sunofnebulah

[sunofnebulah]

☆ nebulah - nebs

☆ 20 - she/her - black

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[sunofnebulah]

the interrogation scenes in iwtv with armand and daniel back in san francisco is probably the most intimate torture scene ive watched ever. the dichotomy of intimacy and mental anguish & prodding, condensed into a few scenes is beyond comprehension. i would expect the feelings it evoked from something like a slow burn, but not so sudden. it wasn’t as physical as it was mental, but it boarders on INTIMATE. thank you anne rice even though you hated us fanfic writers

[ofwings]

Are you single?

do these look like the posting habits of someone experiencing romance

[dilflovingmisandrist]

when someone asks what your type is but you don't want to say "40 year old+ men tasked with taking care of a child in the apocalypse" so you just say brunettes...

[serenelotus]

i'd never ask for anything else🙏🏻

[wallflowerwrites]

Ribbons and Riddles

Daryl and the others found you on their search for a home after the loss of Herschel's homestead. Now, living at the Prison, Daryl has wormed his way into your daily life by embracing your most embarrassing coping mechanism- being girly despite living at the end of the world. Everyone else other than the kids you teach seem to find it ridiculous or consider you invisible, and you'd think with him being him, he would too, but he doesn't.

CW: 10k words, Prison era, follows Daryl and the reader after the Woodbury surviors join the group, The reader teaches kids at the Prison instead of Carol, Daryl brings the reader trinkets like a crow until she falls in love with him, The reader wears pink ribbons as an attempt to keep in touch with herself pre-outbreak, non-protected AND protected vaginal sex, petnames (sweetheart, sweet thing, baby), Friends to lovers, Slow burn-ish, Daryl struggles with vulnerability, AU where flu virus doesn't hit the prison, Tooth-rotting fluff, Domestic fluff, graphic descriptions of anxiety, The reader reminds Daryl of a doe, Glenn the master cockblocker lmfao

The pink ribbon snaps in the wind. Again. Fucking hell.

It’s the third one this month, and you’re running out. You crouch to pick it up, fingers brushing damp concrete, when a boot crunches gravel too close behind you. You've been cutting smaller strips from one large ribbon hoping for the best.

The prison yard is quieter than usual today, most of the group is out on a run, leaving just a handful of people behind. You’d been counting on that. Fewer eyes means fewer chances for someone to notice how you flinch when voices rise, or how you always take the long way around to avoid walking past the men sharpening knives by the fence. But now, someone’s standing right there.

"You always do that?" The voice is low, rough, and unmistakable. Daryl Dixon. The man who hasn't left your mind since he found you in the woods, heartbroken by the death of your family and lost from the group you'd been traveling with. You'd never seen a horde before that day. You don’t turn around. Your ribs press tight against your lungs.

The kids will be waiting soon. You’ve got the old alphabet books laid out in the cellblock, you've turned into a makeshift classroom, the pages smoothed flat after being crumpled in your bag for weeks. They like the one with the dog. You like that they still care about dogs despite all the things they've seen.

Your ribbon slips from your fingers again, caught by a gust that carries it toward Daryl’s boots. He bends before you can, picking it up with calloused hands that look out of place holding something so delicate. His thumb brushes the frayed edge where you’d cut it too close last time.

“Ain’t gonna last if you keep tearin’ ‘em,” he says, not necessarily unkindly but definitely not tenderly. He holds it out, and you take it without meeting his eyes. Your fingers barely graze his, but the contact sends a jolt up your arm anyway. You tuck the ribbon into your pocket like a secret.

“Kids’re askin’ for you, ain't class about to start?” he adds when you don’t speak. His voice is quieter now, like he’s trying not to startle you. It works. You risk a glance up and find him squinting against the sun, his crossbow slung over his shoulder like always. There’s a fresh scrape on his jaw that he must’ve picked up from the last supply run.

You nod, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. The heat from his body radiates in the space between you, and you catch the scent of leather and pine resin clinging to his vest. It’s not unpleasant.

Inside, the kids are already clustered around the makeshift desks when you slip in, their chatter dying down as soon as they see you. Little Amy grins, her front teeth missing. “You’re late,” she accuses, but there’s no malice in it.

“Sorry, kiddo” you murmur, smoothing the ribbon between your fingers before tying it loosely around a chunk of your curls to beat the heat. The prison has been humid and genuinely disgusting the past few weeks because of the summer heat. The kids don’t laugh like the others do when your hands fumble twice trying to tie it. They just watch, curious, as you open the dog book.

Daryl lingers in the doorway longer than he needs to. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, steady and warm. Not judging.

Later, when the kids have scattered and you’re stacking the books, he appears again, you hadn't even realized he'd left- the skilled bastard. This time, he’s holding something small.

“Found this near the fence,” he mutters, shoving a scrawny gray kitten into your hands before you can protest. It’s all bones and big eyes, its fur matted with dirt. A piece of its ear is missing. It mews weakly, claws catching on your sleeve.

You cradle it against your chest instinctively, your heart doing something complicated in your ribs. Daryl’s already turning away like he didn’t just hand you a piece of the world.

“She’ll keep the rats out,” he says over his shoulder.

You press your face into the kitten’s fur to hide your smile.

The kitten begins sleeping with you, curled against your collarbone that night, its tiny body rising and falling with each breath. You’ve named her Thistle, for the way she clings, for the soft prick of her claws when she kneads your skin through your shirt. The ribbon you ripped today is forgotten. Mostly. The disappointment of losing one of the only things that helps you feel like an actual girl- no, an actual woman, still nags at you. Keeping in touch with your femininity and grace when you're covered in dirt and despair is harder than anyone ever expects.

Daryl doesn’t mention it again, but three days later, a length of pink satin appears on your cot. It’s wider than the ones you’ve been rationing, untouched by scissors. You run your fingers over it, pulse jumping at the implication, he must’ve been looking. The thought knots your stomach in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Thistle bats at the ribbon when you lift it, her ears twitching. You’re tying it around a loose curl when footsteps pause outside your cell. It’s him. You know by the way the air changes, something in the rhythm of his breath, the weight of his silence.

“Got somethin’ for the kids,” Daryl says, voice gruff. He doesn’t come in. Doesn’t even look at you directly. Just holds out a plastic bag filled with crayon stubs and half-used coloring books salvaged from God knows where. You take it, your fingers brushing his. His hands are warm. Rough. You wonder if he feels how yours shake.

“They’ll love these,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Daryl grunts, but his eyes dart to the ribbon in your hair. A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Hope that one ain’t gonna fray,” he mutters before walking away, leaving you clutching the bag like it’s something precious.

The next summer storm rolls in after midnight. Thunder shakes the prison walls, rattling the bars of your cell. Thistle bolts under the cot, her tail puffed out. You crouch to coax her out when water splashes cold against your neck, the ceiling’s leaking again, a steady drip that soaks through your blanket.

You’re gathering Thistle in your arms when a shadow fills the doorway.

“My cell’s dry.” Daryl’s voice is low, barely audible over the rain. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and walks down the hall. You follow, Thistle tucked against your chest, her claws pricking your skin through your shirt.

His cell smells like leather and gun oil. There’s a lantern flickering on the floor, casting long shadows over the walls. His cot is narrow, but he’s already shoved a folded blanket against the wall to make space. You sit gingerly with Thistle attempting to squirm free to investigate her newfound land.

Daryl leans against the far wall, arms crossed. “Roof’s been shit since day one, ain't a surprise” he says, like an apology.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. Thunder follows, shaking the floor. You flinch, hands curling into fists. Daryl doesn’t say anything, but when the next roll of thunder comes, he sits beside you. Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

“M’ gonna hurt you,” he murmurs, like he's approaching a scared animal. Maybe you are a scared animal. That's what humans are now, right?

Thistle climbs into your lap, purring. You stroke her fur, focusing on the vibration under your fingers instead of the storm.

“Merle used to say thunder was just God playing bowling.” Daryl’s voice is quiet, almost lost under the rain. “Dumbass.”

You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. Daryl glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

The storm rages on, but the space between you grows warmer.

The lantern flickers again, and Thistle’s ears twitch at the sudden shift in light. You watch her pupils expand, black swallowing gold, as another crack of thunder shakes the prison. This time, you don’t flinch as hard, you couldn't, not with Daryl’s shoulder solid against yours, not with the way his fingers twitch like he’s considering reaching for you but thinks better of it.

"You ever had a cat before?" he asks suddenly, voice rough-edged but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You shake your head, fingers still buried in Thistle’s fur. "No. Always wanted one, though." The admission feels too big for the space between you, but Daryl just nods like he understands.

"Had a dog once," he says after a beat. "Got hit by a car when I was nine. Merle said it was my fault for lettin’ him off the leash." His jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. You don’t know what to say, so you press your knee against his instead. He doesn’t pull away.

The storm eases by dawn, leaving the prison damp and smelling of wet concrete. You’re stiff from sitting so still, but Thistle stretches in your lap, her tiny claws kneading your thigh through the fabric of your pants. Daryl’s already on his feet, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the night.

"You stayin’?" he asks, not looking at you as he picks up his crossbow from where it leans against the wall. His voice is casual, but his fingers tighten around the weapon’s grip.

You hesitate, Thistle’s purr vibrating against your legs. The leak in your cell won’t have fixed itself, and the thought of returning to the damp cot makes your skin crawl. But staying feels like too much, like stepping into a space you weren’t invited to occupy.

Daryl reads your silence like it’s a language he speaks fluently. "I've got extra blankets n’ the space" he mutters, nudging a frayed gray bundle with his boot. "Ain’t usin’ all of it anyway."

That’s how you find yourself moving your things into his cell the next day, one armful at a time. The kids watch with wide eyes as you carry your stack of books past the common area, little Amy trailing after you like a duckling.

"Are you and Daryl married now?" she asks, serious as a heart attack.

Your face burns. "No. Just- just, sharing space."

Amy frowns. "My mom said people only share rooms when they’re married or when there’s no more rooms."

Daryl chooses that moment to appear, a dead rabbit dangling from one hand. He freezes when he sees you, his eyes darting from your flushed face to Amy’s expectant stare.

"We run outta rooms?" Amy demands, hands on her hips.

Daryl’s ears turn red. "Mind your business, kid," he grumbles, shoving the rabbit into her arms instead of answering. "Take this to Carol. Tell her to stew it."

Amy giggles but obeys, leaving you standing there with your arms full of blankets and the weight of Daryl’s gaze on you.

"Kids ask too many damn questions," he mutters, stepping closer to take half your load. His fingers brush yours, lingering a second longer than necessary.

You resist the urge to curl in on yourself from the blatant affection.

That night, you lie on your side of the cot, Thistle curled between you like a living barrier. Daryl’s back is to you, his breathing slow and even. The prison is quiet save for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling down the hall.

"You awake?" you whisper.

Daryl hums in affirmation.

"Thank you. For- " You gesture vaguely at the cell, at Thistle, at him.

Daryl shifts onto his back, the cot creaking under his weight. Moonlight filters through the barred window, painting silver stripes across his chest. "Ain't nothin' much, just bein’ decent." he mutters, but his hand finds Thistle's tiny body between you, fingers brushing yours in the dark.

“Ya know,” he continues, cautiously. “I don't get the whole frilly thing ya do, feels like some damn riddle, but if it makes ya happy.”

You fall asleep next to him feeling, oddly, accepted.

The next morning, you wake to an empty cot and the smell of coffee. Daryl's vest is gone, but his crossbow leans against the wall, a silent promise he'll be back. Thistle bats at your hair ribbon until you sit up, her purr loud in the quiet cell.

You're reading to the kids when the gate clangs open. The group's back from the run, voices overlapping in exhaustion and relief. Little Amy tugs your sleeve. "Daryl's got blood on him," she whispers, eyes wide.

Your heart stutters. You force yourself to keep turning the page, but your fingers tremble. The kids don't notice, they're too busy craning their necks toward the commotion outside.

Boots scrape concrete behind you. Daryl leans against the doorframe, his shirt sleeve torn and a fresh cut above his eyebrow. He's holding something behind his back. The kids swarm him before you can speak.

"Didja kill walkers?"

"Did Glenn cry again?"

Daryl scowls but doesn't shove them away. His eyes find yours over their heads. "Got somethin' for your teacher," he grunts.

The kids gasp as he produces a mason jar filled with wildflowers, pink ones, their petals frayed at the edges but vibrant against the glass. They ooh and aah, tugging at your arms until you take it. The jar is warm from his hands.

"Found 'em near the creek," Daryl mumbles as blush creeps up his neck and ears, already turning to leave. Little Amy sticks out her tongue at his retreating back.

"He like-likes you," she sing-songs.

The flowers sit on your makeshift desk for three days before they wilt. You catch Daryl looking at them sometimes when he thinks you're not watching, his expression unreadable.

On the fourth day, he comes back from patrol with a dented can of pink paint. "For the kids' room, it'll make it look a lil’ more like a real classroom" he says, shoving it at you. The metal is cool under your fingers, the label half-peeled away.

Its everything to you.

You spend the afternoon painting one wall while the kids nap, your hair tied up with the ribbon Daryl gave you. He appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you stretch to reach the top corner.

"Need a hand?"

You nod, handing him the brush. His fingers are careful around yours, calloused but gentle. He paints the highest parts while you do the lower, your shoulders bumping occasionally. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn't heavy, just warm, like sunlight through glass.

That night, Daryl comes back late smelling of gunpowder and sweat. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the pink wall visible even in the dim lantern light.

"Kids'll like it," he mutters, sitting heavily on the cot.

You're already under the blanket, Thistle curled against your stomach. "I like it too," you admit softly.

Daryl's hands still where he's unlacing his boots. He doesn't look at you, but his shoulders relax slightly. "Ain't too bright of a pink?"

You shake your head. "Reminds me of sunsets. Before."

The word hangs between you. Daryl nods like he understands, like he's been waiting for you to say it. He strips down to his undershirt and lies beside you, careful to leave space. Thistle migrates to the foot of the bed, her tail flicking.

Rain starts around midnight, gentle at first, then pounding. You wake to Daryl's hand on your wrist as lightning flashes, illuminating his face inches from yours.

"Just a storm," he murmurs. His thumb strokes your pulse point.

You don't pull away despite the urge to sprint away from everything. The storm. Him. The outbreak.

The storm passes, but Daryl’s hand doesn’t. His fingers stay curled around your wrist, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. You count his breaths, steady, even while Thistle’s tail flicks against your ankles. The rain drums against the roof, a sound that should make you tense, but Daryl’s grip grounds you like an anchor.

Morning comes gray and damp. Daryl’s gone before you open your eyes, the cot cold where he’d been. Thistle mews from the foot of the bed, stretching her tiny paws toward your face. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before swinging your legs over the side. The pink ribbon sits on the crate beside the cot, frayed at the edges but still holding its color. You tie it into your hair without thinking.

The kids are already waiting when you reach the common area, their noses pressed to the newly painted wall. Little Amy spins when she hears your footsteps, her grin wide. "It’s pretty," she declares, dragging you by the hand to admire their handprints in the corner. You crouch, letting her press your palm into the wet paint beside hers.

Daryl watches from the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes flick from the pink wall to your ribbon, then away. He doesn’t speak, but when you catch his gaze, he doesn’t look ashamed of being caught either.

Days blur. You teach the kids to spell their names in the dust on the floor; Daryl brings back a dog-eared dictionary with half its pages missing. You find him reading it sometimes, his brow furrowed like he’s memorizing the words. Thistle grows bolder, stalking the halls like she owns them, but she always returns to curl against your ribs at night.

One evening, you’re braiding Amy’s hair when Daryl appears in the doorway, his vest streaked with mud. "Got somethin’ you should see," he grunts, jerking his chin toward the yard. The kids scramble after him, but he waits for you, his boots scuffing the concrete.

Outside, the sun dips low, painting the prison in gold. Daryl leads you to the fence, where a doe stands frozen in the clearing beyond. Her ears twitch, her dark eyes wide and wary. The kids gasp, pressing their faces to the chain links.

"Pretty," Amy whispers.

Daryl’s shoulder brushes yours. "Reminds me of you," he mutters, so low only you can hear. Your breath catches. The doe watches you for a heartbeat longer before bolting into the trees, her white tail flashing.

Daryl doesn’t raise his crossbow.

That night, you lie awake listening to his breathing. Thistle purrs between you, her tiny body a warm weight against your side. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across Daryl’s face. His eyelashes flutter, he’s not asleep either.

"You didn’t shoot her, why?" you whisper.

Daryl opens one eye. "Wasn't hungry, ain't need to kill it for no reason" he lies.

You smile into the dark. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his fingers rough but careful. You lace yours through them, and he doesn’t pull away.

Rain comes again, harder this time. The leak in your old cell has spread, the ceiling groaning under the weight of the water. Daryl rolls onto his side to face you, his free hand brushing a damp curl from your forehead. "Stay, please?" he asks, like it’s that simple.

Maybe it is.

Thunder rattles the bars, but you don’t flinch. Daryl’s thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his callouses catching on your skin. You lean into his touch, and his breath hitches.

The storm rages on, but here, in this narrow cot with Thistle between you and Daryl’s hand cupping your face, the world feels quiet. Safe.

His lips brush yours, once, twice, testing. You kiss him back, and he makes a sound low in his throat, his fingers tangling in your frizzy curls. Your ribbon comes loose, slipping to the cell floor unnoticed.

Outside, the rain slows to a drizzle. Daryl’s mouth is warm, his hands gentler than you ever imagined. He murmurs your name like it’s something sacred, and for the first time since the world ended, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Thistle yawns, stretching between you. Daryl laughs against your lips, the sound rough but happy. You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, leather, gunpowder, home, Daryl.

The kids will ask questions tomorrow. You’ll stutter through answers, your face burning. Daryl will grunt and change the subject. But tonight, his hands learn the shape of you, the hip dips gracing your waist, the chubbiness of your thighs, the way your breath hitches when his calloused fingers trace the scars on your knees from childhood tumbles. He kisses like he talks, sparingly, with purpose and his teeth graze your bottom lip in a way that makes your stomach clench.

Morning comes sticky with summer heat. You wake tangled in Daryl, his arm heavy across your ribs, his face buried in your hair. Thistle’s gone, probably hunting roaches in the cafeteria. The ribbon lies forgotten by the cot leg, trampled in last night’s haste. You should move. The kids will be waiting. But Daryl’s breath is warm on your neck, his fingers twitching against your hip like even asleep, he’s making sure you’re still there.

He startles awake when you shift, his grip tightening reflexively before he blinks the sleep from his eyes. “Mornin’,” he rasps, voice wrecked. His stubble scrapes your shoulder when he nuzzles closer, inhaling deep like he’s memorizing your scent. You’ve never seen him like this, so soft-edged, unguarded.

The gate clangs open, Glenn’s group returning early. Daryl tenses, but doesn’t pull away. “Stay put, take the extra rest” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the freckle behind your ear. You should argue. Someone will see. But his hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his for a kiss that’s slow and thorough enough to make your toes curl.

Footsteps approach. Daryl breaks away just as Glenn’s shadow darkens the cell doorway. “Uh.” Glenn’s voice pitches high. “Carol says- breakfast. If you’re- yeah.” He retreats before either of you can speak, his footsteps hurried.

Daryl huffs a laugh, rolling to sit up. The cot creaks in protest. “Guess they know.” His thumb swipes over your knuckles, a quiet apology.

The cafeteria buzzes when you enter. Conversations stutter. Eyes dart. Daryl shoulders through the crowd, piling two plates with squirrel meat and wilted greens before steering you to an empty table. His knee presses against yours under the tabletop.

Amy bounces over, her braids fraying. “You kissed Daryl!” she announces, loud enough to silence the room.

Your fork clatters. Daryl scowls, but his ears are red. “Ain’t your business, kid.”

Amy grins, undeterred. She plops into your lap, whispering loudly, “He blushes real red.”

Daryl chokes on his coffee.

Days blur into nights. Daryl starts leaving little things where you’ll find them, first, a packet of strawberry gum tucked in your pocket, then a dented harmonica for the kids, and a pink-handled knife that fits perfectly in your grip. You press the wildflowers he brings you between dictionary pages.

One afternoon, you catch him showing Amy how to hold a crossbow. His hands are patient around hers, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Ain’t a toy, remember that” he warns, but lets her aim at a tin can. She misses by a mile. Daryl doesn’t laugh. Just adjusts her stance and says, “Try again.”

You love him. The realization punches through you like a bullet.

The words sit heavy in your chest, too big to say aloud. Daryl glances up from adjusting Amy’s grip, catching your stare. His eyes narrow slightly, he knows that look, the one where you’re thinking too hard, but Amy tugs his sleeve, demanding his attention back. You turn away before he can read you any further.

That night, thunder rolls in like an afterthought, distant but insistent. Thistle abandons her usual spot between you to sulk under the cot, she’s grown finicky with age, less tolerant of Daryl’s shifting. He’s restless tonight, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. You pretend not to notice until his pinky brushes yours on the blanket, deliberate.

“Spit it out,” you coo, tracing the scar on his knuckle.

Daryl’s fingers still. He exhales through his nose, sharp, like he’s steeling himself. The lantern flickers, throwing shadows across the sharp planes of his face. “You know m'not good with words, not like you are” he mutters, finally. His thumb presses into the hollow of your palm.

You turn your hand over, lacing your fingers through his. “Try.”

He scowls at the ceiling, jaw working. The storm rumbles again, closer now. Thistle hisses under the cot.

“Kids asked where you were at dinner,” he says abruptly. His voice is gruff, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Told ‘em you were my girl by accident.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and unpolished.

Thunder cracks, shaking the walls. You flinch.

“Yeah?” you whisper, giddy.

Daryl’s free hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a curl from your forehead. His touch is careful, like you’re something fragile. “Don't want to take it back,” he grunts.

You swallow. The words press against your ribs, too big, too soon. But Daryl’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s been waiting. So you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. His breath hitches.

“Say something, please” he murmurs, rough. Not a demand. A plea.

The storm breaks overhead. Rain lashes the barred window.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl goes still. Then his hands cradle your face, calloused thumbs sweeping your cheeks. He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s mapping the shape of the words against your lips. When he pulls back, his breathing’s uneven.

“Knew that already, silly woman” he mutters, but his voice cracks.

Daryl's hands don't leave your face, his thumbs still tracing the damp tracks under your eyes you didn't realize were there. The rain drums harder against the roof, but the sound is muffled now like the storm exists only outside this cell, outside this moment where Daryl's looking at you like you've handed him something precious. Thistle yowls from under the cot, her tail thumping against the metal frame in protest. Neither of you move.

"Say it again," Daryl rasps, his voice raw in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow. "I love you."

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair not painful, just present. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across the scar that bisects his eyebrow. He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. "Ain't never..." He trails off, jaw working like the words are stuck. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the rabbit-quick beat under his ribs.

"You don't have to say it, you've shown me it."

"Love you, too." The words burst out of him like a gunshot, harsh and sudden. He freezes, eyes widening like he didn't mean to say it like that. But then his shoulders slump, and he's leaning forward to press his forehead to yours again, his breath warm against your lips. "Damn it, woman. Love you so much it hurts."

The confession sits between you, trembling and alive. You kiss him because you don't know what else to do with the weight of it, slow at first, then deeper when his hands slide down to grip your waist, pulling you into his lap. The cot creaks ominously. Neither of you care.

The lantern gutters low, painting the cell in flickering amber. Daryl’s mouth is hot on your neck, his teeth scraping just enough to make you squirm. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers skimming your ribs, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches. You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, and Daryl pauses, lifting his head to glare at you.

“Don’t do that,” he growls, thumb brushing your bottom lip to pry it free.

“Someone’ll hear,” you whisper, even as your hips cant against his thigh.

Daryl’s nostrils flare. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Ain’t need to be quiet, sweetheart.” His hand slides down, palming you through your pants, and you choke back a moan. Daryl huffs, annoyed. “If we weren't in this damn prison,” he mutters, nipping your earlobe, “I’d make you scream till your voice gave out.”

The dirty threat sends a shudder through you. His fingers make quick work of your button, slipping inside your underwear to circle your puffy swollen clit with frustrating precision. You bury your face in his shoulder, muffling a gasp as he adds pressure, his rhythm relentless.

“That’s it,” Daryl rasps, lips dragging along your jaw. “Let go, c'mon.”

You bite into the meat of his shoulder to keep quiet when you cum, your thighs clamping around his wrist. Daryl watches you unravel with dark, hungry eyes, not stopping until you’re pushing his hand away, oversensitive and trembling.

It's the fastest you've ever cum.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your back, his knees nudging yours apart. He strips your pants down your thighs with impatient hands, his gaze locking onto yours as he ducks between your legs. His tongue is flat and hot, licking a slow stripe that has your back arching off the cot.

“Daryl- please,”.

He doesn’t answer, just hooks your thighs over his shoulders and digs in. You fist the blanket, toes curling, as he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, then suckles gently. The wet sounds are obscenely loud in the tiny cell as he moves his head side to side. You slap a hand over your mouth, but Daryl pins your wrist above your head, lacing your fingers together.

You read the message loud and clear.

The cot groans under Daryl’s weight as he crawls up your body, his lips slick with you. He kisses you hard enough to taste yourself on his tongue, his hips grinding down against yours so you can feel how hard he is through his jeans. His fingers fumble with his belt, ungraceful, hurried, but you bat his hands away and do it yourself, your fingers steadier than you feel. The buckle clinks loud in the quiet cell.

Daryl hisses when you wrap your hand around him, his forehead dropping to yours. “Christ,” he breathes, hips jerking into your grip. His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, the tip leaking when you thumb over it. He kisses you again, messy and off-center, his teeth catching your bottom lip.

“Wait,” you gasp, pushing at his chest. Daryl freezes instantly, his whole body going rigid above you. You nod toward the crate beside the cot where the jar of salve sits, the one Carol makes for blisters. Daryl’s eyes darken with understanding. He grabs it, flipping the lid off with his thumb and coating his fingers hastily.

Daryl’s fingers circle your entrance, slick with salve, his touch light enough to make you squirm. “Easy, gotta stretch ya” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have your hips jerking off the cot. You whine, high and desperate, and Daryl’s fingers press inside without warning, two at once, stretching you in a way that burns just shy of pain. His teeth scrape your collarbone as he scissors them, his free hand pinning your thigh open wider. “That’s it,” he growls when you clench around him, his voice rough as gravel. “Taking it so well.”

You gasp when he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision white out for a second. Daryl watches your face intently, his pupils blown black in the lantern light, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His fingers twist, dragging against your walls in a way that has you arching, your nails digging into his biceps. “Daryl- please- want it,” you slur needily against his lips.

He pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, wiping them hastily on his jeans before gripping his cock to line himself up. The first press burns, just for a second, before he’s sliding home, his hips flush against yours in one smooth thrust. Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours as he stills, letting you adjust. His entire body trembles with the effort of holding back.

You shift experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and wrecked, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck,” he grits out, his eyelashes fluttering. “Gimme a minute.” His voice is strained, his breath hot against your lips. You tilt your hips, testing, and he curses again, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

When he finally moves, it’s slow at first, his thrusts are shallow as he watches your face. But then you hook your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, and Daryl's patience snaps. His rhythm turns rough, his hips pistoning against yours with a desperation that knocks the breath from your lungs. The cot creaks violently beneath you, the metal frame protesting with every snap of his hips.

Daryl’s hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that have you gasping. “Cum for me,” he growls, his voice frayed at the edges. “Wanna feel it, c'mon, know you can, sweet thing” His fingers press harder, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. You bite into his shoulder to muffle your cry when you cum, your body clamping down around him like a vice.

Daryl’s hips stutter when you gasp against his shoulder, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Wait- you can’t,” Your voice cracks, breathless. His rhythm falters, but he doesn’t stop, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. You dig your nails into his biceps. “Daryl, listen- we don’t have anything for after.”

He groans, low and frustrated, his forehead dropping to yours. His hips jerk once, twice, as if he's testing his own restraint before he grits his teeth and pulls out abruptly. The sudden emptiness makes you whine, but Daryl’s already gripping himself tightly at the base, his jaw clenched. “Fuck,” he hisses, his thighs trembling. His thumb brushes your hipbone, an absent apology, as he strokes himself roughly over your stomach.

You watch, transfixed, as his muscles tense, the corded line of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. His release spills hot over your skin, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your collarbone. For a moment, he just breathes there, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his body bowed over yours like a question.

Then he huffs, annoyed, and reaches for the rag draped over the crate beside the cot. “Ain’t how I wanted to, ya know...” he mutters, wiping the mess from your belly with more care than his tone suggests. His ears are pink, his brows knitted together like he’s personally offended by the inconvenience. You bite back a smile, trailing your fingers down the tense line of his spine.

“Next time,” you murmur, and Daryl’s gaze snaps to yours, sharp and hungry. The rag drops forgotten to the floor as he leans in, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s memorizing the taste.

Thistle chooses that moment to yowl from under the cot, her tail flicking indignantly against Daryl’s boot. He breaks the kiss with a grunt, glaring at the space beneath the bed. “Damn cat,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it, not when you can feel his grin on your cheek.

You laugh, soft and breathless, and Daryl’s expression softens. He brushes a damp curl from your forehead, his thumb lingering at your temple. “Weren't laughin’ when I was buried in you proper,” he teases, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Outside, the storm has faded to a drizzle, the prison settling into its usual nighttime rhythm, murmured conversations, the distant clang of the watch shift changing over. Daryl stretches out beside you, his arm heavy across your waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“Gonna find somethin’,” he says abruptly, his voice rough with exhaustion. “For after. Next time.”

God, yes, you want that. You want this.

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are already closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, but his thumb keeps moving in small, absent circles against your skin. Like even half-asleep, he’s making promises.

You press closer, tucking your face into the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat thrums steady under your lips. “I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl’s arm tightens around you, his breath evening out. Thistle finally emerges, leaping onto the cot with a disgruntled chirp before settling at your feet. The lantern gutters low, casting the cell in flickering light.

The morning after, you wake to Daryl already gone- but his vest still hangs on the chair, his crossbow propped against the wall. A message: “Out on a run.” Thistle kneads at your thigh, her claws pricking through the thin blanket. You stretch, wincing at the tender ache between your legs, and spot the pink ribbon from last night now tied haphazardly around your curls. Clearly, a feeble attempt by Daryl at keeping your hair from tangling overnight.

The smell of burnt coffee hits you halfway down the cellblock. Carol’s at the stove, her shoulders stiff and she doesn’t turn when you hover in the doorway. The silence stretches too long before she finally speaks, her voice flat. “Daryl took Glenn and Michonne out early.” She jerks her chin toward the counter where a chipped mug steams. “Left that for you.”

The coffee’s lukewarm but sweetened with condensed milk, the way you like it. You cradle the mug too tight, the ceramic biting into your palms. Across the room, Amy giggles into her hands when you catch her staring, her braids bouncing as she whispers to another kid. Your face burns.

Daryl’s crossbow is missing from its usual spot by the gate. You try not to count the hours.

By midday, the kids cluster around the painted wall, tracing their names in the dust. You’re helping Amy sound out “cat” when the gate screeches open. Daryl strides in first, his vest streaked with mud, a burlap sack slung over one shoulder. His eyes find yours immediately before flicking away just as fast. Glenn trails behind him, lugging a dented toolbox, while Michonne peels off toward the armory without a word.

The kids swarm Daryl before he can escape, tiny hands plucking at his sleeves. “What’d’ya bring us this time Mr. Dixon?” Amy demands, her grin gap-toothed.

Daryl chuckles, swinging the burlap sack down with more care than his rough hands suggest. The kids crowd closer as he digs inside and brings out crinkled comic books, half-melted crayons, a dented harmonica that makes Amy squeal. But when his fingers close around something small and pink, his eyes dart to yours.

He tosses the ribbon your way without ceremony. It flutters into your lap, silk, not frayed polyester like the ones you’ve scavenged. The color matches the wall exactly. Your throat tightens.

“Found it in some rich woman's closet,” Daryl mutters, already turning to leave, but Amy grabs his sleeve.

“What about my present?” she whines.

Daryl scowls, reaching back into the sack. He pulls out a fist-sized teddy bear missing an eye and shoves it at her. “Happy?”

Amy hugs it like a treasure, but her nose wrinkles. “It smells like dead people.”

“Everything does,” Glenn sighs, passing by with an armful of salvaged pipes.

The reminder breaks your heart.

Daryl’s already halfway across the yard when you catch up, the ribbon clutched in your fist. He slows just enough for you to fall into step beside him, his shoulder brushing yours. Sweat darkens the back of his shirt, the scent of gun oil and pine clinging to him.

“Silk this time.” you say quietly, holding up the ribbon.

Daryl’s ears redden. He kicks a pebble, watching it skitter. “Ain’t gonna unravel in the wash, s’ more practical."

The implication that he plans for you to keep wearing it, that there will be washes and days and mornings lodges under your ribs. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his before he can overthink it. Daryl stiffens, his head swiveling toward the watchtower where Rick’s silhouette paces. But he doesn’t pull away.

Thistle weaves between your ankles as you near the cellblock, her tail flicking against Daryl’s boot. He toes the door open with a grunt, revealing his neatly made cot, first, with your patched quilt smoothed over the thin mattress.

“Thought you hated chores,” you tease.

Daryl shuts the door with his heel, crowding you against the wall. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm. “Knew we'd be tired, thought it would be nice,” His thumb traces your lower lip where it’s still tender from last night. “Got somethin’ else for ya, well, us.”

From his pocket, he produces a single foil packet, crumpled but intact. You blink at it, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Found a whole box in some trucker’s rig,” he mumbles, shoving it into your hand like it might burn him. “Ain’t expired.”

The plastic wrapper crackles in your grip. Daryl’s watching your face with an intensity that makes your knees weak, his pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes.

The wrapper slips from your fingers, landing soundlessly on the floor as Daryl crowds closer, his hands bracketing your hips. His calloused thumbs press into the dip of your waistband, a silent question. You nod before he can ask, and his mouth crashes into yours hot, and insistent, teeth scraping your bottom lip. The foil packet crinkles underfoot as he backs you toward the cot, his fingers already working the button of your jeans.

“Wait,” you gasp when his palm skims your bare stomach. Daryl freezes instantly, muscles coiled tight, his breath ragged against your throat. You fumble for the packet, hands shaking as you tear it open. Daryl watches, nostrils flaring, as you roll the condom over him with deliberate slowness. His hips jerk when your thumb brushes the head, a strangled noise escaping his clenched teeth.

The cot groans under your combined weight as Daryl lays you back, his body a solid line of heat above you. He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, messy, his stubble scraping your chin before pulling back to drag your shirt over your head. The cool prison air pebbles your skin, but Daryl’s mouth is searing as it traces the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch off the mattress.

“Daryl- ” His name fractures in your throat when his fingers dip between your thighs, finding you already wet. He hums approvingly, the vibration traveling straight to your core as he pumps two fingers inside, curling them just right. Your hips buck, but he pins you down with his free hand splayed across your belly, his grip just shy of rough. It enhances the feeling of fullness tenfold.

“Like that, don’tcha sweetheart?” he rasps, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. His fingers twist, scissoring you open until you’re gasping, your nails scoring his shoulders. Daryl’s breathing is uneven when he finally lines up, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Look at me,” he orders, voice wrecked.

You do. His eyes are black with want, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he presses in slow, so slow it burns. You clutch at his biceps, your thighs trembling around his hips, and Daryl stills when he’s fully seated, his forehead dropping to yours. His chest heaves against you, sweat-slick and shaking.

“Okay?” he grits out, the word ragged.

You nod, tilting your hips experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and guttural. His first thrust punches the air from your lungs, his second has you seeing stars. He sets a brutal pace from the start, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. Every snap of his hips brushes that perfect spot inside you, the friction building until your toes curl into the thin mattress.

“Touch yourself,” Daryl rasps, his voice rough as gravel. “Wanna watch, please.”

Your fingers falter at first, oversensitive and clumsy, but Daryl captures your wrist, guiding your hand down with surprising gentleness. His thumb presses against yours, showing you the rhythm he wants for you, firm, insistent circles that have you gasping within seconds. Your cheeks heat up when you hear the lewd squelches coming from between your legs. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel your slick dripping onto your thighs and his balls. Daryl watches with hooded eyes, his thrusts turning uneven as you writhe under him.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his hips stuttering. “Gonna cum for me, baby?”

Baby. That's new. You decide now that you love it.

The pet name, paired with the relentless drag of his cock, sends you over the edge. Your back bows off the cot as you clench around him, a silent scream caught in your throat. Daryl follows with a choked-off groan, his hips jerking erratically as he spills into the condom. His forehead presses to your shoulder, his breathing ragged against your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then Daryl carefully pulls out, disposing of the condom with a grimace before collapsing beside you. His arm slings over your waist, tugging you against his side like he can’t stand the space between you. Outside, footsteps echo down the cellblock, Glenn whistling off-key, the kids’ laughter bouncing off concrete walls.

The footsteps pause outside your cell. A hesitant knock. "Uh- Daryl? Rick wants you on watch in ten." Glenn's voice cracks on the last word.

Daryl doesn't move from where he's sprawled half atop you, his nose buried in your hair. "Tell 'im I'm busy," he snarks, the vibration rumbling through your ribcage.

Glenn makes a strangled noise. "He said now."

You press your smile into Daryl's collarbone when he curses colorfully, his arms tightening around you like a petulant child refusing to let go of a favorite toy. His fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, a silent apology for breaking your afterglow, before he finally rolls off the cot with a grunt.

"Five minutes, Glenn" he mutters, snatching his vest from the floor.

You watch as he dresses with hurried efficiency, the muscles in his back flexing as he shrugs into the worn fabric. The pink ribbon still dangles from your fingers, silken and incongruously delicate against the prison's grim backdrop. Daryl notices when he turns, his gaze dropping to your hand.

"Keep it on," he says gruffly, buckling his knife sheath. His eyes flick to your bare shoulders, then away just as fast. "Looks pretty on ya."

You're still laughing softly when he leans down to kiss you, quick and bruising, before stomping out, the cell door clanging shut behind him.

Thistle emerges from her hiding spot under the cot, tail twitching indignantly. She butts her head against your ankle, demanding attention now that the interloper has left. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss between her ears, and she purrs like a rusty engine.

The ribbon slips easily into your curls, its silk cool against your scalp. You finger-comb the worst of the tangles, wincing when your muscles protest the movement. Every ache is a brand, a reminder of Daryl's hands and mouth and the way he'd whispered mine against your skin like a vow.

Outside, the prison hums with midday activity, shouts from the garden, the rhythmic clang of someone repairing the fence. You pull on your least-damaged shirt, still smelling faintly of Daryl, and step into the sunlight just as Amy comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop, her braids swinging wildly. "Didja do it?" she stage-whispers, eyes comically wide.

Oh my god.

Your face flames. "Do what?"

You hope to god this child has no idea what she's talking about.

Amy rolls her eyes, bouncing on her toes. "The thing! The kissing thing!" She mimes an exaggerated smooching noise that has you choking on air.

Phew.

Before you can formulate a response, Carol appears like a specter, her arms laden with laundry. "Amy," she says mildly, "go help Lizzie with the radishes."

Amy pouts but obeys, shooting you a conspiratorial grin over her shoulder as she skips away.

Carol's gaze lingers on the ribbon in your hair. Her expression is unreadable. "Heard you two made quite the ruckus last night," she says finally.

You freeze.

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. "Relax. Concrete walls are thicker than they look." She adjusts the bundle in her arms. "Just...be careful, with the kids about, yeah?"

The warning hangs between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You nod, throat tight, and Carol moves on without another word.

You find Daryl on the watchtower, his crossbow balanced lazily across his knees. Rick stands beside him, their conversation low and serious. Daryl spots you first, his shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly before he schools his expression back to neutral.

Rick follows his gaze, his mouth quirking. "Take five," he tells Daryl, clapping him on the shoulder with deliberate amusement before descending the ladder.

Daryl waits until Rick's out of earshot before scowling down at you. "The hell you doin' here, woman? Sun's brutal."

You shrug, enjoying the way his eyes track the movement of the ribbon in your hair. "Missed you."

Daryl's scowl deepens, but his fingers flex around his crossbow. "Ain't been gone an hour."

"Too long."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like damn fool, but when you reach for the ladder, he's already leaning down to haul you up, his grip unshakable. The tower sways slightly under your combined weight, and you clutch at Daryl's vest for balance.

His hands linger at your waist even after you're steady. "Shouldn't be up here, ya gonna get heat sick," he grumbles, but makes no move to let go.

You rise onto your toes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Daryl’s jaw where stubble scratches your lips. "Wanted to see if you'd blush in broad daylight," you tease. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips as he jerks his head toward the yard below where Glenn nearly trips over his own feet pretending not to stare.

"Quit it, girl" Daryl hisses, but his pulse jumps under your mouth.

The wind catches the ribbon, fluttering it against your cheek like a caress. Daryl tracks the movement, his calloused thumb brushing the silk where it’s tied. "Pretty," he mutters, so low you almost miss it. The word punches through you, not pretty girl, not sweetheart, just pretty, raw and unguarded.

Below, Rick’s voice carries as he barks orders. Daryl tenses, his body shifting instinctively between you and the ladder. "Gotta get back, I'll be done soon" he grumbles, but his hands slide up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. The kiss he gives you is quick, stolen, his lips warm and chapped, tasting of coffee and gunmetal.

You’re still smiling when your feet hit the dirt. Amy materializes like a specter, her grin wicked. "He blushes," she announces, again, triumphant.

Carol’s washing basin clatters nearby. "Amy Josephine, leave them be."

But the damage is done, Daryl’s crossbow bolt thunks into a target with unnecessary force from the tower.

Night falls with a tension you can’t name. The prison feels too small suddenly, every glance from the others weighted. Daryl’s absence at dinner is conspicuous; Glenn keeps clearing his throat like he wants to say something until Maggie kicks him under the table.

You find Daryl in the armory, methodically cleaning bolts. His shoulders stiffen when you step inside, but he doesn’t stop you from sliding onto the stool beside him. The silence stretches, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of steel on wood.

"You’re hiding from them" you say finally.

Daryl’s jaw works. "Nah."

The bolt in his hand gleams under the lantern light. You reach out, tracing the fletching. "They know, its okay,"

"Damn right they know," he snaps, then exhales sharply through his nose. His fingers flex around the bolt. "Just ain’t used to- " He cuts himself off, scowling.

You wait.

"People lookin’," he mutters finally. His knuckles whiten. "Like I’m some… goddamn sideshow."

The vulnerability in his voice cracks something in your chest. You press your palm flat against his back, feeling the tension coiled beneath his shirt. "They’re looking because they’re happy for you."

Daryl snorts, derisive.

"For us," you amend softly.

His shoulders drop incrementally. When he turns, his eyes are dark, searching. "This… what you want? Me bein’ difficult?" He gestures vaguely, like the words are physically painful. "Like this? Out in the open?"

The question hangs between you, fragile as spun glass. You take his hand, pressing his calloused palm to your sternum where your heartbeat thrums. "I want you," you say simply.

And whatever comes with you.

Daryl’s breath catches before he drags you forward by the grip on your shirt, his mouth crashing into yours with enough force to knock the stool over. The clatter echoes in the cramped space, but neither of you care. His teeth graze your bottom lip, possessive and rough, and when he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue.

The bolt rolls across the floorboards, forgotten, as Daryl crowds you against the workbench, his hips pinning yours. His breathing is ragged against your neck, too fast, too uneven for the simple act of kissing. You feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your waist, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you press them to the hollow of his throat.

"People'll hear," you chastise, even as your fingers tangle in the straps of his vest.

Daryl growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. "Let 'em." His mouth finds yours again, insistent, all teeth and desperation. When he pulls back, his lips are reddened, his pupils swallowing the pale blue of his irises. "You're right m’ tired of hidin'."

The confession hangs between you, raw and unexpected. You trace the scar on his eyebrow and Daryl leans into the touch, his eyes slipping shut for a brief, vulnerable moment. Outside, footsteps approach, then pause at the door. Daryl tenses, his body shielding yours instinctively.

The footsteps hesitate, a shuffle, then retreating. Daryl exhales against your temple, his grip loosening. "Goddamn nosy bastards," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it. His thumb traces the hem of your shirt where it's ridden up, his touch unexpectedly tender considering the way he'd just kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole.

A giggle drifts through the thin metal door, Amy, no doubt, followed by Glenn's hushed scolding. Daryl's jaw clenches. "Shoulda nailed that brat's feet to the floor weeks ago," he grumbles, but you catch the way his lips twitch when you laugh.

You smooth your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-quick beat beneath his ribs. "You're really okay with this?" you whisper. "With them knowing?"

Daryl stares at a point over your shoulder like the answer's written on the wall in invisible ink. His fingers flex against your hips once, twice, then he shrugs, gruff and awkward. "Ain't like they don't already." The corner of his mouth quirks. "Hell, bet Carol's got a damn betting pool goin'."

The image startles a laugh out of you, bright and unexpected in the dim armory. Daryl watches the way your face changes when you laugh, something hungry and awed in his gaze. He ducks his head suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours with enough force it almost hurts. "'Sides," he mutters, so low you feel the words more than hear them, " It's worth it."

Your breath catches. Daryl Dixon doesn't do sweet talk, not really, but those two syllables land like a punch to the chest. You curl your fingers into his vest, anchoring yourself as the world tilts.

A sharp rap at the door makes you both jump. "Dinner's getting cold," Carol calls, her voice dry as dust. "Unless you two aren't hungry."

The mess hall buzzes with conversation when you enter, Daryl’s hand hovering at the small of your back like he can’t decide whether to push you forward or pull you back into the shadows. Every head turns, Glenn chokes on his beans, Maggie elbows him hard, but it’s Amy’s triumphant squeal that makes Daryl groan. “Toldja!” she crows, bouncing in her seat. “Toldja they were kissing!”

Carol slides two plates across the table without looking up. “Eat,” she orders, though her mouth twitches when Daryl scowls at the extra helping of peaches on his tray, your favorite.

Daryl eats fast, shoulders hunched, his knee jostling yours under the table whenever someone stares too long. You press back, steady, until his leg stops bouncing. His fingers brush yours when he passes the salt, deliberately, and your stomach flips.

You never want this to end.

[itslannabby]

ovulating

[elissis]

Modulo Yuji who tries to numb his loneliness with intimacy. He automatically visits you whenever he feels that dull ache in his heart, seeking the comfort in your arms.

Modulo Yuji who's experience far exceeds yours. He knows exactly where and how to touch you. After all, he's 83 year old despite his appearance. And he has all the time in the world.

Modulo Yuji who loves eating you out. It's his favorite thing to do. He takes his time. Unhurried, his tongue laps at your folds. He slowly unravels you, his hands that are able to dismantle thousands of curses in a second hold your thighs apart, gentle yet firm. Those eyes are fully focused on you as his mouth sucks on your clit, taking his sweet time with you.

Modulo Yuji who makes you cry from how good it feels. He relishes in your taste, wanting this moment to last forever. He doesn't want to be anywhere else but with his head between your legs. His long fingers pump in and out, knowing just where to curl to make you gasp.

Modulo Yuji who knows how to make you squirt. He loves doing it. The first time you started apologizing, he couldn't help but smile. It was a first time he smiled in a long, long time. At his old age, did you really thought he wouldn't find it the most appealing thing ever? How adorable.

Modulo Yuji who's obsessed with making you cum. He drawls your orgasms, feeling you fall apart so beautifully. He can't get enough. He wants more. How greedy of him. He doesn't think he deserves it anymore, yet you indulge him. So he gladly dives back in.

Modulo Yuji who wants more even after you came. Your pussy is still sensitive from your last orgasm when his tongue licks a long stripe against your slick skin. You try to push his head away with a whine. You look at him and see that his tired and detached expression is nowhere to be seen. He looks content. Happy, even. There is a hunger in his eyes that gives you goosebumps. So how could you not let him? This man has been through hell. Perhaps one more wouldn't hurt, would it.

Modulo Yuji who smiles, praise coming from his lips that get busy with you once again. You both know it won't be just one more. You have the strongest completely and utterly addicted. Itadori Yuji is forever grateful for such an angel you are. And as you shake and cry, for the first time he thinks that maybe the immortality isn't so bad.

[tteokdoroki]

Okay but I fucking love the headcannons of izuku smoking cigarettes and having tattoos while keeping his golden boy image

🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆  minors don’t interact ⋆ implied smut ⋆ smoking/drinking ⋆ izu is a hoe!! ⋆ flirty midoriya hehe ⋆ teacher izuku midoriya, teacher & fem reader

feel sooo sick to my stomach because i adore the idea of sleazy!izuku being everybody’s perfect boy. the golden boy. he’s so good with kids and has a campaign about eating healthy and sugar free meals in schools with deku themed cereal bars and drinks but then he secretly smokes after every patrol as a vice to keep himself sane.

he still blushes and clams up when pretty reporters tell him he’s doing so well on the charts despite the hiatus he took … but then he’ll invite them up to his apartment after a round of press junkets just to fuck them by his city view. one hand in their hair, forcing their faces into his sheets and the other one tapping the ash from his cigarette into her glass of wine he’d used to butter them up. izuku will send them home with freshly pressed clothes and one of his sponsored energy drinks tucked underneath their arms — they never squeak, never tell the press. after all, their jobs are on the line and they desperately want another taste.

izuku, underneath crisp linen shirts and blazers and hero suits has more scars than he can count. more tattoos too. his favourite is the one that streaks straight down his spine, intricate work of black ink and green accents that remind him all too much of black whip. no one would ever know unless they saw him naked, he’s too shy to go fully nude for add campaigns and only allows certain creative directors to work with him on shoots because of.. said nerves.

“you’ve got a lot of bad habits, midoriya sensei.” you tell him whilst the two of you work late one night. your eyes aren’t on him, you sit side by side grading papers in the teacher’s office. finals. his third years will be heroes soon and yours move up to second in their place.

izuku’s red marker pen screeches to a halt on the page — dribbly ink, loose and crimson sinking through the crisp and crumpled page of a student’s hand written essay. he’ll bump them up a mark for the mess.

“like what?”

he doesn’t look up either, breaths careful and controlled, because all it would really take is one person and their prying eyes to bring his squeaky clean reputation down to its knees. the symbol of hope, a slimy sleaze would be the headline of the ages.

“you smell like smoke, tobacco. it clings to your tie sometimes, especially after your free periods.” you comment absentmindedly, flipping the page of your own student’s work. “there’s a lipstick on the collar of your shirt. purple. the journalist who came to give the students that media training workshop. she wears a similar colour.” you gesture to the collar of your own shirt next, gaze finally flickering up to meet darkened and amused jade eyes. “and you’ve got new ink right here.” you tap the inside of your wrist once, izuku lifting his own. “dynamight’s death date on your wrist.”

“you got me there, i won’t deny it. you stalking me?” izuku laughs, his fingers press into star studded cheeks and his eyes remain hooded. daring. “didn’t know you were such a fan.” he rolls his hair closer to yours, elbows on his knees.

“i’m just observant sensei, i like to know what you’re up to. keep myself out of trouble.”

rolling your eyes, you shuffle your papers and begin to pack up — completely ignoring the heated figure beside you, the curiosity and newfound desire radiating off of him in alluring waves.

you shake your head. resist.

“i’m one of the good guys remember? no trouble here.” izuku fiddled with the stray pens on your desk, teasing you with a touch that’s yet to be yours,

“everyone has their dark side, sensei.” you quip, snatching the stationary up — not missing the spark of electricity that jolts between you both when your fingers brush. “including you. so if i want to keep working here — i’ll need to be on my best behaviour. away from trouble. away from you.” you smile slow, almost sexy like you see right through him. “so don’t worry too much midoriya. your secret is safe with me.”

end. - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[sunofnebulah]

a reminder that asks are open !! :3

[krys4h-deactivated20260517]

bimbo black readers i love you

shy black readers i love you

insecure black readers i love you

baddie black readers i love you

hood/"ghetto" black readers i love you

chubby black readers i love you

weird black readers i love you

nerdy black readers i love you

neurodivergent black readers i love you

mentally ill black readers i love you

they could never make me hate you <3

[powerhayakawaa]

when you're trying to find a good fanfic to read but your tumblr fyp is genuinly shit

[sunofnebulah]

ex-detectiveprofessor!izuku that falls into a slight obsession-like curiosity with criminologymajor!reader. obsessive!izuku that eventually concocts uncomfortable situations for her that only lead to her dependence on him. morallygrey!izuku that keeps her dependent on him for the smallest things, feeding his need to take care of something he deems less than him.

[sunofnebulah]

would anyone be willing to proofread something for me? i dont trust my eyes LOL

[sunofnebulah]

hey yall!

due to some financial issues regarding my move, college, and a family situation, i’ll be opening up writing commissions! i don’t feel comfortable just outright asking for money, so ill just be doing this instead! please privately message me with your topic, how many words you want, and what vibe you’re going for! i cannot use names from fandoms because it’ll be copyrighted and illegal for me to profit off of, but i can write with a character in mind. Commissions can take anywhere from 3 days to 1 1/2 months based on the length of the story! if i don’t send it to you on time you are fully within your rights to receive a refund.

1-3k words • $15 USD

4-7k words • $35 USD

8-11k words • $55 USD

12k-15k words • $65 USD

thank you!

[sunofnebulah]

hey yall! i also just made a kofi if you all prefer that! anything counts and i would really appreciate it <3

[sunofnebulah]

hey yall!

due to some financial issues regarding my move, college, and a family situation, i’ll be opening up writing commissions! i don’t feel comfortable just outright asking for money, so ill just be doing this instead! please privately message me with your topic, how many words you want, and what vibe you’re going for! i cannot use names from fandoms because it’ll be copyrighted and illegal for me to profit off of, but i can write with a character in mind. Commissions can take anywhere from 3 days to 1 1/2 months based on the length of the story! if i don’t send it to you on time you are fully within your rights to receive a refund.

1-3k words • $15 USD

4-7k words • $35 USD

8-11k words • $55 USD

12k-15k words • $65 USD

thank you!

[dasvidny4]

WE SHOULD JUST KISS

Amid the demands of being the olo’eyktan’s eldest daughter and a tsahìk-in-training, you find unexpected rest in the company of Toruk Makto’s eldest son.

pairing: neteyam x metkayina!reader tags: atwow spoilers, friends to lovers, plot, slow burn, mutual pining, avoidant!reader, usual older sibling activity, touchy-feely!neteyam, miscommunication, hurt & comfort, monologues, canon-typical violence, character death, underwater intimacy (?), kissing (15.1k wc) chapters: like real people do, we should just kiss

You learned grief long before you had a name for it.

You were just a child of the sea then. Bare-limbed and loud with laughter, your only responsibility to explore the shallows before the sun dipped too low. You remember the way the water felt endless then. You remember clinging to your father’s shoulder as he waded deeper, your hands tangled in his hair as you shrieked at the splash of cold against your legs. You remember the way your mother’s voice softened the night, how her stories braided the stars and the sea together until sleep came easy and unafraid.

Back then, the world felt permanent.

It was around that age that you were bonded to your first ilu. You did not think of it as a mount. Or even truly as an animal. To you, it was simply… yours.

You recognized it by the pale crescent-shaped mark along its fin, a faint curve like a smile etched into its skin. You talked to it the way children do—to the sea, to shells, to anything that felt like it listened. You believed, with the fierce certainty of youth, that it would always come when you called.

So when it grew old,  you did not understand what your parents saw long before you did.

It died quietly. Not in a hunt. Not in violence. Just time.

You cried the way children do: loudly, openly, with your whole body folded into the ache. You cried into your mother’s chest until your voice went hoarse and you fell asleep. You asked if it would come back. Your grief then was bigger than your small heart could handle, but your parents helped you through it.

Ao’nung and Tsireya’s births came next.

And that grief was different. It was confusing, almost shameful to name.

You loved them dearly. Before them, you had longed for company, for someone to follow you into the water and listen when you spoke too much. And suddenly, you were given not just one, but two. Their arrival was a blessing. You learned their faces by heart, learned the way their hands curled around your fingers, the way they quieted when you hummed the songs your mother sang.

You were happy. Truly. 

And yet—a lot of things have changed.

It was then that the weight of responsibility first settled onto your narrow shoulders. You were old enough to know better now. Old enough to help. Old enough to wade the waters on your own. Old enough to recite ancient stories and songs. Your parents’ attention did not disappear—but it divided, stretched between smaller bodies that needed more, demanded more. You were praised for being understanding. For being easy. For not needing to be held as long.

They still loved you. You never doubted that. But it was different.

That was when you stopped being only a child. Not all at one, but in quiet moments you barely noticed until later. When you were asked to watch instead of play. When you were trusted instead of comforted. When you learned how to swallow wants before they reached your mouth.

You did not resent them. You never could. 

But grief does not always come from losing what is taken away. Sometimes it comes from losing what will never return.

And so you mourned. You mourned the version of yourself who did not have to be strong yet. The child who could be held without also being needed to hold others up, who could ask for attention without earning it first. 

After that, grief stopped belonging to you alone.

It became shared, carried in unison through the village, pressed into Eywa'eveng with many hands. Fallen spirit brothers and sisters, brave hunters who did not return with the tide, elders whose voice once anchored the clan, now gone quiet. And you believed that grief, when shared, could be lighter.

And for a time, it was. 

The way the sea could fill with quiet so dense it pressed against your chest. The way voices blended into one long mourning chant, grief softened by harmony, by the knowledge that you were not alone in it. You learned how hands reached for hands without looking, how tears felt lighter when they were not yours alone. 

You thought, then, that this was how it worked. That grief would become easier with age. That each loss would teach you how to carry the next.

It never did.

Grief remained too large for you. You had grown taller now—hands roughened by sand, arms strong enough to carry nets and burdens—but your chest had never learned how to bear the weight grief brought. Each loss settled somewhere deep, layering itself over others until you were never truly untouched by it again. 

You learned that time did not erase the ache, that grief does not leave. It spreads itself everywhere, reminding you of love with nowhere left to go.

Some days you wake feeling steady, almost whole. And then something small would undo you: the curve of a fin that looked like a crescent, the sound of laughter that sounded familiar, an empty place in the water where someone should have been. Reminders of what had been, of who had been.

But the sea gives, and the sea takes.

You had believed it meant balance. Birth and death. Joy and loss braided together the way tides are. You had believed it was something slow. Natural.

You realized how wrong you were the day the water turned red.

The day Ta’unui’s village burned from the shore outward, flames climbing wet wood as if the sea itself had betrayed them. Smoke curled low over the water, thick enough to sting your eyes, to choke the breath from your chest. 

Avatars moved through the village like something torn from a nightmare. Too cruel for the world they were breaking open. At first glance, they almost looked like forest people—tall silhouettes, familiar limbs, the same borrowed shape from Eywa. Almost.

Up close, everything was wrong. Their movements were sharper, heavier, stripped of grace. Their eyes did not carry the quiet depth of the People, only a cold focus that slid past suffering without catching on it. Where Na’vi presence felt like the tide, theirs felt like iron dragged through water. Familiar in shape, monstrous in intent.

That was what made it worse. That they wore something so close to your own skin.

You remember clutching your knife then when they grabbed you from the tsahìk’s marui pod, the weight pitiful in your palm. The newborns you were trying to carry, when warmth was still kind and not from metal, whimpering from a distance as they dragged you. Feeling how small you were. Knowing that no amount of love, no depth of grief, could stop what was happening.

“Light ‘em up. All of them.”

They have left as abruptly as they had come. You remained frozen, unmoving, letting the world blur around you. Your limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if the very air pressed against your skin. The heat, the smoke, the cries—it all pressed in, yet you felt oddly detached, as if watching from a distance, outside yourself.

It took a long, hollow moment before your voice came, barely more than a rasp. 

“Vey’irva…”

The name caught in your throat, but you forced it out, raw and trembling. Your knees wobbled as you tried to rise, your hands scraping against the sand, eyes blinking rapidly as you forced yourself to focus. Around you, the fire still roared, climbing higher into the sky, sparks flying like burning stars scattered across the night. The acrid scent clung to your throat, burning with every breath.

Vey’irva, the clan’s tsakarem, the one who had been beside you throughout your stay. You didn’t know why she was the one you were searching for, only that you had been together before all this.

Your legs felt like they weren’t fully yours as you stumbled across the wreckage, each step heavy. Your head throbbed, dull at the base but sharp with every inhale. Fingers curled into fists and loosened, trembling with the uselessness of it all. Your eyes flicked over the debris, over the scattered clan members, over shapes that might have been familiar until your mind swam past them, not really seeing.

Every sound—a crack of burning wood, a distant cry, the slap of water against the shore—felt magnified, yet muffled, as though you were underwater. Your body moved on instinct, legs carrying you forward, arms reaching toward vague forms, but your mind was elsewhere, tracing the steps that might lead you to… someone.

And then you saw her.

She lay limp, surrounded by clan members, dust and ash clinging to her hair, her armband torn. Your chest tightened so sharply it felt as if the air had been stolen from you. 

Tears stung your eyes, throat raw as a sharp, ragged sound tore through you. Your legs move of their own accord. You fell to your knees beside her, hands clenched in the grains beneath you, trembling, too afraid to touch her, too terrified to feel the absence of warmth where life should have been.

Not yet, Great Mother… please.

The tears came freely now, scalding and relentless, trailing down your cheeks, while your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. You called her name again as your eyes scanned her body frantically, searching for any sign of movement, a twitch of a finger, the rise and fall of her chest. Anything that could tell you this wasn’t real, that if you looked hard enough, reality would bend, and she would still be alive.

Before you could even gather the courage to touch her, strong hands pulled at your arms to stand. You stumbled, breath uneven, tears still streaking your face, and looked up to see the clan’s olo’eyktan. His strong hands gripped your shoulders, steadying you. His eyes were sharp, commanding, but there was an unspoken understanding in their depth—a recognition of your grief, even as he refused to let it consume you entirely.

He placed a firm palm against your chest, holding you in place. “Stay strong, child,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “We need you. Go help the others.”

The words felt like a tether pulling you back to the present, anchoring you even as your heart threatened to shatter completely. Every instinct screamed to stay, but you obeyed. The world spun around you: flames climbing higher, sparks dancing like cruel fireflies, smoke curling into your eyes. Still, you lifted yourself, hands trembling, chest tight, and forced your legs to carry you.

Every step away felt like a betrayal, but there was no choice. The living still needed hands. You wiped at your cheeks, tasting salt and ash, and tried to push the pain down.

The sea gives, and the sea takes—but sometimes it is not the sea at all. Sometimes it is fire. Sometimes it is strangers who wear your skin and do not know your names. Sometimes it is standing still while everything you love is set in flames, and realizing there is nothing you can do but witness it.

It was hours before the heat of the fire began to fade. The sky above the village was dimming, streaked with smoke and ash, the last remnant of sunlight struggling to reach the scorched ground. The whole clan had regrouped closer to the forest, farther beneath the vast, intertwining roots of the elder trees. Their thick limbs arched overhead, offering shelter and a sense of guarded enclosure, though the air was still heavy with smoke and the bitter scent of burned wood.

Around you, the survivors moved like shadows, their figures hunched, carrying what they could salvage. Some cradled waterlogged baskets, others tended to cuts and burns, while the injured leaned on each other for support. The quiet murmurs of mourning threaded through the soft rustle of leaves and the distant lapping of water against the shore.

You had been helping with injuries, the salt of sweat and soot burning in your eyes as you pressed cloths and applied balm, when Iwei, the clan’s olo’eyktan, called you over. He stood with hunters you knew, their faces set with the weight of what had happened.

“You should go home,” Iwei said, his voice firm but not unkind, the lines around his eyes deepened by exhaustion. “They will go with you to ensure you travel safely once the first light rises.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse but determined. “I can stay longer. The village still needs hands, and I can—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off gently but firmly. “No. You’ve done enough. Your family asked for you to return, they worry for you. It is safer with them now.”

You looked down at your hands, still smudged with ash and dried blood, the ache in your muscles a distant throb that only now began to register. You realized that you had been moving for hours without truly deciding to—hands working, feet carrying you from one injured body to the next, mouth murmuring reassurances you barely heard yourself say. It had been easier that way. To keep your body busy so your mind did not have to return to the shore, to the fire, to the stillness you could not unsee.

For a fleeting moment, you felt anger—not at him, but at yourself, at the helplessness pressing in on all sides. Yet the truth of his words settled in your chest like stones. Your family’s concern, the exhaustion clawing at your limbs, the uncertainty of what remained of Ta’unui’s village. They drained the fight out of you. You nodded slowly, voice barely audible.

“...I understand,” you nodded slowly, the motion feeling distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

Then her face cut through your thoughts, sudden and without a warning.

Not as she had been laughing, but as she lay on the sand. Still and unmoving. Ash in her hair where your fingers had wanted to be. The image struck so sharply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“No—” the sound slipped out before you could stop it. Your head snapped up, eyes wide, unfocused. “How about Vey’irva?” The question came out too fast, as though someone might tell you it had been a mistake. That she had risen after you were pulled away. That she had laughed and told you not to look so worried.

Your hands curled into themselves, nails biting into your palms. “The funeral— her ceremony.” Your voice faltered, tangled in itself. 

Neilomya stepped forward then, her presence quiet but grounding, like cool water over scorched skin. The clan’s tsahìk rested a gentle hand over yours, waiting until your gaze finally found hers. Her eyes were tired, rimmed red, but kind.

“She will be tended to,” Neilaomya said softly. “You may visit her when you return. She would not mind waiting for you.”

Something in your chest cracked at that. Your shoulders trembled as the strength finally began to drain out of you, the weight of holding yourself upright growing unbearable. 

“What matters now,” Neilaomya continued, her thumb brushing a slow, reassuring circle against your skin, “is that you are safe. Go home to your family, child. We will be okay here.”

She did not rush you after that. She stayed closer as you gathered what little remained. Things that no longer felt like yours, yet were all you had left. She folded and arranged them carefully, as if the care itself might restore what fire had taken, and she handed them to you one by one to put on the canoe.

As you worked, she spoke of her daughter.

You listened. Not because the stories distracted you—they didn’t. It only sharpened the ache, filled your mind with impossible what ifs. What if she had stayed close that day. What if the humans didn’t arrive. What if she had lived long enough to become tsahìk herself.

But you listened anyway.

Because Neilaomya’s voice softened when she spoke. Because grief, when shared, became something bearable for a moment. Because after everything that had been taken, this was something you could still give

When your things were packed, Neilaomya pressed her forehead briefly to yours, a gesture steady and maternal. No words followed. 

Two hunters escorted you from the settlement before dawn fully broke. It was safer to travel in small numbers, they said—fewer bodies, less noise, less chance of drawing the eye of metal aircrafts if they still lingered above the horizon.

The journey back to Awa’atlu felt unreal. The sea breathed steadily beneath you, waves rising and falling as they always had. Stars dimmed and slipped away with the coming light. Fish darted through the water, unbothered, alive. The world continued as if it had not just ended for so many.

Back in Awa’atlu, Ao’nung and Neteyam found themselves unexpectedly tolerating each other’s presence.

Ao’nung hadn’t agreed at first.

He had scoffed when Neteyam asked, brows drawing together in something between surprise and irritation. Forest boys weren’t meant to handle Metkayina weapons, and certainly not the speargun—he reasons that it’s too tied to the sea. That was what he said, already turning away as if the matter were closed.

“I won’t be slow,” Neteyam followed him, voice steady, not raised. “I am a good shot. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ao’nung stopped.

He glanced back, irritation flashing across his face. “That’s not the point.”

What he didn’t say was that he had seen how quickly Neteyam learned.

His sister’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, about the Sully boy who watched once and remembered everything, who adjusted after a single correction. Ao’nung had seen it himself in the water. There was a quiet competence there. The kind that crept up on him.

The kind that might outpace him, if given the chance.

So instead, Ao’nung had shrugged and thrown out the excuse that felt safest. “My father didn’t ask me to teach you,” he said flatly. “And I don’t teach without permission.”

“Please,” Neteyam met his gaze, “I want to help my mother hunt.”

That did it.

Ao’nung exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if you embarrass yourself, that’s on you.”

Neteyam had listened carefully to him the entire time. He had watched his father use it before. He knew you used one too, though you had only ever spoken of it in passing as you sharpen your arrows, of using it beyond the reef where the water grew darker and deeper. He had never seen you use it himself.

And he did not want to think about it now.

The thought of you, so far away now and among another clan, pressed too sharply against his chest. The last few days had left him hollowed out, the kind of tired that sleep did not touch. Thinking of you holding the speargun, steady and capable, would only open something he had been carefully keeping shut.

So he focused on Ao’nung’s words instead.

They moved farther from the shore, past the shallows where the sand still glittered with light, into water deep enough that the shapes of fish grew larger and slower, their shadows cutting lazily through the blue. Not beyond the reef, but far enough that the current began to speak more clearly.

Below the surface, sound fell away.

Ao’nung’s voice disappeared, replaced by sharp, practiced hand signs. “Be patient. Feel the current before you shoot.”

The speargun felt different in his hands. It was heavier than a bow, its weight concentrated forward instead of spread along the length. With a bow, everything came from the body: the draw of the shoulders, the tension in the back, the steady burn in the arms. The show was released, and the arrow belonged to the air.

Here, the water demanded something else.

Neteyam adjusted his grip, easing his hold instead of tightening it. He angled the weapon slightly lower, compensating for drag the way Ao’nung had shown him. The current tugged at his forearms, insistent but not hostile, and for a moment he understood. This was about patience.

A flash of silver cut through the water ahead.

Neteyam steadied himself, legs drifting just enough to stay balanced. He waited. Not for the fish to come closer, but for the water to still around the barrel. Then he fired.

The recoil was muted, absorbed by the sea, but the bolt flew true. It struck the fish just behind the gill, clean and precise.

Neteyam blinked.

Ao’nung’s eyes widened, just slightly, before he caught himself. He circled once, inspecting the catch, then shot Neteyam a sharp look that was half-annoyed, half-impressed.

“Not bad.”

By the time they had returned to shore, rain had begun to fall.

It came soft at first, a fine mist that dimpled the water’s surface, then heavier, drumming against skin and stone alike. Neteyam hauled the fish up the sand, its weight solid and undeniable in his arms—proof of something done right. He couldn’t wait to show it to his mother.

Ao’nung followed a few steps behind, speargun resting against his shoulder. He shook the water from his bun like a displeased ilu.

Neteyam broke the silence first. “Thanks, bro.”

Ao’nung turned to him quickly, rain sliding down his face, eyes narrowing. “Don’t bro me,” he muttered, clearly annoyed, though the bite didn’t quite land.

Neteyam huffed out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Ao’nung glanced at the fish again, then away. “You learn fast,” he said, as if the words tasted strange. “My sister was right.”

There it was. The reluctant admission.

They stood there for a moment longer, rain filling the space between them, the shore empty save for the hush of water and sky. Neteyam adjusted his grip on the fish, the weight shifting against his forearms. He hadn’t meant to ask.

But the question rose anyway.

“When will your sister return?”

Ao’nung stiffened just barely.

He didn’t look at Neteyam as he answered, gaze fixed on the gray horizon. “Four more days.”

He shot Neteyam a sideways look then, sharp and knowing, rainwater dripping from the tip of his nose. “Why are you asking?”

“It is nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. “Just wondering.”

Ao’nung stared at him for a second.

Then he laughed.

It burst out of him, sudden and sharp, echoing against the rain and the empty shore. Neteyam frowned, thrown off.

“What?” he asked.

Ao’nung shook his head, still grinning, like he’d just been handed the most obvious answer in the world. “You—” he pointed, then laughed again. “You both are so obvious.”

Neteyam scoffed, turning away, eyes suddenly very interested in the wet sand, the treeline, anything but Ao’nung’s face. “What are you talking about?” He said, tone carefully flat.

Ao’nung snorted. “Sure.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened, but there was something almost-smiling at the corner of his mouth. He scrubbed rain from his face, then muttered, “…Is it?”

Ao’nung made a face immediately, exaggerated and dramatic. “Ew. Don’t ask me that, brother,” he said, shoving Neteyam lightly with his shoulder. “I don’t want to think about that.”

The conch shell’s cry split through the air, sharp and urgent, echoing over the reef and into the shallows. Ao’nung’s chest tightened instantly. He knew that sound. He had only ever heard it like this once before: a signal that someone had returned or that something had gone terribly wrong.

Neteyam stiffened beside him, eyes narrowing, scanning the horizon with a sudden tension that made the rain drip unnoticed from his lashes. The wind carried faint, frantic shouts, too muffled to understand, yet clear enough to twist their stomachs.

“Something’s wrong,” Ao’nung muttered, already moving, muscles coiled to run.

The fish slipped from Neteyam’s grip, forgotten, thudding into the wet sand. He followed Ao’nung, rain blurring the past as they crested to rise toward the heart of the village.

The center was already alive with motion. People poured from marui and platforms, voices overlapping, sharp with panic.

Neteyam’s chest tightened without understanding why at first, until he saw the movement on the shore. Figures moving quickly, carrying someone between them. The closer they came, the more his blood ran cold.

It was you.

You were slung across the back of another reef na’vi. Even from a distance, Neteyam could see that you were slumped, your head tilted awkwardly, your limbs hanging with a dangerous slack. The rain plastered your hair to your face, a pale teal smear against the dark wetness. Small cuts traced across your forehead, a smear of blood mixing with the rain. And something in the way you didn’t move made his heart seize.

The canoe you had ridden before, spoke of the struggle that had brought you here. Pieces of broken wood floated in the shallow surf, twisted and slick. Neteyam’s stomach turned.

Ao’nung had called your name before breaking into a sprint toward the commotion.

Neteyam barely had a moment to react before his father’s hand pressed against his shoulder, holding him in place. “You’ll only get in the way,” Jake said, low and unyielding. “Now is not the time.”

Neteyam’s mind refused to register the words. All he could see was you—your body pressed against the reef Na’vi’s back, your chest rising shallowly if at all, your arms dangling like reeds in the water. Every second you’re not moving made his chest pound harder, the rain soaking through him, and the world felt impossibly slow.

You were being passed into Tonowari’s arms now, the motion careful and urgent, but all the more terrifying for your limpness. Your head lolled, and he saw the blood matted in your hair glint faintly in the torchlight. Your torso bore scrapes and bruises, some already crusted with rain-soaked dirt. Tonowari’s hands worked to steady you, but your injuries made it clear just how close the last moments had been to something final.

The crowd gathered fast, murmurs rising like waves, gasps breaking through the rhythmic sound of rain. Flickering torchlight cast long, trembling shadows across the wet sand, illuminating your pale face and the stillness that shouldn’t belong to you.

Your family followed, eyes wide, hands placed over yours as if sheer will could force your body to move. Every glance at you was a silent plea, a desperate hope that you would awaken, that your chest would rise more than just faintly.

Neteyam’s fingers itched to reach out, to help, to shake the world itself into fixing what had been done—but his father’s hand kept him rooted. All he could do was watch, helpless, as you were carried to your mother’s pod.

The days stretched long and heavy for Neteyam. Since that night, he had spent every waking moment asking after you. The memory of your limp form in Tonowari’s arms, the blood in your hair, the way your body had seemed so impossibly small in someone else’s grasp. He could not remove it from his thoughts. 

It had been four days since he had last seen you that way, and two days since Tsireya had told him you’d woken. And since then, he had asked every time if he could see you, if he could know you were alright. He counted those days, trying not to, trying to tell himself it was silly, that you were healing, that your family would take care of you. But he couldn’t stop.

Tsireya, patient and amused, never got tired of him asking. She found it sweet—how he, usually so careful to mask what he felt, allowed himself to worry, to show concern without reservation. The corners of her eyes would crinkle with quiet amusement whenever he hovered, waiting for news. She heard Lo’ak teased him once, “You’re ridiculous,” and he flushed, but did not deny it. The truth was written plainly in his furrowed brow, the way he barely slept like his brother told her, the way he tried to busy himself yet circled back to your name in every conversation.

Even his parents had noticed, too. The repeated questions, the restlessness, the tension in his shoulders. They whispered among themselves that he had never been like this, not for anyone, not ever.

On the other hand, you were healing.

Slow and steady. Enough that your body no longer felt like it was betraying you with every breath. The pain dulled into something manageable. But there was still that heaviness, sitting deep in your chest, unmoved by rest or medicine. The image of a clan still mending itself without you. The funeral you hadn’t been able to attend properly. The journey home that blurred together in rain and blood and half-remembered voices.

Still, you were home. Safe and wrapped in familiar sound and the steady presence of your mother, who rarely left your side. She slept close, checked your bandages with practiced gentleness, brushed your hair back when you drifted in and out of sleep. After the first time they asked—after your voice had broken, after the tears had come fast and uncontrollable—they stopped. You were endlessly grateful for that mercy.

Being surrounded by people who loved you helped more. And you weren’t going to lie—you were enjoying the attention. Your parents fussed over you shamelessly, feeding you by hand, scolding you softly when you tried to sit up too fast, treating you like a child again. It was comforting in a way that made your chest ache, a reminder that you were still allowed to be taken care of.

But what you enjoyed most were your siblings’ stories.

They have filled the room with words. They told you about the Sully kids, animated and warm, their hands moving as they spoke. About their visit to the Cove of the Ancestors. About the tulkun’s return, voices rising in song across the water. About Lo’ak and his impossible bond with Payakan, told with a mix of disbelief and fond exasperation.

You listened, smiling softly, even as something tight tugged in your chest. You were sad you had missed it. Those moments would never quite be yours. But you were happy too—happy they had happened at all, happy your siblings had lived them.

And then Tsireya mentioned him.

Almost casually, at first. As if it were just another detail. 

She told you how Neteyam kept asking, again and again. If you were resting, if you were healing well, and if he could see you.

Something in you stilled at that.

It felt warm and terrifying all at once, like standing too close to a fire. Your heart did something traitorous, beating a little faster, a little louder. You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to let the feeling show—but inside, it bloomed, fragile and bright. The thought of him worrying, of him counting days, made your throat tighten. Knowing that while you had been unconscious, while your world had narrowed to pain and darkness, someone else had been thinking of you, holding your name carefully in their thoughts.

It wasn’t just concern—it was persistence. Care that didn’t fade after the danger passed. Care that lingered. And knowing it came from him, from someone whose approval you’d never dared to hope for so openly, made your heart ache in the softest way.

“He was distracted,” Tsireya said, shifting closer like she was sharing a secret. “Almost all the time. I have never seen him like that.”

You looked up at her immediately, interest lighting your face before you could stop it. The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a smile you didn’t bother hiding. “Distracted how?” you asked, genuinely curious.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Like he was somewhere else. He’d ask about you, then forget what he was doing. Ao’nung had to repeat himself to him more than once.”

You shook your head a little, a quiet laugh slipping out as warmth spread through your chest. You traced the edge of the mat absentmindedly, clearly listening, clearly wanting more.

You hesitated only briefly before asking, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “Did he… say anything else?”

Tsireya’s gaze lingered on your face, amused. She didn’t answer right away, clearly enjoying how invested you were. Then she shrugged lightly. “Not much,” she said. “He just asks about you. All the time.”

“All the time?” you echoed, smiling openly now, the words coming out with a breathy laugh.

She laughed with you. “Everyone is almost getting tired of it,” she teased. “If I hear your name one more time, I think Ao’nung might actually snap at him.”

You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound easy and real. Your shoulders relaxed, eyes soft, like the world felt a little kinder than it had moments ago. 

After a moment, still smiling, you spoke again, quieter but sure.

 “I want to see him too.”

You didn’t have to wait long.

It was later that night, your body heavy with the pleasant ache of healing. Ronal sat beside you, careful hands changing the kelp covering your stitches.

You were just beginning to relax when voices carried from outside the marui pod—low, hurried, unmistakably close. Before you could ask, the cloth flaps at the entrance rustled sharply.

Ao’nung stumbled in.

Or rather, was shoved in.

He caught himself at the last second, blinking in surprise as he looked between you and your mother, clearly not expecting to be the one crossing the threshold. Ronal’s eyes snapped up instantly.

“Ao’nung,” she said sharply. “You should announce yourself.”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know,” he muttered, then stepped back as she returned her attention to you, smoothing the new covering into place with firm care.

You watched the exchange, confusion and amusement flickering across your face. Ao’nung met your gaze briefly, rolled his eyes in exaggerated suffering, and looked away like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Your mother spoke again without looking at him. “What do you need?”

You could see him hesitate, before exhaling through his nose. “Someone wants to see her.”

That finally got your mother’s attention. She looked up, clearly unimpressed. “Who?”

Your brother sighed, resigned. “Neteyam.”

The name landed harder than you expected.

Your breath hitched despite yourself, surprise flashing across your face even though Tsireya had told you—again and again—that he’d been asking. Knowing it and hearing it aloud were different things.

And then there was the other realization.

Your mother was still there.

Ronal’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Ao’nung, irritation sharpening. “He will wait,” she said. “She is still being tended to.”

Ao’nung opened his mouth like he might argue, then thought better of it. He glanced at you again, lips twitching, as if to say told you, before stepping back toward the entrance.

But the knowledge lingered, buzzing under your skin.

Neteyam was here.

You did your best to behave. You nodded when your mother adjusted the final wrap, bit back the urge to speak when silence stretched, swallowed down the smile that kept threatening to give you away.

But your heartbeat refused to slow, thudding a little too loudly in your ears. You could almost picture him standing just outside, waiting, and the thought made your shoulders tense with anticipation.

Ronal noticed. Of course she did, she had been with you ever since you were a baby. It would be impossible for her not to know.

She put the last covering with a careful pat, then leaned back slightly, studying you. You lifted your gaze to meet hers, doing your best to look calm.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her expression was unreadable, the kind that reminded you she was still Tsahìk before she was your mother. She took in the way you were sitting too straight, the tension in your shoulders, the effort it took for you not to speak.

Her sigh, when it came, was quiet but weighted.

“You are not fully healed,” she said first, tone firm, leaving no room to forget it. She gathered her tools with deliberate care. “And you will not strain yourself.”

Then, without looking toward the entrance, she added, “You may come in, child.”

Ronal rose to her feet and moved to the far side of the marui pod, her presence still felt even as she gave you space. She did not smile, but she did not object either.

The doorway cloth shifted, and Neteyam stepped inside.

He looked hesitant at first, but his eyes found you instantly. For a heartbeat, he forgot everything else. Then he caught himself, straightened, and turned to your mother.

“Tsahìk,” he greeted, voice respectful, hands moving in the formal gesture.

Ronal inclined her head in acknowledgement, nothing more.

Only then did he move closer until he crouched beside you where you sat cross-legged on the woven mat. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of salt clinging to his skin.

For a brief, disorienting second, the past rushed in. The last time you had spoken. The things left unsaid. The image of him frozen in your memory, untouched by everything that followed.

You pushed it aside. For now.

“Hi,” he said.

It came out softer than you expected, a little awkward, but unmistakably him—carrying that quiet, boyish warmth that had always undone you. His gaze swept over you openly, not trying to hide it: the bandages, the tiredness in your eyes, the fact that you were sitting upright at all. Like he was checking, again and again, that you were real. That you were here.

You found yourself doing the same.

Your eyes followed the familiar lines: the slope of his shoulders, the way his braids fell to the sides of his face, the darker patterns flowing toward his chest, the intricate swirls on his forehead. And then his eyes—the ones you’d missed dearly, the ones you silently thanked Eywa that you could see again.

You both smiled.

“Hi,” you said back.

Neteyam chuckled then, low and almost shy, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. 

“How have you been?” you asked, letting your voice carry across the space between you. It was way bigger than both of you usually bask in.

He shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’m fine. I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”

The words were simple, but layered with everything he hadn’t said over the last days. And just like that, the tension between you softened.

You talked, careful not to speak too loudly, knowing your mother was still in the pod, but you savored the moment nonetheless. It was as if both of you knew how far you could stretch the conversation without drawing her attention, though neither of you fully understood what she might be suspicious of.

He told you stories, of small adventures and trivial happenings, and you answered in kind, letting the laughter and light teasing skim the surface without carrying too far. 

After a while, your mother stood up, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight that said more than words could. She turned and left the pod, the flap rustling behind her. 

Both of you were finally alone.

You glanced back at Neteyam, and in that shared silence, something shifted. You both laughed, unrestrained by the caution that had kept you measured before. The sound echoed lightly against the walls, a small rebellion against the quiet you’d been keeping.

When your laughter softened, he looked at you fully, eyes steady and warm.

“I’ve missed you,” he said your name softly.

The words hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. You had felt the same for days, but hearing it, spoken just to you, made your heart thrum faster. You bit your lip, trying not to let your happiness burst through, and glanced at the hand he had rested just beside you.

Without thinking, you reached out and closed your hand over his.

“I missed you too, Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to betray the joy you had been holding in.

His hand hovered above the cover at your forehead, tentative, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to touch you yet. 

“I was so worried,” he murmured, a tremor betraying how much he’d held it in. “I couldn’t stop thinking about— I kept wondering if you were okay. I didn’t know how I'd feel if anything happened to you.”

Something—courage, recklessness, the weight of missing him—pushed you. You placed your hand over the one that hovered above your injury, feeling the warmth of the back of his hand, and moved it so that your cheek leaned against it. His surprise was immediate, a faint hitch in his breath, but then a small, soft smile tugged at his lips.

“I am here now,” you said. “I am doing better. I could still shoot a fish straight in its eye if I could.”

He laughed at that, but believed you wholeheartedly. “I’m sure you could. No doubt.”

Without even thinking, his thumb began brushing against your cheek, as if his adoration couldn’t be contained. You froze for a heartbeat, your own chest tightening in a way that made it hard to breathe.

Neither of you spoke. Neither moved. And yet the weight between you buzzed like electricity, impossible to ignore.

Then, as if the universe had suddenly reminded you both of everything else, you each jerked slightly back, cheeks warming instantly, eyes darting away. His grin faltered, flushed, and he quickly drew his hands back as if realizing for the first time what he’d just done. You stifled a laugh, glancing down at your hands, feeling the absurdity of the moment yet unwilling to undo it completely.

The silence stretched between you before Neteyam finally spoke, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“I caught my first fish with a speargun.”

Neteyam went home that night with his chest lighter than it had been in days. The worry he’d been carrying no longer pressed so heavily on his shoulders, and there was an ease to him that hadn’t been there before.

His family noticed immediately.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but he was different. More present. His steps lacked their usual tension, his gaze less distant than it had been since your injury. Even his silence felt… content.

They all knew where he’d been. 

What Neteyam didn’t know was that Tuk, ever curious and far too young to understand which observations should stay tucked away, had already shared her thoughts—wide-eyed and unfiltered—with Jake and Neytiri. About how their oldest son lingered near the clan’s tsakarem. About how he spoke your name without realizing it. About how close he sat, how careful he was.

By the time Neteyam arrived home, his family was already eating.

He didn’t comment on the way their eyes followed him as he entered, nor did he seem to notice the quiet that briefly settled over the circle. He only reached out, ruffled Lo’ak’s hair in passing, grabbed a leaf plate, and sat down among them as if nothing were different at all—ready to take his share, light-hearted in a way that made their curiosity impossible to hide.

“Where have you been?” Neytiri spoke.

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “I went to see her,” he said, saying your name easily, as if it had never been a question.

Tuk’s head snapped up immediately. “How is she?” she asked, words tumbling over each other. “Is she better? I wanna see her too—it’s not fair you got to see her first!”

Beside him, Kiri spoke up, her voice carrying a rare, bright excitement. “I want to see her too.”

A small smile tugged at Neteyam’s mouth. “You can,” he said. “We can go together next time.”

Lo’ak scoffed, leaning closer. “Yeah, right. You just wanna keep her all to yourself.” He squinted, then grinned wider. “Look at your tail—it’s moving so much it’s hitting me.”

Neteyam hissed lightly and knocked his knuckles against Lo’ak’s head, more habit than anger. “No, I do not.”

He heard his father sigh, shaking his head. “Just don’t stay out too late,” he said, voice dry. “Or better yet, visit in the morning.”

Lo’ak perked up instantly. “Yeah,” he added, far too amused. “If it’s at night, who knows what they could be doing.”

“Lo’ak,” Neytiri warned, sharp but not unkind.

Neytiri watched her eldest son from across the firelight, noting the way his laugh came easier now, how his shoulders seemed less tense, how a quiet confidence had settled in him like something new and solid. Pride swelled in her chest—bittersweet, fierce, and impossibly tender all at once.

He was growing. Really growing. Stepping into feelings bigger than himself. And yet, worry lingered, because you were the clan’s tsakarem, and love, even in its smallest forms, carried risk. But just for this moment, she let herself bask in the warmth. After all, she and Jake had been the same once.

“Why didn’t you call me first? To visit you?”

Tuk’s small arms were crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a stubborn line. Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched, all indignation and urgency.

It had been two days since Neteyam finally made his visit, and yesterday there had been chaos—the whole group had crowded into the tsahìk’s marui pod. Your siblings, Sully children, and even Roxto had all come by, making the space feel impossibly full, warm, and loud. You had barely had a moment to breathe.

And now, Tuk was here, standing in front of you like a tiny storm cloud, complaining with all the energy only a little sister could summon. “You let him see you first!” she exclaimed. “First! Me? I should’ve been the first!”

You blinked, trying not to laugh at her dramatic flare. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, Tuk. He just came by suddenly. I didn’t think that—”

Tuk’s lips curled, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t think about me?”

From the corner of the pod, Neteyam leaned against the wall, trying to look casual, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching in amusement. “I don’t see what the problem is. I just checked in. She’s fine. Smiling, laughing… what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Tuk hissed, stepping closer, “is that I should get to see her first! I’m her first friend!”

Neteyam raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning wide. “Okay, okay. But I didn’t plan it. I came because I wanted to see her. You think she’d say no? I’m her friend.”

“Second friend!” Tuk shrieked, stomping a tiny foot. “I swam with her first when we came here!”

“She smiles when she talks to me,” Neteyam interrupted smoothly, now crouching beside you and leaning slightly with a cheeky grin, “and I also make her laugh.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, glancing at Tuk’s flustered face, her fists balled at her sides. Tuk’s eyes narrowed, fire practically spitting out of them. “She laughs at everyone! That doesn’t mean you’re special!”

Neteyam tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh? Well, maybe I’m her favorite.”

Tuk groaned, throwing her head back. “I’m her favorite!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time, shaking your head. “You’re both ridiculous,” you said, but your eyes sparkled with amusement. Tuk’s fists tightened, lips pursed, but she couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto her face.

“I—fine,” she muttered. “Maybe you’re… a close second.”

Eventually, Tuk was pulled away by a younger Metkayina child, inviting her to play. Tuk’s excitement won, and with a dramatic huff of annoyance at being “forced away,” she scampered off, leaving you and Neteyam behind. And, since you were finally allowed to roam again, you both slipped outside.

The two of you sat on the rock you had claimed long ago, knees tucked to your chin, the waves stretching endlessly before you. Your arms brushed occasionally, small touches that made the quiet between you feel alive. The wind tugged at your hair, the salt air filling your lungs, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

Finally, you swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke, your voice quieter than you expected. “Neteyam…” You paused, the weight of unsaid things pressing in. You weren’t used to opening up first, and the words tasted strange and vulnerable on your tongue. Avoidance had been your shield, but now it felt heavy.

“I… I waited for you here,” you admitted, eyes fixed on the waves instead of him. “Before I left.”

Neteyam’s gaze dropped to you. He didn’t rush you, didn’t press. He waited.

When silence stretched, uncomfortable and thick, he moved just slightly, shifting in front of you so that his knees were closer to yours. His hands rested lightly on the rock, and his eyes met yours.

“It’s okay. Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

And in that quiet, he wished—more than he could ever say—that he could take every burden from you, lift the weight pressing against your chest and carry it for you. He didn’t need you to say them aloud, somehow, he just knew. Every tight line in your shoulders, every hesitation, every small tremor in your voice.

You finally looked at him, meeting his gaze, and then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I am sorry. About—about what I said before. It wasn’t your fault. I was just being stupid—I wasn’t thinking. I pushed it on you and…”

Neteyam’s lips curved gently, already forgiving you, long before your apology had finished. His eyes held no anger, just that warm golden you have grown to love. He had already forgiven you, had always been ready to—and that scares him. No matter what you said, what you did, or what burdened you, he would take it.

His hands moved almost on its own, cupping your cheek gently. His thumb brushed against the small, unnoticed tears that had slipped down your face, and he murmured softly, “Hey… it’s okay. You are not stupid. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I’m… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… I—” you babbled, words tumbling out in a rush, little choked apologies spilling between sniffles. “I don’t know why I’m crying… I just… I—ugh, I’m sorry!”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, thumb still brushing your cheek. “Hey, hey… shh. It’s fine. Really.”

There was something in the way he looked at you then: open, unguarded, with that quiet warmth that made the world shrink to just the two of you. The curve of his lips, the subtle glimmer in his eyes, the way he lingered on you without a word—it was enough to make your chest tighten and your thoughts betray you. Just like that, you wanted to kiss him. Badly.

The thought startled you and for a heartbeat, your eyes flickered instinctively to his lips. Your mind scrambled, but the thought wouldn’t go away. It pulsed, teasing the edges of reason, and panic mingled with longing in a confusing, burning knot.

You could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, and every instinct in you wanted to close that space between you. But you couldn’t, not really, not like that. So you did the next best thing—or at least what your frantic brain told you was next best.

You lunged forward, arms winding around his neck, pressing your nose to the corner of his neck and shoulder. Your body shivered against him, heart hammering in your chest, and for a moment it felt like the only way to quiet the chaos in your head was to press yourself close, to anchor yourself to him without actually breaking the line you couldn’t cross.

For a second, he froze, startled, caught off guard by the sudden movement. Then, without hesitation, his arms tightened around you, holding you close. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

You rested there for a moment, muffled apologies spilling again against him. 

Your arms around his neck were soft, trembling slightly, and the faint scent of salt and earth clung to you—something so familiar yet intoxicating in its immediacy. He could feel the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, the small shiver that ran through you, the brush of your hair against his cheek, and each tiny detail hit him like a drumbeat in his chest. He’d never been this aware of someone before, not like this. Not like you.

There was a selfishness in him he didn’t even try to hide from himself. He wanted to freeze the moment, to keep you pressed here, close, safe, and warm. He wanted to forget the world outside the rock, forget all the rules and the waiting, and just exist in the scent of you, the weight of you, the soft sound of your apology muffled against his shoulder. 

He tightened his arms unconsciously, just a little, almost possessively. It was overwhelming, and yet comforting, and terrifying all at once.

When he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, the weight of it made something in him ache, a quiet longing mixed with awe. “Shh,” he murmured, “you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

The days after that moment passed like a blur, though not without their small, precious highlights.

You barely saw Neteyam, not because he wasn’t around, but because the preparations for the Tulkun return ceremony had consumed the clan. The air was thick with planning and purpose, the village alive with movement, with voices calling, weaving nets, and making new clothes.

You were mostly helping your mother, assisting with small but important tasks. There was a rhythm to it that soothed you: weaving, checking, organizing, keeping the sacred spaces ready. Your hands moved with ease now, and it felt almost miraculous how the pain of before had begun to fade. The heavier weight of grief and fear, the anxiety that had pressed on your chest for so long, still lingered faintly—but it was no longer suffocating. 

Finally, you were allowed to swim in the waters again. The sensation of gliding through the current with your spirit sister was like reclaiming a lost part of yourself. You could feel the gentle push and pull of the water around you, your muscles strong and responsive. The familiar rhythm of swimming, the coolness of the sea, and the brush of her fin through the water alongside yours felt comforting in a way that words could never capture.

You told each other stories—small, silly things, the kind of shared secrets that made your chest ache with quiet happiness. The waters carried your laughter and the echoes of your voices, and for a few fleeting hours, it was just the two of you. 

“On my journey home. The sky people have attacked us. One hunter was shot.”

You floated beside her, letting the current carry you, your limbs moving easily, your hair drifting around your face like soft waves. You pressed your palms together in a sequence of quick signs, fingers tracing arcs and lines as you relayed your story.

“I went back for him, but my tsurak got shot too! Its weight pulled me under, and I hit my head.”

Your spirit sister responded instantly, her massive form undulating beside you. A series of clicks, whistles, and soft hums rolled through the water, echoing in the coral-filled shallows. 

“You are strong, sister. Stronger than you know. The tides could not take you.”

But responsibility waited, as it always did. In a few days, you would perform a dance with your clan sisters, a display of unity and grace for the returning Tulkun. So even as you swam, even as you laughed, your mind kept one eye on the schedule, on the preparations, on the tasks that couldn’t be ignored. That meant that your time with Neteyam, while precious, was brief—rarely more than an hour before the duties of the clan called you away.

Neteyam, however, noticed everything. The closeness you had shared, the way your hand brushed his accidentally—or intentionally—did not escape him. Every touch, every fleeting brush of your arms, every small smile or laugh that lingered just for him, added up. Even the short moments of stolen connection felt enough.

“It’s more… heavy than usual,” you said without turning. “The ceremony’s coming, so it’ll be even better on the day itself.”

You had your back to him, fingers absently adjusting the heavier braid adornments tangled in your hair. The shells and threads caught the moonlight filtering through the water, making them shimmer like tiny stars.

Neteyam’s gaze softened as he looked at your hair, lips quirking into a kind of quiet, unassuming smile.

When you finally turned, catching him staring, his fingers were holding a strand of your braid loosely, brushing it almost absentmindedly. His eyes, half-lidded with lashes casting shadows, looked up at you in that tilted-down, boyish way that made your stomach twist.

“Do you like it?” you asked softly.

His heart hammered. He liked it. He liked you. So much that he had to pray to Eywa to stop himself from leaning in and kissing you right there.

Because the way you looked at him—the subtle tilt of your head, the warmth in your eyes, the gentle curve of your lips—took his breath away. Every detail of your face was magnified in his mind: the soft arch of your eyebrows, the freckles across your nose, the way the moonlight seemed to catch in your cerulean eyes. If he thought he was captivated now, he couldn’t imagine the day of the ceremony. He didn’t even want to think what he’d do.

He swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the braid, voice low, steady but charged. “It's beautiful. You’d be the prettiest,” he said, carrying something unspoken, something that made your breath catch.

He watched the way your hair clung to your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed when you laughed, the curve of your smile even when brief. He wanted to hold onto it all, to bottle the warmth and simplicity, to protect it—and yet, a small, selfish part of him wanted more, to keep you near forever, to make these fleeting touches stretch into infinity. He just lingered and reveled in it silently, knowing it was enough for now.

The day of the ceremony arrived.

By dusk, the village had transformed. Drums carved from reefwood and stretched with cured hide began to sound—deep, steady heartbeats that rolled through the sand and into the water. Conch shells answered them, hollow and haunting, blown like flutes, their notes rising and falling with the tide. Other instruments followed: clicking shells, coral chimes, woven rattles filled with polished stones. All born of the sea, all singing back to it.

The air was rich with scent. Roasting fish glazed in oils and herbs, steaming broths thick with salt and spice, sweet fruits split open and shared. Smoke curled lazily upward from fire pits, carrying warmth and comfort, clinging to skin and hair. Firelight danced everywhere, reflected in shells strung between posts, in beads woven into nets, in polished bone and coral.

Decorations lined the shore and the walkways—braided kelp, luminous shells, strings of pearls and glassy stones that caught the light and scattered it. Bioluminescent patterns along every Na’vi body glowed brighter than usual, soft blues and greens, each design unique.

Clothing was more intricate than he had ever seen. Layers of woven sea fibers draped over one another, shells sewn carefully into hems so they chimed softly with each step, stones and braided kelp arranged in complex patterns. Every movement made them shimmer. 

And the water—Eywa, the water. It brightened with every passing moment, the surface alive with light as shapes gathered beneath it. Massive shadows moved slowly and reverently, the Tulkun drawing near, their presence announced in ripples of blue, violet, and soft white. Around them, schools of bioluminescent fish wove through the current, scattering sparks of light like living constellations.

Anyone else would have been swept up in it. But Neteyam felt it anyway, a tightness in his chest he couldn’t name, a restless energy that had nowhere to go.

He shifted his weight, then adjusted the armband on his forearm. Again. And then again, fingers worrying the edge as if it had suddenly decided to sit wrong.

Lo’ak noticed immediately.

“Bro,” he said, eyeing him with blatant disbelief, “are you serious right now? Why do you look like you’re about to fight a whole palulukan herd?”

Neteyam shot him a look. “I’m not.”

“You’ve fixed that thing, like—” Lo’ak gestured vaguely. “Six or seven times.”

Neteyam dropped his hand at once, jaw setting. “I said I’m not nervous.”

Lo’ak grinned, clearly unconvinced, but let it go—for now.

Truth was, Neteyam had also dressed with more care than usual. He wore his forest necklace and armband, more layers than his everyday ones, their patterns intricate, carved with stories of home. Another armband rested on his opposite arm, and his loincloth was reef-made—shell pieces stitched carefully into it, kelp of different colors wrapped at the waist. A technique Kiri had shown him. One you had helped refine, laughing softly when he fumbled it the first time. His usual cummerbund remained the same; he hadn’t made a new one, partly because time hadn’t allowed it, partly because he wanted to wear something from the forest. His mother had said it suited him.

More beads and feathers threaded through his braids, catching the firelight when he moved. And then there was the paint.

It wasn’t common among the reef people, not like this. But at his parents’ request, the elders had helped them prepare something that would hold beneath the water. Neteyam had painted himself—white and bright green, patterns blending forest tradition with something new. His hands had been steady when he did it. Now, standing here, he felt strangely exposed beneath it.

“Neteyam.”

He turned to his mother’s voice. It was when he’s still in his family’s pod, just right after he finished putting the paint and the rest of his hair accessories.

She was looking at him with an expression that made his chest tighten for an entirely different reason. Awe, softened by something tender. This was the look she’d once given him when he was small and first learned to hold a bow properly. Now it carried pride too.

“Come here,” she said.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as she studied him. Neteyam felt his ears warm, his gaze dropping despite himself.

“You are grown,” she said quietly, smiling. “Handsome. Strong.”

“Mother,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Her smile widened, just a little mischievous. “She will like you like this.”

Neteyam inhaled through his nose, fighting the way his heart jumped. “It’s not— it’s not like that.”

Neytiri laughed softly, giving his shoulders a final squeeze. “Ah. Enough. Do not tie yourself in knots.” Her voice gentled. “Enjoy this moment. It does not come twice.”

So he let himself enjoy it.

Neteyam let the night carry him—its noise, its warmth, the way awe rippled through his family as they took everything in. He ate until his fingers were slick with oil and salt, watched dancers move in rhythms unfamiliar yet beautiful, laughed when Lo’ak tried (and failed) to follow along, all flailing limbs and misplaced confidence. It was ridiculous. And somehow, that alone made it worth it.

He noticed his parents too. The way his father stood less rigid than usual, shoulders eased, gaze softened as he took in the ceremony. The way his mother smiled more freely, laughter slipping out without restraint. Seeing them like that was rare. It settled something in Neteyam’s chest he hadn’t realized was still restless.

For the first time since arriving, he thought, quietly, that Awa’atlu could be home. 

And yet, his eyes kept wandering.

They scanned the crowd again and again, searching for a familiar shape. Every time his gaze swept over a group of dancers or passed a cluster of people, his heart gave a small, foolish leap. 

He’d heard the dancers wouldn’t join the rest of the village until after their performance. Kiri had mentioned it in passing, also wondering when they’ll see you and Tsireya. He clung to that thought, grounding himself with it. He would see you then. During the dance. And—Eywa willing—after.

The thought of how you might look tonight sent his heart into dizzy circles.

It didn’t take long. Three fish skewers. A handful of fruit. One round of conversation with family and friends. Then the conch shell sounded, cutting cleanly through the hum of voices. The energy of the village shifted instantly. People began moving toward the water, some breaking into a jog, others hurrying with eager steps.

This was it.

You hadn’t told him you danced. He’d only learned through overheard conversation, your sister’s voice carrying pride when she mentioned it. That you were good. That you always had been. He had no idea what it would look like—how Metkayina dances differed from those of the forest, how the sea would shape the movement.

But as he followed the crowd toward the glowing shoreline, anticipation buzzing through him, he realized one thing with absolute certainty:

No matter what it looked like, no matter how different it was—

Seeing you would be enough.

Neteyam followed the others beneath the surface, the world above dissolving into muffled echoes and wavering light. The glow intensified instantly—blues and greens blooming brighter the deeper they went, the sea alive with motion. Tulkun voices resonated through the water, vibrating through his chest more than his ears.

He looked for you immediately.

His eyes darted, adjusting slower than those born of the reef. Shapes blurred together at first—moving bodies, streaks of light, the vast silhouettes of Tulkun circling with reverent patience. The dancers were already taking their places, forming arcs and spirals around the great beings.

The routine began.

Na’vi bodies moved like currents given form—twisting, spinning, flipping effortlessly through the water. Some danced in perfect synchronicity, mirroring one another in clean, sweeping motions; others broke away in alternating patterns, weaving between Tulkun fins and massive bodies, then returning to the group as if pulled by an unseen tide. Arms extended, then folded. Legs kicked and curved. Whole bodies arched and rolled, weightless and precise.

The Tulkun joined them as partners.

They turned slowly, gracefully, their immense forms moving with a gentleness that defied their size. Fins guided dancers forward; a tilt of a massive head became a cue. Together, they created living shapes—circles within circles, expanding and collapsing like breath.

And then Neteyam saw you.

Your movement caught his eye like a change in the current. You flowed through the water with an ease that made everything else feel louder in comparison. It stole the air from his lungs. Not in the way water ever had, but in the way something precious does when you realize, all at once, how deeply it matters.

Your clothing was more intricate than he remembered, layers of woven sea fibers trailing softly behind you, shells and beads catching the light with every turn. Kelp strands wrapped and knotted with care moved like extensions of you, accenting each spin, each arch of your back. Your hair fanned out around your head, braids drifting, ornaments glowing faintly as you turned.

And your skin. Your bioluminescent patterns glowed brighter beneath the water, lines and curves glowing softly with your movement. Every twist of your torso made them show. Even from a distance, he could see your face—focused, serene, eyes sharp and alive, completely at home here.

You smiled mid-turn, not at anyone in particular, just at the dance itself.

Neteyam forgot to look away.

He followed you through the entire routine without meaning to. When you dipped low, his gaze followed. When you rose, spinning upward toward the light filtering down from above, his chest tightened. He watched the way your hands cut cleanly through the water, the way your body curved and straightened in perfect balance.

You were far from him. Close enough to see, but too far to touch.

And still, you were all he could see. 

He realized that even if you were doing nothing at all, you would have caught his eye just the same. 

The routine came to its end in a slow, reverent spiral, dancers and Tulkun drawing together before drifting apart once more. Applause didn’t exist here, not underwater—but the water itself seemed to hum, alive with approval.

When the dancers surfaced, Neteyam was already waiting on the shore with the others, voices rising in cheers. He joined in, but his eyes searched only for you.

Then he saw you.

The smile came without permission, easy and wide, and he cheered again, louder this time, though it was meant for only one person. He watched you greet your family first, waiting back to give you space, even as his feet carried him instinctively behind his own. When the moment felt right, he slipped away, weaving through bodies and laughter, shells chiming and firelight flickering everywhere.

He searched for you the way someone searches for shore while treading water. Faces blurred past him, bodies crossing his line of sight, laughter and voices colliding into noise. For a moment, he thought he’d missed you entirely, that you were swallowed somewhere deeper in the crowd.

And you were doing the same.

Turning, scanning, eyes slipping over strangers, pausing too long on silhouettes that weren’t him. The space was too big, the people too many. It felt unfair, almost cruel, that after all of that—after the sea, the dance, the waiting—you still hadn’t found each other yet.

Then it happened.

Not all at once. Not cleanly.

Neteyam caught movement first—your hair, the familiar sway of your shoulders—and he froze, breath caught halfway in. At the same time, you turned, eyes lifting instinctively, like you’d felt him looking.

People moved between you. Someone laughed loudly, another stepped directly into his line of sight. For a second, he lost you again—and his heart dropped with it.

Then your eyes found his.

Across the crowd. Too far. Far enough to hurt.

You stared at each other through the shifting bodies, the space between you opening and closing as people passed, like the world was testing how badly you wanted this moment. Neither of you looked away. You couldn’t. 

You both lifted your hands at the same time, waving, then laughing when you realized how perfectly in sync you were. The distance suddenly felt unbearable.

So you both closed it.

Slow at first, then faster, weaving through people who barely registered anymore. The crowd thinned, parted, blurred. All Neteyam could see was you, glowing even here, even now—proof that no matter how vast the space, you always seemed to find each other.

And when there was finally nothing between you at all—

You stopped.

For a moment, both of you only smiled.

“Hi,” he said finally, soft, like it meant more than the word ever should.

“Hi,” you answered, just as quiet.

Your eyes traced him slowly. The paint along his face caught both the firelight and the lingering glow of the sea—white and green etched with care, vivid against skin still damp from the water. His braids were threaded with beads and feathers that swayed faintly when he breathed, and you noticed—couldn’t help noticing—how his chest still rose a little faster than it should have

He was looking at you the same way. Taking you in, memorizing the way the water had left your skin glistening, the droplets tracing your collarbones and arms, soft reflections of the bioluminescent patterns that flowed along your body. The way the light caught in your hair, outlining every strand as it clung damply to your shoulders. The intricate layers of your clothing, sea-woven and luminous, moving with you even when you were still.

Without thinking, you said it, confidence rising in your chest like a tide. “You look good.”

The words surprised you, where they had come from. But looking at him—seeing the way his gaze lingered—you guessed he thought the same.

A boyish chuckle escaped him. “You look good too,” he said, his voice low, and the way he said your name made it feel like sunlight warming the hollow of your chest.

You laughed softly, a little breathless, and the sound loosened something between you. Without a pause, you closed the space between you, reaching for his hand. Fingers entwined with his, warm and steady.

“Come,” you said, tugging him gently. “You should meet my friends.”

He blinked, slightly confused, the question clear in his eyes. But he didn’t hesitate. He followed, weaving through the crowd as you led him, hand in hand, laughing softly as you navigated between clusters of celebrating clan members.

You stopped before a circle of Metkayina close to your age, the space clearing almost as if by instinct for the two of you. They made room, smiling, curious. You guided Neteyam down to sit beside you, the wet fabric of your clothing brushing lightly as you settled.

“One by one,” you introduced your friends, careful to gesture to each, murmuring names. “And this is Neteyam,” you said, looking at him with a smile to encourage him.

He smiled in turn, polite but relaxed, greeting each of them with easy words. You noticed the way his lips curved naturally, how at ease he was despite the unusual crowd, and your chest warmed at the sight. He fit here, just as he fit anywhere he chose to be.

“And he’s a great hunter,” you continued, nudging him lightly, “so you should hear his stories!”

Neteyam’s eyes lit up at the invitation, and he began to speak, weaving tales of hunts and skill, of the forest and the water. The Metkayina listened, rapt, nodding, smiling. Their eyes brightened at his words, echoing the excitement you had always seen in him. And as he spoke, swelling with pride, you felt the same: the joy of seeing him seen, accepted, even celebrated.

The circle leaned closer to him, intrigued, hanging on every word. And you, beside him, couldn’t stop smiling—not just because of the stories, but because, for now, this was his world and yours.

“Well… you wouldn’t have to worry about hunting in the future now, Tsakarem,” Nìkxey said, one of the girls you did iknimaya with, her tone playful.

Your cheeks warmed, and a laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Nìkxey!” 

Neteyam’s laugh followed hers, low and amused, and he nudged you gently with his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry either,” he murmured just for you, a smile tugging at his lips. His hand brushed yours lightly as it rested in your lap, sending a small thrill up your spine.

You shouldn’t think about what that really meant, but those words refused to leave you the whole night.

Hours had passed since the bulk of celebration had wound down. The drums and conch shells had faded, the fire pits now smoldering low, sending only wisps of smoke curling into the night. Most of the village had retreated, laughter and chatter reduced to distant murmurs, leaving only the gentle crash of waves and the occasional call of someone walking home. 

You and Neteyam, hand in hand, slipped away from the remaining crowd, laughter spilling freely between you as you ran deeper into the forest behind the village.

You hadn’t spent much time here yourself—only occasional trips for fruit or to explore—but enough to know secrets that few others did. And tonight, you wanted to share one with him. You weaved through giant leaves, brushing past ferns and low-hanging branches, each step on the cold, damp soil grounding you. The sound of Neteyam laughing behind you, calling out, “Where are you taking me?” made your chest swell with a happiness you hadn’t expected.

“Be patient, forest boy,” you called back, a grin tugging at your lips.

He didn’t complain. In fact, something about the forest—the way the leaves whispered, the soil gave slightly beneath his feet, the shadows of the trees stretching into the night—made him feel at home.

After a while, the running slowed, and you finally stopped. You turned to face him, seriousness replacing the playful energy in your expression. “This is a secret between the two of us,” you said, voice earnest, “got it?”

Neteyam’s gaze met yours, unwavering, and he nodded, almost too quickly. “I promise,” he said, his tone low.

“Good,” you replied with a small smile, turning back to move forward. You pushed aside long, draping leaves, revealing an entrance tucked almost perfectly into the undergrowth—a small hollow, cave-like, hidden from casual eyes.

Neteyam didn’t question it. He trusted you, and that was enough. He let you pull him inside, hand still intertwined with his, feeling a thrill of anticipation, knowing you had chosen to share this secret with him.

Just a few steps in, and after a small turn, the hollow opened to reveal a pool of water, still and dark, its surface reflecting nothing. Neteyam paused, brow furrowed, unsure what to make of the shadowed space.

You only smiled, that quiet, knowing smile that made him uneasy in the best way. Your eyes flicked from him to the pool and back, gauging his reaction, waiting for the spark of curiosity—or maybe wonder—to light in his gaze.

“Come,” you said softly, squatting at the edge. Your fingers dipped into the water, and it shimmered immediately, a soft, ethereal glow radiating outward. As you swirled your hand, the pool brightened in response, ripples scattering points of light across the cave walls. You looked up at him, eyes wide, grin stretching across your face.

Neteyam’s hesitation melted into a laugh, and he joined you at the edge. But mischief colored his expression. Without warning, he splashed water toward you, droplets flying through the air. You shrieked, laughing, but the moment his playful grin met yours, you couldn’t resist returning the favor.

Back and forth it went: splashes, laughter, circles around the pool, each movement coaxing the glowing water to flare brighter. The bioluminescent moss clinging to the walls seemed to pulse with your motion, lighting the cave in soft, undulating waves of green and blue.

You finally gasped out, giggling, “Okay, stop—enough!” but neither of you really meant it. Your chest heaved, hair plastered to your face, droplets tracing your collarbones, and your laughter mingled with his. Neteyam, soaked and grin still wide, mirrored your exhaustion.

You paused, breathing heavily, standing on opposite sides of the pool, the glowing water between you. Then, on impulse, you bent your knees and jumped. The pool was small but deep enough that your feet wouldn’t touch the bottom if you leapt. The water swallowed you, cold and alive, and when your head surfaced, glowing reflections danced along your skin.

“Your turn,” you said, eyes flicking toward him.

He didn’t hesitate, launching himself in with a splash that nearly sent you under again. You spun quickly, trying to shield yourself, sputtering and laughing as he laughed at your frantic movements. When he surfaced, you both simply stared at each other giggling. The pool was small—you could feel the slight push of his arms with every stroke, the movement of his kicks under the water.

“Do you like it?” you asked softly.

Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. “How did you even find this place?”

You shrugged, eyes tracing the glowing moss and scattered bioluminescent plants along the cave walls. “Curiosity. I followed a lizard here a year ago. I accidentally found it.” 

Your gaze swept the pool, the cave, the soft shimmer of light across every surface. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer immediately, because he wasn’t looking at the cave. He was looking at you. The glow of the water caught your skin, yes, but it was more than that—you looked radiant, almost angelic, every feature defined in the soft reflected light.

The strands of hair plastered to your shoulders, the faint curve of your lips, the gleam in your eyes—it stole his breath. 

A soft, low “yes” finally left him, and your heart skipped.

Catching him already staring, you couldn’t resist. With a small, playful chuckle, you splashed water at him.

Neteyam’s voice cut through the gentle ripples of water. “You were amazing back there,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “I was right. You are the prettiest.”

The way he looked at you—the closeness, the subtle shift of his shoulders forward, the slight lean toward you as the water carried you both—made your heart race. Unknowingly, you two had drifted closer, the small pool no longer just space. 

You smiled, glancing away for a moment, trying to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. But curiosity, and something bolder, pulled your gaze back to him. “And you look very handsome,” you said softly. “Have I said it before?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “Just in a different way.”

You could only smile at him, eyes tracing his face again, memorizing what you had seen so many times but never enough: the patterns painted along his skin, the sharp line of his nose, the depth of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You felt a shiver run through you, not from cold, but from the ache of desire that had been gnawing at you, quiet but persistent, all this time.

To push the thought down before it took over, you sank deeper into the pool. The light from the glowing water bent around you, illuminating your path as your eyes followed his movements. He mirrored you almost instinctively, descending into the water with ease.

Now face to face beneath the glowing surface, the light refracted over him, casting gentle patterns across his features, highlighting angles and planes you had never appreciated fully before. And somehow… somehow, he looked even more handsome down here, framed by the light and water, and closer than ever.

The water cradled you both, holding your bodies in a slow, drifting stillness. Your hair floated weightlessly around your face, strands glowing faintly as they brushed his wrists.

Neteyam felt unsteady in a way no battlefield had ever made him feel. 

The water muted the world, but it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. If anything, it made them louder—spinning, overlapping, all of them circling you. The way you hovered there in the glow, hair drifting like something alive, eyes fixed on his as if he were the only thing in this hidden place worth seeing.

He thought of the small moments that had led here. Your laughter by the shore. The way your hand always seemed to find his without either of you acknowledging it. The looks that lingered just a second too long. The careful distance you kept, as if afraid of what would happen if you stepped closer—and the way that distance somehow made everything sharper.

Neteyam, who had faced danger with steady hands and a clear mind, had never felt this nervous. Not like this. Looking at you felt like standing at the edge of something vast and unfamiliar, something he had dreamed of without ever naming. You looked unreal, like the answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.

Enjoy this moment.

His mother’s voice surfaced in his mind.

And then you moved. Your hand drifted forward and settled against his chest, right over his heart, fingers splayed as if you were listening rather than touching. The contact was light, but it had unraveled him completely.

His breath hitched. His heart responded instantly, pounding hard beneath your hand, wild and unhidden. He wondered if you could feel it, if you understood what you were doing to him. Part of him hoped you did. Part of him was terrified you did. 

Hear it. Hear how much it’s beating for you.

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and there was so much meaning in your eyes that it felt heavier than words ever could. The glow of the water reflected back in them, soft and shifting, and for the first time since stepping into this hidden place, Neteyam felt certain.

Certain enough to move.

He swam closer. The space between you narrowed until his legs brushed yours, then lingered, your tails grazing and curling together as if the water had guided them there. The contact sent a quiet jolt through him. Real. You were here. So close.

Your body hovered just inches from his now, the glow outlining you in soft light. He could feel the movement of the water between you, feel the warmth of you even through it. His gaze flicked to your eyes, searching, asking—is this okay?

You answered without speaking.

Your lashes lowered slightly, your head tilting just enough to close the last uncertain angle between you. An invitation. A trust so open it stole the breath from his lungs.

When his hands lifted to your face, the water resisted just slightly, like it wanted to test his resolve, like touching you was something sacred. His palms cradled your face, thumbs resting just below your cheekbones, the deep blue of his skin a stark contrast to your glowing teal. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.

When he leaned in, it was slow enough that you felt every second of it: the faint current shifting between you, the brush of his nose against yours, the way your breath mingled in small silver bubbles before drifting away.

Then your lips met.

The kiss was brief. Soft. Gentle. Slowed by the water, shaped by it. For that moment, you were suspended together—no ground beneath your feet, no urgency. 

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, noses brushing, eyes still open as if neither of you wanted to risk losing sight of the other. Bubbles escaped you both in uneven bursts, laughter caught somewhere between breaths.

In that instant, something settled, like a tension that had lived in both of you for far too long had finally been answered. The question that had hovered in glances and half-touches, in every moment you almost reached for each other, was no longer unanswered.

You wrapped your arms around him, and he returned it just as naturally—strong arms closing around you as if he’d been waiting to do that all along. Together, you kicked upward, breaking the surface at the same time, air rushing back into your lungs in shared, breathless laughter.

Water streamed down your faces, clinging to lashes and braids, the glow of the cave softer up here but no less intimate. For a heartbeat, you were still pressed close, foreheads nearly touching, the echo of the water rippling around you.

Neteyam pulled back just enough to look at you.

His hand lifted, gentle as before, fingers tipping your chin up so you’d meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his eyes now—warm, almost shy, like the bravest thing he’d done all night was still finding its words.

“Can I…” He hesitated, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “…kiss you again?”

Your answer left no space for doubt.

His breath caught when you kissed him, a barely-there sound against your mouth. It was clumsy this time—your teeth bumped, a soft, startled laugh breaking between you—but neither of you pulled away. His hand slid from your chin to your cheek.

You feel him, the warmth of his lips, the careful way he adjusted just to fit you better. The faint taste of saltwater lingered as your lips moved against his.

Your arms slid more securely around his shoulders, fingers curling into the damp strands of his hair. He responded instinctively, hands settling at your waist. The water lapped softly against your sides, rocking you together in slow, gentle movements.

His forehead brushed yours between breaths, noses touching as he paused just long enough to breathe you in before kissing you again. You smiled into the kiss without meaning to, and he felt it—felt the way your lips curved, the way your body relaxed against his.

When you finally pulled away, it was only because your lungs demanded it.

The space between you widened just enough for breath to return—yours shaky, his uneven. Your arms loosened, hands slipping down from his shoulders but never fully leaving him. His hands stayed where they were, steady at your waist.

For a long second, neither of you spoke.

The glow of the cave caught in the paint on his skin, and without really thinking, your hand lifted. Your fingers traced along his forehead, following the lines of paint that had somehow survived the water. Down his temple. Beneath his eye. Along his cheek, down his throat, where his breath hitched almost imperceptibly under your touch.

Your hand continued—over his shoulder, and finally came to rest at the center of his chest. Right where his heart still beat too fast.

You looked at him then, earnest and open, your palm warm against him.

“I see you."

The words hit him harder than any kiss had.

Neteyam swallowed, emotions crowding his chest all at once. He lifted one hand, placing it over yours where it rested on his heart, holding it there as if to keep it from breaking free. With his other hand, he brushed the damp strands of hair from your cheek, fingers barely grazing your skin.

“I see you too,” he murmured back. Then, quieter, almost shyly, “Sevin.”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly against the stone. “Sevin?” you teased, tilting your head. 

His mouth curved into a hopeful smile. “You don’t like it?”

You pretended to think about it, lashes lowering as if you were suddenly bashful. “I like it,” you admitted.

Silence settled again—but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Of looks held too long. Of breaths that hadn’t quite steadied. Your hands drifted lower, sliding from his chest, skimming the edge of the cummerband he wore. Not lingering—just noticing. He looked good. Strong in a way that made your chest warm.

When you looked back up at him through your lashes, his gaze softened even more.

“What else do you want to do?” he asked quietly.

You bit your lip, just for a moment, then lifted both hands to his face, framing it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your thumbs brushed his cheeks, your touch sure now.

“We should just kiss,” you said.

And you did.

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