YALA

A woman sleeps, and you appear in her dreams, When all around is silence and darkness, She sees you as a boy whom, of course, She could not see with her own eyes. There, in the distance, in the cold glare of midday, A paratrooper platoon soars to the heavens. A woman sleeps, remembering your sorrows More painfully than you remember them. She walks a long path, As if following your destiny, And even knows things about you, That you yourself do not. - Konstantin Vanshenkin

"Nah," Tom said, opening his eyes, squinting again, and shaking his head. "It's pitch black, that's all."

"Nothing at all?" Avery asked. "That can't be."

"Do you think I’m lying?" Tom muttered. He was both hurt and embarrassed, but he'd rather die than let anyone figure it out.

"Didn't anyone really explain to you how it all works?" Cassie Malfoy asked curiously, jumping off the windowsill and walking toward Tom, looking him in the eye (he was still a bit taller then). "It only happens to wizards, Muggles don't seem to see this kind of thing. They even say, it’s a gift, like magic."

"Well, I'm definitely good with magic," Tom said, even getting a little angry.

"No, I'm not saying you’re not," Cassie said softly. "It's just weird. Usually, you start seeing things with the first bursts of magic, vaguely and very blurry, then more and more clearly. At first it’s more like sudden flashes of light, but by the age of twelve you start seeing people’s figures. Then you can sorta control what you show them, but that takes practice… I heard that by the age of twenty, you can even discern what someone is writing, even if they have poor eyesight, but usually by that age, everyone has found each other. When you meet, it’s gone."

"Maybe she's asleep?" Avery asked.

"Three years in a row?" Tom said.

"Asleep in her grave?"

"That's possible," Malfoy said slowly.

It was all right for him, of course, Tom thought gloomily. In families like his, these visions are literally recorded by child’s parents and then compared with what's heard in other pureblood houses. If the match can be identified from vague descriptions of interiors, landscapes, and hazy images in mirrors, then an engagement is arranged on the spot. If they manage to figure it out and it turns out it's someone outside their circle, then it’s not. Magic only indicates a match; no one will die if you don’t get married.

"She probably just doesn't exist," Tom said, shrugging as indifferently as he could. "Either she died, or she never existed. Well, that's all nonsense," he added. "Let's go play ‘the walk’ a little."

* * *

A sunlit staircase, seemingly made of stone. Two boys, or rather, the vague figures of boys. The taller one sits in the window, swinging his leg, then approaches me—that is, him—and looks down.

This is all if I close my eyes. If I open them, there's the familiar velvety darkness, with no end nor beginning.

I close my eyes again—and they've already climbed up (a tower? something very tall) and are taking turns approaching the edge, climbing the wall, and taking a few steps. A dare? And so I—that is, he—step toward the abyss and look down into the castle courtyard. From here, it seems as small as a napkin, and my heart—mine, not his—drops somewhere in my stomach.

I open my eyes, too afraid to even blink.

* * *

That was in his first year, but by his second, Tom had managed to convince himself that he'd never had a match. If magic, he reasoned, gives you a person, then it can also give you freedom from a person. The freedom to not chase after anyone or drag anyone along, and to have no one chase you or drag you along.

"So what, are you really that close now?" he asked Malfoy with feigned indifference. Malfoy had just returned from a holiday somewhere in Sweden, where he'd discovered his destined friend, practically a princess.

"Well, we've exchanged addresses," said Cassie. "I guess we'll write to each other. A pretty house they have...”

"What do you mean, 'guess'?" Tom asked incredulously. "Didn't you fall for each other at first sight?"

He tried to sound ironic.

"Oh, no," Cassie laughed. "It's not quite like that. Although she's a fine girl, even if she doesn't speak a word of English. We'll have to write in German."

"How did you talk to each other then?"

"Well, we didn't have to. You see, I'd just arrived, hadn't even had time to unpack my suitcase or properly greet her parents, and she grabbed my hand and dragged me off to play chess, then cards, then what else. I thought I'd die of boredom, but before I knew it, a week had gone by. She can throw knives, can you believe that!.."

Tom closed his eyes every evening and stared long and hard into the familiar velvety darkness. "This is freedom," he told himself then. "This is freedom." And it also meant that there was no secret witness to his deeds and dealings.

* * *

An evening forest, treetops black against a pinkish sky, a large house on a hilltop, a heavy front door, a spacious room lit by candles. An elderly woman's manicured hand, clenched into a fist, lace fraying, her husband grabs her shoulder, a young man with black eyes and a vile expression rush forward, and suddenly all three recoil. Three green flashes.

* * *

"This is a rather delicate matter," Dippet said and coughed.

In fact, he could say that about almost anything. Dippet was famous for his ability to beat around the bush and not say anything outright. So, in early September, he gathered the Slug Club in his office, seated them in a circle, and gave them a thirty-minute insinuating introduction (about how everyone's holidays had gone and where they were planning to go after school), but Tom kept his ears open, and finally Dippet decided to speak bluntly.

 "As I said, this matter is extremely delicate... I have no right to question you about such things, but I know, including from your parents, that the families of Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Mulciber, and Mr. Lestrange have already arranged, uh, the fate of their children with, uh... How are things going for the others, by the way?"

"Nothing new, sir," Gregory Nott spread his hands. "It's not a quick matter."

"Is there anyone among you," Dippet began hopefully, "uh, is there anyone among you who has never had such, uh, visions?"

They didn't say a word, but as if on cue, they began to strenuously avoid looking at Tom, and Dippet understood their trajectory.

"A letter arrived at Hogwarts at the end of August," he said, when everyone else was politely asked to leave for a moment. "It's from the parents of a girl, your age, who has been home-schooled since childhood. The reason for this is that the girl has been born blind...”

Tom's ears began to ring.

"Sir," he heard himself say, "I beg your pardon, but this girl has nothing to do with me."

"Are you sure?" Dippet asked quickly.

He didn't have long to live. In about ten years, he would leave Hogwarts, and then life itself, as if his entire life had been spent at Hogwarts; he already looked weak and thin, as if he were gravely ill, yet he still managed to cast that piercing, harpoon-like gaze.

"Absolutely," Tom said. "You see, Professor..." He hesitated slightly, "as a child, I sometimes saw the world through the eyes of someone else, but then my friend from the orphanage, Amy Benson, died of diphtheria when I was eight, and the visions have ceased since then. I think it was her”.

As always at such moments, the lies flowed from his mouth easily and effortlessly.

"A tragedy," Dippet said after a pause. "Truly a tragedy. Forgive me, my boy, for making you remember that loss..."

"Oh, no," said Tom. "I barely remember her."

Am I being sketchy, he wondered. Everyone fusses over their destined people, even those who used to snort. Malfoy writes to his sweetheart almost every day, Griselda this and Griselda that, and even the seemingly sensible Lestrange walks arm in arm with his Jane, though it bores him. People often fall in love and even marry those not through whose eyes they see the world, but for some reason this is considered a bad omen and an unlucky fate, though still not as unlucky as closing your eyes and seeing velvet darkness. Tom had spent so much effort convincing himself and others that this was freedom, freedom of choice, the absence of destiny, and yet, every now and then, he felt the chill of other's pity.

For a moment, he wanted to grab Dippet's sleeve, ask everything about this girl, run there, to her.

He told only Tony Dolohov, because only he could understand.

"Are you stupid?" Tony asked respectfully, twirling his finger at his temple.

"Are you?" Tom asked him. "Do you even realize what she could have seen? What would happen if the Aurors ever wanted to chat with her? If anything, I should track her down and kill her."

They stood by the tower window, the very one where Tom had once learned how he was different from everyone else in the world. Tony puffed on his cigarette, carefully blowing the smoke to the side.

"Remember that game we had, you know, where we had to walk on the edge?" he suddenly chuckled. "I wonder what she thinks of you?"

"Couldn’t care less," Tom said. "Forget it, Tony. We never talked about this."

* * *

This small garden behind St. Mungo's Hospital was surrounded by a hundred Illusion Charms. Some had been there since the thirteenth century, when it was a monastery. Eight hundred feet long, eight hundred wide, a tiny pond, spreading maples, chestnuts, and two oaks that could have seen King George II. He might indeed have visited here; Muggles were friendlier back then.

For the first two years, you were a patient here. Then you began to ask around, to learn, and it turned out your hands had a keen sense of sight and an almost supernatural sense for illness. When a wave of dragon pox swept through London in 1945, with patients lying even in the corridors, your help was invaluable.

These epidemics usually occur in the spring, and so it was this time. Weary from winter and war, people are more susceptible to infection. Children, of course, are the hardest hit. Eileen Prince, your little charge, had a particularly hard time with it.

You nursed her back to health as if she was your sister. She was so thin and weak, and stubborn to boot; it wasn't always possible to get her to take the potions. For a long time, she teetered on the brink of life and death, as if unsure which way to swing, but by May she was a little better, though it was still impossible to send her home. Eileen needed to clear her lungs of the infection as quickly as she could. There was no place in all of London cleaner and calmer than the garden beyond St. Mungo's, which had once been enchanted to eradicate miasma. So it was that you and she would sit for long periods in that garden, breathing in the fresh air.

Everything in the garden was as familiar to you as your own room.

You and Eileen would walk down the same path to the pond and settle down on the bench. At first, Eileen was downright bored, but then you showed her the herb garden in the greenhouse near the pond, and she eagerly explored its entire selection. She brought in hastily picked herbs, laid them out on the bench, and you picked them up one by one, held them to your nose, and explained what each one was good for.

"Look, this peppermint," you said. "Notice how pungent its leaves are. I won't even smell it; I can tell it from here, and it smells so nice. This is lungwort; it'll soon stop blooming. It's good for treating cough and to boost energy. And this is lily of the valley. You can make medicine from it which is good for the heart, but it's poisonous, so, Eileen, be careful with it."

Eileen liked that you spoke to her as an equal, and she tried to speak to you as an equal.

"How do you tell them apart?" she asked. "You can't see them."

"How do you know there's a pie baking in the kitchen without even going in?" you asked her. "I know how they smell, that's the secret."

Eileen thoughtfully sorted through the stems of the plants, laying them out on the bench. It all seemed strangely captivating to her, as if she were finally being taught something important, and she was meant to remember it.

"Do you walk around the garden like that too?"

"Almost," you said. "You don't stumble around your room in the dark, do you? Well, unless someone puts a chair in the middle. But nothing has changed in this garden for three centuries, so I'm at peace."

Eileen was supposed to start Hogwarts this year. She knew you'd never been there, but she still asked you how it all worked, and you described it in detail: an owl would arrive with the long-awaited letter, then there would be the Sorting Hat, then there would be lots of new and interesting things, and Eileen would make a ton of friends, and it would be a terribly fun seven years of her life.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, surprised.

"I do have friends, too," you smiled. "Some of them went to Hogwarts, like my parents."

"Did they send you here?"

"Well, yes," you said. "You see, I have to undergo long and diligent treatment, because there's hope that I'll eventually regain my sight, but for that to happen, I need to live here for a long time. Professor Licorice says there's no need to rush this matter."

You didn't share the details of the experimental treatment with Eileen, which had been going on for two years now and hadn't yielded any results yet. Professor Licorice, who had suggested this desperate attempt to your parents, insisted that improvement could come at any moment, seemingly on its own, but until it did, all efforts would seem futile.

"...So every morning I wake up and think that today could be the day," you concluded.

"And you've never, ever seen anything?" Eileen pressed.

You paused.

"I sometimes have colorful dreams," you said. "Well, not exactly dreams, but when I close my eyes, I sometimes see the life... of one person."

You didn't scare Eileen with the story of how you first saw it. You were about five when one morning you stumbled into the kitchen, wailing, pointing to your tightly squeezed eyes: "Mom! Mom! It hurts, Mom, it hurts!" Your parents were utterly horrified until they realized that along with the first surges of magic came the first visions, and you had no other suitable word to explain the concepts of "light," "bright," and "white."

"Who is this person?" Eileen asked.

"I don't know," you answered honestly. "We've been together almost since childhood, but I don't even know his name."

You never told anyone that you called him the Warlock. Ever since you read the Tales of Beedle the Bard, you'd suddenly felt a strong connection to this person. Even when he lived somewhere in a large, gray house with brick walls, everything he did, even the strangest and most eerie, seemed mysterious and significant. And when you were ten, from september to may, the Warlock began living in some large castle (you now knew it was called a "castle"), where there were many marvels; you could sit for hours, gazing through closed eyelids at the sunset on a black lake, the towers stretching into the sky, dungeons and halls. "This must be Hogwarts," your parents explained.

"He's not a simple man, Eileen," you said. "I think he went to Hogwarts too, but when I tried to find him, I couldn't. There must be some kind of mystery here. Maybe he wants to find me himself.

There was one thing you wanted more than anything else: for Warlock to look at the sky more often, or at least out the window. He spent most of his time buried his nose in books (which you couldn't even see clearly) or mixing colorful potions, rarely went outside, and, to your great regret, very rarely flew on a broom. Ah, if only your gift worked both ways! You wouldn't eat or sleep until you'd shown him the most beautiful things in your life (you knew they were beautiful, even though you hadn't seen them): St. Mungo's Garden in bloom in May, your parents' house by the sea, a sunset on the Thames, a starry sky on a frosty night. Warlock didn't seem to have time to simply admire things, but you did! You would be his eyes, the eyes that could afford to be idle.

Sometimes you thought he was unhappy.

"Will he find you?" Eileen asked.

"Of course," you said. "I have a feeling that this man could do anything he wanted. I've seen him do—" you hesitated slightly—"all sorts of things. But you know, Eileen, I'm terribly grateful to him, no matter what. If it weren't for him, I would never have seen the light of day.

* * *

At sunset, when Eileen had retired to her room to have a rest and you had gone to your evening session, Tom paced the third floor. He had a journal in his pocket, and his mind was filled with the usual seventh-year thoughts: who should he kill tonight?

Tom, however, had no intention of rushing into it, but ever since his first Horcrux, his life had become a waiting game for the next opportunity, and that opportunity, as he had already learned, could come at any moment.

"It could happen at any moment," Professor Licorice said, carefully supporting your head as you held it under the enchanted lamps.

"You tell me that every day," you laughed. After two years, something like a cautious friendship had developed between you.

"And I will continue to do so," she pursed her lips. "Anyone’s life can change at any second”

Tom wasn't careful as he opened the passage under the sink. When he first learned of your existence, he didn't go to the snake for about two weeks, but then he convinced himself that no matter where you were or who you were, you wouldn't betray him; there was no point in being embarrassed in front of someone who was far away and couldn't do anything. He even almost convinced himself that you were dead, just as you'd been dead to him all your life.

You breathed deeply as the lamp warmed your cheeks. Warlock was going after the snake again. You weren't afraid of it, but you couldn't understand why he never looked directly at its face. It was a shame, it would have been interesting to examine it. And yet, how brave he was!

"Open," Tom whispered. The sinks slid apart with a loud crash, and Tom, as usual, sank to his knees, bracing his hands on the wet, cold floor, and began to peer into the velvety darkness. When he blinked and saw a bright pinkish light, he nearly fell over in surprise.

"Where'd the light come from?" you blurted out, and then you realized you were seeing him with your eyes open.

You jerked, hitting your head on the lamps; Licorice tried to grab your elbow, but you were already darting around the office, searching for a door you could easily find with your eyes closed, and then you both plunged into the cool darkness of the evening garden.

"Look!" you screamed, tripping, jumping up, and running again. "Look, look, look!"

Tom sat on the edge of the abyss, covering his face with his hands, and looked.

"Oak!" you screamed, forgetting that Warlock couldn't hear you. "That's my favorite oak, I hug it every morning! Look at the sky! Look at the sunset!"

You stared furiously at the golden ripples in the pond. Tears streamed down your cheeks, and you were afraid they would blur your vision and Warlock wouldn't be able to see everything you longed to show him, so you hastily wiped them away. "Flowers! Lilacs! Look at those lilacs, you've never seen such lilacs in your life, I know that!"

For as long as Tom could remember, he'd always considered himself the freest man in the world.

What kind of strength could there be in that? In wandering back and forth arm in arm with a girl? In making a poor owl to fly to Sweden twice a day? Ever since he'd read The Tales of Beedle the Bard, it had seemed to him that no one had properly understood the Warlock, and that he was ultimately right. Really, what kind of strength and what kind of freedom could there be in being attached to another person?

And now he had a second pair of eyes.

She—for the first time, Tom thought of her as "she," not "it"—she must have possessed some amazing, inhuman eyes. The brightness of the colors that revealed themselves took his breath away. He had never seen such lilacs in his life. Her hands plucked a few blossoms, and the handful of lilac stars in those palms seemed like a revelation to him. She looked at the pond and saw the golden sea, and Tom saw it with her; she looked at the tree branches in the sky, and Tom didn't want her to lower her gaze.

For as long as Tom could remember, he'd considered himself a whole person, and now it turned out he had four arms, four legs, four eyes, two heads, two hearts, two lives. Why had no one ever told him that this only make you stronger?

You sank your hands up to your elbows in the flowers in the herb garden.

"It's peppermint," you whispered. "It smells so nice. Look how sharp its leaves are..."

“Now, now,” Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. “A special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, we’ll be studying the most powerful love potion—,” a ripple of giggles spread across the room, “—in existence,” he finished with a grin.

“Purely academic, of course,” Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. “One must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears — the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.”

As if that was a plausible excuse.

The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in — as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.

You didn’t think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things — manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they weren’t outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.

Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was — “naturally” — a recipe for disaster.

Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.

Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.

The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. “Observe the pearlescent sheen — yes, exactly! That’s what we’re aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, not— oh dear.”

You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.

Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.

You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.

“I bet you smell a candy shop,” your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying,” she smirked, “that anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,” she sang.

“Or they could try a conversation,” you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.

“Ah, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.”

You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.

“Honestly,” muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, “what possessed him to teach this now? It’s practically Valentine’s.”

What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love — which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.

“I think it’s romantic,” the Gryffindor girl’s seat mate sighed almost dreamily.

You almost snorted. Romantic wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someone’s “almost adequate” consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.

Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew it’d be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with another’s.

Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasn’t a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed — untouched by the chaos around him.

And he was staring at you.

Tom Riddle was staring at you.

His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression you’ve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his — not that you’ve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.

Riddle didn’t look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still — he held your gaze.

The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.

This look wasn’t one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.

This felt almost… predatory.

Creepy.

Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if he’d merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you weren’t sure why.

He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You weren’t one of the girls vying for his attention. You didn’t trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.

If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.

And yes — he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.

Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.

But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.

You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.

You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.

Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.

“Splendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!”

Different reactions swept the room — admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. “Thank you, sir.”

His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone else’s, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that you’d been mistaken.

He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didn’t even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he would’ve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.

Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadn’t seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.

Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?

You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.

A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.

She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always — to boys.

“And then he said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m occupied.” Occupied with what?!” Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided it’d be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.

“Honestly, he acts like he’s above everyone. It’s exhausting. And not natural.” Then, her eyes widened in realization. “You don’t think he’s… you know?”

It had bothered you, what she said.

You don’t know why to this day. Maybe it’s because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didn’t feel the same way, and how it wouldn’t sit right with you, how it wouldn’t be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldn’t be forced to like specific people because that’s what was socially acceptable.

So, you defended him without thought.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to go out with you specifically,” you mutter, flipping a page.

Three heads turned toward you.

“That’s not the point,” Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. “It’s rude. He acts like no one’s good enough for him.”

“Or,” you started, “he isn’t obligated to entertain you.”

“You defending Riddle now?” A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence — your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call someone arrogant for having boundaries.”

“We’re just talking,” another one of them snapped, some girl you didn’t know the name of to this day.

“So talk,” you replied calmly. “Just don’t act like he owes you his attention.”

A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.

You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasn’t your concern.

The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time — five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Time, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember — no sneaking a sample. I’ll know.”

That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.

Students began tidying their stations, including you — corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughorn’s back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos — with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising — no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.

His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.

Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.

He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be — even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.

Slughorn clearly did not know.

Soon enough, you’re next to step out into the corridor with your friends.

As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class — behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.

Tom Riddle was staring at you again.

And you walked away, unaware.

Valentine’s Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.

The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.

You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.

It wasn’t that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldn’t want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline — and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.

Still.

It would have been… nice. To be chosen.

You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentine’s gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You weren’t interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.

Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.

When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.

The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been — even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.

You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadn’t gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.

“Did you see him?” a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. “With a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too — the expensive kind.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle.”

Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.

The other girl gasped. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasn’t obvious, but I know what I saw.”

You didn’t turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.

Tom Riddle with roses.

With chocolates.

It was almost absurd.

It sounded absurd.

You truly hadn’t meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.

You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.

But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?

The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.

The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.

You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.

Riddle wasn’t there.

You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.

You took your usual place at your table — the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.

Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If someone asks you to be their Valentine today — hypothetically — you’re saying yes, aren’t you?”

“I would hypothetically decline,” you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.

“How cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.”

You lifted an unimpressed brow. “I have standards.”

She laughed. “You’ll end up alone at this rate.”

“I’m not afraid of being alone.”

That much was true.

You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.

You looked up, pulse jumping.

A Slytherin boy stood there. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked… nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing — loudly — that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.

Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.

Please don’t let him do this here.

“Yes?” you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.

He swallowed. “Er— sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.

“Professor Slughorn would like to see you.”

Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasn’t a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. “Now?”

“Yes. In the courtyard.”

You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasn’t there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.

“What for?” you asked, turning your head back to the boy.

He hesitated. “I-I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Your friend chimed in. “That’s odd.”

You agreed.

Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadn’t done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldn’t very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.

A waste.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, eat that,” you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.

“So selfless,” one of them replied solemnly.

“I know.”

You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture — as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you can’t imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.

The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.

Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.

You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.

It was completely vacant.

There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty — even on a day like this.

You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.

You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.

“I’m glad you came.”

You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadn’t heard him approach at all.

That voice was unmistakable.

Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.

Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.

In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other — a bouquet.

Your favorite flowers.

Your breath caught.

It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you weren’t sure how to deal with.

Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.

“I’m waiting for Professor Slughorn,” you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. “He sent for me.”

Why were you explaining yourself?

You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddle’s gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth — and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m afraid,” he started gently, “that Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.”

The words prickled at your skin like a bite.

You blinked, looking up at that.

“What?”

“I asked Nott to fetch you.” He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. “I wanted a moment alone.”

For a second, you could only stare at him.

“You lied?” The accusation left you before you could soften it.

Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. “Would you have come if I had asked you myself?”

Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didn’t need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding — but the truth remained stuck in your throat.

Because no. You wouldn’t have.

You didn’t know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.

You pressed your lips together in defeat.

Riddle’s smirk deepened with satisfaction.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.

Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly.

It wasn’t a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.

The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.

The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldn’t even hear the single chirp of a bird.

You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddle’s eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.

Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.

And he had done everything right.

For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.

And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else — the simple truth being that you did not know him.

And under that, the memory of that look in class — the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.

And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.

So, why you?

You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didn’t blush when he entered a room. You didn’t whisper about him.

Perhaps… that was precisely why.

“Tom,” you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bag’s strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. “Riddle, I mean,” once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. “I-I’m sorry.”

And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon — the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly — as if it’d never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.

“I can’t accept this,” you finished softly. “I didn’t know… I mean, we’ve never even—” You huffed, frustrated with yourself. “It wouldn’t be right.”

A silence so deafening stretched between you.

You couldn’t meet his eye. Riddle hadn’t moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, “I see...”

Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness — and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.

“I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” you added carefully, brows furrowed.

“None,” he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. “At least take these.”

You hesitated.

“I know how fond you are of them,” he continued, tone mild. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Your brows drew together faintly. “How did you—”

He gave the smallest shrug. “It isn’t a secret.”

It wasn’t. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.

“Thank you,” you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Truly.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

“And… I am sorry,” you added once more for great measure.

Riddle smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, “But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

The statement seemed so casual that it hadn’t even hit you that it’ll be storming all week, that the skies wouldn’t be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after all…

With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps — but civil.

You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.

As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.

The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.

Tom’s remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.

He smiled.

Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.

The castle’s Valentine’s fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.

You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him.

Tom Riddle had wanted you.

It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.

“Are you even listening?” A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. “What?”

She stared. “Professor Merrythought just asked you a question.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.

“Right. Sorry.” You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.

Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.

You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there — but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.

And he did not look at you once.

Not even once.

A part of you bristled.

It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?

You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot — running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didn’t want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.

So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?

By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.

It was quieter than normal. Valentine’s Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.

You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.

As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadn’t even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.

It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.

Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.

Then, you remembered.

The chocolates.

You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.

At least I won’t starve, you thought dryly.

Thanks, Riddle.

When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.

You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.

Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.

When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.

They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive — just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didn’t even want to eat them. You didn’t question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.

And Tom Riddle paid attention.

Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.

With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.

Merlin.

You hope no one heard that.

You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.

Tom’s face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.

You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like it’s dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.

Why had you said no?

You were confused.

Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.

Your pulse quickened.

Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.

A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him — something no one else had.

And he had chosen you.

A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.

Tom had been trying to give you that chance.

And you had hurt him.

The realization struck with surprising force.

He had stood there — perfectly composed — while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.

Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him away—

No.

The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.

“But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didn’t matter.

You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance he’d ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class — earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why he’d stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.

You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.

Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.

You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.

You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didn’t care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.

Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed — you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right — but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him — his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.

How had you not seen it before?

Tom was perfect.

Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way — he had only looked at you.

A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadn’t looked unbothered today because he didn’t care. Tom was giving you space.

Your throat tightened.

Tom was waiting for you.

He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone else—

No.

Your stomach twisted at the notion.

Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didn’t even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.

You loved him.

The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.

And you wanted— needed to see him desperately. If you didn’t, you think you’d die. You may have wasted the day, but you won’t make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.

The staircases seemed endless.

You didn’t remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.

Someone may have called your name. You weren’t sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.

The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin — feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.

Tom.

Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building — wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.

None of it mattered.

There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate — fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you weren’t even aware you possessed just to get to him.

The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.

Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasn’t it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.

The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balcony’s edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.

You could only stare in awe.

He looked like he belonged to the night.

The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tom.”

The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving — like you had stumbled upon something sacred.

He turned.

At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.

His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips — and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.

Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.

“I wondered how long it would take,” he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.

The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.

Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distance— the separation between you felt unbearable.

And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Tom’s gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.

“You’re cold,” he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.

“You were right,” you choked out, your voice unsteady. “About the stars.”

Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasn’t surprising you would be fixated on it.

“I’m usually right.”

You know that now, down to your marrow.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes — eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.

You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe — like the stars, burning and eternal.

“I—” Your voice trembled suddenly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it,” your words tumbled over one another. “I didn’t understand earlier. I was foolish. I thought— I thought I didn’t know you. But I do. I must. I just— didn’t want to be… like the others.”

A huff of amusement came from Tom.

“You are nothing like the others.”

By the look on Tom’s face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew you’d be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.

Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.

You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.

Tom went rigid beneath your touch.

A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.

You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt — better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tom’s lips tasted the same.

“I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. “But when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. “It felt like something was crushing my chest.”

Tom’s hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly — so tall, so tall — resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.

“Did it?” He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.

Tom’s gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.

“I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think. I kept seeing you. And I realized…” Your breath hitched. “I realized I can’t be without you. I don’t want to be. I need you,” you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.

“I need you like I need air, Tom.”

The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.

You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldn’t look away; entranced.

Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tom’s gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldn’t help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.

Perfect. You were… perfect like this.

“You want me? You need me?” He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.

“Yes,” you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.

Tom’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.

“I don’t give my attention lightly,” Tom hummed. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And when I decide something belongs to me…” His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. “I do not let it go easily.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

Tom’s hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasn’t beating erratically like yours.

Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesn’t stop you.

“I want you.”

The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.

“You have me,” Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.

“And you won’t run again,” he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.

“No.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.

“I won’t run from you.”

The faintest hum left him, almost content.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.

“You belong with me,” you practically begged. “Don’t you see? I belong with you.”

“I was hoping,” he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, “that you would come to that conclusion on your own.”

Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.

“I love you,” you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.

“You couldn’t live without me?” Tom asked.

You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.

“No.”

A faint exhale left him — almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.

He had always despised them — weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce — him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.

Lord Voldemort would never wither.

Lord Voldemort would never be weak.

He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power — which was neither good nor evil — meant using every bit of magic available.

Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.

Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required… encouragement.

And now?

His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth — because you needed him.

A memory flickered through his mind.

It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.

Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.

But then, he heard you.

Defending him.

You hadn’t known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.

It had stuck with him.

At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition… until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.

It wasn’t always obsession.

That was when curiosity took root.

Then, curiosity became irritation.

Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other people’s eyes. But you — infuriatingly — refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.

What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldn’t figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.

After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.

You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look he’s seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasn’t forgotten it since.

And then, there was the chocolate — always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb — the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.

Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully — enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real — as real as a love potion can get.

Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard — just as part of him knew you would — cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?

No one.

No one would have you.

He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.

And still, you said no.

How ungrateful you were.

He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentine’s Day approaching. Wouldn’t it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.

The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name — for he was the universe’s favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.

As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others — he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.

And loyalty deserved to rewarded.

In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.

You were too good for your own good.

And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.

Tom’s lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like he’d been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed — and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.

Tom’s hands were everywhere — rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.

Tom didn’t let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.

“So wet,” he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. “For me?”

You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.

Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillful— too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.

But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.

And right now?

He wanted you.

With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.

Tom had licked once — a long, slow drag straight up your slit — and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.

All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.

You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything he’d give you, you’d take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces — but neither of you cared.

All that existed was Tom’s mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god — the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth — a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.

Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.

Tom.

Tom.

“Tom, Tom, Tom—!”

Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potion’s magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess that’s what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potion’s haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name — Tom Marvolo Riddle — hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?

It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.

His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion — but it hadn’t compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.

Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck — each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.

It was just them, like it was always meant to be — the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together — and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.

Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair — pushing his face deeper without meaning to.

The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.

“Tom,” you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.

He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.

Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.

“Tom— oh! Oh God—”

Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast — but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.

A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didn’t even recognize your own voice.

Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tom’s mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids — flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like he’d promised.

Tom didn’t stop.

He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tom’s wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.

From the rain or your juices, you didn’t know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.

Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop — lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.

“Delicious.”

You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.

But Tom was far from done with you.

In one fluid motion, he stood up — towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him — Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.

The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tom’s body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You don’t remember seeing him taking it out.

One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tom’s breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.

Tom didn’t give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected — and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.

“Breathe,” he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.

As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide — a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.

“Mmnn—”

You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.

His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.

You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didn’t move again right away.

Couldn’t.

Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily — a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.

Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.

Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.

You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.

And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high — the ones only he had shown you.

You smiled dreamily.

Tom was right.

You had seen the stars tonight.

And they were beautiful.

“But the absence of a tsahìk-”

“Mawey- do slow down.” For not the first time since their trek started, Gojo is turning his head behind him. He might have been a firm leader, but he wasn’t unfair. He watches the Herwi hunters that extend from his feet to far beyond hills of ice and frost - some middle-aged and weathered by the snow already, some fresh-faced and cold with the eagerness to prove themselves. Following them were six-legged canines they called txeylan—powerful hinds pulling sleds piled high with hunt. “The younger ones are having trouble keeping up.”

Gaping, the elder looks between his leader and the younger members near the middle of their group. Flanked by older Na’vi. “But- but olo’eyktan-”

He’s looking up at the irritated sky, “I will see no further talking.”

Though there is an easy smile across his face, the elders know not to cross him. Senior in age—only age. 

They bowed their heads and looked away above all because he is their leader, but below that - deep, deeeeeep below what their prides would allow them to ever admit - because they knew he was stronger. The strongest.

The heir born of a blizzard, Satoru of the snow. 

It was said he opened his eyes during the coldest night of that year. Ice-blue. Bitter blue. Like the pools of crystallized water that the Herwi people would dance their celebrations upon - and that night they held the longest celebrations to date. Arms in arms and singing songs. And giving thanks and giving the young his first taste of snow. 

And though the position of olo’eyktan had an aspect of inheritance to it either way, it was undeniable that the world had just borne their future leader.

He’d grown up taller than other Na’vi his age. Stronger. Stormy flurries wherever he stepped, and a blizzard himself. 

There almost seemed to be a gap between him and everyone else.

Gojo had been sixteen when he was officially granted the mantle of ‘The Strongest’ by the clan. It was only about time, and only because of the elders’ reluctance that it’d taken this long.

And now it was impossible to say whether he was more loved or respected as a leader: the more boisterous of the younger Na’vi certainly loved him, the elders couldn’t stand him, the ones of mating age just couldn’t get enough of him. Though it was all for naught.

In all the twenty-eight years that he’d sifted through these snows - in all the ten years since he’d come of age - Gojo hadn’t so much as looked at another with a degree of infatuation.

Not for a lack of propositions- in fact, if you asked his attendants then they’d tell you that Gojo had a surplus of propositions. At least five Na’vi would stroll up the familiar pathway to his underground hut, calling out sing-song wishes to braid his hair, to walk amongst the ice glaciers together, to mend his fur clothes. 

Hopefuls. 

His attendants were ordered to send them all away with a gift from the olo’eyktan and a firm rejection (though, Gojo finds that that certainly didn’t deter them…)

They just didn’t seem to understand why such a suitable young Na’vi seemed to be waiting…watching…for something even he himself didn’t seem to understand. Always turning his blue eyes to the skies, ever since he was a child, always, always-

Gojo stops in his tracks.

One of his arms raises to halt the procession behind him. 

The Na’vi hunters freeze.

The Na’vi hunters let their tails swish.

The txeylan sniff the air.

Gojo’s long pointed ears twitch in every direction before resting in a single direction up ahead - where the belly of the snow seemed to swell with something. Something that the recent snowstorm had swallowed.

“Olo’eyktan…” One of the younger Herwi behind him whispers. “What is it?”

“Mawey. It might be a dead snow beast.” He hisses, though he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t uncommon for even the creatures of these terrains to be bested by nature. But something about the figure in the snow was…different from the hounding things they hunted. Much more delicate, much more scrunched in on itself.

Gojo keeps his hand held high in the air and passes on his hunt to the nearby clansmen. Still holding onto his bow and arrows, he edges closer. “Ì’awn- the clan stays here while I investigate.” Leaving no room for a word edgewise.

The wind whips his long hair and kuru as the Na’vi steps closer. And some maddened part of him almost feels that it was as though Eywa, their goddess, herself was trying to get him to stay away.

But an even madder part of him wanted to get closer—needed to get closer.

He was being drawn in.

Making not even a single noise with his padded feet, he’s crouching down before the unmoving figure and using his long skeletal fingers to wipe away those dredges of snow. 

Away from a face—

He gasps.

The rest of the Herwi startles behind him, “What is it- what is it, olo’eyktan?”

“Is it a snow beast? Must we commence the rituals-”

“Cease! Are those fingers it has-”

“Five?”

But Gojo doesn’t answer their queries, instead he’s silently pressing his ear to the swell of the body’s chest and—ba-dump!

Listening to that faint heartbeat.

He’s not sure how this little human was still alive, and he pulls back to look at them- the first he’s ever seen. Gojo has already heard the whispers from other Na’vi clans, of these aliens named mankind whom had settled upon Pandora a few years ago.

He’s heard about humanity’s wits, their machinery, their greed.

He’s heard of the way they’ve hurt his people.

But he’s never seen one up so…close. Were they all this small? How could something so small be so destructive?

Gojo tilts his head down at you and runs one of his cold indexes down the side of your masked face, did they all look so hurt by the cold? He can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt- after all, the only reason that the Herwi had managed to reside in these mountains for hundreds of years was because of its harsh environment. Not human nor animal nor Na’vi wanted to be here—but Gojo always loved this place, as did his people.

He wondered whether it was such passionate love or hate that drew the little human in his arms to climb such peaks. To come this far. 

He can’t help but lean down and scoop the human up into his arms.

“O-olo’eyktan what is the meaning of this-”

“Fnu- shhhh.” Gojo responds in his native language, “She’s resting.”

The olo’eyktan carries the human all the way back the treacherous path to his clan huts.

And every time he looked down, he could see the way that smaller body fell and rose with each faint breath. He could see the flying of human-made coats that did nothing to fight off the cold of Pandora. He could see the pen and notebook stuffed inside it as if they were the most precious treasure of all.

He can see you.

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Day #1 in the Herwi village: 

Woke up in what seems to be the healer’s hut, a wide insulated space that is more or less steeped into the underground with a berth of the entrance AS (above snow). Capped dome on top. Walls are composed of wooden planks on the interior flanked by compact ice from the outside, decorated in the thick furs of what appears to be snow beasts. Long book shelves. Kindling lantern of something bioluminescent and emitting heat. Shockingly warm inside. Vents are present but small to prevent an excess of thin air. Separate storage spaces and areas for examination, implications of advanced surgery and medical procedures taking place far beyond what we humans can understand.

Though Herwi healing techniques seem to be similar to that of other Na’vi clans (particularly the Omaticaya) in terms of relation to Eywa and natural resources, it must be noted that Herwi healing makes prominent use of ice for anti-inflammatory and vessel constricting methods.

Sparse presence of herbs and more emphasis on pressure points (for a copy of the Herwi circulatory system diagram see Page 8…), though the olo’eyktan reassures that there are a multitude of flora endemic to the Pandoran heights. 

The olo’eyktan seems particularly eager to give a tour?

With your eyes blinking open…you think you’ve died and gone onto whatever there was afterwards.

It would’ve been just like you to meet your demise during the pursuit of your research- the higher-ups at your laboratory predicted the same thing. The last thing you remember before blacking out was feeling faint - weeks of hiking up this arduous peak and you’d run out of your provisions a few days ago, surviving on only melted ice to fill your belly. At least, until the sudden threat of a snowslide had resulted in you abandoning your tent and bags behind for escape.

From then on it had only been: you, your pen, your notebook with your research, your translator, and your burning passion to find the Herwi.

It was no surprise that you didn’t last long.

But you suppose you just didn’t expect the ‘afterwards’ to be a blue, blue summer sky. 

Oh—how you missed the cloud-frothed ocean of blue down on Earth. It was never quite the same on Pandora, and you’re just beginning to wonder whether heaven was really home-

“Yawne, txen?”

Before your muddled mind realizes that this really wasn’t your sky after all.

What you were looking up into were the eyes of a Na’vi warrior.

He’s leaning his overlarge body above yours, and you’re pressing yourself flatly against a mattress—one that was made of copious amounts of furs and the softest spun wool to make you feel as though you were floating up on the clouds.

But the farther you’re getting, the more he dwarfs you with his curious peering.

Closer.

And the only thing you can do is look up into his handsome blue face- the lightest of blues you’ve ever seen. 

Now, you have to start this off by saying that every single Na’vi you’ve seen was beautiful—every single one of them. 

But you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone like him before: long white hair, blue eyes almost like a Metkayina, and glowing spots scattered like snowflakes across his cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Taller than your average Omaticaya. Perhaps a bit bulkier, as well.

If you tilted your head just past his looming figure then you could take in the tufted fur clothing he wore, slightly more coverage than of Na’vi from the more tropical areas; with patterns of rosettes peaking out wherever his skin was exposed and dotted like a fainter version of a snow leopard’s. From your own planet.

But you were not on your own planet.

Far from it.

You’re realizing with a jolt that he was one of the Herwi clan-

“Are you…” And though you’d dreamed and wished and hoped for this day for so long—right now you find yourself absolutely speechless. “Are you- fuck.”

To which he only beams- “Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey.” His pearly white teeth are on full display, one little dimple crinkling at the edge of his smile. He just looks so handsome like this that you almost lose your breath- no. It must be the hypothermia that’s getting to you. It must be. And if you didn’t know any better then you’d have said that he almost sounds utterly relieved—“Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung?”

“I ah…” Mouth dropping open. Shit—your translator!

Before he can say anything more, you’re digging in your coats- or at least attempting to. It doesn’t take long for you to shuffle behind the thick blankets and realize that you weren’t wearing those humanly thin layers you did when climbing up the mountain. Well-fitted for the Earth’s cold, but not for the harsh ever-winters of Pandora.

Instead you were wearing…a thick woolen coat?

Much too large on you- almost comically so. It had sleeves that reached a few feet past your fingertips, draped down to your toes, and enough space that you could hide at least five of you inside it. 

No translator.

No pen. No notebook-

He sees this smaller figure fluttering about worriedly and tilts his head curiously, “‘Upe lu nga fwew?” Before handing you your notebook and pen from a table behind him.

“Pardon? Ah- thank you so much—!” You beam at him, and he beams back. But looking into his blue eyes once more, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness wash over you. “But I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you.”

At this the Na’vi furrows his pale brows - you’re not quite sure whether he knew what you were saying, but he seemed to have picked up on your emotions. Nudging his large face against yours with a purring sound, “Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga.”

And a part of you somewhat melts- “I said I really can’t- hahah.” You half-heartedly try to push his incessant face away with a laugh, taking particular delight in noting how happily his tail was swishing. Fluffier with more fur than you’ve observed on other types of Na’vi, also covered in pretty rosettes that swayed to and fro.

It’s right now that you wished you had the patience to stay behind and immerse yourself more in the Na’vi language lessons your laboratory had provided. Most scientists didn’t even go out into the field until they were experts - but you were too antsy, too greedy to know. Something seemed to have called you here whether it cost you your life.

Given you’d picked up on some phrases here and there, but it seems that the Herwi had a different accent from the clips played in those listening tests. Slightly softer, slightly more of a whisper.

Like the breath of winter, his words cooled your mask and heated up something entirely different inside of you. “Oe pey ngim krr.”

Before you know it, the Na’vi clasps both your hands in his—and you’re startled by just how large they are, just how cold. You’re analyzing the way his pale fingers hold your own as if it was all that was tender in the world.

Intertwining.

“Ngim krr.” He looks at you with those azure eyes seriously, opening up the palm of your right hand and touching his to yours. Palm against palm. Breath against breath. “Nìt'iluke.” 

You get the feeling that you were missing something very important- “I’m sorry I really wish…I’m so sorry to ask any more of you- I really am. But have you happened to see my translator anywhere?”

“Tìnga’prrnen?” He cocks his head in confusion, trying to mouth the word.

“Erm- yes?” Hoping that he understood you, “My translator—” You emphasize the syllables- “It’s a little device to understand you-”

You’re gesturing between the two of you- and you swear you see the light blue Na’vi pale. “Tìnga’prrnen? Oe?”

“Yes?” You knew that ‘oe’ referred to oneself.

He balks- maybe you were getting through to him? “Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen-”

“Skxawng.”

Before he’s suddenly cut off by a hard smack to the back of his head- and you’re looking up just in time to see another Herwi Na’vi enter the hut. The dimorphism between this particular strand of Na’vi wasn’t anything too prominent, you find - both were tall, both were pale, both had long tails and rosettes scattered across their agile bodies.

The only real difference was that the one at your bedside was more rugged, with even more pure-white beads woven into his hair. Though that you could chalk up to their separate duties within the clan.

She walked inside as though she owned the place, throwing her long loose hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch as she shuts the other man up—as she brings out a black earpiece from behind her and hands it to you. “I believe this is yours. It was dropped in the rush outside.”

“O-oh!” You’re surprised to find that it was none other than your translating device. Taking it gratefully, “Thank you so so much.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

At your baffled expression - as far as you knew, the Herwi were the last remaining uncontacted clan of Na’vi, with no knowledge of humankind nor their many languages. “I learned your language from my books-” Gesturing around her - you were right to assume that this was her hut, filled to the brim with ointments and books. Mostly of Na’vi origin, but you could spy a few in English and Japanese. “-sent by friends in the Omaticaya. I find your human stories are…quite amusing.”

“I see.” You breathe.

She gestures at herself, “Ieri Shoko of the heart.” Then at the male Na’vi member, “Gojo Satoru of the snow. I apologize for him, he is our olo’eyktan- also the one that found you.”

“So you’re my saviour.” You’re looking towards him- Gojo once more. He catches your eyes and looks away with a pale blue hue dusting his face. “Irayo nga.” Giving your thanks (one of the few phrases you could speak with complete confidence). 

You’re looking towards him- He shudders, “Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen.”

As soon as he’s saying it, Shoko smacks her hand on her forehead- and you wonder what exactly he means. 

So without further ado, you’re fixing the earpiece onto yourself.

“Idiot.” Shoko’s turning back to Gojo, “You know that’s not what she meant?”

Gojo crosses his arms and huffs- “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if it’s for her-”

“Not even Eywa could make that happen.”

“Getting preg-”

“Hello?” Testing—and if the way both Na’vi jerk their heads to you in slight surprise is anything to go by, then you’d say that the translator was working rather well. It was less an earpiece that translated and more a device to target that part of your brain that communicated and understood foreign languages.

Allowing you to both understand and speak in the dialect of the Na’vi - an invention by yours truly, of course. You’d (as close as) perfected it just last year for this expedition. “Can you understand me?”

Gojo stares at you with wide blue eyes.

With his pretty lips parted.

With his tail swishing back and forth.

“I see y-”

“We understand you.” Shoko nudges him roughly in the ribs, “I apologize if we’re a bit startled- it’s the first time we’re seeing a human in person.”

“I could’ve guessed that.” You giggle, flickering your eyes over to the starstrack Na’vi. Though you were equally as such. Somehow you speaking in his language just seemed to make him…“But I want to emphasize that I come in peace- I just want to learn as a scientist, not even my laboratory knows exactly where I am. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Shoko crosses her arms and looks gravely at you, “What do you want?”

“To learn. To research you and your people.” You look between them both, “To confirm the existence of the Herwi clan has been a dream of mine for a long time- not for the papers or the accolades, but because I just wanted to know you.”

“And how can we trust you?” Shoko says, getting nudged by Gojo afterwards.

“I won’t reveal anything you don’t want me to.” Determination dripping in your tone, “Not even if they kill me for it.”

They appraise you, and it’s silent for a beat before Shoko looks at Gojo.

And Gojo nods.

Shoko shoots you a barely-there smile, “Well…human, what do you want to know?”

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.

After you woke up, it was after a long talk and almost three or so hours later that you’d gotten up- Shoko and Gojo had both rushed to your side. Waving them off, you’d attempted to shrug off the coat and hand it back to Gojo - long since realizing that it was his - but he’d almost been offended by the gesture.

Refusing. 

He’d kept a hand behind on the small of your back to steady you with every step climbed towards the entrance. And once you were out- you could practically feel the storm freeze around you.

Colder than cold.

The Herwi looked at you with fear.

They stopped in their tracks and didn’t even look to breathe until Gojo had followed right after. And standing beside him like that, you’d been made too aware of the drastic height difference between you two. The average Na’vi was about nine to ten feet tall, though by the look of it the Herwi of the snow were much larger than their oceanic counterparts—slightly thicker, with limbs that were long and covered in sparse fur to protect them from the cold.

The Herwi average was about ten feet, you’re finding.

Though Gojo stood at a proud eleven feet (11’1 as you come to interrogate out of him more precisely later on) and rested his hand gently upon your shoulder. They had faint scars on them that marked him as a warrior, and you could feel the slight callouses send shivers across your coat-swathed body. His tail curled around your thigh.

You don’t think you even came up to his stomach-

“My people…” He announced in booming Na’vi. “-as some of you may know from the hunt today, we have a guest.”

You shift at the stares.

“More importantly, my guest. And we will make her feel welcome like family.”

“Family?” The whispers came.

“But she is one of the sky people…”

“Part of the family is…but if the olo’eyktan says so…”

“I’ve never seen him so casually touchy with someone before-”

“Shhhhhhh!”

“I understand if you are scared, and to those who wish it- you are free to leave and never interact with her while she is here.” Though none of them do move. Fixated. “But to those who aren’t, I urge you to share the beauty of our culture.”

To which you’d gulped before introducing yourself as you had to Shoko and Gojo.

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Day #2 in the Herwi village: 

The governing system of the Herwi is quite reminiscent to that of other clans - made up by a singular olo’eyktan or olo'eykte, accompanied by a tsahìk (though Gojo assures proudly that he is not mated as of writing this), and a council of clan elders that act as an advisory board.

Most decisions are made solely by the wisdom of Gojo himself, though large choices require a vote from the council as well as his people. Such requisites are rare, however, as it seems the olo’eyktan’s impact extends to the non-council people in such a way that they trust him with everything. (For more on the lovely reception and the sheer popularity of Gojo Satoru see Page 11…)

Governing seems to be harmonious if a little quietly tense in regards to certain elders that disagree yet are ultimately obeisant to their olo’eyktan.

This scientist in particular caused a little stir in the Herwi leadership once a research visit was proposed by the olo’eyktan to the rest of the elders. Though initial reactions had been reluctant, after a terse discussion, ultimately six moons had been granted to collect all appropriate research (due to be checked by the elders prior to leaving). No more. No less.

Six moons should be more than enough!

Shoko might have let it slip that it was Gojo who used his privilege as olo’eyktan to convince the council…and he wasn’t too happy that they’d granted you merely six moons (five days if you’re counting the first night there) to stay here. He wanted to gawk at this new human more, you supposed.

But you were so very grateful to each and every one of them either way - even those wizened elders who scowled at you suspiciously wherever you passed. Though even glares seemed sweet when you were living your dream, hm? And it best be believed that you were taking advantage of every single second you had with the clan - every single second.

Because this was exactly what those cigar-smoking higher-ups had laughed at you for. 

They thought you were chasing a myth.

The Herwi people had been so gracious as to offer you an empty hut, despite Gojo’s fervent insisting that you take his and he can simply tough it out in the cold outside-

And the next day you were up early- perhaps a little too early for the olo’eyktan who’d apparently tracked your trail and followed you around for an hour. Before he finally managed to stop you in the middle of your field study - helping out a young Herwi mother take care of her crying toddler, whilst learning about Herwi childcare techniques - and raised his bag full of food.

Breakfast.

You’re smacking your hand against your forehead as you’d completely forgotten - not quite out of the ordinary for when you got too immersed in your work. But it was different when you had someone seeking you out to take care of you…

And so after sharing the abundance of breads and berries and soups (far too much for but the two of you) with the Herwi mother and child, the two of you sit outside her hut and admired the view of the village. The soft half-sun that melted across the capped peaks, a buttery layer of light that was not even half as bright as on Earth.

But somehow gentler.

Gojo’s raising one berry to his lips before- “Ah…” His mouth drops when he takes a glance at you- more accurately, at your masked self. And he’s stopping in his movements, “Excuse me for just a second, beloved.”

“Oh? Of course.”

You watch as he’s standing up and sprinting light-fast towards the edge of a great steaming lake in the horizon. His figure’s crouching down and cupping his hands in the sparkling water, bubbling with fury. Gojo brings it up to his face and whispers a mantra that you couldn’t quite determine. Not from where you were sitting.

Before carefully bringing it right up to you- “Drink, beloved.” 

He gently leans down to let his fingertips meet your mask.

And you’d had no option—you consider it for science, though a part of you knew you didn’t have to linger your lips so much on his cold skin- but you lift your mask up and drink it.

Once the water floods your throat, you knew something was different.

Your lungs quiver.

Once.

Twice.

And you’d found yourself able to breathe—

Breathing on Pandora.

“How did you…” As you gasp, Gojo reaches out and removes the mask off of you completely. He’d let the earpiece stay on, of course, but lightly grazed his cold digits against the shell of your ear and made you shiver. “I don’t even know what to say- thank you. I didn’t even know this was possible—no other Na’vi clan let alone a mere human has discovered a way to let us breathe normally on Pandora.”

“For you. Lake Yapay.” Gojo says, large hand still cupping your face. “It steams great billowing heat in the day, and freezes by night. Here in Herwi, we use its water to expand our lungs during snowstorms.”

And you want to write it down- you know you should, but the pen in your fingers won’t move. Or more accurately, your fingers won’t move.

He continues, “This land is alive and works in mysterious ways. It has worked for you, beloved, as I knew it would.”

“Thank you again, olo’eyktan.”

“Satoru.” He interjects.

“Satoru.”

He smiles as if it meant the world.

And so your feast commences.

“You have to remember to eat.” Gojo says to you as he scoffs down a sweet paste made of ice-blue berries, “How will you brave the winter storms otherwise? Of course, I will protect you—and yet still.”

“Well, I sure hope I survive six more nights for my research then, hm?” You joke.

But you hadn’t expected Gojo’s face to darken, for him to shake his head. “It’s not fair.”

“Pardon?”

“Six more nights…” And you hadn’t exactly expected him to be so…invested in your research - you admit that you would benefit more from a longer period of studying the Herwi, but you were ready to take what was given. He looks down at the glaring snow and whispers—more to himself. “It’s not fair. I will correct it.”

“Correct?”

“Oh?” And you look from him to the village straight ahead, “Well, I’d be happy either way, Satoru.”

Just then that little Na’vi you’d been helping to watch over before comes waddling and giggling out of the hut to hold onto you- and you pick her up readily.

Gojo took one look at the two of you and shivered.

Shivered.

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Day #3 in the Herwi village: 

Hunts are an imperative part of the Herwi lifestyle—not only is it how the people are nourished, but it’s a social activity, it’s a coming-of-age activity. 

As aforementioned, hunts are commenced and led by none other than the olo’eyktan. A large group of Herwi warriors shall trek across the icelands in one unit, and it was quite interesting to note that most of the younger hunters are positioned in the middle where they are less likely to get injured during such a trip.

It is in the middle of their hike that Gojo will alert when the group is to split up: Snow beast hunters and snow marine stilts. Divide and conquer seems to be the only strategy that somehow tames such an unforgiving environment, and Herwi marine-hunters seem to be picked from the most patient of warriors. They carve out a hole in the middle of frozen bodies of water (never Lake Yapay, this divine body is never harmed) and each positions themself atop a tall icicle beside it to escape prowling beasts and currents. Crouched and ledged atop one, the sheer core strength and balance is divine once they cast their lines and wait.

On the other side of things, we have the Herwi beast-hunters. Using a large variety of weapons, the most popular is noted to be the bow and arrow - used by the olo’eyktan himself. They stalk in the cold white billows of snow with not even a single shiver, they lay in wait for hours, they tire their prey out.

And nevertheless this scientist found today’s hunt rather interesting…

The third and fourth days had passed by in much the same fashion - except for the slight tweak in your routine that included opening your hut door and finding the olo’eyktan standing there every single morning.

Always with food, always with a smile, always with some interesting niveous flower for you to press into your notebook. Then afterwards the two of you would set out to help you interview the Herwi people of all ages and backgrounds, to take samples, to explore the natural fauna, to even join Gojo on one of his Hunts on the third day. 

They admitted that they didn’t focus on hunting as much as they normally did on that trek, too enamored with this strange little human that had showed up one day and had their olo’eyktan glued to her side.

You interviewed hunters and elders (well, the ones that didn’t ignore you completely or were on the verge of cursing you out until they caught their leader’s eye) until your mouth hurt. And Gojo had taken you into the best spot with natural Pandoran fauna, making you jot down notes until your fingers cramped.

Once the sun was beginning to set and the Na’vi were getting ready to head back to their village for the night, you’re taking the opportunity to interview some of the young hunters. Gojo was off in the distance making up for the slightly lowered hunt by ice-spearing more snow beasts. And you were more than happy not to distract him while he took care of his olo’eyktan duties- after all, the other hunters were nice. Never having seen a human before, they’d been more than happy to answer your questions.

Ribbing each other, guffawing as they answered, placing their hands down on you and ruffling your head from above.

Almost as if you were a plaything- and you admit it was in the name of science, you didn’t mind it too much until a particularly boisterous hunter about Gojo’s age had kept swatting at you no matter how many times you politely moved away. Until he’d caught you on the scruff of your coat and tried to lift you up—

You hear the sound of bones breaking before you realize what it is.

Whipping your head behind you in an instant to see that Gojo was behind the other hunter and pulling his hand hard enough that you hear other Na’vi cry out. 

He lets go of you, of course, and you watch with widened eyes as Gojo then bandages his fellow Na’vi’s arm himself. Though you note that he doesn’t apologize.

Gojo didn’t leave your side for a single second after that.

That night after the dinner by the lake, Gojo walks you to your hut and sleeps outside in the bitter cold- no matter how much you tried to get him to take up the bed inside. He’d insisted.

After mating, he’d said.

You wonder whether your translating device was malfunctioning…

(See Page 26 on Herwi possessiveness…).

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Day #4 in the Herwi village: 

Beads.

A well-known part of Na’vi culture, one of the most recognizable, perhaps. The scientific community has written long and extensively on the importance of bead-sharing in the Omaticaya clan, however, this scientist shall be the first to detail the beauty of how this tradition extends to the Herwi clan.

According to the artisans of this village, beads aren’t fashioned through molten stone or seeds or clay—given the availability of such in this environment. Rather, they’re made with snow.

Never-melting snow.

Yes, the design of hona beads from snow is a practice unique to the Herwi clan. Broken off from the hardest icicles growing at a peak of Mt. Hoet said to touch the sky, not only is it a treacherous passage to get to those specialized bits of ice, but the process of making the beads finds itself just as arduous. These icicles are then welded into delicate beads and dipped into the waters of Lake Yapay at night, letting them soak and then carried to freeze at the highest peak once more.

This process is repeated until the beads are as hard as diamonds on Earth- perhaps even harder. Never-melting. Never-breaking. Never-forgetting. Though not too hard so that the Herwi will be unable to carve unique patterns and symbols special to themself. Rinse. Repeat.

Though the clear meaning of such is ambiguous, it is most certainly a way of showing appreciation - as one would have to love someone very much to do this, no?

It was on your fourth day amongst the Herwi clan that Gojo didn’t show up with a beautiful flower or trinket from the terrain- instead, he’s bounding up to you with a string of beads and knotting it against the side of your face.

Pushing it back and taking you in with it.

Without a question.

“Satoru, did you…” You’re holding the line of beads up to the sunlight and watching the little patterns glimmer. They were slightly frosted and flurried like the smallest of snowglobes, “Did you make this for me?” 

And you swear they had the most intricate design of clouds on them, swirling and tumbling.

“Of course.” He smiles proudly. “Us Herwi are taught how to design our very own hona beads ever since we were children, and as Na’vi coming of age we walk up the path to make the first one for ourselves…as adults we make one for our family or…” Mates.

“And this- god, I need to…write about this but I can’t even imagine how long this would’ve taken.” 

“Four days.” Gojo cocks his head and looks down at you- and that brilliantly confident grin of his plasters across his face once more. “For most it takes four years, but for you I did it in four days.”

“Oh, they’re just amazing.” You run a hand down the ice-cold globules, “Thank you, Satoru.”

He holds your hand as he leads you out into the village.

Gojo tells you that night to wear those very beads to the clan dinner - once a week (at the very least) after a particularly successful Hunt, the Herwi people will get together for a massive feast. You’d heard excited whispers about it from the public you surveyed, and it seems that the olo’eyktan had chosen tonight.

Night had begun to fall, and you were dragged playfully by some younger girls straight to the edge of this vast frozen lake. Past snow-capped huts that stuck out of an even more snow-capped ground like eager heads, and ice-jeweled trees and frozen rivers and pathways lit with bioluminescent algae trapped in lanterns of ice.

It was a world in frost.

Where Na’vi had gathered with their families, their friends, their food—all in an array of tables that circled the crystallized body of water like a wedding ring.

Under the snowy night sky they communed. 

“You are wearing my- I mean your hona beads.” Gojo had beamed as he eventually caught up with you and guided you himself. He led you by hand again - even though you weren’t exactly quite sure why…at least it kept you from being toppled over by the other tall Herwi rushing to snag their own seats. “You look beautiful with them, beloved.”

And you weren’t quite sure what to say- though the bubbling pit at your stomach certainly wanted you to tell him something. Instead you divert the topic, “You hunted today as well, yes? Is there anything here that you hunted?”

To which he looks at you with a rather cocky smile, “Beloved, I have hunted more than half of the feast tonight. Trust that you will enjoy it.”

And you might have joked about him being presumptuous- but you really did enjoy the feast.

Under a star-studded sky and glimmering lanterns that twinkled like the freckles upon Gojo’s face, he led you to the very head table that no other Na’vi dared touch. It was rather obvious that this one was meant for the olo’eyktan himself, but what was curious was when your seat had been placed right next to his.

Perks of being a special guest, you suppose?

Shoko was beside you and shot you an amused smile, before preening for another Herwi next to her with a scar that ran across her face and half-braided hair. 

“Utahime.” Gojo had whispers in your ear, “Shoko’s mate.” 

“Ah- I see!” Pen quivering in your hand, you’re jotting down your observations in your notebook under the table. “Perfect. I’m quite curious about the mating rituals of the Herwi, you see. Do you suppose I’d be able to ask them some questions later on in the night?”

“Don’t ask them questions- ask me.” Gojo huffs. Brows furrowing. Lower lip jutting into a pout.

He leans over and wraps his arm around the back of your chair. Squirming, “O-oh…but you’re not mated yet, are you, Satoru?”

“Nope!”

“Right…” But then how could you ask him about mating if he wasn’t—nevermind.

Because just then the group in charge of cooking for the clan had rounded the tables and begun placing their most savored delicacies on top of them. Meats upon vegetables upon berries that you’d seen growing naturally across the mountainside they lived on. It was steaming hot and everything that you could dream of.

Whether you didn’t like meat, whether you didn’t like vegetables- there was always something there for you.

Most of the richest dishes were allocated around the olo’eyktan and your single table, stuffing the surface to the brim until you had to squeeze next to Gojo for space. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps too busy piling his place with the sweetest treacly milks and frozen desserts that he could reach.

After dinner came the dances.

It happened every night after the community dinner when everyone - full and satisfied by then - would start humming and chanting their ancient hymns. Echoing into the sleepy snow and the ever-young night, someone would pull out two snow beast-skin drums by then. Thumping away to the songs of the snow. 

Children ran off and made snow-prints and snow-fights in the mountains of powder. Family members would begin drowsily feeding each other and insisting they eat more. Others traced their own hona beads and promised they’d make ones for the one they love.

More would punch small holes through the frozen lake and bring the water up to their mouths, of which a sudden blow would make the water freeze and scatter out into the air in twinkling snowflakes. Emulating the stars themselves.

Snow-breathers. 

They’d sing, they’d sound, they’d show off and then…the first mated couple would walk onto the middle of the frozen ice.

Then the second.

The third.

The fourth and the fifth and the sixth-

What a way to end the night, love warming the cold air and couples twirling around each other with their tails intertwined. Usually, you’d be content to clap and attempt to sing along—

But then Gojo stands up- and you almost believe he was ready to leave the table altogether…until he’s reaching his hand out to you.

You.

And you look around in slight surprise- almost as if expecting someone to materialize right beside you and take Gojo’s hand instead. But the only thing you’re getting is Shoko’s approving nod from next to you, before she lets herself be dragged by Utahime onto the frozen lake.

And so you’d danced.

Rather an interesting sight considering the height difference, you admit—but it was beautiful. Gojo scoops you up into his arms with one steadied underneath you, the other holds one of your hands in his. 

So much larger. So much more powerful.

And yet so gentle.

He twirls you around to the music and you laugh at the wind stinging your face.

“Satoru, you’re going to drop me—”

“I should rather die than drop you.”

“But- but what of the other Herwi that will be mistaken?” You ask then, already sensing the envious looks that were thrown your way. 

“There goes my dream of being tsahìk, I’m almost sure of it now-”

“But I haven’t been able to try my luck with the olo’eyktan yet-”

“Oh shush, girl! You seriously think any of us had a chance?”

You look into his handsome face, eyes trained on you despite all the whispers and disturbance amongst his people. Only you. “You won’t be able to find a mate this way.”

Something unreadable in his blue eyes, flickering with fire from the tables and something else entirely. “Perhaps I don’t want one.”

“Well that would be entirely your decision.” You place your hands on his broad shoulders, flexing as they move you around with ease. “But it seems in Herwi tradition, the olo’eyktan is wont to take a mate.”

He raises a white brow, “And who should you believe must be my mate then?”

You didn’t quite know how to answer that.

Averting his eyes- and those of the Na’vi staring at you two. “W-well, Herwi has many fine women and men. Reykol is the best singer.”

“I do not want Reykol.”

“Tìtaron is a good hunter.”

He pulls you closer, “Yes, she is a good hunter. But I am better, and I do not care for Tìtaron.” Reaching up one hand to brush away the snowflakes that had begun dusting your face, “I believe I have already been fated to. Even before I was born, I have already chosen.”

You swallow, “Who, Satoru?”

He only smiles.

“Who?”

But he does not answer, you’re twirled around once more and the moonlight catches your dangling beads.

“Is that…”

“Surely our leader isn’t saying what we think he is saying-”

“But look at him, he looks so…happy.”

You turn your head to catch the fact that most of the Herwi were looking at you, whispering behind their hands. In hindsight, you think that perhaps it was not a coincidence that they ogled you - and particularly the hona beads that you’d been gifted. Not a coincidence at all.

You wore his signature because you were his.

And they all knew you were his.

.

.

.

Day #5 in the Herwi village (the last day): 

Leaving tomorrow, a perceptive scientist may notice that there is only one thing missing from this comprehensive research into the Herwi clan.

The source of Eywa.

As a deity to all Na’vi people, her influence seeps into the songs and prayers of even the highest terrains on Pandora. Into the healing. Into the well wishes. Into the belief system of a people so accepting and harmonious that their tree of Eywa does not need to be visibly present for her will to be carried out.

But as for where she resides here…

Your fifth and final day was less research and more saying your goodbyes to all the friends you’d made in the Herwi clan. You’d be leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun even rose, according to the sternest of the elders. 

Gojo hadn’t met you outside your hut that morning, and you’d idled away the time packing and repacking your bag of samples and books. Thrice, before you started to believe that he might not come after all.

But that was alright, ultimately believing that he’d show up later on in the day, you visited all the healers, the hunters, the dancers, and the chefs. The mother and toddler you’d grown close to on your first day here, and even a stray elder that had sought you out to bow goodbye. 

All the young Na’vi and the old Na’vi.

All the Na’vi that had come to not fear you and the Na’vi that had found you endearing at first sight.

They’d warmed up to you since you first came here. They gave you gifts, each of them, and your heart ached as you thought of leaving. 

Goodbyes were always painful - but perhaps one most of all. Gojo.

He still hadn’t met you by the end of your route, and you’d circled the village about twice by the time you were done. He was nowhere to be seen.

It was almost as if he’d disappeared into thin air.

It was with a heavy pit in your stomach that you started to head back to your hut—your last dinner with the Herwi people would be in a few hours. Afterwards, Gojo had previously arranged for you to be accompanied by some of the clan’s best warriors on your trek down. 

You just thought that’d include him.

Perhaps you could sleep it off until the final dinner- and you were shutting the door just behind you…

Before sounds a hurried, hasty knock—

You open the door to see the olo’eyktan of the Herwi tribe.

Panting. Covered in snow.

“My apologies, I have spent the day clearing the pathway for us.” Gojo huffs out, leaning against your door frame with one hand. The other reaching out to you—“Come with me, beloved?”

.

.

.

The Herwi source of Eywa was inside an ice cave.

One that would get blocked when the goddess herself did not wish to be seen, one that Gojo had torn through layers of packed ice to burrow a pathway for the both of you. He’d carried you all the way to the gaping mouth of blue ice and ghost snow.

Closing in on you like arms of rime beckoning you to the tree of Eywa. The Tree of Winter.

The cold embrace of a mother.

One you were still not quite sure whether you were allowed to see—but Gojo knew he wanted you to see. He saw you. 

At the end of the cave was an ice column about eighty feet tall and naturally formulated to look like the winding branches of a tree. Dripping to the ground in phantom white snow, each one delicate and graduating from white to blue. There almost seemed to be a glowing aura about it.

Clear mirrors making up the tree’s vines. Honed tips of the icicles rising from Pandora and stabbing down towards it. The top of the tree reached where the cave roof was hollow, beaming a circle of light from the skies that donned Eywa in innocent pink.

You gasped at the white snowsprites that bounced off of the tree and onto your two bodies. 

Where Gojo stand with his back straight, his meaty thighs spread—pearly white teeth biting down to stop himself from fucking moaning at the feeling of your mouth sliding up n’ down his hot cock.

While you were standing.

You didn’t even have to get on your knees.

His eleven foot figure loomed above you, one hand on the back of your head and the other pumpin’ his furious erection. Your maw slips down his puckered tip and he shivers- bucking ever-so-slightly and hitting the back of your throat dead-on—

And yet he wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

He wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

The sudden realization makes you claw at the sides of his blue skin with a whine- direct vibrations that make the puckered tip lodged inside your mouth twitch. He’s sploshing out even more syrupy pre like he couldn’t stop it.

He’s not even trying and it’s already so much, cascading like a waterfall down the front of your chin.

“Now- hah, now.” One of Gojo’s prolonged fingertips reaches out to smear away the slippery sheen across your face- at least, that’s what you think he’s doing.

But instead you’re feeling him curve his rude digits between your lips and push those dewy droplets inside. Shovelling his cock just a little bit deeper, “S’not good to waste it, beloved. Open your mouth and take it all like a good girl, yes?”

“Mmmpf-” A damn miracle that you could get out that much sound in the first place. You’re pulling off to answer, and Gojo jerks his hips a lil’ to chase your damp mouth. “You’re saying you want me to take it all—?”

He shivers, leopard-like tail twitching. “Yes.”

And right before your very eyes, you can see his shaft throb even bigger. 

Harder. 

The prettiest bluish-pink on his tip, one with a divot that leaks out a line of precum. You’re following it with your dazed eyes- before the next thing you’re seeing is a close-up of it.

Gojo has his massive hand plastered to the back of your scalp and is pushin’ your head in, digging his dripping wet tip against the back of your throat. With a groan, the Na’vi pins you to him and hammers out a few sloppy thrusts of his cock.

Again and again.

Slurp after slurp—

“Gonna take it all- hah- my entire cock inside that pretty mouth, yes?” He’s cocking his head to the side and asking down at you sweetly. And he might look all in control, but Gojo’s voice fucking breaks at the very end of his sentence. 

Right in synchronization with the way you were draggin’ your sizzling tastebuds down the veiny sides of his erection. Just the cutest tongue that was eagerly lapping up everything he was giving—“Doesn’t matter if you’re a lil’ human, you’re gonna take the leader’s biiiiig cock, aren’t you?”

Removing yourself from his thickened tip with a wet pwah! “Y-you’re really serious about the-”

“Yes.” 

And he’d apologize for cutting you off later- hell, he’d grovel at your feet if he has to. But right now all Gojo can think of doing is holding onto the back of your head and strollin’ his thumb down the column of your throat. The olo’eyktan can feel that fat cylindrical intrusion where his cock was pumping in and out- and he’s sliding his fingertip dooooooown that bulge. “Aren’t you a scientist, beloved?”

“Y-yes?”

“Then aren’t you curious about just how far a human can take Na’vi cock?”

“Well…” You blubber out, “I guess so-”

“Then consider it for your research.” With each syllable he’s cutting your breath off by thudding his cockhead against the roof of your mouth. “Then just fucking- haaaaah—” And you’re finding that the pre Na’vi cock exuded was actually rather sweet- almost like honeydew flooding up your mouth n’ being slid all round by the intrusion of his shaft. “-take it.”

“Mmmpf—ngh.” Tears were streaming down your face by now, wetting your cheeks and making the Na’vi wipe them away with his thumb.

“Don’t cryyyyy—” He’s airily calling out, almost nothing like the level-headed Na’vi you’d met before. “Big girls don’t cry. Don’t worry- m’gonna give you all of my cock, beloved.”

“S-Satoru-”

But each of your broken yowls were being bullied back in with his bludgeoning wet tip, bruisin’ away its splitted end anywhere and everywhere. 

He swabs into the tiniest nooks and crannies inside your mouth with his sheer size, leaving your knees utterly weak where you were still standing. He’s holding your head up to his cock- “C’mon- feel.”

You peer up at him in confusion.

“Feel for your research.” Fluttering his long pale lashes down at you, a sultry smile spreads across his lips. “How many loooong thick inches you’re being given. How many veins are filling ya up. How many times I hit the back of yer throat like this-”

A shuddering slam right where you were most tender. “Please-”

“M’helping you with your- fuck, research.” He chuckles down lecherously, “By shutting that smart human mouth of yours up.”

“Fuck-”

“Feel it- just feel.”

He thrusts so hard that his heavy ballsack smacks! against your chin, “Feel the way that lil’ mouth of yours can barely even take me. Feel how fat my balls are with cum just for you. Count them? Wanna calculate the girth?” Until it was stinging a permanent girth on your skin, rubbed raw with impact. “Feel the way I- ngh, bruuuise your throat n’ those sensual lips until anyone that talks to you knows I’ve been here.”  He’s babbling on stupidly by now, eyes falling more n’ more half-lidded by the minute. He’s holding on tightly to your restless head and shoves- “Feel the way I fuck my mate—”

Gojo trails off as if shocking himself, and you’re snapping your teary eyes up to him with a muffled- “What?”

But you don’t know whether it’s on cue, you don’t know whether it’s the startle of being caught- but Gojo’s slamming his cocktip way past the back of your throat and cumming.

Oozing out hot dollops of cum that take over your pretty mouth.

Shaft throbbing furiously. Balls twitching like no other. He throws his head back and squelches straight down your throat, and you can feel the thickness of it plug up your voicebox.

So sweet.

So much.

And you’re not sure whether it’s a Na’vi thing or it’s a Gojo thing that he’s cumming so much in one go.

Loooooong miry stripes that trickle down the sides of your mouth- he leans down and pushes them back between your lips with one of his thumbs. Ivory sap constantly leaking down onto your tastebuds, he feels the heady slip n’ slide of his cock against those wads of cum. “Fuh-fuck…”

And then he’s not moving, merely clasping the back of your head and bringing you firmly up against his slender pelvis. 

Your nose rubs against the tufts of white on his abs before you realize that he’d just bottomed-out—just once, like he’d promised. 

And it was enough to send you reeling, feeling the pushback of his swabbin’ tip. Pouring out even more heady liquid every time he was draaaaging down your velvety tongue. 

The tip of your tastebuds flicks his sensitive slit just right and you can feel him pulse deep inside. “Feel me in there?” Gojo’s groaning from above. “Feel how much I ache for you. Feel the volume of my cum- are you counting it?”

“I-I—”

But evidently your half-sob wasn’t enough.

And the Na’vi is reaching down and pinching your nostrils together with his free hand. “Ah ah- focus on your research, beloved.”

And you’re struggling uselessly against his mean action, to which Gojo watches with a predatory gaze at the way you huff n’ sputter. And he has the audacity to snicker-

“I really can throw you around like a ragdoll, huh?”

It’s as if the realization had just struck him and he’s shuddering. 

It almost feels like ages before he’s finally pulling away with a loud plop!

An excess of your cum was leaking out of your maw and threatening to drip onto the floor- “Tch, this is a sacred place, my human.” He’s rasping out—swipin’ up the frothed white cum as if he wasn’t absolutely desecrating you. Pushing those clingy wads between your maw.

He then guides his honed tip to glide across your lips, gluing your lips shut with all his seed.

And Gojo can’t help but admire you- peering up at him with his towering height. All covered in his syrupy slick and speechless, unable to talk even if your voicebox had been left intact.

He smiles, tail swishing happily to and fro. “My human.” Gojo leans all the distance down to kiss you upon your sopping wet lips. “My m- pretty human. My pretty human…”

But you don’t have enough sense at the moment to ponder too long on his little slip-up before he’s bending down close with his hoarse mouth against the shell of your ear.

Making you feel so sensitive.

“-did ya get enough research yet?”

And then he’s good on his other promise: throwing you around like a ragdoll.

Before you know it, Gojo’s thundering down onto his knees upon the frozen floor - taking you right along with him. He grabs his fur coat from a little ways away and makes you rest down on top of it. With ease.

Back flat on the coat. Legs spread high in the air.

Twisted around the back of Gojo’s neck and locked in place-

“Satoru-” You look around the Tree of Winter that only seems to glow even brighter, the snowsprites buzzing. “-are you sure we should be doing this h—oh.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t have to.

He’s merely unhinging his jaw and letting his loooong pinkish tongue drip out. It was glossy with ravenous saliva, thick at the base, and curved at the tip. The end of it dripped tantalizingly with spittle- almost torturously. 

Achingly needy.

There was an almost feline quality to it that made your thighs clench.

“N-nevermind.”

The only thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo had his tongue stuffed against your wet core and swabbin’ away until you saw white—“M-mmmpf.” His mouth was just so large that he could engulf your pussylips with a single bite, honed canines grazing the outer edge of your cunt while he kisses inwards. “My pretty mate- my tasty mate.”

It’s almost as if he was pussydrunk already.

With just a single slurp of his curvaceous tongue glidin’ up and down your slit, Gojo has his blue eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips bucking. Wildly. “Why didn’t Eywa tell me that you’d taste so good-”

“Oh my—” Your back arches while his thickened fingertips come between your legs to pinch your puckered pussy into his mouth. Pushing you against him even more - greedy. “Shit, it just feels so-”

Smack!

And without a single warning, Gojo has his roverin’ fingertips slamming down on your pussy. Straight on top of your slit where your clit was hidden, it sends shockwaves of both pain and pleasure up your spine.

You’re gasping and staring down at him-

“Now now, no cursing- be good before Eywa, hm?” That damn hypocrite - and you could see it in that sultry smile of it. Gojo was getting off on the way you’d squirm your cunt restlessly against his face, sighing into the way he starts fucking your pussy once more. “Or else m’not gonna eat this pretty pussy of yours out, ya hear?”

You gape, “That’s not fucking fair-”

Smack!

“What was that, beloved?”

“I said—”

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Until Gojo’s leaving your pussy raw and needy, and even then he wasn’t done with you- he has the audacity to purse his plump lips and spit. Spit. Letting the sharp strike of saliva make you shiver—

“What was that?” He asks you in such a breathy tone, such a ruined tone. Gojo spoke like if you told him you needed him right now then he would simply shatter. 

And you can only gulp at the state that he was in - you’ve researched Na’vi during times of high pressure, during battles, during their coming-of-age ceremonies. But never had you met one that simply seemed so…feral. “I-I’ll be good, Satoru.”

He smiles like he’s been wanting to hear those exact words for years.

Fingertips jittering with excitement, he then reaches for your intertwined ankles with his tail. 

Locking them in place, Gojo murmurs. “Good…” Before he’s getting ready to dive straight back into your sweetened cunt once more, “Because you better not run-”

And you don’t get to ask just what might constitute you running from his mouth. His tongue.

You don’t get to ask just what it meant when he looked at you with that dark inkling of something carnal, as if he was about to devour you whole.

You don’t get to ask anything, in fact, and whatever questions were already in your throat burst into a zillion pieces at the feeling of him pushing his tongue inside your hole. Properly.

Not lapping away coquettishly on your outer cunt, not slurpin’ up all your treacly juices.

Gojo had his tastebuds stuffed inside your entrance and was draaaaagging them all across every orifice inside of you. Thrusting his entire length in and out at a rapid pace, you could feel the edge of his chin hitting your base with every movement.

Inside and out.

Inside and out.

But the sheer speed of him wasn’t even the bit makin’ you the most dizzy- see Gojo’s Na’vi tongue was something amazing. Something incredible. 

Just so large and lavish that it was stretching your walls out like never before.

“P-please-” You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like this- the way that Gojo’s textured tongue would mold against your walls, the way he’d pinpoint even the tiniest orifices with his flexible tip, the way he’d expand and contract his tongue purposefully. Until you saw white. Bucking—“Please it just feels so-”

“Where’d ya think you’re going?”

And the slur in his voice makes you pause- “Wh-what…?”

The last thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo tightens the rude grip of his fingertips on your pussylips. And the other one of his hands holds onto your waist to haul you back down onto his mouth- you hadn’t even realized that you’d been edging away in sensitivity. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to run?” Spankin’ those rugged fingertips of his down on your clit once more. You get the feeling that Gojo’s meanly choosing your clit because he knew that’d make you clench ‘round his tongue even more. “Don’t run. Don’t even move.”

“You’re just so fucking- ngh, big and you expect me not to move?” You wail out in indignity.

“Well, who told you to fuck a Na’vi warrior?” He’s countering, those half-lidded eyes of his twinkling with humor. “Better yet- who told you to fuck the olo’eyktan-”

And you suppose you had no explanation for that.

Especially not even Gojo was pumping his thickened tongue into you so fast that any and all explanations in your throat start to dissolve. Instead being replaced by the most pathetic whines and groans as he keeps fucking your pussy greedily.

As though Gojo was a man parched.

Because your wettened pussy was more refreshing to him than the waters of the lake- and if he could, he’d have his head stuffed between your legs every second of the day. Simply slurpin’ up every dewy droplet that escaped out of you, Gojo catches even those tiniest of wads.

Slipping his looooong tongue inside—you’re driven damn near mad once he slithers his length in and grazes your g-spot.

Hips bucking, eyes snapping open. “H-how did you even manage-”

“Ah ah—” His familiar tut, and soon enough you’re glued back down onto his pretty mouth again. Gojo doesn’t even need to try to ease you pliably back onto his face no matter how much you try to run- but oh, it was just so fun to watch your sultry surprise. The way you only got wetter when he manhandled you. “So this is that cute lil’ g-spot human have, hm? I thought it was just something in Shoko’s anatomy textbooks.”

“You- you read her textbooks…” You ask.

“All day and all night.” Gojo replies with a smirk, his ears twitching as he hears the quickening of your heartbeat. “Only Eywa knows how much I’ve touched myself imagining this.”

“Oh—”

It hits you like a flash of lightning- and so do the sudden swipes of Gojo’s tongue reaching your sweetest spots. Thud-thud-thud-thud he’s ricocheting against your bundle of nerves rapidly, making it echo like your own heartbeat in your ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud—

“Shit-” And suddenly you understand- you thought you understood before? But no, now you understand why Gojo had been telling you not to run away initially.

“Don’t run.” He warns.

Because all you’re feeling are the large stripes he’s licking up your slick walls, and the only thing you can think of doing is bucking. Rutting. Reaching for his lips wildly- though your body moves torturously as if you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to run away—“Shit.” 

“Don’t run.”

But how could you not run from it? How could you not even move when Gojo had your body teased n’ toyed with till absolutely no end?

He was hammerin’ his tongue against your g-spot furiously—and you were sure by now that he has the exact pattern of his tastebuds bruised right on that area. Shapin’ your velvety walls to his tongue, Gojo dives in just so animalistically.

And you can’t help but buck. You can’t help but arch your back. You can’t help but reach your hand out and attempt to grab onto something- anything for dear life. 

Again and again. “Shiiiiit is it even allowed to feel this good-”

But the Na’vi leader merely stops your hands with his own, folding them neatly into his hair. Holding onto his clammy scalp- “As Eywa wills it.” He smiles and your cunt’s just so sensitive by this point that you can feel the exact degree of curvature of his grin. “Which reminds me…”

And for your profanity you’re getting three more direct spanks, “Shit-”

One more.

Before you feel him then twist his fingertips on your throbbing clit and pinch- “Ya reeeeally can’t be a good girl f’me, huh?” Gojo asks you with a smile, though there was a hint of something in his voice that reminded you why exactly he was the olo’eyktan of such a large clan. “Look at you—”

“Sh-shit, that feels so-” But he isn’t listening, and you’re fighting the heels of your feet against his broad back. 

“Look at you.” He’s tightening his tail on your ankles and dragging you back down. He’s spitting down through clenched canines, every single word sending sparks up to your hazy brain. Barely even working by this point, surely. “Swearing. Squirming. Moaning like a slut and trying to escape- as your leader, I should punish you, beloved.”

“No more pussy spanking—” You whine, “Just makes me so sensitive…”

“I’m not talking about pussy spanking, beloved.” To emphasize his point he gives just a light tap on your sensitive nub once more.

It leaves you shaking to wonder just what else he has in store for you- though you don’t have to let your mind grapple in the dark for too long. Because in absolutely no time - just a few more vulgar thrusts of his tongue - you’re feeling the sudden plump intrusion of something slender at your hole.

It certainly couldn’t have been his tongue, because you knew what that ridged texture felt like. 

It certainly couldn’t have been Gojo’s cock, because you’d tasted that and you knew he had a much larger circumference. 

So that left only one option—Gojo had your pussylips spread apart and your entrance gulping up every inch of his fingers. They just looked so stark with their blue color disappearin’ into your hole, and Gojo’s increeeeedible length making you feel so full. 

Two of them were all that were shovelled inside- and yet he was already stretching for your very cervix on his first thrust inside. He scours the spongy end of your pussy then slides back out—in and out, in and out, in and out.

Each time his knobbly joints push against your g-spot and left you crying-

“Feel my fingers inside you?” Gojo rasps ruthlessly, his mouth wrapped around your throbbing clit. Groaning at the way you grow even wetter- Na’vi senses were strong, and he could smell the impending orgasm on you. “Feel the way I reach for your- hah, womb all inside? Feel the way I can fuck a baby in you so easily?”

“Yes-” You answer to them all, “Yes yes yes yes—”

And before you can say anything more, his powerful tail hauls you down. Bashin’ in even deeper with his plush fingertips. “Feel the way I’ve found eeeevery cute spot of yours? Feel the way I know your pussy inside and out?”

“Yes- fuck.” And you don’t even care if you’re ‘punished’ any more for breaking Gojo’s stern rules. Gojo himself was slamming his knuckles red and raw against your cunt, fucking his human’s tight pussy. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Feel the way m’making you mine—?”

“Satoru, m’gonna cum-”

“Note it down in your research.”

And then you’re exploding straight into your high - and you know it’s the best you’ve ever had.

Your eyes fall shut and the only thing you’re seeing behind them is pure black with stars of white, pulsing against your bleary vision in time with the furious throbbing at your cunt. Little zaps of pleasure shoot all the way down to the tips of your toes every time he’s moving his maw across your core. Sharp. Sensitive. He’s wedged between your legs and lappin’ up each pulse.

Sluuuuurp—!

Long, aching drags of his tongue. They’re roverin’ over the most sensitive spot of your clit, meanwhile his fingers were glazed in slick n’ fucking you stupid already.

Gojo thrusts you through your high as if he was angry at you. As if he can’t get enough. As if he’s losing his damn mind and you n’ your pussy are the only reasons why-

It takes you only a minute more for your wave of bliss to taper out, fully riding through it. 

And then only another minute more for you go from fucked straight to overstimulated by a few more of his rovering thrusts. He swabs your g-spot once more and you think you’re bawling- “S-Satoru, I’m already done-”

But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear you.

In fact, you couldn’t sworn that he was grabbing onto your right thigh with his free hand and keeping himself plastered even more into your cunt-

“Satoru—!” You’re calling out helplessly, “Satoru, I’m already- ngh, done-”

“Mhmmmm?” Muttering something wet underneath his breath, and you have to strain your ears to actually hear him. Breathy. Panting. “Research- fuck! More…”

“I can’t even- oh.” It was almost dangerous just how potent he was with his mouth and fingers, and before long your thighs were starting to shake with sensitivity. Causing you to grab onto his scalp even tighter and-

“O-oh.”

And accidentally tug on the long braid of white hair thrown over his shoulder—his kuru.

Did that manage to…

Your breath hitches, and you’re reaching out to graze your fingers down his kuru once more-

“Fuh—fuuuuck.” Gojo throws his head back in a voice that almost sounded like a whimper, his slick lips quivering. His skin covering in goosebumps. His erection throbbing from where you could spy him. His entire large body shakes with the zaps of hypersensitivity going down his spine, “D-don’t think you know what you’re getting into, beloved…” His murky breath clouds out in front of him. 

“You sure?” You challenge - what a privilege it was to see him break.

The olo’eyktan grits his teeth—-“I’m warning you…”

But when were you ever one to listen to warnings?

Without thinking much of it, you tighten your hand ‘round his kuru and tug—

And then he’s on you in a split-second.

He’s not even moving- he’s grabbing onto your hips and bodily puuuulling you right back down till your cunt lips kiss his cock. He’s pushing your legs up until your kneecaps hit your tits. He’s hunching his entire body forwards and-

“Sh-shit.” Your eyes widen, “Satoru, did you just-”

“Yes.”

Just you teasing his kuru is enough to make Gojo spuuuurt out in creamy wads of cum once more, coating the outer part of your pussy in a thick layer. It feels hot and wet on top of you, streaming down to drench the coating. Before he’s swervin’ his swollen tip inside and fucking you-

No hesitation. No preparation.

You’re getting what you deserved, and that was to be fucked like an absolute anima by the Na’vi.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.” He’s spitting- straight into your hotly opened mouth. Those sharp canines of Gojo’s nipping at your bottom lip, “You don’t know what you’ve done- you don’t know what you’ve done-”

“Shit, shiiiit—Satoru.” Moaning out his name like a broken record player. He’s bullying out harsh semi-thrusts against your cunt that leave you scrambling for breath- just shovin’ his puckered tip inside, just tasting the inside of your pussy with his cockhead, just trying to fucking fit.

“Sayin’ my name like that and you don’t even fucking—” Before Gojo feels your soppy walls clench tightly ‘round him, and his lips part a little before racing down and spitting on your cunt. “Fucking fit.”

“You say that like it’s so easy-” You sob out. 

He was pistoning his hips into you ferally.

The only thing he was doing was stretchin’ out your cute hole a few times, just so big that you’re being push-push-pushed up the fur coat you were splayed out on-

A hand at your throat.

“Don’t. Fucking. Run.”

And you don’t have the chance to tell him that you weren’t actually running and in fact it was just his roverin’ hips forcing you upwards- but before you could do that, Gojo’s already rendering you speechless with his cock.

He’s grabbing an even tighter restraint of your neck.

He’s manhandling your entire body down like he’s crazed.

He’s juuuuuust barely managing to squeeze in a sultry inch of two of his massive length- the mere sensation of that in itself enough to send your mind bursting into a heap of stars. It was almost numbing on your lower half, to have this much of him fitted inside you.

Stuffed inside you.

Throbbing inside you.

And it seems that the only one more affected by that fact wasn’t you - it was Gojo Satoru himself. Head falling into the crook of your neck. Tail flinching as it now wraps around your right thigh. Mouth parting with an agonized groan.

“F—fuck.” He’s echoing out hollowly into your ear, “Fuck, you’re so fucking…tight.”

Gojo spits out the word as if it was the very reason the olo’eyktan was shattering right about now. And almost on cue, those sopping wet walls of yours clench ‘round his tip and makes the Na’vi yelp—

“Fuck, don’t do that.” He’s shuddering through his sloppy strokes, his split-ended tip filling you up with dewy precum. “Fuck, don’t do that unless you want to be taught what happens when you pull on the kuru of a Herwi like me, little scientist.”

“What happens?” You ask innocently.

“S’why I’m telling you to fucking—oh.”

Just a few more pulsating clenches of your cunt, and Gojo shivers as though he’s being held hostage by your wet walls.

He bears his canines and snarls at you in the way you’d seen Na’vi do when they want to signal, to intimidate, to mate. 

But you stare up at the olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan with determination.

And he’s giving you one final probe-

“I’m going to get you fucking pregnant.”

He breathes out against the shell of your ear, almost like the last whisper of his sanity before Gojo stares into your wide heart-eyes—and he’s reeling his hips back to plunge.

Uncaring how unready your poor entrance was.

Uncaring how your tiny human body shakes underneath his larger one.

His fat cock swipes between your glittery folds and puuuuushes against the instinctual restraint of your hole, all the way until you start to tremble- and he knows he can’t push any more. He knows he can’t break you.

He’s fighting back every sudden primal urge in him that just wants to fuck you all the way inside- and furiously pumps his solid inches back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping a hand always on the top of your stomach for when he’s feeling his hard globular tip push upwards.

Gojo was just so big that he could feel himself sinking in from the outside-

“And that’s not a promise, beloved.” Gojo’s pale brows furrow as his cockhead starts swabbin’ even deeper after each thrust, “That’s not a promise- that’s not even a challenge-”

“Th-then—?” He’s pushing doooown on your overstuffed core and you find it hard to breathe, both pressures from between your legs and from Gojo pushing on your cylindrical tummy bulge was just…

The olo’eyktan grins when he watches his cute lil’ human struggle to take his entire cock, the bluish hue of it spreading apart your thighs. He reels his slender hips back in quite the long drag—before ultimately hammering- “It’s an oath. Before Eywa.”

A divine oath.

Added to the fact that Gojo was slamming his ruddied tip into you with each syllable- and you could never forget about the sheer size difference. The way that it helped him bend over you and fold you in half as though nothing but a lawnchair—your ass was cleanly dangling off the floor with how much Gojo was bending you.

A mating press. The meanest one you’ve ever seen.

You’re hit with the sudden inclination that you weren’t about to walk out of here any time soon.

And Gojo seems to be doing well on that fact- he hadn’t completely bottomed-out yet, but he was still drilling into you with such fervour. Streaking his cum from before across every inch of you, a layer of white that you feel from the inside.

Feverish cocktip swabbin’ all the way at the back of your cervix, full balls smacking your cunt.

Every time he was hurtling his hips forwards, it almost felt as if the ground beneath you was trembling. 

It almost felt as if he was hitting each of your geysering spots without even needing to try. Just so big that the veiny sides of his cock rubbed n’ dubbed up against those orifices unfairly. 

It almost felt as if you were losing it-

“So I think you’ll have a loooot of fuckin’ research, beloved.” Gojo snickers, his tail flicking you playfully. And at this point you’re not even sure what the conversation was about, just knowing that it was the background music to the lecherous thwacking of his hips on yours. 

So hard that you could feel the wads of his high from before glazing your insides. Dripping all the way near the rim of your cunt before being pumped back inside.

He pushes down on top of that bulge once more and watches you whine, “I almost don’t want to, mmm, ask what it’ll be about…”

“Ohhh, y’know—” Gojo trails off airily, something shaky in the back of his tone that sends shivers up your spine. It makes you almost content to know that you’ve gotten him so pussydrunken- but then again you weren’t too far behind. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you through partially closed eyes, smiling. “-human-Na’vi babies.”

And it’s with that that Gojo finally - finally - drills his cock all the way to the hilt.

Bottoming out.

His breath catches at the realization.

Blue eyes widening. Mouth watering.

It feels so different to have your hot innards surrounding him entirely- and fuck, Gojo wasn’t even sure whether a human like you would be able to take all of him. But it seems that you really were made for him, yes? Every curve and edge of you. Every bit of your cunt that he gives an experimental buck into, before pumping inside like a madman-

Pounding you into the smooth ground of the celestial temple.

It feels like you’re being thrust into heaven itself because of the way he was so big, big, big—all the way from the purple-ish tip that was zig-zagging your walls, to the oversized tummy bulge he was fucking into you, to the way he had you folded. Manhandled.

Gojo’s only lasting a few strokes before he’s crushing you to him so hard that it almost hurts- “Right here—right here.” The hand atop your stomach pushes down where his ruby-red tip was kissin’ and kissing at your womb. “You’re gonna have a lot ta research about fucking- ngh, getting bred by the fucking olo’eyktan. A lot to research about carrying my next heir, yeah?”

“Yes…” Arching your back into him.

“And then here—” That very hand now drifts down to the in-betweens of your pussylips and rubs his thumb over your clit. He’s drawing little circles and hearts on top of your sensitive nub that makes you wrack with pleasure, “Yer gonna have to research giving birth to such a biiiig baby, beloved.”

You shiver at the thought, mostly excitement.

And he purrs as he rubs his cheek against the sweaty crown of your head, “But s’okaaaaay- I’ll help you through every step of it, beloved. My mate.” The Na’vi’s staring down at you lovingly, fucking you filthily. “M’gonna breed you all full, okay? You might just have to research more about Na’vi phenotypes- heh.”

You can only nod. “Please…”

And before you can dwell too long on that last particular word—mate—he’s continuing. “And then you don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing- I can take care of eeeeverything. I’ll wash our kid. I’ll dress our kid. I’ll feed our kid. I’ll do everything and anything just please-”

“Y-yes?” Your voice cracks.

And he winks down at you almost mischievously, “Let’s do some research together on when I’ll be able to breed you all full of my cum next, hm?”

And with only a few more vicious thrusts, you’re feeling your second wave of pleasure tonight take over. You knew it’d been bubbling inside your veins for some time now- and right now it almost felt as if that euphoria was overflowing.

Overspilling.

Just like the gushing wads of slick that drivel over the front slit of your cunt and leave you so wet that you feel like a waterpark. Just rhythmic bursts of your high that leave your body loose and limp, shaking a bit every time that Gojo’s cockhead plummets inwards.

Head muddled.

Eyes rolling to the very back of your head.

This might just be the best orgasm of your entire life, and your wave of pleasure is looooong and drawn-out with how many times Gojo thrusts his cock in to fuck you through it. “Shit, Toru—” 

Again and again and again.

Each time hitting the target of your g-spot dead-on and watching as you gush around him even more. 

You were at Gojo’s complete mercy…almost.

Shaking. Your hands find themselves in his hair once more- or more precisely grazing the long length of his kuru. “Satoru.” You’re breathing out as he shivers carnally, “Satoru, I want it- ngh, inside.”

His eyes widen, “Demanding something of the olo’eyktan, are you?”

“Inside, Toru.” Desperate now.

To emphasize, you’re lightly tugging on his kuru and watching as it makes the Na’vi above you shudder. His cock pouring out heaps of precum that only act as a warning for something…more. “F-fuck, better keep this all in until tomorrow-”

At the very least.

You’re honestly not sure if you can keep it all in even now—because then Gojo’s throwing his head back and cumming long and hard. Harder than he ever thinks he has before- his seed dribbles out of him like a gooey waterfall, taking place inside every nook and cranny you have.

Heavy balls clenching almost aggressively as they empty out inside you.

He’s swervin’ each ounce of it inside by dragging his globular tip, that reddened cockhead making you swear you taste Gojo all the way at your throat. 

Flooding.

Your toes curl, it almost feels as though he’s fucking you into a third and fourth high altogether-

“Until tomorrow-” Gojo barks out through his smoky tone, “Until always-” After reaching his high so many times in one night, his sparks of euphoria just rip through him. And you can feel the sheer intensity of it by the way his slippery slick thwacks! against the back of your pussy, hot and heavy. It seems to inflate you from the inside, “Until we have our…fuck.”

And it’s not like Gojo to let up a sentence. Especially one that wavered with emotion.

“Until I have…” He starts again, blue eyes twinkling. “…you.”

Right now he was cupping the side of your face with his left hand- accidentally…or perhaps not…dslodging the translating device from your ear.

And then the Na’vi olo’eyktan leans with his forehead pressing down on top of yours.

Dragging his hand down the side of your head, where his beads for you twinkled in the glow of Eywa’s tree. Breathing out the words—“Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si.”

He looks at you with a slightly sad smile as if he was almost bitterly glad you didn’t understand. Though little did he know…“Oel ngati kameie, Satoru.”

And the look on his face was worth all the time you’d spent poring over Na’vi language books with Shoko these past few days. At least you understood this.

You grin, “I did a bit of research myself.”

He holds you tight, he holds you as if he wanted you two to become one.

More so.

Eventually—after about four or so more rounds, and once you were thoroughly shattered and kept on begging for it, Gojo had swiped his long kuru into his hand and raised it up to you. You yourself didn’t have one, but if there was anything you learned from being with the Herwi people—it’s that love comes in all forms and differences.

You press your lips to his flower-like nerves at the very end of his braid. Immediately, a rush of something between you two and you understand what he meant about being mates.

You feel what Gojo sees.

You feel what Gojo smells.

You feel what Gojo hears.

You feel what Gojo tastes.

You feel what Gojo feels.

You feel complete.

.

.

.

Day #6 in the Herwi village (day after the mating):

The ancient of the Herwi clan were one of the only believers in fated mates, of one who had been destined to walk beside you upon this good planet through Eywa’s will. It was said that life does not flower until one meets one’s fate, not even the skies shall migrate, not even the ice shall melt. 

Two souls bound to meet.

And until then one can only look up, up, up…

This scientist was found in quite the curious position as mate to the olo’eyktan on the morning after.

Re-entering the village, hand-in-hand, it was inevitable that the Herwi people would stare. Not only was it quite past the deadline of six moons given, but each bore resemblance of a mating session that could’ve been spotted a smile away.

Bite marks. Bruises. Slight falter in walking.

Not to mention that it seems word had spread about the…inoccupancy of the Tree of Winter just the night prior. (Additionally for more on Herwi stamina read Page 69…)

Circling back, the stares were rather unabashed. Some gasping. Some ribbing. Some tuts by elders of the clan who then again turned around with a smile.

It was obvious that they had been praying for the olo’eyktan’s happiness for a long, long time.

It must be noted that congratulations were doled out heavily at the communal dinner that night. Food. Dances. Parades.

It must be noted even further that preparations for coronation at the Herwi tsahìk shall be taking place in a week’s time. Who would have thought, a human being a tsahìk? Who would have thought that humans had fated mates as well?

For this scientist’s final note, preparations are already being planned meticulously for the arrival of a new heir to the Gojo name.

And that leaves the scientific community with one last thing, now that fluency in the Na’vi language is on the path to be attained: the glossary.

Tsahìk - Head shaman, high priest, interpreter..

Olo’eyktan - Male clan leader.

Mawey - Calm.

Txeylan - Best friend.

Ì’awn - Stay.

Fnu - Be quiet.

Txen - Awake.

Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey. - You’re alive- oh, you’re alive.

Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung? - I’m happy. Awake? You’re awake? Are you injured?

‘Upe lu nga fwew? - What are you looking for?

Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga. - Beloved? I’d give you anything.

Oe pey ngim krr. - I’ve been waiting a long time.

Tìnga’prrnen - Pregnant.

Tìnga’prrnen? Oe? - Pregnant? Me?

Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen. - You want to get me pregnant?

Fì'u - This.

Irayo nga - Thank you.

Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen. - I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.

Lake Yapay - Lake Steam.

Hona beads - Endearing.beads.

Mt. Hoet - Vast.

Kuru - Neural queue.

Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si. - I see you, my mate.

Oel ngati kameie, Satoru. - I see you, Satoru.

A/N. It must be acknowledged that Herwi culture was influenced by some aspects of Inuit culture, as well as some aspects of my own Sinhalese culture! Both such beautiful cultures that I was honored to research more in-depth on. Also this Na'vi vocabulary bank was used, and for longer Na’vi sentences this translator was used and might not be fully accurate ahhh-

You stood at the opposite end of the room with your hands folded neatly in front of you. You had arrived without triggering the Watchtower’s alarms, without using a Boom Tube, and apparently without requiring oxygen. The enormous observation windows behind you framed the curve of the Earth in brilliant blue, making the edges of your silhouette shimmer like something cut from the fabric of the universe itself.

Your clothing looked harmless enough. Soft trousers, boots with silver buckles, a loose shirt beneath an embroidered coat that seemed to change colour depending on the angle of the light. There were stars woven into the cuffs.

Actual stars, Damian suspected.

They pulsed.

“I understand,” you continued, with the solemn patience of someone explaining a simple concept to particularly nervous children, “that appearing unannounced within your fortified orbital headquarters could be interpreted as threatening.”

“You think?” Green Lantern muttered.

You smiled at him. “Yes. That is why I am clarifying my intentions before anyone makes an unfortunate decision.”

There was a faint creak as Superman’s chair shifted beneath the sudden tension in his posture.

You glanced around the table and added, “An unfortunate decision such as attacking me, which would force me to defend myself and potentially erase this entire station from the timeline.”

Silence descended.

The stars on your cuffs twinkled cheerfully.

You tilted your head. “But I would not enjoy doing that.”

“That,” the Flash said slowly, “did not make it better.”

You frowned, genuinely troubled. “It did not?”

“No,” Batman said.

“I see.” You looked down at your hands, considering. “Perhaps I should have begun with the baked goods.”

A plate appeared on the conference table. It did not teleport in. It did not shimmer into existence or emerge from a portal. Reality simply seemed to remember that there had always been a plate of iced biscuits sitting between Batman’s files and Green Lantern’s elbow.

The Flash recoiled hard enough to nearly tip over his chair.

“They are not poisoned,” you said quickly. Green Lantern leaned away from them. “They also do not contain any parasitic organisms, mind-altering spores, concealed tracking devices, or fragments of my consciousness.”

Green Lantern leaned farther away.

You looked helplessly at Superman. “I am making it worse again.”

“A little,” Superman admitted.

Damian pressed his lips together. It took considerable effort.

His father turned his head slightly. Damian knew that look. It was the silent warning Bruce had used since Damian was ten years old and discovered that openly mocking frightened diplomats was considered impolite.

Damian was not mocking you.

Not yet.

He was, however, beginning to suspect that you were the strangest person he had ever encountered.

Considering the company he kept, that was almost impressive.

Batman placed both gloved hands on the table. “Start again. Who are you?”

You straightened, apparently grateful to be given a question with a clear answer.

You spoke your name.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere beneath Damian’s boots, the Watchtower groaned as if the metal itself recognised the sound.

You winced. “Apologies. Your current reality is somewhat sensitive to my full designation.”

“What are you?” Wonder Woman asked.

“That is more complicated.”

“Try us,” Green Lantern said.

You glanced at him. “Once, before the first stars formed, there was a thought.” Green Lantern closed his eyes. You continued, oblivious. “The thought became lonely, and therefore divided itself so it might have someone with whom to converse. One half became time. The other half became possibility.”

Damian watched your expression rather than listening to the quiet calculations happening around the room. You did not appear proud. You did not appear threatening. If anything, you seemed faintly embarrassed, as though your ancestry were an inconvenient childhood story your parents insisted on telling at dinner.

“Which half are you?” Superman asked.

“Possibility. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” the Flash echoed.

“I misplaced several pieces of myself during the collapse of the Seventh Continuum.”

The Flash stared at you.

You added, “I recovered most of them.”

Damian’s mouth twitched.

Your gaze immediately snapped toward him.

For an instant, the entirety of your attention settled over Damian like the gravity of a star. The room remained unchanged, but he could feel the weight of you—the vastness concealed beneath skin, cloth, and carefully folded hands.

“You are amused,” you said.

It was not an accusation. You sounded fascinated.

Damian lifted his chin. “Your attempts at reassurance require improvement.”

“I practised.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I stood before a mirror for three hours.”

That did it.

A quiet sound escaped Damian before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that every person at the table looked at him.

His father’s stare became distinctly disapproving.

You brightened. It was a small change, but impossible to miss. Your entire face softened, delight blooming across it like dawn breaking over a dead planet.

“Oh,” you said. “You find me funny.”

“I find your lack of self-awareness astonishing.”

“Is that similar?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it could become similar with time.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. You smiled at him.

Batman deliberately shifted the conversation away from whatever had just occurred. “Why are you here?”

“A hostile force has entered this universe.”

Every trace of levity vanished from the room.

You lifted one hand. A miniature image formed above your palm: a twisting mass of black tendrils surrounding something that resembled a fractured moon. Countless pale eyes opened and closed along its surface.

“It calls itself the Sovereign of Silence,” you explained. “It consumes consciousness. Entire civilisations disappear without physical destruction. Their cities remain. Their machines continue operating. Their bodies remain alive, but empty.”

“How long until it reaches Earth?” Superman asked.

“Thirty-one days.”

“Can you stop it?” Wonder Woman said.

“Yes.”

Everyone waited.

Your image of the creature folded in on itself and vanished.

“But?” Batman prompted.

“I have been informed that solving every conflict through unilateral reality alteration is ethically troubling.”

Damian’s attention sharpened.

You said the words with the weary cadence of someone reciting a lesson after being repeatedly scolded.

“Who informed you?” Superman asked.

“A coalition of intergalactic governments. They were very loud.”

“Did they have a point?” Wonder Woman asked.

You looked offended. “I restored the planets afterwards.”

Damian folded his arms. “After what?”

“After temporarily transforming the invading armada into decorative glass.”

The Flash leaned toward Superman. “I think we should circle back to the not-evil thing.”

“I returned them to their original state,” you said. “Most of them.”

“Most?”

“One vessel was accidentally made into a chandelier.”

Green Lantern stared at you. “Accidentally?”

“It was an extremely complicated chandelier.”

Against all reason, Damian wanted to laugh again.

You seemed to notice.

Your eyes flickered toward him, hopeful. Damian maintained his expression with the discipline of a trained assassin.

The corners of your mouth turned down.

Something unpleasant tugged beneath his ribs.

Ridiculous. He did not know you. You were an incomprehensible cosmic entity who had invaded the Watchtower, threatened to erase it, conjured suspicious biscuits, and apparently committed acts of military interior design.

He should not care that you looked disappointed.

“Why involve us?” Batman asked.

“Because I wish to demonstrate that I can cooperate with mortal heroes without dominating, manipulating, imprisoning, transmuting, unmaking, remaking, absorbing, or marrying anyone against their will.”

There was a pause.

“Marrying?” the Flash asked.

“A misunderstanding involving a moon kingdom.”

Batman rubbed two fingers against his temple.

Damian finally reached for one of the biscuits.

His father caught his wrist.

“They are safe,” Damian said.

“You don’t know that.”

“If they intended to kill us, Father, we would already be dead.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

Batman’s grip tightened.

“That was not comforting,” Superman said gently.

You sighed. “I thought that one was better.”

Damian took the biscuit anyway.

It tasted of orange, honey, and something warm he could not name. A memory, perhaps. Sunlight on the manor’s library floor. Alfred setting tea beside his elbow without interrupting his sketching. Titus asleep across his feet.

His jaw went rigid.

You watched him anxiously. “Is it acceptable?”

Damian swallowed. “Adequate.”

You beamed as though he had declared it a masterpiece.

That was the moment, though he would deny it for months afterwards, that Damian Wayne’s downfall began.

It started with biscuits.

Most catastrophes did not.

Then again, you were not a catastrophe. You simply sounded like one.

The League agreed to accept your assistance under several conditions.

You were not to alter anyone’s mind. You were not to restructure inhabited planets without permission. You were not to reverse time unless the League approved it. You were not to resurrect anyone. You were not to create sentient life aboard the Watchtower. You were not to consume anything with a soul.

You had objected to the final condition on the grounds that you did not consume souls.

“Not intentionally,” you had clarified.

Batman added three more restrictions.

You accepted every rule with grave sincerity. A glowing contract appeared in the air before you, written in a language that caused Green Lantern’s ring to issue an error message.

You signed it using a quill made of blue flame.

“Completely harmless,” you assured them as the contract vanished into your chest.

Damian heard Nightwing whisper, “Oh, this is going to be incredible,” from the back of the room.

Because the approaching threat affected thought itself, Batman decided to involve several younger hero teams. The Titans, Young Justice, and a rotating group of magical specialists were brought aboard the Watchtower for training and strategic preparation.

Damian, as one of the most experienced Titans and one of the few people aboard who did not appear terrified of you, was assigned as your primary liaison.

“You mean babysitter,” he said when Bruce informed him privately.

“I mean liaison.”

“You wish for me to observe them.”

“I wish for you to help them integrate with the team.”

“Because I ate a biscuit.”

“Because they respond well to you.”

Damian stared at his father. Bruce stared back.

They both knew what had happened during the second meeting.

The League had been discussing potential containment measures when you politely informed them that no prison in this universe could hold you.

Batman had produced six theoretical designs.

You had examined each one with growing delight.

“These are very creative,” you had told him. “Would you like me to pretend they could work?”

Bruce had gone silent.

Damian had laughed aloud.

You had looked at him as if he personally hung the stars embroidered in your sleeves.

“They like you,” Bruce said.

“They have known me for less than forty-eight hours.”

“You like them.”

“I tolerate them.”

Bruce’s expression became insufferably knowing.

Damian scowled. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You have adopted Grayson’s habit of lying poorly.”

Bruce leaned back against the Batcomputer. “Just keep an eye on them.”

“They have eyes on several galaxies simultaneously. I doubt my surveillance will prove useful.”

“They’re powerful, Damian.”

“So are you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No,” Damian agreed. “They are far more polite.”

Bruce’s stare flattened.

Damian left before his father could reassign him.

He found you in one of the Watchtower’s training rooms, surrounded by half the Titans.

Beast Boy had transformed into a green mouse and was currently perched upon your shoulder. Blue Beetle’s armour was scanning you so aggressively that the scarab’s warnings had become audible. Raven stood at a cautious distance, her dark eyes narrowed.

Starfire floated in front of you, beaming.

“You are saying that you can become any form you desire?” she asked.

“Within reason.”

“You became a mountain yesterday,” Raven said.

“A small mountain.”

“You blocked out the sun.”

“Only locally.”

Damian stepped into the room. “What are you doing?”

Everyone turned.

You lifted a finger to your lips.

“Do not be alarmed,” you whispered.

Damian immediately became alarmed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing evil.”

The Titans collectively groaned.

Beast Boy scrambled from your shoulder as your body began to ripple. Your outline stretched upward, then outward, bending like reflected light on water. For one brief second, Damian glimpsed something vast beyond comprehension: branching limbs holding galaxies like fruit, thousands of eyes gleaming through endless dark, a crown fashioned from collapsing stars.

Then you became a cat. A very small cat.

You sat in the centre of the training room, blinking up at him with enormous eyes. Your fur was midnight black except for faint constellations scattered across your back.

Starfire clasped both hands beneath her chin. “Glorious.”

Beast Boy transformed back into himself. “Okay, that’s adorable.”

Raven’s mouth softened by a fraction.

Damian looked down at you.

You chirped.

“No,” he said. Your ears lowered. “You cannot gain my approval by becoming a feline.”

You walked across the floor and sat directly on his boot.

“Manipulation will not work.”

You placed one paw against his shin.

Behind him, Blue Beetle made a strangled sound.

Damian glared over his shoulder. “Silence.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Damian bent and lifted you.

Your small body settled immediately against his chest. You weighed almost nothing, though he was deeply aware that the creature purring beneath his hand could probably fold the moon in half.

He scratched beneath your chin. Your purr became loud enough to vibrate through his armour.

“This proves nothing,” Damian informed the room.

“Of course not,” Raven said.

He turned his glare on her.

Raven’s expression remained perfectly blank.

You stayed a cat for the rest of the meeting.

Damian did not put you down.

You were not evil. This became apparent within the first week.

It also became apparent that convincing anyone of this fact would remain an ongoing struggle.

You assisted Superman in diverting an asteroid away from a populated world. When the alien government thanked you, you responded, “Your continued survival benefits my long-term plans.”

The entire delegation paled. You had meant that you wanted to remain friends.

You brought emergency medical supplies to a planet experiencing an epidemic. Upon presenting the cure, you announced that no one would die “unless I permitted it.” You meant that the medicine was highly effective.

You rescued a school bus from falling through a collapsed bridge, suspending it in midair with a gesture. When frightened children asked whether you were a superhero, you smiled and told them that resistance was unnecessary. You meant that they were safe.

The public relations department developed headaches. Damian developed a private collection of recordings.

He told himself he kept them for training purposes. It was, after all, useful to review your mistakes so he could correct them. There was nothing sentimental about the folder hidden on his personal computer labelled Diplomatic Incidents.

There was especially nothing sentimental about his favourite clip, in which you attempted to reassure a group of diplomats that their children would remain untouched.

“The young ones are beneath my notice,” you had said.

Damian had turned away from the camera because his shoulders were shaking.

You found him afterwards in the Watchtower corridor, arms folded and expression wounded. “You laughed at me.”

“I did.”

“I was attempting compassion.”

“You informed several parents that their children were insignificant.”

“I said they were beneath my notice.”

“That is worse.”

“I meant I would not harm them.”

“Then say that.”

“I thought it was implied.”

“It was not.”

You fell into step beside him.

By then, the two of you had spent enough time together that your presence no longer set every instinct in Damian’s body on edge. He had learned the subtle tells of your power: the way shadows leaned toward you when you were annoyed, the faint glow beneath your skin when you were pleased, the static taste in the air when you concealed fear.

He had learned other things, too.

You loved Earth’s oceans but disliked sand. You considered ice cream one of humanity’s finest inventions. You did not sleep, but sometimes lay down and pretended because you enjoyed being included. You could hear music from dying stars. You had witnessed the birth of Saturn’s rings. You adored pigeons.

This final revelation had nearly destroyed Damian’s remaining patience.

“They are resilient,” you had said, scattering birdseed across a Gotham rooftop. “Adaptable. Social. They thrive despite widespread contempt.”

“They are vermin.”

“So have I been called.”

Damian had looked at you sharply.

You were still watching the pigeons. A grey one hopped onto your knee, cooing as your fingers carefully stroked its feathers.

Something old and quiet had moved in your face. Something too human for a being who claimed to predate stars.

Damian had not insulted the pigeons again.

Now, walking beside him through the Watchtower, you twisted your fingers together.

“I should prepare written statements,” you said. “That may reduce misunderstandings.”

“You attempted that yesterday.”

“The phrase ‘your world remains unburned by my mercy’ sounded better on paper.”

“It did not.”

You sighed.

Damian glanced at you. Your gaze remained fixed on the floor. The lights overhead flickered as you passed beneath them, reacting to the slow dimming of your mood.

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

You looked at him. “Why does what matter?”

“Their opinion.”

You slowed.

Damian stopped with you.

Beyond the observation window, Earth turned silently below them. Clouds curled over blue oceans. City lights shimmered on the darkened half of the planet, fragile and distant.

You looked toward it.

“Because I like them,” you said.

Damian waited.

“I like this place. I like that humans make small spoons specifically for stirring tea. I like that your species writes songs about feelings too complicated to say aloud. I like umbrellas, though I have no need for them. I like that you name machines and speak to animals as if they understand.”

“Many do understand.”

“I know. They have much to say.”

Damian made a mental note to ask you about that later.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass. “I have spent a very long time entering worlds only when something terrible has happened. By the time anyone sees me, they are already afraid. I thought perhaps if I explained immediately that I was not evil, it would prevent that fear.”

“It does the opposite.”

“I am becoming aware.”

“You also threaten people while attempting to reassure them.”

“I do not mean to.”

“I know.”

The words emerged more softly than Damian intended.

You turned your head. Your eyes were not any unusual colour. They could have been brown, or green, or grey depending on the light. Yet something moved deep within them, an endless scattering of possible worlds that appeared and vanished with every blink.

“You know?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Damian frowned. “Because I pay attention.”

The air changed. It became warmer, carrying the scent of rain against hot stone. Somewhere inside the observation window, impossible flowers bloomed across the glass before fading.

You stared at him.

“No one has said that before,” you murmured.

“That is because the people around you are easily frightened.”

“You were not.”

“I am rarely frightened.”

You smiled faintly. “That is untrue.”

Damian’s spine stiffened.

“You are frightened frequently,” you continued. “You simply do things while afraid.”

He should have resented the observation. He should have bristled at the suggestion that you could see through him so easily. Most people required years to understand the distinction between Damian’s courage and fearlessness. Even those who loved him sometimes mistook the sharpness of his voice for certainty.

You had known him for two weeks.

“How dare you,” he said.

Your smile widened.

Damian looked back toward Earth before you could see his own.

The first time you came to Wayne Manor, you promised Bruce that you would not bring about the end of the world while inside his home.

Bruce had replied, “That wasn’t one of my concerns until you said it.”

You considered this. “Then I have helped you identify a potential security flaw.”

Bruce looked at Damian. Damian walked past him into the foyer.

“Pennyworth will expect us for dinner,” he said.

You followed immediately.

Alfred, unlike every superhero, diplomat, and government official you had met, displayed no fear whatsoever. He accepted your coat, informed you that reality-altering powers were not an excuse to neglect table manners, and asked whether you had any dietary restrictions.

“I can consume any substance,” you said.

“I shall avoid serving any substances not generally considered food.”

“That is wise. The previous table did not survive.”

Alfred’s eyebrow rose.

You hurried to clarify. “That was several centuries ago.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

Damian had to leave the room.

Grayson cornered him in the hallway. He was grinning.

Damian continued walking.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Grayson caught Damian by the shoulders and steered him toward the library, ignoring his protests.

“You brought a date home.”

“They are not my date.”

“A cosmic entity met Dad, threatened the architecture, and followed you into the dining room like a duckling.”

“They are our guest.”

“Your guest.”

“They are working with the League.”

“And apparently flirting with you.”

Damian went still. Grayson’s grin became unbearable.

“They are not flirting with me.”

“They made you a sword out of a meteor.”

“It was a practical gift.”

“They engraved your name on it.”

“So others would not mistakenly claim it.”

“They engraved little hearts around your name.”

“Those were not hearts.”

“They were anatomically accurate human hearts, which is somehow more romantic and deeply unsettling.”

Damian shoved Grayson’s hands away. “You are projecting meaning onto meaningless details.”

“Sure.”

“There is no romantic interest between us.”

“Of course.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

Damian struck him.

Grayson dodged, laughing as Damian chased him through the library.

They returned to the dining room several minutes later to find you speaking with Alfred.

You had taken the seat beside Damian’s.

Not across from him, where Bruce had originally placed your name card. Beside him.

Your expression brightened the moment he entered.

It happened every time. It should not have affected him.

It did.

“Damian,” you said. “Alfred has explained the concept of childhood photographs.”

“No.”

You looked at Alfred.

Alfred calmly poured wine into Bruce’s glass. “I made no promises.”

“Pennyworth.”

“It seems only fair that our guest be given the full family experience.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “I’m suddenly loving family dinner.”

Tim was already opening an album.

Damian crossed the room with murder in his heart.

You watched the photographs with astonishing focus.

You admired every picture. Damian scowling in formal clothes. Damian asleep beside Titus. Damian at thirteen, covered in mud after attempting to relocate an injured fox from the manor grounds. Damian glaring at the camera while Grayson hugged him from behind.

“You were very small,” you said.

“I was a child.”

“I know. It is strange to imagine.”

“You have seen civilisations develop from single-celled organisms.”

“Yes, but I was not fond of any of them.”

The table went quiet.

You looked around. “Was that inappropriate?”

Jason coughed into his fist. Tim looked down at his plate. Dick’s shoulders began shaking.

Damian leaned closer to you. “You implied that you are fond of me.”

Your face changed.

The stars embroidered across your collar flared brilliantly.

“I did,” you said.

“Was that intentional?”

“I am uncertain.”

Damian stared. You stared back.

Neither of you noticed the exchange of money beneath the table.

Alfred did.

He collected his winnings after dessert.

Preparation for the Sovereign of Silence intensified. The creature moved faster than expected. Entire outposts vanished from communication networks. Ships were discovered drifting through space, their crews breathing but unresponsive.

Magic provided little protection. Technology failed to identify the method of attack. Even telepaths could not locate the minds stolen by the creature.

You attended every strategy session. You answered questions patiently. You accepted restrictions even when they frustrated you. Most importantly, you did not attempt to take control.

Damian knew how difficult that must have been.

He had been raised to believe that power justified authority. Competence meant leadership. If others could not accomplish a task, then the duty fell to him. It had taken years to learn that teamwork was not merely several people following his commands simultaneously.

You possessed enough power to solve almost any problem through force. Yet you asked permission before using it.

Sometimes badly.

“May I obliterate the hostile vessel?” you requested during one confrontation.

“No,” Superman said.

“May I frighten the occupants until they flee?”

“No.”

“May I cause them to experience a brief but educational vision of their own mortality?”

Wonder Woman paused.

“No,” Batman said.

You looked at Damian. He shook his head.

You sighed and disabled the vessel’s engines instead.

Afterwards, Damian found you seated alone in the Watchtower’s botanical garden. Several flowers had turned toward you despite the artificial lighting.

“You are sulking,” he said.

“I am reflecting.”

“You transformed Green Lantern’s coffee into a liquid that whispered his childhood secrets.”

“He said I lacked subtlety.”

“That was not subtle.”

“It only whispered.”

Damian sat beside you.

The garden was empty. Most of the League had returned to Earth for the night, leaving only essential personnel and those preparing for the Sovereign’s arrival.

You drew your knees toward your chest.

“I am trying,” you said.

“I know.”

“I could stop it.”

“You have said.”

“I could reach into the empty space between moments and remove the Sovereign before it ever formed. Every mind it consumed would return. Every planet would be restored. No one would remember that it existed.”

“Except you.”

“Yes.”

“And what would that cost?”

You were silent.

Damian turned his head.

“What would it cost?” he repeated.

The flowers around you closed.

“A portion of this universe,” you said at last.

“How much?”

“I do not know.”

“Then it is not an option.”

“I could choose which portion.”

“No.”

“I would avoid inhabited systems.”

“No.”

“I could select realities already approaching collapse.”

“You would still be destroying them.”

“They are possibilities, Damian. Some outcomes are born only to become suffering.”

“That does not give you the right to erase them.”

Your jaw tightened.

For a moment, Damian remembered what you were.

The air darkened. The garden walls disappeared beneath an endless expanse of stars. Your shadow spilled across the floor, rising behind you in shapes too large and complex for his eyes to understand.

“You speak confidently for someone whose existence occupies less than a heartbeat of mine,” you said.

Damian did not move.

The words should have sounded cruel. Instead, they sounded wounded.

“You are correct,” he said.

Your eyes flickered.

“My life is insignificant compared to yours. You could end it before I drew breath.”

The shadow behind you shuddered. “Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“I would never harm you.”

“Then listen to me.”

The stars around them stilled.

Damian leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “You came here because you wished to be trusted. Trust is not earned by possessing the ability to control every outcome. It is earned by allowing others to choose, even when their choices frighten you.”

Your voice became quiet. “And if their choices lead to death?”

“Then we face the consequences together.”

“I do not want you to die.”

The confession struck him more forcefully than any threat could have.

You looked furious about it. Furious and frightened and unbearably alone.

Damian’s chest tightened.

He understood then. You did not crave control because you believed yourself superior.

You craved it because you had lived too long. You had watched people die across centuries. Civilisations rose, flourished, and vanished while you remained. Every attachment became another future grave. Every person you loved was a fragile, temporary thing.

Power had taught you that loss was optional. Loneliness had taught you that love was not.

Damian shifted closer. “I do not intend to die.”

“You cannot guarantee that.”

“Neither can you.”

“I can.”

“No. You can preserve my body. You can alter history. You can build another version of me from memory and starlight, but you cannot guarantee that the person returned would be precisely the one you lost.”

Your expression crumpled by a fraction.

It was enough.

Damian reached for your hand.

You stared down at his fingers around yours.

The shadows withdrew. The garden returned.

“I have rules,” he said.

“You have many.”

“Do not interrupt.”

“Apologies.”

“You will not erase anything without the League’s agreement.”

You nodded.

“You will not sacrifice yourself without telling me.”

Your brow furrowed. “That sounds unfairly specific.”

“It is.”

“Why only you?”

Damian’s grip tightened.

Because the thought of you vanishing into the spaces between worlds made something inside him feel flayed open.

Because he had begun measuring his days by the sound of your voice.

Because he kept finding you in every room, as though his body had become a compass designed solely to point toward yours.

Because you looked at him and saw fear without weakness, saw tenderness without shame, saw a man rather than a weapon or heir or impossible child.

Because when you smiled at him, the universe seemed briefly smaller.

Manageable. His.

“You respond well to me,” Damian said.

You considered this. “That is true.”

“It is therefore efficient.”

“Of course.”

“You are smiling.”

“I find your lies endearing.”

Damian glared.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He allowed it.

After a moment, he rested his cheek against your hair.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The Sovereign arrived three days early.

It came without warning. One moment, Damian was aboard the Watchtower reviewing evacuation plans. The next, every screen went black.

A low sound moved through the station. It was not audible. It appeared directly within the mind, a vast and hollow note that made Damian’s thoughts scatter like birds beneath gunfire.

People collapsed.

Superman struck the floor first, hands clamped over his ears. The Flash staggered into the wall. Wonder Woman fell to one knee, teeth bared as she fought against an enemy no strength could touch.

Damian remained upright for six seconds.

Then memories began disappearing.

He forgot the name of his first dog. He forgot the colour of his mother’s eyes. He forgot why the symbol on his chest mattered.

Panic surged.

He fought it, grasping for fragments of himself as they slipped away. Names scattered. Faces blurred. His father became a shadow. Grayson’s laugh vanished. Todd’s voice. Drake’s tired smile. Alfred’s hands.

Damian stumbled.

Someone caught him.

You.

Your arms wrapped around him as the Watchtower trembled.

The power beneath your skin was no longer subtle. Light poured from your eyes and mouth. Your shape flickered between human and something endless, something made of every path reality might take.

“You came,” the Sovereign spoke through every unconscious person aboard the station.

Their mouths moved simultaneously.

“You who contain possibility.”

Your hold tightened around Damian.

The Sovereign’s presence pressed against his mind. It wanted emptiness. Silence. A universe freed from the pain of thought.

“You cannot take them,” you said.

Your voice shook the station.

Metal warped. Glass cracked. Earth’s atmosphere rippled below them.

The Sovereign laughed through a hundred stolen voices. “You could stop me.”

You went still.

Damian forced himself to focus.

The garden. Your hand in his. Rules.

Do not erase anything. Do not sacrifice yourself.

The Sovereign showed you something. Damian could not see it, but he saw the reaction on your face. Horror. Longing. Temptation.

It was offering you a solution.

“Do not,” Damian managed.

You looked down at him.

For one terrifying instant, there was no recognition in your eyes.

Then your expression softened.

“Beloved creature,” you whispered.

Despite everything, Damian felt offended. “Do not call me that.”

A broken laugh escaped you.

The Sovereign pressed harder.

Damian’s knees buckled. You lowered him carefully to the floor, one hand cradling the back of his skull.

“I can end this,” you said.

“Not alone.”

“It is already inside their minds.”

“Then go into mine.”

Your eyes widened.

Damian could feel pieces of himself crumbling. His memories were rooms with the lights going out one by one.

He seized your wrist.

“You said minds are possibilities,” he forced out. “Every decision. Every memory. Every path not taken.”

“Yes.”

“Use mine as a doorway.”

“It could destroy you.”

“You will not allow it.”

The faith in his own voice surprised him. It surprised you more.

The Sovereign screamed through the station.

Damian held your gaze. “I trust you.”

Something in you broke open.

Power exploded outward.

The Watchtower disappeared.

Damian found himself standing in a forest.

Not a real forest. His forest. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretched beneath an impossible sky. Trees grew from memories. Each branch held moments in place of leaves: his father wrapping a bandage around his hand, Alfred teaching him to bake, Grayson catching him during a fall, Todd handing him a book without comment, Drake falling asleep at the Batcomputer beside him.

The Sovereign moved between the trunks like smoke. Where it passed, leaves withered.

You stood beside Damian.

Here, inside his mind, you looked different. You wore no coat. No embroidered stars. Your body was formed from silver light, your edges shifting through a thousand possible versions of yourself. In some, you wore armour. In others, a crown. In one, you had no human shape at all.

Yet your hand felt warm when Damian took it.

“How do we kill it?” he asked.

“We cannot.”

“Then how do we stop it?”

“The Sovereign feeds upon isolated minds. It silences each consciousness by separating it from every other connection.”

Damian looked at the memory-trees. “Then give it too many connections.”

You stared at him.

Understanding flashed across your face. Then delight.

“Oh,” you breathed. “You are brilliant.”

“I am aware.”

You lifted your joined hands.

Every branch in Damian’s forest ignited.

Not with fire.

With connection.

The memory of Dick laughing linked itself to the memory of Bruce’s exhausted smile. Jason’s anger joined Tim’s loyalty. Alfred’s grief wound through Talia’s pride. Jon’s friendship, the Titans, the League, every animal Damian had saved, every person he had protected, every enemy who had shaped him.

Damian was not one mind. He was a constellation of every life that had touched his.

The Sovereign recoiled.

You reached through him. Through every bond Damian possessed. The power travelled outward, passing from mind to mind across the Watchtower. Superman’s love for humanity. Wonder Woman’s devotion to truth. Batman’s impossible, terrible hope. The Flash’s joy. Green Lantern’s will.

The Sovereign drowned in connection.

It shrieked as millions of thoughts surged through it at once. It had consumed isolated consciousness for so long that it could not withstand people choosing one another.

You could have destroyed it. Damian felt the possibility open beneath your feet: a bottomless void, ready to swallow the Sovereign and everything it had touched.

You closed it.

Instead, you separated the stolen minds from the creature one by one.

You returned them.

Every civilization. Every crew. Every person emptied and abandoned.

The work tore through you.

Damian felt your pain as cracks of darkness spread across your silver body.

“You are sacrificing yourself,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are lying.”

“I am revising my structure.”

“You are breaking apart.”

“Temporarily.”

“Stop.”

“Not yet.”

He pulled you toward him.

The Sovereign thrashed overhead, shrinking as stolen consciousness poured away from it.

“You promised,” Damian said.

“I promised to tell you.”

“That is not sufficient.”

“It was your rule.”

“I am changing it.”

Your smile was faint. “You cannot change agreements during execution.”

“I am Robin. I can do as I please.”

“That is not how agreements work.”

“I will find you.”

Your smile vanished.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours. “If you break apart, I will find every piece.”

“You do not know where they will go.”

“I do not care.”

“Some may fall beyond time.”

“Then I will go beyond time.”

“Some may become new stars.”

“I will search every one.”

“Damian.”

“You do not get to make me love you and then disappear.”

The world went still.

Even the Sovereign seemed to pause.

You stared at him.

The silver light of your body flickered violently.

“You love me?”

Damian’s face burned. “This is not the appropriate moment.”

“You love me.”

“I will rescind the statement if you continue behaving foolishly.”

“You cannot rescind love.”

“I can certainly rescind admitting it.”

The Sovereign lunged.

You turned. With one raised hand, you sealed the creature inside a sphere no larger than a pearl.

The forest returned to silence.

Damian stared at the tiny sphere floating above your palm. “You said you could not kill it.”

“I did not.”

“What did you do?”

“I placed it inside a harmless pocket reality where it will experience the combined internal monologues of every person who has ever lived.”

Damian considered this. “That seems cruel.”

“It will be released once it learns empathy.”

“So never.”

“Possibly never.”

You closed your fingers around the sphere.

It vanished.

Then your knees gave way.

Damian caught you.

The forest dissolved.

Damian woke in the Watchtower infirmary.

His father sat beside the bed. He looked terrible.

Damian pushed himself upright. “Where are they?”

Bruce placed one hand against his shoulder. “Damian.”

“Where?”

“They’re alive.”

Air returned to Damian’s lungs.

Bruce’s eyes softened.

“They’re stable,” he continued. “As stable as anyone can determine. Their physical form was damaged during the separation process.”

“I need to see them.”

“You suffered a significant psychic attack.”

“I am aware.”

“You need rest.”

“I will rest in their room.”

“Damian.”

“Father.”

Bruce stared at him. Damian stared back.

Bruce sighed.

Some battles were decided by experience. Others were decided by having the more stubborn son.

You were lying beneath enough monitoring equipment to track the vital signs of an entire army.

None of it seemed particularly useful. Your heartbeat changed every few seconds. Sometimes it stopped entirely. Your body temperature moved between freezing and fever-hot. The machine attempting to measure your brain activity had begun displaying weather forecasts for planets that did not exist.

Damian sat beside you.

Your face appeared peaceful. Too peaceful.

He hated it.

“I know you can hear me,” he said.

Nothing happened.

“You are attention-seeking.”

The lights flickered.

Damian leaned forward. “If you wished for flowers, you could have asked.”

A vase appeared beside the bed. It contained black roses with silver thorns.

Damian’s chest tightened. “You are awake.”

Your eyes remained closed.

“You are avoiding me.”

A small line appeared between your brows.

“You heard what I said.”

Your eyes opened.

The universe moved inside them.

“Which part?” you asked weakly.

Damian’s face heated. “Do not test me.”

“You said many things.”

“You remember them.”

“I sustained extensive damage.”

“You imprisoned a cosmic predator inside the collective annoyance of all sentient life.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“You remember.”

Your gaze slid away.

Damian stared at you. You, who had stood before gods and armies without flinching, suddenly seemed deeply interested in the infirmary ceiling.

“I did not expect you to say it,” you murmured.

“I had not intended to.”

“That is somewhat less romantic.”

“You were disintegrating.”

“I was reorganising.”

“You were dying.”

“Only in certain interpretations.”

Damian took your hand. Your fingers were cool.

“You are impossible,” he said.

“I have been described as inevitable.”

“That is worse.”

“I know.”

He traced his thumb across your knuckles. “You frightened me.”

Your expression changed immediately. “I am sorry.”

“I do not require an apology.”

“I frightened you.”

“And I remained.”

You looked at him.

Damian brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles.

The monitors began producing sparks.

He glanced at them.

You smiled sheepishly. “Apologies.”

“Control yourself.”

“You kissed me.”

“I kissed your hand.”

“You have never done that before.”

“You nearly ceased existing.”

“Would you do it again if I remained intact?”

“Perhaps.”

Your eyes brightened. “Would you consider kissing somewhere else?”

Damian’s eyebrows rose.

You looked horrified by your own words. “I meant my face.”

“I assumed.”

“Not that I would object to—”

“Stop speaking.”

You immediately closed your mouth.

Damian leaned closer.

For all your power, you trembled. 

That endeared you to him more than he could express. You could tear holes through dimensions. You could transform armies into chandeliers. You could hold collapsing stars between your hands.

Yet you were nervous because Damian Wayne might kiss you.

He cupped your jaw.

“Before you become alarmed,” he murmured, “I would like to make it explicitly clear that I am not attempting to kill you.”

Your mouth fell open.

Damian kissed you before you could respond.

For one perfect moment, nothing happened.

Then every flower in the Watchtower bloomed at once. The station’s artificial gravity failed. Somewhere in the distance, Green Lantern shouted.

Damian floated several inches above the floor, still holding your face between his hands.

You pulled back, eyes wide. “I lost focus.”

“I noticed.”

“I can fix it.”

“Do so.”

Gravity returned.

Damian landed neatly.

A tray crashed in the corridor.

You covered your face. “This is humiliating.”

“You brought the entire Watchtower to a halt by being kissed.”

“I have never been kissed before.”

Damian stilled. “You have existed since before the first stars.”

“I have been busy.”

His mouth curved.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are amused.”

“Very.”

“Is that bad?”

Damian lowered your hands. “No.”

You searched his face. “You find me strange.”

“Yes.”

“Frightening.”

“Occasionally.”

“Tone-deaf.”

“Constantly.”

Your mouth twisted.

Damian kissed the corner of it.

“And,” he added, “endearing.”

The room brightened. Not the electrical lights. The world itself seemed to soften around you, colours becoming warmer, shadows gentler.

“You find me endearing,” you repeated.

“Do not force me to say it twice.”

“I would never force you to do anything.”

“I know.”

There it was again.

Those two words.

I know.

Trust given without fear.

Your eyes filled with something endless and tender.

“I love you,” you said.

Damian inhaled.

“You need not say it in return,” you continued quickly. “I understand that mortal courtship traditions contain complicated stages. There may be rituals. Gifts. Battles against rival suitors. The kidnapping of relatives.”

“There will be no kidnapping.”

“Of course. Because I am not evil.”

Damian closed his eyes.

You looked wounded.

He laughed.

Not quietly this time. Not hidden behind a hand or turned shoulder.

The sound filled the infirmary, bright and helpless.

You stared at him in awe.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours, still laughing as you began to smile.

“I love you,” he said.

The Watchtower trembled.

You winced. “Sorry.”

Three weeks later, Damian took you on what you insisted on calling a strategic interpersonal meeting.

“It is a date,” he said.

The two of you were walking through Gotham Botanical Gardens after closing hours. Damian had obtained permission. You had offered to temporarily remove every other person from the city.

He had refused.

“A date implies romantic intentions,” you said.

“Yes.”

“And the possibility of physical affection.”

“Yes.”

“And potentially a formal union if compatibility is established.”

Damian stopped.

You stopped beside him.

“Do not propose to me on our first date.”

“I was not proposing.”

“You created a ring.”

You looked down.

A ring had appeared around Damian’s finger. It was made from dark metal, set with a stone containing a tiny rotating galaxy.

You stared at it.

“I did not do that intentionally.”

Damian examined the ring. “Your subconscious is proposing.”

“It is enthusiastic.”

“I can see that.”

“I will remove it.”

Damian curled his hand into a fist. “No.”

Your eyes widened.

“I will keep it,” he said. “For now.”

The garden lamps flickered. Flowers unfolded along the path despite the midnight hour.

You walked beside him in silence for several moments.

Then you said, “I should clarify that the ring does not contain surveillance magic.”

“Good.”

“It does not bind your soul to mine.”

“Excellent.”

“It does not mark you as my property to predatory entities.”

Damian looked at you. You smiled nervously.

“Does it do anything?”

“It will protect you from most forms of psychic intrusion, temporal displacement, molecular disintegration, possession, accidental dimensional exile, and moderate curses.”

“Moderate?”

“Powerful curses require the matching bracelet.”

“Of course they do.”

The bracelet appeared around his wrist.

Damian sighed.

You reached toward him, then paused. “May I hold your hand?”

He looked at you.

The question still came carefully. Despite all your power, despite knowing he loved you, you asked.

Always.

Damian threaded his fingers through yours. “Yes.”

You continued through the garden together.

Above you, Gotham’s clouds parted to reveal a sky full of impossible stars.

Damian glanced upward. “You are doing that.”

“I thought the natural sky lacked drama.”

“It is sufficient without your interference.”

The additional stars vanished. The ordinary night returned.

After a moment, Damian squeezed your hand. “You may restore some of them.”

The sky burst into colour.

Damian rolled his eyes.

You smiled.

Anyone watching might have found the sight alarming: Gotham’s most severe vigilante walking hand in hand with a being capable of remaking creation, both surrounded by flowers blooming out of season.

Perhaps you were dangerous. Damian had never doubted that. You were vain without realising it, dramatic by accident, catastrophically bad at reassurance, and powerful enough to make gods reconsider their life choices.

You also cried during animated films. You carried injured insects out of buildings. You remembered everyone’s preferred tea. You once paused a battle because you noticed Damian had skipped lunch. You loved mortals despite knowing you would outlive them. You chose restraint even when destruction would have been easier.

You had been feared for so long that you announced your goodness before anyone could accuse you of its absence.

Damian understood that. He had spent much of his own life insisting he had changed before anyone believed him. Sometimes the truth sounded most suspicious when spoken by someone desperate to be trusted.

You rested your head against his shoulder as you walked.

“I am very pleased,” you said.

“With the date?”

“With you.”

Damian looked ahead to hide his expression. “You should be.”

“I am also pleased that I resisted the urge to eliminate all potential romantic competition.”

Damian stopped walking.

You stopped with him.

A pigeon landed on a nearby statue.

You glanced toward it. Damian stared at you.

“That was a joke,” you said. He narrowed his eyes. “I have been practising.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You have not eliminated anyone.”

“No.”

“Or imprisoned them.”

“No.”

“Transformed them.”

“Certainly not.”

“Married them against their will.”

“That only happened once.”

Damian’s stare sharpened.

You lifted both hands. “Not evil.”

The pigeon cooed.

Damian exhaled through his nose. Then he pulled you closer by the front of your coat and kissed you beneath a sky you had rearranged solely because you thought he deserved prettier stars.

You melted against him.

The garden lifted three feet into the air.

Neither of you noticed for several minutes.

When the League questioned you about it later, you promised that the levitation had been entirely harmless.

No one believed you.

Damian did.

You don't move, not immediately. You watch life breathe in and out of his chest, and feel the long, dragged seconds stretch between the distance, the pads of your fingers pressing into the cold slab of the counter, frozen in place.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t corner you, or raise some pointed remark on your distance. He only waits, as if that’s everything he’s willing to do. Damian has never been good at being patient, but in the wake of his appearance, it’s all he seems to be doing.

You're afraid. To speak, make a sound or move that could shatter the perfect image. You expect to turn your head just slightly off-angle, and find yourself in your sheets once more, and the life-like version of him will be gone. The ache of his absence still clung to you, even more so at the sight of him, like a sore wound you can't resist running over.

Your stomach grumbles lowly at the scent of breakfast, empty from a near sleepless night and a skipped dinner. At that, he finally shifts his gaze, and you find your breath stolen from the way that striking, unwavering green pierces through you.

“You’re starving.”

The prospect of a dream falls away, and reality strikes you hard when the stature of him remains, words falling out his mouth—something your dreams have never achieved. You don’t listen, coming up to him like a storm—hands trembling as you raise them to slowly, tenderly cup his face.

He lets you, unmoving as his gaze sinks deep into yours. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones, where that scar should be. The last you had saw of him, unmoving in the hospital—when the mere sight had rendered you immobile, shaking uncontrollably till someone had to drag you out the room. Your hands trail down his jawline, over his neck—your touch trembling over his unharmed skin. When your hand dips to where his heart should be, he captures your hand and guides it back to his face, fingers laying over yours as he presses it against his cheek, soaking in your warmth.

His own skin is barren of its expected, scorching warmth—and his lashes flutter once before his eyes fall shut, mesmerised.

"Damian." You gasp softly.

He shakes his head faintly, almost in warning not to question further. His gaze opens, and it pours over you openly, hungrily.

"Are you real?" Your whisper comes out as a broken plea, head tilting as you look at him. There are no inconsistencies, even the faint scar where a blade had passed through his palm when he was but a boy, the same raised skin you used to press your lips over in the solemnity of the night, wishing he never experienced a pain like that again.

An undercurrent ripples below his steady gaze, conveying an answer you can't uncover. "I am here, beloved."

"How?" Your voice tremors, teetering madness.

“You called.”

Your brows furrow together, the vagueness of his statement twisting your thoughts into a whirlwind. “No.. I called for you every single day. Since you've been gone.”

His expression fractures in your admission, that undercurrent in the dark green, sweeping you with its darkened shadows. You can’t read it. Not fully, failing to truly understand the depth of his gaze that reminds you that this isn’t a dream or a recreation of any normal morning from before. Damian has always looked at you with want and devotion, yes, but it has never seemed almost inhumane.

Your burning questions still linger on the precipice, torn between relief and despair, when Damian closes in. His lips capture yours almost desperately, and you realise instantly in your grief that you had forgotten this side to him. Rare, and smothered by self-control—but existing regardless, is his intensity.

The sound of his name between your lips is lost, muffled by the way his free hand manoeuvres the back of your head to bring you impossibly closer to him. It’s real, it has to be, this push-and-pull as if he can’t decide whether he could ever get enough of the taste of you.

You have held yourself together for two years—but you’re close to falling apart in the scent of him, so overwhelmingly home, something you’ve been trying to capture through his cologne bottles, his shirts—but nothing compares to the real thing.

He doesn’t fare much better, lost of all his composure as he consumes you. It’s devotion, the way he holds you like you’re the only anchor keeping him tethered to reality. “I am here.” His lips brush over the corner of your mouth, tremoring. “I’m home.”

"We need to tell your family." It's the first logical thought that's formed since you lost strength in your legs, landing on the tiles with your hand still grasped in his, knees pressing against one another. "I should be calling Dick."

His lips press together, something manic crossing his gaze but you don’t see it—too wrapped up in the novelty of a miracle that shouldn't exist. You needed to hear it, have it confirmed for you to your own face— that you weren’t the only one who sees Damian. Your steps quicken towards the entrance, hands reaching for your coat that has your phone right by the front door—tossed on the ground after stumbling home the night before.

Damian grabs you by the wrist right as your fingers brushed the fabric, tugging you back. Your widened gaze meets his own fervent expression. "Damian?"

"I can’t predict—” His hold falters, softening in its clutch. “—what happens when you walk through that door."

Your brows furrow, letting him pull you gently back towards him. Your free hand comes up to press gently against his cheek, caressing once. "What do you mean?"

His jaw clenches, a rare tension seizing his features. Or rather, one you didn't recognise on him at all. Fear.

"Earlier, I had tried the door." He explains slowly, as if the words pained him. "I had reached for the lock—and something changed. I wasn't here, or anywhere. It was silent and I didn't truly exist, not till I found myself back in the kitchen."

Your mouth dries at his words, lips parting with the low thud of anxious dread gnawing away at your gut. You had been so relieved, you hadn't even begun to name all the possibilities of this miracle having a short-end you haven't seen coming.

"Oh." You mutter, fingers fumbling loosely in the air as your hand drops to your side. "Okay. That's—"

Scary. So fucking terrifying that you can't even voice it out, the thought that he could just disappear as quickly as he reappeared back into your life.

"Maybe we can try?" Your voice lacks the confidence of someone who's willing to put the possibility of never seeing the only person she's ever loved again on the line. "If I go with you this time, it might—"

Might work. There is nothing you detest more than the what-ifs that overpower the old, a bitter habit that's sprung to life now that it has new fears to feed on.

He nods briskly at the suggestion, but the tension in his jaw doesn't fade. "Listen to me. If—"

"Damian, if what you're about to say is anything to do with disappearing or leaving—you're not allowed to say it." You cut him off.

His lips clamp together, gaze averting to the door. "I only aim for us both to be prepared."

Unlike last time. The insinuation lands coldly against your exposed skin, and you immediately move to tug the coat on to rid yourself of the forming goosebumps. You didn't want to be reminded of that first lonely night in the apartment, when the news hadn't yet settled in—and you were surrounded by bedsheets that were filled with his scent.

Call it human desperation, needing to believe in only the good outcomes—but you refuse to think further than the events that have occurred in the past twenty minutes. Damian is back, that is all that matters. The rest, you'll both figure it out together.

His hands immediately come up to the sleeves, helping you to put the coat on. The simple action renders you breathless, the way he was equipped to you like a shadow, tuning himself back into step with your own movements. You had forgotten that feeling, of puzzles pieces fitting perfectly together that it made life easy.

"I'm more than prepared." Your reassurance for him, or yourself—you’re not sure which bears more comfort. "Come on, Dami." The nickname rolls off like a soothing mantra, one normalcy laced within all the abnormality of the situation, of his presence lingering near your side like a shadow. "You better prepare yourself. You're about to experience intense familial affection."

It's easier to pretend, that anything other than a happy family reunion was bound to happen, to seal in the fact that he's really here. That's all your mind is leading towards, this impossibility existing on the morning of what should've been your second year anniversary.

His lips finally twitch, a soft smile gracing his lips as he takes your hand. It's warmer now, as if life was slowly bleeding back into him. It reassures you immensely, and your fingers tighten into a reassuring squeeze around his.

"How have—" He falters, grip tightening unintentionally over your fingers. "—they been?"

"It’s not been easy." You answer truthfully. "Bruce is taking it the hardest, his habit of burying himself in work has worsened. He needs you to snap him out of it the most, I think. Dick—he's trying to keep everyone together, but I worry for him even if he keeps pretending he's fine."

Your fingers twist the lock, opening the door. His hand still remains firmly in your grasp, and your eyes widen, gaze twisting to him in hope. "Still here." You murmur, waving your interlocked fingers with yours in his gaze.

You see it too, the faint relief that flickers in his expression. That's the very last thing you see.

The moment you take one step out the door into the threshold of the hallway, your raised hand comes up bare. The space where Damian used to occupy—is now empty.

"I swear he was here." You plead, watching as Dick paces around the apartment. "Damian was right here, and he was talking to me—and we were coming to see you."

He runs a hand over his locks, and you can tell he doesn't believe you, as much as he is trying to genuinely listen. You know it sounds cruel, going on about how his deceased baby brother is alive and well. That it makes you sound insane, overcome with grief enough to hallucinate Damian's existence—but you know that he was really here.

You aren't hallucinating, even if you had to push down any arising doubt as Dick finally stops in his tracks, turning to face you.

He looks exhausted. Packed with cases, wrinkled shirt haphazardly put on, bags under his eyes. Still charmingly Dick, but drained of the spark that used to brighten his gaze.

He calls out your name, and you hear it immediately. His deflection, his concern. You shake your head, but he raises a hand.

"You—" He swallows, and you see him assessing the right way to deliver his words. "—have been through a lot. I understand, I really do."

"Dick." Your voice comes out as a plea.

"But if you've been seeing Damian." He goes on. "I think it's time we find someone. For you to talk to."

He thinks you've gone crazy.

"Dick, I'm not crazy." You plead. "Or grieving. Damian was right here, I was telling him about you and Bruce. He made me toast."

His gaze switches to the uneaten plate, and softens into what could only be pity. You have to swallow back the bitter taste at the sight of it.

"It's your anniversary, right?" He asks.

You stiffen, before giving him a bare nod.

"I should've called." He sighs, placing the blame on himself. "I had remembered it being around this week, but work's just been so busy and—I'm sorry. I know it must've been difficult to go through this day alone."

"Please, Dick." You stand up from the couch, walking over to where he stood. "You have to believe me."

His expression tightens, a sigh leaving his lips. "I can't."

"Why?" You plead.

"Because if I do, I would've lost him twice." He admits honestly, a rare fracture of truth beneath his usual composure. "I can't let myself think that, because I have people who need me to be here, to be grounded."

You flinch, as if he struck you. His expression immediately crumbles in regret, but he doesn't take back his words. His lips part in an effort to try and smooth out the mess laid out in front of him, when his phone rings.

He curses inaudibly, tugging at his pockets to take out his phone. His gaze falls to the contact name, and his lashes narrow. He looks to you, an apology already splurging out of his lips. "I'm sorry, I really have to go. It's an emergency—but I will come visit right after."

You shake your head. There isn't a point if you didn’t have proof, and if he wasn't going to believe you, it'd do you both better if you didn’t dig into the wound so carelessly. "It's fine." Your throat squeezes tight on itself, making it hard to form your words coherently. "I'm sorry I called you all the way here, I know you've been busy."

"Hey." He calls out to you reassuringly, even as his ringtone vibrates lowly between the two of you. "I'm always here if you need me, you got that? Being busy doesn't mean I can't make time for you if you need a listening ear."

You nod stiffly, as convincingly as you could. "You should go, Dick. City needs you."

He stares at you, concern flooding his gaze once more. You smile weakly at him, pushing at his shoulder towards the door. "Go." You reassure him. "I'll text you if I need anything, okay?"

He nods once, lips pulling downward in consideration before his phone starts ringing again at a louder volume. He lets out a low sigh, hand coming up to squeeze yours over his shoulder in a comforting manner. "Anything, alright?" He murmurs.

You give him the barest nod, watching as he walked out the door, closing it behind him. The moment the door clicks shut, you find yourself on the kitchen floor.

Your sobs rack your body violently, your palms covering your mouth as you let it out. You don't know how long you spend, keeling over yourself as you rock back and forth, tears streaming down your cheeks before you eventually found yourself laying on the cool tiles, the only sensation that registers to your body.

You don't know how many minutes you spent going over the words shared between you and the Damian you swore was right in front of you, the scent of toast still lingering in the air before your eyes finally fall shut, body shutting down from exhaustion.

When you wake, you find yourself tucked in your sheets. You vaguely remember laying on the kitchen floor, not even having the energy required to drag yourself to your bedroom. The room is dark, which means the entire day has passed. Did Dick—or someone else come in through the door and carry you onto the bed?

You don't think you locked the door, but you don't trust in your memory to recall any recurring events in a faithful manner. Your gaze shifts from the window where the glow of the street lamp illuminates a warm tint over the streets, before your neck cranes to your right.

A shadow sits at the corner of the bed, back facing you.

Your heart nearly drops to your feet. Your call doesn't dare sound hopeful, almost frightened. "Damian?"

His head shifts, and green eyes, haunted by shadows—meet yours.

"Are you my imagination?" You whisper. "Am I dreaming again because if I am, this is just—” Cruel.

He doesn't answer, lifting himself off the corner to sit beside you instead. Slowly, his hand takes yours—and there it is again, that fading ebb-and-flow of warmth between his fingers.

"Talk to me." You say numbly. "Or I'll really think I'm going insane."

"I don't know—" His voice fills your ears, and the relief is almost sickening. "—how to fix this. Or make it easier to bear. I am only worsening your pain."

Your lip trembles, and you bite at it to keep something, anything from flooding out. "Do you know what day it is today?" You murmur, exhaustion plaguing your voice.

Damian doesn't even pause to think. "Our anniversary."

"Yeah." You smile wryly. "You missed it for the second time this year."

His fingers running over the beat of your pulse, freeze. The faintest whisper leaves his lips, and it is nothing short of broken. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You’ll make it up to me, won’t you?" You swallow thickly, trying your best to keep it together. "I was going to take you to that Thai place we love down the street, after meeting your family. Thought it'd be a good welcome-back present of some sorts, y'know?"

He stays silent, but you spot the clench of his jaw, the thick lump forming at his throat.

"This is so sick." You laugh weakly, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. "What kind of reality is this?"

You hear the faint whisper of your name. His hand traces over your temple, brushing back the loosened strands. "I'm sorry." It comes out stronger this time, as if the vowels have finally found suit a place in his vocabulary.

"Stop apologising." You scold softly. "I want you here."

He understands your request immediately, scooting closer and falling into the sheets as his arms wrap around you. In the weight of his embrace, you finally let yourself fall apart a little, face buried into his chest and inhaling his comforting scent.

"Your heart.” You whisper, unable to sense the rhythmic beating you’re used to finding. “Where is it, Dami?”

“Where it’s always been.” He murmurs, arms pulling you impossibly closer.

There is a missing link, something you’re terrified of missing. He is real, as even your mind can’t conjure something as complex as the halftime beat of his thumb brushing against your lower back, or the way his fingers brush through the nape of your neck, finding your temple and resting over it with a soothing amount of pressure.

“You—” Your voice trembles, afraid to ask. “How is any of this possible?”

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “I only know that you called. I was finally able to answer.”

The rules settle quickly, the do’s and don’t’s of his existence. When you walk out the front door, he disappears, but not entirely. He merely reappears in the kitchen as he did the morning you found him, time operating as a frozen capsule within the walls of your apartment, with your current present tuned down to a low, buzzing hum—enough for his presence to stay. When you exit the apartment, it’s as if life comes flooding back in motion—roaring in its intensity that Damian simply vanishes. Not home, or anywhere. As reality intended.

You can’t have people enter the threshold of the apartment either, not without Damian completely disappearing from the rooms. Your only attempt had ended with Dick pleading with you to see a professional.

The conversation still lingers like a bitter aftertaste of stale coffee, when you let yourself imagine his exhausted, frantic expression when you searched the apartment upside-down in the hopes of letting him see his baby brother again.

You don’t call Dick over much after that, only the here-and-there messages that you've recovered and that you're doing better. You don’t mention Damian, and the texts tentatively recover into a semblance of the norm, his usual check-ups and quips before he disappears into his long list of responsibilities.

You adjust, creating something sacred out of the cruelty, and you make things work, to reduce the risks of his disappearance to only what was needed—for work, or quick supply runs that are now meant for two. You have to, because you’d rather have Damian with the shattered edges of reality falling in on you, than lose him forever.

Your head rests on his chest late in the night, updating him on the past twenty-four months of your life through your photo album while he watches you, trying to bring some of the outside world in for him. That’s one strange loophole, that so long as it’s only you who witnesses it, he doesn’t fade from existence. You had tried face-timing Tim once, and felt the sudden emptiness of Damian’s weight beside you. The tears were difficult to explain, as was the way you frantically ended the call after, refusing to show how shattered you felt.

Loopholes were small miracles, ones you were trying to exploit in the hopes the world would carry on without punishing either of you for testing the waters. That eventually, you’d find a way to right the mess.

But you know it’s not enough. How could it be? When paranoia runs so rampant, or the quiet lingers too long when you’re in a different room, and you can’t stop yourself from checking—from slamming yourself into the door to catch him staring at you, as if he expected your anxious movement minutes before.

Damian is nothing but a master at concealing his own doubts, from letting his frustrations plague your own wearing strength. It does not change the fact that he is still human. You find him mostly at your desk when he assumes you've finally fallen asleep, pen in hand with his hand running through his thick locks, growing out at the edges from not having been cut for weeks. You never see what he’s writing—not before he hears your quiet footsteps and gently folds the paper away.

He would reassure you silently, a warm, gentle touch over your face, cupping them in his hands and pressing soft kisses over your skin to replace your worries. He’d whisper ‘I’m real’ over and over again till you’re sure even your imagination couldn’t conjure the trace of his fingers down your lower back, the way his gaze softens when you finally let yourself fall into his embrace.

You don’t ask unless he’s willing to speak of it, because Damian in his own way is coping with this fractured reality, where you are only able to have each other in the confined walls of your home, without him being able to truly live in this world. You know it takes a toll on him, you’re just waiting for him to realise he doesn’t have to remain strong for the both of you.

You let him have the peace of doing what he feels he must, scribbling away in urgency into the paper, because for as much as Damian has lost normalcy in his life, you could only give him whatever he was able to still grasp.

“Hey, you! It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other!” Steph exclaims, pulling you into a hug.

“Missed you too, Steph.” You huff at the impact, a warm smile spreading across your lips.

“Where have you been?” She continues, pulling back to analyse your face with a scrutinising expression. “Woah—actually, you look great. Have you been skipping less dinners?”

Your lips part automatically, almost wanting to say Damian’s taken up the cooking. It falls shut immediately, along with your expression. Your voice is tender, testing your words carefully. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Good. I’m obliged as the wiser one to have nagging privileges since Dick isn’t here—no matter how busy life gets, you can’t skip what makes life worth living.”

“Chocolate chip pancakes?” You raise a brow.

“That too.” She grins. “But I’m really glad to see you. It’s been ages.”

Your heart tremors with guilt. Ever since Damian reappeared back in your life, you’ve been putting off so much. Life outside had begun to feel like an intrusion, a compulsory step before you made it home to where the miracle sparked, suspended in time. Even now, you’re terrified the one night you let your guard down, you might come back to an empty apartment. Where you’ll fall asleep and he won’t be there at the corner of the bed, waiting for you to bid him closer and being dragged into his embrace.

“It’s really good to see you.” Your voice softens, taking in the sight of her blond locks, her purple sweater, and the underlying relief in her expression.

Her smile brightens and her arm wraps around your shoulder, dragging you along. “Come on, I’ve got this new place I want to check out. Heard the owner’s a huge fan of Spoiler.”

“You’re not going to bargain deals with your merchandise, are you?”

She hums a sweet tune, head facing forward.

“Steph.” You snort.

“What—it’s a good strategy.” She shrugs. “Tell me it’s not genius.”

“It’s definitely classic you.”

“Yeah, classic me is a genius, same diff.” She grins, steps rushing slightly whenever she gets excited, particularly when it comes to food. The door bell jingles when you both step into the small bistro, the scent of honey and sugared powder filling your nose.

You can imagine Damian’s nose wrinkling at the overly sweet scent, but the thought doesn’t have time to stick before Steph’s already pulling you over to the corner seating, with a perfect view of Wayne Tower in the distance. Your gaze flickers to the tower, before drawing it back to Steph who’s looking over the menu.

“Damian would hate this place.” She says suddenly.

The tilt of your lip freezes, and she casts you a knowing look. “You thought it.” Steph murmurs, placing the menu down. “I know that look.”

Your lips part, mouth dry. “We don’t have to, Steph.”

“No, it’s okay. I don't want you feeling like it's a no-go zone with me.” She smiles gently. There’s that part of her you never stopped admiring, her bravery to speak for what others never dared to see. “I do actually miss making fun of him.”

He misses you too, you want to say. He misses you all.

“Sometimes, I wish he left something for us.” Steph murmurs, her smile lessening into something honest. “He was loud with his actions, and he could never resist an insult but—it just feels like I have nothing much to remind myself of him.”

You pause, her suggestion seeping into your bones. Your gaze widens imperceptibly, but she doesn’t notice.

“There’s Titus, of course.” She jokes wryly. “That beast always tackles me whenever I visit the manor. Guess I know where he got his manners from.”

You’re half-tuning out, because that could be it. Damian could write something so personal to each of them—so they’d at least he know he exists somehow. In this world.

“You’re right, Steph.” You mutter, lost in thought.

“Of course I am. Have you seen Titus recently?” She snorts. “Weighs a truck if he jumps you from the back.”

You shake your head, a fond smile tilting your lips upward. Maybe finally, you have a chance through this loophole, a way to bridge the unseen and the present. You may have a way to bring him back—past the walls of your home.

The nature of Damian is beginning to reform under his bones. The burn of his questions, how he goes silent when he formulates a plan, only without the hesitation he once held in the first few weeks on the prospect of breathing life into the abnormality of his existence.

“What was your wish?” Damian murmurs, gaze peering over you as you tumble into the sheets, feeling his arms slowly wrap around you, pulling you closer to his side of the bed. “I heard you call my name, but nothing of your request.”

“It was the same thing, always.” You recall faintly. “That I didn’t want to ever get used to coming home to our apartment alone. That I could see you again, and remember what life used to feel like with you.”

The specific details of your wish echo in your thoughts, your mind capturing onto the specificity of your words. You feel his mind register it faster than yours, but he doesn't form any accusations, not the way your own brain immediately pinpoints to.

“Is that why you can’t step a foot out of our home?” You realise, dread thumping patiently as it inches closer to guilt. “Why no one can see you except for me?”

He calls out your name, stopping you in your tracks. “It is not your fault.” He says before you’ve even voiced it out. “Do not carry on a burden that isn’t yours to bear.”

“What if—if that's the reason, would you stay?” You ask in the dark. “This doesn’t feel—”

Sustainable or fair or—horrible words pile on top of the other, right at the tip of your tongue. You feel the paranoia that traces along the edge of every conversation you have with him—like the waiting still hasn’t ended. That the world hasn’t quite let loose of its claws on either of you.

“For as long you want me, I’ll always be here.” Damian reassures you, hand lifting to press against your cheek, grounding you.

That’s impossible, you almost want to say. You’ll always want him.

“What about you?” You ask quietly. “You look tired, Dami.”

He stares at you for a beat, and you feel the gears in his mind turning. His under-eyes are clear of dark circles, his body shows no signs of exhaustion, although you know he hasn’t truly slept since his return. You feel it sometimes in your half-awake state, when he lets his guard down—and the trace of his fingers over your pulse.

“It is difficult to rest.” He answers honestly, a dry swallow in his throat. “It does not feel like living. There is no calling for survival, not when I am trapped in place. I am not whole—but the feeling fades when you are here.”

“I want to make things better for you.” You wish desperately.

His gaze softens at the edges. “You are.”

“I want to actually try something. I have an idea, I’m not sure if it’ll work or change anything.” You admit. “I know you’ve been writing every night. I was thinking—would you write letters? To your family? Steph mentioned that she’d like to have something to remember you by.”

His hold tightens over your shoulders, before forcing himself to relax.

“I just think—it might work.” You go on, fingers pressed softly against the expanse of his chest, right where the fabric bunches over your grip—where his heartbeat should be. “If they believe it too, I don’t know—it sounds silly.”

"Beloved.” He calls, his expression twisting in consideration. “I’ve… already written letters.”

Your lips part in astonishment. Has that been what he’s been doing this entire time? “Leave it to you to already have a plan.” You tease softly.

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s still that lingering solemnity in his gaze that’s never fully lifted. “I’ve written letters for you too.”

Your brows furrow. “Why—”

Looking into his eyes, you spot the knowing—the underlying preparation of a man not truly believing the cards are in his favour.

“No.” Pushing yourself away from the sheets, out of his embrace—you stare at him wordlessly, that familiar pounding beginning in your chest.

“Tell me you haven’t been writing goodbye letters, Damian.” You plead.

He only watches you, choosing to remain silent because—he could never lie to you. Not without you catching it in the twinge of his expression, the purse of his lips.

“No, I don’t want to think that—not when the impossible has already happened.” You shake your head. “I can’t handle a goodbye.”

“It is not a certainty.” He reminds you.

“I know but I have to believe.” Your voice breaks. “I believed every night, that somehow, you’d come back to me—and you did. So, I don’t want a goodbye, Damian.”

”I want you to live your life.” You admit in earnest. “Not to be sealed in here, waiting only for me. You are so great—you deserve the chance to be so much more. If there is even a possibility, I want you to fight—to get your life back.”

You are asking a difficult task, for Damian who doesn't put faith in what he can't predict without data or evidence. You see the argument, the calculation weighing in his mind but then he looks at you and—something in him gives. For all that he’s fought for, defying even the rules of the dead, half-whole in a world that once belonged to him as much as it does to you, he has never found the strength to say no to you.

“Alright.” He answers softly. “I will try.”

He has broken his promise only once in your entire lifetime of knowing each other, but tonight, you place your trust in him—that he’d keep this one.

The letters are a brilliant plan. It’s the most hopeful you’ve felt in weeks. Damian waits by the door, a safe two feet away from the threshold where he had last vanished through the hold of your fingers when you both attempted to cross.

“This will work.” You mutter, strapping on your boots.

Looking back to him, Damian’s already watching you, your favourite coat already over his forearm. He doesn’t make a comment, but when you lift your arms for him to put on the coat, as the sleeves loop through—he leans in and closes the distance.

He doesn’t loosen his hold, tugging you closer till you’re wrapped in his scent—and his lips crash into yours. It’s anything but soft, nothing withheld. It’s a promise—unspoken, and a Damian unraveled. Your free hand wraps instinctively around the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the dark waves that have grown past his usual desired length.

A low sound vibrates against his throat, the intensity of him burning through his skin. It is not a goodbye, you remind yourself, refusing to let anything wet prick at your eyes. You are going to fix this—and he was going to come home.

”I love you.” You gasp against his lips, mere seconds after he finally parts to let you have air.

His hand rises to cup your cheek, gaze focused over your features—before finally looking you straight in the eyes. “I am yours. Every part of me always.”

You swallow thickly. “Always.”

You want Damian. You want him in all the worst parts of him—the part of him that left and never came back, the part of him that immediately thought to make your favourite breakfast in the first instance of his return, the only person who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

“I’ll be right back.” You promise, grip tightening over the letters.

His gaze flickers with want, unease—a multitude of emotions so vulnerably human, and you understand. You’re the only who will. He lets you take a step back, and you can feel it even when you turn—that he never takes his eyes off of you.

It’s a reassuring weight—of course, till the letters disappear from the grip of your fingers the moment you step out the door. Time splits on itself when your heart drops—gaze snapping to your empty hand, proof of his existence written tirelessly in the thick stack of letters gone without a trace. When you spin back around to your apartment, the sight of Damian behind you disappears with it.

He's gone.

You don't move. Not for a few minutes, staring into the empty space where he once occupied. The door remains open, the buzzing roar of life beyond the threshold numbed to your senses. Eventually, when reality hits you right below your ribs, you do what was only inevitable. You break.

Damian reappears an hour past midnight, one of the longest instances he’s ever gone missing from the apartment. One of the days you truly needed him, you spent alone waiting. He finds you crumpled on the kitchen floor, hands empty—gaze staring blankly into the wall. The wall that holds memories, picture frames of your life with him—and your eyes peer soullessly into the distance.

You faintly register the stir of tension in the air, but you’re tired. Itching faintly for something to happen, the clock ticking down in your mind rendered useless. Your last solution has failed.

Damian stands in your kitchen as he did the first time, when it had all seemed like a dream, and you have nothing to say.

Damian eventually speaks, and it is nothing you want to hear. “We must cease this.”

Your head cranes, looking at him with defeat. Still, you shake your head weakly. You spot that familiar fire, lit in his gaze when his jaw clenches at your stubbornness.

Of course you recognise it. That fire you faced before he had gone out that door two years ago. Your biggest regret had been letting him go, not fighting harder. It’s just that—you’re so exhausted. You need time to think, to replan, to not feel like you’re on the verge of puking because you’re so afraid and you can’t do anything about it.

“There is no denying this. Every instance I reappear, I see your grief—and I am reminded that I am the cause of your suffering.” He says, low and pained. “That I have failed you, and even now, I chain you.”

“Damian, stop.” You plead, trying to shut it out.

“It is the truth.” He states numbly. “You are not living. For as long as I remain, you’ll be chained to the memory, and I have to watch you lose yourself because I am not able to let you go.”

“I have failed you.” He repeats. “But I will not be the reason that you do not live. For as long as I remain here, never truly whole, neither will you.”

“Don’t you understand?” You snap. “I haven’t been whole! Not since the day you died. You leaving won’t change that. Our reality—it isn’t ideal, and it’s terrifying that every time I open that door, I fear I won’t ever see you again, but I’ve lived more now than I have in these past two years.”

“You are still hurting.” His narrowed gaze assesses the trembling of your body, the dullness in your eyes. “Tell me it is enough. Having me here—a fracture of who I used to be.”

Your lips part, and your heart tremors with a painful ache. “I don’t care.” Your voice breaks. “As long as I have you, the pain is nothing compared to not having you at all.”

“But I do.” He pleads. “I refuse to be your chain. The reason your life is reduced to this. You told me that I deserved to be something more. Have you not considered that I want the same for you?”

“What do you want me to do, Damian?” Your voice croaks, exhausted. “What do you propose we do?”

“I want you—” His expression tightens. “—to rescind your wish.”

“No.” Stumbling in your step as you try and fail to rise from the tiles, he’s in front of you in seconds.

You push weakly at his grip that steadies you, anger churning something bitter in your gut that he’s so willing to throw away his promise—the only one you have left for him to keep.

He calls your name, pleading—urgent. "I think this is the end."

"No." You shake your head adamantly, tears soaking your cheeks. "Please."

"I love you." He murmurs. "I love you, and I do not expect your forgiveness."

"What about always?" You break. "Please, I can't lose you again. I can't—I imagined this life with you, Damian. I can't have you again, and lose you—please. Don't go."

His composure shatters the second those words leave you, regret sweeping his entire expression. "I have failed you."

You don't want to hear this. You want him to stay, and for this stupid wish to last—and for the universe to answer your desperate cries to not take him away.

"I love you." Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you clench tightly as if it could prevent the striking of the clock taking him away. "I can't love anybody else, it's only ever been you."

"I love you." He whispers in devotion, voice raw. "I have only ever seen you. It was always you."

Was. As if he's already seen the inevitability of his going.

"Damian." Your voice is scattered, torn between misplaced rage and desperation—but none of it holds true. "You promised me—that you'd never break your promises. Why?"

Why did he go out on that mission? Why did he not heed your words on waiting for back-up, for someone to be by his side? Why did he leave you alone in this damned apartment, waiting for his return only to open the door to Dick's blank expression battered, where he had to watch you fall in on yourself.

"You should've listened to me." Your fists dig into his chest. "You should've stayed home, with me. Instead of that stupid mission—and leaving me alone. You idiot."

"I know." He murmurs, letting you take it out on him. Even now, he was accommodating you—taking in all your anger even when you didn't want to leave it at this.

You're picking a fight, because you didn't want this to end. Whenever you got in an argument with Damian, he'd refuse to leave it till it was solved. Somewhere in your logic twisted by grief, you wondered if even his determination for your forgiveness would outweigh the cruelty of your wish.

"Fight, damnit—Damian, fight." You cry out, tears forming a puddle onto his shirt. "Don't leave it at this."

"Beloved." He whispers, gazing at you with so much love, it leaves you hollow.

"I wrote letters." He whispers, memorising you with intent. "As many as I could."

You faintly register his words, somewhere beneath the numbness your body is undergoing to process the heavy, sinking chain dragging at your heart.

"I know it's not enough, it never will be." He mutters. "But I wrote them to keep you company. To scream at me, to hate me—everything. What I never got to say, nothing is amiss."

A low, mocking huff leaves his lips not long after his words. "You can burn them if it reminds you of my failures, or if you wish to be part of the memory of me when it only serves you pain. But—"

He swallows, fingers tightening around you. "If you wish to hear my voice, to have me by your side—I am there. In those letters, you'll have me, always. My last thoughts, my wishes—they're all of you. They've always been about you."

“No, this can’t end.” Your voice breaks. “Please.”

“It will end eventually.” His voice lowers, attempting to soothe the cutting truth of his words. “It is my only mercy that I can face you this time, before I go.”

”Why does it have to end?” You mutter into the dark. “Isn’t this enough?”

“It is more than I’ll ever deserve.” He confesses, pressing his lips softly to the crown of your head.

Your words are lost on your tongue, a horrible taste of grief rendering you immobile as you collapse fully into his touch. He holds you, that same pressure over your temple, fingers brushing over the nape of your neck.

“Tell me.” Your body succumbs before your mind, eyes closing shut. “Everything. From the start. I want to hear it all. Please.”

His fingers linger over your temple, before brushing back loose strands of hair to tuck behind your ear. You feel it then, finally, the low thump right where his heart should be. Then, he starts, and you hear the story of how the two of you met from his eyes. You let yourself fall into step with his memory, the last you’ll ever hear of it. In the knowing of a goodbye, you focus on the slight tremor in his voice, the tight grip of his hand—and how his faint heart was finally beating now that you’ve given it back.

You find the stack of letters in the morning, kept neatly in your drawer—all addressed to different names. Father. Mother. Brown. Drake. Grayson. Todd. Duke. Cassandra. The list went on. Your own stack is separated, in a thick bundle that must’ve began from the first time you caught him writing.

The world was impossibly cruel yet fair, his letters remaining despite the impossibility, the scent of him still coating the paper. He is gone, and the existence of him remains.

Life is heightened back to its usual roar, the faint chaos of the streets beyond the walls of your apartment playing as if nothing had ever changed. The quiet greets you like an old friend, and there is no shuffling of the sheets when you wake, no toast at the counter.

Your fingers grip at the first letter, trembling as you open the first. You hear his voice immediately—and nothing prepares you for it, as if he sealed himself within the pages. You feel the warmth of his touch, the low candor of his voice, reading it to you.

"To my beloved.”

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Almost the whooole community knew your feelings for Olo’eyktan’s eldest son. Just by the way you look, and spoke of him like he was already yours and everyone else was just living in your world.

You were caught biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot every time he walked by, yelling “Hey there, handsome!” whenever he returned to the homehearth from patrol.

You would squeal whenever he gave you a polite nod during council meetings, slapping your friends’ arms until they gave you disgusted looks and pointed out that he literally only said a single word.

The wise ones often scolded you for failing to act with proper decorum, exasperated by how you were always gawking at him.

To which you just replied, “When you’re as fabulous as me, you’d understand.”

Because… could anyone blame you?

Neteyam was the ultimate golden son. Firstborn of the legendary sixth Toruk Makto, heir to the Olo’eyktan, grandson of the Tsahik. If you examined him closely, that avatar’s ancestry was striking… his shoulders were exceptionally broad, his chest built, and his expressive ears twitched at every sound. And while he carried his mother’s genes by bearing fourfingered hands, he still held that frame passed down from a borrowed skin.

“I have watched you all,” Neytiri paced while the bone beads in her hair clicked. “For many moons, I’ve seen your contribution to our people. The five of you possess the spirit of what I demand to see standing beside my son, as you all know, the future Olo’eyktan.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the group. “The mating season is upon us. In one moon, Neteyam must choose who will walk the path of leadership by his side. You have until next month to prove your worth, and to see if your soul will recognize his.”

You didn’t even bother looking at the four other candidates. The other girls glanced nervously at one another, letting out giggles, but you just crossed your arms, tossing your hair back.

You lifted a hand before anyone had the chance to call on you. “So... when do i begin? Making him wait any longer is a little cruel, don’t you think?” You inspected your nails with a sigh. “Your son deserves to meet his future wife already. Lucky for him, she’s standing right here.”

The other girls stared at you with widened eyes. But you just smirked.

“Tomorrow.”

The next morning, you strolled into the council cave with a sway of your hips, your gaze locking onto Neteyam, who was leaning over the center table studying a map.

“Why are you late?”

Instead of shrinking, you rolled your eyes. “Ugh, don’t be outrageous! A face like this requires upkeep, babe. You think looking this gorge just happens overnight? I really don’t think so.”

You walked around the perimeter of the table, coming to a stop directly across from him. Leaning your weight against the wooden surface, you rested your chin in your palm. “So, what are we talking about?”

Neteyam cleared his throat, but before he could speak, a young hunter at the table cut in. “We were discussing the mountain passes near the eastern ridge, where the—”

You snapped straight up, your smile vanishing into a face of disgust. “Uhhh...” You gave him an up-and-down glare, your ears flattening back. “Im pretty sure I asked him, not his mouthpiece.”

The hunter flushed, ducking his head in embarassment as he stepped back into the shadows. The second he moved, your beaming smile snapped right back into place.

“Now, where were we, cutie?”

Neteyam’s ears twitched, a sigh escaping him before he leaned back over the map. “Like he was trying to say... the sky people’s machines have dropped their fires along the lowlands. The air there is heavy with poison smoke, it’s dangerous for our scouts to breathe. Tell me, do any of you have ideas, or should we wait for it to clear?”

“Oh, please! Waiting for the smoke to clear is lame, boring!” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “For all we know, they’re marching while the rest of you are standing around twiddling your thumbs.”

Neteyam rubbed his temple. “That’s why we gather, Y/n. So we can strike as one.”

You let out an absurdly loud, dramatic groan. “Jeez... well then, hurry up and brainstorm, you uncultured rocks.”

Everyone in the cave began debating the best route, each proposing a different plan while shooting down the others’ suggestions.

As the back-and-forth escalated, you leaned against the stone wall. “Ugh, my brain hurts...” you muttered under your breath, moving your gaze back to Neteyam, admiring him.

Eywa, he looks magnificent.

Suddenly, a young hunter spoke up. “What if we ride the charging sturmbeest herd?”

The cave went dead silent.

You let out a loud laugh. “Whaat...? You’re joking. Who’s gonna believe that? Even a stupid hexapede wouldn’t do shit like that!” You stepped forward. “Those are ground animals, genius! And quite frankly, Neteyam’s future mate cannot be crushed to a blood under wild hooves. So no. Absolutely not.”

“Y/n’s right. I’m sorry but… It’s a suicide run.”

“We cannot risk our people...”

You smirked, looking over at Neteyam, waiting for him to compliment your logic. But he kept his eyes fixed on the map, before speakng. “...I say it’s worth a shot.”

“Yes, i agree! Let’s do it!” you declared, clapping your hands together.

The council stared at you in confusion as they pointed out your sudden contradiction. But you waved them off and theatrically redirected everyone’s attention to Neteyam, insisting he was the one making the decisions.

And just as he had predicted, the plan actually worked. The dust cloud blinded the sky people’s sensors, allowing your unit to slip through and strike.

“Cuteyam!”

You launched yourself at him the moment you returned to camp. Neteyam barely had time to brace himself before catching your weight. You pressed a series of loud kisses right against his cheek. “You were so incredibly cool out there! I mean, it’s a given because I’m here, but still—!”

He let out an awkward chuckle, his tail lashing as he pried your arms off his neck. “Thanks, Y/nn. You did great out there, too.”

“Tell me something I don’t know!” You brought your hands up to your cheeks. “Of course I did, give it up for me!”

His smile dropped as you smacked his arm. “I... literally just gave you a compliment. Anyway, come help us. We’re preparing the catch for the feast tonight.”

“...Yes, I’ll do anything!”

Your face fell when he turned and walked away. He had literally just handed you chores and vanished!

“Just so you know, your forehead wrinkles are showing,” the cook beside you teased, gutting a river fish. “I do NOT have wrinkles!” You gasped in horror, staring at your hands.

“Look at my skin, it’s ruined! The foul smell of these is going to seep into my scales! Look what this work has done to my... my face!”

Later that afternoon, you swatted a young warrior’s hand off his bow. “Do I have to do everything myself? Seriously, what are you good for? Just join my team, someone has to carry your ass today.”

Returning to the front of the hunting group, you clapped your hands. “Everyone, listen up! Whichever line you’re standing in right now, that’s your team. Bring back goods for tonight. Any questions? There should be not—”

One hunter raised his hand. “Ma’am... how come you and Neteyam are in the same team? You two are literally our best… people. It’s kinda unfair.”

You scoffed, sliding right into Neteyam’s personal space and resting a hand on his broad chest. “Oh, please! As if I would ever let anyone else have my handsome prince today.”

Neteyam let out a sigh, immune to your drama, and addressed the group. “Y/n and I are together because we’re guiding the younger ones today. Move out.”

You bit your lip, wrapping both arms tightly around his bicep. “He’s exactly right! So listen to your future Olo’eyktan, you rocks, and do what he says!”

As the crowd dispersed, Neteyam looked down at you. “Back to work.”

“I really don’t want to,” you pouted, before sighing. “Fine,” You led the younger hunters down the forest path, lecturing them while Neteyam kept a disciplined pace behind, scanning the canopy.

The kids soon split off. You turned around to find Neteyam standing tense, his large ears twitching. “What is it, my prince?”

“I hear a crying sound nearby,” he muttered.

You let out a loud groan, stepping into his space to wrap your arms around his neck. “A cry?! You’re just hungry, darling. Help me pick fruits.”

Neteyam pulled your hands back gently. “We must check, Y/n. It could be someone in trouble.”

“Seriously? That’s so low,” you huffed, trying to pull him back. “It’s probably just a bird! Let it go!”

“Go back to the children then. I will check,” he said, stepping past you.

You stomped your foot. “This is outrageous!”

You marched behind him, glaring at his muscled back until he suddenly came to a dead stop. You bumped right into his shoulders, peeking only to spot two birds on the ground, caught right in the middle of mating.

A silence fell over the woods.

Neteyam closed his eyes, taking an embarassed breath as his ears flattened. “Let’s... just get the fruits here,” he muttered, hiding his flushed face behind his basket.

You clamped both hands over your mouth, squealing with laughter. “I didn’t know you could get any more pathetic than that!”

“Alright, y/n…”

You bent down, dumping a bunch of sweet fruits into his basket. “I’ll turn this into a sweet soup for you later, husband,” you winked, pecking his cheek. “So, do tell... have any of the girls tried to make a move on you yet?” you asked, flipping a braid over your shoulder.

Neteyam adjusted the weight of the basket, a frown playing at the corner of his lips. “It’s not like you’re giving them the chance. You don’t leave me alone for even a second. At this point... you’re basically competing against yourself.”

“Do you want them to, honey?” you purred, stepping right back into his path and tilting your chin up with supreme confidence. “Because if they actually wanted you, they would’ve done something bold by now to win your heart.”

While the four other candidate girls were stressing themselves out, waking up at the crack of dawn to bake sweet breads for Neytiri, weaving straps for Jake, or attempting to hand Neteyam stuff after his morning routine, you were operating on a different level.

It was noon, and the afternoon heat was humid enough to make anyone’s temper flare. The five of you had been called to the central riverbank to assist in skinning and curing the hunt.

Obviously, you were sitting on a stone, holding a giant palm leaf over your head for shade from the sun while one of the girls did their task.

“Ugh,” you drawled, looking down your nose at the four other candidates covered in mud and blood up to their elbows. “Oh, is that girl really using a dull skinning blade? Wow. Impressive.”

She froze, wiping sweat off her brow and glaring up at you. “Some of us are actually trying to show Neytiri our dedication, Y/n!”

“Yeah? It’s working, girl. And you have fish scales in your braids, by the way,” you pointed, rolling your eyes.

“Why aren’t you even doing anything, Y/n? What if the council finds out about your behavior right now...?” Ali’ya frowned, wiping the dirt off her cheek. She glared up at you as you held a huge leaf over your head, sitting pretty on the high rock like clan royalty.

“First of all, helloo? Have you looked at the weather? Maybe that will answer your question. And I don’t do mud,” Your eye twitched in disgust at the sight of their legs, which were literally caked in wet sludge.

“But... you’re a huntress?”

“Heh, ironic, right?” You rolled your eyes, tossing a braid over your shoulder.

“Y/n.”

The authoritative voice cut through the air, making you peek out from under your so-called hat to see Neteyam walking, his loincloth splattered with mud from a long patrol, his chest rising and falling as he wiped sweat from his neck with the back of his arm.

Jake and Neytiri did some great teamwork.

The sight of his bare, glistening shoulders almost made you drop your leaf, but you caught yourself and smoothed down your posture.

“Why are you sitting up there while everyone else is working?” Neteyam asked, he crossed his arms, looking at you. “I’m pretty sure my mother gave strict instructions to prepare the hides together.”

“Uhhh... because it’s hot?” you said, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a toddler. You swung your legs over the rock, giving him a pout that you knew made your lips look extra full. “And secondly, look at that! If I get animal blood under my cuticles again today, I’ll literally pass out. Do you want your future wife to pass out from trauma, Neteyam? Do you?!”

“Neteyam, look at her!” Ali’ya pouted, blinking her big eyes up at him and letting her voice drop into a pitiful whimper. “She hasn’t touched a single hide all morning! Meanwhile, some of us have been working until our hands bleed just to make your family proud!”

“I know, right? It’s so unfair!” another candidate chimed in, tossing her messy braids back and placing a dirt-stained hand over her heart. “She even made a helpless little child carry her basket! Neteyam, I would never shirk my duties like that. I actually care about being a good mate for you...”

You let out a groan, rolling your eyes so far back into your head you almost saw your own brain. “Oh my!” you gasped, placing both hands over your cheeks in mock shock before leaning over the edge of the rock to flash Neteyam a smile. “I haven’t stolen the spotlight at all! She’s right, Neteyam! Look at me!”

“She also kept bragging about how she doesn’t have to do a thing and you’ll be picking her at the end anyway! It hasn’t even been a week, yet she’s already deciding your whole future!” one of them pouted.

You gasped, slapping a hand against your chest. “I said that?”

“Yes you did!” all four of them said in unison, glaring at you.

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes so hard at their sudden teamwork. “Well, I still mean all of it!”

Neteyam pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh that sounded like it came from the very bottom of his lungs. He walked up the stone steps, stopping right in front of you. He reached out, grabbed you by the wrist, and pulled you off your little throne.

“Hey! Hands off the merchandise!” you gasped, though you didn’t actually fight his grip. “You’re working,” He said, pulling you down. “With me.”

“Oh? Don’t bother me with a good time!”

The girls watched as he led you far from them to a shaded patch of grass near the water, dropping a covered knife and a fresh cut into your lap. He sat down right across from you, grabbing his own blade to begin scraping his side of the hide.

You stared at the rawmeat with disgust, “Jeez...”

He ignored you so you began picking up the blade with two fingers, making little scrapes against the thick hide, sighing exaggeratedly every three seconds to make sure he knew how much you were suffering.

The other candidates were sulking at the sight. It was infuriating. How come you barely did a single damn thing that was actually expected of you as a ‘future mate’, yet you somehow still managed to steal his attention right out from under their noses?

While they had spent all morning slaving away, looking like pathetic creatures to impress him, there you were, isolated off to the side with him, getting a fromt row show as he did the job.

You could feel their glares digging into the side of your neck, drilling holes through your back. You didn’t even bother looking back at them. You just tilted your chin up, let out a hum, and wore the most unbothered grin on your face.

It continued for the following days too. You had found a whole new source of entertainment, watching the girls fume, clench their fists in agony, and throw glares when you walk past.

To you, it was hilarious that they were actually trying to compete against you in something you’ve been doing ever since you were old enough to mount a pa’li.

You’ve long attached yourself to the man like a permanent fixture. Over the years, your presence meant you had integrated yourself right into the heart of his family, especially his siblings.

They seem to not catch that one though.

Currently, you’re slouching across the cushions in your hut. It was your day off, and unfortunately, you were unable to enjoy it because Neteyam was out on an all-day patrol. The injustice of it had left a scowl written all over your face.

Kiri crouched on the woven floor beside your mat, watching you wallow. “Why won’t you come to the forest with us? It’ll be fun!” She grinned, resting her cheek in her palm.

You just crossed your arms, rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, and dramatically turned your head away.

“Nothing is fun right now. I have dawn patrol tomorrow, which means Neteyam won’t be the first thing I set my eyes upon in the morning! Not to mention our schedules have been hectic this week. Like… it’s giving long-distance relationship! This is a tragedy, a crime against my beauty!”

Kiri let out a sigh, rolling her eyes as she watched you flop onto your side, turning your back to her. “Oh, poor you.”

“I know right? So go away. Spend the day with your little human friend or whatever.”

“His name is Spider! How many times do I have to tell you his name?!” Kiri frowned, smacking your butt before shoving your legs aside so she could steal a spot on your mat.

You closed your eyes, letting out a groan into your pillow. “Uh, who cares? I don’t register the existence of other men who aren’t Neteyam;”

“So you aren’t actually coming?”

“Hell to the no. I got better things to do.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I actually don’t.”

“Alright,” Kiri sat up, a grin tickling the corners of her mouth as she dusted off her loincloth. She stepped past the curtain at your entrance, pausing right at the threshold to glance back at your state.

“Neteyam will be there!”

Which is exactly why you found yourself trudging through the dense forest alongside the Sullys less than ten minutes later.

Apparently, they had decided to bring food to Neteyam, considering he’d missed breakfast and it was lunchtime. Naturally, you had sprinted to fix your braids, because leaving your man hungry, and letting him eat without your gorgeously stunning presence beside him, was simply not an option on your watch.

“W-What are you all doing here? You shouldn’t be here. Is that Tuk?!” Neteyam’s eyes widened. He clapped a hand onto his scouting partner’s shoulder to dismiss him before ushering his siblings, and the gorgeous, beautiful, drop-dead sexy, pretty, and brilliant woman (you) aside, leading everyone straight into a nearby cave.

“We came to bring you food!” Tuk cheered, raising her tiny hands before unbuckling the small leather pouch at her waist. “Here! These are the fruits I picked on our way here! I picked them because they’re pink and super cute!”

“Thank you, Tuk,” Neteyam softened, a warm smile breaking across his face as he scooped his baby sister up into his arms. He glanced from his siblings over to you, a cue for you to strut into his space and press a kiss against his cheek.

“I spared no expense on my arrival for you, darling,” you purred, tossing a braid over your shoulder.

“She means she only brought herself so you wouldn’t have to suffer eating alone without her presence nearby,” She stepped up to hand him his main meal, at least five different varieties of fresh food wrapped in plantain leaves.

“He got a kiss, dodn’t he?” you scoffed, crossing your arms with a pout. Neteyam shook his head, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “Thank you for the thought, Y/n... and thank you, Kiri.” He pressed a gentle peck to Tuk’s temple before setting her down. “Take a seat, you guys.”

You claimed the spot right at his side, glued to his bicep, while Kiri and Tuk settled in across from you. As you all formed a circle on the cave floor, Neteyam unwrapped the leaves and held out a portion toward the three of you.

You stared at his offered hand, “Umm? This is your food, handsome.”

Neteyam looked at you. “Yeah, and I’m sharing it with you guys because you walked all the way out here. It’s pretty far from thr village... I’m kinda worried you guys wouldn’t even know the way back in the dark.”

“Aww, cutie... don’t worry your pretty little head!” You giggled, sliding your arm through his and resting your chin on his shoulder with a grin. “You’ve got your awesome future wife right beside you. She knows the way!”

“I know you know the way, Y/n. But I also know that if there’s a waterstream, you’d get distracted by your own reflection.”

Kiri burst out laughing, pointing a finger at you. “HA! He’s so right!”

Tuk covered her mouth, giggling as she watched you snuggle closer to her big brother’s arm. “Are you guys gonna kiss again? Y/n kisses Neteyam a lot!”

“Eww, gross! Tuk, don’t look at them!” Kiri gasped, slapping both hands over Tuk’s eyes. But Tuk swatted her hands away to keep watching.

You chuckled at the sight, tilting your head up toward Neteyam, only to catch him shaking his head at you with a warning in his golden eyes, implicitly asking you not to do anything in front of his little sister.

You nodded, scooting back just an inch to give him his space before turning your full attention to Tuk. “Listen to me, girlie. When you grow up, you have to be super smart at picking men, just like me!”

Neteyam let out a groan, rubbing his temple. “Can you wrap this up?” He placed a piece of cooked flesh onto Tuk’s leaf to distract her, then tossed one of the cute pink fruits she had brought him straight into his mouth.

Later that day, Neteyam ended up insisting on walking the three of you all the way back home before returning to his patrol, claiming it was for safety, though you knew deep down he just couldn’t resist spending an extra twenty minutes in your glorious presence.

Naturally, you took full advantage of the walk back to High Camp. You spent walking beside him, chattering about how exhausting it was being the clear favorite in the candidate trial.

“I’m heading back to patrol,” Neteyam said, his eyes going bCk to you. “Try not to start another riot with the other candidates while I’m gone, okay?”

“Mhmm…”

You tried not to, though.

It wasn’t like you ever had the energy to hike all the way over to those chicks and confront them for a week only remains before Neteyam has to make his final decision between the five candidates.

By the time evening settled over the village, it was buzzing as the Omatikaya gathered for an evening meal, they were hosting a grand feast to welcome a visiting trading party from the neighboring forest clans, including representatives and scouts led by the traders of the allied clans, who had traveled through the river passes to exchange stuff within the clan.

They were apparently staying for three days, bringing new faces, open trades, and laughter. Of course, the other four candidate girls saw this as their arena to show themselves off.

All five candidates were marked in white swirls of body paint until the final selection. Your patterns were intricate, tracing the curves of your collarbones and ribs down to your thighs. Bright orange beads clinked in your braids whenever you moved.

You sat resting, taking sips of sweet fruit nectar while watching the other four candidates sweat over the roasting pits.

“You’re not even going to pretend to help them, are you?” Kiri asked, dropping down onto the ground beside you with a wooden bowl of meat. “I am helping, Kiri,” you said, tossing a braid over your shoulder before sipping your drink again. “I’m giving our people the privilege of looking at my face.”

“Seriously? At this point, I’m actually curious if my brother is even going to pick you. What are you actually planning to do on selection night?”

“First, I’m going to corner him in the forest and bend myself over for him,” you said, slapping both cheeks as you squealed into your hands.

“Oh… wow. A perfect plan,” Kiri said, slowly clapping her hands together. You shrugged. “Of course it’s perfect, I came up with it.”

“Whatever… Imma find Spider.”

As the drums comtinued and the trading clan’s hunters joined the circle, a tall warrior stepped into the light of the main fire. He wore dark leather straps and carved bone ornaments across his chest that marked him as a high-ranking man among the visiting traders.

It was Kayel—one of the allied clan’s top scouts, a warrior who had ridden on joint border patrols with Neteyam in the past.

Kayel scanned the hearth, exchanging a quick nod with Neteyam across the pit. But when his eyes drifted and landed on you, who’s sitting unbothered, painted in white, and holding a wooden cup, he stopped in his tracks.

Puffing out his chest, he walked straight toward your place. “I’ve traveled across river valleys, yet I’ve never seen a sight as striking as the woman sitting right here, drinking a sweet.”

You raised a brow, looking him up and down with open disgust. “Uhh… what?”

Kayel sat down on the grass in front of you, leaning forward with a smile. “I’m convinced the Greatmother took extra care when she made you.”

“I’m going to guess that sounded better in your head,” you said, rolling your eyes before taking a loud sip through your straw.

“My name is Kayel. As you know, I’m one of the head scouts of my clan. Have you always looked gorgeous?”

“To answer your question, yes. I always look like this,” you said, tilting your chin up. Kayel chuckled, his eyes fixed on you. “Then do I get the honor of knowing your name, beauty?”

“As if. I’m already happily taken—”

“Brother!”

You turned to see Neteyam walking over, a smile on his face as he approached the trader. You crossed your arms, pouting because he hadn’t greeted you first.

“Bro! I thought you were assigned to patrol tonight?” Kayel said, shoving Neteyam’s shoulder. Neteyam shook his head. “I have to stay and help with the gathering.”

His eyes moved down to your scowling face. Without a word, Neteyam stepped between you and Kayel. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your waist to pull you close against his side.

“By the way. This is Y/n—” Neteyam began.

“Yes, I was already speaking with her until you walked over, man. Let us talk!” Kayel laughed, waving his hand at Neteyam.

“I see,” Neteyam said, his fingers pressed deeper into the skin of your waist, his thumb tracing over your white paint in a territorial hold.

He looked Kayel dead in the eye, “She’s my future mate. We’re both painted for the final week before our selection ceremony.”

Kayel froze. “Wait, really, bro? She’s yours? We were only talking, I didn’t know—”

“You get me, right?” Neteyam spoke, Kayel raised his hands in surrender, nodding right away. “Of course, brother. My mistake, prett— y/n. I didb’t know. If I had, I wouldn’t have approached. Good seeing you, Neteyam.”

Kayel bumped his shoulder against Neteyam’s, gave you a nod, and walked back toward the rest of the visiting hunters.

Your arms remained crossed over your chest as you looked up at him, raising a brow. “Future mate, huh? I have questions. None of which I actually want answered.”

Neteyam shook his head. “I’ll answer them next week,” he said, leaning down until his lips hovered right beside your ear, his voice dropping into murmur. “Do not speak with these males, Y/n. They aren’t for you.”

A grin spread across your face, you reached up, wrapping both arms around his neck. “I know you want me all to yourself, my prince. You never have to worry about that.”

Neteyam’s hand stayed still on your waist, pulling you against his hip. As he leaned in, you closed the distance, pressing a kiss right against the corner of his lips. You pulled back with a happy sway of your hips, satisfied with the grip he kept on your skin.

“Meet me at my place?”

You moved a braid away from his ear, your eyes searching his face. He caressed your hand before shaking his head, a frown tugging at his lips. “I cannot, I’m sorry. I have to watch over the camp tonight as I’m on schedule.”

“Lame…”

The second day of the visiting clan’s stay meant it was also the second day of seven that the candidates remained covered in sacred paint, being honored by the village.

You swayed your hips as the weavers adjusted your chest accessories, the white pieces contrasting perfectly against the swirls on your skin.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Y/n?”

“It’s Miss Y/n to you as I’m Neteyam’s future mate, and yes, I’m the main attraction,” you stated, making the women erupt into giggles at your confidence.

“What’s your plan for today, Miss?”

The agenda was simple though: find Neteyam, keep him close, and remind everyone that he belonged to you.

Neteyam was sitting by the river, dipping his legs into the cool water. Hearing your footsteps, he looked up with a smile and extended a hand to guide you down beside him. “Fancy a little dip?”

“I sure do, handsome,” you murmured, taking his hand as you settled beside him. You leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, catching a fruit syrup near his mouth before wiping it away with your thumb and licking it clean.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze in embarassment. You shook your head, pressing another kiss against his cheek. He turned, taking a sweet treat he had been holding, and held it up to your lips. You took a slow bite, keeping your eyes locked onto his the whole time as he fed you.

He was being unusually sweet, and it didn’t go unnoticed by you. “What’s with you?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, reaching over to adjust the loose strap of your top back over your collarbone. “You’re quite touchy,” you said, raising a brow at him.

“I don’t know what you mean considering this is how you always act with me. Are you saying you’re too touchy?” he retoted, grinning.

“Fair enough,” you conceded, letting your eyes wander down to his waist where a new band was tied to his pouch. “What’s that? I didn’t know you spent your day making jewelry.”

“Ah, no, this was given to me by one of the candidates,” he explained, untying the accessory and handing it to you. You pouted, picking up the piece to inspect it. “Uhh, who?”

“Ali’ya.”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh, rolling your eyes. “If it’s hers, it’s probably useless.”

Neteyam widened his eyes in warning, shaking his head to tell you not to be spiteful toward the other girls. “She also made one for you.”

“Uhh… me?” You pointed a finger at your own chest in disbelief. He nodded, reaching back into his pouch to pull out a second band strung with rare pearls and beads in your favorite color.

“Woah…”

“Right? So, perhaps next time, you can try making peace with her.”

“First of all, she hates my guts. Second, why did she give it to you instead of bringing it to me herself? Was she just looking for an excuse to talk to you?” you questioned, leaning closer.

“Y/n, just listen to me, alright?” he interrupted, taking the pearl bracelet from your palm and sliding it over your wrist. “See? It’s beautiful on you… Anyway, we had a talk, but you might want to hear her out yourself, it’s not my place to speak on it.”

“What talk?” you asked, glaring at him.

“She told me she no longer wishes to be a candidate.”

After your time with Neteyam ended, you made up your mind to search for Ali’ya. You usually didn’t care about the other females, but her dropping out when the selection was only a week away made you far too curious to let it go.

It didn’t take long to spot her hanging out with her friends near the edge of the hearth. You let out a whistle to catch their attention as you walked over. The group turned, their eyes widening before they glanced back at Ali’ya, who sat up straight and crossed her arms at your arrival.

“What do you want, Y/n?”

“You,” you said. “Let’s talk.”

You pulled her aside, sitting down on a large rock while she leaned her back against a tree, waiting for you to begin. “First of all, thank you for… this,” you said, lifting your wrist to show off the bracelet she had made.

Ali’ya caught sight of it and looked away, clearing her throat. “Don’t think you’re special just because I made you that.”

“Calm down, I’m not here to pick a fight,” you scoffed, waving a hand. “Neteyam told me to make peace with you because you apparently told him something he refused to share with me. Not to mention you quit the mate selection when we’re only a week away.”

“Why would I stay when I already know the answer?” She rolled her eyes, making you confused. “What answer?”

“I know all too well Neteyam will choose you,” she said, looking back at you. “It’s obvious from the way he keeps you away from those visiting males, and how close he has been lately. I’m sure you know he will pick you too, considering how confident you are.”

“I won’t lie to you, it does feel like he will pick me,” you shrugged, leaning back. “to be fairs, i’d been pining over him since we were children, so this whole contest always felt a bit outrageous to me. But I don’t understand why you did— what if he wanted to pick you?”

Ali’ya kept tapping her foot nervously against the dirt. “As if. You know, Y/n… I never Imagined a day where we would be speaking alone like this. I’ve never been the kind of female to talk one-on-one with someone, especially not with someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I gave Neteyam that bracelet and asked him to hand it to you because I couldn’t face you after what I told him,” she admitted, looking away with a frown. “And what did you say to him?”

“It’s stupid. You would probably laugh at me, so I don’t want to say it—”

“Say it, Ali’ya.”

She took a deep breath and sat down on the far end of the same rock, keeping her distance. “The truth is… I don’t understand my own feelings.”

Ali’ya finally met your gaze, her throat working as she swallowed. “When his mother chose me as a candidate, I felt this strange surge inside me. I assumed I was just happy that Neytiri saw potential in me, or maybe I just hated the idea of fighting other females for a male’s attention.”

You watched her pick at her nails, the sight making a strange tension settle in your own chest.

“I didn’t even attempt to approach Neteyam until the second week,” she continued. “And when I finally did, I realized there was no spark between us at all.”

You looked down at the dirt, twisting the pearl bracelet around your wrist as you listened.

“You’re a great competition, Y/n,” Ali’ya said, a smile touching her lips. “Even when I wasn’t fully in it, I always knew that when you want something, you take it. That’s what I’ve always admired about you… and you’re so gorgeous. I could never be like you.”

Your eyes widened, twitching in shock at her statement, “Uh— whaat?” You stared at her, your mouth agape as you processed her words. “Are you… Did someone put something in your drink tonight?”

Ali’ya rolled her eyes, ducking her head as a blush bloomed across her high cheekbones. She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them.

“I’m serious, Y/n," she said, “When I watched you sitting on that ledge before, looking like a dream while the rest of us were drowning in mud, I was angry. But it wasn’t because you were lazy.”

You blinked. “Then why?”

She whipped her tail, her ears pinning back against her braided hair. “Because my eyes kept going back to you.”

The forest around you seemed to go quiet. You froze, your fingers coming to a halt over the pearl bracelet.

“When I was making that wristband,” Ali’ya continued, her gaze fixed on her own toes, “I spent hours finding the rarest pearls. I even told myself it was just a polite gesture for a fellow candidate… but when I finished it, the thought of giving it to Neteyam made my chest feel empty. All I could think about was how breathtaking those pearls would look against your skin. And I didn’t like the idea that he would be the first one to see it on you.”

She swallowed hard, turning her head to meet your astonished eyes. “I tried to force myself to want the future Olo’eyktan,” she whispered. “But when I saw that visiting scout speaking with you yesterday, I wasn’t even angry that you were letting another male close to you when you already have Neteyam. I was angry because he could do it so freely, and I couldn’t.”

“Oh…”

For once, the words caught in your throat, your usual confidence evaporated. You were used to being worshipped from afar, but sitting here while she laid her soul bare was unfamiliar. You were definitely not built to be anyone’s emotional counselor.

“I only wanted you to hear it from me, and I’m glad Neteyam respected my privacy enough not to tell you himself,” Ali’ya said. “You don’t need to say anything, Y/n. It’s not as if these feelings run that deep anyway. As I said, it’s just adoration, and it’ll fade in time.”

You cleared your throat, tossed a hair over your shoulder. “You know… you’re actually not so bad, Ali’ya. You certainly have exquisite taste. I suppose I cannot blame you for falling for perfection.”

A chuckle escaped you as you held up your arm, admiring the delicate craftsmanship. “I really do love the bracelet. It looks cute against my skin. You must’ve spent hours trying to figure out what would match my beauty, right?”

Ali’ya looked down, a laugh breaking through her as she shook her head. “Not really. I just knew.”

You looked at her for a second, the playful behavior in your eyes softening before you looked down at the pearls goowing against your skin.

“Thank you, Ali’ya... for spending hours making this, for thinking of me, and for being able to tell me all of this when you thought I’d just laugh in your face. You really have to give it up for me. My beauty is becoming a hazard to this clan if I’m breaking hearts without even trying,” A grin returned to your lips, “I always thought you hated my guts. I thought you were just glaring at me because—”

“I did hate you,” Ali’ya interrupted, a scoff escaping her as she looked at you. “I hated you because you walked around like you owned the forest, and because you made me feel things I didn’t understand and certainly didn’t wanna feel.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you let her words settle before continuing. “Well, at least now it all makes sense… But as you already know, my heart has belonged to Neteyam. I love him so much it terrifies me sometimes, and I cannot imagine any future that doesn’t have him standing right beside me. So... I suppose you already knew what my answer would be. But I’m grateful you told me, Ali’ya. Again, you have good taste, and I’m really glad we had this talk.”

The third day came smoothly.

You and Ali’ya had found a sense of comfort with each other after that deep conversation in the forest. And as a skilled weaver, she began helping you with your clothing and applying the white paint to your body. You even teased her that she only volunteered so she could catch a glimpse of you, which earned you a gag and a pinch on your arm.

“Everyone, relax! I’ve arrived!” you declared, stepping onto the dance floor. You bumped your hips with one of the dancers as the hits of the drums beat in sync with your hearts.

The other dancers cheered, relinquishing the spotlight to let you show off your moves. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of golden eyes watched the way you swayed with sass from across the fire, unable to keep a grin off his face.

As you were enjoying yourself, a sudden hand gripped your forearm. You turned to see a visiting trader scratching his neck nervously.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Care to dance with the most handsome male here?” he offered, holding out his hand. Your face fell, looking down at your painted skin, which obviously signaled that you were a candidate already spoken for, though this windtrader seemed oblivious.

You grinned, looking past him at the crowd. “I’d love to! I wonder where he is?”

His confident smile evaporated into a scowl, you flicked your wrist, shooing him away like a bug before turning your back on him, he even called you ‘not attractive’ after you turned him down.

Once the dancing wound down, you walked over to the grand hearth where the elders were feasting, discussing plans for the upcoming mating ceremony.

“Can someone explain why that’s my problem?”

Several people rolled their eyes, but one of the clan women chuckled, shaking her head. “No, it’s not your problem, because we’re technically celebrating you, m’lady.”

“As you should be. I suggest you all make sure the decorations match my beuaty then.”

A groan and chuckles went around, but you just took a seat on a bench, crossing one leg over the other and it wasn’t long until you felt a hand settle over the back of your neck.

You didn’t even need to look back as he slipped into the space beside you, his legs stretching out. His broad shoulder brushed against yours, sending a heat straight through your skin.

“Enjoying your night?” he whispered, leaning down so his deep voice buzzed right against the shell of your ear. “Enjoying it more now that you’re here,” you purred, tilting your head up to meet his golden eyes before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Although, another windtrader tried to hit on me. He asked if I wanted to dance with the most handsome male, so I said of course, then asked where he was, and then he walked away calling me ugly.”

A laugh went out its way to Neteyam’s lips, his hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing over the white paint on your skin. “Is that so? And did you ever find this handsome male?”

“I’m sitting right next to him, am I not?” you hummed, leaning your weight fully into his side. Neteyam chuckled, wuthout taking his eyes off you, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you against his hip for the entire clan to see.

“Good answer,” he said, pressing his lips against the crook of your neck. “I’d hate to wait for tomorrow to chase another scout out of our camp.”

You chuckled, bringing both hands up to hold his jaw as you examined the crisp white designs painted across his face. “Is it bad that I’m wondering who painted this on you?”

“I painted myself,” he answered. “Once the sixth day comes, the female of my choice will be the one to paint me next.”

“Oh? in that case, I’ll have to practice,” you giggled, making him shake his head with a smile. He placed his hand over yours where it rested against his cheek, leaning into your palm. “How are you so sure you’re the one I’ll choose?”

“Thwy call me the mind reader” you said, sliding your arms around his waist to rest your head against his collarbone. “Hey… I think I made a friend.”

“I know you did.”

You lifted your head, raising a brow up at him. “Did she tell you or were you spying on us in the forest?”

Neteyam chuckled. “Neither. I just saw the accessory on your wrist, and I know how stubborn both of you can be. If you returned wearing her craft without a fresh bruise on your face, I assumed peace had been made.”

“Well you assumed correctly,” you huffed, running your fingers idly over the leather harness across his chest. “She surrendered to my charm, just as everyone eventually does.”

“Is that what happened?” Neteyam whispered. “Yes, exactly what happened,” you grinned, resting your cheek back down against his chest to listen to the beat of his heart. “I may not have a line of candidates like you do, but just know you have plenty of competition out there.”

“I dnot need to compete,” His fingers tightened against your waist. “I’m already fortunate enough to have captured your sight.”

The fourth day began early as you stood alongside Neteyam and his family near the village entrance, bidding farewell to the visiting traders as their direhorses snorted in the morning mist.

Kayel shot you one last smirk, which Neteyam promptly shut down with a glare until the scouts disappeared into the forests.

Once the visitors were gone, you slipped away to join the rest of the candidates for the afternoon tasks. With Ali’ya no longer in the running, the remaining three females were spiraling.

“I just cannot believe it’s almost over!” one of the candidates sobbed by the baskets, wiping her tears onto her forearm. “He has barely even looked at me!”

You strolled past them, holding a bundle of reeds that Ali’ya had handed you earlier. You stopped, looking down at the girl with a deadpan expression.

“Oh please. You’re not crying enough!” you called out. “Put some real effort into those tears if you want a sympathy vote.”

The candidate gasped in horror, burying her face in her hands, while Ali’ya stepped up beside you, hauling a crate of dyes.

“Who are you?” you asked, turning your head toward Ali’ya with a scowl. “Did I allow my head servant to stand so close to me?”

Ali’ya rolled her eyes hard, dropping the crate onto the grass. “Shut up or I’ll smudge your paint and make you do this yourself,” she said, making you scoff, sharing a grin with her before taking half of her load.

Having your former rival as a best friend was convenient.

Later that afternoon, eager to avoid the dramatic candidates, you decided to sneak away to the lower riverbanks to gather waterlilies for your hair.

And as a karma, maybe, things went wrong.

While reaching over a slippery moss ledge, your foot gave out. You slid down a muddy ground, getting your arm pinned under a heavy fallen branch right at the edge of a deep, rushing current. The water slapped against your legs, threatening to pull you in, and your body paint was getting ruined by black mud.

Panicking, you squeezed your eyes shut, your attitude dissolving into desperation. “Oh, Greatmother! Eywa, please!” you gasped, pulling frantically at your stuck arm. “Please don’t let me die in the mud like an ungraceful girl! I swear I’ll change! I’ll be kind! I’ll stop bullying the candidates! I’ll never act arrogant again, I promise, just save me!”

“Look at that... a damsel in distress!”

You snapped your eyes open to see Ali’ya standing on the ridge, her bow slung over her shoulder and a grin spreading across her face. “You! Stop standing there looking useless and help me!” you shrieked, kicking your legs against the mud.

Ali’ya climbed down the slope, using her hunting knife to pry the heavy branch off your arm before pulling you up onto solid ground. You scrambled back onto the dry grass, breathing heavily as you looked at your skin with horror.

Ali’ya wiped a smudge of dirt off her own forehead, looking at you in confusion. “So... are you actually going to start being nice to people now?”

You brushed the dirt off your hips, tossing a stray braid over your shoulder as your sass returned. “I didn’t promise.”

Ali’ya stared at you, before letting out a scoff. “You’re outrageous, Y/n.”

By the time night fell, you were exhausted. You dragged your feet toward the place where Neteyam was sitting near the hearth, sharpening a dagger. He looked up, his golden eyes widening at the state of your mud-flecked skin and ruined lilies.

Before he could even ask, you marched straight over, dropping your weight right onto his lap. “Ugh. Move, you have no idea the day I had!” you groaned, resting your head against his chest.

Neteyam let out a chuckle, his arm wrapping around your waist to support you. “What happened to you? Did you fight a mud-skipper?”

“Are you making fun of me,” you pouted, crossing your arms and looking up at him. “I was fighting for my life out there, and you were probably just sitting here looking pretty.”

“I was actually patrolling,” he smiled, his thumb wiping a spot of dried mud off your cheek. “I have one question I need you to answer.”

“Shoot it.”

“I heard you made the females cry today, is that true? Didn’t you make peace with them like I asked? If you continue with this attitude, Y/n, what do you think will happen to your reputation? I need you to stop picking fights with them, especially since it’s only days away until the final choice is announced. Do you understand?”

“That’s four questions.”

“Y/n…” he warned, his golden eyes glaring.

You readjusted yourself on his lap, turning to straddle his thighs completely while looking down at him. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t make no one cry. That girl just threw a fit because you didn’t give her enough attention! Second, I did make peace with them, one of them even saved me from dying in the mud while my prince charming was off patrolling. Third, my reputation will be just fine, I’ve always been this fabulous and the clan loves me anyway. And fourth, fine, whateva, I understand! Deep down in my soul!”

“Please, try to contain your jealousy—”

“Wow! I miss the version of my day from five seconds ago before I heard that, Ne-te-yam!” You brought your hands to his neck, playfully squeezing his throat, which earned you a pinch to your waist. “I should be the one telling you that! Don’t think I forgot how you acted when your friend tried to hit on me!”

“Who?”

“Kaì? Kaey? Kxae? I forgot, but as you know, I’ve been shot down by way hotter males than you, so you ought to remember that you’re competing for my attention too.”

“Kayel, and he isn’t a competition,” Neteyam scoffed, leaning back onto his hands against the mat as he looked up at you with a glint. “No male is. Now, go on… name one of these hotter males you speak of.”

“...Oh, so arrogant, my brave warrior… You’re making me hot and bothered when you act like that,” you whispered, biting your lip as you avoided his gaze, staring down at his painted chest while your hands rested seductively against his skin.

“Really now?” he murmured, catching one of your wrists and guiding your hand up to rest against his throat, feeling the pulse beneath his skin. “Well, you’re making it extremely difficult for me to hold back until the seventh day. When you act this stubborn, there’s only one solution in my mind… one I’ve wanted to use to calm you down for a very loong time.”

“Do tell…”

“I could show you instead,” he whispered, his golden eyes sparkling as his palm slid down from your waist, spanning the curve of your thigh and giving it a squeeze. You sighed, “All talk, warrior.”

“I’m a patient man, after all. You should know that by now,” Neteyam grinned, tilting his head up so his lips brushed where your jaw met your neck. He trailed hot kisses upward, his tongue flicking out to lick a path up to your earlobe. “I’ve always believed in saving the best for last…”

“Don’t be so confident,” you grinned, tilting your head back to give him more access to your throat. A moan escaped your lips as his mouth worked its way up to your ear. “I won’t let you have your way with me that easily.”

“That’s crazy when you’re already dripping wet for me.”

You gasped out loud as his hand moved between your thighs, his thick thumb pressing through the thin fabric of your loincloth right against your swollen slit. He began rubbing it in circles, grinding the cloth over your center.

The wave of heat had you arching your back, lifting your weight off his lap as you gripped his shoulders for dear life, struggling to keep your balance against the sensation.

The wetness already soaking your loincloth made every circle of his finger feel filthy. You rocked your hips down against his hand, chasing the pressure while still trying to look like you were in control.

“Someone’s going to see,” you muttered against his neck. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you glanced around. Most of the clan was still busy with the evening meal, but the risk made your pussy clench harder.

Neteyam stayed still, golden eyes half-lidded as he kept rubbing slow circles. “Then keep quiet, princess. Or do you want the whole village to hear how wet you get for me? How incredibly selfish I am to have a favorite candidate?” His free hand slid up your back, fingers tracing the white paint along your spine before settling at the nape of your neck.

You scoffed even as a moan slipped out. “Bastard...” Your own hand dropped between your bodies, palm pressing over the thick bulge straining his loincloth. You squeezed him through the fabric, feeling how hard he already was. “Look who’s talking. You’re throbbing like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He let out a chuckle. “Maybe I have,” Neteyam’s thumb never stopped moving, grinding the soaked cloth over your core until the friction made your thighs shake. He leaned in and bit down on the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a dark mark right where anyone could see it later.

You tilted your head further to the side, giving him better access while your hand stroked his cock through the fabric. The outline of him was thick under your palm. You rubbed up and down slowly, matching the pace he set on your clit. “Fuck… that feels good,” you whispered, hips rolling in needy circles.

Neteyam’s teeth scraped over the fresh mark before he licked it. “Good… Keep doing that,” His hips twitched up into your hand as he pressed two fingers against your entrance through the loincloth, rubbing the fabric into your folds without pushing inside yet.

The teasing made you wetter, slick soaked through the thin material, coating his fingers. You bit your lip hard to stay quiet, glancing again toward the fire where people still laughed and ate. “Such a tease,” you hissed, squeezing the head of his cock through the cloth. “I should stop touching you right now and leave you aching.”

“You won’t,” he mumbled against your ear, he was sure of himself. His thumb flicked faster over your clit for a few seconds before slowing again. “You want it… you want me to cum in this…”

You moaned into his shoulder, hand working him faster. The ridge of his cock pulsed under your palm every time you squeezed. “Shut up and keep touching me,” you ordered, your other hand tangled in his braids, holding him close while you ground down against his fingers.

Neteyam panted, he slipped his fingers under the edge of your loincloth to feel the bare skin without exposing you. Two fingertips dragged through your wet folds, coating themselves in slick before he rubbed your clit directly. “So soaked. You can’t even keep it together.”

You whimpered at the contact, your hand shoved under his loincloth in return, wrapping around the hsrd length of his cock. Skin on skin made both of you groan, you stroked him slow and tight, thumb spreading the precum leaking from the tip. “You’re leaking so much, warrior…”

He thrust up into your fist once before forcing himself still. “Oh, baby…” Neteyam’s fingers mirrored your pace, rubbing circles over your clit while the rest of his hand stayed hidden under the fabric.

You kissed him hard to muffle the next moan, tongue sliding against his as you stroked him faster. Your thumb rubbed under the head of his cock on every upstroke. He answered by pinching your clit lightly between two fingers, then soothing it with slower strokes. The sting mixed with pleaure made your thighs clamp around his wrist.

His free hand gripped your ass, pulling you tighter against him so your clothed pussy ground against the base of his cock while you jerked him off.

You broke the kiss to whisper, “I hate how good you are at this,” Your hand twisted on the next stroke, making his hips jerk. Slick from your pussy had already coated his fingers. He brought them up for a second, letting you see how shiny they were before slipping them back under your loincloth.

Neteyam rubbed your clit faster now, still keeping the fabric mostly in place. “Hate it all you want. You’re still going to cum on my fingers like this, right here where anyone could look over.”

You stroked him in time with the pressure on your clit, both of you moaning. The heat between your bodies grew unbearable, your free hand gripped his shoulder for balance as your hips started moving on their own, chasing every flick of his fingers. “Don’t stop,” you ordered.

As you were about to cum, Neteyam suddenly stopped. He pulled his fingers away from your soaked loincloth, leaving you throbbing. You whined out loud, jaw dropping in disbelief as the building orgasm was ripped away.

You tightened your grip on his cock in revenge and pulled your hand off him just as fast. “You—”

Before you could finish the curse, Neteyam crashed his mouth against yours. He kissed you deep, tongue sliding in to shut you up while his hands gripped your waist. You bit his bottom lip hard, still grinding your hips against nothing, desperate for the friction he had stolen.

He chuckled into the kiss. “Patience, we’re out in the open,” golden eyes stayed calm even as his cock twitched against your thigh.

You pulled back to glare at him. “You annoy me. I was right there... Next time I get my hands on you, I’m not stopping until you beg.”

“Looking forward to it.”

You woke up from your hammock, the sunlight spilling through your family’s kelku. A throb sat between your thighs, and the moment your brain fully booted up, your jaw clenched.

Neteyam…

You threw your legs over the edge of the hammock, running a hand over your face with a groan. “I’m suffering! Does anyone care that I’m literally suffering right now?!”

No one answered, your family had already left for an early gathering. Grumbling under your breath about arrogant warriors who lacked the decency to finish what they started, you got up, got your body paint freshened, and stepped out into the busy crowd.

Your mood was already hovering near rock bottom when two of the remaining candidate females suddenly blocked your path near the edge of the woven walkways. One of them, a taller girl with braided beads who had been glaring at you for three days straight, crossed her arms with an ugly scowl.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she spat, stepping right into your personal bubble. “Manipulating the future Olo’eyktan, parading around like you’ve already won him. You’re just using cheap tricks to keep him from seeing the rest of us!”

You blinked, slowly taking a step back out of disgust. You gestured vaguely between her and yourself. “First of all, you’re making me look bad by just standing next to me. Step back.”

The girl’s face flushed a deep purple-blue. “Don’t talk down to me, Y/n! You don’t deserve Neteyam!”

You tilted your head, inspecting her face like a mild nuisance. “Who are you again? You clearly didn’t make a big impression on me.”

She gasped, her chest heaving as her companion tried to hold her back. “I’m— it doesn’t matter. I spent two hours yesterday showing him my bow-stringing technique!”

“Oh… What kind of lame joke is that?”

Before she could burst into tears or strike you, a silhouette fell over the walkway. Neteyam stepped out from behind the trunk of the home tree, his golden eyes sweeping over the tension. The moment she saw him, her posture shattered, and she spun on her heel, hurrying away with her friend in tow.

You watched them scurry off, crossing your arms and shaking your head. “Oops... that was difficult to witness.”

“What was?” Neteyam asked, stepping closer. He looked refreshed, handsome, and too pleased with himself. You turned your back on him and began walking toward the main place at a brisk pace.

“Y/n,” he called out, “Wait. Are you walking away from me?”

You kept your chin tucked up, staring straight ahead. Neteyam fell into step right beside you, reaching out to tug at your tail. “Y/n, come on. Are you really still mad about last night?”

“I had to stop,” he pleaded, stepping in front of you to block your path. “If I didn’t then I wouldn’t have been able to stop at all... We were right near the central fire, where anyien could have walked up on us. I’m trying to respect you.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m not ignoring you, I’m just giving you the silence you deserve.”

Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck as he fell back into step beside you, trying to loop his arm around your waist. “Y/n, please. Look at me. I came looking for you the moment I woke up.”

You sidestepped his touch, tossing your head back as you looked at the sky. “Ah, what a conundrum. The grand future leader of our clan, begging for my attention, while I’m forced to endure the agonizing torture of unfulfilled promises.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not until the selection day,” you purred, finally glancing sideways at him with a plan in your eyes. “And when that night comes, Neteyam... you had better pray you have enough endurance and stamina to make up for what you did.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched, a hum vibrating in the back of his throat as his eyes tracked the slight sway of your hips. He reached out again, his fingers catching your wrist to stop you in your tracks.

“I will hold you to every single word, y/n.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up but before you could throw another banter his way, a pair of footsteps thudded across the ground. “There you are!”

Ali’ya called out, marching right up to the two of you with a basket of freshly dyed weaving reeds balanced on her hip. She took one look at Neteyam holding your wrist, looked at your stubborn, upturned nose, and let out a groan.

“Do you two ever stop?” Ali’ya muttered, rolling her eyes. She hoisted the basket higher and shoved herself between the two of you, forcing Neteyam to reluctantly drop his hold on your wrist.

“Ali’ya. We were speaking.”

“And I’m taking her,” Ali’ya replied, not showing an ounce of fear toward the future Olo’eyktan. She grabbed your forearm, yanking you. “The Tsahìk wants the ceremonial sashes finished before sun-down, and since someone spent all morning sulking instead of reporting for duties, I’m forced to do the lifting.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over your heart. “Sulking?! Hell no!”

“You were pouting,” Ali’ya corrected without looking back, tossing a smirk over her shoulder at Neteyam. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll return your handful of a female once she learns how to properly knot a binding cord.”

Neteyam stood in the middle of the walkway, watching you get dragged off. A smile cracked across his face, his golden eyes burning into yours until you were nearly out of sight.

“You’re hopeless,” Ali’ya declared as soon as you both reached the seclusion of their pavilion, dropping her basket onto the floor mat with a loud thud. She sat down crosslegged, handing you a bundle of softened fiber. “He looks at you like he’s so in love, and you look at him like you want to bite his head off.”

“I do want to bite his head off.”

“I’m not talking about the other head, but okay…”

You spent the fifth day learning how to knot the binding cords under Ali’ya’s eye. By the time the sun dropped, your fingers were sore and your patience was thinner than the fibers you had been forced to weave.

The sixth day arrived with a different kind of heat. Morning duties dragged. You and Neteyam kept finding excuses to pass each other in the village paths, each glance heavier than the last. He would brush his knuckles against your back when no one was looking. You would lean in to whisper something against his ear before walking away with a confident sway of your hips.

You found him near the edge of the home tree and took his wrist. “Come with me. We’re taking a bath.”

Neteyam followed, the river you led him to was tucked deep between high stone banks and thick hanging vines. The water ran clear, the sound of the current the only noise for a long stretch.

No one from the village used this place.

You stepped into the cool water first, the level rising to your waist. Neteyam followed, eyes never leaving you as he waded closer. “Still mad about the other night?”

You crossed your arms under the surface, chin tilted up. “Mad is a soft word for what I am. You left me aching on purpose.”

He stepped in until your chests almost touched. “I did. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” His hands settled on your waist under the water, thumbs stroking skin. “I can make it up to you without breaking the rules.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? And how do you plan to do that, future Olo’eyktan?”

Neteyam didn’t answer with words as he scooped you up, water cascading off both of you as he carried you the short distance to a flat rock that jutted out over the deeper part of the river. He set you down on the edge so your ass rested on the stone while your legs dangled into the water.

His body stayed fully in the river, the height of the rock put him face-to-face with the front of your wet loincloth.

He looked up at you, hands sliding up your thighs. “You can be as loud as you want here… No one will hear you.”

He pushed the fabric of your loincloth aside, his golden eyes brightening at the sight before him. You were dripping wet, slick heat glistening against your skin, and he knew with certainty it had nothing to do with the water.

You were soaked purely for him.

“Thrilled, baby?”

Without waiting for an answer, he dragged his thick thumb straight over your swollen clit, rubbing it up and down. The needy noises escaping your throat, the gasps, the sighs, and the way your thighs spread even wider for him had his own cock hardening against his cloth undee the water.

The temperature of the river wasn’t helping as well.

Neteyam leaned down between your knees, using both thumbs to part your wet folds, exposing your dripping center to the warm afternoon air. “Look at you,” he groaned, his hot breath fanning right over your slit, making your stomach drop in anticipation.

Then, he dove in.

His tongue slapped against your clit in a long stripe, causing you to squeal and arch your hips off the rock. Neteyam chuckled against your skin, his hands gripping your thighs to pin you in place as he flattened his tongue, swirling it over your center before plunging it deep.

He lap-swallowed every drop of your slickness, his mouth working, sucking on your clit while his fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as he wrecked every shred of your self-control.

The drags of his tongue was intoxication, making you gasped, one hand flying to his braids while the other braced against the rock behind you.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hips twitching forward. “You’re actually—”

He hummed against your clit, his large hands gripped your thighs and spread them wider, holding you open so he could bury his face deeper between your legs. The soft wet sounds of his tongue mixed with the rush of the current.

You looked down and watched him. Neteyam’s eyes stayed half-lidded even as he sucked your swollen clit between his lips and flicked it with the tip of his tongue. The contrast between his face and the way he ate you made your knees weak.

Neteyam smirked against your pussy and you felt it, your fingers tightening in his braids. “Don’t get cocky just because your mouth is good,” The words came out breathless.

He answered by pushing two fingers inside you while his tongue stayed locked on your clit, curling them upward until your thighs started to shake.

The privacy of the river made it easy to stop holding back. Moans turned louder as he licked, sucked, and fingered you with the same control he used in everything else, drawing the pleasure out until your hips were rolling against his face.

“Neteyam… I’m close,” you voice cracking.

He pulled his mouth away to speak, lips shiny with your wetness. “Hmmm, you’re doing great,” he sealed his mouth over your clit again and sucked hard, fingers thrusting deeper.

Your orgasm hit hard, you cried out openly as the wave after wave crashed through you. Neteyam kept licking through it, drinking every pulse of you that spilled onto his tongue. He only slowed when your legs threatened to give out.

When he finally rose higher in the water, his mouth and chin were wet. He wiped them with the back of his hand, still looking composed.

You returned on the river, wetting your body again, and glared at him. “You’re hard, aren’t you.”

“I am...” He took your hand and pressed it against the thick outline in his loincloth under the water. “But we wait for the seventh day for the rest.”

You squeezed him once through the fabric, just to watch his jaw tighten. “I’m going to make you regret every second you made me wait.”

Neteyam only smiled, and kissed the corner of your mouth so you could taste yourself on his lips. “I’m counting on it.”

The rest of the sixth day passed in a sloppy making out session. Every time your eyes met across the village, the memory of his tongue between your thighs at the river’s edge burned hotter.

The next day finally set, though the hours leading up to dusk had felt like an eternity. Because of tradition, you were strictly forbidden from seeing Neteyam until the evening.

You spent the better part of the afternoon forced to endure the faces of the remaining candidate females. They spent the whole day frowning and muttering under their breath, bitter that they hadn’t been given the chance to paint Neteyam, the honor Neytiri had already officially announced was yours.

Ali’ya, however, made it her mission to make sure you looked flawless. She spent hours hunting through the village supplies to find you the finest loincloth and complementary adornments.

She even styled your hair with hairpins crafted in your favorite color. It was a habit of hers to constantly take note of your favorite hues and find ways to give them back to you, you had no idea how or when she had picked up on your preferences.

Between being fussed over by Ali’ya and grinding down the minerals to mix the sacred paint you’d be using later, the distance from Neteyam made your skin itch with impatience.

When dusk finally arrived, the village center was ablaze with towering bonfires. Music from the drums vibrated through the ground, and the air was rich with the scent of roasted meat and crushed flowers.

You were guided to the private place behind the chief’s hut, holding a shell bowl filled with the paint. Neteyam was already standing there, draped only in his loincloth, his shoulders gleaming in the firelight.

The moment his golden eyes met yours, taking in your styled hair, your pins, and the elegance of your attire, his heart skipped a beat.

You were gonna be mated tonight, under Eywa.

“Finally,” he sighed as he stepped toward you, ignoring the boundary distance. “I was beginning to think they were keeping you from me on purpose.”

“They tried,” you hummed, setting your paint bowl down on a wooden table next to his. “And you were supposed to wait until I initiated the ritual markings, future husband.”

“I’ve waited all day,” Neteyam shook his head, and he didn’t waste a second. Before you could even dip your fingers into the pigment, his long hands snaked around your waist, pulling you close to him. He leaned down, catching your lips in a wet kiss.

“Neteyam!” you gasped, laughing against his mouth as you slapped his shoulder. “Stop! I’m going to spill it! We have eyes on us!”

“Sorry,” he whispered against your lips, stealing another peck before easing his grip just enough to let you work.

You dipped your fingers into the paint, looking up at his handsome face. “Hold still. If I smudge your jawline, your mother will kill me.”

Neteyam smirked, tilting his chin up obediently, but the moment your fingers touched the skin of his throat, his hand sneaked down to give your hip a pinch.

You squealed, jumping back. “Neteyam! I’m serious!”

“So am I,” he grinned, “You’re far too distracting. How am I supposed to stand still when you look like this?”

“I know I am, but you have to exercise an ounce of warrior discipline,” you scoffed, stepping back in and tracing a line down his collarbone.

To get back at him, you let your hand linger, sliding down his chest toward his abdomen, making his muscles tighten under your touch. Neteyam bit his lip, his jaw clenching as he caught your wrists.

“Ma yawne,” he warned. “So-Rry,” you purred, dipping your fingers again to draw swirls across his shoulders. Every time you leaned in close to smooth the paint over his skin, Neteyam took advantage, leaning down to kiss your cheek, the line of your jaw, or sweet spot beneath your ear, making you giggle and swat at his chest.

Then, it was his turn to paint you, he dipped his fingers into his bowl, his expression softening as he stepped close enough for you to feel the heat coming off his body.

He began at your face, gently holding your chin with one hand while his thumb carefully traced a curved line over your nose, down to your lips, and to your throat.

His touch was fragile for a warrior so strong. He took his time, leaning in so close your foreheads almost touched, his warm breath touching over your skin as he filled in the symbols on your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he stated, his golden eyes locking onto yours as his paint-stained fingers brushed over your collarbone. “You know that, right?”

Your heart did a familiar flutter against your chest. “I know,” you whispered back, teasing him despite the lump in your throat. “Ali’ya worked very hard on me.”

Neteyam chuckled, leaning down to capture your lips in an intimate kiss that set your whole body on fire. His tongue brushed yours, sweet and possessive, sealing the bond long before the elders even had the chance to chant.

When he finally pulled back, both of your skins were marked with matching, glowing signs of union, dotted with tiny smudges where you had played around and leaned into each other too close.

Neteyam took your hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss each of your knuckles, his golden eyes never breaking contact with yours. “I’m so excited for tonight, my love…” he whispered, ending with a peck against the back of your palm.

“Mhmm, me too.”

When the two of you finally stepped down from the pavilion, hand in hand, the village was gathered in a circle around the fire. The ceremony itself moved in a blur of sacred traditions and ancient chants.

As soon as the rites concluded, the solemnity vanished, replaced by a celebration. Varieties of drink were cracked open, and the music turned untamed. You and Neteyam were dragged into the middle. The heat of the bonfire washed over your skin as you let your hips swing.

Neteyam barely let you out of his reach the whole night. Even while dancing with his friends, his large hand was almost always somewhere on your body, resting heavy on your hip, fingers laced through yours, or pulling you to his chest mid-spin just to steal a kiss that left the surrounding people howling.

At one point, as you stepped back to catch your breath and gulp down a horn of strong liquor, a few figures approached you. It was the candidate females. For a second, the air felt tense, but the sourness from the morning was gone from their faces, replaced by flushed cheeks and smiles.

“Y/n,” they spoke, holding up a carved charm. “We... wanted to say congratulations. To both of you.” She rubbed the back of her neck, looking a bit sheepish. “And I’m sorry for how I acted before.”

You blinked before a smirk spread across your face. You took the charm and gave her a nod. “Give it up for me?”

They laughed at your catchphrase, the hostility melting away into respect as they wished you well and returned to the dancing crowd.

When you turned back around, Neteyam was already standing right behind you. He wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder while your back was pressed against his painted chest.

“I missed you…”

You smiled at his warmth, lifting your hand to his jaw to pull him down into a kiss. You both sighed into it, the noise swallowed by the thumping drums. You could feel the desperate hum beneath your skin, the longing to just abandon the gathering, to escape the eyes of your people and finally lose yourselves in each other.

When you pulled away, your breath came out in puffs. You looked down at his swollen lips before meeting his golden eyes. “I guess we’re girlfriends and boyfriends now?” you giggled, resting your hand over his long fingers where they gripped your waist.

He turned you around to face him, taking your wrists and draping your arms over his shoulders. His thumbs stroked the sides of your waist, holding you flush against him. “You don’t want us to be husband and wife?”

“I don’t know, Neteyam. We’re not there yet. We haven’t even… y’know,” you teased, raising a single brow as a grin spread across your face.

Neteyam’s eyes twitched. “Is that what’s stopping us?” he murmured, leaning in until his nose brushed against yours. He gently swayed his hips with yours to the beat of the instruments, his touch was gentle despite the raw hunger in his eyes.

“Probably…”

He looked through you with a devotion that made your stomach flip. His thumb moved upward, tracing the line of your jaw, catching a stray lock of hair adorned with your favorite colored pins and tucking it behind your ear. His gaze stayed on every detail of your face, soaking you in as if you were the only soul under Eywa.

“Then let’s fix that,” he whispered against your lips, without giving you a chance to tease him further, he caught you behind the knees and lifted you into his arms. You let out a gasp, tightening your grip around his neck as he held you close to his heart.

He didn’t care who was watching as he stepped away from the event, turning his back on the celebration and carrying you straight toward the private cave.

His lips never left yours, you kissed him messy and hungry, grinding down against the hard-on trapped in his loincloth until both of you were breathing hard.

Neteyam set you down carefully on the cave floor. He took a moment to fold several large leaves into a makeshift pillow, then lifted your head and slid it underneath so you wouldn’t feel the stone.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and rolled up against him, rubbing your still-clothed pussy along the thick ridge of his cock.

“Oh, fuck…” he groaned, eyes locked on the way you moved. He matched your pace, pushing down to give you more pressure while his hands roamed over your painted sides.

You threw your head back against the leaves, moaning at the movement. The fabrics between you were already soaked. Neteyam pushed your loincloth aside just enough to drag the bare head of his cock against your clit, smacking it a few times.

“These clothes are pissing me off,” you muttered, reaching down to untie your loincloth from your tail. You lifted your hips and tossed it aside. Neteyam chuckled under his breath and removed his own at the same pace, never looking away from you.

The second both of you were bare, you felt the full heat of his thick cock sliding through your wet folds.

“Yess… ’teyam,” you panted, mouth open as he dragged the length up and down your pussy without pushing in. He kept the pace slow on purpose. Every glide coated his cock in your slick until it shined. His hands slid up to lift your accessory and to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples while he continued the strokes.

“Look at you,” he groaned, “Already this wet for me and I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

You rolled your hips harder, trying to catch the tip at your entrance. He pulled back just enough to deny you, smirking when you glared. “Patience, okay. I’ve waited years for this. I’m going to take my time.”

Neteyam leaned down and kissed you deep, tongue sliding against yours while one hand moved between your bodies. He rubbed slow circles over your clit with two fingers, spreading your wetness around.

You moaned into his mouth and reached down to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him. He was so hard it almost felt unfair.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw and neck, sucking fresh marks over the ones from earlier days. Every time his teeth scraped sensitive skin, your hand tightened around him.

“You’re being so good for me,” he praised against your throat, still rubbing your clit. “You’re so pretty like this… just so prrfect and all.”

You bit your lip, hips lifting into his fingers. “C’mon, hurry up…”

Neteyam laughed and pushed two fingers inside you without warning. He curled them upward, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake while his thumb stayed on your clit.

“Let me make it up to you properly,” he said, watching your face the whole time. “I want you dripping before I fuck you.”

He worked his fingers never rushing, drawing curses and needy sounds out of you. Your hand kept stroking his cock, twisting at the head every time his fingers hit a particularly good angle inside you that you never were able to reach.

When your walls started fluttering around his fingers, he slowed again, pulling them almost all the way out before pushing back in. The denial made you dig your nails into his shoulder.

“Neteyam—”

“I know,” he kissed the corner of your mouth. “Almost. Just a little more,” His fingers stretched you, scissoring them while his cock leaked against your thigh. The wet sounds of him fingering you filled the cave. You were panting hard, focused on the fingers working you open. Neteyam kept his golden eyes on your face, memorizing every expression.

“Alright, take my fingers like that. You’re going to take my cock even better later… Gonna show you the stamina you were looking for, baby.”

Your free hand gripped the leaf pillow as pleasure built higher. He never stopped the pace, making sure you felt every thing. Only when your thighs started trembling around him did he pull his fingers free. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean.

Then he lined the thick head of his cock against your entrance and held still, waiting. “Ready for me now, angel?”

“Y-yess…”

Neteyam leaned in and captured your lips in a deep kiss just as he pushed inside. The head stretched you open, your tight walls hugging every inch as he sank deeper. He groaned into your mouth at the heat of you while your fingers tangled hard in his braids, pulling as a loud moan spilled between the kiss.

He started moving once he was fully seated. Those thrusts that dragged along your walls and made your toes curl and tighten your legs around him. Each time he pulled back almost all the way, the ache made you cling tighter. When he pushed back in, the sounds of skin slapping filled the cave.

Your legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to keep him close. Neteyam kept the pace slow at first, hips rolling with controlled power while he kissed you through every broken sound you made.

Sweat already beaded along his painted shoulders. After several long thrusts you pressed a hand to his chest. “Wait… I’ll try something.”

He slowed and pulled out of you carefully, the dick leaving you throbbing as it stood rigid and glistening with your slick, twitching in the open air, he sat down as you instructed, breathing hard.

You moved onto all fours in front of him and claimed his mouth again. This time you took control of the kiss, tongue pushing past his lips and fighting for dominance. Neteyam let you lead, a sound vibrating in his throat while his hands rested on your waist.

You broke the kiss only to sit up on your knees, both hands cradled his face as you looked down at him. His golden eyes were mirroring desperation, staring up at you like you held every answer. Strong arms wrapped around your torso, pulling you closer so he could bury his face against your chest.

He kissed and sucked along the skin, leaving fresh marks between your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue flicking until it hardened against him. His free hand pinched and rolled the other, drawing whimpers from you while your tail moved behind you in arcs.

You turned around and dropped back onto all fours, presenting yourself. Your tail whipped once across his thigh in invitation before settling. You wiggled your hips, the movement making your wet folds shine under the low light entering the cave.

Neteyam licked his lips and spread your cheeks with both hands. He leaned in without hesitation and dragged his tongue over your swollen clit in a circles. The heat made you cry out, the sound echoing off the cave walls. He licked again, faster, circling the sensitive bud before sucking it between his lips.

Your arms shook as you pushed back against his face. Unrestrained moans spilled from you withthe way his tongue went. He kept going until your thighs trembled and wetness dripped onto his chin. You reached back and pulled his head away by the braids. You sat on your knees, wrapped one hand around his cock and stroked the full length, feeling how hard he remained. You guided the thick tip to your entrance and rubbed it through your folds a few times, coating him further.

Then you sank down.

The stretch of taking him in reverse made both of you moan. You lowered yourself until he was buried to the hilt, your ass pressed close against his thighs. Neteyam’s hands gripped your waist, thumbs caressing the painted skin as he adjusted to the new angle.

You started moving, slow rolls of your hips at first, lifting almost all the way off before dropping back down. Every descent forced a deep sound from his chest, your tail coiled around his thigh, then higher, sliding up his side and wrapping loosely around his neck.

Neteyam leaned forward and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your spine, hands sliding up to cup your breasts from behind. You rode him harder, the wet slap of skin against skin growing louder. Each time you went down, your walls clenched around him, milking every ridge.

“Fuck… oh, this is what you wanted to try, huh?” he breathed against your back, his hips began meeting yours, thrusting up to meet every downward roll. The dual motion drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you on every stroke.

Your tail tightened around his neck without your knowledge before loosening again, the tip caressing the side of his face. You reached back with one hand and gripped his thigh, using the hold to bounce faster.

Neteyam’s fingers found your clit and rubbed tight circles in time with your movements. Pleasure coiled sharp and fast as you dropped forward onto your hands, back arched, giving him a clearer view of the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over.

You whimpered when he gripped your cheeks harder, helping you slam down. Your tail stayed wrapped around him the whole time, claiming as the two of you chased the edge together, lost in the heat of finally being mates.

He watched the way your skin rippled every time you dropped back onto his cock. The sight of you balancing on your forearms, ass bouncing against his hips, made something snap. Neteyam planted himself on his knees, gripped your waist, and took over completely.

Instead of letting you ride him, he started thrusting into you from behind. The new angle let him sink deeper with every snap of his hips, sounds filled the cave as his cock slammed into your soaked pussy over and over.

“Oohh—right there, Neteyam! I’m so close, fuck—” you moaned. Your fingers dug into the leaf pillow while your tail moved behind you, whipping against his thigh and then curling tight around his calf.

He answered by driving harder, one hand sliding up your spine to fist a handful of your hair. The other stayed locked on your hip, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your walls clenched around him greedily, slick dripping down both of your thighs with each impact.

“Oh yeah. Take every inch, you can, right?” He slapped your ass hard enough to sting, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin. Your tail tightened around his leg in response, the tip stroking higher up his thigh.

You pushed back against him just as hard, meeting every thrust. “Oh, ‘t’s so big… it’s all mine, right?” you hissed, tail released his leg only to wrap around his waist next, holding him close while you ground your ass against his hips.

Neteyam leaned over your back, chest pressed to your spine, and bit down on the side of your neck. He kept pounding into you at the same pace, cock dragging against that spot that made your vision blur. One hand reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

The sensation tore another loud moan from your throat, your tail whipped once more before coiling around his forearm, squeezing in time with the clench of your pussy. Both of you were breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, the scent of sex thick in the air.

“All yours to keep, baby,” he rasped against your ear, hips snapping forward harder. “So take it all.” Another slap landed on your ass, followed by his fingers digging into the marked flesh as he used the hold to pull you onto his cock even deeper.

You moaned his name like a prayer, the sound raw and needy. He answered with yours, the two of you lost in it, of finally belonging to each other. Your tail kept swaying while he fucked you through the rising heat, both of you too far gone to hold anything back.

“I’m so close…”

You whispered it against the cave floor, but he heard every word. Neteyam rubbed your clit faster, fingers working in tight circles while he kept thrusting deep.

“C’monn… cum for me.”

The command sent you over the edge, your walls clamped down hard around his cock, heart throbbing as you moaned out his name. He slowed his thrusts to ride you through it, groaning as his own release followed. Hot liquid filled you, painting your insides white to match the marks already on your skin.

Neither of you stopped after that. Round after round blurred together until exhaustion finally won. You fell asleep tangled in each other, bodies still sticky and marked.

While you slept, Neteyam cleaned what he could of the mess from your thighs and stomach. Every soft wipe brought flashes of the hours before, your moans, the way you took him, the way your tail had claimed him, and his cock just hardened again immediately.

He shook his head and laid back down, curling around you from behind. Your back pressed to his chest, his arm draped over your waist. Sleep started to pull him under… until hums slipped from your lips.

Your hips rolled back against him in your sleep. The slow grind of your ass against his cock made him rock-hard in seconds. Neteyam bit his lip, eyes fixed on your peaceful face.

You were dreaming. He shouldn’t.

But your slick folds parted around the length of him as you kept moving, coating him in fresh wetness. “Fuck…” he whispered, hips twitching forward on their own.

The head of his cock nudged your entrance, another sleepy roll of your hips and the tip slipped inside with a wet sound. Your tight pussy swallowed him halfway before he could stop himself.

He froze, breathing hard against your hair. You were still sensitive. He knew that. Yet the way your walls fluttered around him made it impossible to pull out. Slowly, he lifted your thigh and slid the rest of the way in. A sound left his throat as your pussy took every inch again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though you couldn’t hear him yet. “I’m such a bastard… I know you’re tired…”

He started moving in gentle thrusts, barely pulling out before sinking back in. Your body accepted him so easily, still slick from earlier. Every time your walls squeezed him, his resolve cracked further.

Your soft moans grew a little louder, Neteyam kissed the back of your neck, still thrusting slow and deep. “I’m sorry, wife… I can’t help it. You feel too good.”

Your eyes fluttered open, for a moment you just breathed, body still half-asleep. Then you felt him buried inside you, and a needy whimper escaped your throat. “Neteyam…?” Your voice was submissive, in a way he had never heard before.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, hips still moving because stopping felt impossible. “You were grinding on me in your sleep and I… I slipped it in. I should’ve woken you properly. I-I’m sorry.”

You whimpered again, pushing back against him instead of pulling away. “It’s… it’s okay. You’re so big… feels so good.”

The praise hit him hard, he groaned into your hair, one hand sliding down to rub your clit carefully. “You don’t have to say that. I feel like a pervert for waking you up like this.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, another moan following as he thrust a little deeper. “You’re filling me up so much… I can still feel last night inside me and now you’re adding more.”

Neteyam’s forehead pressed against your shoulder. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, baby. You’re just so tight and warm and I couldn’t stop thinking about being inside you again.” His voice cracked with guilt and need at the same time.

You reached back and threaded your fingers through his braids, holding him close while he kept fucking you slow and deep from behind. Every sound that left your mouth only made him apologize more, yet neither of you made any move to stop.

Pleasure occupied your mind until words spilled out soft and broken. “Oh… keep going, baby…” you whispered, nails digging into his forearm. You pulled one leg higher toward your chest, giving him a deeper angle. Your breasts moved with every slow thrust, nipples tight under his wandering hand.

Neteyam groaned against the back of your neck, his fingers slid down between your legs and found your clit, smearing the wetness that already coated both of you. He rubbed circles while his hips kept pushing deeper, the length of him dragging along every spot inside you.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as his cock disappeared into your pussy over and over. The slight bulge it made in your lower belly with every thrust made another whimper slip out.

“You’re so deep… oh, it feels… I can’t think straight,” you trembled, he pressed his forehead harder against your shoulder, thrusts growing a little faster even as guilt still colored his voice. “I’m sorry… fuckk...”

Your walls fluttered around him at the apology. You reached back and guided his hand on your breast, holding him close. “Don’t be sorry. I want it… I want you.”

Neteyam’s hand went to your leg, letting him hold onto it now instead of you. The pleasure built fast as yur body tensed, thighs shaking as the next orgasm rolled through you.

You clenched hard around his cock, a cry leaving your lips as waves of heat crashed over you. He buried himself and came with a groan, flooding you with another thick load. He stayed deep inside while both of you shook through it, his hips giving a few last weak thrusts to empty everything.

Even after it faded he didn’t pull out, he stayed buried inside you, breathing hard against your neck, one hand still resting over your stomach where he could feel himself.

Neither of you spoke, the only sound was your shared breathing and the soft shift of leaves around you. Neteyam pressed a gentle kiss to the mark he had left on your shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I really didn’t mean to wake you like that.”

You let out a tired laugh and squeezed around him on purpose. “I’m more than okay. A little sore… but in the best way.” Your fingers stroked lazily through his braids, pulling him into a deep kiss. “You’re still inside me.”

“I know…” He sounded almost shy, humming into your mouth, “I didn’t wanna leave yet.”

“Then stay. We have all morning...”

taglist : @k----a27s @babymi1ne

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

“Their supply lines are vulnerable here, along the gorge,” Jake Sully was saying, moving a stone on the ridge on the map. “But they’ve got turrets scanning the skies. If we fly in blind, we’re target practice.”

“We need a distraction,” Neteyam muttered, his brow furrowed as he stared at the map. “Someone fast enough to draw the attention away from the ground strike team, but agile enough to avoid getting hit. But it’s high risk.”

“My people are born on the wind,” Ikeyni spoke up. She placed a hand flat on the table, her sharp eyes shifting from Jake to his eldest son. “If you need someone who can deliver what you need, you take my daughter.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. His golden eyes immediately finding yours from where you leaned against the pillar, as if he knew where exactly you had been standing. A frown instantly marred his handsome face and he turned back to your mother, his posture stiffening.

“Olo’eykte, with respect, the RDA has upgraded those tracking systems,” Neteyam argued, his voice tight with that dutiful edge you loved to mess with. “They aren’t just shooting blindly anymore. It is high risk. A single mistake, and the ikran and its rider are—”

“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”

You purred the words as you finally pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer to the table, tossing your half-braided sheath fiber aside. Every eye in the room tracked your movement, but yours were locked on the Omatikaya’s golden boy. You stopped right beside him, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. You tilted your head up, letting a slow smirk pull at your lips as you looked at his clenched jaw.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer, “I’d think you were trying to keep me out of the sky to keep me safe. I didn’t realize you care that much?”

A sudden bark of laughter broke out from an elder across the table and the others followed suit. Meanwhile, your brother shook his head at your sheer audacity. Jake Sully’s lips twitched upward, a faint, amused glint in his eyes as he looked between you two, clearly remembering what it was like to be young and stubborn. Even the older, stern warriors around the table began to chuckle, the suffocating tension of the war efforts breaking open to let a little light in. It was a comforting reminder to the elders that despite the demons coming back, the youth were still acting their age.

Neteyam, however, did not laugh.

He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he looked down at you. His ears twitched back in mild annoyance, but he didn't step away from you. He was tolerant, as he always was, enduring your teasing with the patience of a tree weathering a storm. He had always known that you are a lethal asset to the people’s war efforts... But unfortunately, you are also a source of a massive, distracting headache.

“I care about the success of the mission,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a low register meant only for you. His gaze was incredibly intense up close, close to the kind of focus that had made you shiver imagining just moments ago. “We are planning a raid that could cost lives. This isn’t the time for games.”

Partly slighted at his doubt, you frowned. “I am completely serious,” you said, dropping the just enough to show the deadly huntress beneath. You motioned at the map right where the turrets were marked. “These are coastal winds. I’ve navigated treacherous cliff gaps like it’s a playground snce I was a child. My ikran and I will rise to the challenge, you’ll see.”

“Alright, alright, break it up,” Jake intervened, though the grin was obvious in his voice as he tapped the map. “If Ikeyni says she’s the one for the job, then she’s the one. Neteyam, you’ll be leading the ground insertion. That means your timing with the distraction has to be perfect.”

Neteyam tore his eyes away from you, nodding sharply to his father. “Yes, sir.”

But as the council began to break into smaller groups to discuss once more among themselves, Neteyam didn't immediately walk away. He stayed right where he was, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He looked down at you, the exasperation fading into something quieter, something serious and heavy.

“It really is dangerous out there,” he said softly, his golden eyes searching yours. “The winds in the gorge are unpredictable.”

You matched his seriousness for a rare, passing second, to let him see that you are capable underneath all the flirting. “I know, Neteyam. But I’m faster than them. Trust me.”

He nodded, his jaw hardening. “I do trust you. Just... don't make me regret it.”

With a final, lingering look that left your heart hammering against your ribs, he turned to follow his father. You watched him go, your smirk slowly returning as you realized that for at least a few minutes, you had been the absolute center of his universe.

The next day, you were up before the first light, immediately going to where your ikran was roosting, smiling when you saw her already prepared, like always. “Ready, girl?“ you murmured, stroking her sleek, brightly patterned neck.

She screeched in response, a sharp, eager sound and you chuckled, mounting her back and connecting your kuru to hers, the familiar, rushing warmth of the tsaheylu flooding your senses. Your head swiveled to the side when you sensed a presence, seeing Neteyam stopping several paces away, already geared with his warrior cummerbund, longbow, amd chest knife sheath.

Your head tilted, admiring how handsome he looked as you smiled brightly. “Hi! Good morning,” you grinned. “Came to send me with a good luck kiss?”

He remained serious though, his eyes scanning your form on your ikran. “Be careful out there.” he said in a clipped tone, not waiting for a response before he turned away.

You chuckled, shaking your head. So serious, you thought, smirking. So handsome, too, anyway, the other part of your mind retorted and you rolled your eyes. You clicked your tongue and pulled at your ikran’s reins, making her surge up into the sky. You flew higher than usual, hiding in the thick clouds to scan high above the gorge. The sky was still a deep, bruised purple when the signal came through the comms secured to your ear.

“Pathfinder,” Jake Sully’s voice crackled, steady and calm. “Ground teams, position. You are clear to engage. Eye in the sky, you're up.”

A heartbeat later, a lower, tighter voice filtered through. “Be careful up there. Hit your marks.”

Neteyam.

Your smirk returned, invisible to him but it laced your voice enough for him to imagine it. “I heard that twice already, Neteyam. Are you so worried?” your honeyed teasing voice dripping through the comms.

You heard his groan and it was followed by a chuckle that sounded so much like Jake’s but it was cut short. “Just focus on the mission,” Neteyam’s voice snapped back through the earpiece.

You chuckled. “Watch the skies, Sully. Try not to blink, or you’ll miss me.”

Without waiting for a response, you clicked your tongue. Your ikran folded her wings and dove straight off the cliffside into the gaping maw of the gorge. The wind shrieked past your ears, whipping your braids wildly. Below, the metallic structures of the RDA outpost clung to the valley floor like a parasite. Within seconds, the base's automated defense grid woke up. Loud whirs echoed through the canyon as three massive turrets pivoted, their motion-tracking lasers sweeping the dark sky until they locked onto you.

“Now!” you hissed, leaning flat against your ikran's back.

You maneuvered your ikran in the sky as heavy explosive rounds tore through the air. The blasts should have scared you, but it surprised even you that it didn’t. You pulled sharply on the reins, banking hard to the left. A volley of bullet shattered the rocky cliffside right where you had been a millisecond before, reducing it to a powdery debris. You laughed out loud,  pushing your mount into a tight, dizzying barrel roll, diving directly between the narrow gaps of the cliffs.

The tracking systems couldn't keep up. The automated turrets jerked violently, scrambling to overcorrect their aim as you flew through the blind spots, From your view high above, you watched Neteyam and his ground strike team. While the turrets were completely distracted by your earlier display, they swarmed out of the dense forest like shadows. Leading the charge, Neteyam moved with terrifying precision, breaching the perimeter fencing, dropping two RDA guards before they could even raise their weapons. Behind him, Lo'ak and the other warriors systematically planted charges on the supply crates and fuel lines.

Even from up above, your eyes found him effortlessly, admiring his swift and unyielding movements, completely commanding. He was a force of nature.

“Charges are live! Pull back, pull back!” You heard Neteyam’s voice bark through the comms. He looked up into the sky, his golden eyes scanning the smoke until he caught the bright, unmistakable red of your ikran’s wings looping through the clouds. “Y/N, disengage! Get out of there!”

Swooping low one last time, you let out a victorious battle cry as a massive explosion ripped through the base behind you. You looked and saw an image of a huge ball of fire consuming the turrets and the supply lines. The explosion gave your ikran the motivation to increase her speed, launching you up and out of the fiery gotge into the safety of the skies. The raid was a flawless success.

By the time you got back to Hometree, the adrenaline was still humming under your skin. You hopped down from your ikran, patting her flank affectionately as the other warriors cheered and celebrated the clean victory. No casualties for the party and a massive blow to the sky people. A smudge of black engine soot marred your cheek, your eyes searching the crowd.

Neteyam was standing near his father, catching his breath, his skin glistening with sweat and ash. He looked exhausted, but the heavy tension that usually held his shoulders tight had momentarily melted away. As if sensing your gaze, his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours across the clearing. You stared at him, raising your brow and tilting your chind up with a proud, triumphant grin that said, I told you so.

Neteyam watched you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine, breathless smile broke across his handsome face. It was a rare, stunning sight that made your heart do a violent flip against your ribs. He broke away from his father and walked straight toward you, stopping just a foot away.

“You showboated,” he murmured, his voice low but devoid of the seriousness that usually laced it.

“I just gave them a show,” you corrected smoothly, crossing your arms. “There is a difference. And I did it.”

“You did,” Neteyam conceded, his eyes dropping to the soot on your cheek before rising to meet your gaze with an intensity that made you almost forget how to breathe. “It was an incredible show. You were incredible up there.”

Your breath hitched. For all your constant flirting and loud teasing, having his quiet praise directed entirely at you caught you completely off guard that the witty comeback died on your tongue, your cheeks warming under his stare.

Neteyam noticed your sudden silence, and a small, amused smirk, one that looked a lot like your own, as if he had just copied it, pulled at the corner of his lips.

“What's wrong?” he asked softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Quiet now? I didn't realize it was that easy to shut you up.”

You stared up at him, your mouth slightly open. The proximity was intoxicating, and for someone who usually spent his time dodging your advances, he was occupying a lot of your personal space now.

Your eyes flicked down to his smirk, then back up to his eyes. “I’m just savoring the moment. You’re more handsome up close,“ you smirked, regaining your composure a little. You leaned in, forcing him to maintain that dizzying eye contact. “And it’s not every day the great Neteyam admits I'm incredible. I might just let it get in my head.”

Neteyam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Coughing softly, he cleared his throat as he took a strategic step backward, breaking the contact but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “Don't get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone was lacking any real bite. “Go get cleaned up. My father wants a full debrief within the hour.”

He turned on his heel and walked back toward Jake, though you didn't miss the way his tail swished behind him. You let out a quiet, triumphant laugh, wiping the soot from your cheek with the back of your hand. There was still an armor, but you had managed to crack it... That’s a small victory!

In the following days, the high of the victory had settled into the familiar routine of war. The leaders gathered once again in the pavilion. This time, however, the mood was lighter. The success of the gorge raid had given the rebellion more time to breathe. Your mother pointed at the eastern coast on the map, discussing the movement of RDA sea vessels who was last seen going farther east.

“They are retreating toward the deep water,” your brother noted, crossing his arms. “The destruction of the supply lines has damaged their operations in the coastal outposts.”

“We need to take control of the momentum,” Jake said, leaning over the table. “Neteyam, what’s the status of our perimeter watches?”

Neteyam stepped forward, completely back into his professional, disciplined element. “The forest guards are doubling their patrols. But we need to ensure our aerial scouts are maintaining a strict radius. We can't afford to get complacent just because we succeed in one mission.”

You smiled, resting your chin in your palm as you leaned over the map table, deliberately putting yourself right in his line of sight. “Oh, don't worry, Commander. Our scouts are alwasys in the air. We don't get tired easily.” You paused, letting your eyes slowly track down his body before bringing your gaze back to his face. “Though, if you're so worried about our stamina, you're welcome to come up with me next time. I can show you how we stay energized.”

A collective ripple of amused snickers passed through the council. Your brother hid his face in his hands, muttering something about losing his mind, while your mother let out a small, huffing chuckle. “Daughter...” she said pointedly.

Neytiri smiled, shaking her head at Ikeyni. You watched Neteyam close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping. He was so incredibly tolerant of you, enduring the teasing with the quiet patience of a palulukan letting a cub bat at its tail.

“Y/N,” Neteyam said slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with deadpan exasperation. “I have to train the youth at the archery grounds after this. I do not have time to be a part of your games.”

“A shame,” you purred, flashing him a brilliant, unbothered grin. “You don't know what you're missing.”

Hours later, you found yourself wandering down toward the village training grounds, hearing the familiar sound of snapping bowstrings and the light thud of arrows hitting bark targets. You stood there, crossing your arms as you watched the scene. Neteyam was in his element. He was surrounded by a dozen young, aspiring warriors, all holding smaller training bows. He was patient and focused, moving down the line to correct their posture.

“Keep your elbow high,” Neteyam instructed a young boy, gently adjusting the kid's arm. “Do not fight the bow string. Let it become an extension of your arm. Look at the center of the mark, breathe out, and release.”

The boy released the string, and the arrow thudded squarely into the inner ring of the target. The kids cheered, and Neteyam offered a rare, warm smile, patting the boy's shoulder.

“Very good. Again.”

“Nice,” you called out, stepping out from the shadows.

The group of young hunters immediately turned, their eyes widening when they saw you. In your clan, you were a legend among the youth, the daughter who flew like the wind and didn't care about the rules. A few of the older teenagers standing nearby immediately started whispering and nudging each other, grinning widely because everyone knew you loved to push Neteyam’s buttons.

Neteyam stiffened, his shoulders squaring as he turned to face you. He gripped his longbow, his ears twitching back. “I am teaching, Y/N. Go find something else to do.”

“I just want to see if I can help,” you said innocently, sauntering closer until you were standing right in front of him, entirely ignoring the giggles of the children behind him. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the curve of his heavy longbow. “You see, kids, the Omatikaya are used to shooting on the ground, on their feet. But if you want real precision while moving, you need a loose hip. Like this.”

You fluidly snatched a training bow from a nearby rack, notched an arrow in the blink of an eye, and without even pausing to aim, you spun on your heel and released. The young warriors erupted into gasps and cheers when they saw the arrow hit the center of the furthest target cleanly, totally thrilled by the display. You tossed the bow back onto the rack, turning around to look at Neteyam with a smug, raised eyebrow.

“See?” you murmured, stepping into his space, tilting your head up. “It’s about flexibility, too. Maybe I should give you a private lesson sometime. I can teach you how to loosen up what’s stiff.” you murmured, biting your lip.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, his aw practically tightening into stone. His face burned a furious, deep shade of violet, his golden eyes wide as he stared down at you. He knows, with a piercing awareness, how completely trapped he is between his duty and his sheer, chaotic attraction to you, and he shouldn’t like it. But he does, so Eywa help him. He took a deep breath, gripping his bow tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

“Class dismissed,” Neteyam barked out, his voice a strained, tight rumble. “Go practice your stealth skills. Now.”

The kids scrambled away, still laughing and whispering, leaving the two of you completely alone in the training grounds. Neteyam stepped even closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you as he glared down, though the heat radiating from his skin told a completely different story.

“You are impossible,” he whispered fiercely.

You laughed, enjoying the sight of the crack getting bigger each day. You’ve never had this much progress in the past... Perhaps because you don’t really see each other for longer than a few days. Sometimes, your mother gets invited to festivals in the Omatikaya and she brings you and your brother with her, or it’s her who invites the Sullys to come for festivals in your clan.

You’ve always liked Neteyam better than his brother. Lo’ak is a good acquaintance, but it was Neteyam who you’ve always found more interesting. What with his intense focus and unyielding determination on everything he puts his mind to, but you could tell it was also born from his desire to live up to his parents’ legacy.

He is the firstborn, after all. The heir to the Omatikaya leadership. The return of the sky people was the reason why he’s grown even more serious and focused, determined to protect the people, Eywa’eveng, and his family, even more so. You respect that a great deal, but you also think he needs to loosen up a bit before he stresses himself into an early grave.

You wonder if he even has interest in women, or if he only cares about his bows and his arrows. But you don’t like to think of that. It makes you fiercely jealous to think of him directing that intense focus on a woman who’s not you... Or to think of him letting a woman see past the armor you’re working so hard to crack.

But you are too confident. You thought the crack in his armor was getting wider by the day, and you genuinely believed it was only a matter of time before he finally let his guard down.

You should have remembered that in war, the higher you fly, the harder you fall.

More council meetings ensued in the following days, and now, you found yourself back in the sky. The RDA had deployed a small convoy of armored vehicles, and Neteyam’s squad was tasked to do a quiet interception.

“Hold your position above the tree line,” you heard Neteyam’s voice through the comms, crisp and authoritative. “Do not engage until the ground team has disabled their communications. If they see you, they will lock down the area and call for reinforcements. Do you copy?”

You had copied. But as you circled in the grey mist, you saw one of the AMP suits pivoting its heavy cannon directly toward the dense foliage where Neteyam’s ground sweepers were crawling. Your heart leaped into your throat. You waited to hear from him, or for the communication to be cut, but you can’t wait when they could all be gunned down any second.

I am fast enough, you had thought, fueled by that same headstrong confidence that had always served you before. I can take out that suit before it fires.

So, you dove.

But you had underestimated the trees’ density in this sector. Your ikran’s wing clipped a massive branch, throwing off your trajectory by a fraction of a second, and it was all the automated sensors needed. The AMP suit spun, firing a volley of heavy-caliber rounds into the sky. A hot, tearing agony sliced across your thigh, a bullet graze, and the concussive blast sent your ikran screeching into a spiral.

Your sudden, messy descent completely blew the ground team's cover. The convoy opened fire on the forest blindly. Screams of pain echoed through the comms, cutting through your panic. By the time it all ended, the convoy was destroyed, but the cost to the war party was devastating. Blood soaked your leg wraps but you cared little for it, forcing your ikran into the air, flying back to the Hometree with your chest tightening in suffocating fear and shame.

When you landed in the clearing, the celebratory atmosphere of the past weeks was entirely dead. You scrambled off your mount, wincing as your injured leg buckled slightly, and rushed toward the center, catching sight of him immediately. Neteyam was lifting a huntress off the back of his ikran. Her arm was painted in deep, crimson blood from a horrific wound on her shoulder. It was Tarya.

“Get the medical bay ready! Move!” Neteyam roared, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation you had never heard from him before. He was covered in soot and someone else's blood, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

“Neteyam—” you breathed, stepping forward, your hands shaking. “Neteyam, I—I am so sorry. I saw the suit turning toward you, I thought I could—”

Neteyam snapped. He lowered Tarya into the frantic arms of the medical healers, then turned on you so fast his tail whipped the air. He closed the distance between you in two giant, looming strides, towering over you.

“You thought?” he asked, his voice drawing the shocked eyes of every warrior present. “I don’t think so! You are entirely, helplessly obstinate! You almost fell! You almost died, did you even think of that?!”

You flinched, stepping back, but he kept coming, his golden eyes blazing with a dangerous, lethal heat that made you feel incredibly small.

“And because you couldn't follow a single, simple order, these warriors are wounded!” He said in a hard voice, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. “Tarya might not survive the night! Do you understand that? Do you even care?”

“I do care!” you cried out, tears of shame finally burning your eyes. “I was trying to protect—”

“You didn’t listen! Like always!” he cut you off, his chest heaving as he glared down at you with complete contempt. “You treat this war like a game to win my attention! You are a massive, childish distraction, Y/N! Everyone knows it, and I am sick of it! Do you think people bleeding out in the mud is a joke? Do you think this war is just another festival for you to play around in?”

The words felt like physical daggers piercing straight into your chest, ripping away at your pride and your confidence. You stood frozen, completely exposed and deeply ashamed in front of the people present. Your mouth opened to apologize again.