#spider afaa

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 | 𝐀𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐤𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐚!𝐨𝐜

Warnings: brief mention of a dead character, protective & smug Aonung, stubborn & clueless oc, fluff, smut, mdni pls, virgin author lol

Summary: When Lo'ak tells Tsireya about Valentine's Day, she decides Awa'atlu needs its own version, where young hunters present gifts to those they admire. She chooses her friend Miral as the first test subject, carefully selecting three worthy suitors to participate. The plan is perfect. The candidates are eager. The gifts are prepared. There's just one problem. Tsireya's older brother.

Tags: happy Valentine’s!! @angelina-urmom @axrithtiy @frey-williams @tamashithe2nd

Author’s note: This is my first time writing smut, and I’ve put a lot of effort into this, and I’d love to read your reassuring comments right now!!😭 THIS IS SO LONGG I just kept on writing for 4 days straight. enjoy!!

Lo'ak and Tsireya were perched on their familiar docking limb, their legs dangling freely above the water that still reflected a faint, pearly sheen from the last light of the day.

They had been working on Lo'ak's efforts to learn to hold his breath even longer.

"You are improving," Tsireya said, her voice tinged with a note of warmth and encouragement. "Your spirit was calm today. You did not struggle against the water."

"Thanks to you," Lo'ak said, nudging her gently with his own. He cherished these moments that followed when it was just the two of them.

Lo'ak let his gaze drift out to the horizon, where the first star of evening was just beginning to twinkle through the violet haze. It sparkled like a star one might imagine from the Hallelujah Mountains.

“Hey,” he said, and the words came out of him without plan or purpose,"You know what my dad told me about stars once?”

Tsireya turned to him, and her eyes were full of interest. "What did he tell you?" she asked, leaning a little closer to hear him more clearly.

“He said that back in the sky people world, there was a day. Just one day out of the whole year when everyone was supposed to take a moment to glance out at the people around them, and then, uh..” Lo'ak struggled to translate Jake’s old stories for Tsireya. "To tell what you sometimes keep locked inside. To really see them. To care for them. More than you do on most days."

Tsireya leaned her head to the side, completely enthralled by the concept. "A whole day for that? What is it called?"

"Valentine's Day," Lo'ak said, the unfamiliar words stumbling awkwardly on his tongue. Yet he continued, resolute in his determination to give her a more detailed picture. "There should be gift—giving. maybe time spent doing something significant. The idea was that the other person would know how you felt. So nothing was left unsaid or assumed."

"Oh” Tsireya breathed, the holy word conveying great understanding. "But only on one special day."

"Yeah. I suppose so." Lo'ak observed her as she digested his proposal, letting the idea take hold of her mind like a small seed, small but potentially life—changing.

Her face took on a look of pure, unadulterated wonder, and this gave Lo'ak a boost of courage he hadn’t known he needed.

Lo'ak swallowed hard, his heart beginning to beat a bit faster, a bit louder, a bit more noticeable as a thump against his ribs.

"You know, Reya," he said, his voice changing to a softer, more tentative tone. "Maybe we could—"

"It is a beautiful tradition!" she said suddenly, interrupting him with a quick and enthusiastic movement as she clapped her hands together. "We will have one! Here!

Lo'ak blinked, his unfinished sentence: ‘Maybe we could just... spend that day together?’ dissolved on his tongue. "Wait, what? For the whole clan?"

"Of course!" she said, and her voice took on a new, infectious energy as she stood up. "It is about connection, you said. Strengthening bonds! We will begin small. A gentle nudge for those who might need it..." Her eyes roamed over the village.

They landed on a figure weaving a net around a nearby marui. "Miral! She is always working so hard, and she is so kind. She would be perfect."

"Tsireya, hold on—"

But she was already moving past him, her mind racing forward a thousand lengths beyond where they stood in that instant. She touched him lightly on the head with a quick, distracted gesture and smoothed his hair as if he were a child she could hold and comfort easily. "Thank you, Lo'ak! This is the best idea!"

And she was gone, rushing forward with her customary effortless beauty as she hurried down the walkway. Her voice came back to him, cheerful and buoyant: "Miral! I have the most wonderful thought!"

Lo'ak stood on the dock alone, watching her disappear into the distance. He looked down at the water and his own pale, disappointed face looked back at him out of the ripples.

He took a slow breath, a long sigh that was both warm and frustrated, a mixture of affection and growing exasperation.

He was almost glad Neteyam wasn't here to see this.

"Skxawng," Lo'ak muttered to himself, the word a soft insult that was not really meant to be taken seriously. He shrugged his shoulders and a small smile played around the edges of his mouth.

Only Tsireya could take a small, personal spark of an idea and somehow distort it into a clan—wide endeavor before he could even get out a single word.

Meanwhile, Miral glared down at the complex mess of fibre in her lap, her fingers stubbornly and insistently trying to shape a loop into place that, despite all her efforts, just wasn’t working.

Then, as suddenly as a cloud passed across the sun, a shadow fell across the fibre in her lap, darkening the fibres in a broader area. Miral didn’t bother looking up, she already knew who it was and just what the interruption would portend.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m doing it wrong, save your breath. I already know,” she muttered, not looking up from the mess of fibre under her fingers as she tried to tease the knot into place.

“I came to save you from your own stubbornness,” Tsireya said as she dropped down onto the woven mat that lay beside Miral on the sun—bleached wooden walkway that served as the surface.

She gazed down for a moment at Miral’s fingers as they worked with the fibre with a slow, methodical repetition. “Your tension is all wrong.”

Miral didn’t look up from the fibre as she worked on the stubborn knot. Her concentration was total. “My tension is just fine. The fibre is cheap.”

“That is Ta’unui clan fibre. It is the very best there is. You’re pulling against the twist.”

Miral didn’t look up as she worked on the fibre, but Tsireya took the fibre from Miral’s fingers with a gentle touch as she settled down beside her on the wooden walkway. With a flick of her wrist, she had the tangle sorted out and began again from the top.

Miral stood and watched, a faint scowl tugging at the corners of her mouth. She hated being wrong, yes, but she hated a botched net even more. “Fine. Whatever. Show me.”

As Tsireya’s skilled fingers moved with ease, she spoke in a casual, unhurried tone. “Lo’ak was talking about the strangest Sky People thing earlier.”

“Which one?” Miral asked, her interest piqued. “The one where they trap themselves in tiny, bright caves just to stare at walls? Or the one where they feed themselves through a tube?”

"Different. A social one. A day. Called... Vahlentynes Day? Something like that. His pronunciation was all in his nose."

Miral retrieved the knot with the corrected tension, turning it over in her hands to study the structure more closely. “Vallen-tines. What’s it for? A ritual to mourn their inability to swim, perhaps?”

Tsireya let out a soft, approving chuckle. “Not quite. He said it’s a day when they’re supposed to declare admiration. For mates, or potential mates.”

Miral paused, knife hovering just above a frayed strand, considering. “They have one single, specific day, out of hundreds, when they’re allowed to say ‘I see you’? What do they do the rest of the time?”

“I think it’s more that the day itself prompts them. The day gets things into motion, so they don’t forget.”

“Forget.” Miral deadpanned, and then cut the fibre with a sharp snick. “They can build metal birds that scream across the sky, but they’ll forget to pursue a mate unless a day on a calendar tells them to. That tracks.”

“It’s about the gifts, too,” Tsireya pressed, her eyes alight with the spark of an idea. “A clear offering. A statement of intent. It cuts through the… what did Lo’ak call it… ‘guesswork’.”

Miral let out a long, slow breath, the sound of supreme skepticism. “Right. Because nothing says ‘I see you’ like a coordinated societal obligation. Very romantic.” She shook her head, tying off her repair. “So, you’re inspired. Are you going to give Lo’ak a dead fish with a ribbon on it?”

“Not me,” Tsireya said, “You.”

Miral stopped completely. She turned to look at her friend. “Explain. Now.”

“It's quite simple! you're always at work, always present here. You observe everything. However, people don’t necessarily understand how to observe you in return. The idea of “Valentine” is just perfect to follow. I’ll make sure that you’re open to receiving signs: gifts, talks, and communication. It's quite efficient. One can easily evaluate potential mates without wasting years in ambiguous and indirect “hovering.”

Miral gazed blankly ahead of her, her mind normally always working, was now frozen by the weight of the concept before her.

“I forbid you from seeing Lo’ak again. You have officially lost your mind. I'm sure Aonung will vote on that too.”

Tsireya gently tapped her friend on the lap, her eyes begging for understanding.

“Let me get this straight,” Miral said, her voice measured and unnervingly calm. “You want to use a Sky People ritual, a ritual that is a product of their very social dysfunction, a ritual that is not even part of my cultural repertoire, and use it to control... what, exactly? A mate selection trial? On me? Am I just another fishing spot you’re trying out for your system you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a trial!” came the rushed, defensive response. “It's an... facilitated introduction period."

“Facilitated introduction period,” Miral repeated, tasting the words on her tongue with a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. “That is the single most horrifying phrase I have ever heard.”

She set her knife down with deliberate care, “Who is involved? How does this even work?

"I have a few worthy individuals in mind," Tsireya said. "It should start tomorrow. Just be yourself. They will approach. You will be polite. We’ll see what happens."

Miral followed the line of Tsireya’s sincere, optimistic face with her gaze, then shifted her eyes to the mended net in her hands, a task she had just completed, and then to the vast ocean beyond.

Miral could feel the bricks of her simple, comprehensible world crumbling, brick by brick, as if some renovation was quietly underway in the room.

"So tomorrow," she summarized, her words flat. "I become a cultural experiment. Because the Sky People can't manage their own social lives."

"See? You understand perfectly!" Tsireya said, standing up with a bright, optimistic smile. "Wear your hair down. It’s a good look for receiving gifts." Tsireya gave Miral’s shoulder a cheerful pat, then stepped back, leaving Miral alone.

Miral remained still for a full minute, listening to nothing but the waves crashing in the distance. Then, gradually, she picked up her knife once more.

"Facilitated introduction period," Miral muttered to the empty room, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I’m going to be given so many poorly carved shell animals."

Lo’ak sat on the rim of the platform, his fingers fiddling with the tangled section of his saddle as he tried to re—braid it.

The task took his mind enough off his thoughts for Tsireya to come up beside him. She had the same purposeful energy as always, the energy Lo’ak had grown accustomed to over the course of their time together.

She sat down beside him, her tone low and measured. “I have spoken with Miral,” she said

“And?” Lo’ak asked, though his eyes never left the tangled leather. He couldn’t bring himself to look up just yet.

“In principle, she has agreed to take part in my plans for her,” Tsireya said, her tone low and measured.

Lo’ak stiffened at the words, his shoulders squaring. Finally, he looked up. “What does that mean?”

Tsireya leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. “It means that she believes it’s all Sky People foolishness, but she trusts me.” She leaned forward a little closer. “Now, I need your help. You need to go talk to Ronawl. And perhaps Ayom. Casually. Tell them that Miral appreciates thoughtful gestures. That the cove is a nice place to talk tomorrow.”

Lo’ak groaned. He felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He finally managed to look at her. “Reya, no. I’m not going to be your herald for this.”

Tsireya’s eyes sharpened. She leaned forward a little closer. “You have to! You started this!”

“You started this. You told her the story. I didn’t tell you to send a hunting party for her!”

“Draft a hunting party for who?”

They both looked up simultaneously. Aonung had entered in silence and taken a position a few steps away. He folded his arms over his chest, keeping his gaze intently on his sister.

Tsireya adjusted her position,“Don’t worry about anything, brother. It’s just a little social gathering.”

But Aonung’s gaze never wavered. It actually seemed to narrow. She hadn’t fooled him for an instant. “You’re scheming something. With him. This is never good. Who is the hunting party for?”

Lo’ak opened his mouth to speak, but Tsireya beat him to it. “Miral! It’s not a hunting party. It’s a gathering of compatible people. For a special day. It was Lo’ak’s idea.”

As soon as Tsireya finished talking, Aonung’s expression changed in an instant. The look of disinterest vanished completely. It was replaced by an intensity that was almost frightening. His head swung between Tsireya and Lo’ak, his blue eyes burning like ice.

“His idea,” Aonung said, tasting the words in his mouth as if he were trying to determine their flavor. And then he focused on Lo’ak.

It was unappealing, yes. It was dangerous in a very particular way. It was a forest boy’s idea about things that pertained to Aonung’s people. And then he turned that gaze on Tsireya. His voice dropped to a tone that was absolute, deadpan certainty.

“You are forbidden from talking to him. It’s obvious that he’s been spinning tales in your head. You’re mad. You’ve gone completely insane.”

Tsireya rolled her eyes and sighed, attempting to dismiss the subject with a flippant motion of her hand. “Do not be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Aonung shifted his position a bit closer to her, seemingly far from finished with the subject and deliberately ignoring Lo’ak’s attempt to interrupt.

“You are taking a confusion from the Sky People and making it our problem. And you are using Miral to do it.” As he said her name, his jaw clenched.

“They are good choices!” Tsireya said, her head held high with defiance. “Ronawl is strong. Ayom is kind.”

“They are children playing with spears they can barely lift,” Aonung said with a snap of his voic, “And this a stupid idea. It will cause trouble, and I will have to listen to the constant complaints.”

Tsireya pressed her lips together into a thin line. Her patience was wearing very thin as she snapped back, “Why do you care so much? It does not affect your duties.”

Aonung’s eyes narrowed. His answer came with a stubborn insistence. “It affects the clan’s focus.” His tail twitched hard, once, for emphasis. “You want to send Ronawl, who only talks about his last catch, and Ayom, who can’t even utter a sentence. To do what? To bore her?”

Tsireya’s voice rose with a mixture of frustration and loyalty. “They are good, loyal warriors!”

“They are boys,” Aonung corrected her flatly. His tone was cold and brutal. “And you would send them before someone who has never settled for ‘good enough.’ Before someone who actually finishes her net—mending without complaint and notices a tide pattern shifting before anyone else does. Would you think that a poorly carved shell would impress a person who sees everything?”

The words lingered in the room, lingering a little longer than he had intended for them to linger. He hadn’t intended to go into such detail about her qualities, not really.

But the detail had been too precise, too revealing. Tsireya’s eyes had widened a fraction of an inch, a fraction of an inch that spoke of surprise.

“You watch her closely.”

“Yes. I watch everyone. It is my responsibility to determine who is capable and who is a liability.”

The words came a fraction of a second too quickly. The heat of the argument was pushing the conversation to a dangerous, vulnerable place. “This plan is a liability. You’re treating it like a game for children.”

“And you’re treating her as if she’s made of glass!” Tsireya challenged, moving a little closer so that the space between them diminished and her voice could have more impact. “She is strong. She can handle a bit of attention. Which, besides, she so clearly deserves.”

“It isn’t attention!” Aonung replied, a hint of frustration finally rising to the surface as he struggled to define the tight, proprietary anger.

“It’s..misplaced obligation.” He paused, trying to define it further as he glared at her, but it felt like trying to paint on a spear that was already perfectly crafted.“Forget this. Do not involve her in your Sky People nonsense.”

With a final, searing glance that seemed to encompass Lo’ak as a source of infection, Aonung turned on his heel and strode away, every line of his body tense with unspent irritation.

Lo’ak waited until he was well out of earshot before he commented, “Well. He’s thrilled.”

Tsireya watched her older brother disappear into the trees, a thoughtful frown on her face as she tried to analyze what had just occurred. There was more to Aonung’s outburst than just his usual irritability. It felt personal.

“He is just trying to protect the clan’s peace,” she said, though even to her own ears, her words were more a defense that she was trying to convince herself to believe.

Lo’ak snorted. “Yeah. The clan’s peace. That’s what that was really about.”

The light that entered the room in the morning was pale gray and seemed hesitant, as if the sun itself hadn’t quite decided to show up yet. It hid behind a bank of clouds far away and left the world in a hushed, half—dark condition.

Aonung lay on his sleeping mat with his eyes open, listening to the familiar noises of the marui.

He should be up by now. Nets needed to be checked, hunters needed to be supervised, and the future leader of the village needed to be seen and heard.

But Aonung didn’t move. He looked at the ceiling and thought of his sister.

She wouldn’t do this. Even Tsireya, with her need to choreograph happiness into every moment, would have to realize how foolish this was.

It sounded like the Sky People, who would take something simple and smother it with ritual and ceremony until it was no longer recognizable. Surely she would have awakened this morning and seen the foolishness of this.

Right?

He breathed out slowly and stood up. The pouch on his hip bumped his thigh with a soft, barely audible rustling sound. He did not glance down.

The village came awake in the familiar way, and the signs all whispered of the day to come. The women moved toward the eastern reef with baskets that swung with an ease born of practice, children ran past him in a flurry of shouts and laughter chasing after something quick and small.

He moved through the morning bustle with his measured gait, nodding once to an elder and giving the merest glance to Rotxo’s wave from the water. His eyes scanned the platforms before him with a lazy, interested gaze.

And then, as the morning light settled more firmly over the scene, he saw Miral. Miral.

She stood by the water station, leaning over the side of the communal water barrel to run her hands through her hair to get the salt out.

She did it slowly, unhurriedly. She pulled the dark strands out between her fingers, and they separated and fell like the warp and weft of a loom. A droplet of water trailed down the back of her neck, down the spine and under the edge of the top she wore.

She straightened up, shook her hands dry on the hem of the top, and turned.

And saw him then too, and there was a subtle change in the way she looked at him. It was not the bright, performing smile and the adjustment of the posture that some girls used on him.

It was not that. It was a subtle change. A mouth that was soft and relaxed, the corners curving up slightly.

“Aonung.” The way it sounded on her lips was natural, effortless, almost casual. "You're up early."

He nodded slightly in greeting. "Could say the same to you."

"Could, yes." A hint of irony danced on her lips, but never reached her eyes. "You'd be wrong." She raised her basket with a resolute air and fell into step beside him as if they walked side by side on a familiar path. "I haven't slept yet."

A quick glance from him, assessing. A hint of shadows under her eyes, a tired look so obvious now, but not quite visible unless one looked closely. "Why not."

"Somebody's ilu got spooked last night. Tangled its line." She waved it off as if it didn't matter. "Took me a while to calm it down."

Somebody's ilu. Not hers. No need to lift a hand to fix it, and yet she had. She went because that was what she did. She saw problems in front of her, and she fixed them. And she didn't wait for thanks or reward or any sort of acknowledgment. She simply went to fix what needed fixing.

They walked along in comfortable silence for a few steps, her shoulder brushed against his, and he could feel the warmth of her skin, the steady, living heat that lingered on his skin even when she moved away.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, her voice quite but perfectly clear.

“Not yet.”

“There’s leftover fish from last night. Keto caught it. He always brings too much.” She glanced at him, “I have it in my basket.”

He looked at the basket she was carrying. Then, without a word, he reached over and took the handle from her grip.

Her fingers slipped from the woven fiber. His closed around it. The movement was brief, a transfer of weight from her hand to his. The basket swung once, then settled against his hip.

She blinked at him. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, confused, before dropping back to her side.

“I’m not hungry,” he said

“Liar,” she said, her voice holding no heat, merely statement. “Your mother would be upset. You forget to eat when you’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re brooding right now.”

His face gave her a flat, unamused look. She met it with an absolute, unapologetic calm, a quiet steadiness in her face, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly, knowledgeably.

She was not afraid of him. She never had been. The other hunters avoided his gaze, shifted uncomfortably, stammered over their words. She merely looked at him, steady, assured, and called him a liar to his face.

His fingers remained curled at his side, not out of anger, but for another reason altogether. It was not anger that kept his fingers curled at his side, but the sudden, undeniable urge to raise his hand and run his thumb over the gentle shape of her cheekbone.

It was as though the urge was physical, a low—born pressure rising up from somewhere deep inside his chest, through his arm, and down through his fingers.

It was almost as though he could feel it, the warmth of her skin, the softness he had imagined countless times in the dark while lying on his sleeping mat.

His thumb, specifically, ached with the need to drag across her cheek, to feel the give of her skin beneath his. But still, he did not move.

She was still fixed on him, waiting for the retort she was expecting, completely oblivious to the fact that his entire body was telling him to close the space between them.

He could feel it in every inch of his body. His breathing was shallow, and he could feel a dull, heavy rhythm in his throat as if his pulse was trying to force its way through his skin.

She blinked, then tilted her head slightly. "What?"

He was giving her nothing in return. His face was neutral, calm, but even as his face remained completely serene, his tail betrayed him as he flicked it swiftly behind him.

"Nothing," he repeated his words, his voice steady.

She seemed to take it at face value without a second thought, turning her eyes back to the distance ahead. The moment was gone, and his hand remained where it was at his side, untouched and is if waiting for something.

What sound would she make?

The question came to mind uninvited, unwelcome, but it nestled deep into his chest as if it had found a home there and wouldn’t leave.

If he reached out to touch her face, his thumb running along the curve of her jaw, his fingers intertwining in the silkiness of her hair—what sound would emerge from her lips?

Not words, ever. Something softer, something that wouldn’t be expressed in words. Maybe a sharp breath drawn in, a quick indrawn gasp of air into her throat?

The space between them was suddenly too close and too far all at once. His chest felt constricted, pressed in by all the unspoken possibilities. He drew a breath into his lungs slowly and deliberately, as if counting the seconds to calm himself against the growing ache.

“The weave on this is terrible” she suddenly said, holding her wrist up to get a better look. “Look at this,” she said, rotating her bracelet gently as she examined it. “Do you see how unevenly knotted it is? It’s going to come unraveled in no time—maybe as soon as next week.”

He looked at it. A thin rope of braided leather rested against her pale skin, delicate and pale in comparison to her. A small shell hung from it, threaded through by a simple pink spiral design that had been clumsily carved into place.

The edge was chipped, and the hole through which the rope passed was slightly off—center, causing the shell to hang at an odd angle.

The weave was uneven, loose in some spots, tighter in others. It was clear it was a work of someone who had enthusiasm, but no patience.

In his eyes, it was the worst gift he had ever seen.

And she was wearing it.

The leather rested against the delicate bones of her wrist, and the crooked shell sat just above her pulse point. Every time she moved her hand, it moved slightly. Every time she turned her wrist to catch the light, it caught a faint pink glow.

He wanted to take it off her.

His fingers touching the cord, the knot, and freeing it. His palm cradling the shell. The shell falling into the water. And then his hand, now empty, reaching out to hers—

“Tsireya’s experiment,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. “Apparently, it began at an early hour. He came to my marui before dawn. Very nervous. Almost threw it at me and ran off.”

Before dawn. Those two words weighed heavily in Aonung’s chest, like stones sinking into the water. He wanted to find that boy who made such an awful gift and drown him.

“He seemed nice”, she said, with a hint of reservation in her voice. “A little young, but he's nice”

Nice. The word lingered in her thoughts as she pondered the boy. She wore the gift, defended the boy's effort and said he was nice to Aonung's face

"What do you think?" she asked him, her body angling closer "Should I tell him it's structurally unsound? Would that be unfair?"

He maintained his even tone. "It's fine."

"Fine?" she asked, her eyebrow arching up. Her inflection implied she did not believe the boy. "You hate it."

He did not answer. The space between them remained empty. She smiled more widely. Her lips curled with amusement.

“You're a terrible liar," she said. Almost affectionate. Almost. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the bracelet floating back to her as if she were dismissing the entire conversation along with the object.

The shell rested against her wrist. Pale. Crooked. Wrong.

His tail flicked again, more obvious and irritated.

"I found a baby ilu this morning," she said. Her focus changed. Her subject changed. A trick that never failed to make his head buzz with confusion. "By the eastern jetty. A tiny thing. Not more than a few days old."

He blinked, slow and unsure of himself, as the shift came out of nowhere. It was so abrupt that he took a fraction of a moment to gather himself enough to respond. "Alone?"

"Separated, I think," she corrected. "The mother was circling nearby but couldn't quite figure out how to get under the jetty. The poor thing was stuck between two posts, making these little distressed chirps." Her face softened as she recalled the memory. "It took forever to coax her out."

"Did you?”

"Obviously," she said with a smile. "It swam right to its mother." She glanced over at him with a satisfied smile. "You should have seen it. The mother makes this sound—this low rumbling purr, and the baby just vibrates with happiness. Like it couldn't contain itself."

To illustrate her point, she makes the sound herself, a soft humming noise that slips out of her throat, she laughed at her own attempt, but it catches his breath in his chest.

The laugh was full of warmth, her whole face lights up with the memory of the sound.

He wants to hear her laugh again. More than that, he wants to be the reason she makes that sound.

"You would have liked it," she said, her voice low and soft with a kind of fond certainty. "It was incredibly efficient at solving problems."

"Efficient."

"Mhm. In, out, no wasted moments, no unnecessary complaints." She tilted her head slightly, studying him intently. "Unlike some people I know."

He looked at her flatly, unamused. "I'm efficient."

"You're dramatic. There’s a difference."

"There isn’t."

"There absolutely is." She smiled readily, lightly, playfully. "Efficient means that you solve the problem and then you're done. Complaining means that you sigh loudly every single time someone makes you wait for something."

"I don’t sigh."

"You do. You have this big, long exhale through your nose like the world is just conspiring against you." She made the noise, the sound exaggerated and slightly insulting. "Like that."

He clenched his jaw from the struggle not to laugh. "I don’t sound like that."

"You sound exactly like that."

"You're annoying, did you know that?”

"And yet here you are." She spoke lightly, flippantly, her gaze already drifting off to something else. "Walking with me. Eating my fish. Listening to me talk about baby ilus."

“Not by choice.” Aonung muttered, earning a light smack to his hand that held the basket.

She stopped, looking out over the water with a calm, almost placid expression on her face, the crooked shell dangling from her wrist sparkled in the light, its faint pink glow delicate and unremarkable all at once.

He looked at it, then looked away again, as if the simple fact of the bracelet’s existence was the reason he might drown himself.

“The fish is cold,” he said, breaking the silence with a blunt observation after he took the fish in his hands.

“You let it get cold. That’s your own fault,” she said, her voice steady.

“You gave it to me cold.”

“I gave it to you warm. You stood there brooding for five minutes before you touched it.” She looked over at him again, her expression laced with a cool note of sarcasm that seemed to say she was unimpressed by his sulky moodiness.

He didn’t have an argument for that one. He simply ate the cold fish. The flesh had a weighty texture, the edges curled slightly from the drying action of the air, creating small ridges on the perimeter.

Miral watched him from the corner of her eye, the small smile of amusement playing on the corners of her mouth. "It’s not going to taste better if you glare at it," she said.

"I’m not glaring," he said, though his posture and the action of his jaw spoke to the contrary.

"You’re eating it as if you never tasted fish" she said, a small edge to her voice.

He swallowed the food in his mouth before speaking. "It’s fine."

She made a soft laugh, a breathy sound that seemed to constrict his chest with a familiar pain. "I’m going to tell Keto that you hated his fish."

“Good. It’a actually awful.”

She smiled at the comment he just made, and then her hand extended towards the basket in a soft, almost hesitant motion. Aonung, however, did not let go.

Her palm lingered in the space between them for another second, and then her fingers finally made contact with the woven edge of the basket’s handle, a thin line of contact that landed on his fingers. She whispered almost inaudibly, “Aonung.”

“I have it,” he stated, his tone even, resolute.

“You had it for ten minutes already” she reminded him, the playfulness returning to her tone.

“And?”

“And it is my basket. Besides, It is not heavy,” she stated, as if that would somehow give her the upper hand.

“That is not the point,” he stated, his determination evident.

He did not budge. His fingers held on to the basket in a steadfast grip. Her hand lingered there for a moment, lingering close to his.

It was close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating from her own hand through the contact, close enough for her to realize that if he were to shift his thumb just a fraction of an inch, it would touch her knuckles in a gentle, almost flirtatious manner.

And yet, after a moment, she stepped back from the unspoken contest. Her hand retreated from his, releasing the tension slightly.

“…Alright,” she said, drawing out the word with careful thought and deliberation, as though weighing each individual syllable before giving her answer. “You can keep the basket.”

He did not alter his stance. He kept the basket precisely in the place where it was, his fingers wrapped around the woven sides. She shook her head, a faint, bemused look playing at the corners of her lips as she turned to step for—

“Aonung. Miral.”

The voice was behind them, bright and enthusiastic, cutting through the quiet morning air with the same cutting effect that a spear would have on quiet water. Aonung spun around, his instincts on high alert.

It was Kiran. Young. Barely out of his trial as a hunter. He was coming towards Miral with quick, unsteady legs, his hands clasped behind his back to steady himself.

His eyes never left Miral’s face, not even once. Aonung’s spine snapped into place in an instant. His grip on the handle of the basket was white—knuckled, the fibers creaking with the strain.

You have got to be kidding me. This is not happening.

“Kiran,” Miral said, and the way she said it was inviting and open and warm. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the boy replied, his voice too high and too fast and too nervous. His eyes darted between Miral’s face and the ground and back to Miral’s face again, as if he was trying to keep both in focus at the same time. “I wanted to—that is, I heard that you—that Tsireya told me tha—” he swallowed his own words. “I made you something.”

Then his hands came out from behind his back slowly, hesitantly, as if he was holding something precious and nervous to show Miral.

he was holding a hair pin.

A slender piece of carved bone, its surface sanded to a perfectly smooth texture and then polished to a soft, almost living sheen. The head of the piece bore a small stone, milky blue in color, the sort of pale, halfway—remembered blue one might see in shallow water over white sand, or in the first light of dawn touching softly upon a quiet lagoon.

It was a delicate piece, the edges rounded, the surface reflecting light in a careful, patient way. It was clear, from looking at it, that the person who made this piece of art had spent many, many hours upon it. Days, perhaps, of careful, meticulous work.

Aonung stared at it.

It was pretty to look at, the craftsmanship evident in clean, unambiguous lines. The bone was carved with evident skill, each bend and turn of it purposeful, each edge smoothed to a soft, almost tender sheen.

It was not some crude, misaligned shell thrust at her in the dark, but a thoughtful, deliberate gift, given in full view of all, so that all could see.

Given to her.

Right there in front of him.

Who did he think he was?

"This is beautiful, Kiran," Miral said, and her voice was like a knife inserted between Aonung’s ribs. "You made this yourself?"

"Yes," the boy nodded, his ears turning a deep, telling blue as he blushed. "I thought—the color, it’s like your eyes. When the light hits them." He stumbled over his own words, his face growing pinker and pinker. "I mean, I just thought you might like it."

like her eyes.

Aonung had noticed her eyes. He had noticed those from the beginning. He had studied those eyes, the various hues of blue and grey and gold that danced through them as the light changed, the colors seeming to breathe as he lingered over them.

He had spent more time than he wanted to admit trying to find a stone that would match those eyes: a warm, deep blue, like the water just before sunset, not this pale, washed—out version of the water of morning shallows.

This child had looked at Miral and seen the same thing Aonung saw.

The only difference was that Kiran had actually done something about it.

Miral took the pin. Her fingers closed over the carved bone, turning the object as she examined the stone. “The setting is quite secure,” she said. “Did you strengthen the backing?”

"Yes. I didn’t want it to fall out while you were swimming."

"Smart." She smiled at him warmly, genuine, that same soft curve she offered to anyone who brought her something made with care. "Thank you, Kiran. This is really lovely."

She raised her hand to her hair.

Aonung watched. His chest remained utterly still. His breath came in shallow, sparse bursts.

Her fingers found a segment of her braid, just above her left ear. She slid the pin in, twisting it once to set it securely. The milky blue stone settled against the dark strands, catching the light and glowing softly.

It looked wrong.

Not because the pin was poorly made—it wasn’t.

Not because the color was ugly—it was pretty, in a gentle, quiet way.

Not because the boy was unworthy—he was young and nervous and clearly trying very hard.

It was wrong because it wasn’t Aonung’s gift.

It was wrong because he had spent weeks carving a hook she actually needed, something practical that would make her life easier. And this child had spent days carving an ornament she would wear in her hair.

Something beautiful. Something visible. Something everyone would see and admire and comment on.

"How does it look?" Miral asked, turning her head slightly to one side. Again, the pin caught the light, and the stone glowed softly where it rested against Miral’s hair, like a tiny flame burning inside.

"Good," Kiran breathed, relief seeping back into his voice. "It looks really good. I mean, I thought it would, but I wasn’t sure if the color would work, and I thought the bone might be too thick, but it looks—" Kiran trailed off, his ears burning with a blush. "It looks good."

She moved slightly, turning to get another opinion, and her eyes fell on Aonung. "What do you think?"

Aonung looked at the pin on Miral’s hair, tracing the milky blue of the stone with his eyes. He looked at the way the pin rested against Miral’s dark hair.

Pretty, wrong, completely and utterly inadequate in a way that made him feel like crawling out of his own skin every time he looked at the thing.

He looked at Kiran’s hopeful face, the ears that burned with heat, the hands that quivered slightly with expectation and then back at the pin on Miral’s hair.

"The color is wrong," Aonung said flatly.

Miral’s eyebrows drew together slightly in a frown. "Wrong how?" she asked

"It's too cool. It washes you out." His voice remained flat and clipped, each word carefully enunciated. "The stone is pale. Your skin tone is warm. The combination makes you look tired."

Kiran slumped his ears and shoulders. "I—I thought the blue would go well with her eyes—"

"Her eyes aren't that blue." Aonung's gaze remained locked on the pin. "Not even close. They're a deeper color. A warmer color. This is the color of water in the morning. Her eyes are the color of water in the evening."

The words hung in the air. He hadn't meant to say that much. He hadn't meant to say that he'd paid that much attention to Miral's eyes. That he'd looked that carefully at them. That he'd known the exact shade of blue they were.

Miral blinked. She extended a hand to slowly touch the pin, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I—I didn't know you paid that much attention to my eyes."

He didn't say a word. His jaw was clenched. His heart thudded loudly in his ears.

Kiran shuffled his feet, his face falling in a soft sigh. "I could get a different stone. A warmer one. I saw some amber—colored ones near the eastern reef. I could get one of those if you really don't like this one that well—"

"It's fine," Miral interrupted hurriedly. "Kiran, really. It's a lovely gift. Aonung is just being—" She glanced over at Aonung, then immediately looked away. "—thorough."

Thorough. That was one word for it.

Kiran nodded, looking dejected even though he attempted a smile. "I just wanted to get you something nice.” He glanced over at Aonung, then immediately looked away. "I should get going. My mother needs help with the nets."

"Of course. Thank you again. It was very kind of you."

He nodded once, then again, and after that, there was nothing else of him to see as he walked away down the walkway. His shoulders were slumped, and his ears still wore that deep, embarrassed blue.

Miral watched him go, the distance between them growing with each passing step. She played with the pin she wore in her hair, running her fingers over it and turning it slightly.

She turned her eyes to Aonung at last. "That was unnecessarily harsh," she commented

He did not answer, and she went on, her voice still soft, still clear, still laced with annoyance and perhaps with hurt, too. "He was trying to do something kind. He was nervous, and he put a lot of effort into this."

"He asked my opinion."

"He asked how it looked, and you told him it made me look tired."

"I told him the color was wrong, and it is."

Her eyes locked on him, wide and unblinking, as if she could look right through to the depths of his soul, as if she were seeking something hidden beneath the surface of his skin. He met her gaze without flinching, though his heart pounded in his chest.

“…You really think it's the wrong color?"

"Yes."

"Or do you just not like that someone else gave it to me?"

His tail stiffened at the question, as if a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside him.

The line of the inquiry itself didn’t carry blame, no accusation threaded through her voice. Only a plain, unvarnished curiosity. She wasn’t testing him, she was genuinely seeking an answer.

Her head tipped slightly to the side, her eyes widened with interest, and the small pin he wore caught the light, giving off a soft, almost teasing gleam against the strands of hair near her temple.

He found himself unable to move.

His chest felt constricted, a tight, cage—like pressure curling around his lungs. His fingers grew numb around the edge of the basket handle. Every muscle from his jaw down through his throat seemed to seize up, locking him in place as if he’d turned to stone.

his entire body had locked into stillness, the words rising in him like a wave. It was exactly it, he didn’t want anyone else to give you anything, he didn’t want anyone else to look at you, he didn't want anyone else to see what he sees and think they have the right to reach for it—

His lips parted—

“Aonung! Miral! There you are!”

Tsireya was hurrying towards Miral, her steps quick and her eyes shining with that spark she carries when she’s coordinating things. When she saw Miral, a look of visible relief crossed her face.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “You’re needed at the eastern platform. There are two more who want to present their gifts before the afternoon gathering, and I need you to—” She stopped, looking first at Aonung, then at the basket he was carrying, and finally at Miral. “—come with me. Now.”

“Now?”

“Now. They’re waiting.” Tsireya’s hand touched Miral’s arm, warm but firm. “This will be quick, I promise. And then you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

Miral’s eyes darted between Aonung and the basket he was carrying. “My basket—”

“I’ll take it.”

His voice was short, clipped, and he didn’t raise his eyes to either Miral or Tsireya.

Tsireya had already started tugging Miral away. “Perfect, thank you. That’s very helpful of you—come, Miral. I told them you would be gracious, and you will be gracious. They’re both very nervous—”

Miral took a step, then another, before finding her balance again. She turned to look back at Aonung, her eyes apologetic and confused. She touched the pin she wore in her hair.

“I’ll find you later,” she said. “Thank you for— for carrying the basket.”

He didn’t say anything, then she was gone.

The pin shone in Miral’s hair as she moved away from him, a small, steady light against the backdrop of the village’s weaving. He watched it until the walkway turned out of sight, until nothing of her was left in view except the faint gleam of the light.

Then he turned.

The path to her marui stretched out before him, comforting and familiar, lined with the light of the morning hours spilling across the ground.

He had never walked this path alone, never carried her things through the bright hours of the day without another person walking alongside him.

He had the chance to speak, to use his words, and he let his sister take them from his lips his mind accused, though his thoughts were not loud enough to be heard. The accusation was made, nonetheless, and it settled quietly around him like a stone

He finally reached her marui. The entrance loomed low, a doorway softened by a curtain of woven mats that sifted the light into a gentler glow.

He paused on the threshold for a breath, the basket cradled in his hands, and a surprising heaviness settled in his arms, as if the weight of it had suddenly grown too much to bear.

He stood there, hovering between the desire to lay the burden down and the need to fulfill a dozen duties that tugged at him from all directions. He should lay the basket down, step back, and go attend to the hundred obligations that waited on him.

But instead of stepping back, he stepped into the marui.

Her space was compact, but kept with a careful, almost reverent order. A sleeping mat lay rolled and neat against the wall, ready to be used or stowed away. A small collection of shells gathered on a low shelf.

A net, half—finished, hung over a drying rack, its tools arranged with the precision born of years and habit. Everything in the room had its place. Everything spoke of efficiency, purpose, and the patient, habitual care that defined her days.

He placed the basket near her work mat and, for a moment, extended his hand on the handle longer than he needed to. The pouch on his hip touched his thigh as he moved, reminding him of what he carried inside it. A small gift.

He could leave it there. He could place the hook on the ground, untie the string, and dig out what he carried with him to meetings, to talks, to long sleepless nights.

He could place the weight next to her basket and walk away, leaving it to her to find it when she returned. No need to talk about it. No need to confess. No need to say anything. Just leave it to her to find it.

He reached to place the weight next to her basket.

But he stopped.

he turned around, taking one final resigned breath before he walked out.

The morning light hit his face as he pushed aside the curtain, striking and unambiguous, and for a moment, he faltered under its brightness. He gave his eyes a slow blink, adjusting, even as his brain began quickly assembling the long to—do list that awaited him, the tasks and the responsibilities that would require his attention the moment he stepped fully into the day.

“—And I thought, maybe a woven bracelet? But mother said shells are more traditional, so I went with shells.”

“Yeah, but you used the pink ones. Everyone uses pink ones. I went with the blue—tipped spirals. More distinctive.”

“Blue—tipped spirals are hard to find. Where’d you get those?”

“Eastern reef. Took me half a day.”

Aonung’s feet came to a halt. The voices drifted from the walkway just a short distance ahead, casual and unhurried, as if unaware of his approach.

Two figures stood close together, their backs mostly turned to him, their heads bent over something in their hands. The familiar postures, the familiar cadence of their speech, the familiar rhythm of their words.

Ronawl. Ayom.

Aonung’s vision sharpened, and in that moment, the morning light was almost too bright, almost too revealing. His tail went very, very still.

“—do you think she’ll like it? I wrapped it in kelp to keep it polished.”

“She’ll like it. Miral’s nice. She likes everything.”

“Yeah, but I want her to really like it, you know? Not just be polite.”

“I know what you mean.”

Ronawl lifted his gaze, straightening the small bundle cradled in his hands. His eyes wandered past Ayom’s shoulder, then settled squarely on Aonung, who stood rigidly in the doorway of Miral’s marui.

His suddenly froze

“Ayom,” he spoke, his tone suddenly cautious. “Turn around.”

Ayom complied and turned.

The silence stretched out. Ronawl watched from Aonung’s face to the marui behind him and back again. His expression changed from confused to something more guarded.

“Aonung,” he said slowly. “You’re… here.”

Aonung remained still. His countenance was ice.

“At Miral’s marui,” Ronawl added, as if to clarify. “Early in the morning.”

Ayom’s ears tilted back. He clutched the bundle even tighter.

Silence.

“She asked me to return her basket,” Aonung said, his voice flat and even. Utterly unreadable. “What are you holding.”

Ronawl blinked, sensing the sudden jarring shift in the instant, and turned to Aonung with a look of unbelief. “What?” he managed to get out, his tone rising in shock.

“In your hands. What is it.”

Ronawl looked down upon the bundle of kelp, the seaweed strands brushing against his hands, before looking up to meet Aonung’s unyielding gaze.

A line formed between Ronawl’s eyebrows as he concentrated on the answer. “It’s a gift,” he finally said, his tone hesitant, “for Miral.”

“I know what it’s for,” Aonung’s tone didn't change. His words dripped with cool detachment, “What is it.”

Ronawl took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. “...Shells. I collected them from the—” His words trailed off as he thought back to the task he had undertaken to find the shells.

“And yours,” Aonung said, his gaze cutting to Ayom, “What did you bring.”

Ayom swallowed hard, a small sound that was almost imperceptible, before he went on to answer in slow, deliberate words. “Blue—tipped spirals. I thought it might—she might like the color because it’s reminiscent of the deep water, and she always seems to be happy when she’s around the deep water—”

“Let me see.”

Ayom paused, and a moment of hesitation could be seen on his face. His hands clutched the bundle even tighter, the grip almost possessive in nature. Yet, with a measured and deliberate calm, he began to slowly extend it.

Aonung accepted the gifts and took the bundle from Ayom with a steady hand. He started to unwrap the bundle slowly, peeling the kelp layers to reveal what was inside.

A small pile of shells came into view, and they were each a piece of art in their own right. The shells had been polished to a glassy shine and had a surface that was smooth and velvety to the touch.

The shells were arranged in a precise and orderly spiral pattern, which seemed to have been calculated with quiet thought and deliberation.

The blue tips of the shells sparkled in the light, and the color transitioned from a deep midnight blue to a pale blue with a subtle movement. The shells were certainly beautiful and were a rare sight in their own right.

The thought and attention given to the collection and display of the shells was evident in every detail and every sparkle.

Aonung examined it thoughtfully, his eyes closed in a long, silent pause as he absorbed what he saw.

"They're uneven," he finally stated, his voice clear and precise.

Ayom's shoulders stiffened, and his face fell into an unhappy expression. "What?" he whispered, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"Three of them are chipped along the edge," Aonung stated, holding up one shell to reflect the light and show the faint, almost imperceptible chip along its edge. "And look at the spiral pattern. The largest shells are placed in the center, which is good, as it draws the eye. But the color progression isn’t consistent. And by color alone, you should have placed them in an arrangement so that the progression of color would naturally move from one to the next."

Ayom stared at his collection in dismay, his ears folding back. "I didn’t— I thought—"

"The pattern is wrong," Aonung stated softly, his voice final. He re—wrapped the kelp bundle with precise care and then handed it back to Ayom. "She’ll notice. She notices everything."

Ronawl adjusted his position, making a small, calculated movement as he positioned himself more firmly in his stance. "Mine aren't chipped. I've looked at each one."

Aonung turned his eyes slowly to Ronawl, making a pause in the space between them as he regarded his companion.

Ronawl did not back down, standing his ground as he met Aonung's eyes, his jaw clenched firmly as his tail betrayed his nervousness by a small twitch.

"Yours are pink." Aonung stated, his voice flat and even but laced with innuendo.

"...Yes," Ronawl replied, his single word heavy with implication and a touch of defensiveness.

"She received a pink shell this morning. From Kiran. She's wearing it on her wrist," Aonung said, his voice as flat as glass as he spoke. "A second pink shell, from a second hunter, will be unoriginal. Uncreative. Unable to be bothered to look for something she might like instead." The sharp tone he used to accuse Ronawl cut through the space like a knife.

Ronawl's jaw clenched at the accusation, his misgiving turning into resolve as he spoke. "I spent two days looking for those shells," he said, obviously exaggerating, his voice low and beseeching as he appealed to Aonung to understand what he was saying.

"And yet, another person managed to find the pink shells quicker." Aonung inclined his head, his movement measured and ritualistic, cold and calculated, which made the gesture seem all the bigger and more deliberate. "Which is it, then? Was it your inefficiency, your slowness, or your unoriginality?"

Ronawl's ears drooped back against his head, and he stood with his fingers white—knuckled and taut as he grasped the bundle, the fibers of the material squeaking softly under his pressure.

Ayom, who had been observing with a measured distance, had already taken a half—step back, his tail low and cautious.

Aonung observed them with interest, drinking in the details of their offerings, the shine of hopeful faces, their desperate, clumsy efforts to reach for something they had no right to. Something that was not theirs to take.

“Do you think you can give her shells? Do you think you can stand before her with your polished stones and your well—rehearsed words and somehow manage to conjure up a smile from her? Do you think you are worthy of that smile?”

His voice dropped to a low, cold pitch as he continued, “She is at the eastern platform. Tsireya is with her."

The boy’s eyes darted forward with interest.

"But you are not going to the east."

"What?" Ronawl’s voice was careful. “Why not?"

Aonung moved forward, not aggressively, but with the intent to bridge the space between himself and Ronawl. His presence dominated the walkway, his shoulders wide and his eyes unyielding. Ronawl and Ayom took an involuntary step or two back.

“Because you have nothing to offer her that she needs. Pink shells. Blue shells. Woven trinkets and ornaments and objects that will sit on a shelf and collect dust." His voice was low, steady, utterly devoid of warmth “She fixes nets. She calms frightened ilu. She recognizes a change in the tides before anyone else does. She figures out problems. She fixes things.”

His eyes moved steadily back and forth between them, "What have you ever fixed for her?"

Neither Ronawl nor Ayom had an answer to this.

"She does not need your presents. She does not need your admiration. She does not need you standing before her, stumbling over words about shells and colors and how pretty her eyes are. She needs nothing from you."

Another step forward, and they stepped back, retreating a little space between themselves and Aonung.

"So you will not go to the eastern platform. You will not present your presents. You will not waste her time with presents she will graciously accept and thoughtlessly discard."

His words sharpened, taking on an edge that was almost a threat but not quite. "And you will not look at her again."

Ronawl went white. Ayom's ears folded flat to his skull. The presents they carried seemed to shrink to absurdly small proportions.

"I don't—" Ronwal started, his voice rough from disbelief, “You can't—"

"I can." His eyes never left Ronawl's face. "I am the future Olo'eyktan. You will do as I say. You will do what I say. You will not ignore my orders and explain to my father why you chose to disobey the orders of his heir."

Silence stretched out between Ronawl and Ayom. Ronawl chewed his jaw but did not say anything.

Ayom had already turned away, his shoulders hunched in a familiar crouch, holding the blue—tipped shells close to his chest as if their weight could anchor him.

Ronawl stood there a further heartbeat, then, as if a burden had fallen upon him, his shoulders slumped once more.

Both of began to walk away.

Aonung stood there, watching them go. Their footsteps blended into the general noise of the village, the click of tools, the distant laughter, the low murmur of voices.

He stood alone on the weathered wooden walkway. The morning light was abnormally bright, almost uncomfortably so, as it painted the world with a crisp clarity.

had done the right thing.

Right?

The walk back to Miral’s own marui was quiet, softly so, and it wasn’t a quiet that pressed in on her chest and made her feel like screaming in frustration and disappointment.

No, it wasn’t that kind of quiet. Her feet padded softly along the woven pathways, and her tail hung a little lower back behind her, as if it were also relaxing into the quiet.

In the distance, the evening meal was being prepared. A stray scent of roasted fish and the sweetness of tubers wafted through the air, borne on a lazy and wandering breeze.

But she wasn't hungry.

The “special day” had come and gone, and Tsireya’s bold experiment had fizzled out into nothingness. Ronawl and Ayom had failed to show up, Kiran’s bracelet still rested on her wrist, a little askew, a little pink—tinged, and not quite right. And the eastern platform was bare and untouched, as if the events of the day had never occurred there at all.

After countless of resurgence to Tsireya that it was okay and she did not need to apologize, in a way, she ought to have been more disappointed.

Maybe it was just the weight of fatigue that had worn her hopes down to a dull resignation.

Her marui finally came into view, the familiar woven curtain of the entrance swaying gently in the evening breeze. She pushed it aside and entered, the familiar scent of rope and fiber and home enveloping her warmly.

The basket was there.

Sitting on her work mat, perfectly centered, the handle facing the door. The fish had vanished, the sign of a meal already eaten, cold and a little complaining in its absence, but the basket itself was there, clean and empty.q

She stood and simply looked at it.

Aonung had said he would carry it, taking it from her hands without asking. He had shouldered that burden for half the village, he had carried it all the way here and set it gently on her mat, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it belonged to him as much as it belonged to her.

She smiled.

It was such a small thing, almost unimportant. A simple basket. Not large, not heavy & anyone could have carried it, easy for a passerby or a neighbor to lift and move. Yet he had insisted, stubborn and silent, refusing to let go of the momentary concession of help.

His grip on the handle was unnaturally tight, as if the basket were a fragile thing that might shatter if he loosened his hold even a fraction. And every time she looked at him, his tail flicked, quick and involuntary, a small, almost nervous motion that betrayed a tension he wasn’t ready to name.

Aonung.

She found herself thinking again about his face this morning, about the little patterns that lingered there after the exchange. The way his jaw tightened when she mentioned Kiran's bracelet, a subtle clench that spoke louder than words.

The way his gaze kept straying to her wrist, to the crooked pink shell, an accessory that carried its own stubborn history and how it seemed to irritate him as if the object itself had taken up a personal stake in their conversation.

She pondered the way he’d said, “It’s the wrong color”—not with cruelty, not with mockery, but with a quiet certainty. It wasn’t a taunt, it wasn’t meant to wound or insult.

It was simply a statement of fact, as if he knew in a way that felt undeniable, even to her, that there was a color that would suit her better than any other, a hue that would settle over her in the most fitting, unspoken way.

She thought about his hands. The roughness of the calluses that lived on his palms. The way he’d carefully, precisely, picked up the basket from her, as though it were something delicate, something valuable, something he wanted to make sure didn’t wobble or spill.

Her fingers brushed against the handle, still somehow warm from his grasp, as though lingering there a fraction of a second longer than they should have.

She knew exactly what she should do. Put it away. Set it aside, hang it on its hook (although she desperately needed a new one), and pretend she could forget about it.

She leaned forward slightly, intending to pick it up again—

And then she froze, halfway through the motion.

Something underneath it. It wasn't hidden nor concealed. It was merely placed. Centered on her work mat, as carefully as though someone had set it there with an intention, with a purpose.

A hook.

Black obsidian, shiny with a deep, watery sheen. The curve was smooth, precise, with a cutting edge sharp enough to hold, rounded enough to feel comfortable. A length of braided cord, strong, even, with each loop deliberately woven, passed through a small hole drilled with precise, careful accuracy.

She did not immediately reach for it. She simply stood there, regarding it, her mouth slightly ajar as she took it all in.

Her mind was slow, almost as if it had a life of its own, taking in all the details with meticulous care. The smoothness of the polish, the precision of the curve, the braiding of the cord was tight, even, with equal tension from end to end.

The cord. Familiar.

She had seen it before. On a hunting knife Aonung had repaired for one of the elders. On a spear Aonung had returned to a novice, the shaft wrapped with new cord, Aonung’s work neat, precise, unmistakably Aonung’s.

Aonung.

Her hands seemed to move before her mind really grasped what she was doing. She picked up the hook.

It felt right. Not too heavy for what she used currently, yet not so heavy that it would be cumbersome. And it felt perfectly balanced.

It wasn’t something that had been thrown together. It wasn’t something that someone who had thrown it together that morning would use.

It was something that had taken time. Patient time. Deliberate time. From someone who knew exactly what she needed, and wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than perfect.

Her thumb ran over it again. Smooth, without any bumpy areas or irregularities. Someone had sanded and polished and inspected it, multiple times, until every aspect of it sparkled with perfection.

It seemed to radiate a warmth that wasn’t just from the afternoon sun coming through the curtain and falling on the obsidian. There was something more, as if someone had held it, or touched it, or considered it, or—offer it.

He had come here. He put the basket and—

He put that underneath. His gift. His work. His hands, leaving a sign of himself.

And then he left.

She looked at the entrance curtain. She looked at the hook in her hands. She looked at the empty space where he must have stood, alone, thinking.

He left.

Why did he leave?

Her jaw set. Her hands closed tight around the hook. She knew him. She knew the way his handsworked when he was focused. She knew the way he examined his work over and over until it was perfect. She knew the way he said nothing when what he said from his heart said everything.

She knew that he had worked on that for weeks. She knew that he had carried it with him, waiting for the right moment. She knew that he stood inside her marui, alone, and put that underneath her basket like he was afraid to let her see it.

He’s afraid.

The future Olo'eyktan shuddered at the thought of what she might say.

He was afraid of her.

Miral’s chest felt as though something was pressing against her lungs, a dull pain that would not go away.

Her eyes went back to the hook. She examined it again, the careful curve, the way the edge had been honed to an exact sharpness, the way the cord had been braided with a patience she hadn’t known he possessed, the kind of patience that had apparently elapsed in him, slowly and almost unnoticed, until it had become part of his very craft.

He saw her.

He saw the details she hadn’t told him about. He saw that her hook was too light, not heavy enough to do what she hoped to do. He saw that she needed a sturdier, more capable one. He saw all of this and, without being asked to do so, without expecting anything in return, he did what needed to be done and fixed it himself.

He saw her, and because of what he saw, he left something behind, this small act of kindness and care, because he did not know how to stay.

He did not know how to be in her presence, not with her in the same world, not with the same horizon between them.

She held the obsidian in her hand and felt its smooth surface respond to her touch.

The sun was sinking, casting a softer, dusty gold over the village as it settled into the evening. He would find a place to be alone, somewhere quiet and alone, a corner where he thought no one would look for him.

And he was mistaken.

She would find him.

The paths of the village were quiet, the evening stillness descending like a soft blanket over Awa’atlu. The shadows grew longer as the sun set, and a quiet stillness enveloped the community, with the familiar sound of the day winding down.

In the central area of the maruis, fires burned, sending warm, golden glows dancing across the surface of the water. The sound of carefree laughter carried by the children faded into quiet echoes as the villagers settled into the evening, exchanging quiet tales and rituals to mark the end of the day.

Miral walked purposefully, her feet moving lightly but quickly over the paths. The obsidian hook seemed to hover in her hand, clenched like a talisman to steady her heart. Her breathing was steady, calm, as she walked.

Her first destination was the training rings. The sand was smooth, raked flat and ready for the next day’s training, but empty now, waiting for the return of the warriors.

Next, she went to the pit of the day’s labor, where the fires had burned out. Tsireya and Lo’ak sat close together, their heads bent over a small piece of wood, but Ao’nung was not there.

She glided past the hunters’ platform, where spears stood at ready against the rails, lined up in their usual, orderly fashion. He wasn’t sharpening spears, as he sometimes did when seeking solitude.

The southern part of the village seemed to beckon her, its narrower path partially hidden by hanging vines that swayed gently in the evening breeze. This path led to a small platform on the village’s edge, where thick mangrove roots plunged downward into the sea, creating a natural, half—sheltered observation platform.

And that’s where she found him. Ao’nung sat at the far end, back to the village.

His tail remained stationary beside him, yet stationary in a way that suggested he was forcing it to stay that way, forcing it to remain immobile and silent, to betray him as little as possible.

He had been looking out over the water, which was darkening by the minute, and yet a smaller obsidian hook, probably a testing piece, had been balanced across his knuckles, rolling back and forth from finger to finger in a smooth, hypnotic motion.

The wooden platform rocked and creaked in protest as she put her foot down onto it, every inch of the wooden planks responding to her weight. He did not turn to look at her, he kept his eyes trained out over the horizon, out over the dark, turbulent mixture of water and sky.

But his shoulders had tensed, just a little, just enough to suggest it without actually moving. It was as if the tension had rolled across his skin like a wave about to crash, about to come to the surface.

She waited, standing her ground and letting the moment hang between them, letting the silence build and grow thick around them. And then, finally, his voice cut through it, low and rough

“You found It too soon.”

She took a step closer, allowing the space between them to close until it seemed closer than it had been before. “You left it under my basket. You wanted me to find it,” she said, speaking softly but surely.

He laughed, a short, bitter sound, but still did not look at her, his head still averted, still not meeting her gaze. “I wanted to leave it. Not explain it to you.”

Miral sat down beside him, close enough for their arms to touch, the warmth of his skin against hers contrasting with the cool, salt—tinged breeze blowing off the water.

She sat down on the mat, its yielding surface giving way beneath her, and set the hook between them, its black stone glowing softly in the fading light of day.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “You clearly spent weeks on it.”

His face still did not turn to hers, but his fingers continued to rotate the smaller hook, small, almost ritualistic motions.

“I spend weeks on a lot of things. It doesn’t mean anything,” he said, his voice flat, almost detached.

“It means something to me,” she said, and the words seemed to hang in the space between them.

His hand paused, the rolling motion stopping.

She watched the side of his face, the tight line of his jaw, the way the muscle flexed every time he swallowed, the tiny tremble at the corner of his mouth, a tremble that gave him away.

His ears pulled slightly backward, a reaction when he felt cornered, trapped, when he knew there was no way out, every second of it completely intolerable.

“Why didn’t you give it to me yourself?” she asked, her voice dropping, inviting him to speak without judgment.

He breathed out through his nose, the sharp exhale full of irritation and frustration, more so than words alone were capable of conveying. “Because I’m an skxawng.”

“That’s not an answer.” Though her voice was calm and unruffled, the raise of her eyebrows betrayed her skepticism.

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you looked at Kiran when he gave you that bracelet.” His words were laced with sarcasm and irritation, more so than he’d intended to let them be. “Oh, wonderful, another bauble. Thanks so much.”

Miral paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in concern as she processed his words. “I didn’t look at him any particular way.”

“You smiled. You thanked him. You wore the damn thing.” He still refused to turn to her, his voice dropping even lower as sarcasm and defensiveness built up as barriers. “Must have been the high point of your day, getting a crooked bracelet from someone who probably tripped over his own tail to deliver it to you.”

“I was being kind.”

“I don’t want kind.” He finally snapped, though his face stayed turned away, as if meeting her gaze would make things worse. ‘I don’t want polite. I don’t want you to accept it just because you’re nice. I want—’ He cut himself off, jaw clenched so hard she heard the teeth click, his ears flattening further.

She waited, the silence stretching between them, the water lapping softly below.

“I want you to want it. Because it’s from me. Not because Tsireya told you to go along with her ridiculous Sky Person holiday and collect pity gifts from losers who don’t know the first thing about you.’

Miral’s throat moved, and her grip on the hook tightened.

Then she reached out slowly and covered his hand with hers. The smaller hook was still between his fingers, now it rested between both of their palms.”

“you shouldve gave it to me sooner” she said. “If I had known, I would’ve used it. Not the bracelet. Not the pin. This.”

He stood stock still. Not a single breath escaped him for a moment that stretched long and quiet. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Why didn’t you just say something? You’ve had two whole years.”

“Because I’m a coward,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Future Olo’eyktan, afraid of a little rejection. Pitiful, isn’t it?”

“That’s not an answer either.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he snapped back, still not turning to face her, his voice carrying that sharp, bitter edge. “What, you want me to spell it out? Fine. Every time I tried to open my mouth, I imagined you laughing in my face. Or worse—being kind about it. ‘Oh, Ao’nung, that’s sweet, but no thanks.’ I’d rather eat raw akula guts.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He snorted, laced with sarcasm. “Lucky me. The great Miral deigns to sit with the idiot who can’t even give a gift right.”

That irritated her.

She dropped his hand, and then she touched her own to his chin, tilting his head up until their faces met. His eyes opened wide, as if shocked by the sudden closeness. A flush began to creep up his throat, changing the color of his turquoise skin to a pinkish hue, but still, he stood rigid, jaw set, ears flat, as if ready to fight.

And then she kissed him.

It was a fast, angry sort of kiss, as if she meant to overwhelm him, to stop any argument dead in its tracks by sheer force of will.

Ao’nung stood stock still, his breath caught in his chest, his tail bristling behind him. For a long time, he did not move, as if his mind had simply stopped functioning, as if he were frozen in place, the blush spreading over his cheeks until it glowed brightly, even in the poor light.

But then, suddenly, he seemed to come to life, turning into her kiss with a slow, tentative faith as his other hand came up to cup the back of her neck.

His fingers shook, not quite steady, but as he kissed her, his head tilting, his tongue slipping past her lips, as if worried that if he moved too fast, he would shatter something delicate.

Did he die and this was heaven?

His thumb caressed the soft skin behind her ear, while his other hand remained beneath hers. Miral smiled against his mouth.

Ao’nung exhaled, a long, relieved breath that seemed to vibrate between them, and pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist to pick her up onto his lap without breaking the kiss.

Miral moved once again in his lap, slow and deliberate, pressing her hips down in a lazy, unhurried circle that dragged her heat right along the thick ridge of him.

The friction brought a low groan from his throat before he could even catch it, a sound he barely managed to suppress. His hands tightened their grip on her waist, fingers digging in just enough to lock her in place for a heartbeat, a brief, necessary pause.

“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice a little rougher than usual, as if the syllables came with a rasp and a warning. “Don’t do that.”

She smiled against his mouth, sweetness and mischief mingling in her expression, and rolled again, slowly, letting him feel every inch of the deliberate pressure she applied.

Ao’nung’s breath hitched, stuttering in his chest. His tail lashed once behind him, then curled around her calf with a careful, almost desperate need for an anchor.

“Fuck—stop moving,” he said, the request a half—plea, half—order escaping in a ragged breath. He shifted beneath her, trying to find a position that wouldn’t leave him teetering on the edge of losing it right there.

His hips twitched upward involuntarily, chasing the contact, as if craving a steadier angle to hold him in place.

Miral emitted a soft, breathy laugh, and moments of sheer delight spilled from him, but in that, too, he felt a dangerous edge.

With a fluid motion, he lifted her, his muscular arms flexing as he began to shift their positions, and they did so smoothly that the change seemed almost seamless.

She settled back onto her back, and the mat yielded beneath her, its softness releasing a quiet sigh, and then his body began to descend over hers. He braced himself on his forearms so that he would not crush her.

He looked at her, her hair fanned out on the mat, her lips parting as if she were breathing more heavily than usual, her cheeks flushed that soft violet color that appeared only when she was worked up.

His eyes dropped to her wrist, to the crooked pink shell bracelet that Kiran had given her that morning, and something hot and possessive began to build in his chest, something that settled there with a heavy, intense awareness.

Without saying a word, he cupped her wrist in his hand, softly but firmly, and pulled the bracelet off of her skin

He held the bracelet up, raising it in a slow, almost ritualistic motion, studying it as if it had personally offended him by its very existence, and then released it, allowing it to fall from his fingers and splash into the shallow water below with a soft, metallic plink, a sound which seemed to echo for a moment before it faded into nothingness.

“See? You really hate that thing,” Miral said, a laugh escaping her lips, a sound full of light, surprise, and joy all mixed together.

“Yeah, I hate anything on you unless it’s mine,” he said, his voice flat and practiced, though a faint flush rose into his cheeks, and his ears flicked backward, betraying his unease at the sentiment.

He leaned into her, bending to kiss the inside of her wrist, slow and unhurried, his tongue tracing a path over the spot where the bracelet had rested.

He continued to ascend, placing lingering kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner arm, then tracing up to her shoulder before easing down the slope of her neck.

She tilted her head back to give him space, a soft "mmh" escaping her lips as his mouth found the delicate spot just beneath her ear.

He sucked gently, his tongue brushing over the skin, and she gasped softly small and needy, her fingers tightening in his braids.

“Like that?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

“Yes—” another kiss, open—mouthed and wet, right over the thudding pulse in her neck. “Ao’nung—”

His quiet groan at hearing his name spoken in her mouth sent a shiver through him as he shifted downward.

His lips traced a path across her collarbone, delivering slow, deliberate kisses, his tongue tracing the fragile ridge of bone. She arched slightly, her breasts pressing into his chest, and he seized the moment, kissing down the center of her sternum. His hands slid beneath her top, nudging it upward and off.

Miral’s breath hitched. “Ao’nung…”

“Mmm. So fucking pretty,” he muttered, almost to himself. He lowered his head to kiss the swell of one breast, soft and reverent, then enveloped the nipple with his mouth.

He applied a slow suction, his tongue circling the peak in lazy spirals before giving it a gentle flick, prompting her to arch and moan softly.

“Ah—Ao’nung—”

He hummed against her skin, the vibration traveling straight through her. “I love that sound. Keep making it.”

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same slow and meticulous attention as before, but now drawing harder on the nipple, his teeth scraping just enough to make her gasp, then soothing the sting with the warmth of his tongue.

One hand stayed resting on her waist, the thumb making slow, circular motions on the soft skin there, while the other hand moved down along her side, exploring the gentle curve of her hip.

Miral’s fingers snagged in his braids, pulling gently in a light, flirtatious manner. “You’re—mm—teasing.”

“Me?” He raised his head, a smirk dancing across his lips as he glanced at her, smug and flushed and hungry—eyed. “You’re the one who started rubbing up on me like that. I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

He explored further, moving lower, his mouth open and wet as he kissed along her ribs, then down to the soft expanse of her stomach.

His tongue darted into her navel, and she let out a shaky laugh that quickly turned into a sigh as he nipped the sensitive flesh just below it.

“Ao’nung—please—”

He looked up at her, the weight of his gaze settling on her as he regarded her with a slow, deliberate interest. His eyes were heavy—lidded, the familiar smug look still present, “Please what?” he asked, his voice low, as though he savored the tension of the moment.

Miral’s breathing was short, quick puffs, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a rhythm that spoke of repressed nerves and heightened senses.

The starlight danced across her skin, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, and causing the tiny glowing freckles on her cheeks to flicker, like reef lights twinkling in a quiet underwater current.

Her long, black hair had spilled out everywhere, half of it cascading across the mat, half of it tangled around her shoulders, and a few damp strands still clinging tenaciously to the curve of her neck.

She looked like a wreck, her lips swollen from the kiss, her eyes glassy and dark, her pupils blown wide enough to swallow almost all of the color that normally defined them.

“Please…” Her words were no more than a breathy whisper, soft and trembling, and had a quality to them that seemed almost to be a sigh on her lips. “Please touch me. I need you.”

The weight of it settled on Ao’nung’s chest with a sudden and startling clarity, as though Eywa herself had reached down and put a warm, comforting hand over his heart.

He had spent years waiting for a moment just like this one, for her to look at him with that look of need and longing, her words trembling just a little, asking for him.

He felt chosen. He felt blessed. He felt as though the Great Mother herself had decided that he was worthy to have her.

His throat worked, and he drew a breath, sitting up evenly though still towering over her, his knees bracketing her hips.

He inclined his head a little to look at her more closely, at the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, at the way the color rose on her cheeks, and at the way her lip went between her teeth as she tried to hold back another little whine of need.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice low and steady and full of reverence. “Ask me nicely.”

Her hands rose to his arms, and she curled them over his biceps. “Ao’nung, please. Touch me. I want your hands on me.”

He exhaled a soft, trembling breath, close to a laugh, a moan, and a combination of all three, before reaching down to deal with the knots at her hips.

His hands moved with quiet determination, steady, though careful, as he began to untie her with infuriating slowness. The rope loosened, sliding down her thighs, pooling around her ankles, as it came into contact with the night air.

The cool air caressed her newly exposed skin, and she shivered, her thighs coming together instinctively. Before she could even begin to make any sort of whine, though, his hand slipped into place between her legs.

His finger slipped inside her, moving with slow, languid ease, feeling her warmth, her moisture, as it slid in with no hesitation whatsoever.

She gasped, her hips rising up towards him, as her inner muscles fluttered around that single digit, as though they were attempting to draw him in further.

Ao’nung's smile was soft, smug, and perfectly content as he leaned forward, pressing a light, reassuring kiss to her forehead. “There you go,” he murmured against her forehead, his breath warm against her skin. “it's as though you've been waiting as long as I have.”

He added another finger, slowly curling them, tracing that soft, sensitive place inside her in slow, deliberate movements, while his thumb danced feather—light circles on her clit.

Miral emitted a moan, high and sweet, a sound that flew through the night air. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, her nails digging in enough to leave a sting that matched the level of the moment.

“Ao’nung, oh.. right there—”

He kissed her temple, then moved to the bridge of her nose, and finally, to the corner of her mouth, soft little kisses that stood in gentle contrast to the slow, deep motion of his fingers inside her. “That’s it. Let me hear you. I love the way you sound when you’re falling apart for me.”

Her hips lifted in a slow, exploratory motion to meet the touch of his hand, pressing forward as if to pursue some form of pressure building within her. A shiny layer formed on his hands, glistening and sliding down toward his wrists.

He felt everything within her, every flutter, every clench, every way in which her body grasped him as he found the exact position and pressure with his fingers.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he breathed, his voice heavy with an almost reverent awe. “So flushed and shaking. I’ve been dying to see you fall apart. I’ve been dying to be the one who makes you do it.”

Miral’s head went back further, her moan almost inaudible as he made slow, deliberate circles around her clit with his thumb, his other fingers working in and out of her in a smooth, measured motion. “Ao’nung, please, more—”

He kissed her jaw, lingering on the vulnerable skin just beneath her ear, breathing in the scent of salt and warmth and the floral tang of the oil she’d applied to her skin that morning. “More?” he asked, his voice soft and mocking. “Oh, you’re so greedy. Do you want my mouth too?”

Miral slowly opened her eyes, and the first thing that met her gaze was his face. A spark of amusement danced in her expression, and a tender look crossed her face as she began to slowly push herself up, moving up onto her knees with unhurried movements.

She moved slowly, each movement relaxed, her hands landing on his shoulders as she steadied herself. Her fingers pressing lightly into the firm muscle there,

the night air brushed against her thighs as she shifted to straddle him. The touch was cold at first, and then it began to have that faint, teasing tingling that danced across her skin.

her long black hair falling forward like a silken curtain, brushing his chest in soft, tickling strands that carried the faint scent of sea blooms.

“Why don’t you find a better use for that mouth of yours,” she teased, her voice kind and light, laced with humour as she leaned in to kiss him before he could respond.

Her lips met his, parting slowly to let her tongue flick against his, tasting the faint salt lingering from the day, the kiss turning deeper as she nipped his lower lip gently.

Ao’nung let out a breath that almost sounded like a groan, and his hands rose up, settling at her waist. His large hands spread wide over the curve of her hips, fingers inserting just enough to pull her closer, to hold her against him.

The heat of her core pressed to his abdomen through the thin fabric, sending a jolt through him. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against hers in a slow, wet tangle, saliva mingling as he sucked lightly on her lower lip, drawing a soft sigh from her.

Without breaking the kiss, he reached up with one hand, fingers finding the pale blue pin tucked in her hair.

He tugged it free slowly, the small ornament slipping from his grasp to clatter softly on the mat beside them. His hand moved to the back of her head immediately, fingers threading into her hair at the nape, holding her steady as he angled her just right, controlling the kiss with a gentle firmness that made her melt against him.

Miral’s free hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the tie of his loincloth with deliberate slowness, tugging the knot loose with agonizing patience. The fabric whispered against his skin as it fell open, the cool night breeze hitting his exposed length in a rush that made him twitch, the heat of him throbbing against her inner thigh now, slick with the first bead of pre—come.

She wrapped her palm around him, stroking once from base to tip, feeling every vein pulse under her touch.

She positioned herself over him, the slick heat of her core brushing the head of his cock, teasing without sinking down yet, the contact electric, hot and wet, making them both shiver.

she sank down slowly, taking him in with a soft, drawn—out moan. Her walls fluttering around his thickness as she adjusted, the heat of her enveloping him like velvet, slick and tight, every ridge of him dragging against her sensitive nerves.

The fullness made her tremble, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily, sending a jolt through both of them, the wet heat coating him completely, dripping down in warm trickles that made the slide even smoother.

Ao’nung broke the kiss with a catch of breath, his head falling back slightly, eyes squeezing shut as he groaned, “Miral—” He moaned, hips jerking up once instinctively, making Miral chuckle softly.

She started moving, slow rolls of her hips at first, rising up just enough to feel the drag, then sinking back down with a soft gasp.

Her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage, nails digging into the firm muscle, feeling his heartbeat thunder under her palms, the faint sweat blooming on his skin making her grip slip just a little.

“Ao’nung, mm..it feels so good—” she moaned, voice soft and breathless, picking up a steady rhythm, hips rolling in slow circles that made him curse under his breath.

He watched her, eyes fixed on her face, the way her lips parted on each moan. One hand slid up her side, cupping her breast, thumb brushing the nipple in time with her movements. “That’s it, keep going like that. You’re doing so good, taking me so deep.”

She whimpered, leaning down to kiss him, the taste of salt and heat mingling, tongues sliding together in the same slow rhythm as her hips.

“Ao’nung, faster? Please—” she gasped against his lips, her pace faltering as the pleasure coiled tighter.

He gripped her hips, lifting her slightly, then pulling her down harder. “Like this? You want it deeper?” his voice sounded mocking.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop—” Her moans grew louder, body trembling slightly before she started to tire, the burn in her thighs building, her rhythm slowing despite the desperate need coiling tighter in her belly. She whimpered softly, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his, breaths coming in quick pants. “Ao’nung, I can’t—”

He smirked up at her, smug, satisfied, but his eyes were soft, hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “Let me take over, yeah?”

In one smooth motion, he flipped them, her back hitting the mat again with a soft thud, him settling between her legs without pulling out. The shift drove him deeper, making her gasp, the fullness overwhelming all over again.

He braced on his forearms, caging her, and started moving, slow at first, then building, hips rolling in deep, powerful strokes that hit every spot inside her.

“Mm. You feel so good—” he groaned, burying his face in her neck, breathing her in as he picked up pace.

she moaned, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

His thrusts turned rougher, deeper, the mat creaking beneath them, “That’s it, let me hear how much you love it, fuck, you’re tight—”

She came first suddenly, walls clenching around him in hot pulses, slick flooding in warm waves, her cry soft and broken as pleasure crashed through her.

He followed seconds later, slamming deep one last time, spilling inside her with a low groan, hips jerking as he filled her completely, the warmth spreading through both of them in thick, hot pulses.

Aonung laid down forward, forearms giving out like they’d been holding up the whole reef and flopped fully on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mat with a soft oof that escaped her lips.

His face rested against the curve of her neck, pressed in and lingering there. His breathing came warm and uneven against her skin, tracing soft, irregular rhythms that drifted with each shallow inhalation.

His hands, which had been so confident and driven just moments before, now lay slack at his sides, his fingers loosely curled into the fabric of the mat beneath them. His entire body felt like a dead weight, completely relaxed.

A small smile curved her lips, and her fingers found his hair with a light touch.

It proved softer than she had anticipated. The strands slid through her fingers like water. She combed through it slowly and gently, working out the small tangles with patient, careful strokes. The texture coarser at the roots, smooth and silky toward the ends, the kind of hair that would probably be nearly impossible to manage if he ever allowed it to grow any longer.

He emitted a sound, a tiny, involuntary hum of contentment that vibrated against her skin and seemed to convey his ease without words.

She directed a smile toward the stars. “You like that.”

“No.” The reply came muffled, barely above a whisper, and it lacked conviction.

“You just made a noise,” she pointed out, almost teasingly.

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

From this angle, his ears were just within view, and they flushed a deep violet at her remark. He didn’t say anything in return, but his arms tightened around her slightly, drawing her even closer despite the fact that there was already barely any space left between them.

[viscardiac]

AVATAR: FIRE AND ASH (2025)

[maaeveeee]

Spider shouldn't die and it's not his fault for Neteyam’s death. I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL.

I’ve seen so many posts and comments wishing Spider had died instead of Neteyam or blaming him for Neteyam’s death, and it’s genuinely wild because it ignores literally everything the movies tell us.

First off, Neteyam himself doesn’t blame Spider orr anyone else for his death. in the early Fire and Ash footage, Neteyam’s spirit straight up tells Lo’ak “it’s not your fault.” If Neteyam isn’t pointing fingers at Lo’ak (who went back for Spider), he’s not blaming Spider either.

Spider didn’t betray the Sullys—he refused to give up their location, even when it meant pain. DID YOU FORGET THIS?

Neteyam died because he chose to go back and rescue Spider, knowing the risk after LYLE shot him.

Y'all are GLAZINNGG Lyle but hate Spider and BLAME HIM??

[viscardiac]

AVATAR: FIRE AND ASH (2025)

[viscardiac]

AVATAR: FIRE AND ASH (2025)