can you do neteyam x human reader smut where it’s slightly dumbification / borderline incest bc they grew up together and everyone sees her as his little sister so she thinks it’s wrong but he convinces her it’s okay bc he’s her big brother and he knows best plsss
They met you when you were small enough to still fit completely in two hands.
You don’t remember it, obviously, but:
Apparently you cried the entire time, a tiny pink-faced human wrapped in fabric, and apparently only when a 6 year old neteyam would bring you one of his old toys to play with, or by letting you suck on his pinkie to fall asleep.
Lo’ak, according to everyone, had tried to poke you.
Multiple.
Multiple times for he was sure that you just needed a little nudge and you would turn blue and your tail would grow.
And Neteyam had immediately slapped his hand away.
“No little bro,” he’d said, shaking his head with a laugh.
After that, you were just… always there in their lives.
Neteyam eventually helped Neytiri teach you how to walk and he then took it upon himself to make sure you never went anywhere alone, which meant your earliest memories were of blue hands hovering near your shoulders, of a bigger shadow always just a little bigger than yours falling over the ground, of a voice that was still high and soft at the time saying, “Slow down,” every time you tried to run.
○•°~
You remember the day you first saw your big brother properly injured-Neteyam often headed straight to Mo’at after patrols to avoid you seeing him hurt-because he was the strong one, the mighty warrior. But that day, Jake had stopped the 15 year old in his tracks.
Neteyam and Lo’ak stood in front of Jake, their usually squared shoulders, sulking. "You're supposed to be spotters. You spot bogeys, and you call 'em in. From a distance!"
You quickly walk past Jake, keeping your head down and stopping just behind Neteyam, close enough that your chest brushes his back.
Jake’s voice rising with each word, kiri coming up behind you to place a caring hand on your shoulder, trying to ease you away from the scene, but you keep your ground.
“Does any of this sound familiar?” he says. “Get here!” he shots at Lo'ak.
You'd never heard Jake that angry before and the way he suddenly shouted made you flinch, your hand instinctively settling onto Neteyam’s arm at the tone of Jake’s voice Neteyam’s bicep flexed at your touch, slightly flinching himself.
You lean forward slightly from behind him, trying to look around his shoulder, brows pulling together.
He looks up at the anger in Jake’s eyes for half a second, then his hand comes up, blindly finding yours immediately.
His fingers slide between yours, squeezing once reassuringly, like he’s the one grounding you instead of the other way around.
"Jesus, I let you two geniuses fly a mission and you disobey direct orders." He continues, your eyes widening with every word that Jake says.
And when he looks back at Neteyam. He spots your big beady eyes looking at him with pure fear at the situation on your face and his ears drop for a second whne he sees you slightly cowering behind your brother like you always did when you felt scared.
He looked past you to the taller figure behind you "Kiri, can you go help your grandmother with the wounded? Please?"
"My brother is wounded" Kiri says back, dropping her hands from your shoulder.
You look up at the scars on Neteyam and trying to pull him away from the scene, only for Neteyam to turn slightly towards you.
His heavy hand comes down over yours, trapping your fingers against his chest before you can move him anywhere, before you can make it obvious how scared you are, his other arm shifting back just enough that his forearm brushes your stomach, a silent barrier.
He doesn’t let you pull him away.
But he does pull you closer.
His fingers slide between yours, threading through them like muscle memory.
He tilts his head down just slightly, not enough for anyone else, just enough for you.
“Hey,” he murmurs under his breath, voice low, “It’s fine.” He says to you. Through the bickering between Kiri, Tuk and Jake.
Kiri and Tuk left and Jake looked back towards you, taking a step closer only to have you take a step further back behind Neteyam’s back, scared that he would shout at you too. "C'mere doll face"
"Dad-sir I take full responsibility" Neteyam says, trying to draw the end this whole conversation.
"Yeah, you do. That's right. 'Cause you're the older brother. You gotta act like it." Jake tells Neteyam.
"Dad...Neteyam is actually bleeding" You say finally, looking at him and watching him take a step back, his ears lowering.
"Ma Tìyawn it's-it's fine I..."
Lo’ak grew up like a menace at your side, elbowing your side with bad ideas and grins, but he always followed Neteyam’s lead when it came to you.
Once you got older-and by older I do mean you were 11, and Neteyam was 17. You had just come back from the waterfall with scraped knees and wet hair plastered to your face, a boy around Neteyam’s age had laughed at you along with his friends and said you have. “weak little sky girl bones,” and you hadn’t even had time to feel embarrassed before Lo’ak had shoved him back so hard he tripped over his own tail.
Neteyam hadn’t shoved him though.
He’d stepped forward slowly, his shoulders squared. “Say that again.”
The other boy didn’t.
Lo’ak turned to you afterward, patting your shoulder before something he wasn't supposed to do caught his attention so he ran off.
Neteyam crouched in front of you, inspecting your knees with a frown, his large thumbs barely brushing your skin. “You are actually bleeding ma tìyawn.”
“It’s nothing really, Neteyam, I'm fine,” you said, stealing his own words, but he looked up at you, unimpressed by your answer.
Everyone in the village saw you as his little sister, even as you grew older because he treated you like one, because he always gave you the better fruit, because he carried you across rivers, because he always defended your name, and he always made you laugh.
The Sully family was all you ever knew and they took you in as one of their own. Neytiri and Jake had never given their kids nothing that they didn't give you-because you were also one of their children.
Once you reached 15, you wanted to help.
So bad.
To do something useful instead of sitting on a hammock while your family fought in wars.
But of course, Neteyam never let you.
“Stay here,” he’d say.
“Don’t go there.”
“Don’t lift that.”
“You’re not built for that.”
"Go easy"
Which was pushing your otherwise endless patience to the end, actually.
“I am not glass, maTeyam!” you snapped at him one afternoon.“You act like if I breathe wrong I’ll die.”
He stopped, slowly turning to look at you after your usually soft voice rose at him, “You are human.”
“I am a sully"
“You are not made for this world, ma tìyawn.”
Mad.
You were mad at Neteyam.
You never got mad at Neteyam-or almost anyone.
But this made you mad.
So when he told you not to follow the work group into the forest that morning, you went anyway.
You didn’t even make it that far.
You slipped on wet root, went down wrong, and when you tried to get up your leg didn’t cooperate.
You didn’t scream.
But you cried.
Embarrassed tears flowing down your flushed cheeks.
Neteyam found you almost too soon.
His jaw tightened and his ears pinned.
He didn’t yell.
Which somehow made it worse.
“What did I tell you, hm,” he said quietly. “I told you not to come.”
You cried and sobbed out apologies for him to forgive you and to not tell jake.
You're submissive nature slipping out of you the second that you fell, feeling small in a way you hadn’t in days.
And from that day on you realised that your big brother always knew better. So when he told you to do or not to do something, you never questioned him and you never talked back cus everything he did was in your best interest.
Once you reached 17-all hell came down. You changed you filled out in places Neteyam didn’t know was possible for you. Your angles turned into soft curves. Your waist dipped small, and your hips flared wide, your boobs barely contained in the Na'vi clothing.
And suddenly you got even more attention-but in all the wrong ways.
Instead of getting constantly bullied you were now getting constantly hit on and that turned Lo'ak and Neteyam’s shoves for you, into punches for you.
Multiple fights a week until one day Neteyam realised that there was a very-very simple way to end it.
So what if he was taking advantage of your innocence? He was the reason it was still so intact in the first place. And if anyone was going to corrupt your pretty little mind-it was going to be your big brother. Who always, always knows what's best for you.
Your big brother Neteyam gently grabbed your hand, guiding you away from the ceremonial fire and into the forest which didn't surprise you for it was something he often did, saying he never gets to see his little sister anymore cus he's busy guiding all the other mighty warriors which you of course found sweet. While Neteyam found it as time to inhale your intoxicating scent and hear your sweet voice but most of all have you all to himself.
It was even sweeter when he pulled a pink, glowing flower out of the pouch that sits at his hip, earning him a kiss from you, and a deep inhale into the flower.
An inhale that he knew very-very well would shoot your hormones through the roof, have your little pussy dripping, and your lower tummy aching in neediness.
"Teyam..." you suddenly said, your soft voice now sounding breathless as you came to a stop on your walk through the glowing willow trees. "I-I don't feel so well"
Stopping a few steps ahead of you, he held back his satisfied grin and slowly turned around to face you, his large figure looming over you even from a distance.
"What's wrong, ma tìyawn." He asked, his head slightly tilting to the side as his eyes darkened, his pupils blowing out-but it didn’t really sound like a question, and he definitely didn't sound concerned. But to you-all you could see was your big brother who always took care of you, and you didn't even notice the famished hunger in his eyes, directed towards you as he stepped closer.
"I think we...we should go back"
"What's wrong."
"I feel funny." you replied, taking a cautious step back, away from him making him realise he would have to coax you into this.
His eyebrows furrowed, faking concern he closed the distance between you, crouching down so you could be at eye level as he gently held your hands, pretending to carefully inspect your face and then check for a fever with his hand.
"You didn’t...touch the red vines when we walked past the river, did you?" He asked, his voice subtly lowering for the dramatic effect as he looked into your beady eyes.
"I-I don't know I might have I guess w-"
"I told you not to touch those." He rumbles out like he always does when he reminds you about something you did that defied his words.
[He infact never told you not to touch the red vines, and they were infact harmless. But you were so fucking dumb and lost in your pretty head when you're scared that he knew you wouldn't remember]
His eyes widened in faux fear, forcing his ears back against his head as he looked at you.
"What? What-what is it!" You asked, panic rising through you as you tightly gripped his large hand as a sob broke through you in fear.
And Neteyam just had to look away to stop himself from laughing. You always were such a cry baby-and boy was he going to use your tears to his advantage.
Sighing, he finally looks back up at you, his large hand slowly reaching uo to gently hold the side of your face, his finger brushing away your tears and imaging how they would taste under his tongue.
"You've been infected"
"I-infected what do you mean infected"
"The parasites on those vines jump from host to host. You touched it. So now..." he trails off, momentarily closing his eyes to create the effect of holding back tears.
"We can go to Mo'at, she'll know what to do" you explaim hurridly, grabbing his arm to turn and run back towards camp what his hands reach put to grip your waist, keeping you in place and momentarily lifting you off of the ground to set you back down towards him.
"Mo'at doesn't have the cure"
"How can you be so s-"
"Because Na'vi are immune to it. It doesn't do us any harm. But for a little thing like you-you'll never make it back in time ma Tìyawn" he whispers his voice cracking at the end to put a cherry on top as both his hands come up to cradle your face, covering the whole span of it as he nods his head for you to understand.
But as you see him nodding his head, you shake yours, your tears flowing freely down your face as your eyes widen in fear. "No...no no no no" you sob, breaking down into tears as you throw yourself into your big brother's arms. His hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers scratching your scalp as he imagines what the long strands would feel like when he wraps them around his hand to hold you up as he fucks you dumb.
He let's you believe you're going to die for a little bit longer before he gently pulls you back. "There...is a cure. But you have to trust me."
"Of course I trust you"
"And you can't stop me at any time or we'll both die"
You pause for a second, looking into the eyes of the person that has always kept you safe, into the eyes of the person that has always known what's best for you.
"I won’t. I ring finger promise."
"I need you to give the infection to me"
"Wh-"
"There's a fluid that you release. I need to drink it so that the parasites will go into me instead."
"That will make me better?"
"Not entirely, I have to do a few more things to help you im the next coming weeks too"
"But I won't die"
"Not if I keep doing it"
You huff out a laugh of relief, hugging him again.
"But you can't tell anyone ma tìyawn. Or they'll throw you away from carrying a parasite."
"I won't! I promise I won't Teyam."
"I always know what's best for you don’t I?" He purrs, his fingers locking into the root of your hair to slowly pull you away from his neck.
"Yes Teyam" you whisper, your eyes momentarily closing as the ache in your tummy deepens. "I-something's happening"
"Where"
"Between my legs, somethings wrong"
"It’s the parasites. You have to let me drink the liquid it before it's too late.
"...Okay" you whisper
"I need you help you release it though." He continues, suddenly lifting you up to sit you on a nearby tree stump.
"I trust you-just please help me...it's not going to hurt will it?"
"No baby of course not. I'm gonna make you feel so, so good" he coes, lowering himself to the ground once more, but this time he lays down halfway on his stomach, one of his legs angling him up towards you as his large hands hold your thighs.
"I need you to open your legs for me"
"Wh-"
"Let me see where it hurts so I can make you feel better."
"I don’t know Teyam, you're my brother I-I don-"
"JUST-...let me see yeah?" He says, his voice suddenly raising before lowering again to not scare you off.
But of course, you started your water works again.
"Hey, hey I'm sorry ma tìyawn. I'm just scared okay? I need you to be okay. And you won't be if you keep questioning me and don't do what I tell you to."
"You know what's best." you whisper, more to yourself than him.
"I do. I'm your big brother, baby."
You gulp before nodding your head once, slowly opening your thighs for him. Your cheeks flushing pink.
"Wider." He rumbles, bending your knees to pull your feet up so they also rest on the stump, watching you spread your legs wider-his hands placed on your thigh giving them one final shove to fully expose you to him.
You watch his eyes roll to the back of his head before he momentarily closes his eyes, his massive chest rising with a deep inhale, his exhale coming out as a low growl as he opens his eyes again, dipping his down do he's fully eye level with your pussy, staring at it in awe causing you to blush at the intensity of his stare.
His gaze was glued onto your glistening pussy, red and puffy from your lack of stimulation.
You had the most perfect pussy he had ever seen, and this was coming for someone who fucked girls weekly, imagining they were you so he could get off.
"There it is" he says, mainly to himself. "Such a messy little girl aren't you?" He says, glacing up at you.
"How do you mean?" You whisper.
He brings a finger down, rubbing it through the juices leaking out of your pussy, causing you to clench desperately and gasp at the sudden sensation. Neteyam brings that finger up into the blue light from the tree and shows you the gloss on it.
"Is that the infection?"
"Not yet" he replies, sticking his finger into his mouth to suck off your juices.
"Remember-if you stop me. We both die." He reminds you, earning a nod from you.
His mouth pressed against her dripping, wet pussy with an almost primal desperation. His tongue swirled in long, aggressive strokes, tasting her deeply, groaning against her skin as if he couldn’t get enough. The wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth working against her filled the area.
His large tongue easily covering every single inch of her leaky pussy, his lips fully wrapping around her clit for suction, pulling a sea of moans out of her.
“Teyam,” she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his silky braids as the sensations overwhelmed her.
But when she tried to push him back, Neteyam’s grip only tightened. His hands clamped down on her hips, forcing her back against his face as though her resistance only made him hungrier.
He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her as he devoured her. She gasped, her back arching as she tried to wriggle free, but Neteyam wasn’t having it.
Wrapping his thick, muscular arms around her thighs, he locked her in place, pulling her even closer, shaking his head in defiance, refusing to let her go.
He pressed his face harder against her, spitting onto her as his mouth worked sloppily against her folds, a lewd and wet sound accompanying every movement.
"So good baby. You taste so good when you're so trusting and naive." He mumbles against her pussy with a hiss, but her brain was so foggy trying to catch up that she didn't even hear him. "Letting your big brother eat your needy little pussy, you nasty fucking girl."
He was completely lost in her, his lips and tongue working in a chaotic, desperate rhythm that made her entire body tremble with the intensity of it all.
Neteyam growled, the sound vibrating against her as he shook his head, pressing his mouth harder against her. His nose stuffed into her clit, rubbing it with his nose as he slurped the juices leaking out of her hole.
“Neteyam —” she gasped, her voice trembling as her legs threatened to close around him. She tried to push his head away, her breath ragged. “Oh my—Teyam! You have to breathe!”
But the only response she got was him
lifting her effortlessly, and flipping you onto your stomach, bending you over the stump as as he pushed her hips up, positioning her just how he wanted.
And his mouth was back on her before she had a chance to process the shift, and she cried out as he spread her open with his fingers, his tongue diving back into her velvety walls with renewed fervor, his fangs grazing her soaking folds.
Neteyam pulled back for a brief moment, his face slick with her arousal, and she saw the trail of her juices connecting his mouth to her. His dark, feral eyes locked onto hers, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch.
Before she could say a word, his mouth was on her again, moving sloppily, eagerly, spitting and licking with an unrestrained hunger that left no room for modesty. His lips smacked loudly against her, wet and unapologetic, as he suddenly held her legs placing one on either side of his broad shoulders, spreading her wide for him as he raises to settle on his knees.
His hand pulled her ass cheeks apart. She felt him spit between them, feeling it drip down to her private area, before she felt his tongue follow, lapping it up, licking her whole ass crack before sticking his nose in there, and releasing his grip on her cheeks so his nose could be crushed between them as he gets suffocated by her scent.
He then pulls out with a satisfied sigh and he latches himself onto her clit, sucking and licking with no end, tipping her over the edge, a scream like moan ripping through her as her hips desperately buck, humping Neteyam’s face as she squirts into his mouth, and he gulped down every single drop.
WARNINGS:18+/MDNI!/explicit sexual content/smut/p in v/fluff/cute relationship/angst/death
----
The first time you see Neteyam, he's standing at the edge of the reef with his family, looking lost.
You're in the water with Tsireya and Aonung, practicing your diving techniques, when you surface and see the newcomers. The Omaticaya family—everyone's been talking about them since word spread that Toruk Makto was seeking refuge among your people. But seeing them in person is different.
There are six of them. The parents are tall and battle-worn, the father with his five fingers marking him as one of the sky people turned Na'vi. The children range in age, but it's the eldest son who catches your eye.
He's beautiful in a way that makes your breath catch. Tall and lean with a warrior's build, braided hair, and eyes that seem to take in everything around him with careful assessment. There's a quiet strength to him, a sense of responsibility in the way he stands slightly in front of his younger siblings.
"That's Neteyam," Tsireya says, following your gaze. She's grinning like she knows exactly what you're thinking. "The eldest son. He's supposed to be an incredible warrior."
"He looks stressed," you observe, watching as he scans the crowd of Metkayina gathering to stare at his family.
"Wouldn't you be?" Aonung says. "They're forest people. They don't know the first thing about the ocean."
You watch as Neteyam's youngest sister—she can't be more than seven or eight—hides behind him, clearly overwhelmed by all the attention. He reaches back without looking and places a reassuring hand on her head, and something about the gesture makes your chest ache.
By the time you reach the beach, Tonowari and Ronal are already speaking with the family. You hang back with Tsireya and Aonung, watching as Jake Sully makes his case for sanctuary. The tension is palpable—Ronal is clearly skeptical, and many of the gathered clan members are murmuring their doubts.
But then Tonowari grants them refuge, and the decision is made.
"Tsireya, Aonung," Tonowari calls. "You will teach the children our ways. Show them how to swim, how to breathe, how to survive in the ocean."
Aonung looks less than thrilled, but Tsireya is already moving forward eagerly. You follow because Tsireya is your best friend, and where she goes, you go.
"This is my friend," Tsireya says, introducing you to the Sully children. "She's one of our best swimmers. She'll help teach you too."
You nod politely at all of them, but your eyes keep drifting back to Neteyam. Up close, he's even more striking. His eyes are a deep amber, and there's an intensity to his gaze that makes you feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and unsettling.
"Thank you for helping us," he says, and his voice is warm and sincere. "I know we're... not exactly what your people are used to."
"You'll learn," you say, and you're surprised by how much you mean it. "The ocean is different from the forest, but it's beautiful once you understand it."
He smiles then, just a small curve of his lips, but it transforms his entire face. "I look forward to you showing me."
---
The first lesson is a disaster.
The Sully children are terrible in the water. They can't hold their breath for more than a minute, they can't dive properly, and they move through the water like they're fighting it instead of flowing with it.
"You're not breathing right," you tell Neteyam after he surfaces for the fourth time, gasping. "You're breathing from your chest. You need to breathe from here." You place your hand on your stomach, demonstrating.
He watches you carefully, then tries again. This time he lasts maybe ten seconds longer before surfacing.
"Better," you say encouragingly. "But you're still too tense. The ocean isn't your enemy. You have to trust it."
"Easy for you to say," he says, but he's smiling. "You grew up here. I grew up in trees."
"Then pretend the water is a very big, very wet tree," you suggest, and he laughs.
It's a good laugh, genuine and warm, and it makes something flutter in your chest.
---
Over the next few weeks, you spend almost every day with the Sully children, teaching them the ways of the water. But increasingly, you find yourself focusing on Neteyam.
He's a quick learner, determined and focused. He practices longer than his siblings, pushes himself harder, refuses to give up even when he's clearly exhausted. And he asks you questions—about the ocean, about the creatures that live in it, about your clan's ways.
"Why do you braid your hair like that?" he asks one afternoon, when you're both resting on the beach after a particularly long diving session.
You touch the intricate braids that frame your face. "It's traditional for unmated warriors," you explain. "Once we choose a mate, we change the style."
"You're a warrior?" he asks, and there's genuine interest in his voice.
"Of course," you say. "All Metkayina learn to fight. The ocean is beautiful, but it's also dangerous. We have to be able to protect ourselves and our people."
"I'd like to see you fight sometime," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your skin warm.
"Maybe I'll show you," you say, meeting his gaze. "If you can ever manage to hold your breath for more than two minutes."
He grins. "Challenge accepted."
---
It becomes a game between you.
Every day, Neteyam tries to hold his breath longer. And every day, you're there timing him, encouraging him, teasing him when he surfaces too early.
"Two minutes and fifteen seconds," you announce one afternoon, and you can't keep the pride out of your voice. "That's a new record."
He surfaces with a huge grin, water streaming down his face. "Does this mean you'll show me your warrior skills now?"
"I suppose I did promise," you say, pretending to consider it. "Meet me at the training grounds tomorrow morning."
---
When he arrives the next day, you're already there, practicing with your spear. You've been up since dawn, and you're warmed up and ready.
"Impressive," he says, watching as you hit the target dead center three times in a row.
"Your turn," you say, tossing him a practice spear.
He catches it easily, testing the weight. Then he moves into a throwing stance, and you can see immediately that he knows what he's doing. When he releases, the spear flies straight and true, embedding itself just left of center.
"Not bad for a forest boy," you say, grinning.
"Not bad?" he repeats, moving closer. "I think I did pretty well, actually."
"Pretty well isn't good enough in battle," you say. "You have to be perfect. Every time. Because if you're not, you die."
His expression becomes more serious. "Teach me, then. Teach me to be perfect."
So you do.
---
Training together becomes part of your daily routine. Mornings are for swimming and diving lessons with his siblings. Afternoons are for combat training, just the two of you.
You teach him how to fight with a spear in the water, how to move with the current instead of against it, how to use the ocean itself as a weapon. And he teaches you things too—forest fighting techniques, how to move silently, how to track prey through subtle signs.
"You're good at this," you tell him one day, after he successfully disarms you for the first time.
"I had a good teacher," he says, offering you his hand to help you up.
When you take it, his fingers close around yours, warm and strong. And for a moment, neither of you lets go.
"Neteyam," you start, but you're not sure what you want to say.
"I know," he says softly, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart race.
---
The shift happens gradually, then all at once.
The touches during training linger longer. The conversations become more personal. You find yourself thinking about him when you're not together, looking for him in crowds, making excuses to spend more time with him.
One evening, you're sitting together on the beach, watching the bioluminescent plants light up the water. His siblings have already gone home, but neither of you wants to leave.
"Tell me about the forest," you say. "What was it like growing up there?"
He's quiet for a moment, and you can see the memories playing across his face. "It was beautiful," he says finally. "Everything was green and alive. The trees were so tall you couldn't see the top of them. And at night, the forest would glow—not like the ocean, but different. Softer, somehow."
"Do you miss it?" you ask.
"Sometimes," he admits. "But I'm starting to love the ocean too. It's different, but it's... it's growing on me."
He turns to look at you then, and there's something in his expression that makes you think he's not just talking about the ocean.
"What about you?" he asks. "Have you ever wanted to leave? To see the forest or the mountains or anywhere else?"
"I used to think about it," you say. "But the ocean is my home. It's in my blood. I can't imagine living anywhere else."
"Even if someone you cared about asked you to?" he asks quietly.
Your breath catches. "Are you asking me to leave?"
"No," he says quickly. "I would never ask that. I just... I'm trying to understand if there's a future where this—" he gestures between you "—could work."
"This?" you repeat, your heart pounding.
"Us," he clarifies. "Because I think about you constantly. I think about you when I'm swimming, when I'm training, when I'm trying to sleep. And I need to know if I'm alone in this or if you feel it too."
You're quiet for a long moment, and you can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear that you might reject him.
"You're not alone," you whisper.
The smile that breaks across his face is like the sun rising.
---
Days later, you're in the water together, practicing diving, and he's finally mastered the technique of holding his breath for extended periods. You're so proud of him that when he surfaces, you throw your arms around him without thinking.
"You did it!" you exclaim. "Four minutes! That's incredible!"
He laughs, his arms coming around you automatically.
You pull back just enough to look at him, and suddenly you're very aware of how close you are. How his hands are on your waist. How the water is making your skin slide against his.
"Neteyam," you breathe.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and his voice is rough with want.
Instead of answering, you close the distance between you.
The kiss is everything you imagined and nothing like you expected. It's soft at first, tentative, like he's afraid you might pull away. But when you press closer, when your fingers thread through his wet hair, he deepens the kiss with a quiet sound of need.
You've been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this intensity, this sense of rightness, like every moment of your life has been leading to this.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.
"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admits, his forehead resting against yours.
"Why didn't you?" you ask.
"I was afraid," he says honestly. "Afraid you didn't feel the same way. Afraid I was reading too much into every smile, every touch, every moment we spent together."
"You weren't," you assure him. "I feel the same way. I have for a while now."
He kisses you again, and this time there's no hesitation. This time it's a promise.
---
After that, everything changes.
You're together constantly. When you're not training or teaching his siblings, you're stealing moments alone—swimming to hidden coves, sitting together at communal meals, walking along the beach at night.
Your friends notice immediately.
"I knew it," Tsireya says gleefully when she sees you and Neteyam holding hands. "I knew you two would end up together. You're perfect for each other."
Even Aonung, who was initially skeptical of the Sully family, seems to approve. "He's good for you," he tells you one day. "I've never seen you this happy."
And you are happy. Deliriously, impossibly happy.
---
One night, Neteyam takes you to a secluded part of the reef, where the water is shallow and warm and the bioluminescence is particularly bright.
"I have something for you," he says, and he gives you a necklace he's made. It's beautiful—woven from ocean materials, with shells and small pieces of coral arranged in an intricate pattern.
"Neteyam, this is beautiful," you breathe, touching it reverently.
"It's a courting gift," he says, and there's nervousness in his voice. "In my culture, when a man is serious about a woman, he makes her something to show his intentions. I know it's not traditional for your people, but I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to know that this isn't just... that I'm serious about you. About us."
You're crying before you realize it, overwhelmed by the gesture and what it means.
"Put it on me," you say.
His hands are gentle as he fastens it around your neck, and when he's done, he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.
"I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I know it's fast, I know we haven't known each other that long, but I love you. I think I've loved you since the first day I saw you in the water, looking like you belonged to the ocean itself."
"I love you too," you say, turning in his arms. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
He kisses you then, deep and slow and thorough, and you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hands on your body, the way he holds you like you're something precious.
---
The physical intimacy between you grows gradually.
It starts with kissing, long sessions where you explore each other's mouths until you're both breathless and aching. Then it's touching—his hands learning the curves of your body, your fingers tracing the muscles of his chest and back.
One night, you're in his family's marui, and everyone else is asleep. You're lying together on his sleeping mat, kissing, and his hand slides under your top to cup your breast.
You gasp against his mouth, and he freezes.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, please don't stop."
He doesn't. His thumb brushes over your nipple, and the sensation makes you arch into his touch. He takes his time, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your hips roll against his.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, kissing down your neck. "So perfect. I want to touch all of you. I want to learn every part of you."
"Then do it," you say, and you're surprised by how steady your voice is when your entire body is trembling with need.
He does. He removes your top with reverent hands, and then his mouth is on your breast, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out and waking his family.
It's the most intense thing you've ever felt, and you're not even fully naked yet.
"Neteyam," you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I need—"
"I know," he says, and his hand slides between your legs, touching you through the thin material of your loincloth. "I know what you need, baby. Let me give it to you."
He touches you until you're shaking, until you're biting down on his shoulder to muffle your cries, until you come apart in his arms with his name on your lips.
Afterward, you lie together in the darkness, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I want all of you," you tell him. "Not just this. I want to bond with you. I want to be your mate."
"I want that too," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "But I want to do it right. I want to ask your parents for permission. I want to have a ceremony. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours."
"Soon?" you ask.
"Soon," he promises. "I swear it."
---
The happiness doesn't last.
Word reaches the clan that the sky people are getting closer. They're hunting Jake Sully, and they won't stop until they find him. The threat of war looms over everything, casting a shadow over even the brightest moments.
Neteyam becomes more serious, more focused. He trains harder, pushes himself further. And you train beside him, because you're a warrior too, and you'll fight to protect your people and the man you love.
"I'm scared," you admit to him one night, when you're lying together under the stars.
"Me too," he says, pulling you closer. "But we'll face it together. Whatever comes, we'll face it together."
"Promise me something," you say.
"Anything."
"Promise me that if something happens to me, you'll keep living. You'll find happiness again. You won't let grief destroy you."
He's quiet for a long moment. "I can't promise that," he says finally. "Because if I lost you, I don't think I could survive it. You're everything to me. You're my whole world."
"Neteyam—"
"No," he says firmly. "Don't ask me to imagine a life without you. I can't. I won't."
You don't push it. Instead, you kiss him and try to memorize the feeling of his arms around you, the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin against yours.
---
The call to war comes sooner than anyone expected.
The sky people have found the clan. They're coming with their ships and their weapons, and there's no more time to prepare. It's happening now.
The night before the battle, Neteyam finds you at the edge of the reef.
"Come with me," he says, taking your hand. "I want to show you something."
He leads you to a hidden cave, one you've never seen before. Inside, it's beautiful—the walls are covered in bioluminescent algae, and there's a small pool of warm water in the center.
"How did you find this?" you ask, looking around in wonder.
"I've been exploring," he says. "Looking for places where we could be alone. I wanted to bring you here because... because if I die tomorrow, I want to have this last memory with you. I want one more night where it's just us, where there's no war, no fear, no anything except you and me."
Your heart breaks at his words, at the fear underlying them.
"You're not going to die," you say fiercely. "We're both going to survive this. We're going to bond and have a future together."
"I hope so," he says. "But just in case... I want tonight. I want all of you. Please."
You don't hesitate. "Yes."
He kisses you like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like he's trying to pour every ounce of love and devotion and fear into this one moment.
You kiss him back with the same intensity, your hands already working to remove his loincloth. You need to feel his skin against yours, need to be as close to him as physically possible.
When you're both naked, he lifts you easily and carries you to the edge of the warm pool. He sits with his back against the smooth stone, and you straddle his lap, your bodies pressed together from chest to hip.
"I love you," he says, his hands cupping your face. "I love you more than I've ever loved anything. You're my heart, my soul, my everything."
"I love you too," you whisper, and then you're kissing again, deep and desperate and full of need.
His hands roam your body, touching you everywhere, like he's trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that makes you gasp. And you do the same to him, your fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the strong muscles of his back.
"I need you," you breathe against his mouth. "Please, Neteyam. I need you inside me."
He groans at your words, and his hand slides between your legs, finding you already wet and ready for him.
"You're so perfect," he murmurs, his fingers circling your most sensitive spot. "So wet for me. So ready. Do you know how much I want you? How much I've always wanted you?"
"Show me," you gasp, rolling your hips against his hand. "Please show me."
He positions himself at your entrance, and then he's pushing inside, slow and careful, giving you time to adjust to the stretch.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
"More than okay," you breathe. "Move. Please move."
He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in, and the sensation makes you cry out. He sets a rhythm that's slow and deep and deliberate, each thrust hitting something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his hands gripping your hips. "Take all of me. You feel so good, so perfect. Like you were made for me."
You ride him with increasing desperation, chasing the pleasure building inside you. And he helps you, one hand between your bodies, touching you where you need it most, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
"I'm close," you gasp. "Neteyam, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with dominance and love. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."
His words push you over the edge. You come with a cry, your body clenching around him, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you can barely breathe.
He follows moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a groan of your name.
You lie together in the warm water, your bodies still joined, neither of you wanting to separate.
"That was..." you start, but you can't find the words.
"Perfect," he finishes. "That was perfect. You're perfect."
He kisses you softly, tenderly, and you can taste the salt of tears on his lips. You're not sure if they're his or yours.
"No matter what happens tomorrow," he says, "I want you to know that this—tonight, you, us—this is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Nothing is going to happen,"
you say firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "We're both going to survive this. We're going to fight, and we're going to win, and then we're going to come back here and bond properly. We're going to have a future together, Neteyam. I promise you."
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. "I want to believe that."
"Then believe it," you say. "Believe in us. Believe in our strength. We're warriors, both of us. We've trained for this. And we have something worth fighting for—each other."
He opens his eyes, and they're wet with unshed tears. "I love you so much it terrifies me," he whispers. "The thought of losing you—"
"You won't," you interrupt, kissing him softly. "You won't lose me. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be right there beside you, fighting for our people, fighting for our future. And when it's over, we're going to celebrate. We're going to tell everyone that we're bonding. We're going to start our life together."
"Promise me," he says, his voice breaking. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks."
"I promise," you say, even though you both know that in war, there are no guarantees. "And you promise me the same thing. Don't try to be a hero. Don't sacrifice yourself for anyone. Come back to me."
"I promise," he echoes, and then he's kissing you again, desperate and deep, like he's trying to pour every ounce of love and fear and hope into this one moment.
You curl into his arms and let the sound of his heartbeat lull you toward sleep.
"Stay with me," he murmurs against your hair. "Don't let go."
"Never," you whisper back.
You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other in the warm water of the hidden cave, the bioluminescent algae casting soft blue light across your intertwined bodies. For a few precious hours, there is no war, no fear, no tomorrow. There is only this—the two of you, together, safe in each other's arms.
---
Neteyam wakes before dawn.
The first thing he's aware of is the weight of you against his chest, your head tucked under his chin, your breathing slow and even. He doesn't move, doesn't want to disturb you. Instead, he just holds you and watches the way the fading bioluminescence plays across your skin.
You're so beautiful it makes his chest ache. Even in sleep, there's a strength to you, a fierceness that he's always admired. But there's also a softness, a vulnerability that you only show him. The way your lips are slightly parted, the way your fingers are curled loosely against his chest, the way you've tucked yourself so completely into his embrace—it's trust, pure and simple.
He memorizes every detail. The exact shade of your skin in the blue light. The pattern of your freckles. The way your hair falls across your shoulder. The small scar on your collarbone from a childhood accident you told him about. The curve of your hip where his hand rests.
If something happens today—if he loses you—he wants to remember this. He wants to remember what it felt like to hold you, to love you, to be loved by you.
"I can feel you staring," you murmur without opening your eyes, and there's a smile in your voice.
"Can't help it," he says softly. "You're too beautiful not to stare at."
You open your eyes then, and they're warm and sleepy and full of love. "What time is it?"
"Early," he says. "We should probably head back soon. People will be gathering for the war council."
You nod, but neither of you moves. You just lie there together for a few more precious moments, holding onto this peace for as long as you can.
"I don't want to let you go," he admits.
"Then don't," you say. "Not yet. Just a few more minutes."
So he holds you for a few more minutes, and then a few more after that, until the light outside the cave starts to change from the deep blue of pre-dawn to the softer purple of early morning.
Finally, reluctantly, you both rise from the water and dress in silence. Every movement feels weighted with significance, like you're both aware that this might be the last peaceful moment you have together.
When you're both ready, Neteyam takes your hand and brings it to his lips. "Whatever happens today," he says, "know that loving you has been the greatest honor of my life."
"Don't talk like that," you say, but your voice is thick with emotion. "We're going to be fine. Both of us."
He nods, but you can see the fear in his eyes. And you know he can see the same fear reflected in yours.
Together, you leave the cave and head back toward the settlement, your fingers intertwined, neither of you willing to let go until you absolutely have to.
---
The settlement is already buzzing with activity when you return. Warriors are gathering weapons, checking equipment, painting themselves for battle. The air is thick with tension and the sharp scent of fear masked by determination.
Neteyam leads you to a quiet corner near his family's marui, away from the chaos. He's carrying a small bowl of white paint—the traditional war paint of the Omaticaya—and you have a bowl of the blue-green paint used by the Metkayina.
"Let me paint you first," he says softly, setting down his bowl.
You nod and stand before him, your heart pounding. This is a sacred ritual, one usually reserved for mates or family. The fact that you're doing this together, painting each other for battle, feels like a promise. Like a bond even without the formal ceremony.
He dips his fingers into the white paint, and his hand is steady as he brings it to your face. "Close your eyes," he murmurs.
You do, and you feel the cool paint as he draws a line down the center of your forehead, over your nose, down to your chin. Then he's painting your cheeks, your temples, marking you with the symbols of a warrior.
"You're so brave," he says quietly as he works. "So strong. I've never met anyone like you."
"Neteyam—"
"Let me say this," he continues. "Please. I need you to know... if something happens to me today, I need you to know that you made me happier than I ever thought possible. You made me believe in love, in futures, in things worth fighting for beyond duty and honor."
Your eyes are still closed, but tears are sliding down your cheeks, cutting through the paint. He wipes them away gently with his thumb.
"Nothing is going to happen to you," you say fiercely. "We're both going to survive this."
He doesn't respond, just continues painting. When he's done with your face, he moves lower, to your chest. His hand is warm as he presses it against your sternum, right over your heart, and when he pulls away, there's a perfect white handprint over the place where your heart beats.
"So everyone knows," he says, his voice rough with emotion, "that your heart belongs to me."
He places another handprint on your shoulder, then one on your upper arm. Each touch is reverent, loving, like he's trying to protect you with these marks, like he's trying to claim you and shield you all at once.
When he's finished, he steps back to look at you, and his expression is a mixture of pride and heartbreak. "Perfect," he whispers. "You look like a warrior goddess."
"Your turn," you say, your voice shaking.
He stands before you, tall and strong and beautiful, and you dip your fingers into the blue-green paint. Your hand is trembling as you bring it to his face.
"I'm scared," you admit as you begin to paint him. "I'm so scared of losing you."
"I know," he says. "I'm scared too."
You paint the traditional Metkayina patterns on his face—lines that represent the ocean, the waves, the connection to Eywa through water. And as you paint, you talk.
"When this is over," you say, "I want to bond with you properly. I want the ceremony, the celebration, everything. I want to stand in front of our people and declare that you're mine and I'm yours."
"I want that too," he says.
"I want to have a family with you," you continue, your voice breaking. "I want to grow old with you. I want to spend every day for the rest of my life loving you."
"You will," he says firmly. "We will. All of that. I promise."
You move down to his chest, and you press your hand over his heart, just as he did to you. When you pull away, there's a blue-green handprint over his heart, marking him as yours.
You place another handprint on his shoulder, mirroring where he marked you. Then one on his arm. Each touch is a prayer, a plea to Eywa to keep him safe, to bring him back to you.
When you're finished, you step back, and you're both marked for war, painted with each other's colors, bearing each other's handprints like brands.
"We match," he says with a small smile, and despite everything, you laugh.
"We do."
He pulls you into his arms then, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe. "I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you more than anything in this world or the next."
"I love you too," you whisper back. "Come back to me, Neteyam. Please come back to me."
"I will," he promises. "And you come back to me too."
You hold each other for a long moment, memorizing the feel of his arms around you, the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin. And then, too soon, you hear the war horn calling everyone to gather.
It's time.
---
The warriors are assembled on the beach, a sea of painted bodies and determined faces. Jake Sully is giving orders, assigning positions, explaining the strategy. You and Neteyam stand together at the edge of the group, your hands clasped tightly.
"The Metkayina will take the water approach," Jake is saying. "Omaticaya will provide aerial support and ground defense. We need to work together, protect each other. This is our home now, and we will defend it."
The crowd responds with war cries, fists raised, weapons brandished. The energy is electric, terrifying, exhilarating all at once.
"Neteyam," Jake calls out. "You'll be with the aerial unit, providing cover from above."
Neteyam nods, his jaw tight.
"And you," Jake says, looking at you. "You'll be with the water team, leading the eastern flank."
Your heart sinks. You're being separated. You'll be in the water while he's in the air, and you won't be able to see each other, won't be able to protect each other.
Neteyam's hand tightens around yours, and you can feel his fear mirroring your own.
"We have our orders," Jake says. "Move out. And may Eywa be with us all."
The crowd begins to disperse, warriors heading to their assigned positions. You and Neteyam stand frozen for a moment, just looking at each other.
"I have to go," he says, but he doesn't move.
"I know," you say, but you don't let go of his hand.
"I'll find you after," he says. "As soon as it's over, I'll find you. I promise."
"I'll be waiting," you say.
He pulls you to him then, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist. And then he's kissing you, deep and desperate and full of everything you can't say. It's a kiss that tastes like goodbye, like promises, like love and fear and hope all tangled together.
You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body pressed against his like you're trying to merge into one person. If you could, you would crawl inside his skin, would tie your soul to his so completely that nothing could ever separate you.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, both crying.
"I love you," he says, his forehead pressed against yours. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too," you whisper. "So much. More than anything."
"Come back to me," he says.
"You too," you say. "Promise me."
"I promise," he says, and then he's kissing you one more time, quick and hard and final.
And then he's pulling away, and you're letting him go, and he's running toward the aerial unit while you're running toward the water team, and you don't look back because if you do, you'll never be able to leave.
---
The water is chaos.
You're in the thick of it, leading your unit through the waves, dodging gunfire and explosions. The sky people have brought their ships, their weapons, their machines of death, and they're tearing through the ocean like it's nothing.
But you're a Metkayina warrior. The ocean is your home, your ally, your weapon. You move through the water like you were born to it, striking fast and hard, using the currents to your advantage, disappearing beneath the surface when the bullets get too close.
Your spear finds its mark again and again. You take down sky people soldiers, disable their equipment, protect your fellow warriors. The adrenaline is singing through your veins, sharpening your senses, making everything crystal clear.
You think of Neteyam. You think of his handprint over your heart. You think of his promise to find you when this is over. And you fight harder, faster, more fiercely than you ever have before.
You will survive this. You will make it back to him. You have to.
The battle rages for what feels like hours. The water around you is churning with bodies and debris, stained with blood—both Na'vi and human. The sounds are deafening—gunfire, explosions, screams, war cries. But you block it all out and focus on the next target, the next strike, the next breath.
You catch glimpses of the aerial battle above—ikran swooping and diving, Neteyam somewhere among them. You can't see him specifically, but you know he's there, fighting just as hard as you are. The thought gives you strength.
Your unit is doing well. You've managed to disable several of the smaller ships, and the sky people are starting to retreat toward their main vessel. Victory feels close, tantalizingly close.
"They're falling back!" one of your fellow warriors shouts. "We're winning!"
You allow yourself a moment of hope, a moment to think that maybe, just maybe, you're both going to make it through this. That you'll find Neteyam on the beach when this is over, that you'll run into his arms, that you'll hold him and never let go.
You surface near one of the rocks, taking a breath, scanning the battlefield. The fighting is definitely winding down. The sky people are retreating. It's almost over.
You let your guard down.
Just for a second. Just long enough to take a full breath, to feel the relief starting to wash over you, to think about Neteyam's smile and the way he says your name and the future you're going to build together.
Just for a second.
And that's when you feel it.
The impact is sudden and devastating. Something slams into your back with enough force to drive the air from your lungs. You gasp, confused, and then the pain hits—white-hot, searing, spreading through your chest like fire.
You look down and see the tip of a blade protruding from your chest. Blood is blooming across your skin, covering Neteyam's white handprint, turning it red.
No.
The blade withdraws, and you collapse into the water. You try to swim, try to stay afloat, but your body isn't responding. The pain is overwhelming, and you can feel the blood pouring out of you, can feel your strength draining away with it.
You manage to grab onto the rock, pulling yourself partially out of the water. Your vision is blurring, but you can see him now—Quaritch, the demon in an avatar body, standing on the deck of the ship above you. He's already turning away, moving on to his next target, not even bothering to confirm the kill.
You try to call for help, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound. Blood is filling your mouth, your lungs. You can't breathe. You can't—
"No, no, no!"
The voice is familiar, frantic. You try to focus, try to see who it is, but everything is getting darker.
Strong hands grab you, pulling you further onto the rock. You're dimly aware of being moved, of someone pressing against your wound, of a voice calling out desperately for help.
"Stay with me," the voice is saying. "Please, please stay with me."
You know that voice. You try to place it, but thinking is getting harder. Everything is getting harder.
"Someone help!" the voice screams. "Please, someone help her!"
---
Neytiri is the one who found you.
She was searching the battlefield for her children, making sure they were all safe, when she saw you collapsed on the rock, blood pooling beneath you. For a terrible moment, she thought you were already dead. But then she saw your chest moving—shallow, labored breaths that were getting weaker by the second.
"Oh, Great Mother," she breathed, rushing to your side.
She pressed her hands against the wound in your chest, trying to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood. Too much blood. It was pouring between her fingers, staining the rock, dripping into the water below.
"Help!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. "I need help! Someone help me!"
Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy with pain. You tried to speak, but only blood came out, bubbling past your lips.
"Shh, don't talk," Neytiri said, her voice breaking. "Don't talk, just breathe. Just keep breathing. Help is coming."
She could see the handprint on your chest—Neteyam's handprint, now covered in blood. She could see the matching paint on your face, the marks of a warrior, the marks of someone loved. And she knew, with a terrible certainty, that her son was about to lose everything.
"Stay with us," she pleaded, pressing harder against the wound even though she knew it was futile. "Please, child. Stay with us. Neteyam needs you. He needs you to fight."
Warriors were starting to gather now, drawn by Neytiri's screams. Lo'ak arrived first, his face going white when he saw you.
"Oh fuck," he breathed. "Oh fuck, no—"
"Get Neteyam," Neytiri ordered. "Get him now!"
Lo'ak took off running, and more people arrived—Tsireya, Aonung, other warriors from both clans. They formed a circle around you, and Neytiri could see the grief already settling into their faces. They knew. They all knew.
You were dying.
Your breathing was getting shallower, more labored. Your skin was turning pale, your lips purple. The light in your eyes was fading.
"Where is he?" Neytiri demanded, looking around frantically. "Where is my son?"
---
Neteyam saw the crowd gathered on the rock from the air.
His first thought was that someone was hurt. His second thought was a prayer that it wasn't you. And his third thought, the one that made his blood run cold, was the terrible certainty that it was.
He drove his ikran down so fast it was almost a dive, landing hard on the rock and leaping off before the creature had fully settled. He pushed through the crowd of warriors, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
And then he saw you.
You were lying on the rock, covered in blood, his mother's hands pressed against a wound in your chest. Your eyes were open but unfocused, your breathing wet and rattling. The white handprint he'd painted over your heart was completely obscured by red.
"No," he breathed, and then louder, "No!"
He was at your side in an instant, his hands joining his mother's, pressing against the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.
"I've got you," he said, his voice shaking. "I've got you, baby. You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine."
But there was so much blood. It was everywhere—on his hands, on the rock, in the water. And it was still coming, pulsing out with each weak beat of your heart.
"We need to stop the bleeding," he said frantically, pressing harder. "We need to—Mother, help me—"
"Neteyam," Neytiri said softly, and there were tears streaming down her face. "Neteyam, my son—"
"No," he said sharply. "Don't. Don't say it. She's going to be fine. We just need to stop the bleeding and get her to the healers and she'll be fine."
"Neteyam—" Lo'ak started, his voice thick with grief.
"I said no!" Neteyam shouted, and his hands were shaking now, slipping in the blood. "She's not—she can't—"
Your hand moved then, weak and trembling, reaching for him. He grabbed it immediately, clutching it like a lifeline.
"I'm here," he said, leaning over you so you could see his face. "I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be okay."
Your lips moved, forming words, but no sound came out. Just blood, trickling from the corner of your mouth.
"Don't talk," he said desperately. "Save your strength. The healers are coming, they're going to fix this, you're going to be fine—"
But even as he said it, he could feel you slipping away. Your hand was getting colder in his. Your breathing was getting weaker. The light in your eyes was dimming.
"No, no, no," he chanted, pressing harder against the wound even though he knew it was useless. "Please, baby. Please don't leave me. Please—"
---
You can barely see him through the haze of pain and the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision. But you can hear his voice, feel his hands on you, and that's enough.
You want to tell him so many things. You want to tell him that you love him, that loving him was the best thing you ever did, that you're sorry you couldn't keep your promise to come back to him. You want to tell him to be happy, to find love again, to not let grief destroy him.
But you can't speak. Your lungs are full of blood, and every breath is agony, and the darkness is getting closer, pulling you under.
"I'm sorry," you manage to whisper, and it comes out wet and broken, barely audible.
"No," Neteyam says immediately, his face hovering above yours, his tears falling onto your cheeks. "No, don't apologize. Don't you dare apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine."
You both know he's lying. You can see it in his eyes, in the desperate way he's looking at you, in the way his hands are shaking as they press against your wound.
You're dying. And there's nothing he can do to stop it.
With the last of your strength, you lift your hand—the one that isn't clutching his—and you reach for his face. Your fingers are cold and wet with blood, but you manage to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing across his skin.
He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, and when they open again, they're devastated.
"I love you," you try to say. You need him to hear it one more time. You need him to know.
But you only get as far as "I love—" before the darkness swallows you whole.
Your hand falls from his face.
Your eyes go empty.
Your chest stops moving.
You're gone.
---
"No," Neteyam says, and his voice is small, broken, disbelieving. "No, no, no—"
He shakes you, gently at first, then more frantically. "Wake up. Wake up, please. Please wake up."
But you don't wake up. You're gone, and no amount of pleading or shaking or desperate prayer is going to bring you back.
"Baby, please," he begs, and he's sobbing now, his whole body shaking with the force of it. "Please don't leave me. Please, I can't—I can't do this without you. Please—"
Neytiri pulls him into her arms, and he collapses against her, still clutching your hand, still refusing to let go.
"She's gone, my son," Neytiri says softly, her own tears falling into his hair. "She's gone. I'm so sorry."
"No," he says again, but it's weaker now, more of a whimper than a denial. "No, she promised. She promised she'd come back to me."
Around them, the other warriors are silent, their heads bowed in grief. Tsireya is crying openly, Aonung's arm around her shoulders. Lo'ak is standing apart from the group, his fists clenched, his face twisted with rage and sorrow.
The battle is over. The sky people have retreated. They won.
But Neteyam has lost everything.
He stays there on the rock, holding your body, refusing to let anyone take you from him. He stays until the sun sets, until the stars come out, until his mother gently pries his fingers from yours and tells him it's time to let you go.
Even then, he doesn't want to. He wants to stay with you forever, wants to follow you into whatever comes after death, wants to be anywhere but in a world where you don't exist.
But eventually, he lets them take you. He lets them prepare your body for the funeral rites. He lets them lead him away from the rock, away from the place where you died in his arms.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't cry anymore. He just... exists, hollow and empty and broken.
The handprint you painted on his chest is still there, faded and smudged with your blood. He doesn't wash it off. He can't bear to erase the last thing you gave him.
---
The white stripe down Neteyam's face has become as much a part of him as his own skin.
It's been two years since the battle. Two years since he held you as you died. Two years since his world ended.
And he still wears the mourning paint every single day.
His mother has tried to talk to him about it. "My son," she said gently, a few months after your death, "it's time to let go of the paint. It's time to start healing."
But he refused. "I'm not ready," he said, and his voice was flat, emotionless. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
She didn't push. None of them did. Because they could all see that something fundamental had broken inside him the day you died, and no amount of time or healing or prayer was going to fix it.
He goes through the motions of living.
He hunts. He trains. He helps his family. He does everything he's supposed to do, everything that's expected of him as the eldest son, as a warrior, as a member of the clan.
But there's no joy in it. No passion. No life.
He's a ghost, moving through the world but not really part of it.
----
a/n: hihi! so sorry for being inactive! i cried while writing the end lol. this was a request i just changed it up a bit :p. it honestly feels rushed so im sorry if its bad. hope you enjoy!!
A collection of little stories that gives Lo'ak a parent who loves him unconditionally.
Part Two
Masterlist | Part One
Spider's Momma
The Soft Moments
Paint and Laughter
You're grinding pigments for ceremonial paint when you hear the patter of small feet running toward your kelku—fast, excited, completely uncoordinated in the way only a four-year-old can manage. The sound makes you smile even before you see him, that particular rhythm of joy that belongs only to Lo'ak.
"Sa'nu! Sa'nu, look!"
You turn just in time to see Lo'ak burst through the entrance, and you have to press your hand to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
He's covered in paint.
Not just his hands—though those are thoroughly coated in what looks like three different colors, the pigments mixing into muddy purples and browns between his fingers—but his face, his chest, his legs, even his feet. There's a bright blue handprint on his stomach, the five little fingers splayed wide like a star. Yellow streaks through his dark hair, making it stick up in wild directions. Red is smudged across one cheek like war paint applied by someone who's never seen war paint before, the color so vibrant it looks like he's blushing on only one side of his face.
And he's beaming. Absolutely radiant with pride.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest—a squeeze and a swell all at once. This child. This beautiful, chaotic, paint-covered child who came running to you first, not to hide his mess but to share his joy.
"Ma'itan," you manage, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter and something deeper, something tender. "What happened to you?"
"I was making art!" He holds up his hands proudly, wiggling his paint-covered fingers so enthusiastically that droplets of blue spatter onto the woven floor mat. "See? I'm an artist like you!"
The paint on his hands is still wet, you notice—he must have run here immediately, not even pausing to let it dry. The blue is the color of deep water, the kind you use for ceremonial bowls. The yellow is sunshine-bright, made from flower pollen. The red is clay-rich and earthy, and you can smell it from here, that mineral scent mixed with the sweet botanical notes of the other pigments.
"I can see that." You set down your grinding stone carefully, your own hands dusted with fine powder, and crouch to his level, taking in the full scope of the beautiful disaster. The late afternoon light streaming through your kelku entrance catches the wet paint on his skin, making it gleam. "What were you painting?"
"A bow! For Dad!" His ears droop slightly, the first hint of uncertainty creeping into his expression. "But it didn't look right and then I tried to fix it and then the paint got everywhere and Mom said I made a mess and I should go wash off but I wanted to show you first because—because—"
He stops, suddenly uncertain, as if he's just realized that maybe you'll be upset too. His small chest rises and falls quickly, and you can see paint smudged on his ribs where he must have wiped his hands.
Your heart breaks and mends in the same moment. Of course he came to you. Of course he wanted to show you first, before the mess became something shameful instead of something wonderful.
You reach out and boop his paint-covered nose with one finger, leaving a little dot of blue pigment on the tip. The paint is cool and slightly gritty against your skin. "Because you wanted to show me your colors?"
His whole face lights up again, the uncertainty vanishing like morning mist. "Yes!"
"Well, I'm very glad you did." You sit back on your heels, studying him with exaggerated seriousness, letting your eyes travel from his paint-stiffened hair to his rainbow-splattered toes. The colors are so vibrant against his skin, and there's something utterly unselfconscious about the way he stands there, not trying to hide or minimize, just existing in his mess with complete four-year-old confidence. "You know what I think?"
"What?" He leans forward eagerly, his eyes wide and golden in the slanting light.
"I think you look like a sunset."
He blinks, his head tilting in that bird-like way children have when they're trying to understand something new. "A sunset?"
"Mm-hmm. See, you have yellow here—" You tap his hair gently, feeling the stiff, paint-crusted strands. "Like the sun. And red here—" You touch his cheek, your finger coming away with a smudge of clay-red. "Like the sky when it's turning dark. And blue here—" You press your palm against the handprint on his stomach, feeling the slight tackiness of the drying paint, the warmth of his small body beneath. "Like the night coming in. You're a walking piece of sky, ma'itan."
Lo'ak looks down at himself, his expression shifting from uncertain to wondering. He touches the blue handprint on his stomach, then looks at the yellow in his hair, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Really?"
"Really." You stand and offer him your hand, and something in your chest expands when he takes it without hesitation. His palm is sticky with paint, warm and small in yours, and you can feel the slight tremble of excitement still running through him. "Come. Let's make more art together. The right way this time."
His small hand slips into yours completely, trustingly, and he follows you eagerly as you gather supplies—a flat piece of bark for a canvas, smooth and pale; fresh pigments in their small clay pots, the colors rich and pure; a few carved sticks for brushes, their tips worn soft from use. You can feel his energy practically vibrating through his hand, that barely-contained four-year-old enthusiasm that makes everything an adventure.
You settle outside in the dappled sunlight, and Lo'ak plops down beside you with absolutely no grace, his legs splaying out, his paint-covered hands immediately reaching for the pigments before you've even arranged them.
"First," you say gently, catching his hands, "we make sure we have something to protect our workspace. See?" You lay down a woven mat, the fibers rough and practical under your fingers. "This way, the mess stays where we want it."
"Oh." He watches intently, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. You can practically see him filing this information away. "I didn't have that."
"That's okay. You didn't know yet. Now you do." You hand him a brush, watching his small fingers close around it. The stick looks almost too big in his hand, but he grips it with determination. "What do you want to paint?"
"Um..." He scrunches up his face, thinking hard, his nose wrinkling and his ears twitching. The paint on his cheek cracks slightly with the movement. "Can I paint you?"
Your heart melts, going soft and warm like honey in the sun. "You want to paint me?"
"Yeah! Because you're pretty and you're nice and you always smell like flowers." He says it so matter-of-factly, as if these are simply observable truths about the world.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and genuine, and pull him close to press a kiss to the top of his head—and immediately get paint in your hair. It's cool and slightly sticky against your scalp, but you don't care. You don't care at all. "Then you should definitely paint me. What colors do you need?"
He surveys the pigments with intense concentration, leaning forward until his nose is nearly in the pots. The colors glow in their clay containers—deep blue like evening sky, rich brown like earth after rain, sunshine yellow, clay red, green like new leaves. "Blue. And brown. And... and yellow for your smile!"
"Yellow for my smile," you repeat, enchanted by the logic of a four-year-old's mind. "I love that."
You watch as he dips his brush—really just his fingers, because he abandons the stick almost immediately, setting it aside with a small clatter—into the paint and begins to work. His tongue pokes out between his teeth in concentration, and you can see the exact moment he forgets about everything else in the world except the bark in front of him and the colors on his fingers.
He gets more paint on himself than on the bark, of course. A smear of brown across his forearm. Blue under his fingernails. Yellow on his knee somehow. But he's so focused, so earnest, his small brow furrowed and his breathing steady and deep.
"You're doing beautifully," you murmur, and you mean it. There's something sacred about watching a child create, about witnessing the moment when imagination becomes real under small, clumsy hands.
"I'm trying to get your eyes right," he says seriously, not looking up from his work. His finger swirls blue in a circle, then another circle beside it. "They're really big."
"Are they?"
"Uh-huh. And they're always looking at me like—like you're happy I'm there." He glances up at you briefly, checking, then returns to his painting.
Oh, this child. This observant, sensitive, paint-covered child who notices how people look at him, who's already learning at four years old to read love or disappointment in the eyes of the people around him.
"That's because I am always happy you're there, ma'itan." You let the words settle between you, warm and true.
He glances up at you again, paint-smeared and precious, his golden eyes searching your face. "Even when I make messes?"
"Especially when you make messes." You tap his nose again, adding another blue dot beside the first. "Messes mean you're exploring. Learning. Creating. Those are good things."
"Dad doesn't think so," he says quietly, returning to his painting. His voice is smaller now, and you can see his shoulders hunch slightly. "He says I need to be more careful. Like Neteyam."
You choose your words carefully, aware of the weight they carry, aware that this four-year-old is listening with his whole heart. "Your sempul wants you to be safe and responsible. Those are important things. But you know what else is important?"
"What?" He looks up, and there's something hopeful in his expression that makes your chest ache.
"Joy. Curiosity. The willingness to try things even if they might get messy." You stroke his paint-sticky hair, feeling the stiff strands, the warmth of his scalp, the realness of him. "Neteyam is careful and precise, and that's wonderful. But you—you have this beautiful wild spirit that wants to touch everything, try everything, feel everything. That's wonderful too. Just in a different way."
Lo'ak is quiet for a moment, his fingers swirling blue paint in circles on the bark, then adding brown, then yellow. The colors blend and mix under his touch. "You really think so?"
"I know so." And you do. You know it in your bones, in your heart, in every part of you that recognizes this child for exactly who he is—not who he should be, not who others want him to be, but who he is right now, in this moment, paint-covered and perfect.
He leans against your side, leaving paint smears on your arm—you can feel the cool wetness of it, the slight stick as it begins to dry—and continues working on his masterpiece. You don't care about the mess. You don't care that you'll have to scrub pigment out of both your hair and his, that the blue will probably stain your skin for days. You don't care that his "painting" of you looks more like a colorful blob with eyes, the features abstract and enthusiastic rather than accurate.
What you care about is the way he hums while he works, a tuneless little melody that's pure contentment. The way his little body relaxes against yours, growing heavier as he settles in, trusting and comfortable. The way he occasionally holds up his bark canvas and asks, "Is this good?" and lights up like a star when you say yes, when you point out something specific you love—the way he made your smile so big, the brightness of the colors, the care he took with the eyes.
The sun moves across the sky, the light shifting from gold to amber, and still he paints. He adds more colors—green for your necklace, red for your lips, brown for your hair. The painting becomes more elaborate, more layered, more completely and utterly his own vision.
When he's finally satisfied—or more accurately, when he's gotten bored and started painting his own feet instead, giggling as he makes blue toes bluer—you help him wash off in the nearby stream.
The water is cool and clear, and he splashes and giggles, turning the bath into another game. Paint swirls away in clouds of color—blue and yellow and red mixing in the current, creating temporary rainbows before dispersing. He kicks his feet, sending up sprays of water that catch the light. He dunks his head under and comes up sputtering, his hair plastered to his skull, paint still clinging stubbornly to the strands.
You let him play because why not? Why not let a four-year-old be four? Why not let him splash and laugh and turn even washing up into an adventure?
You scrub gently at the paint on his skin, feeling it loosen and lift under your fingers. Some of it—the blue especially—has stained slightly, leaving faint shadows on his arms and chest. He'll be tinted with color for days, a walking reminder of this afternoon.
"Sa'nu?" he asks as you're drying him off with soft moss, the fibers gentle against his skin.
"Yes, paskalin?"
"Can we paint together again tomorrow?"
You wrap him in the moss-cloth and pull him into your lap, feeling his damp weight settle against you, his head tucking perfectly under your chin. He smells like river water and fading paint and child-warmth. "We can paint together whenever you want."
"Even if I get messy?"
"Even if you get messy." You kiss his forehead, tasting stream water and sunshine. "Especially if you get messy."
He grins—that wide, gap-toothed grin that takes over his whole face, crinkling his eyes and showing the spaces where teeth will eventually grow—and throws his arms around your neck.
His skin is still slightly damp, cool against yours. His hair drips onto your shoulder. He's getting you wet and he still smells faintly of pigment and he's probably going to wiggle away in about thirty seconds to go find some new adventure.
But right now, in this moment, he's here. He's happy. He's loved.
And he knows it.
And later, when Neytiri comes to collect him and sees the paint still lingering in his hair, still under his fingernails, still faintly tinting his skin in shades of blue and yellow, she gives you a look that's half exasperated, half grateful.
"He's been talking about painting with you all week," she says softly, and there's something in her voice—not resentment, but perhaps a recognition of something she cannot give him, something he needs that she doesn't have time or temperament to provide.
"Then we'll have to make it a regular thing," you reply, ruffling Lo'ak's damp hair.
He beams up at both of you, bouncing on his toes, and for a moment, you see Neytiri's expression soften—seeing her son so happy, so confident, so utterly himself. Not trying to be Neteyam. Not trying to be anything except exactly who he is.
"Thank you," she murmurs, and you know she means for more than just the painting. She means for seeing him. For celebrating him. For giving him a place where mess is not failure and creativity is not frivolous and being Lo'ak is enough.
You simply nod, watching as Lo'ak skips beside his mother back toward their kelku, already chattering about what he'll paint next time—maybe a palulukan, maybe the forest, maybe Spider, maybe all three at once—his voice bright and endless and full of plans.
Your little artist.
Your messy, joyful, beautiful boy.
The one who came to you first, not to hide his mistakes, but to share his colors.
The Flower Hunt
"Sa'nu, wait up!"
You pause on the forest path, turning to see Lo'ak scrambling over a moss-covered log, his collection basket bouncing wildly against his hip. He's six now, all gangly limbs and oversized ears that twitch with every sound, his coordination still desperately trying to catch up to his boundless enthusiasm. The morning light catches in his dark hair, still slightly tangled from sleep, and his feet are already stained green from the dew-wet grass.
Behind him, moving more carefully over the uneven terrain, is Spider—the human boy who's become Lo'ak's constant shadow. He's so small compared to Na'vi children, barely reaching Lo'ak's shoulder, his breathing mask slightly fogged from exertion and the humidity of the forest. But he's grinning behind the clear panel, his eyes bright with determination as he navigates roots and stones with the practiced ease of a child who's spent his whole short life trying to keep up with beings twice his size.
"I'm here! I'm here!" Lo'ak announces, slightly breathless as he skids to a stop beside you, sending up a small spray of leaf litter. His chest rises and falls quickly, and you can smell the sweet-sour scent of child-sweat and crushed ferns clinging to his skin. "Did we miss anything?"
"Not a thing," you assure him, reaching out to steady him as he nearly trips over his own feet in his eagerness. His arm is warm under your hand, slightly sticky from the humid air, and you can feel his pulse still racing from the run. "We're just beginning."
"What are we looking for again?" Spider asks, adjusting his mask with both hands. His voice comes out slightly muffled, and you notice how his small chest works harder than it should, pulling in the processed air.
"Healing flowers," you explain, gesturing to the forest around you with a sweep of your arm. The movement disturbs a cluster of tiny flying insects that shimmer iridescent in a shaft of sunlight before dispersing. "The blue ones with five petals—they grow near water, where the soil stays damp. And the yellow climbing vines—those are good for fever, but you have to know which ones. The leaves should be smooth, not fuzzy. And if we're very lucky, we might find some night blooms that haven't closed yet from the morning sun."
"I'll find the most!" Lo'ak declares immediately, already scanning the undergrowth with the intense focus he only shows when he's not being evaluated or tested. His eyes dart from shadow to shadow, cataloging every splash of color, every unusual shape.
"It's not a competition, ma'itan." But you're smiling as you say it, because of course it is to him. Everything is an adventure, a challenge, a chance to prove himself—even when there's no one here who needs convincing.
"Everything's a competition with him," Spider says, but there's pure fondness in his voice, the kind that comes from knowing someone completely and loving them anyway.
You laugh softly, the sound blending with the morning chorus of birds and the distant rush of water over stones. Leading them deeper into the forest, you're acutely aware of how the temperature shifts as you move under the thicker canopy—cooler here, the air heavy with moisture and the rich, loamy scent of decomposing leaves and growing things. The ground beneath your feet transitions from sun-dried earth to soft moss that cushions each step, releasing tiny puffs of spores and the smell of green, living things.
The morning light filters through the canopy in golden shafts that seem almost solid, illuminating patches of emerald moss and clusters of small white flowers that glow like stars in the shadows. Tiny motes of pollen and seed drift lazily through the beams, and somewhere nearby you can hear the musical babble of a stream, the water singing over rocks.
This is one of your favorite things—these simple expeditions with Lo'ak where there are no training objectives, no skills to master, no one watching to see if he measures up. Just time together, exploring, talking, being. You watch him now, the way his whole body vibrates with barely contained energy, the way his ears swivel to catch every sound, the way he touches everything—running his fingers over bark, brushing his palm across fern fronds, testing the springiness of moss with his toes.
He's not trying to prove anything here. He's not the second son or the one who can't sit still or the boy who gets distracted too easily. He's just Lo'ak, and that's exactly who you want him to be.
"There!" Lo'ak suddenly shouts, his voice startling a small creature that skitters up a nearby tree trunk. He's pointing with his whole arm, his body already leaning in the direction he wants to go. "Blue flowers! I see blue flowers!"
He's running before you can respond, crashing through the ferns with his usual complete lack of stealth, his feet pounding against the forest floor, his basket swinging wildly. You can hear him trampling undergrowth, snapping small twigs, sending up the sharp green scent of bruised leaves. You and Spider follow at a more reasonable pace, and you notice how Spider has to work harder, his shorter legs taking two steps for every one of yours, his breathing slightly labored behind the mask.
By the time you catch up, Lo'ak is crouched beside a small cluster of blue star-flowers growing in a patch of dappled sunlight, his face alight with such pure pride it makes your chest ache. The flowers are perfect—five delicate petals each, the blue so vivid it seems to glow, their centers dusted with golden pollen. They grow close to the ground, their stems thin and delicate, and you can smell their faint, sweet fragrance even from here.
"I found them! Are these the right ones?" His voice pitches up with excitement and hope, and you can see him practically vibrating with the need for your approval.
You kneel beside him, feeling the cool dampness of the moss seep through your clothing, and examine the flowers carefully. You touch one petal gently—it's soft as spider silk, cool and slightly waxy. "Perfect. These are exactly right. Good eye, ma'itan."
He practically glows, his whole face transforming. "Can I pick them?"
"Gently," you remind him, covering his hand with yours for a moment. His skin is warm, slightly rough from climbing and playing, and you can feel the tremor of excitement running through him. "We thank the plant first, and we never take more than we need. The forest gives to us, so we must give back our respect and gratitude."
You watch as he places his small hand on the stem, his expression shifting from excitement to something more serious, more reverent. His fingers are careful now, mindful. "Thank you, flower," he whispers, and his voice has that particular quality of a child trying very hard to do something right. "We need you for medicine. For healing people who are sick."
Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too large for your chest. He's listening. Learning. Not because someone's drilling it into him or threatening punishment if he fails, but because he wants to understand, wants to do it right for you. Because this matters to him when you're the one teaching it.
He carefully pinches off three blooms, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and places them in his basket with exaggerated care, arranging them so they won't be crushed. His hands are gentle, reverent, and you see in this moment the man he'll become—someone who can be fierce and wild but also tender when it matters.
"I want to find some too," Spider announces, scanning the area with his eyes narrowed in determination. Even through the mask, you can see how his expression mirrors Lo'ak's—that same need to contribute, to be useful, to be valued.
"The yellow vines grow on trees," you tell him, standing and brushing moss from your knees. The air is warming as the sun climbs higher, and you can feel a trickle of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. "Look for the older trunks, where the bark is rough and deeply grooved. The vines like to climb where they can grip tightly."
Spider nods seriously and scampers off, his small form disappearing into the undergrowth with surprising speed. Lo'ak immediately follows, unwilling to let his friend search alone, and you hear them calling to each other, their voices bright with excitement.
You trail behind them at a leisurely pace, listening to their chatter, letting the forest embrace you. The humidity is thick now, making the air feel almost liquid, and every breath carries the scent of flowers and earth and green growing things. Your feet know this path, know the give of the moss, the firmness of the roots, the places where water pools after rain.
"What if we find a palulukan?" Spider asks, his voice pitched with excitement rather than fear, the way only a child who's never actually encountered one can sound.
"Then Sa'nu will protect us," Lo'ak says with such absolute confidence it makes you smile. There's no doubt in his voice, no hesitation. "She knows everything about the forest."
"Does she know how to fight a palulukan?" Spider's voice is awed, impressed.
"She knows how to do everything." Lo'ak states this as simple fact, the way he might say the sky is blue or water is wet.
You smile to yourself, touched by his faith in you even as you hope you never have to test the palulukan theory. The truth is, you'd do anything to protect these children, but you'd much rather it involve healing herbs than apex predators.
"Found some!" Spider calls out, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. He's pointing to a massive tree trunk where yellow vines cascade down the deeply furrowed bark like a waterfall of gold, the leaves catching the light and seeming to shimmer. The vines are thick as your thumb in places, their surfaces smooth and slightly waxy, and you can smell their distinctive sharp-sweet scent from here.
"Good job, Spider!" Lo'ak is already climbing, his movements suddenly graceful and sure in a way they never are on flat ground. His fingers and toes find holds instinctively, his body remembering what his mind sometimes forgets—that he was born for this, born to the trees. "I'll get the high ones!"
"Be careful," you call, but you're not truly worried. Lo'ak climbs like he was born in the trees—which, of course, he was. This is where he's most himself, most confident, most free.
He stretches up, his body elongating, his tongue poking out in concentration as he reaches for a particularly lush section of vine. The muscles in his back and arms flex with the effort, and you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. "How much do we need?"
"Just a few strands," you tell him, watching as he carefully tests the vine's strength. "Remember—"
"Never more than we need," he finishes, his voice slightly strained from stretching. He carefully breaks off three lengths of vine, each about as long as his forearm, and the plant releases a fresh burst of that sharp-sweet scent. "I remember, Sa'nu."
He climbs down with the same unconscious grace, his feet finding holds without looking, and lands beside you with a soft thump that sends up a small cloud of pollen from nearby flowers. He presents the vines to you like a prize, his eyes bright and seeking your approval, and there's something in his expression—a vulnerability, a hope—that tells you how much this simple praise matters to him.
You accept them with appropriate reverence, running your fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the slight give of the living plant. "These are perfect, ma'itan. You chose well—see how the leaves are smooth? And the color is bright, which means they're healthy and strong." You tuck them carefully into your own basket, arranging them so they won't be crushed.
"You're both doing wonderfully," you say, and both boys beam at you with such pure joy it makes your throat tight. This is what Lo'ak needs—not constant correction, not endless comparisons to his brother, but simple acknowledgment that he's doing well, that his efforts matter, that he's valued.
You continue through the forest, and it becomes less about the flowers and more about the adventure, the journey, the simple pleasure of being together. The sun climbs higher, the light shifting from gold to white, and the temperature rises until the air feels thick enough to drink. Lo'ak finds an interesting rock—smooth and round and striped with bands of color—and insists on showing you, explaining in great detail why it's special, how it feels different from other rocks, how it might have come from the mountains. You listen with genuine interest, turning the stone in your hands, feeling its weight and warmth, because his observations matter, his curiosity is valuable, his wonder at the world is something to be celebrated, not dismissed.
Spider discovers a line of insects marching across a fallen log, each one carrying a piece of leaf many times its own size, and both boys crouch to watch with rapt fascination. You join them, feeling the rough bark under your knees, smelling the sweet decay of the rotting wood, and you point out how the insects work together, how they communicate, how even the smallest creatures have important roles in the forest's balance.
You point out bird calls—teaching them to distinguish the sharp warning cry of a sentinel bird from the melodious courting song of a forest dove. You show them which mushrooms are safe and which aren't, letting them touch the safe ones, feeling the different textures—some smooth as skin, others rough as bark, some that release puffs of spores when pressed gently. You let them taste the sweet sap from a particular type of bark, watching their faces light up at the unexpected flavor, like honey mixed with flowers.
The forest is alive around you—insects humming, leaves rustling in the occasional breeze, water singing over stones, the distant calls of creatures moving through the canopy. The air is thick with scents: flowers and earth and growing things, the sharp tang of sap, the sweet decay of fallen fruit, the green smell of crushed leaves.
At one point, Lo'ak grabs your hand, his palm slightly sticky with sap and sweat, and swings it between you as you walk. The gesture is so unconscious, so natural, and it fills you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the humid air.
"This is my favorite thing," he announces suddenly, his voice matter-of-fact.
"What is, paskalin?" You squeeze his hand gently.
"This. Going places with you. Just... being with you." He looks up at you with those golden eyes, and there's something in his expression—open, trusting, completely unguarded. "You never make me feel like I'm doing it wrong."
Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow hard before you can speak. Because you know what he's not saying—that others do make him feel that way. That he's used to being corrected, redirected, told to focus, told to be more like his brother, told that his natural way of being in the world is somehow insufficient.
"You're not doing it wrong, ma'itan," you tell him, stopping to crouch down so you're at his eye level. You cup his face gently, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight dampness of sweat at his temples. "You're doing it exactly right. You're being exactly who you're supposed to be."
"Dad says I need to focus more," he says quietly, his eyes dropping. "That I get distracted too easy. That I notice the wrong things." His voice gets smaller. "That I should be more like Neteyam."
Your heart breaks for him, for this six-year-old child who's already learning to see his natural curiosity as a flaw, his wonder at the world as a weakness. You tilt his chin up gently until he meets your eyes again.
"Your sempul wants you to be a strong warrior," you say carefully, choosing your words with precision because they matter, because he'll remember them. "And you will be. You're already brave and quick and clever. But right now, you're six years old. You're supposed to be curious. You're supposed to notice rocks and bugs and interesting sounds. That's not distraction—that's learning about your world. That's how you understand the forest, how you become part of it instead of just moving through it."
Spider, who's been listening quietly, his eyes serious behind his mask, pipes up: "My teacher says I don't pay attention either. That I'm always looking at the wrong things."
You reach out and touch his shoulder gently, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric he wears, the fragility of his small human bones. "Then your teacher doesn't understand that there are many ways to pay attention," you tell him firmly. "Sometimes the most important lessons aren't the ones we're supposed to be learning. Sometimes the most valuable knowledge comes from following your curiosity, from noticing what others overlook."
Both boys consider this, their faces serious, and you can see them processing, weighing your words against what they've been told by others. Then Lo'ak squeezes your hand, his grip tight and trusting.
"I'm glad you're my Sa'nu," he says simply, and the words land in your chest like a physical weight, precious and profound.
"I'm glad you're my boy," you reply, your voice thick with emotion.
Spider hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes uncertain behind the mask. "Can I call you Sa'nu too? Sometimes?" His voice is small, tentative, as if he's afraid of the answer.
You stop walking completely, turning to face him fully. This human child, so small and fragile compared to Na'vi children, his bones like bird bones, his skin so easily damaged, his lungs unable to breathe the air without help. This child who's been told in a thousand small ways that he doesn't quite belong, that he's different, that he's less.
You crouch down to his level, looking into his eyes through the clear panel of his mask. "You can call me Sa'nu whenever you want," you tell him, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his thin chest. "You are always welcome with me, Spider. Always. You belong here just as much as anyone."
His eyes get shiny behind his mask, and he nods quickly, his small throat working as he swallows hard.
Lo'ak immediately throws an arm around his friend's shoulders, pulling him close with the unselfconscious affection of childhood. "See? I told you she's the best."
You gather both boys close, one arm around each, and hold them for a moment in the dappled forest light. You can feel Lo'ak's warmth on one side, solid and real, and Spider's smaller, more fragile form on the other. You can smell them—child-sweat and crushed leaves and the faint mechanical scent of Spider's mask. You can feel their hearts beating, their chests rising and falling with breath, and you think: these are my children. Not by birth, but by choice. By love.
"Come on," you say eventually, standing and offering each of them a hand. "Let's find those night blooms. And then maybe we'll stop by the stream and cool our feet."
"Can we catch fish?" Lo'ak asks eagerly, his earlier vulnerability already forgotten in the excitement of new possibilities.
"Can we skip stones?" Spider adds, bouncing slightly on his toes.
"We can do whatever we want," you tell them, and you mean it. "We have all day. No one is waiting for us. No one is expecting anything from us. We can just... be."
And you do. You spend hours in the forest with them, collecting flowers and plants, but mostly just being together. The sun climbs to its peak and begins its descent, the light shifting from white to gold again, the shadows lengthening. You let them explore, let them play, let them be children without expectations or pressure or the weight of who they're supposed to become.
You find the night blooms—pale, luminous flowers that glow faintly even in daylight, their petals soft as silk and cool to the touch. You show them how to harvest the blooms without damaging the plant, how to store them so they'll retain their properties. You stop by the stream and all three of you wade in, the water shockingly cold against sun-warmed skin, and you watch as the boys splash and play, their laughter bright as bird song.
Lo'ak tries to catch fish with his bare hands and fails spectacularly, falling face-first into the water and coming up sputtering and laughing. Spider skips stones, his smaller size actually an advantage as he sends flat rocks skittering across the surface in long chains of splashes. You sit on the bank and watch them, your feet dangling in the current, and you think about how Lo'ak came to you this morning not because he needed something, but simply because he wanted to be with you. How he chose your company over training, over playing with other children, over anything else he could have done.
How he's not trying to prove himself here. How he's not performing or achieving or demonstrating skills. How he's just... being. Being curious and enthusiastic and easily distracted and absolutely, perfectly himself.
When you finally head back to High Camp in the late afternoon, both boys are tired and happy, their baskets full of carefully gathered plants, their faces bright with sun and joy and the simple pleasure of a day well spent. The forest around you is beginning its evening transformation—the light going golden and soft, the temperature dropping slightly, the day creatures settling as the night creatures begin to stir.
Lo'ak walks between you and Spider, holding both your hands, chattering about everything and nothing—about the fish that got away, about the perfect skipping stone Spider found, about how he wants to come back tomorrow and the day after and every day forever. His voice is endless, bright, full of plans and ideas and observations, and you listen to all of it with genuine interest because this is who he is—this curious, enthusiastic, endlessly talkative child who notices everything and wants to share it all.
And you think: this. This is why you do it. Not for the grand moments or the dramatic rescues, but for these simple hours where a child feels seen and valued and loved just for existing. Where he gets to be exactly who he is, without apology, without shame, without the constant pressure to be someone else.
Where he's not the second son or the troublemaker or the one who can't sit still or the one who gets distracted too easily.
He's just Lo'ak.
Your Lo'ak.
And that's more than enough.
That's everything.
Braids and Stories
The evening is settling in, soft and golden, when Lo'ak appears at your kelku. He's seven now, and he's been playing with the other children all day—you can tell by the tangles in his hair, the smudges of dirt on his knees and elbows, the slightly wild look in his eyes that says he's had a very good time. There's a leaf caught in his hair, and what looks like tree sap on one shoulder, and his feet are stained green from running through wet grass.
"Sa'nu?" He hovers at the entrance, suddenly shy in that way he gets sometimes, as if he's not quite sure he's welcome even though he always, always is.
"Come in, ma'itan." You set aside the weaving you've been working on, the half-finished basket that can wait, that will always wait for him. "What do you need?"
He pads inside, his feet making soft sounds against the woven floor mat, and you notice he's carrying a small carved comb—one you made for him last year, the wood smooth and warm from being clutched in his hand. "My braids came out," he says, touching his hair self-consciously, his fingers catching in the tangles. "Mom's busy with Tuk, and I tried to do them myself but they look weird."
Your heart does that thing it always does when he comes to you—that squeeze and swell, that ache of tenderness. He tried to do it himself first. He didn't want to be a burden. But when his own attempts failed, he came here, to you, because he knows this is a safe place to need things.
"Come here." You pat the space in front of you, and the evening light slanting through the entrance catches the dust motes in the air, turns everything amber and warm. "I'll fix them."
His whole face brightens—that transformation from uncertain to joyful that happens so quickly with him, like clouds parting to reveal sun. He settles cross-legged in front of you, his back to your chest, and you can feel the warmth of him even before you touch him, can smell the day on him—crushed leaves and child-sweat and the faint mineral scent of the stream where he must have been playing.
You gather his hair gently, and the first touch tells you everything about his day. Na'vi hair is thicker than human hair, coarser, each strand strong and resilient. Lo'ak's hair is like silk-wrapped wire—soft on the surface but with an underlying strength, the individual strands catching on your fingers as you run them through. It's completely knotted, a wild mass of tangles and snarls that speak of hours of play, of running and climbing and rolling and living.
There's something sacred about this, you think. About being trusted with this intimacy. About being the one whose hands are allowed in his hair, against his scalp, in this vulnerable space.
"This might pull a little," you warn, finding the worst of the tangles—a massive knot near his left ear where it looks like he got caught on a branch.
"That's okay." He's already relaxing against you, his shoulders dropping, his spine softening, his whole body releasing tension you didn't realize he was carrying. The weight of him settles back slightly, trusting, and you can feel his breathing slow and deepen. "You're gentle."
The words land in your chest like a stone in still water, rippling outward. Gentle. When was the last time someone called him gentle? When was the last time gentleness was what he received instead of correction, redirection, discipline?
You start with the worst of the tangles, working them out with patient fingers. You begin at the ends, teasing apart the knots strand by strand, never pulling, never forcing. The hair slides through your fingers, and you can feel each individual strand separating, can feel the moment when resistance gives way to smoothness. It's meditative, this work—the repetitive motion, the focus required, the care.
Outside, you can hear the forest settling into evening. The day birds are quieting, their bright calls fading into silence. In their place, the first tentative sounds of night creatures—the deep thrumming of insects, the rustle of something small moving through undergrowth, the distant call of a night-hunter claiming territory. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of night-blooming flowers through your entrance, sweet and heavy.
The light is changing too, that golden hour fading into something softer, more violet. It catches in Lo'ak's hair as you work, turning the dark strands almost bronze where the sun touches them.
Lo'ak sits quietly—unusual for him, this stillness—simply letting you work. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, can feel the warmth of his small back against your chest, can feel the way he's completely surrendered to this moment. There's trust in this stillness. Safety.
"Would you like a story while I braid?" you ask, your voice soft, not wanting to break the peaceful spell that's settled over you both.
"Yes!" He perks up immediately, his whole body coming alive again, and you feel him shift forward slightly before remembering himself and settling back. "Tell me about the time you and Mom were young!"
You laugh softly, the sound barely louder than breath, and begin sectioning his hair. Your fingers know this work intimately—dividing the mass into portions, feeling the weight and thickness of each section. Na'vi hair is heavy, substantial, and Lo'ak has a lot of it. You gather the first section, feeling the strands align under your touch, feeling the slight resistance as you smooth them into order.
"Which time? We had many adventures."
"The one with the syaksyuk! You said you'd tell me the whole story someday."
"Ah, that one." You begin the first braid, your fingers moving with practiced ease—over, under, over, under, the rhythm as natural as breathing. The hair slides through your fingers, and you can feel the braid taking shape, can feel it tightening and forming under your hands. "Well. Your sa'nok and I were about fourteen years old, and we thought we were very clever..."
You fall into the rhythm of it—braiding and storytelling, your voice soft and steady, barely louder than the evening sounds outside. Your fingers move continuously, never stopping, the motion hypnotic and sure. Over, under, pull tight but not too tight. Over, under, feel the braid forming. The hair is warm from his scalp, and you can feel that warmth transferring to your fingers.
You tell him about how you and Neytiri decided to catch a syaksyuk to prove you were brave enough to be hunters. How you tracked it for hours through the forest, following signs that seemed obvious to your fourteen-year-old selves but were probably just coincidence. How it led you on a chase through the densest part of the forest, through thorns and over logs and across streams.
Lo'ak giggles at the image of his mother covered in mud, and the sound is pure joy, pure delight. You smile, adding in details you know will make him laugh—the way Neytiri slipped and fell into a stream, arms windmilling, the way you got your foot stuck in a hollow log and had to be pulled out, the way you both limped home trying to look dignified and failing completely, covered head to toe in mud and leaves and shame.
Your fingers never stop moving. The first braid is complete now, tight and neat, and you tie it off with a small leather cord, your fingers working the knot by feel alone. You can feel the braid's weight, its solidity, the way it hangs perfectly. You begin the second braid, gathering the hair, sectioning it, feeling the strands align.
"Did you get in trouble?" Lo'ak asks, and his voice has that drowsy quality starting to creep in, that softness that means he's getting sleepy.
"Oh yes. Very much trouble." You work steadily, your fingers finding their rhythm again. Over, under, over, under. The braid grows beneath your hands, each crossing adding length, adding structure. "But it was worth it. Because we learned something important that day."
"What?" His voice is quieter now, and you feel him lean back slightly more, his weight settling more fully against you. He's getting heavier as he relaxes, his body going soft and pliant.
"That sometimes the adventure is more important than the success. That trying something brave, even if you fail, is better than never trying at all." You finish the second braid, tie it off, feel the satisfying completion of it. Your fingers move to the third section, gathering, smoothing, beginning again.
He's quiet for a moment, processing this, and you can feel him thinking, can feel the slight tension in his shoulders that means he's working something out in his mind. Then: "Is that why you don't get mad when I mess up?"
Your hands still briefly, the braid half-formed in your fingers. The question lands like a blow, not because it's unexpected, but because of what it reveals—that he's so used to anger in response to mistakes, so accustomed to disappointment, that your lack of it is noteworthy. That at seven years old, he's already learned to brace for negative reactions.
You resume braiding, your touch deliberately gentle, deliberately steady. "I don't get mad when you mess up because messing up is how we learn, ma'itan. Every mistake is just information. It tells you what to do differently next time." Your fingers work the braid, over and under, creating order from chaos, creating something beautiful from something tangled. "And besides, you're seven. You're supposed to mess up. That's your job right now—to try things and fail and try again and learn."
"Dad doesn't see it that way." His voice is small now, almost a whisper, and you feel him curl in on himself slightly, his shoulders rounding.
Your heart clenches, and you have to breathe through the fierce protectiveness that surges up. You want to gather him close, to shield him from every harsh word, every disappointed look, every moment of feeling insufficient. But instead, you keep braiding, keep providing this steady, gentle touch, because this is what he needs right now—not dramatic gestures, but quiet constancy.
"Your sempul is a warrior and a leader. He thinks about safety, about consequences, about protecting the clan." You finish the third braid, your fingers tying it off with practiced ease. You begin the fourth, gathering hair that's softer here, finer, the strands at his temple that are almost silky. "Those are important things. But they're not the only things. You're allowed to make mistakes. You're allowed to learn at your own pace."
Lo'ak leans back against you more fully now, and you adjust to support his weight, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other continues braiding. You can feel his heartbeat against your arm, steady and strong. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, deeper now, slower. The warmth of him seeps into you, and you think about how small he still is, how young, how much growing he still has to do.
"Tell me another story?" His voice is definitely drowsy now, the words slightly slurred, and you feel him settle more heavily against you, his head tilting back to rest against your shoulder.
"What kind of story?"
"A happy one. With you in it."
Your heart melts, going soft and warm like honey in the sun. He wants happy stories. He wants to hear about joy, about success, about moments of lightness. What does it say about his life that he has to ask for these specifically?
"Alright. Let me think..." You continue braiding, your fingers moving through his hair with steady rhythm. The fifth braid now, and you're working with the hair at the back of his head, the strands thicker here, coarser. You can feel his scalp warm under your knuckles as you work close to the roots.
You tell him about the first time you successfully wove a basket, how proud you were even though it was lopsided and fell apart within a week. You tell him about learning to cook, about the time you accidentally used salt instead of sugar and made the most terrible sweet bread anyone had ever tasted, how your mother laughed until she cried and then made you eat a piece anyway. You tell him about your own childhood mistakes and mishaps, and he listens with rapt attention, occasionally giggling softly or asking questions in that sleepy voice.
Your fingers work steadily through his hair, creating neat, tight braids that will last for days. Six braids now, seven, eight. Each one perfect, each one made with love and care and attention. You add small beads as you work—ones you've carved yourself, in colors you know he likes.
A blue bead, the color of deep water, because he loves to swim.
A green bead, the color of new leaves, because he loves the forest.
A brown bead, the color of earth, because he's grounded and real and solid despite what anyone says about him being flighty.
Each bead you choose deliberately, threading it onto the braid, securing it with a small knot. Each one a tiny declaration of love, a small way of saying: I see you. I know you. I celebrate who you are.
The light outside has faded to deep violet now, the last of the day giving way to night. The forest sounds have changed completely—the night chorus in full voice, insects thrumming, something hooting in the distance, the rustle of nocturnal creatures beginning their hunts. The air has cooled, and you can feel the temperature dropping, feel the way Lo'ak unconsciously presses closer to your warmth.
"You're good at this," Lo'ak murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with approaching sleep.
"I've had practice." You start on the final section, the last braid. Your fingers are tired now, but it's a good tired, a satisfied tired. "I used to braid your sa'nok's hair when we were young. And Kiri's, when she lets me."
"But you like braiding mine best, right?" There's a hopeful note in his voice, even drowsy as he is, and it breaks your heart a little—this need for reassurance, this need to be special, to be chosen, to be preferred.
"I like braiding your hair because I like spending time with you," you tell him honestly, your fingers working the final braid with extra care, wanting it to be perfect. "These quiet moments where we can just be together—they're precious to me. Every single one of them."
He's silent for a long moment, and you think maybe he's fallen asleep. But then he speaks, his voice so small it's almost lost in the evening sounds: "Sometimes I think I'm too loud. Too messy. Too much."
Your hands still completely, the braid half-finished in your fingers. The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing your breath. Too much. This beautiful, vibrant, joyful child thinks he's too much. At seven years old, he's already learned to see his natural exuberance as a flaw, his energy as a problem, his very essence as something that needs to be diminished.
No.
No.
You set down the comb with deliberate care and wrap both arms around him from behind, pulling him back against your chest, holding him tight. You can feel his small body in your arms, can feel his heartbeat, can feel the way he immediately curls into you, seeking comfort, seeking reassurance.
"Lo'ak te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, you listen to me." Your voice is fierce now, fierce with love and protection and absolute certainty. You feel him tense slightly at your tone, and you gentle your hold but not your words. "You listen to me very carefully."
He nods against you, and you can feel the movement, can feel the way he's holding his breath, waiting.
"You are not too much. You are exactly the right amount of you." You press your cheek against his hair, breathing in the scent of him—child and forest and the faint sweetness of the oil you use in braiding. "Your energy, your curiosity, your big feelings—those are not flaws. They are gifts. They make you who you are, and who you are is wonderful. Who you are is perfect."
"Really?" His voice cracks on the word, and you can hear the tears in it, can feel the way his small body trembles slightly.
"Really." You press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips touching the warm, smooth strands. "The world needs people like you—people who feel deeply, who question things, who aren't afraid to be loud and messy and alive. The world needs your fire, your spirit, your joy. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you need to be smaller. Don't ever let anyone dim your light."
His hands come up to grip your arms, holding you tight, his small fingers digging in with desperate strength. "I love you, Sa'nu." The words are muffled, choked, and you feel wetness on your arm—tears, silent and heartbreaking.
"I love you too, my beautiful boy." You rock him gently, swaying side to side, the motion instinctive and ancient. "I love you too. So much. More than you can possibly know."
You hold him like that for a long while, rocking slightly, humming an old lullaby your own mother used to sing. The melody is wordless, just a series of notes that rise and fall like breathing, like heartbeat, like the eternal rhythm of love passing from one generation to the next. His breathing deepens, evens out, and you feel the exact moment when he crosses over into sleep—the way his body goes completely limp, the way his grip on your arms loosens, the way his breathing shifts into the deep, slow rhythm of dreams.
But you don't move. Not yet. You sit there in the gathering darkness, holding this sleeping child, and you let yourself feel the full weight of this moment. The trust he's placed in you. The vulnerability he's shown. The pain he's revealed. The love you feel for him that's so vast it seems impossible that your body can contain it.
This is what matters, you think. Not the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues. But this. This quiet holding. This gentle braiding. This fierce protection of a child's spirit. This unconditional love that says: you are enough, you are wanted, you are cherished exactly as you are.
Carefully, moving slowly so as not to wake him, you finish the last braid. Your fingers work by feel in the dimness, gathering the strands, crossing them over and under, creating the final plait. You tie it off with a small leather cord, and then you add one more bead—a special one, carved from a rare golden wood, polished until it glows even in low light.
This bead is for courage. For the bravery it takes to be yourself in a world that constantly asks you to be someone else. For the strength it takes to keep shining when others try to dim you. For the resilience of a seven-year-old who still comes seeking love even after being told he's too much.
You thread it onto the braid, secure it with a knot, and then you simply hold him. His hair is perfect now—neat rows of braids decorated with beads, everything secure and tidy, a testament to care and time and love. But more than that, it's a promise. A physical manifestation of your commitment to him. Every braid says: I see you. Every bead says: You matter. Every moment spent says: You are loved.
The light outside has faded completely now, the violet giving way to deep blue-black, and the first stars are appearing. You should probably take him home, let him sleep in his own bed. But he's so peaceful like this, so utterly relaxed, and you're reluctant to disturb him. You want to hold onto this moment, to stretch it out, to keep him safe in your arms for just a little longer.
Eventually, you hear soft footsteps outside—the distinctive pattern of Neytiri's walk, purposeful and graceful. She appears at the entrance, a silhouette against the star-filled sky, and then she steps inside and the dim light from your banked fire catches her face.
She takes in the scene—her son asleep in your arms, his freshly braided hair gleaming with beads, the peaceful expression on his face, the way you're holding him like he's made of something precious and breakable—and her expression does something complicated. It shifts through several emotions in quick succession: relief, gratitude, something that might be sadness, something that might be recognition, and finally, a soft tenderness.
"He found you," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, careful not to wake him.
"He did." You stroke Lo'ak's hair gently, your fingers trailing over the braids you've made, feeling their smoothness, their perfection. "I hope you don't mind. He fell asleep while I was braiding."
"I don't mind." She steps inside fully, moving with that fluid grace that's so distinctly hers, and crouches beside you both. Up close, you can see the tiredness in her eyes, the weight she carries. "He's always calmer after time with you. More settled. More... himself."
"He just needs to know he's loved as he is," you murmur, and you're not criticizing, not judging, just stating a truth. "Not as someone wants him to be. Not as who he could become. But as who he is right now, in this moment."
Neytiri reaches out to touch her son's cheek, her fingers gentle, and her expression grows more complex—love and regret and something that looks like grief mixing together. "I do love him as he is. But sometimes I worry I don't show it the right way. I'm always correcting, always teaching, always preparing him for a hard world." Her voice drops even lower. "I'm always comparing him to Neteyam, even when I don't mean to. I see what he's not instead of celebrating what he is."
Your heart aches for her too, for this mother who loves her son but doesn't always know how to show it in the way he needs. "You're his mother. You're doing exactly what you should do—preparing him, teaching him, keeping him safe. Those are vital things, and he needs them from you." You meet her eyes, holding her gaze. "But every child needs different things. And Lo'ak... he needs this too. He needs someone who celebrates his spirit instead of trying to tame it. Someone who sees his energy as a gift instead of a problem. Someone who loves the mess and the noise and the chaos that comes with who he is."
"And you do that for him." It's not a question, but there's something in her voice—not resentment, but perhaps a recognition of her own limitations, her own inability to provide this particular thing.
"I try." You look down at Lo'ak's sleeping face, so peaceful, so young, so vulnerable. "It's easy to love him. He makes it easy."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hand still resting on her son's cheek, and you can see her processing, thinking, feeling. Then: "Thank you. For being what he needs. For loving him the way you do. For..." She pauses, searching for words. "For seeing him. Really seeing him. Not who I want him to be, or who Jake needs him to be, or who he thinks he should be. But who he actually is."
"He's remarkable," you say simply, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. "Exactly as he is, he's remarkable."
Together, you carefully transfer Lo'ak to Neytiri's arms. He stirs slightly as you lift him, his face scrunching, his mouth opening in a small sound of protest. "Sa'nu?" he mumbles, still mostly asleep, his hand reaching out blindly.
"I'm here, paskalin," you murmur, touching his hand gently. "Your sa'nok is taking you home now. You're safe."
He settles immediately at your voice, his body relaxing again, and Neytiri settles him against her shoulder. He automatically curls into her, seeking warmth and comfort even in sleep, his face pressing into her neck, his small body fitting perfectly against hers. One of his hands clutches at her, holding on even unconscious, and you see Neytiri's expression soften even further, see the love there, fierce and protective and real.
"His braids are beautiful," she says, noticing the beads, her fingers touching them gently. "You chose his favorite colors."
"He's beautiful," you reply, and your voice cracks slightly on the words because your arms feel empty now, your chest feels hollow, and you already miss the weight of him, the warmth of him, the trust of him sleeping in your arms.
She smiles—soft and genuine and grateful—and carries her son toward the entrance. But she pauses there, silhouetted against the stars, and looks back at you. "He calls you his Sa'nu, you know. When he talks about you. Not 'Sa'nu who braids my hair' or 'Sa'nu who tells stories.' Just... Sa'nu. Like it's your name. Like it's who you are to him."
Your throat closes completely, and you can't speak, can only nod.
She nods back, understanding passing between you—two women who love the same child in different ways, who both want what's best for him, who both recognize that he needs more than either of them can give alone.
Then she's gone, carrying Lo'ak out into the night, and you're left alone in your kelku with the lingering warmth of where he sat, the faint scent of his hair, the echo of his small voice saying "I love you, Sa'nu."
You sit there in the darkness for a long time, your arms wrapped around yourself, and you let yourself feel everything—the love, the protectiveness, the fierce joy of being chosen by this child, the ache of his leaving, the weight of the responsibility you've taken on.
These moments—these quiet, tender moments of braiding and stories and unconditional love—this is what motherhood means to you.
Not the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues.
But the simple act of making a child feel safe enough to fall asleep in your arms.
Sweet Things in the Kitchen
"What are we making?" Lo'ak asks for the third time, bouncing on his toes as he watches you lay out ingredients on the woven mat. The afternoon light slants through your kelku entrance, turning everything golden and warm, and the air already carries the promise of sweetness.
"Patience, ma'itan." You're trying not to laugh at his barely contained excitement, at the way his whole eight-year-old body vibrates with anticipation. His ears twitch with every movement you make, tracking your hands as you arrange clay bowls and fiber baskets in careful order.
"But I want to know!" He peers at the collection you've assembled, his nose practically touching the rim of one bowl as he tries to identify the contents. The light catches in his dark hair, still slightly mussed from playing, and you can see a smudge of dirt on his cheek that he missed when washing up. "Is it honey cakes? Please say it's honey cakes."
"It's honey cakes," you confirm, and he actually squeals—a sound of pure, unfiltered joy that makes your heart expand in your chest.
"Yes! I love honey cakes! Can I help? Can I do the mixing? Can I—"
"Lo'ak." You place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through your palms, the slight tremor of excitement running through him like electricity. "Take a breath."
He inhales dramatically, his whole chest puffing up like a small bird, then lets it out in a whoosh that ruffles the edge of the mat. "Okay. I'm calm. I'm ready. What do I do first?"
You guide him to sit beside you, cross-legged on the woven floor, and spread out the ingredients properly so he can see everything. The clay bowls hold different components—pale seeds that will become flour, a pot of honey so golden it seems to glow in the slanting light, water in a carved wooden vessel, dried fruit for flavoring. The seeds have a faint, nutty smell, earthy and wholesome, and the honey's scent is already beginning to perfume the air—thick and floral and impossibly sweet.
"First, we need to grind these seeds into flour. Can you do that?" You hand him the grinding stone—a smooth, heavy piece of volcanic rock worn into a perfect oval by generations of use.
"Yes!" He grabs it with both hands, his fingers wrapping around it with determination, and immediately starts working with far too much force. The stone scrapes loudly against the bowl, a harsh grinding sound, and sends a puff of seed powder into the air. The fine dust catches the light like tiny stars before settling on his arms, his lap, the mat beneath him.
"Gently," you remind him, placing your hand over his to slow the motion. His skin is warm under your palm, slightly sticky already from the humidity, and you can feel the rapid beat of his pulse in his wrist. "Like this. Steady and smooth. Feel the rhythm?"
You guide his hands through the proper motion—circular, consistent, letting the weight of the stone do most of the work. The sound changes, becomes softer, more musical. The seeds crack and split beneath the pressure, releasing their oils, and the nutty scent intensifies, mixing with the honey-smell already in the air.
He tries to match your rhythm, his tongue poking out between his teeth in fierce concentration, his whole face scrunched up with effort. His small hands work the stone carefully, and for about thirty seconds he maintains the steady pace. Then, inevitably, his natural enthusiasm takes over and he speeds up again, the grinding becoming erratic and enthusiastic rather than controlled.
You let it go. The flour will be a little uneven, some parts finer than others, but that's fine. That's perfect, actually. Because he's learning, and he's trying, and the imperfection will be part of what makes these cakes his.
"What's next?" he asks, already looking around for the next task, his eyes bright and eager. There's flour dust on his nose now, a pale smudge that makes him look even younger than his eight years.
"Next, we mix the flour with water to make a paste." You hand him a clean bowl—this one wider and shallower, perfect for mixing—and a wooden spoon worn smooth from years of use. "Add the water slowly—just a little at a time. If we add too much at once, it becomes too thin and we can't fix it."
Lo'ak picks up the water vessel with the confidence of someone who has never successfully poured anything slowly in his entire life. He tips it, and water gushes out in a stream far larger than intended. It splashes over the side of the bowl, pooling on the mat, and he freezes mid-pour, his eyes going wide as he looks at you with an expression of pure dismay.
"It's okay," you assure him quickly, reaching for a cloth to wipe up the spill. The water is cool against your fingers, and you can feel it soaking into the woven fibers of the mat. "Try again. Smaller amounts. Maybe tip the vessel less?"
He bites his lip, his brow furrowing with concentration, and tries again. This time he's overly cautious, tilting the vessel so slightly that only a few drops fall out. But it's better, and you nod encouragingly.
"Good. A little more than that, but you've got the idea."
He adds water in careful increments, his whole body tense with focus, and you watch as the flour begins to absorb the liquid. As he stirs, the mixture transforms—from dry powder to damp clumps to a thick, sticky paste that clings to the spoon. The texture is dense and heavy, and he has to put his whole body into stirring it, leaning over the bowl, his shoulders working with each circular motion.
"This is hard!" he announces, his voice slightly strained from the effort. His arms are already trembling slightly, the muscles not quite used to this kind of sustained work.
"That's how you know it's working. Keep going—you're doing great." You watch his small hands grip the spoon, knuckles whitening slightly with effort, and your chest fills with tenderness. He's trying so hard, taking this so seriously, and the tip of his tongue is still poking out in that way that means he's completely absorbed in the task.
His face lights up at the praise, his whole expression transforming from concentration to joy, and he stirs with renewed vigor. The paste is thick now, almost dough-like, and some of it splashes onto his arm as he works—a pale, sticky glob that clings to his skin.
Without thinking, he licks it off.
"Lo'ak!" You try to sound stern, but you're laughing, the sound bubbling up from your chest. "That's not cooked yet."
"I was just testing it!" He grins at you, completely unrepentant, and there's paste on his lip now too. "It tastes good! Kind of... earthy? But good!"
"It will taste better when it's finished and we add the honey. Now, speaking of honey—" You reach for the pot, and even before you open it, the scent intensifies. When you lift the lid, the smell blooms into the space between you—thick and golden and sweet enough to make your mouth water. The honey inside is the color of amber, viscous and gleaming, and it moves slowly when you tilt the pot, like liquid sunlight.
Lo'ak's eyes go wide, and he leans forward, breathing in deeply. "It smells so good," he whispers, almost reverent.
"It does. The bees worked very hard to make this for us." You hand him the pot carefully. "Now, we need to add it to the mixture—and this time, try to get it in the bowl, not on yourself."
"I make no promises," he says solemnly, but his eyes are dancing with mischief.
He takes the pot in both hands, feeling its weight, and begins to drizzle honey over the paste. It pours out slowly, forming a thick golden stream that coils on itself as it falls, and the sweet smell intensifies until it's almost overwhelming—floral and rich and impossibly delicious. He's trying so hard to be careful, his face scrunched up in concentration, his hands remarkably steady.
Most of the honey makes it into the bowl. Some of it ends up on the rim, forming a sticky golden ring. A little bit somehow ends up on his knee—a perfect golden droplet that catches the light.
"How did you get honey on your knee?" you ask, genuinely bewildered, staring at the impossible placement.
He looks down, equally confused, his brow furrowing. "I don't know!" He touches it with one finger, and now his finger is sticky too, and when he tries to wipe it on his other hand, that becomes sticky as well. Within seconds, both hands are covered in a thin film of honey, and he holds them up helplessly. "Sa'nu, I'm stuck!"
You both dissolve into laughter—his high and bright, yours deeper and warm—and the sound fills your kelku with joy. You grab a cloth and wipe his hands clean, feeling the tackiness of the honey, the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers curl trustingly in yours as you work.
"Alright, now we mix it all together. This is the important part—we have to make sure everything is combined evenly, so every bite tastes the same." You hand him back the spoon, now slightly sticky from the honey.
Lo'ak takes it and starts stirring with intense focus, his whole body swaying with the motion. The paste is even thicker now with the honey added, golden and glossy, and it takes real effort to move the spoon through it. You watch him work—his small hands gripping the wooden handle, his shoulders rolling with each stir, his face set in determined concentration. He's getting the mixture everywhere—on the sides of the bowl, on the mat beneath, on his hands and arms—but he's trying so hard, and his face is alight with joy and purpose.
The honey and paste swirl together, the color evening out from streaky to uniform gold, and the scent is incredible now—sweet and nutty and warm, filling the entire space with the promise of something delicious.
"Is this right?" he asks, holding up the spoon to show you. The mixture clings to it, thick and glossy, dripping slowly back into the bowl in golden ribbons. There's honey on his wrist now, and flour dust in his hair, and his face is flushed from effort and excitement.
"That's perfect, ma'itan."
"Really?" His eyes search yours, needing the confirmation, needing to know he's done well.
"Really. You're a natural." And you mean it. Not because the mixture is perfect—it's probably a bit too thick in some places, too thin in others—but because he's put his whole heart into it, because he's learning and trying and finding joy in the process.
He beams, and you feel that familiar warmth in your chest—the one that comes from seeing a child proud of themselves, confident in their abilities, glowing with the simple pleasure of accomplishment.
"Now comes the fun part," you tell him, pulling the bowl closer. "We shape them into cakes."
You scoop out a portion of the mixture with your fingers—it's warm from sitting in the sun-heated kelku, and incredibly sticky, clinging to your skin—and show him how to pat it into a flat, round shape between your palms. The mixture is dense and heavy, and you can feel the texture of it—slightly grainy from the flour, smooth from the honey, with tiny pockets of air that will help it cook evenly.
He watches intently, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands, and then he plunges his own hands into the bowl. The mixture squelches between his fingers, and he giggles at the sensation—warm and sticky and strange.
His first attempt falls apart immediately, the cake crumbling into pieces before he can even lift it from his palm.
"It's okay," you say before he can get discouraged, before that light in his eyes can dim. "Try wetting your hands a little—it helps the mixture not stick so much."
He dips his hands in the water vessel, shaking off the excess, and tries again. This time, the cake holds together as he pats it into shape, though it's lumpy and uneven, one side thicker than the other, the edges ragged rather than smooth.
"Look!" He holds it up triumphantly, his whole face radiating pride. "I did it!"
"You did! That's a perfect honey cake." You take it from him gently and set it on a clean leaf to dry, treating it with the reverence it deserves.
"It's not perfect," he says, examining it critically, his head tilting as he studies the lumpy shape. "It's kind of weird-shaped. Neteyam's would probably be perfect."
Your heart clenches at the comparison, at the way he automatically measures himself against his brother. "Weird-shaped cakes taste just as good as perfect ones," you assure him, reaching out to touch his honey-sticky cheek. "Maybe even better, because they're made with love and joy instead of worry about perfection."
He considers this, his expression thoughtful, and then he nods, satisfied. "Okay. I'm making weird-shaped love cakes." He says it with such seriousness that you have to bite back another laugh.
You work together, and he gets better with each attempt—though "better" is relative. The cakes are still lumpy and irregular, some thick as your thumb, others thin as leaves, but they're his, and he's proud of them. His hands move with growing confidence, patting and shaping, and you watch the way his tongue pokes out when he's concentrating, the way his whole body sways slightly with the rhythm of the work, the way he hums tunelessly under his breath.
The pile of cakes grows on the drying leaf—a collection of golden, misshapen circles that gleam stickily in the afternoon light. The air is thick with sweetness now, so heavy you can almost taste it, and there's flour dust floating in the sunbeams, and honey dripping slowly down the side of the bowl.
"Can I taste the honey again?" he asks, eyeing the pot with longing.
"One finger," you allow, knowing full well it won't stop at one.
He dips his finger in—the honey clings to it, coating it completely—and licks it off slowly, his eyes closing in bliss. "It's so good, Sa'nu. Why is honey so good?"
"Because the bees work very hard to make it sweet. They visit thousands of flowers, gathering nectar, and then they transform it into this." You gesture to the pot. "It's a gift from them to us."
"I should thank the bees," he says seriously, and your heart swells at his thoughtfulness, at the way he's learning to see the work and care behind every gift.
"That's very thoughtful of you."
He shapes another cake, his hands moving more surely now, and then he pauses, looking at the growing pile. "Can I make one for Neteyam? And Kiri? And Tuk?"
"Of course. We're making plenty." You watch his face as he thinks, as he mentally counts his family members, as his expression grows soft with affection.
"And Spider?"
"And Spider," you confirm, touched that he includes his human friend without hesitation.
He grins and returns to his work with renewed purpose, narrating as he goes, his voice bright and earnest. "This one's for Neteyam because he's the best brother even though he's better at everything than me but he never makes me feel bad about it. This one's for Kiri because she lets me play with her sometimes and she knows things about plants like you do. This one's for Tuk because she's little and cute and she always laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny. This one's for Spider because he's my best friend and he doesn't care that I'm not good at warrior stuff..."
You listen to his chatter, your hands working alongside his, and your heart is full to bursting. Each cake he makes is accompanied by a reason, a memory, a declaration of love. He's thinking about each person as he shapes their cake, putting care and intention into every lumpy, imperfect circle. This is who he is—thoughtful and loving and generous, always thinking of others, always wanting to share joy.
The sun shifts lower, the light turning from gold to amber, and still you work together. Your hands and his, moving in tandem, creating something sweet. The pile of cakes grows larger, and Lo'ak grows quieter, his initial excitement settling into a peaceful contentment. The work becomes meditative—scoop, shape, place, repeat—and you can feel him relaxing beside you, his breathing deepening, his movements becoming slower and more deliberate.
When the cakes are finally all shaped and set out to dry in the remaining sunlight, Lo'ak is covered in honey and flour. There's a streak of paste across his forehead where he pushed his hair back with sticky hands. His arms are coated in a fine dusting of flour that's turned to paste where honey dripped on it. His hands are completely sticky, the fingers clinging together slightly when he tries to separate them. There's honey on his chin, flour on his nose, paste on his elbows, and somehow—impossibly—a smudge of the mixture behind his ear.
He looks like a disaster.
He looks beautiful.
He looks like a child who has spent an afternoon learning and creating and being completely, utterly himself.
"We did it!" he announces, surveying their work with pride. The leaf is covered with honey cakes in various shapes and sizes, all gleaming golden in the fading light. "Look how many we made!"
"We did. You worked very hard, ma'itan." You reach out and try to smooth his hair, but your hands are sticky too, and you just make it worse. You both notice at the same time and dissolve into laughter again.
"Can we make more tomorrow?" he asks, his eyes bright and hopeful.
"We can make more whenever you want." And you mean it. You would do this every day if it meant seeing him this happy, this confident, this full of joy.
He throws his honey-sticky arms around your waist without warning, and you hug him back immediately, not caring about the mess, not caring that he's getting honey and flour all over your clothing. You can feel the warmth of his small body against yours, can feel his heart beating fast with excitement and exertion, can smell the sweet scent of honey in his hair mixed with his own child-scent of sun and sweat and pure life.
"I love making things with you," he says into your shoulder, his voice muffled but clear. "You never get mad when I mess up. You never make me feel bad when things don't turn out perfect."
Your throat tightens, and you hold him closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. "That's because messing up is part of learning, ma'itan. And besides, we're having fun. That's what matters most. Not perfection. Not being the best. Just... joy. Just being together and creating something with love."
He pulls back and looks up at you with those golden eyes, so full of trust and affection, and there's honey on his eyelashes somehow, catching the light. "You're the best Sa'nu in the whole world."
"And you're the best boy in the whole world," you reply, meaning it with every fiber of your being.
He giggles—that pure, unselfconscious sound of childhood happiness—then looks down at himself, taking in the full extent of the mess. His eyes widen slightly. "I should probably wash off before Mom sees me."
"Probably a good idea," you agree, though part of you wants to keep him like this forever—sticky and happy and glowing with accomplishment.
But before he goes, before he runs off to the stream to wash away the evidence of your afternoon together, he carefully picks up the lumpiest, most misshapen honey cake from the batch. It's thick on one side and thin on the other, the edges ragged, the surface uneven. It's possibly the least perfect honey cake ever created.
He holds it out to you with both hands, his expression solemn and sincere.
"This one's for you," he says, his voice soft and full of meaning. "Because you're my favorite. Because you let me make messes and you don't get mad. Because you make me feel like I'm good at things even when I'm not. Because you're you."
You accept it like it's made of precious gems, cradling it in your palms, feeling its weight and warmth. Your vision blurs slightly, and you have to blink hard. "Thank you, paskalin. I'll treasure it."
And you will.
Not because it's beautiful or perfect or skillfully made.
But because it's his.
Made with small, sticky, eight-year-old hands and a heart full of love.
Made with joy and enthusiasm and complete lack of self-consciousness.
Made in an afternoon of laughter and learning and simple togetherness.
Made with the understanding that love isn't about perfection—it's about presence, about patience, about celebrating the mess and the effort and the trying.
And that makes it priceless.
That makes it the most valuable thing you own.
A lumpy honey cake that says: I love you. I trust you. I'm safe with you. I can be myself with you.
And really, what could be more precious than that?
Learning to Create
The afternoon sun filters through the trees as you sit outside your kelku, a piece of wood and a carving knife in your hands. You're working on a new serving bowl, the wood slowly taking shape under your careful attention.
"What are you making?"
You look up to find Lo'ak standing there, watching you with curious eyes. He's nine now, caught in that in-between stage—not quite a little child anymore, but not yet the young warrior he'll become.
"A bowl," you tell him, holding it up. "For serving fruit."
He steps closer, examining your work. "Can you teach me?"
"To carve?" You're surprised—Lo'ak usually gravitates toward more active pursuits. Sitting still and working with his hands isn't typically his preference.
"Yeah." He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Neteyam's learning from Dad, and he's already made a knife handle and it's really good, and I want to make something too."
Ah. There it is.
"Sit with me," you say gently, setting aside your bowl. "Let's find you a good piece of wood to start with."
His whole face brightens, and he plops down beside you eagerly. You sort through your collection of wood scraps, looking for something suitable for a beginner—soft enough to carve easily, but substantial enough that he won't get frustrated.
"Here." You hand him a piece about the size of his palm. "This is perfect for learning. What do you want to make?"
He turns the wood over in his hands, studying it from all angles. "I don't know. What should I make?"
"What do you want to make?" you counter. "It can be anything."
He thinks hard, his brow furrowed. "Can I make a fish? I like fish."
"A fish is a wonderful choice." You hand him a small carving knife—one you've dulled slightly for safety. "First, I'll show you how to hold the knife..."
You demonstrate the proper grip, the angle of the blade, how to cut away from yourself. Lo'ak watches intently, then tries to mimic your hold.
"Like this?"
"Almost. Adjust your thumb here—yes, that's it." You guide his hands gently. "Now, start with small cuts. Don't try to take off too much at once."
He nods seriously and makes his first cut. The blade skips across the wood, barely leaving a mark.
"I didn't do anything," he says, frustrated.
"You need more pressure. Try again—but still controlled."
He tries again, this time pressing too hard. The knife digs in deep and takes off a chunk bigger than he intended. "Oh no!"
"It's okay," you assure him quickly. "Look—now your fish has a mouth. See? You just started with the mouth instead of the tail."
He looks at the wood doubtfully. "That's a mouth?"
"It will be, once you shape it. Here, let me show you..."
You take your own piece of wood and demonstrate how to work with what you have, how to adapt your vision to the reality of the material. Lo'ak watches, then returns to his own carving with renewed determination.
For a while, you work in companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of knives against wood and the forest around you. Lo'ak's tongue pokes out between his teeth as he concentrates, his movements careful and deliberate.
"This is hard," he announces after a few minutes.
"It is," you agree. "But you're doing well."
"It doesn't look like a fish."
You lean over to examine his work. It doesn't look like a fish—it looks like a lumpy oval with a chunk taken out of it. But you can see what he's trying to do, can see the effort he's putting in.
"It's starting to take shape," you tell him honestly. "Carving takes time. You have to be patient with it."
"I'm not good at patient."
You laugh softly. "I know, ma'itan. But that's okay. We'll practice patience together."
He returns to his work, and you watch as he slowly, painstakingly tries to shape his fish. He makes mistakes—cuts that go too deep, angles that are wrong, pieces that chip off unexpectedly. Each time, he looks at you with frustration and disappointment.
And each time, you show him how to adapt, how to work with the mistake instead of against it.
"See this part that broke off? Now your fish has a fin."
"Really?"
"Really. Sometimes the best parts of our creations are the accidents."
He considers this, then keeps working. His hands are clumsy, his cuts uneven, but he's trying so hard. And gradually, very gradually, the wood begins to look like something.
Not a good fish. Not a realistic fish. But definitely fish-shaped.
"Sa'nu, look!" He holds it up, his face alight with pride. "It's a fish!"
You take it carefully, examining it from all angles. It's rough and asymmetrical, with a lopsided tail and fins that don't match. The mouth is too big, the body too lumpy.
It's perfect.
"Lo'ak, this is wonderful," you tell him, and you mean it. "You made this with your own hands. You should be very proud."
"Really? You're not just saying that?"
"Really." You hand it back to him. "I can see how hard you worked on it. Every cut, every decision—you did that. You created something that didn't exist before."
He stares at his carving, his expression shifting from uncertain to pleased. "It's not as good as Neteyam's knife handle."
"It's not supposed to be. Neteyam is older and has been practicing longer. But this—" You tap the wooden fish gently. "This is yours. And it's exactly as good as it needs to be for your first carving."
"Can I make another one?"
"Of course. What do you want to make next?"
He thinks for a moment. "A bird? Or maybe a—oh! Can I make a little ikran?"
"You can make whatever you want."
His grin is infectious, and he immediately starts sorting through the wood scraps, looking for the perfect piece. You watch him, your heart warm.
This is what he needs—not to be the best, not to compete with his brother, but to create something of his own. To learn that the value isn't in perfection, but in the trying.
You spend the rest of the afternoon carving together. Lo'ak works on his ikran—which ends up looking more like a blob with wings, but he loves it anyway. You finish your bowl and start on a new project, a small carved pendant.
"Who's that for?" Lo'ak asks, watching you work.
"You," you say simply.
His eyes widen. "Me?"
"Mm-hmm. I thought you might like something to wear. A reminder that you're loved."
He's quiet for a moment, watching your skilled hands shape the wood. Then, softly: "Can I make something for you too?"
"I would love that."
He picks up a new piece of wood, his face serious with concentration. "I'm going to make you a flower. Because you always smell like flowers and you like them."
"That sounds beautiful."
You work together as the sun moves across the sky, and Lo'ak's flower slowly takes shape. It's lumpy and uneven, with petals that are all different sizes, but he works on it with such care, such focus.
When he finally finishes, he holds it up shyly. "It's not very good."
"It's perfect," you tell him, accepting it with reverence. "Because you made it for me."
"Really?"
"Really." You pull him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'll keep it forever."
And you will.
Years later, when Lo'ak is grown and gone to the reef, when your kelku feels too quiet and too empty, you'll hold that lumpy wooden flower and remember this afternoon.
Remember a nine-year-old boy learning that his worth isn't measured by perfection.
Remember teaching him that creating with love is more important than creating with skill.
Remember the way his face lit up when you praised his efforts, when you celebrated his attempts, when you loved him not for what he made but for who he is.
But for now, you simply sit together in the afternoon sun, two artists working side by side, and everything is exactly as it should be.
Neteyam's Understanding
Neteyam is looking for his brother.
It's not unusual—Lo'ak has a tendency to wander off, to get distracted, to end up somewhere he's not supposed to be. Usually, Neteyam finds him getting into some kind of trouble, or dragging Spider into some ill-advised adventure.
But today, when he finally tracks Lo'ak down, his brother isn't causing chaos.
He's with Sa'nu.
Neteyam pauses at the edge of the clearing, staying quiet, watching.
Lo'ak is sitting cross-legged in front of Sa'nu, and she's teaching him something—weaving, it looks like. His brother's hands are clumsy, the fibers tangling, but Sa'nu is patient. She shows him the pattern again, her voice too soft for Neteyam to hear, and Lo'ak tries again.
He messes up. The weave falls apart.
Neteyam expects frustration—from Sa'nu, from Lo'ak, from both. That's what usually happens when Lo'ak can't get something right. Their father gets that tight look around his eyes. Their mother's voice becomes strained. Even Neteyam himself sometimes feels that flash of impatience.
But Sa'nu just laughs—warm and gentle—and helps Lo'ak untangle the mess.
And Lo'ak does. He tries again, his face scrunched up in concentration, and this time he gets a little further before it falls apart.
"Better!" Sa'nu says, and she sounds genuinely pleased. "Did you see? You got three rows that time. You're improving."
Lo'ak's whole face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. You're doing wonderfully."
Neteyam watches as they continue, as Sa'nu guides Lo'ak through the pattern again and again, never showing frustration, never comparing him to anyone else, never making him feel like his struggles are a burden.
And Lo'ak—Lo'ak is different here.
He's not bouncing off the walls or talking too loud or trying to prove himself. He's calm. Focused. Content.
He's simply... happy.
Neteyam has seen his brother in many states—excited, angry, hurt, defiant. But this quiet happiness, this peaceful contentment—this is rare. This is special.
"I did it!" Lo'ak suddenly exclaims, holding up his weaving. "Sa'nu, look! I did a whole section!"
"You did!" Sa'nu pulls him into a hug, and Lo'ak melts into it without hesitation. "I'm so proud of you, paskalin."
"Can we do more tomorrow?"
"We can do more whenever you want."
Lo'ak hugs her tighter. "I love you."
"I love you too, my sweet boy. Always."
Neteyam feels something shift in his chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of wistful understanding.
He has his father's attention. His father's pride. When Neteyam succeeds, Jake beams. When Neteyam masters a new skill, Jake claps him on the shoulder and says "That's my boy." Neteyam knows he's valued, knows he's loved, knows he's seen.
But Lo'ak...
Lo'ak doesn't get that from their father. He gets corrections and criticisms and disappointed sighs. He gets compared to Neteyam constantly. He gets told to try harder, focus more, be better.
And their mother loves him, Neteyam knows she does. But she's so busy with Tuk, so focused on training Neteyam for leadership, so worried about the clan and the Sky People and a thousand other things.
Lo'ak falls through the cracks.
Except here. With Sa'nu.
Here, Lo'ak is the center of attention. Here, his efforts are celebrated. Here, he's not the second son or the troublemaker or the one who can't sit still.
He's just Lo'ak.
And he's loved for it.
Neteyam watches as Sa'nu helps Lo'ak start a new section of weaving, her hands gentle, her voice encouraging. He watches his brother's face—so open, so trusting, so utterly at peace.
And he realizes: this is what Lo'ak needs. This space, this person, this unconditional acceptance.
Sa'nu isn't trying to replace their mother. She's not trying to undermine their father. She's simply filling a gap, providing something Lo'ak desperately needs and isn't getting anywhere else.
A place where he's enough, exactly as he is.
Neteyam backs away quietly, leaving them to their weaving lesson. He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't announce his presence. This moment belongs to them.
Later, when he returns to the family kelku, his father asks, "Did you find your brother?"
"Yes, sir," Neteyam replies. "He's with Sa'nu."
Jake's expression tightens slightly—that familiar frustration. "He's always with Sa'nu. He needs to focus more on his training, not—"
Neteyam looks down at his feet. "Um... he's happy there, though."
Jake pauses. "What?"
"I mean..." Neteyam shifts his weight, unsure. "Lo'ak. He's... he's really happy when he's with Sa'nu. Like, actually happy."
"He needs to be training," Jake says, but Neteyam pushes forward a little, surprising himself.
"I know, but... she teaches him stuff too. Weaving and carving and... plant things. And he's actually good at it." He glances up at his father, then back down. "When he's with her, he's... he's good."
Jake's jaw tightens. "He needs to focus on warrior skills."
"He does try," Neteyam says quietly, fidgeting with his hands. "He really does try. It's just... maybe he needs..." He struggles, searching for the words. "Maybe he needs her too. Because she... she believes in him. And he doesn't get that as much from—" He stops, suddenly aware he might be saying too much.
Jake is quiet for a long moment.
"I'm not saying you're..." Neteyam backtracks quickly, looking nervous. "I just mean... Lo'ak is different than me. He needs different things. And Sa'nu gives him those things."
His father doesn't respond right away, and Neteyam feels his stomach tighten. He's said too much. He shouldn't have—
But then Jake sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and Neteyam realizes his father is actually thinking about it.
That night, when Lo'ak comes home for dinner, he's still carrying the small piece of weaving he made. It's messy and uneven, but he's proud of it.
"Look what I made!" he announces to the family.
Tuk oohs and ahhs appropriately. Kiri examines it with genuine interest. Neytiri smiles and praises his effort.
Jake looks at it for a long moment. Then he reaches out and ruffles Lo'ak's hair. "Good work, son."
It's brief. It's small. But Lo'ak's face lights up like the sun.
And Neteyam catches Sa'nu's eye across the kelku—she's been invited for dinner, as she often is—and she gives him a small, knowing smile.
She understands what he's realized.
That Lo'ak needs both. Needs the structure and discipline of their father. Needs the fierce love of their mother. Needs the companionship of his siblings.
But he also needs her. Needs that soft place to land. Needs someone who celebrates his spirit instead of trying to tame it.
And Neteyam is grateful for her.
Grateful that his little brother has someone who sees him, truly sees him, and loves what she sees.
Grateful that when the world feels too harsh, too demanding, too critical, Lo'ak has somewhere to go.
Someone to go to.
Later, after dinner, Neteyam finds Lo'ak outside, looking at the stars.
"Hey," he says, sitting beside his brother.
"Hey." Lo'ak glances at him. "Did you need something?"
"No. Just wanted to sit with you."
They're quiet for a moment, then Lo'ak says softly, "Sa'nu says I'm doing good. With the weaving."
"You are," Neteyam agrees. "I saw."
Lo'ak's head whips around. "You saw?"
"I was looking for you earlier. Didn't want to interrupt your little craft session." Neteyam grins and shoves Lo'ak's shoulder playfully.
"Shut up, skawng." But Lo'ak is smiling, shoving back. "You probably think it's stupid anyway. Weaving instead of training like a real warrior."
"Oh, so now you're a real warrior?" Neteyam laughs and dodges as Lo'ak tries to elbow him. "I don't think it's stupid. Sa'nu's teaching you something actually useful, unlike Father yelling at you all day."
"Hey—" Lo'ak protests, but there's no real heat in it.
"What? It's true." Neteyam bumps his shoulder against Lo'ak's, more gently this time. "You're good at it. Better than you think you are, you skawng."
Lo'ak is quiet for a moment, then: "You don't... I don't know. You don't think it's weird? That I spend so much time with her?"
"Weird?" Neteyam snorts and reaches over to ruffle Lo'ak's hair, earning a swat. "No. You need her. I get what I need from Father and training and all that. You get what you need from Sa'nu. That's just how it is."
"Yeah, but—"
"But nothing." Neteyam leans back, looking at the stars. "She's good for you. Anyone can see that. Even Father's starting to figure it out, I think."
Lo'ak leans against him slightly, and Neteyam lets him, wrapping an arm around his little brother's shoulders.
"I know, you skawng." Neteyam bumps his head against Lo'ak's affectionately. "And so are you, even if you are annoying as hell."
They sit together under the stars, two brothers who need different things, who get different things, but who love each other all the same.
And Neteyam sends up a silent prayer of thanks to Eywa for Sa'nu.
For giving his brother exactly what he needs.
For seeing Lo'ak when others look past him.
For loving him unconditionally, completely, perfectly.
For being his Sa'nu.
Playing in the Rain
The rain comes suddenly, as it often does in the forest—one moment the sky is clear, the next it's opening up in a torrent of warm water.
You're inside your kelku when you hear it: laughter. Bright, joyful, completely uninhibited laughter.
You step outside to find Lo'ak standing in the clearing, his face turned up to the sky, his arms spread wide. He's ten years old and completely drenched, his hair plastered to his head, water streaming down his face.
He's grinning like he's never been happier.
"Lo'ak!" you call out, laughing. "What are you doing?"
"It's raining!" he shouts back, as if this explains everything. He spins in a circle, splashing through the rapidly forming puddles. "Come play with me!"
You should probably tell him to come inside. Should probably remind him that he'll catch cold, that he should be more careful, that—
But then you see his face. The pure, uncomplicated joy. The freedom.
When was the last time you played in the rain?
"Alright," you say, stepping out into the downpour. "I'm coming!"
His eyes go wide with delight. "Really?"
"Really."
You walk into the clearing, and immediately you're soaked. The rain is warm and heavy, drumming against your skin, soaking through your clothes. It's wonderful.
Lo'ak grabs your hands and pulls you into a spin, both of you laughing as you turn in circles. Your feet slip in the mud, and you nearly fall, but he catches you, and then you're both laughing even harder.
"Look!" He points to a puddle that's growing larger by the second. "We can jump in it!"
"We absolutely can," you agree.
He takes a running start and leaps, landing in the puddle with a tremendous splash. Water flies everywhere, mud spatters his legs, and he emerges looking like a swamp creature.
"Your turn!" he demands.
You take your own running start—more dignified than his, but not by much—and jump. The water splashes up around you, cool and refreshing, and Lo'ak cheers like you've accomplished something magnificent.
"Again!" he shouts. "Do it again!"
So you do. You jump in puddles like children, splashing each other, laughing until your sides hurt. The rain continues to pour down, and you don't care. You're already soaked. Might as well enjoy it.
Lo'ak finds a particularly muddy patch and slides through it on his feet, his arms windmilling for balance. He falls on his backside with a wet squelch, and for a moment you're worried he's hurt.
Then he starts laughing—that deep, belly laugh that's impossible to resist.
"Did you see that?" he gasps. "I slid so far!"
"Very impressive," you tell him, offering a hand to help him up.
He takes it, but instead of letting you pull him up, he pulls you down. You land beside him in the mud with a surprised yelp, and he dissolves into giggles.
"Lo'ak!" you exclaim, but you're laughing too.
"Sorry, Sa'nu!" He doesn't sound sorry at all. "You just looked too clean!"
You scoop up a handful of mud and show it to him meaningfully. "You know what this means."
His eyes go wide. "Sa'nu, no—"
You smear it gently across his cheek, and he shrieks with laughter, retaliating with his own handful. Soon you're both covered in mud, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the rain washing some of it away only for you to apply more.
"What is happening here?"
You both freeze, looking up to find Neytiri standing at the edge of the clearing, Tuk on her hip. She's under the shelter of the trees, dry and clean, staring at you both with an expression of complete bewilderment.
You and Lo'ak look at each other—both covered in mud, sitting in a puddle, hair plastered to your heads—and burst out laughing again.
"We're playing in the rain!" Lo'ak announces, as if this is a perfectly normal and reasonable activity.
Neytiri's lips twitch. "I can see that."
"Want to join us?" you offer, grinning.
She looks at you like you've lost your mind. "I am clean and dry. Why would I—"
"Mama, I want to play!" Tuk interrupts, squirming in her mother's arms.
"Tuk, you'll get all muddy—"
"Please!" Tuk's eyes are huge and pleading.
Neytiri looks at her youngest daughter, then at her son, then at you. You can see the moment she gives in—her shoulders drop, her expression softens, and she sighs.
"Fine. But you're both bathing before dinner."
Tuk squeals with delight, and Neytiri sets her down. The little girl immediately runs into the rain, her arms spread wide just like Lo'ak's were.
"Tuk-tuk!" Lo'ak calls. "Come jump in this puddle!"
He shows her how, and soon both children are jumping and splashing, their laughter ringing through the clearing. Neytiri watches from the shelter of the trees, and you can see the fondness in her expression even as she shakes her head at the chaos.
You push yourself up from the mud and make your way over to her.
"You think I'm crazy," you say, wringing out your hair.
"I think you're good for him," she replies softly. "He needs this. Needs someone who lets him be wild and free without judgment."
"He's a child. He should be allowed to play."
"I know." She watches Lo'ak help Tuk slide through the mud, both of them shrieking with laughter. "But sometimes I forget that. I'm so focused on preparing them for the hard things, I forget to let them enjoy the simple things."
You touch her arm gently. "That's what I'm here for. To remember the simple things."
She meets your eyes, and there's gratitude there. "Thank you. For loving him the way you do."
"It's easy to love him," you say simply.
The rain begins to lighten, turning from a downpour to a gentle shower. Lo'ak and Tuk are still playing, now making mud sculptures that look like nothing in particular but are apparently very important.
"Sa'nu!" Lo'ak calls. "Come see what we made!"
You wade back into the clearing, and he shows you a lumpy mud creation that might be a pa'li or might be a rock. You praise it appropriately, and he beams.
By the time the rain stops completely, all three of you are thoroughly covered in mud. Tuk looks like a small swamp creature. Lo'ak has mud in places you didn't know mud could reach. And you're not much better.
Neytiri takes one look at you all and sighs. "To the river. All of you. Now."
"Can we slide down the bank?" Lo'ak asks hopefully.
"Absolutely not."
"Can we—"
"No."
But she's smiling, and when Lo'ak grabs Tuk's hand and starts leading her toward the river, chattering about how much fun they had, Neytiri falls into step beside you.
"He'll remember this," she says quietly. "When he's grown, when things are hard, he'll remember the day Sa'nu played in the mud with him."
"Good," you reply. "Everyone should have memories of being allowed to be joyfully, messily, completely themselves."
And as you watch Lo'ak and Tuk splash through puddles on their way to the river, you know it's true.
These moments—these simple, muddy, rain-soaked moments—these are the ones that matter.
These are the ones that teach a child: you are loved. You are celebrated. You are allowed to be wild and free and exactly who you are.
And that's a lesson worth getting muddy for.
Nightmares and Comfort
The night is deep and quiet when you hear the soft sound of footsteps outside your kelku.
You're awake immediately—years of living alone have made you a light sleeper—and you sit up just as the entrance flap moves aside.
Lo'ak stands there, silhouetted against the starlight. He's eleven years old, getting taller every day, but in this moment he looks small.
"Sa'nu?" His voice is barely a whisper. "Are you awake?"
"I am now, ma'itan." You keep your voice gentle, non-judgmental. "Come in."
He slips inside, and as he gets closer, you can see his face in the dim bioluminescent light. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks wet with tears he's tried to wipe away.
"Bad dream?" you ask softly.
He nods, his jaw trembling with the effort of holding back more tears.
You don't ask questions. Don't demand explanations. You simply open your arms, and he comes to you like he's been waiting for permission.
He's getting too big to fit comfortably in your lap, but he tries anyway, curling into you like he's still small. You wrap your arms around him, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.
"I've got you," you murmur. "You're safe now."
He shudders against you, and then the tears come—quiet, but intense. You hold him through it, rocking slightly, humming soft comfort sounds.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" you ask when the crying subsides to sniffles.
He's quiet for a long moment, then: "It was about the Sky People. They came back, and they—they hurt everyone. Mom and Dad and Neteyam and Kiri and Tuk. And I couldn't stop them. I tried but I was too small, too weak, too—" His voice breaks. "And then they took you. And I was all alone."
Your heart clenches. "Oh, my sweet boy."
"It felt so real," he whispers. "I woke up and I had to—I had to make sure you were okay. I had to see you."
"I'm right here." You press a kiss to his temple. "I'm safe. Your family is safe. It was just a dream, paskalin."
"But what if it's not? What if they do come back? What if—"
"Lo'ak." You pull back just enough to see his face. "Listen to me. We cannot live in fear of what might happen. We can only live in the now, in this moment. And in this moment, everyone you love is safe."
"But in the future—"
"The future hasn't happened yet. And when it does, we'll face it together. All of us." You cup his face gently. "You are not alone. You will never be alone. Do you understand?"
He nods, but you can see the fear still lingering in his eyes.
"Your dream was scary," you continue. "And it's okay to be scared. Fear is not weakness, ma'itan. Fear is your heart telling you what matters to you. You're afraid because you love us. That's beautiful, not shameful."
"I don't feel beautiful," he mumbles. "I feel like a baby. Running to you because of a bad dream."
"You're not a baby. You're a boy who had a nightmare and sought comfort from someone who loves him. That's brave, not babyish."
He looks at you doubtfully. "Brave?"
"Very brave. It takes courage to admit when we're scared. To ask for help. To let someone see us when we're vulnerable." You stroke his hair. "I'm honored that you came to me."
His expression softens, and he leans into you again. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Of course. For as long as you need."
You help him settle onto your sleeping mat, and he curls on his side, watching you with those big golden eyes. You lie down beside him, and he immediately scoots closer, seeking warmth and reassurance.
"Sa'nu?" he whispers.
"Yes, paskalin?"
"Will you sing? Like you used to when I was little?"
Your heart melts. "Of course."
You begin to sing—an old lullaby, one your own mother sang to you. Your voice is soft and low, filling the quiet space with gentle melody. Lo'ak's eyes begin to drift closed, his breathing evening out.
But just as you think he's asleep, he speaks again.
"Sa'nu? What if I'm not strong enough? When the bad things come?"
You pause your singing. "You are stronger than you know, ma'itan. But strength isn't just about fighting. It's about loving. About protecting what matters. About getting back up when you fall down." You stroke his cheek. "And you have all of that in abundance."
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "I love you. More than anyone."
The words hit you square in the chest. "Lo'ak—"
"I know I'm supposed to love Mom and Dad most," he continues sleepily. "And I do love them. But you—you're different. You're my Sa'nu. My real mom. The one who—who sees me."
Tears prick at your eyes. "I love you too, my beautiful boy. So much it hurts sometimes."
"Good hurt or bad hurt?"
"The best hurt. The kind that means my heart is full."
He smiles—just a little—and finally lets his eyes close. "Sing more?"
So you do. You sing until his breathing deepens into sleep, until his face relaxes completely, until you're certain the nightmares have retreated.
synopsis: ever since you stepped foot onto the land of his clan he couldn't help but feel drawn to you. everything about you he craved. but he couldn't have you. not while his son called you his.
EDIT!! - as of march 2026 i am rewriting this series (with massive improvements) i will keep the old series linked here but i will add the new chapters to this master list!!
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
old series below
chap 1 → chap 2
authors note: i need to write for this hunky dilf wari and thats what im doing. this story will be a lil spicy so please be warned and be responsible with what you read. reply to this post if you want to be tagged!!
summary: with weeks passing you and tonowari had grown closer. but good things dont last for long.
contents: fem!sullyreader x tonowari, agegap, kissing, family fighting, angst, fluff, mean dad, idk lol
notes: i went kinda crazy with this chapter i just kept getting carried away. it is definitely my favourite chapter so far it is a TREAT
prev chap / next chap / masterlist
That night on the shoreline should have faded into a distant memory. And yet, that moment of comfort lingered between the two of you. The tide did not wash away the tension between you, it seemed to keep pushing you closer together.
Weeks had passed since that night. Boundaries between you had shifted, the space between you shrinking more and more each day.
You felt the change between you in his eyes. The way they found you within the village before anyone else. In his presence. The way he always seemed to drift closer to you in gatherings. He didn’t always come with words to share. Only offering small nods and warm smiles that carried more weight than any sentence could.
Though…sometimes he lingered.
In public, it would never be long enough for anyone to question it. But long enough for your heart to flutter within your chest.
Early mornings were the most dangerous.
The cool sea lapping against the sand. The sun slowly starting to reflect off the shore, small fragments of light hitting the edges of the village.
It was never a spoken agreement between you two, to meet each other on the shore by the rockpools, but it seemed like a planned coincidence.
Your training continued ever since that night. Waking at the crack of dawn to plunge yourself into the crisp sea. And since that night, you would see the Olo’eyktan walking the shoreline while the rest of the village slept.
Again
And again
And again.
It was only a matter of time before his ‘coincidental’ walks turned into dates disguised as ‘one-one-one training sessions’.
Tonowari stood waist-deep in the sea, the weak waves having no impact on his strong stature within the water. His arms were folded loosely across his chest, the corner of his mouth turning up with the faintest trace of amusement.
And despite the cool air hitting your damp skin, warmth spread through you.
“You are staring.” Tonowari chuckles from across the water, his voice carrying through the early morning breeze.
Your ears pricked up, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I am not.”
The chiefs smile widened slightly, tattoos curving across the movement in his skin. “You are.”
You shook your head, rolling your eyes. You watched with blushing cheeks as his broad figure waded closer to you in the water. He moved with such ease, it looked as if the water parted for him, waves consciously separating around his frame. “I am simply observing.”
He hummed thoughtfully, his body now close enough to yours that you had to gaze up to meet his eyes. “Observing?” He paused for a moment, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he looked down. “If you say so.”
The water lapped against your top, each push of current moving you closer to the chief in front of you. Your eyes travelled down his face. Following each delicate and intricate line, each splotch of ink conveying a story.
Tonowari knew you were staring, not that he minded. To be this close to you…for you to allow him into your world was more than enough for him. But with you here, and so close. He couldn’t help but imagine more.
He loved the soft mornings he shared with you, water so cold he watched goosebumps crawl across your skin. Droplets of water trailing down your face. Travelling from your chin, taking a painfully slow journey down your sternum that Tonowari could only just tear his eyes from.
“You are the one staring now.” You say with a proud smirk, hands moving your hair to cascade over one shoulder.
Tonowari’s firm gaze broke, lifting back up to meet your eyes. “I believe it’s called observing.” He feels a light push on his arm as your hand contacts his defined bicep.
The light push barely moved him, yet it drew another quiet chuckle from him. Once again filling your body with warmth.
He caught your wrist before you could pull your hand away. It wasn’t rough or demanding. Nothing he did was.
It was more like plea. Begging you to stay this close to him.
His fingers were large around your wrist, his warmth seeping into your skin.
Tonowari’s gaze flicked down to where he held you, as if he was suddenly remembering himself.
“You are distracting.” He said finally, his voice quiet.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Distracting?”
“Yes.” He said it like a weight lifted on his chest, brows furrowed as he looked not just at you, but into you.
Your hand wiggled out his grip, only to come latching back. Your small hand linked into his. You notice as Tonowari’s grip tightened, no longer afraid to hold you tight.
“Is that a bad thing?” You asked softly, pulling yourself closer to him.
Tonowari swallowed, his throat tightening as your fingers laced with his so easily, as if it was something natural, divinely fated to be.
His gaze dropped to your linked hands for a small moment.
Your fingers so small, barely reaching past his knuckles and yet you held onto him with such certainty. And when you pull yourself closer, something strong tugs on his chest.
“It could be.” He admitted heavily. His voice was low, rougher than it had been all morning.
His gaze lifted back to yours, searching your face as if he was looking for light in darkness.
“What we are doing…What we could be.” He continued, each word picked with care and precision. “It will not go unnoticed forever.”
Your thumb brushed absentmindedly over the back of his hand, and Tonowari felt his grip instinctively tighten around yours.
He should have let go. He should have let go on the beach that night. He should not have followed you down the shoreline.
He should have been sharp and sensible, like his people expected of him.
Yet you always seem to be irresistible.
“This village watches everything.” His jaw flexed. “My choices carry weight. Your family…my son…my people.”
You nodded slowly accepting his words. It wasn’t as though those thoughts had never crossed your mind before. They had. Many times.
But unlike him, you had the luxury of pushing them to the furthest parts of your mind. You had the luxury of pushing them to the edges of your mind, hiding them away where they could not disrupt the quiet moments you spent together
Tonowari’s eyes softened as he saw the look that began to cast upon your face. “What grows between two people…does not stay between those people for long.”
“I- I get it I do.” You whispered gaze leaving his as your grip weakened.
Tonowari immediately held onto your hand tighter, his thumb caressing your knuckles.
“But.” He added, voice softer and lower. He bent down slightly to be closer. “Knowing that…does not seem to stop me from coming here every morning.”
His expression held something softer now, something precious and vulnerable, something far less certain than the look of a strong leader.
“I know that every time I see you walking the shore” His other hand lifted from the water, resting below your chin as he lifted your gaze up to meet his. “I follow you.” A small breath escapes his lips. “And I know that it should concern me more than it does.”
His thumb caressed your cheek, wiping away a small droplet.
“And I do not wish to stop following you.”
Days earlier, you had told Tonowari you wouldn’t be able to meet him for your usual swim. Your father had insisted on a family breakfast, and you knew your mother would find you if you slipped away before sunrise.
You still remembered the look on his face when you told him.
The slight dip in his posture, shoulders shifting, head bowing down. His mouth pulling down into small pout that you had a feeling he didn’t realise he was making.
It tugged at something within you. Seeing that rare flicker of disappointment from the usually composed and collected Olo’eyktan. So, you offered a solution.
Sunset.
The words barely had anytime to leave before you saw the heavy hesitation settle onto his face. He was cautious, the early mornings were quiet, easy and most of all predictable.
You had figured he would refuse, settle on not seeing you for a day to not risk being caught.
But after a painstakingly long pause, his gaze had drifted from you towards the distant cliffs that formed along the coasts of Awa’atlu. Then back to you.
“The cliffs.” He said firmly. “Few are there at sunset.”
And now you stood at the end of a winding path that led you to a view that made you realize just why he had chosen to be here.
The village was far behind you, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead of you. A gentle breeze stirred the palms above, their leaves whispering softly as the sky slowly began to melt into shades of gold.
For awhile neither of you spoke. The silence that grew between you was no longer awkward. Over the weeks you had spent with each other it had become something familiar, something comfortable.
Tonowari sat next to you on the soft grass, one leg sprawled out the other bent resting against your knee. His hands rested behind him, propping him up as he leaned back, head turned towards you.
Even though the sky burned with vibrant pink and yellow, the descending sun scattering across the horizon.
To him, it was no match for the woman sitting beside him.
“This view…it’s beautiful.” You whispered, unable to look away from the sunset.
Tonowari gaze remained fixed on you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a soft, warm smile. “Yes,” he murmured. He paused for a moment his eyes capturing the way the sun hit each of your features. “Yes, it is.”
A comfortable softness settled into the silence after his words.
You let out a chuckle, already gearing up a teasing remark to break the quiet. But when you turned your head, the words died before they could reach your lips.
He was already looking at you.
It wasn’t a careful measured glance that could be moved if anyone caught his sight. It was unfiltered, every emotion and feeling pouring out of him.
A short breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his.
The lingering light of the sunset painted his features in a warm gold, catching along the dark ink that trailed upon his skin. His gaze slowly shifted across your face, as if he was committing every detail to memory. The curve of your lips, the dips in cheeks, the white dots that traced your features.
The world started to feel smaller, growing more aware of how close you were. Knees brushing, shoulders touching. Yet, neither of you made an effort to create distance.
His eyes licked briefly down to your lips, before lifting back to meet your eyes once again. It made your heart jump a burning heat rising in your chest.
“You are staring.” You whispered quietly this time, your body slowly, hesitantly moving towards him.
Tonowari let out a shuddering breath, his lips parted. “I am.”
“Tonowari.” You said breathlessly, his name leaving your lips like something fragile, something meant to be held carefully.
You were meant to say something else. A joke to break the tension? Maybe even a small laugh. Just something to break the weight of tension pulling between you.
But nothing came.
It was just him.
Only him.
Tonowari hesitated, lips wobbling as the restraint within in him withered away. He was being consumed.
By you.
His hand suddenly moved to your cheek, pulling you toward him. The space between you closed in one sudden, desperate motion.
His lips crashed into yours, all the careful restraint he had shown in the past weeks crumbling to the floor.
His kiss was rough and hungry, all of his control snapping as soon as he tasted you.
His other hand moved to your waist, his large hand wrapping around to the small of your back. He pulled you closer, bodies pressing together. The strength of his movement making a short breath escape your mouth.
Your hands caught at his shoulders, fingers curling onto the broad muscles as you anchored yourself onto him. He moved you to settle onto his lap, knees spread wide over just one of his exposed thighs. You felt the muscles flex beneath you, a small groan escaping your lips.
In Tonowari’s kiss you felt every emotion. The washed away restraint, every pent-up thought, the absence that he had experienced for years before.
He kissed like a man who had denied himself too long. As if the moment he touched you he had forgotten every reason he told himself to stay away.
His kiss deepened, mouths moving in sync, soft moans harmonizing in the breeze surrounding you. It grew hungrier and heavier, Tonowari’s grip grew tighter, pressing your body firm against him as if he was trying to meld your two bodies together.
Your hands roamed his shoulders, palms gliding across the muscular plains of his back, the rough weaving of his chest guard prickling your hand.
Tonowari pulled away for a split second, forehead resting against yours. Lips parted and panting, one line of spit connecting you to each other.
He watched as your lips never closed, still waiting for him to come back, join together in an all-consuming kiss. He felt a heat grow within him, a burning flame starting in his heart and travelling down his torso.
“You are so beautiful.” He whispered, lips brushing against yours.
“S-Shut up.” You stuttered out before pulling him back to meet your lips. Your body pressed further into him. Tingles ran up and down your spine as Tonowari’s hands roamed your back, his rough fingers catching onto the waistband of your loincloth.
His head tilted down, rough open mouth kisses trailing from your cheek to the dip in your neck. The cool breeze brushing against the wet spots on your skin sending shivers down your skin.
You bit your lips, trying desperately to muffle the moan that ached to escape you. Your hands gripped onto him harder. You felt Tonowari’s thigh tense below you, a jolt of electricity shooting through you, the soft sound escaping your lips to immediately meet Tonowari’s ears.
Tonowari stilled as soon as the sound escape, ears flicking up. His head lifted slightly from where it had dipped against your neck, breath warm against your blue skin. His head rested against your face, lips trailing up to brushing your earlobe.
“Careful.” He said gruffly, voice rougher than it had ever been before, the word grumbling off your chest.
But the warning was hollow. His hands hadn’t stopped moving. Trailing down your back, this time, he travelled past your loincloth, webbed hands dipping to the curves below your navel, fingers tracing the outline of your swaying tail.
Your breathing was uneven and feverous, Tonowari felt it as your chest rose against his, beads running against his exposed skin.
“Please.” You muttered out, lips parted, your arms laced around him, your body twitching against his leg. You weren’t even sure what you were pleading for. Every thought you had was consumed by him, a thick foggy haze casting over any sensible thought that tried to appear in your mind.
Tonowari lifted his head up now.
For a heartbeat, he just looked at you.
The fading light of the sunset had softened everything around you, the ocean ahead of you and the grass below, the warmth clinging to your skin and radiating onto him.
And then there was you.
Sitting in his lap, lips parted and swollen, cheeks flushed, looking at him as if there was nothing else in the world.
That burning heat in his chest grew wilder, heart thumping fighting to escape his ribcage.
“You are…dangerous.” He muttered.
But before you could respond, this time slower, but still certain. Taking your lips in a kiss that was warm and deep.
It was like a soft breeze, peaceful and calm. Hushing the sudden storm that erupted between your two bodies.
His hands remained steady on you, thumbs caressing the soft dip in your hips and just for a moment longer there was nothing else in the world but you and him.
The serene bliss you both shared was soon disturbed.
A rock shifted somewhere behind you, leaves rustling in a way that was manhandled.
The sound was small, barely perceivable but in the silence of the cliffside it might well have been a crash of lightning.
Tonowari’s ear moved towards the sound, his body stilling underneath you, every instinct and sense sharpening all at once.
You noticed his composure, the stiffness in his muscles. Your eyes followed his gaze and your heart dropped, leaving your ribcage hollow to only be filled with impending doom.
Two figures stood at the end of the path.
Lo’ak and Tuk.
For a moment everyone froze, staring at each other in shock.
Lo’ak blinked once then looked at you taking in the very…revealing position Tonowari had you in. “Oh shit.”
“I can explain-”
Tuk however did not need long to process what she saw. “YOU’RE KISSING TONOWARI?!” she shrieked
You jumped off Tonowari lap so fast you nearly dove headfirst into the grass. “No- NO.”
“You were!” Tuk yelled jumping up and down unable to contain her excitement of finding the hottest gossip the Metkayina ever encountered.
Tonowari stood quickly as you got up, but as soon he was upright he was frozen. This is everything he feared staring up at him in the form of two Omatikaya children.
“I’M TELLING DAD!” Tuk had already turned, her little feet rushing across the sand.
“No!” All three of you shouted out. Lo’ak stared at you eyes wide with fear, yours even wider, hands shaking as you looked once more at Tonowari.
He was frozen, mouth agape. He knew this was a bad idea, he knew he shouldn’t have let himself have you. He should have been responsible, sensible. He should have been a leader.
Instead, he has led you into chaos. Your life about to erupt into a flurry of burning consequences.
Both you and Lo’ak took off. You bolted so fast that you nearly tripped over the uneven stones that littered the path.
“Tuk! Tuk stop you cannot tell him!” You screamed out, following her down the beach. Sand catching between your toes as you fought with all your might to speed up.
Behind you, Lo’ak was chasing you both. “Tuk! Tuk slow down!” He said half-laughing, half panicking. “Tuk! You are gonna start a war!”
Tuk’s little legs pumped faster as she started getting closer to the village. “I’M TELLING ON YOU.”
“WHY?!” You called out almost on the brink of tears. Your lungs burnt with every step, your lips still swollen, purple marks littering your neck that would certainly not make your case any stronger. “Tuk! C’mon please!”
Tuk turned around for a moment and stuck her tongue out, before taking off again.
“TUK!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. “You are so dead!”
“That’s if Dad doesn’t kill you first!” Lo’ak yells behind you before receiving a middle finger from you.
The village was alive with the bustle of the evening.
Torches flickering between the maruis, warm light dancing across the woven walls and pathways. The strong aromas of each family’s dinner drifted through the air, each marui filled with chatter and life.
The Sully family sat in their marui. Jake’s arms were crossed sitting comfortably on a plush mat as he spoke quiet to Neytiri. She nodded quietly occasionally humming response when she wasn’t chewing on the cut fruit in front of her. Neteyam and Kiri sat together, both weaving a basket with palm leaves, chattering away to themselves.
Then…
Tuk’s high-pitched voice cut across the serenity like a blade piercing flesh.
Heads turned immediately, Jake barely had enough time to straighten his posture before a blur of small blue limbs barrelled towards him.
“Tuk?” He said brows knitting together in confusion. “Tuk? Why are you-“
She skidded to a stop in front of him, her small lungs burning as she panted, her eyes huge with excitement. “I saw her!”
Jake and Neytiri blinked, sharing a look of confusion at each other before turning back to Tuk.
“Saw what babygirl?” Jake said reaching out a hand to his youngest daughter.
“BIG SIS!” Tuk jumped around in a circle. “AND TONOWARI!”
Neteyam and Kiri froze now. They had assumed that this was just one of Tuk’s usual interruptions. But now everyone except for the blue bouncing ball of excitement was frozen.
Neytiri’s ears twitched in silence, moving from her relaxed position now crouching on the floor.
“You gotta slow down…What are you talking about?” Jake’s eyes were squinted, brows knitted together so tightly it began to cause a headache.
Tuk grabbed his hand, her fingers so dainty they could barely hold her father’s hand. She was practically vibrating with thrill. “They were on the cliffs.” A loud giggle erupted out of her mouth “AND THEY WERE KISSING!”
“What?” Jake said. The word was sharp a red haze of rage starting to burn off him.
Tuk nodded enthusiastically, bouncing in place. “They were kissing…Dad I said that alreadyyy” Tuk groaned, shaking Jake’s hand with all her might.
Neteyam’s weaving slipped out of his hand his jaw dropping open. Kiri had slapped a hand over her mouth “No way.” She said muffled under her hand trying to stop a gaggle of laughs escape her.
Neytiri grabbed Tuk’s hand gently, prying her off her father. “Tuktirey…you are certain?”
Tuk nodded eagerly again her bouncing beginning to slow as she looked at the shocked faces around her. Her wide smile had turned into a little pout. “Mummy you look angry.”
Neytiri shook her head bringing Tuk closer to her, a little tut escaping her lips. “No…not at you Tuk.”
Then there was a crash against the entrance of the marui. You were hunched over, hands resting on your knees as you panted loudly, your hand reached out pointing at Tuk. “Tuk! -” You inhale sharply. “Tuk! Say NOTHING!”
Behind you. Lo’ak stumbled into the marui, nearly colliding into your back as he skidded to a stop. “Tuk is crazed and delusional do not believe a word she says-”
“I AM NOT!” Tuk turned to yell at Lo’ak, but Neytiri shushed her gently bringing her small frame into an embrace.
“Bro shut-” Jake slowly turned his head towards the two of you. The look on his face immediately shutting Lo’ak up.
Your father straightened to his full height, arms folded across his chest, eyes staring at you as if he was trying extremely hard not to explode.
“You,” he said, his voice firm and low. “Wanna repeat that?”
You froze where you stood, still slightly bent over from trying to breathe. “Nope.”
Kiri let out a strangled laugh, Neteyam’s elbow promptly jabbing into her ribcage.
Jake’s eyes did not leave you. “You ran halfway across the island to stop your sister.” He said slowly and calculated. “Which tells me she didn’t make this up.”
Your brain scrambled, searching for something, anything to say while you feverously shook your head. “It’s,” you stood up straight now, waving your hands uselessly. “Not what it looks like.”
Lo’ak choked behind you.
Jakes head snapped towards him.
Your youngest brother pointed at you with one hand the other raised in the air. “I am an innocent bystander.”
Jake let out an annoyed scoff before looking back at you. “Cliffs. Tonowari.” He let out a slow exhale, his breath shaky. “Explain. Now.”
“Dad I-”
“No!” Jake snapped. “Don’t you ‘Dad’ me right now!”
The words hit you like a physical blow.
Your mouth closed immediately, whatever horrible explanation you had been scrambling to form dying in your throat. The heat that had been rushing through your body from the frantic chase had shifted into something else entirely.
Neytiri’s eyes had not left your face, she saw the sadness that brewed in your features and the shame that had begun to radiate off of you. “Have you done this before?” She asked quietly.
You hesitated, lips opening and closing.
Jake caught it immediately. “Oh my god.” He breathed in disbelief, running a hand over his face.
“Big sis why were you sitting on him?” Tuk asked innocently, her inability to read a room pushing you further into this brewing pile of shit fuckery.
The marui erupted into chaos.
Kiri had doubled over laughing now, completely unable to contain composure.
Neteyam’s hand hit his forehead in disbelief. “Tuk. Why would you say that?”
Tuk look confused looking between each of the very different expressions of the Sully family. “I wanted to know…”
“Shh Tuk…Sa’nok needs you to be quiet.” Neytiri hummed bringing a hand over Tuk’s ears.
Behind you Lo’ak leaned in closer. “You should start running again.”
You elbowed him without looking, a groan of pain leaving his lips.
Jake saw that too.
“Oh yeah.” He said darkly, his eyes hazed over with an anger that he was trying desperately to subdue. “Let your accomplice get you out of this one.”
Lo’ak shot upright. “Accomplice?!” He shook his head taking a few steps back. “Like I said innocent bystander.”
Jake’s hand shot up.
“Enough.”
The words cracked through the marui like a whip. The entire marui fell into silence.
Jake moved slowly turning to the rest of his family. The air in the marui shifted with him.
“Everyone out.” He said flatly. “Now.”
Neteyam was the first to move, grabbing Kiri’s wrist and hauling her to her feet as she stumbled out of the marui. “Cmon- quickly.” He muttered to Kiri.
Lo’ak backed out towards the exit, hands raised defensively. “Great talk guys.”
Tuk pouted, big golden eyes staring up at Neytiri. “But I wanna-”
“No, cmon Tuk.” She said softly, lifting the child into her arms.
As your mother left the room her eyes lingered on you. They weren’t angry like your fathers. Just…disappointed.
The marui emptied. Leaving just you and Jake.
“Inside.”
You followed him the centre of the room. Head dropped down in shame as your chest tightened.
For a moment it was radio silence. No sound was made except for the angry huffs that left your father’s mouth.
“You got any idea,” he said slowly. “How unbelievably stupid that was?”
“Dad-”
“It is Sir to you.” He said angrily, beginning to pace in front of you. Just like he did at training back home, tight and controlled steps in the forest floor.
“Do you think this is funny?” he said sharply, words full of venom. “You think this is some harmless little romance?”
“No-”
“Because where I am standing.” His voice started to rise. “It looks like my daughter decided to start sneaking around with the Olo’eyktan of the Metkayina.”
You shook your head quickly, the threat of wetness about to streak down your cheeks. “It wasn’t like that.”
Jake let out a scoff. “Yeah sure kid.” His hand raised pointing at the path you had just sprinted down, your footprints still deep in the sand. “Because last time I checked you were hauling yourself across half the island just to stop Tuk from telling us.”
A small sob escaped, tears of shame beginning to dampen your cheeks.
You had expected the yelling, the lecture, the utter shame you felt.
But the sheer anger rolling off of him made your stomach twist painfully. You looked down, focusing on the woven mat beneath your feet as if it could somehow save you for the furious words of your father.
“Dad- I mean Sir…” Your voice was weak, defeated. “It isn’t what you think.”
“Jesus christ.” He groaned. “You understand who Tonowari is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” His voice hardened. “He leads this entire clan, every family answers to him. WE answer to him.” He stepped closer “And you thought that this was a smart idea? Sneaking away with him? As if your decisions will not eventually blow up in everyone’s face?”
“Yeah, believe it or not I am familiar with the concept of an Olo’eyktan.” You scoffed turning away from your father, tears still trailing down your cheeks.
Jake’s pacing halted to a stop. “Turn around.”
You hesitated, lips still wobbling.
“Now!”
You turned reluctantly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
“Don’t get smart with me. Not tonight.”
“I’m not-.”
Jake cut you off abruptly. “Do you think I’m yelling because I believe you dragged him up to those cliffs?”
You shrugged, still avoiding eye contact with your father.
“This situation is a disaster waiting to happen. Do you understand that?” he continued, voice rough.
“So what? This whole thing is my fault?” You scoffed, the tip of your tail lashing behind you.
Jake stared at you in disbelief. “Did I say that?” He asked, his voice laced with anger.
“It sure sounds like it!” you shot back, stepping away from him. “You’re lecturing me as if I ruined everyone’s life for existing near him!”
“That is not what I am saying!” Jake snapped, his voice echoing through out the marui.
For a moment you both stood in front of each other.
Jake dragged a hand over his face, letting out a loud groan. “Do you expect me to be happy about this?” he muttered.
You shrugged again. Your chest rising and falling quickly. “You’re making it sound like I am the only one who did something wrong.”
Jake’s eyes flashed with disbelief. “What? You want me to go grab the chief and scream at him too?”
The words hit you hard. Because you knew your father was right no matter how much you didn’t want to believe him.
“That man took us in when we had nowhere else to run.” His voice was low and sharp. “He gave our family somewhere safe, a new home.”
Your stomach twisted, fingers fidgeting, picking at the skin of your nails as you listened to your father.
“So, I am a little limited on how I deal with the fact that my eldest daughter decided it was a good idea to start something with the chief.” Jake paused for a moment, letting out a sigh of disappointment. “He is old enough to know better…and so are you.”
“I’m sorry.” You muttered quietly, but Jake just a handout to silence you.
“I am furious with him. I am furious with you.” He uttered; it was the calmest thing he had said all night. “That man is a leader; his choices affect hundred of people.”
Then pointed at you. “And your choices affect this family.”
You shook your head, frustration bubbling through the array of emotions that were settling into the pit in your stomach. “What do you want me to do?”
Jake sighed. “I want you to stop seeing him.”
“What? No. You can’t force me.”
“No. I can’t” Jake said slowly. “But I can and I will send you back home.”
“Dad?! Are you fucking kidding me? You’d send me away because of one stupid kiss? You don’t get to decide that! I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Then stop fucking acting like one.” His words were sharp and cruel, stabbing right through you.
“You’d really send me away?” you said quietly, defeated.
You thought that the screaming and yelling would hurt more. But the silence, the empty and dark quiet that brewed off you father. It created a wound you were sure would never heal.
“Get out.” He said firmly, turning away from you now. “Find your mother.”
“Are you serious?” You scoffed, your jaw tightening as a sob threatened to break free.
“That’s an order.”
You stood there for another moment, staring at his back.
Waiting.
For him to say something.
For him to turn around.
For him to take it back.
He didn’t.
Your chest pulled painfully, the sob you’d been holding in finally forcing its way out of your throat.
Finally, you turned and stepped out of the marui.
Defeated, head hung low, tears streaming down your chest.
authors note: okay yay im so happy if u made it this far i def went a bit overboard BUT OH WELL. also i loved writing the sully family i tried really hard to get them in character though i dont think tuk would snitch LMAO she has become victim to a plot device. they slowburn hath burnt into havoc
(i did try to proofread but it is 4am so if there is any errors....they were never there)
plzplzplzpz reblog/comment/send me an ask abt what y'all thought i love to hear from u guys, i wouldn't write if it wasn;t for the beautiful replies i get ily guys so much okay BYEEE
My best friend was in tears today because she has stretch marks and she doesn’t believe me that literally 99.9% of the population have them and I’m trying to show her it’s okay
₍^. .^₎⟆ summary :; born on a world that wasn’t yours. you’re an alien to both species. you were supposed to die but pandora had other plans.
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ tags ?: (___) x human reader, fem!reader, slightly follows atwow script, drama 🎭
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
notes: first, i wanna say thank you so much for the support everyone. im truly so happy that people are enjoying my story :D
i enjoy reading your comments and reactions. so far i have posted a new part each day from how motivated i have been but recently i just got struck with a really bad cold (╥_╥) … starting to think the author curse is real/j hahahahahhahaha (ง •̀_•́)ง but have no fear i will lock in to try and post more parts quickly !! also stay tuned cause if you couldn’t tell the story is about to get juicyyy :p
The others were gathered inside one of the huts, voices overlapping loudly. You sat with them for a while, listening, until hunger slowly crept up on you. You realized you hadn’t eaten much at all—too caught up in everything else.
You slip away without drawing attention, moving toward the edge of the firelight.
Near the entrance, a woven bowl rests on a low surface, filled with round, shell-covered fruits. Their smooth surfaces are slightly warm, faintly glowing in the dim light. They remind you of coconuts—hard on the outside, promising something softer within.
You sit yourself down before picking one up, turning it in your hands. A thin seam runs around the middle, subtle but visible. You remember seeing others twist them open so easily.
You press your thumbs into the seam and twist.
Nothing.
You frown and try again, applying more force. A quiet groan slips from you as you strain, fingers aching, feeling like they’re going to snap before the shell ever does.
You gasp as your finger suddenly breaks through the shell—too hard, too fast. There’s a sharp crack, and before you can react, the fruit splits unevenly in your hands.
Warm liquid and soft flesh spill out immediately.
“No—” you whine under your breath, scrambling to catch it, tilting your palms together as if that might somehow fix it. The contents slip through your fingers anyway, dripping onto the ground by the fire. You stare at the mess, shoulders slumping, frustration flashing across your face.
You let out a quiet, defeated huff, staring down at the ruined fruit.
As you’re groaning in defeat, your eyes lift—and meet a figure standing at the other edge of the firelight.
Neytiri.
She stands still, posture straight, her expression unreadable as the fire casts flickering shadows across her face. Her gaze drops briefly to the mess at your hands, then back to you. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire and your own uneven breathing.
Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively pull your hands closer to yourself, fingers sticky, embarrassed at having been caught mid-struggle.
Neytiri exhales softly through her nose—not quite a scoff, not quite a sigh. Then she steps forward, closing the distance with quiet, measured strides. Without a word, she crouches beside you and reaches for another fruit from the bowl.
She turns it once in her hands, then presses at a specific point along the seam. The shell splits cleanly with a dull crack.
She separates the outer layer and places the edible part gently in front of you.
“For humans,” she says calmly, “this part only.”
You hesitate, looking dumbfounded, then nod. “Thank you.”
Her gaze flicks down at you for just a moment, sharp and assessing, before she straightens and walks away.
You stare down at the fruit, cheeks still warm. Lifting your mask carefully, you take a small, cautious bite—sweet, grounding—trying hard not to think about how clumsy that must have looked.
When you swallow, you push your mask back down quickly, inhaling through the exopack.
Suddenly, you notice Spider from the corner of your eye, standing near one of the hut’s support beams, arms crossed, watching from a distance. He doesn’t say anything, just observes quietly, his brow slightly furrowed as if he’s trying to figure something out.
“Want some?” you ask, holding out a piece of the fruit toward him.
He glances at it, wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. “No. That stuff’s disgusting.” He mutters, turning and walking away without another word.
You watch him go, a little confused but you turn your attention back to the yummy fruit in your hands.
-
It was the next day and you wandered through the village and discovered Neytiri alone in a hut. Bundles of herbs were neatly arranged around her, and she was weaving small, intricate pieces of rope. She worked silently, every movement precise, almost meditative.
A faint twitch of her ear immediately senses your presence, and she turns sharply to face you before you even speak.
“Oh—hi,” you say, a little flustered. “can I help with what you’re doing?”
She stops, one brow slightly raised, and studies you for a long moment. Her gaze is sharp but unreadable—like she’s measuring you, trying to decide if you’re worth her attention.
“…You can,” she finally says, her voice calm but deliberate. “but pay attention. Do it carefully.” Her tone carries a firmness that makes you straighten immediately.
You kneel beside her as she hands you a small bundle of herbs. Your fingers fumble slightly at first, tangling the strands, but she doesn’t correct you.
“You must be gentle,” she murmurs, eyes on her weaving. “everything has balance. Too much force, it is ruined.”
You nod, concentrating, trying to mirror her movements. She doesn’t speak again, but her presence is steady, like a quiet anchor.
When you finish, she glances at your hands briefly, then looks away, her expression impossible to read. You’re left wondering if you did well—or if she even noticed.
Surprisingly, your smaller, softer human hands made weaving the tiny strands easier than you expected.
But she wasn’t about to let you sense a drop of approval for those stupid little pink human hands.
You finish the last of the tiny strands, setting your hands aside. You glance at Neytiri, still focused on her work, unreadable as ever.
“Y/N!”
You turn around, hearing Kiri calling your name.
You step outside, blinking against the sunlight and see her waiting there, bright and bubbly, with Spider by her side.
“We’re heading to the high camps,” Kiri says, her voice full of excitement. “you coming with us?”
The high camps are where the other humans reside—scientists, some of whom even have avatar bodies. They help Jake with defending against the RDA, managing supplies, and conducting research.
“Sure.” You nod, falling in step beside Kiri and Spider.
At first, you’re confused by the path they take.
The path opens into a wide clearing, and you spot Neteyam and Lo’ak waiting a few steps ahead. Three ikrans shift restlessly nearby, wings stretching and heads tilting curiously.
Kiri glances back at you with a grin. “It’s not really a destination you can reach on foot.” She says, her voice teasing.
She steps forward, reaching up to the Ikran before her, her fingers brushing the creature’s scales. With practiced ease, she performs Tsaheylu, and in one smooth motion, swings onto its back.
Spider follows without hesitation, hopping onto the same Ikran, settling in front of Kiri.
You stand frozen for a moment, taking it all in—the clearing, the Ikrans shifting beneath the sunlight, and the sight of Kiri and Spider already poised for flight.
You shift awkwardly, unsure where to put yourself, your gaze flicking between Kiri and Spider already mounted, and Neteyam and Lo’ak standing before their own Ikrans.
Lo’ak steps up to his Ikran and pats its back. “Hop on.”He says, grinning.
You freeze, your stomach twisting. “…You want me to ride that thing?” Your voice wavers, caught between awe and panic.
He chuckles. “It’s not going to eat you.”
“If you wanted to kill me, you could’ve just said so,” you scoff. “that thing is huge—and I’m not exactly a fan of heights…”
Lo’ak shakes his head, smirking. “Relax. It’s not that bad… and I’ll be behind you.”
You hesitate, taking a slow step toward the Ikran. It shifts beneath Lo’ak’s hand, wings flexing slightly.
Before you can protest again, there’s a sudden rustle from behind the trees.
Tuk?
Lo’ak spins around, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?!”
Tuk pops out from her hiding spot, grinning like she’s won something. “Mom said I could go with you,” she says proudly. “I didn’t wanna miss it.”
Lo’ak groans, rubbing his face. “You are so annoying.”
Tuk sticks her tongue out at him, letting out a quick, playful sound of triumph.
Neteyam, on the other hand, doesn’t look annoyed at all. He looks calm as ever, already adjusting the straps on his ikran. He glances at Tuk, then at Lo’ak, like the decision’s obvious.
“Then she rides with you.” He says simply.
Before Lo’ak can argue, Neteyam turns to you instead. He pats the space in front of him on his Ikran—firm, reassuring.
“Come on,” he says, steady and confident, a small smile tugging at his lips. “you’ll be fine.”
You blink, surprised, glancing between him and the Ikran. For a split second, you catch Lo’ak’s expression shift—barely there, just a tightening of his jaw before he looks away.
You swallow and step forward.
The Ikran lowers its head, turning slightly as it sniffs you causing you to flinch.
“It’s okay,” Neteyam says calmly. “it’s just curious.”
He steps closer, one hand steadying the ikran while the other reaches for you. “Here—put your foot here.”
You take his hand, your fingers small against his as he helps guide you up. Your heart pounds as you settle onto the saddle, suddenly very aware of how massive the ikran is beneath you. Your legs barely manage to straddle its back, stretched awkwardly, and you can’t tell if the creature is just enormous—or if you’re simply that small.
Before you can spiral, Neteyam moves smoothly behind you, mounting the ikran with practiced ease.
You peek a glance to the side and spot Lo’ak mounting his own ikran, Tuk already settled in front of him, practically buzzing with excitement as she grips the reins.
You don’t watch for long.
Your gaze snaps back down, hands tightening instinctively around the Ikrans harness. Your heart is already racing, thudding so hard it feels like it might leap out of your chest before the ikran ever does.
Kiri lifts first.
Her Ikran lets out a sharp sound before launching forward, wings beating hard as it surges upward. Spider laughs as he leans into the movement in front of her, already used to the rush.
Lo’ak watches them go, then glances back at you and Neteyam. His eyes linger for half a second longer than necessary before he turns away, urging his own Ikran forward. Tuk cheers loudly as they take off, her excitement echoing through the clearing.
That leaves you.
Your breath comes shallow, fingers trembling but locked tight around the harness. The Ikran beneath you tenses, muscles coiling, wings spreading wide.
Before it moves, Neteyam shifts closer. One arm slides firmly around your waist, the other grips the straddle in front of you.
“I’ve got you.” He says quietly, close to your ear.
The Ikran launches.
The force is instant and brutal—your stomach drops as the ground falls away, air ripping past you as it shoots upward. A startled gasp escapes you, your body instinctively pressing back into him.
Neteyam tightens his hold without a word, anchoring you as the Ikran climbs hard into the open sky.
You cling tighter, knuckles white, your heart pounding so loud you swear Neteyam can feel it.
And he does—he can hear it, feel the frantic rhythm against his chest, too fast, too sharp.
His grip tightens just a little, instinctive and protective, grounding rather than restraining. He leans in closer so the wind doesn’t steal his voice.
“Breathe,” he murmurs near your ear, low and steady. “I’ve got you.” He reassures you again.
The Ikran glides, wings stretching wide as the air smooths out beneath you. Your heartbeat is still racing, but not spiraling anymore—held in place by the certainty in his voice, the warmth of his presence at your back.
Against your better judgment, curiosity nudges past the fear. You tilt your head and steal a glance downward.
Your stomach flips instantly.
The forest stretches endlessly below, a sea of glowing green and blue, rivers like threads of light weaving through the canopy. It’s dizzying—terrifying in a way that makes your breath catch—but it’s also breathtaking. Beautiful in a way you’ve never seen before.
You suck in a shaky breath, torn between wanting to look away and wanting to see more, your fear tangled tightly with awe as Pandora opens up beneath you.
The Ikran glides straight toward the high camp, cutting cleanly through the air. The floating Hallelujah Mountains rise around you, but the camp is right there, perched on one of the larger platforms.
By the time you arrive, the others have already landed—Kiri with Spider near the edge, Lo’ak helping Tuk down.
Neteyam’s ikran eases to a steady hover above the platform. He reaches around you, helping guide you safely to the surface.
Around you, the high camp buzzes with activity—humans and avatar bodies.
You and Neteyam move carefully along the platform, following the others as they begin heading inside one of the labs. The interior is humming with energy—supplies stacked neatly, consoles blinking softly.
You guys step into the lab, the filtered air humming quietly around you. Lo’ak grabs a breathing mask and hands one to Tuk, who giggles as she slips it over her nose for a cautious breath. One by one, the others—Kiri and Neteyam included—put theirs on, inhaling deeply before letting drop on their neck.
Spider leans against a console and smirks, peeling his mask off. “In here, the roles are switched.” He grins.
You lift your mask, feeling the clean air fill your lungs. The relief is instant, and you can’t help but take a careful, deep breath, enjoying the simple luxury of breathing without an exopack.
You watch as Kiri moves swiftly through the lab, weaving easily between consoles and equipment. Your eyes follow her until she stops in front of a glass tank, the soft hum of machinery filling the room. Inside rests an avatar body, still and serene, bathed in dim, blue-tinted light.
The others drift behind you, Neteyam and Lo’ak flanking the way, Spider lingering near Kiri. Tuk, curious as ever, wanders off a few steps, inspecting gadgets and beeping screens, momentarily distracted from the main group.
Kiri doesn’t take her eyes off the tank. Her voice is quiet, reverent. “That… that’s my mother.” She says, a whisper more to herself than anyone else, as though speaking it aloud helps make the reality tangible.
You blink, confusion written all over your face.
Kiri turns to you, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, I’m actually adopted,” she explains softly. “it’s a bit complicated.”
You nod slowly, trying to process it, your gaze flicking back to the avatar in the tank.
“So… who do you think knocked her up?” Lo’ak asks, half‑grinning.
Spider snorts.
“Pretty sure it was Norm.”Lo’ak adds.
“Totally.” Spider agrees.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself, more out of surprise than amusement.
Kiri lifts her head, eyes sharp. “You do not deserve to live.” she says flatly, staring at both of them.
“No, no—think about it,” Lo’ak says quickly, raising his hands. “I mean, he’s the teacher’s pet. He was always at the lab with her.”
“I would kill myself,” Kiri spits. “I would drink acid.”
Lo’ak presses on, unable to help himself. “I’m just saying—two avatars, out in the forest, all alone—”
“Gross!” Kiri snaps, shoving him playfully.
“Guys,” Spider cuts in, voice suddenly quieter, stripped of humor. “sometimes… it’s not so great knowing who your father is.”
The room goes still.
Kiri and Lo’ak both turn to him, their expressions changing—something sober and heavy settling between them.
Spider shifts, uncomfortable. “Whatever.” He mutters, stepping off to the side.
Kiri watches him for a moment, then moves after him, slipping her arms around him from behind. “You are not him.” she says softly.
₍^. .^₎⟆ summary :; born on a world that wasn’t yours. you’re an alien to both species. you were supposed to die but pandora had other plans.
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ tags ?: (___) x human reader, fem!reader, slightly follows atwow script, drama 🎭
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
notes: first, i wanna say thank you so much for the support everyone. im truly so happy that people are enjoying my story :D
i enjoy reading your comments and reactions. so far i have posted a new part each day from how motivated i have been but recently i just got struck with a really bad cold (╥_╥) … starting to think the author curse is real/j hahahahahhahaha (ง •̀_•́)ง but have no fear i will lock in to try and post more parts quickly !! also stay tuned cause if you couldn’t tell the story is about to get juicyyy :p
The others were gathered inside one of the huts, voices overlapping loudly. You sat with them for a while, listening, until hunger slowly crept up on you. You realized you hadn’t eaten much at all—too caught up in everything else.
You slip away without drawing attention, moving toward the edge of the firelight.
Near the entrance, a woven bowl rests on a low surface, filled with round, shell-covered fruits. Their smooth surfaces are slightly warm, faintly glowing in the dim light. They remind you of coconuts—hard on the outside, promising something softer within.
You sit yourself down before picking one up, turning it in your hands. A thin seam runs around the middle, subtle but visible. You remember seeing others twist them open so easily.
You press your thumbs into the seam and twist.
Nothing.
You frown and try again, applying more force. A quiet groan slips from you as you strain, fingers aching, feeling like they’re going to snap before the shell ever does.
You gasp as your finger suddenly breaks through the shell—too hard, too fast. There’s a sharp crack, and before you can react, the fruit splits unevenly in your hands.
Warm liquid and soft flesh spill out immediately.
“No—” you whine under your breath, scrambling to catch it, tilting your palms together as if that might somehow fix it. The contents slip through your fingers anyway, dripping onto the ground by the fire. You stare at the mess, shoulders slumping, frustration flashing across your face.
You let out a quiet, defeated huff, staring down at the ruined fruit.
As you’re groaning in defeat, your eyes lift—and meet a figure standing at the other edge of the firelight.
Neytiri.
She stands still, posture straight, her expression unreadable as the fire casts flickering shadows across her face. Her gaze drops briefly to the mess at your hands, then back to you. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire and your own uneven breathing.
Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively pull your hands closer to yourself, fingers sticky, embarrassed at having been caught mid-struggle.
Neytiri exhales softly through her nose—not quite a scoff, not quite a sigh. Then she steps forward, closing the distance with quiet, measured strides. Without a word, she crouches beside you and reaches for another fruit from the bowl.
She turns it once in her hands, then presses at a specific point along the seam. The shell splits cleanly with a dull crack.
She separates the outer layer and places the edible part gently in front of you.
“For humans,” she says calmly, “this part only.”
You hesitate, looking dumbfounded, then nod. “Thank you.”
Her gaze flicks down at you for just a moment, sharp and assessing, before she straightens and walks away.
You stare down at the fruit, cheeks still warm. Lifting your mask carefully, you take a small, cautious bite—sweet, grounding—trying hard not to think about how clumsy that must have looked.
When you swallow, you push your mask back down quickly, inhaling through the exopack.
Suddenly, you notice Spider from the corner of your eye, standing near one of the hut’s support beams, arms crossed, watching from a distance. He doesn’t say anything, just observes quietly, his brow slightly furrowed as if he’s trying to figure something out.
“Want some?” you ask, holding out a piece of the fruit toward him.
He glances at it, wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. “No. That stuff’s disgusting.” He mutters, turning and walking away without another word.
You watch him go, a little confused but you turn your attention back to the yummy fruit in your hands.
-
It was the next day and you wandered through the village and discovered Neytiri alone in a hut. Bundles of herbs were neatly arranged around her, and she was weaving small, intricate pieces of rope. She worked silently, every movement precise, almost meditative.
A faint twitch of her ear immediately senses your presence, and she turns sharply to face you before you even speak.
“Oh—hi,” you say, a little flustered. “can I help with what you’re doing?”
She stops, one brow slightly raised, and studies you for a long moment. Her gaze is sharp but unreadable—like she’s measuring you, trying to decide if you’re worth her attention.
“…You can,” she finally says, her voice calm but deliberate. “but pay attention. Do it carefully.” Her tone carries a firmness that makes you straighten immediately.
You kneel beside her as she hands you a small bundle of herbs. Your fingers fumble slightly at first, tangling the strands, but she doesn’t correct you.
“You must be gentle,” she murmurs, eyes on her weaving. “everything has balance. Too much force, it is ruined.”
You nod, concentrating, trying to mirror her movements. She doesn’t speak again, but her presence is steady, like a quiet anchor.
When you finish, she glances at your hands briefly, then looks away, her expression impossible to read. You’re left wondering if you did well—or if she even noticed.
Surprisingly, your smaller, softer human hands made weaving the tiny strands easier than you expected.
But she wasn’t about to let you sense a drop of approval for those stupid little pink human hands.
You finish the last of the tiny strands, setting your hands aside. You glance at Neytiri, still focused on her work, unreadable as ever.
“Y/N!”
You turn around, hearing Kiri calling your name.
You step outside, blinking against the sunlight and see her waiting there, bright and bubbly, with Spider by her side.
“We’re heading to the high camps,” Kiri says, her voice full of excitement. “you coming with us?”
The high camps are where the other humans reside—scientists, some of whom even have avatar bodies. They help Jake with defending against the RDA, managing supplies, and conducting research.
“Sure.” You nod, falling in step beside Kiri and Spider.
At first, you’re confused by the path they take.
The path opens into a wide clearing, and you spot Neteyam and Lo’ak waiting a few steps ahead. Three ikrans shift restlessly nearby, wings stretching and heads tilting curiously.
Kiri glances back at you with a grin. “It’s not really a destination you can reach on foot.” She says, her voice teasing.
She steps forward, reaching up to the Ikran before her, her fingers brushing the creature’s scales. With practiced ease, she performs Tsaheylu, and in one smooth motion, swings onto its back.
Spider follows without hesitation, hopping onto the same Ikran, settling in front of Kiri.
You stand frozen for a moment, taking it all in—the clearing, the Ikrans shifting beneath the sunlight, and the sight of Kiri and Spider already poised for flight.
You shift awkwardly, unsure where to put yourself, your gaze flicking between Kiri and Spider already mounted, and Neteyam and Lo’ak standing before their own Ikrans.
Lo’ak steps up to his Ikran and pats its back. “Hop on.”He says, grinning.
You freeze, your stomach twisting. “…You want me to ride that thing?” Your voice wavers, caught between awe and panic.
He chuckles. “It’s not going to eat you.”
“If you wanted to kill me, you could’ve just said so,” you scoff. “that thing is huge—and I’m not exactly a fan of heights…”
Lo’ak shakes his head, smirking. “Relax. It’s not that bad… and I’ll be behind you.”
You hesitate, taking a slow step toward the Ikran. It shifts beneath Lo’ak’s hand, wings flexing slightly.
Before you can protest again, there’s a sudden rustle from behind the trees.
Tuk?
Lo’ak spins around, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?!”
Tuk pops out from her hiding spot, grinning like she’s won something. “Mom said I could go with you,” she says proudly. “I didn’t wanna miss it.”
Lo’ak groans, rubbing his face. “You are so annoying.”
Tuk sticks her tongue out at him, letting out a quick, playful sound of triumph.
Neteyam, on the other hand, doesn’t look annoyed at all. He looks calm as ever, already adjusting the straps on his ikran. He glances at Tuk, then at Lo’ak, like the decision’s obvious.
“Then she rides with you.” He says simply.
Before Lo’ak can argue, Neteyam turns to you instead. He pats the space in front of him on his Ikran—firm, reassuring.
“Come on,” he says, steady and confident, a small smile tugging at his lips. “you’ll be fine.”
You blink, surprised, glancing between him and the Ikran. For a split second, you catch Lo’ak’s expression shift—barely there, just a tightening of his jaw before he looks away.
You swallow and step forward.
The Ikran lowers its head, turning slightly as it sniffs you causing you to flinch.
“It’s okay,” Neteyam says calmly. “it’s just curious.”
He steps closer, one hand steadying the ikran while the other reaches for you. “Here—put your foot here.”
You take his hand, your fingers small against his as he helps guide you up. Your heart pounds as you settle onto the saddle, suddenly very aware of how massive the ikran is beneath you. Your legs barely manage to straddle its back, stretched awkwardly, and you can’t tell if the creature is just enormous—or if you’re simply that small.
Before you can spiral, Neteyam moves smoothly behind you, mounting the ikran with practiced ease.
You peek a glance to the side and spot Lo’ak mounting his own ikran, Tuk already settled in front of him, practically buzzing with excitement as she grips the reins.
You don’t watch for long.
Your gaze snaps back down, hands tightening instinctively around the Ikrans harness. Your heart is already racing, thudding so hard it feels like it might leap out of your chest before the ikran ever does.
Kiri lifts first.
Her Ikran lets out a sharp sound before launching forward, wings beating hard as it surges upward. Spider laughs as he leans into the movement in front of her, already used to the rush.
Lo’ak watches them go, then glances back at you and Neteyam. His eyes linger for half a second longer than necessary before he turns away, urging his own Ikran forward. Tuk cheers loudly as they take off, her excitement echoing through the clearing.
That leaves you.
Your breath comes shallow, fingers trembling but locked tight around the harness. The Ikran beneath you tenses, muscles coiling, wings spreading wide.
Before it moves, Neteyam shifts closer. One arm slides firmly around your waist, the other grips the straddle in front of you.
“I’ve got you.” He says quietly, close to your ear.
The Ikran launches.
The force is instant and brutal—your stomach drops as the ground falls away, air ripping past you as it shoots upward. A startled gasp escapes you, your body instinctively pressing back into him.
Neteyam tightens his hold without a word, anchoring you as the Ikran climbs hard into the open sky.
You cling tighter, knuckles white, your heart pounding so loud you swear Neteyam can feel it.
And he does—he can hear it, feel the frantic rhythm against his chest, too fast, too sharp.
His grip tightens just a little, instinctive and protective, grounding rather than restraining. He leans in closer so the wind doesn’t steal his voice.
“Breathe,” he murmurs near your ear, low and steady. “I’ve got you.” He reassures you again.
The Ikran glides, wings stretching wide as the air smooths out beneath you. Your heartbeat is still racing, but not spiraling anymore—held in place by the certainty in his voice, the warmth of his presence at your back.
Against your better judgment, curiosity nudges past the fear. You tilt your head and steal a glance downward.
Your stomach flips instantly.
The forest stretches endlessly below, a sea of glowing green and blue, rivers like threads of light weaving through the canopy. It’s dizzying—terrifying in a way that makes your breath catch—but it’s also breathtaking. Beautiful in a way you’ve never seen before.
You suck in a shaky breath, torn between wanting to look away and wanting to see more, your fear tangled tightly with awe as Pandora opens up beneath you.
The Ikran glides straight toward the high camp, cutting cleanly through the air. The floating Hallelujah Mountains rise around you, but the camp is right there, perched on one of the larger platforms.
By the time you arrive, the others have already landed—Kiri with Spider near the edge, Lo’ak helping Tuk down.
Neteyam’s ikran eases to a steady hover above the platform. He reaches around you, helping guide you safely to the surface.
Around you, the high camp buzzes with activity—humans and avatar bodies.
You and Neteyam move carefully along the platform, following the others as they begin heading inside one of the labs. The interior is humming with energy—supplies stacked neatly, consoles blinking softly.
You guys step into the lab, the filtered air humming quietly around you. Lo’ak grabs a breathing mask and hands one to Tuk, who giggles as she slips it over her nose for a cautious breath. One by one, the others—Kiri and Neteyam included—put theirs on, inhaling deeply before letting drop on their neck.
Spider leans against a console and smirks, peeling his mask off. “In here, the roles are switched.” He grins.
You lift your mask, feeling the clean air fill your lungs. The relief is instant, and you can’t help but take a careful, deep breath, enjoying the simple luxury of breathing without an exopack.
You watch as Kiri moves swiftly through the lab, weaving easily between consoles and equipment. Your eyes follow her until she stops in front of a glass tank, the soft hum of machinery filling the room. Inside rests an avatar body, still and serene, bathed in dim, blue-tinted light.
The others drift behind you, Neteyam and Lo’ak flanking the way, Spider lingering near Kiri. Tuk, curious as ever, wanders off a few steps, inspecting gadgets and beeping screens, momentarily distracted from the main group.
Kiri doesn’t take her eyes off the tank. Her voice is quiet, reverent. “That… that’s my mother.” She says, a whisper more to herself than anyone else, as though speaking it aloud helps make the reality tangible.
You blink, confusion written all over your face.
Kiri turns to you, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, I’m actually adopted,” she explains softly. “it’s a bit complicated.”
You nod slowly, trying to process it, your gaze flicking back to the avatar in the tank.
“So… who do you think knocked her up?” Lo’ak asks, half‑grinning.
Spider snorts.
“Pretty sure it was Norm.”Lo’ak adds.
“Totally.” Spider agrees.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself, more out of surprise than amusement.
Kiri lifts her head, eyes sharp. “You do not deserve to live.” she says flatly, staring at both of them.
“No, no—think about it,” Lo’ak says quickly, raising his hands. “I mean, he’s the teacher’s pet. He was always at the lab with her.”
“I would kill myself,” Kiri spits. “I would drink acid.”
Lo’ak presses on, unable to help himself. “I’m just saying—two avatars, out in the forest, all alone—”
“Gross!” Kiri snaps, shoving him playfully.
“Guys,” Spider cuts in, voice suddenly quieter, stripped of humor. “sometimes… it’s not so great knowing who your father is.”
The room goes still.
Kiri and Lo’ak both turn to him, their expressions changing—something sober and heavy settling between them.
Spider shifts, uncomfortable. “Whatever.” He mutters, stepping off to the side.
Kiri watches him for a moment, then moves after him, slipping her arms around him from behind. “You are not him.” she says softly.
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