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Drakka wakes in the early hours of his natal day with a heaviness inside his chest. 

It’s his twenty-second year under the guidance of the Ten, and if his mother was around, she’d probably marvel that he made it this far. Twenty-two, and the youngest commander of the Desert Clan since Rivokkeh the Vanquisher some fifteen years before he was born. She had only been nineteen, and lasted that many months before she was killed in a skirmish with the Sky Clan. 

Twenty-two, and his mother, may the Ten watch over her, would be asking him how he gets himself into all these messes. Twenty-two, and he can hear her vicious voice in his head, asking him why he behaved so recklessly, why he challenged his commander, why he accepted help from an outlander. 

Drakka respected his mother. She was a venerable warrior, loyal to the creed of the Ten, hardened for decades by the desert. She led the Desert squads to many victories during the Red Raids, took down some of the most feared Carja generals, and was even present at Cinnabar Sands when the not-yet-Marshal Fashav was taken captive. His mother held him at the end of her blade as he knelt before her. Unyielding Fashav had yielded to Drakka’s mother. And Drakka, only sixteen, had watched the scene unfold with eyes full of death. 

She stayed in Cinnabar Sands, but had instructed Drakka to go with the party taking the Carja to the Grove for Hekarro’s judgment. He was young, he had seen enough battle, there was no need to waste his life here. She would meet him back in Arrowhand. 

She never made it home.

Drakka thinks about his mother that morning, as he does each natal day. He thinks about the past year, what he’s accomplished, and wonders what exactly she would make of it. He knows she might not like, or agree with, his decision to go after Yarra. And she would roll in her grave if she knew that he was only commander because of an outlander. Still, he is commander, one of the youngest in history, and he hopes that she would respect him for it, and for what he’s done in the role. 

Respect is about all he ever wanted. 

Love, on the other hand…

There isn’t much room for love in the desert. The land demands too much. Babies are made, which is both a blessing and a curse. Growth of the Clan is essential, but each child is another mouth to feed. There are times when in order for a child to be fed, another mouth must go hungry.

Drakka thinks about Arrowhand before he left as its leader. He thinks of the mother of twins who glared at him as he passed her by on their fourth day without water. He thinks of her demanding which one of her children (and Ten help them, they could not have been older than three) should eat tonight, and which should starve. He thinks of her not relenting, of her following him with a child on each hip, of a couple of guards stepping up between them but Drakka staying them with a raise of his hand. 

He thinks of how he looked at the children and said the one who looked strongest. He did not say it was because he had the best chance of surviving, but he is sure the mother knew. 

That was the day he decided: Something had to be done. 

And the very next day, Aloy burned into his life.

The rest is history, so say the Chaplains. 

He touches his fingers to his lips, recalling the taste of her the night she kissed him. He could have had her that night, Drakka knows. He could have swept her into his hut and fucked her senseless. He could have made the Desert Flame moan his name to the canvas and the stars. 

But he didn’t.

*

The ascension party is well under way, and the people of Scalding Spear seem to be enjoying themselves. A change of leadership is not the most profound thing to ever happen to the Desert Clan, and Drakka doesn’t think anyone is too broken up over the loss of Yarra. After all, she lied to everyone. 

Still. 

Still, Drakka thinks back to the battle at the Gate. He thinks of how Aloy pleaded with them both to stand down. He thinks of how he refused, fatigued by Yarra’s lies and her pride. He thinks of how they forced Aloy to decide, and how his heart hammered hard in his chest as he awaited her decision. 

How it broke when she turned to face Yarra. 

How it pieced itself together when she explained that she didn’t believe Drakka conspired – and he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. Drakka wouldn’t know where to begin with a conspiracy. 

How it hardened as he steeled himself to face Yarra’s onslaught, Aloy at his side. 

Drakka had placed Aloy in a position she never wanted to be in. And for choosing him, he owes her more than his life: he owes her everything. 

His flame of the desert is at the party. Drakka spots her bright yellow armour as she moves through the crowd, tossing a bone from a wing into the fire. She pops her fingers into her mouth, one after another, licking off the hot sauce, and Drakka permits himself a smile. 

A ring appears around her fancy relic, and then Aloy starts to move toward the ramps leading to his lookout. Drakka swings his ankles over the edge as he sits and waits for her to join him. 

“Flame of the desert,” he says as she sidles up. 

“Commander,” she greets in response. Drakka can’t hide his wince. It’s… strange, how quickly victory has worn off, and has left him feeling hollow. And Drakka knows – he knows – that there was no negotiating with Yarra. There was no imploring her to come clean, no way to get what he needed without force. What happened was the only thing that could have happened. 

Except that Aloy tried so hard for peace, and Drakka had turned her down. When he fired his arrow at Yarra, he thought of his squad cut down in the prime of life in their hunt for hearts to trade – soldiers who would not have died if they weren’t so weakened already. He thought of the bodies in bags, their bones through their skin as they starved to death. He thought of the mother who demanded that he choose which of her children could survive. 

But as he fired his arrow, Drakka looked into Yarra’s eyes – arrogant, even in defeat – and for the briefest moment, right as he let loose the string, he saw his mother. 

He reminds himself that it’s the way of the desert. Then he feels a touch, and it’s from Aloy. 

Aloy is touching his shoulder. 

He turns toward her, and he sees her move toward him. The champion-killer, his Desert Flame, is leaning in, her head tilted to the side, her eyes fluttering closed. 

Drakka closes the last little bit of distance and presses his lips to hers. She tastes warm against him, and he shouldn’t be surprised that she chose the spiciest of wings for her meal. Under that, something earthy. And under that, he can taste the bitterness of the berries they use to heal themselves. She probably uses them more than any of his squad. 

But there is something hesitant about her kiss, and Drakka has had enough of them to know when a heart isn’t in it. He pulls back and sucks in a breath, meeting her eye, and she’s looking for someone else in his. 

Someone he could pretend to be, for her, for tonight. But it wouldn’t be right, even if what they could do would be beautiful. 

It’s a nice thought. It’s one he’ll hang onto. But he feels like it was more for Aloy than him, and as much as he likes her (and By the Ten, does he ever like her), Drakka doesn’t want to be used. 

And he knows all too well that if he follows where Aloy intends to lead him, she’ll wake up with a list of regrets, each one tied to him. If Aloy ever comes to him, he wants – needs – her to mean it. 

He pulls away and offers her a smile. “Thanks,” he says, and he sees the way her shoulders sag in relief, and he tries very, very hard to not be hurt.

*

But he thinks of what could have been. He thinks of how he could have brought her to his hut and laid her on his pallet. He thinks of how he could have stripped her of her armour to see if those freckles truly covered her everywhere. He thinks of how he wants to know if the hair between her legs matches the coppery blaze that runs down her back, or if it’s darker like her brows. He thinks of how he could have known what it was like for Aloy to unravel like thread. 

He’s thought of her more than he’s thought of previous lovers, save for one, and he still doesn’t let himself think of him. Not after he left to join Regalla, not after he begged Drakka to come with him (“Think of your mother, Drakka, those Carja bastards butchered her and you’re just gonna sit here and do nothing?”) and not after his tags were returned to Arrowhand after the failed embassy. 

And Aloy was never even a lover. 

She’s an almost. A could have been. A maybe, if he was a lesser man. 

Or, at least, a different man. 

A man with a mask much like the grunts that guard his settlements, save for the red feathers that rise from the back that remind him both of Aloy’s hair, and of the Carja helmets he saw back at Cinnabar Sands. A man with no ink or colours at all splashed across his bare skin. A man who follows her into Scalding Spear, who stands by her side as she browses for weapons and armour, who collects his own paints by the pint and ties them to the back of a tamed Charger, who never says a word to anyone but the ones he whispers in Aloy’s ear. 

He’s seen this man before. Arrowhand, he and a group of wayward teenagers strolled through and picked up supplies. The ink-less skin caught Drakka’s attention immediately, and he followed him with his eyes from his post until he left the settlement and went on his way. 

A man who stands so, so close to Aloy, and who lays his hand in the small of Aloy’s back, and who can hold her around the waist or take her hand while Drakka burns inside. 

Drakka is not that man. He’s just… him. He’s just him. And that man, whoever he is in his scab-worthy attempt at a Tenakth disguise, is the man Aloy has chosen. And he can respect that. He can. 

Besides, he remembers the taste of her kiss, and the feel of her soft, pink lips as she pressed them against his, giving him the briefest flicker of hope. 

Drakka shifts and looks down. He groans and slams his head back on the thin, feather-stuffed pillow. It is still pitch dark the morning of his twenty-second natal day, and he’s hard as a rod thinking of the Desert Flame whose fire he wishes would burn him. 

And he thinks – he thinks – she knows. 

Because sometimes when she’s in Scalding Spear with that man, he catches her looking up his way. She used to look away immediately when his gaze met hers, but now she stares back. Sometimes she smiles. 

Last time, she caught him looking, and instead of just turning back to whatever she was doing, she turned to her man and pressed her lips to his shoulder. Then his neck, just under his mask (and there was something vaguely different about the mask, but Drakka wasn’t looking at him that closely). Then, they finished collecting their supplies and all but ran out of the village.

And then Drakka, as Desert Clan commander, had to go about the rest of his day as if Aloy just hadn’t given him another week of nightly material. 

The good thing about being commander, he supposes, is that there is always something to do, something to keep his mind busy. Today may be his natal day, but it’ll be no different. 

As Drakka forces himself to think of something boring to calm his body (his last briefing with Marshal Kotallo is always reliable), he begins to wonder how long he’ll have as commander. Yarra ruled for nearly six years. For Drakka, it’s been six months. In all of his memory, he doesn’t recall any Commander of the Desert Clan reigning longer than… Well, Yarra’s is actually the longest he knows. 

Smaller settlements are different, with leaders tending to last longer. Until Drakka. 

Arrowhand is no longer under Drakka’s direct leadership, but now he’s more responsible than ever. Commanding the Desert Clan comes with more than ensuring all the settlements have sufficient water. It means more than overseeing trade, or sending out patrols, or dealing with the Marshals who visit from the Grove. 

People have to like him. That isn’t always easy when he has to decide who lives or dies. He decides what settlement gets how much water. He decides who goes on the supply runs. He has to decide how many to send for a hunt in one area, knowing there are hunter-killers about, versus another area, where they could be overrun by rebels. And if one group doesn’t come back, it’s on him. 

Yarra never seemed to care about what people thought about her or her leadership. 

It got her killed.

Drakka wants to be trusted, wants to be respected. The Tenakth are strict, rigid, as unyielding as the Carja Marshal that Drakka once knew. But a leader – a good leader – needs to be liked as a person, too. 

And Drakka is finding it difficult. 

He knew it wouldn’t be easy, even with Arrowhand throwing their support behind him. Even after Aloy helped him find the lost child, the initial win was drowned by another crisis. Refugees from Bleeding Mark were trying to make their way south, and Scalding Spear was still recovering from the water shortage. 

Decide who to admit, who to turn away. 

Decide who would live, and who could die. 

Honestly, Drakka doesn’t know why Yarra held her command so possessively. Sometimes Drakka thinks if someone came to him with half a brain and a desire for leadership, he’d hand it over without question. 

Of course that isn’t true. Drakka may not love what he does, but no one can deny that he’s good at it. It’s truly become his whole life. 

(And, really… What else would he do? Forsake his clan and become a Marshal? Pah. Drakka best serves his clan when he can act without question, without needing to ask permission , when he can make decisions to benefit his people.)

He’s calmed enough to rise from bed, and makes his way to his washing basin and round metal plate. He splashes water on his face, then sets about mixing pigments and applying paint, his reflection distorted and blurred in the plate. 

He recalls the way his mother gave him the rarest of her smiles and swiped her thumbs above his brows – seventeen years ago to the day – and embued him a look of perpetual innocence. It’s the only time Drakka remembers saying, “I love you, Mama.” Even then… he isn’t sure it was love he felt, because Drakka is sure she didn’t say it back. 

The swipes are applied last, thumbs following the path his mother made when she painted his face for the first – and only – time. 

As he leaves his abode, Drakka spots his captain of the night watch toying with her knife, tossing it unsheathed into the air and catching it by the handle after several flips. He smiles a little; he likes Tevvah’s company. She’s older than he is by about a decade – closer to Yarra’s age – and on Drakka’a first night as commander, she had looked him up and down, gave the smallest of nods and shrugs, and said, “I guess you’ll do.”

They have gotten along swimmingly since. She has a lover, and they have a child they recently adopted from Bleeding Mark, whose parents were killed in the flood. Drakka has seen them with the kid, and it’s… strange. It’s like they love him, but they barely know him. 

She sheathes her blade upon Drakka’s approach and adopts a formal stance, saluting as he draws near. “You’re up early, Commander,” she says, almost accusingly. “What brings you out to see Scalding Spear before the sun?”

For a moment, Drakka considers telling her it’s his natal day. Gifts are customary until adulthood, but his mother never really kept to that tradition. His natal day celebrations growing up were spent upon reflection of what he accomplished, and all he had yet to learn. 

*

He defeats the Pit Master on his fifteenth natal day.

He’s younger than any other challenger and should not be allowed in the ring, but no one, not even a Pit Master, says no to his mother.

The trip to Scalding Spear is a surprise that morning, and Drakka is all smiles as they trek. Perhaps he is going to choose a new set of armour, or commission the hunter for a new bow, even though it’s a year early for that. But he trains against older kids anyway, and wins, so it isn’t impossible. 

They arrive in Scalding Spear when the sun is at its highest apex in the sky. Instead of heading for the hunting merchant, or even the stitcher, Drakka’s mother leads them straight to the pit in the middle of the settlement. 

“My son is here to challenge you,” his mother says to the Pit Master before Drakka can even ask her what’s going on. Drakka’s eyes widen as he whips his head to her in shock. 

The Pit Master laughs at this, and waves his hand up and down Drakka’s body. “This whelp? Is he even of age?”

“Today is his natal day,” his mother answers, conveniently leaving out exactly which one it is. “You will fight him, unless you are afraid of losing to someone barely more than a boy.”

The Pit Master scoffs. His apprentice, who will take over in two years when the Pit Master answers the call to fight in the Red Raids and never returns, shrugs his shoulders and says, “I say let him.”

Lirokkeh, Drakka learns later, and he is only half a decade older than Drakka himself. 

“You always let your mother do the talking, boy?” the Pit Master taunts. 

Drakka raises his chin. “My mother is Devvikah of the Desert, and she can speak for whomever she wants.”

Invoking her name has the desired effect on the Pit Master, who immediately salutes and apologises for insubordination. Her son is welcome to challenge the pit. 

His mother, on the other hand, looks as though she has tasted something most sour, and is refusing to look at Drakka.

He fights hard in the pit, both in the warm-up rounds as a demonstration of his skill, and then fights for his life against the Master. It is not, by any means, easy. By this point he’s tired, both from the journey and the previous challenges, and the Pit Master probably has a good two decades of experience. 

But Drakka doesn’t give up, not once. He rolls, he slashes, he weaves, and he stands poised with his spear at his exposed throat when the Pit Master finally yields. Drakka is given his mark, and is told he’s got the makings of a fine soldier.

“When you’re old enough,” the Pit Master mutters to him and him alone, and Drakka knows that he knows he is still a child. 

He shows his mother his mark with some pride, wondering if she will reward him with a new bow. Instead, she looks at him seriously, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why did I bring you here, Drakka?” she asks him, her tone as hard as the stones surrounding them. 

“To fight?” he answers, not sure anything else is required. 

His mother scoffs. “Your whole life, you’ve been training against people who know two things: That you are a child, and that you are my son. I brought you here to fight someone who didn’t know either of those things.” She fixes him with a glare, and despite the scorching heat practically cooking him in his armour, he feels frozen under her gaze. “In battle, no one cares of your age or experience or lineage. The enemy will never take pity on you, or relent. Each victory must be earned. Do you feel that yours was?”

Because he dropped her name, he realises. She thinks the Pit Master took it easy on him, but she wasn’t in there. Drakka will be sore and bruised for weeks from this. 

But arguing with her never does any good, so he shakes his head. 

As they cross the mountains back to Arrowhand, Drakka takes his mark from his pouch and holds it in his palm. 

Then he lets it fall to the earth, and keeps walking.

*

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says simply. No need to elaborate on such an answer, and Tevvah doesn’t dig. 

“Oh,” she says, then considers a moment. “I thought maybe you heard…”

“Heard what?” He furrows his brow, not liking the way she seems to enjoy teasing him with information. 

“Nothing,” she shrugs, “just that the Champion-killer strolled into town, maybe… ten minutes ago? Pretty late, I thought, but what do I know?”

Drakka perks up, blinking a few times in surprise. Tevvah notices, and she doesn’t hide her sly grin. Drakka tries to ignore it and asks, “She was here?”

“She is here.” Tevvah points to the wayward huts, the ones reserved for wayward Tenakth as they travel to and from settlements. “Offered a Slaughterspine heart so she’s in the big one.”

He hums to himself and looks away. It’s late, she probably travelled far, there is no way she’s awake or even wanting to speak to Drakka, but he could swing by just to see, just to say hi—

“—inside with her.”

“What’s that?”

“I said she took one of your day guards inside it with her.” She tilts her head and frowns, switching up her grip on her staff. “You okay, Commander?”

He waves her off and walks by. Day guard… why would she… Oh. The mask. She must have only seen the silhouette. Drakka’s stomach clenches uncomfortably and he swallows hard, his palms starting to sweat in the fists he’s unknowingly made. That man is with her, in her hut. 

Why?

He tells himself he’s doing a sweep of the village to ensure that nothing is amiss. And he… is, kind of. He checks in with other night watch guards, who salute their commander and go about their way. Only a handful of them are Yarra loyalists, and Drakka has kept to his word about sparing them. Their begrudging acceptance of his leadership is no cause for concern – yet.

Most of her loyalists are on days anyway. Easier to keep an eye on them in the light. 

He makes his way around the perimeter, then reaches the row of huts for the wayward, payment for a safe stay made in machine hearts. And Aloy, with a Slaughterspine, got the biggest one, the one closest to him. There is nothing special about it other than it is made for couples, not single travellers. And that’s the one she wanted.

He feels sick. 

Happy natal day. 

He turns away from the abodes and makes to skirt around them, cutting through the narrow passage between the big one, where Aloy sleeps inside, and the row of dwellings beside. 

And stops, hearing a soft moan from within as he passes a window. Not a woman’s moan, but a man’s. The man moans again, this one louder, longer, and it ends in a gasp. 

“Aloy—”

Oh. 

Oh no. 

He hears another sound. This one is female – it’s Aloy’s, he knows it, he has never heard her make this sound before but he knows it – a sound of her humming, moaning, but her mouth is full, and Drakka knows exactly what she’s doing. 

He rips himself away, hearing the man’s voice as he somehow finds the ability to speak. “Oh, Aloy,” he coos, his voice deep with lust, and Drakka swallows as he realises he needs to leave now—

“You’re a stunning vision, swallowing my cock.”

That about does it. Whatever links exist between Drakka’s brain and body are severed like broken machine braiding. 

His feet tangle up in themselves and Drakka goes down hard. 

He crashes to the sand and dirt, his knees hitting first and his skin tearing apart. His torso is next, his palms trying to brace his fall and getting just as sliced. And then his jaw, his fucking chin, hits the earth and bounces, his teeth clattering together. He’s winded, his chest aching as his armour squeezes around him, and his head is absolutely swimming.

It’s probably the hardest he’s taken a hit since the Stormbird’s wing gusts sent him flying. And this one is all self-inflicted. 

“Oh, fuck the Ten,” he wheezes. There’s a faint ringing in his ears as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, spots dancing before his eyes. His jaw aches, and he tastes blood in his mouth as he sits back on his legs. And for a moment, he pictures his mother’s disapproving face staring down at him, telling him he is not hurt.

(“Are you going to cry, Drakka?” She kneels before him as he clutches his wrist to his chest, already starting to swell and bruise from his fall. His lip is trembling as he stares at her, tears already burning his eyes. “You can cry if you want, but this is your one chance. After this, you don’t cry again. Do you understand?”

“Yes Mama.” His voice is choked, but the tears haven’t fallen. Not yet. 

“Do you want to make this your one chance to cry?”

He shakes his head. “No Mama.”

His mother sets his arm, and Drakka manages to hold it together. As she wraps it in bandages and a splint, she says that he’s going to have to learn to fight with his other hand. “A break is no excuse for not fighting, Drakka. You’re going to have to fight your whole life. You’re going to have to fight for everything you want and to keep everything you have. It is the way of the desert. You show any sign of weakness, and the land will eat you alive and spit out your bones.”

She finishes splinting his arm. The break will heal in time. She grips his face in both of her hands and stares him down. “You are not prey, Drakka. You are the predator. Never forget that. Never show the desert your weakest points. Never show mercy, for you will never be shown it yourself.”)

He can handle the sting of his knees, his palms, his chin. He spits out the blood in his mouth and knows he can handle that too. 

What hurts most is that thing inside his chest, the thing that beats even though it feels like it’s being poked by one of the spikes on his armour. And it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, because it has absolutely – he has absolutely no right to feel hurt or upset or jealous. He turned her down. 

The ringing fades, and he realises the moans have stopped. There’s shuffling, murmuring from the opening above his head, and then he hears Aloy:

“It’s okay, it’s just Drakka.”

Just Drakka. 

His stomach twists. She must see him with her relic. That sand-blasted little triangle can see through anything. A little more shuffling, and he tries to get to his feet and—

“Oh!”

“Fuck!”

“Drakka!”

“I’m sorry—”

The top of his head wallops the underside of her chin as she pokes her head out of the window. He groans, the pain now sufficiently all over his head instead of just in his jaw. He reaches up and places his hand over the spot of impact. 

“Drakka, what are you doing?”

“I heard the Desert Flame just rolled into town,” he grumbles, rubbing the forming lump. “Came to say hi, if you weren’t asleep. Didn’t realise you’d have company.”

He gets a good look at Aloy then, her head and shoulders poking through the open window as she clutches the linen sheets around her. It’s draped over one shoulder, her other arm over and clutching it tightly to prevent it from falling. And maybe that’s what he should be looking at, maybe he should be eyeing her body, but instead his eyes fixate on her face. 

And her hair. 

It’s down. 

Her hair is out of its many braids for the first time that he’s ever seen. It spills around her face and over her shoulders, the red hue visible under the silver moon, her face pale with dark-tinged cheeks. Her face is framed in a way he could only imagine before, and seeing her like this for the first time, real, causes that stupid thumping thing in his chest to leap into his throat. 

Drakka has thought about her kiss many times since that night. He’s thought about the way she was willing to open herself up to him, and thought about how it would feel to touch her hair, to undo her braids himself and run his fingers through. He’s thought about burying his face in it, kissing the side of her head, and having it spill across his chest while she sleeps. 

Then her companion slides out the window behind her, and Drakka does a double-take. 

He seems bigger out of his armour than in it. The man is all muscle, looking both soft and firm at the same time. Drakka’s eyes linger briefly on the growth of hair across his chest, the dark trail leading down to where the shadows cover him, and then his torso is hidden behind Aloy and Drakka glances to his face. His hair is dark and short, only a bit longer on top than the sides and bottom, in no style at all like the Tenakth of any clan. Smeared Desert Clan colours cover his features, but cannot hide the prominent cheekbones or the piercing grey eyes. 

Of course Aloy would choose an attractive partner. Of course. 

It doesn’t take Drakka long to notice that the paint is especially faded around his mouth, and he swallows nervously. 

He also knows this man is not Tenakth. 

“Well… yes,” Aloy says, and the man’s hand slides up her arm to grip. She looks as if she isn’t sure what else to say, so Drakka decides to make it easy. 

“You’re always welcome in Scalding Spear, Aloy. So… have a good night. You too, uh… Guy.” 

“Thank you,” the man says, his lips curving into an amused smirk. As he strokes his fingers down Aloy’s bare arm, Drakka sees her shiver, sees her skin break out in small bumps as her hair stands on end from his touch. 

They’re in love. 

The realisation hits him like a rampaging Bristleback, and he doesn’t even know what spurs it. But he knows, and his breath hitches in his chest. 

And he suddenly gets it: He’s the one Aloy was thinking about the night she gave him her kiss. This man is the one Aloy wanted to be kissing instead of Drakka. 

He clears his throat. Forces a grin, turns on his boyish charm. “I’ll let you two get back at it,” he teases, and Aloy ducks her face to hide her grin and blush. 

And then Drakka ruins everything: “And hey, let me know if you need an extra hand.”

The stupid words slip before he can stop them, and he immediately bites down on the inside of his cheek. He sees Aloy’s eyes widen as her jaw goes a little slack. He sees Mystery Man’s eyebrows raise, his paint distorting on his face. He sees his fingers grip Aloy’s arm and, for just a second, he thinks he sees Aloy press her back against his chest, as if putting as much space between herself and Drakka as possible. 

Time for him to go. For real, this time. 

He chuckles nervously, then Drakka gives them the typical salute, and before he turns his back, he thinks Aloy almost smiles. 

*

Unlike Scalding Spear, Drakka does not take Arrowhand by force. 

The Red Raids have ended. Word from the east is that the Mad Sun-King’s own son has slain his father, and is seeking peace. Seeking reparations. 

Some Tenakth don’t like this, and Drakka can’t blame them. He’d rather kiss a Thunderjaw full on the mouth than ever trust the word of a Carja. He wishes Hekarro would tell the Sun-Priest envoys to roll up their scrolls real tight and stick ’em where their precious sun doesn’t shine. 

(At least he has the sense to not release Fashav. The Marshal.)

Still, some Tenakth are more… vehement in their loathing.

One such Tenakth is Grudda. 

For months, Drakka has listened to him bellow his frustrations, his hatred of the Carja and all their allies, his utter detestation for anything and anyone beyond the walls of Barren Light. He complains about his time spent in Arrowhand, as if leading a settlement is less important than getting himself killed on the front lines against Jiran’s Kestrels. 

His mother didn’t like Grudda. 

She had grown up with him. Sparred with him. Fought with him in battle. Even fought him, once, before Drakka was born. Grudda was responsible for the nasty scar that ran from above her ear, down her cheek, and skipped her throat to catch on her collarbone. 

(His mother is – was – covered in scars. His favourite was the one shaped like bolts of lightning across her left bicep, courtesy of a Ravager. As a child, he used to lie next to her when he was upset, and trace the lines with his fingertip. She, surprisingly, allowed this. It was more soothing than any words or touch she could offer. 

She once told him there are scars he will never see. Those are the ones that take the longest to heal, the ones on the inside. He’ll amass his own in time, she tells him. It doesn’t matter how much he becomes his own mountain. Every mountain can crumble with enough force.)

As outspoken as Devvikah was, she never openly fought Grudda during his leadership. Her distaste was reserved for the shadows, but Drakka didn’t miss the way her face would darken in his presence. He noticed the way she seemed to close in upon herself when he addressed her directly. He saw how every muscle in her body would tense when he drew close, even if his attention was not on her. 

The one time Devvikah ever raised her voice to Grudda was when Drakka was very, very young. It is, he thinks, one of his first memories. Drakka was running around with other Tenakth children, his practice blade swinging wildly in his chase. “Hunting,” and the other children were Grazers, his prey. 

Grudda appeared. He was not yet the leader of Arrowhand, not officially, but he was expected to be in a matter of time. He watched the children play and then addressed Drakka, telling him to come close. Drakka had obeyed, knowing better than to disobey a squad leader even at his age. Grudda told him to show him his muscles, and Drakka held up his arm and flexed as hard as he could, his face screwing up in concentration. Grudda laughed and squeezed his bicep, fingers wrapping all the way around. 

Devvikah descended from out of nowhere. She wrapped her arms around Drakka and screamed at Grudda to not touch him, to never touch him, to stay away from her son.

Grudda said, “I should cut out your tongue for your insubordination, Scab.” Devvikah had gripped Drakka tighter and he folded into her arms, her entire body trembling as she held him. Grudda eyed the pair, and then leaned back, offering them an icy smile. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood, Vikah.”

All the same, Grudda heeded her words. He did not speak directly to Drakka again until after Devvikah’s death. 

Perhaps his mother’s hatred of Grudda is genetic. Or perhaps Drakka simply has a mind of his own and doesn’t agree with his decisions as Arrowhand’s leader. 

It comes to a head during a visit from Marshal Fashav himself, and Drakka wonders if this is the catalyst that pushes Grudda off the high cliff. The final insult that sends him to Regalla, who has freshly abandoned her post as Marshal, and has been spared in combat by Hekarro. 

Drakka is young, but he’s more than capable. He is skilled beyond his years, courtesy of his mother’s ruthless, relentless training and constant push for him to be better. And Drakka may not have the wits of a Chaplain, but he knows battle. He knows loss. And he knows stupidity when he sees it. 

And Grudda? He’s being fucking stupid. 

He wants to send hunters after the bigger machines, thinking that the hearts will be worth more. But Grudda isn’t out there among the hunt. He hasn’t killed so much as a Scrapper in over a decade, as far as machines go. Grudda has no concept of how a Thunderjaw can decimate an entire squad in seconds. 

The value of the hearts is not worth the cost of their lives, and Drakka tells him this to his face in the Marshal’s presence. 

And, to his shock, Fashav nods his head. 

“Drakka is right, Grudda,” he says. “You would do well to listen to—”

Grudda spits at him. Not at his feet in challenge, but at him. The glob lands on the blank side of Fashav’s face, and Grudda is vibrating with fury. 

“Carja filth,” he growls. “You have no place here. Hekarro should have put you in the ground where you belong.”

He does not give Fashav the chance to retaliate. Grudda turns on his heel and begins to storm away, stopping briefly in front of Drakka. From his chest, he rips away the metal badge of leadership, and he throws it at Drakka’s feet.

When he speaks, his words are full of spite, and his eyes flash dangerously: “There, boy. You want to prove yourself so badly? Here’s your chance. Make your mother proud.”

And then he is gone, and later Drakka will hear rumours of Regalla having a new champion, an old friend from Arrowhand, and he will know it is Grudda without being told. 

For now, Fashav wipes away the spit. He approaches and picks up the metal badge himself, Drakka still rooted to the dirt. He turns it over in his hand, then fixes it upon Drakka’s chest. “Well,” Fashav says, standing back with his hands on his hips, “I hope you’re ready for this, Drakka.”

“Ready for…” 

And he knows what for. He knows exactly what for. But there’s a strange fog in his head, and he can’t seem to think beyond the fact that he’s standing in front of Marshal Fashav and that his whole life has just upended forever. 

“For being a leader. Do you know what it is to lead?”

For all her lessons and imparted wisdom, his mother delved very little into leadership. Drakka opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

Fashav sighs and runs a hand over his hair. For the briefest moment, he is not a Marshal. He is not a Carja General. For a moment, Fashav is just a man, and Drakka fixates on him with every fibre of his being. 

“A leader is… ready to sacrifice for his people, but is humble enough to accept help where and when he needs it, and is not afraid to ask for it. A leader makes the tough calls and bears the weight of consequence so his people don’t have to. Above all, Drakka: A good leader does not rule for the sake of it, for the sake of power. He seeks to make a difference for his people.”

Drakka stares at Fashav, and is annoyed that a Carja has the audacity to be wise. 

“Thanks,” he says. He’s not sure what else there is to say, really. 

Fashav smiles and claps him on the back. “You can do this,” he assures him. 

And, somehow, even though he is only three days past his nineteenth natal day, Drakka believes him. 

*

He stumbles into his hut atop his tower and face-plants onto his bed. Drakka bites down on his pillow and groans, long and low. 

His reign as commander will go down as the shortest in history, and the only one to end by dying of humiliation. 

At some point, the quiet of the desert lulls him into a fitful sleep. Drakka allows himself to be taken, and blessedly, he does not dream. Or at least, he doesn’t remember upon waking. The sun has now risen, and he can hear the sounds of life in his village below. 

He rolls out of bed to fix his paint, and then is hit by how sore he is from his tumble hours ago. In the light, he looks at himself, and sees knees bloodied and bruised. His palms have been scraped of their top layer of skin, but thankfully aren’t as rough as his knees, other than being dirty. He rubs his chin, which smarts under his touch, and dried blood comes off on his fingers. 

He sighs. 

Nice. 

He washes up, fixes the paint on his face, and opens the many canvas and hide flaps that offer his abode some semblance of privacy. Then he ascends to his roost to look out over Scalding Spear, folding his arms over his chest. Next to him, Meat has already gathered its own breakfast, and is happily resting at a dead lizard clutched in its talons. 

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m good,” Drakka snarks at the damned ugly bird. Meat lets out a squawk and returns to its meal. 

He pans his eyes around the settlement as merchants open for business, as people begin to spar, as Lirokkeh opens the melee pit, as a game of Strike is picked up. He looks for hair like fire and sees none. 

In actual fact, it is several hours before he sees either of them, but he spots the man first. He’s wearing a different mask than Drakka has seen before, the shape reminding him somewhat of a Slaughterspine’s head, but it still has the give-away red feathers. With his exposed skin completely naked of ink, he sticks out easily. And he’s buying paint, and lots of it, as usual. 

He never seems to use any on himself, so Drakka isn’t sure why he bothers. Aloy may not be covered in tattoos (if all the rumours are true, Drakka thinks they’d run out of space before she even flew over the Grove on a Sunwing), but she does at least paint her body when she wears Tenakth armour. 

This time, instead of simply watching from above, Drakka turns on his heel to follow him at a distance. He keeps his eye on the plumage bursting from the back of the new mask as he makes his way out of the settlement to a pair of tamed Chargers among the panels. Like Drakka has seen before, he attaches the paint to the rump of one, and Drakka notices: That Charger is covered in Desert Clan colours, patterns just as intricate as any Tenakth can do. 

Well. He supposes a machine would take quite a bit of paint.

The man starts to return to the settlement. He pauses as he turns, catching sight of Drakka immediately. Instead of ducking or pretending he is otherwise occupied, Drakka stands his ground: He crosses his arms, cocks his hip, and matches stare-for-stare. 

The man approaches, slow and casual. Grey eyes stare from a gap in the mask, and he looks Drakka up and down, sizing him up. Drakka does the same.

“Commander,” he says at last. 

“Who are you, anyway?” Drakka demands, ensuring to put authority in his voice. 

“You can call me Nil,” he says. 

Nil. Short breath of a name, like the Utaru. Drakka glances him up and down again, his muscles on display beneath his armour, and frowns. This man is no Utaru. He definitely eats way too much meat for that. 

“Okay, Nil.” 

Nil reaches across his torso to scratch an itch on his opposite shoulder. Drakka’s gaze lands on his bicep, and a vein that runs down his arm, as he does so. He forces himself to look back at his face, his eyes moving as if covered with adhesive. 

“For the record,” Drakka states, “I wasn’t trying to hear anything this morning.”

Nil waves his large hand, and Drakka wonders if he’s smirking beneath the mask. “The state of your exit made that fairly obvious, Commander.” Drakka isn’t sure, but he thinks he hears a teasing hint to his tone when he says his title this time, and he bristles automatically. Nil takes a step closer, and Drakka puffs his chest. A Commander doesn’t back down. “What we found most intriguing was what you said before you left.”

Ah. That. Heat rises in Drakka’s neck and he clenches his teeth. 

Wait, we?

He opens his mouth—

“Commander!”

And shuts it quickly, whipping his head to one of his guards, and Drakka is mercifully pulled away from Nil and the distinct lack of personal space that was between them. A Commander has duties, always, and Drakka is glad to fill his day with them. 

And maybe the Ten know it’s his natal day and that he’s had a tough start already, because his day passes mercifully fast and relatively easily.

He does spot Aloy a few times, roaming around. At dusk, he sees her approaching his roost when he is down below, checking the Wound. Water has almost returned to its steady flow from before, which Drakka has to admit makes him look good. 

Wouldn’t be like this without Aloy. 

She spots him from his own roost, and Drakka shields his eyes with his hand as he looks up at her. Aloy lifts her own in a small wave, and Drakka’s belly twists into a knot. She’s looking for him, specifically. 

“You okay, Commander?”

Drakka lowers his gaze and nods, focusing on the Wound and its progress. 

With the sun beginning to set, Drakka has little choice but to drag himself back to his roost, where Aloy is waiting inside his abode.

Their eyes meet as he steps inside. With a quick glance and jerk of his head, his guards file out. Aloy gives him a grateful smile and starts to pace around the outer edge, her fingers touching his possessions at random. His first true metal blade, gifted to him by Arrowhand’s chaplain when he was ten. His mask he wore to battle Yarra with Aloy at his side. A pair of leather and metal gauntlets he’s working on in what little spare time he has. 

His mother’s tags. 

Drakka sucks in a breath at that one, and Aloy draws her fingers back. 

“So.”

“Yeah, uh… I met your…”

“Partner,” she clarifies in his silence. 

“Partner,” he echoes. The word is strange, and tastes funny on his tongue, when used in this context. And yet somehow… somehow it seems to fit. “Nil.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that.”

“He’s not Tenakth. He’s definitely not Utaru.” He frowns and ponders, eyeing her up and down. “I don’t think he’s Nora, because you’re the only one I’ve ever seen out here” (her face flickers oddly at this, but Drakka barrels on) “and he doesn’t have machine bits sticking out of him, so he isn’t Banuk. Plus, he isn’t melted.” The Icemen, as the Tenakth sometimes call them, have never fared well if they ever make it to Tenakth land. “He doesn’t smell bad enough to be Oseram, and he wears red feathers.” He crosses his arms and leans against a post, his face tight as he works it out. Aloy isn’t stopping him, so Drakka figures he’s on the right path. 

And he doesn’t like where it’s leading. 

“Is he Carja?”

“He… kind of,” Aloy admits, pulling a face and shrugging. “Carja the way I’m Nora, you could say. It’s where we started but not… where or what we are.”

“You don’t think you’re Nora?”

The news shocks Drakka more than Nil being Carja. He blinks at her, pushing away from the post with his hands falling to his sides. Being Tenakth is essential to who he is as a person. Take that away, and Drakka figures he’s a shell with nothing inside. How Aloy – and Nil – can be clanless, tribeless, is… Unthinkable. 

“They didn’t consider me one of them until a year or so ago,” she shrugs as if it doesn’t bother her. “But that… it isn’t important.”

She finds Drakka’s bed and sits on it. He blinks, frozen, not sure what to do or make of this. “Are you good, Drakka?”

“What do you mean?”

When Aloy lifts her eyes to him, he finds them soft and full of concern. Drakka’s breath stops in his throat, his muscles tensing. No one has ever looked at him like that. Ever. 

“I mean I’ve… seen you. I helped you get here and I’ve watched you for a bit and you’re…” She searches for the word, but Drakka knows what she means. 

“I’m a Commander,” he states. “I have responsibilities to all the Desert Clan, not just Arrowhand.”

“You wanted the job—”

“To make a difference!” Fashav’s words spill from Drakka’s mouth in a low growl, and he stares at Aloy for a moment. Her hair is back in its braids. Her cheeks are reddened from the sun and the heat. And her green eyes are wide, blinking slowly as he gathers himself. 

He manages to control his voice enough to return it to normal, and says, “I’m not commander for the sake of it, Aloy. I’m doing it for my people. You know something about that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she says instantly. 

She rises from his bed and moves closer to him. Drakka remains rooted to the spot, frozen as she reaches for his chest plate. Her fingers run along the spikes that cover his shoulder, then up his neck and cup his face. Her eyes meet his, and he realises what she is about to do, and that pounding thing in his chest fights for escape.

For the second time, Aloy leans in. 

For the second time, Drakka does too. 

This kiss is different. This time, Aloy has her man, her partner, her Nil. This time when she kisses Drakka, it’s because she wants to kiss Drakka. 

His arms wrap around her back, her shoulders, and he can’t check a groan of relief into her mouth as he deepens their kiss. She holds him close to her as she kisses, gripping the back of his neck. Her body is flush against his, and Drakka revels in her warmth, her closeness, her gentle and genuine  affection for him. 

He can still taste something earthy, something bitter. And under that: spice. Not like the wings that night, but something foreign on his tongue, and definitely not unpleasant—

Nil. It’s Nil he tastes. 

He pulls back and swallows, his eyes downcast, and slides his hands off her body. “Your partner—”

“—would like to… get to know you a bit better, too,” she finishes for him. She closes the gap he opened with a hand on his arm. “Like what you said this morning. If we wanted… an extra hand?”

Drakka stares, the realisation dawning. “You want…”

“Yes. If you want.” There is no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. No tremble. When Aloy says she wants this, Drakka believes her. 

“Yes.” The word tumbles from his lips before his mind even registers his answer. After he says it, his mind starts to whirl, wondering if it’s the right call. Aloy has a partner, has Nil, he reminds himself. She will never be Drakka’s. This… helping hand, this night, is all it will ever be. 

He watches her face light up with a sly grin and decides that’s fine, because he made her look like that. 

She presses a finger to the relic on her temple. “Nil,” she says, and Drakka realises Nil must have one too, and they can talk through them. “Come up.”

Then Drakka realises that when Aloy asked if he wanted, she meant now. 

“Did you…” He breaks into a chuckle and shakes his head, cocking a grin at Aloy as she smiles at him. “Did you come up here to… seduce me?”

She laughs, her head tossing back, hair spilling down her back. Hair Drakka longs to let loose, longs to plunge his hands into the second he gets the chance. And then Aloy meets his gaze, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and says, “Well, did it work?”

“Oh yeah,” he breathes, and he can hear the flap of canvas behind him as Nil enters his hut atop his tower, but Drakka isn’t paying attention to that. Drakka is stepping forward and taking Aloy’s face in his hands, and Drakka is kissing her with everything he has. He hears and feels her squeak against his mouth, and she’s kissing him back as intensely.

Wrapped up in Aloy, Drakka feels rather than sees the shade around him as Nil hurriedly lets down the sides for privacy. And then he feels the man’s body next to them

(the Carja)

and he breaks from Aloy as Nil places a hand on his shoulder. Breathing deep, his hands still on Aloy, Drakka glances up at Nil and expects to see burning hatred and jealousy. 

Instead, Nil is lifting his mask with his free hand, and then gives Drakka what can only be called a warm smile. 

“Hi,” Drakka says. 

“Hello again,” Nil responds, a hint of laughter in his voice. And then Nil’s hand slides to Drakka’s face, a thumb brushing his cheek, and he leans in and kisses Drakka softly on the lips. 

At the same time, Aloy’s are on his neck, and Drakka bites his lip to stifle a moan. 

No. Not his lip. 

Nil’s. 

And the sound Nil lets out of both pleasure and pain is enough to make Drakka’s blood boil. He lets out a gasp and reaches for armour, anyone’s armour, and starts to pull at whatever buckles and straps his hands can find while his mouth is attached to Nil’s. He pulls back for breath, and Nil ducks his face to Drakka’s ear and runs his tongue along the lobe. His teeth find the sensitive skin on Drakka’s neck, nibbling his way down to the crook. 

Here, Drakka steps back, his hands scrambling to remove clothing. Nil chuckles and grabs his hands, exchanging a soft, amused glance with Aloy. 

“Slower, slower,” he croons. “There’s no need to rush your way through pleasure.”

He thinks of former partners, men and women, and how he always tried to get them off as fast as possible. How he always tried to ensure their pleasure was first, was quick, wanting to make certain that they were satisfied before he even thought about letting himself get off. 

He takes a breath. 

While he does, Nil brushes a hand behind Aloy’s ear and leans in, planting the gentlest of kisses against her lips. They part after a moment and share a look, and Drakka suddenly knows with all certainty what love truly looks like. 

The pounding thing inside his chest begins to ache. 

They begin to undress each other, taking Nil’s advice to go slow. Drakka’s chest piece falls first, his spikes the biggest hazard to any of them. Then Nil’s goes, exposing his muscles the way Drakka remembers from that morning. The top that protects Drakka’s skin from chafing is next, tossed aside as Aloy kisses his chest. Her lips press against his nipple, circling the surrounding pattern of tattoo with her tongue before she closes around and sucks. Drakka groans as he looks down at her, at the red braids that are tempting his itching fingers, and he tucks his knuckles under her chin to draw her up. 

He kisses her throat, and Nil presses against her from behind. The top half of her armour falls away, her bindings shortly after, and Drakka has to step back to take her in.

She’s more beautiful than he ever imagined, and he imagined a lot. 

As if knowing his thoughts, Nil smiles into the side of Aloy’s head. He presses his lips into her hair, then glances at him, meeting his gaze. “How does she look, Drakka?” he asks, his voice that same low tone he heard that morning. 

“What?”

Aloy puffs a chuckle and reaches for Drakka’s face, stroking it gently and drawing him to her. She kisses the side of his mouth, then up to his cheek, against his ear, and whispers, “He likes it when there’s talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk,” she repeats in an exhale, and her hand slips into Drakka’s pants. He stutters a gasp as her fingers close around his cock and give it a stroke. Louder, she says, “We’ve thought about you all day.”

Oh. 

He feels himself hardening in her hand, feels his muscles begin to clench as she slowly strokes him beneath his clothes, and his eyes flutter closed at her touch. Talk. Nil asked him a question and wants him to talk. 

“She looks… You look… so good, Aloy,” he murmurs into her neck. “Better than I ever… ever…”

He hears the shuffling of feet as Nil steps out of his armour. Aloy’s skirt is pulled away, leaving her in knee-length shorts. Drakka swallows hard, then slides his hands down Aloy’s sides to the last of her clothes. He lowers himself slowly, planting kisses along her body – her throat, her chest, lingering between her breasts, down her belly to her navel, where he nibbles gently just below and she lets out a giggle. On his knees, he looks up at her. 

Nil’s chin rests on her shoulder as he looks down at Drakka, his expression just as soft and warm as Aloy’s. He skims his hand around Aloy’s waist to cup Drakka’s chin affectionately, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. Then he rakes his fingers through Drakka’s hair, the sensations bringing out a groan. 

“Would you like to taste her?” Nil asks. 

He does. He does more than he wants air. 

She shifts her hips in his hands and he tangles his fingers in her shorts, tugging them down, lower still, and—

Darker, like her brows. 

He smiles and kisses the inside of her thigh as she steps out of her pants. And then Drakka is near her, near Aloy, near Aloy’s sex that he can already see is flush and pink and wet, and he wants to kiss her there so badly that his breath stops. 

Drakka freezes, suddenly realising that this is too good to be true. There’s a catch, there has to be a catch. Aloy is here, naked before him, her partner completely fine and involved, and Drakka… Good things don’t just fall into his lap. 

He glances up between them, and the apprehension must be on his face. Aloy looks at Nil over her shoulder, then lowers herself in front of Drakka and takes his face in her hands. She kisses his forehead, petting his hair, and then kisses his lips. 

Her touch is so fucking tender that the pounding thing in Drakka’s chest calms, just a little, and he allows himself to look at her. 

“We’re here,” she whispers to him. “We’re right here.”

He sees Nil move, then feels him at his back. Strong, large hands grip his biceps and help him stand. Drakka leans back into his chest, realising that Nil has a good few inches on him. His head rolls onto his shoulder and he reaches up, turning Nil’s face to him. 

Drakka likes to think he has a good sense of people, and he doesn’t think Nil is a bad guy, for a Carja. 

Former Carja. 

Besides, Aloy would have nothing to do with him if he was some kind of monster. And he’s her partner. 

He pulls Nil in for a kiss as Aloy removes everything below his waist. He feels something hard against his back, and realises Nil removed his own smalls as well. 

There’s nothing small about what’s pressed against him, and Drakka feels a thrill of excitement shoot up his spine. He kisses with more force, more intensity, and Nil matches him stride-for-stride. He feels a pinch around his nipple and lets out a gasp. He feels a hand – too big to be Aloy’s – around the base of his cock and groans. And then he feels hot breath against the tip and parts from Nil, their lips creating a sucking sound as he looks down to see Aloy descend on his cock with her mouth. 

“Oh—”

“That’s it,” Nil praises in his ear. “Let yourself feel her, Drakka. Let yourself feel us.”

He’s fixed upon Aloy as she licks him, as she swirls her tongue around the head of his length, as she hollows her cheeks and pulls him deeper into her mouth. Her lips reach Nil’s hand and she draws back, then plunges again, and again, and when Nil releases Drakka’s cock, she takes him to the hilt. 

“Oh, fuck,” he growls, the spectacle beyond what he’s ever imagined, ever expected, and he feels Aloy hum around him before she draws back. And a good thing too, because just watching her was enough to make him want to burst. His cock is wet with her saliva, and Nil’s hand returns, running his palm along slow and gentle. 

Aloy takes her time standing, pressing kisses and touches to the tattoos on his chest as she does. When she reaches her full height, she stands on her toes and brushes her lips against his. Drakka’s fingers find her hair, and he begins to tug at the bands and pins holding her braids together, a small, “Please” unwittingly escaping as he does so. 

“Okay,” Aloy smiles. 

Nil leads Drakka to his bed while Aloy quickly fusses with her hair, and guides him onto his back on the pallet. Drakka’s bed is small, really only room for him, but Nil kneels on the floor behind Drakka’s head. He uses his knuckles to turn Drakka to face Aloy as she shakes out the last of her braids.

“You’re so pretty,” he says as Aloy draws near, and feels himself blush at their collective chuckles. 

“I thought you were the pretty one,” Aloy teases, and any retort is lost on Drakka’s tongue as she swings a leg over his torso and sits astride his belly. He groans and places his hands on her hips, and he can feel her cunt against his skin, tantalizing and hot and… and…

“And you’re pretty too,” he exhales, looking up at Nil hovering above his face. He’s upside down in his view, but it doesn’t mar his features in the slightest. “Soon as I saw you I thought so.”

“Aloy has exceptional taste,” Nil says, and Drakka doesn’t miss the double entendre. He reaches around Drakka’s head to cradle him in the crook of his arm and looks up at Aloy. “Ready, love?”

“Almost,” she says, and she begins to rock against Drakka’s cock. He gasps, feeling her slickness against his already-sensitive underside, as she uses him to build her pleasure. 

For a moment, Drakka remembers that he had wanted to taste her, and lost himself before he could, and feels a twinge of guilt. 

Then Aloy is reaching between her legs and gripping him, holding him steady as she lowers herself, and Drakka closes his eyes and throws his head back with a satisfied groan. 

His noise is stifled by Nil, who holds his head right in his arm and smothers his lips with his own. His fingers are under Drakka’s jaw, pressing against his throat, and for a moment Drakka’s chest tightens and he thinks he can’t breathe. 

Then Aloy is leaning over him, kissing where Nil’s fingers are, and he realises that he can. He takes in a gasp of air as Aloy begins to roll her hips, the softness of her cunt caressing his cock as she moves. One hand finds her breast as it brushes against him and he squeezes, thumb and finger tweaking her nipple, while his other reaches up to weave into Nil’s hair, and both of them are locked with him in some way. He feels Aloy on his torso, on his cock, he feels Nil’s tongue delve into his mouth while he grips him immobile, and he relishes every moment. 

He lets out a gasp, a tingle of pleasure so strong he almost – almost – comes. Aloy sits up and slows her movements, running her hands up and down his chest. “Good,” she croons, her lips in a small smile. “Good, Drakka, you feel so good, you’re so good…”

Nil releases his grip on Drakka’s head and lifts himself. He kisses his forehead as he pulls away, and the softness of the gesture from someone who’s practically a stranger makes Drakka squeeze his eyes shut and grip whatever part of Aloy he can touch first. He cracks an eye to see Nil go through one of his discarded pouches and pull out a hollowed shell, and Drakka knows exactly what’s in it. He has one himself, he should have offered. 

“Aloy,” Nil urges gently. 

Drakka opens both eyes and watches their communication, their knowing glances, wondering what’s passing between them. Aloy nods and smiles, then turns back to Drakka and leans down over him, cupping his face and slanting her lips over his. 

“Roll us over,” she instructs, and Drakka grips her body tight to his. He does so, with some effort, slipping out of her briefly before plunging back in once she’s on her back. He glances at Nil, who is applying a generous amount of oil to his cock (and by the Ten, it is a good size, can Drakka even take him?) and swallows hard. 

Nil meets his gaze and smiles, sliding closer, his movements smooth as Carja silk. He kisses Drakka’s shoulder all the way up to his face, his un-oiled hand carving through his hair and gently across the shaved parts of his skull. 

“I’d like to fuck you, Drakka,” he says lowly, and Drakka nearly melts. Lips press against his ear, hot breath following and leaving beads of moisture. “Would that be all right?”

“Wait—” He pauses his thrusting and reaches for Nil’s cock, grasping it and sliding his hand up and down. “Let me…”

He gestures for Nil to rise, and Nil does so. Drakka catches his look to Aloy, and sees a new fire in her eyes as he lowers his mouth to Nil’s cock. He can taste the oil, but it’s nothing he hasn’t had before. He brings Nil into his mouth as deep as he can, stopping when his throat threatens to close, and closes his eyes to shared moans of pleasure. 

Because of him. 

Something else stirs inside his chest, and Drakka doesn’t have a name for it, but it makes him smile around Nil’s length. 

He goes until Nil taps his cheek, then pulls back, drool falling from his lips. There’s a good sheen of sweat on Nil now – on all of them – and Drakka presses one last kiss to the head of Nil’s cock before he descends on Aloy, kissing her with all the fervour he can muster. Nil readies himself with oil, and then Drakka feels him nestle behind, and a thrill shoots through his entire body. He slows his thrusting into Aloy and remains as still as he can as Nil gently pushes himself inside, gritting his teeth as he feels himself stretch to take him.

Aloy touches his cheek, kissing his face. “Stay with me, Drakka,” she whispers, and he lets out a breathy chuckle. 

“I’m not… I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. 

It takes a few moments for him to breathe and fully relax. And when he does, Nil is ready, and begins to move. Pleasure and wanting shoot through Drakka’s veins and he buries his face in Aloy’s hair, an animalistic growl escaping him, and he feels Aloy shudder as she grips his shoulders. 

Then Nil is leaning far over his back, moving his hips, and Drakka moves his in time, and he is sandwiched between them so tightly he can’t tell where he ends and they begin. They are everywhere on his skin, touching him, burning him with their desire for him and each other, Nil’s lips on his neck and shoulder and Aloy’s on his face, and the he sees and feels them shift slightly so they can kiss each other over him, and he sees Nil’s hand find Aloy’s as they fuck each other through Drakka, and he feels Aloy begin to clench around his cock as she gasps, and he hears them both as they praise, “Good, good, Drakka, good,” and there’s so much, so much, so much—

(So much fucking love he can’t handle it—)

He comes with a shout that Aloy hurriedly stifles with her mouth. Drakka’s hips stutter against hers as he pumps up into her, and he feels Nil come crashing moments later. He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the top edge of his pallet, the image lingering in his mind of Aloy’s hair spread beautifully beneath him. 

Nil’s weight bears down on his back, and his thrusts continue, though gentler now. Aloy rolls her hips up into his, the pair of them continuing to move even though Drakka has stilled. 

He’s spent. In every sense of the word, Drakka is empty. 

Except for that thumping thing in his chest, which beats harder – but steadier – than ever. 

He lets them move. He lets them do what they do. He relaxes into it, sighing, laying his head on Aloy’s chest. With one arm, he grips her to him. With the other, he reaches for Nil’s hand to draw his arm around. 

“Drakka?” Aloy asks, one hand nestling in his hair. Nil shifts, slipping out of him at last, and he lays on his side on the pallet and wraps his arm around them, bringing both of them closer to his warmth. 

“It’s my natal day today,” he says against her breast. He doesn’t know why. His tone is not celebratory, he doesn’t expect anything from them, but… but…

“Your… birthday?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t care what it’s called, it all means the same thing. He’s another year older – he survived another year. 

“Are you all right?”

The voice is Nil’s, and Drakka turns his head to the other side to meet his gaze. That a stranger, a Carja, should show concern, is… is…

“I’m alive,” he says. Aloy holds him to her chest, and Nil clutches them both to him. 

And maybe… maybe to them, this doesn’t mean much. Drakka doesn’t know what’s in their hearts or minds. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever ask. Besides, he could never ask Aloy to settle down in Scalding Spear with him – she’s far too free and wild, and that’s what he loves about her – and the Tenakth, even Hekarro, would never accept a Clan Commander having a Carja as a permanent lover. 

But he doesn’t think they know how much this means to him. Not the sex, he can get that anywhere. 

It’s their gentleness that he craves. Their tender touches, their knowing looks. The way they see into each other, the way they move as one. 

Being in the presence of their love tonight… even if it’s one night… Drakka will accept as being enough. He felt it. He felt it. 

They eventually move furs and sheets to the floor, but Aloy and Nil stay with him all night. 

As Drakka curls between them at the end of his twenty-second natal day, the heaviness in his heart lifts.