notes another of my heavy smut with a plot (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), bondage, angst :(, mean neteyam (at first, and he will suffer for this 😈), possessive neteyam, reader is so good at taunting neteyam so there are lots of angry sex,,, BYE--
synopsis you and neteyam have been fuck buddies for over a year now, existing in a bubble full of tension and secretive glances. he had imposed a rule of no kissing early on, claiming it would only complicate things— until a game of truth or dare was played... and apparently, he has no issue being kissed at all.
word count 13.7k (sorry i’m just so incapable of writing short fics huhu </3)
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
White streaks of pleasure marred your vision as your body convulsed. You lifted your head, your eyes seeking his. You wanted to kiss him, to claim his mouth, to taste him, to deepen the intimacy of the moment, so you leaned in, your lips parting, just a whisper away from his.
And then he pulled back, a sudden, sharp movement. His eyes, though still clouded with desire, held a strange, almost wary expression.
"No," he rasped, his voice rough with exertion. His hips stilled for a moment. "No kissing."
Your breath hitched. The words hung in the air, it felt like cold water was poured on the rising flame of your passion. You stared at him, your lips still parted, a silent question in your eyes.
He began to move again, his thrusts resuming, but the intensity had shifted. "It's too much," he explained, his voice low, almost gruff. "It fools. Makes you think it's more than it is." He grunted, pushing deep. "Didn’t we want pleasure? This is pleasure." His hips drove into you, powerful and amost brutal. "Kissing... It complicates things." He said the word with a dismissive edge, as if it were a weakness. "We don't need that."
An unexpected pang pierced through the haze of your desire. It was a cold truth, delivered with the blunt force of his thrusts. You swallowed, there’s bitterness in your mouth. Your body, however, still craves release, so you closed your eyes, pushing the thoughts away, focusing only on the raw, physical sensations, on the way he filled you, stretched you, claimed you. You let go, letting the waves of pleasure wash over you, pushing everything else into the background.
Moons had spun into a year since that night. You should have known better. But you hadn’t, and now you’re here, your heart chained to the simplicity he craved, unable to truly ask for what it wants. What used to be desire for his roughness in bed had transformed into a hollow ache. You found yourself yearning for a different kind of touch, something softer, and a lingering gaze that means more than just release.
For nearly a year, this silent alcove, a little over a short walk from the central communal areas, had been your sanctuary, your secret. It was here that you and Neteyam usually meet, your bodies finding a language words could not articulate, or perhaps, refused to.
You arched into him, your hips instinctively grinding against his. You wanted more. You needed more. Your fingers tangled in his braids, pulling, urging him closer, deeper. Your bodies slapped together, producing a wet sound that aroused him even more. You clenched around him, milking him. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breathing heavy, his eyes drifting down to your lips, and for a moment you saw fustration and longing in the depths of his eyes before he closed it and moved his face away to bury it in your neck. You felt the muscles in his back bunch and released with each powerful stroke.
“Oh, Neteyam...” you moaned weakly, holding onto him tightly.
“Good, baby?” he asked, driving into your harder and faster, his hips slamming against yours.
You nodded frantically, your cries mingling with his guttural grunts. Your body convulsed, a wave of intense pleasure seizing you, squeezing him tight. He groaned and then, with a final thrust, he spilled his seed deep inside you, his body shuddering against yours. He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy, his breath ragged.
He stayed there for a long moment, catching his breath and kissing your skin both at the same time. Then, he shifted, pulling out slowly, caressing your waist up to your breast when you mewled at the sudden emptiness, but he soon rolled off you, pulling a soft hide from his satchel to gently, almost tenderly, clean you before wiping himsef. He helped you sit up, pulling your top back over your shoulders and fixing your braids, his movements a strange mix of detachment and care.
He stood, gathering his things. The quick, efficient way he dressed, the lack of lingering, it was all part of the routine. The routine he had established, the one you had agreed to, the one that now felt like a suffocating blanket. He turned, his golden eyes, usually so intense, now held a detached warmth. "You’re staying again?" he asked, his voice low, still thick with arousal.
You rolled your eyes and shrugged, looking at whatever but him.
He stood there for so long before nodding. “I’ll get going then... Don’t take too long.”
Then, he was gone then, a shadow lost into the deeper shadows, leaving you alone, the lingering scent of him and the phantom ache between your legs the only evidence of what had transpired. You lay back, staring up at the jagged ceiling, a hollowness settling in your chest that no amount of physical release could fill. That night, you told yourself that was how you wanted it too: rough, animalistic, no strings, no complications. You repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince yourself that nothing mattered, that the yearning for a kiss, for something more, was just a foolish, fleeting emotion.
Your body still craved his, the raw, uninhibited release he offered. But something had shifted within you. The fierce, rough intimacy that once satisfied you now felt…incomplete. You watched him, a warrior among warriors, strong, capable, his laughter echoing across the communal fire, and a tenderness you had sworn to suppress bloomed in your chest.
You love him.
The realization had come slowly, like a vine wrapping itself around your heart, tightening with each passing day. You love his quiet strength, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the kindness he showed to the younger clan members. And now, the "no kissing" rule felt like a cruel barrier, a constant reminder of the emotional wall he built between you two.
Tonight, the air thrummed with a different kind of energy. Festivities. The harvest had been bountiful and the hunt successful. Laughter and music spilled from the Hometree’s communal clearing, mingling with the aroma of roasted food and sweet fruits. You sat by the large fire, among the boisterous circle of your fellow hunters and warriors, a leaf of honeyed hexapede that Neteyam gave you sitting on your lap.
You picked at the meat, the sweetness dancing on your tongue. The sounds of the celebration washed over you as Lo'ak, ever the instigator, had started a game of truth or dare. Your eyes uncontrollably flitted to Neteyam, catching him watching you from where he is, and your felt the urge to roll your eyes away to look at Lo’ak, but not before seeing how surprised Neteyam is with that little gesture.
"Truth or dare!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. "Who dares to be honest, or bold?"
Your eyes flitted back to him again, catching him still looking at you with a ghost of smile on his lips. A ripple of excitement went through the group. You watched, chewing slowly on the hexapede, awaiting which couple will Lo’ak pair up like he did in the past. A group of young huntresses pushed at Sylweyn, making her laugh and give in to their encouragement.
"Sylweyn!" Lo'ak's voice boomed, carrying above the laughter and cheers. "Truth or Dare?"
Sylweyn, a lithe huntress with eyes that sparkled with mischief, grinned, her white teeth flashing. "Dare! Always dare!"
Lo'ak's grin widened. "I dare you to kiss the man you want to… fuck." He emphasized the last word with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, eliciting more laughter and hoots.
A hush fell over the circle, a collective anticipation. Sylweyn’s gaze swept across the faces, lingering for a moment on a few, then, with a confident, almost predatory smile, she fixed on Neteyam. He stood taller and broader than the others, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched nonchalantly.
Sylweyn moved with a fluid grace, her hips swaying subtly. She stopped in front of Neteyam, her eyes, dark and alluring, meeting his. He looked down at her and you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He was always polite to others and now, you can see how his facial expression didn’t change. He didn't move, didn't stoop, didn't offer to meet her halfway.
Sylweyn giggled anyway, a low, throaty sound that made the blood pound in your ears. She rose onto the tips of her toes, her hands reaching up to cup his face. She stretched and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, quick, a brush of lips, but it was a kiss nonetheless. A kiss he had denied you countless times.
A spasm, sharp and painful, gripped your heart. You looked down at your leaf, at the glistening piece of honeyed hexapede. You picked it up, putting it in your mouth, but you couldn't chew. The sweetness turned to ash as you tried to smile along with their cheers. You swallowed, a dry, agonizing gulp, there’s pain in your chest that makes it impossible to breathe properly. The laughter and cheers from the circle seemed to mock you, amplifying the sharp, internal ache.
Lo’ak quickly moved on, oblivious of the turmoil brewing within you. "Savko!" he called out, his voice cutting through the lingering laughter and cheers. "Your turn, brother! Truth or dare?"
Savko, a broad-shouldered hunter known for his prowess and quiet confidence, grinned. "Dare. Can’t risk any of you learning my secrets.“
"Alright!" Lo'ak clapped his hands together, his eyes glinting. "Same dare. I dare you to kiss the woman you want to… fuck in this circle!"
Another wave of anticipation rippled through the gathering as you tried to break the meat into smaller pieces, trying to quell the tremors in your hands, the searing pain in your chest. You heard the shuffling of feet, the murmurs, but you kept your gaze fixed on the food now, pretending to be busy.
Then, a shadow fell over you. The scent of damp leaves and something uniquely masculine, not Neteyam’s, filled your nostrils. You lifted your head. It was Savko. He stood over you, his tall frame blocking the firelight, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. He was one of the clan's most skilled hunters, his reputation well-earned. There was also no denying he was good-looking, a competent man in his own right, though your heart had never stirred for him as it did for Neteyam.
"Hi," he greeted, his voice a low rumble, a pleasant sound that brought a blush to your cheeks despite yourself.
You tilted your head, your lips parting slightly, a silent acknowledgement.
"I'll kiss you," he said, his gaze steady. "Can I?"
Your lips parted further. You were no longer thinking, you felt as though your mind had been clouded with smoke, too focused on the ache in your chest. You simply shrug, a small, involuntary movement of your shoulders. The world felt distant and unreal. Neteyam’s kiss with Sylweyn gnawed at your chest. It all boiled down into a strange apathy. What did it matter?
Savko took your shrug as an invitation. The circle cheered as he knelt, gracefully, his hand reaching out, his hand gently cupping your jaw. He tilted your head up. His eyes, so close now, held a surprising tenderness. You expected a quick, chaste peck, like Neteyam's with Silwey, a mere brush of lips for the sake of the dare. But Savko lingered.
He lowered his head slowly, his eyes still locked with yours. His breath, warm and sweet, ghosted over your mouth. Then his lips met yours, soft at first, a gentle pressure. He didn’t rush. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth opening slightly, inviting you in. A small whimper escaped your throat, a sound of surprise, of something akin to yearning. You felt the soft insistence of his tongue against your lips, a tentative exploration.
Your lips parted further, a hesitant response. It was a kiss, a real kiss, different from the rough, unkissed encounters you shared with Neteyam. You felt a flicker of something warm, unfurling in your chest, momentarily overshadowing the pain. You almost moved to kiss him back, to see what this might feel like, to finally experience the intimacy you craved.
But then, a sudden, violent yank. Savko was torn away from you, a guttural growl erupting from somewhere above. The kiss broke abruptly, leaving your lips tingling, your mind reeling but you were still able to hear the gasps and surprised screams of those around you.
"No one said anything about you eating her face up, brother." Deep and laced with an unfamiliar fury, Neteyam’s voice was heard. The action looked so sudden, so brutal, that a wave of panic washed over you. You scrambled to your feet, your eyes wide.
Neteyam held Savko by the nape of his neck. Savko's feet even lifted off the ground for a moment from the aggressiveness of it. Neteyam’s face was a mask of cold rage, his lips pulled back to show his fang.
"It's alright," you said, your voice trembling, a desperate plea as you looked at Neteyam. "Let him go."
He released Savko with a violent shove, sending the hunter almost stumbling. Neteyam didn't spare Savko another glance. His head snapped towards you, his eyes locking onto yours. The look he gave you was sharp, almost as though you had betrayed him, stabbed him through the heart. Something hard in his eyes intensified, now mixed with what looked like hurt that twisted your gut.
The warmth from Savko's kiss vanished. Don’t think too much into this, you told yourself. Neteyam didn't want you, not truly. But he didn't want anyone else to have you either. You felt a wave of nausea, the honeyed hexapede you ate threatening to rise. You eased back down, sinking onto your heels. You looked away, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, wishing they would swallow you whole.
Lo’ak clapped and hooted. “Hoo! My brother, the perfect soldier, as always. Looking after our huntresses, very protective, just in case the kiss going further than necessary was uncalled for,“ he grinned at you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice a little serious now as he threw his brother a confused glance.
You nodded. “Yeah. And it wasn’t uncalled for,” you said, glancing at Savko who had returned to his seat now.
He looked so apologetic even though he had done nothing wrong that you also felt a bit of shame and guilt for reasons you can’t pinpoint. The heat of Neteyam’s gaze pricked at your skin from where he is but you didn’t look his way. You resolved to talk to Savko after the festivities, not about the kiss but about what happened after. The poor lad was probably thinking you felt violated because of Neteyam’s reaction. Unfortunately, when the game was over, Savko faded into the throng of Omatikayas in the center of the clearing, and you lost sight of him altogether as the night went on.
You were drinking from a cup of fermented wine when you felt a hand on your elbow, and before you could even turn your head to see who it was, you were already pulled into a dark alcove of the communal clearing. The familiar smell told you it was Neteyam and you pulled your elbow back, shaking his hand off.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice deep and thick with emotion.
Your forehead creased. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“He kissed you,“ he pointed out. Even though it was dimmed, you could see how angry he still is, he’s practically vibrating with it.
You stared at him. You can’t believe this. You can’t believe him. It both angered and hurt you to see such a strong reaction from him over that. “I said it was alright. I’m a grown woman and it's not like he forced me.”
He let out a breath that sounded like it was laced with frustration. “So, that's how it is? You're going to allow random men to kiss you if they asked—”
The crease between your brows deepen. Where is this coming from? “I don’t understand and I don’t know what you're talking about. Why is this an issue?” you asked. You would never dare jump into a conclusion that he's jealous because he would never be.
“You are mine, that’s what,“ he said, his hand found your forearm but you evaded it.
The confirmation of you earlier thoughts was cruel but there it was, sending a blow of ache in your chest without your approval. You were right. He didn't want you in any way close to his heart but he also doesn't want other men playing with what's his. It’s all about him and what he feels you shouldn’t do in respect of him.
You tilted your head. “Look,“ you glanced back to the festivities. “Sylweyn also kissed you—”
“I didn't allow her to kiss me—”
“Not explicitly, no, but there was barely any refusal at all. So still, she kissed you, didn’t she? But I won’t make an issue of it, I don’t see the need to,” you said, your pride taking over, refusing to let him know how much that kiss had hurt you.
He closed fhe distance between you two, his ears were pinned back against his head and his eyes intense on you. “Make an issue of it then. Yell at me. Tell me that it made you furious. Do not—“
“Why would I do that?“ you cut him off. “We’re both free to do what we want, aren’t we?”
He stared at you, “Huh. Is this your way of telling me you’re going there with Savko?” He looks so mad now and if you were in a better headspace, you would have celebrated already.
You rolled your eyes. “Do I need to tell you?“ you asked. “I don't think you would have thought of consulting me if you happen to fuck Sylweyn one of these days—”
His hand grabbed your forearm and in truth, you expected him to press or hold you tight, but his hold was light, gentle even in his rage. “I’m not going there with her. And you. are. not. going to start anything with Savko either,“ his deep voice grated, telling you how much he's struggling to bite his words to lower his voice down.
Your back hit the rough bark of one of the Hometree’s large columns, he was so close you could feel him trembling with all his emotions. You sighed, pressing a hand against his chest to push him away and his eyes, so intently focused on you drifted down to your hand. His other hand moved up to hold it but you already withdraw yours, leaving him chasing for it but you hid it behind you and balled your hand into a fist.
“Don’t speak too soon, Neteyam. She seems to really like you, what was Lo’ak’s words? Kiss the person you want to fuck,” you kept your lips parted to taunt him and his lips stayed there for a moment before it lifted up to meet yours. “Too tempting?”
You hated pushing him to Sylweyn, but at the same time... You also don't want to wait for him to discard you for her. You'd instigate it now while you can still do it.
He bared his fangs silently, though, his lips pulled back tightly. “Were you tempted? With Savko? Is that what you're saying?”
What a thick head this man has. He’s completely missing the point!
“I don’t know,“ you looked back at the gathering, spotting Sylweyn craning her neck as if she's looking for someone. Your eyes darkened and annoyance rose in you, but your eyes drifted back to Neteyam and caught him staring at your face. You smirked, crossing an arm, “See, she's looking for you.”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
You stepped out of the dark, “Sylweyn! Sister!” you called in a sweet voice, waving your hand in the air, catching her attention right away. “Are you looking for Neteyam? He's here!”
You heard a loud groan behind you but you already walked away, only looking back to see Sylweyn catching up to Neteyam who was still looking at you with a sulking face plastered on and eyes that promised punishment.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“Focus,” you said, your voice cutting through the morning stillness. “The arrow won’t hit its mark if your mind wanders. Feel the wood. Feel the string.” You demonstrated, drawing the bowstring back, holding it steady before releasing. The arrow flew burying itself deep in the woven target.
A ripple of murmurs went through the group. You watched their attempts, correcting stances, adjusting grips. Neteyam moved among them, too, his own movements silent and fluent, but he he hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. He grunts or grumbles every time his trainees make a mistake, one would think he’s swallowed his tongue. His jaw was perpetually tight and his scowl deepened with every passing moment.
When the training was done, you stayed behind to take care of the bows, putting them all back in its place, while Savko lingered to pluck all the arrows from the woven targets, collecting them. He caught your eye, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips. You offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, before turning around to grab the bows behind you.
Neteyam’s breath hitched, his eyes narrowing at Savko before they followed your moving form, watching you move gracefully like a sun lily blown by the wind, and a sudden ache pierced his chest, mingling with his earlier irritation. It’s been days since you two last talked and he’s counted the times you spared him a glance in those days, which is zero, and he knows because his eyes had always been on you whenever you're around.
He moved without thinking, his long strides devouring the distance between them. He stopped beside Savko, his shadow falling over the hunter’s face. “I’ll finish that, brother,” Neteyam’s voice, low and resonant, vibrated with a suppressed fury. “You can go.” He held out a hand, palm open.
Savko's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of defiance. He glanced at your back, still angled away, then back to Neteyam’s unyielding face. He slowly placed the arrow into Neteyam’s waiting hand, his shoulders slumping. He strode away, and Neteyam turned to the quivers, his movements deliberate. Each arrow he pulled free, he placed into the storage rack with a resounding thud that echoed through the quiet clearing. One. Two. Three... Each thud was punctuated by heavy sighs, each one more loaded than the last.
You finished arranging the last of the practice bows, rubbing your palms together, the dust of the wood still clinging to your skin. You turned and realized that the training grounds had emptied, leaving you and Neteyam alone. You grimaced as a sharp pang of bitterness twisted in you, remembering the last few nights you spent crying over the kiss he shared with Sylweyn. The act in itself wouldn’t have made you so bitter if he hadn’t denied you what he had freely given Sylweyn. You let out a sharp huff, blinking away the fresh wave of heat in your eyes, turning on your heels to quietly leave.
Neteyam’s eyes, dark and stormy, fixed on your back. “Planning to meet Savko?” His words, sharp and laced with mockery, sliced through the air.
Your forehead furrowed. The sheer audacity of his tone ignited a spark of irritation. “You seem to be projecting, ma ‘teyam. Why? Have you met with Sylweyn?”
His steps ate up the space between you in a matter of seconds but you didn’t budge, still looking at him with a taunting glint in your eyes. “Why would I meet her?”
You crossed your arms. “I don’t know, maybe fuck her behind thickets,” you said, your voice low and laced with a sweetness you didn’t feel. “You’re good at that.”
A low hiss escaped him. Once again, he’s vibrating with anger and since you have shooed the heavy clouds looming over your head away, you’re now able to relish in his frustration. “I have only ever been with you. I have never slept with other women—”
“Yet,” you cut him off.
His eyes flared. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for it to happen because it won’t,“ his large hand touched your forearm, light as a feather, sending goosebumps prickling across your skin. “You are the only one…” He trailed off, his fingers moving up your arm softly, tracing a path that ignited a different kind of heat, warring with your anger.
“Yeah,” you scoffed, pulling your arm from his touch. “The easiest girl in the clan. The most convenient hole for your frustrations—”
“Do not say that!” His voice came out hard and tight. His eyes, usually a calming gold, now burned with an intensity that made your breath catch.
You met his gaze, refusing to back down. “I wonder why, Neteyam? Can’t they make your cock as hard as I can?”
"Is that what you think this is? You think I come to you because you’re easy? Because you're convenient?"
Even the words sound ridiculous to you. He is Neteyam, everyone knows he could have anyone he wants without lifting a finger. Surely, if there were a race to see who could shed their loincloth the fastest for him, you definitely wouldn't be placing first, yet here he is, standing in front of you. You pushed these thoughts at the back of your mind, though, keeping hold of your anger.
"Isn't it?" you shot back, stepping into his space, your chest nearly brushing his. "You get everything you want from me. You get the release, you get the secrecy, and then you get to walk away and be the honorable warrior everyone expects you to be. Meanwhile, I'm just the girl who knows exactly how loud the Golden Son can groan when he loses control."
Neteyam’s jaw clench, ears pulled back, and his tail lashed behind him with the violent whip-crack of a predator pushed to its limit. "Stop," he warned.
"Why? Does the truth make you uncomfortable?" You let out a mocking laugh, poking a finger hard into the center of his chest. "Here’s your no complications, Neteyam. I’m giving it to you. So, I don’t understand why you are being territorial where there are no territories to stake your claim. We want pleasure and we get pleasure, from anyone—”
A primal sound escaped his throat, something between a snarl and a groan. His hands clamped around your waist, pulling you against him. “If you want pleasure, I will give it to you. Don't you dare say you can find this anywhere else. No other man can make you come apart the way I do."
You pushed him away, but he didn't budge, which is not surprising because it was a reluctant push. You felt his hand moved further south until it reached your ass. He lifted you easily and you pushed at him, but still wrapped your legs around his waist, your inner thighs squeezing his hips. In frantic movements, he carried you a few steps behind an alcove that hides you two from view, your back hitting the bark of an ancient column. Your loincloth was already riding high, his insistent hard-on grinding against your wetness, sending jolts of pleasure through your core.
He lowered his head down and for a moment you thought he’d go for your neck but he was aiming for you lips! You were able to move your head to the side, his lips landing inches away from your mouth. He hissed and you hissed back, his eyes met yours before his head dropped to your neck, his teeth scraping over your skin, a possessive bite that made you gasp.
“You are mine,” he rasped against your neck, his words hot, his tongue tracing the delicate curve of your neck up to yours ear. “Only mine.”
Your hips bucked against his, a silent challenge. “I’m not."
He pulled back, his eyes blazing, a dangerous glint in their depths. He merely put his loincloth aside, pulling his already aroused cock before his fingers, calloused and strong, moved the crotch of your own. A deep groan vibrated in his chest when he found you already wet, his fingers sliding across your folds.
“You’re so wet, baby...” he rasped, his voice thick with lust.
You rolled your eyes. “It’s almost as if my body would react this way to anyone touching me,“ you countered, your palms flat on his chest, pushing him back, when his face moved closer to yours again.
He stared at you, the air around him seemed to solidify, the anger vibrating off his skin seemed so tangible you could almost touch it. His eyes darkened with a sudden, sharp menace that made your pulse jump. You felt him hold his cock under you before easily maneuvering your body so he could rub the head against your slippery folds, a tantalizing drag that made you arch your back, your breath hitching.
“Too bad, then? Because there will be no one before me and no one after. They can try, but they won’t be successful... Unless they’re looking for an early meeting with Eywa.”
He pushed inside you in a single thrust, filling you and claiming you. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure, your nails digging into his shoulders. You scratched him, leaving reddened marks and you heard him chuckle. He didn’t even bother covering your mouth, uncaring about who hears you, especially when a string of moans uncontrollably escaped you as he delivers a series of punishing thrusts without waiting for you to adjust to his girth. He pulled out almost entirely, then plunged back in, a hard, deep thrust that made your head loll back against the bark, your eyes closing.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
You opened your eyes, meeting his fierce gaze with a glare. His other arm wrapped behind you, his hand holding your nape before delivering relentless thrusts, pounding into you with a force that promised you’ll feel him between your legs tonight as you sleep. Each thrust was a declaration and a punishment, but somewhere along, a desperate plea for something. Your pussy gripped him, tight and wet, milking every inch of his cock. The wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your moans and his groans filled the alcove.
At some point, you’d bitten your lip to stop your moans, but he lowered his head, bending at the waist to put one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking at your nipple hard, knowing what it does to you. A guttural moan tore at your throat, your legs wrapping tighter around him, urging him to go deeper, faster.
He grabbed your hips, moving you away slightly, then slamming you back down onto his cock that earned him a louder moan from you. Your climax was building, tightening your muscles, making your vision blur. You bucked against him, desperate for release, your body screaming for more.
“Neteyam!” you cried, your voice breaking.
“Yes, baby,“ he answered, driving into you, one last, shattering thrust, and you shattered around him, a wracking orgasm that left you trembling, your body convulsing around his thick cock as you held on his shoulders. He groaned, his body tensing as he hugged you tighter to him, pushing your ass further on him as he poured himself into you, a hot, pulsing gush that filled you to overflowing.
He leaned his forehead against yours, both of you panting, sweat slicking your skin. His breath was ragged, his body still trembling. His hand rose to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth. He leaned in, his eyes searching yours, a softer, more vulnerable hunger replacing the anger. He moved to claim your lips, a slow, tentative movement, a desire for intimacy that had been forbidden for so long.
But then you turned your head, pulling away, breaking the connection. His lips brushed your cheek instead. The ache in your chest, the one that had been dulled by the raw intensity of your coupling, returned with a sharp, familiar pang. You pushed at his chest, wriggling your legs so he’d let you down and he did, gently putting your feet on the ground. He pulled out, slowly, followed by a gush of warm liquid pouring out of you and trickling down your already wet inner thighs.
“Fuck...“ his hoarse voice dragged the word, his hand shotting down to touch you there but you pushed his hand away, wiping yourself with your own woven cloth.
His hand remained frozen mid-air, watching you fix yourself as properly as you could. When you’re done, you looked up at him, patting his shoulders. “Thanks. I’ll get going,” you said, turning on your heels to walk away.
His eyes followed you, his mind still hazy with lust and desire, but the ache that was previously gripping his heart like a vine has returned with a much stronger intensity, making him catch his breath. He felt hollowed somehow, as he always were every time he leaves you behind in the past, but it has found an intensity he cannot ignore now. He fixed himself, trying to dismiss the insistent ache that threatened to burst inside him.
He had convinced himself he was going you a favor by making things uncomplicated, free of sentiments that will only hurt you both. He has a duty to the clan. One day, the council will choose a woman for him and he knew he needed to fill the role he was born to play. He was so sure he could do his duty, just as he always had, and it will only hurt you if you developed feelings for him...
It doesn’t matter if he is drowning in his feelings for you. He could handle himself. But now... Now, his own arrogance had come back as a stab on his chest, because as he thinks of you... And thinks of the duty he needed to do, of the clan, of his parents, it all paled in comparison, dwarfed by the prospect of you tethered to him forever.
Meanwhile, you left the alcove without looking back, just as you were sure he hadn’t during the times he’d left you behind. Rounding a corner back to the training grounds, you almost bumped into Lo’ak, a small group of young hunters tailing him, likely heading back from a late-day check of the perimeters.
His eyes widened a fraction, taking in your appearance. “Whoa! You good? You looked like you just ran through the entire Hallelujah Mountains range—”
You hissed at him, brushing past them. Lo’ak followed you with his gaze, tilting his head, barking a distracted order at the young hunters, his eyes still fixed on where you disappeared, and when he looked back at the alcove you vacated, he did a double take, his heart skittering when he saw his older brother, the always put-together, ready-for-anything Neteyam, stepping out of it.
His chest was heaving, his skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and the feathers tucked into his braids were tangled. He seemed too lost in his own thoughts he didn’t even bother throwing a glance at their bunch. He remembered your disheveled state and now, his brother’s shell-shocked expression. Lo’ak’s lips parted in realization. “Oh.”
His pupils dilated, he felt like someone had turned a light on inside his head, allowing him to see things clearly. He remembered his brother’s reaction during the festival, how he had practically manhandled Savko away from you, how Neteyam has been ill-tempered for days since that, snapping at anyone who moved too slowly, yet turning silent as a yerik once you’ve entered the training grounds.
He remembered how that had not been the only time Neteyam acted out of character when it came to you. How, years ago, when you and your friends were accompanied by a couple of young boys to go out and watch the descent of hundreds of fish from the mountain stream. Neteyam had been the drill sergeant of a supposedly grueling archery drill, but he let the young trainees go an hour early, and then ask the warriors their age if they want to go and watch the stupid fish show, only to hover around you the entire time.
Or that time when you’d taken a minor scrape during a practice skirmish in the forest. Neteyam, who usually preached that a warrior must embrace pain, had left his post in the middle of a live drill, reaching you before the blood even bloomed at your scrape, his hands checking the scratch on your arm with a tremor that didn't belong on a future leader. He’d snapped at the rest of the unit for "lack of focus”, but when you got mad for blowing things out of proportion over a single scrape, Neteyam looked like a chastised child.
Later that night, as the communal fire crackled and the scent of roast and fermented fruit wine filled the air, Lo’ak observed his brother beside him on the dais, noting his lack of appetite and his eyes that seemed to always dart to where you’re sitting with your friends. Unlike his brother, you seemed to be in a good disposition and Lo’ak can’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head.
His jaw almost dropped when he saw Savko making his way to your spot, a leaf of plate in his hand. Lo’ak subtly looked at his brother sideways, checking, and Neteyam didn’t disappoint. There seems to be a thick cloud of gloom over his head, his eyes fixed on you and Savko, his lips pulled back in a thin line.
You looked up at Savko, seeing a shy smile on his face, holding out a small, leaf plate. On it, nestled on a bed of soft petals, lay a sweet pie, its surface glistening with honeyed berries.
“For you,” he offered, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
A ripple of knowing hoots and teasing laughter erupted from your friends and you felt a blush of embarrassment creep up your neck, but you accepted the offering with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Savko. It looks delicious.”
Your friends playfully pulled him down, pushing him to sit beside you and your eyes flitted anxiously on the dais, correct in assuming that someone was watching. You quickly buried down the concern, telling yourself you shouldn’t care about what he feels. You scooted an few inches away from Savko though. It didn't feel right to sit beside another man when you can literally still feel the shape of Neteyam’s girth between your thighs, and can’t even sit properly because of the phantom feeling of his movements in you.
“I was planning to talk to you earlier... I tried helping with the arrows, but Neteyam said he got it.“
Your smile faltered a little, but you were able to stop a grimace from forming. “Ah... Yes. Well, he handled it. How was your hunt?” you asked, changing the topic.
Neteyam watched you intently, admiring how the fire seemed to dance on your face, making you look even more captivating. He knew your smiles when you’re truly happy, it reaches your eyes, and he wanted to hurl whatever he gets his hands on at the thought of Savko seeing it right now, though he never knew himself to be violent. He saw you laugh, your head tilting back when Savko said something, and your friends around you laughed as well. He saw the way Savko’s gaze lingered on your face, the attraction in them obvious. A low growl rumbled in his chest and Lo’ak jolted, clearing his throat.
“Oh, Savko was quick!” he said casually, snickering. He’s quickly piecing the puzzles together and the picture it's forming into didn’t sit right with him. His brother is obviously hiding you in the dark and if he were to decide, he thinks his brother deserves a particular punishment. “I always knew he had the hots for her, but I thought he was afraid to go and approach her, reason why I dared him, but,” he munched on a berry. “he wasn’t a coward, clearly, approaching her in public like that. I even heard his friends encouraging him to court her, but the courting season wouldn't be until a few moons so he’s got one hell of a headstart.”
Well, the courting bit was a lie, but Lo’ak felt a petty urge to twist the knife and it seemed to have done its job. Neteyam’s eyes snapped at Lo’ak, “What?”
He shrugged, relishing the way his brother’s features hardened into mask of suppressed fury. “I just heard it. I mean, look at them. I seemed to have made another pair, bro, remember Kaklen and Mana last time? They are mated now! They practically made out during my game last year—”
“Shut up, man,” Neteyam said, his chest felt like it has constricted, squeezing his lungs and not allowing him to breathe properly.
He hated how easily Savko has wormed his way into your life and even more, he hated how the hunter seemed determined to stay. The worst part was that Neteyam was powerless; any move he made to intervene would only push you further away than you already were. He’s made a huge mistake he didn’t know how to rectify, he knew something has shifted since the night of the festival, and he couldn’t even bring himself to get mad at Lo’ak for instigating it. His brother had done him a favor by prying his eyes open before it was too late.
He was the eldest son, for crying out loud. Sharing is probably the first virtue he ever learned, it was ingrained in him, a duty. But with you… It’s a different story. You are his. A truth he’d never even allowed himself to fully admit, but one that burned in his gut every time another hunter dared to look at you too long, or laugh too freely at your jokes. He’d always prided himself on his fairness, but any warrior who earned your smile, your laughter, found themselves on his list, marked for extra patrols, for arduous tasks.
And now, the burning image of Savko beside you was a bitter pill he couldn’t swallow.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You rolled over your mat, desperate to get your sleep back even as the morning sun dappled inside the small alcove that was your room. You knew it wll be impossible though, because the usual peaceful silence in your family’s hut was now replaced with the sound of a hammer hitting something and the low murmur of male voices.
You sat up with a groan, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before standing up to step out into the receiving area. Your steps were halted when you see Neteyam’s back though, his braids pulled into a careless tie, and his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. He was standing in front one of the support beams that anchored the heavy thatch of the hut's roof, fixing what’s amiss.
Your father, standing near the beam as well, saw you and grinned. “You’re finally awake! Your friend, Neteyam, came by," your father was saying, his voice thick with gratitude. "I’ve walked past this pillar every day for three seasons. I wouldn't have noticed the wood was beginning to fray at the base if Neteyam hadn't pointed it out. The whole structure could have shifted by the next monsoon."
Neteyam didn't turn to look at you, his focus entirely on the vine lashing he was tightening with expert precision. "It is a common oversight," he replied, his voice a low, steady rumble. "The weight distributes evenly until it doesn't. Better to reinforce it now while the weather is dry."
Your mother stepped out of the cooking area, bringing out a bowl of broth, and smiling at you. “That boy has the eyes of a hawk," she whispered, leaning in so only you could hear. "Just the other day, he brought me a bundle of salt-root from his patrol. I hadn't even mentioned I was out, but apparently, Kalo has told him when he was teaching your brother how to fish.”
You seemed so out of loop. You two haven’t talked for days since your last “conversation” in the alcove at the training grounds. You still see him when you work with the young trainees, but he’s kept a respectful distance, and wasn’t actively breathing down your neck, or throwing his weight around. Granted, Savko was out for a week-long hunt and he probably doesn’t feel the need to compete, you thought cynically.
You’ve heard Kalo talk about him repeatedly, but that’s just an average day with the boy who idolizes Neteyam very much. You tilted your head. It’s not like it’s news to see Neteyam help your parents or be close to your little brother. He’s always been a people-person, always helping those who need it, so you brushed everything off as him doing his duties as future Olo’eyktan.
A few more days later, you found yourself gathered among the clan’s warriors and hunters, awaiting to hear the new task delegations. You patiently listen to Altek announcing names, his voice cutting through the low chatters. Neteyam stood far behind him among the other slightly older seasoned warriors. He’s the youngest in the bunch which is not surprising, because even then, he’s always been considered as the most skilled among his age peers so he’s most often grouped with the older ones.
You looked at him, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on a point somewhere far. He looked every bit the disciplined soldier, until your name was called.
“The eastern boundaries has registered many Mangkwan sightings in the past weeks,” Altek declared, his gaze shifting between the two of you. “Neteyam, you two will take the nightly watch there. It is a long shift, so stay sharp.”
A few hunters let out low whistles and your friends looked at you with playfully narrowed eyes. You rolled your eyes and kept your face impassive. They are looking at you as if you’ll make a move on Neteyam or perve on him while you two are alone... Your cheeks burned. They don’t even know it’s the opposite. Neteyam saw your reaction to being paired with him, feeling like this was another negative point on his imaginary scoreboard. He hadn’t manipulated anything, but he felt like it was his fault that you might feel cornered by him.
The eastern boundary was secluded, quiet, and miles away from the main village. Usually, a pairing like this with you would have sent Neteyam’s chest puffing out with a subtle, smug victory, but he’s worried about what you think.
As the group began to disperse, Neteyam looked at you, watching the infuriating Savko approach you as easily as breathing, talking to you with regret on his face. He gritted his teeth, he didn’t even notice how his lips had almost pulled back to bare his fangs. He rolled his eyes when the talk was finally over, stepping into your path, his movements careful as opposed to his usual hard and imposing stance.
“I’d have you know I didn’t ask for this,” he said abruptly, his voice laced with what sounded like nervousness.
You stopped, blinking at him in confusion. “What?”
“The pairing,” he clarified, his hands moving restlessly as if he didn't know where to put them. He wouldn't meet your eyes, looking instead at the strap of your quiver. “I want you to know, I didn't speak to Altek. I didn't manipulate the roster. I didn't... I didn't force this to happen so I could corner you.”
You shifted your weight. “Neteyam, I didn't think you did.”
“But if you want to switch places, he pressed on. “You can. I’ll tell him I’m needed at the pens. You can pair with anyone you want... even Savko, if you want...” Say you don’t, the words strained at his throat. “I’ll make sure it’s cleared, I’ll take the blame for the confusion, just... you don't have to be alone with me.”
You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing when you realized Savko had been paired with Sylweyn. The silence of the past days caught up to you. Sure, he was practically a helping ghost to your parents and coaching your brother in archery but he hadn’t spoken a word to you. He hadn’t even approached you until today, and only then to suggest you switch places so you could be with Savko. A bitter thought took root: maybe, this was just a way to be with Sylweyn, and he’s just giving you the illusion of choice. You wondered if she’d kept him companied in the past few days, and if his silence was just a prelude to an ending.
Your throat dried up. “Do you want to switch places with Savko? I’m sure he’d be thrilled,” you said, clinging to the last threads of your pride.
“No. No, I don’t,” he said, his face almost crumpling in immediate anger. Oh, of course, that jackass will be thrilled. He’ll remember to thank Altek for pairing you two together, because the mere thought of you being paired with Savko instead sent a visceral shiver down his spine.
“Then why are you asking to switch places?” you asked, your voice dropping to a cold edge.
“I want to give you a choice—”
“No one has the luxury to choose here, and you know that,“ you cut him off. “It’s a job. We go, we watch, we come back. Let's not complicate things.” you brushed past him, walking away without turning your back.
Neteyam stood frozen, the words ‘don't complicate things’ seemed to have personified itself and is now laughing at his face. It was the very phrase he had used to keep you at arm’s length, and hearing it thrown back at him felt like being gutted with his own blade.
By the time you two reached the watch-shed at the eastern boundary hours later, the air was thick with the unspoken. You two literally conducted the patrol in silence you regretted not taking his offer of switching places. Perhaps, you could use Savko’s constant rumbling to beat the silence. Instead, it was the rain’s continuous drumming against the thatched roof that does the job. Neteyam, sitting as far away as possible, was busy obsessively checking the tension on his bowstring, his movements stiff and robotic.
“You're going to snap that string if you pull it any tighter,” you said, leaning back against the wooden support beam. You started peeling a piece of fruit, your eyes fixed on him. “Or should I just do the same with my bow for when you switch places with Savko? I hear he likes his equipment.... flexible.”
His hands froze, then his head slowly lifted, his golden eyes blazing with a mixture of exhaustion and fury. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You popped a slice of fruit into your mouth, chewing slowly as you watched his jaw clench. You let the silence stretch just long enough to be agonizing before you let out a soft, airy hum.
“Oh, I don’t know,” you replied, leaning your head back against the beam with a languid grace. “I just heard things. Word travels, Neteyam. They say Savko is very... thorough with his equipment. Thorough on making sure he applies just the right amount of... weight... until the job is finished to everyone's satisfaction.” You popped another slice of the fruit into your mouth, your gaze never leaving his.
Neteyam dropped the bow. The heavy wood clattered before he crossed the small space in two strides, his shadow swallowing you whole as he loomed over you. “You're testing me,” he growled, his voice guttural and dangerous. “You’re standing there, speaking of his stupid equipment. Why do you think of it?”
You tilted your chin up, reaching out, the tip of your finger tracing the line of his collarbone. “You seem so mad for someone who was so ready to give me away this afternoon. If he’s as thorough as they say, maybe I should have taken the offer to see.“
Neteyam let out a low snarl, his restraint finally disintegrating, and you’d clapped if you weren’t trying to be so in character. You let out a teasing moan when his hand shot out, tugging the braids at the base of your head to tilt it back, while his other arm hooked under your ass. Before you could even draw a breath to taunt him again, he hoisted you up and turned to the the thick, woven sleeping mats that lined the floor of the shed. You hit the furs with a soft thud, the air huffing out of you. You tried to scramble back, but Neteyam was over you, pinning your thighs into the mat.
“Nope,” he rasped. “You are already where I want you.”
You bit your lip, the playful glint in your eyes never dimming even as his large hand grasped your wrists, but it’s when he produced a cord from somewhere that your smirk faltered a little. He pushed your upper body down, his other hand that’s holding your tied wrists together moved to bring your hands over your head, binding them to the rough wooden beam. Your breath hitched in anticipation as you watched him loom over you, his large hand parting your thighs.
“You want thorough, baby?” His caressing hand untying your loincloth from your tail. He tilted his head, “Have I not been thorough with you?” he asked, his voice both thickened and sweetened with lust.
You bit your lip, looking at him through your lashes. Both of you knew he had been more than “thorough”. He was always so insatiable, bordering on obsessive when it came to your pleasure. There had been nights when you’d reached your peak two or three times, and still, his hands won’t leave you, his body molded to yours like he can’t get enough of you. Your mouth remained clamped though, you knew the question didn’t need an answer.
He ripped the loincloth off you, his lips pulling back to bare his gritted teeth as his eyes devoured your exposed body. He untied his own loincloth away, his cock, thick and rigid, springing free. You watched it, a primal hunger twisting in your gut, making you bite your lower lip. He knelt between your legs, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward until the head of his cock touched your soft folds.
He angled himself but didn’t enter just yet, instead, he rubbed the tip back and forth, a torturous caress that made your hips buck. A low moan escaped you, raw and desperate. His other hand clamped under you lower thigh, spreading you wide as he pinned the other on the mat with his own. Then, with a powerful thrust, he plunged into you. Your body arched, a gasp tearing from your lips as he filled you completely, stretching you. The force of it made your wrists strain against its bounds. He then pulled back almost entirely, before slamming into you again, a relentless rhythm of hard, punishing thrusts. You closed your eyes, your head falling back as your moans filled the shed.
He squeezed your thigh. “Look at me,” he rasped, panting for air as he continuously rammed against you.
You opened your eyes, your pupils blown wide, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts, the sound of it making his skin prick with arousal. You looked at him, the fierce, unyielding warrior who was currently falling apart at the seams just for a crumb of your affection, and you arched your back, pulling against your bounds.
He lowered his head, his mouth covering your breast with a hard suck, making you moan louder than you intended. “Fuck, Neteyam... Fuck, fuck, fuck!“
“Yes, baby, it’s me,” he said, a low growl before he rose to meet your eyes, his pupils equally as blown as yours. “You’re here with me. Only I can do this to you...”
You bucked against him. “Don’t curse me,“ you countered, and you saw his eyes flare with both humor and challenge.
He pulled your hips to him as he slammed into you, making you groan in both pleasure and surprise. “Don’t even think about it, baby. The clan would hate to lose one of its hunters...“ his voice grated dangerously and you hissed, a sound that’s both thrilled and half-hearted. He let out a curt laugh, his hand moving up to knead one of your breasts teasingly. “I don’t care how kind you think he is, I’ll break his bones before he tries anything—“
“Neteyam!” If your hands hadn’t been tied, you’d have smacked his arm already.
He tilted his head, not answering you in words but with thrusts that seemed to reach deeper in you. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Your pussy gripped him tight, crying out as your orgasm began to build. You clenched around him and he groaned, his own release close. He drove into you harder, faster, a frantic rhythm that pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed, the pleasure so intense it’s making you ache.
You heard his ragged cry, felt his body tense and then shudder as he emptied himself deep inside you. He collapsed onto you, his chest heaving, his weight a comforting pressure. He leaned down, his lips brushing your cheek, then your jaw. He tried to turn your head, to find your mouth.
“Baby, I want to kiss you…” he murmured, his voice hoarse, pleading.
You turned your face away, shaking your head. “Don’t, Neteyam,“ your voice was a whisper, laced with a familiar ache. “Let’s not go there.”
He groaned. “Why?”
“Why?” you repeated, your head snapping so you could meet his eyes. He didn’t flinch away despite knowing you'd see how wounded he looked. “You said it makes things complicated. It fools, didn’t it? Makes you think there’s more to something there’s none.” The same words he uttered in the past were bitter on your tongue, but you were glad you forced it out.
You saw his lips pull downward, his eyes tearing away from you to look anywhere but your face. He rose a little to untie the cords around your wrist and you thought of telling him to get off you but something tugged at your heartstrings, making you clamp your mouth shut. You felt his hand on your wrists and heard him groan, a deep sound emanating from his chest, his fingers caressed the reddened marks on them.
You watched him bow his head down so low his braids draped over your bare chest. His lips pressed to the marks, the warmth of his breath sending a traitorous shiver through you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words muffled against your skin. His voice carried a weight that made your chest feel even tighter. You watched him, your heart knowing the apology wasn’t just for the cord’s marks on your wrists due to the roughness of his lovemaking.
He started to shift, though, his gaze finally lifting to meet yours. His lips parted as if he were about to say something. You saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the look of regret on his face, and your face burned with shame. You didn't like what is happening, or rather, your pride can’t. What is there for him to do? Apologize? Apologize that he didn't want to kiss you? If he spoke those words, the walls you had built to survive his rejection would crumble. You couldn’t let him make you feel pathetic. You couldn’t let him know how much it had hurt you.
So, you didn't let him speak.
With a sudden, feline grace, you lunged forward, your weight catching him off guard. You tackled him back into the furs, pinning his shoulders down. You straddled his hips, looking down at him with a cocky, predatory smirk that didn't quite reach your eyes.
“Do not say sorry...” you murmured, propping a hand on his abdomen. “I like it very much.” You watched his pupils dilate, the gold of his eyes flaring even as the sadness lingered. You leaned in closer, your lips ghosting over his earlobe. “Next time... I’d like you to tie my feet down, too. I want to see how thorough you really are when I can’t move at all.”
Neteyam’s entire body went rigid beneath you. He knew what you were doing. He knew you were using his own hunger to silence him, but he was a man starving, and you were offering him a feast. Whatever grand apology or confession he had prepared died in his throat, replaced by a low, helpless groan.
His arms, still trembling from the effort of his restraint, slowly wrapped around your waist. He pulled you down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing it softly. For a moment, he even imagined himself kissing your lips while he did, and he didn’t feel shame or pity for himself at all; instead, he felt a surge of determination.
“You’re going to be the end of me,” he rasped, his grip tightening.
The following days bled into each other, punctuated by disciplined and professional silence during the days and a ritual of intense physical heat at night, mingled with Neteyam’s desperate, sneaky attempts to cross the bridge of the gap you built between you two. You are with him in each of those heated nights yet you seemed so far away.
You heard Neteyam’s final, ragged groan against your skin before he went still, his forehead resting against the crook of your shoulder, his lips sucking on your breast. You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the streaks of white that marred your vision, his hand caressed your thigh before he pulled out with a familiar wet pop. You opened your eyes, seeing him lowering his head to kiss the hollow of your neck.
But with a deliberate movement, you rolled out from under him. Your skin was slick with sweat, sprawling out on the furs, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. A small, triumphant smile played on your lips, a lingering trace of the lust. You let your head fall back, arching your back slightly to stretch. The movement offered him a perfect, unobstructed view of your neck, mapped by the traces of his possessiveness, blooming with bruises where he had marked you.
Neteyam propped himself up on one elbow, treating himself to your beauty, his eyes caressing your features, feeling the familiar kicks of his heart against his ribcage. He reached out, his large hand finding your soft breast, groaning sotfly as he kneaded the flesh with a slow, rhythmic pressure that made your breath hitch.
You let out a husky chuckle, your hand flicked his hand away, but you didn’t move to cover yourself. “Let me breathe for a few more minutes, you thirsty beast,” you murmured, your voice still raspy. “There’s something I want to do... but I need my lungs to calm down first.”
Neteyam didn't say anything, only looking at you with a curious tilt of his head. He sat up, reaching into the shadows of the shed where his gear was stowed. You watched him with pursed lips, admiring his broad form that seemed all filled out with muscles and strength, and when he turned back, he was holding a familiar wooden board with deep, smoothed-out divots, and a small pouch that clinked with the sound of stones. You lifted your head excitedly.
He smiled. “You remembered,” he said, setting the Mancala board down on the furs.
Your smile grew wider, the cocky mask you’d been wearing all night finally slipping. You sat up abruptly, your hands hovering over the carved wood and your legs parted, completely unbothered by your nakedness. “You... where did you get this? I haven't seen this board in years.”
A genuine spark of excitement lit up your face, a ghost of the girl obsessed with playing this when you were teenagers. “I borrowed it from Norm,” he explained, his voice softening as he watched your reaction. He began to pour the stones into the pits. “I remembered how you used to cheat. I figured if we’re going to be stuck here, I might as well give you a chance to lose fairly for once.”
“Cheat?” You gasped, a playful glint returning to your eyes as you snatched a handful of stones. “I never cheated. I was just faster at counting!”
Neteyam laughed, one that didn't have a trace of the week's tension in it.
“Prove it then,” he challenged, gesturing to the board.
You leaned forward excitedly, your braids falling over your shoulders, the physical activity you said you wanted to do all forgotten. Neteyam watched you, watched the way your eyes lit up when you made a good move, the way you bit your lip in concentration, and the way you laughed when you caught him trying to sneak an extra stone into his home pit. He knows know, with a clearer certainty, what he already knows then.
He is irrevocably in love with you. He loves you so much the emotions in his heart seemed to always threatened to burst.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You stumbled out of your sleeping alcove, the rays of the sun piercing the hometree’s canopy have made it inside your family's hut in golden slits. You were so thirsty and your eyes won’t even open from the exhaustion of the night's patrol.
You reached for a waterksin, but the sounds of someone working caught your attention. You blinked toward the far window, and there was Neteyam, too focused on reinforcing the frame. He looked entirely too awake for a man who had spent half the night watching the boundary and the other half... well, with you.
“Neteyam?” you rasped, rubbing your eyes. “What are you doing? My parents aren't here.” You heard them talking about the newborm baby the other moon, and how today is her first ever tsaheylu at the Tree of Souls so they definitely went.
“I know," he said. “Kalo mentioned the window was sticking. Figured I’d get it done while it was quiet.”
Oh, little Kalo... Who does he think Neteyam is? The clan’s carpenter? You shook your head. “You need to get some rest,” you scolded, leaning against the support post. “You’ve been awake almost the entire night. I'm practically a ghost right now, and you’re over here playing carpenter."
Neteyam leaned back against the frame, his golden eyes scanning your tired face. “Ah, yes... I suppose I could get some rest.”
“So then, go home and sleep,” you said.
“But it's such a long walk...“ he sighed, his voice a mock-weary tone that was purely for show.
You looked at him, completely unimpressed. “It’s not, Neteyam. I could literally walk you there right now. Don't be dramatic.”
He pushed his lips forward in a small pout, his gaze drifting past you to the beaded curtains of your private area. “I’ve never seen what your room looks like...”
You rolled your eyes, a tired chuckle escaping you. “It’s a room. Not as big as yours.”
“Can I see?”
“You are twenty-three years old, Neteyam,” you said, shaking your head. “This is the tactic of a fifteen-year-old trying to sneak a peek at a girl's trinkets.”
His eyes widened in genuine offense. “I have never done this at fifteen!”
“Whatever,” you muttered, a smirk playing on your lips to hide the heat in your cheeks. “Fine. Come and see. For thirty seconds only.”
He followed you eagerly and as he stepped into your space, he seemed to go quiet. He did look at the small trinkets, desperate to see what you liked to keep. His head tilted, seeing the carved shell he had given you when he came back from a vacation from Awa’atlu. The purple feather he got from the Hallelujah Mountains during his Iknimaya. The smooth river stones he had given you through the years. There were many others there, too, but the fact that you kept everything he gave you made him want to envelope you in a tight embrace.
He stretched, letting out a genuine yawn. “I could really get comfortable here...”
“What’s next, mighty warrior?” you teased, gesturing toward your sleeping mat. “Want to see how soft my mat is?”
“Well, since you asked...”
Before you could protest, he tested the softness with his weight, then flopped down, letting out another deep yawn. You meant to tell him to get up, but you felt the urge to yawn too, your body finally surrendering to the lack of sleep. His hand pulled yoursz tugging you down.
“Fine,” you grumbled, lying down beside him because you were simply too tired to argue. “Just for a minute.”
Neteyam grinned. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest. You let out a contented sigh, the familiar comfort of his heat making your eyelids droop. You curled into him, and within minutes, you were both deeply asleep.
Hours passed and it was well past noon when the sound of voices drifted into the hut. Your mother was in high spirits, walking in with a few of her friends, her arms full of supplies.
“And then he gave me these tea roots,” your mother was saying, her voice brimming with pride. “Neteyam is such a thoughtful boy. I must have my girl talk to him and find out exactly where he found these; they have the most wonderful scent,” she stopped near the entrance to your alcove, calling your name. “Are you still asleep? I wanted to show you—” she pulled back the flap, and the words died in her throat. Her breath caught as she stared at the scene.
There, on the mat, was a very large blue figure. Neteyam was fast asleep, his face nestled deeply into the curve of your neck and chest, his arms locked around you in a way that looked entirely too natural and comfortable, while you were curled into him like a missing puzzle piece.
The tea roots slipped from her fingers. “Oh, Great Mother...” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror as she dropped the flap back into place.
A few more hours later, you finally emerged from your room, faintly remembering Neteyam kissing your shoulder and saying good bye an hour ago. Your mother sat by the hearth, her posture stiff as she pointedly sorted the tea roots Neteyam had given her.
“He left an hour ago,” she said. “Looking like a caught hexapede trying to find an escape.”
You felt your face heat up. “He was fixing the window, Ma. We were both exhausted from the patrol. It wasn't...”
Your mother finally met your eyes with a look of pure maternal scrutiny. “There is a certain way a man holds a woman, daughter. He wasn't just tired,” she said. “Are you two engaging in—”
“Mother!” you panicked. "We're just working together.”
Your mother stared at you knowingly, her eyes full of wisdom. She worries for you, she worries how she knows nothing of what’s going on, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but trust you. And trust what she sees in Neteyam.
A few days later, the communal dinner was filled with the sounds of low chatter and the crackling of fire. Neteyam moved through the crowd with his usual effortless grace, his eyes already finding you, and as he passed the spot where you sat with your friends, he casually leaned down, handing you a fresh, steam-wrapped leaf. You raised a brow and he mirrored your look.
“Eat,“ he said, the playful glint in his eyes too meaningful not to catch. Oh, it would be a long night, huh? You took it with a smirk, watching him walk to the dais where his family sits.
"Well, well," one of your friends teased, poking your shoulder with a grin. "Neteyam seems very concerned with your appetite lately."
You rolled your eyes playfully, unwrapping the leaf and taking a satisfied bite. "Oh, he owes me," you said loudly enough for the surrounding hunters to hear. "I saved him from a nantang during the patrol last night. It was about to bite his ass! I couldn't let the future Olo'eyktan walk around with a missing cheek, could I?"
The table erupted in laughter. From the dais, Neteyam’s ears twitched. He didn't look over, but a small, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Beside him, Lo’ak let out a sharp, knowing clear of his throat, choosing to avoid making a comment.
Later that night, the watch-shed differed from the sounds of the communal clearing. Here, the only sounds that could be heard were Neteyam’s deep groans and the wet sounds of your mouth working over his cock. His head was thrown back, his eyes watching you, his fingers tangled in the soft furs. He was quivering, his muscles twitching. You drove your mouth further onto him, your throat working to accommodate his size.
"Fuck..." he gasped, his voice broken. He reached down, his large hand trembling as he weakly tried to push your shoulders back, not meaning to stop you, but to lessen the sensation that was so intense he felt like he was going to come apart.
You didn't move. You leaned into him, swallowing more of him as you looked up through your lashes, a smirk playing in your eyes even as your mouth was full. You pulled back just enough to lick the length of him, your tongue swirling around the wide, sensitive head before your hand wrapped firmly around his girth.
“Don’t push,” you whispered, your voice thick with warning. “You’re doing so good for me. Take it...”
Neteyam let out a shaky, defeated breath, his hands falling. “Alright...”
He was powerless as you swallowed him again. You were relentless, driven by a desire to see him completely undone. You played with him until the shed was filled with the sound of his ragged breathing. By the time he hit his peak for the fifth time that night, his body went totally slack. His cock felt agonizingly sensitive, with electric jolt vibrating through his loins, while your own jaw ached from the effort, your tongue feeling like it had been permanently embedded with the taste of him.
Neteyam let his forearm fall over his eyes, hiding the raw vulnerability on his face. He was exhausted. Physically drained from a day of helping your father repair the heavy thatching of your family's hut. He heard a soft giggle and felt the familiar, warm slide of your tongue circling the head of his cock once more. He let out a low, pathetic groan and heard you laugh again.
You looked at his tired form, thinking of how hard he’d worked today just to earn a shred of your father’s respect. He needed to relax, to sleep, but the sight of him so helpless under you was too tempting. You leaned down again, determined to give him one more high.
The next nights were different, like this one. You two were sitting on the mat or furs that had been your bed from the past moons, still flushed and sweaty, both greedily biting into your slices of pie Neteyam had produced from his pack. It surprised you to know he had made it himself, it was overly sweet, just how you like it, and perfectly made. You moaned around a mouthful, savoring the crust. You couldn't remember him ever being a baker, but this was flawless.
In truth, Neteyam had spent the last weeks obsessing over making pie, forcing Lo’ak to act as a test subject for every burnt or soggy failure until his brother had threatened to tell Jake just to make the "torture" stop.
“This is... incredible,” you said, a thick drop of honey escaping the pie and sliding down your bare chest. You were too busy to care about the mess, and didn’t even see the way Neteyam’s throat bobbed as he watched you, his own slice forgotten in his hand.
As you leaned back to adjust your position, another drop found its way lower in the sensitive crevice near your thigh. You let out a soft chuckle, spreading your legs slightly in a deliberate move to scoop the honey with a finger and bring it to your lips.
The sound that left Neteyam’s throat made you chuckle, but his large, calloused hand clamped onto your thigh, pinning your leg in place so you couldn't close them. “Don't,” he rasped, his voice thick with hunger.
You bit your lip, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Your pussy still felt sore from the hours of attention he’d paid them earlier, but when saw him eye it with a desperate intensity, it’s all forgotten. Deliberately, you tilted the pie, letting a slow stream of honey fall directly onto your center. Neteyam closed his eyes momentarily, groaning before he set his food aside with a trembling hand and moved between your legs, his eyes locked on the golden sheen against your folds. He held your hips, moving it so it could face him properly, and then his head dipped low, his mouth immediately sucking the honey off, cleaning it with his tongue.
He nipped at your clit and you moaned, arching your back and squeezing a breast. He maneuvered your hips again, flipping you with effortless strength until you were on all fours, your back arched and your chest low to the furs. “Oh!” you moaned, your body vibrating with impossible excitement.
You felt him drop another glob of honey on your slit, biting your lip as the thick stream covered you. Neteyam licked the side of your pussy, before it lay flat on your clit, licking the honey from you with a focused reverence, his hands gripping your waist so hard his knuckles were white. You moaned loudly, the sound echoing in the small space, your tail giving a frantic, snapping flick that told him just how good you felt.
He didn't stop until every trace of sweetness was replaced by the salt of your tiny releases. But just as you felt the peak approaching, he pulled back, his fingers taking over to fondle your clit. Your arms buckled, your elbows hitting the mats as you mewled into the furs. “Fuck, Neteyam!“
He didn't give you time to recover. You felt the heavy, blunt head of his cock knocking at you tight hole, and then he was sliding in, filling you with a single, relentless thrust. He fucked you from behind, his fingers never leaving your clit, flicking and circling until you were a crying, breathless mess. You reached a high so intense it felt like your nerves were on fire. Neteyam continued to chase his, pulling you up to press your back flush against his chest, one arm wrapped like a iron around your shoulders to keep you upright as he continued to hammer into you.
“Neteyam. Shit... please... it's too much,“ you sobbed, your body bouncing with each of his thrusts. You had a safe word, but the thought of using it didn't even cross your mind. You wanted to be destroyed by this. "Neteyam, please... Too much. Oh! So... good...”
He pressed his face into the side of your neck, his fangs grazing your skin as he sucked and licked his way up to your cheek. “Just a little more, baby... stay with me,” he grated out, his voice sounding like it was being torn from his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Neteyam groaned.
You mewled, your hips bucking from overstimulation, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder, your lips parted, your breath coming in shallow against his ear. Neteyam turned his head, his gaze catching your parted lips, your eyes closed. He felt the urge to kiss you so strongly it was a physical pain in his chest. So, he leaned in, listening to what his heart wants.
When his lips met yours, he felt his heart soar. He expected you to flinch, to turn away, to push him back. Instead, he felt your hand reach up to cup his jaw, your fingers trembling as you pulled him closer, kissing him back with a hunger that matched his own. Neteyam’s thrusts literally staggered. He felt weak at the knees, his balance faltering as the softness of your lips overwhelmed him. This might just be what it feels like to kiss a cloud, perfect and terrifyingly real.
He moaned into your mouth, his tongue seeking yours, deepening the contact until he felt a fresh, sharp heat behind his navel. His entire body shuddered as he finally found his own release, spilling deep inside you from his shallow thrusts, triggered purely by the overwhelming sensation of kissing you.
When he finally pulled back a fraction, his eyes were shining with a raw, unfiltered joy you hadn't seen since you were children. His hands cupped your face as if you were the most fragile thing. “Baby... that was better than all of my fantasies,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please, let me kiss you again. Please.”
You didn't say a word. You simply looked up at him, your eyes softening for the first time in what felt like eternity. When he leaned in again, you met him halfway, and he groaned when your lips met. He pulled out of you, gently maneuvering you down until you were both lying on the furs, tangled in a mess of limbs. The rules were gone. There was only your forgotten pies, the smell of honey, and the two of you, finally kissing like there was no tomorrow.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The sun’s heat found you on the training grounds as you and a few hunters guided the younger ones in archery. You were busy giving instructions, with Savko hovering near you, casually talking to you about random stuff that isn’t even registering properly, when Sylweyn and her friends sauntered over.
“Hello, sister,” she greeted, smiling playfully as she eyed Savko. “You two have gotten really close. Is he courting you?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“No,“ you shook your head, your forehead creased.
She grinned. “Oh, not yet,” she nodded. “It’s a waste of time, really. Everyone can see Savko is practically tripping over himself to court you. I don’t know what’s taking so long.”
You pushed your lips forward. You’re just glad Savko isn’t saying anything, for you probably wouldn’t know how to reject him.
Sylweyn looked at you, her eyes mischievous. “Sister, what do you think about switching places? It would be easier for everyone. I’ll take the eastern boundary with Neteyam, and you can take the river with Savko. I’ve been waiting to see where that kiss we shared moons ago would lead anyway.” she looked at you earnestly, completely unaware that the Golden Son she had been mooning over spent his nights marking your skin.
The surrounding hunters began to whistle and hoot. One of them laughed, “Doesn’t that sound too eager, Sylweyn? If the man wanted you, he would have come to you by now.”
Sylweyn didn't even flinch. She tossed her braids back, her eyes bright. “I have no issue making the first move. Closed mouths don’t get fed... and I’m sure Neteyam has so much to feed me.” She turned back to you, grinning. “So, sister, will you switch places with me?"
The peer pressure was thick. “I guess you ought to ask Neteyam,” you said. “I mean, I have no issue working with Savko.”
Savko beamed at the comment, and Sylweyn clapped her hands. “Perfect! I can't imagine how bored you and Neteyam must be out there. Really, sister, I admire your strength... if I were there in the dark with him, I would probably jump him!”
Everyone laughed at her words, even you can’t help but laugh but it all died down instantly when Neteyam arrived, fresh from the council meeting, his stride carrying a natural, heavy authority that made the younger hunters snap to attention. Sylweyn’s friends didn't miss a beat, playfully shoving her toward him.
Sylweyn wasn’t even ashamed or scared, she stood her ground in front of him. “Neteyam,“ she cleared her throat. “we were just discussing the patrols. Y/N said she has no issue switching places. As you can see, she wants to be with Savko, too. It makes more sense, doesn't it?”
The temperature seemed to drop and Neteyam’s sharp, golden eyes locked onto yours, then flicked slowly... almost dangerously to Savko, who was still standing a little too close to you. "She said that?" he asked. His voice was low, making the fine hairs on your arms stand up.
Sylweyn nodded excitedly, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his calm mask. Neteyam turned his full gaze back to you, his eyes narrowed. You know him too well to know that he was angry.
“No,” he told Sylweyn. “No switching places allowed for everyone. We are warriors, not children playing games of preference. No one must desire to disrupt a natural order for their personal whims. The assignments were made for efficiency, not for... social convenience." He walked closer to you, his presence looming and cold. "If we begin choosing partners based on who we wish to ’court,’ our discipline fails. The current arrangement stands,” he said, his voice so commanding even the young hunters who didn’t even have posts yet began nodding.
He turned on his heel and walked away without a second glance. Sylweyn looked stunned, her friends whispering about how “strict” he had become. You, however, had to bite your lip and look at the ground to stifle a smile. You suddenly felt hot, fighting the urge to follow his back with your gaze. He’s such a hypocrite... Using that commander voice to keep you all to himself. It was almost as intoxicating as your nights in the shed.
Later that night, you did your patrol with him in complete silence. He answers what you say with grunts and nods, moving stiffly, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, but he was practically vibrating with unspent energy. You tease him with touches here and there. A fingertip trailing on his muscled arm, a hand on his abdomen or shoulderblades, but he didn't move away or told you to stop. He just lets out a sharp, hitching breath through his nose, welcoming your touches even as he tried to maintain his "angry" silence.
“You’re still brooding,“ you said, as you walked inside the watch-shed, leaning against the support beam with a knowing smirk. “What’s there to be mad about, really? It’s not like you’d actually let it happen...”
Neteyam eyed you sharply. “You told them you want to be with Savko,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“No, I didn't,” you countered, stepping toward him, enjoying the way his pupils flared. “I said I had no issue working with him. Sylweyn was the one asking to switch places so she could be with you. What was I supposed to do? Lay my claim on you in front of them? I told her she should ask you."
Neteyam closed the distance between you in two strides, his hands gripping your arm. “You should have,” he said. “You should have told her I am spoken for. That I am yours as much as you are mine. If anyone asked of me the same thing, I would have broken a man’s nose.”
You let out a soft laugh, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re so hot when you’re jealous and angry,“ you said in a breathy voice, tiptoeing a little to press a kiss on his lips, your other hand untying your loincloth around your tail. “It makes my loincloth come off.“ You swiped a lick on his lips when your loincloth pooled at your feet.
He groaned, his hand cupping your jaw to kiss you. One of his hands lifted your thigh and the other came down to circle around your back, lifting you up. You easily wrapped your legs around him, your bare pussy coming in contact with his lower abdomen before he kneeled on the furs, putting you down on it, his hands coming up to cage your head. The softness in his kiss made you think it would be slow and gentle tonight, but when you felt the familiar cords wrapping around your wrist, you shivered in his kiss.
He lifted his body, kneeling straight between your legs before grabbing your ankle, tying the same cord tie on your wrist. Your lips parted and his dark eyes snapped up to meet yours, his hand taking your other wrist to tie a cord around it, too. You bit your lip, raising your free ankle and pressing your foot in his chest to give it to him. He grabbed it, tying the cord’s end around it, and once it’s over, you’re all spread like an ikran on flight for him.
“Strip,” you ordered, your toes trying to reach for his loincloth but you can’t.
He reached for the ties himself, his other hand pushing away the feathers that covered your breasts to fondle them. He shed his loincloth off and your breath hitched in excitement. He lowered himself again to kiss you, so soft and gentle, making you groan and bite at his lower lip.
“Ow!“ he said in a small, but deep voice, huffing a laugh at you. His pupils were so blown they nearly swallowed the gold of his irises. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, his tongue tracing the part of his bottom lip where you'd bitten him.
Without another word, his large hands found your thighs, pushing them even wider against the tension of the cords. The cords bit into your wrists and ankles, forcing you to remain open and exposed as he settled between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his chest heaving. Then, he drove home.
The first thrust was deep, a claim so possessive it knocked the breath from your lungs. You let out a jagged gasp, your hands tugging at the cords but it only brought your ankles up, spreading you wider.
He didn't give you time to adjust, immediately delivering relentless, punishing thrusts, rough and unapologetic, driven by the jealousy he felt from the training grounds. Each time he hit deep, your tail gave a snapping flick against the furs, your body arching instinctively, but the cords held you fast, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Yet, even as he reclaimed you with such an intensity, he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that was so devastatingly sweet. His tongue swirled with yours in a slow dance, his lips soft and lingering. You smiled against his lips, wishing you could cup his face and kiss him harder.
“You’re doing it again," you said breathlessly. “Fucking me like you want to break me... But your kiss is so sweet. Is this my discipline?”
He didn't answer, only gripping your hips harder, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his thrusts sped up. You were turned into a crying, moaning mess, overstimulated by the fact that you can’t move your limbs and the overwhelming power of his movements above you. When he finally shattered, his body shuddered as he emptied himself into you, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
His lips touched yours softly. “Fuck, I love you so much...” he said in a groan so deep and guttural your clouded mind almost didn’t catch it.
He peppered your jaw down to your neck with soft kisses before moving with careful gentleness to untie the cords. He chuckled breathily when he heard your soft sigh following your freedom, gathering you into his arms, his large hands trembling as he massaged the red marks on your wrists. He brought it to his lips to kiss it, you pushed your lips forward, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“Are you sorry? Don’t be. I really liked it,“ you said in a soft voice, smiling at him.
His eyes lifted up to meet yours, soulful and deep it threatened to drown you. “I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread.
He pressed his lips on your wrist again, then moved his face to begjn kissing every inch of your face, your neck, your chest. None of it felt sexual, each press were soft and full of apology you felt hot tears pricking your eyes. He leaned back just enough to look at you, his golden eyes shimmering with unshed tears and raw vulnerability.
“I was so arrogant, baby...“ he started. “I told myself... That if I didn't kiss you... If I kept this ‘functional’... Then I could protect you. I thought I could shield my heart so that when the day comes for me to lead, I wouldn't be paralyzed by the thought of losing you. You are the only girl who ever stirred my heart... Even then,” he chuckled, his tears falling. You smiled, pressing a palm against his chest. “I vowed I would never let myself go there... to protect the girl I loved from the weight of my duty.”
He let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours.
“But I was wrong. I was so incredibly wrong. I fell deeper in love with you every single day, even without tasting your lips. I wanted you so much I couldn't deny myself, even as I was lying to your face. I thought arrogance was my armor, but it was just a cage.” He cupped your face, his thumb wiping away the tears you didn't realize were falling. “I don't care about all of that anymore. I don’t care about anything that will force me to live a half-life without you. The moment I claimed you, I decided who I was. I'm not just a son or a warrior. I am yours. So, please... end my misery, baby. Accept me as your mate. Please, have me...”
The weight of his words shattered your final defenses. You reached up, smacking his chest with a weak, sobbing laugh. “You idiot! You could have just told me, because I fell in love anyway... I am yours, Neteyam. I have always been.“
Neteyam let out a relieved sound, pulling you into a kiss. “I'm sorry for being so selfish,” he murmured against your mouth, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against yours. “For hurting you. For hurting us. I love you so much. I am so in love with you.”
You nodded, burying your face in his chest, finally feeling the gap between you close for good. “I love you, Neteyam.”
The sun’s warmth was the first thing you felt against your skin that told you it was morning. But it was Neteyam’s lips pressing kisses on your kiss that woke you up, tracing up the column of your neck to your jaw. Even in the haze of sleep, you could feel the steady pulse of your kuru still connected to his, making you so attuned to what he’s feeling. He pulled you closer by the waist, his nose nuzzling into your hair with a contented hum.
“We should probably get back,” you whispered, though you made no move to get up. You snuggled into him, thinking of what’s the next step for you two. “Neteyam... What do you think about keeping this a secret for a while? Just ease them into the truth slowly.”
“What?” Neteyam’s voice was a low protest.
You lifted your head, your hand cupping his face. “The courting season is almost here. You can pretend to court me, and then we’ll ‘officially’ mate...”
“Babe, we don’t have to lie,” he insisted, his eyes searching yours. “I’ll tell my parents and the council today. I’ll face the consequences. I don't want to hide you.”
You bit your lip, nodding. “But we don’t need to tell them today, do we? We can wait a few more days...” you asked.
He looked at you and sighed, but ended up agreeing. The flight back to Hometree was swift, and as you landed, a warrior approached, informing Neteyam the council called for him immediately. His hand lingered on your waist, his fingers digging in slightly as if he couldn't bear to let go.
You smiled, gently prying his hand away. “My parents are out,” you whispered, leaning into his ear. “You can come by later… we can sleep in my room.”
Neteyam let out a low groan, hooking his finger under your chin, pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss that spoke of every plan he had for you later that night. It was cut short by a collective, sharp gasp though, making you pull away, your eyes landing on the group of returning hunters, including a wide-eyed Sylweyn and a jaw-slacked Savko, staring at you both in utter shock.
You cleared your throat, smoothing your hair. “Oh. Just remembered. Mother needed me back early,“ you moved away from Neteyam, walking the opposite way, but walking back to push Neteyam to move. “The council calls for you, Neteyam.” You gave him a playful, slightly forceful shove and walked away with your head high, leaving the hunters whispering in your wake.
In the council tent, Neteyam stood with his jaw set, ready to declare his mating regardless of the fallout, because apparently, the council has chosen a woman for him. But before he could speak, Altek stepped forward.
“I have spent a great deal of time helping the council choose the best match to ensure the strength of future leadership.”
Neteyam opened his mouth to protest, but his mother, Neytiri, caught his eye. She was smiling, a look of pure, maternal triumph on her face. “I suppose you are happy, son,” she said softly. “You always did have your eyes on her.”
“Y/N is our choice,” one of the elders concluded.
Neteyam choked on his own saliva, a surprised, breathless chuckle escaping him. The irony was almost too much to handle that he couldn’t even regain his composure, his face breaking into a massive, unstoppable grin as the elders discuss about inviting your parents to a council with Jake, Neytiri, and Mo’at.
He was the first to go when the council was over, fighting the urge to run or skip to your family’s hut, the excitement vibrating in his body an impossible energy to stop. By the time he reached your room, he found you napping, your face peaceful. He slid onto the mat beside you, pulling you into his arms.
“Baby,” he whispered as you stirred. “The council has chosen a woman for me—”
His words caught at his throat when you sat up faster than lightning, your eyes flashing. “What?! Have you told them you are a mated man?”
“Well, uh, no—”
“No?!” You recoiled, his hand tried to catch yours but you pulled away. “Who?” you demanded, your eyes wide with feral anger as though you’re ready to pounce.
“Baby, it’s you,” he chuckled, tugging you back down. “You are their choice.”
Your lips parted, the anger draining out of you made you sigh. It was replaced by a stunned silence, though, and then panic. “Oh… oh, Great Mother! What will we do? We have to follow the rites… the ceremonies… Mo’at is going to be so pissed when she learns we’ve already mated!”
Neteyam just smiled, watching you panic and ramble, your words stumbling over one another. “It will be fine. We’re already mated. The rest is just for the sake of the clan.”
He kissed your fingers and you sighed, a small smile forming on your lips, letting the tension melt away as you lowered your body to wound your arms around his neck. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, before finally settling on your lips with a kiss that felt like a permanent homecoming, his heart finally at rest knowing that every day from now on will be spent exactly where he belonged.
notes fake dating (this trope was requested <33), he falls first AND harder, yearning neteyam, reader is the sweetest girl in the world, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)
synopsis neteyam offered a proposition to the most quiet girl in the clan: pretend to be his intended to make another girl jealous... but a short time into it and the lines had blurred for him. not for you, though! you’re serious about the mission, much to his frustration.
word count 14.4k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“The moons are ripening,” Elder Peyka remarked. “The courting season will be upon us before the next great hunt. The young warriors are already preening like forest ikrans... Oh, how nice to see.”
“And the girls are no better,” another elder chuckled, tightening a string of seed beads. She turned her clouded but sharp eyes toward you. You were sitting a few paces away, your fingers flying across a loom. “Child. Look at me.”
You paused, your heart giving a small, nervous flutter as you looked up. “Yes, elder?”
“You are of age now, are you not?”
“I am,” you replied softly, your voice barely rising above the rustle of the loom.
Peyka sighed, shaking her head. “If only you would go out there and be seen, child! You have the grace of the willow, but you hide like a yerik. You are too shy for your own good. If you do not lift your head, the season will pass you by and you might actually become a spinster, weaving alone while the rest of the clan sings of mates!”
A chorus of gentle, teasing laughter erupted from the circle. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and you quickly ducked your head back down, focusing intensely on a loose thread. You let out a small, embarrassed chuckle of your own, a soft sound that barely escaped your lips.
You are painfully aware of that but you don’t know where to start. You have friends, yes, but they are not friends you hang out with outside of the weaving looms. You are almost always alone, and while other girls had found their places among the hunters, practicing their war cries or vying for the attention of the said men, you found yourself hidden in the looms to enjoy the repetitive routine of weaving.
It’s not like you were the best weaver, too. You are not the best, not the worst either, just a girl whose hands were often stained with berry dyes and whose eyes were usually cast downward. It was safer that way. When you didn't look up, you didn't have to see the way the world seemed to orbit around people who weren't you.
A few feet away, leaning against a sturdy root, Neteyam sat silently. An elder weaver was currently binding a new leather guard to his forearm, and while he appeared to be focused on it, his ears were swiveled toward the elders' conversation.
He watched you.
Neteyam knew everyone in the clan. It was his duty as the future Olo'eyktan, but as he looked at you now, he realized he has never even heard you speak. He knew your name, he knew your family, but he couldn't recall the sound of your voice until that very moment. Your shy, quiet laughter brought a warm feeling to his chest for some reason, making him take a deep breath.
His mind drifted to Ka’ani. She was the finest huntress among their peers, just like him. And he’s always thought of a partnership much like the one his parents have. His father is a great warrior and so is his mother. To be a great leader is to stand beside a fearsome woman as well... And he thinks it’s Ka’ani.
But right now, she was becoming a challenge. She’s making him look like a fool, flitting from warrior to warrior to test his patience. She wanted him to chase her until he was exhausted, and Neteyam, the proud, capable, and unaccustomed to losing firstborn of the clan’s pillars, was reaching his breaking point. He was never fond of playing, but some games need strategy, too.
Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. You were still working, your movements steady and humble, completely unaware of the weight of his stare. A slow, calculated thought began to take root in his mind.
“Finished, Neteyam,” the weaver said, patting his arm.
“Thank you,” Neteyam murmured. He stood up, taller and broader than most men.
Instead of heading back to where the warriors were gathering, he turned his steps toward the shadows. He walked with deliberate strides stopping right in front of your loom until his shadow blocked your light. “You’re doing that wrong.”
The voice startled you so badly that the bone needle slipped. “I—what?” you stammered, finally looking up.
Neteyam was standing over you. In the flickering firelight, his bioluminescent freckles were glowing like stars. “The weave,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the basket in your lap. “It’s too tight. It will snap when it dries.”
“The ones I did last moon were fine,” you murmured. You tried to look back down, to disappear into your work as you always did. “Is there something you need?”
Instead of answering, he sat. The movement was fluid, but there was a heaviness to it, sitting so close to you that his knee brushed against yours.
“I have a proposition for you, Y/N,” he said. His voice was low, dropping into a register that felt dangerously intimate. He knows your name?
You blinked, your insecurity rising up like a shield. “A proposition? Do you need help with the weaving?”
“No, no, I don’t,” he answered. “The elders speak the truth, you know,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “It would be a shame for you to be hidden in the dark.”
You finally looked up, your eyes wide. Neteyam wasn't looking at the fire, he was looking directly at you, and for the first time in your life, the Golden Son was smiling as if you were the only person in the clearing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathed, your voice trembling.
He leaned in just an inch closer, his amber eyes sparking with a hidden intent. “Hear my proposition... It might just solve both our problems with the coming season.”
You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it difficult to breathe. You were a weaver of threads, but sitting before you was practically the weaver of destinies in this clan. You know he could alter your life and he was looking at you with a terrifying amount of focus.
“Our... problems?“ you whispered, your fingers curling tightly around the bone needle. “I don’t have problems. And I don’t think someone like you have problems, Neteyam.”
He let out a short, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if his eyes weren't so sharp. “Everyone has a role to play. Sometimes, that role becomes... suffocating. My mother is already looking at the daughters of the council. She expects a match that strengthens the line. I’m thinking of Ka’ani. She’s the finest huntress my age.”
At the mention of her name, his jaw tightened. You remembered the last time you saw the girl. She was draped over the arm of a young warrior, her laughter loud and pointed, as if it was a performance, designed to reach the ears of a certain warrior. You remembered Neteyam standing in the training grounds then and everything clicked in your head.
“She wants a chase,” Neteyam continued, silencing your thoughts. “But I do not have the time for nonsensical games. And you... The elders say you are a shadow. That you will be left behind.”
“I am fine being a shadow,” you countered, though your voice lacked conviction. “It’s not complicated. I will have what comes and accept what doesn’t.”
“Shadows are lonely,” he said softly. “Be my partner. Not just for the ceremonies, but the communal meals as well. I will be with you. Let the clan see us, let them see you.”
Your heart gave a violent thud. You weren't a fool. You knew what this was. You were the girl no one would suspect he will actually notice, which made you the perfect weapon to make Ka’ani lose her mind with jealousy.
“You want me to be a decoy,” you said. “You want her to see you with me so she’ll get jealous. You want her to stop playing around.”
Neteyam didn't flinch at your bluntness. Instead, he reached out, his large hand covering yours where it rested on the loom. His skin was warm, his touch steady. “Correct. And in return, you will no longer be the girl the elders pity. You will be the woman everyone sees. When the season ends and the act is over, every hunter in this clan will finally know your name. You won't be a spinster, Y/N. I’ll make sure of that. You’ll have your pick of any man here.”
It was a cold, calculated trade. He will get the girl and you get a reputation and a way out of the shadows. He looked so sincere. You knew you should say no, you wouldn’t know how to act around him. But the thought of being someone for once, of walking through the village and not having people look through you, was a siren song you couldn't resist.
“What if I'm not a good actress?” you asked, your voice a mere breath.
Neteyam’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a strategist who had just moved his final piece into place.
“Just sit by my side. I’ll do the rest.” he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles.
You took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. I'll do it.”
Neteyam squeezed your hand once, a seal of the contract, before standing up. He offered his hand to help you up, and when you took it, the world felt like it shifted on its axis. You were stepping out of the dark, and into a fire that you knew, eventually, would burn you to ash.
Neteyam is a meticulous director and it was very hard for you as an easily embarrassed person. Being seen isn’t even enough for him, the act had to be over the top! He wanted it to be undeniable.
“Chin up,” he whispered one afternoon. You were walking to the central clearing for the communal meal, his hand hovering over your waist. “You look like you’re walking to a funeral. Look at me. Smile.”
“It’s hard to smile when I feel like a piece of bait,” you murmured, keeping your eyes down, feeling at least a hundred eyes on you.
Neteyam let out a sharp breath. He stopped walking, maneuvering you to turn and face him. To anyone watching from a distance, it looked like a tender, private moment between lovers. Up close, his eyes were scanning the crowd, pinpointing exactly where Ka’ani was sitting with her friends.
“You agreed to this,” he reminded you, his voice low and firm. He reached out, his fingers tilting your chin upward. His touch was warm, but it lacked the softness you’d imagined his touch would have. It was the grip of a hunter holding a prized bow. “If you don't look happy, she’ll know it’s a ruse. Do you want the elders to go back to pitying you by tomorrow sun-up?”
The reminder of your own invisibility stung. You forced your lips to curve, a small, shaky smile that felt brittle. “Is this better?”
He studied your face for a beat too long, his thumb grazing your jawline. For a split second, his focus shifted from the crowd to the way your eyes searched his, but he shook it off quickly. “Better. Keep it there, hm?“
He led you toward the long tables. This was the stage. He made a show of picking out the best cuts of roasted meat for you, leaning in so close that his braids brushed against your shoulder. He was performative, ensuring the warriors nearby heard him.
“And since you’re starting a new tapestry,” he said, loud enough for Ka'ani to hear from across your table. He draped an arm over the back of your seating mat, effectively fencing you in. “I’d fly to the borders to get you fibers for it.”
You pursed your lips, lowering your head down to chuckle. “Your voice is too loud, Neteyam...“ you mumbled. “I’ll end up with busted ear drums by the time this is over.“
His own head lowered and angled toward you to catch what you’re saying, but it threw back as he let out a bark of genuine and deep laughter. You startled, your hand flying to his chest unconsciously, your head swiveling to the crowd of people who are now looking at you. You caught a glimpse of Ka’ani’s sharp eyes narrowing to slits.
The mission is working. You know it is working, you’ve seen Ka’ani’s candid reactions in the past days and it was almost comical. You don’t understand how she can let other men touch her when it was Neteyam she truly wants. It’s confusing, especially because you can see how she jealous she looks.
“You can relax, Neteyam,” you whispered, leaning toward him. “She’s gone. She stomped away five minutes ago.”
Neteyam’s posture didn't soften. He didn't pull his arm back. He took a slow sip of water, his expression unreadable. “The act doesn't stop just because the primary audience leaves, Y/N. There are other eyes. Word must travel. That is how a reputation is built.” He looked at you then, and for a moment, the strategic coldness was all there was. “Eat your food. We have a walk through the groves. People need to see us.”
The following days, and weeks, was a blur of choreographed intimacy. Neteyam was serious with his acts, he was everywhere you were. If you were gathering fibers, he was there, scouting the perimeter but always staying within your line of sight. During communal meals, he always ate with you, listening to you ramble and chuckling at everything you say.
Now that he has brought you out to light, more and more men were trying to talk to you, asking you random stuff they wouldn't even bother asking before. For them, you were almost unreachable in the past. You are too shy, too aloof, to be in the selection of girls they dare to play with.
But as the days pressed on, the meticulous director started losing his grip on the script.
The script had been clear: Neteyam would bring you into the light, and the hunters of the clan would finally notice you. It was exactly what he had promised. But as he stood on a ridge overlooking the path back to Hometree, watching you walk beside a hunter who was carrying your bundle of fibers under his arm, the air in his lungs seemed to turn to ice.
The hunter was Ki’ong, a young man known for his easy smiles and a way of speaking that reminded him of the way you speak. If he saw this moons ago, the match would have made so much sense. The gentle hunter matches your gentleness. But today, he felt only bitterness. You were laughing, the sound he wanted to bottle and bring with him on patrol to help him calm down.
Now, Ki’ong is easily basking in it, his tail twitching with a rhythmic interest that Neteyam recognized all too well for he was a man, too. His hand tightened around the grip of the bow until the wood groaned. His jaw locked. This was the trade, wasn't it? He had told you that by the time the season ended, you would have your pick of any man in the clan. So why did he feel like he wanted to shoot an arrow through the dirt at Ki’ong’s feet as a warning?
His feet moved, and by the time you reached the shadow of the massive fern near the entrance, Neteyam was already there, blocking the path, calling your name in a sharp and dangerous tone that made Ki’ong stop in his tracks.
“Neteyam!“ you said, surprised. “I thought you weren’t back from the scout yet.”
Neteyam ignored you, his amber eyes fixed entirely on the other hunter. He stepped forward, entering your personal space with a possessiveness that felt far too real to be an act. You looked around. There was no crowd and no Ka’ani at all, and this confuses you. What more, Neteyam wasn’t even looking around for the audience. He was looking only at Ki’ong’s hand, which was hovering just a bit too close to your elbow.
Ki'ong blinked, his easy smile faltering under the sheer weight of Neteyam's stare. “I saw her in the forest, Neteyam, uh... What she was carrying was heavy—”
“Thank you for that, but I’ll take it from here,” Neteyam cut him off, his voice dropping into a warning growl. He reached out, not gently, and pulled your fiber basket from the hunter.
“I'll... see you later then... Y/N,” Ki’ong said before walking away.
Neteyam’s head snapped back to Ki’ong’s retreating form, his entire body coiled like a viperwolf ready to strike at the mere mention of a later. You watched him, your confusion slowly melting into a mischievous realization. You looked around one more time, and there’s still nothing but a stray woodsprite. No Ka’ani. No prying hunters. Just a very, very grumpy warrior holding a basket of fibers as if it were a thermal detonator.
A bubble of laughter escaped you, and you poked his rigid bicep.
“Wow,” you giggled, leaning in close to peer up at his stormy face. “Neteyam, that was... incredible. The growl? The death stare? You’re getting really good at this. If I didn't know better, I’d think you were actually trying to pick a fight over my honor.”
Neteyam didn't relax. His jaw remained a hard line. “He was overstepping. He was touching you.”
“He was just helping me,” you countered, your eyes dancing with amusement. You started walking, motioning for him to follow with your basket. “But honestly, I’m impressed. You’re such a perfectionist. Even with no audience, you’re still acting the territorial suitor.”
He fell into step behind you, his tail still lashing even though he’s not speaking.
“Oh, come on,” you teased, walking backward for a few steps so you could admire his scowl. “Let’s just hope Ki’ong tells everyone about your reaction. If word gets back to Ka’ani that the great Neteyam almost bared his teeth at a hunter just for carrying my basket... well, our mission is as good as won. It’s going to make it sound so real!” You turned back around, a satisfied hum leaving your throat. “But I don’t think Ki’ong is the type to talk about stuff like that. He seemed too nice to gossip.”
“How would you know? You don’t know him,” Neteyam cut you off, his voice sharp.
You laughed again, the sound light and airy. “Maybe I just know. I can sense if people have good hearts,” you said, reaching back to give his chest a playful, comforting pat. “Come on,” you smiled, oblivious to the way his hand tightened on the basket handle until his knuckles turned pale. “Let’s bring that to the looms. You can put all that 'warrior energy' into helping me sort the threads.”
You turned on your heels and skipped ahead, feeling lighter than you had in days. Behind you, Neteyam stood for a beat longer, his eyes locked on the sway of your braids.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You two were swimming in the river, not alone anyway, because it’s just one of your many stages. His fellow hunters and warriors were swimming in the river several paces away from the two of you, but he has since swam to a secluded bend away from their prying eyes. You don’t always swim in the river. Mostly because you don’t want to swim alone, so now, you’re enjoying everything, even the reflection of the shimmering canopy above. You kept diving for as long as you could, the act momentarily paused because he had stirred you two away from the audience. You shrieked when you felt something tiny dart on your ankle. You dove your head, swimming after the tiny fish, your hand shotting forward to catch it and you bubbled a laugh underwater when you actually caught it.
You swam to the surface, holding up the fish as you laughed, the sound of your mirth echoing off the rock walls like bells. Neteyam stared at you from where he is, leaning against a mossy boulder, his chest heaving slightly, though he had been idle the entire time. You waded toward him, bringing him the fish, but he looked so serious that your lips pushed forward instead. Neteyam gritted his teeth at the sight of your smile fading.
“You looked like the sky had fallen on you. What is it?” you asked, putting the fish back in the water and watching it dart away from you with a small smile.
“Our scout yesterday everning” he said suddenly, his voice low.
You nodded. He was late to the dinner last night... You figured there was something wrong, but you heard no news about it.
“There was a near skirmish with a violent clan. They were one of those clans whose lands were spoiled by the sky people's actions. Apparently, they’ve been looking for a place to settle in, but they are also harming non-combatant clans.”
You stopped splashing, the water settling around you. You hadn't heard about this. The elders usually kept such news quiet to avoid panic, but to know this now, and to see how burdened Neteyam was by it, you couldn't help but be bothered.
“The council expects me to be like him,” he said, staring at his reflection in the water. He didn't specify who him was and he didn’t have to. You know who he was talking about. As the firstborn of Toruk Makto, Neteyam has always lived in the shadow of a legend. “Every battle, every hunt, every word I speak... it's measured against a standard I will never reach.”
You stopped creating ripples in the waters, looking up at him. “You don’t need to be your father, Neteyam,” you said softly. “Have they considered a dialogue between the people of that clan? Perhaps... The chieftains of our neighboring clans could convene in a large council and speak with their representatives. I don’t think it needs to lead to people getting hurt when speaking would reach a much better conclusion.”
Neteyam went still, his gaze snapping from the water’s surface to your face. He watched you with an intensity he had directed to no one, but you wouldn’t know that. For a moment, the weight in his shoulders seemed to flicker, unsettled by the peaceful logic of your words.
“A dialogue,” he repeated. He had been so focused on formations, weapon readiness, and the cold calculations of a warrior that the idea of a diplomatic council felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. “Why do you think I am a warrior?” he asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I am taught to protect. To fight.”
“You are taught to lead,” you corrected gently, lightly splashing a bit of water toward his chest. “And a leader’s first duty isn’t to fight, but to ensure peace. Your warriors will think of war, you will think of how to protect the people and the forest. The people of that clan is desperate, for sure... They lost their home, they are living like beggars. There is a reason they steal and harm the people who stop them. Have the clans thought of helping them?”
He blinked, his amber eyes searching yours as if he could find all the answers there now.
You smiled lopsidedly, “You can think of all that later though,” you said softly, reaching into the crevice of the rock wall and plucking a small, ripe fruit that hung low. His eyes watched you peel it with nimble fingers. “But right now? The water is cool, the fish are annoying, and you can rest your mind. Try being here for five minutes.”
You gave him the fruit and when he took it, his fingers brushed against yours, lingering in a way that wasn't for show. He ate it slowly, watching you as if you were a piece of the puzzle he found after a long search. The silence was warm, humming with a new, dangerous kind of energy.
“You think it could be that simple?” he asked, his voice a low vibration.
“I think you make it too hard,” you laughed, feeling a sudden surge of playfulness. You stepped back, the water splashing around your chest. “I’ll bet a week’s worth of weaving that I can reach the falls before you!”
Before he could answer, you dove, your body disappearing into the water.
Neteyam stood there for a heartbeat, stunned. He didn't check the treeline. He didn't look back toward the other hunters. He didn't think about his father's expectations or the violent clan at the border. He simply dove in after you.
He caught up to you just as you reached the white water of the falls. You surfaced, gasping for air and laughing, only to find him right there, his eyes bright with a genuine, carefree light you had never seen before. You panicked at the sight of him, though, shrieking and kicking the hand that held your ankle. He barked a laugh, deep and resonant, that even he knows he hasn't laughed that way before. He reached out again, his hand finding yours under the water, squeezing it before pulling you to him. For the first time, he wasn't holding you so people would notice. He was holding you so you wouldn't drift away.
That night, as you both walked back to the village, Neteyam’s hand stayed on your waist even after you had passed the last group of onlookers. When you saw Ka’ani appeared near the communal fire, looking particularly striking in her new top and loincloth that seemed to match the feathers in her hair, Neteyam didn't even turn his head even after you pointed it out. He was too busy listening to you describe the specific shade of teal the river turns into when the moons are at a particular shade. There's lightness in his chest that made him feel like he was flying.
Several nights later, Neteyam moved through the crowd with a lightness in his step that hadn't been there days prior. The communal dinner was buzzing with different conversations, but for him, it was merely a background, his eyes locked on your form, looking like a man who had finally found the trail home.
Earlier that afternoon, the Council had been tense. Jake and the elders focused on battle plans, on dispatching warriors to fight when necessary. Neteyam saw how the council, including him, lack the sight you have to see things differently. He didn't know where it was coming from, but his chest was puffing with full confidence on the idea you had given him, that when he spoke of dialogue, of the displaced clan’s desperation, and of communal aid rather than battles that would only end in loss, his voice was laced with certainty.
Jake had looked at his son with a mixture of surprise and pride. “That is a path well thought of, Neteyam,” he said.
“You think like a true leader of the people now, son,” Neytiri had added, her hand resting on his shoulder. “You have grown.”
Neteyam had offered them a small, humble smile. “I cannot take the credit, Mother. It was a good friend who gave me the perspective I needed,” he said.
Neytiri tilted her head. “Oh? Who is this friend?” she asked.
Neteyam had looked at his mother. It was the easiest question he’d been asked, but it strike him quite deeply that he didn’t know what to say. “Someone I... trust deeply.”
Now, standing in the glow of the fire, Neteyam didn't even pause to greet the other hunters who called out to him. He made a beeline for the corner where you sat, tucked away with your latest weaving. When you looked up, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, genuine grin splitting his face.
“They accepted it,“ he said, dropping down beside you, his presence instantly making your corner feel warmer. “The envoys will be sent at first light. My father and the elders... actually listened. We’re calling a council of all the neighboring clans to help the displaced.”
You felt a swell of pride in your chest, your grin matching his. “See? Sometimes, you need to rest your mind and your soul, clear it until it is still water,“ you gestured in the air and be watched you with a lazy smile. “Only then can you see the path clearly.“
Neteyam’s gaze was soft, lingering on your face in a way that made your heart skip a beat. It was no longer the calculated look of someone directing a performance, it was the look of someone truly seeing you. You tear your gaze away, picking at the nuts on your leaf plate.
“I have something for you,” he murmured, reaching into the small pouch at his waist. He held out his hand, palm up, revealing a mountain of perfectly ripe berries, the kind that only grow on the highest, most dangerous ledges.
You gasped, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached out for one. “Neteyam, these are rare. How did you—”
“I was scouting the upper ridges,” he lied effortlessly, though his eyes twinkled with the truth of the effort he’d put into finding them just for you. “They’re all yours. Take them.”
You popped one into your mouth, the burst of sweetness making you hum. Neteyam let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you enjoy the small gift. He didn't even notice the silence that had fallen over the nearby tables as they all watched him dote on the girl whose voice they rarely heard.
From across the fire, Ka’ani felt the roasted meat in her mouth turn to ash. She couldn't even swallow. She had been so sure of what Neteyam wanted, sure that it was her in her strength and vitality. She was merely trying to break at his carefully cold facade, but he never did give her the satisfaction of seeing it.
But as she watched him now, she saw the way he leaned toward you, his body instinctively closing off the rest of the world to keep you in his private circle. She saw the way he laughed, unguarded, soft, and intimate. She had never seen that light in his eyes directed at her. She had never seen him look at anyone with such... peace.
Her fingers dug into the bark of her seating mat. This wasn't a game anymore. The challenge she thought she was winning had been forfeited by the man she wanted most, and the realization made her blood boil with a jealousy that was no longer a performance. As fot Neteyam, he has long forgotten to look if Ka’ani even had her eyes on them, and tonight, he had forgotten she was even there.
Days later, you were at the washing stream, submerging your fibers in the cool water. You were thinking too much of Neteyam and the ride you had on his ikran last night when he brought you to the Hallelujah Mountains, but your peace was disrupted with the presence of another. You stopped and turned around, your breath hitching when you saw Ka’ani step out from behind a massive fern.
“Ka’ani,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You adjusted the empty leaf plate in your hands, refusing to cower.
“How does it feel?” she sneered, pacing a slow circle around you, her tail lashing behind her. “To be the little pet? To be the girl Neteyam uses to get a reaction from me? You think those smiles of his mean anything? You think that look in his eyes is real?” She let out a mocking laugh. “He’s a warrior. The future Olo’eyktan. Do you think think I don’t know what he’s doing? He wants me, and he’s using a quiet mouse like you to punish me for playing hard to get.”
You pursed your lips to stop yourself from chuckling. This is comedy to you, but you also feel guilty that she seems to be really upset. If only she weren’t being mean, you’d have advised her to go to Neteyam and talk to him properly, so that they can fix things between them.
“If you are so certain of that, Ka’ani,” you said, your voice dropping to a calm, melodic register that seemed to grate on her nerves, “then why are you talking to me?”
Ka’ani froze, her lips pulling back in a snarl.
“If you're so sure he’s yours, go to him,” you continued, stepping closer into her space, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “Whine to him. Demand his attention. Tell him to come back to you. Perhaps it will do you better.”
You didn't wait for her to respond, you walked past her, maintaining your composure until you were well out of her sight. You stopped when you’re well away from her, pursing your lips. “Wah... That was a good one from me. That’s literally method acting,” you chuckled to yourself.
At the same time, Neteyam was on patrol through the high canopies of the Omatikaya lands’ borders. Patrols are usually a time of hyper-vigilance for him, he was trained to scan for the unnatural glint of obsidian or the misplaced shadow of a predator. But today, his eyes kept snagging on a bright plant. He spotted a cluster of a familiar stalk, their ribbed skin a good shade of cerulean.
Moons ago, he would have seen them as a slippery obstacle on a landing branch. Now, he found himself hovering his ikran near the cliff edge, reaching out to pluck a single stem. He rubbed the surface, watching the pigment stain his thumb.
This, he thought, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, this is the blue she said looked like the deep water in the eastern seas. He found himself wondering about every plant he passed, not for its toxicity or its strength which he is wont to do as a vigilant hunter, but for how beautiful its hidden colors would be in the eyes of a weaver he keeps thinking about. He didn’t even have names for the shades he collected, but he knew you would find them beautiful.
When he finally returned to hometree, he didn’t head for the warriors' lodge to report in. He went straight to the weaving looms. His heart doing a strange, light hop when he saw your form hunched over a weaving loom. He silently crept up behind you and leaned down to tickle the curve of your ear with the cool tip of the blue plant.
You shrieked, your shoulders jumping as you nearly dropped your bone needle. You whirled around, your eyes wide but when you saw Neteyam, standing there with that lazy, genuine grin, you glared but still laughed.
“My work will be ruined because of you,” you breathed, clutching your chest.
“I thought a weaver's hands were supposed to be steady,” he teased, his voice low, handing you the blue stalk. “I saw this on the ridge. Is it the one that turns to ink when you boil it?”
You took the plant, your fingers brushing his. “It is. I.. I'm surprised you remembered.”
“I remember everything you say,” he said, and for a second, the air between you felt thick and heavy with a truth that had nothing to do with your deal. He tore his gaze away when his cheeks burned at the realization of what he said.
Before he could lose his footing, an elder weaver called out from the circle, asking you to venture into the lower groves to find specific climbing fibers for the council’s new tapestry.
“I'll accompany you,” Neteyam said before you could even reach for your basket.
As you walked into the dappled light of the forest, your fear of the ruse ending began to fade, replaced by the sheer comfort of his presence. You started to ramble, and Neteyam, as you have discovered in the past weeks, was a good listener. He didn't interrupt, or patronize. He simply watched you with a curious, steady gaze that made you feel... heard.
“You see that?” you said one afternoon, pointing to a cluster of deep crimson berries clinging to a damp log. “Most people think they’re just for eating, but if you crush them with a bit of limestone and the sap from a yellow stalk, you get a purple that looks like the sky before the sun sets. It’s the only color that stays after the fiber is boiled.”
Neteyam leaned in, peering at the berries as if they were a new species of prey.
“And those,” you continued, stumbling over your words in your haste to explain. “If you harvest them when they’re still young, they give a gold that practically glows in the dark. I used it for the elders' ceremonial sashes last year. Everyone thought I’d traded with the reef clans for it, but it was just right here, under our feet, being stepped on.”
You laughed, a bright sound that echoed through the trees, but when you realized you were rambling, you quickly shut your mouth, touching your lips.
“Sorry. I’m talking too much,“ you gripped the basket hard.
Neteyam stopped walking. He turned to you with a genuine frown on his face. “You can talk my ears off. I’ve spent my whole life looking at the forest for threats or targets. I never realized how much I’m missing what was right in front of me.” He chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. “I found myself looking at different plants lately, wondering if it was the right kind of hue for your weaving.”
The admission was bold and he didn’t even feel shame even though he did feel his cheeks burn. He was thinking of you when you weren't together. The deal was working, but the lines were blurring so fast he doesn’t even care about the reason it began.
Weeks later, the success of the sturmbeest hunt was the reason for the thrumming of drums and chanting of the Omatikaya warriors dancing in the hometree’s communal clearing. High on the central dais, the Olo’eyktan’s voice carried over the throng as he announced the success of the council’s efforts to begin a dialogue with the displaced clan that has been disrupting the way of lives not only of the people, but that of the neighboring clans as well.
The chieftains of the other forest clans had apparently agreed to convene in a Great Council with the envoys returning with messages of unity. Neteyam stood beside you in the crowd, his shoulder brushing your arm. The rigid, perfect posture of a mighty warrior was gone, replaced by a relaxed stance he only seemed to find when he was within your orbit.
“You did it,” you whispered, grinning up at him.
Neteyam looked down at you, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. “We did it,” he corrected softly. “I was ready to lead a war party until you handed me that fruit and told me to breathe. I would have missed the obvious path if you hadn't been standing there to point it out.”
You shrugged, picking a berry out of the leaf bowl he gave you. “So, what happens now?” you asked. “Now that the chieftains have agreed?”
“The next step may be the hardest,” Neteyam said, his expression turning thoughtful. “We have to send someone to the displaced clan. Not to fight, but to invite their Olo’eyktan. Someone has to show them we aren't their enemies and that we’ll help them settle and get back to their own feet.”
You looked at him, admiring the way the light caught the beads you’d given him which he had immediately put in his braids. “You should go, Neteyam.”
He blinked, looking surprised. “Me? My father will likely send an experienced diplomat, or perhaps a senior warrior.”
“No,” you insisted, stepping closer. “You’re the one who suggested it to the council. It’s a great opportunity for you to hone your diplomatic skills. You’re going to lead this people one day, and this might not be the last time a clan is desperate or angry. If you go, you’ll learn a lot.”
Neteyam went quiet, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He listened to you as if every word you spoke was important. “You really think I can do it?”
“I know you can,” you said firmly. “You have the heart for it.” You looked at your berries again, eating more of it.
The wind shifted then, kicking up a swirl of fine wood-dust from the dancefloor. You winced, your hand flying to your eye as you felt a sharp things.
“Ow—wait, something’s in my eye.”
“Don’t rub it,” Neteyam said immediately. His hands were suddenly on your face, his touch firm but incredibly gentle as he cupped your jaw. “Look at me. Keep it open.”
You looked up at him, your vision watering and blurred. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, and blew a soft, steady breath across your eye to clear the dust.
“Is that better?” he whispered, blowing another.
You chuckled as you blinked several times, your heart doing a frantic dance in your chest. “It’s just a bit of dust, Neteyam, you look so serious,” you said, smiling.
He stared at you, still not pulling away and when you didn’t move your head, he tilted his and pressed his lips to yours. It was deep, soft, and carried the weight of his yearning in the past moons. He didn’t know how long he had wanted to do that, but the softness of your lips is making him melt like candle wax.
In your belly, it felt like a hundred forest ikrans had suddenly taken flight. You felt giddy, almost lightheaded, but the thought of the deal flickered in your mind. When he pulled back just a fraction to let you breathe, your eyes pierced through him and spotted Ka’ani across the fire, her face fuming as she watched Neteyam’s back, specifically how he was bent at the waist just so he could kiss you.
“She’s looking...” you murmured against his lips, your voice a shaky mess.
Neteyam’s mind was hazy, drugged by the taste of your lips. His brows furrowed. “Who?” he asked, his voice a gravelly rumble as he kissed the corner of your mouth, his hands tightening on your jaw.
You closed your eyes, feeling the spark of his skin against yours. “Ka’ani...”
“And?” he responded, his nose nuzzling yours before he angled his head to kiss you more firmly. “Open up...”
“Uhm, about what? I mean, she talked to—”
Neteyam let out a low, vibrant chuckle that vibrated through your lips. “Your mouth, space cadet.”
Before you could even process what he meant, he darted his tongue out and licked at the seam of your lips. Your head reared back in genuine shock though, your eyes popping wide open.
“That was...” you sputtered, your face turning a deep, embarrassed crimson. “Why did you lick me? Neteyam!”
He barked a deep, resonant laugh, a real, belly-deep sound that made his whole frame shake. The sight of your shocked expression was too much for him. You tried to maintain your dignity, but his joy was too infectious.
“It’s a sweet gesture!” he laughed, reaching out to pull you back toward him.
“What? Like a fwampop?” you asked, but you were already giggling, the two of you leaning against each other and laughing so hard you forgot the rest of the clan was even there.
The festival fire continued to crackle, but for the rest of the night, Neteyam didn't leave your side. He followed you to the communal food pits when you offered to help the cooks, not letting you carry the heavy food trays so you just rambled about anything you could think of. Every time your hand brushed his, or you leaned in to tell him a secret about one of the dancers, he looked at you with a gaze so heavy and warm.
The next morning, the festival fog had settled over the village, but Neteyam was already awake and waiting by the weaving looms. He was standing there with a slightly large, intricately carved wooden bobbin. Something he spent days working on, but he won’t tell you that.
“Bobbin?” you asked with a huge smile when he gently handed it to you.
He shrugged nonchalantly, as if coming here early in the morning before his patrol to bring you something he had worked on for days meant nothing. “I saw you struggling with the one that kept snagging your thread,” he said. His fingers lingered on yours as you accepted it, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow caress.
“Wow... This is perfect, Neteyam,” you said, beaming up at him as marveled at the craftsmanship.
He stared at you, fighting the urge to punch the air or beat up his chest as if he won a huge prize.
“You really didn't have to. Do you not have patrol?” you asked.
“I have,” he said. But he wanted to see you. Talk to you about last night, to clarify that the kiss had nothing to do with your deal.
“Alright, then. I’ll see you at lunch,” you said, your attention already focused on your new bobbin. He stood there for a few more seconds, just watching you, his ears twitching at the sound of your voice.
Later that afternoon, though, the rain began to pour while you were in the forest, the raindrops caching you near the lower groves. You tried to shield your basket of dyed fibers with your own body but just as heavy drops soaked your braids, you saw a familiar figure coming, holding a massive, broad leaf.
“Neteyam?” you uttered in surprise.
He had a boyish grin on as he held the leaf over your head. He was getting soaked, the rain slicking down his blue skin and making his muscles gleam, but he didn't seem to care. He stepped so close that his chest was almost touching your shoulder, the heat from his body acting as a shield against the chill.
“How did you even know I was here?” you asked, chuckling and pulling him close so he won’t get wet.
“I think I already know your routines,” he said, smirking playfully, though his voice was thick with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He reached out and tucked a wet strand of braid behind your ear, his touch far more lingering than it needed to be. His eyes dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to yours, as though searching for something.
You tear you gaze away. “I swear, you’re going to catch a cold! And you’re all muddy. What if Ka’ani sees you? You always have to be in character, you know?” you exclaimed, trying to push the leaf more toward his side.
Neteyam’s smile faltered for a second, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he masked it with a soft chuckle. “Right. The act.”
He guided you back toward the shelter of the Hometree, his hand resting firmly on the small of your back. As you walked, he intentionally slowed his pace, pulling you closer to avoid a puddle. When you reached the dry roots of the tree, he didn't immediately let go. He leaned down, his face close to yours.
“Do you really think I'm doing all this for the audience?” he asked, his golden eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like a plea.
Your brows furrowed, panic rising in you before laughing nervously, patting his arm and moving away into the shelter of the hometree’s canopy. “Well, you're a very dedicated actor, ‘Teyam. I have to hand it to you. Everybody believes us,” you said with a huge smile.
Neteyam went still. He stared at you, his hand still in the air, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders dropping just an inch. “I suppose I am dedicated,” he said quietly, a sad, lopsided smile touching his lips.
“I’m just glad I can help you with this. I’ve never had an actual friend, you know?” you said brightly, grabbing your basket from him. “See you at dinner? I heard they’re serving the smoked fish you like.”
Neteyam watched you walk away, your silhouette disappearing into the winding ramp. He looked down at the hand that had held the leaf, his fingers still tingling from the brief contact with your skin. “Damn it...” he whispered to the empty air. This isn’t an act anymore and he doesn’t know how to cross the threshold between the stage and the reality.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“No way! You can't move there, that's against the rules!” Lo’ak barked, leaning over the board.
“You’re not one to talk about rules!” Spider countered, reaching for your game piece to help you. “Go on, girl, take his territory. Do it!”
You laughed, your face flushed with the kind of rowdy joy you usually only heard from a distance before. You slammed your piece down, successfully “capturing” Lo’ak’s base. You turned to Spider and Lo’ak, throwing up a hand for a high-four. “Did you see that?“
Spider barked a laughter. “Tell him, ‘suck it!’”
“Suck it?” you repeated with a confused smile.
The word had barely left your lips when the air in the room seemed to shift. Neteyam, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar watching you with a soft, protective smile as he sharpen his bows suddenly went rigid. He looked at Lo’ak and Spider, who were both chuckling, explaining to you what it meant.
“Hey, don't look at us,” Lo’ak muttered, though his tail was twitching with mischief. “She’s just part of the crew now, brother. One of the guys.”
Neteyam pushed off the pillar, stepping into the circle. He ignored the snickering from Lo’ak and Kiri’s knowing smirk. “She is not one of the guys,” Neteyam hissed under his breath.
You turned to him, still grinning from your victory. “Neteyam,” you called and his ears twitched at your soft voice. “Are you angry?”
He blinked, shaking his head right away. “No, no, of course not,” he told you, his eyes softening but a flitter of reprimanding gaze to Lo’ak and Spider promised later. He had just introduced you to them more than a week ago, for Eywa’s sake, and now, they are already teaching you the wrong things!
“You're teaching her the wrong things,” Neteyam told the two later that night when you left the small kelku they created for their games.
“Brother, I think she’s enjoying just fine. I’ve seen her before, she’s usually alone. I’m sure Lo’ak and Spider are just who she needs,” Kiri said,
“Right! She’s really fun. Just yesterday, we played with squid fruit by the river and she threw a mashed handful on my face. Look, I still have stains all over!“ Spider said, pointing at his pink-stained face.
“What?” Neteyam replied, horrified, remembering the stain on your temple that he saw last night. “Just what are you two—”
Lo’ak snicked. “Bro,“ he put a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Don’t be too grumpy. You said you want her to have more friends and we are her friends now,“ he grinned.
Neteyam let out a huff, rolling his eyes. He understands this. You’d told him you have never had an actual friend and he thought he could remedy that. He’d give you everything, if he could.
A few days later, he insisted on coming with you to the forest and you agreeed, knowing you will have to pass by the training grounds where Ka’ani could be and she was indeed around, her eyes following Neteyam as if she’s waiting for him to spare her a glance but he was focused on the path ahead, oblivious or uncaring to her longing stares.
“Ka’ani was looking at you,“ you grinned up at him, nudging his side with your elbow.
You saw his brows furrowed for a moment and then his face hardened. You pushed your lips forward. You assumed it was because Ka’ani still didn’t go and talk to him. The woman is fierce warrior, she was probably too proud to see that as an option. She wants Neteyam to come to her. To her credit, you had not seen her in the company of man in the past weeks... You wondered if Neteyam has realized that.
“You know... I noticed Ka’ani has not been hanging out with guys lately? Have you noticed that?“ you asked, angling your head to look up at him as you rambled, “What if she’s just waiting for you to go and talk to her? I think that’s what she wants. She talked to me, you know? She was mad, so I think she was jealous, isn’t that great—”
“She talked to you? And she was mad?” he turned to you, his face etched with both anger and worry.
You grinned. “Yes. I can tell she was jealous—”
“Did she hurt you?”
“No, she didn’t...” you said. “She was just angry, because the act is working—”
You saw the bone in his jaw tick as if he was clenching his teeth. “Let’s not talk about her.”
Your lips pushed forward and you shrugged, listening instead to the soft crunch of dried leaves breaking beneath your feet. Neteyam fell quiet then, his tail twitching with a restlessness that told you something was weighing on him. You walked faster to match his face, pressing a palm on his chest which made him stop walking... and breathing, too.
“What’s bothering you?” you asked, standing in front of him and feeling his chest slowly deflate.
This is crazy. He has never noticed girls’ voices before, but now, they could probably use yours to cool him off. Your voice caresses him and your laugh sounds like bells in his ear. He wouldn’t have said a word if a different person had asked him, but you always have a way to make him open his mouth and just talk.
“The council... they are advising against it,” he said, his voice heavy. “They think sending me to the displaced clan as an envoy is too much risk, because they see me as a target, not a diplomat.”
Your eyes searched his face and he felt warm inside. “And what does your father say?”
He let out a frustrated sigh and your hand caressed his chest. His hand rose to catch your hand, pressing it against his lips. “He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just listens and only then he’ll decide. I’m worried he’ll take their advice,“ he looked at you.
You huffed a breath, patting his chest, and giving him a supportive smile. “Then remind them, Neteyam, that you are no longer a child to be shielded. At your age, your father was already Olo’eyktan. You have to learn diplomacy just as much as any other leader. It wouldn't do you any good to be a leader who is ill-equipped in the discussions of peace.”
Neteyam’s gaze softened, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he looked at you. You removed your hand but he caught it again. “Thank you... for always sharing my burden. I don't think I could have faced them today without hearing that.”
You chuckled, swinging your joined hands lightly. “Bro, it’s nothing! That’s what friends are for, as Spider says,” you beamed at him before turning back to the path ahead, missing the way his face completely dropped.
His smile faltered, and then it deadpanned. It was a total double-kill. Bro and friends in a single breath. You might as well have just shot him in the head and he would have taken it lighter. He huffed, his tail lashing once in irritation as he followed after you.
“I’m not your 'bro,'” he said, suddenly reaching forward to grab your basket from your arm.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you laughed at his sudden grumpiness. “Silly! We’re all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Great Mother,” you said, lightheartedly twirling as you walked, enjoying the dappled sunlight. You didn't even notice how his eyes narrowed as he watched you move through the forest with no care in the world, seemingly oblivious to how much Lo’ak and Spider were ruining his life with their vocabulary lessons.
He had reached his limit.
Before you could twirl again, Neteyam stepped toward you. He reached out, gently but firmly grabbing your arm. Your eyes widened in surprise as he guided you backward, gently pushing you against the trunk of a nearby tree. You looked up at him, your breath catching. His face was inches away from yours, his golden eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Neteyam?” you whispered, your eyes dropping to his lips before you stupidly, unconsciously licked yours.
He leaned down, and when you didn't pull away, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was deeper and more demanding than the one at the festival. He licked your lips again and you chuckled against his mouth but when his tongue darted inside yours, you made a sound that sounded so womanly it surprised even you. His tongue tangled with yours as his lips devoured yours.
Everything made you feel hot, and weirdly, tingly between your legs that you had to close your thighs together.
When he finally pulled back, his hands moved to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, his voice low and trembling.
You blinked. “Now?”
“There are things that needs to be dealt with first,“ he said, caressing your jaw. You nodded.
The thing that needed dealing was Ka’ani. He didn’t know the extent of the conversation you had with the huntress, but he knew how Ka’ani talks, and the fact tha you said she was mad solidified what he knew. You two walked back to Hometree, with him carrying your basket for you. The elders giggled at the sight of him following you around like a loyal pet, and when he left with a lingering brush of his thumb against your cheek, they nosed around and asked if the warrior was truly courting you like they kept hearing from the youth.
“No, he’s not... He’s a friend,” you said, noticing the arm band on your basket. You took it and thought perhaps Neteyam had left it there.
You followed after him, thinking he hasn’t gone far yet, but when as stood in the Hometree’s shadowed entrance, you saw him approach Ka’ani near the training grounds, your breath hitching. Ka’ani tilted her head and smirked at him, turning on her heels into the privacy of the deeper woods. You saw Neteyam follow and you tucked yourself behind a massive fern, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
In the dimmed bioluminescence of the forest, Neteyam stood in front of the huntress, seeing that Ka’ani was already smiling, a triumphant, sharp look. “No need to say sorry, Neteyam, if that’s how you’ll start your piece. Because I know,” she said. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. You’ve used that weaver girl to make me jealous, to straighten me up. I get it, so you can drop the act now. I’ve learned my lesson. I know it’s me you want—”
“I do not want you, Ka’ani,” Neteyam’s voice cut through her arrogance like a blade. “I never even thought I wanted you. Yes, you are a strong and fierce warrior, and I once thought that was what I needed by my side for when I lead one day... but I didn’t realize just how much I needed to see and be seen.“
“And have I not seen you?” Ka’ani snarled, her tail lashing. “We trained together, Neteyam! We fought, we hunted! I was always here! You just spared that girl a glance literally like yesterday and you think she’s perfect for you—”
“You don’t know me in the ways that matter, Ka’ani,” he countered. “I’ve had more connection with a rock, and I don't know why I ever entertained the thought that I needed someone strong by my side when strength is not the only thing this clan needs.”
Ka’ani’s face contorted, her pride wounded in front of the man she wanted so much and thought wanted her, too. “We can get to know each other! I regret it, alright? I regret playing around. I’ll focus—”
“Don’t regret what you did,” Neteyam said. “I’m glad you did it, because not only did it prevent me from making a huge mistake, it also brought me to her. And now, I have the rest of my life in front of me, bright and clear as day.” He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping to a warning growl. “Have a good life, Ka’ani. And do not ever approach my woman to tell her nonsense again.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Ka’ani watching him in deep contempt. All those last words he said not to do? She will do it. Back at Hometree, you sat by your loom, your fingers trembling as you picked up a strand of gold thread. You forced a smile onto your face, practicing the words of congratulations you would give him, even as you felt like the sky was turning a purple far deeper and darker than any storm. That was probably what he was going to talk about with you...
Outside, Neteyam walked back to Hometree with a sense of purpose he’d never felt before. He headed straight for the weaving looms. Tonight, you will be his. He’d tell you the act ends here and you two will start something real. No act from here on end. No games. Just the two of you.
But he never made it to the looms.
A hunter intercepted him midway, out of breath and frantic. “Neteyam! The night patrol was ambushed by the violent clan. Two are wounded. Your father is calling for the council.”
The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. The soft, yearning man disappeared, replaced by the disciplined warrior. He hurried to the council, standing before Jake with a firm resolve. “I’ll go,” Neteyam insisted. “Fighting would be the last thing I’ll do. I’ll talk to them, Dad. You call for the chieftains to convene and I’ll convince them to come.”
He left within the hour, riding on his ikran, but his heart was back at Hometree, in the weaving looms... He thought he’d be back by light, but he didn’t know he’d be gone for days.
You had been crying. You learned that Neteyam left for a mission regarding the displaced clan, so even though you were heartbroken, you went to the Tree of Souls to pray for his journey. Your vulnerability was too obvious as you walk back to Hometee, and in it, Ka’ani found her opening. You were so close to Hometree when she stepped out from the shadows, a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Hi,” she greeted. “I’m pretty sure you’d heard of Neteyam going to battle... Did he say good bye to you?”
You lowered your gaze and shook your head.
“Where do you think he was last night before he went to battle?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock pity. “He was with me... getting his strength from me.” She stepped closer to you to tilt your head up. “He apologized to me, weaver. For losing sight of what’s truly for him... which is me. He loves me, which I’m sure you know... And he did make me feel loved... see?”
She tilted her head back, exposing the dark hickeys on the side of her neck. To your untrained eyes, it simply looked like bruises, but you knew what you were talking about. Pain bloomed in your chest and you felt ashamed for feeling it. You’re not supposed to feel it. You knew where this is leading to, you knew it was all an act. This woman in front of you was the only reason he approached you.
Ka’ani giggled. “Neteyam was insatiable. He missed me, as you can see... and now, I’m still sore, honestly,” she sighed, looking at you with that mock pity again. “Do you get it? He’s back with me... After he strayed. I hope you can respect that?”
You blinked, your lungs feeling as though they had turned to stone. You didn't realize you were holding your breath until she turned and walked away, and you felt like you might collapse, but the sound of Spider’s familiar voice cut through the silence. He came running toward you, laughing, with Tuk trailing just behind him.
“Was that Ka’ani?” Spider asked, his smile faltering. “What did you two talk about?”
You forced yourself to blink, the world slowly coming back into focus. “Uh... nothing. What are you two doing?”
“Playing tag!” Tuk squealed, slamming into your waist and hugging you tight. You automatically reached down to ruffle her braids. “Tag! You’re it!” she shouted, tapping your belly with a giggle before darting away.
Your soul wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner and let the tears fall, but looking at Tuk’s bright face and Spider’s expectant grin, you couldn't bear to be the killjoy.
“Oh, you’re going to get it now!” you called out, forcing a smile as you chase after them.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Neteyam had done the impossible. He had returned not just with his warriors intact, but with the promise of a unified forest. The first pace of the Great Council’s efforts to help the displaced clan find a dwelling land, he had secured a future for the displaced and for that, he was their hero.
The clan had a small celebration for it, but as the smell of roasted meat filled the air, Neteyam’s eyes were only on the winding path toward your family’s hut. He hadn't seen you in the crowd. He hadn't seen you at the landing where he expected you would be. Waiting for him. Kiri did tell him you were sick, though, which had sent a cold spike of dread that halted his celebratory high.
He didn't wait for his father’s final toast before slipping away, feeling a worry he didn't even feel during his mission. He arrived at your family’s hut, breathless, practically vibrating with the need to pull you into his arms and tell you that he had thought of nothing but your face as he sat among the displaced.
When you emerged from the flap, he froze. You were pale and your eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the telltale signs of the days you spent in quiet agony. His brows furrowed, his feet moving before he could even think. He stopped when he saw you step back though.
“I... I’m sick,” you said when you saw the question in his eyes. You didn't look at him with the warmth he’d been dreaming of. You looked at him as if he were a threat.
He stepped toward the platform, his hand reaching out instinctively. “I know. Kiri told me. But what made you sick? Why are you crying?" His voice was thick with a worry so raw it made your chest ache. “I haven't even been gone for a week, and this is what I return to?”
You stepped back into the shadows of the hut, a sharp scowl flickering across your face. “I... I don't know why I got sick. But I do know I want to lay down and rest. So if there's nothing else, I’ll go do it.”
Before he could utter another word, you grabbed the woven flap and slammed it shut. Neteyam stood there in the silence, staring at the closed entrance. His brows furrowed, his head tilting in genuine, painful confusion. He had expected a hug, a laugh, perhaps even a repeat of that soul-searing kiss in the forest. Instead, he had been shut out like a stranger. The victory he had carried on his shoulders suddenly felt hollow. For this, he didn't return to the celebration at all. He walked back to the his family’s hut in a daze, laying awake for hours wondering what could have poisoned the air in his absence.
The next day was filled with council meetings. He sat through hours of strategy and relocation discussions, but his mind was in the looms which he would check every time there's a chance, ready to scold you for working while ill, but your spot was empty. It wasn't until the following morning that he found you. You were sitting at your spot, your movements stiff and mechanical. And it seemed like you were waiting, too, because you looked at him the moment he stepped into the looms.
“Let’s talk,” he said, his voice firm, trying to reclaim some shred of authority to hide how much his heart was racing.
You stood up, your face impassive. “We do need to talk.” you said, your voice cold and sharp.
He stopped in his tracks, staring at you for more than a minute. For the first time in his life, after facing predators, raids, and the weight of a legacy, Neteyam felt a genuine, cold prickle of fear. But as he looked at the fire in your eyes, a small, reckless part of him couldn't help but admire it. He feels crazy. You are so hot when you’re mad.
You walked into the forest, feeling even more slighted when you remembered him going in this same route with Ka’ani. You felt his hand on your elbow though, steering you toward a different path instead. You glared at him. “Where are we going?”
The sight of direhorses answered your question though. You saw some warriors riding their mounts and Neteyam whistled for his. You saw Ka’ani among the warriors nearby and saw how her eyes narrowed at the sight of you and Neteyam. Shame rose in you and you tried to wriggle away from Neteyam’s hold, especially when a warrior came jogging toward you.
“Brother, will you not watch the young tame their mounts?“ The warrior asked. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”
The warrior glanced at you and you took your elbow from Neteyam again, but you weren’t able to get away though, because his hand found your waist and pulled you to him.
“No. I got something more important to do,“ Neteyam said. “I’m sure they’ll do well.”
The warrior snickered, “Enjoy then,” he glanced at you meaningfully before nodding to Neteyam, and turning away.
Neteyam’s hand spanned your waist and lifted you up on his direhorse in under ten seconds, making you slightly shriek. He mounted the beast behind you, making tsaheylu with it before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. You tried to move away, but the direhorse had started moving, and in a second, it was running.
The wind roared past your ears as the direhorse ate up the miles, forcing you to lean back against Neteyam’s chest just to stay balanced. You enjoyed the sight during the ride, fighting the urge to move your head away when you felt him pressung a kiss to the crown of your head. You felt sad when he pulled on the reins, already missing the exhilaration of riding and the good view.
Neteyam slid off the mount first before reaching up to lift you down, his movements fluid and sure. He didn't let go immediately, his hands lingered on your waist as he looked around the clearing. He felt a surge of triumph that you hadn't jumped off and bolted, though he felt a twinge of guilt, too, because he’d brought you this far specifically so you couldn't run away.
The glade was breathtaking and it immediately snagged your attention. Under any other circumstances, you would have danced through the high grass, but the weight in your chest kept your feet heavy.
Neteyam turned to you, the light dabbing across his face. “Alright," he whispered, his jaw tightening. “Tell me. What has changed since I left?”
You scowled, the image of Ka’ani’s smug face flashing in your mind. “Are you sure things didn’t change before you left? I’m pretty sure you made up with Ka’ani, and did more than just talking.”
The accusation hit him like a physical blow that his eyes widened, his head snapping back in shock. “I did not ‘make up’ with Ka’ani. Yes, I talked to her, but I simply told her to back off. I told her never to approach you again. Did she talk of nonsense to you again?” He was practically vibrating, his tail lashing behind him.
“Yes, she did! We talked,” you threw back at him. “She showed me the hickeys on her neck, Neteyam! She said she was so sore... because you were insatiable! Because you missed her so much that you had to get your 'strength' from her before you left!”
“What?” The word was a rasp of horror. A visceral disgust washed over his features, his body shivering at the image your words painted. “I did not lay with her. I never did and I never would. Oh, Great Mother... that woman is a huge liar!”
You searched his face. You looked for a flicker of guilt or lie, a shift in his eyes, but all you saw was a man who looked genuinely nauseated by the very idea. You believe him, despite yourself and without your consent, the suffocating clouds over your head began to lighten. He stepped toward you, his hands reaching for your arms, but you crossed them over your chest, refusing to let him in just yet.
“Believe me, please,” he pleaded, his words beginning to tumble over each other in a frantic rush. “That night after we were in the forest, all I did was find her and shut down her delusions. I was so mad that she dared to talk to you, dared to get mad at you, so I told her to back off and never approach you again. I was coming back to you, baby. I was going to tell you our ruse ends there and then. I was going to beg you for a chance to make it real.”
He palmed his face , sounding completely undone.
“But then the incident with our warriors happened and I had to go... Jesus. I was so stupid. I should have gone to you before I left, but I was thinking... I was thinking I probably wouldn't be able to leave at all if you told me you’d give me a chance.”
His heart was beating too fast and to hard against his chest, watching the fire in your eyes finally die out, replaced by a soft heat. You believed him. It wasn't in your nature to stay angry when the truth felt so solid, and you knew Neteyam well enough now to know he would never play around. The fact that Ka’ani had looked so bitter earlier suddenly made sense. She hadn't won anything, she had just tried to burn down your bridge.
You bit your lip, your shoulders finally dropping. “Alright...” you whispered.
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into your space, gently wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest. “That’s it? ‘Alright’?” he asked, his voice soft and breathless, his face so close yours.
You pushed your lips forward in a small pout, though you didn't pull away. “I guess I believe you... I don’t think it’s in your character to lie like that.”
A wave of shame washed over you as you realized how quickly you had let Ka’ani’s poison work. You had given him so little confidence, believing a lie over the man you know to be so genuine and kind. But then, you had been protecting yourself; you were in an act, and the lines had been so blurred you didn't know where it all ended.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured “I just... I thought it was still an act. That we were still acting to get her back...”
Neteyam tightened his grip, lowering his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ve long forgotten about the deal. I think I stopped truly caring about it just a week after I started spending my days with you. I just didn't know what it was I was feeling until the thought of it ending and not being with you anymore felt more terrifying than any battle.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb caressing your cheek. “This is why you’ve been crying...”
You pushed your lips forward. You wanted to forget that part! “Let’s just forget it...”
“No, we won’t. You don’t know how much it broke me to see you cry, to see you so gray, and not know why. She hurt you, she meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice hard and his jaw tightening. “And I played a part in it. I should have talked to you, clear everything for us so you would have confidence in me. So you won’t believe her.”
You looked up at him, your hand pressing against his chest to calm him down. “It’s over and done with, Neteyam... What’s important is that we’te okay now. Right?”
He looked down at you, his head tilting. Ka’ani was lucky that you are so kind, but she wasn’t that lucky because he’s not. He leaned down to kiss you, “Right. There will be no more acts and games... Just us.”
You looked up at him, the weight finally gone, and for the first time in days, the light returned to your golden eyes. “Just us.” you beamed at him.
He sucked in a breath, pulling you and tilting your head to kiss you hard. He was a man starved and you could tell with how he's holding and kissing you. He moaned when your tongue licked his lower lip, making him pull his head back to look at you.
“It’s you I missed so much...” he mumbled, kissing you softly. “It’s you I’d be insatiable for... And you I’ll make so sore—”
“Neteyam!” your hand lifted up to clamp around his mouth and he laughed. You shrieked when you felt his warm and wet tongue lick at your palm.
“I know... I’ll court you... Then you'll accept me as your mate... And then you’re in big trouble wth me—”
You groaned, your cheeks burning purple. He kissed your cheek before angling his head to kiss you for real.
The next afternoon, the Sully siblings were in on the plan—though only Kiri truly understood the gravity of it. They had dragged you down to the river, telling you they’ll teach you how to properly splash a person without getting soaked yourself.
“Focus! You have to cup your hand like this,” Spider shouted, sending a wall of water toward a ducking Lo’ak.
You laughed, the sound genuine and bright, completely unaware that Neteyam had quietly slipped away. He had seen Ka’ani heading toward the upper trails, and he wasn't about to let another sun set without finishing this. He intercepted her near the high roots, his silhouette blocking her path. Ka’ani stopped, her smirk faltering when she saw the look on his face. He didn’t look friendly at all, not that he had look friendly the last time they talked, but the hard storm masking his face right now was the look of a man who had seen a threatening the peace.
“Neteyam,” she started, trying to reclaim her cool composure. “I thought you'd be busy with your little weaver.“
“I am busy,” Neteyam said. “I am busy realizing how wrong I was about you. I thought you were a warrior of honor, Ka’ani. I thought that even if you were proud, you were noble. But to purposely hurt a woman who did you nothing wrong? To lie about the most disgusting things just to see her cry—”
Ka’ani’s eyes narrowed, her tail lashing. “I know what I’m doing, Neteyam! You were only using her to straighten me up! I just leveled the playing field. I was reclaiming what was mine—”
“I was never yours,” he cut her off, disgust for her delusions crumpling his face. “There was nothing to reclaim, you had nothing. The life you are living is the one you actively chose. Even if we had tried before, I know I would have quickly realized it would never work, what with our lack of connection. The only thing we shared was the training grounds.”
Ka’ani winced as if he’d struck her. “I... I was just blinded, Neteyam. I was jealous! I was envious. I’m sorry, alright? I was just trying to get you back.”
Neteyam let out a sharp huff. “I wasn’t yours to get back, we had nothing to do with each other. And you’re not really sorry. At least not yet, because you didn't think of taking your words back during the days I wasn't home. You knew she was crying. You knew she was hurting from your lies, and you sat back and enjoyed it. You are only sorry now because I am standing here confronting you.”
Ka’ani opened her mouth to argue, her hands trembling, but no words came out. The truth of his gaze was too heavy to deflect.
“I hope you grow,” Neteyam said, turning on his heel.
“Neteyam, wait!” she called out, sounding frantic as he turned to walk away. “I’m sorry! I’ll go to her right now. I’ll apologize to her! Please... can we still be friends? We’ve known each other our whole lives.”
Neteyam stopped, but he didn't turn around. He looked over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
“We were never friends, Ka’ani. You don't see me as a friend. You see me as a prize to be won.” He took a breath, thinking of your laugh echoing by the river. “Friends don’t hurt the people you love. And that is exactly what you did to the woman I love. After that, I don’t think your wish can be possible.”
He left her standing there, the weight of her own choices finally settling on her shoulders. When he returned to the river, he saw you. You were dripping wet, laughing as Tuk tried to climb onto your back.You looked up and caught his eye, beaming at him with a warmth that made his heart feel like it was soaring home.
He didn't say a word about Ka’ani. He just waded into the water, pulled you into a lopsided embrace, and whispered into your ear, “I think it’s time I started that courting I mentioned. Properly.”
And just like that, the moons had drifted by like dust in the wind, and Neteyam had kept his word. He courted you openly and even formally asked your parents for your hand, which they initially did not want to grant him. They think your life wouldn’t be as peaceful if you mated Neteyam instead of a simple man in the clan. Honestly, your parents didn’t know what to do with him. Neteyam was so intense in his courtship to you and your family that, most times, your parents were literally hiding from him. By then, he had already brought your family the finest meat and the rarest fruits, but surprise of your parents’ lives probably came when he brought Jake and Neytiri. He wasn’t really planning to bring them along, it was just... Neytiri is apparently getting impatient over the fact that Neteyam isn’t an official suitor yet, and Jake wanted to relieve your parents of their worries over you being Neteyam’s mate.
And today, the celebration for the new village of the displaced clan felt like the culmination of everything you and Neteyam had built. It seemed so long ago when you two discussed the matter when you were swimming in the river, and now, the clan found a home by the river. The Olo’eyktan of the displaced clan stood before the grand fire. You’d met him only today, but you could already tell the respect he has for Neteyam.
“For too long, we were ghosts in this forest,” the Olo’eyktan started. “We lived like beggars, raiding for sustenance, hurting our brothers and sisters among your clans, and also fearing their spears, but a path was cleared where we saw only hopelessness. Our homes are standing here today because of Neteyam te Suli, our brother of the Omatikaya. Because of him, we have peace. Our children will know only the beauty of the forest and never the tragedy that forced us out of our lands.”
You grinned as the crowd erupted, but Neteyam tried to sink into his seat, his ears pressing back in embarrassment as his arm pulled you to him. He hated the attention, but the chieftains wouldn't have it. They pushed him to the center, where he was forced to give a piece of his mind.
He cleared his throat, his golden eyes immediately finding yours in the crowd as if to ground himself. “The peace you see today was not born in my mind,” he began, his voice steadying as he looked at you. “I am a warrior, I was ready to lead with my bow. But it was my woman who showed me the wisdom in a hand offered instead of an arrow. She gave me the strength to listen when I wanted to fight. If this land is a home today, it is because her heart guided my way.”
Neytiri turned to you and smiled as the men in the crowd roared to tease the warrior they’ve been acquainted with in the past moons. As he strode back to you, pulling you into a deep kiss of victory, a warrior from a different clan hooted from the side. “Careful, Neteyam! Keep your wits about you and don’t let her hit her head, or she might wake up and realize she could leave your ass behind!”
Neteyam let out a deep, resonant laugh, pulling you flush against his side. “I have no intention of ever letting her get far enough to find out!”
As the party reached its high, Neteyam’s eyes found yours, looking at you meaningfully, in a way that made your skin tingle. You raised a brow and he jerked his head toward the dark woods. You pushed your lips forward in a playful pout but tugged his hand anyway, leading him away from the noise and into the glowing embrace of the forest.
You skipped hand in hand, admiring the bioluminescent flora lighting your path and when you reached the secluded bend of the river, the sounds of the festival was nothing but a hum. You turned to him with a grin and, without a word, untied the ties of your beaded top. His hungry eyes followed the movement, his breath hitching as if he has not seen them for a hundred times already. You untied your loincloth next, letting it pool on the floor.
He watched you with an intensity that excited you, and when his own loincloth fell, you bit your lip, seeing of the hard-on you had become quite well-acquainted with over the past moons. The glow of the river and the forest illuminated his handsome face so perfectly your heart hammered against your chest. He is so handsome.
“Hi,” he whispered, his large arms on your waist pulling you close.
Your smile grew to a grin. “You’re silly,” you chuckled, pressing a palm against his muscled chest to gently push him back. “I’m going to swim... why are you holding me?”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. “Oh, I think there are other things that need swimming, too,” he teased, his voice dropping as his hand caught yours, bringing it down so you could feel his hardened cock. “Your babies want to swim in you.”
“Neteyam!“ you called, almost swiveling your head around in case someone could hear him. You’ve learned, in the past moons, how lewd he can be with his words but your habit of looking around will probably stay for a few years more.
He angled his head to press a hard kiss against your lips. “What? Don’t you want our kids to have fun time?”
You laughed, the sound like bells in his ears. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. “Am I in big trouble again?” you whispered against his ear.
He groaned. “You’re always going to be in big trouble with me if I had my way.”
You smirked, tilting your head. “I want to take care of you tonight...” you mumbled, your hand on his chest caressing his skin and pushing him back.
He raised a brow, always surprised still whenever you show him fire. You pulled him down to kiss him, your lips crashing into his with a hunger that made him vibrate in excitement. He let you push him back against the trunk of a towering tree, letting out a gravelly groan when his head thumped back against the bark.
His hands gripped your waist, pulling you so flush against him that the ridge of his hard-on felt like it was imprinting itself on your belly. With practiced ease, he reached behind himself to bring his queue forward, while his other hand found yours behind you, making you break the kiss for just a second, watching through hooded eyes as the pink tendrils of your kurus began to reach and weave together.
The familiar psychic jolt of his intense love, raw devotion and desire for you flooded your mind, feeling his heart hammering against your ears, echoing the rhythm of your own. His fingers cupped your jaw to kiss you again, ad you smiled against his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth before trailing your lips down. You licked and kiss his neck, your palms staying flat on his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart as you kissed your way down over the hard ridges of his stomach.
“My warrior...” you murmured, kissing his lower abdomen.
You peered up at him, seeing his head pressed against the tree, but his eyes were looking down at you. You kissed sharp V-line of his hips before your hand reached out, fisting his girth. Neteyam’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat as your hand began to move. The bond between your queues flared, sending waves of his pleasure crashing through the both of you.
“You are celebrated tonight,” you whispered, looking up at him with your innocent doe eyes that contrasted the sinful movement of your hands on him. “I think you deserve a reward, don't you?”
“Baby...” he rasped, his hands fisting as he tried to ground himself.
You didn't give him a chance to respond. You lowered your head, taking him into your mouth with a heat that made his entire body shudder. Through the bond, you felt the exact moment he weakened. His hands flew to your long braids as your mouth started sucking around his girth, your tongue playing with its underside, getting another sharp intake of his breath. You drew back slightly, then plunged deeper, taking more of him down your throat. You worked your mouth, your lips sealing around him that made him tremble. His fingers tightened in your braids in a gentle tug, guiding your movements, urging you faster.
Your tongue swirled, licked, teased, tracing the veins along his length. You felt him grow even harder in your mouth. You pulled back, then swallowed him again, your breath hitching as you felt the wide head deep inside your throat. His hips began to thrust, his hand on your jaw, meeting your eager mouth until you tasted him, the musky scent of his arousal filling your nostrils. Your throat ached, but the pleasure in his groans kept you moving.
“Oh, baby,” he gasped, his body trembling.
His hips bucked, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. You felt the first warm gush of him erupt into your mouth, hot and thick, and you swallowed as his body convulsed, still pouring into you. He groaned deeply, a powerful sound that made you shiver, his fingers digging into your hair as he emptied himself.
He slumped, his breathing ragged. “Enough, my love,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, trying to pull your head up.
But you weren’t finished. You wanted to clean him, to savor every last drop. You ignored his pleas, your tongue flicking out, licking away the remnants of his pleasure, tracing the underside of his shaft. You heard his sharp intake of breath, his abdominal muscles tensing again. He was literally fighting to hold onto his strength, and you felt his cock twitch, hardening slightly at your continued ministrations. You ran your tongue along the tip, then sucked gently, drawing out the last of his cum.
“Fuck. I regret teaching you, you know?” he said weakly, his knees buckling.
You glared at him before reluctantly releasing him, your lips glistening. He reached down, pulling you up with a sudden, fierce strength that lifted until your bodies collided. His mouth found yours in a hard, demanding kiss, his tongue plunged into your mouth, mirroring the thrusts of his shaft earlier, tangling with yours. You met him with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer still, your hips instinctively grinding against his.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw and your throat in a fiery path. He lifted you, cradling you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist before he lowered you gently against the soft moss. He knelt above you, his golden eyes devouring your body like a man starved. His hand traced the curve of your waist, then upward, toward your breasts. His fingers brushed against your nipple and you arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one of the pebbled tips, sucking hard. You gasped and shivered, your fingers tangling in his braids, pressing him closer. His tongue swirled around your breast, while his other hand kneaded the other, his thumb circling the aroused tip.
“What a great reward,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your flesh. He suckled hard that it made you arch your back both in ache and pleasure. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same intense attention until you cried out, your body writhing for more.
He pulled away, his eyes hot with a familiar predatory hunger in them. He shifted, kneeling between your legs, which had instinctively parted for him. He leaned down, his mouth moving lower. You moaned, knowing what was coming, your hips lifting in anticipation. His tongue flicked out, tracing the velvety folds of your pussy, already wet with anticipation,
He spread your lips, his tongue plunging directly into your clit, making you arch your back, your fingers scratching at his back. He licked, sucked, and torment, his mouth relentlessly sucking and his tongue playing more than it licks. He used his fingers, too, parting your lips to allowing his tongue full access on you. He tasted you, the salty-sweet essence, a taste that always drove him wild.
“So sweet,” he murmured against your folds his voice a low growl, his tongue flicking faster, harder.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, your legs trembling, wrapping around his head, pressing him deeper into your pussy. You felt the suction of his mouth and the relentless assault of his tongue on your clit, and your orgasm coiled in your belly. You whimpered, unable to form words, only sounds of pure pleasure, your hips bucking as your body shivered with release, leaving you gasping. You felt the soft shudders of your pussy, contracting around his tongue.
He pulled away, moving above you, his hard cock pressing against your folds. You whimpered, still quivering from your orgasm that your pussy was still throbbing and incredibly sensitive. He still pushed though, the head of his cock sliding inside. You moaned and he pushed deeper, stretching you, and filling you completely.
You wrapped your arms around his body that hovered above yours, his eyes locked with yours. He began to move, a slow thrust, then another, pulling almost completely out before plunging back in deep and hard. The sounds of him sliding in and out of your wetness filled the air, mingling with your gasps and his grunts. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, urging him deeper and faster.
He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, lifting you slightly to control the angle, to thrust even deeper. “Harder,” you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your hips bucking to meet his.
He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming a furious assault. He pounded into you, deep and relentless, filling you with every thrust. You felt yourself tightening around him, your muscles clenching. Your breath hitched, your vision blurring. You cried out his name, again and again, as your body convulsed, leaving you gasping, clinging to him.
He groaned, his body trembling above you as he thrusted a few more times, deep, desperate strokes. His body tensed, his seed erupting inside you, hot and thick, filling your womb with your babies that needed swimming. He collapsed onto you, heaving, his breath ragged against your neck. You lay there, your entwined bodies both slick with sweat and release.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, his tail giving one final, exhausted twitch against your leg. With a groan that sounded sated and delirious, he pulled out of you, watching the gush of his heavy and thick cum dripping out of you. “You emptied me,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
You chuckled, breathless. “Complaining, are we? You’re the one who started talking about ‘swimmers’ in the middle of our conversation,” you smirked.
Neteyam let out a dry, boyish laugh, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at your stomach, then back at your face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe in my warriors. They’re fast.”
You groaned, reaching up to swat his chest, but he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “Neteyam, if my mother sees me walking back looking like this, I’m going to receive a scolding.”
“Tell her you are a mated woman,” he suggested shamelessly, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest.
“Neteyam... They don’t know that yet. We are following the traditions!” you whisper-shouted playfully. “Beside, what happened to being modest for my parents?” you narrowed your eyes at him.
He laughed, a genuine, chest-shaking sound that made you feel warm all over again. He rolled to his side, his hand grabbing your waist with a renewed look of heat in his eyes that made you groan. You sat up and his head angled to catch the pebbled tip of your breast into his mouth.
“‘Teyam...” your hand clutched at his shoulder.
“Just one more...” he said, his words muffled because he had your flesh in his mouth.
You bit you lip and laid back on the soft moss, spreading your thighs as your hand caressed the soft skin on his back. You watched his large, formidable form hover over you, his thick and long cock already pointing at your pussy as if it knows its target. You shivered at the sight of it, your excitement vibrating in your body. His hand clasped under your knee and pushed your leg back, stretching you before his cock nudged your entrance.
His other hand moved over your pussy, his thumb rubbing your sensitive nub as his length disappeared in you. You moaned a long one, arching your back, offering your rounded breasts to him and he lowered his head to take one into his mouth, his tongue immediately swirling on your nipple. In a sudden, hard movement, his hand on your hips pulled you to him, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
“Ah!” you moaned, your thighs quivering to close around him but he kept them open, restraining both of them tightly befote delivering a series of hard and intense pounding.
You held onto him, your eyes flying open and meeting his. You probably looked so aroused and fucked, because his pupils blew even wider, almost swallowing the gold. Your mouth remained perpetually gaped, releasing jagged breaths and moans as he continued pumping into you. Your hand pressed against his lower abdomen and his thrusts quickened and hardened even more.
He lowered his head to kiss you, his tongue immediately plunging into your open mouth. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his hard muscles contrasting his soft skin until all the sensations he’s giving you pushed you to the edge. He came first, shuddering above you despite his efforts to hold out longer. You hugged him tighter when you felt yourself erupt.
He kissed your neck softly, feeling your body shudder against him, you legs literally quivering as your walls clenched around him to milk him dry. He chuckled, pressing a hard kiss against your jaw. “I told you. Big trouble.”
You let your head fall on the mossy ground, feeling him lick the skin on your exposed neck. “I think I can handle the trouble,” you murmured. “As long as it’s yours.”
He squeezed your hip, giving you a lingering kiss. “I love you so much, space cadet,” he mumbled. “Now, let’s put on act that we just swam in the river and are too tired to return to the festival.”
pairing: sonny carisi x fem!suspect!reader (sort of in a clarice and hannibal lecter sort of way)
summary: the special victims unit finally catch the woman who has been wreacking havoc on new york city by targeting convicted rapists and brutally killing them. detective carisi is assigned to interrogate you, and he can't help but find your mind eerily fascinating.
warnings: very dark; viewer discretion advised, graphic depictions of murder, mutilation, castration, and torture, mentions of rape, mentions of dead animals, mentions of suicide
word count: 6.1k words !
a/n: i feel like i wrote a shit ton, but it still somehow feels rushed??? also i accidently wrote this whole thing in lowercase, and i don't feel like going through and fixing it all, so my apologies 🙏
／ your bare feet padded against the cold tile of your apartment as you made your way to the kitchen sink. a blank expression settled onto your features as you listened to the constant plop, plop, plop of water droplets falling from the faucet.
the paint was peeling, the walls dingy and grey, which only added to the lifeless atmosphere around you. the air was cold, goosebumps raising on your skin as you stared at the leaking sink. your grip on the counter tightened, knuckles going white under the pressure. you felt your control slipping, and that was never a good sign. you would get careless, sloppy, and that just wouldn't do. you had to act before the urges consumed you completely.
you'd always had these urges, always had a sick fascination with death. when you were younger, you would seek out roadkill, watching with curious eyes as maggots devoured decaying flesh while the scent of death permeated the air. It shouldve sickened you. you shouldve screamed and covered your mouth in horror like any other little girl would have—your heart breaking for the poor little animal sat at your feet—but you never did.
as you got older, that fascination extended from just animals to the human body. you wondered what it would be like to wrap your hands around someone's neck and feel the life leave them. you wondered how it would feel to plunge a knife into someone and feel the hot, sticky blood on your skin. you fantasized about it, about what it would feel like to be completely and utterly in control of whether someone lived or died.
you took a deep, shuddering breath as you released your grip on the counter. you turned the sink on, splashing some water on your face. the ice cold water felt like it went directly into your veins, shocking you from the walking haze you'd been in.
you sighed, running your wet hands over your face. it was too soon to kill again, but you needed to. your hands were growing restless, aching to feel the handle of your knife as you stabbed your helpless victim over and over again, their pleas and cries for you to stop like a front row seat to a symphony meant just for you.
"god dammit," you muttered, turning the sink off and spinning around. you squeezed your eyes shut, the sound of the water droplets continuously hitting the metal basin reverberating in your ears. you needed out of this apartment.
your eyebrows furrowed, a frown pulling at your lips as you headed to your bedroom. you pushed inside, shoving the door so hard that it smacked against the wall and bounced back. you didn't pay this any mind as you went to your closet, removing the false back you'd installed and grabbing your murder kit.
it was a large black purse, fairly unassuming for someone in new york, and especially unassuming with an innocent looking girl like yourself holding it. inside, however, was an assortment of items including knives, pliers, a small hammer, duct tape, and rope, among other things. you threw the bag onto your bed, slipping your shoes on.
you knew exactly who your target would be. dennis hellerman had just been released on parol for the rape of a fourteen year old girl whom he'd left so traumatized that she needed to be admitted to a mental institution after a suicide attempt.
just thinking about what he'd done—let alone the fact that he was released on parol after serving just two years in prison—made your blood boil. you wanted him to feel the fear that she had undoubtedly felt. you wanted him to beg and plead for his life as you pulled each fingernail from his fingers at an agonizingly slow pace, and then, you wanted to kill him.
you stood up, grabbing your purse and heading toward your bedroom door. your boots echoed across the floor as you walked to the front door. you unlocked the deadbolt and the various other locks that you'd installed lining the wood before pulling it open and stepping out. the door slammed behind you with more force than you'd intended, but you didn't care. you simply stuck your key in the lock, turned it, and headed toward the elevators.
the man was living in a homeless shelter for sex offenders which made him extremely easy to find. he was also working a job at a small, understaffed autobody shop. it was almost too easy.
"what's a sweet thing like you doing out this time of night?" his voice came from behind you as you stood bent over behind your car, pretending to be confused.
you had spent a while tracking his every move and devising the perfect place to lure him into your trap. you'd learned that the cameras outside the rundown autobody shop and most of the surrounding buildings didn't work which was oh so convenient for you. it was like the universe was begging you to take care of him.
"oh, hello there," you giggled, putting on your innocent act. "gosh, i am such a ditz when it comes to cars, but i think something's wrong," you pouted, turning back to your car and propping your hands on your hips.
"let me take a look and see if i can fix that for you, darling," he said, flashing you a sleazy smile. "but, it'll cost you."
"oh, sure, anything," you nodded, pretending to be oblivious to his innuendo. if you had any reservations before about what you were going to do—which you didn't—you sure as hell didn't now. "just, please, i really need my car."
he grinned, leering at you in a way that made you want to kill him right there, but you held back. instead, you pointed vaguely to a spot on the back of your car. "i think i see something leaking there."
he hummed, stepping forward to take a look. he leaned down, squinting. "i don't see anything."
"no, i promise just look," you insisted, reaching into your pocket and pulling out s syringe. he kept looking, too preoccupied to notice that you'd stepped behind him. just as he was about to turn around, you stuck the syringe into his neck and pressed down the plunger to send the paralytic into his bloodstream.
he let out a yelp of pain, his hand covering the spot on his neck as you pulled the syringe away. as his limbs started to turn to jello underneath him, you gave him a hard shove forward, making him collapse halfway into your trunk.
you groaned softly as you picked up his lower body, shoving the rest of him into the trunk and closing it. you looked around briefly to make sure no one was around before hopping into your car and driving off to your destination. this was going to be fun.
"wakey, wakey," you taunted menacingly, slapping his cheek as he stirred awake.
he groaned, his face jerking at the contact. his eyes widened, seeming to sober up as he realized he couldn't move. "what the fuck," he said, his voice urgent as he tried to pull against the ropes.
"how's that working out for you?" you grinned, your eyes gleaming with a sadistic pleasure, and this was only the beginning.
"you bitch," he spat when his eyes landed on you. he tried to lunge at you, but he got pulled back.
you tsked, shaking your head. "you really shouldn't insult someone who holds your life in their hands," you scolded him, motioning to your table of torture equipment that you had laid out.
the man's eyes widened, and you watched as the panic seemed to set in. he was realizing the situation he was in, and you were witnessing it in real time. the sight almost made you groan in pleasure. you loved this part and everything that came after.
he started screaming, shouting for help at the top of his lungs. you rolled your eyes. you did not care for this part.
"god, shut up," you complained, as if his fear was an inconvenience to you. "it's no use. no one can hear you out here."
you had set up shop in an abandoned warehouse near the docks. you did your work here and had your fun, and then, you disposed of the body in a dumpster in the city, discarding your victims like the trash they were.
he stopped screaming, his chest heaving as he glared at you. he was clearly trying to maintain some semblance of control by pretending not to be afraid. "what the fuck do you want?"
"hm," you hummed, picking up a knife and examining it as you pretending to think. "what is it that i want?" you put the knife back down, turning to him as you leaned on the table with your arms crossed. "what do you think i want, dennis?"
"maybe," you shrugged, grinning wickedly. "but it's a cruel, cruel world, isn't it?" your smile dropped as you stepped closer, a dark look in your eye. "a world where sick fucks like you get to prey on the innocent and vulnerable without hardly any repercussions for your actions."
"shut up," he glared at you. "you don't know shit."
"oh, please," you laughed humorlessly. "you plead guilty. the whole world knows what you did."
"i was force-" the sound of skin on skin echoed throughout the warehouse as you slapped him. his head whipped to the side, stopping him in the middle of his sentence. he sat there, completely stunned, as a warm, red mark in the shape of your palm started to form on his cheek.
"don't lie to me," you gritted out, stepping back and turning to your table of equipment again. you hummed, deciding which instrument to use first. you were tired of all the talking. you wanted to get to the fun part.
"you little bitch!" he yelled, finally snapping back to reality. he felt the sting on his cheek and fought against the ropes once more. "i'm gonna get out of this, and when i do, you're gonna regret ever meeting me."
"oh, i'm so scared," you said flatly, deciding on a pair of pliers and turning back to him.
his eyes widened at the sight, and you saw his adam's apple bob up and down with the force of his swallow. "w-what are you going to do with those?" he asked, all conviction gone from his tone.
"teeth or nails?" you asked, tapping the pliers lightly against your chin as you raised a brow at him.
"y-you're fucking nuts!" his voice trembled. he thrashed against the restraints, trying desperately to get away, but it was no use.
"pick or i do both," you said coldly, stepping forward until you were right in front of him, so close he could feel your breath on his skin.
"n-nails," he managed to say, and you smirked, reaching out to grab his jaw tightly. you pulled it open, your fingers digging harshly into his cheeks. he yelled out protests that weren't quite decipherable because of his mouth being open, but you were sure you understood the general gist.
"oh, what?" you asked mockingly. "you thought i'd actually let you choose?" you laughed, bringing the pliers up to his mouth and clamping down on one of his molars "this is definitely gonna hurt," you grinned before ripping the tooth out of his mouth forcefully.
he let out a blood-curdling scream that had you smiling even wider, a sick satisfaction washing over your body. it made your nerve endings buzz, the ends of your fingers and toes practically tingling with excitement.
he spat out the blood that was rapidly filling his mouth, the puddle falling at your feet. "please," he begged. "please, stop. i'll do anything!"
"begging already?" you asked incredulously. "i've barely even started." you rolled your eyes, grabbing his hand and holding it still as you clamped the pliers on his fingertip.
"please, don't! please!" he cried out, tears starting to fall from his eyes.
"how pathetic," you scoffed, pulling the pliers up swiftly. a soft crack filled your ears as his bone snapped, causing another loud scream to fall from his lips. you sighed in content. "isn't this so much fun?" you asked, grinning at him.
"you sick bitch!" he cried, his body trembling.
"i'm sick?" you asked, a fire igniting in your eyes as you tossed the pliers to the side, grabbing a knife. "tell me, dennis, did she plead and beg for you to stop?" you sneered. "did she call you a sick bastard, and did you keep going anyway?"
you had intended to save this part for after you were done because you knew he'd bleed out very soon after, but you couldn't help it. your little game of foreplay wasn't satisfying you anymore. you needed to skip right to the main event. his words mixed with the fact that you were already antsy and practically jumping out of your skin to kill again sent you over the edge.
you knew you weren't right in the head. you knew something was wrong with you; you'd known it since you were a little girl, but the implication that you were somehow worse than he was made the little spark of self control you were holding onto fizzle out.
you brought the knife down to his pants, cutting away the fabric. it took a bit of effort to slice through the rough denim, but eventually, you were able to pull it apart, his boxers on display.
"what the fuck are you doing?" he asked, looking down at his lap before looking back up at you. fear was evident in him from the way his voice trembled, his body shook, and the look in his eyes.
"my favorite part," you grinned sinisterly, reaching into his boxers and pulling out his dick. in one practiced motion, you sliced the knife through the base of the sensitive skin, cutting it off of him.
he screamed like he had never screamed before as a white hot, searing pain enveloped his senses. blood poured from the wound, coating his jeans and making them stick to his thighs as it ran down to the floor.
you watched in pure satisfaction as he screamed and jerked against the ropes. a thin layer of sweat formed on his entire body, his face paling as he lost blood at an alarming rate. you knew he'd be dead any minute now, and it made you feel like a god.
you watched as his screams died down to small whimpers and sobs before fading out completely, his mouth hanging open as his eyes glossed over, a faraway look in them. you grinned, taking his appendage and shoving it down his throat before closing his mouth.
you stepped back, admiring your handiwork for a moment before beginning to clean up, just as you had done so many times before. this wasn't your first time, and you intended for it to not be your last, but sometimes, life has other plans.
you discarded him in a dumpster as you usually did before heading home to clean yourself and all your tools off.
it was just like any other kill. you didn't think of it much afterwords; you simply went back to living your life as normal. you went to your boring 9 to 5, and then came home and made dinner while trying not to let that incessant dripping drive you mad. it had gone perfect, just as it always had.
you should've known that your restlessness would have caused problems. your impulsivity had never gotten the better of you like it had that night, and you were going to pay for it.
you thought you had gotten away with it until you opened your apartment door and found three cops with guns pointed at you. it was clearly an inopportune moment to leave. it seemed as if they were planning to kick your door down or something, but you'd caught them off guard.
"problem, officers?" you asked innocently, raising your hands to signal that you weren't going to cause any trouble. there were two women—one with brown hair and the other blonde—and one man, who had his hair cut close to his scalp.
"turn around, slowly," the male officer ordered, his gun and stern expression trained on you. you slowly turned your back to them, keeping your hands up.
you felt someone grab your wrist, pulling it behind your back. cold metal locked around one wrist and then the other. "you have the right to remain silent..." one of the female officers began reading you your rights.
"yes, yes, i understand," you said as she finished reading them off and pulled you out of the apartment, leading you to the elevator. the other two went inside your apartment, presumably to search for evidence.
you played through the events in your head. how did they find you? none of your victims ever had any personal connection to you, and you were very careful to prevent any dna contamination.
though, truthfully, you knew that was impossible. locard's principle stated that when two objects came in contact, there would always be a transfer of material, so there was no way to ensure without a shadow of a doubt that you hadn't left some kind of evidence behind on the bodies.
you sat alone in the cop car for awhile, more police and crime scene techs showing up to use their fancy little black lights on your apartment.
you knew you were probably caught, but it didn't bother you much. you knew you couldn't get away with it forever. it was only a matter of time until you got caught, and to be honest with yourself, you were surprised you lasted as long as you did.
finally, you were driven back to the police station. you got your mug shot taken and got fingerprinted, all the while maintaining a calm and collected demeanor that had the police around you on edge. you had, allegedly, killed upwards of twenty men, and here you were in police cutody, brushing this whole situation off with an eerie ease.
one of the officers in uniform grabbed your arm, pulling you toward an interrogation room. your eyes swept the station as he did so, taking in every detail that you could manage. the brain receives about 11 million bits of information per second but can only consciously process around 40 to 50, meaning you had to try and focus to obtain the important things.
you saw a board with various pictures of your victims plastered on it. one picture in particular caught your eye. it was of your license plate. it was taken far away and undoubtedly at the same location that you'd dumped your last body. that was where your recklessness had screwed you.
he pushed you into the interrogation room, telling you to sit down and wait before leaving quickly. you rolled your eyes, taking a seat in the uncomfortable metal chair. you had seen movies and tv shows. you knew they were going to leave you in there for a while to try and make you sweat.
of course, it didn't work. you had accepted your fate. besides, you had an odd ability to be calm and collected in situations that normal people otherwise wouldn't be.
your head was tilted back, gaze staring up at the ceiling with a bored expression on your face. the sound of the door opening had you immediately looking toward the source, watching as a man entered the room with a manilla folder in his hand—a file.
the approached the table, his tie slightly loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. he wordlessly pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, placing the folder on the table between you two. he examined your expression and body language curiously.
"detective," you greeted him with a small nod. you scanned him appreciatively. you hadn't expected to get grilled by someone so attractive. his brown hair was gelled neatly to the side, and his rolled up sleeves showed off his forearms. he had piercing blue eyes that studied you with an intense gaze. you figured that if you were anyone else, that stare would unnerve you.
he met your gaze, those hardened baby blue eyes searching yours for some hint of remorse, madness, anything, but all he saw was cold calculation and a hint of amusement.
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "why don't you tell me why you did it?" he proposed, scanning every inch of you that he could see with an intrigued expression.
"did what?" you asked innocently, mirroring his actions of leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. you furrowed your brows in faux confusion.
his eyes narrowed slightly. "you know exactly what i'm talking about. the murders. the bodies. the fact that every single one of your victims was a convicted rapist." he opened the folder and pulled out a photograph, slamming it down on the table in front of you.
you raised an eyebrow, gaze drifting down to the photograph. it was of one of your earlier victims—gerald windsor. he had been a serial rapist whose conviction was overturned after only six months because of a technicality with the dna evidence.
you let out a low whistle, leaning back against the chair and crossing your arms over your chest. "that's brutal. i hope you find who did it." you looked back at him, a smirk tugging at your lips.
he felt a shiver run down his spine at your nonchalance, your calm acceptance of the horrors you'd committed. he studied your face, trying to understand the motivations behind your actions. "you're not even sorry, are you?" he asked incredulously.
"well, hypothetically, if i had committed these murders," you grinned, skirting around evidence of a confession by calling it a hypothetical. "no, i don't suppose i would be sorry. i mean, you did say they were rapists, right?"
his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching. he couldn't help but feel a sense of fascination, a morbid curiosity that pulled him in despite his best efforts to remain professional. "and that gives you the right to play judge, jury, and executioner?"
"technically, if i killed them, i would've just been playing executioner because they were already convicted rapists," you shrugged nonchalantly, as if you were just talking about the weather or your weekend plans. "but, you know, semantics."
he felt a surge of anger, mixed with a dark, twisted admiration. you were playing with him, toying with his emotions and his sense of justice. and yet, he couldn't look away. "so, you're saying you think you're doing a public service? like-like some sort of hero?"
"not a hero, no," you shook your head. you did understand the difference between right and wrong. you knew you were no hero, that you were a cold-blooded murderer. you just didn't care. "but a public service? absolutely."
he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. you were a dangerous game to play, and he knew it. but, he couldn't help himself. he wanted to understand you, to peel back the layers of your psyche and see what made you tick. "and you have no remorse? no guilt? nothing?"
"bad people deserve it when bad things happen to them," you replied cryptically, your gaze unwavering as you stared him down.
his brows furrowed, a sense of frustration building inside him. he wanted clear, concise answers, not riddles. "and who decides who's 'bad', huh? you? you're playing god, doling out punishment as you see fit. how is that any different from them?"
"don't compare me to them" you said sharply, your calm demeanor slipping slightly, allowing anger to rise to the surface. you may not have been a saint, but you were nothing like those monsters. you didn't hurt innocent people, and murder was a far cry from rape.
he zeroed in on your reaction, filing it away for later. he knew he'd touched a nerve, and he intended to exploit it. "then explain to me the difference because from where i'm sitting, you're no better than the men you've killed."
your jaw clenched as you glared at him "allegedly killed," you corrected him, trying to maintain some semblance of control. you knew what he was playing at, and you didn't want to let him win. you would tell him what he wanted to know... eventually, but it had to be on your terms.
he leaned forward, his eyes locked onto yours. he could see the anger simmering beneath the surface, the barely-leashed fury, and he felt a perverse sense of satisfaction in knowing that he'd finally gotten under your skin. "alright, then. allegedly," he conceeded.
"rape and murder are two very different beasts," you responded ambiguously, once again giving a vague answer to a direct question.
he sighed, running a hand through meticulously styled hair in frustration, slightly tousling it. your vague answers were driving him crazy. he needed concrete evidence, something he could use to build a case against you, but you seemed determined to keep him guessing. they had an eyewitness that took a photo of your license plate, but she didnt actually see anything that would help the case tremendously. "let me put it this way then."
"put it any way you want, pretty boy," you grinned confidently, his frustration making you feel extremely satisfied.
he bristled at the nickname but pushed through. "if you didn't murder these men, then prove it. give me an alibi, something that'll take you out of the equation. anything."
"well, i'd have to know when the murders were committed to be able to provide an alibi, wouldn't i?" you asked, smart enough to not let his question trip you up. if you didn't kill them, you obviously wouldn't know which days to have an alibi for.
he nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. he knew you were stalling, but he was willing to play along—for now. "the first murder was on a tuesday night in december, around ten pm. the second was a thursday morning in january, around six am."
you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table as you hummed thoughtfully, pretending to dig through your memory for those days. "i'm afraid my alibi won't help much. i was home, alone, as i am most days and nights" you gave him a sympathetic look. "sorry i couldn't be more help."
his face darkened, and he felt a surge of annoyance. you were toying with him, and he didn't like it. "you expect me to believe that you have no witnesses to confirm your whereabouts? no neighbors who might've seen you come or go?" he pressed you, eyes narrowing with skepticism.
you shrugged, your lips curving into a small smile. "i'm not a social gal."
he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded you with a critical eye. he didn't believe you. hs knew you were hiding something, and he was determined to uncover the truth. "so, you're telling me that there's nobody who can vouch for you?"
"nope," you answered simply, shaking your head. the fact that you had no alibi did little to rattle you.
His jaw clenched, and he felt a growing sense of unease. you were too calm, too collected. it was almost as if you wanted him to think you were guilty. "you know what i think?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "i think you're enjoying this."
"now that's just crazy," you gasped softly, feigning shock. "who in their right mind would enjoy getting interrogated for murder?"
he ignored your mock innocence. "someone who likes playing games. someone who gets off on the thrill of skirting the line between right and wrong," he leaned forward, his eyes boring into yours. "someone like you."
"well, you've just got me all figured out, huh?" you asked, grinning as you leaned back, crossing your arms over your chest again.
he felt a wave of frustration wash over him. you were enjoying this, reveling in the back-and-forth game, and he hated it. he hated being played. "this isn't a game," he said through gritted teeth.
"life is a game, sweetheart," you said condescendingly, rolling your eyes. "you just have to know how to play."
he slammed his fist on the table, making you jump slightly, but not out of fear, just surprise. the sudden outburst caught you off guard, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of the anger and frustration he'd been holding back. "listen to me," he said, his voice low and intense.
"now, we're getting somewhere," you grinned, enjoying his surge of emotion. you sat up straight, suddenly very interested.
he took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure. he couldn't let you bait him like that. he had to stay focused, no matter how infuriating you were. "i'm not going to let you toy with me," he said, his voice measured and controlled.
"oh, but you already have." your smile widened as you observed him trying to reign in his anger. "i've been toying with you since the moment you walked in that door."
his jaw clenched, and he could feel the anger rising once more. but then, he saw it—a small, satisfied smile playing on your lips—and it hit him. "you want me to lose my temper, don't you?"
"and you want me to lose mine," you shot back, tilting your head as you stared at him.
he unclenched his jaw, relaxing his face as he mirrored your pose. "it doesn't matter if i lose my temper. you're still going away for the rest of your life."
you shrugged nonchalantly, seeming completely unperturbed by his threats. "maybe, maybe not"
he bristled at your nonchalant response. you acted as if you had some ace up your sleeve, some secret card you hadn't played yet, and it unnerved him. he had to press on, had to break through your smug facade. "you're running out of time."
"I think you're the one running out of time, detective," you smiled, like you knew something he didn't. "see, once this game of ours gets boring—which it's starting to—well..." you sighed for dramatic effect. "well, then, i can just say those four little words, and your little interrogation is over." you knew you had the upper hand with being able to request your lawyer and stop his questioning at any time.
"you're not going to say them," he said confidently. you needed this. this little cat-and-mouse game was a different kind of exhilarating to you, and he knew you weren't ready to let it go just yet.
"oh, i'm not?" you asked, your eyebrows raising at his boldness. he truly was an intriguing man, and you were enjoying your little chat just as much as he thought you were.
he sat back in his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied you. he was calling your bluff, and you knew it. "no. because you're having too much fun," he said, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "you like this."
you grinned, impressed by how well he had read you. "well, done, detective," you praised him. "you're smarter than you look."
he felt a surge of satisfaction at your praise, which only annoyed him further. he shouldn't care whether you thought he was smart or not. this was a power play, nothing more. "and you're not as clever as you think you are," he shot back.
"ouch," you said, placing your hand over your heart and feigning hurt. he watched, irritated, as you exaggeratedly winced, dramatically clutching at your chest. "oh, the pain. shot down by the nice detective. how will I ever recover?" your mocking tone only served to fuel his frustration.
he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. he couldn't let you get to him like this. he had to stay focused, had to break through your defenses. "you know what I think?" he said, his voice steady and controlled. "i think you're scared."
"scared?" you laughed, taken aback by his claim. you couldn't imagine where he could have possibly got that idea. "oh, you could not be farther off the mark"
"you're scared that i'll figure it out," he continued, leaning forward. "you're scared that i'll solve this case before you get bored of our game. because then, you'll have nothing. no more cat-and-mouse, just a life sentence in prison, and you're terrified of that."
"oh, detective," you grinned, shaking your head. "i'm not scared of anything. i accepted my fate a long time ago."
his eyes narrowed as he studied your expression, searching for any hint of weakness or dishonesty, but you seemed entirely too calm, too confident. he didn't like it. "accepted your fate, huh?" he repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. "then why are you still denying what you did?"
"you really want me to do your job for you?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "where's the fun in that?"
he sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration. you were playing with him, dancing just out of reach, and it was driving him crazy. he opened his mouth again to speak, but a knock on the two-way glass stopped him. that was his signal to leave.
"aw," you pouted, feigning sadness. "looks like our time is up."
"for now," he said curtly, pushing his chair back as he stood up, the sound of the metal legs scraping the floor echoing through the little room. he straightened his tie, giving you one last look before turning to leave.
you watched him go, gaze lingering on his ass as a smirk tugged at your lips. you knew his squad was watching from behind the glass. they had pulled him out because you were clearly having too much fun with him.
as he walked out of the room, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just been outmaneuvered. he glanced back at you through the glass, his expression unreadable.
"think she's gearing up for the insanity defense?" detective fin tutuola asked, staring at your calm, almost bored expression.
he shook his head. "she's just playing us," carisi said, his voice tight with frustration. "and she's good at it." he watched as you leaned back in your chair, your eyes closed. "too good." he paused, then added, "we need to be better."
"alright, well," lieutenant benson sighed, turning to the blonde detective. "rollins, you're up. see if you can get her to give anything up."
he glanced at rollins, then back to you. he didn't like the idea of someone else taking over the interview, but he knew benson was right. they needed to switch things up, keep you off balance. "be careful," he warned rollins. "she's slippery."
you opened your eyes at the sound of the door opening again. your head lolled to the side, and you regarded the blonde with disinterest as you watched her enter, closing the door behind her.
"hey," rollins said, pulling out the chair carisi had just vacated. she sat down, her blue eyes studying you carefully. "I'm detective rollins. i'll be talking to you today." she paused, waiting for your response.
"uh huh," you hummed. you seemed completely indifferent to her presence, your body language languid and unconcerned.
rollins frowned, noticing how easily you seemed to brush her off. she tried a different tactic, pulling out a photo from the evidence file. "i want to show you something," she said, setting the photo on the table in front of you. "recognize this person?"
"nope," you said, not even glancing at the photograph. you weren't interested in playing with her. you had your sights set on that other detective, and if you weren't going to be allowed to talk to him, you didn't want to talk at all.
rollins gritted her teeth, annoyed by your nonchalance. she slid the photo closer, insistent. "look at it," she demanded. "it's important."
"yknow what," you hummed, smiling confidently. you leaned forward, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "i think i'd like my lawyer now."
rollins sighed, frustrated. she hadn't even gotten anywhere with you, and now you were invoking your right to a lawyer. she gathered up the photo and the file, standing up. "fine," she said, her voice tight. "we'll do this the hard way."
you watched as she left with a smug smile, leaning back in your chair again and closing your eyes as you waited for your lawyer to arrive, satisfied with how you'd sufficiently pissed off the new york police department.
Warnings: priest kink, afab!reader, sacrilege, blasphemy, religious corruption themes, alcohol use, confessional booth setting, explicit sexual content, piv (unprotected because catholicism), rough kissing, dirty talk, filthy confessions, power imbalance (reader exploiting Sonny’s vows), masturbation mention, mutual orgasm, obsession, degradation of religious symbols, strong language, guilt and shame, public(ish) sex risk, collar stays on.
a/n: Kinktober day 16! i have issues with organised religion, so clearly this one was personal. 🙏✨ father carisi, forgive me for what i’m about to post, but also… don’t. this is everything i wanted from a confessional corruption: guilt, whiskey, filthy whispered sins, and that collar staying on the whole damn time. 😌 enjoy your unholy ride, babes.
───────── 🍂🍂 ────────
He hadn’t meant to stay long. Just one drink, that was the promise he made himself when he slid into a cracked vinyl booth at Carmine’s, the kind of dive bar that smelled like fried onions and old cigarettes. No one in here would recognise him; not with his collar tucked deep in his jacket pocket, not with his shirt rolled at the sleeves, not with his attempt to look normal. Still, he felt out of place.
The jukebox whined through a Bruce Springsteen song, glasses clinked, and laughter rose too loud from a group at the far end. He ordered whiskey, neat, and told himself it was just to take the edge off. The edge of what, he wasn’t sure anymore, maybe; loneliness, temptation, the endless parade of sins whispered through a screen that all sounded the same.
He was halfway through the glass when you slid into the booth across from him like you belonged there. Bright-eyed, curious, your smile too bold for the dingy air around you.
“You don’t look like you fit in here,” you teased, leaning forward with that sharp tilt of your chin.
Sonny had chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you do?”
“You’re still in your work clothes. All black? You look like a priest without a collar…” you pressed, eyes flicking to his open neckline.
He swallowed, uneasy. So much for attempting to look normal.
One drink became two, then three. Conversation slipped too easy, warm in his chest, buzzing in his head. You laughed at his jokes, and God help him, he hadn’t laughed like that in months. You asked questions he shouldn’t have answered, but he did anyway, too hungry for the attention. For the heat in your eyes.
By the time you both stepped outside, the night air was sharp, neon buzzing above you, sidewalk slick with spilled beer. He should have walked away. He knew it. Every instinct told him to cut it off before the line blurred any further. But then your hand was on his arm, tugging him closer, and your mouth was on his.
The kiss was fire, shocking in its urgency. He tasted beer and smoke on your lips, felt the press of your body against his. For one wild, reckless second, he kissed you back. Harder than he should have. Teeth clashing, tongue sliding past yours with a hunger he’d buried too long.
It would have gone further if not for the weight in his jacket pocket; the faint press of the white collar he’d shoved there before walking into the bar. The reminder hit him like ice water.
He tore himself away, stumbling back a step, breath ragged. “I – no, this… this ain’t right.” His voice cracked, guilt already burning. “I can’t – God, this is a sin…”
Your lips were parted, stunned. “Sonny…”
He shook his head hard, stepping back again, hands trembling as though your touch had scalded him. “Don’t. Don’t call me that. Just – forget this happened.” His throat worked as he forced the words out, each one bitter. “I’m sorry.”
And then he left. Left you under the flickering red neon, left the taste of your kiss on his mouth, left the ache in his chest that no prayer could soothe.
He left you on that street corner, collar burning hot in his pocket, heart slamming against his ribs like a guilty verdict. He walked fast, hands shoved deep into his jacket, as if distance could erase the taste of your lips, the heat of your body pressed to his.
It didn’t.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
The first week after, he doubled down on prayer.
He tried to drown the feelings in ritual; kneeling at the altar before dawn, muttering Hail Marys until his knees ached. Tried to convince himself it had been nothing, just a slip, just the whiskey, just loneliness.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
The second week, he started drowning them in something heavier.
It was supposed to be just a glass before bed, something to calm the nerves, ease the thoughts. But one glass blurred too little, so it became two, then three. The whiskey burned, but it dulled the edge. Made it easier to breathe.
Soon, the bottle lived on his desk in the rectory. Parishioners would leave, the church would grow quiet, and he’d sit alone, collar still on, glass in hand. He’d stare at the crucifix on the wall until the lines went blurry. Sometimes he’d talk aloud to it.
“Wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered one night, slumped in his chair, collar askew. “I pushed her away. Ain’t that enough? Ain’t that what You wanted?”
The silence mocked him.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
By the third week, the job started slipping.
His sermons came out thin, dry, lifeless. Words about temptation and repentance that sounded hollow even to his own ears. Parishioners would nod politely, but he caught the way their eyes glazed, the way their attention wandered.
In the confessional, he heard other people’s sins and wanted to laugh. Petty lies, impure thoughts, selfishness. They confessed them all as if they weighed something. He wanted to scream; You don’t know what sin is. You don’t know what it feels like to burn every time you breathe.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
Nights were the worst.
Nights where he’d wake from dreams; sweat slick, sheets tangled. Dreams where you were on your knees before him, whispering his name like a prayer, or where your kiss went deeper, longer, until there was no air left in his lungs.
Sometimes he’d wake with his hand already down his stomach, touching himself with rough, shameful strokes until he came with a groan muffled in his pillow. Afterwards, he’d lie there, chest heaving, disgust curling in his gut so sharp it nearly made him retch.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
By Halloween night, the unravelling had gone too far.
The rectory smelled like whiskey, sharp and sour, bleeding into the pages of his open Bible. The book lay sprawled on the desk, unread, a glass ring staining Psalms. The candles guttered low, shadows shivering across the crucifix nailed to the wall.
Sonny sat slouched in his chair, collar crooked, shirt half unbuttoned. He’d lost count of the glasses. His hand was heavy around the tumbler, and when he raised it, some of the amber spilled onto his knuckles, dripping down his wrist. He didn’t bother wiping it off.
He’d tried to pray earlier, on his knees, head bowed. But the words had come out broken, slurred, so he’d laughed instead. A hoarse, bitter laugh that echoed in the empty room.
“What do You want from me, huh?” His voice was raw, ragged. “I pulled away. I walked away. Ain’t that enough? Or You want me to cut out my own goddamn heart too?”
The crucifix stared back at him in silence, Christ’s eyes cast down.
His chest ached. He pressed his palm against it, felt the steady thump of his heart, hated how strong it was when everything else in him felt weak.
He thought of you.
God, he always thought of you. The way your laugh had cut through the bar noise like music. The way your lips had bruised his when you kissed him outside under that buzzing neon. The way he’d kissed back, reckless, desperate, like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.
He thought of your hand curled in his shirt. The way you’d said his name.
Sonny.
It rang in his head every night, sweeter than any prayer, filthier than any sin.
And he hated himself for wanting it again.
The whiskey had stripped his restraint. He’d stopped pretending he didn’t want you. Stopped pretending he didn’t touch himself in the dark, your face flashing in his mind, your body bent under him.
He told himself it was the last time. Every time, it was the last time. And every time, he broke that promise before the sun came up.
Now, Halloween night, he sat in the dark, collar crooked, drunk and heavy with need he couldn’t drown.
The church was silent but not empty. He’d left the side door unlocked without thinking. Some part of him wanted; no, needed, the chance for punishment. For someone to see the filth dripping through the cracks.
═══════════ ♱ ══════════
The church is too quiet.
Outside, the streets echo with laughter, children in masks racing past with plastic pumpkins clattering full of candy. Inside, all you hear is the faint drip of wax from half-melted candles, the groan of the heavy wooden doors shutting behind you, the hollow echo of your footsteps against the stone floor.
You shouldn’t be here. Not tonight. Not ever. But you are.
You’d found him, weeks ago, by accident; collarless in a bar where no priest belonged, whiskey on his breath, laughter tugged loose like thread. You’d kissed him. Bold, reckless. He’d kissed back, just for a moment, before tearing himself away like he could rip the want out of his body by force.
He hadn’t been able to look at you again after that. He’d disappeared back into his church, into his collar, into silence. But you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. You hadn’t stopped wanting.
So, you found the parish. His parish.
Your hand trembles against the pew as you move down the aisle, the saints carved in stained glass staring down at you like witnesses. Their eyes are cold. Their painted mouths, stern.
“God will forgive me eventually,” you whisper under your breath. It’s a lie, but it steadies you.
You slip into the confessional booth. The wood creaks as you close the door, sealing yourself in the dark.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper, voice trembling though you mean it half in mockery.
The pause stretches. Then his voice comes, low and hoarse, thickened by drink.
“How long since your last confession?”
The words are right. It’s what he’s supposed to say. But they’re frayed, shaking at the edges.
“Never, Father…” you answer.
The lattice creaks as he leans closer. You can almost feel the heat of him bleeding through.
“Then you’ll tell me everything,” he murmurs. The words are steady, but beneath them is something else; something laced with need, sharp and cutting. “No half-truths. No hiding. Every sin you’ve carried, you’ll speak it aloud.”
Your pulse quickens. “And if I don’t?”
The silence after is heavy. Then he shifts again, the wood groaning under his weight.
“Then you’ll be damned,” he says. His tone should be righteous. Instead, it sounds like a promise.
You lean forward, lips almost brushing the screen. “What if I’ve already done something unforgivable?”
The breath he draws in is shaky. Whiskey laces the air between you.
“God forgives all things,” he says, but the words stumble. He swallows hard, then steadies his voice. “But you’ll tell me what it is. Speak it.”
The collar stills on his throat. He’s still trying to wear the mantle of a priest. But each word drips heavier, like he’s choking on the effort of it.
And you realise; he’s not just asking for confession. He’s begging for it.
Your palms sweat against your knees as the dark presses in. The screen between you glows faintly, only enough to catch the faint outline of him leaning forward. His voice is the only anchor, low and rough. You wet your lips. You could lie. You could start with something small. But you didn’t come here for small.
“I kissed someone I shouldn’t have.”
The silence after is sharp, jagged. You hear him inhale, slow, deliberate, but it sounds unsteady.
His reply scrapes low. “Why was it a sin?”
“Because I lust for a man that’s devoted his life to God.” You let the words drip from your tongue, soft and poisonous. “Because he wore a collar. Because the moment I touched him, I knew I wanted more than I should.”
The sound he makes isn't quite a cough; more a stifled groan, swallowed back into his chest.
“You… kissed a man of God,” he says, as though repeating it will restore order, reframe it as confession instead of provocation.
“Yes, Father.” You bite the word, savouring it. “And I can’t stop thinking about it. I see him when I close my eyes. I see his mouth, the way he tasted of whiskey and sin. I wake up wet from dreaming about him.”
The wood creaks. He’s gripping something hard; maybe the lattice, maybe his own thigh.
“This… this is temptation. You must resist such thoughts…”
“I don’t want to resist.” Your voice slips softer, silkier. “I touch myself at night thinking about him. About the way his hands would feel if he let himself touch me. About his mouth on my skin, about him fucking me in places where he shouldn’t. At the altar. In the pews. In this very booth.”
The breath that hisses through the lattice is sharp, dragged from deep in his chest.
“Do not…” His voice cracks, recovers. “Do not speak of such desecrations. This is the house of God.”
You smile in the dark. He’s still clinging to the mask, but it’s slipping.
“I tell myself it’s just in my head,” you continue, relentless. “But then I touch myself again, and it’s worse. I picture him pulling me into his lap. Spreading me open. Making me beg for forgiveness while he –”
“Stop.” His voice lashes out, low and rough, but it doesn’t sound holy. It sounds pained.
You lean closer to the screen, almost pressing your lips to the wood. “Forgive me, Father. Forgive me for wanting to be ruined by a man of God.”
The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the sound of his breathing; ragged, uneven, shaking.
You know, without seeing his face, that your words have him trembling. That the priest across from you is hanging on by a thread. You tilt your head, let the moment stretch, then lower your voice to a whisper that slides like smoke through the lattice.
“What’s my penance, Father Carisi?”
The name hangs in the air, heavy as a stone dropped in still water.
The sound he makes isn’t priestly; it’s a choked inhale, a hissed curse under his breath. You hear the faint shuffle of his knee hitting the wood. He hadn’t expected you to pierce the veil.
“You… you know who I am.” His voice is a rasp, thick with whiskey and shame.
“Yes, Father,” you murmur. “I knew the moment I stepped into this church. I knew when I touched myself thinking about you. Every filthy thought I’ve had has been about you.”
The wood creaks. He’s closer now, the shadow of his profile pressed almost to the screen.
“This is… this is blasphemy,” he mutters, but his voice has no conviction. His throat works around the words like they taste bitter.
“You’ve been thinking about me too…” You cut him off, soft but sharp, sliding the knife in. “Haven’t you, Father? Alone in your rectory, in the dark, whiskey on your breath. Touching yourself. Pretending it isn’t sin because no one sees.”
The silence on the other side is damning.
Your pulse races. You press your palm flat against the wood, as if you could reach through.
“Confess to me,” you whisper. “Tell me what you’ve done.”
He exhales hard, shuddering. His voice is nothing like the priestly cadence he began with; it’s broken, low, desperate.
“…I’ve thought of you. Every night. Every morning. I’ve begged God to take those thoughts from me, but He doesn’t. I… I touched myself, and I…” His voice cuts off, strangled, as though speaking it aloud is tearing something loose in his chest.
The air between you burns.
“Say it,” you push, your tone fierce now. “Say what you did, Father Carisi.”
The word comes out hoarse, dragged from him like a sin wrestled free.
“I came for you.”
The booth is still, air thick with his ragged breathing. You can almost see it; Sonny hunched in the dark, collar crooked, fist tight in his lap like he could strangle the desire out of himself if he tried hard enough. His voice still hangs in the air, raw and torn: I came for you.
Your hand slips from the lattice. Quietly, deliberately, you push open your door. The creak is sharp in the silence of the church.
For a heartbeat, nothing moves. “Don’t…” he begins, voice hoarse, but the word falters when you step across the aisle and curl your hand around his door.
The handle is cool under your palm. You turn it. Then… push.
The booth door swings open to reveal him: collar askew, hair mussed, eyes wild and glassy in the low candlelight. Whiskey clings to him like a second skin, and yet he still looks every inch the priest, black shirt stretched over broad shoulders, that damned white square at his throat.
You step inside his space. Close the door behind you. The air shrinks, hot, suffocating.
He stares at you like you’ve risen straight out of his worst prayer. Or his favourite dream.
Your lips curl as you lean in, close enough that he feels your breath ghost against his ear.
“Looks like we’re both sinners, aren’t we, Father?” you whisper.
The words coil around him like smoke, and you feel him shudder; not pulling back, not pushing you away, but gripping the edge of the seat so hard his knuckles go white.
His jaw works, throat tight, but his voice comes out low, broken, almost pleading.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
You let your mouth brush his collar as you murmur, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
The last thing he’d managed was a broken whisper against your mouth: We can’t.
You climb onto him before he can find the words again, knees braced on either side of his thighs, straddling him. The bench creaks under the sudden weight. His breath stutters, head falling back as your lips crash to his; no patience, no pretence, just hunger and teeth and the taste of whiskey coating his tongue.
He kisses back like a drowning man. Rough, desperate. His collar digs into your chin as you fist the fabric of his shirt, tugging it down, exposing his throat so you can bite the skin just below it.
“Jesus…” he gasps, but his hips jerk up beneath you, betraying him.
Your hand is already there, fumbling at the button of his pants, dragging the zipper down. He swears again, softer this time, like a prayer half-choked.
“You should stop me,” you murmur against his lips, fingers slipping inside the waistband, finding him hot and hard.
His eyes squeeze shut. “I can’t…”
That’s all you need. You free him, heavy and aching in your hand, and shift your hips until the blunt head is pressing against you. Your breath hitches at the contact; at the sheer obscenity of it, here, in this booth, with his collar still on.
You sink down onto him in one slow, steady push, and he groans so loud it rattles the walls. His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck!” The word tears out of him, raw and unholy. “You’re… you’re killin’ me.”
But you don’t stop. You move, rolling your hips, riding him rough and greedy, swallowing every broken sound he makes. His lips find yours again, messy, frantic, like he needs to devour every inch of you before the ceiling caves in.
The booth rocks with your rhythm, wood protesting with each thrust, every slam of your hips. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his breath hot in your mouth.
“Confess,” he growls against you, voice ragged. “Confess while you take me.”
You lean close, lips brushing his ear, breath hot as you move on him, grinding down until he groans into your neck.
“I thought about you in the pulpit,” you whisper, each word punctuated by the sharp roll of your hips. “Preaching, collar tight, eyes on the crowd… while under the robes, I’m on my knees with my mouth around you.”
His groan is strangled, his hips bucking up, thrusting deeper, harder.
“I thought about you,” you continue, voice low, merciless, “on your knees at the altar, not praying. Eating me out like you worship me instead of Him.”
“Jesus Christ…” The word tears out of him, raw and wrong, and his hand flies to your mouth as if he can stop the blasphemy. But you lick against his palm, suck his thumb between your lips, and keep riding.
Your voice is muffled but relentless. “I thought about you behind this screen… taking confession from me while I touched myself. Pretending to be holy while you listened to me moan your name.”
He shudders, his hand trembling against your jaw.
“And I thought about this…” you whisper, pulling back enough to look into his eyes; blown wide, pupils drowning the blue. “Me bouncing on your cock until you spill inside me, still wearing that collar. Still pretending you’re God’s man while you’re filling me up like you belong to me instead.”
The sound he makes is half-moan, half-prayer, guttural and broken. He pulls you down hard onto him, thrusting up to meet you, fucking into you with a desperation that shakes the tiny booth.
His forehead presses to yours, sweat slicking his brow, and his voice cracks as he breathes, “You’re gonna damn me.”
You smile, breathless, lips brushing his. “Looks like I already have.”
The confessional is shaking with the force of his thrusts now, wood protesting with every sharp collision of your hips against his. Your voice, your words, your sins; they’ve gutted him, left him raw and trembling beneath you.
“Stop,” he gasps, but his hands are dragging you harder down onto him, his mouth crushed against yours in a frantic, bruising kiss. “Don’t…don’t say no more…”
But you don’t stop. You whisper filth against his lips, every word another nail in the coffin of his restraint.
“I want you to fuck me in front of the whole congregation.”
He groans, deep and broken, hips jerking up hard.
“I want you to bend me over the altar with your collar still on.”
His breath shudders, eyes squeezed shut, sweat rolling down his temple.
“I want you to come inside me until I can’t walk out of here without dripping proof of your sin.”
That does it.
He snarls your name into your mouth like it’s a curse, like it’s salvation, and slams you down hard onto his cock, burying himself deep. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs trembling, breath torn ragged as he spills into you. Hot, pulsing, thick.
The sound that rips from his chest is nothing holy. A guttural groan, raw and desperate, echoing in the tiny booth as he clutches you to him like he’ll drown without your body tethering him.
“Fuck…oh, God, I…” He breaks off, choking on his own voice, forehead pressed to your shoulder as wave after wave wracks him.
You ride him through it, grinding down, feeling him pulse inside you, milking every last drop as he shudders and gasps against you.
The booth is hot with sweat, with sex, with sin so thick it clings to the air like smoke.
When it’s over, he collapses back against the bench, still inside you, chest heaving, eyes wide and lost. His hands tremble against your hips, as if he doesn’t know whether to push you off or hold you tighter. Your thighs cling damp and sticky to his, his cock still softening inside you.
Sonny slumps against the wood panelling, collar skewed, shirt plastered to his chest. His head tips back against the wall, throat bared, Adam’s apple working as he drags in harsh breaths. His hands are still on your hips, but loose now, but still trembling.
The silence is thick.
Then he whispers, hoarse, broken: “God’ll never forgive me.”
You lean in, lips brushing his jaw. “Maybe not,” you murmur. “But I will.”
His eyes snap open, wide, wild. “Don’t…don’t say that. You don’t understand what I just… what we just did.”
“I understand perfectly.” Your nails graze down his chest, catching the edge of his collar. “You’ve been thinking about this since the night I kissed you. You prayed, you begged, you drank, but you still wanted it. You still wanted me.”
His chest shudders. His gaze flicks to the crucifix pinned to the far wall of the booth, as if he’s waiting for it to come crashing down. His lips part, but no words come.
You rock your hips, slow, deliberate, making him hiss as his body jolts even in oversensitivity. “Don’t lie, Father.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, shame carving deep lines across his face. But his body betrays him; his hips twitch up, his hands tightening on you again.
You press your mouth to his ear, whisper soft, sinful: “Looks like confession didn’t absolve your sins after all.”
The booth stays silent but for your mingled breaths, the weight of sin and sweat binding you in the dark. Neither of you moves to leave.
And for the first time since that kiss, Sonny doesn’t push you away.
A/N: Welcome to my third series! I hope you enjoy it just as much as you did the other two. This time, a surprise Haikyuu character will be making an appearance. Also, I have planned 8 parts but that can change depending on how well i develop the story. As always, enjoy reading and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list to be notified when future chapters are updated! :)
Summary: After becoming the number 2 hero, Bakugou accomplished everything he ever wanted. He beat Deku in a few matches, even if he wasn’t the number 1 hero. He got all the fame, beat countless villains, was acknowledged by all his friends and family. But he wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t happy. Bakugou realized that this wasn’t the life he wanted. So he left the life of a hero and decided to hide to live the rest of his life as a normal person.
sypnosis: Tsahik of the Tìranä’kai, a mountain clan long known for its strength, restraint, and unyielding tradition. She is older, revered, and famously without a mate, bound to her people and her vows with stone-deep devotion. He is a warrior shaped by loyalty and courage, never meant to cross her path so closely. And what begins as stolen glances and unspoken understanding becomes a bond that neither the mountain nor the forest can fully deny.
themes: neteyam x reader, slow burn, Neteyam being a simp.
The air over the Omaticaya’s sacred grounds was electric, trembling with expectation. Smoke from hundreds of torches curled into the violet sky, twisting like serpents of fire against the looming moon. Today, the Great Hall of Jake Sully would host a gathering unlike any in living memory: every clan called to unite, their voices and strengths pooled together against a threat that hung over Pandora like a storm cloud.
Neteyam Sully walked beside his father, his armor polished and ceremonial, yet his mind was elsewhere. As the eldest son of Jake Sully, he was trained to be alert, disciplined, prepared but he found himself unmoored, as if some invisible current tugged him from the council and flung his focus elsewhere. He didn’t notice the murmur of the Omaticaya around him, nor the disciplined posture of his siblings. His gaze had locked onto a figure across the courtyard, and the rest of the world blurred into insignificance.
She was the Tsahik of the Tìranä’kai, the clan who ruled the mountains.
Even from this distance, she commanded attention. Her skin glowed a burnished copper, warm and deep, a hue untouched by the familiar blue of most Na’vi. The torchlight caught the subtle shimmer in the ridges of her muscles, in the planes of her face, painting her in shades of molten gold and copper that made her seem less like a living being and more like a force of nature. Her hair, streaked with silver, fell like ash over her shoulders, tumbling to her waist in a waterfall of muted firelight. And her eyes, golden, unflinching, sharp, surveyed the gathering with the serenity and authority of someone who had spent a lifetime guiding others.
Neteyam’s chest tightened. He had heard the stories. The Tìranä’kai were fiercely independent, residing high in the cliffs of the northern ranges where only the strong could survive. Their people were resilient, enduring the harsh storms that whipped through their peaks. And the Tsahik, their spiritual and political leader was infamous, not just for her wisdom, but for the fact that she had no mate. Ever. A Tsahik without a mate was nearly unheard of; she was a legend in every clan, untouchable, enigmatic, and revered.
Yet, as Neteyam watched her, poised and radiant among the Tìranä’kai delegation, he felt something stir in him that he couldn’t name. It was not respect, not awe, not simple curiosity. It was a pull, a current running through his chest and mind, insistent and insatiable. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
The clans were filing into the Great Hall now. The Anurai moved with the silent grace of panther hunters, their dark green skin blending with the shadows. The Tipani’s stripes of ochre and black caught the firelight as they strode in, their laughter soft but deliberate, marking their confidence. And through it all, the Mountain Clan— the Tìranä’kai moved differently. They were steady, unhurried, deliberate, every movement measured, purposeful. Every step carried the weight of mountains behind it.
Neteyam barely heard the words Jake Sully spoke at the start of the briefing. Human activity had increased along Pandora’s northern border, threatening sacred lands and wildlife. Strategies needed to be discussed, alliances reaffirmed. Neteyam’s mind, though, traced only the subtle contours of the Tsahik’s face, the faint lines that told of years of struggle, the high cheekbones kissed by torchlight, the silver strands in her hair that only added to her authority.
She turned her gaze, briefly, almost imperceptibly, and it landed on him. Neteyam froze, a warmth rushing to his ears, as if he had been caught trespassing in some forbidden space of her awareness. Her eyes held his for a heartbeat, golden, penetrating, unreadable and then, with a small, almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she returned to observing the council. The briefest connection had passed between them, a spark, and it left Neteyam unsettled, as if something fundamental in his understanding of the world had shifted.
The council proceeded. Jake spoke of dangers, threats, strategies. Words washed over Neteyam, but he heard none of them. He felt as though time had slowed, the voices of elders, the murmurs of the Omaticaya, the polite whispers of other clans, all fading beneath the thrum of his own heartbeat and the quiet intensity of her presence across the hall. Every now and then, he would catch her eyes flicker toward him again, and his stomach tightened, betraying a reaction he had no right to have. She was older than him. Far older. She was a leader, a guide, a figure untouchable by anyone’s desire. Yet the pull of her gaze refused to obey the rules of the clans or of propriety.
When the briefing ended, Jake invited everyone to the courtyard for the evening feast, a celebration of unity and strength. Torches blazed, drums rolled, and smoke swirled with the scent of roasting meats and the earthy tang of Pandora. Neteyam followed the flow of people, but, instinctively, he moved toward her.
The Tìranä’kai had begun their traditional dance near the tallest fire, a ritual honoring the peaks and storms of their homeland. The Tsahik led them with an elegance that made each step a declaration. She moved like the wind through the cliffs, weightless yet commanding, her gestures flowing, deliberate, hypnotic. The gold in her eyes reflected the flames, a shimmering, living fire that seemed to call out to him directly.
Neteyam’s legs carried him closer without permission. The music of the drums, the movements of the dancers, the heat of the fire—it all became background to the electricity building between him and her. When she noticed his approach, she neither stopped nor beckoned. She simply regarded him, expression calm but charged, as though daring him to meet her entirely on her terms.
“You shouldn’t be staring,” she said, her voice smooth, melodic, yet edged with authority.
“I’m not—” He faltered, unable to complete the denial.
“You are,” she said, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “And yet, you will not remember this when the morning comes. You have duties, Son of Sully.”
The words stung, gentle yet sharp, a reminder of boundaries he felt himself aching to cross. Yet the firelight, the drums, the rhythm of the Mountain Clan around them, made the night feel infinite, as though the rules of the clans and the worlds outside could not touch the tension simmering in the space between them.
Neteyam’s focus narrowed to her alone, the world collapsing around them into a circle of firelight and shadow, copper skin and gold eyes.
The drums deepened as the night grew heavier, their rhythm sinking into the earth itself. The feast had reached its height—fires blazing tall, laughter echoing through the trees, voices blending from every corner of Pandora. Meat roasted over open flame, fruits split open and shared, and the air was thick with smoke, sweetness, and heat.
Neteyam should have been with his people.
He should have been laughing with his siblings, listening to warriors boast, letting the night pass like any other gathering of clans. Instead, he stood at the edge of the Mountain Clan’s fire, caught in a gravity he had never felt before.
The Tsahik danced.
Not for spectacle. Not for approval. She danced because it was tradition, because the mountain demanded motion, because the earth listened when she moved. Her feet struck the ground in deliberate patterns, each step a prayer, each turn a memory older than Neteyam himself. The silver strands in her hair caught the firelight as she spun, and the copper of her skin glowed as though lit from within.
Neteyam watched, openly now.
He forgot the rules. Forgot the stories whispered about her. Forgot that she was older, untouchable, revered. All he saw was the way her body moved like the wind curling through stone, the way her eyes sharpened when the drums changed rhythm, the way her presence bent the space around her.
And she knew.
She felt his gaze like heat against her skin.
She did not look at him at first. That was her power, to acknowledge without yielding, to command without demanding. But when she did turn her head, slow and deliberate, her golden eyes found him immediately.
The world narrowed.
For a moment, the drums seemed to beat in time with Neteyam’s heart. He felt reckless, young, exposed. He took a step closer without thinking, drawn into the circle of dancers as though the earth itself had pulled him forward.
A murmur rippled through the Mountain Clan.
An Omaticaya joining their dance was rare. An Omaticaya warrior stepping into the Tsahik’s fire was unheard of.
She stopped moving.
The sudden stillness was louder than any drumbeat. Her gaze swept over him, measured, assessing, sharp enough to cut. She said nothing, but the question hung between them, heavy as smoke.
You dare?
Neteyam straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring. He bowed his head, not submissive, but respectful. A warrior’s acknowledgment. A son of a leader stepping carefully into sacred ground.
“I meant no offense,” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the crackle of flames.
She studied him for a long moment, as though weighing not just his words, but his intent. The firelight traced the lines of her face, illuminating the years she carried with grace and strength. When she spoke, her voice was calm, low, and commanding.
“Then you must listen,” she said. “This is not a dance of youth or desire. This is remembrance.”
“I will listen,” Neteyam replied, without hesitation.
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. She nodded once.
“Then follow.”
The drums resumed, slower now, deeper. She moved again, and Neteyam followed her steps, careful not to mimic too closely, but close enough to show respect. The dance was grounded, powerful, nothing like the fluid movements of the forest clans. It was about balance, endurance, and control.
As they moved, she spoke, quiet words meant only for him.
“You stare like someone who has never seen a mountain,” she said.
“I have,” Neteyam answered, breath steady despite the tension curling through his chest. “But none that moved like you.”
A pause.
“That was not wise,” she said, though there was no anger in it.
“I don’t think wisdom has ever stopped me,” he admitted.
That earned him a brief glance, sharp, assessing, and undeniably amused.
“You are Jake Sully’s son,” she said. “I see it now. Reckless honesty wrapped in duty.”
“And you are exactly as they say,” Neteyam replied. “And nothing like it.”
This time, she smiled. Not openly—just enough to soften the severity of her expression.
The dance brought them closer, step by step, until the heat of the fire mingled with something far more dangerous. Their movements mirrored without touching, an invisible line humming between them. Every turn brought him just close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the quiet power she carried.
“You should not be here,” she said softly. “People are watching.”
“I know,” Neteyam replied.
“Then why stay?”
He hesitated—just a breath.
“Because if I walk away now,” he said, “I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
The drums faltered for half a beat.
She stopped again, fully this time, turning to face him. The noise of the feast seemed to dull around them, the fire crackling low as though even it listened.
“You do not understand what you stand before,” she said, her voice firm, edged with warning. “I am Tsahik. I am bound to my people, to Eywa, to a path chosen long before you were born.”
“I know who you are,” Neteyam said. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed everything. “And I know I should look away.”
“Then do it,” she challenged.
He didn’t.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then, slowly, she stepped back, breaking the circle between them.
“Go,” she said. “Before this becomes something neither of us can undo.”
Neteyam swallowed. Every instinct screamed to stay, to argue, to reach for something he had no right to claim. But he nodded, stepping back, honoring her words even as they burned.
As he turned away, the drums resumed their full rhythm, the dance continuing as though nothing had happened.
But the night had changed.
And as the Tsahik of the Mountain Clan resumed her movements, her golden eyes followed Neteyam’s retreating form, just for a moment—before lifting back to the fire.
She told herself it meant nothing.
The mountain, however, was not so easily convinced
Night deepened over the forest long after the feast quieted.
The fires burned lower now, embers glowing like watchful eyes scattered across the clearing. Laughter faded into murmurs, then into sleep. One by one, clans retreated to their chosen spaces, settling beneath trees, against roots, or near the edges of the sacred grounds. The moon climbed higher, pale and full, silvering leaves and skin alike.
Neteyam lay awake.
The sounds of his people breathing around him should have been comforting. Instead, his thoughts burned too brightly, circling one presence, one voice, one look that had cut deeper than any blade.
Go.
She had told him to leave—and he had obeyed.
That did not mean the pull had loosened.
He rose quietly, careful not to wake his siblings, slipping away from the Omaticaya camp and into the shadows. The forest welcomed him with hushed familiarity, leaves brushing his arms, roots guiding his steps. He did not know where he was going at first—only that his feet moved with purpose.
He found her where the land began to rise.
The Mountain Clan had chosen higher ground, where stone broke through soil and the air carried a sharpness unfamiliar to the forest below. She stood alone at the edge of the slope, her silhouette framed by moonlight, copper skin reflecting pale silver. She had removed her ceremonial adornments, yet she looked no less powerful for it—if anything, more real.
She did not turn when he approached.
“I told you to go,” she said calmly.
“You told me to go from the fire,” Neteyam replied. “You didn’t say I couldn’t follow the truth.”
That made her turn.
Her golden eyes were sharper now, stripped of ritual and ceremony, leaving only the woman beneath the title. She studied him in silence, arms relaxed at her sides, posture unyielding.
“You are bold,” she said. “Or foolish.”
“Both,” he admitted.
A breath passed between them, cool and heavy.
“You should not be here,” she said again, quieter now. “Not with me. Not like this.”
“And yet you didn’t send your guards,” Neteyam said softly. “You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t leave.”
Her jaw tightened—just barely.
“You mistake restraint for permission.”
“Then correct me,” he said.
The moonlight stretched between them, illuminating the years etched into her face—not as weakness, but as testament. She had lived. She had led. She had buried warriors and spoken to Eywa when others could not. And standing before her now was a young man who looked at her not with reverence alone, but with hunger, curiosity, and something dangerously close to devotion.
“You look at me like I am something to be discovered,” she said. “I am not.”
“I look at you like someone who already knows who they are,” Neteyam replied. “And isn’t afraid of it.”
That, finally, shook her.
She stepped closer—not into him, but near enough that the air between them warmed.
“You do not understand what it means to be Tsahik,” she said. “Every choice I make echoes through my people. Every weakness is magnified. I have no mate because I cannot afford one.”
“Or because you chose not to,” Neteyam said.
Her eyes flicked to his.
“You speak as if choice is simple.”
“I speak as someone who knows what it’s like to have a path laid before you,” he said. “And still feel something pulling you sideways.”
Silence fell again—thick, dangerous, intimate.
She could feel it now too. The truth of it. Not desire alone, but recognition. A spark that did not care for age or title or expectation.
“This,” she said softly, gesturing between them, “is how stories begin that end in ruin.”
“Or in change,” Neteyam replied.
For a moment—just one—she allowed herself to imagine it. A life not entirely bound by stone and prophecy. A future where she was not only Tsahik, but simply herself.
Then she stepped back.
“No,” she said, firm, resolute. “Not tonight. Not ever, if Eywa has mercy.”
Her words were strong. Her eyes were not.
Neteyam inclined his head, accepting what she could give and nothing more. “Then I will leave,” he said. “But not because you frighten me.”
“Why then?” she asked.
“Because if I stay,” he said quietly, “I will stop listening to reason entirely.”
That earned him something rare.
A genuine smile—brief, sad, and beautiful.
He turned and disappeared back into the forest, leaving behind a Tsahik who stood alone beneath the moon, her hand pressed lightly against her chest as if to steady something long dormant.
Morning came with whispers.
The clans woke with the sun, tension humming beneath polite greetings and shared meals. Word traveled quickly among Na’vi—not through gossip, but through observation. Looks held a second too long. Movements remembered. Energies felt.
The Metkayina noticed first.
They were perceptive, attuned to currents both visible and unseen. A few exchanged glances when Neteyam passed, his focus distant, his posture restless. One of their elders murmured something low, eyes flicking toward the Mountain Clan camp.
The Tipani followed.
They had seen the dance. Seen the way the Tsahik had stilled when Neteyam entered her fire. Seen how he had left early, long before the feast ended.
And the Mountain Clan?
They knew.
They watched their Tsahik carefully that morning, the way she spoke a fraction slower, the way her gaze lingered on the forest paths, the way she stood slightly apart. Nothing overt. Nothing damning.
But enough.
Jake Sully felt it too.
He saw the way Neteyam’s attention drifted toward the cliffs, the way his son’s shoulders tensed whenever the Tìranä’kai drew near. Jake said nothing but his eyes missed little.
Whatever had sparked between the Tsahik of the Tìranä’kai and the son of Toruk Makto had not gone unnoticed.
—•—•—
The mountain did not scream.
It remembered.
The sound rolled down from the eastern cliffs like a warning carved into the bones of the world, ancient and deliberate, shaking loose dust and memory alike. Birds scattered from the canopy in a burst of wings. Fires flickered low, as if bowing. Even the ground beneath the clans’ feet trembled—not in fear, but recognition.
Neteyam felt it in his chest before it reached his ears, a low vibration that stirred something instinctive and primal. Conversations died mid-word. Laughter fractured. Warriors straightened, hands finding weapons without conscious thought.
And the Tìranä’kai—
the People of the High Stone—
stilled as one.
Copper-toned skin tightened over muscle. Golden eyes sharpened. They turned, not toward the forest, but toward the rising stone, where cliff met sky and the wind carved truths into rock.
The Tsahik faced the mountain.
Her expression did not change.
“Skal’vren,” she said.
The name fell into the clearing like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples of unease through the gathered clans. Jake Sully took a sharp breath, already issuing orders, but the warning came too late.
The earth broke.
From the place where roots gave way to stone, they surged—massive, armored predators built for vertical slaughter. Their bodies were corded with power, slate-gray hides layered in ridges like natural armor. Jagged spines lined their backs like broken peaks, and their claws tore into the soil as they charged, gouging earth as easily as flesh.
Amber eyes burned with hunger.
Not mindless.
Purposeful.
“Defensive lines!” Jake shouted. “Protect the elders—now!”
Arrows filled the air, whistling and striking—then skidding harmlessly from bone-plated hides. One Skal’vren slammed into a tree, snapping it like dry reed, flinging a warrior through the dirt. Another leapt, clearing distance with terrifying ease.
“They don’t fall!” someone cried.
“They fall,” came a calm voice through the chaos, “only when the mountain allows it.”
The Tsahik stepped forward.
She struck her staff against the ground once, and the sound rang sharp and clear, slicing through panic like cold metal.
“Tìranä’kai!” she called. “Bind the legs. Break the throat. Do not chase—draw them down!”
Her people moved instantly, bodies flowing into position with ruthless precision. They did not scatter. They did not hesitate.
Neteyam turned—and found her eyes on him.
For a breath, the world narrowed to that look. No command. No plea. Just understanding, raw and immediate, like fate recognizing itself.
He ran.
He broke from the Omaticaya line and sprinted toward open ground, loosing arrows not to kill, but to call. One struck a Skal’vren’s flank. Another bit into its shoulder. The beast roared and turned, its massive body pivoting toward him.
Good.
It charged.
Neteyam veered at the last possible second, sliding across loose soil as the creature thundered past—
—and the mountain answered.
Weighted cords flew from above, stone-tipped hooks snapping tight around the beast’s limbs. Tìranä’kai warriors descended from the cliffs like living shadows, yanking hard, dragging the Skal’vren down by its own momentum.
Neteyam was already there.
He leapt, blade flashing, driving it beneath the armored plates at the base of the throat—the one place left unguarded. The creature convulsed, screeching as it collapsed, its death shaking the ground.
There was no time to breathe.
A second Skal’vren burst through the line—larger, scarred, its roar splitting the air as it barreled straight toward the fires.
Toward her.
She did not retreat.
She planted her feet.
Neteyam saw it in the same instant she did, and his body moved before thought could catch up. He slammed into the beast’s side, the impact knocking the air from his lungs as they crashed into the dirt. Claws slashed inches from his face. Jaws snapped shut where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier.
“Neteyam!”
Her voice cut through the chaos like lightning.
She was there—sudden and terrible as the mountain itself. Her staff came down with brutal precision, cracking bone once, twice. The Skal’vren reeled, shrieking.
Neteyam drove his blade home.
Blood spilled hot and dark across the earth.
They rose together, breathless, bloodied, alive.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, voice tight.
“You were in its path,” Neteyam replied.
“That was my place to stand.”
“Then I will stand there with you.”
For a heartbeat, her composure fractured. Golden eyes searched his face—not for recklessness, but resolve.
The battle raged on.
Skal’vren climbed, leapt, struck from angles the forest clans had never faced, but the Tìranä’kai met them with merciless efficiency. They fought like their homeland—unyielding, deliberate, inevitable. Neteyam found himself moving with the Tsahik again and again, their paths weaving through violence as though written long before this day.
She called commands.
He answered them without hesitation.
When one beast lunged for her back, his arrow took its throat. When another nearly crushed him beneath its weight, her staff shattered its skull.
The clans noticed.
They could not help it.
The Metkayina read the current shifting beneath the surface. The Tipani whispered. The Omaticaya watched Neteyam fight not like a reckless youth, but like someone answering a call deeper than blood.
Jake Sully saw everything.
The final Skal’vren fell near the cliff base, brought down by rope, blade, arrow, and stone working as one. Its death cry echoed—and was swallowed by the mountain.
Silence followed.
Not peace.
Awareness.
The Tsahik stepped back, straightening, gathering herself piece by piece until authority settled over her once more like a mantle.
The clearing did not return to normal.
It never did.
Even after the last Skal’vren lay still and cooling against the blood-darkened earth, even after the wounded were tended and weapons lowered, the air remained altered—as though something invisible had torn and refused to mend. Fires crackled low, their light flickering over shattered branches and gouged soil. Smoke curled upward, slow and uncertain, as if unsure whether it was still welcome in the sky.
Neteyam stood among it all, breath still unsteady, hands stained dark where blood had dried into the lines of his palms. Around him, warriors moved with subdued urgency, voices hushed, reverent. Victory had been earned, yes—but not cleanly. Not without cost.
And not without consequence.
The Tsahik did not look back at him as she walked away.
She moved toward the stone rise where her people gathered, her silhouette cutting clean and unbroken against the pale morning light. Copper skin caught the sun, glowing like burnished metal. Every step she took was deliberate, controlled, as though she could will the mountain itself to remain unchanged by what had just occurred.
But Neteyam had seen her eyes.
He knew better.
Jake Sully approached him then, slow and measured, his presence grounding in a way that made Neteyam’s chest tighten. His father did not speak immediately. He only looked—at the blood on Neteyam’s armor, the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered too often toward the cliffs.
“You fought well,” Jake said at last.
Neteyam nodded, though his thoughts were far from the praise. “We all did.”
Jake’s eyes followed his son’s gaze. He said nothing more—but the silence carried weight. Questions unspoken. Warnings deferred.
Across the clearing, the Tìranä’kai watched.
They were not subtle.
Mountain eyes lingered on Neteyam with an intensity that was not hostile—but not welcoming either. They had seen how he moved beside their Tsahik. How he placed himself between her and death without hesitation. How she had answered him not with rebuke, but trust.
The Tìranä’kai council convened beneath an overhang of ancient rock, carved smooth by wind and time. Fires burned low in stone basins, casting amber light across copper skin and weathered faces. The elders sat in a half-circle, their presence heavy with authority.
The Tsahik stood at the center.
Unbowed.
“You endangered the balance,” one elder said, voice like grinding stone. “You allowed an outsider to stand where only the mountain should.”
“He fought with honor,” she replied evenly.
“He is not of our people.”
“Neither was the enemy,” she said. “Yet they came all the same.”
Murmurs rippled through the council.
“You have no mate,” another elder said. “You never have. That has preserved your clarity.”
“And yet,” said a third, eyes sharp, “your clarity faltered.”
The Tsahik lifted her chin.
“I acted in defense of all clans,” she said. “Nothing more.”
Silence followed—thick, unconvinced.
“The mountain watches,” the eldest elder said at last. “And Eywa listens.”
Her chest tightened at that.
The river was narrow where it cut through the foothills, threading silver between stone and root. It sang softly as it moved, a quieter voice than the waterfalls higher up, a place chosen not for ceremony but for solitude. Smooth rocks lined its banks, worn down by centuries of patient water, and pale bioluminescent moss clung to the shadows beneath them.
The Tsahik came there alone to clear her mind.
She had shed the weight of her staff and adornments, setting them carefully upon a flat stone. The copper of her skin caught the reflected light of the water as she knelt, sleeves pushed back, fingers trailing into the current. The river accepted her without question, washing blood and ash from her hands, from her arms, from the lines of strain she carried so carefully in public.
Here, she allowed herself to breathe.
She moved slowly, deliberately, as though each motion was a quiet prayer—to Eywa, to the mountain, to herself. The water slid over her skin, cool and clean, tracing the story of battles survived and years endured. She tilted her head back briefly, eyes closed, letting the sound of the river drown out the voices that still echoed in her mind.
She did not hear Neteyam at first.
He had not meant to find her.
His feet had simply carried him away from the encampments, away from questions and watchful eyes, toward the place where the forest thinned and stone rose gently from the earth. When he heard the water, he slowed, instinct urging caution. And then he saw her.
He stopped.
Not because he was afraid—but because something in him stilled completely.
She was unguarded here in a way he had not seen before. Not weak. Not unaware. Simply… human, in the quiet sense of the word. The Tsahik who had commanded warriors and spoken for the mountain now knelt in the river, sleeves rolled, hair loose down her back, shoulders relaxed beneath the open sky.
Neteyam felt something shift inside his chest.
Not desire.
Recognition.
The sudden, aching understanding that strength could coexist with softness, that authority did not erase gentleness. He felt it like a door opening quietly, without permission.
He took a step back, meaning to leave.
A stone shifted beneath his foot.
The sound was small—but in the stillness, it was enough.
She turned immediately.
For a heartbeat, they simply looked at one another—the river between them, the world held in suspension. Then her expression softened, tension easing from her shoulders.
“You walk loudly for a forest warrior,” she said.
“I was trying not to,” Neteyam replied, a little sheepish. “I can go.”
She studied him for a moment, golden eyes steady. Then she shook her head once.
“No,” she said. “You may stay. Just… don’t make this into something it is not.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
He settled on a nearby stone, careful to keep his gaze respectful, though awareness hummed through him like living light. He watched the river instead, the way it curved around her knees, the way it reflected her presence without claiming it.
“You should be resting,” she said.
“So should you,” he answered.
That earned him a quiet huff of amusement.
“For someone so young,” she said, “you carry yourself like someone who has already chosen a path.”
“I think the path chose me,” Neteyam replied.
She rinsed her hands once more, then rested them against the stone beside her, water dripping back into the river.
“And if the path changes?” she asked.
He looked at her then—not with challenge, not with hunger, but with open honesty.
“Then I’ll change with it.”
The river continued its song, patient and eternal.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
When she rose at last, stepping back onto the stones, she did so without haste or self-consciousness. There was nothing for her to hide here. Neteyam stood as well, turning slightly away out of instinctive respect, though the image of her—calm, unguarded, real—settled deep within him like a promise he did not yet understand.
“This place is not ours alone,” she said quietly. “Others will notice.”
“I know,” Neteyam said.
She met his gaze once more, something gentle and unresolved passing between them.
Then she gathered her staff and walked back toward the mountain.
—•—•—
Night did not fall all at once.
It crept.
Bioluminescent veins awakened along roots and bark, glowing softly as though the forest itself exhaled light. The air was warm, thick with moisture and scent, carrying the hush of unseen wings and distant calls. It was the kind of night that encouraged mistakes—the kind that blurred edges and loosened restraint.
Neteyam was fully grown in this life, his shoulders broad with years of training, his presence grounded and sure. Yet standing at the edge of the stone rise, waiting, he felt none of that certainty. Only anticipation. Only the hum beneath his skin that told him something irrevocable was about to happen.
She came without ceremony.
The Tsahik stepped from shadow into moonlight, copper skin glowing softly, hair loose down her back, no staff in her hands. Here, she was not framed by council fires or warriors’ gazes. Here, she was simply herself—and that was far more dangerous.
“You should not have asked me here,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t,” Neteyam replied. “You came anyway.”
She stopped a few paces from him, golden eyes steady but bright with tension. “That does not make it better.”
“No,” he said softly. “But it makes it honest.”
Silence stretched between them, dense and electric. The forest seemed to lean closer, as if listening.
“You know what this costs,” she said. “If anyone sees—”
“I know,” Neteyam said. “And I still couldn’t stay away.”
Her breath caught, just barely. She looked at him then not as Tsahik, not as symbol—but as a woman standing at the edge of her own restraint.
“You make it difficult to remember who I am,” she murmured.
“Then let me remind you,” he said, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. “Not who you must be. Who you are.”
She did not step back.
When he reached her, it was her who closed the final distance.
Her hand came up first—fingers curling into the fabric at his chest, as if anchoring herself. His breath stalled as she leaned in, forehead brushing his, their noses nearly touching. He could feel her warmth now, the steadiness beneath her controlled exterior beginning to tremble.
“This is where we stop,” she whispered.
“Say it again,” Neteyam replied, voice low. “And mean it.”
She didn’t.
Instead, her lips met his.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was restrained hunger, years of discipline colliding with longing neither of them could deny any longer. Her lips were warm, firm, searching—testing him, testing herself. Neteyam answered without hesitation, one hand lifting to her waist, stopping there as if daring himself not to cross further.
She made a soft sound against his mouth—surprised, breathless—and for a moment the world disappeared entirely.
No clans.
No titles.
No mountain.
Just breath, heat, and the undeniable truth of each other.
She pulled back first, forehead resting against his, breath uneven.
“This changes everything,” she whispered.
Neteyam didn’t let go of her.
“It already did,” he said.
Her eyes closed.
For a heartbeat, she let herself stay there, pressed against him, stealing what she had denied herself for so long. Then she stepped back, hands dropping, authority sliding back into place like armor reluctantly reclaimed.
“We cannot do this again,” she said.
He nodded, though neither of them believed it.
As she turned and disappeared into the stone-lit path back to the mountain, Neteyam remained where he was, heart racing, lips still tingling with the memory of her.
The forest said nothing.
But it remembered.
Jake Sully did not raise his voice.
That alone made it worse.
He waited until morning, until the camp stirred and routine tried to reclaim itself. Then he found Neteyam at the edge of the clearing, sharpening a blade that did not need sharpening.
“You got somewhere else to be?” Jake asked casually.
Neteyam didn’t look up. “No.”
“Good,” Jake said. “Walk with me.”
They moved side by side through the trees, the sound of their steps muffled by moss and root. Jake let the silence stretch long enough to settle deep.
“I’m not blind,” Jake said finally.
Neteyam stopped.
Jake turned to face him, expression calm but sharp, the look of a leader who had survived too many wars to miss patterns.
“She’s Tsahik,” Jake continued. “And you crossed a line.”
Neteyam met his gaze without flinching. “I know.”
“Do you?” Jake asked. “Because knowing doesn’t make it easier when the fallout comes.”
“I’m not pretending it won’t,” Neteyam said. “But I’m not pretending it didn’t happen either.”
Jake studied his son—really studied him. Not the boy he had once protected, but the man standing before him now.
“This isn’t just about you,” Jake said. “It’s about balance. About what the clans will do when they realize something sacred is changing.”
Neteyam nodded. “I won’t shame her. I won’t put her in danger.”
Jake’s jaw tightened slightly. “And what about you?”
“I’ll take whatever comes,” Neteyam said. “I chose this.”
Jake exhaled slowly, running a hand over his braid.
“That’s what I was afraid you’d say,” he muttered.
He placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder—heavy, grounding.
“Just remember,” Jake said quietly, “when you touch something that powerful… you don’t walk away unchanged.”
Neteyam held his father’s gaze. “Neither did you.”
Jake paused—then gave a short, rueful smile.
“Fair,” he said.
—•—•—
The mountain did not rush its judgment.
Three nights passed beneath its shadow, each one heavier than the last. Fires burned lower in the camps. Songs softened. Warriors spoke in quieter voices, as though even sound itself might tip the scales. The clans waited not because they were commanded to, but because instinct told them that something ancient was unfolding, something that required stillness.
The Tsahik of the Tìranä’kai remained within the high stone sanctum, the place where roots pierced rock and water dripped like slow thought from the ceiling. She fasted. She prayed. She listened.
Eywa did not speak in words.
She never had.
She spoke in memory, in ache, in the weight that settled behind the eyes when truth resisted being named.
On the fourth morning, the horns sounded again. Their call rolled down the mountainside and into the forest canopy, summoning every clan once more. This time, there was no curiosity in the gathering. Only inevitability.
Neteyam stood among the Omaticaya, shoulders squared, face calm. He had not slept much. Not from fear, but from awareness. He felt the pull of what was coming as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet. Whatever the verdict, it would alter him. It would alter her. It would alter the balance between stone and root in ways that could not be undone.
Jake Sully stood beside him, silent, watchful. A leader waiting to see whether the world would bend or break.
The stone circle filled slowly. Leaders took their places. Elders leaned on staffs worn smooth by centuries of hands. The air was cool, thin, and charged with reverence. No one spoke.
Then she emerged.
The Tsahik stepped into the open with measured grace, copper skin marked with ceremonial ash, silver threads woven into her hair in patterns older than any living memory. She carried no staff today. Her hands were empty, palms open at her sides. It was a gesture that meant vulnerability offered willingly, not weakness imposed.
She stopped at the center of the circle and bowed her head.
The eldest elder of the Tìranä’kai rose slowly, joints stiff, presence immense.
“The mountain has listened,” he said. “Eywa has been sought. The past has been remembered.”
He turned his gaze to the gathered clans.
“What stands before us is not betrayal. It is not defiance born of selfishness. It is something more difficult.”
He paused, letting the silence deepen.
“It is change.”
A murmur moved through the circle like wind through leaves.
The elder lifted a hand, and quiet returned.
“The Tsahik has walked a path alone for many seasons,” he continued. “She has carried her people without falter. She has not broken vow or rite. That truth stands unchallenged.”
Neteyam felt a slow release in his chest, though the tension did not fully ease.
“But truth,” the elder said, “does not end where comfort lies.”
He turned to face the Tsahik fully.
“You have felt something awaken that does not belong solely to the mountain,” he said. “You did not act upon it recklessly. You did not deny it blindly. You listened.”
She lifted her chin, eyes steady.
“I did,” she said.
The elder nodded.
“That is both your strength and your danger.”
A second elder spoke, her voice softer but no less firm.
“The bond you feel is not forbidden by law,” she said. “But it is disruptive to expectation. You are Tsahik. You are meant to be constant.”
The Tsahik answered without hesitation.
“Eywa is not constant,” she said. “She moves. She adapts. She grows.”
A ripple of unease passed through the elders.
The eldest raised his staff and brought it down once against the stone. The sound echoed outward, commanding attention.
“The verdict,” he said, “is this.”
Every breath in the circle seemed to stop.
“You will not be stripped of your role.”
Gasps broke the silence, sharp and sudden.
The Tsahik did not move.
“You will remain Tsahik of the Tìranä’kai,” the elder continued. “But you will no longer stand beyond question. You will be watched. Your actions weighed more carefully than before.”
He turned his gaze outward.
“And the bond you have awakened will not be hidden beneath ritual or silence.”
Neteyam’s pulse quickened.
“If this connection deepens,” the elder said, “it will do so in the open. There will be no secret meetings. No shadows. No denial.”
The Tsahik’s breath caught, but she did not look away.
“You are not forbidden to feel,” the elder said. “But you are forbidden to fracture balance through deception.”
“You spoke when silence would have protected you,” the elder said. “You stood where consequence was certain.”
“I did,” Neteyam replied.
“That courage honors you,” the elder said. “But courage without restraint is destruction.”
Neteyam inclined his head, accepting the weight of the words.
“You will bear responsibility alongside her,” the elder continued. “If her choices unsettle the clans, you will stand to answer for them. Not as punishment. As partnership.”
Jake exhaled slowly.
The elder lifted his staff once more.
“This bond,” he said, “is not condemned. It is not celebrated. It is acknowledged.”
The stone seemed to breathe.
“Eywa has not turned away,” the elder concluded. “Nor has she blessed without caution. This path will be watched. Tested. Challenged.”
He lowered the staff.
“And if it survives that trial, then it will be because it was meant to.”
Silence followed, deep and reverent.
The Tsahik bowed her head.
Neteyam did the same.
The clans slowly began to disperse, their expressions thoughtful, unsettled, alive with the understanding that something foundational had shifted.
The verdict had barely settled into the stone when she found him.
Not in the council circle. Not among the clans. She went where the mountain sloped downward into root and moss, where the forest began to reclaim the edges of stone. The air there was damp and cool, heavy with green scent and quiet.
Neteyam was already there, standing still as if he had been pulled into place by something older than thought.
For a moment, they did not speak.
Everything that had been restrained over days of silence and watching and waiting pressed in on them now, thick as the air before a storm. The mountain had not forbidden them. The forest had not turned away. And suddenly, the weight of holding back became unbearable.
“You should not be here,” she said softly.
Her voice trembled.
Neteyam turned.
The moment their eyes met, restraint cracked.
He crossed the space between them without thinking, hands lifting to her arms as if drawn there by instinct. She inhaled sharply, fingers curling into his chest, the control she wore like armor finally slipping.
“This almost broke me,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said, voice low and rough. “I felt it too.”
She looked up at him then, golden eyes bright, unguarded, alive with everything she had denied herself. For the first time, she did not speak with caution.
She kissed him.
It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was everything they had refused to allow themselves beneath watchful eyes and sacred silence. Her mouth met his with urgency, breath catching as the tension finally released. Neteyam answered immediately, one hand sliding to her waist, holding her as if the ground itself had shifted.
The kiss deepened, unhurried yet consuming, their breaths mingling, the world narrowing to heat and closeness and the steady truth of each other. She made a soft sound against his lips, something between relief and longing, and it sent a shiver through him.
Her forehead rested briefly against his as she breathed him in, then she kissed him again, harder this time, as if trying to pour every unspoken fear and want into the contact. Neteyam responded with equal intensity, his grip tightening slightly, grounding her as much as himself.
For a moment, there was no Tsahik.
No son of a leader.
No council.
Only two hearts finally allowed to beat without restraint.
She pulled back just enough to breathe, her hands still fisted in his chest.
“This is dangerous,” she whispered, voice unsteady.
“Yes,” he said.
She smiled faintly, something wild and real flickering across her face.
“Good.”
She kissed him again, slower now, deeper with meaning, as if sealing something that could not be undone. When they finally parted, breathless, foreheads touching, the forest seemed to hum softly around them, as though Eywa herself bore witness.
“We cannot pretend anymore,” she said.
Neteyam nodded.
“I don’t want to.”
The festival began at dusk, when the mountain finally let the sun go.
Stone terraces were strung with glowing seedlights and mineral lanterns that caught the last fire of the sky and scattered it into gold and violet reflections. Drums echoed from the cliff faces, deeper than forest drums, slower and heavier, their rhythm vibrating through bone and breath alike. Fires burned low and wide, meant not for warmth but for gathering, and the scent of roasted roots and spiced meats curled into the cool air.
The Tìranä’kai had always celebrated with reverence.
Never with abandon.
Until tonight.
Neteyam noticed it first in the way people hesitated.
Warriors paused mid-step. Elders leaned closer to one another. Whispers rippled not with concern but disbelief as the Tsahik descended from the upper stone path not in ceremonial stillness, not cloaked in authority, but laughing softly at something said to her by one of the younger hunters.
Laughing.
The sound was quiet, unguarded, and it stopped conversations cold.
Her copper skin was adorned not with ash or sacred paint but with simple festival markings, mineral dust catching the light like scattered stars. Silver threads still wove her hair, but loosely now, allowed to move when she did. She walked without staff, without escort, and for the first time the mountain clan saw her not as a pillar, but as a presence.
Neteyam stood near the edge of the main fire circle, speaking with a few Omaticaya warriors, when her eyes found him.
Her smile changed.
It sharpened with intent.
She crossed the space between them without hesitation, weaving through dancers and laughter, her confidence unmistakable. Neteyam felt it like a physical pull, the way the air shifted when she stopped in front of him.
“You look surprised,” she said, tilting her head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that,” he replied honestly.
“Careful,” she said. “You might make it my habit.”
He grinned. “I’d consider that a public service.”
She laughed again, louder this time, and several Tìranä’kai turned openly to stare. One young woman nearly dropped her drink.
“Your people are watching,” Neteyam murmured.
“They always are,” she replied lightly. Then she leaned in just enough for him alone to hear. “Tonight, they can learn something new.”
The drums quickened. Dancers filled the circle, movements blending mountain precision with something looser, freer, borrowed from forest influence. A group of children darted between legs, shrieking with laughter.
She took Neteyam’s hand.
Not as Tsahik.
As herself.
His fingers tightened instinctively, and the reaction around them was immediate. A ripple of astonishment moved through the mountain clan. Some elders stiffened. Others simply watched, eyes wide, as if witnessing a story they never expected to be told.
“You’re enjoying this,” Neteyam said as she pulled him closer to the firelight.
“Immensely,” she replied. “Is it so obvious?”
“You look like you’re daring the mountain to object.”
Her smile turned mischievous. “It already spoke. Now it listens.”
They moved together easily, not quite dancing at first, just swaying with the rhythm. She bumped her shoulder lightly into his, testing him.
“Is this how forest warriors celebrate?” she teased. “So stiff?”
“Oh, no,” Neteyam said. “This is me being respectful.”
She arched a brow. “I don’t recall asking for that.”
He laughed, the sound surprised out of him, and finally relaxed into the movement. Their steps found each other naturally, her movements precise but playful, his steady and responsive.
“You’re enjoying this too,” she noted.
“I think the clan might faint if they see you spin again,” he said.
“Then we should make it memorable.”
She spun deliberately, skirt flaring, laughter bright and unrestrained. When she stopped, she was breathless, eyes shining, hand still in his.
The watching crowd was silent for a beat.
Then someone cheered.
Another joined.
Soon the hesitation broke, and the mountain clan followed their Tsahik’s lead, laughter blooming where solemnity once ruled. The drums grew bolder. The night grew warmer.
She leaned closer to Neteyam, voice soft and teasing. “You realize you are responsible for this.”
He smiled. “I’ll accept the blame.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I intend to enjoy the consequences.”
They shared a look, warm and knowing, before she tugged him back into the movement, this time openly dancing, openly smiling, openly unafraid.
Above them, stone reflected firelight.
Below them, roots hummed with life.
And for the first time in living memory, the mountain clan saw their Tsahik not as something distant and unyielding, but as something alive, laughing, and choosing joy without shame.
Neteyam leaned in, voice low and playful. “You’re happy.”
Varang stood near the edge of the ash-black stone, watching smoke curl up from the ground as if the land itself breathed.
You stood a step behind her, hands at your sides, spine straight, eyes forward. The heat never bothered you. It never had. This land raised you to withstand it.
“You will not fail,” Varang said. Her voice was steady and flat. She did not turn to look at you. “You understand what is at stake.”
“I understand,” you said.
She finally faced you. Her eyes searched your face, not for doubt but for weakness. She would not find any. You had learned that early.
“The Toruk Makto is protected by his offspring,” Varang continued. “They are reckless. They believe themselves untouchable among the reef people. One of them is your way in.”
You did not react. You never reacted when she spoke like that. Emotion was something you learned to control long ago.
“You will be kind,” Varang said. “You will be gentle. You will be everything I am not. You will make them trust you. You will make them want you.”
“I will,” you said.
“You will not reveal yourself,” Varang went on. “You will not reveal me. You will not reveal where you come from. You will lie easily. You will lie well.”
“I always do,” you said.
Varang studied you for a moment longer, then reached out and placed her hand on your shoulder. It was not affectionate. It was possessive.
“Do not mistake this for weakness,” she said. “What you are about to do is power.”
You met her gaze. “I know.”
She stepped back. “Go.”
You left before she could say anything else.
The journey to the reef took time. The air changed first. The ash thinned. The heat softened. The smell of salt replaced smoke. You hid your path well. No one followed you. No one ever did.
When you reached the edge of the reef territory, you slowed. You watched from the rocks as water stretched out before you, bright and alive, nothing like the land behind you. Creatures moved beneath the surface, large shapes gliding with ease.
You waited.
One came alone, just as Varang said they would.
He moved through the water with familiarity. The great creature beside him swam in slow circles. You had been told its name, though it did not matter to you. It mattered to him. That was enough.
You stepped onto the rock, letting your weight shift in a way that made your presence visible. You chose a jagged edge. You knew where to place your foot. You knew how much pressure to apply.
You grabbed your blade and brought it to your hip. With so much as a light huff, sliced the thin skin right above the strap of your loin cloth
Pain flared sharp and quick at your hip as the stone cut into skin. Blood welled and ran warm down your thigh.
You staggered back a step, then another, as if unbalanced. You let your hand go to the wound. You let your breath hitch once. Only once.
Lo’ak turned.
He stared for a moment, clearly unsure if he was seeing things. Then he swam fast toward the rock, pulling himself up with urgency that bordered on panic.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, do not move.”
You looked at him, eyes wide. “I did not see the edge,” you said. Your voice sounded strained, not weak.
“That is bad,” he said, glancing at your hip. “That is really bad. You are bleeding.”
“I noticed,” you said.
He huffed a short sound that might have been a laugh if he were not clearly worried. “Okay. Okay. Sit. Please sit.”
You lowered yourself onto the rock slowly. Not too slow. You did not want to look helpless. Just hurt enough to justify his concern.
“I can help,” he said. “I have supplies. The clan has healers.”
Your ears flicked. “Clan?”
“The Metkayina,” he said. “They live here. They will help you.”
You shook your head at once. “No.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“I am not from here,” you said. “They will not want me.”
“That is not true,” he said. “They help everyone.”
You met his eyes. “You do not know that.”
He hesitated. You could see him thinking. You could see the part of him that wanted to argue and the part that did not want to push you.
His golden eyes flicked to your ash covered skin, some washed away revealing a barely darker and more blue pigment.
Then the red and black paint still stuck by your ears that you had failed to clean.
Lastly the scars on your skin and you jarring use of skeletal jewellery adoring your neck and ears.
“Let me clean it,” he said instead. “At least let me do that.”
You nodded.
He moved closer. His hands hovered before touching you, waiting for permission. You gave it with a small nod.
His fingers were warm as he worked, steady despite the tension in his shoulders. You watched his face, not the wound. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way his jaw tightened when he saw the blood.
“You should not be out here alone,” he said.
“Neither should you,” you replied.
“I know this place,” he said. “I grew up around water.”
“You are not reef-born,” you said. It was not a question.
He glanced up. “No.”
“You move like you learned,” you said. “Not like it is instinct.”
He smiled at that, a quick, surprised expression. “You noticed.”
“I notice things,” you said.
“What is your name?” he asked.
You paused for half a second, then gave him the name Varang chose for you. It was soft. It sounded harmless.
“That fits,” he said.
“You do not know me,” you replied.
“I want to,” he said.
There it was. Simple.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I travel,” you said. “I do not stay long anywhere.”
“That does not explain the cut,” he said.
“I slipped,” you said. “It happens.”
He smiled again, then looked away as if embarrassed by it. “You are not like anyone here.”
“So I have been told,” you said.
He finished cleaning the wound and wrapped it carefully. His hands lingered for a moment too long before he pulled away. You let it happen. You always let it happen.
“You should come with me,” he said. “At least until it heals.”
“I cannot,” you said.
“Why?”
“I prefer not to be seen,” you replied.
He studied you again. “You already are.”
You stood slowly, testing your weight. The pain was manageable. It always was.
“I will manage,” you said.
He did not look convinced. “If you need anything, you can find me. I am usually here.”
“I know,” you said.
He blinked. “How?”
You tilted your head slightly. “You are not difficult to track.”
He laughed then, real and open. “That is not comforting.”
You allowed a small smile. It meant nothing.
“I should go,” you said.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, because it was true.
You turned and walked away without looking back. You did not limp. You did not hurry.
From the shadows, you listened as he spoke softly to the great creature beside him, voice full of concern and wonder. You memorized the sound of it. It would be useful.
When night fell, you returned to the edge of the reef and sent your signal. It was answered before you finished.
Varang’s voice came through calm and satisfied. “You made contact.”
“Yes,” you said.
“And?”
“He will trust me,” you said. “He already does.”
“Good,” Varang replied. “Then this will be easy.”
You ended the connection and stared out at the water, at the lights beneath the surface, at the place where he lived and believed himself safe.
You felt nothing at all.
Two days passed after the rock, and you did not return to ash or smoke or Varang’s voice. You remained along the reef’s edge, never too close to the heart of the village, never so far that Lo’ak stopped looking, feeding on small fish and fruit you snuck off the shore.
You learned quickly where the Metkayina gathered and where they did not. You learned which paths were watched and which were ignored. You learned when Lo’ak swam alone.
He returned to the rock more than once.
The second time, he brought nothing but himself and the great tulkun who circled patiently nearby. He called your name into the open air, sounding faintly embarrassed by it, like he did not expect an answer but hoped anyway.
You watched from higher ground and waited until he stopped searching.
You appeared on the third day because timing mattered.
“You came back,” he said, relief plain on his face as he climbed onto the rock again. He looked you over immediately, his eyes drawn to your hip before he stopped himself. “You are healed.”
“Mostly,” you said. It was true. The cut was no longer useful.
“I thought you left,” he admitted. “I thought maybe you never planned to return.”
“I do not leave places without reason,” you said.
His mouth curved upward at that. “Then I am a reason.”
“If you want to believe that,” you replied.
He laughed softly and sat beside you, leaving a respectful amount of space that shrank as the conversation stretched on.
The water reflected light onto his face, and you noted the way he angled his body toward you without thinking.
“You really are not from here,” he said again, slower this time.
“No,” you said.
“Your skin,” he continued, careful not to sound accusatory. “It looks burned. Not sick. Just different.”
“It is from where I come from,” you replied.
“And where is that?”
“Far,” you said. “And not welcoming.”
He nodded like he understood something important. “You do not talk about family.”
“Neither do you,” you said.
He hesitated. “I talk about mine all the time.”
“You talk around them,” you corrected. “Not about them.”
He stared at the water. “Maybe.”
You shifted your legs, letting the movement draw his attention back to you. “You swim with the tulkun often.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “That is Payakan.”
“He listens to you,” you said.
“He listens to everyone,” Lo’ak replied, then paused. “He listens to me more.”
You filed that away.
“You are not Metkayina,” you said.
“No,” he answered. “We live with them. We are guests.”
“Guests who stay,” you said.
He shrugged. “My father thought it was safer.”
“Your father is Toruk Makto,” you said, watching his face closely.
His head snapped toward you. “How do you know that?”
“It is not hidden knowledge,” you replied. “Stories travel.”
“They exaggerate,” he said quickly.
“They always do,” you agreed. “That does not make them false.”
He was quiet for a moment. You could see pride fighting discomfort in his expression.
“Jake Sully,” you continued calmly. “He united clans. He rides the great predator of the sky. Humans follow him. Na’vi follow him. Enemies fear him.”
“You say that like you have never met him,” Lo’ak said.
“I have not,” you replied. “I only know what others say.”
He studied you, searching for something. “Why does it matter to you?”
You met his gaze evenly. “Would it not matter to anyone?”
He accepted that answer too easily. “You could meet him,” he said. “If you stay.”
“Perhaps,” you said.
That night, you were brought deeper into the village.
Neytiri was the first to truly watch you, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Ronal noticed your scars and said nothing aloud but remembered them.
Tonowari greeted you with guarded respect, measuring your presence rather than welcoming it. Jake looked at you like he looked at everything else, assessing.
You behaved accordingly.
“I am only passing through,” you said when asked. “I do not wish to cause trouble.”
Jake studied your stance, your tone, your choice of words. “People who say that usually do.”
“I will be gone when I am no longer useful,” you replied.
Lo’ak winced slightly at that.
“You can stay until your wound finishes healing,” Neytiri said, her voice firm. “Then we will see.”
“That is generous,” you replied. You inclined your head just enough to be polite without submission.
Later, when the fire burned lower and voices softened, Lo’ak sat beside you again. His shoulder brushed yours, and he did not pull away when you did not react.
“You scared my parents,” he said quietly.
“That was not my intent,” you replied.
“You do not lie well,” he said.
“I lie efficiently,” you corrected.
He smiled despite himself. “You talk like you do not care what people think.”
“I do not,” you said. “I care what they do.”
He glanced toward where his father stood speaking with Tonowari. “Then what do you think my father will do?”
“You will tell me,” you said.
He blinked. “I will?”
“You talk when you are nervous,” you said. “And when you are proud. And when you want approval.”
His ears flushed. “You really do notice things.”
“I told you,” you replied.
Over the following days, you learned Jake Sully through Lo’ak.
You listened when Lo’ak talked about battles he barely remembered and stories he repeated because others liked them.
You asked careful questions that sounded like curiosity instead of strategy. You learned which stories were exaggerated and which were avoided.
You learned that Jake did not speak often about being Toruk anymore. You learned that people listened when he did.
Lo’ak talked most when you were alone.
“He does not want me fighting,” he said once, frustration clear. “He still sees me as a kid.”
“You are not,” you said.
“I know,” he replied. “I just want him to see it.”
“He will,” you said. “Men like him only understand proof.”
That pleased him.
The bond formed faster than you expected.
Lo’ak watched you like you were something rare, something that might disappear if he looked away too long.
He offered you space in his world without demanding answers in return. He defended your presence when others questioned it. He trusted you with silences as much as words.
You gave him exactly what he needed.
One night, as the reef slept and Payakan’s song echoed, Lo’ak spoke without looking at you.
“I think I am in love with you,” he said softly, praying you didn’t hear him but at the same time the confession has been eating away at him.
You did not answer immediately. You let the pause breathe.
“That is dangerous,” you said finally.
“For me or for you?” he asked.
“For you,” you replied.
He smiled faintly. “I do not care.”
You turned your face toward the water, hiding your expression. You had never cared either.
And yet, for the first time since leaving the ash, you did not send a report.
You stayed.
The days had turned to weeks and you’d keep poking and prodding at your cut so it would bleed and scab, allowing you to stay.
Lo’ak floated on his back beside you, arms spread, eyes half closed as the reef shifted beneath the surface.
You stayed upright, legs moving slowly to keep balance, watching him instead of the sky. He trusted the water completely. That alone told you more than words ever could.
“You do not relax,” he said without opening his eyes.
“I am relaxed,” you replied.
“You are alert,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
“Habit,” you said.
He rolled onto his side to face you, close enough now that the water pushed your shoulders together. He did not move away. His tail brushed yours by accident at first, then again less accidentally.
“You swim like you expect something to go wrong,” he said.
“And you swim like nothing ever has,” you replied.
He smiled. “Maybe I just like believing it will not.”
You studied him for a moment, then spoke in Na’vi without warning. “Nìprrte’ lu nga (You are beautiful),” you said softly.
He stilled.
“You cannot just say things like that,” he said, ears flushing as a bashful look spread across his face.
“I can,” you replied. “I just did.”
He laughed under his breath, embarrassed but pleased, and drifted closer until his knee brushed your thigh. He stayed there, waiting to see if you would pull away.
You did not.
That night, the others slept nearby, scattered through the marui, breathing slow and even.
You and Lo’ak sat near the dying fire, shoulders nearly touching. The glow warmed your skin, reflecting faintly off his eyes when he looked at you.
“You never ask for anything,” he said.
“I take what is offered,” you replied.
“I am offering,” he said, quieter now. “You just never tell me what you want.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him from the corner of your eye. “What makes you think I want anything?”
“Because everyone does,” he said. “Even if they pretend they do not.”
You considered him for a moment, then spoke carefully. “I want honesty.”
He nodded immediately. “Then you have it.”
“That was easy,” you said.
“It is with you,” he replied. “You make it feel like if I lie, you will know anyway.”
“That is because I will,” you said.
He smiled, then reached out and took your hand without asking. His grip was warm, steady, unguarded. You let him. You always let him.
“Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” he said quietly.
You looked at his hand around yours. “You see what I allow.”
“Then thank you for allowing it,” he replied.
His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. Not rushed. He was learning where the line was.
You did not move it. Lo’ak grew warm, and was falling deeper and deeper in love with the girl who gave him peace.
Unaware of the watchful eyes that came from the shoreline.
The water was dark and calm, the reef glowing faintly beneath you. Lo’ak swam ahead, then slowed so you could match his pace. He kept glancing back, checking without making it obvious.
“You do that often,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Make sure I am still there,” you replied.
He shrugged. “I like knowing.”
You reached out suddenly and caught his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He turned fast, surprised, his breath catching when he saw how close you were. Your bodies hovered inches apart, tails drifting together in the current.
“You trust me,” you said.
“Yes,” he answered without pause.
“Why?”
“Because you have not hurt me,” he said. “And because you could have.”
That answer satisfied you.
You leaned in just enough that your forehead touched his. His breathing shifted immediately, shallow and uneven, but he did not move away.
“Srane (Yes),” you murmured.
“Yes to what?” he asked softly.
“That you trust me,” you said.
His hand slid to your waist, tentative and waiting for resistance. When none came, his grip tightened slightly, anchoring you both.
“I would do anything for you,” he said.
You met his gaze. “I know.”
He smiled like that was enough.
And for now, it was.
The next day you had been perched on a flat rock at the edge of the reef, legs dangling over the water as you let the waves lap gently beneath you.
Lo’ak stayed close, kneeling nearby, his tail brushing against yours more than once. He smiled when you looked at him, a small, private thing meant for you alone.
The sunlight caught the water, bouncing into his eyes so that they glimmered in a way that almost made your chest ache. Almost, but not quite.
You kept your posture relaxed, even friendly, even though nothing about you ever came easily.
“You always sit there,” he said. “It is like you are claiming this spot before anyone else can.”
“I like the view,” you replied. “And it is easy to watch without being watched.”
He glanced toward the village, where Tonowari and Ronal talked quietly with the others. “You are being watched anyway,” he said.
“I do not care who watches,” you replied.
His brows furrowed slightly, but he did not argue. He just laughed softly and leaned back on his hands, letting the sun warm his shoulders. His tail flicked lazily against yours again, and you did not move it away.
“Oel ngati kameie,” he said suddenly, watching your reaction.
You did not answer right away.“I know,” you said finally. “And I see you, too.”
His chest rose and fell faster than usual. He did not speak again, just watched the water ripple around your legs, letting the silence fill with a tension neither of you tried to name.
Below, Neytiri observed from a distance. She leaned against a tall coral formation, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as she studied the way you interacted with Lo’ak. Kiri was beside her, bouncing slightly on her toes, curiosity obvious.
“Who is she?” Kiri whispered.
Neytiri’s gaze stayed on you, taking in the way you leaned into Lo’ak’s presence without hesitation, how your tail subtly intertwined with his. “She is not Metkayina,” Neytiri said carefully “And yet he trusts her. He listens to her, leans toward her. That is rare.”
Kiri frowned. “Do you not like her?”
“I do not know yet,” Neytiri replied. “She is cautious. She does not give anything freely. But she knows how to take what she wants without hurting herself. Lo’ak…he does not see it. Not yet.”
You tilted your head slightly at him, pretending not to notice the eyes on you from the reef. Lo’ak leaned closer, whispering so only you could hear. “If anyone comes too close, I will deal with it,” he said.
“I do not need protection,” you said.
“You accept it anyway,” he replied.
You let your fingers brush against his wrist under the pretense of balance on the rock, felt the electricity pass silently between you. He did not flinch. He did not question it.
Neytiri watched the subtle exchange, lips pressed into a thin line. “He is drawn to her,” she murmured to Jake, who had arrived quietly beside her. “He believes in her, and that is dangerous. She is not who she pretends to be, but he cannot see it yet. His heart is already ahead of his judgment.”
Jake’s eyes followed where she pointed, discreetly observing from the shadows. “Does she seem…honest?” he asked quietly.
Neytiri shook her head. “Not entirely. She hides things. But she is clever. She gains trust without appearing to.”
Lo’ak laughed softly at something you said, entirely oblivious to the scrutiny from his family. The sound made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You turned toward him, tail brushing his again.
“Why do you laugh at me?” you asked.
“I am not laughing at you,” he said quickly. “I am laughing with you. Because you are sharp. And dangerous. But funny.”
“I am not dangerous,” you said, keeping your tone neutral.
“You are,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Very dangerously beautiful, but I trust you anyway.”
You studied his face, the way his jaw was relaxed, the way his eyes were unguarded when he looked at you.
That trust, naive though it might be, was yours to use. And you would.
You allowed yourself a small smile and leaned slightly closer, enough that your shoulder touched his.
Lo’ak’s eyes widened just slightly, and his breath caught, but he did not pull away.
“Srane, nga lu oer (Yes, you are mine),” you said softly.
He stared at you, frozen for a heartbeat, before he nodded, half in disbelief, half in joy.
Neytiri watched, eyes narrowing slightly, thinking to herself.
He will fall completely.
This one has a way of making him trust. She is no Metkayina, yet he is drawn to her like he has never been drawn to anyone. And she…she gives him nothing but enough to hold onto. This is a trap, but I cannot warn him yet.
Kiri tilted her head, frowning. “Why do you think she lets him get close?”
Neytiri’s gaze never left you. “Because she can,” she said. “And because he will give her more than he should.”
You heard nothing of the thoughts on the reef. You only heard Lo’ak’s laugh and felt his knee brush yours again.
“You are quieter than I expected,” he said softly.
“I observe,” you replied.
“Then I am happy to provide a distraction,” he said. “You make watching fun.”
You allowed yourself to lean into him just a little more. He stiffened, then relaxed. His trust was complete and unquestioned.
The night had fallen completely, the reef glowing faintly beneath the water’s surface.
Lo’ak had led you out to a quieter stretch, away from the village lights and any watchful eyes.
Payakan glided far below, singing softly into the distance, a sound that vibrated through the water and carried to the surface.
You followed him silently, trusting him completely. He stopped at a small plateau, flat rock just above the tide line, and turned to face you.
The tension between you had built over days, the careful touches, the stolen glances, the way he leaned closer without asking permission.
“You do not pull away,” he said. “Even when I am too close.”
“I do not,” you said, meeting his gaze evenly.
He stepped forward, and you did not retreat. His hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, and he let his fingers linger at your jaw. You tilted your head slightly, allowing him access, letting the air thicken around you.
“You trust me,” he said. “Completely.”
“I do,” you whispered.
His breath caught. “And you…you want this?”
“Yes,” you said softly.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then leaned forward. Your lips met his. The kiss was testing boundaries, exploring without words.
His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones, anchoring you.
You allowed it, lips moving with his in perfect timing, letting him think he controlled the moment.
He broke the kiss briefly, just enough to stare into your eyes. “You are dangerous,” he said breathlessly.
“You already said that,” you replied.
“I do not care,” he said, pulling you back toward him. His body pressed slightly, close enough that you felt every inch of him, but still careful. Still waiting for resistance that never came.
You let him lean his forehead against yours, eyes closed. He inhaled sharply, as if grounding himself. “I want this…all of this with—with you,” he admitted.
“I allow it,” you whispered.
He smiled, hands still holding your face, lips brushing against yours again. You let him think he had power in this kiss. You let him think this was mutual devotion. You let him fall.
And he had.
“Oel ngati kameie,” he murmured into the kiss.
“I see you too,” you whispered back, almost tenderly. And it was enough for him, not for you. You felt the thrill of control, the satisfaction of shaping his world without letting him shape yours.
That night you kept more to yourself, more so to send a message to Varang.
Lo’ak could not stop smiling. He leaned against the railing of the platform, looking out over the reef, his chest light and his mind alive with thoughts he barely allowed himself to have.
Kiri bounded up beside him, energy spilling out in little bursts. “He looks happy,” she said to her father, nudging him with her elbow. “Really happy.”
Jake grunted, arms crossed. “He looks distracted. Careful what he fixates on.”
Lo’ak turned suddenly, ears flicking back. “Father, how did you know? When did you know you wanted mom to be your mate?”
Jake blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t,” he said slowly. “You don’t just…choose. You don’t ask yourself that at the start. It happens over time. You—” He stopped, glancing toward Neytiri, who was speaking softly to Tonowari. “You’re not at that point yet.”
Lo’ak grinned, unabashed. “I know what I feel. I cannot explain it. I just know.” His tail flicked behind him, betraying his excitement.
Neytiri watched from a distance, eyes narrowing. She had noticed the way his shoulders lifted whenever he spoke about the newcomer, how his posture straightened, how his ears twitched in anticipation of any movement you might make.
“He is drawn to her,” she murmured under her breath to Jake. “He does not see the danger yet.”
“She is clever,” Jake said quietly, glancing at Lo’ak with a mixture of wariness and resignation. “She knows how to gain trust without giving herself away. And he is reckless when it comes to feelings.”
Kiri bounced on her toes. “But he likes her!” she said, voice squeaky with excitement. “Everyone can see it.”
Tonowari and Ronal exchanged glances. Tonowari’s arms were crossed, his jaw tight. “I do not trust her,” he said simply. “She is not of our people, and yet she moves among us like she belongs.”
Ronal’s expression mirrored her husband’s slight disdain. “It is unsettling,” she agreed. “She is clever, but I see no warmth in her eyes. She is calculating.”
Lo’ak, oblivious to the undercurrent of suspicion, leaned forward eagerly. “Father, you must have felt it when you were with Mother. Surely you knew immediately?”
Jake shook his head slowly. “No. Not immediately. You…you grow into it. It sneaks up. You find yourself thinking of her first when you wake, last when you sleep, and suddenly it is as though your heart has always known.”
Lo’ak’s gaze drifted, and in that moment he thought of you. The way your eyes followed him, the subtle ways your tail brushed against his when you thought no one was watching.
The thought of you smiling at him, the faint tilt of your head when he said something foolish, made his chest tighten and his mind spin.
Neytiri watched closely, arms folded, lips pressed together. She glanced at Kiri, who bounced impatiently. “He is obsessed,” Neytiri said softly. “And she is nothing like us, nothing like anyone he has known. Yet he trusts her, and that is dangerous.”
Jake crossed his arms, rubbing his chin. “Trust is earned, and he is not seeing the full picture yet. But he believes it is genuine. That is what matters to him. That will drive his actions, and it may blind him.”
Lo’ak did not hear any of it. All he could see was you.
You leaning against the edge of the reef rock, letting him come to you on his own terms. You were clever, and he had no idea how much of it was real, how much was pretense. He did not care.
He wanted you.
“You do not stop thinking about her,” Kiri said, tilting her head at him. “Even when you are with us.”
“I do not need to stop,” he said, smiling so wide it made his ears twitch. “She is she is everything.”
Jake sighed. “Do not rush it, Lo’ak. You are too young to understand all of this.”
“Maybe,” Lo’ak admitted. “But I understand her. More than anyone else.”
Neytiri shook her head, silently noting that she would have to watch him carefully. His heart was already halfway in her hands, and that was a vulnerability he would not see until it was too late.
The sun had dipped, painting the reef in soft shades of orange and green. You and Lo’ak floated together near the shallow edge, the water warm, gentle. He nudged you lightly with his shoulder, a playful grin spreading across his face.
“You are already inside my head,” he said. “And you have barely said a word.”
“I know,” you replied, letting your hand brush against his as you adjusted your balance. Your fingers lingered for a moment, brushing over the back of his hand before letting go. He did not pull away.
“Oeru tsakrr, nga lu oerke (My heart, you are mine),” he whispered suddenly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I am cautious,” you said.
“So am I,” he said. “But I trust you.”
You allowed yourself a smile, faint but deliberate. “Then that is enough for now.”
He nodded, eyes glinting, and shifted closer, letting his body skim yours in the water. The subtle pressure, the warmth of him, made your pulse quicken, and you let it. You let him think he had all the control, that this closeness was mutual affection.
“You are patient,” he said softly, voice close enough to make your ears twitch.
“I am careful,” you corrected, lips curling faintly. “I do not give freely what I do not intend to.”
He swallowed hard. “I do not mind waiting,” he admitted. His tail brushed yours again under the surface.
You tilted your head, catching his gaze. “You are bold,” you said.
“I only act where you allow it,” he replied.
The water shifted between you, calm but charged. Lo’ak’s hand hovered close to yours, tentative at first, then steady. You let him take it, letting the silent electricity build without word or motion beyond the essentials.
Night fell over the reef, stars just visible above the water, faint bioluminescence illuminating the edges of the coral. You and Lo’ak had moved to a secluded plateau, away from the eyes of the village. Payakan sang low and distant, a resonating hum that vibrated through the water.
“You do not pull away,” he said, tone low, almost urgent, as he stepped closer.
“I do not,” you said.
He reached out, brushing hair behind your ear, letting his fingers linger against your cheek. You tilted your face, allowing the contact, letting him think he guided the motion.
“You trust me completely,” he whispered.
“I do,” you replied, deliberately soft, letting your chest rise only slightly.
His breath caught. “And you… want this?”
“Yes,” you said.
He leaned forward, lips brushing yours, tentative at first, testing, seeking. You met him, lips soft but firm, letting him think the kiss was mutual devotion. His hands cupped your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. You allowed it, letting him think he had the power in this moment.
He broke the kiss briefly, forehead resting against yours. “You are… dangerous,” he admitted, voice low and raw.
“You already said that,” you replied, letting your eyes hold his.
“I do not care,” he said, pressing forward again. His hands moved along your waist, closer, exploring just enough to tease.
“Nga tsakrr txantsan,” he murmured. (You are my heart’s desire.)
You held his gaze, letting him think the declaration meant more than it did. “I allow it,” you whispered.
His lips brushed yours again, this time slower, heavier, and his hands lingered longer at your waist. He smiled against your mouth, eyes bright, ears tilted in pleasure. You did not move away. You let him believe he had won something vital, letting the tension build, letting him fall fully into you.
The water around you reflected faint light, the reef quiet, Payakan singing below. His hands pressed lightly, teasing, confident, building tension between you. You let him linger there, tasting the closeness, feeling the warmth without giving him any true hold over your heart.
“You are mine,” he said again, voice low.
“And you think I am yours,” you replied, letting a faint, unreadable smile curl your lips.
His grin widened. “I do not care,” he whispered.
And for now, that was enough.
The water lapped gently against the reef as you and Lo’ak moved to a secluded plateau, far from the village, far from the eyes of anyone who might watch.
Lo’ak’s hand found yours first, fingers curling around yours with warmth.
“You are…” he began, voice taut with need, “…everything I never knew I wanted.”
You tilted your head slightly. “I am what you see,” you murmured, brushing a finger across the back of his hand. “Do not mistake me for what you desire.”
He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, soft, deliberate. “I see you,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “And I want all of you.”
“Nga tsakrr txantsan (You are my heart’s desire),” he breathed, leaning his forehead against yours.
“I know,” you said, letting your voice tremble faintly with the thrill of the moment. “And you think you are mine.”
“I am,” he said simply, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was both soft and demanding. You responded, letting the motion deepen, letting his hands roam lightly over your sides, brushing along your waist.
“You are bold,” you murmured between kisses.
“So are you,” he replied, lips tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the connection. “And patient yet reckless.”
You laughed softly, letting your fingers thread into his hair. “I do not give freely what I do not intend to.”
He smiled, lips hot against yours, and you felt the teasing graze of his hands against your torso. You leaned into him, letting your body mirror his, letting him think he guided everything, that he had all control.
“You trust me,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips.
“I do,” you said.
His hands moved, brushing under your clothing, tracing the line of your waist, the curve of your back.
Your pulse quickened, ears flicking slightly, tail brushing his, brushing along his leg.
His hands moved with increasing confidence, lifting your top slightly, brushing along your back. You responded in kind, letting your hands explore him.
“Do you feel this?” he whispered against your lips. “Do you feel how close we are?”
“I do,” you said. “And you know I always know.”
He groaned softly, tilting your head, kissing you with a new urgency.
Clothes shifted, slipping in silent.
The world beyond the plateau vanished. Only you existed, only him, the rhythm of your breaths, the ache of want.
His lips trailed down your jaw, to your neck, murmuring your name softly. “Oel ngati kameie, tsakrr oer,” he whispered.
“I am here,” you replied, letting your voice tremble faintly, letting him feel every heartbeat. “All of me.”
Clothes fell slowly. Lo’ak’s fingers traced the hem of your woven top, lifting it inch by inch.
It caught on your breasts, and you lifted your arms to help him slide it off completely. Your breasts bounced free, nipples tightening in the open air. You felt his gaze like a physical touch, heat pooling between your legs.
Your hands pressed against him, feeling the heat radiate from his body. His heart pounded under your touch, matching the quick beats of yours.
Lo’ak’s mouth found yours again, the kiss deeper this time. His lips parted yours, tongue thrusting in to stroke against your own.
You met him, sucking lightly on his tongue, tasting the faint salt of his skin. Your hands roamed his back, nails scraping lightly over his muscles. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.
His fingers hooked into the sides of your loincloth, loosening the knots with care. The fabric loosened, sliding down your hips.
You stepped out of it, now fully bare under the fading light. Your cunt felt exposed, the slight breeze teasing the wetness already there.
Lo’ak’s eyes dropped to your core, darkening with hunger. He removed his own loincloth, the ties giving way easily. His cock stood erect, thick veins running along the length, the head flushed and leaking a bead of pre-cum.
You sank to your knees on the soft moss, drawn to him. Your hand wrapped around his base, skin hot and velvety over the hardness.
You stroked upward, thumb brushing the tip to spread the pre-cum.
Lo’ak hissed, hips twitching forward. Leaning in, you opened your mouth, taking the head past your lips.
Your tongue pressed flat against the underside, licking as you sucked. He filled your mouth, the taste musky and addictive.
You took more of him, relaxing your throat to slide down further. His cock hit the back of your mouth, and you swallowed around him, feeling him pulse. Saliva built up, coating his shaft as you bobbed your head.
Your free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten. Lo’ak’s fingers threaded into your hair, gripping lightly as he watched you. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, the wet sounds echoing softly on the plateau.
Pulling back, you licked the length of him, from base to tip, tracing every ridge. Then you dove back down, taking him deep again. Your jaw ached slightly from the stretch, but the thrill of his reactions kept you going.
He groaned your name. You hummed, the vibration making his thighs quiver. Spit dripped from your lips, slicking your hand as you pumped the base in time with your mouth.
After long minutes, Lo’ak tugged you up gently. “I can’t wait anymore,” he said, breath coming in pants. He lowered you onto the pillowy algae, your back sinking into the soft green.
Your legs parted naturally, knees bending to open yourself to him. He settled between your thighs, hands on your inner legs, pushing them wider. His breath ghosted over your cunt, making you shiver.
Lo’ak’s tongue touched your clit first, a flat lick that sent sparks up your spine. You moaned, hips lifting toward his mouth. He licked again, circling the sensitive nub.
Then his lips closed around it, sucking with pressure. One finger traced your entrance, gathering your wetness before pushing inside. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, welcoming the fullness.
He curled his finger, stroking the front wall, finding that spot that made your toes curl. You gripped the algae beneath you, body arching.
A second finger joined the first, stretching you as he thrust them in and out. His tongue flicked your clit in rhythm, fast then slow.
Wetness coated his fingers, easing the slide. You felt the coil tighten, pressure mounting.
“Lo’ak,” you gasped, voice breaking. He sucked harder, fingers pumping faster. The orgasm crashed over you, pussy spasming around his digits.
Juices flooded out, and he lapped them up, tongue pressing inside to taste more. Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head as waves of pleasure rolled through you.
He kept going, drawing out every aftershock until you pushed weakly at his shoulders.
He crawled up, kissing your lips, sharing your flavor. “You taste so good, baby,” he murmured.
His cock nudged your thigh. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance. The head nudged against your folds.
But he paused, eyes meeting yours. “The bond...do you want that? To mate fully?”
Your heart raced, the dark part of you thrilled at the chance to bind him closer, to weave your evil into his soul without him knowing.
You nodded, whispering, “Yes, Lo’ak. Connect with me.”
You both shifted, kurus falling loose. The pink tendrils at the ends moved, seeking connection.
Lo’ak brought his closer to yours, the tips brushing. A spark jumped between them. You felt the first touch like a whisper in your mind, his emotions brushing yours, desire, affection, trust. The tendrils twined slowly, wrapping around each other.
Sensations flooded in as they linked. His arousal hit you like your own, cock throbbing in echo of the bond.
Your pussy clenched emptily, aching for him. Through tsaheylu, you felt his heartbeat sync with yours.
His thoughts flickered, how beautiful you were, how he wanted to claim you forever. You hid your shadows, letting him see only the love you feigned.
The connection deepened, tendrils fusing with a soft, wet click. Full bond snapped into place.
You gasped, body arching as his want became yours. Lo’ak groaned, eyes widening at the rush. “It’s...everything,” he thought, the words echoing in your head.
He positioned his cock at your cunt again, the head parting your lips. With the bond, you felt the pressure building even before he moved. He thrust in slowly, inch by inch, stretching your walls.
The fullness was overwhelming, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. You cried out, the dual sensation of being filled and feeling yourself fill him, making stars burst in your vision.
Buried deep, he stilled, letting the bond settle. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping tight.
Through tsaheylu, his restraint trembled, the effort to not thrust immediately. You rocked your hips slightly, urging him.
“Move,” you whispered, and he did, pulling out halfway before sliding back in.
You felt his cock slide into you and the echo of your tightness around him. His hips snapped forward, steady rhythm building.
Lo’ak leaned down, mouth capturing your nipple. He sucked, teeth grazing the peak. The pull tugged straight to your core, amplified by the bond.
You clawed his back, nails digging in as pleasure built. His thrusts quickened, cock hitting deep, the head nudging your cervix. Sweat slicked your bodies, making every slide smoother.
You rolled your hips up to meet him, grinding your clit against his base. The friction sparked more heat. Through the bond, his climax approached, a tight coil you felt in your own belly.
“Cum with me,” he urged mentally, and you did, pussy clenching hard as orgasm hit. Waves crashed, shared ecstasy making it endless.
He followed, his cock pulsing, hot cum shooting into you in thick spurts. The release echoed, prolonging the bliss until you both shuddered.
He stayed inside, softening slightly but not pulling out. The bond hummed with afterglow, his contentment washing over you.
But your hunger, twisted by Ash Clan darkness, demanded more. You flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips. His cock slipped back into your cum-filled pussy easily, the mix of fluids easing the way.
You sank down fully, feeling him bottom out. The bond let you sense his surprise turn to renewed arousal.
You started moving, lifting and dropping slowly, savoring the stretch. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin.
You leaned forward, kurus swaying but still linked, and kissed him. Your tongue mimicked your hips, thrusting in time.
He hardened completely inside you, filling you anew. Sitting up, you placed hands on his chest, bouncing faster. Breasts jiggled with each drop, and his eyes fixed on them.
One hand rose to cup a breast, pinching the nipple between fingers. The sharp sensation shot to your clit, making you gasp. You circled your hips, rubbing your clit against him.
“Faster,” his thought pushed through the bond, and you obeyed, slamming down harder. His cock dragged along your walls, the veins catching every ridge inside.
Cum squelched with each movement, leaking out to coat his balls. Pleasure built again, the bond making it shared, his thrusts up meeting yours.
You came first, walls fluttering, milking him. He groaned, hips bucking as he chased his own release.
Hot spurts filled you more. You collapsed onto his chest, breaths ragged, but the connection kept sensitivity high. Every twitch of his cock inside you sparked tiny jolts.
After a moment, he rolled you both, now on your sides. Spooning from behind, he entered you again, slow and deep. His arm wrapped around, hand finding your clit.
Fingers circled the nub as he thrust lazily. You pushed back, ass pressing against his hips. The angle let him grind against your g-spot.
Through tsaheylu, his touches felt doubled, your skin tingling from his fingers and the echo in his mind.
You reached back, gripping his thigh, urging him deeper. His free hand cupped your breast and rolled the nipple. Thrusts picked up pace, cock sliding in and out with wet sounds.
Your cunt squeezed as cum pumped into you. He stayed buried, hand still rubbing slow circles on your clit to ease you down. The intimacy deepened the bond, his love pouring in, blind to your evil plans.
You turned to face him, legs tangling. He entered you missionary style again, but slower this time. Eyes locked, the bond let you see into his soul. You hid your shadows, wrapping arms around his neck. His thrusts were long, pulling almost out before sinking deep.
Your nails raked his shoulders, body arching to take more. He kissed your neck, sucking marks into the skin. The bond amplified the sting, turning it to pleasure. Hips rolled together, clit grinding against him. Sweat dripped between you.
“I love this,” he thought, and you echoed it falsely, clenching around him. Climax built slow, then exploded, cum flooding you as you came.
You came with a cry, pussy spasming. He thrust through it, then filled you again, grunting. Exhausted but insatiable, your darkness fueling you, you slid off and knelt, taking his cock in your mouth again.
Your tongue cleaned the mix of cum and arousal, sucking gently. He hardened under your attention.
“Ma yawne (love), please,” Lo’ak whined.
“What is it?” You breathed, tongue poking at the achy slit on his tip.
Lo’ak hissed. “Come back to my cock. I might die if you don’t.”
“Eager boy.” You purred, licking his cock once more before climbing back onto him and with ease, sinking back down on him.
Hours blurred, positions shifting, side by side, standing against rock, you on top, him behind.
Each time, the bond deepened the connection.
Cum leaked from your pussy, thighs slick, bodies marked with scratches and bites.
Your evil reveled in the control, his trusts binding him tighter.
Finally, as moons climbed, you lay entwined, his cock soft inside you, kurus linked.
Exhaustion claimed him. You watched, darkness stirring, the mating seal complete, your web spun.
The next morning, Lo’ak strode through the village, heart light but chest tight with nervous energy. Kiri bounced beside him, squealing quietly. “He looks so happy!” she whispered to Jake, who watched from a distance.
Lo’ak stopped at the edge of the platform where Jake and Neytiri sat, his expression a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension. “Father, Mother,” he said carefully, tail flicking behind him, “I need to tell you something. I…I have a mate.”
Jake’s brows rose. “A mate?” he said, voice low but teasing, arms crossed. “You are not at that point yet, Lo’ak.”
“I am,” Lo’ak said, voice firm. “I knew last night. she is mine.”
Neytiri’s eyes narrowed. “Who?” she asked softly,m, studying him carefully.
“Her,” he said, gesturing toward the plateau. “The one you have all seen. She…” He faltered briefly, ears flicking back. “She trusts me. I trust her. She is my mate, last night...” Lo’ak let his words trail and a blush dusted his cheeks. “Our kurus entwined.”
Tonowari’s arms crossed, jaw tight. “You speak of her as if you know her entirely,” he said. “We do not know what she is, or where she comes from. You cannot claim her.”
Kiri bounced in excitement. “But he loves her! Can’t you see that?” she said to Neytiri. “He trusts her completely!”
Jake rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Trust is earned, yes. But you are moving faster than anyone should. Are you certain she is what you think?”
Lo’ak glared, frustration mounting. “I know what she is! I know what I feel! She is…perfect. And I am hers as well.”
Neytiri’s gaze lingered on him, ears flicking with caution. “Perfect is a dangerous word,” she said softly. “Do you understand what she could do with your trust?”
“She would not betray me,” Lo’ak insisted.
“She could,” Jake said flatly. “And you would never see it coming.”
He sighed, looking at Lo’ak with a mixture of exasperation and understanding.
“Son, you feel strongly. That is not wrong. But be careful. This is not like the bonds we know. Do not lose yourself completely until you know her fully.”
Lo’ak’s chest swelled. “I know her. I see her. She trusts me because I am worthy of it. That is enough.”
Kiri clapped her hands. “It is perfect! I knew he would find someone amazing. M”
Neytiri’s eyes flicked toward the plateau again, and she thought of you, letting Lo’ak fall into your orbit without ever truly giving yourself away.
He will not see the danger until it is too late, she thought. And you give nothing yet takes everything.
Jake shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath. “You are reckless with your heart, son.”
“I am not reckless,” Lo’ak replied firmly. “I have thought about this . And she is mine.”
Jake’s ears twitched. “We shall see,” he said flatly. “We shall see.”
Lo’ak decided to walk away and instead find you.
He sat beside you at the edge of the reef, legs dangling into the water, tail flicking lazily as though nothing in the world could touch him. His shoulder leaned into yours.
“You are quiet today,” he said, glancing at you. “Not distant. Just thinking.”
“I am always thinking,” you replied.
He smiled at that and shifted closer, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He did not hesitate anymore. The bond had erased that. “Tìng nari si nga (My eyes follow you) ,” he said softly.
You looked at him then, really looked. His face was open, carrying the kind of contentment that made his parents’ unease sharper by contrast.
You had seen Neytiri’s expression that morning. You had heard Jake’s silence. You had noticed how Tonowari watched you as though weighing the cost of your presence.
Kiri and Tuk had not bothered hiding their joy.
“You are staying,” Tuk had declared earlier, hugging your waist without warning. “You are family now.”
Family. An interesting word.
“They do not like this,” you said calmly.
Lo’ak shrugged. “They will accept it. They always do.”
“That is optimism,” you replied. “Not certainty.”
He laughed softly. “You sound like my mother when she thinks she is being gentle.”
You leaned your head slightly against his shoulder, just enough to reinforce what the bond already told him. He stilled, then relaxed, tail flicking once in quiet satisfaction.
“I want to show you something,” he said after a moment. “But not here.”
“Then lead,” you said.
He took you further along the reef, away from the village’s main paths, to where the water darkened and the rocks rose higher. He spoke easily as you walked, voice low, unguarded, trusting.
“We are leaving soon,” he said. “Not permanently. Just to return something.”
“The human boy,” you said.
He nodded. “Spider. He does not belong here. The forest is safer for him.”
“And you will escort him,” you said, not a question.
“Wel all will,” he replied. “A Tlalim blimp will take us close, then we will move inland.”
You kept your expression neutral. “That is a risk.”
“Everything is,” Lo’ak said. “But it is necessary.”
“Who else knows?” you asked.
“Just the family, then Tonowari and Ronal,” he said. “They do not want word spreading.”
“Smart,” you said.
He smiled, pleased by the approval. “You always understand.”
You let that settle, then reached for him, fingers curling around his wrist. He turned immediately, attention fully yours.
“Nga yawne lu oer (You are beloved to me) ,” you said quietly.
His breath caught. The bond pulsed, bright and warm. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I will come back to you,” he said. “No matter what.”
You nodded once. “I know.”
And you did. You just knew more than he did.
That night when everyone was sleeping, you slipped away. Stealthily running until the sand became dirt and the dirt became ash.
The land welcomed you back without question.
Heat rose from the ground in familiar waves, ash curling around your ankles as you approached Varang’s stronghold. The air smelled of smoke and metal.
Varang stood where she always did, posture straight, watching you approach like she had been waiting the entire time.
“You stayed longer than expected,” she said.
“I stayed long enough,” you replied.
She stepped closer, gaze flicking briefly to the mark of your bond, then back to your face. “And?”
“I got the one boy to trust and tell me everything,” you said. “We…mated, but it changed nothing.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Good.”
You spoke without being prompted. “They plan to return the human boy to the forest. Jake Sully will be present. He will travel by Tlamim Blimp, with minimal escort. They believe secrecy will protect them.”
Varang’s eyes gleamed. “It will not.”
“They leave soon,” you continued. “They are unprepared for interference. They trust their paths. They trust each other.”
“They trust you,” Varang said.
“Yes.”
She turned, gesturing for you to follow as warriors moved around the area, sharpening weapons, checking equipment, preparing vessels meant for fire and ash rather than water.
“Then the timing is perfect,” Varang said. “The blimps will burn. The traders will panic. And the Toruk Makto will finally be where we want him.”
You stopped walking. “He must survive the initial strike.”
Varang glanced back at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “You grow careful.”
“I grow precise,” you corrected. “Dead men teach nothing.”
She considered that, then nodded. “Very well. Pain before death.”
You inclined your head. “I will return to them before they leave. I will ensure nothing changes.”
“You have done well,” Varang said. “You have given us leverage, access, and time.”
You glanced over your shoulder from the direction you came from, seeing nothing but dead trees and hills.
“He will break,” Varang said calmly. “All of them do.”
“Eventually,” you agreed.
The ash swirled around your feet as preparations continued, ships readied, plans finalized.
Fire would meet water soon enough.
And when it did, Lo’ak would finally see who you had always been.
The Mangkwan gathered, bodies streaked with soot and ochre, weapons checked in practiced silence.
Direhorses stamped and snorted, their hides dark and scarred, reins braided from hardened fiber and bone. Riders moved among them with purpose, tightening harnesses, checking blade ties, murmuring commands meant for beasts that understood tone better than words.
You stood apart with Varang.
Above you, the night shifted.
The nightwraiths circled in slow arcs, massive wings cutting through ash-thick air. Their hides caught the firelight in dull streaks of black and ember-red, eyes glowing faintly as they answered their riders’ calls.
These were not creatures of the reef or forest. They were born of heat, trained for war, bonded only to those strong enough to hold them.
“Tonight,” Varang said, her voice calm, “we do not scatter.”
Her gaze swept across the assembled forces.
“Us Mangkwan strike from below. Fire drives them forward. Fear breaks formation. The nightwraiths descend only when the blimps are trapped.”
You inclined your head. “The timing must be exact.”
“It will be,” she replied. “You will lead the sky.”
You turned as your nightwraith lowered itself, wings folding with a sound like thunder dragged across stone. You approached without hesitation, placing your hand against its neck. Heat radiated beneath your palm. It accepted you instantly.
“Zola’u nìprrte’ (Fly with fury) ,” you murmured.
The creature huffed, muscles coiling.
Below, the Mangkwan mounted their direhorses, lines forming with disciplined speed. Bows were raised, quivers checked. Fire vessels were distributed, thick clay globes sealed with pitch and volatile resin.
The signal horn sounded once.
Then the sky moved.
The volcanic carriers rose from behind the ridges, massive floating vessels formed from hardened stone and living sacs, glowing faintly from within.
They drifted on heated air and controlled lift, silent except for the pulse that vibrated through bone. Warriors clung to their sides, fire globes secured at their hips.
“Go,” Varang said.
You leapt.
Your nightwraith surged upward, wings snapping wide as the others followed, a dark storm climbing into the ash-choked sky.
Below, the Mangkwan charged, direhorses pounding across scorched ground, arrows igniting as they were drawn and loosed.
The first volley struck the carriers’ targets in coordinated arcs. Fire blossomed where it landed, feeding on sail membranes and exposed growths. Panic rippled through the enemy formation exactly as predicted.
You did not look back.
You angled your nightwraith forward, eyes fixed on the path ahead, on the ships that would burn, on the future being carved in flame and ash.
Lo’ak was not part of it anymore.
He never would be again.
Ash fell like slow snow when the sky broke.
Lo’ak His fingers tightened around the railing as a low sound rolled across the horizon, not thunder, not wind, something alive and coordinated.
“Dad,” he said, already turning. “Do you hear that?”
Jake did. Neytiri did. Every warrior on deck did.
The first fire vessel struck the outer growth of the ship and burst, flame spreading fast across living surface. Screams followed immediately, not from panic but from heat, from skin and fiber burning together. Another vessel hit. Then another.
“Defensive positions!” Jake shouted.
The sky filled with shapes.
Direhorses surged along the decks, ikrans zipped by as Mangkwan warriors leapt from carrier to the blinmps, bows already drawn, arrows burning white-hot.
The night above split open as nightwraiths descended, wings beating ash and sparks into a choking storm.
Lo’ak’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. He searched the sky without thinking, bond flaring sharp and painful, pulling his attention toward a single point.
And then he saw you.
You rode the nightwraith like you had been born to it, posture steady, expression cold, braids whipping behind you as you banked sharply and signaled with your arm. Fire followed your command. Death followed your gaze.
“No,” he breathed.
The bond screamed.
“Lo’ak!” Kiri shouted, grabbing his arm. “That’s—”
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “I know.”
Below, a Mangkwan warrior drove a spear through a deckhand’s chest. Neytiri loosed an arrow that dropped him instantly, but two more took his place. Blood slicked the deck. Smoke burned eyes and lungs.
Jake saw you too.
His face hardened, jaw setting in a way Lo’ak recognized too well. “It was her,” he said. “She led them here.”
Neytiri’s eyes followed yours through the chaos. Hurt crossed her face first. Then fury. “She was mated,” she said. “She bound herself to our son.”
“And she broke it,” Jake replied.
The ship rocked violently as a carrier slammed into its side, growth tearing free with wet, screaming sounds. A nightwraith landed hard on the upper platform, its rider cutting down two warriors before anyone could react.
Tuk screamed.
Kiri pulled her close, eyes wide and wet, staring at you as though seeing a stranger wearing a familiar shape. “She promised,” Kiri whispered. “She promised she would stay.”
Lo’ak barely heard her.
You turned your head slightly, just enough for him to know you had seen him. The bond flared again, then went cold.
You did not hesitate.
You raised your hand and dropped the signal.
Fire rained down.
Background warriors burned where they stood. Some fell screaming into the water. Others were cut down where they tried to run. The deck became chaos, bodies piling where escape had been seconds too slow.
Then the shadow fell.
A massive shape descended through smoke and ash, wings beating hard enough to knock warriors from their feet. Ropes flew. Hooks sank deep.
“No!” Lo’ak shouted, fighting Kiri’s grip, fighting Jake’s hand on his shoulder. “You cannot take him!”
Jake struggled, but the numbers were too many, the attack too precise. The creature was bound, wings pinned, roar breaking into furious, helpless sound as it was hauled toward the carriers.
You watched it happen without expression.
Ash choked the air long after the first flames took hold.
The ship listed hard as living growth tore free beneath repeated strikes. Warriors slipped in blood , hands grasping for purchase that no longer existed.
Jake moved without thinking.
He cut through a Mangkwan rider with brutal efficiency, bow discarded for blade as he fought his way toward the tether line where his ikran screamed in fury.
The bond between them pulled tight, sharp with panic and pain. His ikran thrashed against weighted lines, wings partially pinned, teeth snapping at anyone who came too close.
“Hold!” Jake shouted to no one in particular as he reached the edge of the deck. “Cut the lines!”
Neytiri was already moving, arrows flying, each one precise even as smoke burned her lungs. “I am trying,” she snapped back, loosing another shot that dropped a rider mid-leap.
Above them, the nightwraiths circled again.
You watched from higher altitude, eyes tracking Jake’s movements with clinical focus. He was faster than expected. Stronger. The Toruk Makto had never survived on legend alone.
“He fights well,” you said through the comm-bead grown into your armour.
Varang’s reply came immediately. “He always has.”
You banked your nightwraith lower, signaling with a sharp gesture. Two riders peeled away from the formation, dropping fast toward Jake’s position.
On the deck, Lo’ak saw them first.
“Dad!” he shouted, sprinting forward, heart hammering so hard it drowned out the sounds of battle. He reached Jake just as the first Mangkwan landed, blade flashing.
Lo’ak tackled him from the side, both of them hitting the deck hard. Pain exploded across his ribs, but he did not let go.
Another rider lunged. Kiri screamed. Tuk cried out as Neytiri dragged her back.
Jake twisted, grabbing Lo’ak by the shoulder. “Get back!” he ordered. “Now!”
“I am not leaving you!” Lo’ak yelled.
That was when the nightwraith shadow fell again.
The wind from its wings knocked Lo’ak flat. The deck cracked beneath the impact as you landed, dismounting in one smooth motion. Jake froze when he saw you, recognition cutting through the chaos like a blade.
You did not look at Lo’ak.
“Jake Sully, the Toruk Makto,” you said calmly. “Stand down.”
Neytiri drew her bow on instinct, arrow aimed straight at your chest. Her hands shook with rage. “You dare speak to him,” she hissed.
You turned your head just enough to acknowledge her. “You should move your children.”
Lo’ak pushed himself up, staring at you in disbelief, hurt and fury twisting together until he could barely breathe. “You did this,” he said. “All of it.”
Your gaze flicked to him briefly. The bond stirred, faint and unwelcome. You ignored it.
“Bind him,” you said.
The Mangkwan moved immediately.
Jake fought like an animal cornered, injuring two riders before a weighted line caught his legs and dragged him down. He hit the deck hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Another line wrapped around his arms. A third tightened across his chest.
Neytiri screamed his name.
You stepped closer as they hauled him upright, blood streaking his face, eyes burning with hatred and something colder beneath it.
“So this is how you win,” he said hoarsely. “By lying to my son.”
You crouched in front of him, voice low enough that only he could hear. “This is how wars are won.”
He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “He loved you.”
“I know,” you replied.
The Mangkwan dragged Jake toward the edge of the deck where the carriers hovered low, heat pulsing from their undersides. His ikran screamed again, restrained but alive, eyes wild as it was forced down onto a separate platform.
Lo’ak broke free of Kiri’s grip and lunged forward.
You stood, finally facing him fully.
“Do not follow,” you said. “You will die.”
His eyes filled with tears he refused to shed. “You already killed something,” he shot back. “You just haven’t finished it yet.”
For a moment, just one, something sharp crossed your face.
Then you turned away.
The carriers rose, lifting Jake and his ikran into the smoke-filled sky. Arrows followed but fell short. The nightwraiths regrouped, pulling back in perfect formation, fire dying down as quickly as it had begun.
From above, you watched the ship burn, watched Neytiri collapse to her knees, watched Lo’ak stand frozen at the edge, tail lashing, bond screaming into silence.
“Target secured,” you said.
Varang’s voice came through, satisfied. “Return.”
As your nightwraith climbed, you allowed yourself one final glance downward.
“Run if you can,” you murmured, not to Lo’ak, but to the future rushing toward all of you.
Jake Sully is slowly—and painfully—coming to terms that he's fallen out of love for Neytiri during a midlife crisis. His new point of devotion? Kiri's best friend, you.
Tags- SMUT, angst, breeding kink, Pervy old Jake Sully (no… fr), cheating, Divorced dad with a concerning age gap girlfriend core!, age gap, power imbalance, unreliable narrator, choking, belly-bulge
A/N- Remember when I said I was limiting myself to 10k at most… yeah I don’t even know why I bother! I always go past it! That being said, its been awhile since I wrote something that actually made me feel kinda grossed out (In a good way???). It became more of a character study on Jake Sully with smut tied to it. I was gonna make this some hot sexy haha DILF jake, instead its a lot more uh… angsty then I originally was gonna make it. Still, enjoy! (RIP Neytiri I cried making your scenes).
Jake Sully loved his wife.
Once upon a time he'd trace the silvery marks stretched across her belly—Neteyam's, Lo'ak's, little Tuk's—Every stripe, every scar. Neytiri had given him everything: children, purpose, a second life stitched from the echos of his first—and he loved her for it.
God knows he did—loved the tilt of her smile, the way her eyes caught amber. Loved her even when she hissed at him, because the fury only made her more beautiful.
Loved.
When had it slipped into the past tense?
"You said you could protect this family."
His heart had stopped. Right there, that moment—was that the final nail? Or was it when Neteyam had died? Was it when he'd dragged them all from the forest to this reef that would never be Neytiri's home? Maybe he'd been building the coffin for years, failure after failure. Peeling bark, sanding frames, measuring their marriage with rulers that kept coming up short.
“I was wrong.”
It came so quietly her ears pricked forward, straining to catch it. His gaze left hers—couldn't hold it, not anymore—and settled somewhere past her shoulder, on nothing.
He was wrong about protecting them, her and pandora—himself. He wasn’t strong, and he wasn’t the fortress they needed. He was just an alien playing soldier, tracing fatherhood and pretending protector.
Playing.
"Jake—" She reached for him with her good hand, fingers stretching across the space between them, but he was already rising. His knees popped. Everything hurt these days.
"M' gonna sleep in the community huts," he muttered, rolling up his mat.
Neytiri went still. Hurt flickered across her features. "...Jake."
But pride locked her jaw. She wouldn't apologize, and he didn't expect her to. What would she apologize for? For being right? For knowing—long before he did—that he couldn't keep them safe?
He killed their baby boy. He did. Not her.
His eyes burned. He shook his head, blinking hard, and folded the mat against his arm. "Look, we're both—" The words seemed heavy. He swallowed. "We're both tired. Maybe sleeping apart'll do us good, yeah?"
He scratched behind his ear, a nervous habit from his first life. "I'll uh—I'll be over there."
And he walked off, and she watched.
.
.
.
The commune space was nicer than he'd expected—and emptier than he probably wanted. Because if there were bodies in the dark, or a distant snore, he could make up scenarios then, stories.
A husband exiled by his wife. Exhausted parents fleeing noisy children for one fucking night of peace. Maybe a couple who hide their love in this place of rest.
Small frictions to explain why he was here instead of home.
Jake shifted against his hammock. The entrance flapped open.
Then a figure stepped through, hammock bundled under one arm. You crossed to the hooks with practiced ease, smoothing the fabric flat. Bioluminescent freckles traced constellation-paths across your skin, mapping the shape of you in the dark.
You. Y/n.
He knew you from the periphery—always near Kiri, heads bent talking and giggling about god-knows-what. The two of you were a mystery to him, honestly. But why would a kid like you be sleeping here, in the communal space instead of home?
Jake sat up slowly. You startled, eyes flaring wide before finding his in the dark.
Confusion first. Then something gentler.
A smile.
"JakeSulli...?" Your gaze swept the empty hall. "What are you doing here?" You lowered yourself onto your hammock, right across from him.
Jake couldn’t quite manage a smile, not yet at least. He settled for a tug of his lips instead and hoped you didn’t find it impolite.
"Was gonna ask you the same thing." His eyes drifted past your shoulder to the scatter of belongings you'd brought: woven basket sagging with fruit, a bundle of shell ornaments wrapped in cloth. Personal items you’d bring when you weren’t planning on going back. "You get in a fight with your old man?"
You followed his look. Your ears flattened against your skull, He knew it immediately. He fucked up.
"I..." The pause stretched. "I don't have parents, JakeSulli. They died defending the tulkun. Hunters killed them both, long ago."
Shit.
Jake’s breath hissed between his teeth. "Agh—fuck. Sorry, kid. I didn't—" He bit the inside of his cheek. Can't do a damn thing right.
"You don't have to apologize." The sweetness in your voice nearly killed him. When was the last time someone spoke to him like that? Long, he thinks. Neytiri used to sound like that, before the sky-people came back and took everything.
"Really," you continued, and your smile returned into something careful. "It happened a long time ago, I thought you knew?"
He shook his head, and his smile was sheepish. "I guess I should've, huh."His gaze drifted past you, towards the far ends where someone slept. "You hang out with Kiri so often…" The words trailed off. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "Makes me a bad best friend's dad."
You frowned then, just before you could stop it—childish for a girl who’s reached her second birth, you knew. But it came so naturally, just as your arms folded into each other. "We're fighting right now."
He laughed until his gaze drifted sideways and the sound died in his throat. “Fighting?” He exhaled through his nose. Kiri would kill me for prodding around her business.
He shouldn’t ask. He asked anyway.
“About what?”
You picked at the thread of your sleeping mat, nose scrunching. The gesture made you look younger than you were. "She's always with that pinkskin now. I want to go to the reef—we can't. Why? Because he can't go." You rolled your lips thinly. "I've become second to her."
Something shifted in Jake's expression. Softened. A problem this simple—this normal—felt like a gift. He wished all his troubles could shrink to fit inside a young womans wounded pride.
Jake's mouth twitched.
He wished—
No. Don't.
He rose carefully and crossed to where you sat.
Be a dad, Jake. You can do this. At least with this one you don't have any problems. He settled beside you on the mat, hesitating until you glanced up and shifted to make room.
In the low light he could see the tattoo clearly now—the dark line that curved from your left brow along the edge of your jaw. And the other one too, sprawling across your shoulder, far too elaborate to have been completed in one sitting.
"I can't really speak for Kiri, you know how she is, hell you probably know her better than me." He paused. "But… she cares about you. Course’ she does." His hand hovered before settling on your shoulder—an awkward touch. "She just hasn't seen him for a long time, not since he was kidnapped."
Your frown deepened. For a moment he thought he'd mistepped—said exactly the wrong thing. But then you looked up at him, and your eyes were wide, the clearest green he'd ever seen.
"Really…?" You sighed, gaze dropping to your lap. "Now I feel like a jerk."
"No reason to think that. Talk to her, Y/n. Kiri'll understand."
You nod. Silence settled between you—surpsingly not awkward.
"If you don't mind me asking…" You tilt your head, studying the older man through lowered lashes. "Why are you here?" Your teeth catch briefly on your lower lip.
His shoulders lock. For a moment you think he might deflect, but then his breath left him. A surrender. "Neytiri and I got into a fight. And like a coward, I ran away." The last word tasted bitter. Again.
He expects an uncomfortable frown, maybe a shy and pitiful apology, but instead you laugh. Warmth threads through it, and he knows then it's genuine.
He blinked. “What?”
One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "I think it's funny you called yourself a coward." Your head tilted, considering him. "Most men run from their wives after an argument. I've slept here most days for years. Seen many men come after fights." Your tail taps a steady rhythm against the hammock's weave. "Even Olo'eyktan Tonowari has. So why wouldn’t you too, JakeSulli? There is no shame in it."
He scoffed, shook his head, then lets his own laugh come out. "Right. Makes sense, I guess." Some knot in his chest loosened, he smiled now, an actual one.
When he look back at you he noticed the slight wag of your tail, the attentive look you gave him, ears perked forward. All open and sweet.
His eyes traced your tattoos again, then traced over your body—naturally.
The Metkayina women carried themselves differently than the ones of the Omatikaya—broader hips, fuller chests. Something closer to the girls he knew back on Earth.
And you're no different. Pretty in that soft way, such a sweet thing.
His smile faltered.
What are you doing, Jake?
"Well, I should…" He jerked his chin toward his hammock, standing too quickly, movements suddenly awkward. I’m a fucking creep.
You glance at his vacant hammock and your ears dip. You felt the shift immediately. "Oh… okay." The word came out small.
His chest tightened. Now look at what you did. Fuck. Fuck. Something about that disappointment sunk into his chest. "Do you… uh—do you usually sleep here?"
A nod. "Usually. If not here, then by the rocks."
Jake gave a slow nod. His eyes drifted—hammock, then you, then hammock again. He should go. He really, really should.
But his hand found your shoulder instead. A single pat. His smile came crooked, almost apologetic. "You can talk to me. Whenever you want. If you want."
Just a grain of opportunity. Innocent.
The kind of thing a father might offer—though you clearly hadn't known much of that. Just an introduction to what that word could mean.
That's all.
Your tail moved first—that paddle-wide thing thumping soft against the netting. Then came the smile, small and shy, tucking itself into the corner of your mouth. "Ok."
Jake peeled himself away and returned to his hammock, sliding in and feeling it strain. “You’re larger than most, Jake.” Neytiri once giggled. “I had to reinforce the straps twice. Stop eating so much!”
His arm folded beneath his head, and for a while he studied the ceiling—woven twine packed tight enough to hold the rain. Then the strings. The knots. The way they swung, twisting audibly.
Then, inevitably, his gaze drifted back to you.
Your spine faced him, tail draped over the netting.
When Neteyam was still young—
No.
He was young. He died young.
Remember that, Jake?
Jake's throat tightened.
When Neteyam was a kid—because that distinction mattered—the boy's tail always hung beyond the net. Every night Jake would tuck it back in. Every morning it'd be dangling again, somehow through the gaps in the hammock or with a leg tossed overhead. The same sight: that small blue tail dangling into empty air.
The memory pulled something sharp through his chest. His hand went there.
"You have a strong heart."
Neytiri again.
He shoved them down, burned them into the back of his skull where they couldn't reach him.
Yeah right.
.
.
.
When morning came, you were already gone.
Your belongings too—mat rolled, beads tucked away, the space where you'd slept scrubbed clean of any evidence you'd existed there at all.
Jake didn't want to name the feeling that came with noticing. Disappointment sat wrong in his mouth, tasted like something he had no right to. So he swallowed it. Shoved it down where it could rot with everything else he refused to look at.
He pushed himself upright.
“Dad. Dad. Dad.”
The voice hit him before he'd steadied himself. His head snapped toward the entrance—Tuk, bouncing on the balls of her feet, a plate balanced in both hands. Behind her trailed the reef girl she befriended, both of them giggling
He couldn't remember her name for the life of him.
"Tuk?" Jake rubbed his face, managing a tired smile. "Whatcha doing here, baby girl?"
She clambered up beside him, small hands shoving the plate against his ribs. "Mom said to bring you a plate." Her finger jabbed at each item—fish, berries, some kind of root—Then, already turning: "I'm gonna play with Anuy now."
Anuy. Right. He could remember that.
"Hey, hey—wait up." His hand caught her tail mid-swish and tugged her back. Tuk's face crumpled into an exaggerated pout, shoulders drawing in.
"Whaaaaat."
"You aren't gonna say good morning?" He quirked a brow, let his smile soften. "What happened to my kisses, huh? You used to fight your momma just to get snuggle time."
She yanked her tail, but the shy smile won anyway. "I'm getting too old for that!" A glance at Anuy, who giggled. Her ears flattened.
Jake just grinned and pulled her in anyway, wrestling her close despite the squirming, and pressed exaggerated half-bites against her shoulder, her belly. Growling. "Then stop growing up! Come back! AGHHHH!"
Tuk shrieked with laughter, wriggling free like a fish. "Come on, Anuy!" She launched herself off the mat, Anuy's hand already caught in hers, their laughter spilling out in breathless squeals of monsters and run!
Jake let a few more chuckles die in his chest.
He stared after them.
Then down at the plate.
The food. Neytiri.
His thumb traced the edge of a berry. Simple food. But Neytiri had still taken the time. Still thought of him enough to do this small thing and send their daughter along his way.
“JakeSulli, are you still there?”
You stepped through the entrance just as Tuk and Anuy squealed past your legs. "Oh—Tuk, Anuy!" you scolded.
You shook your head, smiling to yourself, and crossed the space. You held another plate. When you looked up and saw the one already balanced on his lap, you laughed—already knowing.
"An apology meal?" One brow arched as you crouched beside him. Gently, you added more to his plate: Nuts this time. Different cuts of glossy fish, darker meat. "You should eat more."
Jake looked at it. The extra portions. The care in how you'd arranged them.
His stomach sat heavy and uninterested. He needed to train. Needed to be stronger, faster, better than he was yesterday. He wouldn't eat until he'd earned it—until his body had done something to justify the fuel. Eating felt like indulgence, and indulgence shouldn’t be rew—
He sighed.
You were looking. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
"Thanks." He grabbed a fistful of berries—small, sweet things that burst between his teeth. His gaze drifted. Caught on you.
You wore something different.
Nicer, of course it’d be. Night was for soft loincloths and simple garments. Morning was for flowers that twisted over your breasts, petals cupping the curves, tied at your back in a way that said swimming or ceremony or maybe just because I wanted to. The arrangement shifted when you moved.
He jerked his eyes away.
Jesus.
He caught the barest hint of violet nipple.
His tail gave a single flick.
He shoveled more berries into his mouth, barely tasting them, just filling the space where his brain should be working. Come on idiot, chew. Swallow. Chew. Don’t look.
He didn't even know why he was reacting like this. Hell, he hadn't felt this caught since the first week with Neytiri—back when every glimpse of her had made his brain short-circuit. He'd gotten used to it. The female form. Normalized it. Wouldn't even register Ronal's chest or Neytiri's or anyone else's for that matter.
So why—
His gaze drifted back.
Violet peak against red flower petals.
"Do you like it?"
He choked. Actually choked. Berry pulp lodged somewhere in his throat and he coughed, fist to his mouth, eyes watering.
"Ugh—-what?" Heat crawled up his neck.
You glanced down, fingers grazing the petals with absent fondness. "I finished it two nights ago. Kiri helped me twist the stems—her fingers are better for the small work." A small shrug, easy and unaware and innocent.
You wouldn't know. Couldn't know what his idiot brain was doing.
“Mhm,” He mumbled. “Looks really nice.”
You swayed on the balls of your feet, weight shifting to the outside in that restless way you had, and his eyes tracked the movement before he could stop them. "Well,” You hid the barest hint of a shy smile. “I should get going, JakeSulli. I have some chores." You whispered.
"It's just Jake."
The words came out too fast. His ears flattened before he forced them forward again, he made himself meet your eyes. "My name. Uh... the Sully part's my last name. Family name."
You paused.
Color crept up your neck, into your cheeks—mortification blooming soft and purple beneath your freckles. "Really...? Oh! I thought—"
"Everyone does." He offered a crooked grin, something easier now. "I've told them all, but I think they just like JakeSulli better." A chuckle escaped him, he pushed the meal to the side.
Your smile unfurled slow, curling away from embarrassment. Then you laughed—this bright, bubbling sound that made something heavy in his chest go loose.
He liked that sound. A lot.
So I can still make people happy, huh.
"Okay, Jake." You tested it, nose wrinkling slightly. "It does sound off."
He chuckled low. "Yeah?"
You gave a nod. Something in you shifted. Your thumbs traced the wide sweeps of your palms—nervous, maybe, or just something to do with your hands. You glanced up. "It's... it's a nice day, Jake."
Your eyes drifted back outside, shoulders shifting in a way that opened space beside you. An invitation.
And Jake knew what bait looked like.
He'd seen it a hundred times—back when he had working legs and a bar habit, when women would lean just so, their shoulders angled. Something about—”You ever gone up to the hotel with the flames? Real nice, Sully.” Or that time with Neytiri in the tree of voices, dressed—
Jake blinked.
He resisted a smile and tilted his head instead, considering the sky like it was the first time he'd noticed it. "Yeah. It is."
He glanced back just in time to catch the pout forming on your lips. You stepped closer, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral, to swallow the grin threatening to break through.
"A good day for chores," you tried again. "I mean."
"Yep." He looked away, whistling something tuneless. "I agree."
Your smile collapsed. The defeat was immediate, written in the slump of your shoulders, the way your tail stilled mid-sway. "Would you like to help me with my chores, Jake." Flatter now.
He grinned then, couldn't help it. "You know what? That sounds like a lovely idea."
Your eyes rolled so hard he thought they might stick. You turned on your heel, already moving toward the doorway, and for a moment Jake moved to follow—
Until his gaze dropped to the plate.
He'd eaten everything you'd offered. Finished a berry or two that Neytiri had set aside. The People did not waste. It was one of the first rules he'd learned, drilled into him until it became reflex. And here he was, leaving half-finished food like some—
He looked back at you.
I really shouldn't. The thought came quiet, reasonable. I should apologize to Neytiri. Not hide.
But that was easier said than done.
"Jake!"
You poked your head back through the doorway, frowning. Then your gaze followed his to the plate. Understanding flickered across your face. "Eat it later." You gestured, impatient, that bright smile returning. "Now come. Before the Olo'eyktan scolds me." A pause. Your voice softened into a tease. "You wouldn't want that, would you…?"
He smiled.
Yeah, later.
"Nope."
.
.
.
"Get the one that's yellowing!" you called up.
Turns out your chores were simple. For any forest na'vi worth their weight at least—this was child's work. Climb. Cut. Catch. Repeat until the bags grew heavy and your shoulders ached in that good, tired way.
For Jake, crouched on a branch forty feet up, this was a piece of cake.
"We'll have to climb the papa mantis tree," you said, already moving toward the tallest trunk. Your fingers traced the bark ridged like armor plates, feeling it. "The sweet shell fruit grows at the top. High up. Where the branches thin."
Jake shifted the woven bag higher on his shoulder. "Sounds easy enough."
You shot him a look, starting with his feet and dragging your gaze up to his face, took your time with it too. "This is difficult for my people, Jake." A smile tugged at your mouth. "Which is why you'll help me."
And that's exactly what he was doing.
Minutes later he stood balanced on a high branch, thighs braced, one hand gripping the trunk while the other wielded a pun stick—a long shaft, wicked blade lashed to the end. He angled it toward a cluster of fruit, skin the color of honey, and sliced clean through the stem.
The fruit dropped. "There."
You darted forward, bag wide open, and caught the fruit as it tumbled. It landed with a satisfying thump against the others already gathered. You glanced up, shielding your eyes from the sun bleeding through leaves. "Is that enough?"
He leaned back, surveying the bag from his branch, sweat beading along his temple. "Hard to say from up here."
You hummed, counting silently. "I think the Keyta'an family wanted four as well. They have a new baby—have you seen her? They named her Tuphrap."
Your hands worked the bag, rearranging fruit so more would fit.
"She has the fattest cheeks. And could you believe it—Reyta's spirit sister gave birth to a beautiful calf the same day!" You looked up again, grinning. "It's a rare spiritual occurrence. The clan was so happy for them."
He grunted, reaching for another branch. "That right?" His face pinched as he stretched, blade finding itself on another stem.
"Yes! She’s so small too—I wanted…”
He wasn't listening. Not really. But he wasn't not listening either. He welcomed the distraction from sky-people, from his sons, from whatever marriage pains were between him and Neytiri.
"When'd she give birth anyway?" He nudged his weight onto a thicker limb, bark groaning softly under him. "Look out, another incoming."
You shuffled, adjusting the bag just in time to catch the falling fruit. Glancing up, you shielded your eyes from the sun. "When your family left.”
The words came out softer than you meant. You cleared your throat, eyes tracking the bag's contents instead of his face. "She came around midday, if I remember."
"Hm."
Another cut. Another fruit dropped and you caught it, but barely—it grazed the bag's edge and you had to lunge. When you straightened, he was watching you.
"And you want kids?"
Your hands stilled on the bag. Above, he glanced down, mouth quirking. "C’mon, why so shy?"
You shrugged one shoulder, then the other. Your hands twisted around the bag's straps until your knuckles ached. "I do." Quieter. "I think they're cute. But I shouldn't have children until the sky-people are gone."
His smile died.
You watched it happen—watched something older and sadder take its place.
"Don't say that." His was something urgent. "Don't let them take that from you too. You deserve a family."
"The People are my family."
"That's…That’s different, kid." He shook his head, eyes locked on yours. "You know that."
You opened your mouth. Words gathered somewhere behind your teeth that didn't make it past your lips before—
"Agh shit!"
The branch snapped clean through. Jake dropped several feet, slamming flat against his back with a grunt that punched all the air from his lungs. "Jake!" You abandoned the bag mid-reach and scrambled to his side, knees hitting dirt.
He groaned—One hand pressed flat against his spine like he could hold the hurt there, keep it from spreading, eyes unfocused and swimming with pain. "God fucking dammit." His gaze tracked upward to the offending branch, then dropped to you.
You were crouched above him now, fingers touching over his face, his temples, the back of his skull—checking for blood that wasn’t there before checking the base of his queue.
"Do you need me to get Neytiri?" The words tumbled out too fast. "Ronal? Tsireya? Your queue, did you land on it too harshly?"
"Nah, I'm…" He groaned, rolling onto one elbow. "I'm okay." Slow, he pushed himself upright. Jesus, when would a fall like that knock me on my ass? Getting too old…
You shifted back to give him room, but your eyes never left him—tracing the line of his shoulders, searching for some invisible fracture.
"I'm sorry," you murmured, voice small.
"For what?"
He dragged his palm across the back of his head, fingers probing his scalp for wetness. Found none. His ears swiveled toward you, and his brow furrowed at the guilt pooling in your expression.
You bit your lower lip. "I distracted you. You would've noticed that branch was weak if I hadn't—" The rest dissolved into an exhale, frustration aimed inward.
His face softened. He just smiled, lopsided and warm and clapped a broad hand against your back. "You're okay, baby girl." It came out so naturally to him that when you paused, only then did he curse under his breath. “Sorry—”
"No." You cut him off, quiet. Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers twisting together. "It's okay. I..." Heat crawled up your neck. "I liked it."
You dropped your gaze, focusing instead on his hand where it rested against the ground. Even with the webbing your stafe had granted you, his palm dwarfed yours. You lifted it carefully, turning it palm-up. Splinters bristled from the heel of his thumb, angry red lines scored the meat below his knuckles where bark had bit deep as he'd tried to catch himself.
"We should see the Tsahik," you said quietly, thumb brushing the edge of a wound, only to trace his pinkie.
Jake's finger lay flat against your palm—a pale blue, blunt thing, hard at the pads where calluses were formed from years of fight. You traced the joints, counting five instead of four, feeling the hard bones shift beneath thin skin.
"Why is this one smaller?" Your thumb pressed the tip of his pinkie.
He laughed, a little rough. "Wish I knew. Failed biology back in high school."
Your hairless brow arched. He caught the question and waved it off. "Not important."
A few more seconds of inspection, and: "You don't think it's gross?" He asked.
You shook your head slowly. "When I first saw it, I thought it was strange." A pause. Your thumb traced the crease where finger met palm. "But I think it's kind of nice."
Nice. The word sat funny in his chest.
"I hate them... I hate their pink little hands! I hate the insanity in their mind!"
Your fingertip drifted lower, following the crease of his palm. Blue lines threaded beneath the surface "Does it hurt when I do this?" You pressed deeper.
Jake swallowed. You watched his throat.
"Nah."
Jake found himself leaning without meaning to.
"Look at me."
You did.
You didn't look surprised. Nervous, maybe. “Yes Jake?” Your pupils dilated just slightly, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs. But you kept your eyes on him, watched as he reached forward and took your chin between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed the skin there. Gentle. His head tilted, gaze dropping to your mouth.
"You had dirt," he grumbled.
He didn't know why he said it. Testing something, perhaps. To see if there was anything there—anything real beneath the wanting—that settling need, the want to reach and grasp and hold. Did he feel it?
Yeah. He felt it.
You retreated first. Looked away but didn't wipe your chin, didn't scrub the touch from your skin. Slowly, you stood and gathered the bag at your feet, hands moving on instinct. "T-There's a few other chores I need to do." Your voice steadied on the second sentence. "If... if you want to help."
Another invitation.
He rose. Watched your tail curl inward, the paddle tip wagging—just a little, just enough.
By god, he felt something.
.
.
.
The next few weeks were… strange. That's what it was—strange in the way things are strange when you already know its odd. Jake felt it. Christ, he knew you felt it too. Some tension that had no name, or maybe it had too many, and naming it would make it real. Make it something he'd have to deal with.
So he didn't.
But it sat there anyway. Right in front of him, thick as smoke and as visible as the damn sun in front of him.
He'd catch himself watching the way your tail swept the sand when you walked, the small curve of your mouth when Neytiri's back was turned.
You'd pass him extra portions at meals, fingers lingering just a fraction too long against his palm. You'd trail after him through camp, curious and restless, asking what he was fixing, what he was thinking, why humans did this or that.
"What are you doing?" you'd ask, crouched beside him while he played with his guns or mended a net.
"Weapon maintenance."
"Why?"
"Because the guns get jammed.”
A pause. Your head tilted. "Can I try?"
Even Kiri—who usually lived in her own head—noticed enough to roll her eyes and make retching noises.
"Weirdo," she'd mutter, though her smile said she found the whole thing amusing.
You'd scoff, tail flicking. "Oh, shut it. I think it's weirder you're into Spider—"
"Shut up!" She'd shove you, squealing, and you'd both dissolve into giggles that carried across the marui’s.
You played at indifference. Rolled your eyes. Acted like this was all some accident of proximity, like Jake just happened to be where you were, like you just happened to find him interesting.
Jake didn't call you on it.
Because—and here was the thing he wouldn't admit, not out loud—he loved it.
Hated that he loved it, though, but there it was—a spark of something he hadn't felt in years. That giddy, stupid thrill of being wanted. Like he was twenty again.
The kind that came before the comfort settled in, before you knew every expression your partner would make, every gift they'd give, every flaw they'd carry.
This was different. New and unpredictable.
Dangerous.
One afternoon you passed carrying a basket of clams for the elders—shells that would be cracked open for their soft meat that they could gum and suck out. You’d been wearing something with weighted beads at the ends of your leaf-skirt.
And Jake couldn't help himself. His hand shot out, fingers curling gently around the tip of your tail and tugged.
You yelped, spinning on him with wide eyes, then broke into laughter. Your hand came up, pressing flat against his stomach, and you patted him once.
"You are annoying," you hummed, voice soft and teasing.
And it was like that.
For weeks.
"Does it look nice, Jake?"
The top was vine-work, thin straps that cupped your breasts and spiraled outward in a pattern that imitated Kiri's necklace. Your loincloth hung low, shells clustered into a skirt that dipped at the hips, moved when you moved.
Kiri exhaled through her nose, arms folded. "She spent all of yesterday on that." The words came flat, but Jake caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Come on, Y/n. It's very nice. We all know it."
"Yeah," Jake coughed into his fist. "Very nice."
You blushed, pleasure and embarrassment came together in a symphony. You caught Jake's eyes flicker, caught the way they snapped back up.
Your grin came easy. You tilted your head, pleased.
“Oh!" Your hands flew to your bag, rummaging through woven fibers and dried herbs until your fingers found it. "The flower!"
Golden petals unfolded in your palm, tendrils cascading like little tongues of sun. You held it up, almost shy now. "Can you help, Jake?”
Kiri's nose wrinkled. "I could do it, Y/n—and stop calling my dad Jake. Ugh, it makes me want to shrink back into myself."
Jake shot her a look, mouth tugging into something almost apologetic. "I said she could. You know I don't like being called JakeSulli. Makes me sound old and gruff." He was grabbing at some bomb-arrows, new ones for Neytiri… if she wanted them.
You stepped closer, flower outstretched, a smile tugging at your mouth. "An old and mighty warrior is the envy of all in our clan."
Something softened in his face. He smiled back—almost shy—and for a moment the war-chief disappeared, leaving only the man who'd once been a marine far from home.
Kiri groaned and grabbed Spider's wrist. "Come here, monkey boy." She dragged him toward the path, muttering something about propriety and how nobody listened to her anyway.
Spider stumbled after her, throwing you one last amused glance before they disappeared beyond the woven drape.
Their voices faded.
Just the two of you now.
He could see it, even now—the way your attention fixed on him.
You stepped closer. "The flower, Jake?"
His name came different from your mouth now that Spider and Kiri were gone. Sweeter. Shaped the way a woman shapes things. The way women say a man's name when they mean something else entirely. He knew the difference
He patted his thigh. Just fixing it up for her, he reasoned with the part of himself that knew better. Nothing bad in that.
You sat without hesitation, back to him, and even then your ears swiveled to catch anything he might say. Every small shift of his weight registered in the tilt of your spine.
"You know," he began, feeling the warmth of your figure beneath his palm. He fought the urge to let his hand settle lower, fought the urge to flex the muscle there. "You could've had Kiri tie it instead."
He brushed your hair over your shoulder and wound it around your neck, fingers grazing your bare nape. You shuddered. His mouth curved before he could stop it.
"I prefer the way you tie it," you said simply.
He hummed low in his chest. "There." A pat to your thigh. You rose, that small sound of delight escaping you.
"How's the completed look?"
He clicked his tongue. Grinned, boyish and lopsided and far too warm for what this was. "Good, baby girl. Really good."
You offered your hand. He took it, holding your gaze as you twirled, showing off the flower woven through your hair, the beads catching firelight. He kept his grip steady and let his eyes track the line of you: throat, collarbone, the sway of your hips.
"Ma Jake."
Your hands stilled mid-gesture.
The movement to step back was instinct—prey recognizing a predator's silhouette. By the time she ducked through the entrance, you were already performing innocence: adjusting beads, smoothing fabric, eyes wide and empty of guilt.
Neytiri's head appeared through the entrance, and her eyes found you immediately. Found him and the space between you that wasn't quite innocent anymore.
Your head dipped, the picture of respect. Jake watched your ears—they didn't flatten, didn't betray a thing.
"I was showing him my new outfit." Your hands traced the intricate beadwork across your ribs, drawing attention to the craftsmanship, the appropriate reason for being here. "Do you like it?"
The ease in your voice. The softness.
Jake's stomach dropped.
Dangerous, he thought. She's fucking dangerous.
But when had he ever had the good sense to run?
Neytiri's smile arrived late, stretched too tight across her teeth. "It is nice, Y/n." A pause. Her tail made a slow, snap. "But I must speak with my mate."
Mate. She said it like a line you'd already crossed.
You didn't flinch, didn't even falter. Just nodded and gathered your things with hands that didn't shake. "Of course," you whispered.
Neytiri watched you slip past, stone-faced, counting the seconds until your footsteps faded. Then she turned.
Slow.
"She comes here more often."
Her voice was gentle. That made it worse. Her shoulders were still tight beneath fresh bandages—Ronal's work, probably, wrapped after whatever bitter exchange they'd had over medicine or tradition or pride. The tension hadn't left her body.
"Yeah." Jake didn't look away. "She does. Kiri brings her over."
"More and more, it seems."
"They had a fight before."
"And you would know this?"
Jake's jaw locked. The muscle jumped beneath his skin. "What are you trying to say, Neytiri?"
Her tail snapped—once, hard enough that it cracked against the woven wall. The grief in her face was raw. She'd never learned to hide it, not from him. "You two seem close."
He scoffed and the sound surprised even him. He set down the bomb arrows with too much force, the components scattering. "Alright. You want to talk, let's talk." The hiss came from somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't recognize. "Say it."
Neytiri breathed, flinching from his response. Deep, shaking inhales that did nothing to steady her. Her lips pulled tight. "She likes you."
Jake's eye twitched. "She's a kid, Neytiri. It's innocent."
"She is a woman, Jake."
He stood then. Got right in her face, close enough to see the fractures in her composure, the way her pupils dilated.
He thought of himself fifteen years ago—young, stupid, so fucking in love it hurt—and knew that version of him would've knocked his teeth out for this. Would've grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the ground for standing here, for letting things get this far, for speaking to Neytiri like she was the problem.
He thought of himself a year ago. Same result.
So much lost in so little time.
“Barely, Neytiri. Barely. Come on, do you really think she’s a threat to you? Our marriage?” His eyes went wet—performatiely, predictably wet—as if innocence was something he could emulate now. "What do you want me to do?" His voice dropped. "Tell her to stay away? Push Kiri further out because you're uncomfortable?"
Goddamn liar.
Goddamn dirtbag.
She was crying now. Her head shook, weak, defeated. "I don't know what to think." The sound that left her was pathetic. So small. "I feel you—" Her hands moved, grasping at air before she pressed a fist to her chest. She couldn't look at him. "Drifting. Away. To this place I cannot follow."
That landed.
He faltered. His eyes closed. Shit.
"Baby..." He reached for her, pulled her in. She let him. She always did. Her sobs came in soft, broken waves against his chest. "Oh, baby. It's nothing," he soothed, stroking her hair. "Can't have me throwing her out of our hut for some dumb crush, right?" A pause. His voice dropped to something coaxing. "Come on. You never eyed some hot older hunter when you were younger?"
That earned the faintest of a smile, then a wet, shaky chuckle. "...Yes."
"And weren't you just a girl during that?"
A slow nod against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his chest piece. She was just a girl when you two mated.
He kissed her cheeks. Then her forehead. Led her to the hammock with careful hands. "See? Just a dumb crush. I'm not into her. Not even a little."
Liar.
They slept in the same hammock that night. Actually cuddled after—his arm slung over her waist, her breath evening out against his collarbone. And for a short time, he convinced himself it was true. Excused his attraction as a lapse in judgment. Grief and anger warring with his morals.
But his hand tightened around her in the dark.
Liar.
It was such an easy excuse, until life hit again and he was back to square one with it.
Another fight.
He didn’t even remember what the argument was started by. It had to be something stupid, silly, because he couldn’t grasp at straws at why everything blew over.
Something about Spider—probably. The kid left his mask somewhere, or tracked mud, or laughed too loud. Something small. Something a kid does. And Neytiri had made that sound in her throat, the one that meant something without saying it aloud.
Demon blood makes him careless.
He was so fucking tired of that sound.
Neytiri was pacing, the kids were outside. And he was over it, slumped and exhausted.
"I'm going back to the commune." The words came out flat. He was already moving, hands gathering the hammock in jerky motions. Muscle memory from a hundred other times he'd done this exact thing.
Neytiri hissed—spraying saliva. Her good arm shoved him. "You run." Her voice cracked down the middle, splintering. "You run away again!"
He didn't look at her, just kept rolling.
"Just as you ran when the sky-people returned—" Her breath hitched. Outside, he heard the shuffle of small feet. Kiri's soft murmur to Tuk. Lo'ak's feet dragging across woven floor. Spider had already vanished. Smart kid. "—just as you ran to this place because you could not be Toruk Makto!"
The hammock dropped from Jake's hands.
He turned.
Slow.
Neytiri's eyes went wide. Her hands grasped her lips, just as they parted, some apology forming, but it was too late. The words were already out there—everything she felt alongside it.
Jake stared at her for a long time
I loved you.
He wanted to say. He wondered if she saw it, unspoken. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
I loved you and now I don’t think I can again.
But he didn't say it. Instead, something in his face went smooth. Apathetic. The kind of blank that came from too many firefights, too many bodies, too many times he'd had to shut it all down just to keep going.
He lifted both hands, palms out in surrender. "Alright." He couldn’t bare to look at her. "So I'm a coward. And you're unhappy."
That's right, Jake boy. You're getting it now. Always been slow—but you're getting it.
"No—ma Jake—" Her hand reached for him, fingers grasping. Desperate. Her face was breaking apart.
He shrugged her off.
He bent, picked up the hammock, slung it over his shoulder. Tuk's small hand caught at his wrist. "Daddy..."
He kept walking.
Kiri stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame. Lo'ak beside her, jaw tight, tail lashing.
"Fuck," Lo'ak breathed.
"Mom..." Kiri turned back toward the hut.
Jake's feet was in a shamble.
Go to the outer communes, some rational part of him insisted. The ones far from center. Don't make that left turn.
He made that left turn.
Why are you going to her?
His jaw clenched.
Jake. You're making a mistake.
But hadn't Neytiri been a mistake too? He reasoned. That's what the People thought—what they'd whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. She was promised to another. Unhappy, yes, but promised. And he'd taken her anyway—Carved his name into her life with bloody hands and a bloody conscience. She'd been unhappy. He was unhappy now. Married now.
Was it different?
You were asleep when he arrived. You, along with several others scattered throughout the commune—bodies curled in hammocks, breath soft and even. More full than last time. That's what he'd wanted. What he'd asked for, and he got it.
A place for the lost ones. The displaced.
He found hooks along the far wall and started working the strings. His hands fumbled. The knot wouldn't take. Too much tension, or not enough—he couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't think.
Strong heart.
You have a strong heart.
Jake.
Jake.
The cord slipped through his fingers and he dropped it, fists clenching until his nails bit crescents into his palms.
Breathe.
"Jake?"
Your voice came soft, full of sleep. He heard you shift, the rustle of fabric as you sat up and scanned the dim interior. Your frown deepened.
"What are you…" Understanding flickered across your face, and you stopped. "...Do you need help?" A whisper now, careful.
He huffed—a sound caught between breath and sob—and felt the hot sting of tears gather at the corners of his eyes. And then the wetness came, hot and humiliating, tracking down his face before he could stop it.
"I uh..." His throat closed around the rest.
He was unraveling here. In some commune in front of a girl old enough to be his daughter. He just wanted Neteyam back. He wanted to hug his son and tell him he’s sorry and tell Neytiri he was sorry too.
God—he wanted to go back to the forest and pretend for a moment he just landed on Pandora.
His shoulders shook in silent sobs, covering his face now.
This embarrassment felt hotter than any shame he’d known.
I didn’t cry when Grace died. Or Trudy. Or Tsu’tey. I didn’t cry when Neteyam died, either. And I am crying here. I am crying here—
You rose then, bare feet silent on the woven floor, and reached for his hand. Your fingers curled around his.
"Come."
He followed. Stumbled, really.
You drew him toward your hammock, lower lip caught between your teeth. Those wide eyes watched him in the half-light.
He hesitated at the edge, then lowered himself in. The hammock dipped and swayed under his weight. You settled beside him, body angling just slightly away—giving him space.
But Jake didn’t want space. He wanted the warmth of a body, the peace of innocence and the carelessness of youth.
He wanted you.
His hand lifted. No hesitation this time, though his vision blurred at the edges. You didn't pull away, that should’ve been his first warning.
"I'm sorry," he said in english—the demon language. You wouldn't understand, and maybe that made it easier.
His palm found your jaw first, thumb tracing the hollow of your throat before sliding lower. Shoulder. Lower. Collarbone, then lower still. The notch between ribs. His other hand rose to mirror the first, both settling at your waist now, learning the dip and flare of your hips. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "A goddamn vision."
He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes had gone hazy and the tear tracks tacky.
He flickered his eyes back at you.
You hadn't moved. Eyes wide, lips parted until he saw the barest hint of pink. He caught the way your breathing had changed, shallow and quick, how you leaned in without meaning to. Your fingers twisted in the cloth at your hips, worrying the fabric.
"J-Jake," you managed, barely audible.
He stared a moment longer. I need this. Then drew you in and kissed you—slow, until he felt impatience at his own patience. "Shh," he whispered against your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered shut, tilting against him. You two were all whispers now, touching and feeling. “You are sad, Jake…”
"Yeah." He exhaled, and the sound was almost a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sad." He pressed another kiss to your temple, lips lingering there.
He should've let you go and stepped back, put distance between your body and his hands and the want that was coiling low in his gut like something needful. But he didn't. Instead, he drew you closer. One hand slid to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide. The other cupped the nape of your neck.
"Can't tell you," he said quietly. "Wouldn't understand."
"M'not dumb." You grumbled against his chest.
"Never said you were." His thumb traced small circles against your spine, and he watched your lashes casting shadows against your cheek. "You're too damn smart. That's the problem."
“Problem?” You kissed down his neck now, fingers finding his shoulders.
You. Me. This. He thought it but didn't say it, not yet.
Instead, he leaned in, slowly. Giving you time to pull away, to hiss at him, to do any of the things you should've done. But you didn't. You stayed, frozen like prey caught in some thick black sap, and he felt the exact moment your breath stopped.
"This," he whispered against your mouth, barely touching. "This is the problem."
He kissed you again, this time to savor all that you were. Your lips were softer than he'd imagined, and he'd imagined them plenty.
Too much, maybe.
He felt you tense. Felt the small sound you made and swallowed it down as he angled his head and kissed you deeper.
Your hands fisted his loincloth, tugging. “Oh Jake…” You breathed against him when he pulled back for air. Your eyes were huge, pupils blown wide, swallowing the green.
"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. His hands had moved—one tangled in your hair, the other splayed across your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast. "Don't talk. Don't... just don't."
"But—"
He kissed you again. Harder this time, less gentle, and the sound you made was different now.
you were pulling him closer. Your hands had found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair—his hair, not his queue, and thank Christ for that because if you touched his queue right now he'd be done for.
"Feel that?" he murmured against your jaw, your throat, the delicate arch of your collarbone. "Feel what you do to me?"
You glanced down at the bulge straining against leather and looked away just as quickly, ears flicking back into shyness.
You didn't answer. Couldn't, probably. Your head had tipped back, exposing the long line of your neck, and he took advantage—pressed his mouth there. Soft little suctions that came violet.
Just like her breasts…
He pulled back to see your face. Your eyes were glassy, unfocused. Your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath came in short, sharp gasps. You looked wrecked.
You looked young.
Realized it now, huh Jake? You little creep?
"Shit." He let go of you immediately, catching his breath. Oh god. His hands shook. "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—fuck."
You blinked, confusion replacing the haze. Your tail curled uncertainly. “Jake… please. Did I…?”
"It's not about what you did." The words came out harsher than he meant. "You don't understand what this means. What I almost—" He cut himself off. "I gotta go..."
He was already rising.
Then you gripped his wrist, hard. As if you had any strength to stop him. "No."
Jake stared. "No?"
“You can’t just… I…” You were flushed now, eyes wide like saucers, desperately clinging to him. “I… like you Jake.” You said softly. “You have…” You stopped yourself, looking around. Everyone was still sleeping. “You have her.” You whispered. “But…”
"You don't understand—"
You guided his hand back to your waist, placed it there deliberately. "I do. You feel lonely. I know you do. I feel the same way, every single day. Please..”
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
You frowned, ears flicking back. "Do you not want me?"
"Want you?" He laughed, and it sounded broken even to his own ears. "I want you so much it's killing me."
"Then why...?" You tilted your head, a look of pain across your face.
He couldn't answer. Couldn't explain the guilt and the grief and the way you looked at him like he was something good when he knew—knew—he wasn't.
So instead, he kissed you again. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make it good."
It'd been desperate from the start.
He shifted, already moving you beneath him, hands tugging at the ties of your loincloth. "Lift your hips," he grumbled against your mouth.
You obeyed. Of course you did. Hips rising, hands threading through his locks to find the leather tie binding them back. They spilled free, heavy and thick, and you kissed him—each small press of your lips—bridge of nose, slope of brow, hollow of cheek, that soft place where his ear met skull…everywhere your lips and tongue could reach.
He made a sweet sound between a grunt and a laugh from his chest.
"Ngh, fuck." The curse wasn’t really a curse. He grinned through each lazy kiss, pleased. "You're really affectionate, huh?" He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
Neytiri was far from his mind now. Miles away, perhaps in another life entirely.
Your knuckles traced circles at his nape. "You came to me," the reminder soft yet pointed.
Look at her. He huffed. Getting confident.
His palm cracked against your ass—hard, and when your mouth opened to squeal, he clapped his other hand over it. "Shh, baby girl." he breathed against your temple, gaze sliding toward the sleeping forms scattered throughout the mauri. "Wake them and this ends."
Both of you froze. A body nearby shifted, grumbled something barely coherent, then turned their back toward you.
You glanced back at him.
Then you started sucking on his thumb.
He jolted, surprise flickering across his features before something darker replaced it. His grin widened as he finally unhooked the strap from your tail, pulling the loincloth away in a snapping motion. "Really...?" he breathed, voice dropping an octave.
You only continued the slow lap and swirl, eyes half-lidded in something that might've been innocence if not for the way you held his gaze. He tasted like salt and metal, and underneath it all that undefinable sweetness that belonged to him alone.
You hollowed your cheeks, drew him deeper, let your tongue curl around the base.
Dangerous, He thought. She's fucking dangerous.
"You're gonna kill me," he breathed.
“Then die,” you mumbled.
He looked down, thumb sliding free with a pop, and eased himself upright. Your legs were pressed together, tail curled tight as though you could hide behind it.
But he saw it anyway—that soft crease where your cunt parted.
A sound escaped him, low and appreciative.. He set his palm on your knee, coaxing your legs apart, and watched you open for him. His thumb found the slit, dragged down slow, testing the slick. "So damn wet for me, baby."
Your ears flattened. "Don't—don't say it like that."
"Like what?" His grin was wicked npw. "Like you've been dripping for me?" He punctuated each word with another slow drag of his thumb, just sliding through the slick coatness of your cunt.
"I've been thinking about this..." You admitted.
He glanced up, that smug smile threading through his expression. "Yeah?" He pressed his thumb just barely inside, felt you clench around the intrusion. "How long?"
"Since—" You bit your lip. "Since you touched me. The first time."
"The first time." He said it like he was considering the words. "When I was doing your chores, there baby girl?"
You nodded, face burning.
His eyebrows rose. "That long, huh?" The pleased rumble in his voice made your stomach clench. "And here I thought I was the only one losing my damn mind." He hummed. "So what'd you think about?" His thumb withdrew. One hand remained between your thighs now, rtracing maddening circles that went nowhere, did nothing. The other braced beside your ribs, caging you beneath him. "Tell me."
"Jake..."
"Come on." He kissed your knee, then higher to your inner thigh. "Wanna hear it."
You covered your face with your hands, tail lashing behind you. "Your hands," you mumbled. "And your mouth. I thought about—about this."
"This?" He nuzzled closer, breath hot against your cunt.
"Yes—"
Your hands moved to your top, tugging it off, and he could see the soft hills of your breasts, the way they rose and fell with each shaky inhale. Then your hips lifted, impatient and unsubtle. He chuckled. "Easy."
"You're slow…" you whisper-yelled, heat flooding your face.
He gave a soft, mocking pout. "I'm savoring you. You look..." His gaze dragged over your body with deliberate slowness. "Really damn good."
He rose once again, frustratingly claiming your mouth first. His thumb found the tender rim of your entrance, feeling without entering while his lips mapped the column of your throat. He kissed the slope of your breasts, nuzzled into the warmth there. "Smell like flowers…" he murmured against your skin. Something sweet and green. Yovo fruit, maybe. Or those night-blooming things that grew near the river.
"Thank you—" The word came out breathless.
He smiled against your breasts. "You're thanking me?"
"I don't…I don't know what to say—"
"Don't say anything." His free hand kneaded your other breast, thumb brushing the peak until you squirmed beneath him. He took the bud into his mouth, sucking gently, and your back arched clean off the ground.
A whimper escaped you. You bit your palm, trying to muffle it.
"How many times have you…" He trailed off, kissing down your stomach, tongue flicking over your navel before he nuzzled into the soft mound of your cunt.
"Oh, Jake…" You bit your palm, muffling the sound. "Um… a few… just a few. None like you…" The words tumbled out, half coherent.
He hummed, pleased, low in his throat. "That's good." He gave one long, slow lick, eyes closing as he tasted you. "Fuck…" You tasted as sweet as you looked.
Sweeter, even.
"Jake, please—" Your fingers found his hair, pulling and tugging until you heard the softest groan.
He grinned against you. "Please what, baby?" His thumb joined his tongue now, circling your clit with maddening lightness. "Use your words."
"I—" You couldn't. Could barely think. His mouth was right there, so close, and he was just—just teasing.
"Need me to make you come?" His voice was sap, dark and dripping. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, suctioning until it left a mark. "That what you need?"
"Yes—"
"Then I better get to work."
He sealed his mouth over you.
Your hips bucked, but his palm pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you down, keeping you still while he worked you over with his tongue.
He licked into you, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. Like this was his only job. His only purpose. He groaned against you, the sound muffled and obscene, and you realized—
He was enjoying this.
Not just tolerating it. Not just doing it to get you ready.
Enjoying it.
"Taste so damn good," he muttered against you, the words vibrating through your core. His thumb found your clit, circling, pressing, and your vision went white at the edges.
"Jake…oh—"
"That's it." He sucked your clit between his lips, tongue flicking over the swollen bud, and your thighs clamped around his head. He didn't stop.
"I'm—I'm close—"
"Yeah?" He pulled back just enough to speak, and you wanted to scream at the loss. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart?"
“Mhm…” You frowned, nodding.
He grinned. He had this look on his face, head tilted as if he was considering something. “Okay, yeah.”
He reached up, one hand cupping your jaw before sliding to cover your mouth. The pad of his thumb grazed your lower lip, tugging it just a bit. "You're gonna be making a lot of noises," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, something fond flickering there. "So here. Bite."
His palm pressed firmer against your mouth, and you felt the calluses, then the taste of salt on his skin. "Don't want you to hurt yourself, baby girl."
The endearment made your stomach flip.
You nodded. Just barely.
Jake latched onto your clit with a deliberate, sucking pressure that punched the air from your lungs. It was different than earlier, more controlled. Your thighs jerked, tried to close on instinct, but his hands were already there—rough palms sliding under your knees, hiking your legs over the broad span of his shoulders. He shuffled closer, groaning low in his throat, and the vibration traveled straight through your core.
Oh.
A whine tore from you, muffled against his palm. Your teeth found the soft part between thumb and forefinger—canines sinking into the meat of it, just shy of breaking skin. He didn't flinch. Didn't even pause. If anything, he pressed closer, tongue flattening against you in a long, torturous stripe.
"Jake—" His name came out garbled, desperate. You tried to look down, to see him, but your vision blurred with tears. Everything was too much. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of his jaw against your inner thigh, the way he looked at you.
"Shh…"
His free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open. He tilted his head, adjusted the angle, and sucked again—harder this time. Then his tongue pushed inside.
"Ngh—shit…" He cursed.
You felt his jaw working, the strain of it. When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were slick and swollen. He replaced his mouth with a finger, one thick digit sliding in knuckle-deep, curling with a perscrion that spoke of years and experience..
A broken sound escaped around his palm.
Jake's eyes flicked up. Watched you.
Your head had fallen back, throat exposed, the line of it pale and trembling. Your breasts rose and fell in sharp gasps, stomach rolling in waves with every curl of his finger.
"What do you want, hm?" His thumb found your clit, circling with a teasing pressure. The contrast made you sob. "Tell me, sweetheart. Use your words."
He eased his hand away from your mouth, just enough for you to speak.
"Y-You…" It came out broken. "Want you, Jake—"
"Yeah?" A second finger joined the first, stretching you carefully. His pupils were blown wide, almost entirely black. "Want me where, baby? Here?" He curled both fingers, found that spot that made your body jolt. "Or somewhere else?"
"Yes—" You couldn't think. Could barely breathe. "Please, Jake, please—"
"Good girl."
He leaned in, pressed a kiss just above your clit, then sucked a bruising mark into the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers kept working, scissoring, preparing.
You were shaking now. Could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, chasing something just out of reach.
"I think you're prepped and ready," he mumbled against your thigh. Gave one final kiss—right where he'd marked you—before withdrawing his fingers.
The emptiness made you whine. Your hips chased his hand without permission, seeking. "No… Jake, please—"
He released your face entirely now, that hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb—the clean one—brushed away the tear that had escaped. "It's okay, baby. Gonna feel worth it, I promise."
You had tears in your eyes, but you trusted him, always did.
His eyes never left yours as he reached for his loincloth, fingers working the knot with practiced ease. But your eyes—
Your eyes dropped.
You'd seen the bulge earlier. Felt it pressed against your hip as he ate you, but this—
Jake's cock was different from the ones you'd glimpsed on reef men during communal baths, different from the smooth turquoise youths you’ve fumbled with before.
His was large.
Thick and flushed a deeper blue-purple, uncut with veins that traced the shaft like rivers on a map. It looked angry. Heavy. The head was broad, already weeping, and below—his balls hung full and heavy, the skin darker, dusted with the same fine hair that traced his brow and jaw.
You reached without thinking.
Your fingers wrapped around him and gave an experimental squeeze.
"Fuck—" He choked on the word, hips jerking forward into your grip. A breathless laugh escaped him. "Why you do that, huh?"
But you weren't listening. You were too busy exploring. Your thumb traced a prominent vein, followed it down, then patted the base with an almost sweet curiosity. The hair there was coarser than you expected. Strange…so fascinating.
"It's fuzzy," you murmured, tilting your head. "I've never seen…"
The words trailed off because he'd started moving—his hand wrapping over yours, guiding you in a slow pump. You watched, transfixed, as the foreskin slid back to reveal the swollen head, then forward again. The motion was hypnotic.
Heat crept up his neck. His ears flicked back. "Kinda gross, right?"
There was something vulnerable in the question. Something almost boyish, despite the very grown man's cock pulsing in your joined grip.
You looked up and met his eyes.
"No," you said softly, as certaine as anything. "It's interesting. Everything about you is interesting, Jake."
He went completely still.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his cock twitched in your hand—hard enough that you felt it, and his breath punched out harsh and disbelieving.
"Right."
The word came out strangled.
Then he was moving. His hand left yours, both palms coming up to frame your face. He kissed you—deep and desperate and tasting of you—before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"You're gonna kill me," he breathed. "You know that? Gonna fuckin' kill me, and I'll die happy."
Jake braced himself above you, one arm holding his weight, the other tracing the edge of your hip with something close to reverence. His eyes tracked down to where you were already slick and waiting.
"Hey." His voice came soft, almost shy. "Look at me."
You did.
His hand wrapped around himself, and you watched—transfixed—as he positioned the broad head against your entrance. He just dragged himself through the slick that had gathered there and moved in slow circles, coating himself, letting the tip catch your clit with each roll of his hips.
"Just coating it, baby," he murmured, though his voice had gone rough at the edges. "Gotta make sure you're ready."
Your brows drew together, flushed. "That's... that's fine."
He felt so warm.
The heat of him radiated through your thighs, your belly, everywhere his skin pressed yours. You watched the way his stomach—soft, the human part of him—pressed against yours with each grind. His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. You could see the effort it took—the restraint. Every part of him wanted to surge forward, to bury himself deep, but he waited.
Just for you, because he loves you.
"Going in now, okay?" His gaze flicked up, locking with yours. "Breathe for me."
Before you could answer, he leaned down and kissed you. Lips pressed firm, no tongue, just the taste of him and the promise of more.
And then you felt it.
You felt him.
The tip stretched you—your lips split around him. You could hear it, the wet sound of your body splitting, could hear your own breath catch and still before you remembered to relax.
"Ngh..."
"Shhhh..." His mouth moved to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. "I know, sweetheart."
He groaned, low and guttural, and the sound vibrated through your chest.
His hips gave an aborted thrust, and suddenly his arms were around you, locking you against him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. You were drowning in his scent.
"That's it, baby. That's it."
He sank deeper.
Inch by inch, your body made room. The stretch burned, but it was the good kind—the kind that made your toes curl and your nails bite into his shoulders. He was everywhere—filling you so completely that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. His balls pressed flush against you, the tip of him kissing something deep and sacred inside. You both stilled.
Full.
So full you could barely breathe.
"Oh my god," Jake breathed.
Both of you looked down at the same time, and your eyes snagged on the bulge pressing against your stomach. Him. You could see him inside you, the shape of his cock bulging your belly.
"Look at that." His voice was hushed, disbelieving. His hand moved without thinking, palm pressing gently against it, and you felt it. The pressure from both sides, inside and out, and your eyes rolled back. "Pretty fucking cute."
You opened your mouth to respond—
He thrusted.
The first punched the air from your lungs. The second made you see stars. By the third, you were clawing at his back, nails dragging red lines down his shoulders. His hips pistoned into yours, the rhythm building, and he swallowed your cries with his body. His grunts were muffled against your hair, your shoulder, anywhere he could press his mouth. You bit into his neck, tasting him.
"Jake..."
"I'm here. I'm here."
Your nails found his back, dragging down, leaving marks he'd wear tomorrow. Your eyes hazed over. Oh, great mother..."
Jake's hand found your chin, wrenching your face toward his. He kissed you—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth. "Dirty girl," he grunted, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Marking me up?"
His other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit in time with each brutal thrust.
And oh.
Oh.
The dual sensation was too much. The thick slide of him inside, the rough pad of his thumb outside, the heat and weight and fullness of it all. Something big and meaty and warm, filling you so nice and sweet you thought you might break apart.
"I'm really close, Jake—"
"Me too..." He cursed under his breath, something garbled and human. His hands gripped your hips, lifting, angling you so your back arched off the woven mat. Your breasts bounced with each impact, and his gaze locked there, hungry. "Fuck, look at you..."
He hissed between his teeth, spreading your thighs wider, opening you completely.
"Knew what you wanted, huh?" His voice dropped into something darker, meaner. "Such a fucking tease."
His hands found your throat.
Your eyes widened.
"You guys can breathe a long time, yeah?" His thumbs pressed against your pulse, feeling the frantic flutter there. "Wanna see how much."
You should've been afraid… You quickly realized you weren't.
You smiled. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth.
He squeezed.
"Ngh—"
Your voice cut off. Breath left you in a rush, and the world narrowed to the pressure at your throat, the relentless drive of his hips, the way your body clenched around him in protest and pleasure. You tried to slow your heart—tried to relax the way you'd been taught—but you couldn't.
His fingers squeezed tighter.
Your hands flew to his, and for a moment he hesitated. His eyes widened, grip loosening. Too much?
But then you were squeezing his hands against your throat. Pressing them harder. Tighter, your eyes said.
And there it was.
That high.
Your voice left you. Your breath left you. Yet you were floating, weightless, caught in total ecstasy. You came—unable to scream, unable to do anything but tremble and milk him with rhythmic, desperate pulses.
"Fuck—fuck—"
Jake sucked in his teeth, hips stuttering through a few last pumps before he released your throat.
Air rushed back in a single, gasping sob.
Then Jake smiled—boyish and a little sheepish—and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
"You okay?"
You nodded, dazed. Your hand lifted, trembling, to touch his face.
"Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He kissed your palm. Then your wrist. Then he pulled out slowly, carefully, and gathered you against his chest.
Warm.
He was always so warm.
"You're a lot less innocent than I thought."
He blurted, although you did not hear the accusation, nor would you ever feel it—his hands were gentle where they cradled your hips, thumbs tracing idle patterns against sweat-slick skin.
You couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but pull air into your lungs in these shallow, desperate sips. Your skin buzzed everywhere he'd touched, everywhere he'd been, and the purple blooming across your throat would be proof of it in the morning.
Your fingers found him instead of words. Just a fumble of fingers.
Jake came to you willingly. He always did with you, didn't he? Folded himself around you like he was trying to press into your bones, arms circling, nose buried in your hair. His cock softened, and you felt the slow, warm slip of his cum beginning its lazy descent down your thighs.
You should've been mortified. Should've squirmed away, cleaned yourself, done something other than lie there feeling it settle.
But you didn't.
Instead, your palm drifted down between your bodies, fingers splaying over the slight swell of your stomach.
"You're going to give me my own family, Jake."
It slipped out so soft you weren't sure he'd heard. You had almost hoped he hadn’t.
But he did, and Jake went still.
You felt it—the exact moment his every muscle locked. You'd said something wrong. Of course you had. Stupid, stupid—
His hand covered yours.
He pressed it firmer against your belly where his cum sat heavy and warm inside you, where your skin had gone taut and tender. Just below your naval, there a visible swell of what might already be taking.
"I’m sorry I know—" you started, some apology forming.
"Yeah," he breathed. Then again, stronger: "Yeah."
You twisted just enough to see his face and expected that look he got sometimes, the one that said he was remembering he didn't belong here, that he had Neytiri, children he already bore, a life he’d already built with promises he’s already made.
But he was smiling.
"You deserve a family too," he whispered, and your chest did something complicated and painful. His hand slid up your side, traced your ribs, mapped the terrain of you like he was memorizing it. "More than anyone I know."
He didn't care.
For once in his miserable, guilty, blood-soaked life, Jake Sully didn't care about the fallout.
Your breath hitched. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" He shifted, pulling you with him until you were sprawled across his chest, all that dark blue skin and scarred muscle beneath you. The blanket came next, draped over both of you in lingering heat. "It's true." God help him, he meant it.
You buried your face against his collarbone. "You don't... you don't have to say things like that just because we—"
"I'm not."
The certainty in it made you lift your head.
Jake caught your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "I mean it," he said again. "You deserve everything. A family, a home, someone who—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Someone who stays."
Oh.
"...Thank you, Jake."
The words felt absurdly small for what was crushing your ribs, flooding your throat. But they were all you had.
He blinked at you. Something confused flickering across his face. "For what?"
What reason did you have to thank him?
He'd corrupted you—at least, he was pretty sure he had. Taken something pure and good and dragged it down into the mud with him, same way he corrupted everything he touched. Pandora. The People. The forest. His own damn soul.
"For everything." And it was as simple as that. He understood you.
With your weight settled trustingly atop him and your hand still resting over that slight swell in your belly—
He didn't care. That's what he gave you. Carelessness.
Right now he was satisfied and happy. He was warm, he felt young, and he was looking forward to a future.
Just like back then.
I love you. He thought.
A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!
summary: Broken by the fall of the Hometree and Eywa's silence, you dream for a possibility of peace of mind, figuratively and literally. You come to the Metkayina's village looking for a temporary refuge in your search of said peace, and end up never leaving in favour of love.
pairing(s): tonowari x omatikaya!reader, platonic reader x neytiri
word count: 15k (i know...)
warnings: reader is neytiri's sister, grief and mourning, mention of dead bodies, eywa's constant meddling, probably suggestive, yearning, pining, "but i don't want ninat", added lore cuz i got carried away, kinda miscommunication, no ronal hate, space racism?, complex neytiri i fear...., mentioned pregnancy, mentioned childbirth, rotxo is adopted lmao, when the story starts reader is around 19 and both neytiri and tonowari are around 22, takes place after avatar (2009), proofread one time instead of the two usual times so pls let me know if there are any errors
author's note: can't believe this fine shyt is now a single dad
dividers from @uzmacchiato!
When the smoke clears and the ashes fall, nothing is left of the Hometree.
Nothing but the stump, the bulging roots and the cut-off part remain of your destroyed home. You’ve never seen one, but you think that the remains of the tree must look like a decapitated corpse — something that once was full of life, and now is just… there. A reminder of what was.
Many managed to evacuate the branches as it fell, but just as much ended up being buried by its massive limbs; you can’t find it in yourself to understand if it was a blessing — for them to have such a quick death, one that avoided them from feeling the endless grief you’re feeling now — or a tragedy. You keep asking Eywa the same question, but either she doesn’t know, or she won’t tell you.
She hasn’t been telling you much lately, anyway.
As the daughter of the Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk, you grew up close to the bond you shared with Eywa. Mo’at always brought you and your sisters along with her to pray, and the three of you soon learnt how to perceive her in everything you did and everything that happened. The Great Mother is in all of us, your mom used to always say, before you fully grasped the concept. She gives, and we take. And when the time comes, we’ll be the ones to give back what we borrowed.
It looks like, to you, that the time has come. Only, Eywa won’t seem to take anything from you.
During the day, you’re back at the ruins of the Hometree, with a few other Omatikayas looking for the remains of their loved ones. When they are easy to remove, you do so, and then give them the burial they deserve as a part of the People; when the branches have buried them too deep in the terrain for you to remove them, you pray for them and their souls, hoping that they are, at last, at peace.
At night, you pray by the Tree of Souls until the first morning lights shine through the outline of the mountains, when your mother wakes and gently drags you to the marui you share with her and orders — more like begs — you to sleep. “You won’t be able to hear Eywa better if you tire yourself so, daughter,” she utters as she holds you tight in her arms, humming that same lullaby she used to when you were little. “I doubt she wants you to be exhausted.”
You sniffle brokenly, hiding in her shoulder like a child as she covers you with the blanket she had stitched with the help of Sylwanini and Neytiri when she first realised she was pregnant with you. It’s a miracle you managed to salvage it from the fall of the Hometree, as most of your belongings have been lost during it. “We still haven’t found Tsu’tey, sa’nok,” you whisper, muffling a sob.
Mo’at sighs softly, holding you tighter. “Oeyä yawne,” my beloved, she starts, “Tsu’tey died a great death. Even if you do not find what remains of him, I’m sure Eywa will hold him close nevertheless. He fell into the ocean, after all — she’s strong there, too. We might not think of it to be our home, but everywhere Eywa is, can be considered our home.”
Still, it’s hard to believe that Jakesully out of all people is helping rebuild your village.
He’s supposed to be one of the aliens that came from the sky — one of the four-fingered demons that have destroyed your home. And somehow, Eywa still chose him to lead the Omatikaya.
You don’t deny his bravery, nor his will to learn your ways, nor the fact that he is a great warrior — Turuk Makto, in fact. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard for you to look at him and not see the Hometree lying dead on the ground, burning, and the Tree of Voices reduced to shreds under the dozers.
You know it’s probably just your grief talking — you’ve never had anything against the man, not even when he first came here, blabbering about wanting to learn the way or whatever the RDA had put in his head — but you don’t know what else to do. When you’re not looking around for the corpses of the fallen, or praying for them, or begging Eywa to tell you the meaning of all of this, you’re either crying or trying to sleep — and when the latter comes, it’s never restful.
Neytiri is grieving, too, and you know it, but she takes it differently — because she has Jake, and she’s putting all she has into building a new, safe village, where maybe one day their kids will grow happily. But you feel stuck — like when it fell, the Hometree swallowed you, too, along with all the fallen comrades that you had known for your whole life.
Your answers finally come during another restless night spent under the Soul Tree.
Your mother has since stopped trying to coax you away from it — instead, she has taken to making salves and weaving shawls under the light of the branches as you weep silently for a sign, the terrain still against your body, unlike the usual steady beat you used to feel. Sometimes Mo’at braids your hair, other times recalls stories of your father and sister, but mostly lets you cry it out — even if her heart breaks every time a tear slips down your cheek. Neytiri sometimes comes along, chanting her songs and saying her prayers, but lately, she’s taken to spending her nights in the tent she calls home, with Jakesully.
(Not that you blame her. If you had a mate, you’d probably find comfort in them, too. If you had a mate, maybe you wouldn’t be so utterly hopeless.)
It’s when you find sleep while having these thoughts that finally, Eywa responds to your call in the best way she knows — a dream.
You feel like you’re floating, and finally, finally– you can feel her presence. She’s everywhere, surrounding you with her warmth, and it’s just when you look around to understand where you are that you notice that you are underwater. Life swarms you from every angle — the fishes twirling in a dance only they can understand, anemones and corals shimmering with bioluminescence on the rocks under your feet.
You don’t know for how long you swim, but what you know is that you haven’t felt this feeling in what seems like ages. You have missed the Great Mother’s presence, and if this dream tells you anything, it’s that maybe, she has missed you, too.
A large, warm hand engulfs yours. You can’t see the face of the man that has taken it, but by the color of his skin, he can’t be Omatikaya. Come with me, a voice says, and you aren’t able to really distinguish it — it does not sound like a real voice, rather like a spoken thought inside your mind. Our Spirit Tree is this way. You feel the same hand on the small of your back, guiding you in the water, in a way so gentle that you already dread the moment his touch will fade.
You wake up with your hand still feeling warm and dried tears staining your cheeks. The ground you’re lying on feels stiff and cold. Hoisting yourself up on your elbows, you notice the sky — it’s still night — and your mother, sleeping with her head leaning on the trunk of the tree. “Are you trying to tell me that I have to find my peace somewhere else?” you murmur quietly to the tree, impossibly tired in every way imaginable. And maybe it’s just an impression, or your lack of sleep, but you think the branches glow a little more than usual at that.
The hard part is not accepting to leave behind the Omatikaya — in your heart, you knew that a part of you died when the Hometree fell, and no new village would ever make up for what the sky people have taken away from you; every camp made after that would only look like a ghost of what was, where you grew up in.
No, no. The hard part is convincing both the Tsahìk and the Olo’eyktan to let you go.
By the time morning comes, your bags are already packed. Your ikran, Ry’ia, is waiting for you just outside of the village chirping softly with Neytiri’s mount, Sa’atra, as you pull on your traveling shawl and wait for the villagers to wake up before your departure. Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for chaos to erupt.
Neytiri drags you away from the astounded clan members as soon as she gets wind of what’s happening, Mo’at and Jakesully on tow when she sits you down in one of the newest tents, her face unreadable as she takes a seat in front of you. “Explain.”
You look at her mate and your mother, sitting respectively on her left and on her right, and suddenly your heart fills up with courage you weren’t even aware of having. “I had a dream last night,” you start, “Eywa has shown me where to find my peace again.”
As you recall your vision, you can tell that the only one fully understanding the meaning of it is your mother, because while Jakesully doesn’t look too troubled about it, Neytiri hasn’t had that betrayed look on her face towards you since you were seven, and you stole the last piece of fruit intended for her. “What?” she asks in pure disbelief, “Wha– why would you ever think of going away from here, sister? We have plenty of men who would be delighted to have you as their mate. We have the ocean. We have fishes. Do you really have to look for them from another clan to be happy?”
You shake your head, guilt seeping through your chest. “Sister, if I could be happy while being here, close to you, I would stay. But…” Your eyes drift up to Jake and immediately go back to her, not wanting to blame him for all the things humans have done to you. “I can’t find it in myself to build a new village that Tsu’tey, father– hell, Sylwanin won’t see. And even if I could…”
You scroll your shoulders, “Eywa has shown me the way,” you say firmly, “and I will follow it.”
Neytiri looks over to Mo’at, searching for support in the discussion. “Mother, please, tell her this is madness,”
She looks at her for a singular moment, then to you. Finally, she speaks. “When I was your age, I had a dream, too. It led me to your father.” The story isn’t new to you — everyone knows Mo’at was part of the Orangi clan before she married your father.
Neytiri stares at her, “Mother, you can’t be serious– she doesn’t even know where–”
“How can she know, if she does not try?” The Tsahìk interrupts her, “Eywa has shown her that she won’t find peace while living here. These things are rare, but they happened. That was my case, at least.”
Your sister gapes at her, flabbergasted, only to look back at you, getting back up on her feet. “If you leave,” she hisses, “I will never forgive you.” She storms out, her tail twitching after her, leaving the tent feeling even colder than before.
Finally, you manage to look at Jakesully straight into his eyes, trying to avoid the glare your mother is sending him, and you’re surprised to see an actual understanding of the situation there. “You do understand why I can’t stay here, do you?”
He blinks, sad. “I do.”
You nod, “Good. I would never ask you to leave — this is your home, too, after all. And it would mean sacrificing Neytiri’s happiness. I’d rather be happy here too, but… I can’t do that. Not while my loved ones lay under the Hometree, dead.” you shake your head, ashamed of what you’re about to say, “Not while you are here living the life they deserved. I am sorry, Jakesully.”
Tentatively, he places a hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay,” he mutters, sorrowful, “I know you would stay here if you could. Just… please, do not go today. Wait until the end of the week. Let me talk to your sister– I’ll try to change her mind.”
As he leaves to go look for Neytiri, you are left with your mother. Your eyes remain downwards, all the courage of before gone after your sister’s outburst, your heart feeling heavier than ever. Needless to say, when she moves to hug you, you’re left stunned — you were waiting for her to tell you you were mad, too. “I am sorry, daughter,” she says, her usually firm voice trembling, “I did not understand your pain was so great. I thought Eywa had in her plans to keep my daughters close to me, but if having you far from me is the price for your happiness, then I’ll gladly take everything that comes with it.”
You avoid mentioning her teary eyes when she pulls back, her hands holding your shoulders. She sniffles, trying to save face. “The Metkayina are the only sea clan your father’s ever had contact with,” she manages, "their Olo’eyktan may still remember him. You should start your search from there.”
In the following days, you are smothered with gifts.
Everyone makes something for you to take on your travels, or to give to the chiefs of the foreign clans you’ll visit. Your friends Ninat and Peyral stitch a beautiful shawl in record time, stitched beads and feathers in it. So that you may have something to remember us by, Peyral explains, emotional, as Ninat nearly bursts into tears.
Your mother makes a Tsahìk necklace typical of the Omatikaya and tells you to give it to the wife of the chief. Showing respect to your hosts is always important, remember. Do not forget your culture, but do not force it on them, either.
Even Jake turns up one night, giving you a funny-looking bone knife that he clearly has just learned how to carve. “As a… parting gift?” he tells you, even if it sounds more like a question. His ears bend down, “I’m sorry you feel like you have to leave to be happy. I wish things didn’t have to be this way.” I wish you could overcome our differences like your sister did.
You look at the knife — the jaggedy blade looking ugly but clearly heartfelt — and then back at him. “You’re a good man, Jakesully,” you tell him. “I am truly sorry that my opinion on you has to be stained by what your kind has done to us — but perhaps, it’s just because things are a little too fresh. Perhaps, I just need some time away from here.”
Neytiri doesn’t come looking for you until it is time for you to go. As you say your goodbyes to friends and everyone you grew up with, she shuffles quietly behind Jake, her hands behind her back. Still hugging Ka’ani, you look at her as she gets closer, suspiciously quiet, only to present you with a bead on her open palm.
You gasp at the sight of it — it’s a bright blue stone, one of the ones to be found only in the ikrans’ nest, with the Omatikaya clan symbol etched on it. “For your songcord,” she explains, not looking you in the eye. “To mark your… new start. Your travels.”
You look at the bead, taking it in your hands, then tug Neytiri close to hug her as tight as possible. “I’ll miss you, sister,” you murmur in her shoulder.
Even if she’s supposed to be mad at you, she reciprocates the hug immediately, and it doesn’t take long for the tough facade to crumble. “Please, come back when you’re finally happy again, okay?” her voice is trained, and you doubt anyone but you heard her whisper. “This will always be your home. You’ll always have a place to stay here — with me.”
Ry’ia is delighted in the change of scenery — you can tell by the way she reacts through the bond, but also the happy shrieks she lets out once you lower her near the surface of the ocean so that her wings may touch the water. You look behind you — to the mountains that you’ve called home ever since you came to the world — one last time before turning your gaze back to the sea, the directions your mother gave you etched into your mind.
Awa’atlu is almost three days of travel from your village, turned into four by the stops you make to allow Ry’ia and yourself some rest. And when you finally reach it, it’s night, and only a few lights are shimmering in the Metkayina village. Not wanting to disturb their sleep, you turn your ikran to the rocky side of the island — devoid of any maruis from what you can see — and land atop the coast, dismounting from Ry’ia and patting the side of her neck. “Good girl,” you murmur, “rest now, yes? I’ll take a dip and be back here with you in a moment.”
You remove your traveling shawl as she chirps quietly, remaining in your loincloth and chest piece as you dive into the waters.
You feel like crying in relief when you finally feel her. Eywa is everywhere here — she surrounds you with the water in bioluminescence, in the anemones that move in rhythm with the currents and the nocturnal fishes that swim around in a haze. It’s like waking up from a bad dream, being able to finally feel her again.
Even if brief, the peace it gives you swells your heart. The Great Mother wasn’t holding a grudge against you — you simply weren’t searching for her in the right place.
You resurface to catch some air, only to notice that you aren’t alone.
A turquoise zukzuk — an otterfin — stares at you with her big eyes, and if she weren’t an animal, you’d say she was smiling at you. She rubs her snout into your shoulders, chirping happily, and you chuckle, petting her back, “Aren’t you a cutie? Oh, yes you are, yes you are…”
She licks your cheek, and you fake a gag even as she basically throws herself in your arms. “Now, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust strangers? If I were a tad bit more selfish, I’d totally bring you home with me,” you’re not sure how you would manage an otterfin in the forest or while traveling, but you’re sure that if there’s a will, there’s a way.
“Hey, you shouldn’t swim here when it’s dark,”
The screech you let out is loud enough to wake up the whole village, you’re sure. The zukzuk — who looks more scared than you — jumps in your arms as you hug her, ready to defend her from any possible attacker. The latter — a man with turquoise skin and weird tattoos over his face — screams back, mostly startled by your yelling.
“Sorry, sorry!” he puts his hands in front of him as your screams die down, still hugging the otterfin, “I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just that — we’re too close to the reef, and it’s mating season for the akulas. Their cubs will start hunting for preys any moment now. It’s dangerous to stay here for long.”
You share a look with the otterfin, who’s still cuddled to you, and it’s just then that the man seems to notice her. He frowns, “Nala, is that you?” It's the same tone you use for Ry’ia when she pulls some kind of stunt you told her not to do, and the zukzuk lets out a noise while looking at you with the biggest eyes as if to say, I’ve never met this man in my life.
The latter gasps, “It is you!”
The pup cuddles closer to you, hiding under your chin, her tongue slipping out of her mouth like she wants to mock him. You raise an eyebrow, “This is your zukzuk?”
The guy nods, “She knows she shouldn’t swim here at night, it’s dangerous–”
A rumble from below interrupts him, and you all freeze. “…What did you say about those akula cubs?” You don’t even know what an akula is, but judging from the fact that apparently their cubs make swimming at night dangerous, it can’t be anything good.
His hand wraps around your wrist as he starts to drag you away, back onto the shore, much faster than it took you to even get here. “Just where did you come from? Are you Ta’unui really so clueless?” Another rumble from behind you, and he swims even faster. You keep Nala under your arm, and she keeps moving her tail like she’s trying to help him move away.
It’s only when you’re out of trouble and onto the shore, where the water reaches your knees and you’re illuminated by the bioluminescence and the moons, that he notices that you don’t look like a Tau’nui at all. He stares at your slim tail and arms, leaning his head like he’s never seen a specimen like this, and even your clothes are weird. Quite dumbly, he pulls at the feathers stitched into your top, staring intently, “What are those?”
The fact is, you’re also just noticing that he doesn’t look like normal Na’vi men, too — at least, not to the ones you’re used to. He’s broader, taller, and apparently also dumber, because he doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s just grazed and uncovered part of your breast.
You deadpan. He blinks. Nala barks. He lets the feathers go as he turns purple, “Sorry, I didn’t notice.” He’s lucky that the Omatikaya are people raised with no shame about their bodies, because otherwise, the slap you would’ve given him wouldn’t have been too nice from a girl who’s supposed to look for uturu in his clan.
You squeeze the water out of your hair as he stares weirdly, Nala twirling around the two of you. “Why were you swimming if the waters are so dangerous at night?” You ask him, trying not to stare too much at his arms — you never thought that the Omatikaya men needed more muscles, but now you understand that if they did, it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. His tail — twitching uneasily behind him — is thicker and longer than yours, and his arms have strange prolongments on their sides — to help swimming, you suppose. While Omatikaya grow slender and thin to avoid any difficulty in swinging in the forest, maybe the Metkayina grow to swim more efficiently in the ocean.
“I was looking for her,” he points at Nala, “we spoiled her a little too much, and now she doesn’t know how to take a no.” He tries to smile at you, “You’re not from around here, are you? Your tail would be horrible for swimming.”
You nod, “I’m from the forest clans — the Omatikaya.” you tell him your name, and he nods. “I came here looking for uturu, but the village seemed to be asleep when I got here, so I figured I would talk to the chief in the morning.”
He looks troubled, “I’m Tonowari,” he introduces himself, “I’m from the village. Uturu? Has something happened to the Omatikaya?”
No matter how much you insist he doesn’t, he drags you to the village — in the literal sense, as you didn’t want to follow him and he has to take you by your wrist — and over to a secluded mauri, where he finally lets go. Ry’ia chirps tiredly beside you, huffing indignantly at him as you wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “I’ll talk to Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk,” Tonowari tells you, nodding to the mauri, “wait for me here, okay?” Nala quietly follows him, dragging her little belly over the sand.
You didn’t really explain the whole thing— you just told him that you’re here to find contact with Eywa again because you weren’t able to in your homeland. You don’t really know why he insisted so much in talking to the chiefs now, and you can’t help but wonder why he feels comfortable waking up the two most important people in his village for a stranger.
Soon enough, he comes back out from the marui, gesturing for you to come inside; you do, and you’re greeted by two very much awake chiefs, sitting with their backs straight as ever.
“Olo’eyktan Arvak and Tsahìk Tsika,” Tonowari tells you, nodding to them, “I’ll leave the three of you alone– keep an eye on that big bird of yours.”
“She’s not a big bird," you whisper, too tired to fully protest. He pats your shoulder, looking a bit guilty, letting the woven sheet atop the pod close back behind you, “Sure she isn’t,”
You remain alone with the chiefs — and Nala, who you realise just now hasn’t followed Tonowari. Looking at the couple, you figure that the Metkayina must all have his same features. “Sit,” Tsika gestures to the empty space in front of them, “and tell us everything.”
Recounting the fall of the Hometree is more difficult than you thought it would be — because even if it’s been almost a month now, the wound still feels fresh. They listen, not prodding for more information when you stop to take a deep breath to avoid bursting in tears, and the Tsahìk puts a hand over her mouth when you mention your father. “Eytukan,” she murmurs, looking over to her mate. “He came here when we called for the other Tsahìks.”
At your confused face, Arvak explains, “A little over twenty years ago, our son fell sick. Rashes all over his body, convulsions, other symptoms we’d never seen before.”
His wife takes a deep breath, “When nothing seemed to work and we lost all hope, Arvak chose to call the other clans’ Tsahìks and healers for help. The Ta’unui sent a healer, the Aranahe some healing plants, and everyone pretty much did the same. But your father,” she pokes you in the chest, not in a mean way — in a way that says, the man you’re half a part of. “Olo’eyktan Eytukan came here himself. Excused his wife’s absence, told us she had just given birth to their third daughter and wasn’t able to travel properly. He took a look at our son’s state, and said that it probably was txumpaywll poisoning — until then, we didn’t even know that its plants had started to grow on our islands. Made a salve for his rashes, concocted the antidote and left when he got better.”
They bow their heads at you, “It will be an honor to pay back Eytukan’s kindness. Tell us what you need, and we’ll do anything in our power to help you.”
You beg them to raise their heads, embarrassed. “I just want some time with your clan,” you tell them, “learn your ways with the creatures, how you move within the currents.” If Jakesully out of all people managed to learn the Omatikaya’s ways, you doubt it will be much harder for you. “I… I’ve lost contact with Eywa. I hope that learning your clan’s ways will help me in finding it again.”
Arvak has got a pensive look on his face. Then, he says, “Tonowari, I know you’re listening. You can come in.”
The man sheepishly enters the marui again, sitting beside you, a little embarrassed. You raise an eyebrow — did he really think either of you didn’t hear him? You might’ve not heard him approach when you were in the water, but back with your feet on steady ground, you would’ve known how to spot him before he was even in your line of sight.
Nala squeals and throws herself on his knees, purring. Arvak tries to ignore her to his best abilities. “Our son Tonowari will teach you everything he knows about the reef,” ah, so that’s why he didn’t have any problem waking them up. Nice to know that the Olo’eyktan’s successor has seen your boob. On his part, Tonowari makes no protest. “Her training starts tomorrow. Go show her one of the vacant maruis — she’ll stay here for a while.”
Ry’ia is already sleeping when you and Tonowari detach your bags from her saddle, and you try your best not to gape at his biceps as they flex while he takes the heaviest woven baskets out of your hands. “Don’t worry, I’ll take those– you must be really tired.”
He balances them on his side and shoulder as he walks you through the maruis — with the few still awake villagers peeking out of their tents to steal a curious look at you — only to stop in an empty one, carefully leaning the baskets down to the floor. You stare at the woven walls of your new home, at the mat on the floor and the little space reserved for the fireplace, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this can work.
You set down your bag as Tonowari stands back up from his knelt position, “Try to get some sleep,” he tells you quietly, “I’ll come to wake you up tomorrow a little before dawn — it’s when the ilus wake up. If you need anything, that–” he points to a nearby pod, “–is my marui.”
He stops for a moment and looks at you, sitting on the sleeping mat. “I’m sorry about your father and what happened to your people.”
You press your lips into a thin line. “Thanks.” You avert your eyes and wrap your shawl a little tighter around you. “Uh… goodnight, Tonowari.”
He nods, a sad smile on his lips as he moves outside of the tent, still holding open the curtain serving as door. “Goodnight.”
He closes the blind, and you’re left to your thoughts.
Tonowari laughs. “Your swimming form is funny.”
You pout. “If you're here to poke fun at my survival-level swimming form, I’m sure Nala would be happy to teach me how to instead.”
His laugh gets even louder, and he raises his hands up. “I said it was funny, not bad! It’s like… watching a child take their first dive out of their mother’s womb.”
“Are you really saying that a kid might swim better than me?”
The son of the Olo’eyktan has at least the decency to stifle his chuckles now. “No, no, I’m sure you’ll learn soon enough.”
This morning, the villagers were astonished to find out that the chiefs had basically sneaked you into the village overnight — but sure enough, their spirits changed when you started distributing the gifts you had brought for them. The Tsahìk seemed pleased with the necklace your mother had made her, claiming it to be of beautiful manufacture, as her people raided your baskets for the shawls and armbands your friends had stitched for them. Yovo fruits were gone in a matter of seconds, and Arvak had to set aside the dried meat you brought to assure that everyone got a piece for dinner.
(As for Arvak’s gift, you gave it to him once the crowd dissipated. You told him it was from Toruk Makto, who even after proper Omatikaya training, unfortunately still had to work on his carving abilities. He took the dagger nonetheless, pleased that Toruk Makto himself took time out of his day to make something for him.)
Despite your gifts quietening the protests of your arrival, the villagers still stared a little too hard sometimes — no wonder, they’ve never seen a forest Na’vi before. Most of them are nice or at least cordial to you, but a few doubtful stares still linger as Tonowari tries to do his best in teaching you the ways of the Metkayina.
You start spending your mornings — from before dawn up until lunch — with the Olo’eyktan son, learning how to juggle the currents and hold your breath, and your afternoons with the clan elders, weaving baskets and learning how to stitch seashells into body pieces.
(The first time you asked if you could help weaving the growing side of the marui pods, they gasped, scandalized. Apparently, it’s strictly the men’s job around here.)
After a few days and horrendous tries, you finally manage to finish your first armband — Priya, an old woman wearing the feather chest piece that one of your friends had made, insisted on it. It’s decorated with a few shells you managed to collect while diving with Tonowari, and as she inspects it closely, she hums, clearly pleased with your work. “I’m sure your mate will be delighted to wear this, one day.”
You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “My mate?”
The other elders nod convincingly, passing around your work. “In Awa’atlu, the first piece a girl makes is always a stitched armband," she explains, revealing why she had pressured you so much in starting off with one. “The mother makes sure to save it, and when the time comes, it will be given to her husband to wear. He, in return, will give her a carved comb, usually decorated with anything that pleases the woman.”
You think about it for a moment, “So, the first ever piece the men carve is a comb, too?”
The women laugh like the mere thought is hilarious. “Of course not!” Priya hollers, “The first piece a woman stitches is important because in her life, she will make numerous beautiful works. The men give them the most beautiful comb they make, because it’s already a miracle if they manage to make one singular, decent comb.”
At this, you laugh with them, thinking about that wobbly knife Jake made for their Olo’eyktan. Then, you snort, “This wasn’t my first armband, though,” yes, you had to learn how to properly position shells and have them not fall off the strings, but this isn't your first time stitching.
One of the other women shrugs, “So what?” She says, “It’s the first one you make here — as a future proper Metkayina — that counts as first.”
Later on that night, back in your marui, you observe the armband and store it inside one of your woven travel bags, hoping that one day, the man you dreamt about will be able to wear it.
Whenever you are free from both weaving lessons and Tonowari’s constant nagging, you delve deep into the forest that the island offers, collecting herbs and fruits. Apparently, the Metkayina have learnt to make the most out of what the sea has to offer, and subsequently rarely explore the forest except for harvesting fruits. The seaside forest is a bit different from what you were used to, but fortunately the plants do not differ that much.
The first time you show the Tsahìk how you used to make disinfectant salves in the forest, she stares at the concoction like it has just clicked something in her brain. She smells it, tries it on one of the hunter’s light scratches and notes how he doesn’t lament any stinging. “Why don’t you come with me and my tsakarems one of these days?” She asks finally. “I’m sure we could teach you something, as well as learn from your… peculiar ways.”
The next day, you ask about the tsakarems to Tonowari as he gently hoists you up to an ilu. “Here, when the Tsahìk doesn’t have a daughter, she takes various apprentices under her wing,” he explains, showing you how to place your feet to avoid falling off of the creature’s back. “And then, either the most talented or the one the future Olo’eyktan chooses becomes Tsahìk, while the others go on to become healers.”
You still fall off of the ilu’s back, but it doesn’t really matter — because Tonawari is there, ready to catch you, and immediately steadies you as you come crashing onto him. You’ll learn, he signs, still underwater. Do not worry, you’ll learn.
The two of you have grown significantly closer since your arrival, and you try not to notice the way his touch tentatively lingers over your hips as he brings the both of you back to the surface. The two of you stare at each other then, his hands still atop your waist, and just as he’s about to say something, the moment is broken by Nala — and either she’s obsessed with his biceps at least half as much as you are, or she’s really just a little, fat bugger. You both laugh as she slobbers all over your face, his hands leaving your body, and you have to convince yourself that you’re not missing his touch to continue the riding lesson.
Your weak spots are the signing lessons and the apnea training, mostly because your complete attention on him is needed to actually learn something.
The first time he pushes his hand into your belly to show you how to breathe with your stomach, you thought you would’ve been able to faint right here and there — or swoon, depending on how you see it. And whenever he shows you new signs and their meaning, unfortunately all you can think about is what exactly his fingers can do.
After lunch, you join the Tsahìk and the tsakarems in their dive for medical algae; a girl named Ronal shows you the best shells to pick to add to plants to make a paste, and the fishes that you have to follow to find a certain type of anemone with incredible healing properties. She’s a little ruffled by your presence at the lesson and you can tell, but you don’t find it in yourself to judge her; you’re pretty sure that when Jake was learning your ways, you were far more suspicious of him than she is of you.
Weirdly enough, the Tsahìk comes looking for you when you don’t show up to her lesson the day after. You come to find out that what you thought was a once-and-done offer was meant to be a more permanent position among the tsakarems, and now your evenings are filled with her lessons about spirituality and healing, too.
But the best thing about Awa’atlu is, by far, Eywa’s presence: she’s everywhere, in the waters you swim into the bonfire Avrak lights when it’s time for dinner, and for the first time in months, you feel safe. Even Ry’ia does, and it’s evident in the way she made herself a nest atop one of the highest trees in the forest.
You’ve made friends with the elders and two girls close to your age, Wali and Em’a, and the curious glances that the Metkayina sent you on that first day you spent here are nothing but memories now, as they have seemed to accept you as one of her own.
Ironically enough, you start noticing how close Ronal and Tonawari are just now that you know her.
Nothing much, but still noticeable, because most of the women in the clan are not close enough to him to be touching him — but she does. And for some reason, a lingering touch on his arm here and two grazing knees there are all it takes to ruin your night.
You know it’s stupid — a lot, actually. You’d already figured that one day, Tonowari will have to choose a beautiful and probably Metkayina woman to mate with to become the Tsahìk when his mother won’t be able to be anymore. Ronal is smart, definitely the prettiest tsakarem out of Tsika’s group, and above all, an established Metkayina in the clan. You, meanwhile, still have to properly mount an ilu, and Eywa forbids a skimwing.
When the fire dies out and it’s time for everyone to go to sleep, you sneak away from your friends to find refuge in that same rocky coast you landed on the night you arrived, and find yourself looking at the stars.
The next morning, after yet another slip down the back of your ilu, you’re ready to pack your bags and go back to wallowing in your pity in the remains of the Hometree, but Tonowari stops you by the tail and drags you back into the water, already hoisting you up the ilu’s back again. “Come on,” he encourages you, getting on the saddle right behind you. “Make the bond– I'll worry about not making you fall.”
Your eye twitches. Just how are you supposed to stay focused on the ilu when you can feel his chest pressing against your back, and his arms basically engulfing your own as he holds onto the saddle? He blinks at your staring, acting oblivious. “What?”
By some miracle, you manage to focus on your mount. The ilu’s speed causes you to completely lean on Tonowari for support, but he doesn’t seem to mind — the opposite, actually. One of his arms wrap around your midriff to keep you more stable, and while underwater you can feel his chin rest on your shoulder, when you rise back to the surface it’s his breath that you can feel on your cheek — and you know for a fact that he’s doing that on purpose, because he’s much taller than you, and he has to be crouching to be almost your height.
“See?” He whispers in your ear. “It’s not so hard.” Well, of course it isn’t with him assuring you don’t fall. Slowly, you lift your head up to look at him, a brow raised in amusement. “Not with you here, mister.”
Your sultry gaze makes him blush — an absolute hunk of a man who has surely had his fun playing with your closeness up until now, defeated by the batting of eyelashes. Unbelievable. His index finger traces a little pattern over your side, his eyes not leaving yours, “Then I’ll be here for as long as you’ll need me.”
Wali and Em’a tease you endlessly about your lessons with Tonowari, and although they are terrible at catching fishes with the nets, whenever the two of you are out in the water they’re suddenly the most interested in fishing, even if their eyes are directed to anything but their supposed catches. They insist on rebraiding your hair in the Metkayina way when your braids start growing out, picking the prettiest shells and beads they can find to intertwine them in your strands. Considering you ditched your feather tops for their net-and-shell ones a while ago, if it weren’t for the colour of your skin and your tail you could probably pass as a reef Na’vi without too much trouble.
But the main problem remains — you are not a Metkayina, not in the true sense of the word. And you are reminded of that as you see Ronal drag Tonowari away from the bonfire during dinner.
Your mood shifts visibly. You play around with the fruits on your bowl, completely bummed, and Em’a and Wali share a knowing look. “Maybe she just wants to talk to him,” the latter whispers, as her friend nods. “Yeah, they butted heads allll the time when we were kids. I’m sure he just did an ugly marui pod and she wants to point out every single mistake he made with the weaving.”
You huff a bitter laugh, “Yeah, because I’m sure that that kind of stuff requires an immediate discussion.”
You go back to watching the stars atop the rocky coast that night — it’s a habit by now, because even if you feel happy here, you still miss your mother and sister. The thought of the three of you watching the same sky always manages to comfort you. Alas, now it’s helping you overcome how stupid you’re feeling, because you know that Ronal is perfect for Tonowari.
She’s been a tsakarem for longer than you, has grown up with him, knows how to ride an ilu perfectly and knows the way of the water like the back of her hand. She doesn’t come from who-knows-where, where trees grow as tall as the stars and far away from their beloved ocean, doesn’t have a useless tail for swimming, and doesn’t need to resurface constantly for a breath of air as much as you do. Wanting to be with him is selfish, because you’re fully aware that there’s already someone perfect for him out there.
Still, that doesn’t mean it hurts less.
The next day you opt to avoid Tonowari’s lessons, staying close to Em’a and Wali to help them stitch a wedding gift for one of the village’s couples on one of the empty, woven platform just above the water surface. The chief’s son had looked confused when he’d found you with the women instead of in your marui, but his questioning glance was met with a shrug. “Well, they need this gift done before the end of this week. I won’t be able to ride an ilu properly any time soon, anyways.”
His shoulders sag a bit and he looks like a grounded ikran, but he still nods and goes his way, back to the beach. “What?” you ask Em’a when she stares at you, gaping. “He looked so sad! Why didn’t you go with him? Me and Wali could’ve finished this alone!”
You go back to your stitching, fiddling with the strings. Your mind takes you back to the other day — the way his finger traced your skin — and still, a little part of you can’t help but wonder how things would be if he didn’t like another girl already. “Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude between him and Ronal, you know.”
Your friends stare at each other, not knowing what to say — it’s not like they can rebuke without knowing what the two of them talked about — or did — last night.
You spend the day avoiding Tonowari like they pay you for it, running errands in the forest for the Tsahìk and finishing baskets with the elders, and by the time dinner time arrives, you can’t evade him anymore without half the clan wondering what happened between you two.
You’re sitting beside Em’a — who’s arguing with Priya about what shells are best for a chest piece — when someone tugs at your braids as gently as possible. “Hey,”
Of course, it’s him. He looks a bit sheepish, a weird leather pouch over his shoulder as he lets your hair go and sits beside you, brushing a fallen braid behind your ear. “I like the way you did your hair– it’s really pretty.”
Well, if Priya and Em’a weren’t listening before, now they definitely are. It’s a miracle Wali is on cooking duty tonight, because otherwise, you’d have three very nosey listeners instead of two. You blush, “Um– really?” Damn him and the effect he has on you. One day, he’ll be Ronal’s — but you decide that it surely won’t be a problem if you have his attention, just for tonight.
He nods, a smile gracing his features. “The prettiest,” for some reason, it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about the braids anymore, but you’re not brave enough to point it out aloud. “You know, I was thinking that we could try again with the ilus tomorrow. Don’t let a few falls discourage you — I’m sure I fell a lot when I had to learn, too.”
You scoff, swatting him on the arm. “Really? Big, bad Tonowari beaten by a skimpy ilu?”
He rubs the back of his neck, “Well, actually, I don’t really remember — I was little — but I’m pretty sure my bad memory is just because I probably hit my head really hard while falling.”
That manages a laugh out of you — and it’s like he can go back to breathing properly, because he had really thought he had done something that offended you in some way or the other. He was more stressed than he let out this morning, when you refused to come with him to see the ilus.
The night goes on and you laugh like you haven’t in months. He sure knows how to make great company when he wants to, and his arm — leaned on the sand behind your back — sometimes brushes against your spine, causing pleased goosebumps to etch over your skin. Eywa, you want him to be even closer so bad.
And it’s just when he leans down and scoots a little closer, his hand tentatively resting on your back, that you notice her.
Ronal is glaring at you from the other side of the bonfire, her arms crossed and her fingers tapping impatiently. The charm wears off — you remind yourself that you can’t exactly pretend she doesn’t exist for a night, because even if you don’t owe her anything, you don’t want to cause any rift between her and Tonowari. It’s not like he’ll ever mate with you, anyway.
So you gently pull away, trying to ignore his hurt stare as you get up from your previous sitting position. “I– did I do something? Are you–”
“Sorry, I just need a breather,” you disappear into the forest, but not before seeing Ronal stomping angrily towards Tonowari, surely ready to yell at him. Priya and Em’a cast worried glances at your back, but you’re too distraught to actually notice.
The rocky coast is quiet in contrast to the continuous chatter of the bonfire, as the sound of the waves is the only thing breaking the silence. You hug your knees close to your chest, staring at the stars, wondering what and how Neytiri is doing right now — cuddled up with Jake, no doubt. Well, if Ronal wasn’t so perfect for Tonowari, you think you’d like being cuddled up to him, too–
A hand on your shoulder nearly makes you jump out of your bones — were you really so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the same man you were just daydreaming about approaching? Embarrassing. If your father were alive, you wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Tonowari sits beside you again, and you hug your knees just a little closer. “I, um,” he stutters, and you can’t believe a man of his size is able to get embarrassed. “Today, when I went hunting outside the reef, I got you something.” He grabs the pouch slinged over his shoulders, opening it to reveal a beautiful conch shell.
You’ve never seen one so big — it’s probably the size of your head, if not bigger. The outer shell is iridescent, reacting to the bioluminescence of the waves that crash underneath you, while the inside is streaked in blue and purple. You’ve never seen anything like it, and you gape at the sight. “Tonowari, what…”
“I saw it and it just reminded me of you,” he explains, his cheeks a pleasant indigo. He holds it out for you to take, and if you weren’t sure your eyes were playing tricks on you, you’d say his hands were trembling slightly. “And so, as it is tradition, I thought I should’ve gotten it for you– if you will accept it, that is.”
You’re too dumbfounded by the seashell to really listen to him. You take it in your hands, tasting the weight of it, admiring its colors and wondering how something so beautiful could have reminded him of you. At last, you find yourself hugging it close to your chest, even if its spikes poke a little into your arm. “Thank you, Tonowari,” you say, feeling as full as anyone can be.
He perks up, his ears twitching like he’s in disbelief, his tail moving happily in the sand. “…Really? You accept it?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?” It's a gift, and you don’t plan on giving it back to him anytime soon. It’s too beautiful to even sit anywhere near his man-cave.
The grin he makes takes up his whole face. “Okay. Okay, that’s great. Fantastic, even.”
Gently, he touches your arm. “So, how about riding those ilus tomorrow?”
The next morning, you manage to mount an ilu properly — without Tonowari behind you for support, that is. It’s nothing much, but it’s still a step forward into life in the reef, and from the way your teacher claps and hollers, you’d think you’d tamed an akula.
Later that evening, you’re still helping Em’a and Wali with their wedding gift, as well as recounting last night’s events to their flabbergasted faces. “A conch shell?” Wali asks to confirm, her thread and beads long forgotten.
You nod, mimicking the size of the shell with your hands, “Yeah, a thing this big,”
Em’a squeals, “No way! I didn’t think he was so straight forward!”
Confused, you ask, “What do you mean? He was just being nice,”
They look at each other, gaping, then back at you, “What do you mean, he was just being–”
They’re interrupted by someone sitting down next to you without asking permission, and you blanch when you see Ronal. “Oh– oh, um, hi.”
She blinks at you like it’s no big deal, then picks up a spare thread and needle and begins helping you with the netting. “So, what did Tonowari tell you last night?”
You hesitate. “Oh, um, you know — lessons stuff. A few tips on how to balance my weight on the ilus better. Um… in a– friendly way?”
She perks up an eyebrow suspiciously, her ears twitching in annoyance. “Lessons stuff, huh?” she repeats, stitching a shell in the most aggressive way you’ve ever seen — even Neytiri bad-mouthing Jake never reached these levels of hostility. “In a friendly way? Is that so?”
You share a panicked glance with your friends, laughing awkwardly. “Yes?” It sounds more like a question than a reply, and that’s probably what tips her over the edge. Her eye twitches, and she doesn’t even bother to put the needle and thread where she found them as she rises back up to her feet while grumbling, “If you’ll excuse me,”
“She didn’t even try to be sneaky,” Em’a mutters as soon as she’s out of hearing range, “what’s up with her?”
Your stomach churns, “Well, it’s probably the fact that–”
A loud slap echoes from the village, making the three of you flinch. A second slap ensues. When you look up, you notice that Tonowari is standing on the shore, holding his jaw with his cheeks already turning an ugly purple, and Ronal is marching away, fuming.
…Yeah. You probably shouldn’t have accepted that shell thinking that it wouldn’t matter if he was going to marry her anyways.
You wonder what exactly is between them, but can’t find it in yourself to ask him — mostly because you aren’t brave enough to tell him that you like him. Em’a and Wali can keep telling you that there’s nothing between them, but recent events continue to prove them wrong.
That night, at dinner, you mostly keep to yourself, deep in your thoughts, and even if Priya tries to drag you out of your misery, it’s all futile. For one reason or another the fruit you’re munching on tastes bitter, and you’re not sure if Tonowari’s absence around the bonfire helps or worsens your mood. It’s only when Ronal herself pats your shoulder and gestures for the beach that you get out of your haze.
She tugs you by your arm down onto the shore, as silent as ever. “Listen, I’m really sorry–”
“Did you do anything you need to apologise for?” she asks, jumping off a rock. You stumble, “I– well, I know you and Tonowari probably–”
“Stupid forest girl,” she huffs, not even looking at you, “thinks I want him like he’s some kind of trophy when he’s stupid like a baby–”
“Hey! That’s not nice–”
She tugs you roughly one last time only to let your arm go as you reach where the ocean meets the sand, and you fall down in the water, wetting your — newly made, you must add — loincloth. You groan, rubbing your backside, “Ow– I get that you’re mad, but this seems a little too much to me–”
Ronal points to somewhere behind you, looking tired of you. “Go.”
You blink, confused — and then you turn, only to catch sight of Tonowari, only a few klicks behind, mounting an ilu. He raises a hand to greet you, the smile on his face nervous, and you notice that he’s got that pouch slung over his shoulder again.
Hesitant, you turn to Ronal — looking for what, you don’t know. She raises an eyebrow expectantly, “What are you waiting for? Go.”
You’re not sure you want to know what kind of game she’s playing, but something tugs at your tail. It’s Nala, you come to realize, and she’s trying to drag you off to Tonowari.
You relent, following the zukzuk and mostly letting yourself get carried by the current until you’re in front of him. He gestures his fingers to his forehead as a salute and then holds his hand out to you, “Care for a swim?”
Still hesitant, you look at the ilu, then back at him. “No baby akulas trying to eat me this time?”
He laughs, “No, not where we’re going.”
You allow him to hoist you atop the ilu — because even if you're capable of doing it yourself, he always does that — and then climbs up in front of you, holding one hand behind your thigh to keep you steady and the other on the reins. “Hold on tight.”
You have to admit that riding at night is beautiful. Other than the moons and stars above you, the only light comes from the bioluminescence, and you remove one hand from his waist to brush the surface of the water, in awe. Nala swims beside you, holding up with the pace with some effort, but still looking very happy to see you and her carer together.
Tonowari stops the ilu when floating rocks and boulders — like a miniature-size Hallelujah Mountains — start to appear in the sky. “Where are we?”
He turns to smile at you. “You came here for Eywa, didn't you?” he asks, “Well, you could say we're going to visit her.”
He dives and you follow him, still a bit reluctant. He stops to let you catch up to him when he notices that you’re a bit behind him, a hand coming up to hold your smaller one — and suddenly, all of this feels very familiar. The fishes twirling around the two of you, the rocks and algae shimmering, the life you can feel buzzing within the water–
Tonowari lets go of your hand as you stare all around you, but it’s just to sign something. Come with me, our Spirit Tree is this way. His hand comes up to the small of your back, and if you weren’t holding your breath, you’re sure you would’ve sputtered.
If he notices the way you’re staring at him — like you just discovered a whole new person — he doesn’t mention it. He just guides you through the swarms of nocturnal fishes until you see it — the Spirit Tree.
Never in your life you would’ve thought that something like that could’ve existed underwater. It looks like it’s made out of dreams, shining upon anything that comes close to it, and Tonowari’s hand slowly leaves your back as you approach it — he’s letting you have some space, you realise.
Meeting the ancestors is like going back home — maybe it’s because in the spirit realm the Hometree and all the people that came down with it are alive, or maybe it’s because you didn’t do it for a long time. Either way, once you come back from it — you have to, the air in your lungs is starting to feel less and less every second that passes — you come to find out that finally, you feel truly at peace.
You swim up to a rock covered in moss to catch your breath, taking a moment to admire your surroundings — you’ve swam up to an open cave, it seems, painted and engraved with stories from the start of the Metkayina clan to the new days. Tulkuns, ilus and Na’vi twirl across the stone, set for an endless dance across generations, and you hear the water crinkle beside you.
“Do you like it?”
You nod, “It’s beautiful. Our Spirit Tree, back in the forest, doesn’t really offer any space for carvings.”
Tonowari nods, looking at the artwork scattered across the walls. “This is the Cove of the Ancestors. It’s where we bring the dead to rest, where newborns have their first contact with Eywa and ceremonies are held.”
You hum, already imagining him in full Olo’eyktan attire, his father passing down his spear to him. The man clears his throat. “I… I also brought you here for another reason other than the Spirit Tree — Ronal suggested I might’ve wanted to… clear things up a bit between us.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. Ah, there it goes. “There’s nothing to clear up,” you assure him, even if your chest feels like it’s imploding. “It’s okay. I know you have responsibilities — and we both know that Ronal’s the best tsakarem out there.”
He blinks, confused. A beat passes, slowly. Then, “But I don’t want Ronal.”
Oh. Oh.
You stutter, wondering if he’s joking — and from the way he’s looking at you, he’s not. “But– I thought you two had a thing. She dragged you away from the bonfire the other night — she’s always so close — she slapped you this morning just because we talked last night.”
Tonowari’s laughter is sincere and without any malice behind it. “What? No!”
He removes his pouch from his shoulder, and opens it to reveal another conch shell– even bigger than the last one. It’s different, though: this one reminds you of him, all turquoise and light blue accents, and you wonder just how many hours he has spent looking for it. “Here in Awa’atlu, gifting a big conch shell symbolises the start of a courtship,” he explaines — embarrassed, perhaps? “I got so used to having you around that I forgot you weren’t born Metkayina, and probably didn’t know of the tradition. Honestly, I was too happy you had accepted it to ask myself if you knew about it — and for that, I owe you my apologies.”
You soften visibly, but still hold a little resistance. “But Ronal–”
“Ronal is a friend,” he empathizes the word, “if anything, she sees me as a brother she can’t get out of her hair. All this time, she’s pressured me to make my move on you — before the other skxawngs in the village noticed all your qualities. That day at the bonfire? We kept arguing over what compliments I should’ve used for your hair.”
You blush, “I kept telling her I should’ve just told you that you were beautiful — which was true — but she kept insisting for a subtler approach. And when we came back, you weren’t there.”
You fiddle with the shells of your chestpiece, “Well, I thought you went to have some alone time with her or something,” you mutter.
Another laugh. “So, you escaped to watch the stars every time we were a little too close? I’m flattered that you kept looking at me,”
You push at his arm, “Then why did she slap you this morning? Your cheeks are still swollen, by the way.”
He snorts, “Ouli — the ceremonial tattooer — gave her a conch shell a week ago, and she has accepted it. She can’t wait to be absolved from tsakarem’s duties, but they can’t step down until the Tsahìk — and the future chief — choose who, one day, will guide the people spiritually.” Two of his fingers come up to your chin, holding your head up to stare into your eyes softly, “She was waiting for me to choose you. I told her I’d propose the shell to you yesterday, and then she found out that apparently, you saw it as a friendly talk. Needless to say, she was pissed.”
“But– I’m not even fully trained yet. She’s better at–”
He shakes his head, “I don’t care what she’s better at — I know you’ll learn everything about our ways, eventually. You’ve already proven yourself worthy enough.” he raises the shell again, his hand moving up to your cheek. “So, what do you say if we try this once more? I found another shell just to ask you again.”
You take the shell in your hands, admiring it for a moment before throwing all your self-control out of the picture, jumping in his arms so abruptly that he falls down on his backside. The kiss is mind-shattering, his hug is everything you imagined it would be, and his body is just as warm as it was in the dream where you saw him for the first time.
The funniest thing is that once you pull away, you both are gasping for air — something you’ve never seen him do, even after diving sessions that seemed to be hours long. Tightening the hold of your arms around his neck, you press your chests even closer, your noses brushing. “Is this the answer you wanted?”
He huffs a chuckle, his eyes already looking down at your lips again, “I don’t know– seemed a bit too friendly to me. But maybe, if you do that again, say, three or four times more, I might grasp the concept fully…”
You’re pretty sure the two of you could’ve stayed there kissing all night — and maybe even more than that, with the way you could feel him pressing against your crotch — if it wasn’t for Nala, who, by the time you went back for seconds for the fourth time, already had enough and positively jumped over the two of you, breaking the sweet moment with barks and flaps of her tail.
That doesn’t stop you from sharing quick, frenzy kisses whenever she’s not looking, as by the time Tonowari accompanies you back to your marui, your lips still feel swollen and are surely flushed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks you, pressing one last peck to your cheek. You nod, giving his hand one last squeeze, “‘Course,”
You decide to take things slowly — you still don’t know the Metkayina’s ways to their full extent, after all. The next few months are made of exhausting training, as now you’re the only tsakarem and still have to pass your iknimaya, and you don’t want to let anyone down. You know the expectations that everyone has about the Tsahìk, and you surely have no intention to make Tonowari look bad as Olo’eyktan when the time comes.
And about him, he surely makes the intensive training easier.
Everytime he notices that you’re a little too stressed he makes sure to bring you a trinket from his hunts — let it be a weird rock that looks like a heart or a basket full of shells you can make your chest coverings with. He finds flowers to put in your hair during meal times, and just swings you over his shoulder like a pouch full of water when he decides that you’re overworking yourself a tad bit too much, dragging you to his marui for a well-deserved nap.
The day of your iknimaya marks your formal entry in the clan — one who later on becomes even more real thanks to your mating ceremony.
It’s a quiet affair — quieter than it is usual for the son of the chief — but neither of you resent the lack of festivities or celebration, because the most important thing is that you are now mated for life. Per Metkayina tradition, you rebraid each other’s kuru braids, picking beads and shells perfect for each other just for the occasion, and when the time to exchange your wedding gifts comes, you think back to Priya’s words and wonder just who she married — because the comb Tonowari carved out of coral is nothing short of stunning.
“I’ve never been to your forest,” he tells you as you brush the swirls of the flowers and trees etched along the smooth side, “but I’ve tried imagining it so many times, I can only hope I brought it justice.” It may not be completely accurate to the forest, but the thought he put into it is more than appreciated nonetheless. In exchange, he wears your armband like it’s a badge of honor, even if it’s a little too tight on his bicep. (Not that you’re complaining — the sight is scrumptious, and you can’t believe you get to wake up next to him for the rest of your life.)
You quickly settle in the marui Tonowari built with his father in the months of courting, and after a few months of blissful marriage, you don’t even notice when your belly starts to grow.
You just assumed you were getting a little too comfortable in your new life with him and maybe put on a bit of weight — after all, the Metkayina are much softer than the Omatikaya, so maybe your body’s just adapting to the environment. You think so, until Tonowari points it out.
One morning, as he’s tying his braids back, he stops to look at you — still lying half-asleep on the mat you share, barely awake yet. He crouches to stare weirdly at your belly, then pokes at your bellybutton like he’s trying to study a new species of fish. “Oeyä Tanhì,” he starts — my star, a nickname he has taken a liking to calling you since your wedding.
You hum non-committedly. “Yes, Ma Wari?”
He keeps poking at your stomach, and keeps doing so even when you try to swat his hand away. “Stop it, Tonowari, it tickles.”
He kisses your cheek, and continues doing so all the way to your forehead, brushing your hair away from your face as he leans his cheek over the top of your head. His chuckle is full of disbelief as he whispers, “My love, I think you’re with child. Your belly is rounder and stiff.”
A moment passes. Then, “Are you calling me fat first thing in the morning, Tonowari?”
A terrifying silence and a visit to Tsika later, it’s confirmed — you are pregnant, already four months along. You’re confused, mostly because your people don’t show up until five months, but one look at your hunk of a husband is all it takes to explain your questions.
Your second tattoo is to celebrate the pregnancy. While the first was above your eyebrow and went down to your cheek, this one cups the upper part of your belly and continues to your sides, still leaving some space for eventual other tattoos on your lower belly and hips.
At night, you sit on the step going onto the ocean of your marui, letting your feet float in the water as Tonowari sits on a banked canoe below, rubbing ointment on your freshly-done tattoo. “The arch symbolises the first pregnancy,” he mumbles softly, “the sides, protection for the firstborn. If another pregnancy occurs, a piece will be added here,” he brushes against the empty, rounded sides of your belly, “for protection of the second born, and then one for the third, and so on.”
You laugh, playing with one of his braids. “I think you’re getting too full of yourself, mister– let me give birth to this one before talking about other children, will you?”
He rests his head in your lap, almost purring when you start tracing lines over his face and scalp, “And when the child is born,” he adds, a hand still over your stomach, “the father gets a tattoo over the heart, one that turns into a spiral as more children come.”
A hum, “Maybe we should start thinking about names first, Ma Wari.”
The agreement is, he chooses the name if it’s a boy, you choose if it’s a girl. He picks the name Aonung; you opt for Tsireya.
His father’s illness comes as a bitter surprise to all.
It starts with a cough, then he’s getting groggy when he moves a little too much, until no remedies the Tsahìk, you or the healers try to use work, as he lies bedridden in the marui him and his wife have shared for decades.
Tonowari is understandingly broken up about it — the man who he grew up idolizing, who offered you a refuge in your grief, who helped him build the marui where you’ll be raising your child and every other one that might come after them. He won’t be meeting his grandchild, and even if Arvak insists for you to sleep properly in your own pod for the wellness of the baby, you’re not going to leave him or your husband alone in this difficult time.
You and your mate spend every night by his side as Tsika prays and chants for Eywa, not getting a blink of sleep herself, until the inevitable comes, and Arvak’s hand finally goes limp in hers.
The period of mourning doesn’t seem like nearly enough for Tonowari to handle his grief — he spends every night curled up into you, resting his head on your lap, trying to find comfort in you and his unborn child. He’s so big that if the situation was a little different, you would’ve laughed; instead, you just hold him close and sing him to sleep.
But life doesn’t stop for grief, and you know that well. Soon, he’s named Olo’eyktan and you Tsahìk, Tsika stepping down from her position with tears in her eyes as she gives you her headpiece.
Time in the village goes fast — people to heal, ceremonies to make, salves to concoct and prayers to hear. Months pass and your belly starts feeling impossibly big, so much so that the kids of the clan start following you everywhere to help their increasingly more tired Tsahìk. Tonowari always laughs when he sees them, going on about how Nala now has competition for the place in your heart reserved for children and animals, and the otterfin herself brings you a gift everyday — let it be a polished rock she found while swimming or a type of seaweed she thinks to be delicious.
The contractions start at night. You toss and turn in pain but try to avoid waking up Tonowari, just in case it’s a false alarm like the ones you had in the last three days. It’s only when he nudges you with a gentle hand — hair still mussed a bit with sleep — and tells you that the mat is wet that you understand that your child is coming.
Tsika and Ronal — now one of the best healers in the village and happily mated to Ouli — don’t spare any minute after your husband calls for them, and immediately have him carry you — now almost delirious with pain — to the birthing pond, where the water is warm and Eywa’s presence strong. The sigh you let out when your husband gently positions you against the rocky wall of it is one of pure bliss, and your clammy skin now surely doesn’t give you any problem.
Aonung is born hours later at dawn, resurfacing out of the water by himself like tradition, crying out for his father to take him. Tonowari takes one good look at him, hears his strong wails and immediately passes him to your tired, waiting arms, “A boy,” he says breathlessly, brushing your braids out of your face, “a healthy, strong boy.” He presses his lips to your forehead, a tear slipping down his cheek, “Thank you, Oeyä Tanhì, thank you.”
“Aonung,” you call out sobbing, as the babe stops his crying and latches onto your breast. “Hi, my sweet, hi,” he’s a little bigger than Omatikaya babies, but you love him nonetheless. He nestles over your chest as soon as he’s done feeding, and chooses that that’s now his favourite place to be.
In the next few weeks, your son reveals himself to be a real mama’s boy. During the day, he stays curled up in your chest in the netted wrap that Em’a and Wali had made for you, and Eywa forbid Tonowari tries to help you by taking him — because he will cry until his ears beg for mercy, only to go back to being an angel as soon as he passes him back to you.
The children coo and poke at him when you bring him to meet them, and one of the older ones jokes about how he looks just like your husband, but can only stand you. You laugh at that, because it is true — Aonung is his father’s copy, and maybe that’s why he likes you so much.
It’s only when he reaches three months of age that you gather enough courage to ask Tonowari to visit the forest — not because you’re afraid he’ll say no, but because you’re not sure if you’re ready for it. It’s been almost two years since you left now, and while you aren’t exactly ready to see the remains of the fallen Hometree again, you want Aonung to meet his grandmother and aunt, and your husband to see where you grew up.
Of course, the latter could never deny you anything, and a week later you get on Ry’ia with him behind you and set sail for the forest of the Omatikaya. The village is left to Tsika’s hands, and Aonung babbles happily against your chest as he flies for the first time in his life.
The village is in the same place it was two years ago — it’s just grown a lot since then, marui pods where the branches once weren’t even steady enough — and you laugh when Ry’ia leaves you immediately to go back to the ikrans’ nest, ready to meet her old friends no doubt. You keep one hand over Aonung’s small back and the other in Tonowari’s palm, guiding him through the branches and groves as he stumbles many times.
You laugh, “How does the forest feel, reef boy?”
He pales as he stares down the branch you’re standing on, wondering just how many people die here from falling down into the void. “Dangerous, my love.”
Neytiri screams when she first sees you — alerting all the other villagers about your arrival. She runs to hug you tight, not even noticing your son nestled between you two or the reef Na’vi awkwardly standing behind you until you pull back, a soft smile on your lips. “Sister, it’s been so long–”
You laugh, nodding. “It has been, sister. I wanted to introduce you to Tonowari–” the man salutes her with his fingers going to his forehead and then gesturing towards her as you take Aonung out of his wrap and into your arms, “and little Aonung.”
You don’t notice the way her face falls instantly. Your boy coos at her, gesturing his fat little arms towards her, and the moment is interrupted by Mo’at, far more pleased than her elder daughter at the turn of events. When your sister takes her nephew in her arms and your mother hugs you, she stares at his turquoise skin, larger tail and wide forearms with worry, “He’ll never be able to move fully in the forest with these,”
You chuckle, still in your mother’s embrace, “A good thing we live in the reef then, no?”
Her eyes skim over your sturdier arms, the tattoos over your body and the seashells braided into your hair– and before you know it, she leaves Aonung in Jake’s arms and storms off.
Being back home is nice — because while Awa’atlu became your home in the last two years, here in the forest still live your friends and family, and it’s where you grew up. Your mother spoils Aonung rotten and watches him as you go hunting on your ikran with Ninat and Peyral, while Jakesully — upon Tonowari’s insistence — tries to show him the way of the forest. Your friends chuckle every time they catch sight of your husband, asking if every Na’vi in the reef is as big as him, and if you know any Metkayina men willing to marry in the Omatikaya.
Neytiri, who you found out to be pregnant the day you arrived, mostly stays by herself, pondering, and whenever you ask if she wants to do anything with you she refuses, lamenting nausea or other pains.
You talk to Mo’at about it, worried, but she just gives you a weird look. “She’s grieving, child.”
Your eyebrows rise up to your hairline, “What do you mean, grieving? Who died?”
“She thought you were still traveling,” she whispers, caressing Aonung’s curls while he munches on the beads of your braids, “and that once you were ready, you would’ve come back to living here. Seeing you with a mate and a son… it broke her heart, because now she knows you’re not coming back.”
You think back to all the times you two talked about how your children would grow up together, being best friends and close just like you did — and your heart breaks a little, too, because in all of this, you hadn’t considered how she would take the fact of you never fully returning to the forest.
That night, you leave Aonung with Tonowari — as your son has finally started to appreciate his father a little, too — and go looking for Neytiri at the Tree of Souls, knowing that at this hour, she usually prays and chants her songcord.
She stops when she hears you approach, her ears perking up. You smile softly, “I thought we could pray together– like the old days?” When your father was still alive, your sister still arranged to Tsu’tey, and the both of you were less complicated. When she could still become Tsahìk, and you had no reason to.
She scoffs a little, “Like the old days,” she mutters, “am I supposed to pretend that you didn’t turn your back on me?”
You grimace, taking a seat next to her, “Tiri…”
“Don’t ‘Tiri’ me,” she hisses, “you have no right– I was waiting for you. Waiting for you to come back–” her voice cracks — pregnancy emotions; you know them too well. “For you to come back here and marry one of our men like our ancestors did for centuries. Instead, you marry a reef Na’vi and– and move Eywa knows how far from here without saying anything–”
She breaks down, and you shush her gently, cradling her head on your shoulder. This feels familiar, because when you were kids, she was usually the one comforting you. “Why did it have to be the Olo’eyktan?” she cries, her tears wetting your skin, “Couldn’t you find someone less important — someone you could come here to live with?”
You shake your head, pressing your cheek on the crown of her hair for comfort, “I didn’t choose him, Tiri,” you say softly, “I fell in love. That’s not something one controls, and you, out of all people, should know that.”
Still in denial, she sobs harder, “What will it be of our kids?” she asks, pressing a hand over her slightly swollen belly, “Will they grow up as strangers, like they’ll be to our father and sister? Will they look at their aunt and wonder if she’s an outsider?”
“Never, sister, never,” you hush, “we’ll visit — you and Jake can visit, too.”
As her cries die down, she asks, “Does the thought of living here still scare you so much?”
And for that, to your horror, you don’t find an answer.
Tsireya comes a little over a year after her brother, and this time, she looks like you. She still has her father’s Metkayina features — the tail, her forearms — but one good look at her face, and it doesn’t take a Tsahìk to guess that she’s your daughter. Ironically enough, she prefers her father's chest over yours — unless we’re talking about feeding time, because, let’s be real, Tonowari will never be able to beat you at that for obvious reasons.
Aonung has started to waddle a while ago, and has been restless since. He goes from your marui to his grandmother’s, visiting Ronal and Em’a on the way, falling at least twelve times in the meantime. He loves swimming with you and his father, constantly bugs his sister when she’s stealing the milk that he’s convinced should be his, and plays with Nala on the shore when the zukzuk starts following him around.
He’s a sweet boy who brings you flowers and pieces of fruit when he notices the smallest frown on your face, and loves cuddles from mom and dad before and after going to sleep. And even if he’s a little mean to his sister sometimes, you know he loves her very much from the way he begs you to let her swim with him or wants to share his food with her.
You visit Neytiri a few more times, but the visits slowly come to an end when you realize that she has no intention of ever coming to the reef to see the life you’ve built here. While Mo’at visits frequently, bringing the children gifts and swarming them with affection, your older sister seems to have accepted the fact that in her eyes, you’ll never be truly close again.
You accept the notion with far more ease than you could have ever imagined — because you have a family now, and people that look up to you for guidance. If Neytiri doesn’t want to see that, it’s okay; you’ll never manage to love her any less for it.
The kids grow quicker than you realize, because soon, Tsireya is waddling behind Aonung too, and the excruciating process of weaning her off starts.
Her brother had been even more difficult, so you’re actually quite relieved to see that she at least does not cry herself to exhaustion every night like he did. But every time she lets out the smallest whimper, you find Tonowari’s big eyes boring into yours, with that look that says, we could resolve the problem by just having another baby. You always glare at him when he suggests that, because two kids under three already feel like more than enough now, and you have no intention of having another one so soon.
But as she often does, Eywa has a different plan for you.
Tonowari hurriedly wakes you up one night as you’re resting on the sleeping mat, nearly asleep as the kids quietly snore beside you. He’d been out all evening to help his mother with some herbs while you watched the children, so you’re worried to find him so distraught. “One of the Ta’unui’s women died in birth,” he whispers, careful not to wake up Aonung or Tsireya, “they need to feed him, but none of the women in their village is nursing. Could you…?”
He doesn’t even have to ask, really, because five minutes later you’re sitting in the Tsahìk’s tent, nursing little Rotxo while the Ta’unui Olo’eyktan shares worried whispers with Tonowari. The newborn is a little chunkier than Aonung and Tsireya were, but that just means that his mom, while she could, took good care of him.
“He’s an orphan,” you hear the chief say, “his dad died a little while ago on a hunt, and he’s only got his grandmother now — but frankly, she’s old, and I doubt she’ll be able to take care of him for long…”
The solution seems clear in your eyes, and after talking to Rotxo’s grandmother about her new place in the Metkayina village, you introduce Aonung and Tsireya to their new little brother. They don’t ask why you didn’t have a big belly like the other pregnant women in the village, or why his skin isn’t a little bluer like theirs, and instead take to him instantly, putting shared efforts to find nice shells and smooth little rocks to put in the woven crib where he naps.
Everyday, you bring him to his grandmother so that she can have a piece of her daughter back with her, and slowly, she takes a liking to your children as well. They start calling her grandma like they do to Tsika and Mo’at, and you don’t miss the way she seems to be rejuvenated by being around such lively children.
“No more kids, huh?” Tonowari teases you gently one evening, the sun fading into the horizon, as you breastfeed little Rotxo while watching Aonung and Tsireya play with ilu cubs in the water.
You swat his arm, so tired but so full of love. “Oh, shut up, Tonowari. The next kid we have, we’ll have in at least ten years.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused, “Oh? So, we will have another kid?”
You blush — incredible how after having two of his kids and being bare for him so many times, he still manages to get a reaction out of you. “Maybe.”
He hums, an arm wrapping around your shoulders as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yeah? And what do you want to call them, if it’s a girl?”
You look down to little Rotxo, his hand opening and closing around the curve of your breast, his chunky belly pressing against your ribs. It’s ridiculous — the way Tonowari can get you to think about another baby while already having three small children.
Could you do a Tonowari x fem!Metkayina reader where she’s chosen to be Tsahik and his mate, but he thinks she only wants the title—then slowly realizes she genuinely cares in little, quiet ways?
Summary: You were chosen by Tonowari’s mother to be Tsahik and his mate but he never gave you a chance. Until he began to see the quiet ways you loved him.
Part I: The Choice
The reef glowed in the early morning light, beams of sun slipping through the water’s surface and catching on coral outcroppings, painting the village in soft cyan. You stood with your feet planted in the sand, arms at your side, the sea breeze brushing your braids back from your face.
You had never expected this.
“The Great Mother guides my choice,” the current Tsahik said solemnly, her voice echoing around the gathering space. “And she has whispered a name to me.”
A quiet hush settled over the Metkayina clan as eyes turned toward the platform. Beside you stood Tonowari, tall and composed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t look at you. He hadn’t since you’d stepped onto the dais.
Tsahik continued. “My son, the future Olo’eyktan, must walk beside a woman not only of strength but of deep heart. One who knows the sea, and its silence. One who will care for our people as surely as she cares for what is unseen.”
You swallowed, throat dry despite the salt air.
“I name her,” she said, reaching out and placing her hand on your shoulder, “as the future Tsahik of the Metkayina and as the one chosen to walk beside my son, Tonowari.”
Gasps spread through the gathered clan like ripples from a stone. Some were pleased. Some surprised. Some clearly… less than thrilled.
“She’s so young.”
“I thought it would be Neyla.”
“Tonowari will never agree.”
But it was done. The choosing was sacred.
You bowed your head in reverence, then dared to glance at Tonowari beside you.
His face was impassive, carved from stone. Not one flicker of surprise. No joy, no protest. Just a tight nod as he stepped forward and said, “As you wish, Mother.”
And then he stepped back again.
That evening, the firepit roared with celebration. Fish roasted. Elders sang old songs. Dancers wove across the sands in spirals of movement. You sat at the edge of the feast, untouched fruit in your lap, watching Tonowari.
He was surrounded by others warriors, friends, elders but somehow still apart. Like a reef too sharp to swim near.
You didn’t speak to him that night. And he didn’t seek you out.
The days that followed were quiet. At least, for you.
The clan welcomed you with the smiles they saved for duty. You were trained under the Tsahik, taught rituals, healing, the ways of Eywa. You excelled quietly, without need for praise. But whispers followed your shadow wherever you swam.
“She is clever, yes, but was she the right choice?”
“She doesn’t speak much. Perhaps she is unsure.”
“I hear Tonowari avoids her. Maybe there will be another choosing.”
You bore it all. Silently. Stoically.
Even when you passed Tonowari on the way to the reef, and he barely nodded at you. Even when he walked behind you during rituals but never beside you. Even when he allowed others to flirt and laugh and touch his arm as if you did not exist.
He was never cruel. But kindness? That was something else entirely.
You thought, once, of asking him outright: Why do you hate me so? But the words died on your tongue each time you met his distant eyes.
Still, you did what you were meant to do.
You watched. You learned. You remembered.
Tonowari liked grilled fish, not boiled. He dipped his sea fruit in crushed shell spice, never salt. He preferred silence after long swims, not chatter. His armband had three beads carved with his father’s crest he rubbed them when he was anxious.
So you cooked how he liked. Served him during communal meals without fanfare. You replaced the fraying sash of his wrap before he noticed it was worn. You wove a new loincloth for him and left it quietly on his platform, stitched with small green spirals the same pattern as the tattoo near his collarbone.
He didn’t thank you.
But he wore it.
Tonowari was a leader before he was a man. At least, that’s what the elders always said.
You watched him from afar more often than not giving orders before a storm, swimming at the head of every migration, holding the young warriors’ gaze with a kind of gravity that could pull stars from the sky.
And yet, he rarely looked your way.
The absence of hatred wasn’t kindness. It was just emptiness. A space between you wide as the ocean, made wider by every day you stood at his side in ritual but never in spirit.
You stopped expecting warmth from him. You started giving it anyway.
It began with a small basket of food.
The clan had returned from an exhausting dive, hunting large, armored reef beasts. You’d watched from the shore, preparing herbs and bandages in case someone came back wounded. When Tonowari emerged from the sea last, his face was drawn tight, and his shoulder bore a ragged slice along the deltoid.
You didn’t speak. You just approached, cleaned it with practiced hands, and rubbed in a cooling salve from sea anemone roots. He watched you in silence but didn’t flinch.
Later that evening, you prepared his meal separately. Not as Tsahik. Not as some ceremonial gesture.
But as a woman who’d watched him enough to know what calmed his nerves.
Grilled fish, citrus-glazed seaweed, fruit sweetened with crushed shells everything he favored, wrapped in soft cloth and left by his sleeping mat. No note. No fanfare.
The next morning, the basket was returned to your platform. Empty. Clean. Carefully folded.
And not a word was said.
You noticed small things after that.
He didn’t leave the communal fire as early anymore. Sometimes he lingered near where you sat with Tsahik, listening quietly.
He started walking closer beside you. Never touching, never lingering too long but no longer avoiding you either.
One night, a young woman from the weaving groups placed her hand on Tonowari’s arm, laughing brightly at something only she heard.
You expected him to allow it. To remain cold and still as always.
But he gently removed her hand. Said, “Respect the future Tsahik.”
The girl paled. Apologized. Walked away.
You were too stunned to speak. But Tonowari looked at you for the briefest of moments.
And nodded.
That evening, you sat alone by the reef, braiding sea thread into long cords for children’s charms. Your fingers moved from memory, your thoughts drifting like foam on the waves.
You didn’t hear him approach.
“You sit alone often,” came his voice, low and calm.
You blinked. Looked up.
Tonowari stood there, arms at his sides, expression unreadable. The moonlight carved soft lines into his cheekbones, his tattoos catching the blue hue of the night tide.
“It is quiet here,” you answered.
He sat down beside you. Not too close but not far, either.
After a moment, he said, “You knew I liked citrus.”
Your fingers paused in their braid. “Yes.”
“You made the fish perfectly. Even the texture.”
“I listen,” you said simply.
He turned to face you. “Why?”
The word struck deeper than it should have.
You met his eyes. “Because I care.”
He stared at you. Really looked. As if seeing you not as a duty or a name but as a person flesh and thought, desire and devotion, waiting patiently on the other side of silence.
He looked away then, brows drawn. “I thought… you only wanted the title. Like the others.”
You could’ve laughed. Or cried.
Instead, you said, “I never asked for this. But I never asked to be overlooked, either.”
The wind picked up. His fingers twitched on his knee.
“I see that now,” he said, quietly.
In the weeks that followed, the space between you began to close.
He didn’t become someone new overnight. But Tonowari started seeking your counsel more during clan meetings. Asked your opinion before the Tsahik had a chance to answer for you.
Once, he brought you a carved comb made of reefbone. It wasn’t fancy. But the teeth were wide enough for your thick braids, and it had a wave motif carved into the handle one you’d painted onto your sleeping mat as a child.
“How did you know I like this design?” you asked him, genuinely curious.
He shrugged. “I listen.”
You smiled, and this time, he saw it.
There were still bad days.
Tonowari was under pressure. From his people. From his own fears. You learned to recognize the way his shoulders tensed before a council meeting or how his jaw flexed when someone questioned his authority.
But on those days, you made sure his meal was waiting. You touched his arm briefly before a ritual. You whispered, You are enough, once, just before he walked onto the central platform.
He didn’t say anything.
But he took your hand in his when the chants began.
One night, a storm blew hard over the outer reef. Warriors were dispatched to anchor structures and bring in supplies from drifting platforms. Tonowari returned soaked to the bone, bleeding from a coral scrape on his thigh, his hair plastered to his face.
You were waiting.
You didn’t ask. You simply pulled him into your platform hut, dried his arms, and dressed the wound in silence.
He watched you the whole time.
Finally, his voice cracked the quiet. “I do not deserve this from you.”
You tied the last knot in the bandage. “Why not?”
“I doubted you.”
You met his eyes. “You’re not the only one who has.”
“But I was the one who mattered.”
He exhaled sharply. Reached for your wrist stopped. Then, slowly, he brushed your fingers with his.
“I see you,” he whispered.
You froze.
But your heart leapt. Because it wasn’t the formal greeting, the rote phrase of ceremony.
It was real. Raw. His voice broke on the words.
“I see you,” he said again, this time steadier.
You curled your fingers into his. “I’ve seen you every day, Tonowari.”
He bent his forehead to yours.
And for once, there was no sea between you.
Tonowari didn’t kiss you that night.
But something in the air shifted between you. A thick, unseen thing. Like the pause between waves soft, expectant.
After that storm, he no longer hovered near you like someone fulfilling a duty. He sought you. Sought your presence, your thoughts, your quiet eyes.
And for the first time, he gave in return.
It began with a cloak.
You’d woven him many garments before shawls, wrist wraps, satchels. But he’d never made you anything. Not because he was selfish. Because he didn’t know how.
So when he approached you holding a seafoam-colored wrap, edges uneven and clearly stitched by someone still learning, you nearly dropped the basket of dried herbs in your arms.
“I wanted you to have this,” he said, voice low and careful. “You get cold when the wind shifts.”
You took it with trembling fingers. The fabric was rough in places, but warm. It smelled like reef and him.
You pressed it to your cheek.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “This means more than you know.”
His throat bobbed with an unspoken word. But he only nodded and walked away.
That night, you slept wrapped in it.
Time passed gently.
Tonowari began joining you during morning meditations. Once, he helped you carry herbal satchels to the tidepool children. Another time, he braided your hair while you rested from a long healing ceremony, his fingers slow and reverent.
He didn’t speak much. But when he did, his words lingered like whale songs low and warm, felt more in the chest than the ears.
You began to laugh with him. To smile more openly. To touch his wrist when he looked tired, and not worry he would flinch.
And in turn, he looked at you like you were no longer just the Tsahik who was chosen for him
But the woman he would’ve chosen himself.
The clan noticed.
No one dared say anything too directly, but you heard it in their tones.
“Did you see how Tonowari looked at her today?”
“They speak without words now.”
“She softened him.”
And perhaps you had. But more truthfully, he’d let himself be softened. Like sea rock worn down not by force but by constancy.
One afternoon, while helping a young diver with her first healing session, you felt a presence at your back.
You turned and Tonowari was watching.
He hadn’t interrupted. Just waited.
When the child left with her parents, Tonowari came closer.
“You are gentle with them,” he said. “Even when they are frightened.”
You smiled. “They are still learning.”
He nodded. “So was I.”
Your eyes met. His meaning sank into your bones.
So was I.
That night, he kissed you.
It wasn’t planned. There was no ceremony, no prelude.
You had just returned from a healing outpost on the far reef. Exhausted, muscles sore, your hands still dyed with leaf pigments.
You climbed the platform where he stood, waiting.
“I heard you returned late,” he said. “I was worried.”
You looked up at him, too tired to speak, too full of love to hide.
And he kissed you.
Not hard. Not fast. Just sure.
The kind of kiss that said, I am no longer afraid.
Your hands curled into his waist wrap. His cupped your jaw like something fragile and sacred.
And when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, he whispered:
“You were never a duty.”
You cried. A little. Quietly.
He held you through it.
From that day on, the world softened around you.
There was still war. Still storms. Still hard days. But now there was him. And he was no longer just someone you loved in secret.
He was someone who loved you back.
It bloomed slowly like everything between you had.
Tonowari was not loud in love. He didn’t make speeches or shout his feelings across the village. But you felt it in every gesture.
In the way he warmed your meal when you came home late.
In the way he carved a small water dish for your pet ilusa.
In the way he waited for you each night, only sleeping once he knew you were safe beside him.
He whispered I see you against your shoulder when the stars were high. You whispered I see you back, with hands curled over his heart.
One morning, you woke to find him gone from your sleeping mat.
He’d left something in your hands woven cloth, carefully folded. A ceremonial sash.
You opened it and gasped softly.
It bore the mark of Tsahik but also, stitched beside it, the symbol for mate.
Tonowari had made it himself.
He’d been learning in secret from the elder weavers. Practicing when you were away. You could see the imperfections, but you could also see the care. The patience. The intention.
When he returned, salt still in his hair from a dawn swim, you rushed to him.
You didn’t speak. Just held him.
He murmured, “I want you beside me. As my mate. As my equal. As the woman I love.”
You said yes before he could finish the sentence.
The Metkayina clan gathered at the edge of the reef beneath the setting sun. The tide was low, the sand damp and warm under your bare feet, and the sky was streaked in soft rose and gold.
The waters whispered to the shore, carrying gifts of foam and fragments of coral. And before the entire clan before Eywa, before the Great Mother’s sacred eye you and Tonowari stood across from one another.
He wore the ceremonial paint of Olo’eyktan, freshly renewed, but this time his chest bore something else: a small spiral inked above his heart. It matched your own. A symbol of the tide’s endless return.
You had drawn it for each other the night before. With his hand steadying your wrist. With yours trembling when you painted his.
Tsahik, his mother, stood between you, her voice strong, clear.
“Eywa hears all hearts. She knows when love is chosen, and when it is earned. She watches over those who walk beside one another not only in duty, but in truth.”
Her eyes met yours.
“You have walked this path with patience. With grace.”
Then she turned to Tonowari.
“And you, my son, have found what it means to love not from pride, but from seeing.”
You felt his fingers brush yours.
The final chant began. The clan joined in, their hum rising like a rising tide, resonant and deep. And when it faded, the old Tsahik stepped back.
Now it was your moment.
You and Tonowari stepped forward.
And he spoke first.
“I once believed you were chosen for me. That I had no choice,” he said, voice firm and low, carrying across the water. “But I was wrong. I see now that Eywa did not trap me. She gifted me someone I was too blind to understand. And now, I choose you. Not because I must but because I cannot imagine a single day without your hand in mine.”
The clan was silent. The reef wind stilled.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “And I choose you,” you said, voice shaking. “Because even when you did not see me, I loved you. And now that you do there is no end to that love.”
His hands took yours.
Foreheads pressed.
And the wave rolled in behind you both, warm and gentle, lapping over your feet like Eywa’s blessing.
The clan cheered.
But all you could hear was the sound of his breath against your cheek, and the quiet, precious words that followed:
“You are my home now.”
Your joining was not grand, not ostentatious.
But it was true.
And in the days that followed, you found a rhythm in your lives that was soft and sure.
You slept together now, wrapped in the same woven cloths, his heartbeat under your ear at night.
He kissed your temple every morning before diving. You left small offerings fruit, polished shell, ocean stones by his weapons rack.
He brought you shells that looked like stars. You sang to him while brushing the salt from his braids.
Once, he surprised you by carving a small talon flute one you’d told him you used to play as a child, long ago. He had asked no questions then. But weeks later, the gift arrived on your mat, smoothed and tuned.
“I remember everything about you,” he said, brushing his fingers over your knuckles.
And he did.
Every day, Tonowari showed you that love did not have to roar to be strong. It could be steady. It could be patient. It could be quiet and still move the world.
You found joy in mundane things.
Helping children mend their fishing nets. Dancing in the tide pools when no one was looking. Singing while preparing salves.
Tonowari watched you in those moments like you were a prayer answered.
He laughed more now. Full, open. A sound you rarely heard before.
When the other clan leaders visited and commented on how much more grounded he seemed, he only said, “I have someone who reminds me what matters.”
One evening, after a long training day, you found him half-asleep on your shared mat, shoulders sore from leading dives.
You sat beside him, fingers working the tightness from his muscles, humming gently.
“You work too hard,” you said softly.
He cracked one eye open. “I work to make you proud.”
You leaned down and kissed his temple. “You make me proud when you rest, too.”
He smiled, slow and sleepy, and reached for your hand.
“Then stay,” he murmured.
You curled into his side, his breath deepening as sleep overtook him.
And for a long time, you simply lay there, the reef winds outside your home, the warmth of his body against yours.
A life not of ceremony or status.
But of belonging.
Of quiet, sacred love.
The seasons turned gently after your bonding.
Not with fanfare or sudden change but with the subtle certainty of the tide. The reef warmed. The young ones grew bolder in the water. Storms came and went, leaving the coral stronger in their wake.
And so did your life with Tonowari.
You became Tsahik not all at once, but gradually. The old Tsahik never stepped aside abruptly; she guided you, corrected you when needed, and most importantly trusted you. You learned to read the currents not just of the sea, but of people. To feel when a child’s fear was deeper than scraped skin. When a warrior’s anger hid grief. When silence meant more than words.
Tonowari watched you step into the role with a kind of reverence that still startled you.
He never interrupted your rituals. Never spoke over you in council. And when others questioned your decisions, he did not defend you loudly.
He simply said, “She knows what she is doing.”
And that was enough.
You learned, over time, that Tonowari carried guilt like a second spine.
Sometimes it came out in quiet ways how he lingered in doorways watching you work, how he reached for you at night as if afraid you might vanish, how he would grow unusually silent during celebrations meant to honor you.
One evening, after a long council meeting, you found him standing alone at the edge of the water, staring out into the dark sea.
“You’re carrying something,” you said gently, coming to stand beside him.
He exhaled slowly. “I think about how close I came to losing you.”
You frowned. “You never lost me.”
He turned to you then, eyes dark and honest. “I almost did. When I thought you were something you were not. When I let my pride speak louder than my heart.”
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “But you learned.”
“Yes,” he said. “Because you taught me. Without demanding anything in return.”
He lowered his forehead to yours. “I will spend my life being worthy of that.”
You smiled softly. “Then spend it with me.”
The first time a child ran to you instead of the elders for comfort, something settled in your chest.
The first time a wounded warrior thanked you with tears in his eyes, you understood the weight of your calling.
And the first time Tonowari introduced you to visiting clan leaders as my mate, my Tsahik, you realized how far he had come.
He was proud of you not because of your title, but because of who you were.
Your home filled with small rituals.
Morning swims together before the village woke. Shared meals eaten cross-legged on woven mats. Quiet conversations before sleep sometimes deep, sometimes silly, sometimes nothing at all.
Tonowari learned the rhythms of you the same way you had learned him.
He noticed when you needed solitude and guarded it fiercely. When you were overwhelmed, he pressed his forehead to yours and breathed with you until the world slowed.
Once, during a particularly heavy season, you broke down quietly while preparing herbs hands shaking, tears slipping free.
You hadn’t meant for him to see.
But he did.
He took the bowl from your hands, set it aside, and pulled you into his chest without a word. Held you while you cried. Kissed your hair. Stayed until the storm passed.
Later, you whispered, “I’m supposed to be strong.”
He answered, without hesitation, “You are. And strong people are allowed to rest.”
Years later, children sat at your feet during evening fires, wide-eyed as you told stories of the reef and the Great Mother.
They loved Tonowari’s stories best the ones where he pretended to be fierce but always smiled too soon.
And when one small child asked, “Tsahik, how did you and Olo’eyktan fall in love?” the whole circle leaned in.
You glanced at Tonowari.
He raised a brow, amused. “Tell them.”
You smiled. “It wasn’t loud. Or fast. It didn’t arrive like a storm.”
You reached for his hand.
“It came like the tide. Slowly. Patiently. Again and again. Until we realized it had always been there.”
Tonowari squeezed your fingers.
“And I was a fool,” he added, “for not seeing it sooner.”
Laughter rippled through the group.
But when the fire burned low and the children drifted off to sleep, he pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, “Thank you for waiting for me.”
You answered softly, “I would do it all again.”
On the night you fully assumed the role of Tsahik, the sea was impossibly calm.
The old Tsahik placed her hands over yours, eyes warm with pride. “You were always meant for this,” she said.
Later, when the ceremony ended and the village quieted, you stood alone at the water’s edge.
Tonowari joined you, slipping his arm around your waist.
“I was wrong about many things,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “And right about one.”
He smiled. “Choosing you.”
You leaned into him, watching the moonlight ripple across the reef.
And there beneath Eywa’s stars, with the sea breathing steadily around you you understood something deeply, truly, finally:
i am in need of more jake sully shmut… him in fire and ash is the daddiest he’s ever been i swear!! him manspreading on the helicopter… him in that orange suit… his hair down… i am on my knees!!
but my last straw was when he became toruk makto again… oh lawd i’m gonna show him the way of water just give me one chance jake!!
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
discoholicmusic
annaxmalina
