jinx

zayne

theme: "we loved eachother in isolation"

the arctic had a way of preserving things. maybe because it was isolated from everything outside of it.

before linkon knew him as doctor zayne, before conference rooms and hospital wings and impossible schedules carved sharp edges into him, there had only been snowstorms, fluorescent station lights, and the two of you learning how to survive exhaustion together. love had settled quietly between shared gloves, untouched cups of tea left beside long reports, and the familiar weight of him asleep against your shoulder after thirty-hour shifts.

you loved each other in isolation. maybe that was never meant to last the test of time.

when he left for linkon, the distance arrived slowly. calls turned into postponed conversations. promises became apologies. somewhere between saving lives and becoming indispensable to everyone else, he forgot how to belong to anything that wasn’t work.

years later, he returns to the arctic for a research operation. and you are still there.

the station still hums the same way at night. the trails remain buried beneath snow. even now, when you hand him a pair of gloves without thinking, zayne takes them just as automatically. like no time has passed at all.

read here

xavier

theme: "you loved me while you waited for someone else"

you met xavier in the quiet hours between deadlines and sunrise.

midnight observatory dates, and silent campus hallways washed in fluorescent light. coffee gone cold beside open textbooks while the city disappeared beneath rain-streaked windows. he fit strangely well into those moments. quiet enough to disappear into them and lonely enough to linger.

you learned quickly that xavier liked small things. convenience store snacks after late lectures, listening to you ramble about collapsing stars, the feeling of your head falling against his shoulder during study sessions. around you, he laughed more softly. slept more easily. like loving you let him forget, briefly, that something about him existed slightly outside the world everyone else moved through.

with you, he almost seemed ordinary.

but there were gaps. stories that never lined up. an expression that crossed his face whenever you talked about the future, like he was mourning something before it had even happened. sometimes you caught him looking at you with unbearable tenderness, and all it did was make you feel strangely temporary.

years later, during a lecture in linkon, you look up from your presentation and find him standing at the back of the room.

still quiet. still watching you like starlight. and for one suspended moment, it feels like no time has passed at all.

coming soon

rafayel

theme: "i couldn't fit into your world"

before the galleries, the interviews, and the high elite society, there had only been the two of you in a cramped apartment that always smelled faintly of paint.

rafayel used to pull you into unfinished canvases with stained fingertips, laughing when you complained about getting color on your clothes while secretly leaning closer anyway. your world together was small then — late-night takeout, half-finished sketches scattered across the floor, quiet mornings where he painted sunlight across your skin like he was afraid to forget it.

then the world discovered him.

success arrived all at once. exhibitions, cameras, endless invitations. suddenly, everyone wanted pieces of rafayel, and he gave them freely, believing he was building something for your future together. meanwhile, you learned how lonely it felt to stand beside someone constantly being looked at without truly being seen. neither of you noticed the distance until it had already settled between you.

years later, at a gallery opening in linkon, you stop in front of a painting that feels painfully familiar. and somewhere across the room, rafayel notices you infront of it.

for the first time in years, his expression loses all composure. like some part of him never expected you to stand in his life in the limelight again.

coming soon

sylus

theme: "you were never supposed to survive me"

before people whispered sylus’s name like a warning, he was just a man who kept showing up at impossible hours with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion hidden beneath a smile.

you met him in the kind of places decent people avoided — smoke-filled clubs, back rooms lit in red neon, streets where everyone pretended not to notice violence as long as it wasn’t theirs. somehow, despite all of it, loving him felt easy. dangerous, maybe. temporary, definitely.

sylus loved intensely, like someone who had spent too long surviving to understand moderation. he remembered the smallest things about you. walked you home without asking. looked at you like the rest of the world disappeared whenever you laughed.

that was the problem. because eventually, people started realizing you mattered to him. after that came strange cars parked too long outside your apartment. unfamiliar numbers calling at night. the feeling of being watched. and then sylus changed — colder, crueler, suddenly determined to cut you out of his life with enough force to make sure you never looked back.

you hated him for it.

years later, you return to the n109 zone for reasons entirely unrelated to him. at least, that’s what you tell yourself. then across a crowded room, sylus sees you alive for the first time in years. and for one brief moment, the most dangerous man in the room forgets how to breathe.

coming soon

caleb

theme: "you never let me in"

you spent almost all four years of college trying to make caleb stay still long enough to build something permanent with you. not because he didn’t love you. that was never the problem.

caleb loved brightly and naturally. he remembered your exam schedules better than his own, brought you snacks during late-night study sessions, showed up outside your classes just to walk you home. he was brilliant without trying to be intimidating about it — the kind of person who could talk passionately about aircraft engineering one second and then grin sheepishly when he realized he’d been rambling for too long.

but there was always something untethered about him. caleb talked about the future like it was a horizon constantly moving farther away. even during your quietest moments together, you sometimes had the strange feeling he belonged more to the sky than to any single place with you.

and still, you tried. you built routines around him over four years of shared classes, library naps, campus festivals, and phone calls that lasted until sunrise. you kept hoping that eventually caleb would stop skimming past serious conversations long enough to let you fully inside.

instead, whenever things became too vulnerable, he smiled it away. a joke. a distraction. a gentle “don’t think so hard about it.”

and then there was her. she had always been in his life you accepted that when you first saw them together. but you didn't realize she was standing at the emotional center of his entire being.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. until it did. until missed promises became patterns. until you started feeling guilty for wanting more from someone who already gave you so much. until one terrible night forced you to realize you knew the truth staring you in the face all along.

years later, you return to linkon for a gathering you almost declined. caleb greets you like no time has passed at all. an easy smile, familiar voice, steady hands. but later, across the room, you catch him watching someone else speak to you. and for the first time all evening, his composure cracks.

coming soon

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He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

"I can't. I have toー"

"Bed."

"Just let me finish this report, it's due tomorrow and the formatting is fucked and my boss is being a dick about the projections—"

You close his laptop.

He makes a sound like a kicked puppy.

"Hey—"

"No. You're done."

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

He looks down at his hands. They are, in fact, shaking. He shoves them under his thighs like that'll hide it.

"I'm fine," he repeats, stubborn, stupid, infuriating.

God, he's such a liar.

He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months. He's running on coffee and cortisol and some deeply pathological need to provide, to protect, to make sure you never want for anything even if it means grinding himself into dust. He does all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the grocery shopping, the bill paying. the appointment scheduling, the car maintenance. He won't let you touch the dishes. He physically removes your hands from the laundry basket. You tried to vacuum once and he looked so genuinely distressed you thought he might cry.

"l just want you to have a good life," he said once, when you confronted him about it. "I want to give you everything. The nice things. The expensive things. You deserve— you deserve so much, and I can't— I have to—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed up. You held him for an hour.

That was six months ago. He's gotten worse since then.

Now he's sitting in his office chair at four in the morning, vibrating with exhaustion and the desperate, delusional belief that if he just works hard enough, he'll finally be worthy of you.

As if he isn't already. As if he hasn't been since the day you met him.

You take his face in your hands.

He freezes.

His eyes go wide and wet and immediately. instantly. all the fight drains out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing hitches and then slows, and he's looking up at you like you're the sun and he's been living in a cave for a thousand years.

"There you are," you murmur.

He makes a soundーa tiny, broken thing, half sigh, half whimper一and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"Baby," he whispers, and his voice cracks on it.

"I've got you. Come on. We're going to bed."

"But the report—"

"Fuck the report."

He blinks. You never say things this... aggressive.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

You take his hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles. He actually stumbles. Your strong, capable, hyper competent boyfriend can't even stand up straight because he's so depleted. You have to hold him. And when you do, his forehead drops to your shoulder and he just... stays there. Breathing. Just breathing.

"I'm so tired," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.

It's the first honest thing he's said all week.

"I know, love."

"l just— I want to give you— want you to have一the necklace, the blue one, I saw you looking at it, and I've been saving, I've almost got enough, l just need to finish this project and then I can—"

"You think I want a necklace?"

"..."

"You think I want anything more than I want you alive?"

He doesn't answer. But his hand clenches in your shirt.

Fuck.

He always have to make you emotional.

"Alright, we're going to bed."

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

In the bedroom, you sit him down on the edge of the bed. He's still in his work clothes—button down wrinkled, top two buttons undone, tie somewhere lost in the office. He looks up at you with those huge, exhausted eyes, and you can see him trying to figure out what you want, what he should be doing right now to make you happy.

You peel his shirt off. He hold out his arms to help, even now, still trying to make it easier for you. His pants come next, then his boxers.

Such a beautiful man.

Your boyfriend is such a beauty.

So lucky he's going to be your husband.

"Do you trust me?" you ask.

His brow furrows. "Of course I trust you. I trust you more than— more than anything, more than—"

"Then lie down."

He lies down.

"On your stomach."

He rolls over. Hesitates for half a secondー just confusion一and then settles onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hands fisted loosely in the sheets.

You run your hand down his spine.

He start shaking. Full body. Like he's been electrocuted. A tiny, punched out sound escapes his throat, and his back arches into your touch before he can stop it.

"When's the last time you slept?" you ask.

"..Tuesday?"

"It's Friday."

"...Oh."

"Mmhm."

You keep stroking his back, slowy, tracing the knots in his shoulders, the tension that's been there for god knows how long. He's so tight it's like touching hot rock. He's been barely holding himself together and his body is screaming.

You lean down and kiss the back of his neck.

He sobs.

"Shh," you murmur against his skin. "I've got you. Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me."

"I don't— I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have t一"

"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you."

He's crying now. Quietly, shamefully, face pressed into the pillow so you won't see. His shoulders are shaking and he's trying so hard to be quiet, to not be a burden, to not make this about him—

Fuck, he's such a mess.

Such a beautiful mess.

He's lying there naked and trembling and so vulnerable it gives you butterflies.

"Good boy." you whisper.

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like a fucking dog.

You reach for the drawer in the nightstand. The one he never opens because he's too busy taking care of you to even think about sex.

He hears the click of the lube cap and his breath catches.

"Baby—?"

"Shh. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me take the stress out of you. And then you're going to sleep. Understand?"

"...Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes— yes, I understand— please—"

Please. There it is. The word he never says because he's too busy being the provider, the protector, the one who never needs anything.

You slick your fingers and then your strap一the one you bought specifically for this, for him, because you knew this day was coming, knew he'd eventually run himself into the ground and need someone to pull him back out.

Or maybe you just wanted to fuck him. But that's not important right now.

He's so tight. Damn, he's so tight.

Your first finger slides in and he gasps, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Breathe," you remind him.

He breathes. Shaky. Wet. Still crying a little.

"You're doing so well."

Another whimper.

You work him open slowly一so slowly. Because he deserves it, deserves gentleness, deserves to be handled like something precious instead of a machine that just runs and runs and runs.

He's making sounds you've never heard from him before. Little broken moans. Desperate, needy sounds. His hips are twitching, pushing back against your fingers, and he's babbling into the pillow.

"please—"

"I love you ughh—"

"Ahh fuck don't stop—"

By the time you're three fingers deep, he's a mess. Tears and pre cum and a flush that goes all the way down his chest. He's stopped trying to be quiet. He's just making noise—open mouthed, broken, gorgeous noise.

"Ready?" you ask.

"Uh-huh?"

He looks confused. So out of it already.

How cute :)

You position yourself behind him. Press in.

He keens.

A high, desperate sound that goes straight to your own core (of course you're wet, but tonight is just about him)一and his whole body goes taut for one second before it melts. All the tension, all the stress, all the months of holding himself together—it all dissolves as you push deeper.

"Oh— oh fuck— baby—"

You start to move. Slow at first. Letting him feel every inch of it, letting him adjust, letting him remember what it feels like to be taken care of instead of taking care of.

His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. His face is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, tears and drool soaking the fabric. He's moaning your name over and over like a prayer.

Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.

So hot.

"You're so good." you tell him, picking up the pace. "You're so good to me. You work so hard. You take such good care of me. Now let me take care of you."

He sobs again. Nodding frantically into the pillow. His hips are pushing back to meet your thrusts now, desperate and uncontrollably, and he's so hard it's leaking onto the sheets but he hasn't even touched himself, hasn't even tried. He's just letting you use him, letting you fuck the stress right out of his body.

"Let go. I've got you."

He comes with a cry of your name. Ropes of it, hot and thick, painting the sheets under him. His whole body clenches around you一around the strap, around this moment, around the feeling of finally, finally letting someone else hold the weight.

You fuck him through it. Gentle. Lovingly. Until the last tremor runs through him and he goes completely limp.

And thenー finallyー he passes out.

Just like that. Face down on the bed, tears still wet on his cheeks, body finally relaxed for the first time in months. He's breathing deep and even, the way he hasn't breathed in weeks, and his pulse is slow and calm under your fingers when you check his wrist.

You clean him up. He doesn't stir. You wipe the tears from his face, the cum from his stomach, the lube from his thighs. You change the sheets around him—carefully, so carefully一and pull the blanket up to his chin.

He murmurs something in his sleep. Your name, maybe. Or l love you. Or both.

You kiss his forehead.

"Sleep well, honey."

He sleeps like a baby.

When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the bed is empty and he panics.

What the fuck??

Where are you???

Fuck, he didn't made you breakfast—

He's on his feet before his brain catches up一stumbling, sore in a way that makes him pause for half a second...

Oh, right, last night, oh god—

And then he's moving again, grabbing the first thing he finds (your robe, pink, too small, he doesn't care) and following the smell.

Bacon.

Eggs.

Pancakes.

And you, standing at the stove in your pajamas, flipping pancakes like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He stops in the doorway.

"...Baby?"

You turn around. Smile. The smile that he loves more than anything in his miserable life.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

"But I— you— I always—"

"Yeah. I know. Today it's me. Sit."

He sits at the kitchen table and watch you cook.

He's confused. He's wearing your robe. He's sore. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

You set a plate in front of him. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs over easy, just the way he likes them. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee—JUST ONE— fixed exactly the way he takes it.

He just... stares at it.

"lt's not going to eat itself."

"I—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "You made me breakfast."

"I did."

"But I always make you breakfast."

"I know."

"I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have to—"

You immediately rush to him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Syrup from your lips sticking to his.

"l love you," you say against his mouth. "l love you and you're running yourself into an early grave and I'm not going to let that happen. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to eat this breakfast. Then you're going to take a shower. Then you're going to tell me what's been going on at work. And then we're going to figure out a schedule that doesn't involve you dying of sleep deprivation. Okay?"

"But the chores—"

"We'll split them."

"The bills—"

"We'll look at them together."

"l just want to give you everything," he whispers, and his eyes are wet again, and god, he's so tired of crying but he can't seem to stop. "You deserve the world. And I can't— I can't give you anything if I stop一"

You kiss him again. Harder this time.

"You are the world, you idiot. You're my world. And I need you alive in it. So eat your pancakes."

He laughs. It's wet and snotty and a little hysterical.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He picks up his fork. Looks at the pancakes—perfectly golden, just the way he taught you一and his heart just skip a beat. "But I'm doing the dishes."

"Fine."

"And tomorrow I'm making you breakfast."

"Obviously."

"And tonight..." He pauses. Cheeks flushing pink. "Tonight can we... can we do that again? The... the thing. With the..."

You raise an eyebrow. Smile.

"You want me to peg you?"

He buries his face in his hands, "Oh my god."

"Is that a yes?"

"...Yes."

"Then sure. But only if you promise to sleep at least six hours every night this week."

"l promise."

"And eat lunch."

"l promise."

"And let me do the vacuuming sometimes."

"...I'll think about it."

You laugh and ruffle his hair and he leans into your touch like a starving man offered bread.

He's still a mess. But he's eating. He's sleeping. He's sitting at the table in your too small pink robe with syrup on his chin and a soreness in his body that's painful in a good way.

And when you sit down across from him with your own plate and your own coffee and your own smile, he looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For..." All of it. For not leaving him even when he's disgusting. "Everything."

"Eat your pancakes."

"Yes ma'am."

He eats his pancakes.

He's going to be okay.

You'll make sure of it.

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

Which is stupid in itself, because if he really wanted to, Kal would track your heartbeat and fly to your exact location. But he doesn't. He could send you a text, leave a missed call, grovel and beg and plead for you to let him explain- but he doesn't do that, either.

And you don't stop.

You run until you can't bear the weight of it anymore; until the exhaustion fills the grooves of your brain and the pain is nothing but an aching throb. Mentally. Your body feels like it's going to collapse.

It's takes a while for you to get home, and the stumble through your front door is fuelled by both relief and hurt.

You want to scream.

You want to kick something, grab something and throw it at something else- but you just flop onto the sofa instead, tear-stained cheeks smushed hard against the cushions. Sobs rack through you- unhurried and pained- trembling arms wrapping themselves around your shaking torso.

How could you be so stupid?

The signs were there. The exclusive interviews, the way Kal would never pick up the phone on the first ring. Every time Clark blushed over a compliment on his article, a mention of his most recent interview with himself- it was all finally making sense.

He lied to you. Looked you dead in the face and said it was just him; Kal-El, all the time, no disguise to tide him over in between missions. You believed him. Everything he said, you believed, because you loved him and cared for him and wanted nothing more than to be someone he could turn to.

Little did you know, Kal already had people he could turn to. A lot of them. Jimmy with the Caramel Macchiato, that pretty woman called Lois that came into the café every now and then. He had this whole other life that you'd never been privy to; had never even had the privilege of being a part of.

It was like some sick, twisted joke that had been unfolding for months- one you didn't realise you were a part of until the very end.

Sleep comes pained. And your eyes flutter open at precisely 11:03am the next day.

Outside your window, Metropolis thrives. The copper tang of exhaustion fills your mouth and you grimace at the taste.

If this was any other day, you'd already be at work; listening to Lorna's ideas for the weekend and watching Claire's distaste for them all. You'd hold a ceramic mug close, half full of an oat flat white, eyes glancing every now and then towards the clock. Just waiting, watching- for none other than Clark Kent to walk through the doors.

Your phone lies abandoned on the floor next to the coffee table. You fumble for it, fingers hitting a contact number you've only ever used for dumb questions and questions on missing stock.

Michael's grumble sounds over the speaker. Immediately, you can tell he's not in a good mood.

Great.

"You're late, kid."

You rub your temples, willing the dull pain to disappear completely. He doesn't sound too happy, but can you blame him? You were supposed to start two hours ago.

"Two hours late." he repeats.

"Sorry, Michael," you croak, surprise filling your features at how broken your voice sounds. "I... won't be able to make it in today."

You murmur an apology, sincere and low-spirited; so unlike you that you can hear him sitting up in his seat. An excuse falls from your lips that you neither rehearsed nor planned, and all you can do is hope that it's enough for him.

Michael pauses. So do you. Slowly, he asks you if you're okay, and even slower, you say, "Y-yeah. I'm fine, I just- worst headache in the world. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"You got advil?" you say yes. "Take a couple and rest up."

"I will," you exhale slowly, "Thanks, Michael. I'm sorry again,"

"If you're sick, you're sick," you can envision him shrugging, petulance still in his tone but softer somehow. "Can't be helping that. Just let me know, alright? I'll move your shifts around."

"Thank you, Michael." you can't control them, but tears prick at your eyes already.

"Feel better soon. And look- if advil ain't cutting it, stay in a dark room. Get that Cal to run and get you some forehead patches. Works a treat for my girls."

You nod, moreso to yourself, the slight mention of Kal-El threatening to spill the tears over. You also make a mental note to text Lorna that miserable, old, inked-up Michael is a girl dad.

For the third time already, you thank him. He mutters a don't mention it back, and the line goes dead.

You stare at your ceiling for what feels like hours afterward.

When you eventually move, it's slow. Your coffee machine drips lazily, and you don't even bother to reach for your favourite mug. You chug the bitter contents straight from a diabolical ceramic you once received in a gift set, willing the caffeine to do it's job sooner rather than later.

Memories threaten to trap you in a spiral. The first time you met Kal, the first time you met Clark- the first time he'd spoken about himself like he was a completely different person, even. Every thought holds your brain hostage, forces you to think back to simpler times.

Did he think it was funny? Did he get home every night in the suit, smirk at the glasses on his bedside table, and convince himself you'd find it funny too when you finally found out? Every night you complained about being single and not having a chance with his reporter counterpart- did he hold back a smug grin, then?

The thought fills you with anger. Currently, you hate them both.

Because having a crush on Clark was one thing. But realising you’d been falling for the one man you’d decided- long before it even began- you could never have, after months of forcing him into the friend zone in your own mind, only to discover it had all been for nothing… well, that felt unforgivable.

The coffee runs out quick. Your usual morning routine takes place slowly; you shower, brush your teeth, and put on something comfy that you can both run away from a collapsing building and lounge in.

You have no plans to leave the apartment, willing the world to spin without you for just one day. The TV flickers on after an absentminded tap of the remote, and your eyes flicker towards it before you can stop them.

"Superman seen charging into intergalactic threat!"

Your eyes begin to roll. But just before you can switch it off, a close-up shot of Kal fills the screen.

And deep within your chest, begging to be acknowledged, your heart clenches at the sight of him.

"He... doesn't seem to be dealing with this very well. If you are located anywhere near the upper west side, we instruct you to calmly evacuate in line with city procedure. The Justice Gang have been notified, and we hope..."

The reporter's voice fizzles into the background. You lean in closer, eyes narrowed, as the remote clatters to the floor.

He's sloppy. Distracted. Throwing punches with force instead of focusing on where they land. His curls are unkempt on his head, looking so like Clark you begin to worry for his surprising alter-ego, and his jaw is perpetually clenched.

You can't stop watching him. The whole world is probably watching him, but you just can't tear your eyes away. It's not a Kaiju, but it's something similar; smaller in size and stealthier. It grabs Kal, throws him harshly against a glass building.

Usually, he'd compose himself. Think of a better way to deal with the situation; plan the safest way out for everybody, creature included. But right now, every barrel towards it is ill-timed, every rescue rushed.

He's not thinking straight. You've never seen him like this before. The worst he'd ever been was when Krypto got taken by some bald headed billionaire months ago- he's broken down doors and screamed offices down- but this was different.

The reporter states some figures, a wince on her otherwise deadpan face. You're glued to the couch, even when the Justice Gang arrive to the scene, and Kal exchanges some words with a man you met and hated once- Guy. You don't even move when he gives them a curt nod; focused, chiselled face pointing upwards to the sky as he takes off fast enough that a sonic boom echoes through the clouds.

You- along with the entirety of Metropolis- expect him to return. Maybe with a bigger, better weapon to beat this thing with.

But he doesn't. The others clean up the mess tastelessly, violently; so different to how Superman would have done it, but now they have no choice.

Time passes as the news coverage on the scene fizzles out. Guy is congratulated, Mr Terrific is praised and Hawkgirl shoves a restless reporter's camera out of her face, scowl at the ready, arms folded at the nuance.

Everything's done. You switch the TV off and silence fills the apartment.

For a second, your eyes threaten to leak again. Betrayal is the word for it, you've come to realise- but the comprehension doesn't make it hurt any less. There's a pain buried deep in the chasm of your chest, a dull ache that no amount of advil or rest will ever be able to get rid of.

You think of Clark.

Your mind is cruel, and it taunts you; you think of the attraction you had for him, the way you could never fully look away when his eyes met yours, no matter how odd you looked and how disinterested he sometimes seemed.

You thought of everything you knew about him; his childhood in Smallville, how he called his parents every day- twice if something particularly exciting had happened in his life since they last spoke. How sweet his existence is, how unassuming and charming Clark can really be in that slightly jarring, fumbled way of his.

Then, you think of Kal.

Of everything you know about him and still don't- how Clark Kent fills that void completely. All those emotions you'd fallen asleep with last night come rushing back and quietly, you let the tears fall. Again.

You tuck your knees up to your chest, forehead resting gently against the caps. It catches every shudder that rakes through your body, provides a makeshift cushion for the wet that drips down your cheeks.

That's when you hear it.

Tap, tap, tap.

It's faint at first, and your staggered breathing drowns it out. But then, it turns unmistakable; three gentle taps, three familiar taps, right on the glass of your fire escape window.

Tap, tap, tap.

No effort is made to move. Not for a while.

You just clench your eyes shut, teeth gritted, as your window eventually slowly slides open. The instinct to grab yourself takes over, and you're soon locked in an imprisoned embrace of your own doing.

You don't look up. You don't even move.

First, it's his boots. Soft and worn, steps slow and moderate. His cape trails in after, the thick material usually catching on your windowsill but now, gliding through with ease.

It's effortless, how Kal lets himself into your apartment. It's an exercise born from months of friendship and several sleepless nights needing company, ultimately calling him away from patrol.

You used to tell him not to knock, to walk in like it was his home, too. "Friendships are built on inconveniencing each other," you'd said as-a-matter-of-factly, after scolding him for refusing to let himself into your apartment. You'd come home from work to find him sat right outside; legs dangling over the fire escape, eyes squinting into the horizon.

He'd been like that for two hours. Just sitting, waiting, for you to come home- all because he didn't have a key and didn't know that when you sang mi casa, su casa all those weeks ago, you actually meant it.

Kal had just tilted his head, confused by your words. "But... you've never inconvenienced me."

You laughed, "I can think of many ways I have in this week alone."

He paused, looking off into the distance. When he came back to you, his face remained blank. "...Nope. Never."

"Sounds like a challenge, Superman."

A smile stretched across his lips. Your heart skipped- right before you grabbed it with an imaginary fist and shook it back to it's original beat. "Sure. Never faced down from a challenge before."

It replays in your mind like a bittersweet reel. When you lift your head, a sharp pain nudges against your temple, travelling all the way down to your neck. But that's not what truly hurts.

Opposite you, standing a far enough distance away, stands Kal-El.

Or, Clark.

And now that you've seen both sides of the man, he looks more Clark than ever.

His shoulders are hunched, icy blue eyes burning metaphorical holes in the floor. You tell yourself not to stare, not to complicate what you currently feel by softening the edges.

His jaw is gritted in that tense way of his, bordering on either an argument or an apology that you'll have to deal with one way or another. Truthfully, you have no idea which one you'd prefer.

Because fifteen minutes ago, he was out; hurtling towards space creatures, attempting to save the world with reckless abandon. But right now, he stands with his head ducked like a scorned child in your living room.

You don't speak. Silently, you wonder if he will.

"I..." almost as if reading your mind, Kal opens his mouth. He licks his lips, nervous.

Your arms tighten around yourself, eyes staring him down in a way foreign to you.

"...I am so, so sor-"

"I can't do this right now, Kal." you say bluntly, voice edging on rude. But the anger inside of you is white-hot and blinding, and when you look at him, you don't just see him. You see months and months of being left in the dark, while Superman ran circles around you in black frames and a blazer two sizes too big.

It was cruel. He was cruel. The entire charade of Clark Kent was cruel.

But even while knowing that, the look on his face threatens to unravel you completely.

His shoulders sag, defeated. "I never meant to hurt you."

"You pretended to be someone else."

He says your name, tone pleading now that it's obvious how you feel.

Maybe he'd been hoping it wouldn't be too bad; maybe, he thought, the stars would align and you'd just freak out momentarily- too focused on your own questions about a life he could now share with you without ever feeling the urge to hide.

"I wasn't someone else," Kal mumbles, fingers fiddling with each other. "I was me."

You meet his eyes despite the hammering of your heart telling you not to.

"I was just trying to protect you."

"By lying to me?"

"I needed you safe," he tells you sincerely, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you... just because you know this," he gestures to the emblem on his chest; the cape trailing along the floor. He winces. "Just because you know me."

"So instead, you showed up at my work like Hannah Montana and prayed I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference," your tone is mocking, so harsh that it stuns even you.

Internally, you scold yourself to dial it down.

"Right. Well, it worked." you mutter then, shame pricking the nape of your neck at both your tone and the fact that you fell for it all.

His face burns red-hot. When he takes a hesitant step forward, he pauses; before slowly nodding to the empty spot on the sofa next to you.

"May I?" he asks.

Your nod is reluctant but you scoot over regardless, maximising the space between you both.

When he takes a seat, you catch a whiff of that cologne you know all too well- the same one that Clark wears and Kal always has a faint hint of. Smoke and ink and rain with a tiny undertone of eucalyptus. It's addictive, it's different, and it's so him that the mental scold in your mind becomes louder and louder.

How could you not have figured it out? You're no reporter for sure, had never been one to have an investigative mind. But even with the glasses and the styled hair and the change in posture- were you really just so blind?

You're lost in thought again as Kal faces you. His body swamps the sofa, broad shoulders taking up 70% of the space you left for him.

"I want you to know," he swallows. Your heart does that thing again. "That I never meant to keep it a secret from you. Not for this long, at least."

"That makes everything better." you deadpan.

He shoots you a pained look, "Can I speak, please?"

"As Clark Kent or as Kal-El? Or is there another identity you haven't told me about?"

This time, you do mean for it to come out sharp. But when you catch a small glimpse of Kal's face, it's obvious that the original intent's been missed entirely.

Because his lips are at a curve, eyes softer now. You focus on his mouth, the amusement that lies there, just waiting for you to let him speak.

A smile.

Small, one that could definitely go undetected if you were still too busy scowling at the floor. You half expect to feel anger again, tenfold as usual- but it never comes.

Even so, you fold your arms, glaring at him.

"Don't smile."

"I'm sorry." he grits his teeth in an attempt to hide the slight mirth in his tone.

Your gaze is vicious, or as vicious as it can be towards someone so adamant on soothing it.

"I'm going to hit you." you caution.

"I probably deserve it," he says gently, and the smile's even more obvious now than before.

"Probably's an understatement."

"Please can I apologise, now?"

"No. Because I don't want it." you say shortly, your legs falling from their initial cramped position. His eyes dart to yours, hurried and slightly panicked at your words.

"Wha-"

"An apology isn't going to do anything, Kal." you say, clipped.

He begins to shake his head again, the security in the playfulness quick to fizzle away. "You don't understand-"

"You kept it from me. You didn't even just keep it from me- that, I could probably take. No, you showed up as him and pretended to like me. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"

"Pretended?" he echoes, as you snap your head towards him in exasperation.

"Don't." you warn him, "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it was real."

Kal says your name again. Softly. Kindly. You hold a finger up in yet another wordless warning.

"I mean it, Kal. I'm already mad at you. Don't make me sad, too."

"I don't want to make you sad," he says, slowly, standing up from the seat to come towards you. "All I've ever done- all I've ever wanted to do, was make you happy,"

"You pretended to be-"

"I didn't pretend to be anything," he shakes his head again, coming to stand in front of you with a certain desperation to his actions. "Everything I told you, everything you saw- that was me. That was all me. And I'm sorry,"

His inhale is slow, words fighting to come out. The restraint on his face breaks you, just a little, but your stubbornness takes lead.

"I am Clark." Kal says, voice cracking slightly. "I grew up on a farm. I love cereal and I really do only drink black coffee, that's true. I'm a reporter at the planet. I love it. I call Ma and Pa too much... I get the front page if I lose sleep for it, and I always end up knocking something over when I walk past,"

You start to roll your eyes, but his gaze is so focused on you that you refrain.

"But I'm Kal-El, too," he says, assertively. That makes you pause. "I love helping people. I do too much sometimes, like you always say I do. I have to delete that stupid bird app every time I do something I probably shouldn't and cameras get it. My cape gets caught, and I'm not the best at saying things when I should. Sometimes, I leave them too late,"

He's looking at you like he's praying you understand.

But too much is going on in your mind, too many thoughts are racing and fighting against each other. You can barely maintain eye contact.

"But no matter who I am," he swallows, jaw flexing in a way that always looks like he's chewing on his emotions. Something catches in your throat- a breath, an inhale, whatever it is, you can't control it.

"Clark, Kal, Superman, the biggest jerk on this planet..." his eyes ficker from your eyes to your lips, before going back again swiftly. "I'm yours."

There's something to be said about the way that he looks at you.

Speaks to you. Listens to you, like you're the most important thing in the room. How to him, you're never a burden; never an inconvenience. Sometimes, you even feel like you exist simply to help him feel human, even if it's just for a little bit.

And right now, he is both the most human, yet most other-wordly, man you have ever seen.

Your eyes flutter upwards, but he's already looking at you.

"And I'm sorry if I haven't shown it," he whispers. You're torn between bursting out crying and attempting once again to push him away. So, you don't make a single move.

"I'm sorry I let it go on for so long. I'm sorry I upset you," his hand moves up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "And I'm sorry– above everything... that it wasn't Clark Kent who met you first."

There was once a time where you thought you were falling in love with Kal-El.

Not the man in the suit, not the symbol of Hope and the last surviving son of Krypton. No, it happened on a lazy Sunday when the light through the curtains hit him just right; every ridge and curve of his face reflecting the rays like a chrome statue. You were in the middle of a well-needed kitchen deep clean, and he'd been so adamant to do most of the work that 85% of it was spent perched on a kitchen stool while Superman himself scrubbed your dishes and wiped the edges.

He was humming a song you had no idea he knew, the slicked back curls on his head slowly unravelling. A dish towel draped lazily over his shoulder as he came towards you, one arm on either side, large palms pressed against the counter.

He grinned. Asked you if you were okay, and if anything else needed doing. At the time, you just stuttered a reply; resisting the urge to jump into his arms and confess that you were, stupidly, starting to see him as much more than a friend.

Fear took you over. Hesitance became your downfall. And Kal-El pushed himself off, gently; whistling a different tune, casual, none the wiser.

Now, however, you refuse to make the same mistake.

It happens before you have the chance to talk yourself out of it.

Kal is already there- too close, his presence pressing into yours like gravity, like something inevitable. His body tilts toward you, instinctive, as if all he’s waiting for is permission.

Your breath stutters. You don’t step back.

You move closer a fraction at a time, breath caught, the space between you tightening until it feels unbearable.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours drops to his.

And then you’re there- barely at first, your lips brushing his in a question more than a kiss.

But then, you press in- stronger this time, more certain, the kind of weight that carries every moment you once held back. Every word you never said is answered by Kal just as carefully, just as deeply, like he’s been waiting for this exact second all along as his lips slowly start to move against yours.

A soft breath leaves him into your mouth, warm and unguarded, and you feel his lips curve faintly against yours like he can’t quite believe this is real. The kiss grows fuller, deeper, not rushed but brimming with everything he’s been holding back.

Kal's hand slides to your waist, firm and careful and frantic all at once, like he’s grounding himself in you with the looming threat of you disappearing. He's Clark in the way he holds you; Kal in the kisses and grip. Careful and scared and passionate and sure.

He's everything you wanted and were, once, far too afraid to have.

“I love you,” he mumbles into you, the words half-lost to the way your mouths are still moving together. The soft sound of it fills the space between you. You breathe out against him, almost trying to make a joke- a last, weak attempt to drag something ordinary into a moment that’s anything but.

But nothing is normal now. Clark Kent has just told you he loves you.

And even better...

You actually believe him.

So when you stammer back, "I love you... too." you mean it.

He doesn’t pull away when he could. Instead, he stays, lips lingering against yours, as if afraid that even a heartbeat of distance might make this disappear.

For a while, you just stand there like that, wrapped in each other, the world held at arm’s length.

Somewhere outside, sirens begin to wail, faint at first, then louder- urgent, insistent, calling for someone who usually always comes. You feel yourself tense automatically, already starting to pull back, already preparing to let him go do what he always does.

But he doesn’t move.

Kal tightens his hold instead, drawing you closer, your cheek pressing to his chest. His voice is low when he speaks, steady and certain.

"They’ve got it." Out of the corner of your eye, a familiar green fist flashes across the sky, pulsing bright against the dark. "They can do without Superman for a bit," he murmurs. "Right now, you've got me. And I'm not leaving you."

Your breath catches, and a soft smile curves against him as you let your forehead fall to his chest, right over his heart.

Tomorrow, you’ll have a conversation. A real one. A proper one. And it may not go very well, and you'll probably have enough questions for him to want to shut you up with yet another long, earth-shattering kiss. And you may cry again and it may feel like the world's ending and Clark may start to wonder what the hell he's gotten himself into...

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

You, the woman who fell in love with two very different sides of the same man, and the man who never wanted to be anything other than yours.

In the end, it never really mattered which one he was.

i hope you guys enjoyed! so sorry it's not my best work AT ALL i struggled a lil bit with the ending but this isn't the last of kal's bff ! reader!

You remembered when you were just fourteen years old, and decided to leave your home behind. For what was right, for what was fair. To be far away from injustice, and in this case, to be away from what the Fire Nation had then become with its tyrant ruling.

You decided to accompany Zuko after he was banished.

It wasn’t hard, in all honesty. As typical as most fire benders at the time, your parents held the same strict and cold behavior towards you. Never to fail, never to be kind, never to slack. Never to show love and tenderness towards their own kid as well. It was strange, to live under the roof of people that called themselves your parents and yet, no warmth or love to be actually felt, because you never had received it from them to learn.

So leaving wasn’t hard. What was hard was seeing your friend in pain in the middle of the night, his scrunched face and eyes filled with water and tears that never fell. You had to watch as your friend, the one boy whom no matter the royal status, liked to hang around with because both had the same affection and tenderness towards animals, towards nature, slowly became someone bitter and ruthless. Cold and distant. No longer the boy that wore the boyish grin when you talked about turtles and fireflies.

You always knew that deep down, he was just a boy seeking not only the approval, but the warmth of his father, especially after losing his mother too. You never understood why he wanted to go back, wanted his father back in his life, but never judged.

You stood by his side as he hunted aang, the avatar, his prize and enemy at the same time. You stood by him, even when you almost didn’t, when his sister came with sweet and careful words to convince Zuko to come back to the fire nation under the pretense of his father wanting him back, and when you showed reluctance alongside Iroh, he said he did not need you. That his honor was much more important that whatever friendship and parental feeling both you and Iroh had.

But in the end, not only you, but Iroh as well, followed him.

And when he left you and Iroh to rot in the cells in the fire nation, you almost did not forgive him. Iroh freed the both of you. You left, joined Aang, and like a comical coincidence, a few days later Zuko also appeared. An almost embarrassed and sheepish smile on his lips as he approached with a ‘hello, Zuko here.’, something that till this day you haven’t forgotten and replays the small memory fondly in your head.

When the war ended, it took a while for him to win you back. Exactly three months of subtle begging and apologies coming from him in small doings. You had given two years of your life for him, searched for the avatar even while you knew that in your heart you wouldn’t be able to simply hand-over the only hope the war had to end in the end of Lord Ozai.

But the heart knows what it wants. And yours, day by day, night by night, yearned for him.

In the mornings, you would wake up in your very fancy room in the palace and reach for the side of the bed, clinging to your pillow but knowing you wished it was him. At night, you would sleep hugging the same pillow, sometimes wishing you held him with his head resting on your chest, or imagining him holding your body close to his, encasing his arms around you.

Initially your role in the palace was not quite clear.

What would you do? Be his assistant? Little helper? Consort? You knew how to cook, but when you offered the idea of cooking with the chefs in order to thank him for allowing you to stay in the palace, he looked so offended you did not know if you should laugh or be offended as well. You laughed, of course.

In the end, it was clear that you were just there. The palace was now your home, with no need to do something in return of gratitude, Zuko wouldn’t allow it.

As you lived under the same roof, talked with the same people, became closer each day, your heart would beat for him more and more. The silent giggles and smiles exchanged after a rough day full of paperwork and meetings, you helping him relax by either just being with him till late morning, or sleeping in the same vicinity. Of course, never in the same bed. Always you on the chair and him on the bed, or both of you just on the ground.

Being close helped your heart to stop wanting to jump from your throat each time you saw him.

Even if each day all you wanted was to be in his arms, pass your fingers through his entire body, kiss it, lick it, love it and hate it with scratches on his back at the same time.

Even if the council also talked about Zuko start planning a potential partner for marriage and future heirs of the throne. Talks about Mai, the girl he supposedly dated while you were in a cell waiting for him, even if he said that they barely dated, and that he never felt anything real with her. It never mattered to your heart, that desperately wanted to be the one to receive his kisses and caresses one day.

—

“Okay.”

No, not okay. It never is!

“We will start differently today.”

Spirits, help.

“Let’s train your punches today. Your kicks are good, you have good strength in your legs. But in your arms they lack.” Zuko had said earlier, as he had brought his long hair, reaching the end of his waist, into a bun with a few rebel strands of hair falling in his face.

Completely shirtless.

Zuko no longer was the awkward and skinny kid he was years ago when the war ended. He no longer held hesitation or doubts about his actions most of the time. He now was The Fire Lord, tall, muscular, and an absolute sin to look at that would often make your showers last longer, and nights wetter.

He grew to be a handsome man, and the smile on his face would come more freely and often, such as right now, as you once again was thrown back onto the ground and had to remove your eyes from him to stare at the sky in fake betrayal, feeling his playful smile even if you were not directly seeing it.

“I don’t understand why you insist on training when you are easily more talented than me when it comes to core strength on your legs and feet.” He huffed with a smirk, coming in your direction and blocking the view of the sun, his eyes staring you down with a smile that unfortunately made your panties wet, not with sweat from the training session this time.

“My arms are as thin as a twig.” You simply said back with a monotone voice, eyes fixated on his face and almost gripping onto the grass of the small private garden both of you had the privilege of going into in your training sessions (without using firebending, of course. If it ever came to that, you would have to go to the sand training ground.)

“We are firebenders, having strength in your thighs and legs is more important than your arms.” He offered his hand.

As a response, you slowly and purposely for him to see, ranked your eyes to his toned and strong arms, grabbing his hand while also admiring the veins in them. You watched as the sun and sweat made his cheeks slight pink-ish, and he laughed awkwardly. “Sure, mr. flameo hotman.”

Zuko groaned while it was your time to smirk. You knew he hated the nickname Aang insisted on calling him, loving how the supposed hate for the nickname came with just a tiny amount of embarrassment disguised as hate.

“Don’t start.” He said pulling you up as you snickered.

Silently, both of you entered positions to continue the training again, legs spread and arms raised with fists in front of each of your faces, but the easygoing feeling in the air remained. The setting sun in the distance creates shadows in the garden, announcing the beginning of the night, but neither of you tired to stop for the day yet.

Sighing, you initiated a conversation again. “I miss them.”

He copied both your movements and sigh, “Me too.”

You murmured a ‘bitch’ once you saw him copying your punches and blocking you, making him snort. To him, you did not need any extra training, but he would be lying if he said that not only were they beneficial for both of you in order to maintain your physic and strength, but also, to simply spend time with you. And you knew that he knew you didn’t need the extra attention, but he did it anyway.

But everytime you ever dared to think that maybe, just a tiny and slight maybe, he had some affection or feelings for you, you remembered over the fact that he indeed dated someone. That his attention, for a short period, was onto someone else. Someone that was a constant reminder in your head.

“How’s Mai.”

Your question took him by surprise, making him falter in his attention and widen his eyes.

“What?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows now, not only the question, but over the fact that suddenly your expression closed and your punches became more stronger. He knew the signs, he experienced it, the inner anger being used to train and fight against others, but the only thing he didn’t understand was where was your inner anger directed at.

There were times like this, where you had random spikes of anger at your feelings over your friend, because in your head, his future was already sealed with someone else. It was very common in the nation of fire to marry someone out of love, but it was much more common amongst high status and royalties to marry people off in arranged marriages.

And sometimes, when you dared to think ‘what did the soft look he gave me today as we ate breakfast together meant?’, reality would come crashing down with such a speed that sometimes, in your weakest moments, you would genuinely cry.

So to avoid having feelings, your mind would think of his ex girlfriend, the one that was the most suited to be his queen, at the end of the day.

You learned how to love when Iroh took you under his wing as an uncle, as finally a family that could properly care and love for their own. And Iroh loved passionately, fiercely, with such an intensity that it was no surprise when you realized that you had developed the same traits when regarding love.

Iroh was smart. He knew how you felt about his nephew, he teased you, he encouraged you. When the search for the avatar was happening, he would often not only tease you, but talk to Zuko as well, giving hints of not only your feelings, but about Zuko’s feelings as well, if he ever had any. And that was what sometimes would make you angry. Because if it was true, and they indeed sometimes would have the talks about feelings, then he knew about your feelings.

And if that was true, then it was simply what you always suspected, that he truly did not have any romantic feelings towards you. And if that was true, every time your thoughts carried your own mind, body and heart towards the prince, now lord, made you angry at yourself for being a fool.

If it was true, if he knew, and if he never did anything because he never wanted me for starter, if-

“Hey!”

“What!” You yelled at being brought out of your inner monologue, only to feel your feet meet air and your body be pinned to the ground, the grass prickling your exposed skin. With angry eyes, that slowly came back to normal after realizing that you had spaced out in the middle of the fight, you looked at the man pinning you down.

Zuko had his expression furrowed in confusion and worry, looking at your face in wonder. His hands were pinning your arms by the wrist onto the grass, while both of your breaths slowly rearranged themselves to become calm again.

“What was that?” He asked, his breath so close to yours that for a moment you stilled in surprise, finally taking in the sudden closeness both of you shared.

You tried to remove your arms from him without success, huffing. “Nothing.” Again. “Zuko.”

He said your name in a tone almost sternly, but for the first time, you just stopped and looked at him.

Breathing more calmly, you ranked your eyes at his face and analyzed his expression, feeling your stomach suddenly almost tough the grass itself from inside you from how it felt as if it dropped. You used to brag to yourself silently on how you knew Zuko for so many years that even the micro expressions he made, you knew what they meant. Angry, happy, hungry, embarrassed.

Yet now, looking at him, his eyes surprisingly big and round, almost pleading, and pleading for what was what scared you for a moment. His left eye not as open as the right one due the scar Ozai had given him that fateful day, his forehead sweaty and his own natural scent so musk with the training that it almost made you dizzy to have it so close to you.

Zuko sighed in resignation. Feeling his hands start to loosen their grip on you, you watched as he hung his head in defeat and closed his eyes.

“Sorry, I-”

You interrupted him. A voice so meek and quiet that it surprised you that you had finally said it. Maybe you spoke out loud without noticing, or maybe you were simply just tired of pretending that you did not know what to do with the love you had for him, besides giving it to him.

“...I don’t want you to marry Mai.”

Zuko lifted his head so fast it almost gave him a whiplash. Trying to meet your eyes, to no avail, he saw you looking at the sky with a defeated expression. Tired from the training, and yet, deep down, he could see the tiredness being deeper than just physical.

“What are you-”

“Or anyone else.” You continued, not meeting his eyes and feeling your body fully sink to the ground, no longer having any energy to fight. You thought, maybe you were too tired from the training and the feeling seeped through your mind and made you vulnerable enough to finally utter the words that had been engraved in your mind for months already. Or maybe, your mind was already so tired over any subject involving Zuko that it became physical, making you lose the fight in the training and lose the fight inside your head as well.

“Why.” He asked, no, he demanded, you realized. The tone in his question brings no room for even daring to refuse to answer. You didn’t look at him, only felt the corner of your lip twitch slightly in a repressed, sarcastic smile.

“Because I have loved you for too long to be okay with seeing you with someone else.”

There, finally, you felt as if your own heart gave a sigh of relief. At the same time, it also stopped beating, waiting for an answer of rejection or to your delusional self, acceptance. Worst case scenario, he would still want to be friends, and you would have to leave for your own good in order to finally grow out of these feelings.

“..ase. Please, look at me.” You heard his quiet voice and finally, for his own sanity, looked at him.

Your expression looked defeated. With yourself or with the expected outcome, both of you didn’t know. While his, took your breath away. His eyes shone so brightly that you would have thought he was crying, and if not for the only inches separating both of your faces, you would have guessed that was it.

Zuko’s mouth was open in silent disbelief and breath mingling with your own. You breathed with your nose, he looked as if he needed all the air necessary to breath given his gasps.

Boldly, deciding to follow your heart for once and entertain that yes, maybe he was right now giving you a hopeful look that you often found yourself giving to him in the silence of your chambers, you freed your right hand from his grasp, meeting no resistance, and gently laid your palm on his left cheek, with your thumb caressing the end of his scar.

He closed his eyes, resting his cheek onto your hand, a weak breath leaving him.

Without giving too much thought for cowardice, you lifted your head from the grass, and with the most utterly care, you placed a simple and light kiss on his closed eye, the one with the scar. Long were the nights that you looked at him sleeping and thought about caressing his cheek, his hair, his scar.

You removed your lips from his eye, only for when you distanced your face again, Zuko surprised you with a kiss.

On the lips.

Widened eyes full of surprise that soon grew soft and wet with emotions, you opened your mouth and felt his tongue slide inside. The kiss was both gentle and ruthless, a mix of want and need, wanting to finally explore the feeling and needing to feel that it was real.

Zuko’s body pressed against yours, his right hand going to your waist and going under you, making you arch your back to allow his arm to encase you, while his left hand went to your cheek, contrasting the gentle touch with the fast and deep kiss you both were sharing.

The kiss was magical. Everything that you have ever imagined coming from him. Attentive, hot and steamy, caring, sensual without even trying. And yet, you still haven’t heard the words you wanted to hear.

When it was time for the kiss to end in order to finally get some air in your lungs, you watched as he rested his forehead against yours, breathing deeply and matching his breath to yours. Your eyes were hazy and your body felt tingling hot with the kiss.

“Zuko.” You whispered, feeling his arm grip you tighter. “Zuko. Say something.”

Zuko all but gave a breathless chuckle and placed a kiss onto your forehead, creating a safe distance he met your eyes again and now, you could fully understand the expression they held. Your eyes grew impossibly wetter, the need to cry growing by the second.

“I love you.” He said, a smile breaking his face, thumbs cleaning the tears that had started to fall from your eyes. “I do. I love you too.”

“Why..” You spoke, a wet laugh leaving your throat before you could control it, a mixture of sob and relief. “Why did you never said anything?”

His eyes grew somber, a regretful look and ashamed, almost melancholic. “I lost you once. I had to work to regain your trust. I couldn’t lose you again if.. if you no longer felt the same, after..” He trailed off, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw in anger.

You swallowed dry. You knew what he was talking about. The time that you were considered a traitor and kept in the cell being a time way too fragile to talk about, no matter how many years have passed.

Laughing and sniffing at the same time, you smiled as he opened his eyes the moment he heard your sweet laugh. “You fool.” The smile never leaving your face. With now both hands free, you grabbed his face with such eagerness that it brought the boyish smile onto his face once again, your heart warming at the sight, the nostalgia of young Zuko with that same smile going through your head.

So, you kissed him again. And again. And when you had to break the kiss again for the third time to breathe properly, you held him so tightly it seemed a competition to see who was holding the other the tightest. Your heart impossibly big, feeling as if you had just conquered the world right now, and part of you believed you just did.

“Why did you speak about Mai?”

Annnd of course he had to ruin it.

You huffed. “Really?” And raised your eyebrow.

He copied you. “Yes.”

You wormed your body from under him and sat on the ground, the sky already darker than before but still enough to not be completely dark in the garden.

“The council talks about you finding a queen. Produce an heir. I’m not stupid. Mai is the most qualified for that.” You sighed, suddenly the weight of the truth making your shoulders drop. “I’m no royalty, I have no influence.” Looking at him, watching as he paid rapid attention to each of your words and micro expressions, you swallowed. “I love you. But can we even be together if the council doesn’t approve?”

Your words landed sharp into his gut, making him narrow his eyes and you flinched, thinking that you had upset or angered him, biting your lip in regret.

“I think you misunderstood.” He spoke, and before the feeling of dread could even form itself, he continued. His bigger form circled you, both arms around your body with chests touching one another, the tips of your noses touching as well, breaths mingling. “I am The Fire Lord of the Fire Nation. If you really think a measly council could control me regarding you…” His mouth went to your ear, and you felt your entire body heat up, your cheeks being painted pink as he spoke. “Then my love, you are the fool.”

“Zuko-” You started, but was interrupted as he kissed you again.

Tongues fighting against one another, his big and rough hands touched your exposed waist, your top serving little coverage for the situation, his hands making the hairs on your arms bristle in a pleasurable shiver that racked through your entire body, your back arching and touching his uncovered torso again, the situation becoming more intimate as the second passed.

“I can’t stop kissing you.” He murmured into your mouth, kissed your jaw and to your neck, and when you realized, you were once again laying down on the grass with his body on top of yours. “I won’t stop. Not now, not now that I finally have you.” He breathed.

Your hands went to his neck and traveled to his hair, gripping the silky dark locks and scratching his head lightly with your nails, relishing in his groan that traveled to your throat, making you gasp slightly and close your eyes in oblivion.

Zuko’s hands traveled up into the end of your top, and slowly but with confident movements, he introduced his fingers under the clothing, his palm almost groping the side of your boob but not daring to do the full groping yet.

“Yes.” You sighed, hands still on his head, massaging him, encouraging him. Your words was all he needed to finally fit what he could of your boobs into both of his palms, the heat of his hand meeting your nipple and making your back arch, your throat releasing a delicious moan that made the Fire Lord groan and feel himself twitch inside his pants.

“Delicious.” He whispered to your ear, squeezing and pinching your boobs and nipples, his teeth sinking softly into the meat of your neck, a whimper leaving you. “Keep making those noises for me.”

“Zuko..” You whispered amidst sighs, your fingers traveling in the middle of his hair. “Please remove my top.”

He paused for a second, but the next moment his hands left your skin so it could grasp onto the fabric of your top, and he oh so slowly, as if he was afraid or hesitant of you changing your mind, started to lower down the top. As soon as it was about to reveal your nipples, he looked at you, and with an encouraging nod, he kissed what was showing of your boob, and finally completely removed the piece of cloth, immediately closing his lips into your left nipple and sucking.

The reaction was instant. The moan you released as soon as he did it made his hands grip tighter on the top and lower it completely until it reached your waist and rested together with your pants. To your surprise, instead of just stopping, his hands grabbed the hem of your pants and started to lower it down as well.

“Please.” You begged.

Zuko hummed against your nipple and as he moved onto the other, both hands started to slowly remove your pants with your underwear as well. The idea of being completely naked for a second made you nervous and a little reluctant, until a cold breeze met your wet pussy, bringing a shiver to your body that made all worries and doubts vanish.

“I am Zuko..” He whispered as he completely removed your pants, underwear and top, leaving you bare under his eyes, lifting his head to admire your form and the adorable flush of embarrassment that was travelling through your skin. “..The Fire Lord of the Fire Nation..” He continued, kissing the top of your boobs, two kisses given softly on each, travelling down and kissing your stomach. “..What I want, I have it.” His words whispered against your belly, kisses reaching the top of your pussy, as he opened your legs and reverently threw them on his shoulders. “What I want, I take it.” Zuko kissed both of your thighs, a longer kiss on the right side as he dragged his lip across your skin, never breaking contact. His eyes met yours, the flush on your cheeks darkening as you saw just how dark his eyes had become.

Both hands gripped your thighs, he lowered his chest until it touched the grass under you both.

“And I want you. Always did.” With that, his mouth connected with your clit, like an eager lover, he started to suck and lick your pussy, not wasting any juice or taste, inside his mind being considered almost like a crime to even slightly let a single drop of you go to waste.

You moaned loudly, throwing your head back in pleasure as he dragged a thick and wet lick through your folds, his eyes closing in delight at your taste and a groan surging from his throat, the vibration going to your clit and making the grip you once had on the grass, travel to his hair, being mindful to not pull hard enough since you didn’t know if he liked it or not.

Zuko pressed his face deeper into your pussy, nose right against your clit as his tongue abused your cunt, making it messy as your juices covered the lower half of his face, your thighs shaking and threatening to close, but no matter if you were strong on your legs, his thick arms never struggled on keeping them open for him to feast on you.

“Zu-.. Zuko!” The moan left your throat and you felt the familiar pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach, your hips rolling against his face as if you were riding his tongue, making the man moan and you look down, seeing his closed eyes but the frown in his forehead and creased eyebrow spoiling just how much he was enjoying this.

From your mouth it released Ah, ah’s as you gripped his hair and positioned yourself with your back no longer touching the ground, starting to grind onto his face with gusto, a permanent ‘O’ on your mouth, silent, eyes closed.

Opening his eyes, he watched as you gripped his hair as a rein to ride his face and his eyes grew possessive, his tongue leaving your cunt and his right hand replacing it, inserting one finger inside you with no hesitation on both parties. His tongue came back on abusing your clit and sucking it as his finger soon became two, pumping in and out of your pussy.

A tear fell from your eye as he curled his long fingers and they found your spot, him feeling your pussy tighten around his fingers and making him hiss, thinking of just how it would feel around his cock.

“Let me feel you.” He whispered against your clit, fingers eagerly pumping faster and faster, curling inside your cunt purposely and focusing on hitting that exact spot that made your back arch so beautifully that he no longer saw your face, only your perky tits and erect nipples. Suddenly, your hands left his hair and grasped tightly against the grass, some of it being ripped by you due the strength, and not wanting to create not even a minimal distance, with only his left arm, he pushed your cunt impossibly closer to him as his other hand doubled the efforts on speed. “Come for me.”

With a loud moan, you came.

Thighs quivering and pussy leaking, Zuko drank all your juices with a moan of his own, his fingers drenched in your juices just like his lips and even a few parts of his cheeks, his feast becoming messier by the second as he dived deep in your pussy to drink and clean all of it.

Finally releasing your clit from his lips, he gave a final suck on your folds as he admired how flushed the skin he had abused had become, but watching your cunt clench around nothing made him travel the tip of his tongue once again from your clit, to your folds, to your eager hole. Again, and once again, as if not being able to control himself.

“Zuko-” You giggled, grasping his hair and lightly removing his face from your pussy, a drunk smile on your lips meeting his own pussy drunk expression. You bit your lip and with a small push, you pushed his head to you, making him climb your body again where your face stayed inches apart from the other, and you didn’t hesitate in licking his lips, tasting yourself as he groaned at your action, and then finally kissing him again.

As your hands traveled to the hem of his pants and with no hesitation started to undo the rope around his waist, his hands were back on your boobs, squeezing them as his thumbs massaged your nipples.

“You have no idea how many nights I wondered about how you tasted.” He spoke against your lips, eyes meeting yours in a mix of lust and adoration.

Your hands paused momentarily on removing his pants, eyes dumbly staring up at him as your mouth opened in silent surprise. “You thought about me?” And asked, not being able to control how meek your voice had sounded.

Zuko sighed and placed a kiss on your cheek. “How could I not?” He answered, his left hand removing his pants all at once but having them rest at his thigh since he was crouched on the ground. “I was a fool growing up, I didn’t appreciate you or Iroh enough, even though you were always there for me. But when I saw you again with Aang after.. And how it almost made it hard to breathe to see you barely looking in my direction..”

He trailed off, and your hands cradled his face, having his eyes meet your tender ones, seeing his expression soften at seeing your eyes looking up at him with love.

“I love you,” He said your name softly. “And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You couldn’t speak, feeling tears threatening to fall from your eyes, so you pulled his face to you and kissed him as if your life depended on it. Both tongues fighting for dominance, a fight that you willingly gave up, opening your body and mind completely to him, feeling his hands on your waist, stomach, thighs, and oh-

“I am yours..” You whispered, eyes fixated on his own, your hands going around his waist and hugging him as your legs opened and circled around him as well, pulling his body closer to yours, feeling as his cock pressed against your body and making you swallow in anticipation. “Be mine.”

“I am.” Zuko shivered at feeling your skin coming in contact with his cock, the heat from his body matching yours. “I always was.” He looked at you, and with a subtle nod from you, he grasped his cock and gave himself a few pumps, lining the tip to your cunt.

As he kissed you again, you felt his cock enter you slowly. The thickness making your toes curl and the breath being taken away from your lungs, making you gasp amidst kiss. When you hissed in discomfort at the stretch, he stopped and rewarded you with kisses on your cheek and tip of your nose, making you giggle and relax.

You blinked and the next thing you realized, your head was thrown back again to the ground, your mouth was open in a silent moan, your nails ranking over his back and no doubt leaving red stripes in his skin, all the while his balls slapped against your ass continuously as his thrusts gained speed.

Your head was on cloud nine, all you could focus was on the delicious cock fucking your pussy, so full and thick, each vein you felt pulsing inside your walls, moans echoing in the silent garden from the both of you, your pussy sucking him in like a vice, groans and whimpers mixing together with saliva.

“I’m never- never letting you go.” He spoke through gritted teeth, one of his hands maintaining his grip on your thigh with your right leg thrown over his shoulder as his other hand had a possessive hand on your stomach, himself feeling how his cock abused your insides each time he thrusted back in. “Fuck- I need you. I need you.”

He gave in to his curiosity and pressed down your stomach to feel himself better, however your eyes almost became pure white with how they rolled in pleasure, his cock twitched at the sight and at the tight feeling of your pussy squeezing him. Zuko moaned, no shame or any restraint, his thrusts became more harsh and his hand continued pressing down.

“Fuck me.” You sobbed, tears falling down your face in overstimulated pleasure pulsing through your pussy, making your brain melt as if you were thrown in the middle of a fire. Your nails sunk deeper into his back making him hiss and gasp, his body pressing on yours more as his hips smacked against yours.

The sounds were obscene. Your pussy leaked so much that in the silent garden, with the sky already dark, your pussy squelched loud and pornographic, the sound making your cheeks heat ablaze as it also caused Zuko’s cock to twitch and leak precum inside your eager pussy. No doubt the grass under you would be soaked, completely drowned in your juices.

Smack after smack as his pelvis hit against yours, his hand pressing down on you, your pussy clinging to him, his restraint became fragile. Your right hand left his back and gripped his hair, your nails now scratching his head deliciously, his thrusts stuttering for a moment and then picking up its pace.

You moaned his name, loud and needy, exactly to his ear. “Don’t stop. I’m-”

“Fuck-” He groaned as he felt your pussy squeeze him. “Come to me. Come for me.” His hips started to hit your skin so hard, his cock sheathing itself so deep that the moment both of you felt his tip touching your cervix, it was only necessary a few more thrusts and your pussy started to leak around his cock, your orgasm no intense, coming from so deep of your affections and current sensations that you squirted hard around his cock, your juices being splashed on his abdomen and thighs.

A thin line of drool was on the corner of your mouth, matching the thin lines of tears on the corner of both of your eyes as your now lover continued thrusting his drenched cock inside your overstimulated pussy. Zuko kissed your mouth, tongue exploring against yours as his hips started to lose focus the more he approached his climax, cock hard to the point it hurt, breaking the kiss again so he could look down.

What he saw was his cock going in and out of your cunt, splashing your juices to his own skin each time he bottomed out, his cock glistening and shining from how wet you made him, and a small ring of white at the base of his cock formed by his own precum together with your own.

“Inside me.” You whispered, feeling another orgasm approach and whined at the overstimulated sensation, but not daring to complain about it, loving it secretly. “Come inside me.” You whimpered and begged.

Zuko gave three more harsh slaps of his pelvis against your own, cock pulsing with need, and came deep inside you with a groan so deep and sexy that you didn’t know if your orgasm was this close, or if your second orgasm was triggered by the sound of him coming inside you only.

Besides your own surprised early orgasm, what made another needy moan leave your mouth was the fact that as Zuko’s cum filled your pussy and womb, you could feel how hot it was. Not enough to hurt, just the right amount to completely warm your insides in a way similar to when drinking hot cocoa or tea in winter, the feeling of being filled so full enough to leak, as you felt it dripping down your folds and leaking down your thighs, the hot feeling of his cum being carved in your insides and skin as well.

“Zuko..” You moaned and sighed in delight, feeling your body tire itself as well as his, his sweaty chest meeting yours, your nipples getting smushed against his, and his face buried on your neck. “I’m so full..” You whispered, hands ranking over his hair lovingly.

His hands twitched against your waist, and you felt his cock twitch again inside you in interest, making you bite your lip to prevent yourself from laughing and smirk at the same time.

“Don’t say that.” His breath came weak against the skin of your neck.

“Zuko, your cum is hot.” Your left hand started to run random drawings on his biceps.

He winced. “So-”

“I like it.” You cut him off, your nails on his head making him groan in relief and pleasure, his body relaxing. You moved your head so you could see him, and as you did, he opened his eyes to you. You smiled and placed a kiss to his scar again, the fleeting thought of how you could now do it freely passing to you, making your smile widen. “You made me full and warm, I loved it.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed in fake reprimand, because his cock, still nestled deep inside you, with his tip kissing lovingly your cervix, twitched and released another drop of cum inside you, making your eyes grow hazy for a small second and your pussy answer his twitch with a clench of your own. “Woman.” He said.

You giggled. Your hand left his hair and placed a gentle caress on his cheek, eyes growing soft with love. “You are mine now.”

He placed a reverent kiss onto your palm, eyes mirroring the same love you once thought you would never see it directed to yourself. “As you are mine.”

The talk about engagement, council, marriage, anything could wait until later. Right now, both of you relished each other's bodies under the starry night that was evidence of two childhood friends finally becoming the lovers both earned for years.

And with a smile, you would sleep tonight, and wake up the same. For you no longer had to sleep hugging a pillow to think it was him, or to reach for the side of the bed and meet nothing.

Now, he was here.

Tsireya paused in her sorting. The silence was thick for a moment, interrupted only by the faint rustling of leaves and the ocean wind nudging at the woven walls of the healer’s tent. You could hear the faint laughter of children outside, the slap of waves against the reef.

She said nothing, so you continued.

“He came up to me at the festival,” you said, your voice gaining momentum now, pushed forward by a strange combination of disbelief and wounded pride. “Grabbed my face like it was his right. He examined my tolu like it was some kind of joke—told me it looked stupid.”

Tsireya exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, but close. She shifted her weight, leaning forward to untangle a mess of dried roots, but her brow furrowed with quiet frustration.

“And,” you added sharply, as if the next point would be the one to justify your side completely, “he told his father I started the fight.”

Her hands stilled. “Did you?”

You opened your mouth, hesitated, then muttered, “Yes. But he—he deserved it.”

The disappointment in her expression didn’t shift. She didn’t look at you with anger, but her features had gone carefully blank, the way they did when she was trying not to react too quickly. Her fingers resumed their movement, but slower now, pressing herbs into neat rows with deliberate silence. You hated when she went quiet like this. It made you feel like a child who didn’t understand the rules of the world.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you mumbled, the words collapsing out of you. “He was being mean. Again. Just like always.”

Tsireya dropped the handful of leaves she’d been holding and straightened. She didn’t speak right away. Her eyes moved over your face. Not to scold, not to judge, but searching. Like she was trying to see what you weren’t saying. She shifted closer on her knees, ignoring the scattered herbs, and gently reached for your hands.

You blinked down at her, confused by the sudden touch. Her fingers were warm and careful as they wrapped around yours, her thumbs brushing slowly over your knuckles. She tilted her head to the side, her voice softer now, careful.

“Why is it such a bad thing,” she asked, “if my brother is trying to be your friend again?”

The question landed like a stone at the base of your spine. You looked at her, but couldn’t hold her gaze for long. Your eyes dropped to where your fingers tangled in hers, the shame rising like heat behind your cheeks. The inside of your mouth tasted bitter.

You didn’t answer.

Tsireya’s hands remained still, waiting. Her patience felt more like an embrace than a demand. You sat there for a long moment, feeling your heart beat a little too fast, a little too loud, your thoughts turning in slow circles as the memory crept up again. That moment. His hands. The kiss. The way your tears had slipped between both your mouths.

You swallowed hard. The words sat in your throat like salt.

“He kissed me last night.”

Tsireya froze. Her fingers stopped moving. The air in the tent shifted.

You didn’t dare look up. You felt her surprise ripple across her entire body, but she didn’t speak.

“He kissed me,” you said again, quieter this time, as if repeating it could make it make more sense. “After the fight. Or during. I don’t even know. I was bleeding and crying, and he kissed me like none of it mattered.”

Tsireya’s mouth parted, her expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. She blinked twice, still gripping your hands.

“Wait,” she said, voice pitched higher, startled. “He kissed you?”

You nodded.

She stared at you, eyes wide, and then a laugh broke through her mouth so suddenly it startled you. It started small—barely a breath, a disbelieving exhale, but it quickly tumbled into full laughter, her shoulders shaking, her fingers tightening around yours as if she needed to hold onto something to stay upright.

You scowled, tugging your hands back slightly. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry,” she wheezed, covering her mouth with one hand, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. “You fought him. At the festival. In front of the entire clan. And then he kissed you?”

“Yes!” you snapped, though the corners of your own mouth had begun to betray you, twitching toward a reluctant smile. “I didn’t ask for it!”

Tsireya was still laughing, shoulders trembling as she tried and failed to compose herself. “You are telling me he kissed you after you punched him in the face?”

“I didn’t punch him—I just—” You broke off, flustered, your cheeks burning.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against your shoulder as she gasped for air between laughs. Her joy was so infectious, so unfiltered, that you couldn’t help it, you started laughing too. Your face hurt, and it still felt wrong, somehow, to be laughing about this, but it poured out of you anyway. The laughter burned, but in a way that healed. Like pressure breaking.

The moment settled slowly. The air grew quiet again.

Tsireya sat back, her smile fading into a thoughtful line as she studied you. Her expression had shifted again, softening into that rare stillness she only showed when she was about to say something she meant.

“I’m not defending him,” she said finally. “He should never have hurt you. He should have never made you feel small. That will always be true.”

You nodded slowly, your smile fading.

“But I think...” She hesitated. “I think he never really stopped being your friend. He just... never knew how to be your friend and carry the feelings he had for you. So he dropped one and mishandled the other.”

You looked at her, unsure how to respond. Your chest felt tight again.

“He’s not good at this,” she said simply. “He never was. He doesn't know how to be gentle with the things he wants. But he tries. In his own way. And I think that kiss... wasn’t just from the fight. It was from all the years he never said the truth.”

You blinked rapidly, throat thick, and didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Tsireya reached out again, brushing a strand of your hair back into place with gentle fingers. “You don’t have to forgive him,” she said. “But you do have to stop pretending he doesn’t matter to you.”

You turned your face into your palm, breathing carefully, trying not to let the tears rise again. You were too tired for them. Too tired for the weight of what still lingered between you and Ao’nung.

“No—no, ma sa’nok, do not make me do this!”

Your voice echoed above the tide-swept murmur of the evening meal, indignant and desperate as you tried to wrench yourself free from your mother’s iron grip. She had your wrist wrapped tight in her hand, her stride unrelenting as she marched you toward the main gathering circle where families were already settled in their evening routines. Mats had been laid out, woven platters filled with roasted sea fruit and cured meat, firelight casting gold across the sand. The salty air was thick with smoke and laughter, but none of it belonged to you.

“I already said sorry to the Great Mother in the quiet of my heart, that is enough!” you hissed, planting your heels into the earth in a last, pathetic effort to dig yourself away from your fate. It was no use. Her grip was like a vice, forged through years of hauling children and baskets and stubborn pride.

“You will apologize to him,” your mother growled under her breath, eyes flashing like lightning across the reef. “You embarrassed our family. You fought the olo’eyktan’s son with your fists in front of the entire clan—during the festival. You will show that you know better.”

“I do not know better!” you yelped. “I only know that he deserved—”

“You will shut your mouth,” she snapped, yanking you forward so sharply you nearly stumbled into the back of a sun-baked fisherman. “And you will speak only when spoken to.”

You drew a breath, about to unleash another protest that would no doubt seal your doom, but your feet froze before you could utter it.

You had arrived. The din of conversation around you dulled as your mother’s footsteps slowed, and before you stood the olo’eyktan’s family, seated together in a loose circle on the sand. Tonowari and Ronal sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their posture regal even in repose, eyes shifting toward the two of you with slow, unreadable expressions. Tsireya was cross-legged nearby, chewing on a strip of dried sea beast, and beside her—

Ao’nung.

Your breath caught before you could prepare for it.

He was sitting relaxed, one knee bent, his elbow resting against it, head tilted lazily to one side. A long, dark bruise curled beneath his cheekbone like a smear of paint, and there was a faint scab healing just above the line of his eyebrow—marks you had put there. Marks you had made. His gaze lifted toward you without surprise, and you saw the exact moment he realized what this was. His lips parted just slightly, that familiar smugness already threatening to rise, like the tide before a storm.

Your mother didn’t let you hesitate.

With a graceful bow of her head, she lowered herself in greeting. “Ma Ronal. Ma Tonowari,” she said with forced calm, her voice tight from restraint. “My daughter is here to offer her apology. For acting like a fool during the festival.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your head tipped back with it. Your bare feet curled into the sand as if you could bury yourself beneath it. You wanted Eywa to open the reef floor and swallow you whole.

“She has something to say,” your mother continued, throwing you a quick glance filled with pointed steel. “To Ao’nung.”

You said nothing.

The silence stretched, your gaze glued to the packed earth beneath your toes. Your pulse was in your throat. You felt the heat of every set of eyes on you, and still, you clamped your mouth shut. A beat passed. Another. You could feel the tremble of your mother’s patience thinning to thread.

She shoved your shoulder.

You stumbled forward a step, cheeks flushing. Finally, you raised your eyes.

Ao’nung was already staring at you, his arms loosely crossed, a curious glint behind the cool veil of his expression. You swallowed hard, surprised by how beautiful he still looked even with the bruises. Especially with the bruises. The lantern-light played across the strong planes of his face, the wind stirring the beads woven into his braids. His mouth was curled just slightly at one side, not quite smiling, not quite mocking. He looked like he was waiting for a performance.

And you were still the performer.

Behind him, off to the side of the family circle, you noticed movement. A pair of familiar figures stood near one of the smaller fires. Lo’ak and Neteyam, failing terribly at pretending not to eavesdrop. Lo’ak was ducking behind a woven pole, poorly, while Neteyam stood half-concealed behind him, visibly trying not to smirk. Their postures screamed anticipation. You nearly laughed.

A grin crept onto your face as you looked back at Ao’nung.

He raised an eyebrow at the sight of it.

You cleared your throat, putting on your most solemn expression. “Ma Ao’nung,” you said, raising your voice so all the nearby ears could catch it. “I want to offer you a deep apology from the bottom of my heart.”

He blinked.

“I am so, so sorry,” you said, your voice louder now, mock sincerity dripping from every word.

Tonowari’s head tilted. Ronal narrowed her eyes.

“I am sorry,” you continued, choking on the giggles building in your throat, “for giving you another ass-whooping in front of half the clan. Just like Lo’ak and Neteyam did!”

A burst of laughter erupted behind Ao’nung—unmistakably Lo’ak’s.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. Your hand flew to your mouth as you burst into laughter, your shoulders shaking with it, the relief of saying anything cracking you wide open. You could barely breathe through the giggles now, tears beginning to well at the corners of your eyes.

Your mother gasped like she’d been slapped. “Ma‘it!”

Ronal sat completely still, expression blank, as if she were trying to process the gall of what she had just heard. Tonowari’s lips parted, his hand half-raised from his lap like he couldn’t decide whether to scold you or laugh himself. Tsireya dropped her sea beast, staring at you in open-mouthed awe.

Ao’nung just stared at you. The line of his mouth twitched once. Twice.

And then he smiled. Not a smirk. Not the arrogant grin he wore when he’d won something. It was a real smile, lazy and crooked and faint, but unmistakably warm.

Your breath caught again, but for a different reason.

His expression was so soft, and the way his eyes followed the curve of your laugh, the way he looked at you like you were a fire he could never touch but always wanted to be near—it made your heart skip a beat.

He wasn’t even mad.

You were still laughing, your smile wide as the sea, lips stretched with amusement and mischief. And there he was, across the fire, bruised and beautiful, looking at you like he’d never seen you this clearly before. Like this, this version of you, wild and reckless and unashamed, was the one he’d been chasing for years without knowing how to ask for her back.

He leaned back on one elbow, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You owe me for the bruise,” he murmured under his breath, loud enough only for you to hear.

You smirked. “You owe me for the bracelet.”

His smile faltered just slightly at that, just a flicker, but his eyes softened again.

Behind you, your mother was already preparing to drag you away again, but you didn’t move. You stayed just long enough to lock eyes with him once more, your grin curling slowly into a softer thing.

The kind of smile that meant later.

Then, with your heart still racing and your shoulders still shaking, you turned back toward the dark, ignoring your mother’s furious muttering as she all but shoved you toward home.

Behind you, Ao’nung didn’t stop smiling.

The sun had not yet burned the mist from the water when Ao’nung stepped into the sea.

It lapped around his ankles first, then his shins, rising higher with every slow step as he pushed through the tide toward the reef ledge. A net strap dug across his chest, the weight of the collection basket swaying at his hip. His hair was tied back loosely, still damp from the first dive, beads clicking together each time he shook water from his ears. The morning was quiet. No wind yet. No gulls overhead. Only the hush of the waves and the slow churn of his own thoughts.

Punishment duty. For starting a brawl during a sacred celebration. Or so everyone believed. Even though he hadn’t thrown the first punch, he hadn’t exactly turned the other cheek either.

He ducked under a shallow arch of coral, breath even, fingers ghosting over the edge of the reef as he reached into a nest of sea grass, pulling free a cluster of shellroot with a practiced grip. He didn’t need to look to know what to take. He knew the reef better than his own reflection. He knew how the roots grew in tangled webs, how the mollusks clung to shaded undersides, how the clear clams had to be plucked before the tide shifted. His body worked without needing instruction. His mind was elsewhere.

The image of you at the festival lingered behind his eyes. Your face flushed with laughter, head thrown back as you mocked him in front of everyone with a voice too sweet to be sincere. He should’ve been furious. The way your words had danced off your tongue, all teeth and salt and pride—he should’ve hated it.

But he hadn’t.

Because you had smiled. Really smiled. Not a guarded smirk or one of your careful, quiet acknowledgments. It was joy, lit from within, untamed. And for a moment, it was aimed at him.

Rotxo surfaced beside him with a splash, dragging a long coil of sea vine behind him. He dumped it into the basket and flicked water from his hair. “You’re slow today,” he said, glancing sideways. “Too much kelp in your ears?”

Ao’nung ignored the jab, reaching deeper into the water to dislodge a stubborn root. He didn’t feel like talking. His chest still felt too full.

Rotxo elbowed him in the side. “You’re quiet.”

Ao’nung swam a few feet forward, brushing silt from a cluster of reeffruit before answering. “She’s annoying.”

Rotxo blinked, then smirked. “You’re still thinking about her.”

Ao’nung grunted.

He didn’t want to talk about it, but his mind refused to let go. Every moment from the last few days had lodged itself behind his ribs. The sting of your fist. The sound of your voice trembling after the fight. The wet heat of your kiss, salt on your lips, the way your tears had mingled with his breath. That memory had followed him through sleep and into waking. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the ghost of your hands, the weight of your anger, the echo of the way you had pulled away.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like a loss.

The worst part, the part he would never say aloud, was that your tolu had never looked stupid. Not even for a breath. He had told you it did because he didn’t know how to say what he meant.

Because the truth was: it had stunned him. The markings were elegant, undulating, like ocean waves, intricate lines etched into your skin with care. They suited you more than he wanted to admit. They made you look older. Sharper. Like you belonged in the tide and in the sky all at once.

He had told you it looked stupid. The words had left his mouth before he could stop them, a knee-jerk defense against the way his heart had leapt the second he saw it. He had meant to say you looked powerful. He had meant to say that it made him ache, seeing you step into adulthood with fire in your eyes and ink carved into your skin. But Ao’nung never said what he meant when it came to you.

He never had.

The reef curled into a wide basin ahead, dotted with hollow coral and eelgrass. Ao’nung swam out into the deeper section, letting the current tug at him. The cold water cut across his bruises, soothing the ache from the fight. But it didn’t quiet his thoughts.

You had always stirred something inside him, long before he had the words to name it.

He remembered it vividly—when he was just a boy, barely tall enough to walk the reef wall without tripping on his own feet. You had found him sulking near the tidepools, alone, furious after his father had scolded him in front of the elders. You hadn’t said anything, just sat beside him with a fistful of saltfruit and began eating like you hadn’t noticed his storming mood.

He hadn’t looked at you. Not until you offered him the last piece.

When he took it, your fingers brushed. You smiled. And Ao’nung had felt, for the first time, that the world could tilt. Not in a bad way. Not like falling. More like drifting toward something bigger than he could understand.

You weren’t kind in the way others were. You were sharper, quieter, not interested in praise. You would train longer than the others, stay out past dusk to gather shellfish alone. You never cared about showing off. You didn’t need to. You had this way of existing without apology.

It infuriated him. It fascinated him.

The bracelet had come later. He didn’t understand what it meant, not at the time. Only that you had made it yourself, that it had taken you hours, and that you gave it to him like it was natural. Like of course it should rest on his wrist. Like you had always intended to leave a mark there.

He had thrown it. Laughed in your face. His friends had howled.

And you had walked away.

He had told himself it didn’t matter. That you were childish. Sensitive. That you would forget. But you hadn’t. And he had never forgiven himself for the way your face looked when you turned from him, eyes wide with betrayal, too proud to cry in front of everyone.

It had haunted him.

Now, years later, his father’s voice still echoed from the night of the festival, full of restrained fury. His mother’s eyes had burned into him like coals. But none of that had stung as much as your silence after the kiss. The way you had looked at him like it was too late. Like the bruise on your jaw meant more than anything he could ever say.

“Are you gonna cry into the water?” Rotxo called out from behind, half-joking.

Ao’nung dragged a hand down his face, wiping the salt from his eyes. “Shut up.”

Rotxo laughed, but didn’t press. He’d known Ao’nung long enough to read his silences.

Ao’nung stayed in the water longer than necessary, weaving through the coral beds, fingers brushing against the life growing there. Every echo of you returned to him in fragments. The scowl you wore when you were trying not to smile, the way your braids swayed when you walked ahead of him without looking back, the night you kissed him like it hurt.

He didn’t know what he wanted from you now. Forgiveness? Maybe. Another fight? Possibly. A chance to try again?

Yes.

Even if it meant bleeding for it. Even if it meant waiting longer. Even if all you ever gave him were your fists and your laughter. He would take both. Willingly. Bruised and smiling.

Because the truth was simple, buried beneath every excuse he’d ever made.

He still wanted you. Always had.

The truth of it settled heavy in Ao’nung’s chest, stubborn and unmovable, like a stone dropped too deep to reach. He stared down into the net in his hands, watching strands of kelp drift lazily between the shellroot and smooth reef stones. His muscles moved from habit alone as he lifted the net and slung it over his shoulder, the wet fibers pressing cold against his skin. His thoughts, however, refused to follow him out of the water.

Rotxo had already started wading back toward shore, splashing through the shallows with exaggerated effort, clearly growing restless now that the basket was full.

“Eywa, finally,” Rotxo muttered when Ao’nung joined him, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the ocean’s weight. “I thought we were going to harvest the entire reef by ourselves.”

Ao’nung didn’t answer. He walked beside Rotxo in silence, the water lowering from his knees to his ankles as the sand turned warmer and firmer beneath his feet. The village loomed ahead, smoke drifting upward from early cooking fires, voices faint but growing clearer with every step. He should have felt relief, leaving the punishment behind him for the day. Instead, his thoughts were still tangled in last night, in your laughter, in the way your eyes had softened when you thought no one was watching.

Rotxo cast him a sideways glance, lips curling with familiar mischief. “You know, most people come back from punishment duty grumbling about sore arms or empty stomachs. You look like you lost a fight with your own head.”

Ao’nung snorted quietly, shaking water from his braids. “Maybe I did.”

Rotxo chuckled, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Must be hard, thinking that much.”

Ao’nung shot him a glare, but it held no real bite. His heart wasn’t in the banter, and Rotxo felt it.

They continued across the shore, the breeze carrying the scent of roasted shellfish and crushed herbs. Children ran past them toward the water, laughing loudly, their joy unburdened and careless. Ao’nung watched them for a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of memory stirring behind his eyes.

Rotxo followed his gaze. “You used to be like that,” he said, more softly now. “Before you decided scowling was your best look.”

Ao’nung exhaled slowly through his nose. “Before people expected me to act like I had claws.”

Rotxo hummed in acknowledgment. “Expectations do that.”

They walked a few more steps before Rotxo spoke again, his tone casual, though his words were not. “You know she made a bracelet that matched yours, right?”

Ao’nung’s chest tightened.

“She used to wear it tied around her braid sometimes,” Rotxo continued. “Said it reminded her not to trust anyone who smiles too loud.”

Ao’nung’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. He stared ahead, forcing his breath to stay even. He remembered that bracelet far better than he wanted to admit. The way the threads had shimmered faintly in the sun. The way it had looked against his wrist, like it belonged there.

“Why does she care so much about that one stupid thing?” Rotxo asked, genuinely puzzled now. “I mean, I get being mad, but holding onto it for years like it was the end of the world?”

Ao’nung scoffed automatically. “Because she’s stupid. She never lets anything go.”

Rotxo glanced at him again, slower this time, more thoughtful. “Or maybe because it mattered to her. Not the bracelet. The moment.”

Ao’nung didn’t respond, but the words sank in deep, spreading through his chest like slow-burning fire.

Rotxo kicked at a small pile of shells with his foot as they neared the edge of the village. “You ever think that when someone gives you part of themselves, and you throw it back at them, they remember that longer than the people who just walk away?”

Ao’nung stopped walking.

Rotxo halted too, turning toward him in surprise. “What?”

Ao’nung stared at the sand, heart pounding louder than the ocean had moments before. His mind reeled backward through memory, not just to the bracelet, but to everything that came before it. The afternoons spent racing ilu. The quiet moments collecting glow-shells. The way you used to sit beside him without needing to speak, like your presence alone was enough.

He had taken all of that for granted.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much and didn’t know how to hold it.

His fingers curled slowly at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as an idea took shape, not fully formed yet, but sharp enough to cut through the noise in his head. Not an apology spoken aloud. Not words, which he had always ruined.

A gesture.

His breath hitched slightly as the memory of your tolu flashed behind his eyes, the delicate black lines along your left temple, earned through blood and courage and flight.

What had he ever given you in return?

Rotxo was still watching him, curiosity sharpening into concern. “Hey. You good?”

Ao’nung lifted his head slowly, eyes focused now, jaw set with sudden resolve. “She made me something once.”

Rotxo blinked. “Yeah. That’s what we were just—”

“I never gave her anything back,” Ao’nung interrupted.

Rotxo tilted his head, silent, waiting.

Ao’nung exhaled, the tension in his shoulders shifting into purpose. “Not really. Not anything that meant the same.”

Rotxo’s mouth opened slightly, understanding dawning in his expression, but he said nothing, wisely letting Ao’nung follow the thought where it was leading on its own.

Ao’nung’s mind was already racing ahead, mapping materials, remembering the way his grandmother had taught him to weave bone-thread and shell fiber into strong cords. He knew where to find sea-glass polished smooth by the deeper tides. He knew how to carve patterns into bead-stone, how to shape a clasp that wouldn’t break.

He knew exactly how to make it strong.

Strong enough to last.

Strong enough to say what he never had.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders, a strange mix of nerves and determination flooding through him. “I need to borrow some carving tools.”

Rotxo’s grin spread slow and wide. “Oh. So that’s where this is going.”

Ao’nung shot him a warning look. “You say one word to anyone and I will drown you.”

Rotxo laughed, holding up both hands. “Your secret, tsmukan. But I hope she hits you less hard this time.”

Ao’nung huffed despite himself, turning toward the weaving tents with renewed purpose, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anger now.

Night had swept across the reef in deep hues of cobalt and violet, the stars just beginning to prick the sky like scattered memories. The moon hung low, soft and round, its reflection stretching across the terraced tide pools in trembling ribbons of light. You stepped barefoot along the slick stone, your weight balanced delicately as you moved from one pool to the next, toes brushing the edges of shallow water where darting fish glowed like fireflies beneath the surface.

This place was still yours.

No matter how the world shifted, no matter who came or left, no matter how loud the village roared with feasts or arguments or your mother’s fury—this place remained untouched. Sacred. The pools, layered in gentle steps down the reef wall, held ecosystems of their own. Tiny crabs skittered along the edges of barnacled stone, threads of seaweed swaying like dancers, the occasional flick of a translucent fin vanishing before your gaze could follow it.

You knelt near the largest basin, where a school of reef-gliders circled in lazy loops, their colors luminous under the moonlight. A small smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. It had been a long day, filled with silence, your mother’s glares, Tsireya’s endless sighing. Still, your shoulders felt lighter than they had in moons.

It was the dinner. That stupid dinner.

Tsireya had called it reckless, but her voice had been threaded with laughter when she said it. “You embarrassed him in front of everyone again, you know,” she had murmured while sorting shellfruit, trying not to giggle. “He looked like his tail was about to fall off from the shame.” You’d rolled your eyes and brushed it off, pretending not to hear the note of pride in her voice.

But privately, deep in the quiet of your own head, it had felt good. Not just because you got the last word. Not just because Lo’ak and Neteyam had nearly choked from laughing too hard. It had felt good because you had smiled at him.

Truly smiled. 

And he hadn’t looked away.

Your fingers drifted into the water beside the pool, breaking its surface. The fish startled, then returned to their swim, unbothered. You watched their dance, but your thoughts wandered elsewhere—back to the heat of his palm against your cheek.

You hadn’t forgotten the kiss.

Even now, the memory clung to you like mist, impossible to shake. You’d tried to bury it under jokes and fury, tried to tell yourself it was a mistake, just another trick, but the warmth had been real. His lips had been gentle, trembling just slightly when they pressed against yours, as though he hadn’t been sure you would let him. His breath had carried your name like it hurt to say it.

You remembered the way his thumb traced your jaw, how his voice broke when he apologized, eyes too open.. You’d kissed him back. Not because you wanted to forgive him. But because it had been him, the boy who once made you laugh chasing eels in tidepools, the boy who could never say what he meant but always said it with his eyes. The boy who had thrown your gift away, yes. But also the boy who still looked at you like you were made of fire.

The bruise on your cheek had faded, but the feeling had not.

You touched your left temple absently, brushing the edge of your tolu. He had insulted it. Mocked it in front of you, but his fingers had lingered on your skin. That hadn’t been cruelty. That had been fear. Hesitation. 

Maybe awe.

Your thoughts scattered when voices carried across the reef path.

You turned, expecting irritation to rise in your chest, but it didn’t. Their laughter rolled over the rocks like a familiar tide: Tsireya, unmistakable in her joy; Kiri trailing beside her with a cluster of woven baskets in her arms; Neteyam and Lo’ak walking behind them, arguing in whispers; Tuk darting ahead like a spark about to catch fire. Rotxo followed, already grinning like he’d spotted you before the rest.

Behind them—just a few paces off, quiet—walked Ao’nung.

Your breath caught. You didn’t expect to see him here. Not like this. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even talking. He walked as though his body was there and his mind wasn’t. His eyes kept low, watching the path beneath his feet.

You could have turned away. Could have vanished behind the coral outcropping and disappeared back into the reef, no questions, no explanations. But you didn’t.

Instead, you lifted your hand in a small wave.

Tuk spotted you first and shrieked your name, launching forward with her arms open like she intended to tackle you into the tide pool. You caught her easily, arms wrapping around her smaller frame as she buried her face in your shoulder. Her laughter rang into your chest like sunlight through water.

Tsireya arrived next, smiling wide as she helped Kiri settle the baskets. “You hiding again?” she teased, nudging your side gently.

“Not hiding,” you muttered, watching the others gather around. “Just breathing.”

Kiri sat beside you, pulling her braids over one shoulder. “Good place for it,” she said simply, placing a small shell in the water, watching the fish swarm.

Lo’ak gave a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Eywa, this is the most peaceful I’ve ever seen you. Should we be worried?”

Neteyam elbowed him. “She doesn’t hit when she’s surrounded by small children and healers, skxawng.”

You smiled despite yourself, even as you kept your gaze carefully away from the one person who hadn’t approached.

Ao’nung stood a few steps back from the group, close enough to be counted, far enough to be apart. His eyes weren’t on the tide pools. They were on you.

He didn’t speak.

Tsireya’s glance flicked between the two of you. She said nothing either.

You returned your attention to the fish, watching them curl around the ripple of Kiri’s offering, light flashing from their bellies as they twisted. Your face was calm, but your thoughts were in a storm.

He was here. He had come.

Was it coincidence? Was it guilt? Did he know this was your place?

You couldn’t read his expression. His face was too guarded, as it often was when he didn’t know how to act.

Your hand slid into the water again, fingers brushing the surface gently, careful not to disturb the flow. The fish darted at first, startled by your presence, but they returned in cautious spirals. You let your fingers trail behind them, mimicking their movements.

You thought about speaking to him. About standing, walking across the stone, placing yourself in his space and asking the questions that still lingered on your tongue like salt: Did the kiss mean anything? Did you mean anything?

But your body didn’t move.

You stayed kneeling beside the water, content in your stillness, the quiet rhythm of breath and tide holding you steady. The questions could wait. Right now, the warmth on your skin from the moonlight and the hush of the ocean in your ears felt enough.

Time slipped gently past you. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring into the pool, your thoughts caught in the spaces between memory and silence, until the voices around you had softened, changed.

You glanced up, blinking back into awareness.

The group had scattered—spread naturally into pairs and clusters. Neteyam was crouched beside Kiri, both of them pointing into the shallows and speaking low, their hands gesturing toward a cluster of feeding shrimp. Tsireya sat with Lo’ak, their knees touching, her smile bright in the glow of the firefly-lanterns. Rotxo had flopped onto his back a few paces away, eyes skyward, humming some old song too quiet to recognize. Tuk sat beside him, trying to copy the melody with her mouth full of berries.

You hadn’t noticed when it happened. How they all peeled away. How they gave you space without saying they were giving it.

You exhaled slowly, lifting your head higher, gaze tracing the horizon, until it caught on movement closer than expected.

Ao’nung.

He stood a few paces away, watching you with unreadable eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat. His presence was quiet, not the usual swaggering thing it used to be. He walked forward with measured steps, nothing theatrical or loud, only a kind of nervous weight behind the way his shoulders squared and how his hands flexed slightly at his sides.

You didn’t speak.

He did.

His voice came low, almost hesitant. “Do the fish know your name now? You always come here to speak to them.”

Your eyes blinked, slowly, startled by the sound and the throwback to years ago, and you realized you hadn’t been breathing.

You stared at him, heart fluttering unexpectedly, words gone to mist in your mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. “Hello?” His tone was lighter now, laced with amusement. “Did I fry your brain?”

You blinked again, flustered, your mouth moving before your thoughts caught up. “Can you… say it again?”

Ao’nung laughed. A soft huff from his chest, like he couldn’t believe you were making him repeat himself but didn’t mind.

He crouched a few feet away from you, sitting on the flat stone like he’d done it a hundred times. His knees drew up slightly, elbows resting on them. He tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze but not enough to pressure you.

“I asked,” he said, slow now, “if the fish have learned your name. You’re always talking to them like they’re your friends.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile that crept onto your lips betrayed you. “They don’t talk back.”

He shrugged. “They listen. That’s more than most people do.”

You looked down again, back into the pool, pretending the motion would cool your cheeks. It didn’t. Your skin burned like the heat from a campfire.

His gaze followed yours.

“They like you,” he said, after a pause.

You didn’t know if he meant the fish or the people.

“Maybe,” you replied, voice quieter than before. “They don’t punch me in the mouth.”

He winced, pressing a hand to his jaw dramatically. “You’ve got a mean hook, you know. I think my teeth are still loose.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Light, unexpected, floating up before you had a chance to stop it.

Ao’nung looked at you like he hadn’t heard you laugh in years.

“Didn’t know you could sound like that,” he said.

You gave him a side-eye. “Like what?”

“Like…” He paused, thoughtful. “Like you used to. Before you hated me.”

Your stomach twisted gently. You didn’t respond. Not immediately.

Ao’nung scratched the back of his neck, eyes glancing toward the water. “It’s strange, huh?” he muttered. “One minute we’re fighting like eel-cats, and now we’re…” He trailed off.

You filled the silence. “Sitting near each other without drawing blood?”

He gave a soft laugh. “Yeah. That.”

The tide lapped at the stone beside you, your fingers still dancing just beneath the surface, trailing the small silver creatures that weaved between your touch. You could feel his presence beside you, uncomfortably comforting.

You glanced at him again, and this time you studied the shape of his face in the dark. His bruises had faded into purples and yellows, soft-edged now instead of sharp. His bottom lip still bore a thin split, barely healing. The left side of his jaw was pink, slightly swollen.

He caught you staring.

“You should see the other guy,” he said, grinning faintly.

You rolled your eyes. “I was the other guy.”

He chuckled. “Right.”

The conversation paused, but didn’t falter. You found yourself turning slightly, not fully facing him, but angling closer. He noticed it, and for once, didn’t make a joke of it. His voice softened.

“You always come here alone?”

You nodded. “It’s quiet here. No one pretends.”

Ao’nung tilted his head, resting his cheek against his knee. “What do I pretend?”

You hesitated.

He waited.

You met his eyes. “You pretend you don’t feel anything.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smirk. He just nodded, slowly. As if he didn’t know how to answer with words.

You turned your gaze back to the pool. Your fingers had gone still now, resting in the cool water, forgotten.

His voice came again. Lower. More careful. “I think I used to. But not around you.”

You said nothing. But your heart tripped.

You didn’t even realize the way your body shifted closer, just by an inch, barely enough to call it anything at all. Your shoulders had relaxed. Your cheek had begun to tilt toward him when you smiled. You hadn’t noticed.

He had.

His smile changed. Not wide. Not smug. But soft. Barely there. Just the curve of his lips and the light in his eyes.

He leaned forward a little. “You’re weird when you like someone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t like you.”

He shrugged. “Still weird.”

You scoffed, but the laugh bubbled out anyway, your cheeks warming again as you hid behind your hand. You felt like you were eight again, all fluster and fumble, trying not to let him see how he made you feel.

Ao’nung nudged you gently with his shoulder. “You know you blush blue, right? Real bright. Like a reef crab.”

You gave him a look that promised future violence.

He grinned wider, completely unbothered.

You shook your head, sighing, but you didn’t move away from him.

You hadn’t noticed how close you were sitting now. His shoulder nearly brushed yours. His knees pointed toward you. His hand rested casually on the stone, close enough to yours that your pinky could graze his if you let it.

Ao’nung’s voice came again, quiet but not uncertain. “You said I owed you a bracelet.”

Your chest tightened.

The words landed with unexpected weight. Your spine straightened, every part of you snapping inward with reflexive caution. The smile you wore flickered and fell before you could catch it. Your hand, once relaxed in the water, pulled back toward your lap, curling slowly into your thigh.

You didn’t look at him. “Why are you bringing that up?”

He exhaled softly, no trace of the usual sharpness in his tone. “Just thinking about it.”

Your gaze dropped to your knees. “It was a long time ago.”

He nodded, almost to himself. “I know.”

Your voice came more clipped this time. “You didn’t seem to care back then.”

Ao’nung didn’t answer right away. He shifted beside you, one elbow on his knee, his body loose despite the tension that suddenly wrapped around your shoulders like sea-vine. When he finally spoke again, his words came gently, laced with the smallest smile. “You were so serious when you gave it to me. You rambled for like a minute straight.”

“I was eight,” you muttered, not hiding your scowl.

“You were cute,” he said, grinning wider.

You turned your head sharply to glare at him. “You threw it in the sand.”

He met your eyes without flinching. “Yeah. I was a skxawng.”

You scoffed and looked away again, but your heartbeat betrayed you, kicking harder behind your ribs. You had spent years burying that memory under bitterness and salt. Hearing him mention it now, with no cruelty, no teasing in his voice—just memory—it unraveled you more than you liked.

“I spent a whole day making that,” you said, voice quieter now, but still sharp. “It was supposed to be a gift.”

“I know,” he said simply.

You wanted to snap again. To say it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care. That it had meant nothing. But Ao’nung beat you to the silence.

He stood without any warning, brushing the back of his legs where his skin had stuck slightly to the damp stone. You expected him to turn and leave, maybe toss a final joke over his shoulder like he always did.

Instead, he held out his hand.

You stared at it like it wasn’t real.

He said nothing, only waited, his eyes calm, his palm open.

Your gaze rose slowly from his hand to his face. His mouth had lost the smirk. There was no mockery in the corners of his eyes. Just quiet expectation, like he knew you might reject it but still hoped you wouldn’t.

Carefully, you placed your hand in his and expected him to let go once you were on your feet, but he didn’t.

You rose, and his fingers stayed wrapped around yours, firm and sure. Not tight, not claiming, but anchored.

You waited for him to drop it. To laugh. To make a sarcastic comment and pull away like it had been nothing but a game, but he started walking.

He walked beside you as though it was natural. Like your hands had always fit this way. He didn’t look down, didn’t make a show of it, didn’t glance around to see who was watching. His thumb brushed against yours once—so slight it could’ve been a mistake—but it lingered a little too long.

Your pulse fluttered, too confused to be steady. You didn’t ask what he was doing.

The tide pools stretched ahead, rippling with starlight. The others remained behind, their voices fading into background music, laughter drifting faintly like the smell of roasted shells across open water.

Ao’nung’s voice broke the hush between you.

“I’ve thought about that day,” he said, his thumb still tracing yours. “The one with the bracelet.”

Your throat tightened again.

His eyes remained on the path. “I was scared.”

You blinked. “Scared? Of what?”

His jaw worked, the muscle moving slightly as he gathered the words. “Of what it meant.”

You didn’t reply. Your feet moved without thought now, just following where he led. His words held you too still.

“I never got gifts like that. Not from anyone who actually knew me.” His voice was soft now, the kind of tone he never used around others. “I thought it made me weak. Letting people see I liked it.”

You looked at him slowly.

He was staring at the water.

“I was stupid,” he said, voice low. “But you knew that already.”

You weren’t sure when your grip on his hand had tightened. But it had.

He glanced at you then, and for a second, his face was open, eyes clear as the tide. You saw guilt there, yes, but more than that, you saw longing. A softness that had no place in the boy you used to fight tooth and nail.

He squeezed your hand, just once. “You don’t have to forgive me. But I wanted to say it. Out loud.”

The words didn’t bounce off you like so many others had. They stayed there in your chest, soaking into you like seawater into cloth, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore. You didn’t answer immediately. Your throat felt tight, not from anger, but from the way his voice sounded when he said it. Soft. Quiet in that rare way he never let anyone else hear. Your fingers twitched in his hold, and he didn’t pull away. That was what stunned you the most, maybe. That he wasn’t braced for rejection. He just… waited.

The ocean murmured around your ankles. Tiny waves lapped over the stone, brushing at your skin as if they could move you forward, make you speak. The tide was rising with the moon, flooding the shallow pools with clearer water. The stars above the sea were mirrored below, caught and trembling on the surface between your feet. Everything felt too big for your mouth—your past, his mistakes, your ache.

But you exhaled slowly, and found your voice, low and a little hoarse. “I forgive you.”

You hadn’t meant for it to come out that soft. But maybe softness was what this moment needed.

Ao’nung froze. You could feel it in his body before he reacted at all—how his fingers tightened slightly around yours, how his shoulders lifted with a held breath. His head turned, eyes finding your face like he was making sure you’d actually said it. You met his gaze without flinching. It wasn’t a test. You meant what you said. All of it.

His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. He just stared, stunned into silence, his mouth slightly open, his brows pulled tight,not in confusion, but in disbelief. He looked younger like that. Not the proud, sharp-toothed boy who used to jeer at you from the waterline, but a version of him you remembered from long ago. The one who used to race you through the coral trenches. The one who laughed with his whole body before he learned to use it as a weapon.

He dropped his eyes for a breath and laughed quietly under his breath. A short, shaky sound. “Huh.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Didn’t think you would,” he muttered, scratching the side of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding yours. His ears twitched slightly, a nervous tic you hadn’t seen in years. “I hoped, but I didn’t think.”

The breeze had cooled. It swept across your skin, brushing strands of hair against your cheek, and you didn’t move to fix them. Your focus was entirely on him now—on the way his body carried the weight of your forgiveness like it was heavier than your anger had ever been.

He shifted beside you, letting go of your hand only to reach for the strap at his side. You watched him closely, confused, unsure why the sudden movement made your chest ache.

“What are you doing?” you asked quietly, voice still guarded.

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers fumbled slightly as he dug beneath the folded leather at his hip, where the sheath of his knife was strapped to his thigh. You caught the brief glint of the blade, but he didn’t pull it free. Instead, his fingers slipped deeper, retrieving something small, something wrapped in dark kelp-cloth and knotted with thread.

He glanced at you only briefly as he pulled it out, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t think I’d give this to you tonight,” he said.

You blinked, a strange tightness blooming behind your ribs.

He peeled back the cloth with slow fingers, careful, almost reverent. The soft fibers fell away, revealing what was inside.

It was a bracelet.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your mouth opened slightly, your eyes locked on the woven piece cradled in his hand. The world narrowed around it. Time slowed. You couldn’t think of anything else. Just that shape, the colors, the texture of it burned into your memory.

It was nearly the same as the one you’d made for him all those years ago.

The knots were tighter, more practiced, but the pattern hadn’t changed. The same soft blues of dyed coral string, the faded white stones polished smooth, the central bead shaped from a small iridescent shell. It wasn’t perfect. One edge of the shell had a chip, barely noticeable, but it was there. He hadn’t discarded it. He had kept it.

No—he had made it that way on purpose.

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding against the cage of your ribs.

“I remembered what yours looked like,” Ao’nung said, still not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t keep it, obviously. I was… a skxawng. But I remembered it. I remembered every part.”

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and you looked at him, and saw how hard he was trying not to ruin this moment with the wrong words. His jaw clenched like he was biting back too many thoughts.

Your wrist was still in his hand.

You moved to pull it away, not out of anger, but because the emotion rising in your throat was too much, and you didn’t know what to do with it. The tears were welling fast behind your eyes, burning, threatening to slip free. You didn’t want him to see you like this, undone and blinking at a gift you hadn’t expected, hadn’t dared to hope for.

But Ao’nung didn’t let go.

His grip wasn’t forceful. It was steady.

His fingers held your wrist, thumb brushing gently against your skin as he raised your arm just enough to slip the bracelet into place. His other hand worked slowly, tying it off, not with the rough impatience you expected, but with careful, deliberate motion.

“It’s not perfect,” he muttered. “I messed it up twice and had to start over. Took me hours. Probably too many.”

You said nothing. Your throat was too tight. You stared at the bracelet now resting against your skin—your skin, which was flushed and trembling and alive beneath his touch.

He finished the knot and didn’t move away. His hands lingered on your wrist for a breath longer than they should have. His eyes lifted, finding yours. “But it’s yours.”

The tears fell then. Quietly, and you didn’t try to stop them. You didn’t look away. You let him see it. You let him see what he’d done, how deeply this moment cut, how much the past had stayed inside you all this time. The years you spent pretending it hadn’t hurt, pretending you didn’t care, pretending you hadn’t once waited for him to change. All of it trembled loose in that moment, hanging between your breath and his fingers.

Ao’nung moved closer, no hesitation in his steps, just the familiar arrogance of someone who thought he could carry the world with his hands alone. But his touch was gentle when it came to your face. His thumb brushed the trail of your tears like it had done it before, and it had. At the festival. That night you hit him, bled together, kissed each other like you were both drowning and didn’t know how to breathe on land anymore. The way he looked at you now—it was the same, but worse. Or maybe better. You couldn’t tell. The weight of his gaze made your pulse jump. Your body leaned into his hand before you could stop it.

“Stop,” you whispered, wriggling slightly as your cheeks flamed hotter, twisting in his grip, though it didn’t hold you too tightly. “You’re being… weird.”

He didn’t let go.

His smile stretched wide across his face, teeth glinting, dimples showing, proud and infuriating. He looked like himself again. The cocky, unbearable, loudmouth Ao’nung that never shut up, never thought before he acted, always made every feeling a performance. But his eyes, his eyes were different. They glowed with warmth now, and pride, and a boldness that wasn’t trying to mock you.

“Why are you smiling like that?” you muttered, voice trembling in your throat.

He looked around like you weren’t even speaking, like your voice was background noise compared to the rush building behind his ribs. His chest puffed a little, as if standing beside you had lit a fire in his bones he couldn’t smother.

“Look at her!” he called suddenly, voice booming across the tide pools, cutting through the soft chatter and low laughter of the others nearby.

Your head snapped toward him in horror, your hand instinctively jerking to your face to wipe the tears still clinging there. The rest of the group froze in motion, all heads turning in confusion. Neteyam looked up from where he sat with Kiri, brows rising. Lo’ak blinked. Tsireya’s mouth dropped open slightly, stunned. Even Rotxo sat up straighter, eyes darting between the two of you like he wasn’t sure if this was some joke or another fight waiting to happen.

Your heart climbed into your throat. “Ao’nung,” you hissed under your breath, tugging at his arm, “what are you doing—?”

But he didn’t stop.

“I made her a bracelet,” he shouted, proudly, loud enough for every single one of them to hear. “Took me two nights. Maybe three. I had to restart it because my knots were trash. But it matches her eyes. That weird green shade—like shallow reef water when the light hits just right.”

Your mouth dropped open, blood pounding in your ears.

He was quoting you. Word for word. The same awkward, over-explained mess you had rambled out when you were eight. When you gave him your first bracelet. You had spent hours trying to sound poetic, trying to describe the colors you’d picked, nervously listing every detail so he’d understand how much it meant.

Your face burned now, practically glowing red beneath the blue of your skin.

“Skxawng,” you hissed, elbowing him lightly. “Stop talking, Great Mother, please—”

But Ao’nung was lost in it now, too far gone, riding the wave of his own recklessness.

“She used to talk too much when she liked you,” he said, eyes fixed on you, his grin softening a little, voice lowering just enough so that only those closest could hear. “Now she doesn’t say anything unless she’s stabbing you.”

You opened your mouth to curse at him, but you couldn’t.

Because he leaned closer. His breath was warm across your face. His hand was still on your cheek.

“I like both versions,” he said, voice almost gentle now, but still carrying.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t make your feet move or your mouth work or your arms push him away.

Ao’nung’s voice rose again, so loud, so infuriatingly fearless, echoing across the quiet tide pool like a storm cloud cracking open.

“I want everyone to know I kissed her first!”

You gasped, eyes wide as the entire reef turned their heads in unison.

“Ao’nung—”

“I did! Right after she punched me in the jaw,” he laughed. “Best kiss I’ve ever had!”

Your hands flailed uselessly at his shoulders, trying to shut him up, your embarrassment flaming hotter than the sunside sand. “Stop—stop—they’re all looking—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Ao’nung’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, and he kissed you again.

This time there was no blood, no shouting, no shoving between you. Just his mouth on yours, too warm, too sure, too loud in its intention. Your eyes widened for a heartbeat, and you felt your whole body pull tight with shock, but your arms didn’t push him away. Your fists didn’t fly. Your legs didn’t step back. You just stood there, caught in it, while the tide rolled over your toes and your friends watched with hushed gasps and scattered laughter.

His lips moved gently against yours, a bold, ridiculous kind of tenderness that only someone like Ao’nung could offer. A boy who could never say what he felt without shouting it. A boy who didn’t know how to whisper, but could speak with his hands when it mattered.

When he pulled back, your breath hitched in your throat. Your lungs stalled beneath the sudden heat rushing through your face, and the spot where his lips had just been burned with a warmth that refused to fade. The tide between you hadn’t settled. If anything, it swelled higher, crashing in your chest in waves that left you stunned. Your heartbeat was a blur in your ears, too loud, too fast. You blinked at him, dazed, and for the first time in a long while, you couldn’t think of a single word to say.

Behind you, your friends erupted.

There was no escaping it now. Tsireya shrieked your name so loud it rang across the reef, practically leaping to her feet in laughter. Kiri whooped from somewhere near the waterline, her hands cupped around her mouth as she cheered like she’d just watched someone catch a sea beast. Even Neteyam let out a long, low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief while Lo’ak banged his fists on the rock like he was pounding a war drum.

Ao’nung’s ears turned a deeper shade of violet, but his smile didn’t falter for even a breath. He leaned in again, his lips brushing your temple before dipping near your ear, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear.

“You’re not punching me now,” he murmured, his breath warm where it grazed your skin. “That’s progress.”

You made a strangled noise and immediately tried to squirm out of his grip, shoving lightly at his chest with the flat of your palm. “Let go before I throw you into the tide,” you hissed, your voice sharp with mortification.

But he only laughed, the sound rich and unbothered, completely drunk on the high of your attention. His hand still held your wrist—the one with the bracelet—and his thumb pressed lightly against the weave as though grounding himself in the weight of it. He didn’t seem in a rush to let go. His grip wasn’t tight, fingers curled with that same stubbornness he’d always had as a child. You felt the strength there, but no pressure.

“I should hit you again,” you muttered, trying to sound dangerous even as your cheeks blazed. “Right here. Same spot. Maybe knock some sense into your empty head.”

Ao’nung rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion, his grin widening until you could see the sharp line of his canines. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that before.” His head tilted, his expression softening just a little. “But you won’t.”

“Try me.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and back again. “You talk too much.”

Before you could bite back a retort, he kissed you again.

This one was quicker, just a press, not as bold as the first, but it was just as sure. Just as warm. Just as maddening. Your breath caught against his mouth, your fists clenching by instinct, but your body didn’t move to stop him. You stood still, frozen in the rush of it, heart pounding, your thoughts spinning out into the stars above you.

When he pulled away, his smile was impossibly smug.

“There,” he said with satisfaction. “Shut you up.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to hit you?”

Ao’nung chuckled, finally letting go of your wrist, though his hand dropped only far enough to graze your knuckles before slipping away. His touch lingered, the heat of it still clinging to your skin like sunlight after it sets. His whole face glowed now. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, ears still burning blue, but he looked so pleased with himself you didn’t even know where to start yelling.

Behind you, someone called out your name again—this time Lo’ak, already running his mouth with a dramatic imitation of Ao’nung’s declaration. Tsireya practically bounced in place as she came running toward you, her arms outstretched, joy radiating from every step like ripples in the tide.

You could already hear her screaming. “You kissed him?! You kissed him!”

“No!” you called back, voice cracking.

Ao’nung laughed so hard he doubled over.

my characterization of ao'nung may not be great but he means so much to me <33

The first time Aang got you out of the house to teach you, he was all smiles.

Bright and hopeful, excited to share something that mattered to him. You don’t think you’d ever seen him look that happy, especially by the fourth attempt.

Airbending.

The others thought you might pick something up eventually. Water, earth, maybe even fire, but nothing ever came of it. And deep down, you knew nothing ever would.

You weren’t a bender.

You weren’t going to wake up one day and move the ground beneath your feet, or shift water with your hands, or throw fire. It wasn’t something you could learn. It wasn’t something anyone could promise you. You weren't born to be able to bend.

But Aang didn’t let it go.

And you didn’t have the heart to take that from him, no matter how much it pained you.

So you let him pull you out of the tower you’d been calling home for years now and take you to the Southern Air Temple.

You’d been there before, back when it was you, Katara, and Sokka, following him around while he showed you around. You’d seen far greater things, but the temple in ruins always settled heavily in your heart. It felt different now. More overgrown. Quieter.

Still beautiful though.

And you knew how much it meant to him.

You ran your hand along one of the columns as you walked, the stone cool under your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought about what this place used to be. If being here made it harder or easier.

“Okay,” Aang says, clapping his hands together as he turns to you. “Airbending. My area of expertise.”

His grin widens. And just like that, he looks like himself again.

You cross your arms loosely, raising a brow at him. “Confident?”

He moves past you, then circles back, positioning himself a few feet away. His posture shifts without him thinking about it. He looks lighter on his feet, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides.

“I have to be,” Aang says easily. “I’ve only been doing this my whole life.” He steps back a little, giving you space. “Besides, you've made it through three trials. You haven't given up.”

“Three failures,” you correct.

“Three attempts,” he says, like it matters.

You sigh, finding your sandals more interesting, the dirt beneath them crunching with every press-down you make. You're pulled out of the hole you begin making up in your mind when Aang claps loudly again. The crack had made you flinch.

“Okay! Airbending isn’t about forcing anything,” he starts. “That’s why it’s hard to explain. You don’t grab it like the earth beneath your feet, or push it like fire. You… move with it.”

You nod, even if you don’t fully get it.

He gestures for you to stand straighter. “Feet apart. Don't stand too stiffly. You don’t want to lock yourself in place.”

You adjust, trying to copy him.

“Good,” he says. “Now, don’t think about making something happen. Just focus on what’s already there.”

“The air,” you say.

“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “It’s everywhere. You don’t need to have a source like water or earth. You just… connect to it.”

You take a breath, slower this time.

Behind him, the wind moves through the open temple, brushing past the columns, slipping through broken archways. You can feel it on your skin, faint but constant.

“Okay,” he says. “Follow me.”

He steps into motion, slow and controlled. His arms move in a wide circle, like he’s tracing something invisible.

You mirror him. At least, you try to. Your movements feel heavier. Less natural. Like you’re thinking about every step instead of letting it happen.

“Loosen up,” he says gently. “You’re resisting it.”

“I’m not trying to,” you mutter.

“I know...”

You exhale, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. Your arms follow his again, slower this time, less rigid. You shift, trying to follow what he’s doing again.

“Better?”

“Yeah. That’s good,” he says. “Now just…move your arms. Slow at first.”

You copy him, lifting your hands and pushing them forward in the same motion he just showed you.

Nothing happens.

You try again.

Still nothing.

Aang doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches on, further heightening the fact that you were aware he was observing your every move.

“Try not to think about it too much,” he says after a second.

You let out a small breath. “That’s kind of hard not to, especially when I’m trying to make something happen.”

“I know,” he says. “But if you focus on making it happen, it won’t.”

You glance at him. “That doesn’t sound very helpful.”

He laughs. “It’s true, though. Don’t think on it too much.”

You shake your head a little, but you try again anyway. This time slower.

Less stiff, more loose.

Going with the flow.

For a second, it almost feels right.

Almost.

“Now shift your weight,” he adds. “Don’t stay rooted. Airbenders don’t stand still if they can help it.”

You step lightly to the side, copying the way he moves. He’s already adjusted, already onto the next move before you've barely finished the previous action.

You’re a step behind. Always a step behind. Never able to keep up with the rest of them.

“Okay,” he says. “Now guide it.”

Your arms move through the air, and for a second, you almost think you feel something pulse within your palms.

But it’s gone before you can figure out what it might be.

Probably nothing to be honest.

You drop your hands with a huff. “Yeah. Still nothing.”

Aang steps closer, not an ounce of discouragement on his face. “That’s okay. It takes time. With more practice, you're bound to get something out of it. It gets easier. Trust me.”

“For you maybe,” you say. “You’ve been doing this since you were a kid.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn something from it.”

You give him a look. “Aang, I can’t move a leaf, I couldn't shift the water from the stream, I couldn't move the stupid pebble that Toph had me attempt to move. Zuko even tried having me light the fire for the camp we set up. We almost froze. I can't move anything!”

“Not yet,” he corrects. Oh, how you wonder where he gets his patience and his calm from? Something you were surely running out of.

You sigh, but there’s no real frustration behind it. Yet, anyway.

He hesitates for a second, then moves behind you. “Can I?” he asks.

You nod. His hands hover near yours before settling lightly over them. Gentle, warm to the touch.

“Let me guide you,” he says.

You feel him push your arms through the same motions as before. Slower this time. More steady.

“Breathe,” he adds quietly. The warmth of his words tickles your ear.

You try to match his pace, his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

The air moves around you, brushing past your arms, your face. You can feel the wind, how it responds to him. The subtle breeze he lets swim in and out through your hair.

“Feel that?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

You almost laugh at the sensation, but you keep going. Letting your hands move with his instead of trying to lead on your own.

For a second, the motions feel easier. Like you’re not working as hard to exert them, act them out.

There's barely anything happening. Most of which is done by Aang. But the air in front of your hands stirs.

You pause.

“Did you—”

“I saw it,” Aang says quickly, a little quieter now. “Keep going.”

Your focus breaks.

And just like that, it’s gone. You let your arms fall.

“Of course.” You huff in defeat.

Aang doesn’t move away right away. “You felt it, though, right?” he asks.

“Barely.”

“It’s still something.”

You turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. “It only worked because you were helping. I’m not even sure that was me just now.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you just needed to stop trying so hard.”

You don’t answer that.

After a second, his hands drop away from yours. You miss the warmth of them in an instant. The lack of his touch makes you want to pull him close again.

“Do you want to try again?” he asks. Chin dipping to try and get your eyes to meet his own. They don't. He looks down at the ground before waiting for your response.

You look at your hands, then back at him.

“Maybe later, if that’s okay.”

"It's okay. We can take a break."

-

The hill you found and settled on feels nice and cool underneath your touch as the sun dips.

Long shadows stretch across the mountains, swallowing the land around them, making it quieter. Emptier. At peace.

You and Aang sit side by side, and you disturb a patch of grass by pulling grass stems from the ground. You'd guess your anxiety was to blame for impulsively messing with perfectly good grass. Aang had lain back, eyes darting up at the sky. His thoughts wandering, you'd guess as much, seeing as his fingers stopped tapping against his stomach.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The wind moves gently through the open air, brushing past softly, reminding you of the reason for being there in the first place. You figured Aang could've been reminded of home. Of everything he lost, but who were you to speak for him?

Aang exhales slowly.

“It’s weird,” he says.

You glance at him. “What is?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just out.

“The sky. The temple, all the antiques we keep finding. Everything.”

His fingers curl slightly against the grass as he sits up.

“I used to think the temples would always feel full,” he admits. “Like, no matter what happened… I could come back, and it’d still feel like home. Still… alive.” There’s a pause. “But it only reminds me of how everyone I've ever known...is gone.”

That lands heavier than anything he’s said all day.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen.

“They’re gone,” he continues, voice quieter now. “The monks. My friends. Gyatso. The stories they all used to tell, the way we used to celebrate, the food we would eat… even the stupid games we played.” A soft, broken laugh slips out of him. “I’m the only one left who remembers any of it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t even know if I remember it right anymore.” He finally looks down at his hands. "I keep thinking that if I die, my culture dies with me. What if I forget something important?” he whispers. “What if it all just… disappears with me? No one but me can carry on my past. My whole life rests in my hands.”

There it is. His fear. It hits you harder than you expected. Because for once, this isn’t about being the Avatar.

This is just a boy, a man now, sitting in the ruins of his home, terrified of being the last voice of his people.

You don’t think. You don’t weigh your next words. You just… say it.

“Then I’ll carry it with you.”

Aang freezes.

You don’t stop.

“I’ll learn it,” you add quickly, heart racing now. “All of it. The stories, the traditions... Whatever you remember, I’ll remember too. I won’t let it disappear.”

He’s staring at you now.

Completely still. Like he’s not sure he heard you right.

“And if you’re worried about it ending…” You hesitate, then push through it anyway, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I’ll give you a legacy.”

The silence falls heavily on you both. You look out into the valley, feeling the wind settle.

And the second it leaves your mouth, you second-guess your words.

Oh.

Oh no.

Your breath catches. “I-I didn’t mean—”

Aang’s expression changes.

“You’d… What?” he asks softly.

You shake your head quickly, heat rushing to your face. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just mean, I mean I did, but not—” you let out a nervous breath, stumbling over yourself. “I just meant I’d help. However you needed, I—”

“You’d give me children?” he interrupts.

That stops you. Your mouth opens agape, then shuts.

His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You look at him properly now. Really take in the man before you. Give him children? You'd be stupid not to want a family with him.

Something in your chest settles warmly.

“Yeah,” you say, softer this time. “If you wanted me to. The only thing I could really give back.” You release a nervous laugh.

Aang’s eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find any sign of hesitation. Doubt. Anything that screamed that you were just trying to make up for what you lacked in, but you weren't

There isn’t any. Because you meant it. Even if you didn’t take into account how much you did until just now.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but there’s no strength behind it. No real push. No malice. Just a hint of genuineness.

“I know,” you reply. A beat. “I want to, though.”

That hits him harder than anything else.

You see it in the way his breath stutters slightly, the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like something inside him is loosening up for the first time all day.

“You’d really…” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “…you’d learn everything?”

You nod. “Everything you’re willing to teach me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then his hand reaches for yours. Slowly, hesitant. Like he’s still asking permission to touch you, when he has every right to. When you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten slightly around yours.

“That means a lot to me, Y/n,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I never even considered the idea of having children right now.

You smile, just a little. “I figured. It looked like your heart stopped for a second there.”

A soft huff of breath leaves him. almost a laugh, but not quite.

The wind returns, gentle once more, curling around the two of you as if it felt the heaviness settle between you. Like it had listened in.

Aang glances down at your joined hands, then back up at you.

For once, he doesn’t try to turn it into a joke right away. He just looks at you.

Like he’s still catching up to what you said and what it means. Not just the words, but the fact that you meant them. That you said them so easily, like it wasn’t something huge you placed in his lap.

It was.

You can tell by the way he keeps holding your hand, squeezing every now and then, like letting go would break up the moment too fast.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a while.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I feel like I should.”

“You don’t have to.”

His mouth twitches a little at that, but it fades just as quickly.

“I just…” He looks away for a second, out at the valley below, at the fading light and shadows. “I’ve spent so much time thinking about what I lost that I never really thought about what could still happen. What I could still have.”

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles before you can think better of it. Aang notices. His shoulders loosen again, but not enough.

“You make it sound simple,” he says.

“It’s not simple.”

This turns his attention back on you.

“It’s just not impossible either,” you say quietly. “There’s a difference.”

He studies your face for a second, and you can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Aang was never very good at hiding what he felt, but this is different. He's less open. More careful. Like he’s afraid of letting this conversation go in the wrong direction. Of making you angry.

“You'd really give me children?” he asks again.

Not because he didn’t hear you the first time. Because he needs to.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“And learn all of it?”

“Yes.”

“The stories, the customs, the food, the prayers, the weird games—”

You smile a little. “You’re really trying to sell it now.”

That earns a breath of a laugh. Then he goes quiet again.

“Even if you can’t bend?”

There it is. You had a feeling it would come back to that.

You look down at your lap for a second before answering.

“Especially then.”

Aang frowns. You take a breath.

“I can’t give back from the lack of bending,” you say. “I know that. I know I’ll never be part of your culture in the same way you were born into it.” You pause, picking at a blade of grass near your knee. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t love it because it matters to you. It doesn’t mean I can’t help keep it alive. This could be one of the only things I can give back.”

His face changes at that. Softens. Something about those words gets through to him in a way the other words of the gang couldn't. Maybe it's because he knows you’re not saying it to make him feel better.

You’re saying it because you’ve already decided.

“I don’t want you to think this is all you’re good for,” he says after a moment.

You look at him, caught a little off guard.

“What?”

He turns toward you more fully now, his hand tightening around yours.

“The only thing you could really give back?” he repeats softly, using your own words. “Don’t say it like that.”

Heat crawls up your neck in half embarrassment, and half of something else.

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” His voice stays gentle, but there’s something firmer in it now. “But you make it sound like you have to make up for something.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because there isn’t a clean lie waiting to spill past your lips. Aang notices that too.

“You don’t owe me a legacy,” he says. “And you don’t owe me children just because you can’t bend.”

Your throat tightens a little.

“I know,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intended.

He watches you for another second, then shifts closer, close enough that your heads are leaning against each other.

“You don’t have to try and even the score for what you think you're lacking in,” he says. “Not for me.”

His words land hard. Too hard.

Because some part of you had thought exactly that, even if you didn’t want to say it out loud. That if you could never stand beside the others in the way they did, through bending, through power, through something useful, then maybe you could still give him something that mattered.

Something lasting.

You stare down at your lap for a second, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say quietly. “I’m not trying to make up with children for my lack of bending with you.”

“I know.” He says it immediately. Reassurance following his understanding. “I know you’re not.”

It helps. His words. A little.

You breathe out slowly.

“I just hate that I can’t help out sometimes,” you admit. "Heck, even Sokka is out there being a hero... But what can I do?"

Aang goes still. Because he finally understands what’s underneath all of the hurt you've bottled up inside of yourself.

The discouragement after every attempt. The way you'd look away from everyone's eyes after every attempt. The way you'd say it’s fine, when it clearly wasn't.

He shifts again, this time dipping his head enough that he can see your face better.

“What can you do?” he repeats quietly. And it's just him, sitting with the question instead of brushing it off.

You don’t answer right away because you’ve already answered it a hundred times in your head. Nothing, was always your response. He frowns as though the crease in your forehead gave you away.

“You think being a hero is just about bending?” he asks.

You give a small shrug. “It helps.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You glance at him, a little caught. He doesn’t look away.

“You think Sokka is a hero, but he can't bend?” Aang presses.

You hesitate. “Yes, but—”

“But what?”

You sigh, frustrated now. “But he still does things, Aang. He fights. He plans. He actually contributes when something goes wrong.” You shake your head a little. “When things get bad, I’m just… there.”

The words come out flatter than you meant them to. Like you’ve said them before. To yourself. Too many times.

Aang’s expression tightens.

“You’re not ‘just there,’” he says.

You don’t argue. You don’t agree either. You just look away again.

“Do you remember the canyon?” he asks suddenly.

You frown slightly. “What about it?”

“You were the one who figured out how to settle the feud between the Gan Jin and the Zhang tribes,” he says. “You made them work together to get us out of being eaten by those canyon crawlers.”

“Wasn't that you—”

“And the village near the volcano?” he continues. “You were the one who convinced the villagers that they needed to evacuate.”

You shake your head. “That’s not—”

“And when Appa got hurt,” he adds, quieter now, “you stayed with him the whole night. You looked over him, you lost sleep over it too.”

You go still because you do remember that memory.

You remember thinking it didn’t count. That it wasn’t enough.

“That’s not fighting, though,” you say, softer now.

“No,” Aang agrees. “It’s not.”

He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, just enough that you can’t ignore him.

“But it’s helping.”

You swallow.

“It’s paying attention,” he continues. “It’s seeing things the rest of us miss because we’re too busy trying to win something.”

His voice softens. “And it matters.”

You look at him again because he’s not trying to make you feel better.

He’s not reaching just to say something nice. He means it.

“But when something actually happens—” you start.

“You’re there,” he says, cutting in gently this time. “You don’t run. You don’t hide. You stay.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s not nothing.”

The wind shifts around you again. You look down at your interlocked hands.

“It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” you admit.

Aang nods. “I know.”

That catches you off guard.

“I get that, trust me,” he adds. “I’ve felt that too.”

You blink at him. “You?”

“Yeah.” A small, almost self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. “Being the Avatar doesn’t automatically make you feel invincible.”

You let out a quiet breath. That… comforts you more than you expected it to.

Aang studies your face for another second, then reaches out again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as he nudges your right cheek with his left hand, before pressing a gentle kiss on it. You don’t pull away.

“I'm sorry if we made you feel that way. You don’t have to be like the rest of us to matter,” he says.

You let that sit. It doesn’t fix everything. But it settles the war that was waged inside you anyway.

“You really believe that?” you ask.

He nods.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t.”

That makes you look at him again. A small, uneven smile pulls at your lips.

“You’re really bad at letting people wallow in their self-pity,” you mutter.

He smiles back, softer now. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

"Why do you keep talking like bending is the only part worth carrying on?”

That shuts you up again.

He’s not angry. If anything, he sounds a little sad. A little frustrated that you still can’t see what he’s trying to tell you.

“My people weren’t just airbenders,” he says. “They were monks, teachers, healers. They made toys for kids and baked fruit pies and played games and told stories they’d told a hundred times before.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “They were annoying sometimes. And stubborn. And really nosy.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Aang smiles a little wider when he hears it.

“My culture didn’t live in bending alone,” he says. “It lived in how we treated people. What we believed. How we lived.”

He looks down at your joined hands. “And you’ve been trying to understand that part of me since the day we met.”

Your heart settles.

“So no,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t be giving me the only thing you could offer.”

You swallow.

“Aang…”

“You’d just be giving me more of you.”

His words are so simple they almost hurt. You don’t know what to do with them. So for a second, you do nothing. Then your hand tightens around his. His eyes flick down to it, then back to your face.

You shake your head a little, a laugh leaving you, thin and shaky. “You always know how to make me feel stupid in the nicest way possible.”

That finally gets a real laugh out of him.

“You’re not stupid.”

“Mm.”

“You’re not.” He presses firmly, gently.

You look over at him. “I heard you the first time.”

“Good.”

The breeze picks up around the two of you, cooler now that the sun has dropped. It lifts a few strands of your hair and brushes the fabric on his sleeves.

Aang leans back on one hand, still facing you.

“I think I’d like that,” he says after a while.

You blink. “What part?”

He smiles, small and careful. A beat. “All of it.”

Something in you eases. Not all the way, but enough to let you breathe easier.

“Even if I can't bend?”

He tilts his head, brows furrowing in feigned shock. “You can't bend!”

You let out an offended noise and shove at his shoulder.

He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.

“I’m kidding,” he says.

“You’re not.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling a lot brighter now, and he is too, and the heaviness from a minute ago doesn’t feel quite so sharp in your chest.

He keeps hold of your wrist for a second longer than he needs to. Long enough for the mood to shift again. Just slightly.

His smile fades first, not into sadness, but something more aware. Serious. You felt it too. The tension.

The way he raised his hand and his thumb brushed once, almost absentmindedly, over the side of your face.

“Aang,” you say softly.

His eyes avert from your lips, falling on your softening gaze.

You lost your train of thought, the words you wanted to say falling off the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was nothing. His name just felt easier than everything else sitting between you.

His eyes search your face anyway.

“Yeah?”

You shake your head, but not because you want to take it back.

“Nothing.”

His mouth curves faintly. “You sure?”

“No.”

He studies you for another moment, then glances out at the valley again.

“You want to stay here tonight,” he says. “If you want, of course.”

You lift a brow. “You mean avoid going back and getting interrogated by Katara?”

“That too.”

You smile. “Tempting.”

“Very. It’s quiet here.”

You look around. The grass. The temple in the far distance, worn down but still standing strong, like Aang.

“It is.”

Aang nods, then looks back at you. Letting the quiet air take over as he took in his favorite view. You. Who went back to pulling at the patch of grass you disrupted, he can't help but let his smile grow.

“I love you.”

There it is again. His plain honesty. It always got the best of you. You feel your face heat up, but there’s no point in pretending you didn't hear him.

“I love you too,” you say, expression timid, but still facing the ground.

His heart beats faster. This was it for him. You were it. All he'd ever want, so long as the universe allowed you and him to last. To be.

His shoulders drop. His mouth softens. He looks younger for a second, and older too. Like the boy and the man he’s still becoming are both sitting right here beside you. Making your head spin and your heart full.

The wind curls between you again. Gentle. Familiar.

And this time, when the silence returns, it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels full.

Aang glances at your joined hands once more, then back at you, his expression almost shy despite everything you’ve just said.

"So you really want children with me?"

"Yes, Aang." Your grin grows as you stifle a laugh.

“Do you want to start...on our legacy?” he asks.

You smile.

“Right now?” you ask.

Aang freezes. “Right now?”

You shrug, biting back another laugh. “You’re the one who asked.”

His brain immediately starts short-circuiting.

“Okay, wait, hold on—” he lets go of your hand just to gesture wildly, before stopping again. “I didn’t mean like right now, right now, I meant like, someday right now. Future right now. Not, this exact moment on a hill—”

You’re fully laughing now.

“Aang—”

“No, because there’s—there’s steps!” he insists, pointing at the ground like the steps might appear if he believes hard enough. “There are definitely steps. We skipped all of them.”

“You asked!”

“I didn’t think you’d say yes that fast!”

You tilt your head. “You wanted me to say no?”

“No!” he says immediately. “No, definitely not that either, just, maybe a warning? A little preparation time?”

You grin. “You’re panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. “I am calmly evaluating a very big, important, life thing—”

He stops. Looks at you. You’re still smiling at him like this is the best thing that’s ever happened.

“You’re serious, though,” he says, quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah.”

That does it. He exhales, shoulders dropping, all that frantic energy softening just a little.

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s got this.

Then.

“Not right now, though,” he adds quickly.

You laugh. “Not right now.”

“Good,” he says, relieved. “Because I think I’d pass out.”

“You’d pass out?”

“Immediately.”

You bump his shoulder. “Avatar, master of all four elements… defeated by the talk of children.”

He points at you. “You’re the one who started it!”

“You asked!”

“And I regret nothing,” he says quickly, then pauses.

You laugh again, leaning your head against him. He relaxes this time, letting your head rest against his shoulder, still a little flustered but smiling anyway.

“We can start with the easy stuff,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like… teaching you those games I used to play here,” he says. “Much safer.”

You hum. “Yeah, probably a good place to start.”

“Definitely a good place to start,” he agrees.

A beat.

“Still saying yes, though.”

It’s not that it’s not a map, it is, but it was clearly drawn by a kid. There’s an approximate drawing of the Outer Banks in black crayon, with landmarks drawn to the best of the kid’s ability in blue, and a path marked in red, leading to an ‘X’ which seems to be somewhere just off the coast of the nearby town Kill Devil Hills.

With a lopsided smile, you read the poorly written scrawl across the side of the map.

“1. find key picture At Avlon beAch bridge 2. get A boAt by the key 3. go to boot islAnd 4. dig up prize!!!”

You can’t help but laugh at how sweet it is, though it’s mostly nonsense from what you can tell. You may not have been back to the Outer Banks in a year, but you don’t recall Avalon Beach having a bridge, or there being a Boot Island. That’s not even beginning to mention the fact that there’s no way the ‘key picture’ is still wherever the kid left it all those years ago.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to put the page away.

Your old friends are working throughout the week and you won’t see them for a couple of days, and Avalon Beach is a ten minute drive away. You could at least check out the beach, maybe see if something is tucked away somewhere far out of reach. Worst case scenario, you could use the time as an excuse to rent a kayak and relax with some serene time to yourself.

Sliding your thumb over the paper, you shrug to yourself decidedly.

Fuck it.

Hopping in your parents’ old car, you make your way in the direction of the beach, dropping by a surf shop on the way after grabbing a bite to eat.

A bell jingles overhead, signaling your arrival to the small shop. A tall man with dark hair pulled up into a bun lifts his head tiredly from the counter, shooting you his best smile, albeit a tired one. “Welcome,” he greets you.

Another employee is on the far side of the shop wiping down a surfboard. He’s tall too, a short-sleeve red button-up shirt with a palm tree pattern clinging to his broad shoulders, while a pair of black shorts hang loosely from his hips. He lifts his head, white hair falling in front of his startlingly blue eyes as you catch his attention. He greets you with a much more lively and awake smile.

And god your stomach flutters at the sight. He’s hotter than the goddamn sun on a summer day. Which says a lot around here.

“Anything I can help you with?” The white-haired man asks.

“Hey,” you greet, trotting up to him with a smile. “Do you do rentals?”

“Of course,” he grins. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“I’m thinking a kayak?” You hum to yourself, fiddling with the folded paper between your hands.

“Sure, is it for something in specific?” He queries with a tilt of his head.

“Uh-” you chuckle, unfolding the paper in your hands. “Yeah, actually. I found this map, I know it’s dumb and I probably can’t finish it, and I don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ or the Avalon Beach bridge is, but-” you shake your head, interrupting your own rambles as the surf shop employee peers over your shoulder at the map in your hands.

His expression flickers from intrigue to genuine shock, you assume because you’re following a map set out in crayon, before it settles into something softer. “Huh,” he chuckles, pushing a hand through his hair to better look at it. “Avalon Beach bridge is probably the pier,” he points out.

“Oh!” You peer up at him, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense. Still, I doubt I’ll find anything. It says there’s a picture there I think, but this looks pretty old. It’s probably long gone.”

The man hums in agreement.

“And I still don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ is supposed to be.”

“It’s, uh-” he pauses, scratching at the back of his head. “Actually, are you from around here?”

“Kinda,” you shrug. “My parents moved a bit south of here when I was in my teens, I’m just back for the summer.”

“Do you need a tour guide?”

You blink, somewhat taken aback, although something within you bubbles with excitement at the thought of having his company. You could use more friends around here, even if you’re only back for a bit.

“I mean, yeah! That would be great,” you grin. “But aren’t you working?”

“Yeah Satoru, aren’t you working?” The other employee chimes in with a lifted brow, looking unamused at Satoru’s near-immediate offer to leave. “Or did you forget?”

“C’mon, Suguru! It’s Wednesday, it’ll be slow today. I’ll owe you one,” he grins, wiggling his brow at his colleague.

With a forlorn sigh, Satoru’s co-worker, Suguru, slumps further over the counter and mutters out a ‘fine’, dropping his face into his crossed arms. “You owe me a full day, though,” he mumbles, muffled behind his arms.

Satoru grins. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushes his friend off with a grin, laying the surfboard he’s still clutching across a back counter and plopping the rag atop it. He jogs off into the back, coming back with two paddleboards and a single lifejacket.

“Are we sharing?” You quip, eyeing the only safety gear he’d deemed necessary.

“If you want,” he smirks. “I can swim, though. Figured you might need one since you’re not from around here.”

Rolling your eyes, you brush off both the flirting that makes your stomach flip with anticipation and the casual dig at your swimming skills. “I moved here when I was like sixteen, I can swim,” you retort, though you do grimace at the sight of the paddle boards over your much-preferred kayak.

“Just making sure,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t want a pretty girl like you to drown on my watch.”

You actually scoff at that. Okay he is hot, but maybe also a little annoying. He seems friendly enough, though, so you set aside his somewhat poor attempts at flirting in favor of shoving the map into his arms as well.

“In that case, you can hold this too.”

He pouts as he doesn’t get the reaction to what he wants, but bounces back quickly as you begin making your way towards his co-worker. “How much for the rental?”

The raven-haired employee casts a glance at his co-worker, some sort of silent exchange taking place between them, before he shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he sighs, leaning his cheek on his knuckles, propped up on the counter. “Now you doubly owe me though, Satoru.”

“Oh,” you turn towards Satoru. “Thank you!”

He hums, a boyish grin on his face that’s almost giddy in a way you can’t quite make sense of. He looks a little bit too excited to be following a map drawn in crayon.

“Alright, let’s head to Avalon Pier, then,” you grin, beckoning the surf-shop employee along with you. He walks in pace with you, an infectious pep to his step as he turns to silently thank Suguru.

As soon as you’ve loaded the paddle boards into your car, you hop in the driver’s seat with Satoru in tow.

“You know,” he starts as he buckles in, “I should probably get the name of the pretty girl who could kidnap me.”

You giggle at the realization that no formal introductions actually ever took place, pushing past the kidnapping point. In fact, you kind of just mindlessly said yes without knowing anything about him, either. You were too busy ogling the pretty aqua shine of his eyes. He’s hot. Unfairly so.

Reckless? Maybe. Fun? Definitely.

You introduce yourself with a sweet smile as you pull onto the road. “I’m visiting my parents for the summer. Next year is my last year of college.”

“Sounds fun! I’m Satoru,” he greets you in return. “My family moved here when I was two, the grumpy guy we left behind is my best friend.”

“In his defense, I’d be grumpy too if you left work to hang out with a girl.”

The snowy-haired man’s smirk widens. “Nah, he gets it. You don’t pass up the opportunity to go on a treasure hunt with the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.” He lounges back in the seat, staring out the window casually as he pulls a pair of dark shades from the pocket of his shorts. “When life gives you lemons, right?”

Heat rises up your neck, climbing to your cheeks as you giggle at his shameless flirting. “You know our map is written in crayon, right?”

“So?” He runs a hand through his hair, facing you in the passenger seat. “The real treasure is getting to join you, anyway.”

“Did you just hit me with ‘the real treasure is the friends we made along the way’?”

“Sure,” he shrugs one shoulder. It drops down to his side as he leans the other one on the seat. “I mean we’re either gonna find a lollipop or the One Piece or something, right? Win, win.”

“A lollipop? It would be at least ten years old by now,” you laugh, raising a brow as you pull into Avalon Pier’s parking lot.

“Still! Isn’t that every kid’s most prized possession?”

You can’t help but smile, Satoru’s energy is completely contagious. “My prized possession was a plush Octopus from the aquarium in Georgia.”

“Mine was a Digimon DVD. So, po-tay-to po-tah-to. Love the Octopus, though.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” you giggle as you hop out of the car. The sea breeze is refreshing against your cheeks, the smell of salt water hitting you the moment the door opens.

“I’ll have you know it’s very cool and fun of me,” he retorts, shutting the door as he leans over top of your vehicle while you laugh. He sets the map on the hood and spreads it out, his palms splaying over the surface as he looks it over. “Well, our instructions are pretty vague,” he comments.

You fall to his side, looking over the poorly drawn Outer Banks. “I told you this probably won’t lead anywhere. I mean, there’s no chance the picture is still here, anyway.”

“Why bother if you think there’s no chance?”

You shrug. “I just figured it was a fun thing to do to pass the time, even if ‘Boot Island’ doesn’t exist. It’s a fun story even if I find nothing, right?”

He tilts his head down at you, his bubbly attitude replaced with something softer, considering your words. “I like it,” he hums, his octave lowering a decibel.

“Yeah?” You peer up at him, your stomach erupting with a fluttering sensation at the tone of his voice.

“Yeah. It’s spontaneous. I dunno, I like that,” he shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.

You feel your cheeks warm again, averting your gaze. “Well, come on then. Time to-” you pause, glancing at the map, “find a key picture.”

“Aye aye,” he agrees with a salute, his grin returning as you lead the way to the pier. “So, you think it’s a photo that got tucked somewhere, then?”

“I think it probably was,” you shrug, staring out across the long pier as wind whips around you without the cover of the land. “Or a drawing, maybe. But there’s no way it’s still here.” You wave your hand out at the pier, where the wind has gotten rather dramatic now that you’re standing over the ocean. A couple of clouds hang high in the sky, though it’s otherwise clear, the sun now shining far above you.

Seagulls squawk and caw high overhead, floating in the currents of the wind, curiously eyeing you and your new companion as though you might conveniently drop their next meal. The wood creaks beneath your feet, worn from years upon years of heavy use. You can remember sitting at the edge of this pier with friends as a kid, at the very same spot where you now stand.

“There’s literally nowhere to hide a photo out here,” you mumble mostly to yourself, forgetting you have a companion until he moves into your peripherals.

With hands in his pockets, he shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “Maybe it’s not a photo.”

“I guess,” you hum in agreement, looking around the worn algae-covered wood. The waves are calm and steady right now, leaving a tall gap between the top of the pier where you stand and the calm flow of the ocean beneath you.

Satoru steps forward, sitting at the edge of the pier and watching the ebb and flow of the waves.

You join him at the edge, kicking your feet as you brace your hands at the edge of the wooden structure. “Why’d you join me?” You query curiously.

“Why not? It gets me outta work anyway.”

“I could be a murderer,” you point out.

He shoots you a disbelieving look. “Please. You’re following a crayon map.”

You click your tongue, staring out at the broad expanse of blue. “Touché,” you murmur, brushing his shoulder as you adjust where you’re seated. Chewing on your lip, you peer curiously over at Satoru. His white locks blow in the breeze, catching on the corners of his sunglasses. “Are you in school?” You ask to fill the air. It’s not uncomfortable by any means, but you’d like to get to know the man who dropped his job for some girl he’d never met and the promise of a very old lollipop.

“Yeah, I’m a business major,” he explains, leaning his head back to admire the blue skies and coasting birds overhead. “I’m supposed to take over the family business.”

You tilt your head as you examine the way his enthusiasm seems to drain. “I feel like I don’t know you well enough to say that you don’t seem too happy about it, but-” you shrug, “- I’m not really that type of girl. So, you don’t seem too happy about it.”

He snorts. “You’re fine, pretty,” he brushes off your concerns. The casual way with which he calls you ‘pretty’ keeping that fluttering in your chest alive. “I’m not. My major is business and my minor is marine biology.”

“You wanna do marine biology?” You confirm.

He nods, a sparkle catching in his irises that makes it mirror the waves out in front of you. “Yeah. I wanna study the animals out around the OBX,” he comments, referring to the Outer Banks by its local name.

“But… parents?” You ask casually.

“Parents,” he confirms.

“Well,” you kick your feet out, staring at the flower-patterned sandals adorning your feet. “I hope things work out for you.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, something soft in the way he regards you. “But hey, why don’t we check under the pier?”

“Under? There isn’t even anywhere to stand.” You peer down beneath the pier, but before you can even think twice, Satoru is twisting around and dropping down under the pier onto the ‘X’ shaped support beams below, balancing in the crossed portion. “Oh my god, no way. This is all you.” Shaking your head adamantly, you lean forward as far as you can to catch a glimpse of your fellow treasure-hunter, but he’s extending his hand out to you.

“C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, fall in, hit my head, sharks?”

“It’s an adventure, right? Live a little.”

“A kid couldn’t have gotten down there!” You protest.

“You never know,” Satoru shrugs.

“I would know if you would look for it and tell me,” you insist, peering warily down at the water that laps at the base of the beams crossed near Satoru’s feet.

He leans over a little more, his hand gently brushing your calf. “Trust me.”

“I just met you!”

“You put your faith in me as your guide!”

“Ugh, fine!” You groan, chewing on your lip as you hold yourself at the edge of the pier, grateful you chose to wear shorts today instead of a dress. “Oh god,” you breathe, arms somewhat shaky as you lower yourself carefully, eyeing the water below.

“I gotcha,” Satoru grunts as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you flush to him, tucking you into his extremely noticeably buff side. It’s not like you didn’t notice his veiny forearms or the way his shirt clings to his biceps, but still.

Your entire body heats up, pooling in the pit of your stomach with just how oddly sweet and attractive this is as a whole. You barely even know the guy, but-

Yeah, would.

You reach out, grabbing the support beam opposite you with one hand while clinging to his shoulder with the other, attempting to balance your feet on the top of the ‘X’ of the beams as well. There’s not a lot of space, sandwiched pretty firmly between Satoru’s built form and the beam.

“Thanks,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings and feel somewhat like you have a hold on where you are.

“You alright?”

“Mhm,” you nod, masking your doubts with the confidence of being stuck between two very sturdy supports. “Now,” you glance around, “see anything?”

Satoru hums, twisting to get a better view behind him. “I see a lot of dried seaweed,” he mumbles, his arm tightening around your middle as he leans back to get a better view of the bottom of the wooden planks. “What’s that?”

“The carving that says ‘T + L had sex right here’? Ew, by the way. I hope they used a blanket.”

Satoru snorts. “Not that. To the left,” he tries to explain, his hands too preoccupied to point at anything.

You lean in, feeling unusually safe within his grip. “Oh my god! I think it’s supposed to be a carving of a key!”

“Supposed to be?”

“I mean yeah, it kinda looks like one.”

For a split second he almost looks offended, but you brush it off as misreading his squinting expression.

Leaning in a bit further and grateful Satoru still has a strong grip on you, you’re just barely able to make it out. “Looks like it says ‘in hAymAn house bridge’.” Leaning back into Satoru’s grip and clinging to the support beam closest to you, you turn to peer up at him. “What in the world is that meant to be?”

“Uh-” he shrugs, glimmering blue eyes flickering around the pier as though in search of an answer. “The kid thinks piers are bridges, right?”

“A house pier, though?”

Satoru shrugs. “Dunno. I think there’s something slimy on my hand, though,” he states in distaste, casting a glance at the hand he’s got tightly gripping the support beam at his side. “Let’s head back up.”

Nodding, you attempt to adjust your grip on the man to be able to reach the top of the pier and pull yourself up, but with the way you’re both contorted into the crosssection of the beams, you can’t get a grip on the wood above. Even if you could, there’s no chance you could pull yourself up.

“I can’t reach,” you pout up at him as you fall back into his arm, though your stomach churns at the sight of the water below.

“Uh- shoot,” he mutters. He glances around, before making a decision. “I got it, here.” He shifts so that you can grab the beam he’s perched on, precariously balancing at your side.

“Oh, it is slimy.”

“Told ya,” he chuckles, sliding his foot out from under you. “Okay, I’m gonna jump, then I’ll catch you.”

“What- Wait-!” You gasp as Satoru pockets his sunglasses and plunges into the ocean below. The water splashes up to your shins, his impact causing the waves to lap and break around the beams supporting your figure. You nervously glance around the rocking tides until Satoru resurfaces, shaking his head of white hair like a dog and getting sea spray all over you. “God, you scared me!”

“Sorry!” He calls from a good few feet below. “It’s pretty warm today, though. Come on in, it’s nice!” He grins as he beckons you into the water.

You cling to the beam, peering below and chewing on your lip. “Um-”

“You can swim, right?” He confirms when you hesitate, a look of realization cast over his expression as it occurs to him you could have been lying earlier to save face.

“I can, I can!” You peer back down at the dark shadows that your new friend is wading in. “I’m just… Not a big fan of water,” you mutter with a wince.

Satoru blinks a couple of times. “Oh. Shit, okay. Uh, hold on.” He dips back under the gently lapping waves, though you can’t make out what he’s doing in the depths of the shadowy water beneath. He resurfaces and shakes his head again, sending more seaspray flying through the air. “No barracudas!” He confirms with a grin, as though a toothy fish was the reason behind your disdain for the ocean.

“That’s not-” you groan, throwing your head back, though something about his boyish smile and actions puts you a bit more at ease.

“It’s not that deep! Here,” he wades forward a bit. “I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

“There’s an awful lot of trust going on for someone I just met,” you mutter from your perch, though you do reposition to jump.

“I trusted you first, you could have murdered me,” he points out.

“You could murder me now!” You point out, glancing around, though there’s no one to see you right now. He really could.

He snorts. “Yeah, the marine biologist serial killer really has a ring to it.”

“Shut up,” you whine, readjusting your stance. “Ugh, and I’m wearing denim shorts,” you mutter at the thought of getting them wet as you mentally prepare yourself.

“We can go get changed, just trust me,” he holds his arms out again, just as you manage to work up the courage to take a leap. You don’t go plunging straight down into the water as you’d thought either as he manages to keep you mostly above water, using one arm to wade, while he holds you close with the other. “See? Like I promised,” he grins when your hands find purchase on his chest.

Your cheeks warm as he gives you a small reassuring squeeze. Glancing away, you nod. “Thanks, Satoru.”

“I gotcha,” he grins as he speaks, his eyes lit up behind the shades he’s still wearing as he looks towards the beach. “Can you swim back? Or do you need a big strong man to-”

“I got it,” you interrupt, making a point of splashing him with salt water as you do. He laughs heartily as he trails behind you, keeping a steady eye on you to make sure you reach the shore safely. As soon as your feet hit the sand, you let out a breath of relief and jog ashore, the sand sticking to your wet skin, warm under the late morning sun.

Satoru follows shortly behind you, pushing his hands through his hair before ringing out his soaking wet shirt. As it continues to drip on the sand below, he unbuttons it, revealing his unfair and frankly godly sculpted abs.

Catching you staring, Satoru raises a brow as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. “Like what you-”

“Don’t finish that,” you press a finger to his chest. God, he has an ego, but it’s the fact that he’s right that has your gaze narrowed as you stare at him. His eyes sparkle, his smirk growing into a grin that’s entirely too sly.

“Am I too-”

“Nope!” You interrupt, turning on your heel and heading towards the area where the grass and sand meet, still dripping wet but grateful for the warm sun.

Satoru snickers to himself behind you, pulling his shirt off to wring it dry as best as he can, not bothering with his shorts that seem to be some sort of swim trunks anyway. He slips his arms back into the sleeves of his wrinkly red shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He musses his hair with a hand as he comes up behind you, meeting you in the grass at the shore.

“God, my shorts,” you mutter, wringing out your tank top as the denim of your shorts clings uncomfortably to your thighs.

“Got a change of clothes?” Satoru queries genuinely with a tilt of his head.

“I’ve just got a hoodie,” you grimace.

“I think that’d give you heatstroke in this weather,” he chuckles. “My place is like a mile north, why don’t we drop by?”

“Oh-!” You blink at the offer, a kind one, but one that leaves you wary as you’re reminded that you really don’t know this guy. Then again, he had every opportunity to drown you and he didn’t, so- “Yeah, why not?”

He grins. “Great! I’ll give you directions.”

Thank god his place is as close as he says, because by the time you arrive, you feel like a sad wet cat. At least your makeup and hair isn’t too bad given that Satoru managed to catch you before you plunged under the surface fully, but your clothes are chilly and wet by the time you get out of your car, which is now equally soaked.

Satoru leads the way up to a small coastal shack, more or less, fishing a set of keys from his pockets and opening the door for you.

“Come on in,” he offers, stepping aside. “It’s a bit of a mess, sorry.”

‘A bit’ is an understatement, but there’s almost a sense of organization to the chaos. His interest in marine biology and the ocean is apparent in every piece of the mess, but it somehow adds to the seeming intention behind the disorder.

The shack is about as big as a studio apartment, littered with clothes and unwashed dishes, but there’s some sort of story behind each corner of the single-room home. There are dried corals and shells along the wall, posters of species of sharks and whales, and surfboards with a longboard pushed up against the wall. His bed is in a corner with an ocean blue blanket atop it and a pile of papers that Satoru must have been going through before work. There’s a desk littered in all sorts of textbooks and papers with pens scattered across the surface and a half-finished energy drink typical of any college student, while his kitchen has an odd mix of experiment-like specimen jars and food.

The pickles being beside a jar with a preserved squid in it has to be some sort of curse.

Why are the pickles on the counter in this heat anyway?

You shake your head and continue peering around, taking in the Digimon plush sitting atop a cabinet and a small stack of very old, very tattered, Yu-Gi-Oh cards. You wouldn’t have gathered from talking just how nerdy he is, but it’s pretty cute and the shack has a very homely feel once you move past the squid in a jar.

“I like it,” you smile, eyes settling on a photo of who you presume is likely a young Satoru in Scuba gear sitting on the back of a boat. You’re only reminded that you’re still dripping wet when Satoru opens the fridge near you and a cool breeze hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

“Thanks,” he grins, setting a couple of bottles of water on the counter. “Let’s get you something warmer.”

You nod, following close behind him as he makes his way to a dresser near his bed, pulling it open and digging through it. “I don’t think I have anything your size,” he mumbles, pulling out a plain red shirt and tossing it towards you. “Here,” he tosses a pair of shorts at you as well, shrugging. “These have a drawstring.”

You nod, thanking him as he strips his own shirt off to change. You turn away to head for the only door in the shack which you assume is the bathroom before you can get distracted by the muscles rippling along his back.

You quickly get changed, smoothing the wrinkled shirt down over your hips. Going commando isn’t ideal, but it’s better than being soaked. Maybe if you just leave your clothes in the back seat of your car they’ll dry faster in the sun.

You re-emerge from the washroom, feeling fresher, albeit a bit self-conscious in Satoru’s baggy clothes.

He looks up from where he was hunched over his laptop, strands of white hair falling into his vision as water drips down his cheek. His eyes widen slightly as he looks you over, eyes lingering on the way the oversized shirt hangs over your hips. “Looks good on you,” he murmurs genuinely, lightly drumming his fingers along the side of his computer.

“You think so?”

He smirks, but there’s something sincere within this that every sly grin he’s shot you today has otherwise lacked. “I know so.”

Your cheeks warm as you return his smile. The air grows tense with thoughts that neither of you need to read too far into in order to understand, and you’re increasingly glad you let this overly cocky man with a surprisingly genuine interest in your fun little activity join you for the day. You kind of hope this isn’t a one-time thing, honestly. You could see yourself spending a lot of time with him.

“So,” he grins. “The next pier.”

“Right,” you agree, averting your gaze from those gorgeous seas of blue within his irises. “It said Hayman, right?”

“Yeah, it must be near Hayman Boulevard. It’s a road a bit south of here. It ends at the shoreline, there’s probably a pier there.”

“Let’s do it.” You grab your keys from the pocket of the shorts Satoru had lent you, heading for his front door.

“I’m bringing towels just in case, this time. Oh! And a shovel.”

“Good call,” you chuckle.

As you begin to head to the south, the sun gets higher in the sky, growing hotter until your car air conditioner isn’t doing you any favors and you almost miss being cold and wet. The drive to the pier is also so short that you barely get to enjoy what coolness the pitiful A/C can provide, stepping out of your car again to face another pier, this one with a gazebo at the end.

“House bridge,” you breathe in understanding as the phrase clicks at the sight. You lead the way past a colorful trail marker and down the old pier, grimacing as some of the boards wobble beneath your sandals and creak when Satoru steps on them behind you. “So old,” you murmur to yourself as you stop at the end of the pier beneath the cover of the Gazebo roof.

Your white-haired companion agrees with a hum, reaching a hand beneath his shirt to scratch at his chest, revealing a portion of his abdomen. Before you know it, you’re caught up staring at the snail trail of pale white hair that curls beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. You blink to yourself when his shirt falls. God, how did he get blessed with everything? Good looks and an endearing personality, not to mention he’s sweet and funny- his only sin seems to be knowing that he’s a full package and having the ego to match.

Before he catches you getting hung up on him again, you begin circling the outer edge of the Gazebo. “This is kinda like geocaching, it’s fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, except for the fact that nothing can be above five feet since a kid hid the geocache.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?”

You lean down to look beneath the railings for the metallic glimmer of a key, though you can’t imagine it would remain hidden here all these years later. It’s fairly open and there’s way too many seagulls overhead to not see a shiny thing and plummet down to add it to a nest. Still, if nothing else, you’re just having a good time.

After circling a couple of times to no avail, you begin looking upwards to see if the kid climbed the railing, but you can’t find a hint of a key. “I think we’re SOL,” you sigh.

“Maybe we’re looking for another drawing?”

“You think?”

He shrugs with a lopsided smile. “Who knows?”

Something in the way he says it makes you narrow your eyes for a moment, but you brush it off and begin searching for a somewhat key-shaped carving again, when something catches your eye. “What’s that?”

Satoru follows the line of where you’re pointing at the beams above, where there’s something colorful shoved between two beams. He jumps and grabs the beams, lifting himself up just enough that he can grab it.

You’re too busy ogling his biceps to really notice that he’s holding it out to you.

“You alright?” He grins.

Snatching the item from his outstretched hand, you ignore him and unravel it. It’s an old piece of paper that’s been taped with masking tape in order to attempt to preserve it, though water has still managed to seep through it and cause the markers used on this to bleed. The outside of the roll of paper has blue, yellow, orange, and red, while the inside has another drawn photo of a key, but that’s it. No words, and no other clues.

“It’s just a drawing,” you hum, flipping the paper over a number of times.

“Did the water get rid of words, maybe?”

“I don’t think so,” you mutter as Satoru leans over you, the heat of his body causing you to shiver at such a close distance despite the sweltering warmth of the day. You turn back towards him, holding the paper between you as you contemplate what it could mean. “Maybe the colors mean something?” You posit.

Something sparkles behind his eyes as he shrugs. “Maybe.”

How unhelpful. Given Satoru’s lack of insight, you take a look around the Gazebo, but this rolled paper is the only evidence of anything colorful within the gazebo itself, so it has to be- Your brow raises, lips pursing as your gaze lands on the trail marker you passed earlier that has matching colors.

“What about that?” You point towards the pole, flipping the paper to hold it up.

“Well, shit.” Satoru compares the two, nodding. “Come on, then!” He grins as he grabs your hand, dragging you along with him as he jogs down the worn pier. Boards creak beneath your feet, but you’re caught up on the way his hand envelops yours, connecting like pieces that just fit. Like maybe they even belong. Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you giggle when Satoru comes to a halt at the grassy shoreline, looking the trail marker post up and down. Just like the paper, the pole has a stripe of blue at the bottom, then yellow, orange, and red.

“I told you it’s like geocaching.”

“I just can’t believe all this stuff is still here,” Satoru comments, his hand remaining clasped around yours. His skin is calloused, but his grip on you is soft, almost gentle. “You said the map looks old, right?”

You nod, separating your grip from him to circle the pole. “Do you see a key?”

He hums in thought as you poke around the pole, kneeling down and sticking your fingers into a small opening cut into the metal. “Not up here,” he frowns, watching what you’re up to.

You can’t see what you’re doing, but can feel something against your fingers and just barely manage to get a hold on a piece of tape, pulling out a piece of masking tape attached to a small key. “Found it!” You exclaim, a thrilled smile taking over.

Grinning, Satoru tugs you close to him, squeezing your shoulders. “We’re having better luck than I thought with this.”

You twist your head to get a better view of the handsome man, the sun gleaming on his snowy locks. “We are,” you agree as your cheeks warm with the way he’s looking at you. You can’t deny just how hot Satoru really is. It’s not just his stunning looks, either. Between his charm and cheesy jokes and just how easy he is to talk to, you could see yourself getting close to him. Hell, there’s an itch in the back of your mind that his lips look kissable and honestly? It takes you a moment to convince yourself that now’s not the time.

Turning your attention back to the key, you hold the small piece of metal with a string of tape attached closer to yourself to get a better view of it. It’s smaller than even a mail key and the teeth on it are surprisingly uncomplicated, as though whatever it’s guarding isn’t all that secure.

In fact, it might be made out of a flimsy metal, or maybe even a sturdy plastic. Either way, it looks… like a toy.

You suppose it’s fitting of your crayon map.

“This looks like it’s from an old jewelry box I had when I was a kid. It had a little dancing ballerina in it and played music when it was open.”

Satoru nods. “I think I know what you mean. My mom had one.”

You smile softly up at him, something about the little bits and pieces of his life that he divulges as the day goes on gradually warming you up to him.

“Alright, well I guess that just leaves us with ‘Boot Island’,” you state, pulling the map from the pocket of the shorts you’d borrowed from Satoru. “It’s supposed to be here,” you point to the spot on the unfolded map where a red ‘X’ is scrawled, “but honestly based on the map, that could be anywhere off the coast of Kill Devil Hills,” you sigh.

“Well, it’s probably shaped like a boot, right?”

“There’s like four boot-shaped islands,” you point out. “And I don’t know how we’d even find it when we get there. There’s no instructions after that.”

Satoru reaches around you to pull the map from your hands, pulling out his phone to compare it to a real map of the area. “The last two spots we went to on the map were pretty close together, the kid couldn’t have gone far, right?” Satoru observes, pointing between Avalon Beach and the Gazebo you’re standing in front of. He zooms out on his phone and lo and behold, the closest island is… sort of boot-shaped. “Voila,” he grins. “We head to West 5th, then we can paddleboard from there.”

You hum in agreement, though you aren’t sure what you’re meant to do past that. By all means, it’s a small island, but you’ll still be digging all day just to find this thing with so little instruction.

Satoru seems even more determined than you though, his happy-go-lucky attitude and boyish grin lighting the way back to your car as though the sun above wasn’t already doing it for you. It seems that’s just the kind of guy he is, never too worried about anything and just enjoying whatever life throws at him, even if it’s business school.

“So, why do your parents want you to take over their business?” You ask as you hop back in your car and buckle your seatbelt.

“It’s like my dad’s one big expectation,” he sighs, a forlorn expression settling over his features that dulls the very light you were just admiring.

“What business is it?”

“He owns the airport here.”

“Oh, which one?” You tilt your head as you turn down a road.

“All of them,” he shrugs. “As well as like… everything… else,” he mumbles the last part, grimacing as he stares out the window.

“Everything else?” You query, unsure exactly what that’s even meant to mean.

He sighs. “Yeah, he uh…” He waves his hand dramatically. “He bought out most of the OBX commercial property,” he explains. “So yeah, everything. Pretty much,” he mutters, pulling his sunglasses back out from his pocket to block his eyes as though he suddenly remembered they exist again.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you offer as you pull up to the end of the cul-de-sac he’d directed you to, although there doesn’t appear to be any public areas to reach the water, so you’re not sure what he’s planning.

“No, I-” He sighs, lifting his glasses up for a moment to rub at his eyes before dropping them back down to the bridge of his nose. “It’s just tough, I guess. Being expected to take over the whole ‘Gojo’ name around here.”

Gojo? Even you’ve heard the name and you moved here pretty late into your teens, only to move away for school. “Could you not do both? Business and marine biology?”

He laughs dryly. “I appreciate it, but nah. My dad’s never around, he’s always busy. I won’t have time to surf, or dive, or anything really.”

You frown at the genuine disheartenment that he exudes. “I’m sorry, Satoru.”

He flashes you a smile as thanks, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, maybe I can at least swap some of the businesses over to more ocean-friendly waste or something, right?” He states as though it’s a sort of silver lining, though his tone remains dejected.

“Maybe,” you agree with a tight-lipped smile.

He pats your shoulder gently. “C’mon.”

You nod, hopping from the driver’s seat and staring out at the water. A fence blocks the shoreline, which you can just barely make out through the houses along the street. “Satoru, we can’t just trespass.”

“It’s fine,” he brushes you off, waving his hand through the air. “I know the people that live here,” he explains as he pulls the paddleboards from your car. He tosses them into the grass over the fence before hopping it himself.

“I really don’t think-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grins, “just grab the shovel.”

You hesitate as your gaze flickers between the overly confident surfer, the shovel in your back seat that makes it look like you’re about to commit a crime, and the paddleboards you aren’t all that confident in.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures you again, “I promise.”

You examine his gaze for a moment before giving in, taking the shovel and locking your car behind you. Satoru offers you a hand as you hop over the fence, making sure you don’t hurt yourself before grabbing both paddleboards and the paddles and tucking them under his arms as he makes his way into the backyard of the house you’re closest to.

He navigates the yard as though he’s been here before as he mentions for you to watch your step, leading the way to a narrow dock that looks to have been built somewhat recently.

“Have you been here before?”

“My dad’s friend,” he explains vaguely as he points a thumb over his shoulder to the house behind you both. “He won’t mind.”

You’re not sure why he didn’t start with that, or why you had to trespass in that case, but it does ease your worries. Satoru sets either board down at the edge of the dock, sitting and dipping his feet in as he waits for you to join him.

You approach the water with a bit less confidence, comfortable to dip your feet in, though you wish you’d pushed for the kayak you originally wanted, rather than settling for a paddleboard. Still, it can’t be that hard, right? You know how to longboard, after all.

Satoru turns his attention to you as you realize he’s attached a cable of some sort to his ankle. “You done this before?”

You shake your head.

“No worries, it’s super easy. These are SUP boards so you stand on them, they’re really steady so don’t worry about balance.”

You nod, grateful that it seems your worries are for naught.

Then again, the island is far.

“Just attach this to your ankle,” he explains, handing you the cable attached to your board, “then you’re gonna kneel down on the board and stand up. You’ll want one foot on either side of the logo to keep your balance,” he explains, doing so himself to demonstrate. He uses the paddle to keep himself in place as he watches you shakily do the same. Once you’re standing, it actually doesn’t feel so bad, though. “There you gol!” He grins. “Now just adjust your paddle and you’re good to go.”

Once you’ve got yourself set and you’re feeling a bit more confident, you use the paddle to move forward a bit and slowly begin to relax into the motion. Aside from drips coming from the paddle itself, you aren’t even getting wet and the waves are calm today. It’s actually kind of fun.

You smile over at Satoru as you get the hang of it. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

“You’re doing great!” He grins, beckoning you to follow him. You manage to paddle up to him, keeping steady on the board as you glide along the water in his direction.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get there?” You query.

He hums in thought. “Fifteen minutes, maybe?” He replies, setting a steady pace.

You nod. “What’s on this island, anyway? Have you been?”

“Uh-” he pauses, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses as he considers your question. “It’s probably just a reserve, or somethin’. I don’t think there’s anyone there.” He shrugs, pushing himself forward with the paddle.

“Have you been?” You ask again.

“Once or twice,” he shrugs. “It’s been a bit. It’s nice, though. You’ll love the beach, it’s pretty untouched.”

You smile at the thought, hoping to have some time to enjoy the sights while you’re there. “So, no trespassing?”

“We weren’t trespassing, I swear!” He chuckles. “Have I led you wrong yet?”

“I guess not,” you admit with a small smile, rolling your eyes for the sake of dramatics.

“Well, there you go.”

Shaking your head with a smile, you focus on the expanse of open water ahead, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin. It’s a bit too warm as you feel perspiration running down your back, particularly now that you’re in baggy and oversized clothes, but the breeze hitting you from the side offsets the heat enough that it’s still enjoyable. On top of that, it’s just plain gorgeous and you’re forever grateful that your family decided to settle in North Carolina.

“Do you think we’re around halfway?” You ask with a pause to glance back at the dock you’d pushed off from a few minutes ago. As nice as it is, you’re getting eager to be back on land as the sea opens up beneath you the further out you get.

“Going too slow for you?” Satoru teases, using his paddle to splash some water up at your bare legs. It catches you off-guard and you just barely manage to catch yourself, blood roaring in your ears as you stare at the deep water below.

Trying to brush off your uncertainty, you tear your gaze from the waves lapping at your board which wobbles beneath you. “I was just curious,” you murmur in an effort to cover your uncertainty.

He chuckles as he pushes his board towards yours in an effort to tease you more easily. “I can speed up if you want, just say the word,” he grins with a sly smirk as his board collides with yours. He has no intention of throwing you off quite as much as it does, but his board knocks yours with enough force that you’re thrown off balance and just about off the board, too.

“Satoru!” You gasp, trying to catch yourself but the motion only causes your board to rock into his again. You stare down at the murky water below, fear jolting straight up your spine at the thought of being caught in the deep water. “Stop, please stop!”

His eyes widen as he senses your genuine distress and quickly reaches out to steady you with a hold on your arm. It sends him a bit off-balance as well, so he lowers you both until you’re kneeling shakily on the board, staring down at the sea beneath you. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you shift to sit down with your knees beneath you, keeping yourself completely out of the water.

Satoru sits on the edge of his own board, his feet and shins dipping into the warm ocean waves. He keeps a grip on your board to keep it even and to keep you next to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he scrambles, his eyes flickering across your face. “I forgot you don’t like water, I didn’t…” he trails off, regret swimming in the depths of his shimmering irises. “God, I’m a dumbass, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” you shake your head, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I should have told you back at the shop that I’m afraid, that's why I wanted a kayak. It’s just… deep water.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize, I’m the dumbass here. I wasn’t thinking.”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay, really. It happens. I only told you I don’t like water, I didn’t tell you I’m afraid.”

Still, he sits there with a regretful frown on his lips, looking you over as one hand hovers in the air uncertainly while the other clutches your board. He isn’t quite sure how to comfort you, or what to do in this case. He doesn’t know you all that well, but he’s sure he doesn’t want this incident to muddle your thoughts on the day, or him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he breathes again, his hand rising as he seems to contemplate offering you comfort, though he isn’t quite sure how to do it.

You reach out and take his hand, grateful for his support and understanding as he attempts to rectify the situation. “I didn’t fall in or anything, anyway,” you point out.

“I would have saved you, if you did,” he’s quick to add.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you chuckle as your heart begins to calm within your chest, no longer pumping in your ears. “Good thing I didn’t, though,” you point out in a more lighthearted tone. “You would have felt so bad.”

“Oh, I would’ve felt terrible,” he agrees. “You have no idea.”

You giggle, feeling a bit more comfortable with Satoru’s firm grip on your hand and the board. As you begin to relax again, his thumb works small circles into the skin of the back of your hand. He watches and keeps you steady as you shift to sit in the same position as him, your legs settling between his within the water.

“Can I ask why?”

“Why I’m afraid of water?”

He nods.

You chew on your lip, nodding as you stare down at the spot where your hands are joined. “My parents had me take swimming lessons before we moved here for-” you make a motion towards your surroundings, “- obvious reasons.” Chuckling, you shake your head. “It was fun and I liked it, but I slipped on the diving board and I almost drowned,” you explain ashamedly, shaking your head. “It’s stupid, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts. “It happens.”

You lift your head, examining his expression. His brow is knit at the center of his face, a serious pout on his pretty lips. “Thanks, Satoru.”

He nods, squeezing your hand. “Shit, sorry I dragged you into the water at the pier earlier, too.”

“It’s fine,” you brush it off. “I do like water, it’s just…”

“It can be a lot,” he fills in the blanks.

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Is paddleboarding okay for you, then?”

You nod again. “It’s fun once you get the hang of it.”

He cracks a sweet smile, before his eyes light up as an idea pops into his mind. “Would you wanna sit on the front of my board? We can hook yours to mine and I’ll just tow it, but it’ll be pretty steady.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Might take a bit longer to get there, though.”

You nod slowly, grateful for his accommodation of your fears and willingness to bounce back so quickly. He’s pretty sweet, in spite of his teasing. “That sounds like fun, yeah,” you agree, letting him help you detach your board from your ankle so he can hook it to the back of his board before helping you shift to sit in front of him.

It is slower on his board and the drag from yours is pretty severe, but he doesn’t complain. He’s completely content watching you drag your hand through the water as you sit cross-legged at the front of his board, sharing light conversation on the way there. You learn quickly that Satoru absolutely loves sea creatures, but he particularly loves shrimp and would keep a tank of them himself if he had more time.

He also goes on a very long tangent to explain the unique way that Pipa frogs give birth (through their back, ew), which was not on your bingo card of things you would find out this summer, but you certainly did.

In fact, you’re not sure anyone would have that on their bingo card.

Either way, you shake the thought as you near the island. With a shove of his paddle into the sand, Satoru pushes the board ashore and offers his hand to help you up from your seated position. He pulls both boards further up the sandy beach to make sure they won’t wash away before stretching his arms up over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a sheen of sweat over the ridges and valleys of his abs.

You smile to yourself as his shirt lowers once more, raising your gaze to find him watching you with a smug smirk. Your cheeks warm as you avert your gaze, immediately making your way further ashore before he can confront you, or say a word.

The island is fairly small, all things considered. Maybe about four blocks total, which is more than easily explored in less than an hour, except that you have to assume your treasure is buried. There’s no way you can dig up every square inch of the island in search of an old music box. Even with company, that sounds like it would take forever.

Tossing the shovel over his shoulder, Satoru takes a look around, as well. It looks like he was right about the island having no one on it. It doesn’t even seem like many people step foot on it at this point, most of the sand and trees going untouched. The shrubbery thickens to the center of the island, though the thin ‘L’ shape of the island doesn’t allow much space for the greenery to truly flourish. It seems as though it’s primarily mollusks and birds that have found their way out here, along with some palms and shrubs.

“You’re right, it’s gorgeous out here,” you comment, rolling the sleeves of the oversized tee you’re wearing up to your shoulders as the sun beats down on you. “It’s kinda nice being somewhere so quiet.”

There’s no sounds of engines, no chatter of the outside world. It’s a far reach from what you’re used to at college, letting you take a breath of fresh air without the reminder of civilisation and responsibility.

Satoru nods, glancing to either side of the island. “That’s the best part about the ocean and these little islands,” he agrees, making the executive decision to lead the way towards one of the far ends of the island. He turns back towards you, a sort of bittersweet smile spread across his lips as he walks backwards. “No one owns them.”

There’s a pang in your chest at the implication, but you follow after Satoru regardless, taking in the sights of the small island. A pair of seagulls peek their drowsy eyes open at the sound of approaching footsteps, though neither move as you continue to keep your distance. A smaller bird with long legs, an orange beak, and a stout build follows the tide as it comes in, doing quick pecks at the sand as the tide recesses back to the ocean.

“That’s a plover,” Satoru explains as he catches you watching the small creature’s movements. “They eat worms and little crustaceans.”

“Do they not like water?” You query as the bird curiously backs up anytime the water nears it.

“They don’t mind it,” he states, “but they don’t swim.”

“Amen,” you mutter, earning a genuine laugh from your white-haired counterpart.

You grin in response, continuing to follow him further along the shore. The resplendent rays of the sun sparkle along the waves and tidepools at the edge of the island. A variety of mollusks and small insects send bubbles to the surface of the still pools, gleaming a beautiful sun-kissed golden color.

“I could stay here forever,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. Satoru still catches your words, his eyes softening as they crinkle at the corners. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he follows your line of sight out to the horizon.

“Yeah. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be out here, you know?”

You nod along. “I’m glad I got to hang out for a couple of years before leaving for college.”

“Do you think you’d come back?”

You shrug. “The world is my oyster.” You flash him a cheesy grin, knowing he’ll eat up your cheap marine life joke as he perks up at the mere mention of sealife. “But yeah, I could. Depends on what job I can get out of school. So, maybe.”

He nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mulls something over. Setting the thought aside, he drops the tip of the shovel into the sand, leaning on it. “Alright, let’s get to work.”

You lift a brow at his optimism. “What, are you gonna start here and dig up the whole island?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “Though it doesn’t sound like too bad of a day with you,” he offers, his tone shifting to put more meaning behind his words as you feel that familiar tension crackle between you.

You teasingly scoff, brushing him off. “You use that on everyone you flirt with?”

“Nah, just the ones that put up with my frog facts.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles in the back of your throat. “Yeah, I’m sure that one always goes over well.”

“Give me a couple more hours, then we’ll see,” he grins, running a hand through his hair in an effort to move it from his line of sight and get a better view of your laugh as you shake your head at the cheesy man standing in front of you.

“Alright, alright,” you shake your hands between you both as you come down from your giggles. “How do you think we tackle this?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs honestly. “Figured we’d just look around.”

“Satoru, there’s gotta be-” you pause, looking back the way you came, “like a mile of ground to cover just on the shores alone. There’s no way we can just look around.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” He leans towards you with a knowing smirk as your expression falls.

“No.”

“Well, let’s start walking, then.” He leads the way down the shore, scrutinizing every little detail of each tree, rock, or lump on the ground in an effort to discern if it could maybe be your treasure.

You follow shortly behind with the map in-hand, but you can’t make out even what side of the island the treasure is buried on based solely off of the shaky crayon drawing. As far as you can tell, if the treasure is still here at all, you’re on your own. Folding it back up and shoving it in the pockets of the shorts that Satoru lent you, you look over every tree or bump in the ground in hopes of finding some sort of clue, or sign.

“Do you think it’s that?” You ask, pointing to a small gathering of dirt near a tree.

“Maybe?” Satoru tilts his head, throwing the shovel into the dirt without question and beginning to dig. He declines any offers for help, but after a good few piles of dirt and sand stack up, he sticks the shovel upright in the sand again. “Or, maybe not,” he sighs, a sheen of sweat gathered on his biceps.

Lifting your gaze from the distraction of his veiny forearms, you sigh. “I guess maybe we should take a look at the whole island before we dig up every bump in the ground.”

Satoru’s grin is a little bit too knowing of your distracted stare as he hums in agreement. “Lead the way, pretty girl.”

Fighting your bashful smile, you cast a glance up at him, unable to help the way your lips quirk up at the corners and a quiet giggle bubbles up in your chest. Funny to think that somewhere between the constant flirting and the quiet genuine moments shared between you, his flirting started working.

Like, a lot.

Throwing the shovel back over his shoulder, Satoru proceeds to fall in step with you, asking questions about your life. Anything from what you study, to where you’d like to work, your bucket list vacations, and the music you listen to.

After rattling off a list of your favorite musicians and bands, you repeat the question back to him, but his mind seems to be elsewhere, distracted by something in the tidepools at the edge of the island. Mindlessly, he makes his way towards a bright orange blemish in an otherwise natural landscape, where he kneels down to take a closer look.

You follow suit, kneeling beside him as you get a better look at what caught his eye. Doing what it can to hide from the snowy-haired man’s presence is a small hermit crab, attempting to hide in what seems to be a bright orange thimble. Satoru carefully sets the shovel at his side, using both hands to gently nudge the creature onto his palms.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, running a thumb over the orange plastic it’s trying to take cover in, though it can’t hide well in the man-made shell.

“Could we find a new shell for it?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “but this…” he pauses, tilting his head to take a look at the crab, “this girl won’t last long out here anyway.”

“Why not?” You query, curious as to how he figured out so quickly that the crab is a girl.

“She’s not native to the OBX. This is someone’s pet that was dumped here.”

“Oh,” you pout, looking around the edge of the beach and picking up a shell to check if it’s occupied. Satisfied that it isn’t, you set it in Satoru’s palms with the crab. “Well, one problem at a time, right?”

He blinks at you, a gleam in his eye that you don’t recognize. “Right,” he quietly agrees, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“What kind of crab is it?” You ask as you push to your feet and begin doing loops of the surrounding beach in search of more shells.

Satoru’s eyes swim with elation at the question. “It’s a Caribbean Hermit Crab.”

“Far from home!” You comment as you pick up a small dark brown shell.

“A bit,” he agrees. “They also get called Purple Pinchers because they turn a bit purple as they get older, especially on their claws.”

With three shells now in your hands, you step back towards Satoru and the crab, leaning down until you can get a better look at the little creature peering up at you. Sure enough, she has just a hint of purple on her bigger claw. “She’s cute!” You comment as you set the three additional shells around her.

He nods as you jog back to the edge of the shore in search of more unoccupied shells. “She’s probably still a baby. Younger than ten.”

“Ten? How old do they live?”

He shrugs. “Twenty to thirty years with proper care.”

“What? Really?”

He smiles at your gaping reaction. “They’re hearty little crabs.”

“Oh my god, I had no idea,” you gasp as you head back to drop another shell into Satoru’s palms.

He chuckles, flashing you a toothy grin before setting the crab and all of the shells down a short distance from the both of you, allowing her the space to be comfortable while she tries out her new home options.

You take a seat beside Satoru under the shade of an overhead palm, wrapping your arms around your knees as you both watch the little crab come out of her hiding spot. The surfer leans back on his palms, adjusting so that his arm is just a bit behind you, allowing his side to brush yours. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed as you shoot him a smile.

“You’re really passionate about this, huh?”

There’s a quiet contemplation to Satoru’s words as he replies, like a sort of resignation that it’ll only ever be a passion, not a pursuit. “Yeah, I am.” Vulnerability weaves its way between the three words as though it’s a plague to him, something he’ll need to shed.

“Listen, I know we just met and I don’t know you that well, but I think you should go for it.”

“For… marine biology?”

“Yeah, I mean look at you!” You point out, waving a hand between both him and the little crab who’s wiggling into her second shell option. “The world would be missing out.”

He chuckles, somewhat wryly. “I dunno.”

“What do you have to lose, Satoru?”

He tilts his head to look at you. Really look at you. The blue oceans of his irises swim with wonder, questions, intrigue, and uncertainty. Doubts glide like sharks preying on his own passion through his mind. While he fights some sort of mental battle, you don’t back down, staring back at him with a determined intensity, one that threatens to melt under the intensity of his handsome gaze.

You can’t be sure if he finds what he’s looking for, but he sighs and throws his head back, staring up at the palm overhead. His hair falls back over his toned shoulders, blowing aside in the light breeze of the incoming evening. “I guess I could think about it,” he finally agrees. “But I’d definitely lose my job.”

“Is that because your dad owns the shop?”

“Yup,” he nods, popping the ‘P’.

“You really think he’d make them fire you?”

He taps his fingers along the sand in thought. “I wanna say no, but since I’m their only child and he wants this whole thing to be a family business, kinda, yeah.” He stares back out at the ocean, briefly checking on the crab. “I definitely can’t tell him until I’m done college,” he chuckles wryly again. “But… yeah. Maybe,” he shrugs with a lighter expression, as though it’s something he hasn’t even considered until this moment.

“I think it’s worth at least thinking about,” you offer, pointing a finger towards the little crab beginning to scuttle away in her new shell.

Satoru hums in acknowledgement, both to the crab on the run and your statement as he pushes to his feet. He pockets the plastic thimble to recycle later and scoops the crab back up.

“What’s your plan for her?”

“Dunno. Guess I could keep her,” he shrugs, unsure of what to do with her now that he has her delicately within his palms.

“That would be so cute,” you coo with a sweet little pout.

As though your pout is the icing on top that breaks his resolve, he smiles. “Yeah, I’ll keep her.” He scratches at the back of his head as he tries to figure out what to do with the hermit crab so that he can make sure it doesn’t die out here, while simultaneously not stressing it out in his hands. “Uh, do you remember if your paddleboard had one of those bag attachments on it?”

“It did!”

“Great, let’s head back to those, then.”

Luckily, the island isn’t too big and you’d only made it about halfway up the island when you found the little crab, so you're pretty close to where you started anyway. As the paddleboards come into sight, you cautiously drag yours further ashore and grab the bag attachment, pulling it off the board and sliding a small cooler from it.

“That's perfect,” Satoru hums, scooping some damp sand into the bottom of the cooler with a piece of driftwood before setting the crab inside. No longer being handled, she peers back up at the both of you from within the gorgeous pale beige shell she chose.

“How long can we leave her in there?”

“Probably not too long,” Satoru hums as he sets the cooler down under some shade. “I don't want her to overheat, and who knows how long it’s been since she last ate.”

“Maybe we should just head back, we probably won’t find anything out here anyway,” you shrug, throwing a hand through the air in an effort to make your point, when something catches your eye. You carefully rub at your eyes, ensuring you don't smudge your makeup while simultaneously making sure you aren't just seeing things in the heat. “What's that?”

The surfer follows your gaze as you squint at the trees. Hidden within the trees a short distance from where you're standing, something is catching on the low rays of the evening sun as it sets, casting a gleam of brilliant green in your direction each time it tilts just right.

Satoru leans on the shovel at his hip. “Let’s go take a look,” he urges with a sort of simpering smile that makes you cock your head just the slightest bit.

He isn't far behind as you slip into the cover of the trees, the sounds of bugs and birds shuffling in the brush serving as the only soundtrack to your adventure as the waves and wind are dulled by the cover. As you near the gleaming object, you can't help but laugh.

“Oh my god, we found it!” You grin as you turn back towards Satoru, whose eyes are alight with anticipation.

He jogs up beside you with a grin to match yours, his arm wrapping around your shoulders and squeezing. “No fuckin’ way,” he laughs in a giddy tone.

Before you, unceremoniously nailed to the bark on a palm tree, is a holographic green Yu-Gi-Oh card. Well, most of it, anyway. It’s been taped in an effort to laminate it, but even then the harsh weather has gotten the best of it, and something seems to have nibbled the corners, sending water damage straight up the center of the art.

“Green Gadget…” you read the card out, laughing to yourself as you recall seeing a stack of the very same cards on Satoru’s desk. “Do you know much about Yu-Gi-Oh? Was this some kid’s prized possession?”

Satoru shrugs. “I had cards-”

“Have cards,” you cut in, correcting him.

He playfully clicks his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, I have cards, but I dunno much about them anymore. I’m a Digimon guy.”

You nod, staring down at the base of the tree. “Try digging here!” You exclaim excitedly.

The shovel is in the sand before you can finish your sentence, hitting something almost immediately.

“No way this is all still here,” you shake your head in disbelief as Satoru digs around a small music box, just as you had predicted. Pulling the key from the pocket of Satoru’s shorts you’re still wearing, you kneel down to the spot where he sets the box, which you can only imagine was once a beautiful oak, now worn and weathered over the years of being buried beneath the surface of the island. Setting the shovel aside, Satoru takes a seat beside you, watching with a giddy grin that's far too excited for something so silly.

As the key clicks within the box, you take a second to smile at your treasure hunting companion. He shares the moment too, his breath warm on your face as he sits comfortably at your side. His grin widens as his eyes flicker to your lips for a moment.

“Go for it,” he urges in a low tone. You chew your lower lip softly before flipping the lid open.

Hidden within are a number of cheap plastic toys. Some old fake gold pirate coins, some of those Mardi Gras style bead necklaces that used to be everywhere, a water-logged paper crown that practically dissolves in your hand, and…

Your eyes widen as the final item in the box comes into sight. “You’re kidding,” you gasp, your mouth agape in an ‘O’ as you shoot Satoru a disbelieving stare.

A Digimon DVD.

He bursts into genuine, unadulterated laughter, falling back onto the sand as he covers his face while he laughs.

“You made this map?” you gasp as giggles bubble in the back of your throat, his laughter completely contagious.

“Yeah, when I was like ten,” he manages between fits of laughter.

Laughing along with him warms your heart as you throw your head back in disbelief, laughing over the treasure hunt that you’ve been following while unknowingly being nudged along by the very creator himself.

As Satoru finally catches his breath and finds the space to talk, he rubs his face as though the smile physically hurts. “I thought that map was looong lost,” he explains, shaking his head. “Or that someone had thrown it out or something,” he shrugs, unable to stop beaming at you. “So imagine my shock when the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen comes into the shop with my stupid map,” he explains, waving a hand towards the Digimon DVD.

“I can’t believe this was yours,” you breathe as heat rises from the base of your neck up to your cheeks.

“I can’t believe it’s seeing the light of day and not because of me-” he pauses, “- well, mostly not.” Shrugging, he continues. “I was already planning on seeing if I could get your number, but a whole day chasing my own treasure map?” He shakes his head. “I mean, what more could a guy ask for?”

He shakes his head again, choosing to leave out the fact that he damn-near thought you had to be his soulmate and that this was a sign from some higher authority when you actually flirted back.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you knew where it was the whole time!” You laugh, shoving his chest as your heart stutters over his increasingly sweet and heartwarming words. He chuckles, dramatically falling back against the sand as though your playful shove did damage.

“Where’s the mystery in telling you?” he shrugs, sitting back up and reaching into the box within your palms to pull the Digimon DVD out. The art is completely faded from the water seeping into the box over the years, but when he opens the case, the DVD itself seems alright. He grins to himself, turning towards you. “Your treasure, my dear.” He presents the DVD while putting on his best goofy voice.

You can’t help your grin, turning your head to try to hide it from him. Satoru pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes softening as he sits just a short distance from you. One hand still holds the DVD out to you, while his other hand hovers near you.

Slowly, his hand raises to your chin, his fingers gliding along the line of your jaw, tilting your head back towards him. Your eyes are gleaming with elation as they flicker between his own bright blue irises, down to his lips. His smile twitches upwards just slightly before he closes the distance, sending your heart soaring.

His lips are softer than you expected, unmoving at first as though testing the waters. He pulls back just slightly, blinking to look at you. Somewhat dazed, you smile against his lips as they brush yours again. You don’t have time to think before he’s kissing you more intently. His hand slides up to cup your cheek as he tilts your head up to kiss you more passionately.

When he pulls back, you both have kiss-swollen lips, parted as you reach out to grab his shirt. “Shit…” he chuckles, averting his gaze for a moment as though all that flirty confidence has converted to nerves. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“I’m glad you did,” you admit, sliding your hand down his toned chest.

He leans back just enough to give you both space to breathe from the tension that’s sparked between you. “How long did you say you’re here for? The summer?”

“Yeah, about two months.”

“I can work with that,” he hums to himself, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on your lips. “You busy tonight?”

“You tell me,” you hum slyly. A lopsided and incredibly charming smile befalls Satoru as he hops to his feet, offering his hand to help you up. Tossing the DVD inside the box and shutting it, you take his hand and fall into step beside him as he intertwines your fingers.

“I know a great little diner,” he beams, “you’ll love it. But uh, first-” he chuckles, “- quick pitstop at the pet store?”

You gasp. “Oh right! What are you gonna name her?”

“Dunno. Gadget maybe?”

“After the Yu-Gi-Oh card?” You giggle.

“Seems fitting,” he shrugs one shoulder, giving your hand a playful shake. “You have no idea how excited ten-year-old me would be to know that the dumb map I put together got me a pet and a girl.”

You can’t help but laugh at that remark. As silly as it is, as silly as he is, he’s right, and Gadget is a pretty cute name for the little crab. You scoop her up into your arms in the cooler bag as Satoru prepares the paddleboards, readying a spot for you and his Hermit Crab on the front of his board while he tucks the old music box of treasure into the paddleboard bag and secures it.

“Hey, before we leave-” Satoru leans down before pushing off, pressing his lips to yours again. You can feel the curve of his smile moments before he pulls away. When you look up at him with a mirror of his grin, he just shrugs. “Needed my fix.”

You shake your head with a sweet giggle as he pushes the board off from the sand. You keep Gadget close to your chest, carefully watching over her as you traverse the small expanse of water between the ‘Boot Island’ and the Outer Banks. Someday, several years into the future after Satoru’s first official day as a marine biologist, that very same little Hermit Crab will watch over you as Satoru gets down on one knee under gorgeous pink and orange sunset rays and asks you to be his treasure.

main masterlist || bisque's summer bash masterlist

𓇼 a/n ; i had so much fun with this sweet little oneshot, thank you bisque for the collab <33 i hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

That day was warm, as always. The evening before, he landed in Malaysia and stayed here, in a luxurious hotel, for the next week. Nothing but him, drinks, quiet and peace.

The first time he saw you was at the beach, beneath the warm sun, basking in your bikini-clad body, with gentle rays dripping like sizzling waves down your skin. Your hair lifted and clipped, sunglasses high on your nose and a magazine in your hands, as you flipped through it with little to no interest.

Oh, you looked so beautiful. And older. Much, much older, surely, and twenty-seven-year-old Nanami felt a sort of uncertainty, a foolish desire to approach a woman of your sort.

Going out with younger women was easy. Of course it was, as he was utterly handsome and tall, with a wide, muscular back filling out his shirts and a body that smelt strongly of a mixed cologne. It was easy to find someone for a night, to have fun and let the work stress go away, with one woman or another.

But this time, as he looked around at all the empty chairs on the beach, trying to find a quiet place to sit with a drink and a book, his eyes immediately fell on you.

And by pure accident, there was indeed a free chair right next to you.

So he decided to risk it all. Let the nervousness leave his body together with a cough, muscular arms tense just in case, his classic, handsome smile tugging at his lips.

"Is this chair free?" he asked, at his most polite, expecting to hear a lovely, almost motherly voice from your glossed lips.

But, oh well, how surprised he was when your head shot at him, fingers pushing the sunglasses up, and the most beautiful, definitely the most frightening, eyes looked at him with a furrow.

"What do you want?" you snapped, your voice dripping with disinterest and clear dissatisfaction. "What's wrong with the other chairs?"

His breath trembled, fingers clenching around the book he held. "N-nothing," fucking hell, and now he was stuttering. He cleared his throat, thankful for the sunglasses that hid his eyes. "Nothing, sweetheart. I just thought you might like some company."

He never felt a gaze heavier than yours. Not from other managers at his company, not even from the CEO himself. The aura you projected made him stand to attention in an almost military way. As if each word of yours held a mysterious, unfathomable power that immediately straightened his back.

A man almost two metres tall, with a broad back like a mountain, stood nervously in front of the loveliest yet dominant woman who probably ever walked this earth.

You hummed, taking your bag from the second chair and turning back to the magazine. "Sit down, then. Let's see what your company's worth."

He fell almost immediately, as if your gaze alone pinned him to the warm chair. The umbrella over your heads was wide enough to shelter both of you, protecting your skin from the Malaysian sun's sizzling burns.

The ocean waves rolled quietly, children's laughter carried through the air, and salt and wetness clung to his naked chest. Yet he couldn't focus on anything but the way your fruity, refreshing perfume wrapped around his nostrils with a tickling sensation.

"So, you're also on summer holiday?" What a stupid fucking question. It was the middle of July, of course you were on holiday.

"Mhm," you hummed, eyes not leaving the magazine.

"Alone?"

Great, and now he was acting like a creep.

"Alone," you murmured, uninterested in keeping the conversation going. Yet, to his surprise, your head turned his way, eyes lingering a moment longer on the muscular chest and the light, happy trail leading down below his trunks. "Why? Are you trying to feel me out?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, and you giggled sweetly, seeing how quickly you caught on to his nasty intentions.

"Don't worry. You're not the first one today," you said, before taking a melting drink that had been waiting on the small table between your chairs and sipping a bit of a fruity cocktail. "The youngest one? Probably."

He knew you were older. It was clear in the way your eyes watched him carefully, like a viper, with a mature, wicked gaze that warmed the pads of his fingertips. There was something sensual in the way you talked, moved, and wriggled in the chair, with your plush body relaxed and soft, as if waiting for him to bite it with devotion.

"How old are you, then?"

Your eyes shone, lips bit down on the plastic straw. "Guess."

He chuckled. Chestnut eyes ogling your face, as if trying to capture each plushness, each curve that could give him even a slight hint. His blonde hair caught the rays of sunshine spilling through the thatched wooden umbrella.

"Thirty?"

You tsked. "Don't sugarcoat me."

But Nanami wasn't doing it. You truly looked young. And beautiful and smart. Even then, as he tried to appreciate your wit, his eyes could barely keep from drifting down to land on your suncream-coated breasts. He looked at them – quickly, shyly – before looking back into your squinted, amused gaze.

"You can look at them," you said, turning to your side on the chair. This way, your breasts pressed against each other, almost spilling out of the tight swimsuit.

His breath whistled with each puff, cheeks blushed with rosiness. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

But you only shook your head, taking another sip of the cocktail. "Hm, you're just a man, after all. And I know you approached me with filthy thoughts."

There was something wicked behind your eyes. Behind a smile that, although lovely and sweet, curled on your lips with almost devilish intent. Something looped in your mind. And he could see it, in the way you suddenly sat straight and tilted your head.

"I think we can make it work," you hummed, eyes shamelessly drifting up and down his body. Beefy thighs, a bulge in his trunks, big hands and full biceps. "Are you healthy?"

His sandy brows arched, yet he still nodded.

"Any chronic diseases?"

"Uh, no."

"Syphilis?"

His head shook.

"HIV?"

He almost choked on his own saliva. "No, I test myself regularly."

You nodded, clearly satisfied. "Mental illnesses?"

Nanami thought that his only mental illness, by far, was how balmy and horny he felt beneath your dictatorial tone. "Not that I'm aware of."

Your lips curled into a smile, gaze mellowed, as you grabbed your magazine and unfinished drink. As you stood, you let his gaze take in the fullness of your body in a split second. You watched him, amused, as a blush crept up his thick neck and into his chestnut eyes, mingling with desire. Almost like a kid who looked eagerly at the sweetness that seemed to be out of his reach.

"Good. See you at six p.m. in the lobby's main restaurant, then."

And so you walked away, leaving him speechless and bewitched, his eyes fixed on your slowly disappearing figure. At the wave of your hips and hair kissing your neck, as you didn't look over your shoulder even once.

He groaned, covering his face with an arm. Gaze dropped to bulging trunks – a wet, sticky stain clearly visible on their blue material.

That fateful evening would stay in his mind for a long, long time. It was the best, the most humiliating, yet the most passionate night of his life. He would return to it months later, cheeks burning and cock straining his briefs tight.

He met you at six p.m. sharp, dressed in a bluish shirt and elegant brown trousers. Smelling of heavy cologne, blonde hair neatly slicked back, an expensive watch on his wrist.

The hotel was one of the most luxurious in Malaysia, and so were its restaurants, dripping with lavishness. Yet it wasn't the dark, silver, quiet sort of restaurant. No, its luxury was in the view of the setting sun stretching right in front of the tables, painting the sky pink, blue, and yellow, casting a warm glow on your lovely face. The sea hummed longingly, and fire burned in the torches that led him deeper into the restaurant. The wooden, thatched ceiling bent over small tables, held up on columns wrapped with lush vines.

The waiter led him straight to one of the white tables, with a single candle in the middle and a tall palm looming over it, its fronds making gentle swooshes.

"Apologies for being late," he said, drawing your attention.

You sat, watching the slowly setting sun, before turning your head towards him.

"You're not late," you smiled, looking at your watch. "It's six p.m."

He joined you at the table, his heavy, musky cologne immediately wrapping around your senses. Warm, cozy, carrying a woody, snug fragrance.

"It would be more gentlemanly to arrive before you." He chuckled, admiring the woman seated directly in front of him. "You look stunning."

Because you did. Dressed in a long black dress that clung to your body in all the right places. Hair falling loosely along your cheeks, neck draped in a gold necklace. The warm flame of a candle bathed your face in glory as you tilted your head and let a sweet hum slip past your lips.

"You don't look bad either, Mr, who still hasn't told me his name."

Oh dearest.

Nanami sighed, head falling between his shoulders.

Of course, he started to hit on you before even exchanging the most basic pleasantries.

You giggled at his embarrassed face. Ears slightly warm, cheeks flushed rose as he crossed his muscular arms over his chest.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. It seems your presence makes me lose my mind." Something in your eyes flashed, and he caught it immediately. "I'm Kento."

Your name reached his ears in reverse, while the waiter brought two glasses and a bottle of wine to your table.

"Hm, pretty," he smiled, not even trying to stop his gaze from drifting between the heavily cut neckline. Another move of yours, and the nipples would spill past the black material any second now.

"The name or my tits?" You took a sip of red wine, lips curling cheekily.

The wit and confidence of your persona seemed to slowly influence him, and so a low "Both" hit your heated cheeks. "Is that a proper answer, madam?"

You giggled, the sweetness of your laughter sending warmth down his spine. Straight to slightly tight trousers as he shifted in the chair.

"I'm not old enough to be called madam," his arched brow pushed you to hum, and so you finally admitted, "I'm thirty-seven."

Ten years older than him.

"So how old are you, sweetheart?" you asked, gaze squinted.

Nanami bit the inside of his cheek, arms still crossed over his broad chest. Your gaze dropped to his creamy buttons, dangerously close to popping right into your face.

"How low do you usually go?" He asked.

"No lower than thirty."

Fuck.

"Then I can be thirty," yet when your arms crossed over your chest and eyes stared at him intently, he sighed. "I'm twenty-seven."

It was only a three-year difference. No more. Although Nanami didn't feel fully worthy of your glorious attention, he needed it. Fuck, he needed it desperately, and a sensation in his mind told him he was ready to crawl on his knees if it meant gaining your acceptance.

It seemed, however, that there would be no need to do it.

Because a minute later, he felt something slip up his leg. Warm, soft, brushing his calf, knee and thigh. Only after a second did he feel your foot pressing against his cock, straining his trousers.

He trembled, taking a deep breath with a whistle.

Burning pleasure spilt over his loins, heart pounding madly, upon seeing your witchy, devilish smile and eyes shining with wickedness.

"I ordered for us, but are you truly hungry?" Your voice rolled low.

Oh, he was. Starving.

"What's on the menu?" The words barely escaped his throat, mixing with a faint groan as your feet pressed harder against his cock.

Your head tilted sideways, lips pushed lovingly. "Only the sweetest stuff."

It sounded like a promise. Like something offered to foolish men like him, who were easily trapped within the wicked embrace of your warm arms.

Nanami doesn't quite remember how everything turned next.

He wished to pay for the uneaten yet ordered dinner and the surely expensive wine, yet you simply said it had been paid. You paid, and he never, ever felt more humiliated in his entire life. Yet it seemed you didn't mind, truly. You simply overlooked the five-numbered bill as if your card could handle it just like that.

Thus, Nanami promised himself to give you the best orgasm you'd ever experience. The one that would make your thighs shake, and head loll back, irises heart-shaped while he would fold you in half on his bed.

Yet a few minutes later, he somehow found himself in a rather different position.

Naked, head propped on the pillow, eyes darting between your breasts shaking right in front of his eyes and drenched pussy swallowing his cock full. You leaned back on his thighs, legs parted wide, head fallen back, as you bounced on his fat, girthy cock.

Plush walls of your wet pussy wrapping him tight, taking every inch, every vein, till your hips met his fat balls with squelching smacks. The nasty, lovely moans slipping past your throat, as you fucked yourself on his cock senselessly, trembling beneath his thumb rolling your clit.

He was in awe. Fuck, he was fully, madly, completely bewitched by the sight stretching right in front of his eyes. Your breasts bouncing softly, belly squeezing around the shape of his cock, bulging right through the skin, pussy leaking, weeping, yet swallowing him fully.

Not many women could take him whole.

But you did. Of course you did, with this wicked smile dancing on your lips and brows drawn in a lovely, blissful furrow.

"Fuck, Kento, you're so fucking big," a moan escaped your lolled head, eyes slightly lidded. "Filling me so good, oh god. I can feel you–mhmm–in my womb."

Your hand touched the softness of your lower belly, bulging with his fatness.

It felt too much. It was too much to hold a sight of you bent in such a slutty position, with an arching back and hips rolling against his, with wetness and sticky juices smeared all over his pubes. Your cunt leaked sweetness, clit swelled beneath his fingers, and ass fit perfectly in his palm, as he helped your bounce faster.

"Look at you," he almost chuckled, trying to muffle the cry that threatened to slip past his lips. "My pretty girl, aren't you a sight–ahhh"

You hummed, leaning yourself farther on his thighs, to give him an even better view of your slick cunt swallowing his cock. "Fuck, I need you to cum inside me. Breed me full till I'll be–nghhh–leaking with your cum. Kento, ahh, I need you to get me pregnant."

You were serious. And he was fucked.

Because he truly wished for nothing more than to make you a mommy, fuck sideways and stuff this plush pussy with his massive cock until you're crying and whining over his body.

His fingers played with your clit a bit harsher, rolling, pinching, massaging it in circles, till your feet curled.

You were close – he knew it because he hit your swollen womb each time your walls clenched around his full shaft, until his leaking head nestled warmly into the soft, plush muscle deep inside you. He heard the splashes deep in your lower belly, saw your lips parted wide, eyes rolling back as you moaned his name with a high-pitched voice.

Your fingers dug deep into his thighs and hips smacked against his, as you suddenly gushed all over his chest. And chin, face, squirting with crystal droplets that drenched his upper body fully, as he filled you with fresh, heavy cum. Filling your womb to the brim, till a few droplets squeezed past his fat cock, filling your plump pussy and landing on his pubes.

"Again," you panted, falling to press yourself against him. Your lips caught his in a long, hungry kiss. "You need to fuck me again. Actually, fuck me every day till you leave. I want to have a baby."

Your eyes shone with tears, fully possessed by the maddening pleasure. And Nanami? He looked no better. Blonde hair messy, lips swollen from your hungry kisses, arms wrapping around your waist.

"So you want me to be your–"

"No," you interrupted quickly. "I want you to give me a child, and then you can leave. Live your life. I don't need a man in mine; I just want a baby."

He suddenly flipped you over. Your chest pressed to the mattress, hips lifted high, as he pushed his leaking cum back into your fluttering cunt.

"I can provide for you. I can stay. I don't know what your job is, but–"

"I'm the CEO of this hotel."

He stilled. Fingers digging deep into your cunt, another hand grabbing your ass.

Fuck, he was hard again.

Your head turned back, eyes squinted, lips curled into their wicked smile. "I'm the boss lady. So you don't have to worry about the providing thing. I can do it."

He leaned over, lips pressing to your sweating spine, head of his cock already catching on your puckered hole. "No, let me stay. Fuck, please let me stay."

He thrusted shallowly, slowly, pulling a soft moan from your tightened throat. "Wh–ahhh."

"Because," he muttered, biting gently at your shoulder. A massive, heavy body lay against yours until you felt the sweet, painful heaviness of his warmth. "You're so fucking sexy when you act like a dictator. And I may be into milfs."

Your giggles mingled with another cry, hips trying to roll back just to feel the rest of his cock push deep into the sticky wetness of your pussy.

"I'm n-not a milf–"

"Not yet," he chuckled, thrusting painfully slowly. Knowing how much you needed him to enter you in a single, quick push, he denied you with satisfaction. "Make me your president. Vice-president, manager, fuck. Just let me stay."

You liked when he begged. You liked seeing this massive man trembling and whining while being deep within your cunt, as you clenched around him a few times, only to push another lovely groan from his throat.

You didn't plan on marrying, again, but… the thought of keeping him for longer sounded rather nice.

So you nodded, with a "Shut up now and fuck me," getting a low, satisfied hum from his lips.

Nanami kissed you sweetly, long before finally stuffing your needy pussy to the brim.

And so, a year later, he suddenly remembered your first meeting, when the warm rays of the sun spilt on your face, and your forehead rested in peace.

His thumb pressed to the soft skin between your brows, rolling soft circles.

"What are you doing?" You mumbled, pushing his hand away. "Go feed her."

You were always grumpy in the morning. Yet he still, nevertheless, noticed a lovely smile tugging at your lips.

And so he kisses you once again, longingly, hungrily, before leaving the bedroom to take care of your dearest daughter.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

Dearest anon who requested it – I'm so sorry you had to wait that long, but I truly hope it satisfied your craving <3

July 28th, 2019. Tokyo. 08:32 AM. Three months later.

“Good morning, darling.”

Gentle words whispered softly against your skin had become your mantra. A reminder of not only what you had longed for for so long, but also that you no longer felt the need to face the world alone.

Of course, you weren’t exactly alone, but it often felt that way.

“Morning, Ken,” your voice is hoarse as you wake to strong arms enveloping you, kisses being peppered down your jaw and along your neck. You hum contentedly, tilting your head to allow Nanami access before his lips part from your collar bone. His deep mahogany gaze lifts to take in your smile, a sight mirrored on his own features. Propping himself up on his elbow, he leans down to kiss you, his lips softly moving against yours.

Waking up with your boyfriend was a treasure you never truly knew you were missing out on. The way he would wrap you up tightly in his embrace, his length pressing into your ass as he passionately nipped and licked the sensitive skin at the nape where your neck met your collar bone was a feeling you could never grow sick of.

Before you can indulge in such a feeling, Kento interrupts the sounds of shuffling and gentle moans that fill the room.

“Are you teaching today?” His voice is low and groggy, a timbre you’d grown accustomed to hearing over the past few weeks as Kento’s visits had become more and more frequent now that you were dating. Your calls and texts had grown so constant that it made more sense for him to come home to you every night. You had never imagined the cabin you had so begrudgingly agreed to live in could possibly become your home, but now it held such fond memories you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“Mhm,” you hum in response to your boyfriend, who kisses your nose.

“Shame,” he says, “I was hoping to have you to myself.” His hands find your waist, brushing the bare skin of your stomach. You jump at the feeling of his thumbs tickling the sensitive skin, giggling at the sudden feeling of being awake. Kento’s chest rumbles as he appreciates your reaction, leaving a gentle kiss along the top of your spine.

“I wish,” you groan, turning your head to check the time. Slowly, you push yourself out of bed to get ready for the day. Kento isn’t far behind as he makes his way down the stairs to make coffee. It had become somewhat of a tradition to share coffee together before going separate ways and you treasured that moment each morning, ensuring you always had enough time to bask in one another’s company.

When you emerge from the bedroom dressed in a floral tank top and black skirt, Nanami’s gaze travels the length of your figure. A blush finds your cheeks as you smile sheepishly at him. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, though it isn’t fully buttoned up or tucked in as it usually is, and a pair of gray sweatpants. You can’t help but adore the more disheveled look on him, something about it so painfully screamed “boyfriend” and it screamed of the adoration you two shared.

“You look beautiful,” he hums, clearing his throat of the obvious lust in his voice.

Grinning, you giggle as you take the coffee cup he’d prepared for you from his hands. “You look as handsome as ever.” Your cheeriness earns a warm smile from him. Taking your usual spot leaning against the counter beside him, you cozy up to the warmth of his side. Even in the warm summer heat, it was hard to tear either of you from the other.

Domestic moments like these, your heart soared at just how grateful you truly were. Never could you possibly have imagined a world where you would get to enjoy such slow and soft mornings filled with adoration.

A knock at your door earns a sigh from you and a knowing chuckle from Nanami, who sets his coffee down on the kitchen counter and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, answering the door.

As you finish up your coffee and throw on a petite red leather jacket, you can hear Nanami and Gojo sharing mild pleasantries, though Gojo’s version of pleasantries seemed to be aimed towards annoying your partner. Sliding up behind Nanami, you pull his attention back towards you and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” you tell him. He nods, wrapping a muscular arm around you to pull you in for one more chaste kiss before letting you go. You both choose to ignore Gojo’s noises of complaints as you kiss. When you part, you spot a frown pulling at Gojo’s lips, but had you blinked you would have missed it. He turns his attention back to you, hands in his pockets, as he turns to lead the way towards the clearing.

Bounding down the stairs after the sorcerer, you follow his pace as the sun warms your skin from between clouds. It’s the first overcast day in a while and although the sun peeks through the clouds on occasion, it’s a nice break from the blaring summer heat.

“I’m having one of the second-years join today,” Gojo comments, smirking your way.

“Okkotsu?” You recall your conversation with Yaga from over a month ago. Rolling his shoulders back, Gojo nods.

“He’s strong, I think it’d be valuable for him to learn a thing or two from you.”

Your steps almost falter as you tilt your head to look up at him. His head is tilted upwards with a smile, seemingly enjoying the break from the heat as he paid you no mind. In his own way, that was a compliment. Though you had grown more accustomed to Gojo, it didn’t mean either of you got along any better.

You had taken Yuji and Megumi out for lunch a couple of weeks back to discuss what Sukuna could want, insisting that they would be fine together while you were there though the conversation had ended up skewing more towards why Gojo acted the way he did towards you.

You weren’t sure of Megumi's relation to Gojo, though to your surprise he seemed to know him quite well and had chalked it up to him feeling some sort of disdain towards you. You had suggested that maybe he felt threatened but both Yuji and Megumi had insisted such a thing was impossible.

After all, Gojo was the strongest. Sure, you’d heard it from Gojo on more than one occasion and Miriko had her reservations on him as the user of the Six Eyes and Limitless techniques so you knew he was strong, but to hear both kids insist that he was the strongest and couldn’t possibly be threatened was strange, albeit a bit insulting with you sitting right in front of them.

Approaching the clearing, you shake your head of the memory. You notice Yuji sitting alongside a boy with jet black hair and sunken eyes, the poor boy looked rather tired. He was smiling and laughing while talking to Yuji, waving to Gojo as you approached. Gojo takes a seat beside Yuji and opposite you while Okkotsu stands to bow politely, although you insist it isn’t necessary as he introduces himself.

The lesson goes smoothly as it always does, both students are quick learners and eager to take in any information they can. You’re surprised to find that Yuta is another special grade sorcerer like you, one of very few.

“I need to get stronger,” Yuji hums, staring at a clenched fist. You’re pretty sure he’s talking to himself as the group was all getting ready to grab lunch, but you blink at him in surprise. He was always determined, but the way his brow was furrowed made you wonder where this was coming from. He seemed nervous.

“You are,” you insist to him quietly, watching his eyes rise to meet yours. Yuta and Gojo, noticing the conversation, both pause to listen.

“I know,” he sighs, shaking his head. “But I need to make sure that whatever Sukuna’s got planned, I’m strong enough to stop it. I need to get as strong as you and Gojo. You too, Yuta.”

You tilt your head sympathetically, a bittersweet smile pulling at the corners of your lips. Leaning forward over the table, your voice is quiet as you speak. Gentle, even. “I know you want to protect your friends but that’s a tall order,” you tell him, running a hand through your hair as the breeze blows a few strands into your vision. “Not because I don’t think you can do it,” you insist with a confident smile, “but because I don’t think you should aim for that.”

“Why not?”

You pause, quietly examining the grain of the wood beneath your hands. “It’s lonely,” you say quietly as an admittance of the error of your own ways, if you could even call it such a thing. “Being at the top with no one able to touch you.” 

You glance between Yuta and Yuji, who are deep in thought, before locking eyes with Gojo. His lips part and though you can’t read his expression from behind the black fabric that covers most of his face, his contemplation is evident. You’re not sure what it is about your words that has him staring at you in such a way, but before you can question him, your thoughts are interrupted.

BAM.

You jump, twisting to stare behind you. You don’t see anything from where you’re sitting, but when the sound is followed by an ear-splitting crack, all four of you are on your feet in an instant. Birds fly out from the nearby trees in a panic at the sudden noises, their squawking filling the air around you.

Gojo teleports away as Yuta zips after him through the trees to see what was causing the disturbance. Yuji stays nearby to protect you but your mind is elsewhere as you take off through the trees without a second thought.

Kento.

Making your way through the forest, you take in the scene before you. There’s a fire raging in the trees near the front entrance and several grade two curses were attacking anything that dared to move.

“How is this possible?” You exchange an incredulous glance with Yuji, knowing there was a barrier protecting the school. Yuji doesn’t seem to have an answer either, though you had heard this wasn’t the first event of this happening.

“y/n, Yuji!” Kento’s voice is relieved as he sets a strong hand on either of your arms, his gaze taking in your appearance as he searches for injuries. He then repeats the process with Yuji, before turning to face the chaos before you, satisfied to find neither of you are injured.

Now that you know Kento is safe, you turn your attention to the curses moving wildly over the training grounds. They’re-

“They’re the same.” Yuji’s voice is equally as confused as you felt.

Each curse was a familiar green, decorated in the same strange red markings as the curses you had been ambushed by so long ago. Though, this time there seemed to be hundreds of them. It was a strange attack to launch, given that nothing seemed to be above grade one, and even then there were far too few of them for it to make sense.

Regardless, Nanami instructs you to stick by Yuji and keep one another safe as he makes easy work of the small and mid-size curses. You know you have no reason to be concerned for him, but regardless it’s hard not to worry, your eyes following his every movement.

He’s swift and elegant as he takes out smaller curses with one strike of his blunt blade, slicing off the appendages of any curse large enough to survive an attack before maiming them mercilessly. The way he dances across the landscape in a display of almost elegance makes your heart flip, but now isn’t the time for that.

“Something isn’t right,” Miriko’s voice sounds and both you and Yuji stare down at the toothed mouth on your hand. “If this same curse has returned, then the one we killed was not the main body.”

You nod in agreement. Was there a special grade curse lurking somewhere?

Nanami glances in your direction, panting heavily. A good portion of the training grounds were clear of curses and you could see a couple of the second years taking a moment’s break behind your boyfriend as well.

You motion for Yuji to follow you to where Nanami was standing at the treeline, bringing a hand up to check for any injuries, though the blonde seemed unharmed. Yuji dashes off to his friends, checking on them as you tell Nanami what Miriko had said.

Nodding in agreement, he grimaces. “There are too many spirits to pinpoint the location of the main body,” he hums. “It’s some sort of distraction.” But of course, without knowing who they were after, you couldn’t be sure where they would-

A strangled gasp leaves your lips. You stare down at the sharp appendage that shoots straight through your chest, blood spurting from your lips as your hands shake. Shock was keeping you from keeling over in pain, though it was also keeping you from making a movement. Your confused expression reaches Nanami, whose jaw is clenched as he lifts a hand in an attempt to- oh god. His chest had been pierced through by the same appendage, but there was a stark contrast between you and your boyfriend that was a grave reminder of the dire situation you were now in.

Nanami can’t use the reverse cursed technique.

A strangled cry of his name leaves your lips as you’re both yanked back painfully and enveloped in liquid. It stings and burns as it eats at your skin, your throat, your eyes, blinding you. Flailing around helplessly, you retreat to allow Miriko to take over. She’s calm as she works to heal you while what she can only assume is a strong curse’s stomach acid eats away at your form. Taking a moment to evaluate the situation, she finally grabs a hold of whatever appendage is pierced through you, sending death and decay through it without mercy. A shrieking noise meets the action as Miriko’s hands crack with the same decay.

The curse dissolves, dropping Miriko on the grass with a soft thud. She coughs the liquid up, working to heal your hands and eyes as the grass and earth below you crack and crumble. Her glowing gaze blinks once, twice, as she adjusts to the light, staring down at the hole in your chest as she focuses on healing it before turning her attention to Yuji.

“y/n- Miriko?”

“I’m okay,” she sputters, rolling her shoulders as she pushes herself up and brushes grass from her palms.

“Where’s-?” Yuji’s voice comes as a reminder of what had just happened as you physically rip control of your body back from Miriko, leaving you momentarily dazed. The moment the fog over your brain lifts, you frantically whip your head around.

“Kento? Kento?” Your heart is pounding as you search desperately for him. Whatever ate you was big, surely he was just in the treeline. He had to be.

“y/n,” Yuji’s voice breaks through to you. It’s broken, angry. It’s not the tone you want to hear. Not when you knew the bond he shared with Nanamin. 

On the ground sits Nanami’s blunt blade. It looks rusted and the material usually wrapped around it is nearly fully dissolved. There’s no sign of your beloved sorcerer, but there doesn’t need to be to understand the scene laid out before you.

“No.” You can barely muster the word as you jog over to Yuji, who's doing everything in his power to keep his tears in. You, however, aren’t that strong. Tears pool in the corners of your eyes before falling freely down your cheeks. Your knees buckle beneath you, burning slightly from the acid that slowly dissipates on the grass. “No,” you choke out again.

Reaching out a shaky hand, you grip the handle of the blade as a sob wracks your body. Yuji’s hand is on your back, but his touch feels distant, everything feels distant. It’s as though you exist in a universe separate from your own, where this is all some sort of sick nightmare. But that’s never the case, is it? The world couldn’t let you have peace, not when you housed the symbol of death itself.

“Miriko,” you beg desperately, although you already know the answer to your pending question. “Please, bring him back.” Your voice is broken, your words hanging in the air unanswered. She has no reason to respond since you know she’s unable, but still you plead with her again. “Please,” you cry out, your knuckles white as you cling to the blade.

She answers from the back of your hand. “I cannot, y/n. There is nothing to bring back.”

He’s gone.

“His soul,” you sputter out. “Can- Can you- find it?” Your desperation claws at your throat, threatening to drown you in your pain. Miriko falls silent, her face disappearing. She knows there’s no arguing with you about being left defenseless, knowing that if she doesn’t comply you’ll use her abilities whether she likes it or not. Regardless, Yuji was still with you. You were safe.

After a moment of waiting, you feel a familiar pull. Low moans fill the air as your body sways with the movement of the ship below you.

You blink away your disorientation as the blade you were holding is no longer in your hands. You lift your head shakily, locking eyes with the serpentine curse that stares back at you. Your lips part as your eyes land on him.

He blinks once, twice, three times. Brown eyes take in the dragon, the slowly rocking ship, the echoes of spirits heaving the ship from side to side. Then, slowly, they land on you.

He’s wearing your favorite outfit on him, a gray jumper over beige slacks, green glasses you don’t recognize over his eyes. Both of them. Burn scars no longer cover his side, and he no longer has a need for the eyepatch he normally wore. His hair is combed back neatly and in spite of the situation, he seems calm.

He glances at Miriko as though he needs permission to approach you. When she nods, he takes a couple of steps towards you, kneeling before your hunched over figure. He reaches out softly, his hand ghosting over your cheek but the warmth of the touch never reaches you. Your lip trembles at the realization that never again would you feel his love against your skin, so warm and so real.

He bites down hard on his lip. You know that expression. He’s trying hard to be the strong one. Even in death, he was doing everything he could for you. You gasp for air as a sob wracks your body when you reach out and can’t feel him, shutting your eyes to try to stop the tears that stream endlessly down your cheeks.

When you open them again, your boyfriend’s soul is wrapped tightly around you. Physically you can’t hold him, but you can feel the moment burning itself into your soul like a photo. You tremble in his embrace, bringing a hand up to wipe your tears and take in the sight of two mahogany eyes observing you with all the care and adoration in the world.

You can see it in his eyes, the desperation and desolation that eat away at him in his final moments. Emotions he’s trying so hard to hide to stop you from crumbling in his arms. So many dates left undone, actions unfinished and things left unsaid.

Yuji’s words ring in your head. No sorcerer dies without regrets. Words imparted to him by Yaga.

Kento’s eyes hold his regrets, as well as his heart, as you stare up at your own reflection within the deep pools of sienna. A gaze that normally imparted comfort and happiness, now replaced with the claws of heartbreak that were beginning to tear through your walls.

Miriko shifts suddenly, her tail swaying in Nanami’s direction. You recognize this as a sign that she’s unable to keep his soul in place for much longer, your eyes wide with terror.

“Please no,” you beg, your voice strained. Kento’s lip trembles, his chest rising and falling as he takes a breath.

Though he can’t speak, you see his lips form the words be strong, but it has the opposite effect on you as your arms reach for a warmth that isn’t there. He stands tall above you, facing the terrifying reality of parting from his body, parting from the world, yet not once does he allow the facade of a tough exterior to break. You know he’s only doing it in hopes you’ll be able to hold yourself together, but the ease he hopes to leave with you never comes.

“It is time,” Miriko warns.

Your sobs choke you as you fall forward, your fingers splayed on the wood before you. Every breath is a struggle, as though your chest is being crushed by the loss. You drag your fingers over the chipped wood lining the ship, but the physical pain you’re hoping to focus on to ease your agony never comes. You can’t be hurt in Miriko’s domain.

You gasp as you manage to catch your breath for a moment, wide teary eyes locking on Kento one last time. The ship halts under a familiar light, one you’ve seen only once before. Your boyfriend turns to face you before allowing Miriko to usher him to the afterlife. His shoulders shift as he puts on a brave face, a sad smile forced to his lips as his mouth forms the words you never got to say.

I love you.

–

There’s no reason for Satoru Gojo to get involved in a fight against low level curses. He trusts his students to handle them. He had taken note of Nanami joining the fight as well, who was always one to hang on until the end. He had no reason to be concerned about the outcome of the fight, only the reasoning behind the attack.

Hanging silently in the air in search of the main body of whatever curse was toying with them, Gojo’s attention is pulled to Yuji as he cries out for help. Huh. Yuji isn’t one to ask for help. At least, not like this.

He drops down to where Yuji’s hand is flailing, flashing his student his reassuring smirk.

“It’s y/n.” He’s breathless, his eyes wide. Gojo grimaces. He’d prepared for the moment that Miriko would turn on him, turn on them all. He’d been sure to keep you and her at arms’ length for this moment. He’d known all along you couldn’t be trusted, but he had hoped to get more use out of you.

It was the cold reality of Gojo’s life, and he accepted it. There was no world where he could allow himself to get close to someone like you, so he would use you. After all, from the day he was born he was little more than a weapon. The strongest. So a weapon he shall be.

Still, it didn’t stop him from selfishly wishing for a different end when your words and actions would tug at him. It didn’t stop the guilt from seeping through the cracks as he angered and pushed you away when you showed him cordiality in spite of his actions. 

Yuji leads Gojo to your side, but when you come into view, it isn’t Miriko at all. He takes a step forward to take in the sight of your shaking figure, hunched over Nanami’s blunt blade. His eyes widen in realization.

Loss is like an old friend to Gojo. He’s familiar with the way it crushes you, gripping at your throat and leaving you sputtering for air. He’s familiar with the feeling of drowning in agony. He knows what it means to lose the only person who understands you. The only person who grounds you.

He rounds your figure, realizing suddenly that much like the second time you two had met, you’re not conscious. You’re with Miriko, likely with Nanami.

It’s not the place of the snowy-haired sorcerer to interrupt. He frowns, a muscle in his jaw rolling as he exchanges a glance with his student. His eyes are wide with worry, so Gojo assures him you’re okay.

As if on queue, a sob wracks your body. Gojo waits patiently with crossed arms, prepared to take you off-site, somewhere safe, but that moment never comes as a strangled gasp escapes your lips, followed by a mumble about things not being fair.

The strongest can’t allow himself to react, not in front of his student, but guilt pools in his stomach at the realization that after all the arguments, all the frustration of working alongside one another, he had caused the exact pain you had been trying to avoid this whole time. Not only that, but the loss of Nanami hangs heavy in the air over him too.

For the first time in a long time, Satoru feels a weight tug deep within him at his heartstrings. He could admit he was at fault for much of your discontentment without much of a second thought, but this was a guilt so genuine that he found himself unable to watch as you gripped at Nanami’s blunt blade until blood began seeping from your palms where your nails dug into them. Not an easy sight to watch.

Gojo prepares to lean down and do what he can to console you before removing you from danger, when suddenly your body moves in an unsettling way. From behind his blindfold, his blue eyes widen, taking in the way you claw at the ground. A whimper escapes you as your hand turns gray and contorts suddenly.

His lips part in disbelief as the gray cracks spread up your body.

Were you dying?

The answer to his question comes in the form of a guttural growl. He grits his teeth, taking in a breath as he watches with disdain as your graying arm crumbles, giving way for a clawed arm to take its place.

Gojo raises a hand, launching Itadori away from you as your form crumbles, leaving in its wake a draconic figure that the sorcerer can only assume is Miriko. Guilt gnaws at his form as he realizes he likely drove Miriko to do this, but he has no choice. He prepared for this. He knew this day would come and he knew it would be his job to kill you both, even if the cost was another piece of his sanity.

Funny, the way you would bear witness to the way the strongest sorcerer would crumble on more than one occasion, but you would never know it.

Miriko towers over him, her massive form giving pause to the entire battle. She was unlike any other curse. She was somehow majestic, her pearlescent scales shining in the sun while her silver mane was ruffled gently by the breeze. Her tail flicks as she cries out and even in this form, Gojo recognizes the tone of her cry. Agony.

Gojo teleports a small distance away, pulling his blindfold down to rest on his shoulders as he watches Miriko’s movements. In any other situation, he would have, should have, killed you without a second thought, but as he brings his hand down from his blindfold to rest over his heart, he presses his lips into a thin line.

Why was his heart beating so fast?

Miriko takes a step forward, oddly unsteady as though she wasn’t used to the body, followed by another, and another. Gojo trails steadily after her, unable to raise a hand as he watches what she does. When she finally stops, her long neck lowers to face someone, something. Standing proud before her are two special grade humanoid curses, each one with a sinister grin. Their skin matches that of the lower level curses and clearly Miriko recognizes this. This is her revenge.

Gojo can only watch as the two parties stare at one another, before Miriko lets out a shrill cry and her chest seems to light up. Gojo’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s taken too long, hesitated too much.

Miriko bellows strange gray flames from deep within her, shocking the two special grades as they effortlessly crumble beneath her power. The flames lick and lap at the trees and woods, disappearing as fast as they appear. They were unlike real flames, leaving no heat in their wake, only an eerie graying decay that cracks and crushes everything it touches.

Yuta calls Gojo’s name, snapping him out of his trance. He shoots Yuta the familiar reassuring smirk he always bears, teleporting before Miriko’s form that had begun flailing around and billowing flames in every direction, crying out in pain and… fear? No matter, Gojo couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

He raises a hand as he faces Miriko, a hand sign familiar to anyone that knows him. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Miriko’s head raises to meet her new assailant, locking eyes with the Six Eyes sorcerer.

He told himself he wouldn’t hesitate. He prepared himself for this moment. He kept you at arms’ length and angered you at every turn to keep himself from this exact moment, but as your crimson eyes lock with his, his smirk falters. His breathing quickens, eyes widening as he realizes that the eyes looking back at him aren’t glowing. They aren’t Miriko’s eyes, they’re yours. It’s your eyes looking back at him in unbearable distress. A silent plea for help.

Miriko hadn’t turned on them.

Gojo’s hand falls to his side and he can only watch as you snap your head forward, sharp teeth bared as you went for the kill. He should move, he should teleport away. He should defend himself.

But he can’t. He can’t even manage to protect himself with his Infinity.

Mere seconds from snapping around his body and devouring him, your form stops abruptly. You let out a wounded cry before beginning to collapse. Yuta pulls his katana from your head and Gojo feels something twist within him at the sight. He locks eyes with his student, whose sunken expression holds an understanding deeper than Gojo could ever know as Yuta hops to the ground beside your slumped body. Miriko’s form begins to decay and in its wake, your form collapses to the ground with blood pouring from your wound.

Whatever it was that twisted within Gojo digs further into him and he takes a deep breath, staring at the pooling blood from your wound. Had both you and Miriko passed out? Or were you dead? He’s not sure he can bear the weight of the answer.

Yuta stares at his superior again, pulling your form into his arms. The everlasting tired expression on his face doesn’t leave as he pauses to stare at Gojo, frozen in place. No words are exchanged as Yuta dashes off towards Shoko, leaving the strongest standing alone in the midst of the decay around him.

Blue eyes follow your limp form in Yuta’s arms as you’re carried off. The way your arm dangles from Yuta’s grip strikes him like a wound and he worries his lip between his teeth. He isn’t sure how long he stands staring after your body even once Yuta has disappeared into the building, but the taste of iron on his tongue pulls him from the trance.

When movement catches his eye, Gojo locks eyes with the real assailant behind this attack. His figure is an endless stain on Satoru’s own life. He carries a different face, but the stitches staring back at him haunt him while he wakes and sleeps. It was like the curse wanted nothing more than to taunt him. But the sorcerer had no interest in a chase, a grisly feeling of emptiness ripping at his ribs and threatening to burst at the seams.

He does nothing but watch as the man zips away, carrying in his arms a limp figure Gojo doesn't recognize. One of the special grades you had torched maybe? Whatever it is, it's disfigured beyond perception.

Gojo swallows hard as he takes in the scene before him. Blood stains and soaks the grass beneath his feet, a bitter scent of iron coating his every breath. Decay litters the horizon, fissures splitting the earth and splintering trees around him, spreading as far as the eye could see. All caused by your pain. All caused by Gojo’s ignorance.

He was meant to be the strongest. He knew his role and he could play it well. But today he tasted the bitter feeling of guilt he had longed to rid himself of. The taste of an old friend he loathed.

Satoru Gojo has only ever hesitated twice in his life before and he vowed he would never let it happen again.

Today, Satoru Gojo hesitated once more.

–

The first thing you became conscious of as you awoke was what felt like a weight on your chest, threatening to crush you. Then came blinding white lights, an incessant beeping, and steady exhales.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes adjust to the harsh light, your head pulsing with each blink. You groan, bringing a heavy and weak arm up to your head in an attempt to ease the horrible pulsing of the pain.

“Shit,” a feminine voice breathes, followed by the tapping of heels across the floor.

“Hm?” This time, a masculine voice.

Your arm falls to your side as you meekly begin to make sense of your surroundings. White walls cascade around where you’re laying, a hospital bed in the center of the room. You recognize the room, you’d chatted with Shoko here one or twice before.

“Hey, y/n,” her voice is soft as you squint up at her.

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out, as though you haven't spoken in a long time. It’s almost as though your body was forgetting how to function. You try to clear your throat, letting out a breath at how oddly sore you feel.

“Take your time, Hun.”

You take a few breaths before managing a weak sentence as Shoko listens to your breathing through a stethoscope, cold against the skin of your chest.

“Where’s Ken?” Your voice is barely a whisper. You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Shoko swallows hard and glances to the side. You follow her gaze, expecting your boyfriend but the black shades that you find at the end of her gaze don’t instill comfort in you. “Gojo?” Your mind is hazy as you question him, hoping he’ll answer.

“y/n…” Gojo’s voice is eerily gentle, as though you would break should he speak up.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Shoko interrupts with an uncertain smile, lifting her stethoscope and laying it over her shoulders. She exhales quietly, writing something down before taking a flashlight and shining it at your eyes. “What do you remember?”

You hum in thought, struggling to keep your eyes open as Shoko continues her examination. “I don’t know, I had a lesson and…” You trail off, narrowing your eyes in thought. Shoko sits down as she turns the light off, nodding. She checks your blood pressure as you stare down at your hands, trying to recall the last memory you had.

“Take your time,” she smiles, finally sitting to give you her full attention.

“Do you remember meeting Yuta?” Your head rolls to the side slowly, vision focusing on Gojo. He wasn’t wearing his usual teaching uniform, but rather a white t-shirt and black joggers. Though his eyes were covered by his black shades, you recognize the gaunt look he wore. He was exhausted.

Your head feels heavy as you lift it up to look between Gojo and Shoko.

“Okkotsu?” You ask, bringing a hand up to rub your eyes.

“Good,” Shoko smiles, writing something down again.

“Where’s Ken?” You ask again meekly.

Shoko and Gojo exchange a look. “We can talk about him lat-”

“Where is he?” Weariness drips from your words as you turn from Shoko to Gojo. Gojo being the more blunt of the two, you could only hope you had a better shot of squeezing the truth out of him.

“y/n…” It’s still the only thing he’s said since you’ve woken up, but this time his voice is cautionary. Like you were pushing for answers you wouldn’t want. A warning.

“Gojo.”

“He’s gone, y/n.”

Air leaves your lungs as though it’s physically stolen from you, pain searing through your chest. The feeling is familiar as suddenly a painful memory plays itself out in your mind.

I love you.

You never got to tell him you love him too. That you still do.

“I didn’t-” your words die on your tongue, choking on a sob. Clutching your chest, you weakly pull your knees to your chest, something that takes a surprising amount of effort in your weakened state.

The silence surrounding you feels loud as your sobs cut through the sterile air with the grace of a jagged knife. Shoko’s hand reaches out to squeeze your arm but it offers no comfort. You never allowed her the chance to get close to you and now you never would. You couldn’t. Not when the risks were so great.

You aren’t sure how long you sit and sob to yourself, embarrassed to be seen in such a manner, especially by Gojo who now stood at the side of your bed. Your breathing begins to regulate finally although all your senses feel dull, as though you can’t feed them the oxygen they need to function. Tired eyes lift quietly to glance at Shoko. She’s rubbing small circles into your arm, though she can’t seem to bear to meet your eyes.

When your sunken expression meets Gojo’s, you barely notice the way his arm falls to his side. He’s frowning and you almost wonder if for once he feels guilt, anger bubbling in your chest. You could only hope he did, hope he understood exactly what his cocky and overconfidence caused.

“I took care of your dog,” he sputters as though the silence was unbearable. Your eyes widen suddenly, mustering the strength to wipe your tears. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“He shouldn’t,” you tell him with the faintest hint of a smirk. “He’s trained to tell me when you’re near.”

Gojo’s expression is somewhere between snide and disgruntled. “Right,” he avoids your crimson eyes, lips pressed into a line. “That explains a lot.”

“I want to go home,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You didn’t mean your cabin but it would have to do for now. You shudder at the realization of how empty it would feel. How Kento’s toothbrush would never again move, his phone charger laying under a sheen of dust for eternity. His coffee cup that you had so carefully chosen for him never to house his favorite blend with milk and sugar again.

“I’d like to keep you for monitoring at least until-” Shoko tries to stop you as you slowly move your feet off the bed, but you had no intention of letting her do so.

Your knees, on the other hand, they might stop you.

Legs shaky beneath you, your chest rises and falls with urgency as you try to hold yourself up. Why in the hell did you feel so weak? How long had you been out?

Gojo hesitantly reaches out to attempt to allow you to steady yourself on him, but you swat him away with a blazing hot fury. “Do not touch me,” you hiss vehemently with an anger that has even him recoiling. Your vexation bled through your every action and word at him, fading to a more mild neutrality with Shoko.

“y/n, just let me help,” he insists, reaching out again.

“No, you’ve helped enough, Satoru Gojo.”

Had you blinked, you might have missed the way he flinched. He rolls his shoulders, stepping back with his lower lip worried between his teeth. You observe him carefully before addressing Miriko. Surely she wouldn’t have let you get this weak.

Miriko, can you heal me?

…

Miriko?

Reaching out, you realize her presence feels oddly shallow. Your grip on the edge of the hospital bed tightens as you suddenly feel like you’re about to collapse. Had your whole world fallen apart? Your chest constricts against you, the lights flashing as the edges of your vision begin to darken.

“Gojo-!” Shoko warns, recognizing the telltale signs of your desperate gasps for air, shaking figure and blank expression.

A strong pair of arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against a warm chest. It’s not the familiar warmth of your boyfriend, it’s foreign with a woodsy scent you don’t recognize. Your head begins pounding as you gasp for air.

“Bed, now.”

The warm chest parts from you as you’re moved in a blur. A light is shone in your eyes before Shoko comes into view, talking you down from your panic attack.

There’s no comfort in the way she talks you down, through a medical step-by-step list. Say what you can feel, what you can see, what you can smell, hear. The grip of panic releases slowly as she walks you coldly through the steps of your anxiety.

Your heart is pounding fast, beating against your chest as you dig your nails into your palms in an attempt to distract yourself from the pain that’s too much. It’s all too much.

“Miriko?” Barely audible, your voice doesn’t reach Shoko. But Gojo, who you hadn’t realized was gently brushing your arm in an attempt at comfort, answers quietly.

“She’s okay. You drained her cursed energy. She’s recovering.”

“I did?” You question.

His lips press into a thin line as he contemplates his next words carefully. To your surprise, he turns away, grabbing a chair to sit next to the hospital bed as he walks you through the destruction you caused, making sure to detail that no students, faculty, or bystanders were injured. It’s uncharacteristically gentle of him and you find your anger towards him quelling, if only for a moment.

“Did you talk to her?”

“I did,” he tells you, leaning forward on his knees as he links his hands in his lap. “She healed you but you’re on your own to recover until she can too.”

“Oh,” is all you can muster, as much to Shoko’s dismay, you swing your legs over the side of the hospital bed again.

She mutters something to herself before trying to insist that you stay for her to keep an eye on you, but your mind was made up.

“If um- Miriko- can’t heal you, then I need to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m fine, Shoko.” You insist, standing on shaky legs. Gojo remains seated, watching your movements. It isn’t until your legs begin to buckle that he finally stands up and ducks under your arm, holding you up. Begrudgingly, you realize you’re in no place to deny his help.

“You can stay with me.”

Shooting him a bewildered sneer, you shake your head. “No, absolutely not.”

He sighs. “Look, your dog is already at my place and our cabins are the same.”

“The cabin isn’t the problem, Gojo.”

“Can you cooperate for one second? I’m trying to help-”

“Like all the other times you helped me?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Guys!” Shoko closes her eyes, patience tested. Her hand drops from the bridge of her nose as she stares between the two of you. “y/n, I’m sorry but someone needs to keep an eye on you. You either stay here with me, or you can go with Gojo back to his cabin.”

Your head pulses in pain at the thought of either option, but the bright lights of the sterile room threaten to drive you mad even before Gojo could, as infuriating as he could be.

“Fine,” you give in, still hanging off of Gojo’s shoulder. “I’ll go with you,” you mutter almost incomprehensibly, shifting on your feet to try to relieve some of your weight from hanging off of the white-haired sorcerer, though it didn’t seem to bother him.

“At least I’m better than the hospital,” Gojo’s grunt has you nearly changing your mind as you shoot him a warning glance.

“Just take it easy for a few days, y/n,” Shoko insists, turning to her clipboard. “We’ll do rehab once you’re feeling better.” You nod at the school’s resident doctor. “I’ll report that she’s awake.”

“No,” Gojo pauses midway through a step. “Let her recover first.”

Shoko hums as she eyes Gojo, recognizing that in doing so, they were keeping information from the higher-ups. Regardless, she turns away as Gojo leads you out the door.

You hate the feeling of being weak. The feeling of needing to rely on someone. More so now than ever before. Each step feels like a walk of shame hanging onto Gojo in order to stay upright. The idea of being seen in such a way is humiliating.

“How long was I out?”

“Uh, two weeks I think.”

You stare at the ground, each step is an effort as you slowly make your way down the long hall. When you reach the door, your steps stop. You find yourself needing to grip Gojo’s shoulder hard in order to hold yourself up at the sight before you. He doesn’t complain, adjusting his grip on your waist in order to keep you upright.

You would recognize the sight anywhere. Gray fissures splinter in every direction towards the entrance, the telltale sign of Miriko’s ability, only on a scale of grandeur you had never seen before. The entire left side of the campus looked like a different world, ravaged by a monster.

Yuji had mentioned that the campus had been destroyed once not too long ago by Gojo and that it had been fixed relatively quickly all things considered, but this… there was nothing to fix. At the end of the day, the buildings were intact and there was simply no time to worry about the plants.

“I did this?”

Gojo’s fingers curl slightly against your waist before he takes a step towards his cabin, urging you forward. He knows you don’t need an answer.

Rustling through his pocket, he pulls out a key and unlocks the door to his cabin. When you make your way inside, you’re immediately met with warning barks.

“See, this is what I’ve been dealing with,” he sighs.

“Taro!” You let out a relieved sigh, slipping out of Gojo’s grasp down to the floor with arms outstretched. Taro’s barks cease and turn to happy whines as he throws himself at you, his entire body wagging with the motion of his tail. “I’m so sorry, baby boy.” You hug him as tightly as you can muster, tears rolling quietly down your cheeks. He really was all you had left now.

When Taro finally relaxes a bit, his tongue lolling out happily with his belly up before you, your eyes search the cabin.

Its layout was the exact same as yours, though his was slightly bigger with a guest room tucked into a nook behind the living room. Thank god. Apart from that difference, you can’t help but notice how oddly barren it is. Almost as though he doesn’t live in it. No curtains or decorations, no blankets or flowers. The only noticeable item that showed any sign of use was Taro’s bed, which he must have grabbed when he took Taro in.

As you look slowly around the room, your eyes eventually find their way to Gojo, who’s bent over searching for something in the fridge. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair before turning to face you with a can of soda in his hands. It looks sugary.

His sunglasses are laid on the counter, the gaunt and pale appearance you had noticed before now more apparent than ever. His eyes were sunken and he didn’t have the usual attitude you had come to expect from him.

“Thank you, Gojo.”

He raises an eyebrow questioningly, hand on his hip.

“For- watching Taro,” you start, eyes flickering uncomfortably down to your dog as you busy yourself with petting him. “And for stopping me.”

He hums, turning to his table to sit down as he pulls out a chair. “Wasn’t me.”

“Who-?”

“Okkotsu,” it comes out strained as he refuses to look at you, his normally bright blue eyes dull and glued to his phone as he types out a message. Seeing Gojo so somber was oddly off putting. Between the sunken look he’d carried since you woke up and the way he was being agreeable, his behavior was already throwing you off. The way he was refusing to look at you now, though? Was it shame, embarrassment? Anger? You had no way of knowing.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage as a response. You aren’t sure how to act around this version of Gojo, it’s like he’s a different person. When he leans forward and rubs his face, you can only stare. You want to ask him to help you to your room, but the words feel foreign around this person.

After an extended silence, you clear your throat. Gojo’s head spins to stare at you, his hair falling into his sight from where he’s leaning on the ball of his palm.

“Do you have a shower I can use?”

He nods, pushing himself up from the table as his chair scrapes the wooden floor. He throws his sunglasses back on before leaning down towards you. He offers his shoulder and hauls you upright, leading you to the guest bathroom beneath the stairs. You let go when you’re holding yourself up against the doorframe.

“Do you, uhhhh, need help?”

Your face contorts. “Don’t even suggest that.”

To your surprise, Gojo cracks the smallest of smirks at your retort.

“I’ll grab some stuff from your place and leave it outside the door?” It’s a statement phrased more as a question and you nod. “I need to steal some mugs ‘n things from your place anyway,” he says as he glances back at the kitchen, scratching the back of his head. “Shoko took all of mine to stock yours.”

“Oh, sorry.”

He shakes his head, putting on a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

As you sit in the shower, you thank the gods that Gojo left as the tears finally overflow. Pain wracks your body, wrenching through your gut with each sob that parts your lips. Not even the sounds of the shower could have masked your grief.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take Gojo nearly as long as you had hoped to gather what he figured you would need as he sets the clothing outside your door.

He stands unmoving for a moment at the door, the familiar jaws of guilt entrenching him within them as he hears your sobs.

There was nothing he could do to subdue your pain, and so he would force his usual smile onto his lips and play the role he was meant to play.

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❦ a/n ; i'm so sorry, please don't hate me 😭 believe me when i say this hurt to write, i adore nanami with my whole heart and he deserves the best in every universe.

The woman behind the desk looks up when you give your name. Her eyes flick down, then up again, slow and deliberate, taking in your outfit, your posture, the folder tucked under your arm. It isn’t overtly rude. There’s even a polite smile attached to it. But there’s something else underneath, something measured and quietly assessing. When you add, “I’m here for Mr Kennedy. I’m his new personal assistant,” the look shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not quite skepticism. Something closer to recognition, like she’s seen this before.

“I see,” she says, tone smooth. She types something into her computer, then gestures toward the elevators. “Top floor.”

There’s a beat where it feels like she might say something else. A warning, maybe. Advice. Instead, she just smiles again, the same polite curve of her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You thank her anyway and turn toward the elevators, trying not to read into it more than you should.

The ride up is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every small movement, every shift of fabric as you adjust your sleeves again, tugging them into place. Your reflection looks back at you from the mirrored walls, composed but not quite settled. You glance down at your portfolio, flipping it open with your thumb, scanning the pages you’ve already memorised. Previous clients, project management experience, glowing references. It’s solid. More than solid. You know you’re good at what you do.

It just doesn’t feel like enough here.

The numbers climb steadily. Each floor feels like a step further away from anything familiar. By the time the doors open, you’ve already closed the portfolio again, tucking it back under your arm as if that might make you look more certain.

The top floor is quieter than the rest of the building. Fewer people. Less movement. The kind of controlled environment where everything feels intentional. You step out, taking in the layout briefly before heading toward the nearest desk. The woman seated behind it glances up as you approach, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she studies you.

“Yes?”

“I’m here for Mr Kennedy. I’m his new-”

“I know who you are,” she says, not unkindly, just efficient. Her gaze lingers for a second, not unlike the receptionist downstairs, then she nods toward the double doors behind her. “Mr Kennedy will see you now.”

There’s no small talk. No attempt to ease you in. Just a direct line from arrival to confrontation.

You nod, offering a quick smile that she doesn’t return, and walk toward the doors. Your hand pauses briefly on the handle, just long enough for you to steady yourself, then you push them open and step inside.

He doesn’t look up.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware you’ve entered, but that feels unlikely. The room is too still, too controlled for anything to go unnoticed. He’s seated behind a wide desk, papers arranged in precise stacks, a laptop open in front of him. His focus is absolute, attention fixed on whatever he’s reading, pen moving occasionally in short, deliberate strokes.

You step further into the room and wait.

Five seconds. Ten.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t introduce yourself. If this is a test, you’re not going to fail it by speaking too soon.

Fifteen seconds. Twenty.

Your awareness sharpens, every small detail registering, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the way the light falls across the desk, the exact angle of his posture as he leans slightly forward, entirely absorbed in his work.

Thirty seconds pass before he looks up.

The movement is unhurried. Controlled. His gaze lands on you with a precision that feels almost physical, sweeping over you from head to toe in a single, assessing glance. It isn’t leering. It isn’t inappropriate. It’s clinical. Like he’s evaluating something and has already decided what it’s worth before confirming it.

He’s sharper up close than you expected. Not just in appearance, though that’s undeniable, the tailored suit, the clean lines of it, the kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself, but in the way he holds himself. There’s a stillness to him that feels intentional, like every movement has been pared down to only what’s necessary. His eyes are tired in a way that suggests it isn’t from lack of sleep but from something more constant, something ingrained.

“You’re the new assistant,” he says.

Not a question.

“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone steady, offering a small, polite smile that he doesn’t acknowledge.

He sets his pen down, leaning back just slightly, enough to create space without losing any of the control he seems to carry naturally. “Sit.”

You do.

He doesn’t waste time. There’s no introduction, no attempt at conversation that isn’t directly tied to the role you’re here to fill. A phone is placed in front of you first, then a laptop, each set down with the same precise motion. “These are yours. They are not optional. You are expected to be reachable at all times during working hours.”

You nod once. “Of course.”

“Your desk is outside this office,” he continues. “You will manage my schedule, my communications, and any additional tasks as required. If something is unclear, you clarify it. If something is wrong, you fix it.”

No softness in it. No room for interpretation.

“The hours will be long,” he adds, voice even, detached. “You will be compensated accordingly.”

There’s a pause, brief but noticeable, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. Hesitation.

Instead, you smile. “That’s alright. I like staying busy. Keeps things interesting.”

It slips out easily, the kind of light, optimistic response that has carried you through every other role you’ve had. For a second, you almost expect it to land the same way here.

It doesn’t.

“I would like to remind you, Miss ____,” he says, tone unchanged, “that you are my third assistant in five months.”

The words settle between you without emphasis, but they don’t need it. There’s no threat in them. No raised voice. Just a statement of fact that carries more weight than anything louder would.

You hold his gaze, the smile still there, though smaller now, more controlled. “Then I’ll do my best to improve that statistic.”

There’s a beat where nothing moves. His expression doesn’t change, not in any obvious way. If there’s a reaction, it’s too subtle to catch, buried under the same composure he’s maintained since you walked in.

“See that you do,” he says.

That’s it. No encouragement. No dismissal. Just an expectation placed where you can’t ignore it.

You nod, gathering the phone and laptop, standing when it’s clear the meeting is over. He’s already looking back down at his work by the time you reach the door, your presence dismissed as efficiently as it was acknowledged.

Outside, the air feels different. Not lighter. Just less concentrated. You move to your desk, setting your things down, taking a moment to orient yourself before the day properly begins.

You feel it then, the weight of what you’ve stepped into. Not overwhelming, not enough to shake you, but present. He’s not difficult in the way you expected. Controlled in a way that leaves no room for anything unnecessary.

You straighten slightly, pushing that thought aside as you power on the laptop, already preparing yourself for what comes next.

The first few days blur into something relentless. The work doesn’t come in waves; it arrives as a steady stream that never quite slows, each task folding into the next before you’ve fully finished the last. Paperwork stacks on your desk faster than you can clear it, documents that need reviewing, revising, sending, resending. Emails come in at a pace that demands immediate triage, each one flagged, prioritised, redirected. You don’t get the luxury of easing into it. You either keep up, or you fall behind.

The phones don’t help. Your work phone vibrates almost constantly, sharp bursts against the surface of your desk that pull your attention away from whatever you’re focused on. The desk phone joins in, ringing at intervals that never quite line up, forcing you to juggle both at once while still tracking everything else. And then there’s the intercom. Always the intercom. It never knocks. It never waits. A short buzz, your name, and then instructions delivered in the same clipped, efficient tone every time. No greeting. No filler. Just what needs to be done and when.

“Reschedule the eleven.”

“Cancel this afternoon’s meeting.”

“I need you to review this document.”

You stop expecting context. You learn to fill it in yourself.

The calendar becomes its own kind of battlefield. Meetings overlap, priorities shift without warning, entire blocks of time collapse into each other and have to be rebuilt on the fly. You move things, adjust things, call people back, apologise without apologising, all while keeping his schedule intact in a way that feels less like organisation and more like constant correction. Double bookings become puzzles you solve in real time, rearranging everything around a single fixed point; you.

He doesn’t comment when you get it right. You’re starting to understand that he won’t.

The car rides are quieter. The first time you step into the back seat beside him, the door closing with a soft, final sound, you expect something, conversation, instruction, acknowledgment of your presence beyond the work itself. Instead, there’s nothing. The windows are tinted, cutting the city off into a muted blur, movement reduced to shadows and passing light. He sits beside you, posture unchanged from the office, attention on his phone or the tablet in his hand. You sit the same way, back straight, hands folded loosely in your lap when you’re not checking something, the silence stretching without invitation.

You try once, early on. A simple comment about traffic, something neutral, something easy to respond to.

He doesn’t look up. “Focus on the afternoon schedule,” he says, not unkindly, just firm.

You don’t try again.

Meetings are another adjustment. You’re present in all of them, seated slightly behind or beside him, laptop open, notes ready, documents organised before they’re needed. You don’t speak unless you’re addressed directly. Not by him, not by anyone else in the room. You become part of the background, an extension of his workflow rather than a participant in it. When he does look to you, it’s brief, purposeful.

“Availability next week.”

“Send that through.”

You answer quickly, clearly, and then you disappear again into the edges of the room. Invisible, but necessary.

It’s a strange position to hold. To be both overlooked and relied on at the same time.

His behaviour doesn’t change. Cold isn’t the right word, it suggests something emotional, something reactive. This is more precise than that. Controlled. Efficient. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t show frustration in any obvious way. He just expects. And when something doesn’t meet that expectation, it comes back to you corrected without commentary, the adjustments made in a way that assumes you’ll understand them without explanation.

There’s no praise. No acknowledgment beyond the absence of correction.

You adjust anyway.

Somehow, you manage to keep your personality intact through it. It surprises you a little. You’d expected the environment to wear it down, to force you into something sharper, more guarded. Instead, you find small ways to hold onto it, brief smiles at people in the hallway, light comments when the moment allows for it, a tone that stays warmer than his without crossing into unprofessional. It’s a balance you’re learning in real time.

The kitchen becomes one of the few places where the pressure eases, even if only slightly. It’s quieter, tucked away from the main flow of the office, the kind of space where people allow themselves to relax for a few minutes before stepping back into the controlled environment outside. You step into it mid-morning, more out of necessity than anything else, your focus still half on the emails waiting for you at your desk.

The coffee is not good. You knew that already, but you make it anyway, watching as the machine produces something that looks right but smells slightly off. You take a sip, wince faintly, and lean back against the counter.

“How’s the new job?”

You glance over. Another admin staff member, someone you’ve seen around but haven’t properly spoken to yet, steps in, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

“Fine,” you say, offering a small smile.

She raises an eyebrow, like she doesn’t quite believe that. “Fine,” she repeats. “That’s it?”

You shrug lightly. “It’s busy.”

“He’s kind of scary, isn’t he?” she says, lowering her voice slightly, leaning in just enough to suggest this is something shared rather than stated outright.

You let out a small laugh, more reflex than anything. “He is a great boss,” you say, careful with your wording, even as you feel the need to soften it. “He puts a lot of hours in.”

She studies you for a second, then nods slowly, like she’s deciding whether to accept that or not. “You know he isn’t married, right?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in topic. It hadn’t crossed your mind. Between the constant work, the structure of his days, the complete absence of anything personal in the way he operates, it simply hadn’t come up.

“Oh,” you say. “Is that so?”

She leans in a little closer, the tone shifting into something unmistakably conspiratorial. “Yeah. No wife. No kids. Nothing.”

You nod, filing that away without really knowing what to do with it. It feels like information you shouldn’t have, even if it’s harmless.