bella

Mark let's out a snort of laughter, perching up and resting his weight in his elbows, the edge of his sweater raising the tiniest bit and you catch a peek of a neat, dark little happy trail that disappears beneath the fabric of his clothing.

"I can guarantee an orgasm." Mark boasts. "I'll bet anything."

"If I don't cum, I want you to grow a full bush and then, wear cycling shorts for a week."

Your wager has Mark's lips pursing, chocolate pools moving towards the ceiling as he weighs his options. "Oddly specific but okay." Mark shrugs. "And if you cum, anytime I learn a sex trick, I get to try it on you. Unless you get into a relationship but," he snorts, "let's be realistic."

The insult has you flinging the magazine across the bedroom, hitting Mark in the face with the spine and he winces, although, you know it's more out of habit than from actual feeling.

"It's so weird." He mumbles. "I don't feel your abuse anymore."

Mark's grin is cocky.

"Oh, Marky," you coo, lifting yourself from his desk chair and you cradle his face in your hands, an action that's so familiarly condescending but Mark can't help but lean into your warm palms, "you're only unaffected by the physical abuse. I can still hurt you self-esteem."

Mark's eyes narrow at you. "Try it." There's a challenge in his voice that you just can't ignore. Especially when he's looking at you like that. Brown eyes trained intensely on you, black strands tousled ever so slightly from the long day he's had.

"You have feminine hands." And you swear, the way his expression falls is an aphrodisiac in of itself before you straighten up.

"It's easy to hurt your ego, Marky." You hum. "Heroes get a lot of hate if they do something wrong. But lucky for you, you have years of experience."

"Yeah," Mark hums, "no one's a bigger dick than you."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💛💙୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"It's so weird that you're losing your virginity on your parents' anniversary." You hum quietly, carefully traveling along the sides of Mark's bedroom, attaching the LED light strips along the cornish.

"Don't make it weird." Mark grumbles, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fuzzy robe as he towel dries his hair, messy strands poking in every direction and he watches you with amusement. "Their anniversary is like, the only time when they travel far enough that I can't hear them. So.... It's the only night I can do it."

"They probably don't want you to hear them fucking." You hum, almost absentmindedly and when Mark gags, you let out a laugh and your foot slips from the backrest of his desk chair, and you slip.

But instead of meeting the carpeted floor in an unceremonious crash, you instead crash into Mark's chest, his arms wrapped around your midsection and your knees tucked up. And he dips his head low, head tilted.

"You okay?"

And if your pussy didn't have a heartbeat before, it does now. The way he looks down at you, his expression so soft, brows creased in concern and his lips. So soft and inviting, the scent of mint lingering in the air and you nod your head.

"Mhm," you mutter quietly, "I'm okay."

Mark sets you on your feet, before examining where you had stuck the lights and he nods his head, a grin cocking at his lips.

"Yeah, this is a mood setter."

"Can I open my eyes now?" Mark grumbles, arms folded over his chest but his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones and you let out a hum.

"Go ahead." You mumble and he allows his eyes to open and drink in the sight of you.

Freshly showered, steam still rising from your skin and in his T-shirt. The faded Batman shirt ends just below your crotch, your ankle socks aren't even matching and your hair's tied into a bun that looks so half-assed.

You look nervous. Eyes lowered to the carpet and Mark reaches forward, large hands bracketing your hips and his thumbs brush over the trimming of your panties. And he pulls you to stand between his thighs, his head tips back and his chin comes up to rest on your sternum as he stares up at you.

"We don't have—" "I want to." You interrupt him, your hands raising to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing along his jawline. "I want to." You repeat quietly, looking down at Mark.

The plan is to lose your virginities before the gap year is over. Because you'd both much rather make a mistake with each other than with strangers.

"Move your hand."

Mark lets out a snicker of laughter, your thighs tossed over his and his tip notched at your entrance, and he can barely think.

Not when he knows how tightly you felt around his fingers, sucking him in with such a neediness, not when he saw the way your brows knitted into the prettiest little pinched expression when his tongue lapped against your clit just right.

"I looked at the logistics of it and it's not gonna fit."

You state, and those pretty brown eyes roll at your words, before Mark slaps your hand away, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he taps it against your clit. Just to watch the way your stomach caves in with an unsteady breath.

"It'll fit." Mark reassures. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

And you let out a laugh, your body slumped against the mattress and you snort.

"No you're n—nahh..."

Mark watches the way your head tips back when he pushes his tip past the ring of muscle, and he watches the way your eyes shut, brows knitting into a pinch.

"You little... Fuck.."

You breathe out, your expression a little pouty frown and Mark moves a strand of hair out of your face, leaning forward and as he presses a kiss to your forehead, he pushes another inch inside.

And as you gasp, his lips press against yours, and Mark swallows each moan and groan of pain, his forearm supporting his weight while his other hand grips your hip, thumb brushing over the protruding bone of your hip and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

"You're so warm..." Mark murmurs into the kiss, but he keeps his hips still, slotted between your thighs and he feels your gummy walls pulsing around him, trying to get used to the intrusion. And Mark lifts his head, kissing the apples of your cheeks.

"So I'm big, huh?"

He teases and watching as your pained expression gives way to an annoyed expression, eyes bored and brows furrowed.

"Just fuck me already."

You grumble.

And Mark pulls out, until just the rosy tip of his cock is poked into your sopping cunt, before he slowly pushes back into you.

The stretch burns, and you can feel the way your nails dig into your palms and you take a deep breath. His hips are pressed against yours, and you can feel that painful pinch behind your navel.

"Are you inside yet?" You question, peeking up at Mark through your lashes, enough to watch the way that dorkish grin spread across his face as he readjusts his position, leaning forward and shifting himself to rest more comfortably.

"Ha-ha, very funny." He rolls his eyes, his voice just a tad breathy and his hands move, thumbs moving your pussy lips out of the way, spreading them so he can see the pinkish flesh that swallows him whole.

"Mark!" You hiss, swatting away his hands, and covering your folds from his view. "What are you doing?"

"They do it in porn!" He defends, moving his hands to rest on your hips instead as his hips slowly begin to roll against you, the soft strands of his happy trail tickles your neglected and swollen clit, and you take a shaky breath.

"Those people are ass naked." You deadpan. "You've never even seen my feet."

With one hand, Mark shifts the covers and lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of your socks, still on your feet. And he reaches back for your ankle, lifting your leg and he places a soft kiss on the inside of your foot, causing your walls to flutter around him.

His kiss is warm through the cotton, a lingering show of affection as his hips thrust, cock nudging your insides to his shape. And he lowers your foot.

"Put your foot on my chest. I wanna try something." Mark hums quietly, resting your sock covered foot on his chest. And you let out a snort.

"My pussy isn't a skate park. You can't try things you've never done." You huff, but you comply, keeping your foot against his brawny chest, even as Mark shifts you into position, straddling your one thigh and resting your foot on his chest.

And when he moves, your foot slides off his chest, instead, resting beside him. And a snicker slips past your lips at the frustrated expression on his face.

"Please participate." Mark grumbles, moving your foot, and resting your leg over his shoulder, ignoring the way a laugh ruptures from your lips.

Kiss-swollen and pouty lips curling into a wicked grin.

"Bro said 'please par—'... Shit..."

Your eyes roll back in your head when the divot of Mark's tip presses against your cervix, pressing a sloppy, slick kiss against the plug as he grinds into you, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the curve of your jaw.

Mark isn't even fucking you anymore.

He's slowly rutting into you, pressing adorning kisses to the side of your face, sucking marks into the supple skin of your neck while he slowly fucks an orgasm out of you.

Kissing you deeply, his hand grasping the fat of your hip while the other massages the plumpness of your thigh, pressing a warm kiss against your calf before going back to swallowing your honeyed moans.

"... shit, you're gonna make me come..." You breathe out, your nails dragging lines down the expanse of his muscular and slightly damp back, the pain and pleasure mixing into a delicious concoction that has Mark burying his face into your neck.

Inhaling the scent of you.

"Mhm.... 's okay, baby, come for me..."

His voice is husky, a low timbre that makes your stomach knot and you whine when you feel that wave of ecstasy crash over you, waves breaking on the jagged rocks of your being and you're lashes flutter, tears brimming on your lower lashline because you're just so... Full.

Mark perches up, wiping the teardrops from your cheeks and he looks down at your hazy and flushed expression. His gaze lingering on your lips, wet and rosy, and before he even registers, your hand is on his face.

"Stop making such heavy eye contact." You whine. "You're gonna make me catch feelings."

And a laugh tumbles from his lips.

"You know, I have your entire future in my hands right now." Mark states quietly and when you hum, quietly mumbling a 'how do you mean', he simply presses a kiss against your pulse.

"I could fuck a baby into you right now." Mark breathes out.

"And you'd thank me for it."

Something is wrong.

Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.

Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.

Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.

Bruce didn’t come.

That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.

Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.

That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.

Bruce didn’t need all of them.

Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.

He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.

That should’ve been his first real warning.

Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers. 

You didn't answer.

Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.

You always know what he means.

The phone stays quiet in his pocket.

No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.

Still.

When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.

But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—

That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.

And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.

“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.

The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.

“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.

He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.

Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.

Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”

Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.

That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.

Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”

“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”

The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm. 

Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.

He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you. 

The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.

“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”

Dick finally looks up.

It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.

The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.

Jason turns fully to Damian.

“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”

Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.

“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.

“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”

“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.

The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.

“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”

The batarang whistles through the air.

Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.

Crack.

The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.

Jason stares down at it.

At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.

Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.

It settles on Dick.

“Call Bruce.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger. 

Guilty.

“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”

“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.

This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.

She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.

“…He’s busy,” Cass says.

Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.

Busy.

Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.

His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless. 

Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.

“B,” Jason says.

Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.

Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.

Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.

Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.

His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.

Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.

He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.

He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.

No one stops him.

Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.

The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.

“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

Jason almost laughs.

Instead, his mouth twists.

“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”

“Jason—”

“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”

“Red Hood, just give me—”

“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”

He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance. 

Tim knew Jason would find out. 

Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.

“Red Hood—”

“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”

“JASON—”

Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”

The line goes dead.

Not static. Not interference.

Bruce cut it himself.

Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.

The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.

They look at him like he’s glass.

Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.

Jason doesn’t give them the chance.

“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.

Then he runs.

Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.

His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.

Toward the manor. Toward answers.

Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.

He takes the shorter way.

Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.

And then—

Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.

Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.

Blood.

The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.

Because you’re untouchable.

That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.

It can’t have you.

Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.

He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.

Jason doesn’t bother.

He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.

Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.

It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.

Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.

Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.

The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.

Tonight it only sharpens the edges.

Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.

Jason shoves him.

Hard.

Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.

He doesn’t.

Jason knows he won’t.

“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”

Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.

“…Jason.”

The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.

This is terror.

“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”

Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”

Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.

And the world fractures.

The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.

Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.

You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.

You’re not safe.

You’re not distant.

You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.

You’re real.

You’re fragile.

You’re reachable.

Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

And now—

Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.

The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.

Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.

Jason focused.

Emotional.

Unanchored.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”

Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.

“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”

“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”

The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.

Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.

It isn’t.

“Where is she,” Jason says.

His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.

He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.

“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”

Jason turns his head.

The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”

“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.

Then—he stills.

Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.

“How long,” Jason says.

The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.

Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.

“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”

The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.

He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.

“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”

Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”

Crime Alley.

The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.

Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.

Two hours.

Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.

The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.

Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.

Time has never belonged to him.

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest. 

You would be dying before those kids.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Again.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

The words leave him hollowed out.

Then he’s gone.

The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.

It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.

It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.

Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.

You don’t remember the last five hours.

They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.

You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.

Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.

He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.

And you were right. You always are.

Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.

It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.

It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.

He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient. 

Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.

“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”

You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.

Jason would know what to do.

Jason would make this stop.

The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.

It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.

It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.

The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.

Through it all, you think of Jason.

Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.

Of how he warned you.

Of how he would be here already if he knew.

The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.

You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.

Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.

Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.

A void of sleep.

Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.

A void of sleep.

Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.

A void of sleep.

Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.

A void of sleep.

White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.

A void of sleep.

Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.

A void of sleep.

You wake choking on pain.

Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.

He’s in front of you.

Smiling.

Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.

Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.

“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”

Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.

Jason is coming.

And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.

You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.

Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.

You gag immediately.

Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.

You choke.

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.

Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.

His hand withdraws at last.

Then—

Smack.

Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—

Smack.

The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.

“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.

“Now.”

He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.

“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.

“Okay?”

Nothing comes out.

The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.

His smile thins.

He stands.

The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.

“Answer.”

You try.

Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.

All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong to him.

Crying.

Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.

A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.

Something in your chest caves in.

You don’t even see the crowbar move.

The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.

Your body jerks against the restraints.

Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.

You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.

Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.

“Okay,” you choke out.

The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.

Immediately, the pressure is gone.

The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.

He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.

Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.

“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.

His hands come up next.

Dry. Cracked. Too warm.

He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.

“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”

Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.

He releases your face.

Pats your head once.

The gesture is almost worse than the violence.

“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”

Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.

You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.

“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”

His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.

“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”

“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”

He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.

It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.

Something in you fractures.

Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”

Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear. 

His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.

He ripped her earrings out of her ears. 

Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.

The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.

He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”

He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”

Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.

“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”

His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.

“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”

“Oh, I don’t need money.”

The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.

“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”

You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Jason— Jason will—”

He doesn’t even flinch at the name.

Maybe that’s mercy.

His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”

Then his hands leave you entirely.

He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.

“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Your mind blanks.

Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.

Then—

“Very pretty!”

The voice is behind you.

Too young.

A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”

You feel something inside you tear open.

She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.

Joker’s head snaps toward her.

His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”

There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.

Joker bends down.

The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.

Then he’s gone from your line of sight.

The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.

It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.

There’s a wet, sickening crack.

A sound like meat hitting concrete.

“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”

The crowbar hits again.

You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.

Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.

The camera’s red light blinks again.

Once.

Twice.

It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.

Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.

And then the Joker comes back.

You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.

He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.

“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”

Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.

His smile twitches.

“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.

That seems to irritate him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.

“Oh—”

His eyes light up.

“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”

He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”

Then he turns.

Walks away.

His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.

You’re alone.

One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.

You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.

Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.

“How—”

“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”

Your mouth snaps shut.

And the red light keeps blinking.

The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.

He’s laughing before you even see him.

Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.

A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

The air grows hotter.

Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.

Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.

It doesn’t clang.

It hisses.

The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.

Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.

He’s behind you in the next second.

Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.

“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.

His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.

A ‘𝙹’.

Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.

“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.

In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.

“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”

His hand peels away from your mouth.

Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”

“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”

The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.

“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”

Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.

You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.

“Tell me who you hate.”

The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.

He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.

The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.

You look at the camera.

That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.

You think of Jason.

Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.

You could say his name now.

You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.

Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.

Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.

None of them feel survivable.

Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.

You spit in his face.

It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.

You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.

“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”

His breath stutters.

“You must not have left quite an impression.”

It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.

You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.

You’ve given him a reason.

A reason to prove himself.

A reason to keep you alive.

A reason to make you hurt longer.

His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.

Then the brand descends.

The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.

You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.

Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.

We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.

He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

Leather is good.

Leather is not acid.

Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.

“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.

Instead, the crying breaks harder.

It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong. 

An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—

Jason.

The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.

“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”

“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”

Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”

“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”

Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”

Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”

Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.

Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.

“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”

That breaks him.

His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”

“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”

That does it.

Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.

You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.

Oh.

Was this—

“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.

Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.

A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”

“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.

“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”

“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.

Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.

“She’s not going to die, Tim.”

“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.

Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.

“Got it.”

Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”

“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”

But you’re already slipping.

Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.

After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Drink.”

Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.

He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.

“Hey, I don’t need any—”

Jason looks at him.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.

Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.

The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.

The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.

Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.

Jason doesn’t listen.

He keeps his focus on you.

On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.

You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.

He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.

And that’s the cruel part of it.

Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.

Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.

“Dude—what the fuck—”

“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.

All at once, everyone moves.

Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.

Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.

The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.

“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.

She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...

Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”

“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.

“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”

The Batmobile keeps moving.

Jason breathes.

You breathe.

And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.

You wake up in bed.

Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.

Then you feel him.

Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s breathing.

That fact alone nearly undoes you.

God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

Then you see Bruce.

He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.

When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.

Bruce moves instantly.

“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”

“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”

You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.

“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”

Bruce blinks.

Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.

It doesn’t work.

Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.

Bruce freezes.

You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.

Oh.

You missed Christmas.

What a shame.

After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.

“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”

“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”

It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.

Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.

He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.

“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”

“You let him?” you ask.

Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.

Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”

“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”

Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.

“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”

That’s when Bruce goes still.

Not rigid. Not defensive.

Still.

Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.

Your cheek.

The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred. 

Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.

“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”

You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” you say.

And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.

Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.

“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.

“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”

jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,

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© shisuni all rights reserved

They say love is blind, and oh how you were so blind to not see that this would happen. How foolish you were to ever have a crush on Genya Shinazugawa. Not even your friends understood why you fell for him in the first place.

He was scarred and intimidating, always sticking out in a crowd and failing to fit in among the body of students. You knew as much about him as the person to the left. Whenever you caught a glimpse of Genya he was always by himself. From sitting in the back of class, crouched over his desk and staring into space to leaning against the lockers with the same expression on his face. His lips thinned into a line, looking annoyed with his eyes narrowed and deep in thought.

You shared a few classes with him. Seeing his figure among the crowd was something you grew familiar with. He was always in his own world, separated from what everyone else was doing. It was normal to learn about the people in your class, right? You reasoned it out and continued to watch Genya from afar, taking note of small details about him.

Then, as if the universe heard you, your paths met. Literally.

You slammed straight into him, his elbow hitting your nose as the two stumbled backwards and objects falling. You looked up to be met with his eyes, staring into yours.

The hallways were full to the brim, students pushing and filling in. You didn’t notice Genya exiting class right in front, struggling to stuff all his things inside his bag while merging with the crowd.

“Shit,” he grumbles to himself, trying to gather loose papers that are scattered around you both.

You blink, snapping out of your dazed state. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going-” You blurt. “Is this yours?” You hand him a blue notebook.

“Be more careful next time. And thanks I guess.” The gruff weight in his voice lifted and you could hear a flicker of gratitude.

He quickly zipped his bag shut, entered the moving crowd. You were left there, surprised to see something other than the tough side Genya usually presented.

What would he look like smiling for a change? What would his laugh sound like? Why was he always alone?

Starting from that small interaction he completely took over your brain, your thoughts being constantly filled by him. You were disappointed whenever he was absent, and if he were here you’d spend the class stealing glances at him. Memorizing the way he’d clench his jaw when he was stumped on a question and would tap his foot when feeling impatient. You had special hearing for Genya and would catch every small witty quip he’d say under his breath.

Knowing math wasn’t his strong suit, You’d whisper to him the answers and help him out whenever he struggled. You ranked above Genya and excelled in math. You always carried spare pens and pencils and even those eraser heads things because you noticed he always seems to use up his eraser, making sure not to waste a second of this opportunity.

Tap, tap….

He didn’t notice the first time.

Tap, tap!

Glancing up from his notes, he spies you tapping the edge of his desk. He raises his brow at you, confused at what you could want. Your hand moves to point at what he had written. Genya had written the equation wrong, almost causing him to get the wrong answer. When he notices he quickly erases and fixes it.

He looks back at you. You’re still watching him with a small smile on your lips.

“…thank you.” He whispers quietly.

You give him a thumbs up, smile widening before going back to your own notes.

Those small conversations brought the two of you closer together, connecting your worlds. At least that's what you thought at the time. From what you’d seen he seemed to be a very quiet person so you often started the conversations. You’d arrive to class early because Genya did too, with his older brother being the teacher and all.

Slowly but surely he started to warm up to you. And as the month went by you unlocked the other side of Genya you’d only heard of. He’d make jokes around you and rant about stupid things that would happen to him. Making progress with him filled you with hope and made butterflies dance in your stomach whenever you shared an interaction with him. You always looked forward to your classes with Genya in them.

You were happy when he started catching more attention and making more friends. Hearing him talk about his chaotic day with Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Inosuke and others made you feel so proud of the progress he’d been making. Looking back, you wonder if the reason why he mentioned them so much is because he preferred them.

After enough time had passed and you finally gained the courage, you were finally ready to confess to him. ’Today is the day!’ You thought. The day you’d finally confess your love for him. After writing a horrendously sappy love letter, you felt incredibly giddy. This was it. The moment of truth. You were going to slip the letter into his locker and wait for his reaction the next day. You figured he wouldn’t do well with a face to face confession with how shy he can’t get at certain times, especially around women.

You felt like you were floating as you walked around. As you made it to his locker you could hear voices. Genya was still at his locker, with two of his friends. You stopped, hiding around the corner out of their sight. Waiting for them to leave so nobody would catch you slipping the letter in.

“Did you finish the math homework?” Tanjiro asks, smiling.

Zenitsu groans. “That’s not due today, is it?!”

“Yup. Should’ve worked on it sooner.” Genya says.

“No fair! You’re in math with (name), they’re super smart.”

The blond grumbles. “Bet they help you with all your homework…”

“You and (name) are really close, huh? Are you two together?” As soon as the words come from Tanjiro’s mouth Genya freezes.

Zenitsu perks up. “Oooo~ has the big meanie got a crush on the nerd?”

“Shut up.” Genya hissed, before slamming the locker door shut.

“Them? As if. They’re weird on a whole ‘nother level. I’d never date someone like them.” He says, shooting Zenitsu a sharp glare for suggesting the idea.

Your heart shatters.

You’re standing there, shocked while accidentally eavesdropping on a conversation about you. You can’t breathe properly, your throat tightening in on itself as it’s a fight for air to get in and out of your lungs. One thing for sure, you can’t stay here any longer, and you sure as hell can’t give him the letter.

Twisting on your heel, you bolt in the opposite direction. Running as fast as your legs will take you, so fast that maybe you should sign up for the track team. You ignore all the noises going on around you and that one teacher yelling “be careful!” at you. It’s too late to be careful now, you dived into the deep end only to come out heartbroken.

The rest of the day was miserable, and when you got home you cried your heart out. You don’t know what you did wrong. You shouldn’t of thought you could be the one to soften the outcast. You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up or tried so hard. Genya ended up using you because you were so desperate to get on his good side. He had you wrapped over his finger and you hadn’t even noticed.

You were just a tool to him.

A pathetic weirdo.

You ended up crying so badly your parents mistook your flushed cheeks and sniffling nose as illness and let you stay home from school. If you told your friends they would only say “I told you so,” so for now you kept the information all to yourself. You abandoned the letter and ripped it to shreds in your trashcan. You don’t know what you’re going to do now.

Did you even mean anything to Genya? After everything you learned you don’t know if you could bring yourself to face him. You think over your options. Genya has plenty of friends now, if all you were was a tool for him you’re sure you could easily fade out of his life. You doubt he’d even notice your absence. You’d pretend nothing had ever happened, and save yourself the embarrassment and shame you would’ve gone through.

(Part two soon!)

You and him always arrive to parties late (his fault) and leave parties early (your fault). He’s the center of attention every goddamn time, telling stories to people he just met, his arms slash through the air, people crowd around him, laughing, gasping at every exaggerated detail.

But when he sees you sitting on a couch not too far away from him (for him it feels like miles away), sipping on your drink while you stare at his ass, he shushes all the people, announcing that he has to go back to his partner because he can’t function well without you. 

“Oh my god, Tengen,” you say, with a flustered laugh because you could hear him perfectly. He’s already sat by your side, arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“But I want to,” he says, close to your ear as he leaves kisses on your cheek. “I love the look on your face when I talk about you.”

“You scream about me,” you remind him, squeezing his arm and laying your cheek on his shoulder. 

He notices your little sigh and how your body relaxes when he’s pressed to you. He draws little patterns on your arm, letting you a few moments of physical contact before saying: “Do you wanna go home? These people are boring.”

You lift your gaze, blinking slowly. “You were laughing a few moments ago, Tengen.”

“I was laughing at my own jokes, let’s get out of here.” He grabs your hand, lifting you easily and pulling you across the dancefloor. 

He always knows when you’re done for the night, and when you’re done, he is too.

Tengen has this burst of love and intensity where he lays on top of you, purposefully trapping you below his body because he’s way taller and stronger that you and makes you look straight into his eyes while he tells you: 

“I would die for you,” he declares. “I would burn down entire cities, shatter the heavens themselves if it meant keeping you safe. You are my goddess, my everything. Without you, I am nothing but noise in an empty world.”

You lie there beneath him, used to these sudden storms of his affection. Your hands rest calmly on his back, fingers tracing slow circles over his muscles as he keeps talking, eyes never leaving yours.

“Every breath I take is for you,” he continues, voice rising with passion. “I worship the ground you walk on. You calm the chaos inside me. I would kneel for you, fight for you, live every second like it is my last just to see you smile. My love, my partner, my only peace. Tell me you know how deeply I adore you. Say it.”

A warm flush creeps up your neck and across your cheeks, he is so intense, so extra, turning a simple moment on the couch into something epic and overwhelming. Yet you cannot help but adore him for it.

You meet his eyes without looking away, your voice soft and even. “I know, Tengen. You tell me every day.”

He groans dramatically, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back to trap you with his stare again. “Not enough! Words are never enough for what I feel. I want to shout it from the rooftops until the whole city knows you own me completely. You are the silence I crave after every battle. I would lay down my swords, my pride, my life for one more moment like this with you.”

You smile quietly, sliding your fingers up into his silver hair and tugging gently to settle him. Even pinned under his massive frame, you feel safe, loved in the loud, all-consuming way only he can give. “I love you too, by the way,” you whisper into his hair. “Even when you’re loud as fuck.”

He lifts his head fast, gasping and leaning to fill your face with kisses. You burst out laughing because it tickles, “Tengen!”

“Mm, I love you tooooo,” he sings, now licking your cheeks between kisses.

“Ew! Tengen, you’re gross!” You try to push his face away except you’re not really applying any force, you’re just giggling as he hugs you tighter and kisses you slower, now trapping your lips in a soft and wet kiss.

©️ heesroses 2026

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Then, Rick's truck broke down. Dead battery. Daryl set out looking for one with enough juice to get you home when the first signs of a storm rolled in. Angry dark clouds and cold fat raindrops.

The only place nearby in walking distance was down a long gravel road. It was the smallest, but also the cutest, cabin you'd ever laid eyes on. It only had three rooms, one bedroom with a bathroom, and a large open living area that held a tiny kitchen and a couch with a fireplace.

“Get those windows boarded up.”

Rick was quick to spew out commands after the three of you busted through the front door, all wet and shivering. The wind was so strong it slammed the door closed behind you, blowing the curtains and causing stray paper to fly off their tables.

“Can't!” Daryl shouted. He stood behind you shielding his face from the rain shooting through the broken windows.

That's how you ended up in the bedroom. You sat shivering on the foot of the bed as Rick went through the dresser, looking for clothes to replace the soaking fabric you all wore.

Daryl slid the bedroom vanity in front of the door. He even went as far as to set the armchair on top of it.

“Can we just wait it out?” Your teeth clattered together as Rick tossed you a towel from the closet. You ruffled it in your hair and watched Daryl.

He was standing in front of the only window in the room, his arms crossed and his thumbnail between his teeth.

“Yeah, should ease up soon.” Rick sat on the bed opposite from you, drying his arms and hair with his own towel.

“Naw.” Daryl muttered. He finally turned away from the window and began drying himself. “Gonna be a few hours, at least.”

You furrowed your brows, looking down in your lap. This was quite the predicament. Stuck in a bedroom with two men, one you barely knew and were pretty sure hated you.

The other… Well, you weren't sure what Rick was to you.

Daryl wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong either. The storm did continue for a few hours, but it also didn't show any signs of stopping.

You glanced down at your watch and felt your heart drop. It was seven pm, and the sun would be setting very soon. Not that you could see much outside anyways, the clouds were thick and covered a majority of the sky.

Your voice broke the long streak of silence.

“Are we gonna have to stay here tonight?”

Rick and Daryl had known the answer to that question two hours prior. Neither of them wanted to be the ones to say it, but their lack of direct answers filled you in enough. Rick looked down at his revolver and Daryl continued staring out the window.

“Fuck.” You groaned, sitting back down on the bed. “I promised Maggie we'd watch season two of True Blood tonight.”

“That dog fucker show?” Daryl muttered around his cigarette. He was leaning against the wall next to the window, legs crossed at the ankles, cleaning under his nails with the blade of his knife.

“No Daryl, there's no dog fucking.” You sighed and he just mumbled in response, not looking up from his fingers.

Rick had made himself busy trying to prepare the room for the night.

He'd found a few hurricane lanterns and set two up on the bedside tables, and began anxiously ‘cleaning’. The room only had the bed, dresser, and bedside tables, so there wasn't much he could do besides look in the same drawers over and over.

At some point he went into the small bathroom and shut the door. He stayed there for a couple minutes, doing god knows what.

There were a few clothing items left by the previous owners. Daryl and Rick got some raggedy sweatpants, shirts full of holes that were a little too small for them. You were stuck with a massive piss yellow sweater and the ugliest pair of basketball shorts.

Anything was better than your soaking rags.

The storm had eased up a bit, but that didn't do much in terms of easing your boredom. The sun had long since set, your watch read ten-thirty, and neither man was very talkative.

“I'll take first watch.” Daryl was the first to speak in a while.

“No. I'll do it.” Rick protested. He'd been cleaning his revolver for the last thirty minutes. “I can't sleep anyway.”

“Yeah, well. Neither can I.”

You'd found a box of random items under the bed and had been looking through them while they bickered. A dead Gameboy, random PlayStation controllers, a few comic books, pieces to Monopoly, and an array of broken crayons. There was a pen and a notepad though, so you started drawing a caricature of Daryl.

Angry eyebrows, a cigarette that was half his height in his frowning mouth, and a speech bubble filled with hash tags for explicatives.

“Hey.” You nudged Rick's knee with your elbow. He sat on the bed above where you were, cross-legged on the floor next to your box of bullshit.

He looked down at the paper you showed him, and for the first time that day you saw his lips twitching up into a smirk. His eyes trailed over the paper and he grabbed it from you, bringing it up closer to his face.

“Is that Daryl?” He questioned, and you nodded, a grin splitting across your face.

“That's good.” Rick nodded, shrugging his mouth. “You got a real talent. Looks just like him.”

Daryl was too bored to hide his interest, so he stood from his spot under the bedroom window and walked over to you. He grabbed the notepad from Rick, and you could see his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out your scribbles in the dim lighting.

“Yeah?” Daryl looked up when he heard the two of you stifling giggles and laughter. “Think that's funny? Gimme that.” He snatched the pen from your hands and flipped the page, sitting down on the dresser and scribbling furiously.

The pad was tossed in your lap a minute later. Your eyes widened on the drawing.

It was obviously you. You had on the same sweater, but it went down to your feet instead of your knees, and you were standing beside a cat. The only problem was, the cat was three times taller than you, and you had the ugliest expression on your face. Your mouth hung open and you were nagging the cat about scratching up the furniture. It was based on a scenario that had happened the day before, with your cat back home, Daisy, who you had caught shredding the living room couch.

“Dude, what am I? Two inches tall?” You laughed, handing the paper to Rick. He covered his mouth to hide the smile, but you saw it through his fingers and stood to give him a shove.

“Right, sorry. Drew ya too big. Hold on.” Daryl came over and drew a new stick figure of you so small that it was the size of a real ant.

“Ooookay, fuck you.”

Daryl dogged the small notepad you'd tossed at his face, and started laughing. Actually laughing. Your smile grew softer as he and Rick began to joke. It had been a while since you'd seen either of them behave in such a lighthearted manner. It made the bare bedroom seem not so cold.

Eventually the curtains were drawn and the lanterns dimmed considerably. You'd claimed the only spot on the bed that wasn't lumpy or sunken, which just so happened to be the middle.

No other reason, promise.

For the sake of his joints, Daryl had given up trying to sit on the hard floor and joined you on the bed, claiming the side closest to the window. He'd made sure to put distance between you, so much so that he was nearly hanging off the edge.

Rick had a little more resolve than the other man and stood by the window for a bit, occasionally peeking out the heavy curtains to see the same amount of darkness as before.

“Thank god you showered this morning.” Rick grunted as he sat down on your left, knocking his boots together before he brought his legs up on the bed.

“Me?” You blurted immediately, already feeling the tiniest but of anxiety, Rick never teased you like that. He saved that for the men.

He gave a toothy grin and shook his head. “No. Him.” He pointed over your body to Daryl, who was smoking his third cigarette of the night. “Carol made him take his monthly shower after he came home covered in coyote blood.”

You giggled, glancing over at Daryl.

“Yeah. Laugh it up.” Daryl took a deep drag.

You kicked off your shoes and sat upright, taking off those god awful shorts while the two men continued to playfully insult each other.

Rick caught himself going quiet when he saw you pulling the shorts down your thighs, his mouth drying at the sight. Daryl quickly shot him a look, dragging his attention away from your now bare legs and back onto him.

You didn't notice a thing, but you wished you had. Maybe you'd have started grinding against him earlier that night.

You were the first to fall asleep, to no one's surprise. There were little things that you loved more in life than sleeping.

Curled up underneath the sheets that you'd checked twenty times for bugs, sleep came quick and easy for you.

The sweater you were wearing had become incredibly uncomfortable so you swapped it for Rick's hole ridden T-shirt, leaving him shirtless. The image of his bare chest and the muscles in his back almost gave you enough adrenaline to stay up the entire night, but Daryl's soft breathing and Rick's body heat beside you tugged you unconscious.

Rick was next to give in, he'd kicked his boots off and climbed under the sheets with you, not before sliding a pillow between your bodies, more for your consideration than his modesty. He didn't give a shit, but he was worried you might.

Daryl was last, and by complete accident. He'd meant to take the first watch but the sounds of rain on the roof, gentle thunder outside, and your soft breathing beside him had him out like a light.

Two hours went by before something woke Rick up. The feeling of pressure against his crotch.

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times in a struggle to see, but the room was too dark to immediately recognize his surroundings.

Once he remembered where he was he relaxed. He closed his eyes again and almost fell back to sleep when he felt it.

A gentle nudge of something soft and plush against him, something that made him well aware of the situation in his sweatpants. He was painfully erect.

His eyes opened again, but the room was no easier to see in. He could still hear the sounds of quiet rain and wind, and the new sound of Daryl's soft snoring.

Then you whimpered.

It was quiet, barely audible, and whiny. You were squirming in your sleep, the pillow between the two of you now between your knees, separating them to prevent the annoying feeling of bone on bone.

Your ass moved back against him again. He pulled his hips back, his dick immediately complaining about the loss of contact with a slight twitch. He clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep.

Think about cold showers. You're taking a cold shower, he thought, taking deep breaths. Cold cold shower. She's in a cold shower--- raw potatoes, grub worms, rotten walker flesh, her flesh, her ass is only a few inches away, snug in those cute boyshort underwear-

Daryl let out a sudden louder snort, startling Rick out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, only closing once he heard the earlier gentle snores return.

Your movements stilled and he was able to sleep once again, not without an iron will mindset.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sleeping when you woke up. You checked your watch, seeing the green glowing hands pointed at the twelve and nine.

It was only twelve forty-five.

You sighed.

The room had grown colder as the night went on, cold air seeping through the thin cracks in the walls and floorboards.

As a result of said colder temperature, Daryl had moved closer to you, be that in his sleep or on purpose, you didn't know. All you knew was he was there on your right side, his bicep warm and pressed against your upper chest.

Rick had also moved closer. So close, in fact, that his hand was on your waist, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Your heart sped up when you realized this, and when he pulled you closer in his sleep you almost gasped.

He was hard.

Like, really hard.

You could feel it behind his sweatpants pressed right into your ass. His breathing was slow and deep, letting you know that he was definitely asleep, not that the knowledge did much to stop the arousal filling your chest.

You couldn't stop the whimper that sounded deep in your throat. Daryl's snoring covered it, or you thought it did. Rick stirred behind you and you heard the sound of him sniffing sleepily.

He had to be awake, you were sure of it. His breathing had become quiet, much different than the sounds of someone who was deep in sleep. He made no move to pull his hand away from your hip, confusing you even further.

Maybe he wasn't awake.

A lightbulb went off. You wiggled your hips, very slightly, only a few millimeters side to side. It was enough to gain a reaction from him, which let you know that he was definitely awake.

Rick's grip tightened on your hip.

Then he pushed into you.

There was nothing you could've done to prepare yourself for that kind of response. You sucked in a breath and felt your pussy throb. It was such a faint and quick movement, but you could vividly feel the shape of his dick pressing against your ass.

You heard movement behind you, the sound of his stubble scraping across his pillow as he moved his lips to your ear, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Stay still.”

Your eyes flicked to Daryls face.

You could barely see the outline of his head illuminated in moonlight thanks to the parting clouds. His nose pointed up at the ceiling, his lips parted as he breathed.

A wave of heat traveled through your body, starting in your chest and shooting down to your core. You felt that flipping sensation in your lower stomach and you whimpered again, rubbing your thighs together.

Rick inhaled deeply through his nose at the action. His hand shifted upwards, moving over your hip and splaying over the curve of your waist. He could feel you pressed against him, even if you weren't moving, and it made him groan faintly.

The sound of him groaning sent another spark through your core. You couldn't help it, you arched your back just enough to feel friction. You were too weak willed.

“Sweetheart.” He breathed, his forehead resting against the back of your hair to try and steady himself. “You gotta stop, please.”

He hated how desperate and wrecked the whispered words came from his lips. Hated how his dick was aching in his boxer briefs.

Hated how he was just as weak willed as you, his hips moving forward in a way that betrayed his words and stomped them in the mud.

You couldn't understand why you were so unbearably aroused. You weren't a teenager going through puberty. You've had partners.

Sure, you had a little admiration-fueled crush on the two men, but the way your body was behaving was animalistic. Your heart felt like it was going to burst through your chest and your pussy was soaked.

If only you had your vibrator that was back in Alexandria, you'd orgasm in five seconds, you knew that for a fucking fact.

Daryl muttered a nonsensical sentence in his sleep, his head lolling over in the direction of the window. His right arm rose to lay over his chest, and his left leg spread out in your direction.

His knee bumped against the top of your thighs, almost slipping between them.

You could've screamed.

You tried to stay still, really, you did. But the feeling of Rick pushing against you again, Daryl's knee nudging between your thighs, it was impossible. You moved your hips, intending on just pushing back against Rick but your action also succeeded in grinding down right on Daryl's knee.

Rick could feel resistance in your movement but his mind couldn't focus on anything but the feel of your plush ass pressing against his dick.

His blood ran cold at the sound of Daryl mumbling in his sleep again. He held his breath, waiting with baited breath to see if he'd stir awake.

Relief flooded his body after a moment of silence, and he pressed his face back into your hair. There was still a faint smell of shampoo or conditioner despite the earlier rain. The feminine smell made his dick twitch and he flexed his jaw.

You were caught between excitement and horror. Daryl's knee was wedged right between your thighs, and occasionally it would jerk up against you. Each time it would make you fight away a gasp, and make your clit throb.

Daryl was definitely asleep, right? If he woke up he'd roll over on his side, right? There was no way he was awake, pushing his knee right up against your pussy, right?

You reached down to grab Rick's hand, which was still resting against your waist, gripping onto his fingers for support. His fingers curled around your own and sent butterflies in your stomach at the feeling of comfort.

He hated himself for all of it, but in the moment, he felt like he didn't care. His hips rocked against yours, once, twice, the need to get relief clouding all judgment he was capable of having.

You couldn't help yourself either. Your eyes fluttered shut and you rolled your hips, soft and slow, against Rick's bulge and Daryl's knee. You'd tried several times to push it away, wiggle back further into Rick, but it was like there was a goddamn super magnet attached to your clit and his knee cap.

You bit down hard against your lip, trying to keep your voice from escaping. Everything felt so good, Rick dry humping his heart out, your clit buzzing, it all felt so overwhelmingly amazing that you hadn't even noticed Daryl's snoring was no longer present.

In the end, it wasn't enough, Rick was being too cautious. You needed more, just a little bit. You pushed back hard against him and heard his breath hitch in his throat. His hand gripped yours so tight it almost hurt, and he leaned into your ear.

“Movin’ too much. Stop.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. You shook your head, your lip trembling between your teeth.

“Can't.” You breathed. You physically couldn't stop, you knew that and Rick knew that. You were both so close to relief, you'd already gotten this far, there was no point in stopping now. No going back.

Rick swallowed hard as he felt his resolve break at the way you and your body pleaded. It was all he needed. His hips moved a bit faster, a bit rougher. His hand left yours and grabbed the string of his sweatpants, fingertips pinching the ends, hesitating only for a second before he pulled.

Time seemed to literally freeze when you felt him digging his cock out behind you. Your heart stopped, your breathing stopped, and so did the grinding of your pelvis. You couldn't think. It was suddenly all too very real.

You didn't expect Rick to do something like this. The dry humping, sure. He was horny and it wasn't really that big of a deal. But this? Tugging down your underwear? Spitting on his hand and stroking his dick to get it wet for you? It felt like a dream and way too terrifying at the same time.

“Sweetheart…” His hot breath against your ear snapped you back to reality. “You… you gotta be quiet, okay? Promise?”

You'd never nodded so quickly and eagerly in your life. Your heart felt like it was literally up in your throat. The tight knot in your core became more and more taut, and it trembled when you felt the hot tip of his wet dick bump between your folds.

Rick nearly came when he felt how wet you were. It was mind blowing, you were fucking soaked. The hot lube was covering your pussy and trailing down the side of your ass, reaching his hip bone.

You inhaled deeply when you felt him start to push in. You'd think with how wet you were it would be easy, but your muscles were wound tight due to the nearly paralyzing fear of possibly waking Daryl.

There was a bit of self disgust when you felt the weight of reality sinking in. The absolute pathetic degeneracy of what you were doing with Daryl right next to you.

That self disgust faded when Rick pushed into you.

Rick swallowed a groan as his cock dug up into you, your walls hot and soft and squeezing the life out of him. He could feel how nervous you were so he slipped an arm over your side, his hand reaching for your own again.

You moaned.

His hand broke from your grip and clamped over your mouth. Neither of you moved for a solid minute.

It was the longest minute in history. You could feel his dick twitching inside of you, your clit throbbing so hard you thought it was going to have its own little heart attack.

Your thighs absentmindedly squeezed against Daryl's knee, and you were sure you'd start crying.

Finally, Rick began moving. His breathing was growing heavy behind your head, his face burying back into the mess of hair in front of him.

His movements were slow at first. Tantalizingly slow. He waited until he was sure you could stay quiet before picking up the pace.

Your eyes had adjusted a fair amount in the darkness. You looked up to Daryl, finding comfort when you saw his eyes were still closed, but he'd stopped snoring long ago.

You dismissed it and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand covering your mouth, gripping tight for support.

Your right hand slipped under the sheets to rest on your thigh, but instead landed on Daryl's lower thigh. He must've been a very heavy sleeper, because he didn't react to it beyond the muscles tensing under your palm.

The sound that escaped Rick's lips had your eyes rolling back into your head. A trembling whimper. His movements grew quicker and deeper, his dick dragging your walls against him, pulling out every drop of arousal he could and thrusting it back in.

Your mind spun as all thoughts left your brain. There was nothing going on up there anymore, just dark blackness, the feeling of Rick fucking you taking over your conscious body.

His hand grabbed yours, the one on Daryl's knee, and pulled it away from you, to the right.

When your fingers brushed up against something warm and soft, you didn't question it. You didn't even question his fingers moving yours to wrap around his dick.

Your eyes shot open.

Rick's dick was still inside you. His right hand was still on your mouth, his left on the small of your back.

Daryl's eyes were open, and looking right into yours.

You went to jerk your hand away out of reflex, but his grip was tight, forcing your fingers to stay wrapped around his thick cock. Your eyes flew over him, fighting to understand what was happening, when had he woken up? Just then? Or was he awake when he pushed his knee between your thighs?

The orgasm that came out of nowhere pushed all those questions aside.

You moaned against Rick's hand as you came, no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to keep your hips still. Your thighs clamped down on Daryl's knee, grinding rough and quick.

Much to Rick's absolute heart-stopping horror.

He tried to muffle your moans, forcing his hand down painfully hard on your mouth, but it did little. He bared his teeth near your ear and hissed for you to stop, the sound sharp and jarring as it came through his clenched teeth, but then his eyes landed on the scene over your body.

Daryl using your hand to stroke his dick. Daryl with his other arm bent behind his head, his face tilted to the side to watch your expressions with parted lips.

It took Rick a few seconds to recover from the near heart attack. He almost lost his boner from the heart dropping adrenaline, but your wet walls spasming around him coaxed his hips forward.

Now that you didn't need to be quiet you pulled Rick's hand off your mouth and gasped down a lungful of air. Your mouth was hot and dry, and it was hard to swallow.

You couldn't take your eyes off Daryl, his eyes, the eyes that hadn't left your face since he woke up.

God, he was unbelievably sexy. The way he was so responsive to your touch led you to believe your hand might possibly be the first hand to touch his dick other than his own.

He grunted softly, his eyes finally falling shut after you gently squeezed the base of his dick. You'd be content to get him off with one hand like you had been for the past few minutes, but you couldn't resist the urge to give him his first hand job and blowjob.

“Up.” You panted. You curled your finger at Daryl, pointing up. He happily obliged and sat upright, scooting up towards the headboard until his lap was right in front of your face.

He seemed absolutely thrilled, ecstatic even. His once heavy eyes were now wide open, watching every move you made as you shifted your upper half so your mouth could reach his dick.

Rick was still thrusting with hesitation when you moved. He watched you lick broad stripes on the underside of Daryl's dick, and he couldn't help but glance at his face to see his reaction.

Mouth hanging open, eyes clenched tightly shut, his expression almost looked pained. His hands had found their way to your hair, gripping two handfuls as he began trying to move your head for you.

You slapped his hands away and grabbed his wrists, an action that had his eyes opening and looking down at you.

“Don't.” Your hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of his tip. He pinched both his lips shut between his teeth, nodding quickly, a shaky closed-lip moan rattling in his throat.

Rick finally got ahold of himself and grabbed your hips to turn your lower half on your stomach. He kept his dick inside you as he slid on top of you, his knees spreading to rest on either side of your thighs.

You were taking Daryl's head past your lips when Rick suddenly fucked you like he'd been wanting to the entire time. Both his hands rested on the small of your back, pushing your hips down into the mattress with all his weight to keep them firmly in place.

You gasped around Daryl at the feeling of Rick pounding into you from above. It was a comically drastic change from only five minutes before when he thought Daryl was asleep.

Daryl's wrists flexed in your hands where you had them pressed against his lower stomach. You knew he was only keeping them there in your grasp because he allowed it, and not because you were somehow strong enough to keep even a single wrist of his in your fist, let alone two.

It took a lot of effort on Rick's part to actually finish. Having Daryl in the room when you fucked was one thing, but having him making all that noise just from your mouth was another.

He was honestly more surprised that Daryl actually enjoyed sex acts than the fact he was engaging in them with him in the room. With no one other than you, a girl he almost never saw him interact with.

Rick had assumed Daryl simply wasn't interested. Incorrectly assumed.

Either way, having Daryl only a few feet away from him while he had his dick inside you was something he wasn't sure he enjoyed. But the way you clenched around him every time he pulled back was enough to make him forget about it.

Daryl was struggling to keep himself together. He had no point of reference, but he thought you were incredibly talented at giving head. You were giving it your all, sucking and licking like your life depended on it. It was impressive how well you were managing to concentrate on blowing him with Rick making such a mess of your pussy.

You couldn't be happier. You knew there were so many women back in Alexandria that would kill to be in your position, lying in front of the Daryl Dixon, lying under the Rick Grimes, both of their dicks inside you.

“Wa-wait.” Daryl suddenly sputtered and ripped his wrists from your hands to cup the sides of your face, giving a few gentle slaps with the tips of his fingers.

You looked up, not taking your mouth off of him. His expression made your pussy clench around Rick and he groaned behind you, the sound raw and deep. He shifted his hips and ground down against you, quick and rough, his tip jabbing deep inside you.

The ragged moan you let out reverberated through Daryl, and the hand you had around his base gave a trembling squeeze.

“M’boutta, Jesus! Hey, oh, godfuckindamnit-” Daryl's jaw dropped and his eyes rolled back, his head tipping backwards as he made that same pained expression and came down your throat.

Your hips were roughly jerked up from the bed, shoving you back on Rick's dick, and then his hands slipped under your armpits to pull up your top half.

It was hard to stay upright, but thankfully Rick was generous enough to provide you the luxury of his hands tight against your tits, keeping your back flush against his chest.

Oh, it was a goddamn shame Daryl had just come. The sight in front of him was something he knew millions would pay- no, kill- to see. You looked breathtaking. Rick had taken your shirt off some time ago, leaving you completely bare as you kneeled in front of Daryl.

He forgot to breathe as he watched your face, slack in pleasure. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and on him, something that made his softening cock twitch. All that struggling just to look at someone like him? The hell did he deserve to have someone like you looking at him like that?

Rick deserved praise for the way he supported your weight with just his hands, keeping your entire upper half pressed against his chest while he fucked you in desperate effort to finally get off. His dick felt raw from how long he'd been at it, his balls throbbing from the delayed orgasm, it was a wonder he was able to keep himself upright, let alone you.

“Daryl.” The way you whimpered his name made his cock jump back to life, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to look up at you, eager to obey whatever it was you were about to ask.

“Yeah?” He rasped as he stared up at you.

You'd placed your hands over Rick's and moved his fingers over your nipples, which he was pinching and rolling, something he understood without you even needing to ask.

“Touch me, please.”

You didn't need to ask twice. Daryl inched down the bed and kept himself propped up on one elbow, his other arm sliding over his chest to reach your clit.

Rick decided at that moment he definitely didn't like threesomes. Feeling you twist and hearing you moan due to Daryl's thumb rubbing against you made his chest and face hot, a childish reaction considering you and Rick were not a thing, and certainly not an exclusive thing.

He just wasn't good at sharing.

The silly jealousy led to him putting his all into pleasing you. His thrusts became slower but deeper, more forceful, knocking out a gravely groan from your throat with each one. His hands left your breasts to tangle in your hair, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail with his fist being the hair tie.

Your skin buzzed when he pressed his face into your neck to plant sloppy kisses. He bit down and you whined, arching your back against him and tilting your head to the side to provide him better access.

Unlike Rick, Daryl didn't have a care in the world. His mind was completely blank as he stared up at you above him, oblivious to the way his thumb cramped from the constant circles he rubbed into you.

“C'mere.” You breathed, wrapping your fingers in Daryl's hair to urge him up and guide his mouth to your nipples.

Daryl's eagerness to please was one of the hottest things you'd ever witnessed. He took your right nipple in his mouth and went to town like his life depended on it.

He flexed his tongue, digging the firm and wet muscle around your bud, circling it the same way his thumb now circled your clit.

Your orgasm came screeching out of nowhere.

You cried out and gripped Daryl's head tighter, pulling his mouth firm against your breast as you came.

The feeling of your walls squeezing the life out of his cock finally brought about Rick's own climax.

He wrapped his fist around the hair bundled in his grasp and tugged your head to the side, baring your neck to his itching teeth, and clamped down as he gave a rough thrust.

You'd failed to notice that at some point Daryl had grown hard again, only noticing when he let out a ragged moan into your wet chest.

Your bleary eyes found him and caught sight of his hand quickly jerking himself. There was the flash of thick cum spurting out, long ropes coating the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck.” You slurred. Now that was the new hottest thing you'd ever seen.

Rick's teeth released their grip on your neck. He pulled back and let his head droop back as he caught his breath, his shoulders heaving with deep and ragged pants. He became aware of how uncomfortably sweaty he was. His chest and back felt soaked, and he dropped your hair to pull away from you.

You heard Rick plop down on the bed behind you, the springs creaking from his sudden weight dropping on it all at once. You were too busy admiring Daryl to pay attention to it.

There was a lazy smile on your face, your eyes half lidded and glued to his face. Even though the room was dark you were sure you could see how red his cheeks were. His lips were glossy and parted as he took in deep breaths, still wet from drooling all over your tits.

He could barely keep his eyes open, and with the way you had one hand cupping his face, the other brushing back his sweaty hair, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The sweet way you were looking down at him was just too hard to look away from.

The next morning wasn't as awkward as one would think, even though it was obvious Rick was having some internal battle on the ethics of what he'd done the night before. He'd never been in a situation where he knew he really shouldn't be doing something like that, so his lack of restraint was new knowledge he'd have to ponder over.

Daryl couldn't give any less of a fuck, that morning he gave you the whole princess treatment. Grabbing your now dry clothes, your bag, your shoes, and bringing them to you. Offered you the last of his water and opened every door you came across for you. He didn't say much at all, much like Rick, but his mood was clearly the exact opposite.

It was so sweet it made your heart ache.

“Hey.” Rick pulled you aside after you finally got back home, shooting Daryl a look to give the two of you privacy.

“Hi.” You smiled. The stern look on his face was cute.

“What we did-”

“Don't.” You stopped him, giving the man a tired smile. “It was the sexiest thing I've ever done and I'm fine with it being a one time thing, but don't ruin it and tell me it was wrong.”

“I wasn't going to say that.” His gaze had softened, but he still looked down at you with his hands on his hips like a disappointed authority figure. “I just don't want you to think it's okay to bring up if we're all alone again.”

“I'm not stupid.” You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Won't bring it up again.”

He sighed in frustration, trying not to roll his eyes but failing. “No, it ain't that either. Let's just- next time,” your eyes widened, “not be as spontaneous.”

You grinned. “Alright. You got it.”

Daryl was nowhere near as reserved about the experience. You could understand Rick's point of view, conservative family man, that was probably the most extreme thing he'd ever done in bed. But Daryl, oh, you'd just changed his fucking world.

“Pst.”

You stopped in front of the bathroom to see Daryl nodding you over, lighting a cigarette as he stood near the door to his room.

“Hi.” You smiled after approaching him.

“You okay?”

You beamed at the question, shifting your pile of clothes in your arms. “Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?”

He nodded as he took the first pull, turning his head to blow the smoke away from your face. “Is, uh…” He nodded his head to the front door, where Rick still stood on the porch talking to a few people. “He alright?”

“He's fine.”

“Alright. Good.” He shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the cherry on his cigarette before bringing it back up to his lips. “That somethin' you wanna do again?”

You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide the ecstatic smile that threatened to embarrass you, and nodded.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh of relief and disbelief. There were a few seconds of silence, his eyes darting between his cigarette and your face. “With me?”

“Of course. Maybe next time just you.” You turned to head back to the bathroom but quickly turned on your heel and walked back to him. “Daryl? When did you,” you struggled to get the words out, ironic considering how bold youd been the night before, “you know, wake up?”

“Oh.” He grunted, his ears burning. “Dunno. While before.”

You felt a mix of embarrassment and relief. So he had pushed his knee between your legs on purpose. The thought had your stomach flipping and your face getting warm, so you gave a quick and polite smile before running off to the bathroom.

He was the youngest of the Omatikaya to ever do it. His fathers expectations of him pressing him to become better, to be the best he can be, to be the symbol of the strength of the people. 

When he had told you that he was going to attempt his iknimaya, you were surprised. It was not that you believed he couldn't complete it, but he was so young, had so much time left in his life and there was no need to rush things. 

Nonetheless, you were excited. Over the moon for your best friend. Before he ventured out you had crushed him in your arms, pressing a swift kiss on his cheek to wish him good luck.

You weren’t surprised to see him arrive home unscathed. The celebration that night was loud, the clan's excitement at an all time high for the Olo’eyktans son. It was then that the young hunters approached Neteyam.

They were a few years older than the two of you – slightly jealous at the fact that Neteyam had accomplished so much when he was so young. But instead of teasing him, pushing him, even bullying him into submission, they took to praising him. 

There was no doubt that Neteyam would become Olo’eyktan. No doubt that he would lead the people when his time had come. So it was best to start making friendships now, to start fostering their relationships and secure their future positions in the clan while Neteyam was still young. 

You and him had been dancing when they approached. Moving your bodies to the beats of the drums, laughing freely, simply basking in the celebration. But then Teylun taps on Neteyam's shoulder, dragging his attention away from you. 

Over the music you can faintly hear something about ‘join us,’ and ‘welcome you,’. You miss most of what Teylun says, but from what you did catch it seems as if he and his friends want to congratulate Neteyam personally. 

The two of you were attached at the hip, everyone in the clan knew you both were inseparable. So when Teylun begins to lead Neteyam away you move to follow. But for the first time, possibly ever, you aren’t allowed to go.

Teylun pushes Neteyam’s shoulder blade urging him forward, before turning back to face you. “I’m sorry ‘eveng, we will be discussing warrior things. It is best if you stay back, converse with people your own speed.”

He is calling you a child? Just because you didn’t want to rush your iknimaya, did not mean that you were a weak child. That you couldn’t complete it if you really wanted to. Before you get the chance to retaliate, to say your piece, Teylun has already guided Neteyam the rest of the way to where his friends reside. 

You wouldn’t disrupt. It was Neteyam’s night, his celebration, and he could be in whoever's company he wished. You would see him in the morning anyway, then you could tell him how rude Teylun was to you. 

When morning arrives you begin your way towards the Sully kelku. Normally Neteyam would meet you halfway, then the two of you would head towards the training grounds or the forest together. He didn’t today though, maybe he was just tired. So you keep moving, you could just meet him at his home.

Maybe you could even steal some fruit or meat under the guise that your parents hadn’t fed you. Yes, that would be nice. A second breakfast to set you up for the perfect day. As you poke your head into their kelku, you don’t see Neteyam.

It still doesn’t phase you. Pushing past the hides that cover the entry way you make your way towards where Neytiri and Lo’ak sit. “Good morning auntie, Lo’ak.” 

The human word felt odd coming from your throat, but Jake had taught it to you when you were young. He said that the word meant close, almost motherly figure; and Neytiri was always like that to you. 

Lo’ak stands, crashing into your chest with a tight hug. He acts as if he had not seen you just yesterday, had not danced with you after Neteyam left with Teylun. 

“Would you like something to eat, child?”

When you nod, Neytiri hands you a leaf holding fresh fruits and roots. The perfect way to start your day. You begin picking at the meal with your fingers, picking the best pieces for yourself, and giving the slightly less best pieces to Lo’ak. 

After swallowing a few bites you begin to look around. Where is Neteyam? He is usually an early riser, and you had expected him to be up by now even with the late night he had. 

As if sensing your curiosity Lo'ak speaks. “Big bro left.”

He doesn't acknowledge the look on your face, doesn't even look up from where he's deciding what piece of fruit he wants from your leaf. You only come out of your stupor when he points at a particularly juicy piece of fruit and asks if he can have it.

“Where did he go?” You hand Lo'ak the fruit, leaning your head against his as you ask.

You can feel him shrug, feel his jaw work as he chews before he responds. “Dunno, I think he said something about going with Teylun.”

Neytiri snaps at Lo'ak, telling him to mind his grammar. She didn’t like how much English he included in his daily life, much less when he began creating Na'vi slang that matched with words his father had used when he was a human.

You tune her out. Instead focusing on how Neteyam is off with Teylun again. You could understand last night, it was important to show camaraderie. That must be what this is.

Allowing Neteyam to follow along with their hunt, or training, or whatever it was that they were getting up to. Allowing him to establish himself with the others who have completed their iknimayas.

So you thank Neytiri for the food, ruffle Lo'ak's braids, and head out to train yourself. You don’t manage to catch a glimpse of Neteyam for the rest of the day. It’s odd, and it places what feels to be a rock in the center of your chest. But you knew you would see him tomorrow. These new friends would ebb and fade, and even if they didn’t Neteyam wouldn’t abandon you for no reason. 

The next day as you approach the Sully kelku, there is distinct chatter. You can hear Teylun’s voice, is he ever going to leave Neteyam alone? Then Li’ral’s voice filters in too. Neteyam’s voice is the first clear thing that you can hear.

“Are you sure that I cannot join you later? I have not seen ma txeylan in nearly two days.”

Teylun laughs. You assume it is because he sees you as a child. Li’ral pitches in, confirming your thoughts, “The girl who has been attached to your side since the two of you were toddlers?”

“Yes, that is her.”

“She is a ‘eveng. You are a warrior now.”

Neteyam sighs, “She is not a ‘eveng. Just because she did not complete her iknimaya yet doesn’t mean-”

“But has she not trained as long as you?”

“She has. What does that have to do with her being a child?”

Thank Eywa he was standing up for you. You knew you could trust him. 

“It means she should have trusted herself, her training and attempted her iknimaya as well. It is childish fear that held her back.”

Most Omatikaya didn't complete their iknimayas until they were a minimum of fifteen years of age anyway. You were not behind, Neteyam was just leagues ahead of everyone. 

You think Neteyam would retort again. Come to your defense as he always had – but instead you can hear the familiar patter of footsteps. A faint conversation discussing the best way to roast a yerik, wafts over to your ears before you lose the ability to hear them. 

Maybe he had defended you again when you were out of earshot. There was no way he allowed the conversation to change so easily, still wanting to defend the person he spent so many years beside. 

The opportunity to confront him never comes. To ask for some comfort about the situation, for him to quell your fears that he truly did see you as a child. 

Just a short week after his iknimaya, Neteyam was to complete his dream hunt. You would not let him evade you before this event. The possibility of him dying was too great to not at least wish him luck.

Not because he needed it, you knew how strong and determined he was. But because you wanted to show that you still cared, still considered him your best friend even with the distance of the past week. 

When you approach the small group he's settled in, they go silent. Their eyes flit from Neteyam to you hastily. 

“Ma txeylan, do you have a moment?” You keep your voice light, trying to block the nervousness from seeping into your tone. 

Neteyam's ear flicks. The young hunters he's began to associate himself with eye him, smirks and grimaces adorning their features. His beads clink as he allows his head to nod slightly, “Of course.”

He lets you drag him a few feet away from the group. Positions himself with a view of the group he was sitting with over your shoulder. 

“I've missed you.” A polite smile graces your features as you speak. 

Once again he only nods to show any sign that he has heard you. But you don't let him get away with it; instead taking to staring into his eyes with your bright ones. So he grants you a small, noncommittal sound from the back of his throat.

When you realize that you won't be getting a vocal response you continue, “I just wanted to wish you well. To tell you I am hoping for good luck on your dream hunt.”

“Why?”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his odd question, then they furrow, “What do you mean why?”

Neteyam’s eyes flick over your shoulder, making contact with the new friends he’s solidified himself with. Then he breathes a deep, annoyed breath, “Why do you feel the need to wish me luck. I am not a ‘eveng, like you,” For the first time in days his eyes meet yours, “I can handle myself.”

Oh. So that’s how it was going to be. You stuck with him for years, and now he wants to cast you aside because he has some new and shiny friends. 

How unfair. 

Laughter bubbles up behind you. When you look up you can see Neteyam’s lips quirk into a smile at the sound, can see the way his chest puffs slightly in pride. You don’t need to look at the group to know they were staring at you, that their amusement was due to your embarrassment. 

The sound burns into your memory. Sears painfully into the deepest parts of your brain. It must have changed the chemistry in your brain with the way that it now triggers your fight or flight response. 

That same laugh drags your attention from your friends. It brings a twinge to your chest – one that quickly places a scowl on your face. It’s bringing the urge to fight. To cross the cookfire and pour a full waterskin over Li’rals’s head. To shove Teylun over the log he’s sitting on and cave his nose into his face. To grasp Neteyam’s tail and attempt to dislodge it from where it rested on his spine.

But you take a deep, steadying breath. Take a loving glance at the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with; the ones who adopted you after Neteyam abandoned you. And you decided to take it out on him tomorrow during training, there no one could judge you for seeming bloodthirsty. 

The adults of the clan haven’t seemed to get the memo that you and Neteyam are not friends.

Well, more that you cannot stand him. Anytime he speaks, you grunt to reply. When he looks in your direction, you make sure to avoid your eyes. If he approaches your friends to discuss what they’re weaving or how the hunt went, you make it a point to act as if he does not exist.

When you’re in the same hunting party, not much is achieved. Formations are broken, twigs are snapped, prey is lost. No one can decide who to blame; Neteyam for putting you in the most useless part of the formation, or you for storming off and hunting by yourself. 

And sparring together always leads to more scrapes and bruises than when you spar for anyone else. So you’d think that Jake and your father would avoid placing you two together. That they’d want two of the clan's best warriors to stay in formidable shape. 

Their wiseness should have been able to influence their decision. To prevent them from ever even thinking that the two of you could be applicable partners. That you could ever go back to how it was.

Instead, at least once a month, the two of you end up partners. 

Unfortunately it is the most entertaining part of the session. Watching the two of you be forced into the circle; him smiling as he scratches the back of his neck, you huffing before shoving yourself off the tree you were leaning against. They’d watch in anticipation as Neteyam watched you, assessing your stance, trying to make eye contact.

Then their eyes would flick to you. Watching how you’d toe at the ground, roll your knuckles till they crack, bite your lip as you stare at your father like he personally offended you. It was obvious that you were wound up, like a cord ready to snap. 

You’d wait until the last moment, until your father or his would call for the start of the spar, to even glance in his direction. Rarely looking at his eyes, instead learning the movements of his muscles so you could determine his movements from that. Anything so that you wouldn’t have to look at his stupid face. 

At the beginning of the spar, everything would be cordial. Proper stances, dancing around each other before taking light jabs, ducking and dodging until you were inevitably told to ‘push your opponent!’. It was then that Neteyam would start lunging a bit more seriously, reaching his hands out to grab at your thigh or push your shoulder; something to tip your center of gravity, allowing him to pin you down. 

You’d retaliate with shoves of your own, letting your nails scrape a lot more than necessary. It was low, a bit dirtier than should be allowed in spars, but it wasn’t explicitly against the rules. Plus, who's to say the scrapes didn’t come after the two of you had started rolling around?

It didn’t matter how it happened. Didn’t matter who shoved who, who’s hips pinned the others down, who celebrated their victory a bit too early; the two of you would always end up tousling on the ground. 

Provoked, enraged, by the others misplaced confidence, whoever was pinned would buck and thrash until they had regained a bit of control. Then the two of you would be wrestling, throwing insults back and forth among the punches, grabbing braids, tugging tails, hell you’d even taken to some below the belt kicks a few times.

With how last night had gone, today was shaping up to be one of the worse spars the two of you have had. Neteyam had pinned you, somehow still in top shape after all the rumaut wine he had had yesterday. It would be fine, everything would be okay, but then Li’ral had to open his big fat mouth. 

It wasn’t loud, not wanting the elders, especially the Olo’eyktan, to hear him. But it was loud enough to drift over the edge of the circle to where you laid beneath Neteyam. You heard his voice float over you as your ears were just recovering from their ringing, ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if he mounted her like that again after eclipse one of these nights.’ Just who, on Eywa’s green planet, did he think he was talking about?

And if that wasn’t insulting enough, you could hear the faint laughter follow from Neteyam’s friends. On a better day, you’d take your eyes off Neteyam, angle your head back so you could tilt the yellow orbs to assess who specifically was laughing. You’d catalog them into your brain, prepare to treat them a little harsher the next time you sparred. But today was not a better day, and it was just in Neteyam’s luck that he also heard the joke, and was allowing himself a few huffs of laughter from where he rested above you. 

Your vision fades black at the edges, sole focus being on the boy atop you. With sudden, aggressive thrusts, you launch him from the seat he was claiming. He falls, landing on his back with a rough exhale.  While he’s disoriented, you rotate off your back and hastily crawl towards him.

Before you can settle yourself into a position that allows you to hold Neteyam down, you swing. Your fist collides with his cheek, the force splitting his lip and sending you falling over until you’re laid out on top of him. From there you swing your leg over his torso, taking a firm seat before you continue your onslaught. 

Surely, this had led to another joke to bubble from his friends. Something about how eager you were to mount him. You couldn’t hear it though, too busy thrusting your fist towards Neteyam’s face. Too busy ripping his arms away from where they came up to block your assault. Too busy pulling at those damn braids that he loved to swing around.

At some point Neteyam had tried to push back. Thrusted his hips up hoping to displace you, but you were too far up on his chest for it to do anything. Tried to grab your arms when you swung, yet you managed to dislodge them. Attempted to even roll his body under yours, to lay on his stomach and get some leverage to stand and force you off. But nothing worked, something had snapped in you – something that gave you insane strength that you were using to the fullest.

The rage you had felt forcing your blood to boil, for it to rush so fast through your veins that you were rendered unable to hear anything else. You couldn’t hear the gasps. Couldn’t hear the concerned murmurs. Couldn’t hear Neteyam saying he yielded. Couldn’t hear the Olo’eyktan telling you to get off of his son, nor your father reprimanding your sudden rampage.

Suddenly – well suddenly, for you, – you’re hoisted off of Neteyam. As you raise into the air you get a perfect view of him. Laid out on the dirt, chest rising in heavy breaths, lip busted and bleeding down the side of his face, cheek already gaining an indigo tint, braids misplaced from the wrap he had them in; it brings a maniacal grin to your face. 

Yeah, his friends and him could make fun of you all they wanted. But at the end of the day, you’d be the one laughing. That was one thing you’d made sure of ever since that night so many moon rotations ago – they’d never be able to call you a child again. 

Slowly a voice fades into your head. Vowels and consonants forming into syllables that you can finally piece together into words. It’s your fathers voice, he’s whispering a scolding, ‘I cannot believe you did that’, ‘ma’ite, I know he aggravates you, but he is still the Olo’eyktan’s son’, ‘How will it look to the elders’, ‘You’ll scare off potential mates if you keep up with this,’. You weren’t embarrassed at your actions, but being hauled away while everyone knew you were getting scolded brought a slight flush to your cheeks. 

You’re sure to be scolded more intently when safely tucked into your kelku. Sure that your mother will force you to spend more time with the weavers and the gathers, saying that it’ll soften your demeanor. Sure that your father will remind you of how he fought with Jake Sully and Neytiri, how their union was strong and Neteyam and yours should be similar especially with your mature ages. 

So when the conversation happens you let it. Nodding dutifully as they chatter; agree to chaperone the gathers as they forage, agree to weave with the elders so you can soak up their wisdom, even agree to stay in formation next time you go for a hunt. 

It’s only when they mention apologizing, that you deny. A grimace overtakes your features, brows creasing as you speak, “I will not do such a thing. I cannot do such a thing.”

“You will. We must be united as a clan,” Your father speaks, tone harsh, “Today you showed everything but unity. You showed the fierceness of the clan, and our unwavering determination. So you must tie the whole thing together with our camaraderie, this can only be completed with an apology.”

You frown, ready to plead, to beg for any other punishment, “Father please. I cannot do it.”

“You must.” He frowns back, not wanting to debate the matter any longer.

“If you were to have heard what his friends were saying about me, then you would understand!”

“It does not matter. We must take the high route.”

You stand, slightly moving towards the entrance flap of the kelku, “It was disgusting, bordering vile, father! And he – Neteyam, he was laughing right along with them!”

“What did they say?”

Fantastic.

You weren’t going to repeat their words. It would only make the situation worse. Your father wouldn’t stand for it, ready to defend your honor even if it put your family at risk of shame. 

“Can I not just avoid him? You and the Olo’eyktan do not have to place us to spar any more, and we can coexist just fine as long as we aren’t forced to interact.”

It must have gotten to him. Your father seems to be pondering the idea. It’d be much simpler that way, changing schedules and ensuring that the two of you don’t spar together would prevent most of their issues. But it would also mean that two of their best warriors wouldn’t have their best competition, and it would risk their skills dulling. 

A small grin graces your face. You could do this, could avoid Neteyam and his group of friends for the rest of your parents' days. And you’d never have to apologize for something you weren’t sorry for. But then your mother speaks, “You must apologize.”

“Mother! I cann-”

“You must! I will not have the elders shame our family at the weaving circle, will not have others whisper our names with disgrace on their tongues. Please daughter, swallow your pride this time, after you may avoid him, yes?”

Your head falls. Sure you may not have minded what the elders had to say, didn’t mind when people spoke ill of you; but that was because you knew they didn’t know the full story. That they would probably have your side if you had voiced your side too. 

So instead of rebuking again, you allow your head to nod. A soft hum of agreement leaves your throat before you depart through the flaps of the kelku. You storm through the clan, rushing to the ikran rookery; a nice flight to clear your head before your inevitable apology. 

It’s a calming mechanism you’ve used since you passed your iknimaya. The clear air and loads of open space allow you to think through all your problems easily. Small tricks and flips bring you confidence. Your skills in the air remind you of your skills on the ground; and a smile is brought to your face as you remember Neteyam flat on his back earlier today.

You fly for hours, watch the sun reach eclipse atop your ikran. Observe as the bioluminescent glow overtakes the forest. Eventually, your racing heart slows, and your breaths come more regularly, and it’s then that you decide you can apologize.

The Sully kelku has its entrance flaps open when you arrive, typical as the Olo’eyktan is expected to be available until the last clan member goes to sleep. You don’t walk straight in however, instead sing-songing a soft “Kaltxì.”

It is Lo’ak who comes to the entrance, “Oh shit.” He laughs out your name, “Dude, the way you beat Neteyam’s ass today was crazy!” 

“Yes,” a tight lipped smile adornes your features, “I am here to apologize. Is Neteyam around?”

Lo’ak gazes at you curiously, even though you put distance between you when you stopped talking with Neteyam, he had never let you fully seal the door. Normally when he’d praise your skills, you’d at least laugh a bit with him. Nonetheless, he nods, “Yeah. Yeah he’s on the sleeping mats.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to where you could find him.

“Where is everyone else?” 

“Mom and dad are out, and Kiri and Tuk are weaving.”

Good. This was good. You didn’t want to have anyone in the family hearing the conversation, but you also didn’t want to have it outside where anyone could hear. “Can you just come back in a little bit Lo? I must apologize to your brother in private.”

“In private?” Lo’ak’s eyebrows waggle, “Aloneee?”

You shove past him before turning and lightly pushing his shoulder to urge him into taking a few steps out the kelku. “It is not like that and you know it.”

As you move deeper into the home, you call out to Neteyam a few times. Eywa forbid he was improper when you finally saw him. When you finally hear his voice ring back, you allow yourself to duck into the area that held their sleeping mats.

Letting your eyes rove over him you can see the damage you did. You look at the way he winces upon sitting up, how his lip is still swollen, the indigo finally setting on his cheek, even the faint scratches that rest upon his pectoral muscles. He looked bad, it takes everything in you to not allow a smile to grace your features. 

You allow yourself to kneel, not wanting to seem higher or more important by towering over him.

“I am here to apologize. My earlier actions are inexcusable and I hope you can forgive me.”

Neteyam nods a bit. Lets your words linger in the air before he responds, “It is fine. We all get overcome by our emotions sometimes.”

“It is not fine.” Your head shakes, beads clinking to accentuate your point, “Please accept my apology, do not brush it off.”

“Okay.” His tongue darts out over his lips, bringing the bottom one between his teeth before he hisses from how tender it is, “I accept your apology.”

Good. He will no doubt tell his parents about your change of heart, and it will spread from there. Your family will be cleared from any possible shame and you can go on with your lives. As you move to get up Neteyam’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

Your eyes flick over to his, “What is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” His hand falls, but his eyes keep peering into yours, “What happened to us?”

“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” You scoff, all semblance of being friendly disappearing, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”

Fast, jerky movements lead you out of the Sully kelku. How dare he say something so preposterous? How dare he act as if he’s not the reason the two of you are here? 

Unbelievable. 

At least you wouldn’t have to interact with him again. Thank Eywa.

Neteyam did not know what had gotten into you today.

Last night you had seemed pleased, happy to drink rumaut wine with your friends as the cookfire reduced to embers. He’d been watching you, allowing his eyes to roam over the people, but lingering on you for a bit longer than everyone else. 

This morning however something was off. You were on edge, nearly strung your bow too tight before archery practice. When the time for sparring finally rolled around, instead of meandering near the edge, you were bouncing on the balls of your feet – like a thanator ready to pounce. 

It was his luck that the two of you were paired together today. 

The dance you’d fall into was familiar, he was prepared for it. Ready to dance around and trade dominance until one of you became too tired to continue. But today, you’re hyper-aggressive; your moves are harsher, punches are harder, jabs are faster. 

He hisses the first time your nails make contact with his chest; it’s almost as if they’ve been sharpened, prepped to cut just for this. The sting urges him to take you down, to put some real use to his larger muscles thanks to his father's avatar DNA. 

He ducks down, using his right hand to grab at your left thigh. His hand slides down the smooth skin until he can grab at the flexion of your knee. Then he tugs it towards himself, tilting you backwards.

Instead of letting you fall alone, he follows. Neteyam lets his left hand move to the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the ground too roughly. But once you’re settled on the ground, he clambers over you, settling most of his weight on your hips. 

At first you try to hit him, fruitlessly using your arms to displace him. It doesn’t work, but it does get annoying. Neteyam moves to pin your arms, now he can secure his win without any other lesions to his body. 

He smiles, huffing a little laugh at how angered you are today. He wants to ask what was up with you, wants to ask what crawled up your tewng today. But then something happens – something otherworldly takes over you.

Unnaturally bucking overtakes your hips, your whole body is being used. Shoulders pressing into the ground beneath you, legs bent at the knee to grant extra force, even your arms slide across the ground to displace his grip.

The shock overtakes him, forcing him off your body. His back roughly hits the ground, and the breath is knocked from his lungs. And before he can even acknowledge that he’s off from where he once sat victoriously on you, you’ve launched a punch into his cheek. 

From there it’s only downhill. You’ve taken a seat upon him and begin laying into his face, his chest, his arms, really anything you can. 

Neteyam tries to fight it at first. Tries to defend his face, to force you off of him, to flip the two of you over, but nothing works. He tries to ensure your win, to yield, but his voice goes uncared for or unheard. 

It’s only when your father hauls you off of him that he gets some room to breathe. The break allows the ache to set in his jaw, and his cheek, and his lip, and his scalp. Eywa, did he hope that his grandmother would use the yalna bark salve today.

His father hauls him up from the ground. Gives him a once over as he questions, “You good boy?”

Neteyam nods, braids falling over his face when he doesn’t move to raise his head again. 

“Good. Go get patched up.”

With a pat and light shove to his shoulder, Neteyam is off. When he arrives to the Tsahik’s tent, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s only his mother and grandmother inside. 

He can hear them chattering about something. The words ‘of age,’ and ‘best time to train a tsakarem,’ float to his perked up ears before he realizes they’re speaking about him.

So he delays making his appearance known for a little longer, taking post behind the tent where the hides are thin. Their words come softly muffled through the hide, his grandmother’s voice ringing through first, “Many will seek him out during the upcoming mating season.”

“Yes,” His mother hums, “I can only imagine how many gifts will swarm our kelku.” 

The two of them chuckle and it brings a smile to Neteyam’s face. But then he remembers how soon the season is, just a few short weeks away. Sure his siblings had teased him plenty about how many girls would throw themselves at him – but that was useless teasing, this was his mother and grandmother. If they’re speculating it must be serious. 

“It will all be for naught if he does not reciprocate. Has Neteyam spoken of anyone who has piqued his interest?”

“No, he has not. There are many near his age this season though.”

His mother was right, there were many who’d be his age this mating season. Even though Neteyam could think of the prospects himself, his mother and grandmother began to list off the girls that would be participating this season, allowing him to mull over their attributes himself.

“Pxule…” She is one of the singers. Soft spoken until she needs to voice the hymns of the ancestors and she finally allows her voice to raise. A kind girl, but not one he could see himself being mated to for eternity.

“To’lei…” A gatherer. Her nimble fingers always grant her perfect harvests. It would seem as if Eywa herself loves when To’lei heads into her forest, always granting her the best materials from whatever area she’s decided to forage in. Her skills would eternally be useful to the clan, but she engages in constant babbling as she gathers, rarely taking moments to embrace the natural noises of the flora and fauna.

“Mekani…” One of the hunters. She was able to flawlessly lead a hunt among the younger bunch; her stern tone leaving no room for discussion or pushback. Her shoulders were never bare when she arrived back at hometree, making sure to share the burden of such a success with her fellow hunters. A formidable mate, someone who knew how to lead and the importance of being strict, but she never seemed to let up, never showed a softer side that would be important for raising children.

Maybe Neteyam would need to take some time to sit and think when he got home. All of the options that were being listed were good options; just not for him. He needed someone who matched him, someone who questioned when he was making a bad decision, someone who could be soft when he didn’t know how to be. 

If he could take a trait from each of the girls listed and place them into a mold, he’d end up with the perfect mate. The one who would make him confident when he took the role of Olo’eyktan over. But that wasn’t possible, he couldn’t force any one of them to fit whatever mold he’d created in his head. Just as he’s about to push out of his kneel and approach the entrance of the tent his mothers voice cuts in again.

She spoke your name, “For a time, when they were little, I believed that they would end up together.”

“Hm. Why is that?”

“They were always together. You cannot be that close for so long and never grow any feelings – it is how I came to see Jake in another light.”

Neteyam hadn’t even considered the fact that you would be participating this year. Sure you were the same age, and had long since passed your iknimaya. However the thought of you getting dressed up in brightly colored loincloths and chest coverings just to dance around the cookfire with potential mates made him sick. 

His brain ran through the list of men who’d be eligible this year. Sure there were plenty of options, but none of them would be good enough. Korvyn was too timid. Sa’nel was too immature. Rikutu had many adventures with girls already. 

The thought of you ending up with a courting gift adorning your body by the end of the season soured his mood. 

He knew it was wrong – to be this protective over you, even though he hadn’t spoken properly to you in years. But that wasn’t his fault! He had tried; joined your friends as they weaved, taken the position of lead in your hunting parties, and he’d made sure to never take it easy on you during spars not wanting to undermine all the training he knew you did.

You were the one that refused to speak to him after he came into his own.

After his dream hunt,  he’d begun getting more responsibilities. It was around that time that you stopped talking to him. When he called across a clearing, your head would turn in the opposite direction. He’d sneak up on you and Lo’ak as you helped him with his aim, only revealing himself to give some advice of his own, but instead of sticking around you’d mention that he could take over before leaving. 

No matter what, it was a deflection, and it was you who influenced the distance. Not him. So why does it matter if you’ll probably be ending the mating season with a serious prospect courting you. Who cares that in the next few months you’ll mate before Eywa with some skxawng. It makes no difference that sometime in the near future there might be a child running around hometree with your eyes, your mates nose, and tiny loincloths weaved by your own fingers.

The thoughts wound Neteyam up tightly. As if he was twine woven around a tree to stabilize a kelku. It made his treatment rougher than necessary; his grandmother moving to massage the tensed muscles more than needed. 

Even though his muscles had been worked out, stretched and prodded until they were spongy and soft again, his brain was still a mess. What could he do to prevent such an outcome? How could he implement himself back in your life in a way that would put him in a perfect position to determine who you decided to spend the rest of your life with? 

Hours passed as he laid on his sleeping mat and pondered. Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by your voice calling out to him. At first he had assumed it had been a figment of his imagination – that because his thoughts were all consumed by you, his brain had decided to play a trick on him. But then the voice came again, and again, and it only stopped after he had responded. 

It was you, really you! Sitting next to him, poised upon your knees as you spewed something about an apology. Truly, he did not care. Everyone has bad moments, maybe not him, but now wasn’t the time to say that. 

You hadn’t liked that. Forced him to not just brush off your apology. And that’s fine, it’s the first time in nearly half your lives that you’ve said more than ‘okay’ or ‘I heard you’ to him. So he accepts your apology all while silently hoping that you’d stick around, say something else to continue the conversation. You must’ve missed him as much as he’s missed you. Must have been wondering what his daily life looked like now.

Instead, you move to rise. Hands plant on your knees as you let your center of gravity shift to allow your knee to come up from beneath you. It’s then that Neteyam realizes Eywa’s delivered you to him. Here, on a shining platter (your knees so you’re level to him), and he’d be a fool to not take the opportunity to talk. 

He lets his hand rest upon your wrist for a moment. Allows his calloused fingers to feel over your pulse point until you question what he needs. It takes him a moment to find his voice, to gather his thoughts into a proper sentence. 

“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” Neteyam lets his hand drop, believing that you’ll stick around without him tethering you, “What happened to us?” 

For a moment he thinks that you will give him an answer. Something about how you wanted space to grow into your own, but now that you’re both old enough you’re willing to become friends again. 

“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” A scoff falls from your lips, face falling into an unimpressed scowl,  “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”

What?

What were you saying? Implying?

He supposes that he didn’t have to be important to you. But he never thought you’d say such a thing. Never thought such a statement would leave your lips when regarding your future Olo’eyktan.

Not that he needed to mention his rank. It was something that followed him as a child, something that lingered in the back of all the friendships that he held. You had never acknowledged it though, he was ‘just Neteyam’ and he couldn’t be happier for that.

Before he can move to grab you again, to try and force you to explain your rash statement, you’re up and out of the kelku. He moves to stand but his body aches and he can’t move fast enough. By the time he calls out to you, he knows you’re gone. 

How strange. 

No matter. Neteyam’s sure that he’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk with you before the mating season begins. Everything can be straightened out and he can claim his rightful position by your side and influence your final decision. 

If you were hard to get a hold of before, you were impossible now. Neteyam could rarely catch sight of you. When he did you were promptly out of his vision a moment later, as if you were a phantom of his imagination. 

He tried speaking to your friends. Urging them to spill the secret of where you were spending your time. When that didn’t work he tried bribery, offering them an uninterrupted dance with him during the season.

They hadn’t given up where you were spending all your time, but they had told him how you never stayed in the same spot for too long. That you allowed your schedule to rotate frequently to prevent being seen. This was not useful, but he had already pressed his forearm to theirs and grabbed their elbow in the traditional signal of a deal before they gave the information. 

When there was only a week left until the start of mating season, he took to more desperate measures. 

Neteyam begged his father to place you in his hunting party again. Jake's reply was less than pleasing, “No can do son. Strict orders to keep the two of you out of each other's hair after that last spar.” Who cared how that ended up?! The two of you were adults and could move past that if they gave you the opportunity. 

He asked his grandmother to speak to you when you went to her to be patched up. Mo’at sighed as she responded, “I will not get involved in your frivolous situation grandson.” Neteyam had scoffed, spewed something about how it clearly wasn’t frivolous to you, before he departed from the tent.

Next to suffer was Lo’ak. Despite how you had pushed him away, and refused to be seen around hometree with him, Neteyam knew that the two of you still hung out. As Lo’ak had been leaving the village one day Neteyam had stopped him, asking to tag along. “Sorry bro, not blowing up my spot for you.” had been Lo’ak’s carefree reply. What did he mean ‘blowing up his spot’? One would think that after all the heat Neteyam took for him, Lo’ak could do his big brother this one solid, but no matter there was still another path to try. 

The final person he dared try was your mother. She was always nice to him, loving and caring whenever he stopped by the weavers circle. Neteyam knew it would be a long shot, but it was still important to try all his options, to just implore her to tell him what had gotten under your skin. But she denied him too, “Ma’ite’s business is her business. You will have to find out from her yourself.” At least she was nice enough to pair her words with a soft tone and a light smile.

What a shame. How did they expect him to solve this situation if you wouldn’t speak to him! How was he supposed to ward off potential mates if he couldn’t be in your vicinity!

The thoughts consumed him all throughout the first week of the season. Sure Neteyam had his fair share of suitors approaching him; plenty of young women, even some men, approaching him to converse and delve into their lives. He still made sure to keep an eye on you however, glancing over the shoulder of the person in front of him, turning his head in your direction as he itches the back of his neck, a few times even excusing himself as he sees you walk off. 

The second week is when small gifts begin to be exchanged. He begins to get cuts of meat from Mekani. She delivers him the best, fattiest, pieces of sturmbeest and yerik meat. At first she delivers it raw, but as the week progresses she begins to cook it, glazing it in nectar, or roasting it with fruits. 

Neteyam’s not interested. To eat the meat is to show signs of interest, but it’d be rude to just discard. So instead, he takes it to his friends, distributes it between Teylun and Li’ral; and he only slightly regrets it when they begin to sing Mekani’s praises. 

Korvyn has been taking up your time. Not all of it, still allowing you to seek out other potential suitors, but he has certainly become bold in the last few weeks. He allows his tail to find your waist, to run it along the base of your own as the two of you talk. Tilts his head appropriately to show his interest in your stories. 

There wouldn’t be any worry from Neteyam if you hadn’t been smiling so happily at him. Hadn’t inched closer where you sat perched against the log. Hadn’t presented Korvyn with a fresh harvest of rumaut that you had cut up yourself. 

So the next morning Neteyam sets out, before the sun has risen over the horizon. He will bring back the best piece of sturmbeest meat, and then he is going to roast it slowly over the fire. When it is nearly done he is going to wrap it in a leaf with some fine roots, and glaze them both with honey, before allowing it to steam to perfection.

It would be perfect. A meal that he knew you consumed from childhood, perfected by his hands as the perfect distraction from other suitors.

Wait.

Wait.

What was he thinking? From other suitors? He was not trying to court you. Wasn’t trying to take a permanent, romantic, spot in your life. 

Well. It wouldn’t be that bad. 

He’d known you all your lives anyway. Been close until you were twelve. Your families liked each other, parents supporting each other in the war against the sky people. It wouldn’t be the worst scenario if he were to court you. 

Plus who would challenge the future Olo’eyktan for someone's hand? It would be stupid, they wouldn’t have a chance. Who would want a simple hunter, a weaver, a gatherer, or a carver, instead of the future leader of the Omatikaya? 

Teylun had said something similar to him just before mating season had started. Boasted that because of his title, he could obtain anyone he wanted, that he could probably get an older woman if he really wanted. Someone with more experience on everything, especially how to make him see stars in the privacy of their own kelku.

He was always more focused on the sexual part of things. On the physical level of affections, not on how they start, on the emotional base that makes everything more intense. But nonetheless, it was a great idea. He’d be able to ward off other suitors and maybe even encourage you to start seeing him how you once did again. 

So Neteyam spends the entire day preparing the meal. Kneels over the roast until his back gains a twinge. Ensures that the glaze covers the entire meal nicely, in a perfectly even layer before setting it to properly settle into the meal.

And when he’s finally settled, finally believes that the meal is perfect, he wraps it tightly in woven cloths to seal the heat. Then he’s off to the cookfire. He steps past where his friends reside, faltering for only a moment until he sees that Korvyn has yet again taken the seat next to you, then he is back on his mission. 

When he steps into the little bubble the two of you have cultivated neither of you pay him any mind. Your conversation flows, smooth despite his presence lingering in front of you both. Korvyn is in the middle of recounting how he learned to swim when his brother cast him into the river when Neteyam clears his throat.

The two of you turn towards the source of the noise. Korvyn lets a smile grace his features, always so friendly, but you just peer up at him. Your eyes go from the wide orbs that he’s used to, to half lidded at your disinterest. 

Neteyam’s eyes are only on you, watching the subtle sway of your tail, the way the furry tip brushes against Korvyn’s. He observes how your chest covering leaves very little to the imagination, it makes his throat dry up until Korvyn’s voice rings out to his left. 

“Neteyam, what can we do for you?”

So he clears his throat, lets some saliva coat his tongue, then speaks. “I wish to speak with her.” When no movement is made to leave the two of you alone he opens his mouth again, “Alone.”

“Oh. Right, of course!” Korvyn turns to you as he moves to get up, “I will see you later, kalintu.”

You let your hand grasp his bicep as he stands, allowing it to ghost over his skin until your hand rests in his. Neteyam can see the way your fingers flex as they hold Korvyns, can see the way his thumb rubs over your fingers before he inevitably steps away. 

When he departs your face falls more than it already had. Even more so when Neteyam sits next to you. Your brow creases, frown tilting your lips downwards. And finally, he’s granted with your voice being directed at him, “What is it?”

“I prepared this for you.” Neteyam begins to uncover the food, neatly unwrapping the cloths from around it before he hands you the leaf. You stare at it, lifting it in your palms to test the weight before raising your head again. 

“Thank you.”

“Open it.”

So you do, maneuver your fingers deftly to untie the twine that secured the leaf before beginning the actual process of unwinding the leaf. As you do a familiar sweet scent begins to flood your senses. You can tell what it is before it even comes into eyesight.

When it is finally revealed you can feel your mouth water. The delicious smell paired with delectable view sparks a hunger that you didn’t have before. But you couldn’t eat it, wouldn’t eat it, the implications were too great especially as anyone could see. 

You mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before moving to rewrap the food. Neteyam shoots his hand out though, halting all movement from you. 

“I wish for you to try it.”

It was dirty. A play that he shouldn’t be forcing right now, but Neteyam can feel Korvyn still lingering. He knows that he’s watching this whole interaction and Neteyam wants him to know that there’s competition. Worthy competition at that. 

“You know I cannot. That we are not prospects for each other.”

“Just try it. I wish to know if I’ve improved on the taste from when we were children.”

A huff leaves your nostrils. Heavy and harsh, as a clear sign of your distaste for Neteyam’s methods. But the slight grumble in your stomach does just enough to convince you. You raise the meat to your lips, parting them just wide enough for a bite before tearing off a piece with your teeth.

You let it rest on your tongue for a moment. To let the glaze flutter over your tastebuds before the tender richness of the meat joins it. It’s good. Very good. Unfortunately, Neteyam had mastered what herbs and spices went best with the meat and honey.

Swallowing your pride you allow a quick, “It is good.” Before you move to wrap the meat again. This time Neteyam lets you, pleased that you’ve tried his food in front of the whole clan. Even more pleased that you couldn’t deny that it was delicious – you may not have verbally said it, but he could tell from the way your eye sparkled and the upward flick of your ear that it was just as you liked it. 

The next few weeks went smoothly. Well, as smooth as they could in Neteyam’s eyes.

It had become clear to the clan that he and Korvyn were dueling for your attention. He had thought it would work in his favor, if everyone knew he was trying to court you, then they would encourage Korvyn to back off. 

Instead, Korvyn's friends seemed to step up their encouragement. Neteyam heard whispers from them about how good of a pick he had made, how if the Olo'eyktans son wanted the same woman then she must've been the perfect choice. If Neteyam wanted to take a page out of Li'ral's book, then he would have used the statement to his advantage.

Ran to you and told you that Korvyn only spoke to you because he wanted to stake claim over something that Neteyam wanted. But before he could even let the thought form he heard Korvyn’s voice drift over, ‘that does not matter to me. I thought she was perfect before he decided to intercept.’ Great. He was a great, honest guy. 

Neteyam really hopes that they can get along afterwards. That there wouldn't be any hard feelings when he took his rightful spot by your side. But he wouldn't be too upset if it didn't work out – the more distance between you two, the better.

As the time passed he began to appreciate you. At first it had been a distraction, to encourage others to stay away. But as he spent nights bringing you meals, rare flowers, dyes from rare fruits, even a couple of carved bone jewelry pieces, he got to know you again.

He relearned the sound of your voice – not the one he usually heard, the blunt, uninterested tone. But instead the light airy tone that you held in casual conversation.

Relearned how your outer eyelid begins to droop when you're tired. How you refuse to sleep when there's much left to do, and how your eyes begin to tear up in protest to your stubbornness.

Relearned how you'll allow your bare foot to scrape against the dirt when you find a pebble. Most would move their foot, kick the pebble away, or if they must, plant their foot on top of it and try to ignore the sensation. You instead, embrace it.

Relearned how observant you are. Even if you look to be immersed in a conversation, you're still tuned into everything around you. Your ears will flick back at particularly loud laughs, eyes will steal glances when people begin to move in your vicinity.

He feels as if he’s relearned you entirely. Cataloged every piece of you that was missing in the past twelve years. 

You must have felt the same. Felt as if you came to understand him better. That every missed moment was now known and that you were as close as before.

Neteyam’s drifting thoughts led to him messing up his weaving. He had switched stitching styles midway and now the armband looked crooked and mangled. He grunts in anger before putting his fingers into motion to fix his mistake. 

“What is wrong?” 

His mothers voice rings out behind him. She was preparing for dinner, carving the roots and slicing the meat while Neteyam sat a few feet away. She was always so observant, her oldest son the easiest for her to read.

“Nothing is wrong mother.”

He can hear the knife she held being placed down on the stone she was cutting on. Can feel her body heat shifting closer to his.  “Something is wrong. You are tense, hunching over your craft as if it must be shielded from the world.”

Neytiri's palm presses between his shoulder blades. It urges him to sit up straight.

“I want it to be perfect.”

He can feel his mother peering over his shoulder. It brings tension back into his body as he holds his breath. If his mother didn't like it he isn't sure what he would do. 

“It will be.” Neytiri nods approvingly, “You do not need to rush.”

He did need to rush. Teylun told him this morning during training that he overheard that Korvyn had finished his courting gift. That could only mean that he would be presenting it to you tonight at the gathering, which meant that Neteyam had to finish his courting gift before then. 

The two of you had been close last night. Closer than usual, dancing next to the fire with other couples. Body's swaying and twirling around each other, never straying far enough for someone to slip between you two. If Korvyn got to you first tonight, Neteyam was nearly sure that you would accept his gift, that he would lose you to him.

So he just smiles tightly at his mother. Nods in faux agreement that he had time to complete it, that he could be patient. He knew better though, and he knew he could complete it. Hours spent training in the ways of his people meant that he was well versed, he would complete this easily before the festivities tonight.

Normally armbands were fashioned with feathers as accent pieces. Two or three that would hang down the wearers bicep, usually of a color that meant something to them. He wants the feathers to be something that stand out; a nice rich orangy-red. Not only would it stand out against your blue skin, but it’d also draw attention, garner questions about who made it for you.

The thought brought a small smirk to his face. You, confirming the suspicions that the two of you were becoming something more, to any and all who asked. 

As he approaches the fire he scans to look for you. You aren't at your normal log. You aren't settled where your friends are. Aren't nibbling on something near the edge of the forest. 

Where were you?

Maybe you were late. He had heard that you were going to wash at one of the hot springs after training today, maybe you just hadn't made it back yet. That would make sense.

He takes up position with Teylun, Li’ral, and the rest of their friends. He tries not to get too comfortable, to be ready to jump up and head over to you as soon as you breach the forest.

Neteyam didn't want to seem like a prude by not partaking in the activities while he waited. So he drinks some wine and assumes a casual, loose position. He converses with his friends, shares his opinions on their prospects, answered when they question his stance with you.

The conversation almost leads him to miss your arrival. But his ears flick towards the sound of your voice instinctually. He allows his head to swerve with them, to watch as you greet your friends. You seemed happy, smiling as you caught up with them, he wondered what you were talking about.

It seemed wrong to interrupt. When the conversation died down he'd slowly meander over, politely ask your friends to excuse you, and drag you away from prying eyes. Then he could present you with the armband and implore you to give this courtship a chance.

As he ponders how the situation would go, Neteyam can see a figure approaching. When his eyes refocus he notices its Korvyn. He's approached you while you talk, urging you away as Neteyam was just daydreaming he would. 

No.

No, no, no. Neteyam only has one thought coursing through his mind as he approaches – Korvyn would not ruin this for him. 

“Korvyn! Can I speak to you for a moment?” Neteyam places a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

Korvyn nods, “Of course.” 

Neteyam drags him away; away from prying eyes, away from their friends, away from you. 

“I heard you are going to give a courting gift tonight.” 

“I am.”

Neteyam lets his tongue lave over his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as he picks his words carefully. “I do not think it wise to do that.”

“Why is that?” Korvyn’s brow furrows, nose scrunching before he schools his expression back to neutral.

“I wish to court the same person. And-” Eywa is he really doing this? Yes, he was and there was no turning back now, “and it would be embarrassing for her to deny you in front of everyone.”

“She has said that she would deny me?”

Neteyam lets his lips press tightly together, “I have not asked. But it would be wise to think of all possibilities.”

With another pat to Korvyn's shoulder Neteyam turns to leave. He makes his way back to the fire, back to the music, back to you. 

But you aren't there again. So he rushes to your friends, questions your absence like he should have done earlier. They tell him you were tired, that you had outdid yourself earlier and the hot spring loosening your muscles only made you more tired.

That is fine. Perfectly fine. He could see you in the morning, before training went underway. Drag you away to a more secluded area and confess his feelings then while he presents you with the armband he carefully crafted. 

So he goes back to his kelku. Laid down on his sleeping mat and pulled a pelt over his body before drifting off to sleep. When he wakes up he's excited, happy to see where this day takes him. Ever the optimist.

But when he gets to the training grounds you are not there either. It is fine, you were probably late again – you said you were tired the night before, maybe you just slept in today. 

Neteyam tries to keep his optimistic mood, to be the open and kind person that he should be. However it falters as the day goes on and he still does not see you. 

You didn't make an appearance for the midday meal. Fine.

Didn't show up to the weavers circle to gossip with your mother and the other older women of the clan. Fine.

Weren’t up high on the ikran rookery tending to your ikran as if they were your child. Fine.

Maybe your father had sent you out to duties he was unaware of. Things that drew you away from the village. But then you weren’t at the fire later on. Not the cookfire or the celebration fire either.

And to be honest, it was still fine.

Neteyam was able to emotionally regulate himself to not fall into a spiral. To not consider that something bad had happened, or that someone else was able to steal you away in courtship before he could. You were probably resting, and if you were not resting maybe you had fallen ill. 

So he lays his head down to rest another night, preparing to get up as the sun rises. He'd go to your kelku and ask for you before you had a chance to leave – not that you would be leaving, since you were sick, of course.

Upon arriving your mother greets him.

“Oh Neteyam! So good to see you – quite early though.. How is your mother? And your siblings, are they treating you well?”

A polite smile graces his face. He’d always been fond of your mother, and it’s important to answer all her questions diligently if he wanted to ensure she also liked him. 

“I apologize for the intrusion. She is well, I believe she's preparing for a hunt right now. My siblings are also well – troublemakers, but they are well under my watchful eye.”

Your mother nods along as he speaks, showing her interest, “That is good. I am very happy to hear the Olo’eyktan’s family is doing well.” She wipes her knife with a cloth, sheathing it before her face lights up, “Ah - I apologize, you must be here for something important if you came so early.”

Neteyam smiles, your name leaves his lips and he smiles politely. When your mothers expression falls into something morphed from confusion Neteyam realizes his mistake and continues.

“I was hoping to speak to her.”

“She is gone for the day already, another busy schedule.”

“Do you know where I might be able to find her?”

Neteyam feels as if he can see the gears turning in your mothers head. It’s as if he’s watching her weigh the pros and cons of revealing your location. He hopes that the pros outweigh everything else and that she’ll guide him in the right direction but he’s not foolish – he knows family should stick together. It’s his fathers favorite saying anyway.

“I do not. She has taken on many responsibilities recently.”

Neteyam can feel his face fall before he can school his expression. Disappointment settles in his bones, weighing his shoulders down. But before he can fully allow himself to count today's pursuit as a loss, your mother speaks again.

“She may be with the gathers. Fishing while they gather fibers for weaving. However, I am not certain.”

A smile graces his face at that. It wasn’t a definite answer of your whereabouts, but it's good enough. There were many spots to gather fibers down the river, and the walk would give him ample time to perfectly craft his confession. 

As he walks through the forest Neteyam allows himself to kneel and pick a few flowers. If all went well maybe you'd allow him to braid them into your hair. He could picture it now. The two of you sitting in an alcove of a fallen tree, the ambiance of the local fauna surrounding you, talking about any and everything that came to mind as Neteyam weaved your braided hair into other patterns to incorporate the flowers as well.

Sounds of rushing water and muffled voices force him out of his daydream. Arriving to the river means he has to attune himself to everything – he’d hate to miss you because you were on the other side of the river, or if the group you were with ended up being more inland. 

When he passes groups Neteyam puts on a proper face. He smiles, greets the clan members – sometimes he helps them with picking the fibers, or hauling a catch. When he comes upon the third group, he spots you nocking an arrow a few paces away. 

After you release the arrow, he calls out to you. He watches as your yellow eyes snap to his figure. You allow your head to fall into a slight nod of acknowledgement before wading out to retrieve your catch. 

Neteyam steps slowly, as if he is trying to not startle an animal. His hands reach out in front of him, trying to show that he means no hard as you yank the arrow from the octofins body. When you toss the fish into a basket filled with the rest of your kills, he finally approaches.

“Can I steal you from fishing for a few moments?”

He can see the way your tongue rolls over your top teeth beneath your lips. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, before you motion towards the forest.

Good. The denser flora would better muffle your conversation from prying ears. He wanted this to be a more intimate moment, and he’s glad to see that you share the sentiment. 

Neteyam feels like a child with how he brambles behind you. His feet snap twigs, his hands take ages to move the vines from his vision, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Any sense of preparation flees when you reach a clearing that you deem good enough.

“Speak.”

Not the joyous greeting he had hoped for, but it was fine, he could work with it. Perhaps you were just stressed about bringing back enough fish.

“How have you been? I missed you at the festivities the past few nights.”

You scoff, “I am fine. I have been busy – I am currently busy as you just saw. What did you come all this way for?”

“I wish to give this to you, so you can carry a piece of me with you always.” Before Neteyam can begin to dig into the satchel that rests tied to his tewng on his hip, a snarl from you halts his movement.

“Do not humiliate me. I will not allow it, not again.”

“I would never. These past few weeks have been very special to me. I feel as if I have gained ma txeylan back, as if we had never grown apart.”

Your lips tightly purse together, and you nod. This is not how Neteyam thought it would go. He believed that you would share his sentiment, that you would elaborate on how it felt from your perspective. Did someone else get to you first? 

“Do you not feel the same.. Did–did you agree to pursue someone else already?”

“Oh you are just so full of yourself! Can’t you see that?” You bellow, “You toss me aside for some new shiny friends, just to act like it’s my fault that we aren’t friends anymore. And now you bring up Korvyn? After you’ve forced your rank so that he does not court me?”

Neteyam allows his brow to crease. “What do you mean?”

“The other night! He had approached me to speak before you dragged him away, and yesterday morning I hear that he's been asked to stay away by the future Olo’eyktan.”

“No. No, not that.” He waves his hand dismissively, before looking back at you, “I did not toss you aside.”

“After your iknimaya. When Teylun first approached he called me a child. Then you brushed me off until your dream hunt, and then you only laughed at me and called me a child yourself!”

Realization dawned on his face. Much had happened in the past years, so much that he had buried that memory in his head, refused to allow it to see the light of day.

“I… I am so sorry.” You huff a laugh, disbelieving smile adorning your features before Neteyam continues, “I was taken with the praise that was being bestowed upon me, blinded by their perceptions of who I was that I didn’t consider how rude and childish my actions were.”

“Even if that were true, you only started taking an interest in me when you saw others approach – not because you truly wanted to reconnect.”

“It started like that, but I have always enjoyed our time together.” Neteyam hopes you can hear the earnestness in his tone. 

He tries to assess the non vocal signs you give him. The way your ears are slightly tilted back in annoyance, the way your tail is lashing angrily, how your fingers dig into your elbows where you hold your arms together. And despite your standoffish stance, you don't snap at him again.

“Actions must be paired with your words. Do not embarass me.”

A smile graces his lips, overjoyed that you're giving him a real opportunity, “You wont regr–”

“If you try to humilate me again the beating you recieve will be worse than the last.”

“Of course.” The smile falls a bit, but he cannot shake it from his face entirely. “May I help you bring back the fish you have caught?”

The thought dances around your mind before you shake your head, “No. You may begin with whatever you're trying to achieve tomorrow. Let me fish in peace.”

Not wanting to ruin his chances, Neteyam listens. Withdrawing from the area bidding the lingering clan members a goodbye before he begins his trek back through the forest. It hadn't gone as he planned, but you hadn't taken away his opportunity. Hadn't sealed and locked your heart away like one of the pressurized doors at the human outpost. 

He hoped that his luck would play out. That he would be able to charm you into feeling the same way for him. But time would only tell.

Everyday Neteyam worked on something. Something to impress you. Something to show he cared. That he considered you as more than a prize to win. 

At first they were simple things. 

A nice feather to tag your arrows with. 

Materials to help you craft a stronger grip for your knife.

Polished rocks that could be carved down into something to adorn your body or be used as decoration.

But Neteyam knew those things would only mean so much. Deep down he knew that anyone could retrieve those items for you – he had to distinguish himself somehow, to show how much better he was for you then any of the other candidates.

So the gifts progressively got more elaborate.

When you carved yourself a new bow, he weaved fibers together to make you a string to match its fury.

When the two of you somehow ended up in the same hunting party, he placed you in prime positions. No longer watching for unseen stampedes, but now being the one to arrive at hometree with the delight of knowing the clan would feast on your kill tonight.

He spent time making new meal combinations. Picking the ripest fruit to pair with savory mushrooms. He’d scour for ferns to crush into spices for meats. Swim out to rocks in the middle of lakes and rivers to catch the bigger fish that resided there. 

Neteyam wished to make you clothes, jewelry, shawls, anything that could adorn your body. He wanted others to look at the craftsmanship and question where you found the time to make something so intricate when you were so busy. He wished for a deep purple tint to find your cheeks when you admitted that Neteyam made them for you, that he somehow found time in his even busier schedule to make you such detailed gifts. But he knew he had to wait –  that he should wait, at least until you accept his courting.  

So until then he continues with other acts.

He makes mental notes of beautiful hidden alcoves that he sees on patrol. Which he later begs you to accompany him to. Some are in the forest, hidden behind vines and trees but bright with glowing flowers and moss. Others are in the floating mountains, lush green spots that contain shallow bodies of water for the two of you to lounge in after a long day.

Most importantly, well most important in Neteyam's mind, he makes more of an effort to listen and also show you that he heard you. 

When he asks about your day, he makes sure to delve into the little details about what fibers you're using for your weavings. Then the next morning more miraculously arrive outside your kelku. 

When you state that a meal didn't come out as good as you hoped because the fruit you used wasn't of the rarest quality because you didn't want to scale the mountain for it, Neteyam makes sure that not only the fruit, but the meat and the nectar you were using show up with him the next day. You tried to take it from him with a polite apology, but he insisted that the two of you cooked together. He couldn't stop himself from getting caught up on the fact that you let him feed you when taste testing the meal.

When you complained others speaking about you, Neteyam set them straight. 

To’lei said that the future Olo’eyktan couldn't have a carbon copy of himself as a mate, that he needed someone with a slightly different personality. So he politely reminded her that his mother not only matched, but exceeded in some senses, his fathers personality and their leadership has been strong and prosperous. 

Ulkan mentioned how the two of you had always butted heads, that this complete change did not make sense. Neteyam informed him that people can change and mature, but also that mistakes and misunderstandings happen and those are mendable wounds.

And before Teylun and Li'ral could even think of making a comment Neteyam took the initiative to speak to them. He tried to not dwell on the past, to blame them for his past mistakes, but he did make it clear that they would have to respect you from now on, along with more of the clan's women. Specifically for you however he made it clear that it is not to be because of his interest in you, but because they can acknowledge your skills and prowess in what you do.

After weeks of changing his ways, of proving himself to you Neteyam began to think that it would not work. That you wouldn’t ever take him seriously and all of this was for naught. Sure, you had softened – allowed him to be around you more, laughed freely, and teased him as you once did. But that didn't mean you'd give him a real chance at proving how good of a mate he'd be.

But one morning as he's making his way to the training grounds he sees you already there. You’re teaching some of the children how to properly hold their bows – what stance their feet should be in, how to twist their hips, and how to line their shots. That isn't unusual, the children loved to learn from you and you didn't view it as a hindrance as long as they listened.

What was unusual was the bright orange and red feathers that adorned your bicep, upon trailing his eyes up a bit more Neteyam could see that they were attached to a very familiar pattern. 

He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his face. The boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes as he approached calling your name. 

“You accept?”

You startle. Wave the children off dismissively, and huffing a bit when they don't disperse easily because of their nosey habits. But then you turn to him fully and nod. 

“I am willing to try. It is as if you brought back the aspects of the boy I grew up with and paired them with the actions of a man.”

“That was my goal.” His hands reach towards your hips but they hover instead of landing, “May I touch you?”

When you nod again he allows his hands to fall. His thumbs begin soothing over the skin they rest on, “How about a kiss too? I promise I will not disappoint you.”

Instead of answering you allow your lips to press to his. It's brief, nothing to cheer or shout over, but it's everything to Neteyam. It's proof that all his months of trying have now progressed into something palpable, and it means that his feelings are reciprocated. When he moves to kiss you again, you press a hand to his chest halting his movements.

“There are children around.”

“It is nothing they have not seen from their parents.”

“Do not be hasty. How about we go flying tonight, and we can… continue then?”

Neteyam nods eagerly, dislodges himself from you and begins to make his way across the training grounds. If he were to stay nearby with this recent revelation hanging in the air he wouldn't be able to contain himself. 

So he strides away, takes to sharpening a spear with an even wider grin than before adorning his features. He cannot wait for the future that he is so sure will happen – mating before Eywa, the ceremony with the clan, the births of your children, and eventually falling into the roles of leaders.

He should make a stop by the spirit tree to thank Eywa later. Neteyam is sure that she has had a role in this. That she had opened your heart and mind to the idea of him, and that without her he would have never been able to atone for his past mistakes, and never had won you back.

He would have never become important in your eyes again if not for her.

Maybe he would even take you - to prove that she had blessed this communion. Or maybe not, he should save that for when you consummate the union anyways.

Translation: Eveng - child Ma txeylan- my best friend Rumaut - cannonball fruit Ma’ite - my daughter Kelku - home Kaltxì - hello Tewng - loincloth Skxawng - idiot/moron Kalintu - sweet person

a/n: lowk didn't love the ending of this but i wanted to write it instead of figuring out my ten minute presentation thats due in a few days or studying for my super important exam on monday soooo it is what it is

Dividers by @cafekitsune

tag: @skepticalvoidhedgehog