pairing: neteyam sully x f!omatikaya!reader
summary: neteyam keeps coming to your tent; first with wounds, then excuses, then nothing at all. teasing and care turn to trust and unspoken feelings. it isn't until he returns with a serious injury that the truth finally unfolds.
warnings: pure yearning. mostly fluffy and a bit of pining, but there is also some angst.
tsakarem - tsahìk-in-training.
paysyul flower - water lily.
The first time he limps into your healing tent, he’s all arrogance and sharp edges.
A gash runs down his thigh; deep enough to need stitching, shallow enough that he insists it’s nothing.
"Sit," you command, voice steady despite the way his towering frame fills the space.
He smirks, blood dripping between his fingers, but obliges. "Didn’t take you for the bossy type, tsakarem," he teases surveying your features for a reaction.
You ignore him, gathering yalna bark and spider silk. When you kneel beside him, his breath hitches, just once, as your fingers skim his skin.
"This will sting," you warn.
He leans in, voices a low rumble. "I like it when it stings."
With practiced care, you smooth the thick paste along the wound, nimble fingers gentle against his skin. Taking the thread, you begin stitching the edges closed, each careful pull precise and steady, your focus unwavering as you work to ease the pain and ensure the wound heals cleanly.
He barely moves beneath your touch, jaw clenched as he watches you from beneath his lashes. You murmur soft reassurances as you work, reminding him to breathe, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin whenever his muscles tense.
When the last stitch is tied off, you press a clean cloth over the wound, checking your work with a quiet nod, before sending him off.
Three eclipses later, he’s back – this time with a bruised rib.
"Fell off a branch," he mumbles, wincing as you prod the swelling.
You arch a brow suspiciously. "You? The great warrior… fell?”
His laughter is warm, and closer than necessary. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you scold me again."
Your hands hesitate over his ribs. His heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingertips. “You need to be more careful, Neteyam,” you chastise, unimpressed at his new-found clumsiness.
Your hands still, clicking your tongue. “One day I won’t be here to patch you up.”
You reach for the salve anyway, smoothing it over the bruise with gentle pressure. He hisses, then relaxes, leaning subtly into your touch as if the pain is worth it just to be here; under your careful hands and watchful gaze.
His smile falters, just a fraction, at your words. “Yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “But you are now.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips. You glance up at him, warmth settling in your chest as your thumb traces a soothing circle near the bruise.
“You enjoy this too much,” you mutter, face falling serious, trying to sound stern.
“Maybe,” he replies softly, eyes fixed on your face. “But I trust you.”
The next time, his excuse is thinner than mist. You have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
A shallow scratch across his palm; barely deserving of the poultice you press to it.
But when your fingers linger, he turns his hand, his touch grazing yours, almost – almost – intertwining. The contact sends a quiet jolt up your arm, unwelcome yet undeniable.
“Tell me, healer,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over your knuckles, voice low and deliberate. “Do you tend to all the warriors… or just me?”
Your pulse stutters. “Just the reckless ones,” you scoff, forcing a lightness into your tone as you dab the salve more firmly than necessary.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grin widens, all trouble and fangs. “Lucky me.”
You finally look up at him then, catching the way his eyes linger – soft, searching, entirely too familiar. For a fleeting moment, neither of you moves, the air between you taut with something unspoken, before you clear your throat and tug your hand free, pretending your heart isn’t racing.
He gives you a knowing look, head tilting slightly. Your gaze does not meet his, and your fingers writhe gently in your lap. He rises silently uttering a careful ‘thank you’ before disappearing behind the flaps of your tent.
Then comes the night he arrives with no wound at all.
Just a single, perfect paysyul flower – rare, delicate, glowing softly in the dark.
"For you," he says, uncharacteristically quiet.
You stare at his outstretched hand offering you the delicate bundle of petals. Your body is enveloped by a warmth akin to the sun-soaked shallows of the forest, where the water holds heat long after the day has faded; it paints your face with a faint violet tint, and causes a familiar fluttering sensation in your chest.
His fingers brush yours as you take the flower, his touch too deliberate to be accidental. The petals glow softly between your hands, casting shimmering reflections across his face, illuminating the quiet intensity in his golden eyes.
"You… brought me this?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and can catch the scent of earth and morning dew clinging to his skin.
"Couldn’t think of a better excuse to see you," he admits, voice rough at the edges. His thumb grazes your wrist before he adds, softer. "Missed you."
The confession lingers in the air between you, fragile as the flower’s glow.
His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, lips hovering so near yours you can taste his breath, sweet with the nectar of the forest.
The moment hangs, heavy with anticipation. His thumb is tracing circles on your jaw, his gaze locked on your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and just slightly desperate.
And then, from outside the camp, the sound of footsteps and a familiar voice rings through the night…
His head snaps up, eyes flashing with irritation, before he lets out a sigh, almost annoyed. "Damn it,” he mumbles with a small huff.
"What is it?" he calls back, not taking his hand off your cheek. Your skin burns where he holds you, blush deepening into a plum hue.
A few moments later, a figure appears behind the tent flap. Lo’ak peers curiously, his gaze flicking between you and his brother for a beat. He arches a brow, taking in the sight of Neteyam’s fingers now shifted underneath your chin, before an amused smile creeps onto his face.
"What’s this?" he asks, feigning surprise. "Am I interrupting something here?"
Neteyam shoots him a warning glare. "What do you want, Lo’ak?"
Lo’ak doesn’t miss your reaction, or the way Neteyam’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing into your skin like he’s silently staking a claim.
A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across Lo’ak’s face.
"Ohhh," he drawls, crossing his arms. "So this is where you’ve been sneaking off too lately." His eyes flick to you, mischief dancing in them. "Funny how you only seem to get hurt when she’s on healing duty, bro."
Neteyam’s jaw clenches – hard.
"Lo’ak," he growls, voice low and dangerous.
But his little brother just laughs, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is." He wiggles his eyebrows. "But dad wants you for something."
And with that, he ducks out of the tent, leaving behind only the sound of his fading laughter and tension thick enough to choke on.
Neteyam stops showing up with flimsy excuses. The playful tension between you fades into something quieter, made of lingering glances, fleeting brushes of fingers – but nothing more.
Then, one night, the tent flaps burst open.
Lo’ak stumbles in, panting, Neteyam slumped heavily against him. Blood soaks through his chest wrap, his breaths ragged. Your stomach plummets.
"What happened?" you demand, already moving, hands steady despite the panic clawing up your throat.
"Stupid ikran hunt," Lo’ak grits out, lowering him onto the mat. "Tried to show off – got clipped mid-dive."
Neteyam’s eyes flutter open, hazy with pain. But when they land on you, his lips twitch weakly. "...Missed you," he slurs, delirious.
Your hands tremble as you peel back the fabric, revealing the deep gash across his ribs.
"You idiot," you whisper, pressing a dapophet pad to the wound. "You could’ve died."
His fingers brush your wrist, barely a ghost of touch. "Worth it… to see you… scowl like that."
Lo’ak groans. "Oh my Eywa, half-dead and he’s still flirting."
You ignore him, focusing on the way Neteyam’s breath hitches when your fingers trace his skin; gentle, but firm.
"Don’t you dare bleed out on me," you murmur, voice thick.
His hand finds yours, squeezing weakly. "...Wouldn’t dream of it, baby."
Your heart pounds out a desperate rhythm as you work, trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but he keeps making it worse. Every ragged breath, every brush of skin, every stolen glance sends adrenaline surging through your veins.
Lo’ak watches quietly from the side, his amusement replaced with concern. He knows better than to distract you, but his eyes flit between you and his brother with growing curiosity.
Neteyam’s gaze is hazy, fever-bright, but still filled with an almost reverent fascination. His fingers find your wrist again, a little firmer this time. The salve stings, but Neteyam doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as sweat beads at his temples, even as his fingers twitch against the mat.
You lean closer, checking the stitching. "You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung," you mutter, trying to ignore the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his bare ribs.
His hand suddenly catches yours, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his pounding heartbeat.
"That’s you," he continues, voice rough with pain and something else entirely. "Every time you touch me – every damn time – it does that."
Lo’ak, still hovering near the entrance, makes a strangled noise. "Okay, I’m out. I’ll just– go tell Dad you’re not dead."
The tent flaps swish shut behind him, a silence following.
Neteyam’s thumb strokes your wrist. "Stay," he murmurs.
"I’m your healer," you whisper, trembling. "I have to."
He shakes his head, wincing at the movement. "Not… what I meant."
And then – weak but determined – he tugs you down until your forehead rests against his, his breath mingling with yours.
"Stay after," he clarifies, voice raw. "When I’m not just… another wound to fix."
Your pulse thrums where your skin meets his.
Outside, the wind rustles the leaves. Inside, something fragile and long-avoided finally snaps.
You let out a breath shakily, his words settling deep within you. He had stumbled his way into your tent – your life – and had made a home out of your heart.
"I could never leave you," you begin. "You know that. I've always been here– waiting." You take another breath, letting it fill your lungs before you continue, "I will always be with you.” Another breath.
His grip tightens around your hand, desperate and reverent, words feeling as though they are caught in his throat.
“Say it again," he breathes, voice cracking.
A shudder runs through him – half pain, half relief –before he tugs you even closer, your lips hovering just above his, sharing the same air, the same heartbeat.
"Took you long enough," he rasps, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth; just yours. “I see you.”
And when his eyes finally flutter shut from exhaustion, his fingers stay tangled with yours.
