Your composure is a facade. He knows it.

He knows it because he sees it.

In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even attempts to offer his help – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village. 

You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.

It was only ever a him problem.

Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs. 

You had a problem with Nateyam.

As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.

He was supposed to get along with you.

You – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man. 

You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him. 

It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.

You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you. 

He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really.

You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.

However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen. 

One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoon’s argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.

When you asked for it low and casual, he didn’t think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.

He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.

But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.

You had still taken the basket.

“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.” 

And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.

The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.

The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language he’d never understood as a boy – the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.

That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.

Your composure was a lie. 

And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.

But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.

That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.

Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.

“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him. 

Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife. 

“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. “You just insist on hovering.”

“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”

You didn’t look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.

“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”

The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.

Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?” 

His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.

“That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.”

The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.

You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.

“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”

“Excuse me?”

The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.  

Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.

“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.”

That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.

Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.

With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.

“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”

For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.

A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.

“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”

You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”

“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”

He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.

His mouth twitched down. 

“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”

You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”

“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered. 

You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”

“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”

You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”

“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.” 

He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”

You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.

“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.

“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”

Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.

“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.

“I can’t. You make it difficult.” 

You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.

Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.

Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”

“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl. 

“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.

“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.” 

Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.

“Neteyam!”

This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstring–

“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”

A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement. 

“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large.

Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more. 

“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”

“–We are not flirting, Kiri.” 

The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.

Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”

And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”

The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam. 

“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”

Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!” 

But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.

Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.

“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”

Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.

“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”

Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.

“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”

For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together. 

In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.

She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.

And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.

“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”

She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.

For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.

“Oi!”  Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.

Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.

“That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”

Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.

That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”

She didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.

“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.

Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.

Lo’ak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.

You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.

“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.

When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village. “Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”

The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.

For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.

It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form. 

“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.

“Still upset about what Kiri said?"

Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway. 

"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."

His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press. 

The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.

“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.”

Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.

But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.

“Back off,” You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”

You couldn’t handle it anymore, the way his eyes bore into yours like they read every thought, so you moved to leave the clearing, to be as far away from him as can be.

Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.

“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”

Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.

“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”

His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.

A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.

“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.

Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”

The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”

He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”

“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.”  You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.

The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.

Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.

You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at on the head from the overhang.

Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.

Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d taken down a Thanator.

“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.

“When you stop trying to steal mine..” You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.

You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.

“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.

Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer. 

“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.” 

She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.

You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.

An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.

It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course. 

But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.

There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?

Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”

You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the man.

“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.

“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”

“That is not how this works.” You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.

Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.

Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.

“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”

“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”

Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.

You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.

"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”

“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”

The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.

"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.

Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.

“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”

“Seems like you do…”

“—What is going on!?”

The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.

Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.

The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Olo’eyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.

And that wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.

That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?

“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”

Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.

He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.

“I said we are fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you.

Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.

“And I said I was just asking.” His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”

You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, I forgot I am only allowed to feel some way once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”

Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.

“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”

“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My tail flicks too harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.”

Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”

“And you don’t have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.”

An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.

“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"

“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!

“That is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”

"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"

An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.

"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Olo’eyktan already."

Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyam’s presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you existed too loudly for her liking?

And especially who did she think she was inserting herself into Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘If we did not worry’ — as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?

You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.

“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”

Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.

“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."

"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.

"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”

And then he stiffened. “Enough.”

But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.

“I would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.

“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”

You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.

“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”

And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.

It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.

The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.

He didn’t know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.

It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.

“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.

Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.

One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator. 

He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.

Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you locked onto his solid figure.

You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.

Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.

“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”

The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you jolted.

You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.

Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.

You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.

“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out. 

Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit. 

"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"

Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.

“Well, would not want to mess up that pretty face.”

You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.

It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.

You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.

You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip, but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.” 

Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.

Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.

You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.

“I will kill you!”

Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.

“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”

You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”

He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.

The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.

“I am trying to win a damn spar, not handle your tantrum.” He said through short breaths. “Yield!”

“Force me, Tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,“or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”

His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.

He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.

The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.

And Jake was done watching it.

"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"

His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams heaving figure mirroring your own. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.

Jake continued.

"It was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you."

The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.

"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.

So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.

Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.” 

As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!

Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”

He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.

"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is." 

He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell” - to some weird sky people word.

Shameful. 

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool. 

As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.

You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.

You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.

Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.

His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.

Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.

Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.

“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”

He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It is quite damn funny.”

That was all it took.

You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-

Did. Not. Care. 

Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide. 

“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I will slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”

Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely. 

His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be. 

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.

It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.

And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I will give you something to actually choke on.”

The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas. 

His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.

For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.

“I said enough!”

He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.

Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.

“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”

He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.

"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.” 

Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."

He released you with a shove toward the rookery.

“Go saddle your Ikran’s.” 

When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.” 

Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.

You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.

The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.

Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.

Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.

Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.

Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.

Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.

“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”

Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”

Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.

Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”

“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”

“You’re worried.” Jake observed. 

“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”

“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.

“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.

Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”

“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”

This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording. 

“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”

Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”

Jake grimaced. “That was different.”

“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”

Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.

Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed. 

Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night. 

Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.

It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”

You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread. 

“Do it yourself.” 

Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning. 

“Do not start.”

You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”

“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”

“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”

“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”

“I only reacted because you–!” 

The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place. 

–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates. 

“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.

“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”

 “Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.” 

A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.

“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.

“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”

He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.

“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.” 

The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down. 

It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent. 

Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.

Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.

Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.

You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..

The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.

Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him. 

His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made. 

It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke. 

“You must really like my loincloth.”

Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on. 

“Shut up–!”

“–You know, my mother makes them–”

“ –I don’t care–!”

“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–” 

“–You do not know anything–!”

“–I know exactly when you lie.”

The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison. 

Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now. 

The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t… 

At least, not right away.

His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in. 

“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.” 

Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it is not working, you do not look very balanced right now.”

If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.

They were larger and longer than most others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers, all five of them, grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it. 

Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on the curl of his knuckles.  

His gaze followed yours until it landed on the object of your fixation; his calloused, human-like hands that resembled a foreign race more than it did his own. It lingered on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. And a slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.

“Greedy?” He spoke the word as if it heeded a riveting discovery and without haste, he lifted said hands; the ones you hadn’t stopped ogling at, toward your sightline. “Is that what you think they are?” 

His long fingers extended deliberately to parade all five digits to your wide, helpless eyes, and he began wriggling them in slow, mesmerising pulses as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you had just mocked. 

“Tawtute.” He uttered it in mocking, the way you usually did, except his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That’s what you call me, isn’t it?”

Now, he let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just enough, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.

“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.

Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing your own, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. The hand that rounded your skin tugged upwards to bring your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.

“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.

You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.

And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find. 

“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”

Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?

“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it. 

You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.

They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.

He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”

You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.

“Neteyam learns quicker,”

“Neteyam already wields a bow,”

“Neteyam never loses his temper.”

You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.

And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled. 

“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”

The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile. 

You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak. 

“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.

Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.

“–stop.”

Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop? 

Do not stop?

He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat. 

You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.

“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”

And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant. 

A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed. 

And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground. 

His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall. 

That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined. 

It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.   

Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.

He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”

“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.

But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”

And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind. 

“Stop talking. I still despise you.”

Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.  

“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.

Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response. 

The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you. 

His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.  

“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.

Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”

Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.

There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.

You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him. 

“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”

The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace. 

Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous. 

You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him  – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.

“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.

Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.

So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.

He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.

You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.

“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.

“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.

“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”

“Fang, what are you–”

Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”

“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.

“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer. 

Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.

“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.

“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”

He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.

“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.

For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.

“Prove it,” you snarled.

Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.

You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.

Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.

And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.

The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.

Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back. 

“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”

“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”

He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

“I do not think I'll have too.” 

Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.

The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.

You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.

At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.

His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.

“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”

The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.

Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.

It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.

A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.

He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.

He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.

The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything. 

You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.

“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”

You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you

He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.

Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.

“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”

You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.

“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”

The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.

“Mmm– ’tayem–”

Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.

“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”

You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.

“Ma– tayem–”

He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.

“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”

“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.

Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.

Ma ‘teyam. 

Your Neteyam

The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.

The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.

His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”

“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”

A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.” 

And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.

He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.

“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”

You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”

Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.

“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”

“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”

“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”

You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”

Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”

Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”

You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”

He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted. 

You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.

“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.

“I am aware.”

Attending is weird. And old-man Cherry said it best; the brain's ability to detect some stimuli whilst filtering out the rest was truly just spectacular, and perhaps one of the only things you can attribute your maintained sanity to amid the stone world chaos – chaos that only seemed to be expanding. “Habituation” as Thomas and Spencer coined it.

Oh! Write that one down… 

The human brain was just so exhilarating, truly the most complexly crafted mechanism in the known universe, and you would be damned if you’d ever let the centuries worth of experiments, and knowledge, and science, and theories, and sacrifices, and what-have-you become obsolete to the clock-hands of time. The moment you awoke from the depths of stone-bound consciousness – bright red eyes glaring down at you, wide and yet weary despite a beaming smile, you finally understood what you had been placed on this earth to do. 

It’s a daunting feeling every person has to face come time, the choice of deciding what craft they deem important enough to dedicate a single lifetime to. Important enough to leave a life's worth of a mark on the earth for, an imprint etched intricately by the thinning skin of two aging hands. And in that fluorescent moment, as your eyes squinted against light absent for three millennia, you glanced left to see green where your desk once stood, and right to see the bare parts of the boy that made your cheeks flush in science club (and god, did your cheeks flush again). Yes, in that moment it dawned on you that your purpose on this impossibly green earth was to ensure none of the most brilliant minds of psychological science would be lost to stone. 

So you wrote. You wrote for every weary moment that passed and embedded itself on the rocks of the mountains that formed in its wake, because nothing better had yet been reinvented. You wrote as the population of two grew to a population of four, then four to five, and five back down to just the two of you. And you wrote into the moment you realised modern minds weren't the only ones left inhabiting the desolate planet you once saw skyscrapers adorn, and that primitive ones prevailed too.

You wrote in your little hut by candlelight, after a day's work of winter prep had been put to rest. And eventually you wrote in Chrome’s lab while Senku sat sketching blueprints beside you and the kingdom of science laboured at the collective ideas the two of you deemed worthy of fabrication. 

And when said kingdom finally acquired proper writing materials, Senku made sure they reached you in that weird silent display of affection he does, and once again, you wrote into what you deemed to be the official, contemporary (but not very modern), psycho-encyclopedia. And you’d be sure that every drop of knowledge from your mind bled into the pages of fibre darkened with soot-stained ink. 

This was your life’s work. A weird thing to deem by 20, but you were sure this was what your purpose was; this frayed, stained, and crinkled leather-back book – only yet half full – scribbled with knowledge of a time long gone, but definitely not forgotten. 

“Attending,” god, it really was weird — because despite all those complexly drawn out thoughts hidden behind your eyes trained on said book, it suddenly occurred to you that you were sitting in the midst of one of the busiest moments the stone world had surely ever seen.

Out in the open, you leaned over a glass table as levers and pulleys strained every which way at incomprehensibly large planks of wood, with dozens of people bustling around you ensuring Senku’s newest idea came to fruition. A boat- no, a ship – and god, was it loud. “Habituation,” thank everything for it, because you’d have written jack-all today without it. Probably would have forgotten your idea. 

Your idea that lingered — a cognitive thread that refused to loosen its hold. It had been needling at you for days, itching at you enough that you’d finally raised it with Senku the night before, hoping for something resembling an answer. Just as he always confided his outlandish ideas in you for psychological perspective, you hoped his biological expertise could return the favour. 

You knew he was an unhelpful prick when he stuck his pinky in his ear and shrugged blankly with that dumb look that made you exhale through your nose.

“How would I know? You’re the Neuroscientist.” 

You almost kicked him to sleep on the pebbles outside. Alas you didn’t.

And science said if no one had an answer, then it was worth exploring. So, when your eyes finally cracked open after a near-sleepless night, you teetered quietly out towards the glass table overlooking the kingdom of sciences newest project, careful not to wake Senku in the faint hope that he’d actually rest, and the others in heavier hope of a little goddamn quiet. 

Thus you sat from the early break of dawn, eyes fighting their own heaviness as the day remained still, through to the beaming heat of the afternoon – where the primitive world finally remembered just how loud it liked to be. All the while, you jotted down your newest theory in the ratty leather-back book Senku made you years ago.

If Loftus describes memories as fallible, and recollection as constructive rather than chronicle, and yet so many people describe the events of the petrification in such detail, then the preservative qualities of the petrification process must not be pertinent just physiologically, but also be applicable to the brain cells and neural pathways necessary for memory recall. Perhaps, I should collect self-report data on individualistic petrification experiences, that way I can assess the hypothesis scientifically. A significance test might be the most efficient way to test this- Pearsons, maybe?

“Y/n!”

White lines turned to multicoloured configs as your eyes snapped to the owner of the voice. 

That's right, “Attending.” Weird, how the brain does that. The cocktail party effect, as Cherry said- oh, you should remember to write that one down too- 

“-Y/n!”

“Huh?” 

“Did you even hear a word I said?” Gen’s voice carried thick through the air, despite all the clashing voices contending for a hold in place. Your eyebrows shot down in a furrow of confusion and a twinge of irritation, before one arched sharply in recognition. 

“I heard my name.” You retorted. 

“Your name is not a word,” Gen countered dryly, “so, I’ll take that as a no.”

Through his tone you noticed the hitch of his breath as he puffed on his words. It was only then you noticed just how tired he sounded. Through the breathiness, and the beading sweat. He was working on Perseus today.  

“Sorry,” you muttered, already turning back to the page, pining to get back to your writing. “Thinking.”

Gen snorted. “Typical scientist habits. We ought to get you genuises a handler.”

You didn’t rise to his bait. Instead, your pencil hovered for a moment before scratching the thought down anyway, your fear of losing the thought trumping your interpersonal attraction to the group.

Festinger’s Group Cohesion Theory, another one you couldn’t forget to write about…

“-huh, Y/n?”

“What?” Your eyes snapped up again, sharper this time, agitation leaking through before you could stop it. You didn’t mean to be so short-tempered, but you were working against the clock here, and there was much else Senku needed from you despite it. Couldn’t they see you were working? Just as they had their job, you had yours, and you weren’t privy to being interrupted so often. Gen was a mentalist, he knew that attention, once broken, was never so easily reclaimed.

This time Ginro stepped forward, imitating a similar breathlessness to Gen, with that typical helpless Ginro-desperation leaking through his tone. 

“Y/n, we're stuck on the instructions and don’t know what to do! It says something about accounting for… uh- testicle stress?” Ginro’s eyes glanced down at the wrinkled blueprints, with irrationally fearful eyes, “It’s one of those science-y words Senku uses when he wants to scare people and it makes no sense! What does it mean?!” 

Your pencil stilled, eyes blinking slow as you finally digested the full scope of the scene. Your attention finally shifted as you took note of the many weary eyes glancing at you with hopeful expectation. Hope that you would relieve them of their stress. Expectation that you would clear up their gaps in knowledge and aid them on their journey to task completion, and their eventual next meal break, one you could smell simmering away somewhere inland.

However, hope, you learned, was a feeble thing, because misplacing it meant the inevitable disillusion of optimism. It was truly unfortunate that you knew their hope was exceptionally misplaced, and it almost made your blood boil over that they had interrupted your expertise for something so obviously out of your field.

“I-I don’t know.” You deadpanned in utter disbelief, “I’m a neuroscientist not an engineer.” 

You watched with perplexity as the faces scattered around the half-built ship dropped in despair, and hopeful eyes shifted into ones completely lacking faith. You could almost see the black cloud that had settled over the top of them, gloomy and dreary with resignation.  

For half a second, you stared at the slumped shoulders, the exaggerated sighs, the way despair settled far too heavily for a problem that had such an obvious solution. The scene bordered on near absurdity in their reactions, as if their stone aspirations of a modern world had been macerated with just a few timid words. As if there wasn't a very loud… very capable… very obvious answer pacing somewhere just beyond the hull.

That realization cut clean through your confusion, compelling it to settle into a regretful twinge of irritation that left a tick forming in your right eye. Maybe it was just the exhaustion assuming its place, but alas you felt it twitch. All as the moment festered into the recognition that they were now wasting a lot of time, a lot of cognitive load, and a very valuable thought pattern for something that wasn’t nearly a catastrophe. Let alone something that was even your problem.

You sighed, rubbing at the migrating headache that had begun pulsing at your temple, as if stimulating the skin would coax the synapses to fire in successive order again. “Guys,” you said, tone flattening as patience thinned, “this isn’t that hard.”

A few heads lifted, the prospect of a brilliant mind coming to their aid on the horizon.

“I study brains,” you deadpanned, attention already drifting back to the page. “Not boats. If you want to know what torsional stress is-” you eyed Ginro as you enunciated the word slowly before glancing back at your book, then pointed over your shoulder without glancing, “-go ask Senku. That’s literally what he’s here for.”

Taiju was the next to step up with a strained frown pulling at his lips, a cue you were familiar enough to recognise as the precursor to a complaint. It was a gesture that made you oddly reminiscent of your days back in school, where he’d do just so before nagging Senku and you both to no end, a giggling Yuziruha somewhere nearby. You always feigned annoyance in that moment, though you wouldn’t admit it was charming in the particular way Taiju could be. You would just sip your strawberry milk and catch the smirk Senku pretended not to wear as he silently admired the scene. Though, while on the topic of things never to be admitted, Senku would deny this vehemently too. 

Nostalgia theory, be sure to write that too…

“-But, Y/n!” Taiju protested suddenly, the frown returning in full force. “Senku told us to stop bothering him.”

You barely had time to register the implication before Yuzuriha had chimed in, leaning in from behind him with an apologetic smile that softened the complaint immediately.

“He actually told everyone to stop bothering him,” she clarified lightly. “Very explicitly.”

Kohaku was next to join the conversation, one you had already deemed trivial on a day so scarce of time, though, at this rate you discerned that it wasn’t ending any time soon so you leant back with a huff. 

Her arms folded over her chest, posture already mirroring a scolding she’d likely endured firsthand and a bite in her tone that unveiled her disapproval of Senku’s preferred work-ethic. At this rate, however, you were starting to understand why he demanded the quiet.

“He’s working with Kaseki on the “rudder.’” Kohaku said flatly, directing her words with air quotes. “Said it was important, then got pissed when we asked too many questions. If you ask me, he could stand to explain things better instead of barking orders.” 

“Its a good thing no one asked you, then.” Chrome muttered under his breath, a comment that earned him a stern fist to the side and a snarl from the owner of said fist. 

“Since you’re feeling so confident today, why don’t you go ask Senku for his help?”

Chrome frowned with a wince, “No way!” He spoke as he rubbed a soothing hand to his ribs. “He yelled at Suika today. That’s how I know he’s pissed, he’s never yelled at Suika. If I went up to him, I think I’d become an example.”

You were well aware that Senku had been a little on edge recently, with the piling stress of the ship's construction, and the constant need to be the most decisive, and quick-thinking person in the room. You could see the pressure settling heavier on his shoulders with each passing day the ship wasn’t completed – not exactly in the way he spoke, but in the rare moments where he didn’t. In the moments where it was just the two of you at the end of a long day and he didn’t feel pertinent to small-talk. When he would let you ramble about your interest and theories without contributing or competing in the playful way he usually would. In the silences he let linger a second too long because his brain never quite stilled.

You tried to make up for it when it counted. By fielding the questions he didn’t have time to answer and redirecting the noise away from him when it grew too insistent but you were only so knowledgeable in chemistry, and had your own load to bear. It was no wonder he snapped when he had prepared the construction team as best as he could, only to be bombarded by questions regardless. You suppose it was inevitable, but still.

Your thoughts lingered longer than they should have and you were halfway through reconciling when movement sliced violently through your peripheral vision.

Ginro's flailing arms abruptly overtook your field of view, a descending shadow made up of pale and frantic limbs cast against the sunlit shipyard, snapping you out as it loomed far too close. For a fraction of a second, your mind lagged behind your eyes until recognition struck.

He was about to slam the messily sketched blueprints onto the glass table. The same table where your book sat open. Your very precious, still-wet-with-ink book.

Your arms reacted before conscious thought had time to intervene and it was one of the few moments you found yourself grateful that your body had outpaced your brain. Your hands snapped back, hugging the book tight to your beating chest, with a finger pinched between the still-wet pages to keep them from bleeding into an inky abyss. A heartbeat later, Ginro’s hands came down with a clatter forceful enough to jolt the contents of the table a few millimeters airborne. 

A heaving Ginro unveiled tense and sweaty beside you, and if looks could kill, Ginro may as well have dug his little grave with the glare you sent him. He realised the mistake he made far too late and froze beside you, shoulders rigid, eyes darting first to the blueprints now splayed innocently across the glass, and then up to your face.

His lips wobbled with apprehension as his voice shakily vibrated, “I-I-” He smiled wearily. “Sorry?”

That twitch in your eyes was almost a second heartbeat at this point, and with the prospect of nearly losing an entire day's worth of work over- over-... Ginro, you had finally felt that final gear spinning that indicated you had reached your wits end. 

“Okay,” voice cutting low and level in a way that carried far more weight than shouting ever could. “That’s enough.” 

The sound of wood against dirt pierced through the air, dense with unease, as your feet shoved the rickety chair backwards. Your arms came down in a swift motion as you settled the book gently over the blueprints, and with hands now free, you gripped the table's edge hard enough to feel the imperfections in the grooves, attempting to ground your irate nerves. You weren't angry, these people were your closest friends, but their irrational panic was bordering absurdity, too close to theatrical. You were already overworked as it was, and now too petty to deal with this spectacle alone.

You inhaled once and heaved with a shout. “Senku!” Cutting through the dense air like a bell.

And like that, the once bustling shipyard stilled as if a switch had been flipped. What once had started with you drowning out the blaring scene to centre your own focus, had turned into a scene in which you had become the center of everyone else's. Habituation was long gone, replaced by your need to go back to that peaceful, productive state you’d been in earlier this morning. The eyes of confusion had evolved into ones of apprehensive fear, and the hiss Gen pushed through his teeth told you just how unnerved they were with your decision.

It was quiet for a beat, quiet enough to hear the tide hit the rocky shore twice before footsteps crunched against the pebbled dirt just a ways in the distance. The array of people besides you tensed in agonized anticipation of a lecture that was patently soon to come, but you just stood biting your lip, ticked off and bored, already tired of waiting for a response. 

Senku rounded the corner with a painfully ordinary slouch. Goggles, recently discarded, dangling loosely around his neck with nothing but a slight twitch of his lip to indicate the miniscule amount of irritation he bore. His hands smudged with lingering grease stains crossed loosely over his chest as he cocked a brow, red eyes boring directly at you. “What?”

The group stood unmoving, already dumbfounded by the flatness of his tone. 

The gears in Chrome's brain couldn’t begin to comprehend the difference in reactions so shortly spanned. The first and last time he approached Senku earlier that day, the man had snapped so sharply Chrome could swear he felt a glimpse of Sulferina’s ghost peeking through. Senku was a near walking reaction waiting to go critical today. 

He understood why – the man had a lot of work to be done in a very short amount of time. But yet, here he strolled so casually around the helm, voice steady and unremarkable, just mildly annoyed at an interruption he had close to bit a head off over an hour ago.

And you just glanced at him as if his question was unfounded, as if he was foolish for even questioning your intentions, “Come here.” As if it were obvious.

And he did. He just did. No arguments to mimic the handful of ones he put up against the others, no scolding to demand they stop bothering him, or flat palms pointed up to ask if they could see how busy he was. He just walked over like you held a rune to turn time itself into stone, like you had already made the decision for him.  

Senku’s feet carried him directly beside you, stopping close enough that the edge of his boot brushed the table leg. He planted two fists firmly on each hip and leaned forward, expression flat and condescending. “What is it?”

“Your inability to write coherently is becoming my problem. Come fix it.” The words landed so unceremoniously, stripped of all caution. You spoke to him as if the man was just a childhood friend, and not some otherworldly genius so far out of your reach that they barely knew how to approach him sometimes. 

Oh… 

They realised. 

Because that was exactly what he was. 

To them, he was the crazed polymath scientist who rebuilt the world in a frantic swirl of ideas. But in that moment, they had almost forgotten that you were the mad neuro-psych scientist who helped him do it. Because, to you, he was just the childhood best friend who matched your sporadically manic ideas. 

To you, he was just your boyfriend.

Gen let out a slow breath, the confusion finally wilting as it clicked into place. He knit his brows together through a self-deprecating smile, feeling a little foolish now that he thought about it, because really, it hadn’t been subtle at all. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Right,” he muttered. “Of course.”

“What?!” Suika gulped.

Gen waved a hand vaguely, still smiling. “I feeear I may be a little slow on the mark today,” he said, the humour creeping back into his tone now that the tension had deflated. 

There was a beat. Then Chrome, who had been watching with cautious attention up until now, puffed up slightly as the realisation finally landed.

Oh.

How could he have missed it? The two of you who turned up at his lab door with stacks of wilting papers in your hands and paper cuts on Senku’s, already talking over each other in a language Chrome had to learn to keep pace wth. The way you argued sometimes, sharp and relentless and oddly in sync, like a married- …oh. Right.

Well, in his defense, he wasn’t stunned by the oversight itself. Nor by the being-together part because everyone knew that already. Every newly unpetrified friend arrived at the same conclusion sooner or later, that you liked Senku and more astonishingly, that he was even capable of normal people emotions. The revelation usually earned a horribly concealed snicker from you and an overextended eyeroll from Senku.

Chrome wasn’t shocked about what everyone already knew. No, what shocked Chrome was something else entirely.

It was the way Senku was acting with you, that Senku would ever act like that with you. 

He had snapped at everyone else without forethought, barked orders and bared teeth like it was today's motto. And yet the second you called his name, he softened like Cesium and appeared by your side at beck and call despite having made it abundantly clear how busy he was.

Senku was being… soft.

Soft.

Chrome’s lips twitched, the thought settling somewhere between disbelief and amusement. And as if the air itself carried the same conclusion, Gen’s smile beside him sharpened with a similar realization too.  

Chrome leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief now that the connection had finally been made. Just a half hour ago, Chrome feared nothing would ever bring this partner down from his enduring stress, and yet, here he now realized the solution had been sat, scribbling away into the book he had crafted just for her. “Is that mark you missed related to her?”

Gen grinned. “Yes, call it a mentalist blind ot-spay.”

Catching the drift of thoughts the two boys had collectively found, your eyes darted sideways, a gleam of warning conveyed behind a tilted eyebrow as you murmured, “Mentalist mind your usiness-bay. I’m doing this for you.”

Senku was ticked off as is, the last thing you needed was an all out argument because Gen couldn't help narrating his emotional state like a party trick. God, you’d never hear the end of that one. 

Senku – either none the wiser, or more likely opting to ignore the provocation, followed your outstretched finger down to the wrinkled blueprints he’d scribbled up haphazardly late a few nights ago. His focus sharpened almost instantly. 

“These aren’t incoherent,” he muttered. “They’re just unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” You echoed.

“Yeah,” His shoulder loosened as if the rest of the world had quietly fallen out of priority the moment you asked, “The diagram’s garbage.”

In an attempt to get a better look, Senku reached forward and pushed your book aside, the leather cover dragging softly across the glass as he cleared space. Around you, several people stilled, breath catching in one collective gasp, eyes following the course of the book as if it had been tossed into the ocean, because it may as well have been. This was the same book Ginro had nearly been buried for so much as brushing against, and here Senku was, haphazardly dragging it around as if you hadn’t considered committing a stone-aged crime over it.

You didn’t even blink. 

Your attention, baited and steady over a topic you hadn’t cared any less over a mere 10 minutes ago, remained fixed on the blueprints, finger already tracing the flaw he’d just pointed too.

Senku glanced past you, eyes flicking briefly over the rigid postures and baited breaths, and he couldn’t help the eyeroll he sent the group at their theatrics. 

“…Huh,” you said as if it were old news. “That’s inefficient.”

At the pull of your voice, Senku turned back without hesitation. He reached for your pencil, flipping it eraser-side down, and began scrubbing at the graphite with quick hands.

“The load is redistributed here. If it was torsional failure, you’d hear it before you saw it.”

“…Hear it?” Ginro croaked.

“Like screaming metal,” Senku dragged his voice as if the thought alone delighted him. Ginro perked up straight as a board, and let out a strangled squeak with fists clenched tight to his sides. 

Your hand shot up and flicked Senku on the head, “Stop being mean.” Senku replied with a chuckle before flipping the pencil once more to the graphite end. 

“They’re following the load-bearing assumption too literally. It needs redistribution here-” he tapped the page once, then again, “-and here.”

As if the concept had just been transmitted into your mind, you perked up with a sudden breath as the explanation clicked. “Ooh!” You dragged the word. “So if you mirror the brace here, the torsional load dissipates instead of-”

“-concentrating at the joint,” Senku finished, already nodding. “Exactly.”

Just a few feet away, Chrome and Gen shared a very quiet, very exasperated glance, because no matter how often you two did it, they would never comprehend what in the orld-way you too were babbling about and why it always ended with the literal completion of each others sentences.

“But,” you continued, already reaching for the pencil again, “that only works if the secondary supports aren’t rigid.”

Senku paused as the implication fell on him. It wasn’t a long pause, but long enough for the watching eyes to tense. 

“…Yeah,” he said, as if the thought had never occurred to him. You suddenly leaned forward, right arm brushing against his left as you tugged the pencil from his fingers and bent over the blueprints. Senku didn’t resist or comment, only shifted closer to watch as you sketched in the adjustment, red eyes following black graphite lines materializing with every stroke your hand made.

“You’re just relocating the stress,” you added quietly. “It’ll collapse somewhere else.”

Senku hummed in thought and leant forward to study your markings clearly. And in an act Gen deemed to be unconscious, the group watched as Senku’s arm slid up your side and rested just in the dip of your back, almost as if using your body to steady his own. “Flexible coupling,” he muttered. “I assumed they’d compensate.”

“It won’t.” The words weren’t sharp, just simply pointing out a fact. “Same thing that happened with the footbridge model we made for physics A3, remember.”

“You mean the one that collapsed because you insisted on testing it during science club,” Senku replied without missing a beat.

“I was proving a point.”

“You proved several,” he said. “Most of which ended with us being banned from the lab for a week.”

A sly, and yet oddly reminiscent smile slowly crept up to adorn your lips as the memory flashed in your brain. Senku’s wide eyes as the model collapsed, the splintering sound of balsa through the room and the chorus of gasps as fragments skidded onto the active bunsen burner, sending the accompanying beaker flying from the bench to shatter across the tiles. You swear you would have walked away with a mere slap on the wrist if the lesson of the day hadn’t been “safe handling of erosive waste.” 

Whoops.

“Semantics.” You laughed. “Like I said, I study brains, not bridges.”

Gen leaned in close to Chrome as he registered the words, one arm crossed and the other rose to block the left side of his mouth, which pulled to the right, “Coulda fooled me.” 

You didn’t dignify Gen’s comment with a response, just huffed softly through your nose and leaned back over the table, already dragging the blueprints closer.

“Alright,” Senku said, eyes narrowing as they tracked the altered lines. “If we redistribute the brace like that, we’ll need to adjust the support angles or the whole thing’ll sag under the weight.”

You nodded once, “Okay, then we alter it here.” Senku reached for the pencil, missed, and smirked when he realised you’d already claimed it. 

“Fine. Draw it.”

And you did. Your hands sketched quickly, mouths moving quicker as the two of you spoke over each other in barely-finished thoughts that evolved into barely-comprehended ones to the untrained ears of your friends.

“If we widen the base-”

“-we can increase the load.”

“Only if the hull flexes.”

“It won’t with Kaseki’s framing.”

“Then we’re good.”

By the end of the exchange, the lines on the page had turned into intersecting spirals of formulas that almost resembled the inside of a brain. For a moment, the shipyard faded from attention, no pulleys, no shouting, no clatter of wood and stone. Just the quiet hum of thought passing cleanly between two minds and it was in that moment you realised you had reached  that peaceful, productive state you were so desperately aiming for once again.

You leaned back first, scanning the final configuration. “That’ll hold.” 

And Senku followed not a beat later, eyes sweeping the diagram with a sharp nod. “Yeah. That’ll hold.”

He glanced at you first, finding himself admiring you in the silent way he always did. Your ability to keep up, your intelligence, your glimmering eyes. He’d never admit it when he did it, of course but he didn’t have to, because that prick-in-his-side mentalist had already made mental note of it for teasing purposes later. For when the scientist was being just that little bit too cocky.

You were the next to look up, catching the familiar set of his shoulders and that oddly calming presence that coaxed your anxiety into retreat, if only for a moment. And then that strange thing happened where for an instant you felt twelve years old, giggling beneath Senku’s linen covers with a dim flashlight pressed to yellowed pages decidedly not written for eighth graders, both of you whispering theories in the dark and hoping Byakuya wouldn’t scold you for being awake past bedtime again.

You remembered that one time you had gotten too excited. 

Senku pieced together some absurdly complex chemical concept that prompted you to connect invisible dots about the neuro-chemistry of the brain. You jumped in exhilaration at the discovery – you couldn’t help it of course, you were a twelve year old kid giddy by the possibilities in a world yet to be explored. But you had accidentally knocked the flashlight in Senku's hand in the process, sending the metal flying against the fabric, and rolling down to the floorboards with a traitorous bang. 

You remembered the way your eyes locked with his, wide and glassy and fearful with anticipation at the silence that followed. Then the footsteps began. 

The clock began and the neural pathways fired. You were first to shove the manuscript under his pillow, Senku was next to roll the flashlight as far under his bed as he could manage, and you were last to send a jolting kick to his side that sent him clambering to the floor with a muffled yelp, just as the door flung open and you rubbed at your eyes, already mid-performance.

“What did I say about-...?” Byakuya's voice trailed off.

“What happened?” You murmured through a feigned yawn.

Senku sat up and rubbed his head, the white strands shifting against his fingers, “I must have fallen in my sleep.” 

Byakuya stared at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flicking from Senku on the floor to the suspiciously rumpled bed, then back again once more. All culminating into the moment where, at last, he sighed. 

“…You’re hopeless,” he rubbed at his temples. “Both of you. Go to sleep.”

The door shut. And you waited three seconds. Then four, before Senku’s head popped up from the floor, eyes bright and feral with that malevolent look of victory he did.

“See?” he whispered, still rubbing at his head with a slight moan. “Perfect execution.”

You remembered the way you had bit your lip to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking as you fell back onto the mattress with more force than necessary. “Good catching on.” you whispered back. “I’d say we always do our best work under pressure.”

Senku crawled back up beside you, careful now, movements precise as if the danger might still hear you breathing. And you watched, in the dark as he paused, then held out his fist, small and barely visible in his room absent of light now that the flashlight was a goner. It wasn’t a question, he had already made your mind up for you. 

So, you found it without looking, your knuckles met his just as quietly as he raised it, before twisting sideways in a pinky looping hold.

Strange, you noted, how you found yourself pulled back to that memory after more than three millennia of its formation. Your scientifically trained brain couldn’t help but reach for a solution. Habituation theory explained how it was possible, even amid a room full of onlookers and noise. Nostalgia theory accounted for the sudden vividness, the way memories, when anchored to emotion could collapse time into something juvenile. And now the cocktail effect, the only thing to explain your sudden pull from the warm embrace of nostalgia at the simple call of your name.

“Y/n.”

It cut cleanly through the haze, sharper than any clang of shipyard metal or shouted instruction lost to the wind ever could. You blinked once as the construction yard snapped back into place around you, the heat and noise settling over you like it had just materialized from nothing.

And when you looked up, Senku was already there, like he always was – gaze flicking from the corrected diagram to you, then back again. The satisfaction in his expression settled into his posture in that subtle way only you ever seemed to notice, and it spoke more comprehensively to you than any words of a theorist ever could. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. But you knew what came next.

Because he had already begun lifting his fist at the exact same moment. Because it was never a question, he’d already decided, and somehow you’d agreed before the thought had fully formed. 

Conditioning! Write that down later!

Senku huffed a quiet laugh at the blank look on your face, clearly clocking the delay. “You’re ten billion percent too smart for your own good.”

Your knuckles met his, quietly before twisting into a pinky interlocked loop. 

“One of us has to be,” you murmured with a quiet laugh. “Good work.”

This club he had been so looking forward to tonight was quickly becoming a red blur of flashing lights and a continuous shrill of pounding bass. It was a familiar scene in which Lando had drifted through countless times before, a scene he was eager to engage in yet again after a long week of work. But tonight, he was only vaguely aware of the friends that had accompanied him here like he usually would be, because his attention had narrowed to a single point on the dance floor.

That point was you, a glowing sight of swaying thighs and rolling hips. He'd spotted you early on in the evening, just about as soon as he had stepped in and downed his first round of drinks when he noticed you caught up in the middle of what he assumed was your group of friends. Your laughter had cut through the blaring song like a melody all in its own and he had to admit that when he spot you, the way you sung every lyric like the playlist was your own was captivating.

You were undoubtedly the center of gravity in this club right now, everything and everyone just seemed to gravitate towards you as if you were a magnet; your girlfriends, other girls who seemed to want to dance with you too, men who were eager to test their chances with you, even the music seemed to follow the sway of your body. 

The way you moved with a confidence so rarely executed so effortlessly was hard to ignore, and each step and roll of your hips was obviously drawing more than just his own eyes. He had seen the multitude of men attempting their best pick up lines on you, watching intently as one by one each guy tried to approach you—some with drinks in hand, others with cocky grins plastered on their faces, some even tried to jump straight to physicality—but you turned them all away. Sometimes it was with a polite smile and a shake to your head, and other times it was with a sharp look that would make them retreat almost as fast as they’d come, and then you would quickly go back to dancing with your girls like it never happened. It was a sight to see, the way you handled yourself and brushed them off so effortlessly, like you had no time for their attempts to impress you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you were here just to enjoy a night out with your girls, no interruptions, no distractions. Maybe you had someone waiting for you at home, someone who wouldn’t appreciate the attention you were getting tonight. There were so many reasons he could make justifying his own lack of attempts at impressing you, thoughts that swirled in Lando’s mind which fed his hesitation and kept him rooted in his own circle of friends because similarly, he’d spent the night brushing away a flurry of women of his own. Women who would approach him with flirtatious grins, asking for photos, trying to strike up conversations that all felt the same.

It wasn’t the first time, and he knew it definitely wouldn’t be the last, but tonight the empty conversations were wearing on him more than usual. So he resorted to staying in the VIP area behind the red ropes where no one else could attempt to approach him, and ironically enough he was now debating on if he should attempt to approach you. He felt guilty for it because he knew how it felt to not be left alone, having no one get the hint that you just wanted your privacy and it was yet another reason he kept himself out of your space.

He knew how that felt, and the same routine over and over again was exhausting. The initial spark of interest that quickly faded when they realized he wasn’t going to take the part of the flashy driver they expected him to play. Lando wasn’t interested in being just another notch in some random girls belt or a name to drop later to brag about with friends. And as he watched you fend off the advances of other guys with a self assured ease he only wished he could replicate, he felt a mix of curiosity and maybe just a hint of challenge spark within him. You already had something in common. So, what would it take to stand out to someone like you, who seemed to not care about a body to grind against or an arm to grab onto? Would you see right through all the superficial charm his title seemed to initially come with? 

He wasn’t the type to get nervous—at least not usually. He was a Formula 1 driver for god's sake, he could truly have any girl he pleased whenever he pleased, and he’d never really been rejected before either. But watching you so confidently handle every advance with a beaming smile that never seemed to falter had him second guessing himself. What if you really just weren’t interested? What if you were just looking for a quiet night with your friends, far from the eyes and hands of strangers? The last thing he wanted was to intrude on that and have to become just another guy you had to wave off.

But there was something in the way you laughed, something in the way your eyes danced under the lights as you moved your body with so much authority, that made it hard for him to look away and just forget about it. You were playing on his mind. Every time he turned back to focus on his mates, it was only a matter of time before he found himself leaning up against the banister and attending your curves with his greedy eyes once again. Lando wondered what that laugh you kept emitting would sound like up close and what those dark eyes would look like when they were focused on him, honed in on his sultry ones, attention directed at no one else. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he really wanted to find out.

Still, lingering on the edge of the banister he hesitated, half-hidden by the shadowed alcove the VIP section seemed to provide, not confident in his chances of not being rejected. He hadn't even noticed it yet but Max had caught him staring for what must have been the hundredth time so far, and it was only when his best mate nudged him with a grin that he finally focused his whole attention on something other than you that night. “You gonna do something about that, or just stand there all night?”

The statement had Lando shaking his head and he swiftly threw a quick grin on his face, crossing his arms over his chest in hopes of playing the slight embarrassment of being caught off. “She’s not interested mate.” Lando replied, though even he had to admit the words sounded like an excuse even to his own ears.

Max rolled his eyes, the teasing glint in his gaze sharp. “You're a famous athlete mate.” But Lando’s face remained expressionless at the implications of his words, nothing but a quirk of an eyebrow in obvious contempt at his statement to express the disapproval he felt, and the act had Max laughing. “You’ll never know unless you try. What’s the worst that could happen? She says no? And you move on.” 

Max’s hand came up to slap the back of Landos neck, the jolt of the motion causing the contents of the cup in his right hand to slosh back and forth, spilling a bit of vodka redbull up the side of his arm where the slightest bit had stained the cuff of his white button up. Lando grimaced, sending a glare towards his best mate who only laughed at the irony of it all and turned away to continue dancing with P. 

“Be pissy all you want, but it’s me with the girlfriend, and you who’s struggling to talk to one girl at a club.”

And though he did not want to admit it, Lando knew Max was right, it just didn’t make it easier. Despite his extraverted tendencies, he was an introvert at heart and yes he had had his fair share of shy moments, sure, but this felt different. You felt different. Something about you drew him in so intensely and he just knew he had to at least try to talk to you. And yet, he could feel the moment slipping away, that small gap of confidence Max was pushing for closing, and he knew if he didn’t act soon he would go home regretting it.

Noticing the shift in expression, it was clear to Max that Lando was debating what his next move would be in that dense head of his, so he was sure to give his mate yet another nudge, one with just a little more force in hopes the pressure would translate into working brain cells in his skull. “Go on, Norris. She’s been turning dreary blokes away all night; maybe she’s waiting for someone who actually has something exciting to show for. And maybe a pair too.”

Lando let out a short laugh at his mates sharp words, shaking his head as the debate finally came to an end. “Fine, fine. I’m going.”

With one last glance at Max, who raised his drink in a mock salute, Lando finally pushed himself down the flight of stairs beyond the rope, his heart pounding a little harder as he threaded through the crowd with a slight hesitance, each step against the sticky ground bringing him closer to you in the middle of the dance floor. And even though a slurry of doubts still buzzed like an incessant drone in his mind, he couldn’t ignore that pull that had been drawing him toward you all night.

​​As he approached, his hazy vision grew attentive of how the lights seemed to illuminate the way your lips curled as you sang each lyric of the song you danced along with your friends to. Lando found himself wondering what it would take to make those lips curl at him for more then the few measly seconds you had given all the other striving men. There was something teasing about your smile, like you were in on a joke that the rest of the room wasn’t privy to and it urged his want to know more, maybe be in on that unspoken joke and coax that grin into something a little more personal, a little more directed at him.

As he walked, he used the time to think about what might catch your interest, what he might do or say to be the one to finally pull you from the lock your circle had on you tonight. Maybe it'd be a playful comment or a witty remark, or maybe it would just be the confidence to meet your gaze head on and see if you would hold it back. Just the idea of it sent a fragment of anticipation coursing through him, and he noticed that he was becoming less and less nervous as the thoughts began flowing, as if the thing pushing him forward was the thrill of the chase.

Soon enough he realized his legs had lead him to his newfound position directly behind you, and the moment he was close enough, he paused, watching with rapt attention as you swayed your hips to the beat with an almost mesmerizing precision, the movement of it all dragging your hair up and over your shoulder which consequently exposed the curve of your bare back to his hungry eyes. It was delightful to see. And almost a little intimidating because he found himself hesitating for just a second more.

There was something about you that made him want to get it right, to make sure he didn’t come off like just another guy with nothing to offer. The thought of misstepping, of him fumbling and you just brushing him off without a second thought like all the other times made his stomach twist with a nervousness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He wasn’t used to this—this uncharacteristic overthinking and the knot in his stomach almost felt ridiculous considering he was someone who was more than used to high-stakes situations. Normally, he’d rely on instinct, a quick quip or a confident move to keep him propelling onwards, but you had him motionless; an unfamiliar feeling for a man who relied on always being in motion to stay alive; as they said, speed never killed anyone, it was suddenly becoming stationary that got you. And damn, you got him.

Just as he was about to settle on something even slightly choreographed in hopes to successfully pull your attention, one of your friends, the one directly in front which you had been dancing with, suddenly caught sight of him drawing in.

The girl didn’t say anything as Lando approached, but her eyes flickered up and over your shoulder from her spot, a motion that had her gaze locking onto his for a brief second and though it was an almost imperceptible movement, it sent a ripple of alarm coursing through the air. You had quickly taken notice of her redirected attention and he saw the way your posture slightly tensed, head turning just enough to glance back with curiosity and a hint of annoyance, as if you were already racking your brain in search of what you were gonna say this time to brush off yet another unwanted advance.

The moment hung in a balance between shock and acknowledgement, and for a split second, he considered maybe retreating, going back to his table with his tail tucked between his legs in defeat and letting you go on without disruption. But then he caught your eye, and something in your gaze—the flicker of what he thought may be recognition, or perhaps it was just surprise at seeing him so close—sparked the flame of courage he knew he needed.

Almost as soon as the moment happened, your expression shifted, your initial scowl softening into one of intrigue and he watched as your eyes traveled up and down his body shamelessly and boldly, taking the site of him in and he now couldn’t help but feel a little validated when you didn’t tell him to kick rocks. You didn’t turn away. Instead, you held his gaze with a teasing intensity and something akin to challenge, then slightly tilted your head as if assessing him, sizing him up with a mixture of amusement and intrigue swimming in your sultry eyes.

You were purposefully allowing your eyes to linger on him - he knew it, he could see it; eyeing him deliberately slow and taking in every detail with an almost tantalizing curiosity. He watched as your glossy lips curled into a provocatively pretty smile, as if you were daring him to make another move and now he was acutely aware of the way the club lights casted an alluring glow that highlighted the playful glint in your eyes. 

Frankly, your boldness had Lando weak. As hopeful as he was, he had truly expected a polite smile or a curt dismissal to be the outcome of his predicament, but instead, you held his gaze with a lightning look that had his pulse quickening. His heart felt as fast as it did when he was pushing his car over 300 kilometers an hour; and it was exhilarating. The way you held him in your gaze, combined with the effortless confidence in your stance created a tension that left him both exhilarated and a little breathless. It was a stark contrast to the usual, superficial attention he received which left him unsatisfied and bored, and it made this moment all the more intoxicating.

Your non verbal eye contact stretched for longer than he had anticipated in silence and it was like you were intentionally letting the seconds stretch, enjoying the play of power and allure you obviously held before finally, with a mischievous smirk, Lando watched as you leaned in slightly, your voice a low, teasing murmur. “Don’t worry, you’ve got my attention." Your voice was melodic. "Is that all you came here for?”

The question hung between you, heavy and provocative and Lando’s breath caught in his throat, a mix of surprise and exhilaration washing over him. With a playful glint in his eye and a hint of apprehension, he knew it was time to put one of his aforementioned plans into execution, and so he extended his hand toward you, palm face up, open and inviting. His eyes met yours in a silent challenge and an invitation rolled into one and the directness of your challenge lingered as he found himself stepping closer, the heat of your proximity almost too much to bear. 

“Apparently I'm the first of the night so I’d say it’s a pretty good start,” he said, his voice smooth. “Now, maybe I can direct your attention that way.” He beamed as your eyes followed his finger pointing off to the side, towards nothing particularly specific, but an obvious invitation to step away from your group and over somewhere private with him. His hand was a suggestion, one he was giving you the power of rejecting because he wasn’t trying to grab you like he’d seen a few others try. He was leaving the ball in your court, one he was silently begging you would pick up and throw back.

He watched as your eyes danced across the lines of his palm, your lip coming up to catch in between your teeth in what he could only assume was deliberation. The moment felt suspended, each second stretching longer as he awaited your decision because it was like he could see the gears turning in your mind, and it shook him to watch you hesitating. But then your hand came up to find his own; manicured fingers curling around his calloused ones, and Lando’s heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation at the fact that you hadn't turned him down, oh my god oh my god. He quickly took the opportunity to gently guide you away from your friends before you could--for some reason--have a change of heart, slipping through the crowd towards a quieter, privater corner of the dance floor where the music was still thumping, but the energy felt different here—more intimate, less eyes.

Now you were in the quieter space and he had you all to himself, and he could finally focus entirely on you with the assurance of knowing that you were fully focused on him now too. And so Lando turned to face you with a confident smile, one you quickly reciprocated and his hands soon found the place they had been itching to be all night; on your waist, feeling the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your little dress.

He was rapt when he felt you move closer to him, the vibrant thrum of the bass seeming to louden as the alcohol had his vision swaying. He watched with intensity as your body moved like water against his own and the contact felt charged, every subtle shift of your body against his sending a jolt of something through him, something he wished he could place but it almost felt ineffable. The way you pressed your body into his was both intoxicating and exhilarating, and it'd be stupid if you asked him if he noticed the way the curve of your body seemed to align perfectly with his because of course he did.

He was hypnotized by the sway of your hips, the gentle friction creating a heat that spread through him like wildfire and god, he really was trying to match your rhythm but each time you brushed up against him like that the heat had him losing focus and tripping over his tempo. Something you were acutely aware of apparently, as you glanced up at him, a playful glint in your eyes at how easily you knew you drew him in. Soon your hands were sliding up to rest lightly on his shoulders and now you two were so close, close enough that when you spoke, he could hear the smack of your gloss clearly despite the blaring of whatever afrobeat song had been playing.

“So all you wanted was to dance?”

He swallowed hard at your voice because it sounded like honey, and his pulse quickened when he tried to muster a response but the intensity of the moment was making it difficult to focus. And it took more energy than he'd like to admit, but he did managed to maintain a semblance of composure.

“Dance, yeah,” he swallowed, his voice a low murmur which was nearly drowned out by the intensity of the bass that rattled the floor. “And talk.” He chuckled softly, “You’re very alluring you know.”

Your smirk widened, eyes sultry with a confidence he found so attractive as you chuckled deeply. “I’ve been made aware.”

“Of course.” Lando shook his head, almost as if he was stupid to forget it. “You’ve had half the clubs clientele approach you tonight.” 

And for the first time tonight, Lando saw just a glimpse of what he thought to be bashfulness gleam through your features, your smile timid as you bit your lip. “Yeah, well, no ones really interested me.” You replied, body sliding just a little closer to his own if it were even possible at this point and he very quickly took this as an opportunity to slide his hands just a little lower on your hips, biting his lips with a smirk at your words. 

“And yet here we are.” His own words were rich with confidence on his lips.

“And yet here we are.” You reiterated with a smirk of your own, the site warm against the cold atmosphere of the club air.

There was a part of him that thought maybe he shouldn't question it in fear of finding something he didn't necessarily want to know, but the drunker part of him-- the less rational, more curious part --was gleaming to know why. "Care to share why that is?" The smirk your wore was devilish, “Maybe I’m just picky,” you teased, your eyes twinkling with mischief. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for someone who can actually hold a decent conversation.”

Lando grinned, clearly amused. “Oh, so you’re saying the bar is set pretty high tonight?”

“Something like that,” you replied, leaning in slightly, your voice playful. “But I’m open to being impressed if you’d like me to lower it for you.”

He scoffed loudly at your words, an action that had your head tilting back in a boastful laugh, a laugh he quickly found himself mimicking as his eyes simultaneously trailed up the length of your glistening neck which he quicky realised how badly he wanted to put his mouth on. You were enthralling, and he knew it wasn’t the alcohol making him think like this because everyone else seemed to agree, and yet you were here with him out of all the men who had approached you, and apparently that was an unbiased decision. You seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him without any pretense. The lack of recognition was oddly comforting; and it felt like he was actually connecting without any of the usual pressures or expectations his title came with.

For a moment you both had just let the beat take over again, no verbal conversation present, only the sway of your movements as you let your bodies do all the talking for you. It was loud, speaking all the sensual things your tongues were just a little too uncoordinated to say right now because of the pulsing alcohol in your veins. The heat between you two was palpable and Lando made notable effort to maintain his composure, but it was a challenge when paired with the sensation of your skin; of his hands guiding your ass hips, and of your hands wrapped in his hair locked around his neck. And as good as your lower body felt against his thigh, he really needed to see the way your hips were grinding against his pants. And so Lando pulled away just slightly enough so he could glance down between you, to watch your tantalizing figure in that tight backless dress he was beginning to adore rolling on him, back and forth, back and forth, side to side, left to right. Fuck, you were a master with your body and it was irresistible.

Becoming so captivated by the precision in your movement, he had almost missed the frantic cheer of someone from across the room and it took a moment, but nevertheless, Lando caught sight of Max’s watchful gaze from the edge of the VIP section with P in the corner of his eye, Max fixed on the two of you with a look of amused encouragement.

The noise made Lando’s eyes widen slightly, and as subtly as he could, he shot a quick, exasperated look at Max, rolling his pupils in a silent command for him to mind his own business. The gesture had Max’s smirk widening as he turned to P, just about grabbing her face but not quite doing so, more like hovering besides it, before theatrically pretending to mack on with her, clearly egging his best mate on. Lando shook his head in disapproval, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t laugh just a little as he pulled his attention back towards you, hoping you hadn’t noticed.

With a playful smirk, you leaned in closer, and it took Lando by welcoming surprise at the change in pace from Max's stupidity as your lips slightly brushed against his ear, “So, is this how you charm everyone, or am I just lucky tonight?”

Your voice was like ice to his body, but in the best way he could imagine, like a shock to the Pavlov'ed routine of every other sensual encounter he had with a stranger. His breath caught, a mix of surprise and excitement flooding him as he chuckled low, the sound barely audible over the music. “Why’d you ask?”

“Because it seems like your mate over there knows the drill.” You smirked teasingly.

Landos eyes widened, head shaking as he silently cursed his dumbass of a best friend for being such a dickhead. Of course the only person to nearly fuck this up would be the idiot who encouraged him to go for it in the first place. Max is lucky you took the gesture as lighthearted and didn’t immediately jump to conclusions at the possible implications it could have, otherwise he would have woken up tomorrow with blisters from having to walk back to his place. “Yeah well, Max has a way of making everything about him,” Lando found himself replying with a strained chuckle. “Don’t let him steal your attention at his stupidity, he’s just trying to rile me up. I’m more interested in what you think.”

The way you tilted your head slightly was alluring, lips curling into a playful smile as you assessed him with flirty eyes. “And what is it you’re hoping I’ll think?”

Lando’s arms which were wrapped around your waist, suddenly pulled backwards, drawing you just a little closer to him as his voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “That maybe this night could get even better if we continue it somewhere a bit quieter.”

It was a very fast gesture, but suddenly, Lando was hyper aware of the way you had arched yourself away from his body, his grip consequently loosening up a little to allow you the room to execute the movement without hurting yourself. It was as if your whole body had tensed up, your expression shifting to one of surprise, one Lando was evidently taken aback by as you raised an accusing eyebrow at him. “Wait who says I’m going anywhere with you?” Your voice was light but edged with something Landos intoxicated brain just couldn’t really conceptualize right now, especially with the bubbling panic that was rising within his body at your reaction. Had he misread the vibe? Maybe misread the situation entirely?

He was almost certain you had been sending him the same lustful signals as he was, batting your lashes and biting your lip like you would have if you were reciprocating the mannerisms he knew he was sending you. But now the confidence he had in the surety he felt earlier seemed to evaporate as fast as the doubt seemed to creep in. He was certain you were into him, but now he was questioning if he had perhaps overstepped a boundary and actually offended you. Maybe your gestures were more innocent then he thought, maybe he had taken your kindness for lust. The uncertainty was making him falter and he quickly found himself scrambling to justify his words, and clear the tension.

“Wait, I—” Lando started, his tone steady but laced with a hint of hesitation. “I didn’t mean to come off like that.” His voice was airy and a little far, trying to piece together what he could have missed in hopes to reverse the offense you displayed. 

But you cut him off with a sharp glance and a small, teasing smile that seemed to hide something beneath, “Do you want me to leave with you tonight?” Your words were way less accusatory and much more stated as a genuine, flirty question, your voice a mix of challenge and curiosity, and it was here that the edge Landos brain couldn’t make sense of earlier began to click in place.

His breath caught in his throat as you leaned into him again, closing the distance you had created a second ago, your whisper carrying a playful edge. For a moment, Lando’s mind raced, trying to decipher whether your reaction was a subtle pushback or if he had genuinely misread the chemistry between you and the anxiety that had crept into his chest began to ebb away as he soon realized that your teasing wasn’t an affront but rather a playful test of his intentions.

He watched as your expression softened, the corners of your mouth curling into a mischievous smile, white teeth gleaming up at him with a charm he found undeniably attractive. The realization hit him like a truck—the realization that this wasn’t your way of rejecting him but instead a flirtatious push on your end, you were winding him up and seeing how far you could stir him because you liked watching him squirm. The tension that had wound its way around him moments ago quickly began unraveling, replaced with a surge of relief that was both profound and slightly embarrassing, and he found himself biting his lip to hide the red tinge rising to his cheeks. 

Your voice was ringing in his ears, playing like a loop as he thought about your words, Do you want me to leave with you tonight? Does he want you to? Silly question, that is. And he soon paired the bite of his lip with a bashful smile, quickly nodding his head at your question.

His response had you tilting your head, your smirk widening as suddenly, once again, you leaned in closer, your hands sliding back up to their position behind his neck with a confident, yet teasing touch. The proximity of your body against his sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt he could almost see through your large eyes as you spoke. “Okay then, I have one request,” you said, voice dropping to a whisper that carried a hint of both mischief and promise.

Lando’s brow quirked up in question and suddenly the weight of your fingers on the back of his neck grew a lot heavier as you used it to propel yourself forward, pushing against him until your head was right by his head, no height to separate you anymore; and your lips pressed up onto the skin of his ear. Your tippytoes extended you up taller than you were before, and Lando would have wondered how that was even possible considering how high your heels already were if your proximity wasn’t causing a hard reset to his system. His senses heightened ten fold when he felt your warm breath against his ear, but it was ultimately the words you whispered that really had his breath halting. “You better walk as fast as you drive.”

What?

It was like the world around him collapsed as he tried to process the implications of your sentence; the implication that you had known exactly who he was this entire time. Your words had caught him so off guard, because here he was thinking you were simply just a captivating stranger but not only did you recognize him, he realized that you had been testing him all along. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one doing that?!

This unexpected twist made his head spin and it all really felt like whiplash as he tried to make sense of the way you had managed to play him so well. You had been testing his attitude, seeing if he'd slip up and act like a pompously famous asshole in order to lure you in. It was frankly insulting and yet so entirely attractive, it was intoxicating. 

He was so taken aback by it all, but not as taken aback as he was when he had suddenly felt you pull away from him, the absence of your lips from his ear, of your hands from his neck and your body from his body slapping him right back into reality and he couldn't help how pathetic he felt when he actually began panicking at the sudden distance. He could feel his heart pounding so insanely hard when you turned on your heels, and blinked blankly as you began to saunter away.

He watched as you hips swayed with a captivating grace that made your departure somehow both so assertive and yet strangely alluring, leaving Lando momentarily frozen with wide eyes blended in an assortment of shock and lust. 

He couldn’t decipher the swirl of emotions inside him. His head was reeling, caught between the surprise of your words and the intensified attraction he felt towards the view of your hips swaying while you left him in your dust.

He knew he looked like a fool. His jaw lack, was basically sweeping the ground and his eyes had to be as wide with shock as they could possibly be. As you moved through the crowd, Lando’s gaze was locked on your figure, watching you gracefully weave your way through the mess of dancing people without effort and he just couldn't even conceptualize how you were so coordinated with your teasing. 

For a good moment, he really wasn’t entirely sure of what to do next, what he was supposed to do now that you had made your hit and run. His eyes slowly turned to catch the perplexed ones of Max, still watching with P from beyond the banister as his friend noticed the girl Lando had been with, walking away. Lando must look like a goddamn muppet, standing there shocked and alone replaying youre words like a mantra. Walk as fast as he drives?

…Huh?

Lando’s expression remained as bewildered as earlier, and as shocked as he knew he looked, he was curious as to if Max could see the lust now coursing through his eyes too. Walk?

He could barely contain his arousal as his vision grew a little less foggy and everything started becoming a little clearer, finally his brain seeming to click back into action, and he endured in real time as the initial shock morphed into a burning determination. Fast?

It had to be the rush of emotions from surprise to heightened attraction that ultimately propelled him into action, his mind officially snapping back to present time….Oh? Shaking off the daze that had settled over him, he was no longer just an observer in his body but now a man on a mission.

Oh!

His head snapped back just in time to watch as you threw your hair behind your shoulder, covering up the glistening skin of your back, the back he had his hands all over just moments ago and now he knew, more then aware that you were in control, you had been the entire time.

He couldn’t wait anymore, you were obviously the governing power here and something about that didn't turn Lando off like he felt it usually would have with any one else, in fact, it burned a primal need for more deep within his chest.

So without hesitation Lando found himself rushing through the brunt of the crowd head on. To anyone watching, it was clear his gaze was fixated on nothing but your sauntering form, evident by the multitude of people he clumsily bumped and brushed into along his way. But the way you moved with such sensual grace, hips swaying in a manner that was both hypnotic and assertive, made it utterly impossible for him to look anywhere but at you. Every step you took was an alarming reminder to the cards of gold you held, and he was intent on closing that distance.

Now completely clear of the dance floor, Lando watches as you glance over your shoulder, checking to see if he had bitten the bait and followed your retreating figure, and you were quick to catch his eye with a smirk when you confirmed what you knew he would do. It was a look of challenge and triumph, as if you really did know that it was an absolute no brainer for him, because of course he was going to follow you.

And the moment your eyes met, a playful spark ignited in his chest, fueling his urgency, something you made quick note of as your smirk widened, clearly amused by his pursuit. And it only spurred him on faster because how was this for fast?

It took him only seconds to catch up to you, and the moment he was in range, his hands took firm grasps of your round hips, pulling you just slightly back so that his front was flush against your back, but not forcefully enough that he disturbed your saunter towards the exit, a path he was now very intently guiding you towards with his hands fast just like he guided the car he drove fast, because god he had never wanted to lay someone down on his bed so desperately in his life. He needed to knock that smirk off your face and show you just how much control he could have too. He was not going to waste anymore time in getting you in his car parked outside.

The heat of the Spanish sun beat down on the track, the asphalt shimmering with a relentless intensity that seemed to seep through the cockpit. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your focus on the race ahead, hot, fast breaths heaving through your helmet like a symphony. The familiar roar of the engine, usually a comforting sound, felt more like a distant hum as yet another wave of nausea rolled through you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d raced under less-than-ideal conditions, but today felt different. The adrenaline that usually sharpened your senses now seemed to amplify the queasiness in your stomach, every bump and turn on the track making it harder to push the discomfort aside. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising bile as you powered through another corner, the car responding to your every command despite the growing turmoil within.

The twisting and turning of the track seemed endless, each lap blurring into the next as your vision narrowed, tunnel-like, around the path ahead. You knew you needed to speak up, to let your team know something was wrong, but the words felt heavy on your tongue, weighted down by the fear of admitting weakness. But you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I'm not feeling very well."

The twisting and turning of the track was making it hard for you to settle your stomach enough to find your voice, but when you had, there was a long silence on the other end. Ears alert with anticipation as nothing came through, before the thick accent of your engineer, Marlow finally sounded in with a panicked voice, "Are you feeling faint?"

"Not really.” You huffed. “I feel quite nauseous though. My stomach is not cooperating."

There was a short silence through your head piece before a shuffle was heard on the other side, followed by a concerned, "Should we retire the car?"

The suggestion shakes you and a quick puff of air leaves your mouth in order to hopefully settle the turning in your stomach, though you think it might have translated more as annoyance to your team despite the intention. You couldn't help but hope it hadn't come off too harshly, however the forceful tone of your next words certainly didn’t do much to calm the idea. "No! I'm not retiring the car... No, I'm okay."

"Please love, If you can't finish there's no shame in retiring. You're not letting anyone down, we understand-!" He knew how stubborn you were and he really didn't want the question to feel like the hit to the ego he knew you would take it as, but it was hard when everyone knew this race was what was separating you from top 3 and the rest in the championship. They knew it wouldn't be that easy, quickly corroborated by the frustrated grunt you let sound through the line.

Your foot braces against the accelerator, bearing down full force as you take the straight right after corner 4 at full speed, you weren't retiring. Subjective to your own harsh perception of yourself, retiring - no matter the circumstance - was one of the most culpable failures you could commit. It was never a rewarding feeling, and whether or not to retire from a race like this was an indisputable no. Six years into the sport and you had never retired from a race on your own accord. Today would not be the first.

"I'm okay for now."

There was no arguing with a driver going over 300 kilometers an hour, and so the team let your decision chart as they sat back and kept on with their roles, no different than before. Except for one thing, noting the conversation, they all made undisclosed motions to keep an extra close eye on the driver cam.

And so the race continued as 10 laps went by, 10 very shaky laps with countless immoderate wobbles, a few oversteers around a couple corners and a very close call with Carlos who made quick work of letting the communal radio know how exactly he felt about that, words that were quickly relayed to you. Though his accent was warm, his words were anything but kind and usually you would have taken it on the chin, laughed at his profanities and apologized with a quick witty comment to follow, but your team watched as you only let out a harrowing breath and shook your head. You obviously were not on your A-game and your entire team could see that.

So with all this, it came as no surprise when the silence in their headphones was abruptly interrupted with the blaring sound of your wheels against the track, followed by your voice, quick yet strained, echoing through the radio.

"I think I'm gonna be sick, guys."

With not a moment to spare, Marlows eyebrows furrowed down at your words, worry clear in his voice as he pressed down on the radio button. And though his words were mostly phrased as a question emphasizing the choice as your own, it was still hard to miss the pleading tone in his voice as he spoke loudly into the headpiece, "Are we retiring? It’s your call, love."

Your end of the radio was silent as the words rang through your headset, though not for lack of connection as the sound of your wheels barrelling against the tar never ceased. They knew you were still there, just not vocalizing your thoughts. They had no doubt this was a tough decision. A huge part of this sport was pride; pride in your team, pride in your car, pride in your abilities. And being the only woman on the grid meant your pride was strong and the backlash was inevitably more harsh when things went wrong. 

It was already hard enough for a driver to admit they needed to back out of a race, let alone for a driver who had something to prove and everything to lose. It was a decision they knew you were avoiding complying with. You had been complaining about feeling ill for days leading up to the race and yet insisted on racing regardless. They knew this was important to you, and to back out now, after making it so far already? Your heart was strong, and your head stronger. But for this one time, it seems your stomach was the strongest, and your nausea was taking the reins of this particular race. And so you bit your lip, hoping to keep the bile from rising for just a little while longer. “I need to stop. I’m retiring the car. I can't help it.”

As disappointing as ending a race early was, your team couldn’t deny the shred of relief that washed over them as you, for once, chose your health first. As fun as racing was, and as rewarding as a race in points felt, none of it was ever worth the increased risk to your safety. They would much rather you all woozy up in the medic bay with a DNF, than halfway to unconsciousness with a p8 finish. This certainly wasn’t your best race anyways, probably one the lowest you’d been in points this season. 

As you began your way around your last lap towards the pit lane, your mind raced with all the dreadful thoughts a DNF brought, the pit in your stomach rearing into a sizeable hole which would of left you feeling melancholy if the twisting and turning hadn’t trumped the discontent. 

As each second passed, you could feel whatever it was you had eaten for lunch earlier with Lando rising higher and higher. High enough in fact, that you found it necessary to press the radio button once more with a request. “Have a bag ready for me when I pull up, please.”

To which a compliant, “Copy.” sounded suit.

It wasn’t too much longer until your orange car could be seen sweeping down the pit lane, no hesitation in your steering as you made a harsh turn into your spot by the garage door. The pit team were prepared to make haste in their actions, ready to prop your car onto the jack in order to wheel it into the garage only to be stopped when two quick hands extended up as you braced yourself up against the halo and pulled yourself out of the seat.

At this point, you were hyper aware of the all the people surrounding you, as well as the multitude of cameras pointing directly at you, recording your every move for all the judgeful eyes to see, and yet you found not a single cell in yourself which cared as you leaned over the car and called out for your assistant, who quickly met you with a large black bin in tow. 

You quickly grabbed for it, pulling your front over the side of the car as far as you could in order to hide yourself from the view of the cameras. And out it came, a slurry of lunch which you had been so looking forward to at the time, and quickly regretting now as it all escaped your stomach.

What in the world had you feeling so ill in the first place? It felt like it had been lightyears since you had felt sick enough to actually puke, and god did you not miss this feeling. Had you eaten something bad earlier in the day? Maybe. But everything you ate Lando had eaten too, so wouldn’t he be sick as well? Well, it’s not really like you could ask him, you thought as you looked up just in time to see him overtake George on the big screen. He looks a little busy. And you should be busy too.

The thought seared through your mind as you spat into the bin, you should be racing too, but at least you feel a little better now that it’s come out; though not completely. Your stomach still churned a little and now your throat burned but you guessed it was better than crashing. You had already nearly done that just by being on the track a little too long and now you were definitely going to receive an earful from Sainz when he finally crossed the checkered flag and found you inevitably moping. 

However, you quickly realized that Carlos was actually the least of your worries and the only person you really had to fear was Lando, for when he heard about the outcome of your race, you were sure to face the lecture of your life. He had been warning you for days leading up to it not to participate. You were obviously unwell and he was aware of the dangers an unwell driver faced under the taxing conditions of a race but you were stubborn, insisting you would be fine. Look at you now. Head in a bin with cameras all around and a bruised ego. 

There was only a little time now until the race ended to recover before everyone came pummeling at you with questions. 

The wheel was starting to feel heavy in his hands and the rubbing of the HANS device against his neck was really starting to hurt. They were approaching the end stretch of the race and as the last 15 laps commenced, Lando couldn’t help but feel a little relieved knowing this would be over soon. This was undoubtedly a tough race. 

From lights out till now, he’d managed to pull from P5 to P4 and had every intention of passing Lewis for a podium position, soon enough he’d be in DRS range but for the time being, he was focused on catching up. The world around him had become mute, he hadn’t even looked up at the grand screen once, all he knew was the car.

So he had almost jumped in his seat when the chime sounded. Just as he began slowing around the final corner leading up to the line for his next lap, the sound of an incoming radio signal had his ears perking in anticipation. Were they planning on pitting him again? Sure he was definitely pushing a little too hard against his tires- not really doing his best at conserving them but he was so close to a podium position and he just needed a little bit more force-

“Lando mate,” Will’s voice sounded through his ears, his tone a little hesitant which left Lando biting his lip with anticipation. Please don't box. “I’ve just been informed by Marlow that y/n has retired.”

Lando's heart nearly fell into his stomach as the words registered in his brain. You retired?! Now thinking about it, you did start only a single position behind him and he hadn’t really seen all that much of you during the race. What happened? “Did she crash?!”

“No Lando, she's okay, it was voluntary. She wasn’t feeling well, I don’t think.” 

“You don’t think?”

“She’s okay Lando, just under the weather.”

Not feeling well? Under the weather? You’d raced a multitude of times before whilst under the weather. Each time he’d advise you not to race, and each time you’d ignore him, swearing up and down you’d be fine- and to Lando’s consolation each time you were fine. You’d come out the other side with a smile, no qualms or grievances and you would save your complaints for him afterwards, when no one else was around to judge. As you had done before, he expected the same this time. You’d never let a little ailment set you back, especially not let it affect you enough to retire. Not unless it really was bad.

Lando’s thoughts were soon interrupted by Will’s voice once more, his tone dismissive, implying the conversation had reached its end and no more discussion would be had about it. “We will contact you again if anything happens.”

And despite Lando’s dismay, he complies. There were still a good 15 laps left of the race ahead and he had a lot of catching up to do, a lot of competitive driving to be had. His focus couldn’t be elsewhere, but what was he supposed to do knowing his sick fiancé has just pulled herself out of a race? What was he supposed to do when he knew you well enough to understand how prideful you could be, and how poor you had to feel to choose to retire?  

He really tries to not let it bother him. During the next lap, he tries to not let it bother him as he forces himself to look anywhere else but the jumbo screen in hopes of a possible update on your condition. He tries to not let it bother him in the lap after that as the team radios in to discuss possible strategies regarding the oncoming overtake he will perform, and he tries to not let it bother him during the lap after that one when he finally passes Lewis. Now 3 laps have passed but he just can't get the questions about you off his mind. It is bothering him. He shouldn’t be distracted, especially while he’s in a podium position but he can’t help it. 

So as he crosses onto the next straight, he finds himself radioing in with the question that had been eating away at him since the news broke. “Uh.. Any updates on y/n? Is she alright?”

There's a considerable moment of silence on Mclaren’s end of the line, the team were honestly tied on what to tell the man and what not to. You weren’t exactly in optimal condition, and word around was slightly worrisome regarding your state. You were okay, but definitely not well, they knew because they had caught the treacherous sounds of your gags a few more times since the first echoing through the mclaren garage. 

As your fiance, he deserved to know these details, but as a driver, they knew it wasn’t smart to worry him. What were they to say as to not stress him out in an already extremely stressful situation? They could tell him a few of your team members were discussing taking you to the hospital. Or they could keep him from driving the car through the wall in order to meet you there. The decision was clear, they needed him to focus on driving. “She’s okay, she's currently being looked at by the medical team.”

“She has the medical team on her?!” Will’s eyes shut hard as Lando’s reply came through. Definitely not the right choice of words.

“Just a precaution Lando, she isn’t well at the moment.”

Lando’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as he ponders his engineer's words. He finds himself over analyzing every syllable, every infliction with intentions of unpacking whatever truth was seeping between the lines, and he notices that he’s biting his cheek as he rounds the 8th corner with a little less precision than usual. “Is she bad?”

Landos team take quick note of this change in pace, latching onto the clear oversteer he performs around the corner. They quickly find themselves trying to pull away from the topic in order to keep him both figuratively and literally on track and so Will concludes the conversation with a stern tone. “Please Lando, you can see her when you're done racing. We need you to focus on the race.”

He almost wanted to curse the man out purely due to frustration despite knowing deep down that he was right. But what else was he supposed to do when he knows his fiancé is sitting in the medic bay and all he can do to support her is… well, nothing. He just has to finish this race.

Despite your protests, your team was adamant on a visit to the med bay in order to possibly come up with a reason for your sudden onset of race ending symptoms, and after a quick trip down the hall that took a little longer than usual due to your need to stop once more, you were simply told there wasn’t much they could do long term to crack the bilous case. Shocker. They did however hand you something to ease the nausea which you were beyond thankful for.

You had spent so long counting down the seconds until the anti-nausea medication kicked in that you hadn't even noticed that the race had ended, nor did you notice the approaching sound of hasteful footsteps until the door to your driver's room came barrelling open with a thud.

“I told you not to race.” Lando’s voice was so stern it had you stiff. There was a slight indication of anger lingering behind his words but ultimately his face was a dead giveaway to the worried intention etched behind his tone. 

“I thought I’d be okay.”

“You threw up?” His eyebrows came down as he said it, and you noticed it was less of a question and more as if he was trying to confirm a suspicion. Someone from your team must have snitched on you already. No damn loyalties.

“Only a little.” Your words were sheepish.

“You stink.” He deadpanned and you found yourself scoffing, slightly exasperated at the bluntness of his words. The statement had you petty with offense. 

“You don’t smell very good either-”

“-I don’t smell like vomit.”

Finally you let out a sigh, already tired of the back and forth over something so menial, and unworthy of an argument. You were sick. Shit happens. “Lando, I wasn’t feeling well and I’d been feeling it all week with no real problem so I didn’t think there would be a reason to sit this race out. I didn’t think I would actually need to pull over. It’s done now.”

There was a loud silence between the two of you as he onced over your body with intentful eyes. You seemed okay enough and he guessed this really wasn’t the time or place to start an argument, especially over something as stupid as him being worried about you, you were on the same damn side. So instead he just sighed, bit his lip and nodded at you. “Alright.”

“Guys.” Charlotte suddenly peaked her head through the cracked door to glance at you both. “Come on, we need you at Media now.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, that you knew. The media had given you a hard time for things way less than this so you could only imagine what they had in store for you after throwing up on live TV for half the world to see moments after a voluntary DNF. It just about felt like you were being led to your execution with the way you knew they were about to tear into you. But there was no avoiding this, and the grimaced look etched into your features left Lando very aware of this fact.

“I know you don’t wanna do this but you have to go out there, you’ve got no choice. Not unless you’re willing to cop a fat fine.”

You stuck an eyebrow up at Landos voice, the sides of your lips extending out as you conceptualized his words but your expression quickly had him shaking his head alongside a hearty laugh. “No, no. Don’t even look like you’re considering it.”

Your laugh to match his own soon sounded throughout the room, and his hand swiftly found its place at the nape of your neck, to which he gave a quick squeeze and began leading you out the door into the McLaren garage hallway. “We have a wedding to plan and that means a lot of money to spend. You will not be wasting money trying to get out of media duties.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how exasperated and sarcastic he sounded.

You both found yourselves trailing along Charlotte's path until the hallway quickly opened up into a large room where a few other drivers had already begun their own separate interviews towards the camera crews which littered every corner. The media pen; may as well be your death site.

Whilst waiting for the race to end; and for the nausea to subside, Charlotte had given you a rundown - more like a lecture; regarding what to expect and how to approach the inevitably condescending questions that would soon be thrown your way. 

This was going to be brutal, you knew that. You had finally made a mistake that the male media could exploit to reinforce their stereotypes about damned women in motorsports. Just another day facing the misogyny of the position, except this time, it was your own carelessness that put you in this position. The only damned thing you’d be was a damned liar if you said the upcoming articles tearing into you weren’t already gnawing at your mind. You could just picture it;

‘’Mclaren Princess’ Just Might Throw Her Way Up and Out of Competitive Driving,’

‘Speed Queen’s Weak Stomach Shows Why She’s Better Suited for Other Races,’

‘Too Glamorous For The F1 Track? or Maybe Not Glamorous Enough; - maybe we should leave the fast cars to the men that made them.’ 

This might just be worse than the ‘Revving Engines, not Emotions,’ article from last year when you teared up in Australia after what was the most frustrating race of your career. This was going to be horrible. 

Your actions were always hyper-criticized, but maybe just once you were being too imaginative for your own good. You needed to calm down because words tended to stick with you. A fact that Charlotte knew all too well, because she was sure to speak words she knew would ring through your ears during those interviews; Take it on the chin, stay composed and certainly don't be snappy. One of those was doable.

The moment you passed the threshold beyond the doorway, officially crossing into the media pen, it's as if every set of eyes and every lens of a camera had turned to watch you move. The room hadn’t by any means gone quiet, but there was definitely a shift in volume as the noise settled from a near unbearable buzz to a tolerable chatter, just enough to notice the change. The influx of attention almost had you doubling over once again, especially when you felt the nausea begin to slowly creep up for the second time that day. But you made notable efforts to keep your head high, hoping that a strong demeanor would at least soften the blow which would soon be dealt.

Lando’s arm had split from your neck not long after entering the room. You guys were always light on your PDA, trying to keep as much of your personal relationship as private as possible; as private as an already public relationship could possibly be. But he still managed to give you a small, reassuring squeeze on the hip before you both set off, being led in opposite directions.

A flurry of reporter eyes seemed to trail your path as your personal PR manager led you to a spot right in between Carlos and Charles, and as you started setting yourself up, you unavoidably overheard their journalists trying to wrap up their interviews, which you could only imagine would be to get a shot at you faster. 

However unluckily for those journalists, it seems your first adversary had already taken the stand just directly across from you with a large, heavy mic and aged, gleaming eyes; eyes that had your own widening in alarm. You were quite familiar with this journalist, very familiar with him actually as he had always been quick to criticize you and your skills on many occasions in the past. He was quite ill-mannered towards you, definitely holding a target out with a gun aimed directly for your career, making it clear he was disapproving of your presence as a woman on this grid. You just knew he had been waiting for you. This was going to be hell.

The journalist quickly began setting himself up, the cameraman behind him pointing the lens directly at your sour face, which you admittedly were not doing a great job at masking. Though, if your interviewer had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t commented on it. However that didn’t stop him from wasting any time beginning to comment on the other mistakes you had made today.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Speed Queen.” His gravelly voice spat. “Though I think ‘Pit Princess’ may be a little more fitting after today's race.” A sly smirk quickly spread across his mouth, an act that had your hands bracing against the railing separating the two of you from one another. Charles had quickly taken notice of this from his position just beside you. He admittedly felt he was doing quite well at remaining professional and ignoring the exchange between you and the infamous journalist, but now he was on high alert, ears perked in your direction with the intention of intervening at any given moment.

Despite your peeved sentiment, you did well at keeping your face straight and head high at the insult, feeling it necessary to not crack in front of the person trying to get a reaction out of you. Don’t prove his point. 

“I appreciate the creativity, but I think I would prefer to focus on the race itself rather than nicknames. I’m quite happy with the one I have.” There was a moment in which he tried to intervene, however you were determined to move past the subject. “-And, you know, today’s challenges were significant, but that’s a part of the sport, I guess.” Despite the lingering nausea, you still managed to force a professional smile.

“Is it?” He curled an eyebrow condescendingly, a look which nearly had a scowl slipping past your placid facade. But instead you held strong, that sickeningly sweet smile dripping like honey with disdain. “Part of the sport is the unpredictability of it. So I’d say so.”

The man's eyes gleamed on, a small hum escaping his lips as he nodded absently. “It’s just that no other driver seems to have this issue. Do you think maybe your choice to retire has to do with particular limitations a female might have that the men in this sport don’t?”

And as expected, the indirectness wasn’t so indirect anymore, the true misogynistic intentions of his words slowly crept out with ferocity. 

“No.” Your tone was final, like it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, because it really hadn’t. “No I really don’t. Many men before me have gotten sick during races, I guess I just preferred to voluntarily take myself out of the race than spend the rest of it wiping pesto off my visor.” You snarled. 

A small tap against your arm quickly alerted you to the contention of your PR manager, a disapproving gesture silently advising you to reel it in. But god was it hard when his face was so smug. She should understand that being passive aggressive was much more admissible than being violent, so she may as well let you get your anger out in the socially acceptable way, though you admit it was strange of you to feel so angry. You were usually better at keeping your emotions in check. Hm. But alas, you complied, correcting your face and letting him speak; even if you wanted so badly to interrupt him with your thoughts of how horrible a journalist he was. 

“Well, I think a lot of people agree when I say that this sport tends to reward determination and resilience, not quitting.”

Were you hearing this correctly? Was he really implying that you should have thrown up right into your helmet and just continued through the race like nothing? It was getting really hard to remain socially acceptable. What was this new found anger? “Racing may sometimes reward resilience, however, being sharp minded is more important sometimes. I noticed I was unwell enough for it to affect my performance, so I decided it was smarter to take myself out of the race. Especially after nearly taking Carlos out of the race too.” 

Just as you finished answering the (absurd) question, a suave laugh sounded to your left as Carlos suddenly stepped up beside you, sliding his arm across your shoulder. “I did have some choice words prepared for you earlier Mija, but then I learnt what happened and now I forgive you.” His eyes suddenly turned to the journalist, a glint of exaggerated pity in relation to the topic seeping into his expression, almost as if he was speaking with experience to someone who wouldn’t understand; because he was. “Driving whilst sick is not for the weak.”

The journalist's cold eyes squinted slightly as Carlos’ condescending tone registered in his head, yet he kept his expression neutral and mic high as he nodded. “I’m sure it isn’t.” And nothing was said after that. No rebuttal, no argumentative comment, just a plea of agreement. God, how you wished interviews were that easy for you.

A few voices echoing out from somewhere behind had caught the attention of the trio, and it didn’t take long for you to realize it was Carlos’ team instructing him to move onwards to his next position. So with a reassuring smile towards you and a quick quirk of a brow towards the reporter, he was off to his next interview without another word, taking your fleeting moment of security along with him as he left.

Now it was just you and the reporter once more, and you could tell he wasn’t feeling as cordial with you as he was with Carlos, evident by the slight snarl that had crept onto his face by the interruption in your defense. “Friendly words from Sainz there, as always.” he began, his tone dripping with insincerity, “Do you find it degrading that other drivers always have to come to your defense in order to keep your positive reputation, because there are a lot of people that believe you perhaps, ride off the success of others.” 

Your stomach twisted, and if it was from the nausea growing once again or from the sheer audacity of his words, you couldn’t tell. He was essentially implying that the only reason people liked you was because other likable people vouched for you, and not because of your own hard work and valiant achievements. It seems he wanted defense, you were about to show him just how defensive you could be. 

“With all due respect,” you began, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “I don’t defend myself because I don’t have to, because the genuinity of my character extends far past my words.” you paused, thinking about your next words carefully. “My peers defend me because I’ve proven my capabilities time and time again, and they know that one incident doesn’t define my career. However, I don’t think you share the same sentiment, hm?” 

The taunting in your voice was quickly caught on by your PR manager who swiftly grabbed your arm in yet another warning, except this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as much. The journalist's eyes narrowed at your words, clearly not expecting such a discourteous response and the tugging of your PR manager's grip against your arm was an obvious nonverbal message to wrap it up but you weren't finished, oh no. That new found anger that had been gnawing at you all race was just beginning to trickle out.

“‘Riding off the success of others.’” Your quoted, voice riddled with humor, “And yet you somehow manage to find me every post race interview. Do you write these question’s down in your little notebook while you watch my multi-race winning car fly past you? Or do you wipe the dust from the camera lens instead?”

He quickly opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, your PR manager intervened, her grip on your arm tightening slightly as she stepped forward. “This interview is over,” she announced firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “McLaren will be utalizing the next few days to help Y/n recover for next week's race. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to our media office.”

Your eyes widened in shock at the intervention. You had overstepped your media training a few times before and yet none had ever led to the end of the interview. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little surprised at your PR manager's swift movements as she tugged you back and away from the journalist. “Let’s move on.” Her voice was disapproving but she was obviously trying to remain calm and professional, understanding there was a job to be done. But your anger wasn’t discriminatory, everyone was a potential outlet, and you weren’t having this. “No, I’m finished.” You didn’t even want to participate in media in the first place, this was obligatory. You had done your part and now you were taking charge of the rest of your night. And so you pulled your arm back and made quick haste towards the exit, leading back to your driver room. 

You were only a few meters from the door now, acutely aware of all the eyes watching you retire early from yet another obligation today, when a hand grazing the small of your back pulled you away from the tormenting feeling of the bile rising once again. This time, it was Charles, his sweet face beaming a reassuring smile at you as he began walking in stride towards the exit alongside you. “Mon cheri, that was something else.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, nausea bubbling once again, expecting yet another lecture from someone else. “If by ‘something else’ you mean a complete disaster, then yeah, I guess.”

Charles kept his tone steady, a touch of amusement in his voice as you both walked in stride. “No, I mean you handled it with a lot of, uhh.. What is the English? Poise.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, but it didn’t feel like handling things with poise, It felt like I was about to lose it.” 

His smile slipped into a small laugh before it fell,  and his bright eyes quickly turned into one’s of worry as he began a once over of your body. “Are you feeling okay?” he began the inevitable conversation. “I’m okay, it’ll pass I'm sure.”

Charles’ brows furrowed down, thick accent sounding with worry as he spoke. “You shouldn’t count on it passing, you should take care of yourself. You’re only gonna have more shit thrown at you if you don’t-”

As sweet as his concern was, you were tired of this conversation today, it was becoming tedious to hear and you really just needed to lie down or something. “-Charles, I really appreciate it and I'll be sure to visit the doctor tomorrow, but I think I’m gonna be sick again, so how about you cover me up to the hallway before I end up in another fight with a reporter, or my head in another bin on TV.”

Your words had Charles’s eyes widening, quickly glancing around from side to side in search of his target who was finishing up from an interview of his own, when your hand came up to press against your mouth, skin turning a tinge green. “Lando!”

The video shook a little as the person on the other end fidgeted with the camera, a slight blur shifting the image and the audio cracking with the movement before the frame finally straightened up. The person took a step back. It was you, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the video had been uploaded onto your own instagram, but it was the first anyone had really heard of you in weeks. 

Ever since your race ending ailment back in Spain, you had essentially gone radio silent. Not posting, not participating in interviews; you had missed 2 more races since then. It was worrisome, especially considering you had assured everyone the day after Spain that you were working on getting better for next week's race, which you never showed up to. 

The races went on and the fans asked about you, the interviewers asked about you too, but it seemed everyone involved in the FIA had no comment on your whereabouts nor your condition. The drivers dodged post interview questions, excelling on to new subjects and only had quick fleeting comments in response to concerned fans around the paddock who were only trying to make sense of it all.

Lando copped the brunt end of it though, scoring a P2 podium in Canada that everyone could more obviously care less about in his post-race interviews. The only topic mentioned was you, your absence from the race and why everyone was so hush-hush about it in the first place. The interviews were so off topic that this time it was Lando who had to leave the media pen early to avoid the questions, though opposingly, McLaren had been the ones to encourage his swift exit.

It was starting to become an issue. People were fretful. Were you still sick? Was it something more serious than you had anticipated and now you couldn’t race anymore?

The view they were looking at suggested that perhaps they were about to find out. 

You retreated away from the camera propped up against what people could only speculate had to be your dressing table, as you found your spot upon the large, luxurious bed the camera was pointing towards. Now cross legged upon it, your body clad in a 2 piece short silky pajama set, finally you began to speak. 

“Hello everyone.” You didn’t sound unwell, not stressed or upset. In fact, there was an edge to your voice that almost seemed cheerful; excited. And yet for now you remained composed, nothing but a small, media trained smile dawning your otherwise expressionless face.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence was humorous, calling attention to the silence you had afflicted, and the lack of news upon your whereabouts. “Lando and I are finally home in Monaco for summer break, though I have to admit that I’ve actually been in Monaco for a few weeks now. I think some of you might feel that was a bit obvious given my absence.”

There was a high pitched chuckle off screen, it obviously being Lando out of frame as your eyes flickered over to the side with a playful yet mischievous smile, encouraging his reaction with your expression. It was a fleeting moment as your smile once again fell into something a little more vacant before straightening up and continuing. “I know a lot of people have questions, and I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my end, I’ll explain, I promise but first I also want to say please don’t be mad at any of the other drivers for not speaking out, they were all just respecting my wishes in not saying anything until I was ready.”

There was a small pause as you took a breath, no sound emitting except for the slight breeze wafting through the room, further exemplified by the sway of the sheer curtains. This was so nerve racking, were you about to announce your departure from motorsport? Were you about to reveal a sickness you weren't aware of until now? The silence, though short lived, was deafening. 

“I-” Finally you spoke, but quickly caught it with a bite to your lower lip. It really seemed like you were processing your words, debating how to present your next statement carefully enough. “How do I-?”

Once again your gaze drifted off to the side of the screen, confused and cautious eyes quickly averting into a bright smile before a laugh escaped your mouth. “Don’t look so excited!” 

Lando, obviously beaming, clear by the tone of his voice, cheerfully yelled back, “Do you want me to say it?!”

“No!” you rebutted quickly with a laugh, “I told you I wanted to be the one to announce it, stop trying to take my shine!”

“Then go on with it!” He was so obviously really excited, impatient to finally announce whatever it was that had him so elevated.

“Okay well-” You stuttered for a moment, quickly catching yourself before continuing. “As many of you saw in Spain, I wasn’t feeling too well,-”

“-Hard to miss-.” Landos voice mumbled, a comment in which you swiftly ignored.  

“-And I hadn’t been for a few days leading up to it but I just took it as a stomach bug and planned to go on with it like usual. What I didn’t plan for however, was the doctor's visit I was forced to go to the day after.”

Your eyes glared off to the side once again, feigning annoyance but evidently not actually upset before looking back at the camera with a smile. “The good news is that we are very much aware of what was making me sick.” Your voice was reassuring, eyes slowly beginning to light up as you continued on. “The bad news is that I unfortunately will not be participating in the rest of the 2024 season, or the 2025 one for that matter.”

It was like you could feel the impending shock of everyone watching radiating through the screen despite it being pre recorded because your pause was almost comically dramatic. And yet it was so wholly conflicting, because regardless of the awful news, you didn’t really seem all that upset despite being such a passionate racer, it felt so out of character. This confusion was only exemplified further when your eyes once again drifted to the left, a large smile engulfing your features as you took notice of what had to be Lando's excited expression once more. “Oh don’t look so happy, you’re the one who still gets to race!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughed that high pitched laugh he does when he just can’t hold it back.

Your eyes flickered back to the camera, sitting straight on with a patient yet humorous smile, a single eyebrow cocked as you waited for Landos laughter to simmer. It took a moment, a moment you thought ended a time or two before he began again, but eventually the room became still again as your face grew just a little more in adoration towards the man everyone could see you loved dearly. It was like the energy had shifted just a little, from what felt so playful before, to something a little more familial and warm. 

“I think some of you may have put the pieces together, but for those who haven’t. Well… I’m pregnant!” Your smile was so big and sheepish, so conscious and just a little shy, it almost felt as if you were announcing it to a friend of many years and it was all just so heartwarming. You were okay! More than that, you were happy, and soon everyone else who would watch this video would be too. Lando's happy laugh from beyond the camera at the announcement finally being made was more than enough to express just how joyous the news was for the two of you.

“As heartbreaking as it will be to not be able to competitively race in the upcoming seasons, I’m not actually that sad about having to step down for a little.” You laughed heartily. “I proudly announce that in my place, the very talented Australian driver Oscar Piastri will be filling my position until I'm off from… maternity leave? I guess. That's a first for this sport.”  You laughed.  “But of course they just had to find the best to replace the best.” You quickly glanced over towards Lando out of frame, clearly expecting an agreement that never came. They could only imagine the disapproving look Lando was sending you.

Your expression never changed, but your tone dropped as you spoke darkly. “I’m carrying your child.” You spat, to which a loud “But of course!” sounded in response, followed by a laugh from the both of you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be seeing me around the track a lot considering this muppet,” you pointed to your left, “still gets to race.”

“Don’t be jealous,” the soft voice came from off screen. 

“No, I’ll confidently admit it, I’m so jealous.” You pouted, but the warmth in your eyes belied the playful tone in your voice.

Lando’s hand appeared in the frame for a brief moment, gently squeezing your shoulder before disappearing off-camera again. “We’ll be back out there together soon enough.”

You nodded, your smile returning as you glanced back at the camera, feeling a surge of excitement for what was to come. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to supporting the team from a different angle. It’s going to be a new experience, but I’m excited to do this as…”

“-As a mother?” Lando finished with a knowing smirk.

“As a mother.” You laughed, a loud one from Lando soon sounded to match your own, one so joyous it left you beaming. Suddenly, Lando jolted in frame, clearly excited as he leaned over the bed to tackle you from your sitting position down into a hug, leaving you both falling back onto the sheets. “Oh my god Lando!” You shout, a hand quickly moving to shield your lower stomach. “God! Nevermind guys, I think Lando just tackled the baby out of me, guess I’ll be seeing you all from my McLaren in Austria.”