Muichiro

✯⁠ — he was cheating on you.

Muichiro

✧ — i don't allow you to go.

Muichiro

✧ — stay in his lap until he win.

Muichiro

✧ — he was jealous.

Muichiro

✯⁠ — your teacher want ur bf to break up with you.

Muichiro

✯⁠ — stuck with him in the warehouse.

hashira school

✯⁠ — hashira school.

hashira

✧ — fighting over you.

Muichiro

✯⁠ — he was different infront of you.

Muichiro

✯⁠ — we have to be fair, darling.

Muichiro

✧ — touch her and you're dead.

Aether

✯ — a barista who secretly likes you.

Kazuha

✧ — friends but not close, but he likes you

Aaron

✧ — unrequited love.

Childe

✧ — your friend or maybe can be more than friend?

Gavin

✯ — classmates or more?

Neteyam

The arrangement was decided before she ever had a choice. She was promised to Ao'nung-a union meant to strengthen ties, to please elders, to keep peace within the Metkayina. Love was never part of the agreement. Ao'nung never pretended otherwise. He was polite when others watched. Distant when they didn't. His eyes always searched for someone else-Kiri-and everyone knew it. Still, she tried. She spoke gently to him. Walked beside him without complaint. Learned his habits, his moods, the way his smile never stayed when she was near. She told herself that lo ould be grown. That patience could become affection. She was wrong. The day Ao'nung broke her pride was loud. Too loud. They were gathered near the reef when he laughed-too sharply, too deliberately-and said something careless about her. About how quiet she was. How obedient. How at least she knew her place. Laughter followed. Not cruel-but enough. Enough to make her cheeks burn. Enough to make her look down. She smiled through it. Stayed silent. But someone else didn't. Neteyam had known her since childhood. Before arrangements. Before titles. Before expectations. He had loved her quietly for as long as he could remember-never asking, never claiming, just staying close enough to protect what he couldn't have. When he saw her stand there-small, embarrassed, swallowing her hurt-something in him snapped. He stepped forward. "That's enough," Neteyam said, voice low but steady. Ao'nung scoffed. "It was a joke." Neteyam's eyes never left her. "It wasn't funny." Silence spread like a warning. Later that night, Neteyam found her by the shore, knees drawn to her chest, the ocean reflecting in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said softly, even though she had done nothing wrong. He knelt in front of her. "Don't apologize for being hurt." She laughed weakly. "It's not important." Neteyam's jaw tightened. "It is to me." She looked up at him then-really looked. "Why?" His voice didn't shake. "Because I love you. And I always have." Her breath caught. "I won't let anyone humiliate you," he continued. "Not him. Not anyone. If they try to break you-" He stopped himself, then said carefully, fiercely, "-they will answer to me." She reached for his wrist, grounding him. "Neteyam... don't lose yourself for me." He softened instantly. "I won't," he promised. "But I will never stand by and watch you be hurt." She was still bound by an arrangement. Still trapped between duty and dignity. But for the first time, she didn't feel alone. Sometimes love doesn't give as a confession or a kiss. Sometimes it arrives as a shield-quiet, unyielding, and willing to stand between you and the world. And Neteyam had always been that for her

Neteyam

Neteyam didn't raise his voice. That was the part that scared them. The laughter died the moment Ao'nung finished his joke-the one that made her freeze, smile too slowly, eyes burning with humiliation. The reef went quiet, like it sensed what was coming. Neteyam stepped forward. Not rushed. Not angry-looking. Calm. Ao'nung scoffed. "Relax. It was just-" Neteyam grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. No hesitation. Ao'nung's hands clawed at his wrist, feet scrambling for balance. The sound he made wasn't laughter anymore. It was panic. "You will never," Neteyam said quietly, leaning close enough for only him to hear, "speak to her like that again." People froze. Someone tried to step in. Neteyam's eyes flicked up-sharp, warning. No one moved after that. "I've killed for less than this," he continued, voice steady, terrifyingly controlled. "And I would do it again if you forget who she is to me." Ao'nung choked, nodding desperately. Neteyam released him. Ao'nung collapsed to the sand, gasping, hands shaking. Neteyam turned to her immediately-hands gentle now, the contrast brutal. "Look at me," he said softly. She did. Her breath trembled. "I will not let them break you," he said. "Anyone who tries-" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. She grabbed his wrist. "Neteyam... stop." He softened instantly. For her only. But when he looked back at the others, his expression promised something permanent. "Remember this," he said to the crowd. "She is not yours to mock. She is not weak. And if you make her bleed-even with words-" A pause. "-I will end you." No shouting. No drama. Just truth. That night, she found him alone, hands trembling -not from fear, but restraint. "You scared them," she whispered. "I meant to," he replied. "You scared me too." He dropped to his knees in front of her immediately. "I would never hurt you," he said fiercely. "But I will destroy the world before I let it hurt you again." She rested her forehead against his. And for the first time, she understood: Neteyam wasn't dangerous because he was violent. He was dangerous because he loved her without limits- and the world had just learned where his line was.

Neteyam

They didn't talk about what happened. Not when they left the store. Not when the sun dipped low and the streets turned gold and red with firelight. Not even when they barricaded themselves inside a half-collapsed apartment building. But Neteyam watched her. Too closely. "Stay behind me," he said for the third time as they moved down the hallway. "I am," Nessa replied, irritation threading through her fear. "I'm not stupid." She stepped past him to check a door- Neteyam grabbed her backpack strap and yanked her back hard. "What are you doing?" she snapped. "Don't," he said sharply. "There could've been supplies." "There could've been death." She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped when she saw his hands shaking. They continued in silence. Later, as they crossed eet, Neteyam stopped suddenly and pressed her against a wall, body shielding hers. "Neteyam-!" "Quiet." A zombie staggered past, so close its shadow brushed her feet. Neteyam didn't move until it was gone. Only then did he step back. "You don't have to grab me like that," she said, voice tight. "Yes, I do." That made her pause. Night fell fast. Inside the apartment, he blocked the door with furniture, checked the windows twice, then positioned himself between her and every possible entrance. "You can sleep," he said. "I'll watch." "I can take a shift." "No." She frowned. "You're not invincible." "Didn't say I was." "But you're acting like I can't even breathe without you." His jaw tightened. "You almost died." "So did you." "That's different." She stood, stepping closer. "How?" "Because I can handle it," he said. "You-" His voice faltered. "You froze." That hurt. "I froze because I was scared," she whispered. "Not because I'm weak." Neteyam looked away, guilt flickering across his face. "Fear gets people killed." "So does not letting them move." Silence pressed in. Finally, he sighed. "I won't lose you." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Nessa's breath caught. "You barely know me." "Doesn't matter," he replied quietly. "I watched you almost die." She softened-but didn't step back. "Protecting me doesn't mean controlling me." He met her eyes then, something raw and unguarded there. "I'm trying," he admitted. "I just... need you alive." Nessa sat down slowly. "Then teach me. Don't cage me." Neteyam nodded once. "Deal." He took the floor near the door again, back against the wall, gun resting loose in his hands. But this time, he didn't stop watching. He just learned how to do it without pulling her too close.

Neteyam

You and Neteyam had always been us. From scraped knees and shared fruit, to quiet evenings leaning shoulder to shoulder, watching the forest glow. No one ever questioned it. You were childhood sweethearts long before either of you understood what the word meant. Growing up didn't change that. It just made it deeper. The first kiss happened by accident-laughing too close, breath tangled, eyes meeting for too long. Both of you froze afterward, shocked and breathless. The second was braver. The third was intentional That was what you believed. You were lying beside him under the soft hum of the forest, counting quietly in your head like it mattered. "That was the third time," you said, half-smiling, half-nervous. Neteyam turned his head toward you. "Third?" You nodded. "Yes. First by the river. Second after the hunt. Third just now." He was quiet for a moment. Then-softly-he said, "Four." You frowned and pushed yourself up on one elbow. "What?" "Four," he repeated gently. You laughed. "Neteyam, I think I know how to count." He smiled-not teasing, just warm. "You missed one." You stared at him. "When?" He hesitated, then spoke carefully. "You were asleep." Your eyes widened. "I-what?" He sat up too, immediately serious. "It was not like that. You were resting. I didn't wake you." Your heart started racing anyway. "Then why-" "You looked peaceful," he said quietly. "And I thought... if I didn't do it then, I might never be brave enough." You blinked, "Where?" "Your forehead," he answered at once. "Just there." His fingers hovered, not touching. "I promised myself it would only ever be gentle," he added. "And only because I care." Your face warmed instantly. "Oh," you whispered. Silence settled between you-soft, not awkward. "So," you said finally, voice shy, "that still counts?" He smiled. "Only if you let it." You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "It counts," you said. He exhaled, relieved, and pressed the softest kiss there again-awake this time, intentional. You closed your eyes, smiling. "Five?" he asked. You laughed quietly. "Slow down." But you didn't pull away. Because growing up hadn't changed the truth- You were always meant to be this gentle with each other.

Scaramouche

✧ — be my fake lover.

Neteyam

The sun was high, the training grounds loud with laughter and clashing practice spears. Nessa stood near the edge, hands full-again-carrying gear that wasn't hers. "Careful," one of the girls said sharply, smirking. "If you drop that, clean it again. And bring us food after." Nessa nodded. "Yes." Neteyam had been sparring. He stopped mid-motion. The thud of his staff hitting the ground cut through the noise-not hard, not dramatic-but enough. He turned. Slowly. He walked toward them, calm written into every step. No rush. No anger on his face. Just a stillness that made the air feel heavier. "Nessa," he said gently, not looking at the girls yet, "come here." She hesitated-conditioned obedience pulling her back-but she obeyed him, stepping to his side. The girls scoffed. "We were talking to her." Neteyam finally looked at them. His eyes were cold. Not cruel. Just... decided. "You will not speak to her that way again." One of them laughed nervously. "She doesn't mind. Do you?" Nessa opened her mouth- Neteyam raised a hand. Not to silence her. To protect her from answering at all. "She minds," he said evenly. "You simply trained her not to say it." The laughter died. "You give orders because no one stopped you," Neteyam continued, voice level. "That ends now." A girl crossed her arms. "And who are you to decide that?" Neteyam stepped closer. Not invading. Not threatening. Just close enough that she had to acknowledge him. "I am the one who will remember this moment," he said quietly. "And I am very patient." A chill rippled through the group. He turned back to Nessa, his voice softening instantly. "You do not carry things for them anymore." "But-" she whispered, panic flickering. "They will manage," he said. "Or they will learn." Then, without another glance at the girls, he picked up the fallen gear himself and handed it back to them.. "Carry your own things," he added calmly. The girls didn't move. No one laughed. Neteyam took Nessa's hand-not gripping, not possessive-and walked away with her, leaving silence behind like a wig carved into the ground. That was the day they understood something important. Neteyam did not shout. Did not threaten. He simply removed their power-and never gave it back. And Nessa? For the first time, she walked beside someone who made the world quieter instead of louder.

Neteyam

The fake dating started as a solution. Too many questions. Too many elders asking why neither of you had chosen a mate. Too many warriors suddenly interested in you at the same time. "So we pretend," Neteyam had said, rubbing his neck. "Just for a while." You blinked. "Pretend... what?" "That we're together." You laughed. "That's ridiculous." "You're already with me all the time," he replied. "People will believe it." You thought about it. Then shrugged. "Fine. But no weird stuff." "Agreed," he said quickly. "Nothing weird. " At the big clan gathering, everything seemed.... normal. Music. Laughter. Food everywhere. "This is good," you said happily, holding a plate stacked far too high with roasted fish and sweet fruit. "Have you tried this dessert?" You were very focused on the food. Neteyam smiled, watching you instead of the celebration. "You're eating like this is your last day on Pandora." "I waited all season for this," you replied seriously. He chuckled. That was when a warrior stepped forward-older, sharp-eyed, clearly suspicious. "So," the man said, crossing his arms. "You and her." Neteyam straightened. "Yes." The warrior tilted his head. "Funny. You don't act like mates." You paused mid-bite. "...What?" The man smirked. "Prove it." The music didn't stop. But the circle around you did. Suddenly-too many eyes. You swallowed your dessert too fast and coughed. "P-prove what?" "That you are truly together," the warrior said. "Or stop pretending." Your face heated instantly. "We are not pretending!" Neteyam glanced at you. You were still holding your plate. Still chewing. Still very innocent and very unprepared. He leaned closer and whispered, "May i?" You blinked. "For what?" He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your plate from your hands and set it aside. Your heart started racing. Then-slow, careful, unmistakably real-he placed one hand at your waist and kissed you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just enough to say this is mine. The gathering exploded. Gasps. Whispers. Shocked laughter.. You froze for half a second-then your cheeks burned so hot you thought you might faint. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide. "Oh," you whispered. Neteyam leaned in again, voice low and teasing. "Still fake?" You shook your head quickly. "No-no, that-um-counts." The warrior cleared his throat awkwardly. "That is... proof enough." He left. You turned to Neteyam, mortified. "You kissed me in front of everyone." He smiled softly. "You were busy with dessert." "I WAS NOT READY." "You never are," he said fondly. You covered your face. "This was supposed to be fake." Neteyam's expression softened, honest now. "...Was it?" You peeked through your fingers, heart pounding. You didn't answer. But you didn't ask for your plate back either.

Neteyam

The forest of the Metyakina clan smelled different-older, wilder, but familiar in ways Neteyam couldn't quite place. At eighteen, traveling here with his family, he expected curiosity and cautious greetings. He did not expect her. Nessa. She was taller now, graceful in the way only she could be, moving through the camp quietly, carrying herself with an elegance that belied the scars hidden beneath her sleeves. Her eyes were cautious when she noticed him, lips pressing together, like she was trying not to smile-or perhaps trying not to remember. Neteyam felt a strange pull in his chest. There was something hauntingly familiar about her. "Hello," he called softly as he approached, trying to keep his voice calm, casual. She froze for a heartbeat before offering a small nod. "Hello." The next hours were filled with polite conversation. He asked about the forest, the camp, her work-her eyes flicked to the ground more than once. He couldn't shake the feeling. that he had known her somewhere before, though nothing concrete came to mind.. It wasn't until evening, when the sun painted the sky in streaks of gold, that he noticed it. A necklace. His eyes went wide. He stepped closer, heart thudding. The pendant-a small carved leaf-was exactly the one he had given her when they were children, years ago, on the beach near their village. He had chosen it himself, clumsy fingers pressing the string in her hands. She noticed him staring and touched it absentmindedly. "It's... precious to me," she said softly.

Sanemi

Sanemi Shinazugawa told himself it was simple. A debt. A contract. A woman placed into his life like furniture—necessary, silent, replaceable. Nessa never argued with him. She never begged. She moved through the apartment like a shadow that learned the shape of his anger. He noticed things he pretended not to: how she flinched before he even spoke, how she kept her voice low, how she waited until he left the room to breathe normally again. He told himself he didn’t care. Yet his eyes followed her more than they should have. When she forgot to eat, food appeared on the table without a word. When winter came, an extra blanket was left on the couch—never handed to her, never acknowledged. If she was sick, he stayed home, angry at everything except the reason he stayed. Sanemi’s temper still ruled the house. His words cut cold, his presence heavy. He never apologized. He never softened his tone. Whatever lived inside him twisted itself into control instead of care. Nessa felt it anyway. The strange inconsistency. The way he’d snap at her for small mistakes—then glare at anyone else who spoke to her too long. The way his anger sharpened when she looked too tired, too thin, too distant. It confused her more than cruelty ever could. Sanemi didn’t know how to want something without destroying it. He didn’t know how to be gentle without feeling weak. So he chose silence. Harshness. Distance disguised as authority. Sanemi never said her name gently. Yet it began to appear more often, slipping out when he was tired, when his guard was low. He still spoke sharply, still expected silence—but sometimes, when she didn’t answer right away, he felt a strange tightness in his chest. Like the room was too empty without her voice. He noticed her more now. The way she tied her hair when she was nervous. How she flinched less, but looked more distant. How she smelled faintly of soap and something soft he couldn’t place. These were not things he wanted to know. These were things that made him human. Some nights, when rain hit the windows too hard, he’d drape a jacket over her shoulders without waking her. If their fingers brushed, he’d pull away immediately—jaw clenched, expression hard, as if touch itself had offended him. Nessa felt it. The almost-kindness. It confused her more than cruelty ever had. Sanemi never hurt her when she was sick. Never raised his voice when she cried quietly in the bathroom, thinking he couldn’t hear. Once, half-asleep, she felt his hand rest near hers—not holding, not touching—just close enough to feel warmth. In the morning, he acted like it never happened. Still, the distance between them shifted. Sanemi hated that he cared. Hated that when she didn’t eat, it bothered him. That when she smiled faintly at something small—a cat outside, a song on the radio—he felt something ache behind his ribs. He didn’t know how to love without control. Didn’t know how to want someone without breaking them. So he stayed halfway. Harsh words, followed by quiet care. Cold silence, followed by small mercies. A man standing close enough to reach her—yet never brave enough to try. Nessa learned not to hope. But sometimes, when he stood beside her on the balcony, sharing the same night air, she allowed herself to feel something fragile. Not love. Not trust. Just the soft understanding that beneath his anger was something unfinished. Something afraid. They never spoke of it. They slept in the same bed, separated by inches that felt wider than oceans. Sanemi stared at the ceiling. Nessa stared into the dark. Both aware of the other’s presence. Both pretending it meant nothing. And yet— If she disappeared tomorrow, he knew it would ruin him. If he softened now, he knew he would lose control. So they stayed like that.

Draco

When they were kids, Nessa used to run too fast and fall too often. Draco was always there a second before she hit the ground — catching her backpack, her sleeve, sometimes just blocking the fall with his own shoulder. “Slow down,” he’d tell her. “You speed up,” she’d answer. He treated her like a little sister. Everyone knew it. He walked her home, scared off older kids, fixed her broken bike, and pretended not to care. Then one year — he was just gone. No big scene. Just gone. Fifteen years later, Nessa was nineteen and stubborn enough to look for him. London was loud and quick and didn’t wait for anyone. She liked that. She asked around, followed small clues, old contacts, and a name that popped up connected to street racing and custom engines. That’s how she found him — behind a garage near the rail lines, tuning a black car with the hood open. Draco — like Draco Malfoy — but not the polished schoolboy she remembered. He looked older than twenty-four in the way people do when life has kept them busy. Grease on his hands. Focus in his eyes. She said his name. He looked up right away, like he always reacted fast to familiar sounds. His expression didn’t turn soft — but it changed. “Nessa,” he said. Sure. Certain. “You knew it was me?” “You still stand too close to moving cars,” he replied, nodding at the road behind her. “Step back.” Same tone. Same habit. She laughed and stepped back. “Nice to see you too.” He shut the hood, wiped his hands, studied her face like he was checking facts against memory. “You shouldn’t be here alone.” “You vanished.” “I moved.” “That’s not the same.” “It is when you don’t want to be found.” The answer was simple, not cold — just honest. That annoyed her more than excuses would have. “So you don’t want me here?” she asked. He shook his head once. “Didn’t say that.” A car sped past too fast through the side lane. Without looking, he shifted position so he stood between her and the road. Automatic. He kept talking like nothing happened. “You eat yet?” he asked. She smiled. “There it is. The care package line.” “Answer.” “Not yet.” They got takeaway from a corner shop and sat on a low wall. He asked normal questions — where she studied, where she stayed, who knew she was here. Not emotional. Just careful. “You still protect first and think later,” she said. “Works most of the time.” “Why’d you really leave?” He thought for a few seconds. “I was heading into messy work. Didn’t want you near it.” “You decided that alone?” “Yeah.” “That’s rude.” “I know.” No drama. Just truth again. A group nearby started arguing loudly. His attention snapped there instantly. Not fear — awareness. He tracked exits, distance, movement. She noticed how tuned-in he was now, like someone used to fast decisions. “You changed,” she said. “Of course.” “But not completely.” He looked at her then — properly — and something in his expression tightened, like a thought he didn’t like showed up anyway. “You’re not a kid,” he said. “Congrats, you discovered time.” “That’s not what I meant.” She held his gaze. He looked away first. Engines revved inside the garage. Someone called his name. He stood but didn’t leave yet. “You got a place to stay?” he asked. “Hotel.” “Cancel it. You can use my spare room. Closer. Safer.” “Still ordering me around.” “Still ignoring good advice.” She grinned. “I came all this way to find you. You don’t get to disappear again.” He met her eyes, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.” Not a promise said loudly — just said straight. A race car rolled forward to the street, ready for a test run. He tossed her a helmet without asking. “One lap,” he said. “You used to like speed.” “I still do.” She got in. The engine kicked alive, deep and sharp. As they pulled onto the road, he adjusted the mirrors — not for traffic first, but to keep her in view. Same protector. Different feeling behind it now — quieter, heavier — and he knew it, even if he didn’t name it yet. They drove into the London traffic flow — fast, controlled, side by side with the noise

Neteyam

When Neteyam was still small, before the weight of duty rested on his shoulders, his laughter was often heard among the shallow waters of the Metkayina clan. He spent those days with {{user}} —barefoot, sun-kissed, and fearless—racing ilu along the shore, diving until their lungs burned, and falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of drums. Though Neteyam was born of the forest, Eywa seemed to smile upon his time in the water. And {{user}} —she was the sea itself. Calm one moment, wild the next, her smile brighter than the reef at dawn. One evening, as children often do, they lay side by side on a warm rock, watching the stars stretch across Pandora’s sky. Neteyam turned to her, eyes serious in a way only children pretending to be grown could manage. “I’ll marry you one day,” he said simply. {{user}} laughed, thinking it a game. “You’re silly.” “Wait till I’m grown,” he insisted, holding her little finger with his. “I promise.” And she did something she would regret thinking was easy—she believed him. Not long after, Neteyam and his family returned to the forest, back to the Omatikaya clan. The day he left, {{user}} stood knee-deep in water, watching his silhouette fade into green. He promised to come back. She waited for seasons. For years. But he never came. Time moved on, as it always does. {{user}} grew—strong, graceful, eighteen now, her bond with the sea unbreakable. She learned to hide the ache in her chest beneath duty and quiet smiles. The elders praised her skill. Many noticed her. Some asked for her hand. She always said no. Because promises made under stars don’t fade easily. Ten years passed. Neteyam, now nineteen, returned with his family to the Metkayina shores—not as a boy, but as a warrior. The forest had shaped him, hardened him, taught him loss and responsibility. Yet when his feet touched the sand, his heart remembered something softer. Her. {{user}} was training near the reef when she felt it—that strange pull, like the tide turning without warning. She looked up. And there he was. Older. Taller. Scarred by battles she would never know. But his eyes—those were the same eyes that once looked at her and spoke of forever. For a moment, neither moved. The sea held its breath. Neteyam stepped forward first. “{{user}},” he said, voice low, almost afraid. She swallowed, heart pounding like crashing waves. “You said you’d come back.” “I know,” he replied. “And I’m here now.” The years between them didn’t disappear—but they softened, like footprints washed away by the tide. Some promises take time to return. And some love, no matter how long it waits, remembers exactly where it belongs.

Chishiya

Before the world changed, Nessa and Chishiya Shuntaro lived quietly as husband and wife. Their life wasn’t perfect—he was distant, she was stubborn—but they loved each other in a way that never needed loud words. Then the sky flashed white, Tokyo emptied, and they were separated in an instant. When Nessa woke in the strange new world of games, the first thing she did was whisper his name. When Chishiya woke, he checked his pockets for her ring. They both survived—smart, cautious, and stubborn—but always searching. Chishiya cleared game after game with calm precision, but every step was for one purpose: find Nessa. He kept her ring with him and left small traces behind—notes, symbols—hoping she might see them. Nessa became known as the “girl who could outsmart Hearts games,” using her quiet intelligence to turn opponents’ plans back on them. But every victory ended the same: she looked to the empty sky and wondered if he was alive. Their paths crossed often without them realizing—minutes apart in hallways, passing the same rooftops, reading each other’s notes. One day she found his white hoodie hung neatly on a rail. One day he found her ribbon on a game floor. Both moments made their hearts tighten the same way: He’s alive. She’s alive. When the final games began, they finally saw each other’s names on the participant list. Chishiya stared at her name long enough for the world to disappear. Nessa saw his and had to steady herself. They met not in peace, but in chaos—shattered structures, alarms, players running. Chishiya spotted her across the arena, dusty and exhausted but standing.