asks, eyes still glued to where your bodies are connected, “so wet and tight and hot—“ it’s like he’s imagining you himself now, “I lose my mind whenever I’m inside her.”

Yuuji starts helping lift your hips again when he notices your thighs trembling, “and she’s wanted you so bad—should’ve heard her the other night, made her say your name when she touched herself.”

Megumi’s brain goes perfectly blank for a minute, fingers spasming around your soft skin, eyes suddenly dazed at the thought.

“You said his name, too,” you whimper back, tucking your face into Megumi’s shoulder, crying a little when he bucks up into you sharply. “Ah– fuck, Megumi–”

A breathless laugh bursts from Yuuji, “yeah, just like that– do you want him to come inside you?”

Megumi groans, feeling half out of his mind, stomach flipping, cock throbbing desperately inside of you, “Itadori–shut up. Shut up or I’m going to–”

“Ah, please, please–’m close again.” You gasp, clawing at Megumi’s shoulders.

“Just–hold on–”

Yuuji’s hand squirms between your bodies, finds your slippery, soft clit and works quickly, face flushed as he kisses and mouths at your shoulder. Megumi has to squeeze his eyes shut, can’t watch or he’ll–

“There, that’s it,” Yuuji murmurs the moment your body tightens up, and Megumi can feel you, feel the way you tighten and flutter around him, squeezing so tight. He can feel the way you soak his thighs, can distantly hear the sharp, high pitched little cry you give out.

You’re trembling so bad, but Megumi can’t help himself.

“Fuck,” he spits out, then begins babbling as he thrusts up into you, “you feel so good, f-feel so fucking good–wanted this for so long–”

He only manages a few more hard thrusts up into you before his eyes just about roll into the back of his head, pleasure racing through him like a rushing wave. He forces you down onto his cock and keeps you there as he floods you, hot and sticky and sweet. His hips twitch in aborted thrusts, rocking into you, making more of a mess. He damn near whimpers, clinging tight, feeling desperate and tender.

You slump between him and Yuuji, so limp that Yuuji has to keep you up.

Fondness bursts inside of him the way a ripe fruit might, sweet and slippery, as he watches Yuuji pepper kisses on the top of your head, cooing to you softly. Your hands slip from around Megumi’s shoulders, falling slack. But Megumi buries his face in the crux of your neck, “Okay?” he asks softly, nudging gently at you, hands beginning to move soothingly over you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, a little dreamy, a little in awe, “really okay.”

He catches Yuuji’s eye over your shoulder and for some reason, as if compelled, he tips his head up, offers himself to him, let’s Yuuji kiss him again. Not as rough, his nose nudging into Megumi’s cheek, but still with a needy edge to it, the soft pink of his tongue licking into Megumi’s mouth eagerly.

“I know you’re both exhausted,” Yuuji mumbles against his lips, “but ‘m still really hard.”

Megumi’s cock gives a twitch inside of you and your sleepy eyes flutter open.

“Lay her down,” Megumi murmurs, letting Yuuji shift out of the way so that Megumi can lay you down gently, head cocooned by the pillow. When he sits up, he finally pulls out of you with a hiss of breath, with your little whimper.

Yuuji’s beside him now, watching with bright eyes as cum spills slow and thick from where you’re still fluttering and sensitive.

Megumi gulps.

He swears his blush reaches down to his chest.

Yuuji makes a noise like a wounded animal, somewhere between a whine and a groan.

He settles between your legs again, watching for a moment, before his tongue darts out–

You try to squirm away from him, voice pitched and squeaky when you try and protest, “Yuuji, that’s–” But it tapers off into a moan that almost sounds painful.

Megumi feels heat flood him again, watching Yuuji, hearing him groan into you.

You have tears slipping down your cheeks, tossing your head back onto the pillow and trying to twist away. Megumi’s interest is piqued seeing you so wrecked, but a greater part of him is still tentative and protective, new to all of this.

“I-Itadori, leave her alone,” he rasps, pulling at Yuuji’s muscled shoulder, gripping a little tighter when he doesn’t listen at first.

But after a moment, he pulls himself away, sits back up with his eyes feverish and hair a mess, short tufts of pink sticking up in every direction. His lips are shining and slick with you, with him–

He kisses him again, chest heaving, hands greedy and seeking, reaching down to grasp at Yuuji’s cock. It’s thick and heavy in his hand, making his stomach dip in excitement.

He feels Yuuji’s whine almost more than he hears it, and feels the way his hips buck up eagerly into his fist.

Yuuji pulls himself away, glancing down to watch–

(He likes to watch, Megumi realizes with a start, likes to watch everything happen.)

Megumi looks down, too, nudging Yuuji’s head with his own, before he let’s spit gather behind his lips. He opens his mouth a little, let’s it fall and drip down onto the mauve tip of Yuuji’s cock. He gathers it in his palm, then uses it on the next pump, slicking him up.

Yuuji groans loud and shamelessly.

“‘M not gonna last–I swear I usually last longer than this,” Yuuji pushes his face into the crook of Megumi’s neck, hands gripping him tightly, desperately.

Megumi would say something smart, maybe, if he wasn’t so busy watching his hand move over Yuuji, watching Yuuji fuck into his fist almost feverishly.

He glances at you, notices the way you’ve perked up, propped yourself up onto your elbows to watch them with a dazed look on your face. It’s so raw, so filled with lust and affection and love.

“Fuck, fuck–” Yuuji gasps and Megumi feels his cock spasm, feels it jerk in his hold before his hands grow sticky and warm, his stomach, Yuuji’s stomach, too.

Yuuji slumps against him then and Megumi can’t help but do the same. With his clean hand, he runs it up Yuuji’s flank, just because he can, just to feel Yuuji try and squirm closer.

But after a moment, when their breath is caught, Yuuji perks back up, blinking away the haze a little. He looks at you, at his own body sticky with fluids, and then declares he’s going to get a rag.

It’s damp and warm when Yuuji returns and Megumi expects him to just hand it to him, but Yuuji is adamant about doing it himself. He wipes carefully at Megumi’s hands, forcing Megumi to lay back to wipe at his stomach in delicate swipes, too. And then you, even gentler somehow with where you’re no doubt sore and tender.

The moment you’re clean enough, you curl into Yuuji’s chest and he gathers you into his arms. It looks so natural, the way you hold each other. Endearment races through Megumi.

“Sorry we neglected you,” you murmur into Yuuji’s throat.

Megumi tentatively curls himself around your back, turning onto his side, and when you sigh, he nuzzles closer. His hands are careful around the curves of your ribs.

“I like watching,” Yuuji says happily, kissing at your forehead, hooking his leg over yours, over Megumi’s, too. “Besides, we’ve got all night. And all morning. All of tomorrow, too, really–”

You share a glance over your shoulder with Megumi.

“Do you plan on keeping us in your bed that long?” You ask, burrowing back down into their arms.

“Kinda,” Yuuji smiles all crooked and boyish, “there’s just so much I want to try.”

“Guess it’s gonna be a long night, ‘gumi.” You say and though Megumi can’t quite see it, he can hear the smile in your voice.

“All nighter?” Yuuji asks with a wiggle of his brows.

“All nighter?” Megumi finally speaks up, shocked.

“No, Megumi gets grouchy if he doesn’t get a lot of sleep.” You say cheekily.

Megumi pinches at your side. You yelp, before it blossoms into the sweetest laugh. Megumi can’t help but melt with it, softening the way Yuuji does at the sound.

“I don’t get grouchy,” Megumu mumbles into the sweet curve of your shoulder, his lips are just a petal soft brush against your skin.

You and Yuuji both laugh now, and can feel it reverberate from you to him, all along his chest, feel it settle deep into the healed parts of his tender insides. Sink into his bones, twine with the finally calm drum of his heart.

The evening gives way to sweet night, warm and balmy, the moon a gentle curve in the sky outside the window.

He gets messy again, makes a mess, too. He’s going to be sore, knows you probably won’t be able to walk well tomorrow. Yuuji’s got a bite mark so deep he wonders if he should put a bandaid over it.

But it’s all love, pressed into each other, sewed along the scars and the crooks of bodies.

It’s all love, showered over him the way rain falls on flowers.

And he blossoms, blooms into it with the reverence and humility of a man finally fed after being starved.

He blossoms the way bluebells do, sweet and slow and enduring.

***

It’s too hot to be lugging boxes heavier than him up an impossible flight of stairs.

“Itadori, hurry up!” Nobara snaps, clinging desperately to a box that is rapidly slipping from her grip.

“Do you want me to drop this box?” Yuuji snaps back, taking another painstakingly slow step up the stairs with a box that is certainly heavier and broader than Yuuji by far. It’s a miracle he hasn’t slipped back down the stairs or dropped it.

“Well, I’m gonna drop this one if you don’t move!”

Megumi comes around to help Nobara with the box in her hands, setting the smaller one he’d been carrying down on the landing below them. He’ll come back for it. Right before the box can slip from Nobara’s hands, he’s got the other side of it, helping her lift it.

“Fushiguro, tell your boyfriend to hurry up.”

“Itadori, hurry up.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

There’s more complaints and more struggling as Yuuji finally gets one of the heaviest boxes to the next landing. Megumi walks backwards up the stairs so Nobara won’t complain. They set the box down on top of the bigger one and Megumi eyes the next flight of stairs.

“Did you and Maki have to be on the fifth floor?” Yuuji whines.

You and Maki follow up the rear of the group, smaller boxes in both of your arms. You both ease past the three of them.

“C’mon, guys, one more flight.” You tell them cheerily, heading right on up. Maki follows right after.

The three of them eye you both, eyes twitching as they look at their own, much larger boxes.

It’s a long day of getting everything into their new apartment. But eventually, you all lay sprawled out on the floor, spread out among boxes and furniture that’s been pushed into the apartment but not placed correctly.

It’s a mess and there’s still plenty more to do.

But Megumi thinks they can leave the rest up to Maki and Nobara. It’s their place, anyways. And you and Yuuji look tired, with you leaning against his side and Yuuji spread out like a star-fish on the floor.

“This place is nice,” Yuuji comments, “better than the dorms.” Yuuji throws his hand out towards you and Megumi, “we should get the apartment right next door!”

“No,” Nobara and Maki say in unison.

“Now you guys are just being mean!”

Your snicker is cute, felt against Megumi’s shoulder. You reach out towards Yuuji’s extended hand, creep your fingers into his palm. He tries to snap shut his hand and catch you but you jerk yours away with a laugh. You put your fingers back in his hand tentatively, yelping a little when he catches you and pulls you towards him.

“Can we order takeout?” Yuuji asks the group, pulling at your hand a little more.

“After you move our couch to where we want it,” Maki tells him.

“Why do I have to?” Yuuji whines.

“Because you’ve got that freak strength.” Nobara replies.

Yuuji huffs, “‘m tired.”

You finally heave yourself up, “c’mon, Yuu, we’ll help you.” You’re still holding onto his hand and now give it a little tug to urge him up.

“We’ll?” Megumi asks, quirking a brow at you.

You help pull Yuuji up and then you offer your hand to Megumi, wiggling your fingers at him invitingly.

“Yeah, get up, then we can order food.” You say and Megumi, without even thinking, takes your hand in his. You pull him up, too.

Yuuji doesn’t need your help, but Megumi thinks he likes the principle of it, anyway. He does throw himself down onto the newly moved couch, though, and Nobara yells at him for that, too.

Food is ordered. Boxes are shifted around. Megumi offers the red peppers he won’t eat to Yuuji and you, who take them without a word. It’s painfully natural. Small rituals that he’s already become used to.

And at the end of the night, he heads home with you and Yuuji. You’re tucked up against his side, yawning sleepily. Yuuji wanders a bit ahead. But he turns around frequently to talk, walking backwards as he looks at you two.

He’s got stars in his eyes as he does. And your laughter, your voice, is melodic, carrying up to the night sky. Moonlight has never looked better than on you.

Megumi falls into bed with both of you, exhaling slowly as you roll onto his chest, as Yuuji curls up on his other side. He drags his hand over the curve of your spine, his other disappears into Yuuji’s soft hair.

“Love you,” you mumble, first to Megumi, to the heartbeat at his throat, and then, “love you, Yuuji.”

“Love you, too,” Yuuji slurs, eyes already heavy, lashes fluttering to fall shut peacefully, “you too, Fushiguro.”

Your breathing evens out, breaths soft against his skin.

Megumi feels his own heart soothe and gentle, tempo slowing for easy sleep. He let’s his eyes flutter shut.

Tonight, he is content.

Tomorrow he will be, too, when the birds sing and Yuuji wakes him and the sunshine clings to you all morning.

Tonight, Megumi says into the blue darkness, caressed in shadows, holding and being held;

“I love you, too.”

And one time, when your husband got overly excited with an idea of participating in the games himself, you almost burst from happiness. The idea of this weak, pathetic man, finally gone from your life, sent a shiver of excitement down your spine, although his senatorial position indeed bathed you in luxury.

You glanced over your husband's shoulder, nodding towards the servant to bring in the desserts, for you truly couldn't listen to him any longer.

"Would you like to join, my dear?"

Your brows creased as you tried to remember what exactly he was talking about just a minute before.

Ah, yes. Gladiatorial games.

"You know I'm not quite fond of such a brute, husband."

Morning sun caught lazily on the utensils, bathing the whole, long table in dancing strokes. Warm rays kissed the back of your neck as the ravishing garden, together with a marble pool, spread outside the big windows of your mansion.

"All senators bring their wives; you should join us, too. The fights will be quite exciting this year; we have a lot of good gladiators. I paid lavishly for their training, you'll see."

For a man of such a high position, your husband was quite a fool and dull at that. There was no love in your marriage nor happiness, but you felt quite pleased whenever he was leaving you alone and enjoying his time in yearly festivities, which always included his favourite fights.

He invited you everytime – to join all other senators, chat with their wives and watch how men and animals are killing one another. To wonder at the excitement that such fights always woke in everyone, even in other senators' wives, who usually strolled away from any barbarian events.

And although you truly didn't want to put in your two cents' worth, maybe you indeed should check it at least once. Particularly now that your husband was on a good path towards the promotion and buttering him up would be more than beneficial. Maybe he would stop his embarrassing attempts to fill his marital role and satisfy you during nights, especially since you already gave him two children.

"Mother, can we join too?"

Speak of the devil.

"No, you're still too young–"

But your husband seemed to have another perspective, scoffing under his nose and pointing at your son with a dirty knife. His mouth was full, as he stated. "Of course you may, my son. You too, daughter. You should see those men – they may be slaves, but have the power of a hundred lions! Maybe we should buy one, huh?"

Your son was a copy of your husband, with the same devilish smile and slightly arrogant tone, looking up to his father as if he were an emperor himself. Your daughter, on the other hand, was of a kind sort and rather quiet, always keeping to herself, remind you of your younger days.

And as much as you loved your children, they were your tie. Pulling you down to the miserable life you've led, without any tenderness nor joy. It was rich coming from a person of your class, but the truth was that you craved an adventure for your whole life. Yearned for a fiery romance, awaited some excitement, wished to spend your days outside this lavish mansion, not feeling trapped and strangled by all the riches and life as a noble.

Not to mention that your husband always tried to keep you close by his side, either locking you up in the house or never allowing for any travelling.

Truly miserable, suffocating life you've had.

Until that faithful day, when your whole family finally joined the gladiatoral games.

It was the first day out of the planned month, with spectators already glimmering with excitement and wine cups clutched in their hands. The special lounge for senatorial families was right on the podium, offering the greatest view of the arena. Low and prestigious, with marble seats forged for the noble ones, comfortable and hidden enough to protect their smooth skins from the scorching sun. It was another sizzling day, with your flowy robes giving you some comfort under the merciless rays that wished to drill a hole in your head. White tunic tickled your ankles, uncovered shoulders glimmered in sweat, as your golden bracelets and dangling hairpins moved gracefully with your every step.

Other senators were already there, and you nodded toward them politely, as they completly ignored you and indulged in another dull chat with your husband. Their wives sat on marble benches, chittering between one another and taking little sips of wine, which was waiting for everyone together with a few snacks. You wondered how anyone could eat in such a scenario, as your stomach twisted just from the sheer fact of being here.

The amphitheatre was almost full, with stony seats bending under the excitement of all the spectators and the emperor himself already waiting for the first fighters to appear. The raised box glowed in gentle beams, the emperor's gold laurel reflecting the warm rays of sunshine, as he finally raised his hand.

"It's starting," your husband whispered, squeezing your hand as his eyes glimmered with anticipation. "All gladiators will walk in and present themself to the emperor. Then they'll do some rounds around the arena, so everyone will have a chance to see them from up close."

You had no idea why your husband decided to give you instructions, so nothing but a quiet sigh pushed your lips. The air was heavy and dry, with a dust rising from the scorching sand that filled the arena, as the first fighters stepped in through the metal gate.

All of them wore different armour, helmets, and weapons. Each man of a different height and size, some looking wide as mountains, others rather sicklish, and you wondered whether they would drop out first. You did know, however, that gladiators were divided into various types, with each one trained for something else. Some of them heavily armoured, others not. Some carried a short sword and a round shield, others a scimitar. Ones battling only animals, and the others fighting against one another.

You observed them with little to no interest, rather bored, with sweet wine tickling smoothly down your throat. Your husband sitting at the chair's edge, peeking at the row of fighters parading in front of the emperor's podium, before a loud "Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!" cut through the restless air of the amphitheatre.

Sounded like a death sentence rather than a declaration of a professional fighter, as your husband loved to call them.

You didn't want to belittle them, but the truth was, these men lost their will for glorious fights a long time ago. The moment they were taken away as slaves, stolen from defeated armies and brought back to the foreign lands. Stripped of their dignity, titles, and lives, pushed into brutal entertainment that Romans of all statues loved and cherished.

What was it with such a passion for overwatching the death of others? Why was your husband almost foaming as the fighters started to walk around the arena, getting closer and closer to their sponsors' lounge?

"You see that one?" his fingers showed a masked man with a bronze helmet and face covered by a fishnet. One of his hands carried a big shield, while the other held a sword. "His name is Toji. A beast, truly. I've been sponsoring him for a while, he has never lost a fight."

All fighters moved your way swiftly, their heavy legs raising dusty sand in the air, covering muscular legs up to their knees. He looked massive, indeed like a beast. Towering over other fighters, with sun-kissed skin and nothing but a loose robe hugging his hips. Broad chest glimmered with sweat, and the covered face looked up towards the senator's lounge immediately.

Your husband raised two fingers, already babbling about how he's gonna invite him for a fest tonight. Give a little motivation to win all the other fights, domesticate his own little beast, and bring in more money.

Your eyes scanned the way his muscular legs moved smoothly, arms bulging under the carried weapons, head slightly tilted, as if looking at... you?

Impossible.

A row of men stood in front of senators, another round of applause directed towards their sponsors, as they finally hid back in the amphitheatre's dark tunnels. The first fight would start soon.

"My dear," you mumbled, trying to sound halfhearted. "Who is this man going to fight with?"

Your husband peeked at you with crinkled brows, but also a hint of curiosity, as to why his spoiled wife suddenly took an interest in gladiator fights.

"I'm not sure, probably with the strongest type. He's of a heavily armoured type, thus should compete with a fighter carrying a scimtar and a smaller shield. All of them are quite ferocious, I'm afraid, but Toji never had problems." He looks quite proud, and you hum quietly.

You wanted to ask further, but a sudden melody of a flute sliced through the air, followed by horns and laughter from the spectators, as the first pair walked in. Both looked strikingly different, with one wearing a helmet and a wide, leather belt, bearing a heavy sword in his hand, while the other was armoured in nothing but a metal piece on the left arm, a long spear and a chained fishing net, as if meaning to trap it's oppnent under its trickery hooks.

"Aren't they quite unmatched?" you asked, seeing that one side definitely had a bit of an edge.

Your husband peeked down at your furrowed brows, truly mesmerised by the sudden interest. "Why are you suddenly so curious?"

"You whined that other senators' wives care much more than I," your eyes darted toward the women busied by a chatter, before going back to your husband's quite unhandsome face. "So why the sudden complaint?"

He scoffed, muttering something under his nose, before pointing his finger at the heavily armoured fighter. "You see, he's the secutor. Or pursuer, as you will see based on his attacking style. He indeed has a bit more advantage, but if you look at that man," he moved towards the other one. "You'll see that he, in fact, also has quite a benefit. This fishnet is a deadly weapon if used properly. Quite light, but it can trap you within a second. Secutors usually fight against retiariuses, the most lightly armed ones."

You thought that your husband's favourite gladiator looked quite the same to the pursuer, except for the helmet that rather more distinctive than this one.

"Does it mean that Toji will also fight against such a man?"

"Toji was trained as a murmillo, who usually fights against the thracians. They're both quite fierce and heavily armoured, thus the fight will be much harder."

Your husband's words came and went, sounding rather strange and dull, but somehow piqued your interest as you started awaiting the fight of his precious gladiator. What was it about him that got him so excited? Was he truly that good?

Before you could ask another question, the fight started.

It was brutal and raw, with blood spilt in the first ten minutes. The light fishnet indeed trapped the heavy armoured gladiator in its merciless clasp, before his opponent pushed the sharp spear straight into his ribs, cutting through his flesh, turning the fetal head as it slowly turned red, with screams and wailings coming from the defeated fighter.

When the gladiator went down, shrieks of "He's had it! Kill him! Kill him!" moved like a wave through the arena, with the roundness of the amphitheatre letting them become even more piercing, even fiercer. Both nobles and commoners were running their lungs out till the wounded one finally raised a finger of his left hand.

"What is he doing?" you asked, seeing his opponent suddenly stopping in his tracks. No further blows were made, although you thought that the man would be finished right here and now.

"The crowd decides about his life," your husband explained, and a second later, multiple fingers around you were held up.

Some pointed down.

Some sideways.

A few, fewer than the rest, lifted upward in mercy.

The wounded gladiator lay curled upon the sand like a broken animal, the net still tangled around his legs, crimson soaking the pale grains beneath him. His chest rose in ragged bursts, breath whistling through bloodied teeth.

A pause stretched across the amphitheatre, thick with anticipation. Fifty thousand Romans leaned forward as one body.

Then the signal came.

A downward motion of the hand.

The arena erupted in shouts of excitement, with nothing but "Finish him!", slashing through your ears.

The victorious gladiator didn't hesitate for a second, driving the spear down again, this time clean beneath the collarbone. He pierced him like a butcher, and the dying man trembled as a fish, all limbs sprawled on the dirty sand, helmet long gone, with a few strands of hair stuck to bloodshot eyes.

Servants hurried in immediately, hooks dragging the corpse away, while your eyes were still glued to the bloody trail left after the man.

The crowd was already restless for more.

Your husband leaned back with satisfied ease, clapping slowly along with the other senators.

"Good kill," he murmured.

You didn't say anything, but your throat bobbed, and lips suddenly felt too dry, as another pair walked in.

And another. Another. Another.

Until the surface of the giant arena looked rather like a butcher's shop, with crimson trails and puddles, slowly shifting into a gummy clot.

Your husband cheered and clapped after every fight, and your son followed his steps, laughing as if proudly upon seeing another body getting removed from the arena.

But then your attention had drifted.

The gates beneath the arena floor groaned open again, iron chains rattling like distant thunder. A horn sounded, long and low, calling for the next combatants.

And when he stepped into the light, the entire amphitheatre shifted.

Even before the herald shouted his name.

Toji.

He walked onto the sand like something dragged from the wild places of the earth – a beast, soldier, warrior. A man.

Taller than most fighters by a full head, shoulders broad enough to shame a bull, his body carried the kind of brutal strength no training yard could fully tame.

Sunkissed skin gleamed under the Mediterranean sun, every movement pulling thick ropes of muscles beneath it. You've heard he served in the army before they took him as a slave, which would explain the old scars slashing his back and torso – deep, white lines mapping his skin, carved like in a marble Godly figures.

You've noticed a slight change in his armour, compared to one presented before.

A leather belt bound his waist, single cloth covering the shameful parts, a single iron guard lapping his arm and a greave clasped around his left leg. The rest of him was bare, unapologetically exposed, as if sculpted by Gods themselves.

His weapon rested easily in his hand, a short and thick sword, built for killing at arm’s length.

But it was not the blade that made the crowd go mute.

It was the way he moved.

Slow. Controlled.

Like a predator, with a damp helmet sitting heavily on his thick neck. You wondered what secrets it held beneath. How did his eyes look as he moved his head towards your lounge, a single movement which sent a shiver down your spine.

Around you, whispers spread through the senators' seats like sparks through dry straw.

"That’s him."

"The undefeated one."

"The barbarian."

Your husband looked like a child who had just got a new toy. His whole body moved forward, hands gripping the armrest of the marble seats. A visible shiver of excitement went through his body, and it seemed as if it touched you too. Your heart suddenly felt heavier, as if burdened by the anticipation of seeing what the beastly man in front of you was able to. To see his muscular arms at work, sword piercing through his opponent's chest, before he could take the helmet off and finally, finally, let you see those eyes that felt as if glued to your cunning figure.

Toji rolled his shoulders once, the movement sending a ripple through his massive frame. Sand shifted beneath his bare feet as he stepped toward the centre of the arena.

Across from him, the next opponent emerged – armoured, shielded, disciplined.

A proper Roman fighter.

The horn sounded again.

And for the first time since the games began, the amphitheatre fell almost silent.

Because the fight was fast.

Maybe too fast, with his oponent chargin forwards right after the last melody of the horn fell flat, getting hit by a Toji just a minute later. They exchanged a few parries, blows, dodging and trying to find each other's openings, before Toji finally did it. His sword flashed, and a wet sound followed, with a blade biting deep into the man's thigh, slicing through his flesh and muscles with ruthless efficiency. Blood gushed down the golden grains, soaking the pale arena sand.

His rival was of similar posture, but nevertheless a bit shorter with rather less defined muscles, now collapsing beneath the blazing sun with a strangled cry. His fingers clawed at the dust, trying to drag himself upright, before Toji kicked his chest without a sweat.

For a moment, both of them simply looked at one another. A peaceful second of silence, right as his opponent grabbed a fistful of sand, as if hoping the earth itself would drag Toji down into limbo.

And before he could give him a final blow, strike with this unwavered confidence, gauge stubborn eyes that burned through Toji's skull, the man raised his finger.

Appeal for mercy.

The crowd erupted immediately.

Some shouted for death.

Others laughed, already drunk on violence.

Your husband leaned forward slightly, his lips curling with amusement as the editor of the games waited for the verdict of the arena.

Thousands of hands moved, with an air quickly shifting under the heavy motion, as if the gentle wind itself suddenly changed the pacing, swirling around the bare fingers.

And once again, the signal came.

Downward.

Toji didn't hesitate, plunging the sword clean beneath the ribs, swift and quite merciful compared to the chaos of the fight. The defeated gladiator exhaled sharply, his body stiffening, jolting, a trace of blood spilling from his lips, before he collapsed lifeless against the relentless sand.

A roar exploded through the amphitheatre.

Toji pulled the blade free, wiping it against the fallen man’s tunic before raising it briefly toward the stands in acknowledgment of the crowd.

Blood streaked his forearm, glistening under the Roman sun.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze lifted higher than the arena floor.

Towards the noble seats.

Towards you.

And though the distance was great, something was unsettling in the tilt of his head, a tremble of his chest, as if he pushed out a strangled laugh.

You looked at him for a while, with squinted eyes and a white tunic suddenly feeling a bit too tight around your chest. Droplets of sweat trickling down the velvet skin of your neck, heart fluttering as you looked from above at the man, who suddenly woke in you a sense of rush you haven't felt for a long time.

⟡⟡⟡

Your husband's message was clear – Toji must join the feast. The man blabbered all the way back to the mansion, already hung with lavish decorations and lit by a trail of gentle torches that decorated the walls and corners of your house. The fest was to be held for the nobility and the start of another fruitful games season, which would bathe your husband in glory for sponsoring such a fine gladiator.

Toji's presence was a mere brag, a showcase of your husband's valuable slave who, in fact, was nothing but just a slave. A chained beast that played as your husband wanted, although from what you've heard, he had already earned his freedom.

"Why is he still fighting, then?"

You've asked, preparing yourself for the feast that was supposed to start in a few hours.

Your husband sat at the terrace of your bedroom, the slowly setting sun basking his grey hair in gentle strokes of straw hues, with a velvety wine swirling in a held cup.

"No one's waiting for him. Some of these men have nothing but these fights. Toji gets the roof and the glory for merely doing what he's best at. You think a life of an solider was any better?"

You didn't know, because you've never had a chance to talk to another man. A gladiator or a soldier, at that. You were nobody but a pretty, youthful wife, spending her days on strolls around the garden and chatting with noblewomen, till you wished for nothing else but to slit your throat and finally die in peace.

The mansion you hated so much was your only playground, and you knew its walls as the back of your hand. Every polished nook, every secret room, far from the prying eyes of your servants. With bold dreams to leave it one day and see the world beyond these creamy walls and single trips to the city, with your husband's hand always glued to the curve of your back.

So no, you didn't really have a chance to think about the lives of soldiers.

You glanced at the mirror, smoothing the bluish folds of your dress. It was simple, yet cunning in its grace, brushing softly against your ankles as you moved, the fabric whispering with every careful step. It clung sweetly to the curve of your waist and plush breasts, the low neckline revealing the delicate stretch of collarbones and softness of your skin, glowing faintly beneath the last warm rays of sunshine.

A long band of golden cloth wrapped around your middle, accentuating the dip of your waist before falling in loose folds to your knees, swaying like liquid sunlight with every smooth step of your feet. The contrast of blue waves and golden grain made you appear almost celestial – like a goddess stepping down from a painted myth.

Hair fell gently over the shoulder as the first guests started to appear. Eyes of men glued to the glow of your skin, women blushing gently under the stern smile that turned your lips.

Oh, how gorgeous the senator's wife was, with this sweet touch of perfume that lingered around you, almost as if a lush garden bloomed right under your silky skin.

You walked around the main room, greeting certain nobles – senators, aristocrats, other sponsors, who, similar to your husband, put their money in this year's games.

Dress skimmed your skin as you observed the banquet growing louder, bustier, with more and more people filling the walls of your mansion, already laughing drunkenly and glimmering with excitement for the next fights.

You stood next to your husband, smiling politely, fingers gripping the wine cup, eyes glued to the front doors, as if waiting for a certain guest to come through them.

And when his burly body finally filled the frame of mahogany doors, your chest faltered.

Dark hair clung to his neck, and sharp, emerald eyes scanned the room with quietness. He stood tall and broad, upper body covered by an iron guard, a red cloak flowing down his muscular shoulders. His hips clutched by an aproan skirt, with a deep crimson cloth grazing his knees. Light brown sandals wrapped around his firm calves, as single straps pushed against the muscles.

"Finally, the man of the hour!" your husband clapped and laughed heartily, pulling you towards the gladiator.

He didn't look like a slave at all, as you expected the chains around his wrists and a whole bunch of soldiers to escort him straight to your mansion. No, he looked rather like a general, a man worthy of all the gossip, standing proud and towering over both you and your husband. His scarred lips turned into a mild smirk before head dipped down to greet the senator.

"Thank you, senator, for the invitation. I'm honoured to be a part of your banquet," his voice was deep and steady, as he straightened up and moved his heavy gaze towards you.

A nymph.

A goddess.

A woman, who must've been born of the sea shell itself, the Venus of Heaven, because a single flatter of your eyes, a gleam of the gold necklace posing softly between your breasts, a swoosh of this ocean's dress that hugged your hips tightly, made this man's knees weak.

And his knees, in fact, were anything but weak.

"Great fight, Toji. You truly have nothing on these men," your husband squeezed his shoulder with laughter before he pointed at you. "Please, meet my wife. It was her first time seeing gladiator fights today. It seems like you've enamoured her!"

It was a mere joke, but a thin line of tension that hung between you and this beastly man suddenly shimmered, as his scarred lips lifted in a sly smile, and your cheeks suddenly felt hottish.

"My lady, I hope I did not disappoint you," he whispered, head once again dipping slightly down. He wished to take your silky hand and kiss it softly, but he was still nothing but a mere slave whose touch was too filthy for a woman of your sort.

"I was anything but disappointed. Quite interesting, I must say, although I do rather condemn the whole idea of these fights."

Your honeyed voice made him tremble – head still dropped, eyes glued to the way your plush thighs moved under the flimsy robes of the dress.

"Does it mean you won't come to tomorrow's fight?"

He straightened back up, once again towering like a bear over your figure. He swore that a golden, divine halo seemed to lick your skin, as he's never seen someone beaming with such loveliness.

Your forehead creased, a gentle furrow appearing between your brows, while he waited for the answer anticipated the most.

"Maybe. Do you plan to win it?"

"If my lady wishes to, I will."

Your husband smiled foolishly for this whole time, as if not feeling the thin thread that seemed to form between you and his slave. Electrifying sparks scuffing your fingers, like electromagnets that hoped to connect your skin together with his.

Before you could grace him with another flatter of your doe eyes, another sentors circled him like ducks, quacking and touching the gladiator's hardened muscles.

Your husband showed him off like a trophy, as you moved away deeper inside the house, trying to hide your flushed cheeks and clear tremble of your breath.

The mansion was alive with noise.

Wine flowed freely, laughter echoing beneath painted ceilings where scenes of gods and heroes stretched across the plaster in fading colors. Lamps flickered along the marble walls, casting warm gold over clusters of senators lounging on cushioned couches, their voices rising louder with every emptied cup.

Servants drifted between them like ghosts – refilling goblets, carrying platters heavy with figs, roasted birds, olives glistening in oil.

You slipped away from it all.

Deeper into the villa, where the air cooled, and the sound of laughters softened into distant murmurs. The corridors here were dimmer, lit only by a few oil lamps resting in bronze holders along the walls. Marble beneath your sandals felt pleasantly cold, grounding the restless warmth still fluttering through your chest.

You paused near an open atrium, with moonlight spilling softly through the square opening in the roof and a small fountain murmuring in the centre. You sat near it, catching the little droplets that swirled between your fingers, down the golden bracelets that clanked with every move of your wrist.

And as you sat there alone, deep in thought, with nothing but a warm Mediterranean wind swirling the soft lock of your hair, you felt it.

Again.

This heavy presence, steps against the stone behind you, a slow pacing before it stopped somewhere in the dimmed corridors.

You turned, seeing Toji standing at the far end of the hall.

Even in the low light, his figure seemed enormous, filling the narrow passage like a shadow carved from muscle and bone. His devilishly handsome face was half-lighted by the warm fire of lamps, black hair stuck to his forehead, sharp chin tilting. He leaned against the marble wall, burly arms crossed on the chest.

"You're missing the feast, my lady," he murmured, eyes skimming your figure bathed in the pale glow of moonlight.

"I prefer quieter places," you turned back to the fountain, hearing him coming a bit closer.

"Not a fan of such gathering?"

A quiet scoff pushed through your lips. "Rather not a fan of my husband."

He chuckled, sitting right next to you on the little marble edge of the fountain. Gaze dipping down to the open neckline of your dress, before tracing up till the flutter of your lashes.

"A damsel in distress, aren't you?" his voice held a soft trace of mockery, and you glanced up at him with a wrinkle.

"My fate may not be as horrific as yours, but it doesn't mean I should be thankful for all the riches."

His head tilted, eyes glimmering with amusement, as scarred lips turned upward again. The emerald eyes lingered on you heavily, and you noticed that your breath hitched when his body moved closer. "You think my fate is horrific?"

"Is it not?"

He chuckled, leaning back on his palms, gaze turned towards the fairy moon. "I don't know, is there anything awaiting a man like me? The deal with your foolish husband is the best I can get. I live in single quarters, train young men in an imperial school to prepare them for games. Maybe I'll get hired out one day as a bodyguard of a wealthy politician, who knows."

Your finger traced the smooth droplets dripping from the fountain, eyes trying to not to outline the veiny forearms he leaned on. "What about a lover?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Lover?"

"A wife," you corrected yourself. "Did you have a wife before being taken as a..." the voice caught in your throat, as if defining him as that would be at least inappropriate.

"A slave," he finished, peeking secretly at the single lock of hair that skimmed your cheek and soft skin kissed by a rosy tint. "I didn't have a time. Was drafted into the army in my twenties, taken as a slave entering my thirties."

Oh, so he was older than you. Much older at that, although you shouldn't be surprised, seeing the mature lines of his handsome face and little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Refined muscles and broad shoulders that seemed to carry centuries of pain, with scars lapping his sun-kissed skin.

"I'm sor–"

That's all you could whisper before a faint sound echoes down the corridor.

Footsteps.

Servants.

Your eyes bulged, mind suddenly clear and overly aware, taking in the closeness between you and the man. His shoulder palm almost grazing your thigh, blush kissing your cheeks in a rather coquetish manner.

And without thinking, you grabbed his arm and pulled him towards one of the chambers used for storing linens and ceremonial fabrics. Toji moved just as quickly, with one hand pushing the door shut behind you, the moment you slipped inside.

Darkness wrapped around the small room, too small for his burly frame, as his body pressed close to yours. The only light came from a thin crack beneath the door, where lamplight from the corridor leaked through.

And suddenly, you realised what was happening.

Dear heavens, what have you done?

Your back was glued to his chest, heavy hand clamped over your lips, as he dipped down, shushing quietly to your ear.

Outside, the servants' voices drifted closer, together with the soft, girly giggles.

"Did you see the gladiator the senator brought? Oh my!" one of them whispered.

Your body stiffened when Toji pressed you harder against the wall, crushing your trembling figure with his heaviness. Iron-clad chest stuck to your back, but you nevertheless felt the warmth that drifted from his body. Sweet, ferocious, manly, licking your skin with flamish tongues, before his other hand landed on your hips, and low shhh once again filled the room.

"He killed that man like a lion," another woman replied with quiet excitement. "Such a brute, but handsome at that! No wonder noblewomen whisper about him."

Toji laughed quietly, but his voice flattened a second later, when your hips brushed against his. Back arched, head tilted, teary eyes squinting slyly, lashes quivering as the curve of your ass touched his front. And a gentle giggle pushed your lips, when you felt something hardening under your plush hips.

"You think someone will buy him?" the first servant asked curiously, as they both crossed the corridor in much slower pace than you wished.

"As a bodyguard?"

"Yes, surely, but a noblewoman could use him to her advantage as well," she sighed. Next words that spilt from her lips shot a tremor through your whole body. "Our lady could surely benefit from some pleasure. Such a sweet dove, but the senator..."

"You mean, they don't bed?" another one asked, while you tried to compose yourself, not to jump from this chamber and shush their mouths.

Toji saw a sudden change in your boldness. Your eyes no longer slyly squinted, but rather filled with a dread and anticipation to hear what else your servants had to say.

And, oh, he was anticipating too, pressing against you even harder, till your blush breasts squished to the marble wall and back arched even more slutily. Long fingers traced the delicate material of your dress, pulling it up up up, till they caught on the bare skin of your hip.

You wriggled, feeling the warmth coiling in your belly and wetness that suddenly trickled down your thighs. The smell of his musky sweat made your head spin, as his fingers slowly, slowly, dipped down to your clothed cunt.

A faint moan drove through your lips, but his heavy hand quickly suppressed it from leaking outside the tight space.

"You need to be silent, my lady. I'm sure you wouldn't wish for your servants to catch you in such an awkward situation?" he chortled, seeing the courteous nod of your head. "Of course you wouldn't," he ducked down, lips slowly tracing the smooth skin of your neck, "You smell fucking amazing, my lady. I'm sure you taste even better," his fingers cupped gently your clothed cunt, already soaked in sticky juices.

"They do bed, but our lady doesn't seem to take the pleasure! If you could only see her face after all these nights, oh my," you heard a faint tsk and could almost imagine her shaking head. "She's the happiest when the senator is away!"

They finally moved to the furthest parts of the villa, faint steps dimmed against the silence that fell upon you two.

No words were spoken, aside from the wet sounds of Toji's lips tracing the trail down your neck. Your breath shuddered, eyes closed, with an arm hooking around his neck. His hard cock pushed against the curve of your ass, fingers tracing the flimsy material of your undergarments, before slipping in slowly, slowly, trailing towards your drenched cunt. A quiet whine tumbled through your lips as pads of his fingers skimmed your pudgy mound, almost dipping long digits in the syrupy heat of your centre.

You wished to scream and cry, feeling the unbearable heat filling your body and the walls of your cunt clamping around nothing with a pulsing pleasure you've never felt before. He didn't even touch you properly, and yet the sheer thought of his hands caressing your body and lips crashing against yours was enough to roll a sharp cry from your throat.

And then–

And then he stopped.

Fingers that almost grazed your pulsing clit suddenly backed out. Muscular chest peeld of your wet back, with single droplets of sweat tracing down your neck. Hand slipped from your plump lips as you quickly turned back, seeing his faintly lit face, twisted in a smirk.

"Why did you–"

"What? What do you want, my lady?" he asked, and your body quickly stiffened.

As if the graveness of the whole situation washed over you only now. Right this second, with his two fingers still wet with your juices and his lips slowly licking them clean.

A low groan escaped his throat as he sucked on the sweetness of your cunt. "You do taste amazing, fucking hell."

"Please..." your voice was faint, doe eyes glued to his face.

"Please, what?" his voice was almost innocent, with a hint of smugness that made a shiver drip down your spine. He wasn't touching you anymore, and yet the heat coming from his body strangled your senses and loosened your tongue.

"Please, touch me," you blurted, thankful that he couldn't see your rosy cheeks. "I want you to touch me."

The space was cramped, but he managed to step closer, looking down at your teary eyes and short breaths from above.

"Are you that touch starved, my lady?"

Oh, you were.

You were so so starved, never reaching an orgasm with your husband, never feeling as desirable as you did during these past few minutes.

But before you could nod and pull him once again by the crimson cloak, he spoke. "Then come tomorrow."

"What?"

His palm cupped your chin gently, thumb pressing slightly on pouted lips, as emerald eyes glanced right into yours. "Come to games, cheer for me. Be my thropy for the won fights."

"You already have thropies and my husband's sponsorship."

He smiled faintly, eyes filled with a strange sense.

Begginess? Longing? Hunger?

"I wish to have nothing but you."

⟡⟡⟡

So you went to see his next game.

And the next one too.

Then the third, the fourth, till every game finished with him slashing the opponent, and you watching him with heated cheeks. With you visiting him secretly after each match, disappearing for those five minutes when your husband was too busy with other senators, and stumbling through the cold walls of Toji's room, kissing, panting, tracing your fingers through his wet scalp.

Five minutes.

Never more.

You never had time for anything else, so every meeting ended up with his leaking cock pushing on your belly, and your long robe sticking to drenched thighs.

You both never had enough.

Never controlled the way your lips moaned each other's names, how sparks flowed through your bodies the second skins touched, how you both always wanted things you couldn't have, as the sheer existence of this romance could make his head roll.

But you couldn't stop this feeling – the thrill, excitement, passion that came from being in his arms, with lips tracing wet trails down your breasts and your muffled moans he obediently swallowed with every kiss.

And one day... you didn't come.

Toji noticed it right away. The moment he stepped onto the sand, walking in through the heavy gate. It had become instinct by then – the first thing he did after the gates opened and the light struck the arena floor. His eyes lifted automatically toward the noble seats, searching the place where the creaminess of your robes usually caught the sun.

It was cold and empty, with only your husband leaning comfortably among the other senators, wine already in hand, clapping with lazy amusement as the fighters took their places below. But the figure that had begun to haunt Toji’s thoughts – the one that always sat just beside him, half-shadowed by silk and gold – was gone.

Then the next game came.

Still no sign of you.

By the third, the absence had begun to gnaw at him like a dull blade under the ribs. His attention wandered in ways it never had before. Strikes came half a second slower, but still heavy. Eyes looking at gushing blood and crimson sand stuck to his feet.

Around him, the amphitheatre screamed its usual hunger for violence, voices echoing like thunder beneath the curved stone.

But Toji barely heard it.

He looked again towards the seats.

Empty.

And then a thought came. A wild one, stupid, of a sort that would earn your mouthful and a gentle jab to his ribs. Yet it was persistent.

If you weren't here, perhaps it meant you couldn't come. Weren't allowed to, maybe?

And if that was true–

Your husband would notice.

Your husband would talk.

Romans loved stories of wounded champions, especially ones that brought heavy money and glory.

So when the next opponent lunged, Toji saw the strike clearly. A heavy downward slash that aimed for his ribs. One that wouldn't be enough to kill nor even cripple, but definitely worthy of gossip.

So when the blade cut across his side, he took a deeper breath and suffered the sudden pain that slashed through his body.

Fucking hell, the things he was ready to do just to see your smile again.

The crowd exploded, as he staggered half a step back, more for the spectacle than the pain, before the predator returned to his eyes. The fight ended seconds later, with his sword sliding beneath the other man’s guard, driving straight through muscle and lung.

The body fell, and the crowd roared again.

Toji stood over the corpse, chest rising slowly, blood running warm along his side.

And his gaze lifted once more to the noble seats.

Your husband was standing now.

Watching.

So now, Toji needed to wait.

And he did.

Patiently.

Days passed slowly inside the stone walls of the quarters. The cut across his ribs had already begun to close, though the tight white bandage wrapped around his torso reminded him with every movement that he had let the blade land there. It pulled slightly whenever he twisted or lifted his arms, a dull sting beneath the cloth.

His eyes kept drifting to the door.

Every sound in the corridor made his head turn – the scrape of sandals, the murmur of guards, the clatter of armour. None of them was yours.

So he waited.

The arena was closed to him for several days while the lanista insisted the wound heal properly. Instead of fighting, Toji spent the mornings training the younger slaves – boys barely old enough to grow beards, clumsy with their wooden swords and terrified of making mistakes.

He barked orders at them, corrected their stances, knocked their weapons from their hands with brutal precision.

But his attention wandered.

More than once he found himself staring past them toward the open doorway, as if expecting your pouty face to suddenly storm through them.

It never did.

By the afternoons the barracks quieted. Most gladiators slept, saving their strength for the next games, while the sun turned the courtyard into a white furnace of light.

That time was the worst. With him having nothing to do but still restless, with sandals kicking up the dusty sand and eyes tracing the path to his quarters.

Toji paced his small chamber like a caged animal, back and forth. From the bed to the door, from the door to the narrow window where the late sunlight spilled golden streaks right on his beddings.

His fingers often brushed the bandage at his ribs, pressing lightly against the wound as if to strain it. Maybe you didn't come, but it was still worth it.

Worth seeing the horror of your husband's face, its pallor, the twitching of his fingers. As if Toji, his precious slave, could really be that easily hurt.

He would surely pass such terrific news to others, and if the gods were kind enough, you would hear them.

Nights were coming one by one, with his faith slowly slipping away, and the heaviness in his chest feeling rather strange. He couldn't think nor eat, and all his anger was vented on those poor slaves, who were already frightened enough to even be here.

But Toji was stubborn and relentless, keeping a quiet certainty that you would come. You did it before. Again and again, slipping through the corridors of the amphitheatre just to steal those few reckless minutes with him.

You would come again.

He knew it.

So when the soft knock finally came one evening, barely louder than a breath against the wood, Toji was already moving before his mind had fully caught up.

He quickly opened the door, words slipping on one breath. "My la–"

But he couldn't finish as you pushed inside. Hand quickly closing the doors, dark cloak covering your lock, before you finally looked up.

And he trembled.

Oh, you were angry.

Furious, with flushed cheeks and staggered breath. Little fist that immediately punched his chest, before your eyes glanced down at the white bandage.

"You did it on purpose!"

He raised an eyebrow, hands moving towards your fuming cheeks, before you slapped them. "He told me! He told me everything. You knew he was going to strike you and still didn't dodge it. How could you?"

"It wasn't on purpose–" he lied, but you didn't let him finish.

Fingers suddenly grazed the bandage as you pushed the wound gently. Still hard enough to see his face twist painfully.

"My lady, are you ma–"

"Yes, I am mad if it's not obvious already. Why did you do it? Why did you let yourself get hurt?"

His eyes traced the rosiness of your cheeks, slightly wrinkled nose, creased eyebrows, as well as a smoke floating above your head – and you still looked divine. A goddess that stepped down from heaven alone, to seethe over this foolish slave, who needed you madly, obsessively, like a starved dog.

"Because I knew you would come," he finally confessed. "I knew it was the only way to let me see you again."

You stiffened, lips falling open. You would come sooner or later, but a sudden change in your husband's attitude, his unexpected rage and him locking you up inside the mansion was just a weekly occurrence that needed to happen. You knew it, your husband knew it, children too.

But Toji didn't.

So he gave up the thing he was doing best and let himself earn another nasty scar.

Just to see you.

Not even touch, but to once again glance at your full face and cherry cheeks, that somehow made his heart stop in its tracks. He would gladly get stabbed hundreds of thousands of times, just to be bestowed one last glimpse at the pout of your lips and this lovely laugh that always spilled through.

So before you could say anything back, his lips suddenly crushed against yours. In a raw, messy and wet kiss, with his scarred hand cupping your cheek and the other one drawing you closer.

Your hands tried to push him away, throat itching to reprimand him again, push and dig into this foolish wound, vent all of your anger and worry you needed to suppress for the past few days.

But you couldn't.

So your body let itself relax and melt in his muscular arms – beefy thighs between yours, one hand curling into your hair, the other lifting you up, till your body was gently pressed against the smooth beddings. You wriggled, moaned. Arms around his neck and fingers playing with black strands that stuck to his damp nape.

He covered you whole, with a broad back and heavy arms, chest pushed against yours, lips going down to your chin, neck, breasts. Licking, sucking, and moaning against your skin as the material of your dress started to stick to your inner thighs.

When you casually lifted up a leg, your knee grazed his wound. Quiet tsk left his lips, and you quickly pushed him away.

"Wait," your voice was fragile, hands falling weak on his chest.

He pulled away with a grimace and eyes quickly studying your flushed face. "Anything's wrong, my lady?"

"Your wound, let's change."

"What do you mean?"

Before he got an answer, you started moving. Hands on his shoulders, using all of your strength to lay this massive man down, till his head touched the pillow and your hips strangled his.

Toji raised an eyebrow, a little smirk turning his lips up.

"You wanna ride me, baby?"

Your heart suddenly fluttered, breath hitched, upon hearing this pet name.

And Toji saw it.

"You like that, my lady? You want me to call you baby?" his big palms fell on your hips, fingers cupping the folds of your dress, lifting the flimsy material up up up. "What else would you like? Hm? Dear? Love?" your body trembled when the dress locked around your upper thighs. "Slut?"

"S-stop," you quickly spat out, moving hips against his.

A low growl fled his lips before he tipped his head, glancing at you with a crafty smile. "You liked that? Wanna ride me like a good fucking slut, hm? Roll your pretty cunt on my cock? Come on, my lady, say what you want."

Your drenched, clothed folds rolled against his hardened shaft, painful pulsation washing over your body till more saps pooled around your clenching hole. So you smoothly slipped out of your dress, strangling his hips bare like a goddess, with heavy breasts and plump hips moving on his covered cock, already melting under the heat coming off your cunt.

Dear fucking, heavens. Toji must have been a saint in his previous life to be bestowed with such a view. With your fallen lips and misty eyes, fingers gripping shyly the cloth around his hips, and velvety skin basking under the pale moonlight creeping through his window.

"I want to suck you off," your voice was small but confident, with fingers already taking his clothes off, sliding the thin cloth with one move. "You're hurt, please let me take care of you."

"Fucking hell, do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he mumbled, as his cock quickly sprang out, with hottish head sticking to his abdomen and your warm breath curling around it.

Based on all your previous, secret meetings, you knew that Toji was well bestowed. But seeing it now made your stomach turn. It looked absolutely delectable, even delicious, so so pretty, with veins curling around its fat shaft and pulsating head already drenched from precum. Your fingers traced through it, smearing the sticky sap around his shaft, rolling the head between your fingers.

Deep tremble washed through his chest, before you felt strong palms on your head.

"Wait a second, baby, I know you're starving, but wait."

You glanced up with glassy, sweet eyes full of anticipation.

"Fuck, don't look at me like that," he quickly moved up, lifting your body with the sheer strength of his arms.

And before you knew it, your hips were hovering over his face. Back turned, arched, cock right in front of you, with thighs around his head.

"That's more like it," he murmured, trying to pull your hips down.

But the memory of your husband, never being able to lift you up nor manhandle you like Toji did, somehow made you waver. "Wait, um, can we just do it normally?"

You didn't need to see his face to know that a frown formed on his forehead, and he probably lifted an eyebrow. "Normally? My lady, I've been waiting for this over a month, so please lower your pretty cunt down."

Oh, so nasty! Your ears scorched just from hearing the filth dribbling from his lips.

"Toji, you may or may not have noticed, but I birthed two children, and my body is not as light as before," words grumbled from your lips nervously, palms leaning on his abdomen as you tried to turn back. "I'm afraid my weight–"

And then – he scoffed. Laughed shamelessly, with a deep chuckle coming from the depths of his chest and tears almost dancing in the corners of his eyes.

He laughed, with your leaking cunt over his face, blush soaking your neck and soft thighs skimming his cheeks.

"Toji!" Oh, how embarrassed and feverish you felt, with this massive man having the audacity to actually chuckle in such a scenario.

"My lady," he finally grumbled, trying to pull your hips down. "Once I killed a fucking lion who rolled over me. Another time, I needed to dig myself out of the corpses that stumbled on me during the war. I'm almost sure that your cunt won't be the one to get me killed."

But when you finally sank down, with his nose sniffing the sweetness of your cum and tongue lapping your plump folds, he thought that maybe it was a lie.

Fuck, maybe your pussy could get him killed.

Its sweetness and creaminess, the honeyed saps that trickled down his throat and dripped from his chin. Long fingers parted your folds slightly, just to get a better view of your shimmering hole, ready for him to feast.

He was already acting like a madman, drinking, slurping, growling against your fluttering cunt, sending a shiver down your spine and spilling the sweetest moans from your throat.

But when your lips wrapped around his pulsing cock?

Fucking hell, he was ready to cum here and there, feeling your hot tongue and kitty licks on his shaft, with fingers curling around it shyly.

Toji was never easy to tame, and that's how he managed to achieve his freedom and glory. A beast, monster, who could crush a hundred men with a single swoosh of his blade. A fallen general and a brute, who accidentally got himself tangled in the whole gladiatorial thing.

He didn't mind it, for no one was waiting for him at home, and the idea of killing for the glory sounded quite amusing. He was risking his life, as there was no one he wished to live for.

But when you started rolling your hips and gushing even more honeyed cum on his tongue, he thought that, well, maybe he was quite easy to tame. Maybe he wanted to be tamed – trained, walk around your feet like a domesticated lion, feast on you every single morning, drink your syrupy cum as if it was the only ambrosia that could keep him alive.

"Mhmmm T-Toji, so good–" you mumbled, mouth popping off his fat cock, while fingers still worked him up and down, smearing your sweet drool all over it.

Your back arched when his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking it gently with a low, starved hum. "A-ah, T-Toji mmm–"

Your head dipped back down, tongue drenching his shaft, throat stretching up just take him deeper. The pleasure was overwhelming, paralysing, maddening, with his musky smell haunting your senses and muscular arms wrapping around your waist, just to keep you in place. His hips bucked up, head of the cock hitting the back of your throat, pushing tears into your eyes.

You couldn't see his face, and maybe it was for the best, as he never looked more miserable.

Truly, completly pathetic.

With a creased forehead and mouth covered fully by your drenched cunt. Hips moving in desperate need, and hair sticking to his damp forehead, as he slurped on your cunt like a man starved. With faint growls and cries coming from his throat, and an infuriating need to be crushed by your plump thighs and drenched folds.

"My lady, baby, god, you taste so delicious," he muttered, licking your pussy obscenely, with lips sucking on your clit. "Fuck, I'm never going back to that shithole, never fighting again. Come on, move your hips. Yeah, just like that, ride me like a little slut."

"S-stop, Toji!"

Your head fell back, fingers clenched on his cock as unfamiliar warmth started to coil in your belly. Something you've never felt while bedding your husband, never even thought of, but only heard from the filthy gossip of your servants. They had a much more thrilling sex life than their lady!

"Come on, baby, give me that honour and cum for me. Got fucking stabbed, just to see you again. Don't you think I'm worthy of a reward?"

Soft moans spilt from your lips, hips rolling faster, harder, riding his plastered tongue and drenching his chin. Your hole fluttered around nothing, with a desperate need to finally be filled.

"L-Let me cum on you, please, Toji, let me–"

He hissed, gripping your hands and quickly pulling them away from his cock. Your words snapped something inside him and if you continued to moan straight to his trembling shaft, he would burst any second.

And he didn't want it.

At least not in that way – to let his cum fill anything else but your creamy cunt.

"Wanna cum on my cock? Say it, baby. Wanna get stuffed full? Wanna get bred, hm?"

Your head nodded dumbly, eyes closed, as his finger started circling your clit.

"Mhm– yes yes yes."

He chuckled, seeing how your hole was desperately clenching around nothing. Damp, dripping, with little clit trembling sweetly as he rolled it between his fingers.

"Yes what, my lady?"

Oh, he was playing with you! And in such a mean, mean way.

"I want all of it," you mumbled, cheeks already burning with a fever.

"My lady, this slave is quite dull, and I don't know what you mean. Please say it clearly."

You could feel his chuckle on your pulsing cunt and fingers spreading your sticky folds. Tip of the tongue giving you a faint lick, before you pressed your cunt just to feel more.

"Come on, my lady. You can do it, tell me what you want."

He rolled your clit lazily, with a smirk and pride growing in his chest, seeing how difficult it was to spill these few dirty words.

"The things I'm going to do to you will be filthier, my lady."

Oh, dear gods!

"I want you to fill me with you c-cock," you finally spat, words barely pushing through your throat. "I want you to fill me up here," you placed a palm on your belly pouch, pushing its fat slightly. "I want you to breed me and let me carry your child, f-fuck Toji, please stuff me full of your cock and let me finally shut u–"

Before you finished, he moved.

Quickly, brutally, glueing your back to his torso, lifting up your thighs and pushing into a meannnn mating press. He was massive enough to let you sprawl on his body comfortably and keep you nicely folded against his chest. Lips right next to your ear, teeth grazing its lobe, before you finally, for your own desire, felt his hottish cock at your entrance.

"Your wish is my command, my lady."

And he pushed it in.

Dear heavens, the sweet moan that filled his small room almost made him cum on the spot, with your walls sucking his cock in. Fat shaft thrusted slowly, throbbing and pushing through the drenched muscles of your tight cunt.

"So tight, so fucking tight. Baby, you really need to relax," he growled, cock catching on your pinkish walls and giving you another delicious tear.

He was right behind you, folding you like a cloth, with knees against your breasts and head nuzzling your neck. You couldn't push him away, wriggle back, but only clench his veiny forearms and moan in pleasure when he thrusted even deeper. "T-Toji, I can't– mhmmm –so good, f-feels so goo–"

And he truly, really, honestly wanted to go slow, seeing how much his cock already filled you up, with a slight bulge appearing under your velvety tummy, but– oh dear, what a lie.

He didn't want to go slow, didn't want to roll his hips gently, didn't want to seem like a misery of a warrior.

And he truly wanted to breed this pussy.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he murmured, locking you in a tighter embrace. "I'm sorry, but I can't do it anymore."

Your head lulled back, a drop of spit trickling down your chin, when your weeping eyes met his. "W-what? What are you sa–"