v

[kombuchaaaaa]

“Oh no Avatar was leaked”

[jojobear06]

Me after i’ve spent hours looking for a specific fanfiction, and I come to the conclusion that it’s been deleted.

[shuasplug]

it’s CRIMINAL that there isn’t many fairytail fanfics like wym😣😣 fairy tail got some of the most DROP dead GORGEOUS men I’ve seen and only me and like 5 others are thirsting over them??💔💔

[krematedsworld]

How it feels finding SOME x reader fics but when you start reading it's straight corny stuff

[cinnamqn7]

A Warrior Without A Clan: pt 6

(Tsu'tey x male oc)

masterlist

Genre: fluff

Warnings: mentions of death

Word count: 3.7k

////////

The sky burned above the Hallelujah Mountains, streaked with the orange glow of fire and smoke. The air trembled with the roar of engines, the screeching of metal, and the shouts of warriors as they fought with everything they had. Tsu'tey moved like a whirlwind across the platform, his muscles coiled and ready, bow straining in his hands as he loosed arrows with lethal precision. Spear thrusts met armor and bone alike, and still the Sky People pressed forward, unyielding, endless. The cries of the Omatikaya mingled with the deafening mechanical thunder, a chorus of desperation that seemed to ripple through the very mountains.

Tsu'tey's eyes scanned constantly, watching for the next threat, measuring distance, predicting angles. He fought not just for himself, but for his clan, for the people he had sworn to protect. Yet even as he struck down his enemies, the platform beneath him shuddered violently. A massive explosion ripped through the air, a blast of fire and splintered wood that caught him off-guard. The world tilted. He was hurled backward, arms flailing, the wind tearing at him like claws. The ground rushed toward him far too quickly. Panic seized him like a vice, coiling around his chest, squeezing until he could barely breathe.

Oh no. No, no, no. His mind screamed, fragmented and desperate. I'm never going to see him again. I—I've lost him forever.

The wind whipped past his face, shrieking in his ears, carrying with it the cries of the dying and the burning. Every heartbeat sent waves of guilt and fear crashing through him. Why didn't I fight harder? Why did I leave him? Why did I push him away? I destroyed everything. I destroyed him. His chest tightened, and a raw sob tore from his throat before he could stop it.

The tears came first as a sting in his eyes, blinding him, then fell freely, hot and bitter, unrelenting. They streamed down his face, mingling with sweat and soot, and every sob wracked his body, making him tremble. His screams were guttural, ragged, echoing off the cliffs and mountains. The world spun, vertigo mingling with grief, and his stomach lurched violently as he plummeted.

All he could see was the shadowed face of Kxayen, etched into his mind like a ghost he could never forget. The memory of those eyes—the quiet strength, the warmth he had denied himself, the quiet pull of something he had thought dead—haunted him as he fell. His chest ached, and his lungs burned, yet he could not stop crying. Every heartbeat was agony, every second an eternity, and every thought returned to the same crushing fear: I've lost him. I've lost him forever.

The air whipped at him with a thousand unseen knives. He twisted, trying to right himself, tried to grasp at anything, at anything at all to stop the inevitable, but there was nothing. Just endless, rushing space, and the roar of his own panicked breath. Memories collided in his mind—Kxayen's calm face when they had argued, the quiet way he had endured Tsu'tey's anger, the way he had protected others while Tsu'tey had spiraled.

I should have been there for him. The thought burned like fire through his veins. I should have fought harder. I should have never left him alone. I—I almost drove him away forever.

A scream tore from his throat, raw and unthinking, a sound that carried through the chaos and mingled with the wailing of the wounded. He sobbed so violently he felt as though his heart would burst, chest heaving with every gasping breath. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tsu'tey felt completely, irreparably powerless. The ground rushed up, the wind shredded at him, and he felt the cold, merciless pull of gravity as though the universe itself sought to punish him for every failure, every lapse, every moment he had let fear control him.

Then, in the absolute midst of terror, just as the world seemed to tilt toward despair, he felt something solid—something impossibly steady—wrap around him. Arms, strong and unyielding, encircled his chest and shoulders, gripping with a determination that seemed to defy the chaos. He couldn't breathe at first, couldn't see through the rush of wind and his own tears, couldn't even comprehend what had just happened.

The panic lessened slightly, just enough for him to realize he was no longer falling uncontrollably. Weight shifted; he felt himself being lifted, steadied, carried. A voice pierced through the roar of the world and the screaming of the Sky People. Calm. Cold. Familiar. His breath caught in his throat.

"Hold on."

It was low, deliberate, unyielding. His voice. Kxayen.

Tsu'tey's chest constricted, tears blinding him, as shock and disbelief collided with relief. He could feel Kxayen's heartbeat against his back, steady, strong, unshakable. Kxayen's arms did not falter, did not waver even as the wind threatened to rip them apart. Every fiber of Tsu'tey's being wanted to collapse, wanted to sink into the safety of those arms, to dissolve into the one person he had feared he had lost forever.

He gasped, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching at Kxayen's arms, seeking the warmth and solidity that the world had cruelly stolen from him. And in that moment, above the burning sky, above the cries of the wounded, above the chaos of war, Tsu'tey realized: he was safe, and he was not alone.

Below them, the sight stole his breath. Kxayen's clan had arrived in force—warriors, hunters, and families all moving with precision and unity, their banners slicing through the smoke. The overwhelming strength of Kxayen's people spread across the mountains like a living storm, fierce and unbroken. Tsu'tey could see the Ikran weaving through the chaos, guiding those who had fallen, striking with perfect coordination, and he felt the weight of hope and fear crash against him in equal measure.

Kxayen guided them down gracefully, the Ikran's wings cutting the wind with ease despite the turmoil below. They landed with precision, talons gripping the earth, bringing both of them to the solid ground, and Tsu'tey's knees buckled as relief finally began to seep in through the layers of fear and guilt. Kxayen's hands still held him, steadying him, grounding him, and Tsu'tey clung without thought, letting the tears fall freely at last, hot and unrestrained, dripping onto the scorched earth.

He could feel Kxayen's presence, unyielding and patient, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he allowed himself to breathe, to let go, to acknowledge the terror that had gripped him—and the love that had saved him.

"I thought I lost you," Tsu'tey whispered, voice raw, trembling.

"You never were," Kxayen replied softly, lips brushing against the crown of his head, eyes fierce even through the shadows. "I won't let you go."

And in that moment, Tsu'tey knew that no matter the chaos, no matter the war, no matter the mistakes, he would never be abandoned—not while Kxayen chose to hold him, to save him, to stay

And then, just like that, Tsu'tey leaned forward, almost without thinking, almost without reason, and the world narrowed to the space between him and Kxayen. Their lips met in a long, desperate kiss that was equal parts relief, fear, and longing, a release of weeks, months even, of tension coiled so tightly in his chest that it hurt to breathe. It was raw, unpolished, jagged around the edges, but it was real. It was him, and it was Kxayen, and it was the only thing holding him upright as the sky roared overhead, as smoke and fire swirled through the heights of the Hallelujah Mountains.

Tsu'tey's hands found Kxayen's waist, gripping him with a mix of need and certainty, as though letting go for even a moment might allow the world to swallow them both. Kxayen responded instantly, sliding his arms around Tsu'tey's shoulders, pressing their bodies together as if trying to anchor him to something solid, something unshakable, something that had always been there even when Tsu'tey had been too afraid to notice. Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven, a chaotic rhythm that matched the distant thunder of engines and the crackle of fire in the mountains.

It was a kiss that spoke of guilt and forgiveness, of fear and longing, of love denied and rediscovered. Tsu'tey could feel the tremors of adrenaline running through his body, each pulse a reminder of the fall, the terror, the helplessness he had felt as he plummeted. And yet, in Kxayen's arms, it became something else entirely—a tether, a lifeline, a declaration that they were not lost, not yet, not ever.

They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, foreheads pressed together, sharing the warmth of each other's breath, the quiet familiarity of presence. Tsu'tey's hands stayed on Kxayen's shoulders, brushing over the taut muscles, feeling the heartbeat beneath the skin, strong and steady, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Kxayen's hands rested on Tsu'tey's chest, fingers splayed against armor and sinew, sensing the tremors of grief, adrenaline, and relief still coursing through him.

"I... I thought I had lost you," Tsu'tey whispered, voice rough with exhaustion, emotion, and awe. It wasn't a question; it was a confession. He had never admitted to anyone just how much the thought of losing Kxayen had burned through him, how every second apart had felt like an eternity, how he had flailed helplessly while the world fell around them both.

"You were never lost," Kxayen said softly, voice calm but firm, eyes shining faintly through the soot and smoke. "I am here. I am not leaving you again. Not now. Not ever."

Tsu'tey's chest tightened further, and he pressed his forehead harder against Kxayen's. There was warmth there, and a strength he hadn't realized he needed so desperately. He could feel the pulse of Kxayen's hands against his chest, steadying him, guiding him back from the edge of panic, from the edge of the memory of falling, from the edge of the guilt he had carried since Hometree.

Kxayen's gaze flicked to the surrounding chaos for just a heartbeat, and then returned to Tsu'tey, unwavering. "Come with me," he said quietly, guiding Tsu'tey through the cheering and battle-ready clan below. "This could be yours too... if you stayed. With me. Here. Among my people."

Tsu'tey's heart thudded painfully in his chest. The words were simple, but they carried a weight that pressed down on him, heavier than any armor, stronger than any blade. The thought of leaving his own people behind had never seemed so impossible, yet the pull of Kxayen's hand, the certainty in his voice, made him consider that perhaps he could have both—perhaps he could have a place here, a purpose here, and someone who truly understood him, someone who had saved him, someone who had waited.

"I..." he hesitated, the world blurring around him as he swallowed hard. The taste of ash and smoke lingered in his mouth, mingling with the faint tang of adrenaline. "I want to."

Kxayen's smile was faint, but it held warmth and a shadow of humor, a glimmer of relief shining through the haze of battle. It was a smile that spoke of hope, of patience, of understanding, and of love still alive despite everything. "Then stay," he said, voice soft but certain. "You can help us rebuild. Protect these people. And maybe, in time... you can call this home."

Tsu'tey nodded slowly, allowing himself to breathe for the first time in what felt like forever. The weight of guilt, fear, and exhaustion still pressed heavily on him, but it loosened its grip ever so slightly. The fire from the surrounding battles painted the sky in gold and crimson, reflecting across the peaks of the mountains, but here, in this small space, he could feel something else entirely—a quiet, fragile peace.

The Ikrans circled above, vigilant but unthreatening now, while Kxayen guided Tsu'tey's body back to solid ground. Every step was deliberate, cautious, but filled with an unspoken understanding. They moved through the battle-worn clan, past the injured and the brave, past the smoldering remnants of what had been torn apart and rebuilt again by determination and unity.

Tsu'tey's hands still clutched Kxayen's, fingers intertwined, as if letting go would unravel everything that had just been mended. He could feel the tremors of the fight still resonating through his body, the adrenaline not yet fully fading, but the steady presence of Kxayen made the chaos manageable.

When at last they stopped, Tsu'tey let himself collapse slightly, resting his forehead against Kxayen's shoulder. "I... I cannot leave my people," he murmured, voice trembling. "I should not..."

Kxayen tilted his head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, fierce but patient. "Then don't. You do not have to. This is your people too now—mine, ours. But you can be here. With me. Build with me. Protect with me. Live with me."

The words wrapped around Tsu'tey like a lifeline, steadying him, anchoring him to this moment. For the first time in weeks, he felt the possibility of balance: the battle raging outside, the responsibilities weighing on his shoulders, and yet... a place for himself, a place for Kxayen, a place where hope had not yet been completely snuffed out.

Tsu'tey's lips curved slightly, the first hint of expression since he had arrived in this world so full of destruction and loss. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of fire and earth and life fill him. "Then... I will stay," he whispered. "With you. With all of you."

Kxayen's hand tightened slightly on his chest, a silent affirmation of trust and unity. And in that moment, as the wind carried the scent of smoke and the roar of distant engines, as the sky blazed with fire and the mountains trembled, Tsu'tey finally felt it: the warmth of belonging, the release of fear, and the undeniable certainty that, no matter what came next, he would not face it alone.

Their eyes met, a shared understanding passing between them—unspoken, unshakable. The battle could rage, the world could burn, and yet here, in this fleeting, fragile moment, they had found each other again. And that, for now, was enough. Later, as the acrid smoke finally began to thin and curl toward the sky, the chaotic roar of engines and explosions faded into echoes, leaving only the heavy scent of charred wood, ash, and sweat lingering in the air. The Sky People had either retreated or been driven back by the fierce combination of Kxayen's newly rallied clan and the seasoned warriors of the Omatikaya. The aftermath was a landscape of ruin: shattered platforms hung precariously over yawning chasms, massive branches lay splintered and broken, and entire sections of the forest canopy had collapsed, leaving jagged stumps where the vibrant greenery had once flourished. Yet among the wreckage moved the living—those who had survived—determined to pull each other from the ruins, tending to burns, broken limbs, and stunned children. Their shouts and cries carried a strange mixture of grief and relief, a testament to survival against overwhelming odds.

Tsu'tey's pressed on the debris-strewn ground as he followed Kxayen, each step deliberate despite the soreness in his muscles and the lingering ache in his side from the earlier fall. His body still throbbed with the adrenaline of battle, heart racing, every nerve alert. The air was thick, not just with smoke but with tension and the heavy weight of loss. Yet for all the destruction surrounding them, Tsu'tey felt a small, vital spark of clarity amidst the chaos. He could see now what truly mattered—not platforms, not strategy, not pride—but the living, the breathing, the ones who had fought and survived, and the one person who had saved him when he had been too weak to save himself.

Kxayen walked beside him, steadying him with a firm hand on his arm, guiding him through the uneven terrain. His presence was a tether, a reminder of why he had not given in to despair, why he had not allowed the weight of his guilt and anger to swallow him completely. Tsu'tey's mind drifted briefly to the fallen, to the friends and family lost in the chaos, and the sharp sting of grief coiled in his chest—but it was tempered by the warmth of Kxayen's steady presence. This balance of sorrow and safety, fear and comfort, became something almost tangible, a force that pulled him forward when his own legs might have faltered.

Among the rubble, they spotted figures moving carefully but decisively, scanning the area with eyes hardened by battle yet softened by relief. Jake and Neytiri stood together, their postures alert, weapons at the ready even as the smoke cleared. Neytiri's gaze swept the ruined platforms, the scattered survivors, and the dying embers of fires, while Jake's shoulders flexed as he scanned for any remaining threats. It was a picture of vigilance forged through countless trials, a pair attuned to the dangers that could still erupt at any moment.

Kxayen guided Tsu'tey toward them, his hand never leaving Tsu'tey's arm. Step by step, Tsu'tey felt the tension in his muscles slowly ease, the tumult of fear and guilt ebbing just enough to allow him to focus. Every footfall on the shattered branches and splintered platforms was a reminder of the fragility of life, and yet it was a reminder of his responsibility—not just to survive, but to act with honor and clarity, to face the consequences of the chaos that had nearly swallowed them all.

As they neared, Tsu'tey's gaze locked on Jake. For a moment, the past weeks of anger, betrayal, and doubt rose to the surface, a tempest threatening to crash over him. But it was tempered by the resolve that had been forged in the fire of battle and the lessons learned in the aftermath. He had been reckless. He had misjudged. But he would not let pride—or old grievances—dictate his actions now.

"I have something for you," Tsu'tey said quietly, voice carrying the weight of regained clarity, of honor reclaimed. The words were deliberate, precise, even as his chest still throbbed from exertion and emotion. He extended his hand, holding out the ceremonial braid and beads of the Olo'eyktan. The intricate beads caught the faint sunlight piercing through the smoke, glinting like shards of hope against the gray backdrop of destruction. "For the Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya... take them. Lead your people well."

Jake's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise and respect crossing his face as he took in the gesture. His fingers brushed against the beads, tracing the patterns with reverence, and he bowed his head slightly, voice low but steady. "Thank you," he murmured. "I'll honor it. I promise." The weight of responsibility settled onto him, mirrored in the unspoken acknowledgment of the trust being passed, the mantle of leadership extended across the scars of war and the remnants of survival.

Neytiri's eyes watched the exchange with measured calm, yet beneath her composed exterior there was pride—the kind that swells quietly after a battle survived and a people protected. Her gaze lingered on Tsu'tey and Kxayen, taking in the subtle gestures, the hand resting lightly on a shoulder, the firm posture that spoke volumes of mutual respect and an unbreakable bond. There was a silent acknowledgment passing between her and Kxayen, a recognition of the trials that had tested hearts and loyalties, and a relief that despite the nearly irreparable strains, the connection between them had endured.

Tsu'tey, for his part, took a long, slow breath, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen, if only slightly. He glanced at Kxayen, who remained steady, hand resting on Tsu'tey's shoulder as if to anchor him in both presence and purpose. In that simple touch, Tsu'tey felt something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in weeks: a flicker of peace. Not peace in the sense that the battle was over—far from it—but peace in knowing that amidst the devastation, amidst the grief, there was something unshakable that he could hold onto. Someone he could trust, someone who had fought for him, who had saved him, who had brought him back from the edge of despair when he had been too afraid to hold on himself.

He looked around at the battlefield now partially cleared of smoke, at the living weaving through the wreckage, tending to the injured and comforting the terrified. There was a quiet beauty in their determination, a resilient stubbornness that mirrored his own, and he felt an unexpected warmth in his chest at the sight. These people—his people, Kxayen's people, the Omatikaya—had endured. They were alive. And despite the scars and losses, life continued.

And then he realized something else, a truth that filled him with both awe and humility: he would never, ever let Kxayen go again. Not now. Not ever. The thought was simple, yet profound, anchoring him more firmly than any blade, more surely than any victory. It was a commitment, a promise made silently amidst the ruins, amidst the cries of the wounded and the shouts of survivors. He had been reckless, he had been blind, he had been angry—but he would not make that mistake again.

Step by step, they moved through the remnants of the battlefield together, helping wherever they could. Tsu'tey lent his strength to lifting debris, carrying the injured, and offering guidance to those who were disoriented by the chaos. Kxayen moved beside him, a steady presence, offering a hand when Tsu'tey faltered, a quiet word when his mind threatened to wander too far into guilt or despair. They were a unit, not just in purpose but in spirit, intertwined by the shared experience of loss and survival, bound by trust that had been tested and ultimately proven unbreakable.

The fires smoldered, embers drifting into the sky like silent prayers, and Tsu'tey felt a calm settle over him, fragile but unmistakable. He knew that there would be more battles, more trials, more losses. But he also knew that he had something worth fighting for—not just survival, but love, trust, and the people who had become a part of him.

And as they moved together, helping the wounded, gathering the scattered, and guiding the living toward safety, Tsu'tey held one thought above all others: no matter what came next, he would never let Kxayen go. Not now. Not ever.

(IK this was real short but i dint really wanna make this fic into a long one i might add some bits to it later on but anyway TYSM FOR READING I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH<333)

[cinnamqn7]

A Warrior Without A Clan: pt 5

(Tsu'tey x male oc)

masterlist

Genre: angst

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.3k

////////////

The ceremony had meant nothing to him.

The chanting rolled over him like distant thunder, the vibrations of drums and voices brushing against his skin but never settling. Painted faces surrounded him, streaked with white and red, their eyes shining with pride and hope. They reached out, hands pressing against his shoulders, brushing his arms, gripping him in encouragement as they named him Olo'eyktan—the chief of his people.

He had knelt when required, lips moving with the words he didn't feel. He had repeated vows he did not believe in, phrases about protection, leadership, and the future. He had accepted the beads, the ceremonial braids woven carefully into his hair, the tokens of authority that should have been heavy with meaning. And yet, when he straightened, shoulders square and posture impeccable, he felt nothing.

No pride. No triumph. No joy. Only absence.

Where there should have been warmth, there was ash, a cold residue clinging to his bones. Where there should have been hope, there was hollow echoing, a vacuum that whispered back at him with everything he had lost. The faces surrounding him—the smiling, the eager, the reverent—they felt unreal, as if he were watching actors on a stage he could not inhabit.

Even as the clan danced around the bonfire that night, as their voices rose in song and laughter, celebrating survival and the rebirth of their people, he stood apart. Firelight slashed across the clearing in golden ribbons, dancing across faces flushed with excitement, across painted arms, across children leaping with joy. The flames licked the edges of his clothing, cast his own skin in gilded light—but it did not reach his eyes.

They were dull.

Empty.

A mask of calm, precise, and unreadable.

He did not smile once.

Not when elders came to clasp his forearms in approval, murmuring words of wisdom and blessings. Not when children, too young to understand the weight of leadership, looked at him with awe and expectation, their hands brushing against his in innocent reverence. Not when the warriors struck their chests in loyalty, a chorus of strength and devotion.

He felt like a ghost, wearing a crown of bone that pressed down with impossible weight. A specter moving among the living, bound to his duties by obligation rather than desire.

And in the days that followed, he did not allow himself to rest.

Rest would be betrayal.

Because if he stopped, even for a moment, if he let the exhaustion claim him, he would think.

He would remember.

He would remember the fire, the screams, the screams of children, the shattered bodies of his people, the lifeless eyes of his parents.

And he could not bear it.

So he moved. Always moved.

He trained the warriors until their muscles burned and their arms trembled from exertion. He corrected stances, refined strikes, drilled precision into them with meticulous care. He sparred, demonstrating techniques he had mastered over years, his movements efficient and sharp, leaving no room for emotion, no room for hesitation. They could not beat him. He would not allow it. And they did not see the strain beneath the surface, the tension coiled in his shoulders and jaw.

When training ended, he hunted. He tracked farther than necessary, returned with more than the clan needed, filling baskets with game heavier than their hands could carry. He checked traps, mended shelters, reinforced walls. He walked the perimeter at night, alone, listening to the soft rustle of leaves, the quiet calls of nocturnal creatures, the distant cries of the forest.

He rebuilt.

Not because he was hopeful.

Not because he believed this would bring joy.

But because rebuilding was tangible. Rebuilding was something he could control when nothing else could be controlled.

Emotion was not.

Weeks passed.

And still, he did not laugh.

He did not soften.

The clan began to whisper. Their voices carried both awe and caution: the new Olo'eyktan is strong. Unshakable. Unbreakable.

They did not see how carefully he held himself together.

They did not see the nights he lay awake on hard mats, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the marui walls, feeling the weight of the missing half of his people in every breath.

They did not see the way he avoided mirrors, because the reflection staring back was a stranger: his eyes dulled, the light within them extinguished by grief and fury and fear. The lines around his mouth were tighter than they had any right to be for someone of his age. His hands were calloused from constant work, but the trembling under his skin, the tension in his veins, was invisible to those around him.

He did not allow himself companions. Even those who tried to approach were met with calm distance, polite words that never reached his eyes. He spoke only when necessary, commanded only when duty demanded, and let silence fill the rest of the spaces around him.

He hunted for meat. He tracked game for the village. He repaired homes and traps. He made sure the children were fed. The warriors trained harder under him. He walked the perimeter at night, carrying nothing but his spear and the weight of his own thoughts.

Every day was a repetition. A rhythm. A fortress built from action, designed to stave off the chaos of memory.

Because if he stopped, even for a breath, the past would return. The fire, the blood, the screams.

He could not afford it.

Even when others came to praise him, to offer gratitude, to share the small triumphs of their survival, he could not hear them. Their words were a muted echo. Their joy, a distant wave he could not ride. He had no claim to it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

And so he moved. Day after day. Hunting, training, rebuilding, reinforcing.

He built walls. He built strength. He built a life that did not rely on emotion, because emotion had failed him too many times.

And yet, despite the cold armor he wore, despite the rigid control over every motion and word, Tsu'tey began to notice small shifts in the air whenever he passed: the warriors watched him more closely, the children whispered his name, the elders nodded with quiet satisfaction. They called him strong, unbreakable, a leader forged by fire.

But they did not know the truth.

That beneath the stoic mask, beneath the steel of arms and the sharp precision of every movement, he was fragile. Hollow. Holding together only because he must.

They did not see that this unyielding figure was one heartbeat away from collapse at any moment, that the calm in his voice was a fragile dam against a torrent of grief, rage, and the unbearable weight of memory.

They did not see that every decision he made, every spear thrown, every trap set, every wall mended, was a desperate plea to himself: Do not stop. Do not let the past claim you. Do not allow them to die again.

Weeks passed, and still, he moved.

The clan called him their Olo'eyktan.

Strong. Unshakable. Unbreakable.

They did not see the truth.

That strength was an illusion, carefully curated.

That unbreakable exterior was only the surface of a man who feared his own feelings.

That unshakable posture hid a soul that still burned with the memory of fire, screams, and loss.

And in the shadows of every night, when the village slept, he allowed himself one thing: the quiet reminder that he had survived, that he could endure, and that he would protect his people—even if he could not yet allow himself to live among them.

Because living, as he had learned, was a choice. And he had not yet chosen it.

Not fully.

Not while the fire of memory still roared in his chest.

⸻

The day Toruk came, the sky itself seemed to split open.

A shadow passed over the training grounds.

Warriors paused mid-spar.

Then came the roar.

Toruk.

Massive. Terrible. Glorious.

And behind it, two ikran.

They landed beyond the clearing, wind kicking up ash and leaves. Warriors reached for weapons, tense and uncertain.

He did not move.

He stood at the center of the field, watching.

Jake dismounted first from Toruk. Neytiri followed from her ikran. And behind them—

Tsu'tey.

His heart did not stutter.

It did not ache.

It hardened.

They ask for audience with the Olo'eyktan.

The words were carried to him carefully.

He nodded once and turned, leading the way without looking back.

—

The meeting marui was dim inside, woven thick with shadow. Light filtered through the ceiling in fractured beams, but it did not reach the far end where he sat.

His "seat" was nothing more than twisted branches bound together with thick vines and pieces of fallen trunk. Uneven. Stark. Harsh.

He preferred it that way.

He sat back, one arm resting lazily against the rough wood, face half-obscured by darkness.

They entered.

He saw them clearly.

They could not see him.

Jake stepped forward first.

"The Omatikaya are at war with the Sky People," he began. "They are preparing to strike the Tree of Souls."

Silence.

Neytiri stepped beside him. "This is true. Toruk Makto asks for your help. Other clans are joining us. We fight together."

Still silence.

Then—

"No."

One word.

Flat. Controlled.

The air changed.

Jake blinked. "What?"

"My clan will not be helping you," he said evenly. "I wish you luck in your battle."

Neytiri stiffened. "You refuse?"

Jake stepped forward. "It's your fight too. The Sky People won't stop with us. They'll come for you eventually."

A pause.

He leaned forward slightly. Just enough for the light to almost graze his jaw—but not quite.

"I have already lost over half my clan to the Sky People," he said calmly. "They were massacred in their sleep."

The words did not shake.

"I know what the Sky People will do."

Tsu'tey's head lifted slightly at the tone.

Recognition flickered in his eyes.

"But I will not allow more of my people to die for something that does not yet touch us. Until it does, my clan will not bleed for you."

Neytiri's voice rose. "If your people have died, do you not want justice?"

"No."

The word hit harder this time.

"I want my clan to live."

Silence.

Jake's jaw tightened. "They will come for you."

"And when they do," he replied evenly, "we will fight them. We will kill them."

His fingers curled slightly against the arm of his seat.

"But I have families here. Children. I am not willing to sacrifice their lives because Toruk Makto asks me to."

A beat.

"Or because a dreamwalker commands it."

Jake recoiled slightly.

Anger simmered beneath his calm now—barely contained.

Tsu'tey had not spoken.

Not once.

Because something was clawing up his spine.

That voice.

Measured. Deep. Controlled.

But underneath it—

He knew it.

He knew it.

His heart began to pound.

Jake tried again. "This isn't just about us—"

"Enough."

The word cut clean through the air.

And this time, he shifted forward fully.

Light slid across his face.

Across familiar scars.

Across eyes that had once looked at Tsu'tey with warmth.

But now held nothing but frost.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Tsu'tey felt the world tilt beneath his feet.

Kxayen.

Not dead.

Not lost.

Here.

Alive.

And colder than he had ever seen him.

Tsu'tey could not breathe.

Because this—

This was worse.

He had imagined him broken.

Grieving.

Alone.

He had not imagined him hardened.

Not imagined that he would look at him—

And feel nothing.

And for the first time since Hometree fell—

Tsu'tey was afraid.

Not of war.

Not of death.

But of the quiet distance in Kxayen's eyes.

Of the fact that he had not reacted.

Not to Jake.

Not to Neytiri.

Not even to him.

And suddenly—

He understood.

He had not driven him away.

He had turned him to stone.

And Tsu'tey did not know how to break through it.

⸻

The dust and smoke of the clearing hadn't yet settled when they left. Toruk had lifted Jake and the others into the sky, carrying them away like some vision from a memory Tsu'tey wished he could forget. Neytiri's voice had called back once—words of urgency and insistence—but even her tone had seemed distant to him now, echoing hollowly in his chest.

Tsu'tey remained on the ground, bow lowered but still in his grip, every muscle taut, every nerve alight with a confusion that bordered on panic. He had watched as Kxayen, the Olo'eyktan he had destroyed in one moment of uncontrolled fury, had stood there—silent, unmoving, unreadable—and then simply turned away. A shadowed figure of calm detachment. The words had left him; his anger had roared and crashed over everything, but now, in the stillness after the storm, he realized he had no idea what to say next.

"Kxayen!" he called, voice cutting through the wind that whipped around the half-broken training grounds. His heart thudded, loud and uneven, like a drum in his chest. "You—wait!"

Nothing.

He called again, louder this time, desperation threading through the edges of his tone. "I—I need to speak with you!"

Kxayen didn't move. The shadow of his form shifted slightly, but only to turn his head away, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the hood of leaves and the angle of the light. The dullness there, the absolute lack of warmth, stabbed Tsu'tey in the chest.

He dropped the bow for a moment, fists clenching at his sides. He felt every memory crash over him—the explosions, the smoke, the blood, the screams of his people, the jagged edges of the Tree as it fell. He felt the weight of his own betrayal, the echo of every word he had hurled at Kxayen, the cold accusations, the pain he had inflicted.

And now, standing before him, Kxayen was stone. Unmoved. Unyielding. Silent.

"I was wrong," Tsu'tey murmured at first, voice breaking, almost swallowed by the wind. "I—" He stopped. The words were meaningless. They had been spoken too late, through anger, through grief. Could they ever be reclaimed? Could they ever mend what he had broken?

Kxayen's head tilted fractionally, a subtle acknowledgment, perhaps, that he had heard, but no motion of approach, no flicker of expression betrayed anything but cold calculation.

Tsu'tey's chest tightened. He wanted to beg, to demand, to claw back whatever thread of connection still existed. "You don't understand—I thought—" His voice shook. "I thought you knew. I thought—" He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. "I thought if you were guilty—then it would make sense. That I wasn't foolish for trusting you. For caring."

Kxayen remained still, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere far away. Not at him. Not acknowledging him beyond the faint line of his profile.

The wind picked up again, rustling the leaves, carrying the faint echo of the Sky People's machines far in the distance. Tsu'tey stepped closer, one pace, then another. "I was wrong," he said again, voice louder now, raw with need. "I—I see it. I see that you didn't know. That none of this was your fault. And I—" His throat tightened, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. "I—"

Kxayen's cold glare met his for a heartbeat, then turned away again. Silent. The words froze in Tsu'tey's mouth, choking him.

He dropped to one knee, lowering his forehead toward the ground, a gesture of respect, of apology, of helplessness. "Please," he whispered. "Please. Don't leave me like this. Not now. Not after everything."

Nothing.

He could feel the world contracting, shrinking around him until the only thing that existed was the distance between them. The shadowed curve of Kxayen's jaw. The hard line of his shoulders. The aura of control, of deliberate indifference.

Tsu'tey wanted to scream. He wanted to demand recognition, to make Kxayen turn, to see the depth of the torment inside him. But he couldn't. His voice was too small against the weight of everything that had happened. The Tree, the explosions, the Sky People, the blood, the death—it all pressed down, suffocating, unrelenting.

His hand rose almost instinctively, reaching toward him—not to touch, not to pull, not to force—but as if by proximity, presence could bridge the gap he had created. Kxayen did not acknowledge it. Did not flinch. Did not even seem aware.

Tsu'tey's chest ached. He felt hollowed out, emptied by his own misjudgment. He had assumed guilt. He had assumed betrayal. He had used his grief as a weapon, and now it had carved a canyon between them, wide and deep.

"Why won't you respond?" he whispered, more to himself than to Kxayen. His throat was raw. "Why won't you tell me I'm wrong? That you forgive me? That—" He stopped, head falling forward, shadows obscuring his face. "That you care?"

Kxayen gave nothing.

And in that nothing, Tsu'tey realized something he had not wanted to face: he had already lost. He had lost the one person he had allowed himself to hope could share the quiet after the fire, the one person who had stood with him through loss and chaos, who had chosen him when he had doubted himself.

And now that person was leaving. Not physically—not yet—but in every way that mattered.

Tsu'tey's hands trembled at his sides. He fell to both knees, finally dropping the bow to the dirt. The weapon that had defined his authority felt absurdly small and useless in the face of this loss.

"Kxayen," he whispered again, voice breaking entirely, cracking into raw, painful fragments. "Please. Don't—don't leave me alone in this. I need you. I cannot—"

A gust of wind stirred the clearing. The sound of distant movement carried faint echoes of the Sky People's machines, but he did not notice. His gaze remained locked on the shadowed form before him. The distance was not physical—it was a wall, and he had built it. He had fueled it with fear and rage. And now it was impenetrable.

Finally, he closed his eyes. He pressed his palms against the ground, as if anchoring himself to something solid. "I will find you," he whispered. "I will make this right. I will not—cannot—lose you."

And then, as if the air itself pressed down with judgment, he realized: he had already lost him once. He had driven him away with words that should never have left his mouth, accusations that were baseless but born of pain and anger and grief too deep to manage. And now, the silence that Kxayen offered was not just cold—it was a warning.

A measure of how far he had fallen.

He stayed kneeling for a long moment, letting the wind whip around him, feeling the raw ache in his chest. His hands were dirt-streaked, his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to move, to chase, to beg forgiveness, to do anything—but he remained still.

Because he knew that if he moved now, if he spoke again, if he tried to force emotion from someone who had clearly sealed themselves off, he would only break what little connection remained.

So he waited.

He waited, every heartbeat a drum of regret, every breath a reminder of what he had lost, and what he might never reclaim.

Even as the smoke from the distant fires drifted across the clearing, carrying with it the acrid stench of destruction, Tsu'tey understood one truth with brutal clarity: he had misjudged the one person who had chosen him, and he had no right to demand anything from Kxayen—not trust, not forgiveness, not even acknowledgment.

All he could do was stay. Silent.

And hope that somehow, someday, that was enough.

Kxayen turned his back to Tsu'tey, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, though his body betrayed him in small tremors. The effort to keep upright, to hold in the torrent of grief and fury, left him trembling. Tears slipped down unbidden, tracing hot lines across his face, but he did not allow them to fall freely at first—he could not. Each tear was a reminder of everything he had lost, of the trust broken, of the pain he had endured and inflicted.

He could not forgive—not yet. Not for the venom that had left Tsu'tey's lips, not for the accusations, not for the moment when he had been accused of a betrayal he had never committed. The weight of that false blame pressed against his chest, dragging at him with every heartbeat, and yet he could not turn and flee entirely. He remained there, rooted in place by the complexity of what had passed, by what he had survived, by the fragile flicker of something he could not name but would not allow himself to claim.

Finally, he exhaled slowly, the air trembling with a mix of sorrow and authority. His voice was low, measured, almost cold, but every word carried the weight of unspoken pain. "You should go back to your clan," he said, each syllable deliberate, precise. "I do not belong there anymore."

Even as the words left his mouth, he did not turn back. He let the tears fall freely now, hot and unrestrained, a quiet release he could not show Tsu'tey. He was broken, yes—but he would not bow to what had been done. Not yet.

(TYSM for readng<33)

[cinnamqn7]

A Warrior Without A Clan: pt 4

(Tsu'tey x male oc)

masterlist

Genre: angst

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.4k

////////////

The sky was on fire.

Tsu'tey's bow was drawn so tight his fingers ached, arrow trembling as the roar of the Sky People tore through the air. Smoke choked his lungs. The platforms shook. The Tree — their Tree — groaned like a dying animal.

Jake stood before him.

Jake.

Brother.

Traitor.

"You knew!" Tsu'tey roared, the words ripping out of his throat before he could stop them. "You knew Hometree would fall, and you did nothing!"

His voice cracked. He hated that it cracked.

Jake opened his mouth, but Tsu'tey wasn't listening anymore.

His gaze shifted — just slightly.

And he saw him.

Kxayen.

Standing there. Silent. Still. Eyes wide, distant, staring at the smoke like it wasn't smoke — like it was memory.

For a flicker of a second, something inside Tsu'tey hesitated.

He looks... lost.

But grief is quick to twist hesitation into suspicion.

Lost because he knew.

"Did you know about this?!" Tsu'tey demanded.

No answer.

No denial.

No fury.

Just silence.

And in Tsu'tey's mind, silence meant guilt.

Of course it does.

Of course.

You fool.

You let yourself believe.

"You knew," Tsu'tey said, lowering his bow just slightly, voice turning cold. "You've been keeping this from me too."

Still nothing.

That stare. That quiet.

The same quiet Jake had worn when he hid the truth.

Something inside Tsu'tey broke clean in half.

"I never should have mated with a traitor like you!"

The words left his mouth like poison.

And the moment they did, part of him wanted to tear them back out.

But pride held him upright. Pride and pain.

—

The world did not simply fall — it shattered.

The first explosion ripped through the upper branches with a sound like thunder splitting bone. The platforms trembled violently beneath Tsu'tey's feet, woven fibers snapping, wooden beams cracking as shards of bark and burning debris rained down. Smoke surged upward in thick, choking spirals, turning the golden light of day into something red and monstrous.

Warriors shouted commands that were swallowed by the roar of aircraft overhead. Children cried for their parents. Ikran screeched from distant perches. The great Tree groaned — a deep, ancient sound — as if it felt every wound inflicted upon it.

The air burned.

The sky burned.

Everything burned.

Mo'at cut the ropes binding them with swift, decisive strokes. Tsu'tey barely registered the blade flashing in her hand before the vines fell away.

And then he saw it.

Kxayen didn't hesitate.

When a splintered mass of wood hurtled down toward Mo'at, he lunged — instinctive, reckless — throwing himself between her and the falling debris. The impact sounded sickening. Jagged wood tore into his side. His body jerked with the force of it, breath forced from his lungs in a strangled gasp.

Blood spread dark across his skin.

Tsu'tey saw it.

He saw the way Kxayen's teeth clenched against the pain.

Saw his shoulders tremble.

Saw him stagger but remain standing.

He saw him limp.

And still, the voice inside Tsu'tey's head hissed:

He is pretending. They are all pretending. You were stupid enough to love him.

The thought made no sense.

He knew it made no sense.

But grief does not care for sense.

It seeks protection.

It seeks explanation.

Another explosion tore through the lower branches. A platform collapsed in a spray of sparks and splintered wood. Heat blasted across Tsu'tey's face, drying the tears he hadn't realized had formed.

Then he saw him.

Eyutkan.

Crushed beneath fallen debris, bow still clutched in his hand even in death.

For a moment, the world narrowed into silence.

Leader.

Father.

Strength.

Gone.

It felt as though something reached into Tsu'tey's chest and twisted.

Eyutkan had been more than Olo'eyktan. He had been steady ground. A guiding force. The one who believed in him, who trusted him, who saw him as the future.

And now that future was standing in ashes.

Neytiri's scream tore through the chaos — raw, broken, animal.

It cut deeper than any blade.

And something inside Tsu'tey snapped.

Not cracked.

Snapped.

This is what happens when you trust.

This is what happens when you love.

The thoughts came fast and brutal.

First Sylwanin.

Her laughter in the trees. Her hand in his. The promise of a life together.

Then her body.

Cold.

Taken by the Sky People.

He had told himself after that day that he would never be foolish again.

Never let his heart rule him.

Never believe in softness.

But then Jake Sully had arrived.

And against his will, against his pride, Jake had fought beside him. Earned respect. Earned something dangerously close to brotherhood.

And Kxayen—

Kxayen had been different.

Gentle where Tsu'tey was sharp. Quiet where he was fire. Steady where he was storm.

He had let himself feel warmth again.

Let himself believe that maybe Eywa had not cursed him.

And now the Tree was falling.

You should have learned.

You should have known you were not meant for happiness.

The belief slammed into him with the force of the bombs.

Happiness is not for you. Love is taken from you. This is proof.

He turned toward Kxayen, every step fueled by agony and something dangerously close to desperation.

"You knew this would happen!" he shouted, the words tearing his throat raw. "You let the Sky People do this! All of this destruction — it's your fault!"

The accusation hung between them, heavy and wrong.

Even as he said it, part of him recoiled.

That is not true.

But logic had drowned in smoke and blood.

He needed someone to blame.

He needed this pain to have a shape.

Because if Kxayen didn't know—

If Kxayen was innocent—

Then this was random.

Then this was cruel.

Then the universe had simply decided to take everything again.

And that meant Tsu'tey had opened himself for nothing.

That he had risked love for nothing.

And that thought was unbearable.

Kxayen said nothing.

Just stared.

Bleeding.

Silent.

There was no anger in his eyes.

No defiance.

Only shock.

And something else.

Hurt.

Why won't you fight back?

Why won't you tell me I'm wrong?

Say something.

Prove me wrong.

Please.

The plea echoed inside him, though his face remained hard as stone.

Because if Kxayen argued—

If he shouted—

If he denied it—

Tsu'tey might have something to cling to.

But the silence stretched.

And in his shattered mind, silence meant guilt.

Or worse.

It meant distance.

It meant he had already lost him.

Another section of Hometree cracked with a deafening roar, splintering as fire consumed it. The ground shook violently, sending tremors through Tsu'tey's legs.

Still Kxayen did not answer.

His chest rose and fell unevenly. Blood dripped down his side. Smoke curled around him like a shroud.

Then he turned.

No argument.

No explanation.

He turned away.

That hurt more than anything.

He climbed onto his Ikran slowly, movements stiff from injury.

Tsu'tey watched, frozen.

Stop him.

The thought struck like lightning.

Call him back.

Tell him—

Tell him what?

That you did not mean it?

That you are afraid?

That you are wrong?

Pride clamped around his throat like a hand.

He does not deserve you. You do not deserve him.

Kxayen leaned close to his Ikran's head.

"Let's go home," he whispered.

The words carried through the chaos.

Home.

Not here.

Not with me.

The Ikran spread its wings, catching the heated air rising from the flames.

And Tsu'tey heard it.

He heard the quiet in Kxayen's voice.

Not anger.

Not betrayal.

Just exhaustion.

Just loss.

And something inside him twisted painfully.

Say his name.

Call him back.

But his mouth would not open.

The Ikran leapt.

Wings beat hard against the smoke-filled sky.

And Kxayen rose above the burning Tree, disappearing into ash and fire.

Tsu'tey stood there, bow slack in his hand, watching the only thing he had left of hope vanish into the smoke.

And he did nothing.

The Ikran lifted.

Its massive wings beat downward once, twice, sending a powerful gust of air across the shattered platform. Ash and embers spiraled outward in a fiery halo as the creature caught the rising heat from the flames below. Smoke curled and split around blue wings, streaked with soot and glowing faintly in the firelight.

And Kxayen rose with it.

Higher.

Away.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, Tsu'tey could not breathe.

Everything else blurred — the screams, the cracking wood, the distant roar of aircraft. His entire world narrowed to the sight of that Ikran climbing into a sky turned red by ruin.

Call him back.

The thought did not whisper.

It struck.

Call him back now.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His body leaned forward slightly, instinct almost overriding pride.

He opened his mouth—

Nothing came out.

His throat felt carved from stone.

What would you even say?

The questions hit him in rapid succession.

"I was wrong?"

The words tasted impossible.

"Don't leave?"

Too vulnerable. Too exposed.

"I am afraid?"

A warrior does not admit fear.

An Olo'eyktan does not beg.

You do not deserve him.

The voice inside his head was cold and cruel, but it sounded like truth.

You ruin everything you touch.

First Sylwanin.

Now this.

You let yourself believe again, and this is the price.

He watched the Ikran climb higher, wings cutting clean lines through the smoke-choked sky. The firelight flickered across Kxayen's silhouette — rigid, unmoving in the saddle.

He didn't look back.

That hurt more than the shouting.

More than the accusation.

More than the falling Tree.

He didn't look back.

And something in Tsu'tey's chest caved inward, a hollow collapse that left him standing but emptied.

Go after him.

The urge flared bright and desperate.

Leap onto your own Ikran. Chase him. Grab his arm mid-air if you must.

Go now.

His body refused.

Around him, the Tree groaned in agony as another section splintered and fell. Warriors were shouting orders. Survivors were scrambling across collapsing platforms. Children were being carried, elders supported. The air was thick with smoke and grief.

His people needed him.

They were looking to him now.

Eyutkan was gone.

There was no one else.

Duty wrapped around his ankles like chains.

You cannot leave.

You cannot abandon them for one person.

But he had just pushed away the one person who chose him freely.

Not because of duty.

Not because of tradition.

But because he wanted him.

The Ikran became smaller against the burning sky, swallowed inch by inch by rising smoke.

Tsu'tey's hand tightened around his bow until the wood creaked under the pressure.

Say something.

It was not too late.

It could not be too late.

But pride stood taller than love.

And fear stood taller than pride.

The Ikran disappeared completely into the smoke.

Gone.

Tsu'tey lowered his bow slowly, the motion heavy, deliberate, like surrender.

You did it again.

The realization settled into his bones.

You drove love away before it could leave you.

—

Later, when the fire had finally exhausted itself and the roaring sky fell quiet, Hometree was no longer a home.

It was ruin.

Embers pulsed faintly beneath blackened wood. Smoke drifted in slow, ghostlike ribbons through what had once been living branches. The massive trunk that had held generations now lay split and broken, its heart exposed to the open air.

Survivors gathered in small clusters among the ashes.

Some wept openly.

Some sat in stunned silence, staring at nothing.

Children clung to parents. Warriors stood rigid, as if still waiting for another attack.

The silence felt heavier than the destruction itself.

Tsu'tey stood apart from them.

Soot streaked his arms. Blood — not all of it his — darkened his hands. His bow hung loosely at his side, no longer a weapon but a weight.

He stared at the smoking remains of what had been his future.

He had imagined leading here one day.

Standing beside Eyutkan.

Standing beside—

He swallowed hard.

Footsteps approached.

He did not need to look to know who it was.

Mo'at stopped beside him.

Her face was streaked with soot and grief carved deep into the lines of her expression. Her eyes were red, rimmed with exhaustion and sorrow.

But beneath the grief was something sharper.

Disappointment.

"Why?" she asked quietly.

Just one word.

It did not accuse.

It did not shout.

It simply existed.

Tsu'tey kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

"I spoke truth," he said.

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Mo'at stepped closer. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence against the cold settling in his bones.

"Did you?"

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't know anymore.

He had believed it in the moment. Believed it with a ferocity that felt righteous.

But now, in the quiet aftermath, with no fire to feed his rage—

The certainty was gone.

"You saw him shield me," she said gently. "You saw him bleed for us."

The memory struck sharp and vivid.

Kxayen lunging forward.

Wood tearing into flesh.

The way he had staggered but not fallen.

The way he had placed himself between danger and her without hesitation.

Tsu'tey's jaw tightened.

Silence.

"He did not know," Mo'at continued.

Her voice was steady.

Certain.

That certainty unnerved him.

"You cannot know that," he muttered.

His voice sounded smaller now. Less like a warrior. More like a boy arguing with something he feared might be true.

Mo'at's eyes softened.

"I can."

Something in him cracked at that.

Because if she was right—

Then he had done this.

He had chosen this.

He had taken his grief, his fear, his shattered pride—

And forged it into a blade.

And driven it straight into the person who had never once raised a weapon against him.

Mo'at's voice lowered, quieter now, more personal.

"Why did you say those things to him?"

Tsu'tey's hands began to tremble.

He clenched them into fists, but it did nothing to steady them.

"I lost Sylwanin," he said at last, voice rough.

The name alone felt like reopening a wound.

Mo'at nodded slowly.

"I lost her because of the Sky People."

The words tasted bitter.

He could still see her as she had been — alive, fierce, laughing beneath the canopy. He could still feel the hollow devastation when that laughter had been silenced.

"I told myself after that..." His voice faltered. "I was not meant for happiness."

The admission burned.

"That Eywa had decided."

His throat tightened painfully.

That it was punishment.

That loving deeply meant losing violently.

He forced himself to continue.

"Then Jake came. And I hated him." A faint, broken breath escaped him. "But he fought. He bled. He stood beside me."

He remembered battles fought shoulder to shoulder. Shared glances of understanding. The fragile growth of trust.

"I thought—" He swallowed. "I thought I had found a brother."

His voice cracked on the word.

Brother.

It had meant something sacred.

"And Kxayen..."

His breathing grew uneven.

Kxayen had not demanded his respect.

He had earned it quietly.

Through patience.

Through steadiness.

Through the way he listened.

"He made me feel something I thought was dead."

Warmth.

Peace.

Hope.

Three things he had buried with Sylwanin.

"I was happy," he whispered.

The word sounded like confession.

Like weakness.

Like a secret dragged into the open.

Mo'at did not interrupt.

She let the silence hold him there.

"When Jake betrayed us," Tsu'tey continued, tears blurring his vision despite his effort to hold them back, "it felt like proof."

Proof you are cursed. Proof you are foolish. Proof you do not deserve joy.

The old belief rose up with vicious clarity.

Love is taken from you.

Every time.

"And if Jake lied..." His shoulders began to shake. "Then maybe Kxayen did too."

The logic had been fragile. Irrational. Built from fear.

But in the moment, it had felt solid.

It had felt safer to believe they had both betrayed him than to accept that tragedy had struck again without reason.

The tears spilled freely now.

Hot. Unchecked.

"I thought if he was guilty," he choked, "then it made sense."

Then I was not wrong.

Then I was not naive.

"Then I was not a fool for loving him."

His voice broke completely.

"But if he is innocent..." He covered his face with his hands, breath shuddering through his fingers. "Then I have destroyed him for nothing."

The weight of that realization crushed him far more than the fall of Hometree.

Mo'at stepped forward and pulled him into her arms.

The gesture was not one of Tsahìk to warrior.

It was mother to child.

He didn't resist.

He couldn't.

He broke.

Not like a warrior.

Not like a future Olo'eyktan.

But like a boy who had lost too much, too many times, and finally could not hold himself together any longer.

His shoulders shook violently as he cried into her embrace.

"I told him I never should have mated with him," he choked out. "I told him he was a traitor."

Each word felt like swallowing ash.

Irreversible.

Cruel.

Mo'at held him tighter.

"You were afraid," she said softly.

The simplicity of it undid him further.

"I am still afraid," he admitted hoarsely.

Afraid he will not return. Afraid I have proven myself unworthy. Afraid I have become the very thing I hate.

He had accused without listening.

Condemned without proof.

Turned his pain into punishment.

Mo'at pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands steady on his shoulders.

"Then go to him," she said.

The answer was so simple it hurt.

Tsu'tey closed his eyes.

What if he does not want me?

What if I have already lost him?

The fear was suffocating.

But beneath the fear—

Beneath the shame—

Beneath the self-hatred—

There was still love.

It had not burned away with the Tree.

It had not vanished into the smoke.

It was still there, stubborn and painful and real.

And for the first time since Sylwanin's death, he understood something with clarity:

Maybe he was not cursed.

Maybe Eywa had not marked him for loneliness.

Maybe he had simply been afraid to believe he could have more than grief.

Maybe he had been so terrified of losing love—

That he destroyed it first.

And maybe—

If Kxayen would let him—

He could choose differently.

This time.

The sky trembled.

Not with machines.

With something older.

Tsu'tey looked up when the shadow passed over the gathering of survivors. A massive shape cut across the clouds, wings wide enough to swallow the light.

Gasps rippled through the clan.

Toruk.

Impossible.

And on its back—

Jake.

The same man he had sworn to kill.

The same man he had called brother.

The same man who had betrayed him.

Only now he rode as Toruk Makto.

The People fell to their knees around him.

Tsu'tey did not.

Not at first.

His pride resisted.

His grief resisted.

But when Toruk landed and Jake dismounted, something in his expression was not triumphant.

It was broken.

Jake stepped toward him slowly.

Not as conqueror.

As someone asking permission.

Tsu'tey's jaw tightened.

If you have come to claim leadership, say it.

If you have come to ask forgiveness, earn it.

Jake stopped a few paces away.

There was no arrogance in him now.

Only urgency.

"Tsu'tey," he said, voice rough. "Where is he?"

The question struck harder than any insult.

Tsu'tey didn't need clarification.

He knew who he meant.

Kxayen.

His throat tightened instantly.

"He left," Tsu'tey replied, the words clipped. Controlled. "After Hometree fell."

Jake's face changed.

Not anger.

Not relief.

Fear.

"You don't know where?"

Tsu'tey's shoulders stiffened. "No."

Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, agitated.

"Damn it."

The word was sharp.

Tsu'tey's temper flared instinctively.

"You dare speak his name after what you did?"

Jake turned on him.

"What I did?" he shot back, then stopped himself, breathing hard. "Listen to me."

Tsu'tey did not want to listen.

But something in Jake's expression forced him to.

"He didn't know," Jake said firmly.

The words didn't register at first.

Tsu'tey blinked once.

"What?"

"I never told him," Jake continued. "About the attack. About the plans. About any of it. He was never part of this. He never knew what the Sky People were going to do."

The world seemed to tilt.

Tsu'tey stared at him.

"You lie."

Jake stepped closer.

"I swear to you. On everything. I kept him out of it. I didn't want him involved. He argued with me about trusting the Sky People long before this. He would've fought me if he'd known."

Each sentence landed like a blow.

I never told him.

He never knew.

He was never part of this.

Tsu'tey's chest constricted painfully.

His mind replayed everything.

The silence.

The blood.

The look in Kxayen's eyes.

It had not been guilt.

It had been shock.

It had been heartbreak.

And you—

You turned it into betrayal.

"You're sure?" Tsu'tey's voice came out hoarse.

Jake's expression hardened.

"I'm sure."

The finality in it shattered whatever fragile defense Tsu'tey had left.

He had been wrong.

Not mistaken.

Not misled.

Wrong.

And worse—

Cruel.

The memory of his own voice echoed in his skull.

I never should have mated with a traitor like you.

The words now felt monstrous.

Jake studied him.

"He cared about you," Jake said quietly. "More than anything."

Tsu'tey flinched.

"I saw it."

That broke something open.

Because if that was true—

Then Kxayen had left not angry.

Not vengeful.

But wounded.

And alone.

Alone.

The thought made panic surge through him.

He's hurt.

He's bleeding.

He left injured.

And you let him go.

Tsu'tey's breathing grew shallow.

"He has no clan," he muttered, more to himself than Jake. "Nowhere to go."

Jake frowned slightly.

But Tsu'tey wasn't looking at him anymore.

He was seeing smoke.

Blue wings vanishing into it.

He was hearing that quiet voice.

Let's go home.

He had assumed Kxayen meant nowhere.

Had assumed he was alone in the world.

That the Omatikaya had been all he had left.

And Tsu'tey had ripped that away.

You drove him out injured.

You left him to fly alone through a forest at war.

You might have sent him to his death.

"I need to find him," Tsu'tey said suddenly.

Jake blinked. "What?"

"I need to find him."

The words came with growing urgency.

He straightened, shoulders squaring not in pride — but in resolve.

"I accused him," he said, voice thick. "I called him traitor. I told him I should not have mated with him."

Jake winced.

"And he said nothing," Tsu'tey continued, horror creeping into his tone. "He said nothing, Jake."

Because he was innocent.

Because he was hurting.

Because you broke him.

"I need to bring him back," Tsu'tey said.

Not want.

Need.

He turned sharply, already scanning the skies as if Kxayen might simply reappear.

"I need to apologize."

The word felt foreign.

Necessary.

"I need him."

That one hurt the most to admit.

"I cannot have him out there alone," he said, voice trembling despite his effort to steady it. "Not without me."

The truth struck deep.

It was not about pride.

Not about reputation.

Not about who was right.

It was about the unbearable image of Kxayen flying wounded through smoke, believing himself unloved.

Believing Tsu'tey's words.

"I cannot lose him," he whispered.

Not again.

Not like Sylwanin.

Not because of my own fear.

His jaw clenched with new determination.

He had let fear rule him once.

He would not let it decide the ending.

"I will search the eastern forest," he said, already moving toward where his Ikran waited. "If he is wounded, he cannot have gone far."

Jake grabbed his arm briefly.

"Tsu'tey."

He paused.

"You better mean that."

Tsu'tey met his eyes.

For the first time since Hometree fell, there was no rage there.

Only raw, desperate honesty.

"I do."

And beneath the urgency, beneath the guilt and the shame—

There was one clear, undeniable truth burning brighter than the fires that had destroyed their home:

I need him.

And this time—

I will not let my fear take him from me.

(TYSM FOR READING<333)

[cinnamqn7]

Pls continue the aonung series it's so good😭

okaayy okayyy i will i promise i might try and finish my other stories first then move onto like a book 2 for it tho. thank you so much for reading ❤️😘🤭🤗

[cinnamqn7]

What of you do a one shot or maybe part of book 2 (if you're doing one) of the aonung x male reader where some male avatars are hermaphrodite and they have some kids together?😭 sorry if it's too weird

Noo omgg thats so good i like that i think i might do some more chapters then like a book 2 bc icl i genuinely felt a bit sad finishing this bc i liked it so much thank youu so much ❤️😘🤭🤗

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 20

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: fluff, smut

Warnings: explicit scenes

Word count: 3.3k

///////

The first light of dawn spilled across the beach in long ribbons of gold, warming the cool stretch of sand where they lay tangled together. The tide whispered against the shore in a slow, steady rhythm, foam curling and retreating like a quiet breath. The sky above them was still painted in soft blues and fading violets, the last stars dimming as the sun began its climb.

_____ stirred first.

He felt the warmth before he fully woke — the solid weight draped over him, the steady heartbeat pressed against his back, the arm curved securely around his waist. Aonung.

Sand clung lightly to their skin, to the ends of their braids, to the curve of their shoulders where they had drifted to sleep hours earlier beneath the open sky. The night air had been cool, but sometime before dawn, Aonung must have pulled him closer, shielding him from the breeze without ever waking.

_____ shifted slightly, feeling the slow inhale and exhale against his spine. The ocean air tasted of salt and distant reef blossoms. He smiled softly.

"Aonung," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

A low hum answered him, more vibration than word. Aonung's hand flexed unconsciously against his waist, thumb brushing along the small of his back in a lazy, protective sweep.

"You're awake," _____ whispered, tilting his head just enough to glance back at him.

Aonung's eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded and soft in the dawn light. For a moment, there was no ceremony, no village, no responsibility waiting at the horizon. Just this — warmth, closeness, the quiet pulse of the sea.

"So are you," Aonung replied, voice low and thick with sleep.

He lifted his head slightly, pressing his nose gently against the curve of _____'s shoulder. His breath was warm. Familiar.

They lay there for another long moment, listening to the water. A seabird called somewhere above them. The tide rolled in and out, brushing the edges of their feet before slipping away again.

Aonung's expression shifted first.

It was subtle — the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze drifted toward the brightening sky. Today.

"The ceremony..." he said quietly.

The word lingered between them like something sacred.

"I know," _____ murmured.

Aonung exhaled slowly, tightening his arm around him just a little. "I cannot linger. The people will already be preparing. My father will be waiting."

There was no fear in his voice — not exactly. But there was weight. The kind that settled into bones and stayed there.

_____ turned fully then, sand shifting beneath them as he rolled onto his side to face him. Their legs tangled naturally, foreheads almost brushing.

"Let me savor this moment," _____ said softly, lifting his hand to cup Aonung's cheek. "Just a little longer."

Aonung leaned into the touch without thinking. His eyes closed briefly as he pressed a slow kiss to _____'s temple.

"I will savor it with you," he murmured against his skin. "But the reef will not wait forever."

"You sound like Olo'eyktan already," _____ teased gently.

Aonung huffed a quiet laugh, though it held nerves beneath it. "Do not start."

"Oh, I will absolutely start," _____ replied, grinning. "You are going to stand in front of everyone today. You'll look very serious. Very commanding."

"I am serious," Aonung said, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're also the same boy who fell off an ilu at thirteen because you insisted you could ride it without a proper bond."

Aonung narrowed his eyes. "That was one time."

"You swallowed half the reef."

"That is enough."

They both laughed quietly, the sound soft against the morning air.

The laughter faded slowly into something gentler. Aonung's fingers traced absent patterns along _____'s hip. His gaze softened again.

"When I stand there today," he said quietly, "I want you where I can see you."

"I will be," _____ answered immediately.

"Not hidden in the back. Not distracted."

"I'll be right there," _____ promised. "You won't even need to look. You'll feel me watching."

Aonung studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"Good."

The sun climbed higher, spilling stronger light across the sand. The day would not wait for them forever.

Reluctantly, they untangled themselves. Aonung rose first, offering his hand. _____ took it, and with a firm pull, he was lifted to his feet.

They brushed sand from each other's arms and shoulders, laughing quietly as Aonung flicked a stubborn grain from the end of _____'s braid.

"You are covered in half the beach," Aonung muttered.

"You chose to tackle me into it."

"You were teasing me."

"And you lost."

Aonung gave him a pointed look but couldn't suppress the smile.

They stepped closer to the water's edge together. The sea shimmered brighter now, turquoise and gold. Aonung cupped his hands around his mouth and called, the sound carrying across the shallows.

Moments later, an ilu broke the surface, sleek and powerful. Its skin glistened in the rising sun, water cascading down its curved form. It clicked softly in greeting, circling closer.

Aonung reached out first, pressing his forehead briefly to the creature's smooth hide in acknowledgment. _____ followed, fingers trailing along its side.

"Ready?" Aonung asked.

"As I'll ever be."

They mounted smoothly, movements practiced and effortless. _____ settled at the front of the saddle, and Aonung climbed in behind him, thighs bracketing his hips securely. Instinctively, his arms wrapped around _____'s waist.

The contact was grounding.

Even now.

"Hold on," Aonung murmured near his ear.

"I always do."

With a sharp exhale and a press of his heels, the ilu surged forward.

Water sprayed outward as it cut across the surface, powerful tail propelling them over the reef. The wind rushed past them, cool and invigorating, whipping strands of hair loose from their braids.

_____ laughed — bright and free — as they skimmed over the shallows. Beneath them, coral gardens shimmered in shifting colors. Schools of fish darted away in glittering flashes of silver and blue.

Aonung leaned slightly into the motion, guiding the ilu with steady hands. His chin brushed briefly against _____'s shoulder as he adjusted their balance.

For a few precious moments, the world narrowed to movement and sunlight.

As the village came into view, preparations were already underway. Colorful banners of woven reeds fluttered in the breeze, marking paths between the huts. The Makkina moved with quiet energy, arranging ceremonial mats, laying out ornamental garlands, and preparing the open space where the day's ceremony would unfold. Beyond the village, the sound of the sea blended with faint laughter and the hum of conversation, the festival that would follow already beginning to take shape.

Preparations.

Aonung's grip tightened almost imperceptibly around _____'s waist.

"You feel that?" _____ asked softly.

"Yes."

"Good or bad?"

Aonung considered that.

"Both."

The ilu slowed as they approached the shoreline near the village. Aonung guided it carefully through the shallows before dismounting first. He turned immediately, offering his hand.

_____ took it, stepping down carefully. For a second, they remained close, hands still linked.

The sounds of the village drifted toward them now — laughter, raised voices, the thud of drums being tested, the rustle of woven garments.

Aonung looked toward it all.

Then back at _____.

"I will change soon," he said quietly. "They will dress me in the ceremonial garments."

"And you will look insufferably impressive," _____ replied.

Aonung smirked faintly. "You will behave."

"No promises."

Aonung stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"When I stand before them... remember this morning."

"The sand in your hair?" _____ teased.

"The quiet," Aonung corrected gently. "Us."

_____'s teasing expression softened.

"I will."

Aonung brushed his knuckles lightly along _____'s cheek — a fleeting, tender touch — before straightening his shoulders.

The weight was returning now. Settling.

But he did not look overwhelmed.

He looked ready.

"Come," he said softly.

And together, side by side, they walked back toward the village — toward the ceremony that would change everything.

_____ smiled, giving a teasing nudge. "I'll be here. Watching. Making sure you don't trip on your ceremonial robes."

Aonung laughed lightly, shaking his head. "Do not tempt fate."

The ceremonial garments were simple yet dignified, crafted from soft, hand-dyed fibers, embroidered with the symbols of leadership and lineage. Aonung stepped into them with care, the robes draping gracefully over his shoulders, with a braided belt. Around his neck, a necklace of carved shells and polished stones gleamed in the sunlight. Each piece carried meaning, representing the responsibilities and honor of being Olo'eyktan, and the weight of it pressed lightly against him.

When he emerged fully dressed, the villagers and leaders gathered in a wide circle, the space open yet intimate. There was no stage, no raised platform — Aonung stood at the center, at eye level with his people, a symbol of unity and accessibility. Faces turned to him, reflecting pride, hope, and a touch of solemnity. He could feel the quiet expectations pressing on him, but with _____ at his side, he felt steadied, capable.

Tonowari, approached, ceremonial knife in hand. The elders nodded silently, acknowledging the ritual. With reverent care, Aonung bent forward, allowing the small ceremonial incision to mark the rite. The blade traced a shallow line on Tonowari's chest, a gesture of respect, continuity, and recognition of his father's guidance. The moment was brief, sacred, and Aonung felt a surge of connection to both the lineage of leaders before him and the people now placing their trust in him.

The declaration came naturally. Aonung straightened, voice carrying over the gathering. "I accept this responsibility as Olo'eyktan. I will lead with the strength of my people and the guidance of Eywa. I will honor the traditions and protect the future of the metkayina."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. The elders placed hands on his shoulders, and the villagers responded with gentle chants, rhythmic clapping, and soft calls of encouragement. It was formal, yet intimate — a ceremony grounded in the bonds of community rather than spectacle.

Immediately after, the festival began. Music arose from the heart of the village, drums and small reed flutes blending in a lively cadence. Warriors demonstrated their skills with precise movements, spinning and leaping, while dancers wove patterns through the mats and open spaces. The air was thick with the smell of roasted fish and baked fruits, mingling with the faint tang of the ocean wind. Children darted between adults, laughing and calling, their small hands clapping along with the rhythm.

Aonung moved through the crowd with pride, hand in hand with _____, smiling at familiar faces and nodding to elders. There were games of agility, contests of strength, and demonstrations of skill that showcased the training of the Makkina warriors. Laughter, chatter, and music intertwined, creating a tapestry of celebration that seemed to carry away the weight of grief for a few fleeting hours.

As twilight approached, the golden light softened to pink and purple hues across the reef and village. Aonung and _____ slipped away, seeking a quieter place beyond the throngs of dancing and celebration. Their new marui awaited, larger and more comfortable than before, offering a space that felt like a private sanctuary.

Inside, Aonung sank onto the mats, and _____ immediately nestled beside him, fingers tracing light patterns across his arms. "You were magnificent today," _____ said softly, tilting his head to watch Aonung's eyes glimmer with pride and relief.

"I... could not have done it without you," Aonung admitted, voice low, sincere. "Your calm, your guidance... everything you have done for me has carried me through this day. I feel... grounded. Safe. Stronger."

_____ smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple. "That is what mates do. And besides, you are the Olo'eyktan now. You deserve at least one person to remind you that even the strongest leaders need someone to lean on."

Aonung chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from _____'s face. "You are far too indulgent, you know."

"Indulgent? Perhaps. But I am also truthful. And I always know when you need someone to tease you into remembering your own worth."

They lingered in the soft warmth of the marui, talking quietly, laughing softly, teasing each other gently about small missteps during the festival, about robes slightly askew, about minor stumbles that no one else had noticed. There were playful nudges, whispered jokes, touches that lingered just enough to remind them both that the world outside could wait.

Eventually, the teasing gave way to softer, quieter moments. Aonung rested his head against _____'s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, fingers threading together, a silent vow passing between them.

"You did it," _____ whispered, voice warm, firm, and proud. "You are Olo'eyktan."

"And you... you are my balance," Aonung replied, lifting his head just enough to brush a kiss against _____'s lips. "Always. And tonight... I will be selfish. I will enjoy this victory with only you by my side."

"Then enjoy," _____ murmured, tilting his head to catch Aonung's gaze. "And tomorrow... tomorrow we face the world together. But tonight..." He smiled, leaning closer, voice soft. "Tonight, it is just us."

Aonung grinned, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in hair, lips brushing against temples, neck, cheeks, small touches that spoke of joy, relief, and lingering intimacy. "Just us," he repeated, letting the words settle over them like the soft hum of the ocean beyond.

"come, fuck me ma mighty warrior." He smiled softly as he leaned back with a spark of confidence

_____'s breath hitched at the sudden shift in tone, the playful softness now charged with something hungrier. Aonung had that look—predatory yet trusting, like he knew exactly what he was doing. His hips tilted back invitingly against the mats, chest rising with each breath.

_____ swallowed hard, heat pooling low in his belly. "With pleasure ma olo'eyktan"

Aonung's eyes darkened at the title, a low sound escaping his throat. His fingers found _____'s wrist, tugging him closer.

"Show me," he challenged, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Show me that confidence I saw today. The strength."

_____ needed no further encouragement.

_____ moved like a predator claiming what was his, pushing Aonung back onto the mats. His weight settled between Aonung's thighs, hands sliding up his chest to grip the ceremonial robes with possessive intent.

"No holding back," _____ growled against his lips. "You wanted your mighty warrior? I'll give you everything."

Aonung moaned, arching up.

Aonung's eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of _____'s weight pressing down on him. He could feel the heat radiating off his body, the strength in his arms as they pinned him down. It was intoxicating—a heady mix of power and submission.

_____'s hands moved quickly to shed Aonung's ceremonial garments, exposing his smooth skin. He kissed down his chest, biting gently at nipples that hardened under his touch. Aonung gasped, fingers tangling in _____'s hair as he was laid bare before him.

"Mine," _____ murmured against Aonung's stomach, marking him with open-mouthed kisses. His large hands spread Aonung's thighs wider apart, making room for himself between them. He could see Aonung's cock already hard and leaking precome onto his belly.

Aonung whimpered, spreading his legs wider without being told. He loved how _____ looked at him like he was something precious, something to be worshipped. His body was covered in tattoos, scars, and hard muscles - the perfect picture of a mighty warrior. "Please..." He begged softly.

"So polite," _____ chuckled darkly, his voice low and dangerous. "For someone who commands entire tribes, you're quite the sweet little thing in bed." He scraped his teeth along Aonung's hip bone, deliberately teasing. "Say it again."  "Please... what?"

Aonung's breath hitched, his face flushing a soft pink at the nickname. He knew _____ was teasing him, pushing his buttons on purpose. And it worked. He lifted his hips slightly, seeking friction. "Please, fuck me," he whimpered, his voice small and needy. "Please, I need you inside me."

"As you command, ma olo'eyktan," _____ murmured, his voice dripping with mock-seriousness as he used the formal address for a clan leader. He grabbed Aonung's thighs and pulled them up around his waist, exposing him completely.

"Look at you," _____ growled softly, taking in the sight of Aonung spread out beneath him. His hole was already relaxed from earlier, making it easier for him to push inside without preparation. But he wanted to make it good for Aonung anyway. "So fucking pretty,"

_____ leaned down and kissed Aonung deeply, tongue sliding against his as he positioned himself at Aonung's entrance. He pushed in slowly, not stopping until he was fully seated inside.

Aonung's eyes rolled back at the stretch, a broken moan escaping his lips. "Yes, yes, just— don't stop."

_____ didn't.

_____ started moving with steady, deep thrusts, one hand wrapped around Aonung's cock to stroke it in time with his movements. The other hand gripped Aonung's hip possessively. He was setting a brutal pace, taking what was rightfully his—his warrior, his lover, his everything.

Aonung's back arched off the bed, his fingers clawing at _____'s arms as pleasure overwhelmed him. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with their moans and heavy breathing. _____ hit that spot inside him perfectly every time, making stars dance behind his eyes.

"Come on, yawne," _____ breathed against his ear, biting down on the cartilage. "Let go for me. Show me how good your mighty warrior makes you feel." He sped up, balls deep every time, the hand on Aonung's cock twisting slightly at the base. "That's it, take every inch."

"Fuck!" Aonung cried out loudly, his body tensing and releasing in a powerful orgasm. His come spilled over _____'s fingers, dripping down onto the woven floor. He felt completely drained, but somehow even more sensitive now. "More," he whimpered.

_____'s pace faltered for a moment, watching Aonung fall apart so beautifully around him. The sight of him, the olo'eyktan of the clan, reduced to a trembling mess begging for more— it was the hottest thing _____ had ever seen.

"You're insatiable," _____ groaned, slamming back into him roughly. "Keep coming for me."

Aonung nodded frantically, too far gone to form words. His body was still twitching from his orgasm, yet _____'s cock stretching him open felt even better now. He gripped the mats beneath him, knuckles turning white as _____ pounded into him without mercy. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—from the overwhelming pleasure, from the sheer rightness of it.

_____ could see the tears, the way Aonung was surrendering completely. It made something primal roar to life inside him. He leaned down, catching Aonung's lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked him harder, deeper.

"Mine," he repeated, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. "This body. This heart. Everything."

Aonung sobbed into the kiss, legs wrapping tighter around _____'s waist as he felt another orgasm building even faster than the first. _____'s cock was hitting that spot over and over, relentless and unforgiving. "Yes, yours, always yours," he gasped between broken moans. "Please, I'm—I can't—" His thighs started shaking violently.

"Then don't," _____ growled against his lips, biting down hard enough to draw blood. He fucked into him at a punishing angle, chasing both their releases. "Give it to me."

Aonung's head fell back, throat exposed as release ripped through him again. This orgasm was more intense—his entire body seized up, toes curling, every muscle locking and trembling.

_____ felt Aonung squeeze around him like a vice, his hole spasming and milking _____'s cock perfectly. It was too much—too good—and with a loud groan, _____ came deep inside him, hips jerking erratically as he filled him up.

For several long moments, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional soft moan. _____ stayed inside Aonung, both of them panting heavily. He gently lowered Aonung's legs, which were trembling like leaves in the wind, and carefully pulled out, watching his seed mixed with Aonung's slick drip out and onto the mats.

"Eywa..."

Aonung lay there, completely boneless and sated. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His hole was red and puffy, leaking a constant stream of their combined fluids. He looked thoroughly used—and he loved it.

_____ leaned down to kiss him gently, cleaning him up with a wet cloth he kept nearby. He was being careful, but Aonung could see the proud, satisfied look in his eyes.

"You were so good," _____ whispered, pressing another soft kiss to his forehead.

Aonung smiled lazily, his hand reaching up to touch _____'s cheek.

"I thought I was the sweet little thing," Aonung teased weakly, his voice raspy from all the moaning. He winced slightly as _____ continued cleaning him, but the pain felt good—evidence of what they'd just shared.

"You are," _____ chuckled, tossing the cloth aside and pulling Aonung against his chest.

Aonung hummed happily, snuggling into his embrace. "I think you fucked the sweetness out of me," he said, pressing a soft kiss to _____'s neck. He felt utterly content, wrapped up in the strong arms of the man he loved.

(TYSM for reading i love you all so much plz lemme know if i should continue this or leave it but imma leave it for now mostly bc i dont know what to do with it now so plzz lemme know if you have any ideas for this or even for another fic<33)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 19

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 2.6k

////////

It had been nearly two months since the battle, since the fire and the blood and the last time the Metkayina had been whole in laughter. The village was quieter now, slower. Not in a peaceful way—there was a heaviness in the air, a soft undercurrent of grief. The Tsahik's absence still lingered like smoke clinging to the coral walls of the metkayina, invisible yet unmistakable. Even in the daily rhythms of repair, the laughter of the younger warriors, and the tireless hum of the reef's tide, a shadow pressed down on every conversation.

Aonung moved deliberately through the village paths, a woven basket balanced carefully against his hip. Inside were neatly wrapped bundles of medicinal herbs, healing pastes, and a few pieces of fresh fruit. He was going to Tsireya's marui first, to ensure she had everything she needed before anyone else could arrive. The soft rattle of the basket against his thigh was the only sound, aside from the occasional call of a distant seabird. His brow was furrowed slightly, not from fatigue, but from the constant, quiet weight of responsibility that had begun to settle onto him like a second skin.

The past two months had been difficult, and yet in the distance, life continued. Children ran along the beach, testing nets, chasing the surf, laughter spilling into the warm air. Older warriors mended spears and checked the weapons salvaged from the last battle. But Aonung's eyes were always searching, always calculating—even as he carried a basket of what seemed like small, trivial items, he was planning, thinking, preparing for the next chapter.

He reached the marui. Its woven walls swayed gently in the breeze, a pale, sandy hue illuminated by the morning sun filtering through the gaps. He paused just outside, taking a deep breath, before stepping inside.

Inside, the air was warm and soft, scented faintly with salt and herbs. _____ was half-sat up on the low, woven mats that lined the floor of the marui, propped up on his elbows. His body was still recovering, but he carried himself with a faint stubborn pride, eyes bright even though his cheek still bore the pale shadow of a healing scar. He looked at Aonung as the door swayed closed behind him, a teasing smile lifting the corners of his lips.

"You're awake," Aonung said gently, his voice calm, but threaded with relief and something softer underneath. "Finally."

_____ gave a mock groan, leaning a little further back against the mats. "Finally, yes. And you? Still gallivanting about the village like some future Olo'eyktan on a morning errand?"

Aonung placed the basket carefully on the mat beside him, kneeling with a deliberate precision that showed both care and authority. He began pulling out small pieces of brightly colored fruits—slices of sweet krrsh fruit, soft chunks of banana-like pulih, and tiny berries that popped with juice.

"Sit still," Aonung instructed, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing at the faint twitch in _____'s lips that hinted at a smile. He held out a slice of fruit to him. "You are not going anywhere today, not until I say."

_____ laughed softly, taking the fruit. "Oh, come on, at least one little swim. It's just a morning dip—what is the harm?"

Aonung's jaw tightened. "I am the future Olo'eyktan. I cannotuu have my mate being injured and reopening his wounds just because he wants to go for a swim. Do you understand?"

"And you think that a little water could undo all the training and preparation we've survived?" _____ countered, feigning offense as he leaned a bit closer, letting the sweet fruit press against his tongue.

"I think," Aonung said, eyes glinting, "that if you even think about it, I will personally confiscate every single fruit in this basket and make you eat only the bitter herbs until your body remembers who is in charge here."

_____ chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Oh, the mighty future Olo'eyktan, scolding me while feeding me fruit. Such a fearsome combination."

Aonung allowed a small smirk, though his eyes softened immediately as he watched him eat. "You will forgive me. I have a duty, and it begins with keeping you alive. That is first and foremost."

They settled into an easy rhythm. Aonung fed him, slice by slice, and _____ teased him in return, poking at his shoulder, leaning just slightly into his side as he did. The world beyond the woven walls of the marui seemed to blur. The distant laughter of children, the soft calls of warriors practicing on the reef—it all fell into a muted hum. Here, they were just themselves.

"So," _____ said after a moment, swallowing a small bite of fruit, "the ceremony is soon, isn't it?"

Aonung nodded, picking up another piece and slicing it neatly with his fingers before offering it to him. "Yes. Soon enough that preparations are no longer trivial. The elders are counting on me."

_____ tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes despite the lingering fatigue. "And that means... you? You're officially stepping up?"

Aonung's gaze hardened with quiet determination. "Yes. Father is stepping down to spend more time with Pril. It is my responsibility now. We are moving into the larger marui. Everything will be prepared. And you will stay safe, understood?"

_____ reached out, brushing a loose braid from Aonung's temple. "I do not doubt your capability," he murmured. "But still... I cannot imagine the Olo'eyktan without some mischief, without a mate constantly at his side. I suppose I will need to keep you on your toes."

Aonung laughed softly, a low, resonant sound that filled the small space. "You will not get out of this that easily. I am the future Olo'eyktan. My orders are absolute, especially when your health is concerned."

"I suppose," _____ said, letting a small smile tug at his lips, "that if I obey your orders, I can steal a kiss between bites."

"Do not test me," Aonung warned, though his fingers lingered on _____'s hand as he pressed another slice of fruit to his lips. "Eat, enjoy. But you will not leave this marui today."

Their laughter mingled with quiet moments of warmth. Aonung's hand brushed against _____'s, lingering over the scarred shoulder where a faint mark of battle still reddened the skin. His thumb traced it lightly, gently, a constant reminder of protection, of devotion.

"You will be careful out there," _____ said, leaning slightly into him. "Even with all this... authority, you are not invincible."

"I know," Aonung replied softly. "But I will do everything to protect those I love. And that begins with you."

For a long moment, they simply sat together, sharing fruit, laughter, and the soft intimacy of closeness after so much chaos. The basket was slowly emptied, crumbs of fruit and juices staining the woven mats, but neither seemed to mind.

Then Aonung's eyes flicked toward the doorway, serious once again. "Soon, we will move into the larger marui. This will be your home as much as mine. And..." His lips curved in the faintest mischievous smirk, "I expect you to respect my orders while in it. Especially regarding swimming."

_____ rolled his eyes dramatically. "Fine. But when I finally get my dip, you will owe me an extra twenty slices of fruit, counted, no exceptions."

"You are insufferable," Aonung said, though the laughter in his voice betrayed the fondness he felt. "But very well. Twenty slices it is."

They leaned closer then, a playful warmth shared in the quiet, private space of the marui. Hands brushed, fingers intertwined. Every glance, every touch carried the weight of the past months—the battles survived, the losses endured, the unspoken promise of a future together.

"And you," _____ whispered, "will make a fine Olo'eyktan. Perhaps the best yet. But promise me..." His voice softened, almost a murmur. "Promise me you won't shoulder it alone."

Aonung's eyes softened. "I never will. Not while you are here."

And for a moment, in the warmth of the marui, amid the scattered fruit and the scent of salt and herbs, everything else—the grief, the chaos, the distant memory of battle—was gone. There was only them.

The future awaited. Responsibilities, the ceremony, the weight of leadership—but here, in this moment, they were simply two souls entwined, laughing, teasing, and holding fast to one another.

⸻

The morning sun filtered through the woven walls of the marui, painting soft golden patterns across the floor. The air smelled faintly of salt, dried herbs, and the lingering tang of the reef beyond. For the first time in weeks, _____ was allowed to lie without the weight of bandages constricting him.

Aonung moved carefully, a soft hand brushing against the dried leaf bandages as he peeled them away one by one. The leaves had done their work, holding him steady, keeping him safe through the slow days of recovery, but now it was time for them to go. Each strip revealed smooth, slightly reddened skin beneath, tender and healing, the faintest traces of scars left from battle.

"Careful," _____ murmured, wincing slightly at a particularly stubborn wrap.

"I am always careful with you," Aonung said, his voice warm, teasing just enough to make _____ smile despite the slight ache. "And besides," he added, "I cannot have the future Olo’eyktan’s mate looking like a patchwork quilt on the day of the ceremony."

_____ laughed softly, shifting up slightly on the soft mat, letting Aonung adjust a leaf under his arm. "You are... very meticulous, aren't you?"

"Meticulous is necessary when I am in charge," Aonung replied, lifting the last strip and smoothing a hand over his mate's shoulder. "And it begins with keeping you safe, every moment."

_____ leaned slightly into the touch, letting his eyes close for a moment. "I cannot imagine anyone better to have by my side. Tomorrow, everything changes, and... I want you to know i will always be there for you, ma yawne."

Aonung's hand found his, thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. "Always. And tomorrow, You will be by my side for the entire ceremony. I promise."

The day passed in slow, gentle rhythms. They shared food, laughed at small jokes only they understood, teased each other quietly. Aonung remained firm, ever-watchful, ensuring that _____ did not overexert himself. But in every glance, every touch, there was warmth, playfulness, and an intimacy that had deepened over the past months.

By late afternoon, the sun was dipping lower, casting long orange and purple streaks across the village. Aonung's eyes betrayed a subtle nervousness—small, almost imperceptible, but there. Tomorrow, he would step fully into his new role, becoming the chief of the metkayina, the Olo’eyktan, and the weight of that responsibility pressed on him.

Sensing it, _____ rose slowly, brushing the hair from his face, and gave a teasing grin. "I think someone needs a break from worrying. Come with me."

Aonung looked at him, uncertain. "Where?"

"Somewhere... quiet," _____ said, standing and heading toward the beach. "Just the two of us."

Aonung hesitated a moment, then nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Alright. I trust you."

They approached a waiting ilu. Its smooth, curved back gleamed in the sunlight, muscles taut and ready beneath their hands. Carefully, they mounted together. _____ sat first, motioning for Aonung to join him behind, close enough to feel the warmth and the steady heartbeat of his mate. Their fingers intertwined across the saddle, a silent reassurance.

The ilu surged forward with a powerful kick of its legs, slicing across the water. Waves splashed along its sides as they glided effortlessly over the coral-rich reef, the cool sea spray brushing their faces. The wind tangled Aonung's hair across his eyes, and _____ leaned back just slightly, resting a cheek against Aonung's shoulder.

"You feel tense," _____ murmured softly, running a hand along Aonung's arm.

"I... am," Aonung admitted, voice low. "Tomorrow is... a lot. And yet... I cannot imagine doing it without you."

_____ turned his head just enough to brush a gentle kiss across Aonung's cheek. "You will be fine. You are strong. You are the leader we all need, and you have me. Always."

Aonung exhaled, his grip tightening around _____'s waist just slightly. "You always know what to say."

They rode in companionable silence for a while, the ilu's steady rhythm beneath them, the spray of the waves, the calls of seabirds above. They wove through the reef, past the shallow coral beds where schools of bright fish darted beneath them, past the rocky outcrops where crabs scuttled and small waves lapped.

Eventually, they reached a quieter stretch of beach, away from the village, away from the murmurs of the metkayina preparing for the upcoming ceremony. The ilu settled onto the sand, and they dismounted carefully, still close, still holding hands.

Aonung knelt beside _____, brushing the damp hair from his mate's forehead, eyes soft but filled with a mixture of nervousness and affection. "You always make me feel... less alone in everything. Even tomorrow, I will remember this—this quiet moment with you."

_____ smiled, tilting his head to catch Aonung's gaze. "And I will remember you. I will remember that even the future Olo’eyktan can have moments of tenderness. That even you... are not all duty, not all responsibility."

Aonung chuckled softly, fingers tracing the line of _____'s jaw. "Do not speak as though I am perfect. I am stern, yes. I am careful. But you... you teach me patience, even when I do not realize I need it."

_____ leaned closer, eyes softening. "Then we teach each other, don't we? You lead the people, I heal the wounds. And together... we face everything."

The sun dipped lower, the horizon a canvas of violet and rose. The waves glistened in gold as the light reflected off the wet sand. Aonung's hand cupped the side of _____'s face, thumb brushing over the cheekbone with gentle care.

"I am nervous," Aonung admitted finally, voice almost a whisper. "For tomorrow, I mean. So many will be watching, so many expectations. I... do not want to fail."

_____ pressed a soft hand against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "You will not fail," he said firmly. "You are the Olo’eyktan because you were meant to be. It is the will of eywa. And you are not alone. You have me, and you have everyone who believes in you."

Aonung's eyes glistened, the faintest tremor in his lips. "I... I just want to do right by everyone."

"You already do," _____ murmured, leaning close enough that their foreheads touched. "And if you stumble, I will be there to catch you. Always."

Aonung exhaled, letting the tension melt, feeling the warmth of _____ beside him, feeling the reassurance, the intimacy. "I... I am lucky. That I have you."

"And I am lucky to have you," _____ replied, voice soft but steady. "Now, rest with me. Here, on the sand, away from everything. Tomorrow... tomorrow we will face the world. But tonight, we have each other."

They sat together as the sun sank fully below the horizon, the waves lapping at their feet, the wind carrying the scent of salt and reef. Fingers intertwined, they shared quiet laughter and soft touches, gentle teasing, and whispers of affection. The world beyond the beach could wait. Here, they had a moment of peace, a moment of belonging, a moment that would carry them through the weight of tomorrow.

And as stars began to twinkle above, mirrored faintly in the water at their feet, Aonung rested his forehead against _____'s shoulder. "Tomorrow," he whispered.

"Yes," _____ replied, squeezing his hand. "Tomorrow, we face everything. But tonight... tonight, we are just us."

(lowk did anyone think i killed my boy off? sorry its a short chapter. ANYWAY TYSM for reading<333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 18

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: angst

Warnings: injuries, fighting, mentions of death

Word count: 4.4k

/////////

(btw when it says abt the same place and height i mean its the same spot neteyam was shot)

The sea was quiet in the moments before war.

Too quiet.

Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if Pandora itself were holding its breath.

_____ stood at the edge of the cliffside platform overlooking the open water. Below, the fleet of Sky People ships scarred the horizon — black metal cutting across sacred ocean blue. Smoke already smudged the sky where distant bombardments had begun.

Behind him, the warriors of the Metkayina waited. Spears in hand. Bows strung. Ikran circling high above. Skimwings restless in the surf.

He was their lead.

Head of the Metkayina warriors. The strongest among them. The one Tonowari trusted to cut through the enemy's heart.

But right now, he was not a warrior.

He was just Aonung's mate.

Aonung stepped in front of him, hands trembling despite his attempt to appear composed.

"You are not invincible," Aonung said quietly, voice rough.

_____ smiled softly. "No. But I am very hard to kill."

"That is not funny."

Aonung grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, the ocean wind tugging at their braids.

"Do not go too far ahead," Aonung whispered. "Do not chase glory. Do not chase death."

_____'s expression softened. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently along Aonung's cheek.

"Yawne…I need you to stay back," he said. "I don't care if it is selfish. I don't care if you hate me for it. Stay behind the first wave."

Aonung's jaw tightened. "You are asking me to watch you walk into fire."

"I am asking you to live."

Silence hung between them.

Then Aonung leaned forward and kissed him — not desperate, not rushed. Slow. Deep. Memorising.

When they parted, Aonung pressed their foreheads together again.

"I see you," he murmured.

_____ swallowed.

"I love you. I beg you... come back to me. Do not let this be the end of your story."

_____'s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the storm inside him.

"My story does not end today," he said softly. "And if it does... it will end knowing I was loved by you."

Aonung's breath hitched.

_____ brushed their noses together in one last intimate gesture.

"Wait for me," he whispered.

Then he turned — and the war began.

⸻

The tulkun struck first.

For one suspended heartbeat, the ocean looked calm — dark blue glass stretching beneath a sky smudged with smoke.

Then the sea rose.

Enormous shadows surged upward from the depths, ancient and unstoppable. The water bulged and split as colossal bodies breached in perfect, devastating coordination. Massive tails slammed into steel hulls with bone-shaking force. The sound was not just heard — it was felt, vibrating through water, through air, through every rib in every chest watching.

Metal screamed.

Ships lurched violently to one side as engines tore loose beneath the surface. Deck guns misfired. Soldiers stumbled. A second tulkun crashed into a support vessel, splitting its propulsion system in a thunderous explosion that lit the sky in orange fire.

Payakan burst from the water like a living mountain, scars flashing pale against the smoke-darkened sea. He rammed headfirst into the command ship's lower structure, splintering reinforced plating as if it were brittle coral. Steam and flame erupted outward.

The ocean erupted into chaos.

Waves surged in all directions, slamming into the reef's edge and rocking every craft caught in between. Smoke rolled low across the water. The sky filled with the shriek of tearing metal and the bellow of enraged tulkun.

"Now!" Tonowari roared.

The Metkayina launched.

Skimwings shot forward in a blur of fins and spray. Ikran riders dove from the cloud line like streaks of blue lightning, wings tucked tight before flaring at the last second to release volleys of arrows.

_____ vaulted onto his skimwing in one fluid motion, landing low and balanced as it surged into the swell. Wind tore at his braids. Salt spray lashed his face. His heart pounded once — twice — then steadied into something cold and focused.

This was what he had trained for.

He leaned forward, pressing his body close to the skimwing's sleek spine, and they became a single streak racing across broken water.

Explosions thundered overhead as human ships fired wildly into the sea, their coordination already unraveling under the tulkun assault. A gun turret rotated toward a cluster of Metkayina riders—

Too slow.

_____ rose in the stirrups, drew, and released.

His arrow struck the exposed machinery at the turret's base. Sparks burst outward. The weapon jammed mid-rotation, grinding uselessly as smoke poured from its housing.

He did not pause to admire it.

Another skimwing rider nearly collided with debris from a shattered mast. _____ veered sharply, slicing between floating wreckage before launching himself from the saddle onto the deck of a listing vessel.

He landed in a crouch.

Chaos met him immediately — shouting soldiers, alarms blaring, smoke stinging his eyes. He moved without hesitation.

Precise.

Controlled.

Unstoppable.

He disarmed one opponent with a sharp twist of his staff and drove him back toward the railing. Another rushed him from the side; _____ pivoted, knocked the weapon aside, and forced the attacker to the deck with brutal efficiency. He did not linger. He did not waste motion.

He cleared space for two more Metkayina warriors to board safely.

Above, ikran riders streaked past in coordinated arcs, releasing arrows into exposed control panels and engine vents. One ship's communications tower exploded in a shower of sparks. Another vessel began to list heavily as Payakan's tail struck it again beneath the waterline.

The humans were faltering.

For a fleeting moment, the tide felt firmly in their favor.

_____ leapt back to his skimwing as the deck beneath him tilted dangerously. The craft shot forward again, weaving through floating wreckage and burning fragments.

Ahead, Tonowari fought like the embodiment of the sea itself.

The Olo'eyktan stood tall on his own mount, spear flashing in powerful arcs, voice cutting through the chaos as he directed the formation. Wherever he turned, warriors rallied. Wherever he struck, the line advanced.

He was not reckless.

He was commanding.

A tidal wave given form.

_____ angled toward him, cutting down a descending gun drone with a perfectly timed throw before it could line up a shot on the Metkayina flank.

Tonowari met his eyes briefly across the water.

A nod.

Approval.

Then both turned back to the fight.

The sea churned red-gold beneath the burning reflection of the ships. Tulkun calls echoed across the battlefield — not cries of pain, but signals. Coordinated. Strategic. Ancient.

One transport ship attempted to retreat, engines roaring as it turned away from the reef.

It never made it far.

Two tulkun rose beneath it simultaneously, lifting the entire vessel out of the water at an impossible angle before slamming it down hard enough to snap its propulsion system. The resulting explosion sent a column of flame spiraling into the sky.

Cheers erupted from the Na'vi ranks.

But the battle was far from over.

More human aircraft screamed overhead, dropping reinforcements onto the remaining ships. The sky filled with tracer fire. The air smelled of smoke and burning fuel.

_____ did not slow.

He cut through the widening gap in the enemy formation, spear flashing as he disabled another weapon mount. He hauled a wounded Metkayina warrior back onto a skimwing without breaking stride. He redirected a cluster of younger fighters away from an incoming barrage, taking the brunt of the pressure himself.

He was everywhere at once.

Everything they needed him to be.

A leader.

A shield.

A weapon.

The Makkiná warriors followed his movements instinctively. When he surged forward, they pressed the advantage. When he signaled left, they pivoted in seamless unison. Years of discipline and trust turned them into something more than individual fighters.

They were a current.

And _____ was its spearpoint.

A fresh shockwave rolled across the ocean as another ship's engine detonated beneath the surface. Steam billowed upward in a towering white cloud. Through it all, tulkun forms moved like gods of the deep — vast silhouettes cutting through fire and wreckage.

For a breathless stretch of time, it truly felt as though the Sky People were being driven back into the sea.

_____ stood tall on his skimwing as it crested a wave, scanning the battlefield with sharp, calculating eyes.

Ships were burning.

Their formations were fractured.

The Metkayina still held strong.

Beside him, Tonowari drove his spear into the railing of a final command vessel and vaulted aboard, rallying warriors with a roar that shook the air.

The ocean itself seemed to rise in answer.

But even as victory edged closer—

The wind shifted.

And far above, dark shapes began to gather against the smoke-choked sky.

At first they were only silhouettes — distortions against the rolling ash and rising heat from burning wreckage below. The battle had already fractured the horizon, already filled the air with screams and the roar of engines and the thunder of massive bodies colliding.

Then the sound came.

A tremor in the sky itself.

Not thunder.

Not machinery.

A shrieking war cry that cut through everything.

Every Metkayina rider felt it.

The Mangkwang.

They tore out of the clouds in a tight formation, descending like falling blades. Their ikran were painted in violent streaks of red and charcoal, wings scarred with blackened symbols that caught the firelight. Their riders leaned low over their mounts, bodies smeared in ash, braids bound tight against the wind. Their faces were not wild.

They were calm.

Certain.

They did not circle the battlefield to assess.

They did not warn.

They attacked.

The shift in the battle was immediate and brutal.

A Metkayina rider to _____'s left barely had time to look up before a Mangkwang spear punched through his shoulder, sending him spiraling from his skimwing. Another pair dove in perfect synchronization, slicing between two defenders and knocking one clean from his mount.

The ocean below filled with bodies — some fighting to surface, some not moving at all.

Smoke rolled low over the water.

Screams tangled with war cries.

And in the center of it, _____ felt the change like a physical blow.

This was no longer a battle being won.

It was a battle being contested.

His snarl was swallowed by the wind as he banked his skimwing sharply upward. He did not hesitate. He did not look for orders.

He went straight toward the descending Mangkwang.

The first rider he met came screaming down in a steep dive, spear leveled. _____ rose to meet him instead of evading. The world narrowed into a single line — bowstring, arrow tip, the exposed space beneath the rider's jaw.

He released.

The arrow struck clean.

The Mangkwang warrior jerked backward, grip loosening. His ikran shrieked as its rider slipped from the saddle and vanished into the chaos below.

_____ did not watch him fall.

He pivoted instantly, drawing again. A second Mangkwang twisted to flank him from the right. The maneuver was precise, practiced — meant to trap.

_____ anticipated it.

He leaned low, allowing the spear to skim past his shoulder, feeling the rush of displaced air, and shot upward in a sharp spiral. His arrow caught the second rider in the ribs. The impact did not kill instantly — but it broke formation, sent the rider tumbling sideways long enough for another Metkayina arrow to finish the strike.

He moved like the sea during storm surge — not frantic, not uncontrolled, but overwhelming.

Each breath measured.

Each movement deliberate.

Another Mangkwang dove straight at him.

This one did not scream.

He held eye contact.

That was new.

The warrior's face was streaked with ash in deliberate patterns, eyes cold and steady. He held twin short spears instead of a bow.

Close combat.

He intended to collide.

_____ adjusted his grip and dropped lower on his skimwing's neck. At the last second, he pulled hard to the left. The Mangkwang anticipated that too.

They passed so close their knees nearly struck.

The first spear lashed out, slicing a shallow line across _____'s upper arm.

Heat flared — sharp, immediate — but he did not falter.

He twisted in the saddle, firing backward as they separated. The arrow grazed the Mangkwang's shoulder, tearing fabric and skin but not enough to drop him.

The rider grinned.

Then they turned again.

Around them, the battle blurred into noise — flashes of movement, bodies falling, water exploding under impact. But for _____, the world narrowed.

There was only this warrior.

They clashed again, this time rising higher above the chaos. The Mangkwang feinted low before driving upward, spear aimed at _____'s chest.

He barely deflected it with his bow, wood splintering under the force. The second spear came immediately after — too fast.

It punched through the air and struck him high beneath the collarbone.

The impact was solid, sickening.

It did not pierce deep enough to exit the other side — but it drove in hard enough to knock the breath from him.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

No sound.

No sky.

Only pressure.

Then pain detonated outward in blinding waves.

His fingers spasmed.

His grip slipped.

The Mangkwan did not slow.

He ripped the spear free as they passed, leaving fire in its wake.

Blood warmed his chest instantly.

The world tilted.

Memory crashed in uninvited.

Neteyam laying still on the rock.

The exact place.

The exact height.

The look on Lo'ak's face.

The silence that had followed.

The grief.

It struck harder than the spear.

His skimwing shrieked beneath him as his balance failed.

He hit the water with bone-rattling force.

Cold swallowed him whole.

Sound became distant thunder above the surface. Light fractured into shifting silver patterns. His chest burned — not just from lack of air but from the wound itself, throbbing in violent pulses.

He tried to move.

His body lagged behind his commands.

Blood drifted from him in dark ribbons.

Above, shadows circled.

One broke away.

The same Mangkwang.

Even underwater, _____ recognized the silhouette — the disciplined way the rider leaned forward, scanning.

The ikran dove low.

A hand plunged into the water and seized his arm.

Iron grip.

He was yanked upward, breaking the surface in a choking gasp. Air tore into his lungs as he was hauled violently into the sky.

The Mangkwang had no intention of finishing him quickly.

They climbed.

Higher.

The battlefield shrank below — burning wreckage, scattering riders, flashes of red and blue in constant motion.

Wind roared past his ears.

His vision blurred.

The rider did not speak.

Did not taunt.

He simply released him.

For one endless second, _____ hung suspended between sky and sea.

Then he fell.

The ocean struck him like stone.

Pain exploded through his already battered body. The shock ripped the last of his air away as he plunged deep beneath the surface.

Darkness pressed in at the edges of his sight.

This was how warriors vanished.

Not in glory.

Not in song.

Just sinking.

Alone.

Through the haze, through water thick with salt and blood, something brushed his side.

An ilu.

It circled once, nudging him insistently.

Somewhere deep within instinct, he reached for it.

His fingers caught the harness.

The ilu shifted beneath him, steady, solid.

He dragged himself partially upright, chest screaming in protest. Every breath felt torn and raw. His arm shook as he pulled himself fully onto the creature's back.

Above the surface, the Mangkwan rider circled again.

Waiting.

Watching to see if he would drown.

When _____ broke through the water once more, coughing and bleeding but upright, the Mangkwan tilted his head slightly.

Acknowledgment.

Then he dove again.

No screams this time.

No theatrics.

Just lethal precision.

_____ forced his trembling hands to draw another arrow. His vision swam. The world doubled and split. Blood slicked his fingers against the bowstring.

The Mangkwan closed the distance rapidly, spear already poised.

This time, _____ did not aim for the rider.

He aimed for the ikran.

The arrow struck deep into the base of the creature's wing joint.

The ikran shrieked, momentum faltering mid-dive. The Mangkwan compensated instantly — impressive, controlled — but it disrupted the perfect line of attack.

They collided in a violent tangle of limbs and leather instead of a clean strike.

_____ lost his bow.

The Mangkwan lost one spear.

They crashed together into the sea.

Water swallowed them both.

Underwater, everything became slower and more brutal.

The Mangkwan's hands were at his throat immediately.

Strong.

Unyielding.

Ash markings blurred into dark streaks as bubbles rushed past their faces.

_____ drove his knee upward, striking hard into the warrior's abdomen. The grip loosened just enough.

He tore free, reaching blindly for the dagger at his waist.

The Mangkwan recovered fast — faster than exhaustion should have allowed.

Their blades met in a flash of steel beneath shifting light.

No wasted movement.

No panic.

They circled each other underwater like predators.

Blood from _____'s chest wound clouded the space between them.

The Mangkwan lunged.

_____ twisted, letting the blade slice along his side instead of deep into his stomach. He answered with his own strike, catching the warrior across the forearm.

Bubbles burst from the Mangkwan's mouth — not a scream, just expelled air.

They clashed again.

And again.

The world narrowed further until there was only water, steel, and survival.

His lungs burned.

His limbs weakened.

The Mangkwan sensed it.

He surged forward in one final attempt to overpower him.

At the last possible second, _____ shifted sideways and drove his dagger upward beneath the warrior's ribcage.

Close.

Intimate.

The strike was not wild.

It was precise.

The Mangkwan froze.

Eyes wide — not in fear.

In recognition.

The same calm certainty flickered there one last time.

Then it dimmed.

Their bodies drifted apart in slow suspension.

The ikran, wounded and shrieking above, beat its wings in confusion before fleeing.

_____ remained where he was for a heartbeat too long.

Then his body reminded him it was dying.

His chest throbbed violently.

Darkness surged again at the edges of his vision.

The ilu nudged him once more.

With the last of his strength, he grabbed hold and allowed it to pull him upward.

He broke the surface alone.

The Mangkwang warrior did not rise again.

⸻

The sea was alive with fire and ruin.

Smoke rolled low across the surface, turning the horizon into a smeared line of black and copper. Burning wreckage drifted between waves. The sharp crack of Sky People weapons split the air again and again, mingling with the cries of ikran and the thunder of distant explosions.

Through it all—

_____ saw him.

Aonung rode hard across the water on his ilu, body balanced and fluid with every shift of muscle beneath him. The ilu cut through foam like a blade. Aonung leaned low over its neck, braids snapping behind him in the wind, eyes locked forward.

There was no hesitation in him now. No teasing arrogance. No half-smirks.

Only focus.

A Sky Person soldier stumbled along a tilted deck, weapon raised. Aonung rose with the swell of a wave, drew his bow in one smooth motion, and released. The arrow struck cleanly, dropping the man where he stood.

Another figure appeared behind a railing.

Aonung did not slow.

He urged his ilu closer to the wrecked ship's flank, using the broken metal as cover. A burst of gunfire sprayed the water where he had just been. He dipped low, then surged upward again. His blade flashed once as he passed the hull, and another Sky Person fell from sight.

He moved like he had been born for this.

For one dangerous heartbeat, _____ felt pride swell in his chest.

And then—

He saw it.

High above the smoke, a shape peeled away from the circling chaos.

An ikran painted in streaks of ash and red.

It did not dive wildly.

It did not scream its war cry.

It angled downward in a silent, deliberate descent.

Toward Aonung.

The Mangkwang rider leaned forward over his mount, blade already drawn. The angle was perfect—coming from behind, from above, out of Aonung's line of sight.

Aonung was focused on the wreckage ahead.

He did not see the death descending on him.

"Aonung!" _____'s voice tore raw from his throat.

Too far.

Too late—

No.

He kicked his skimwing hard, urging it forward across the surface, heart slamming against his ribs. Wind lashed at his face. The Mangkwang was already halfway down.

Aonung rose slightly in his saddle to draw another arrow.

Still unaware.

_____ made a decision.

He abandoned the skimwing.

He leapt.

The impact with the water stole his breath, but he forced himself upright immediately, dragging his spear free even as salt burned his wounds. The Mangkwang's ikran swept low, blade poised to strike Aonung between the shoulders.

_____ reached him just as the blade descended.

He drove his spear upward with every ounce of strength left in him.

Wood met metal with a crack that shuddered up his arms. The Mangkwang's strike was knocked off course, blade glancing past Aonung's back instead of burying itself there.

The ikran's wings clipped the surface, sending spray exploding around them.

"Aonung!" _____ shouted hoarsely.

Aonung spun, horror flooding his face when he saw the blood already staining _____'s chest from the earlier wound.

"You're bleeding—"

"I am fine!" _____ snapped, though his voice betrayed the lie.

The Mangkwang wheeled his mount sharply and came down again, this time landing in the shallows with a heavy splash. He dismounted in one smooth motion, boots cutting through the water as he advanced.

His gaze flicked once toward Aonung.

Then settled fully on _____.

He had chosen.

"Stay behind me," _____ growled.

Aonung's jaw tightened. "You are already injured."

"And I am still standing."

The Mangkwang drew his bow with mechanical precision.

The arrow flew.

_____ shoved Aonung sideways off the ilu at the last possible second.

The arrow buried itself deep into _____'s thigh.

For a moment, there was no sound.

Then the pain hit.

White-hot. Blinding.

His body jerked violently, breath tearing from him in a strangled gasp. His leg gave out instantly, strength draining from it as though the bone had shattered.

He barely stayed upright.

Aonung lunged forward, catching him as he slid sideways from the ilu.

"No— no—"

The Mangkwang did not hesitate. He waded forward, blade rising once more.

_____ ripped the arrow free with a guttural sound that barely resembled his own voice. Blood poured into the water around them, turning it dark.

He forced himself upright on his good leg.

Raised his spear.

The Mangkwang struck.

Steel crashed against wood. The impact rattled through _____'s shoulders, nearly tearing the weapon from his grasp. The warrior pressed the advantage immediately, blade flashing again in a fast, precise arc aimed at his ribs.

_____ twisted aside, but not fast enough. The edge sliced shallowly along his side.

Water churned around their knees as they circled.

The world narrowed.

Smoke.

Salt.

Breath.

The Mangkwang's movements were disciplined, economical. Every strike targeted the injured leg, forcing _____ to shift weight he could barely hold. He could feel his strength draining with each heartbeat.

Aonung tried to re-enter the fight.

"Go!" _____ barked without looking at him. "Protect the others!"

"I am not leaving you!"

"You will if you want me to survive this!"

That half-second of divided focus cost him.

The Mangkwang's blade slashed low again, reopening the wound in his thigh. His leg buckled entirely this time.

He fell to one knee in the surf.

The Mangkwang surged forward for the killing blow.

Aonung collided with him from the side.

All three of them crashed into the water in a violent tangle.

The Mangkwang recovered first.

He drove an elbow into Aonung's jaw, sending him sprawling backward into the foam. Then he rose and turned back toward _____.

Blade lifted.

Steady.

Certain.

_____ forced himself up again, breath ragged, vision flickering at the edges.

The Mangkwang swung high.

_____ blocked.

The blade glanced off his spear and came back in a brutal downward strike aimed for his throat.

He stepped inside the arc.

Pain screamed through his thigh as he shifted weight onto it—but he did not hesitate.

He dropped the spear entirely and seized the Mangkwang's wrist mid-swing.

The blade halted inches from his neck.

For a suspended second they were chest to chest, muscles straining, breath harsh between them.

The Mangkwang's eyes flicked to the blood soaking _____'s chest and leg.

He believed the outcome inevitable.

That was his mistake.

_____ drove his forehead forward with savage force.

Bone cracked against bone.

The Mangkwang staggered just enough.

And in that opening, _____ drew the dagger at his hip and thrust upward beneath the warrior's ribs.

Close.

Deliberate.

The Mangkwang froze.

The blade slipped from his fingers.

Their eyes locked for one final heartbeat.

Then the warrior sagged.

_____ let him fall.

The body disappeared beneath the churning water.

The world swayed violently around him.

His leg finally gave out for good.

He collapsed.

Aonung was there instantly, catching him before he hit the water fully.

They fell together into the sea.

For a moment, everything felt distant—muted by shock, by the roar of blood in his ears.

Aonung dragged him toward a jagged fragment of floating wreckage, pulling him partially out of the water. He pressed his hands hard against both wounds, trying desperately to stem the bleeding.

"Stay with me," Aonung demanded, voice breaking. "Do not you dare leave me."

The sky above blurred into streaks of smoke and fire.

The cold crept inward.

"I told you... to stay back," _____ managed weakly.

"You do not get to scold me right now!" Aonung choked, pressing harder against the wounds, though blood slicked through his fingers.

_____ gave the faintest smile.

Even now.

His breathing was shallow.

Each inhale felt thinner than the last.

"Ao..." he whispered.

Aonung bent closer, tears falling freely now, mixing with saltwater and ash. His hands trembled but never stopped applying pressure.

"I am here," he said fiercely. "I am here. I see you. Stay with me."

_____'s eyes struggled to focus on him.

"I have no regrets," he said softly.

Aonung shook his head violently. "No. Do not say that. Do not speak like that."

"Only one," _____ continued, voice fading like the tide pulling back. "That I did not meet you sooner."

A broken sound tore from Aonung's chest.

"I love you," _____ whispered.

His hand lifted weakly, brushing against Aonung's cheek.

"So much."

"I love you," Aonung said back immediately, fiercely, as if force alone could anchor him here.

"I will wait for you... with Eywa."

His fingers slipped from Aonung's face.

His eyes lost focus.

His head fell heavier into Aonung's lap.

"Ao—" Aonung's voice shattered completely. "No. No. Stay. Stay with me. Please."

The battle roared on.

Ikran screamed overhead.

Ships burned.

Warriors fought and fell.

The sea kept moving.

But for Aonung—

The world had gone silent.

(AHHHH TYSM FOR READING <333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 17

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: a lil bit angst if u squint

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.2k

/////////

The sea beyond the reef was a living thing, dark and deep. It was not just the color that had shifted from the shimmering turquoise of the shallow waters to an oppressive navy, almost black in some places, but the feeling that hung heavy in the air. The waves moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, rolling and creaking like the breathing of some immense, unseen creature. Clouds gathered overhead, churning in muted grays and purples, reflecting in the water and making the horizon blur into a line that seemed uncertain, almost threatening.

Lo'ak's heart thumped in time with the waves, each beat echoing against the bones in his chest. His hands clenched the sides of his ilu, gripping tightly as it cut through the rising swells. The sea spray stung his eyes, and he could taste the brine on his lips. Each stroke carried him farther from the familiar safety of the reef, farther from the vibrant coral gardens that had been home, farther from the reassuring presence of his family and clan.

Payakan had left the shallows again. Lo'ak had known he would. The young tulkun's shoulders had been tense, eyes narrowed, as he had listened to the elders' pronouncements one last time. The words had been the same as always, rehearsed and formal:

"You are outcast." "Violence has no place among our people." "You must leave and find your own path."

Payakan had not argued. He had not shouted. He had not pleaded. He had simply turned, powerful limbs slicing the water with calm precision, and disappeared into the deep. His fins had carried him beyond the reach of the reef's protective walls, and Lo'ak had felt an immediate, suffocating emptiness.

The ilu beneath him pitched with the waves. Lo'ak leaned forward, chest pressed against its smooth neck, arms wrapping around its body for balance. The wind tugged at his hair, whipping it into his eyes. He blinked against the spray, forcing the salt from his vision, trying to see through the shifting surface.

"Hold on," he whispered, voice swallowed almost immediately by the roar of the waves and the wind. "I'm not turning back. Not now. Not ever."

It wasn't just loyalty that drove him, nor even anger or fear. It was something deeper, a compulsion born of years spent witnessing the fragility of those he loved. He could not allow Payakan to vanish into the darkness without a tether, without someone to remind him that he was not alone.

The water below churned, hiding secrets in its depths. Shadows moved just beneath the surface, elongated and sinuous. Lo'ak's stomach tightened with each swell. The ocean here was a predator as much as it was a protector. A flash of silver beneath a wave, a glint of something too large and fast to be a fish, made him pause, muscles taut, eyes scanning. His ilu reacted instinctively, pivoting slightly to adjust to the roll of the wave.

The wind howled through the rigging he had strapped to his back, and he felt a momentary pang of nostalgia. Back in the shallows, life had been simple. Coral gardens teeming with fish, the soothing hum of the reef, the laughter of his siblings as they swam freely. But that world had ended the moment the Sky People arrived, the moment danger became inescapable, and the moment his family lost what could never be replaced.

Now, in the deep blue, there was only the pursuit.

He could see Payakan's dorsal fin cutting through the waves ahead, a stark black silhouette against the gray horizon. Every breath, every movement, was deliberate, controlled. Lo'ak pushed his ilu harder, muscles burning, lungs straining. The waves slapped against his skin, cold and heavy, but he did not hesitate. He could feel the shift in the ocean beneath him, the way the currents tugged, trying to pull him aside, to shake him off course. But he held firm.

As he closed the distance, he noticed subtle signs of wear in Payakan's movements. Not much, just a flicker of hesitation in his strokes, a slight drag of a fin. Lo'ak's chest tightened further. The water here could hide dangers invisible to the eye: tangled nets, unseen rocks, or worse, predators that moved silently beneath the surface. And Payakan, alone, could not protect himself from all of it.

"Almost there," Lo'ak murmured, leaning closer to the ilu, as if the creature understood the gravity of their mission. Its muscles rippled under his touch, and he felt a brief surge of confidence. Together, they could reach him. Together, they could keep him from being swallowed by the dark, endless water.

Then a shadow flickered in the water below. Not a fin, not the familiar shape of a tulkun, but something alien, threatening. Lo'ak froze for a heartbeat, every instinct screaming danger. He tilted the ilu slightly, leaning forward to gain momentum, eyes scanning the depths. A flash of armored, undulating shapes surged upward from the shadows—predators of the deep, drawn by the vibrations in the water, drawn by weakness.

Lo'ak's heart leapt into his throat. He could not let them strike. Not here. Not now. Not when he was this close.

Payakan moved with elegant, measured power, but even he could not anticipate everything. One of the deep predators surged upward, snapping toward Payakan's exposed flank. Lo'ak's hand shot forward, gripping a makeshift spear he had strapped to his back, plunging it into the creature's soft underbelly. It shrieked, a high-pitched, echoing cry that seemed almost too loud for the water, and recoiled.

The moment passed too quickly, but Lo'ak saw it: Payakan's massive form pivoted, tail lashing in controlled fury, sending another predator spiraling back into the dark. The sea around him erupted in chaos, waves cresting in angry arcs. Lo'ak could taste the brine in his mouth, sharp and metallic, and he felt the adrenaline in his veins, warm and electric.

He pressed on, closing the distance until he could see the tension in Payakan's broad shoulders, the subtle flare of irritation in his movements. The young tulkun's pride might have kept him silent, but Lo'ak knew it: he was alone, and he needed someone.

"Almost," Lo'ak whispered again, heart hammering, "almost there."

And in that moment, for the first time, he understood the depth of his own determination, the raw, unyielding force of loyalty and love that would carry him into the dark, deep sea. Nothing would stop him—not waves, not predators, not the weight of the world.

Payakan had left the shallows, but he would not leave the reef without Lo'ak by his side.

And Lo'ak would not let him.

⸻

The first sign was blood in the water.

Not fresh. Not vivid red that screamed for attention. Just a faint, almost imperceptible stain drifting on the surface, smudging the bright turquoise of the shallows into dull streaks. Lo'ak's stomach twisted. His eyes narrowed, scanning the endless expanse. Something had happened here. Something terrible.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against the sleek, familiar curve of his ilu, and the water trembled beneath him. A subtle quiver, like the heartbeat of the ocean itself, rolled through the waves. Then, from the depths, it came—a shift that spoke of immense size, slow power, and centuries of instinct honed in the open sea.

A thunderous exhale erupted as mist and foam exploded over the surface. Payakan broke through, massive, scarred, magnificent. Every line of his body spoke of resilience, of survival, of battles fought and endured. One eye shone sharp, intelligent, alert, while the other bore the marks of history—rope burns, blade wounds, faintly healed scars that would never fade.

But Payakan was not alone.

A shape rose behind him, smaller, thinner, trembling. Jagged scars carved its flesh. One fin was malformed, healing crookedly from a partial severing. Its flank was lined with pale, angry lash marks that caught the sunlight in streaks of deathly white. And the eye...

Gone. Nothing remained but a dark hollow, smooth and empty. Lo'ak's breath caught. His heart lurched.

"Ta'unui..." he whispered.

The injured tulkun turned its remaining eye toward him, and the look was heartbreaking: gentle, tired, almost resigned. The ocean had given its mercy sparingly. Sky People had left nothing but pain and loss.

Payakan shifted in front of the injured one, fins pressing protectively against the weaker form. A wall of muscle and determination that Lo'ak had never seen in his life, and yet, even Payakan's presence could not stop the sea from becoming violent.

From below, long, armored bodies surged upward.

Eel-like predators, massive, with hooked, barbed tendrils snapping, twisting, seeking. Drawn by blood. Drawn by weakness. Drawn by the scent of injured and vulnerable prey.

One lashed toward Ta'unui's damaged fin, the barbed tendrils wrapping and snapping with horrifying precision. The tulkun let out a cry so deep, so primal, that Lo'ak felt it resonate through his chest, shaking every bone in his body.

"No!" Lo'ak shouted, heart hammering.

He drove his ilu forward, each stroke of the powerful creature carrying him through the white-churning waves. He grabbed the spear strapped to his back, and with a breath and a precise throw, struck one of the predators near its eye. Pain flickered across its body, but it barely slowed.

Another tendril whipped toward him, sharp as a blade, slicing through the air. Lo'ak barely dodged, feeling the brush of steel-cold appendages against his side. The tension in the water was suffocating, every moment a battle between instinct and survival.

Then a sharp war cry split the air.

Aonung and Rotxo appeared, riding skimwings that cut through the swells like silver arrows. Without hesitation, they dove into the chaos, spears flashing, talons gripping tightly. Aonung's strikes were precise, relentless; Rotxo's aim was unerring.

Tsireya followed, moving like a shadow across the waves, her spear plunging deep into a creature's soft under-throat. Her movements were fluid, deadly, beautiful in their efficiency.

And then _____ launched himself from the edge of his mount, blade flashing in the pale light, slicing through the writhing tendrils that had wrapped around Ta'unui's broken fin. Water exploded around him as he landed, cutting, striking, pulling. The waves churned white and frothy.

Payakan roared, tail sweeping through the water with violent precision, sending a predator spiraling into the air before it crashed back into the sea with a deafening splash. The predators shrieked, twisting, coiling, and striking again, but the combined force of the Na'vi and tulkun was overwhelming.

Rotxo looped a line around another creature's neck, yanking it sideways as Aonung drove his spear into the exposed underbelly, over and over, ensuring the beast could strike no more.

Lo'ak swam toward Ta'unui, pressing his palm against the tulkun's scarred hide. He felt the subtle tremble in its muscles, the lingering fear that had not yet faded.

"You're okay. We've got you," Lo'ak murmured, voice soft but firm, anchoring them in the storm of violence around them.

Ta'unui's remaining eye blinked slowly, a gesture of trust and relief.

Another predator lunged from the depths, massive and serpentine. But Payakan intercepted it with crushing precision, jaws clamping around the armored body. The ocean erupted in a violent clash. Water surged over them, white-capped waves breaking in every direction. Blood mingled with saltwater, floating in tendrils around the tulkun.

Finally, the remaining creatures retreated, slipping into the darkness beneath the waves. Silence fell like a heavy blanket, broken only by the gentle lapping of water and the deep, steady breaths of the survivors.

Everyone floated for a long moment, suspended in exhaustion, adrenaline slowly ebbing from their veins. The sea seemed to hold its breath with them.

Tsireya was first to break the quiet, swimming up to Lo'ak. Her expression was shaken but calm, the edge of relief and fear still etched on her features.

"You could have died," she said softly, not as an accusation, but as a truth that needed saying.

"I couldn't leave him," Lo'ak replied, voice strained, tired, unwavering.

Aonung floated closer, gaze fixed on Ta'unui, his usual sharp, confident expression softened into something rare—quiet awe, grief, and understanding.

"They did this," he muttered, each word deliberate, weighted, almost reverent.

Lo'ak nodded, heart tightening, swallowing down anger and despair alike.

"Yes," he said simply, voice firm. Acceptance of a bitter truth. The cost of the Sky People's intrusion, the violence they had wrought, was written clearly on Ta'unui's scarred body. And yet, even in this moment of darkness, there was survival. There was protection. There was loyalty.

And there, amid the swirling waves and the scent of salt and blood, Lo'ak realized something essential: even in the depths of pain, even in the face of cruelty and loss, they were not alone. They fought together. They survived together. And they would carry the memory of what had been done—not as despair, but as fuel for the battles still to come.

⸻

The water around the council's gathering was still, almost deceptively so. The Tulkun elders floated in their massive, circling formation, their eyes sharp, unyielding, reflecting the authority of centuries. Tonowari and Ronal maintained their place at the forefront, and beside them, Jake and Neytiri's figures were tense, poised between hope and frustration.

Lo'ak's ilu cut the waves with precision, the rhythm of his breathing echoing in his mind. He had followed the others across open water, bringing with him Payakan and the wounded Ta'unui, knowing that what they were about to do could change the course of the entire reef's response to the Sky People's return.

Jake's voice carried clearly across the surf. "Lo'ak, stay calm. This is not the time—"

Lo'ak stopped, breathing hard, eyes blazing. "No!" he shouted, his voice rising, carrying over the water and scattering gulls from the nearby cliffs. "They need to hear this!"

Jake turned sharply, alarm flashing across his face. "Lo'ak, don't—"

"They need to hear what is coming! They need to know that if we do not fight, everything dies!" Lo'ak's voice cracked with urgency, and the water seemed to vibrate with the force of his conviction. The Tulkun elders twitched in unison, a ripple of unease passing through the circle. Even Payakan nudged forward, fins cutting the water as if to lend him support.

Jake opened his mouth to protest again, but Lo'ak's glare silenced him. "I will not be quiet. Not while my people—my brothers and sisters—are at risk. If no one stands, if no one acts, then I stand here as outcast. Alone if I must, but I will speak!"

A hush fell over the group. Even the young Na'vi who had come with him seemed to pause, the weight of his words settling like a stone on the water's surface. Lo'ak's chest heaved as he met each elder's gaze, refusing to look away.

The hand signals began next. Lo'ak raised his hand, fingers curling in the specific motions of declaration, a silent but unmistakable message that he was willing to stand apart from his people if necessary. One by one, the others began to mirror him. Tsireya's hand rose first, trembling slightly but firm, signaling, I am outcast.

"Daughter silence," Ronal said sharply, stepping forward, voice trembling with authority. "There is no reason for silence. We—"

"I will not be silent!" Tsireya interrupted, her hand still raised, the gesture clear and unambiguous. "You will not see me again if I remain hidden while our people are hunted. If the elders refuse to act, then I declare myself outcast!"

Rotxo followed without hesitation, his voice carrying over the water as he added, "I am outcast. I will act. I will fight if they will not."

Aonung's shoulders squared, muscles tensing as he mirrored the gesture. "I am outcast," he said, voice steady but low, the weight of the declaration grounding him. His gaze swept the circle of elders, searching for any hesitation, any crack in their resolve.

Then it fell to _____. His hand lifted slowly, deliberately, fingers curling into the traditional signs of self-declaration. His voice, calm but charged with intensity, cut through the quiet. "I am outcast," he said, words slow, precise, carrying over the waves. "And I will not remain silent. If no one stands, I will stand alone. If no one fights, I will fight."

The council trembled visibly. Even the Matriarch's massive eye, ancient and unreadable, lingered on the small group of young Na'vi. For a moment, there was silence, the kind of silence that is thick and heavy, weighed down by centuries of tradition and the looming shadow of loss.

Lo'ak's breathing was sharp in the tension. "We speak as one," he said, voice rising. "Not because we are reckless. Not because we wish harm. But because if we do nothing, if the elders do nothing, the Sky People will take everything—our mothers, our calves, our homes. And we will not survive their mercy."

Tsireya's eyes were bright, glinting with unshed tears and fierce determination. "I will not wait. I will not cower. I declare myself outcast until this threat is met with action. I will fight. I will not be silenced."

Rotxo's voice joined hers, steady, low, unwavering. "I am outcast," he repeated, signaling the strength of his oath with every movement of his hand.

Aonung leaned slightly toward _____, a quiet nod passing between them, silent affirmation, mutual understanding. The stakes were personal as well as political. They were not only speaking for the reef; they were standing for their friends, their siblings, their chosen family.

Jake exhaled, the tightness in his chest betraying the tumult inside him. "You... you are all willing to risk this? All of you?" he asked, voice heavy with disbelief.

"Yes," Lo'ak said, voice unwavering, eyes blazing. "We risk ourselves because you cannot protect us all. Because the adults will not see what is coming. Because if we do not act, nothing else matters."

Even the Tulkun seemed to react. Payakan shifted, nudging Ta'unui protectively, as if lending silent approval to the youth's courage. The younger tulkun's empty eye met Lo'ak's, and for a fleeting moment, a shared understanding passed between species: determination, defiance, and survival entwined.

The Matriarch exhaled a low, rumbling sound, water pulsing with the vibration. A signal passed among the council, subtle yet undeniable, acknowledging the gravity of the young Na'vi's declarations. The silence was no longer oppressive—it was charged, electric, the calm before the storm.

"Let it be known," Lo'ak called, raising his voice, "we are outcast if you refuse to act. But we do not stand alone. We stand together. We fight together. And we will not remain silent while our people suffer."

Tsireya, Rotxo, Aonung, and _____ mirrored him, fists clenched, hands raised in the silent declaration of oath and defiance.

For the first time that day, a low, rolling murmur passed through the assembled Tulkun. The water rippled as massive bodies shifted in acknowledgment, the circle tightening, fins slicing through the surf. Jake and Neytiri exchanged a glance—shock, awe, and reluctant pride shining in their expressions.

Lo'ak's chest swelled with something fierce and indescribable. They had made themselves heard. Not just the adults. Not just the elders. Every creature, every being that called this reef home had witnessed the courage of youth refusing to bow to silence.

And in that instant, Lo'ak, Tsireya, Rotxo, Aonung, and _____ knew: there was no turning back. They had declared themselves, openly, unyieldingly. They were outcast, if tradition demanded it—but in their hearts, they had never felt more connected, more determined, or more alive.

The storm on the horizon seemed to pause, the wind catching the spray off the waves as if waiting for the next move. And though fear trembled at the edges of their courage, none of them faltered.

They were outcast. They were united.

And they would fight.

(TYSM for reading also ik that a lot of that wont in the film but i just wanted a bit more if that makes sense <333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 16

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: fluff, angst (dw not w Aonung)

Warnings: fighting

Word count: 5k

//////////

The first few days after the mating ceremony were sacred.

Among the reef people, it was known as the marui period — a time set apart from everything else. A time where newly mated pairs were not expected to give anything to the clan.

No hunting.

No training.

No duties.

No expectations.

Only rest.

Only each other.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, _____ allowed himself to simply exist without tension sitting heavy in his chest.

Their marui rested near the edge of the village, where the woven structures began to thin and the open shoreline stretched wider. It had been carefully made — pale reeds interwoven with practiced hands, curved gently to withstand the ocean winds while still letting the breeze slip through.

Inside, everything felt softer.

Woven mats layered the floor, cushioned with dried sea grasses that still carried a faint earthy scent beneath the salt. Light filtered through the gaps in the walls, shifting with the movement of the sun, painting the space in warm golds and soft greens.

The distant sound of waves was constant.

Steady.

Calming.

A rhythm that seemed to slow everything inside him.

Aonung lay sprawled across him like he had no intention of ever moving again.

One leg hooked lazily over _____'s thigh. One arm draped across his waist. His cheek rested against _____'s chest, rising and falling with each breath.

Completely relaxed.

Completely at ease.

And entirely ignoring the concept of personal space.

"You are crushing me," _____ murmured, though there was no real complaint in his voice.

"I am comfortable," Aonung replied, not even bothering to open his eyes.

His voice was thick with sleep, soft at the edges.

Content.

_____ huffed quietly, but his hand had already found its way into Aonung's braids, fingers gently combing through them. The strands were slightly damp from the morning air, cool against his skin.

His gaze drifted to Aonung's shoulder.

The fresh mating tattoo curved there, still slightly raised, the ink deep and rich against his skin. The design mirrored _____'s own — a mark not just of union, but of belonging.

Of choice.

Of permanence.

Aonung shifted slightly, adjusting his weight—

—and then stilled.

A sharp inhale.

A barely concealed wince.

_____ immediately tensed. "Still sore?"

Aonung exhaled slowly through his nose. "Do not make fun of me."

"I am not making fun of you."

"You are thinking about it."

"I am not."

Aonung lifted his head just enough to peer up at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, though there was no real heat behind it.

"You are a terrible liar."

"And you are dramatic."

Aonung stared at him for a moment longer—

—and then leaned forward and kissed him.

Just to shut him up.

The kiss was slow.

Unhurried.

Warm.

Aonung lingered there, close enough that their breaths mixed, before pulling back with the faintest hint of a smirk.

"See?" he murmured. "I win."

_____ rolled his eyes, but his arms tightened instinctively around Aonung's waist, pulling him closer anyway.

"You always think you win."

"I do win."

"You do not."

Aonung hummed softly, clearly unconcerned, and settled back against him as if that had resolved everything.

For a while, they stayed like that.

Time stretched.

Unimportant.

They talked in quiet voices about nothing and everything — small things, meaningless things, things that didn't carry the weight of grief or responsibility.

Aonung complained about how long the tattooing had taken.

_____ teased him for nearly falling asleep halfway through it.

Aonung denied that entirely.

They shared soft laughter.

Occasional teasing.

And every so often, another kiss — brief, absent-minded, like breathing.

Outside, the village continued on.

Voices drifted in and out.

The distant splash of water.

Children laughing.

Someone calling instructions across the shore.

Life didn't stop.

But for once—

They were allowed to step away from it.

"There was a meeting this morning," _____ said at one point, voice quiet.

Aonung made a noncommittal sound. "I know."

"You did not go."

"I was not going to limp into a circle of elders while everyone stared at me."

"That would have been entertaining."

Aonung tilted his head just enough to give him a flat look. "I would rather drown."

_____ let out a quiet laugh.

"Yes, you said that earlier."

"I meant it."

"I am sure you did."

Aonung shifted again, more carefully this time, pressing closer into him, his head now tucked against the curve of _____'s neck.

His voice dropped slightly when he spoke again.

"I like this."

_____'s fingers stilled briefly in his hair.

"...This?"

"Not having to leave," Aonung murmured. "Not having to think about anything else."

A small pause.

"Just... this."

Something soft settled in _____'s chest.

"I like it too," he admitted quietly.

Aonung didn't respond.

But his grip tightened slightly.

After a while, the silence returned.

Comfortable.

Easy.

Aonung's breathing slowed again, his body growing heavier where it rested against _____.

Then, without warning—

"I want yovo fruit."

_____ blinked.

"...Now?"

Aonung didn't move. "Yes."

"You are serious."

"Very."

"You were just asleep."

"I woke up."

"That is not how that works."

Aonung shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head back and look at him.

"I have been thinking about it."

"For how long?"

"...A while."

"How long is 'a while'?"

"...Since you mentioned food earlier."

"That was ten minutes ago."

"Exactly."

_____ stared at him.

"You cannot even walk properly."

"I can walk."

"You winced when you moved two seconds ago."

"That is different."

"How?"

"It just is."

_____ exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to laugh.

"You are unbelievable."

Aonung tilted his head slightly, watching him.

"You love it."

...He wasn't wrong.

That was the worst part.

_____ shook his head faintly, but leaned down anyway, pressing a soft kiss to Aonung's forehead.

"Do not move," he said quietly. "I will get it."

Aonung relaxed instantly, clearly satisfied. "I was not going to move."

"I know you."

A faint grin tugged at Aonung's lips.

"You do."

Reluctantly, _____ untangled himself from beneath him, careful not to jostle him too much. The absence of warmth was immediate, the cool air brushing against his skin where Aonung had been.

He stood, stretching slightly, grabbing a small woven basket from beside the entrance.

For a moment, he glanced back.

Aonung had already shifted, settling into the space he left behind, though his eyes remained half-open, watching him.

"Come back quickly," Aonung murmured.

There was no demand in it.

Just something soft.

Something real.

"I will," _____ replied.

And then he stepped out into the warm daylight, the ocean breeze greeting him immediately as the world beyond the marui came rushing quietly back into place.

The village had felt strangely still that morning.

Not silent — the sea never allowed that — but quieter than usual. The rhythmic crash of waves against the reef hummed in the distance. Wind moved through woven walls with a low, hollow whisper. Somewhere, children laughed faintly before being shushed.

Most of the adults were gathered near the central meeting space, their voices overlapping in tense discussion. Since the battle, meetings had become more frequent. Patrol routes. Watch rotations. Weapon storage salvaged from the wreckage.

Protection.

Always protection.

_____ had only meant to pass by. He carried nothing in his hands, only the lingering warmth of the marui still clinging to his skin. Aonung was resting — finally asleep after complaining dramatically about sore muscles and demanding more yovo fruit.

_____ had smiled when he left.

But as he stepped closer to the meeting circle, the air shifted.

The voices were sharper now.

Angrier.

And one voice cut through the rest like a blade.

Jake's.

"...constantly stirring up trouble—"

_____ slowed without meaning to. His feet sank slightly into the warm sand. The gathered Metkayina and Sully family stood in a loose circle, tension thick enough to feel.

Lo'ak stood in the center.

Alone.

His shoulders were squared, chin lifted in stubborn defiance — but _____ saw the tightness in his jaw. The exhaustion under his eyes. He had not been sleeping well. None of them had.

"I didn't do anything!" Lo'ak shot back, frustration bleeding into his tone.

Jake's jaw tightened. His posture was rigid, military straight. "If you had followed orders, none of this would have happened!"

The words echoed too loudly in the open space.

Lo'ak's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I was trying to help!"

"You were trying to prove something," Jake snapped. "You always are."

A murmur rippled through the onlookers.

_____ felt heat begin to simmer in his chest.

Then Jake spoke again — and this time, he went too far.

"If you hadn't disobeyed orders then we wouldn't be in this mess then your brother would still be with us."

The words fell like a dropped blade.

Jake seemed to realize it immediately.

He stopped abruptly.

But it was too late.

Lo'ak's face changed instantly.

The anger drained out of it — fast, like the tide pulling away from shore.

What replaced it was worse.

Shock.

Hurt.

Something fragile cracking wide open.

"That's not my fault," Lo'ak whispered.

The words were barely audible over the wind.

Jake's expression shifted — regret flashing too late across his features.

"That's not my fault!" Lo'ak's voice broke as the second sentence tore out of him.

It wasn't anger now.

It was pain.

Raw. Unfiltered. Young.

And then Lo'ak shoved Jake hard in the chest.

The movement wasn't calculated. It wasn't strong enough to truly harm him.

It was desperation.

Jake staggered half a step back in surprise.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one breathed.

No one moved.

Lo'ak stared at his father like he'd been struck.

Like something inside him had just shattered.

And then he turned and ran.

"Lo'ak! Get back here!" Jake barked, instinctively reverting to command.

But Lo'ak didn't look back.

He disappeared between woven structures, sprinting toward the far edge of the village — toward the sea cliffs and the quieter stretches of reef beyond.

And something in _____ snapped.

He didn't think.

Didn't weigh consequences.

Didn't remember that Tonowari stood nearby, that elders watched, that this was not his place.

All he saw was the look on Lo'ak's face.

All he heard was that sentence.

Before he consciously decided to move, _____ was striding forward.

The sand shifted under his feet with each step.

Jake turned just in time to see him coming.

The punch landed square across Jake's jaw.

The crack of impact split the air.

Gasps erupted around them.

Jake staggered back, stunned, blood already blooming at the corner of his lip.

"You do not get to say that to him," _____ hissed, chest heaving.

Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the blood like he couldn't quite believe it.

"Stay out of this."

"No."

The single word carried more than defiance.

It carried fury.

Jake swung.

The hit caught _____ across the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. Pain flared bright and sharp — but it barely registered.

They collided again, bodies slamming into each other with force born of grief and months of swallowed frustration.

Sand kicked up around them as they grappled.

Fists flew.

Jake's training was obvious — controlled, efficient strikes — but control was slipping.

_____ fought with emotion, with instinct, with everything boiling inside him.

"How can you ever say that to your son?" _____ roared, shoving Jake backward.

Jake swung again. "You don't understand—"

"I understand enough!"

Their foreheads nearly collided as they struggled for leverage.

"If anyone failed," _____ spat, breathing hard, blood slick on his tongue, "it was you."

The words hit harder than the punches.

Jake froze for half a second.

Just long enough.

_____ shoved him again.

"You brought your family here to protect them," _____ continued, voice shaking with fury. "You took them from their home. You uprooted them from everything they knew."

Jake's jaw tightened. "I did what I had to—"

"And you could not even do that!"

Jake's punch came hard and fast.

It split _____'s lip.

He tasted copper instantly.

But he didn't back down.

He stepped forward again.

"You were the father," _____ snarled. "You were the leader. And he was just a boy!"

The last word broke.

Because that was the truth of it.

Lo'ak might act reckless. He might argue. He might push.

But he was still just a boy carrying grief too heavy for his shoulders.

They lunged at each other again — but this time strong arms slammed between them.

Tonowari.

The Olo'eyktan's presence was immovable.

He shoved them apart with sheer force, planting himself between them like a wall of muscle and authority.

"Enough!" he thundered.

The single word rolled across the sand like distant thunder.

Jake struggled once, breath ragged, eyes blazing — then went still.

_____'s chest rose and fell rapidly, vision slightly blurred at the edges from adrenaline and swelling.

Around them, the gathered clan stood frozen.

Some shocked.

Some wary.

Some understanding.

Tonowari's voice dropped, but it lost none of its weight. "You will both go back to your marui. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Jake's jaw worked as if he wanted to argue.

He didn't.

Neither did _____.

The fight had burned hot and fast — and now the aftermath settled heavy and suffocating.

Jake stepped back first.

His face was bruising already. Blood still clung to his lip.

As _____ turned to leave, he caught the look in Jake's eyes.

Not anger.

Not entirely.

Guilt.

And something else.

Regret.

The kind that comes when words cannot be taken back.

_____ didn't say anything more.

If he did, it would only make things worse.

Instead, he turned and walked away, sand crunching under his feet, jaw throbbing with every step.

The village no longer felt quiet.

It felt fragile.

And somewhere beyond the woven walls, beyond the reef, Lo'ak was alone with words that should never have been spoken.

—

When _____ stepped back into the marui, the woven door curtain barely had time to settle before Aonung was already moving.

He had been lying on his side, half-draped across the mats in lazy comfort — but the moment he saw _____'s face, he pushed himself upright too fast.

He hissed softly under his breath at the pull in his muscles but ignored it.

"What happened to your face?"

There was no teasing in his voice this time.

Only sharp concern.

Sunlight filtered through the reed walls, catching the swelling already rising along _____'s cheekbone. His lip was split. A faint bruise darkened along his jaw.

_____ paused just inside the doorway, as if considering pretending it was nothing.

"It is nothing," he said anyway.

Aonung stared at him.

"It is not nothing," he said flatly. "You look like you fought a palulukan."

That almost earned a smile.

Almost.

_____ knelt slowly on the mat beside him, joints stiff from the adrenaline that had only just begun to fade. Now that he was no longer in motion, the pain settled in properly — sharp and throbbing.

Aonung reached out without asking and gently turned _____'s chin toward the light.

His fingers were careful.

Too careful.

"You are swelling already," Aonung murmured. His thumb brushed just under the bruise. "Who?"

The single word carried weight.

_____ hesitated.

He could have deflected. He could have said it was nothing important. He could have told Aonung to rest and let it go.

But he did not.

He exhaled slowly.

And he told him.

He told Aonung about the raised voices drifting across the sand. About the circle of onlookers. About Lo'ak standing alone in the center, shoulders squared but eyes too tired for someone his age.

He told him the words Jake had spoken.

Every single one.

He did not soften them.

By the time _____ finished, the marui felt smaller.

The ocean breeze no longer seemed calming.

Aonung's expression had changed completely.

The usual sharp humor in his eyes was gone. The lazy confidence replaced by something colder.

"He said that?" Aonung asked quietly.

The quiet was worse than shouting.

"Yes."

Aonung's jaw tightened.

"That it was Lo'ak's fault?"

"Yes."

For a moment, Aonung didn't speak.

He stared at the woven floor, fingers flexing slightly against his own knee.

"That boy already carries too much," he said at last.

There was no mockery in the word boy. No teasing.

Just recognition.

Aonung had not always liked Lo'ak. Their rivalry had been loud and obvious. Pride against pride. Ego against ego.

But grief had changed things.

War had changed things.

Aonung understood now what it meant to stand under expectations too heavy for your shoulders.

Silence settled between them.

Outside, waves crashed rhythmically against the reef.

Inside, the air felt thick.

"I hit him first," _____ admitted quietly.

Aonung's eyes flicked up sharply.

"You punched Toruk Makto."

"Yes."

Aonung blinked once.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"I wish I had seen that."

Despite himself, _____ huffed a small breath of laughter — which immediately hurt his split lip.

Aonung's humor faded quickly though.

"And then?"

"And then he hit me back."

"That part I assumed."

They held each other's gaze for a long moment.

"You should not have had to defend Lo'ak from his own father," Aonung said finally.

Something in _____'s chest tightened.

"I know."

Another silence.

But this one was different.

It was not heavy with shock anymore.

It was weighted with decision.

_____ rose slowly to his feet.

Aonung watched the shift in him instantly.

"I need to check on him," _____ said.

There was no hesitation in his voice now.

No anger either.

Just certainty.

Aonung didn't argue.

He didn't sigh or roll his eyes or make some dramatic comment about marui being sacred.

He simply nodded.

"Go."

_____ blinked slightly at how easy that had been.

"I will be quick."

"You do not need my permission for that," Aonung replied softly.

The softness caught him off guard more than anything else that morning had.

"If I could walk without pain," Aonung added with faint irritation at his own body, "I would go with you."

And he meant it.

Not for a fight.

Not to escalate anything.

But because no one should have to face grief alone.

_____ stepped closer again and crouched in front of him.

"You need to rest," he said gently.

Aonung reached up and cupped his face carefully between both hands, thumbs brushing lightly along the uninjured side.

"You need to be careful," Aonung corrected.

Their foreheads touched briefly.

The gesture was grounding.

"I will be right back," _____ murmured.

Aonung studied him for another second, eyes scanning his injuries as if memorizing them.

"Do not start another fight."

"I did not start the first one."

Aonung raised a brow.

"You threw the first punch."

"Yes."

Aonung's lips twitched again, despite everything.

"Then do not throw the second."

"I will try."

Aonung leaned forward and pressed a slow, steady kiss to his mouth — careful of the split lip.

It wasn't playful.

It wasn't teasing.

It was reassurance.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered against _____'s cheek.

"Bring him back if you find him," Aonung said quietly. "Even if he pretends he does not want to return."

"I will."

"And if he does not want to speak?"

"Then I will sit with him anyway."

Aonung nodded once.

"That is enough."

For a heartbeat longer, they stayed close like that — the world outside held at bay by woven reeds and ocean air.

Then _____ straightened.

The bruises on his face already felt heavier.

The adrenaline had burned away, leaving behind ache and exhaustion.

But none of that mattered.

Lo'ak had run toward the far edge of the village — toward the cliffs where the sea was louder and the people fewer.

Toward isolation.

_____ stepped toward the entrance of the marui again.

Behind him, Aonung shifted carefully back onto the mats, wincing slightly but settling himself upright instead of lying down.

Waiting.

Not anxiously.

Just present.

As _____ pushed aside the woven curtain and stepped back into the bright daylight, the village felt different than it had minutes ago.

More fragile.

More watchful.

A few glances followed him — quiet, assessing — but no one stopped him.

The sea wind carried salt and the distant cry of skimwings overhead.

Somewhere beyond the huts, beyond the edge of the reef village, a boy sat alone with words that should never have been spoken.

And _____ walked toward him.

—

It didn't take long to find Lo'ak.

The reef cliffs weren't far from the village — just beyond the last woven huts, past the stretch of pale sand where the tide rolled in and out like slow breathing. The path was familiar. Too familiar. It was where people came when they wanted quiet. When they wanted to think.

Or when they didn't want to be seen breaking apart.

_____'s pace slowed as he approached the edge.

The ocean was louder here. Waves crashed harder against the jagged coral below, spraying white foam high into the air. The wind carried salt and dampness, tugging at braids and beaded strands.

And there he was.

Lo'ak sat near the cliff's edge, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make himself smaller. His back faced the village. His face was turned toward the endless horizon.

His shoulders were shaking.

At first, _____ thought it was from the wind.

Then he heard it.

The uneven pull of breath.

The quiet, broken sound of someone trying not to sob.

And then he saw what lay across Lo'ak's lap.

The gun.

Human metal. Foreign. Cold.

It wasn't raised.

It wasn't aimed.

It was just... there.

Resting in his hands.

Recklessly.

Like Lo'ak wasn't thinking about it at all.

Or like he was thinking about it too much.

"Lo'ak," _____ called carefully.

He didn't shout.

Didn't startle him.

The wind carried his voice gently.

There was no response.

Lo'ak didn't turn.

Didn't shift.

He just sat there, staring at nothing.

_____ swallowed hard and stepped closer, heart pounding against his ribs. Every step felt too loud against the sand.

"Lo'ak," he said again, softer now. "Look at me."

Slowly, painfully slowly, Lo'ak turned his head.

His eyes were red.

Not just from tears — but from exhaustion.

From nights without sleep.

From grief that had nowhere left to go.

There was something hollow in his gaze.

Something that terrified _____ more than the weapon in his hands.

"I ruin everything," Lo'ak whispered.

The words were flat.

Empty.

"No," _____ said immediately.

The answer came without hesitation.

Lo'ak let out a broken laugh that wasn't laughter at all.

"Yes. If I had just listened—"

"You were a child," _____ snapped, closing the distance and dropping to his knees in front of him.

The movement was deliberate. Grounding.

"You were a child," he repeated, voice fierce despite the tremor beneath it. "It was not your fault."

Lo'ak's jaw tightened.

His grip on the gun shifted slightly.

Not raising it.

Not threatening.

But tightening.

Like it was the only solid thing he could hold onto.

"You don't know that," Lo'ak choked. "If I had just stayed back. If I had just done what I was told—"

"You would still blame yourself," _____ cut in. "Because that is what you do. You carry everything."

Lo'ak's breathing hitched.

"I should have been faster," he whispered. "Stronger. I should have—"

"You were enough," _____ said sharply.

The wind howled around them, whipping loose strands of hair across their faces.

Lo'ak's eyes filled again.

_____ reached forward slowly.

Not sudden.

Not forceful.

He placed one hand over Lo'ak's where it gripped the weapon.

"Let it go."

Lo'ak didn't move at first.

For a terrifying second, _____ thought he might refuse.

Then, gently but firmly, _____ pried the gun from his hands.

Lo'ak's fingers resisted weakly — then fell away.

_____ stood just long enough to throw the weapon far behind them into the sand. It landed with a dull thud, half-buried and forgotten.

He dropped back down immediately.

Closer this time.

"I cannot lose another brother," _____ said, and his voice broke despite his effort to keep it steady. "Do you understand me?"

The words weren't planned.

They tore out of him.

Lo'ak's face crumpled completely.

All the stubbornness.

All the anger.

All the defensive pride.

Gone.

"I can't—" Lo'ak's breath hitched violently. "I can't do this without him."

And there it was.

Not guilt.

Not blame.

Just grief.

Pure and suffocating.

_____ didn't hesitate.

He pulled Lo'ak into him with crushing force, wrapping both arms tightly around his shoulders.

Lo'ak resisted for half a second — pride flaring instinctively — then collapsed into it.

His fingers clutched at _____'s back.

His forehead pressed hard into his shoulder.

And he sobbed.

Not quiet.

Not controlled.

It tore out of him like something living.

"I cannot lose you too," _____ whispered fiercely into his hair. "Do not ever make me bury another brother."

The word brother wasn't about blood.

It was about bond.

About chosen family.

About shared battles and shared pain.

Lo'ak's grip tightened painfully.

"I'm tired," Lo'ak whispered hoarsely between sobs. "I'm so tired."

"I know."

Footsteps approached rapidly over sand.

_____ glanced up instinctively but didn't let go.

Tsireya reached them first.

Her eyes widened at the sight — not of the tears, but of how shattered Lo'ak looked.

She didn't hesitate.

She dropped down on his other side and wrapped her arms around him too.

Kiri followed seconds later, sliding to her knees beside them.

Her hand found Lo'ak's immediately.

The four of them formed a tight, unspoken circle.

No one asked questions.

No one demanded explanations.

They just held him.

The ocean roared below, wild and endless.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and open.

And in the middle of it all, Lo'ak cried like someone who had been trying not to for far too long.

Time blurred.

Eventually, the sobs softened.

Then quieted.

Then faded into uneven breaths.

Tsireya rested her cheek gently against his shoulder.

Kiri's thumb traced slow, steady patterns across the back of his hand.

_____ didn't loosen his hold until Lo'ak's breathing began to steady.

After a long while, Lo'ak sniffed and pulled back slightly, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice hoarse and small.

Tsireya's expression hardened instantly.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she said firmly.

Kiri squeezed his hand.

"We're here," she added softly.

Not just now.

Always.

Lo'ak swallowed thickly and nodded once.

The wind had gentled.

The waves still crashed below, but they felt less violent somehow.

After another quiet stretch, Lo'ak inhaled deeply and pushed himself to his feet.

His movements were slow.

Heavy.

But steadier.

"I should..." He hesitated. "I should fix Mom's bow. I broke it earlier."

It wasn't really about the bow.

It was about doing something.

About moving.

About not sitting on the edge of a cliff with grief swallowing him whole.

Tsireya stood immediately.

"I'll help you."

Lo'ak nodded gratefully.

They began walking back toward the village together, steps unhurried.

Kiri lingered behind for a moment.

She looked at _____, eyes soft but knowing.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

_____ shook his head once.

"He is my brother."

Kiri's expression warmed faintly.

"I know."

Then she turned and followed the others.

_____ remained kneeling at the cliff's edge for a few seconds longer.

The wind cooled his swollen cheek.

His lip still tasted faintly of blood.

But his chest felt lighter.

Not healed.

Not whole.

Just... steadier.

He rose slowly and glanced once toward where the gun lay half-buried in the sand.

Then he turned his back on it.

And walked toward the village.

Toward the marui.

Toward Aonung.

—

Aonung looked up the second the woven curtain shifted.

He had not been lying down anymore.

He had been sitting upright, back resting carefully against the curved wall of the marui, jaw tight with restrained impatience. His hands were folded loosely over his knees, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

He had been listening.

Waiting.

The moment _____ stepped inside, Aonung's eyes swept over him quickly — checking for new injuries, for signs of something worse.

"Is he safe?"

He didn't ask what happened.

He didn't ask if there had been another fight.

Just that.

Is he safe?

_____ let the curtain fall closed behind him, shutting out the brightness of the afternoon sun. The marui dimmed to its familiar warm glow — light filtering gently through woven reeds, ocean breeze slipping through the gaps.

"Yes," _____ answered softly.

Aonung exhaled.

It wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't loud.

But it was visible.

The tension drained from his shoulders, and some of the tightness left his jaw.

"Good," he murmured.

The single word carried relief deeper than he would ever openly admit.

_____ stepped closer, the ache in his cheekbone throbbing more insistently now that the adrenaline had fully faded. His body felt heavier than it had when he left. Not from exhaustion alone — but from the weight of everything he had just held.

Aonung's gaze flicked back to his face.

"You look worse," he observed quietly.

"I feel worse," _____ admitted.

That earned the faintest curve at the corner of Aonung's mouth.

"Come here," Aonung said.

It wasn't a command.

It wasn't teasing.

It was soft.

_____ lowered himself carefully onto the woven mats beside him, easing down onto his back with a small exhale. The ceiling arched above them in pale woven patterns, light dancing faintly as the breeze shifted.

The moment he was settled, Aonung moved.

Slower this time.

More careful.

He leaned forward first, testing the pull in his muscles with a slight wince — then shifted his body until he could curl partly against _____'s side.

He was gentler than usual.

One arm slid across _____'s waist, not gripping too tightly. His leg draped carefully over _____'s thigh, mindful of his own soreness and of the bruises beginning to darken across _____'s skin.

His cheek rested lightly against _____'s chest.

There was no playful crushing this time.

No smug declaration of comfort.

Just quiet closeness.

_____ immediately wrapped his arms around him.

One hand settled at the small of Aonung's back.

The other came up to cradle the back of his head.

He pressed a soft kiss into Aonung's hair, breathing in the faint scent of salt and sea and woven mats warmed by the sun.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Outside, the ocean rolled endlessly against the reef. The distant sounds of the village carried faintly — muted voices, the creak of woven structures shifting in the wind.

But inside the marui, the world felt smaller.

Contained.

Safer.

Aonung traced slow, absent patterns against _____'s side with his fingertips.

"Did he say anything?" Aonung asked quietly after a moment.

"He cried," _____ said.

Aonung's hand stilled.

_____ swallowed once before continuing.

"He thought it was his fault."

Aonung's jaw tightened again, but he didn't interrupt.

"I took the gun from him," _____ added softly.

That made Aonung lift his head slightly.

"The gun," he repeated carefully.

"Yes."

A flicker of something — fear, anger, maybe both — crossed Aonung's face.

But he didn't scold.

He didn't demand details.

He simply studied _____ for a long moment.

"And now?"

"Tsireya and Kiri are with him. He is going to fix his mother's bow."

Aonung nodded slowly.

That sounded like Lo'ak.

Doing something with his hands.

Trying to hold himself together through motion.

"Good," Aonung murmured again.

He shifted slightly, pressing himself a little closer — but still mindful of the soreness in his own body.

"You did the right thing," he said after a pause.

_____ let out a quiet breath.

"I hit his father."

Aonung huffed faintly.

"Yes. I gathered that."

Silence lingered again.

The kind that wasn't uncomfortable.

Just thoughtful.

"I would have done the same," Aonung admitted quietly.

That made _____ glance down at him.

Aonung didn't look up this time. His gaze remained on the woven floor, expression distant but firm.

"No one speaks to someone they love like that," Aonung continued. "Not when grief is already breaking them apart."

_____ tightened his hold slightly.

The marui shifted with a soft rustle as the wind passed through.

The world outside was still messy.

Still grieving.

Still fragile.

Neteyam was still gone.

Jake was still carrying guilt too heavy for his own spine.

Lo'ak was still learning how to exist without his brother beside him.

And the reef village itself still felt like a place holding its breath.

But inside this small woven space — lined with pale mats, warmed by filtered sunlight and salt air — there was something steadier.

Aonung's breathing slowed gradually.

His fingers resumed their gentle tracing against _____'s skin.

"You are shaking," Aonung observed softly.

Only then did _____ realize he was.

Not violently.

Not obviously.

But faintly.

The aftershock.

He exhaled slowly and buried his fingers more firmly into Aonung's braids, grounding himself.

"I thought I was going to lose him," _____ admitted in a low voice.

Aonung tilted his head just enough to look at him.

"You did not."

"I know."

"But you were afraid."

"Yes."

Aonung studied him for a long moment — then reached up and cupped the uninjured side of _____'s face carefully.

His thumb brushed gently under his eye.

"You cannot carry everyone," Aonung said softly.

_____ almost laughed at that.

He had heard those words before.

He rarely listened.

"I can try," _____ replied.

Aonung's expression softened in that small, rare way that only appeared when no one else was watching.

"I know you will," he said.

He shifted again, settling more comfortably now that the tension had drained from both of them.

This time when he rested his head against _____'s chest, it was fully relaxed.

Trusting.

The light inside the marui grew warmer as the sun lowered slightly outside.

Shadows stretched across the woven floor in soft, moving patterns.

_____ let his eyes close briefly, listening to Aonung's breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Steady.

Alive.

Present.

He pressed another kiss into his hair.

"I am glad you came back," Aonung murmured sleepily.

"There was nowhere else I would stay," _____ replied.

Aonung hummed faintly at that.

Outside, the ocean continued its endless rhythm.

The village would still need to heal.

Conversations would still need to happen.

Apologies would still need to be spoken.

Grief would not vanish in a single afternoon.

But here —

For this moment —

There were no raised voices.

No accusations.

No weapons in trembling hands.

Just warmth.

Just closeness.

Just two steady heartbeats in a small woven space by the sea.

And for now —

That was enough.

(TYSM for reading <333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 15

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: fluff, smut

Warnings: explicit scenes

Word count: 4.9k

////////

The reef glimmered like liquid emerald and gold beneath the afternoon sun, the shallow waters sparkling with the play of light and shadow. The air was thick with salt and the gentle fragrance of seaweed, mingling with smoke from small fires where fish and shellfish were roasting. Today, the reef people had gathered in a rare, full assembly, their movements flowing like currents through the open spaces, laughter and song threading between the tall grasses and along the edges of the coral-scarred beaches.

_____ moved among them quietly at first, carrying a large woven basket filled with freshly caught fish, fruits, and small bundles of aromatic herbs. Every step he took was measured; he let his eyes wander over the preparations. Long banners made from braided fibers and shells hung between the sturdy poles, catching the sunlight and throwing dancing patterns onto the sand below. Torches were set in small, shallow pits, their flames flickering in anticipation of the night ahead. A long table had been assembled, covered in woven mats, laden with colorful foods—golden fruits, roasted seafood, bowls of nuts, and sweet berries glistening with dew. The air was alive with the mingling scents of cooking, sea, and flowers, making _____'s stomach tighten with anticipation and hunger.

Aonung, Tsireya, and Rotxo were already at the heart of the main gathering circle, standing tall and composed, ceremonial garb clinging to their forms. Feathers braided into hair swayed lightly in the warm breeze. Anklets jingled with subtle rhythm as they shifted from foot to foot. _____ watched them with careful attention. The tattoos of adulthood had been freshly inked, spirals of reef and ocean curling across their skin, gleaming slightly in the sun. Every gesture, every breath, radiated both pride and nervous energy. Today, the reef would witness their passage into full adulthood, and it was also the celebration of the bond that had grown between him and Aonung.

The elders of the reef began the opening chants, voices low and rising in harmony with the gentle crash of waves. _____ could feel the vibrations through the sand beneath his feet, a steady pulse that seemed to echo in his chest. The chants were old—older than memory—and carried with them the weight of generations. The reef people circled the central area, moving with grace, their hands raised to the sky in gestures of gratitude and reverence to Eywa. _____ followed the rhythm of the movements, heart beating in tandem with the drums set at intervals around the gathering.

Then came the first performances. Young warriors leapt and twisted through intricate sparring displays, mimicking the movements of predators in the reef. Each strike, each dodge, was precise, choreographed to perfection. The sand around them shifted underfoot, kicked into small swirling clouds by their movement. _____ felt a thrill at the energy, at the way the reef seemed to hum with life, danger, and skill. Lo'ak, ever the mischievous one, pushed Tuk gently forward to demonstrate a playful counter-strike, eliciting laughter from the children and older warriors alike.

Spider, newly gifted with a Kuru, attempted to join the sequence. His movements were hesitant, awkward, lacking the fluidity of someone born to Eywa's world. He stumbled on a stretch of sand, catching himself with a jerky, ungraceful motion. Kiri's laughter rang softly in his ears as she nudged him back into rhythm, guiding him with light touches, while Lo'ak muttered under his breath about patience. _____ watched with a measured eye, noting the unease that spread subtly among the adults. Neytiri's gaze lingered on Spider with restrained concern, and even Jake's jaw was tight, eyes wary. _____ understood it completely—the gift alone didn't make Spider part of the reef, not yet. Breathing freely was only the first step, not mastery, not trust.

The feast followed. Bowls of brightly colored fruits—orange slices of sun-fruit, deep purple berries, golden pods of sweetened seeds—lined the long table. Fish, roasted whole over open flames, filled the air with savory smoke, mingling with the aroma of herbs and crushed leaves scattered by the reef people for seasoning. _____ walked slowly among the crowd, offering baskets of food, helping elders lift trays, sharing nods and soft words. Every smile he gave, every gesture he made, felt like a thread weaving him back into the fabric of the reef, reminding him that he was home, that the reef was alive and enduring.

As the sun dipped lower, shadows lengthened across the sand, painting the reef in deep oranges and purples. Drums were brought forward again, smaller and sharper this time, calling the dancers to a more intimate performance. Adults and adolescents alike moved with lithe grace, spinning, jumping, and stomping in time with the beat. The circular motions of their bodies mimicked waves and spirals of the ocean, a living representation of their connection to the reef, to each other, and to Eywa. _____ found himself drawn into the rhythm, tapping his foot softly, feeling the pulse in his veins. Aonung caught his gaze, smiling, and reached for his hand. Their fingers intertwined, an unspoken acknowledgment that they were part of this moment together, and yet distinct in their shared bond.

When the light began to fade, the ceremonial aspect shifted toward the mating ritual. _____ and Aonung were guided to a smaller, secluded area prepared specifically for them near the water's edge. The sand here was softer, clear of footprints, a small crescent cove where waves lapped gently, and the distant, submerged tree of souls pulsed faintly beneath the water's surface. Torches had been planted around them, their flames flickering, casting golden light on the fresh ink of their tattoos.

The reef's elders circled them, chanting softly, their voices creating a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the ocean. The Tsahìk approached, hands steady and precise, carrying ink and marking tools for the final tattoo of the ceremony. The mark would signify the union of _____ and Aonung, etched into the shoulder in spirals and lines of reef patterns that complemented the earlier tattoos. The ink stung sharply, but _____ welcomed the sensation, feeling a deep sense of permanence, of connection, and of belonging.

Aonung's hand brushed lightly against _____'s, grounding him as the final strokes of the ink settled. Their eyes met, golden and bright in the torchlight, a mirror of joy, trust, and shared hope. "We are here," Aonung whispered, voice soft but steady. "Together, at last."

_____ leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Aonung's. "I've waited for this longer than I can say," _____ murmured. "And now that it's here, I will never let it go."

The circle around them clapped softly, celebrating, but the energy of the gathering shifted immediately into jubilant revelry. Drums, already steady, grew louder, faster, and more complex. Dancers leapt and spun, each movement a celebration of life, resilience, and community. Sparring matches resumed, this time more playful than ritualistic, with adolescents challenging adults and adults teasing each other in turn. The air was thick with excitement, the scent of cooking, salt, and flowers blending into a heady mix.

For hours, the celebration rolled forward in waves. Children ran through the crowd, carrying small offerings to the elders. Tuk performed acrobatics near the edge of the sand, her laughter ringing like wind chimes. Lo'ak challenged anyone who would face him, grinning mischievously even as he was easily outmaneuvered. Spider, encouraged by Kiri, tried again to move with the rhythm of the dances. His motions were stilted at first, but as he grew more comfortable, the Kuru's influence allowed him to match the steps imperfectly yet convincingly. Still, the adults watched him with caution, and _____ felt the tension silently, the unspoken understanding that Spider's gift did not erase the wariness or the memories of past events.

When night fully fell, lanterns floated on the water near the beach, tiny orbs of light dancing on the waves. The reef people gathered in tighter circles, sharing food, stories, and laughter. Elders passed down tales of past generations, of trials and triumphs, their voices soft yet carrying the weight of experience. _____ sat near Aonung, watching the glow of the flames reflect in the water, feeling the warmth of the hand in his, the solid presence beside him, and the pulse of the reef in every movement around him.

Finally, the cove ceremony commenced. The reef had selected this crescent of sand for its sacred proximity to the submerged tree of souls. Though the great tree could not be reached, the waters around it shimmered as though aware, alive with Eywa's energy. _____ and Aonung sat together, side by side, fingers entwined, and watched the subtle ripple of currents across the sand. The Tsahìk whispered blessings, and the elders murmured prayers, calling for protection, growth, and guidance. The moon reflected off the water, casting silver streaks across the reef, illuminating the newly inked spirals and patterns on _____'s and Aonung's skin.

"I've waited for this moment," _____ said again, voice soft, "through everything."

"And I've waited with you," Aonung replied, pressing his forehead to _____'s. "Never happier. Never more complete."

______'s smile widens, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight as he leans in, pressing his forehead more firmly against Aonung's. The ritual's final moments settle around them like a warm tide, intimate and sacred.

"Eywa witnessed our bond," he whispers, voice barely above the lap of waves. "And now... now the reef knows we are one."

As the last of the reef people retreat respectfully, giving them both privacy, Aonung turns to face him fully. The torchlight casts gentle shadows across his features, highlighting the curve of his lips, the strength of his jaw, and the way his hair falls softly around his shoulders.

_____ reaches out slowly, fingers tracing the newly inked patterns on Aonung's shoulder, following the lines of the tattoo with gentle reverence.

_____'s touch sends shivers down Aonung's spine, not just from the sensation, but from the knowledge that this moment seals everything between them.

His eyes meet his, darkened with emotion—pride, joy, and something deeper, more intimate.

"No looking back now," he murmurs softly, a possessive warmth in his voice as he cups Anoung's face with both hands.

Without waiting for permission, he closes the distance between, pressing his lips against Anoung's—the first true kiss of their bond sealed.

The kiss deepens slowly, deliberately, each movement of _____'s lips conveying unspoken promises and centuries-old traditions.

His hands slide from Anoung's face to his waist, pulling him closer as he explores his mouth with a mix of passion and reverence.

The world around them fades—the flickering torches, the whispering waves, the distant celebration. For this moment, there is only Aonung: his warmth, his scent of ocean and salt, the steadiness of _____'s hands on his body.

When _____ finally pulls back, breath slightly uneven, his forehead rests against Anoung's again. "Together," he breathes, voice thick with emotion. "Now and always."

His fingers interlace with Aonung's, pressing them against his chest where his heart beats strong and steady—matching Anoung's in rhythm. "I promise to protect you. To honor you. To love you as the reef loves the ocean."

Aonung's breath catches at those words, his free hand rising to rest against _____'s chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath. The newly inked tattoos on both their shoulders press together where their bodies meet, the sacred patterns aligning like two halves of a single whole.

"I have no doubt," Aonung murmurs, his golden eyes glistening faintly in the torchlight. Aonung's thumb brushes gently across _____'s collarbone, tracing the fresh ink that now binds them. "This mark," he whispers, voice thick with emotion, "it's not just tradition. It's a promise. A vow written in my blood and now yours."

His gaze never wavers, golden eyes reflecting the firelight like twin suns. "You're mine."

Aonung leans in, pressing a soft kiss to _____'s lips, sealing the vow. The kiss is tender yet possessive, filled with centuries of love and longing finally given voice.

As he pulls back, his forehead rests against _____'s once more, their noses brushing gently. As the night wears on, the celebration continues, but the air between _____ and Aonung grows thicker, more charged.

Each glance, each accidental touch, sends sparks flying. The bond between them, newly forged and glowing like fresh ink, pulses with an unspoken hunger.

Once hidden behind the protective embrace of the reef, _____ presses Aonung against the cool stone wall, his body caging him in.

The ink on their shoulders glows faintly under the moonlight filtering through the water. His voice drops to a low growl, "I've waited too long for this moment."

Aonung's breath hitches at the proximity, his chest rising and falling faster. He tilts his head, exposing his throat in instinctive submission—the most ancient signal. His hands grip the front of _____'s loincloth, tugging him impossibly closer.

"Then stop waiting," he whispers, voice rough with need. "Make me yours here, now."

_____'s primal growl vibrates through his chest as he tilts Aonung's chin up roughly, reclaiming that hungry kiss with teeth and tongue. His free hand slides down to Aonung's hip, gripping hard enough to leave bruises—marks he intends to claim.

Cloths fall away piece by piece, discarded on the wet sand near the lapping tide. Aonung arches into _____'s touch, a soft moan escaping as calloused fingers skim across his heated skin.

Their bodies press together now—bare skin meeting bare skin, every ridge of the sacred tattoos catching, every nervous system singing with connection.

_____ drops to his knees in the sand, the cool grains pressing against his thighs. Aonung gasps, fingers threading through _____'s hair as his legs tremble. "You— you don't have to—"

He's cut off by _____'s thumb tracing slow circles against his inner thigh, the unspoken promise making his words die in his throat.

Aonung's head falls back against the stone, golden eyes slipping shut. "Please," _____'s lips curl into a dark smile against Aonung's flesh before he leans in, placing open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin of his inner thighs.

He knows exactly what he's doing—tormenting, teasing, making Aonung beg. Aonung's legs spread wider, inviting, desperate.

"Stop playing," he pants, "Just— just—" He bites his lip, hips shifting forward in a silent plea. "Put your mouth on me. Suck. Bite. Something. Anything."

_____ chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against Aonung's sensitive skin. He love's Aonung's desperation—it's intoxicating. Without further teasing, he wraps his strong arms around Aonung's thighs, pulling him closer, and finally gives in to the demand.

Aonung cries out, back arching as _____'s hot mouth envelops him. Every movement is practiced, worshipful yet dominating—tongue swirling, lips tightening, teeth grazing in the perfect places. His own hands claw at _____'s shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks in their wake. "You— fuck— you can't—"

_____ takes him deeper, hollowing cheeks, and Aonung's knees buckle. Strong arms keep him upright, but it's a close thing.

Stars burst behind Aonung's eyelids, and suddenly the centuries of waiting feel justified—for this, this single glorious moment where he's being devoured by the one who finally understands him.

As _____ pushes him closer to the edge, Aonung suddenly grabs his hair, pulling him back with a sharp tug. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire. "Stop," he gasps. "Stop before I finish in your mouth." He swallows hard, "I want—"

_____'s grinning, lips swollen and wet, as he rises. "Oh? And what does my mighty olo'eyktan want?" The possessive edge in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through Aonung.

"I want to be taken properly," Aonung breathes, already turning, presenting himself against the rock wall. "Not like some desperate boy."

_____'s breath catches, his gaze raking over Aonung's form as he presents himself—back arched, arms braced against the smooth stone, tail flicking in invitation. The moonlight catches the curve of his ass, the clench of his thighs, the way he's practically trembling with need.

"Is that so?" _____ purrs, stepping close behind him.

"Yes," Aonung hisses, pushing his hips back slightly. He knows _____ can see everything—his hard length, the way he's already leaking, the way his hole is clenched tight. "Like a man takes his lover. Not some quick mouth fuck."

_____ growls low in his throat, gripping Aonung's hips possessively. "And you deserve more than a quick fuck," he agrees, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Aonung's shoulder. "I'm going to take my time with you."

Aonung groans as teeth sink into his skin, marking him. He pushes back harder, silently urging _____ to get on with it. He wants to be spread open, filled, owned. He wants to feel it for days afterwards, a reminder of who finally claimed him. "Then stop talking—"

_____ laughs softly against Aonung's skin, then slaps his ass hard enough to make him jump and moan. "Impatient," he teases, but his voice is thick with arousal.

Aonung gasps, the sting making his cock twitch painfully. "You have been courting me for 2 years," he pants, grinding back against _____'s hardness. "I think I've earned a little impatience."

One of _____'s hands slides around to grip his cock, stroking slowly. "Perhaps you have," he murmurs.

Aonung's head falls back against _____'s shoulder as he strokes him expertly, matching his earlier teasing with intent, deep pulls that make his knees shake. One thumb traces over the tip, collecting the leaking fluid and using it to ease the glide. "F-Fuck,"

"Mmm, you like that?" _____ asks, continuing the slow, firm pulls. His other hand reaches down to spread Aonung's cheeks, exposing his hole to the cool night air—and his hungry gaze. "You're so hard, dripping like a fountain."

Aonung whimpers, his face flushing with embarrassment and arousal. He's always been proud, never one to show vulnerability, but _____'s dirty words and skilled hands are breaking him down. "Sh-shut up," he mutters, pushing his face into _____'s neck.

_____ chuckles darkly, nipping at Aonung's ear. "Never." He rewards the desperate grinding by curling two fingers inside his mate, finding that sensitive spot instantly.

Aonung cries out, back arching sharply. His hole spasms around those thick fingers, swallowing them greedily. "Th-there—" he chokes, thrusting back recklessly.

_____ keeps those fingers deep, scissoring them slowly to stretch Aonung open. His other hand moves to Aonung's cock, stroking firmly in time with his fingers. "Right there," he murmurs, knowing exactly how to touch his mate. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Aonung can only whimper incoherently, his body trembling with need. His fingers claw at _____'s arms desperately as pleasure overwhelms him. The dual stimulation is too much—he's never felt anything like it. His hole clenches rhythmically around the fingers, begging for more.

_____ smiles fiercely, feeling Aonung fall apart around his fingers. He crookes them deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside him that makes him throw his head back and cry out. "So needy," he whispers, pressing soft kisses to Aonung's neck.  "So beautiful."

"Stop talking," Aonung gasps, though his voice lacks any real bite. He's too lost, hips jerking forward only to push back onto those wicked fingers. "Just— oh, stars— just fuck me already."

He's desperate. Humble. Completely undone.

_____ removes his fingers, making Aonung groan in protest.

"No—" Aonung cries out, trying to push back onto the empty space. He feels empty, hollow, needing to be filled. His face burns with shame at how quickly he's crumbled, but he can't find it in himself to care.

_____ silences him with a firm slap to his ass, making the skin flush red. "Patience," he admonishes, but his voice is thick with arousal. He spits into his palm, coating his length before pressing the head against Aonung's slick hole. "I'll give you what you need."

Aonung whimpers, his body shaking with need. He can feel _____'s thick cock pressing against him, teasing him mercilessly. He tries to push back, to force _____ inside him, but _____ holds him still with a firm hand on his hip. "Please,"

"Not yet." _____ whispers, continuing to tease Aonung's entrance with slow circles and gentle taps. He loves seeing his strong, proud mate reduce to begging. "You want this?" he asks, pressing slightly harder, making Aonung's hole spread slightly around the tip.

"Yes," Aonung hisses, his face burning with humiliation and desire. He's never begged for anything in his life, but he'll gladly humiliated himself if it means getting _____ inside him. "Please, please, please..."

_____ laughs softly without humor, pushing the head of his cock inside Aonung—just the head, no more. He pulls back out slowly, smirking when Aonung whimpers and tries to force him back in by tightening his hole muscles. "You're desperate," he accuses softly.

Aonung lets out a shaky breath, his entire body tense and trembling. He can't believe how easily _____ has reduced him to this—desperate and pleading for dick. His face is hot with embarrassment, but his hole is clenching greedily, trying to keep that tiny bit of _____ inside.

_____ watches Aonung's hole with hungry eyes, seeing it pulse and clench around nothing. He slowly pushes the head of his cock back inside, watching as Aonung's hole stretches to accommodate him. He pulls back out again, denying Aonung the fullness he craves.

"Stop teasing," Aonung snaps, his voice breaking on a sob. He's beyond dignity, beyond pride. His hole is wet and slick, begging to be filled completely. He reaches back, trying to pull _____ deeper inside him, only succeeding in spreading himself wider.

"Make me," _____ challenges, still only pressing the head inside before pulling back. He loves this. Loves seeing Aonung come apart, loves the way he's reduced to whimpering and begging. He slaps Aonung's ass again, harder this time, watching it jiggle. "Beg properly."

Aonung's ass cheek is bright red from the slap, the sting making his hole clench urgently. He spreads himself wider, totally shameless. "Please," he moans loudly, his voice echoing through the room. "Please, please, please fuck me. Fill me up. Use me."

_____ growls, finally pushing his entire length inside Aonung in one smooth thrust. He fills him completely, hitting deep and making Aonung cry out loudly. His hands grip Aonung's hips tightly as he starts pounding into him, fucking him hard and fast like he wanted.

Aonung screams, his body shaking as _____'s thick cock hits his prostate with every thrust. He's overwhelm, sensation blinding him. His body convulses, his hole clenching like a vice around _____'s length. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" He cries out loudly.

"That's it," _____ groans, feeling Aonung's hole milking his cock. He fucks him even harder, slapping against Aonung's ass with each thrust. His hands move to Aonung's shoulders, pulling him back onto his cock as he pounds into him relentlessly.

Aonung's knees give out, barely caught by _____'s strong arms. His vision whites out with pleasure as _____ rams into him again and again. Stars burst behind his eyelids. "I-I'm gonna—"

"Don't you dare," _____ snarls, grabbing Aonung's cock and stroking it firmly. "You're staying hard for me. Understood?"

"Ah! Ah!" Aonung's eyes roll back as _____ strokes his cock firmly, denying him release. He feels like he's going to explode, but _____'s commanding grip keeps him from coming. His hole clenches around _____'s length with each stroke of his cock.

"Good boy," _____ praises darkly, feeling Aonung's desperate whimpers and clenching hole. He slows his thrusts slightly, drawing out the torture. His hand moves faster on Aonung's cock, keeping him on the edge without letting him fall over.

Aonung sobs, his thighs trembling violently. His hole clenches desperately around _____, trying to milk his mate dry even as he's being denied. "P-please," he whimpers pathetically, "I can't—I'm trying but I just—"

_____ bites down hard on the mating mark on Aonung's shoulder, the sharp pain making him buck wildly.

Aonung screams as pain and pleasure mix violently. The sudden bite sends electric shocks through him, making his cock throb impossibly in _____'s hand. His hole spasms, squeezing _____'s length so tightly it almost hurts. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" He chokes on his screams.

_____ releases the mating mark, licking over the bite soothingly even as he snaps his hips forward again, hitting Aonung's prostate dead on. His hand on Aonung's cock tightens, stroking him roughly now as punishment for being too sensitive. "Too loud,"

"Shh," _____ warns, his voice low and dangerous. He fucks Aonung harder, each thrust designed to hit that sensitive spot inside him. His hand on Aonung's cock is brutal now, denying him the gentle touches he needs to come. "Quiet or I'll bite again."

Aonung whimpers silently, his body shaking with overwhelming sensations. His hole burns from the intense fucking, his prostate throbbing with every impact. His cock aches in _____'s punishing grip, teased mercilessly. Tears of frustrated pleasure sting his eyes as he's denied release.

_____ sees the tears and smirks wickedly. He loves reducing Aonung to this—desperate and silently begging for release. He changes the angle of his hips slightly, hitting Aonung's prostate with every thrust but still not giving him what he needs on his cock.

Aonung bites his lip hard to stop himself from screaming, tasting blood. His hips push back instinctively, chasing his prostate stimulation even as his cock aches from neglect. _____ is tormenting him perfectly, keeping him right on the edge of pleasure without letting him tip over.

_____ feels Aonung's body trying to adjust to find that release, his hips shamelessly chasing the pleasure. He pulls out suddenly, making Aonung sob in protest. "No, no, no—" He flips Aonung onto his back, spreading his legs wide and lifting them over his shoulders. "Look at you," he mocks, slamming back inside.

Aonung arches off the bed, his back bowing sharply as _____ hits his prostate from this new angle. His legs shake over _____'s shoulders, his hole gripping desperately. "Ah!" The sound escapes before he can stop it, his mouth falling open in a silent scream.

"Shh," _____ hisses, covering Aonung's mouth with his hand as he starts fucking him deep and slow. He hits that spot perfectly with every deliberate thrust, making Aonung's eyes roll back and his body shake uncontrollably.

Aonung's muffled cries turn into incoherent whimpers against _____'s hand. His body is utterly overwhelmed, his prostate being stroked relentlessly while his cock is still being ignored. Tears stream down the sides of his face from both pleasure and frustration. "Mmph! Mmph!"

_____ watches Aonung's desperate face, loving how utterly fucked out he looks while still not coming. He adjusts his angle slightly, making Aonung's entire body jerk. "Look at you," he whispers, "so needy and still not allowed to come."

Aonung's eyes meet _____'s, wide and desperate and glazed with tears. His legs clamp around _____'s shoulders, pulling him deeper. A sob escapes against _____'s palm. He's never felt so reduced, so completely at _____'s mercy. And he hates how good it feels. How right.

Finally, finally, _____ releases Aonung's cock.

_____'s hand leaves Aonung's mouth and moves down to his neglected, oversensitive cock. He wraps his fingers around it loosely, no longer denying him release. "Come now," he commands, his voice low and commanding as he continues to pound into Aonung's prostate. "Show me how desperate you are, Aonung."

With a strangled cry, Aonung's body snaps into motion. His hips buck wildly, his neglected cock throbbing in _____'s hand. He's so desperate, so needy, that even the slightest touch has him racing towards his release. "Ah! Ah! Ah!"

_____ strokes Aonung's cock slowly, matching his thrusts inside him. The combination of prostate stimulation and the gentle touch on his oversensitive length sends Aonung flying over the edge instantly. He screams, his back arching violently as he comes hard, coating _____'s hand and stomach.

_____ watches Aonung come undone, his body convulsing with pleasure. He continues fucking him through his orgasm, drawing out every last tremor and spasm. "Good boy," he praises darkly, his own hips snapping forward as he gets close.

Aonung is a trembling mess, his body completely spent. He can hardly lift his legs as _____ throws them over his shoulders again, fucking into him desperately. His hole is oversensitive now, making him whimper with every slap of _____'s balls against him.

"Fuck," _____ groans, his movements growing more erratic as he chases his own release. He leans down, capturing Aonung's mouth in a rough kiss as he finally comes inside him, filling him with his hot seed.

Aonung can barely kiss back, his mouth too sensitive and his body too exhausted. He just takes _____'s tongue, accepting the rough kisses as he's filled with hot cum. When _____ finally pulls out, he whines softly, feeling empty and oversensitive all at once.

_____ pulls out slowly, watching his seed plus Aonung's leak from Aonung's well-used hole. Aonung whimpers, his body shaking from the stimulation. _____ pushes Aonung's legs gently apart, examining the evidence of their fucking.

"Sore?" he asks, voice low and satisfied, knowing damn well the answer.

Aonung can barely nod, his eyes unfocused and glazed over. His legs feel like jelly, completely wiped out from the intense session. His hole is a mess—stretched, leaking, and throbbing with every tiny movement. He can't even form words, just a pathetic whimper escapes his lips. "Mm—"

_____ chuckles softly, finding Aonung's state utterly adorable. He spreads Aonung's legs wider, leaning down to press a soft, gentle kiss to his abused hole. It makes Aonung jump and whine, his body too sensitive for even that light touch.

Aonung squeaks, his whole body tensing. "Ah! Too— too sensitive—" he moans, trying weakly to close his legs. His hole twitches, still clenching around phantom sensations from earlier. He's never been this oversensitive, this wrecked.

_____ just smirks, giving his hole one more soft kiss before pulling away. "Good."

(TYSM for reading, also ive like planned the rest of the chapters now and theres only gon be like 6 more chapters to go, lowk kinda sad bc i love this fic like i could make a book 2 or smt but i have no clue what id do it on yk but if anyone has any ideas i would love to hear them<3333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 14

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: a bit angsty but also a bit of fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.8k

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The forest was quiet. Too quiet.

_____ stirred slowly, eyelids fluttering as the dappled sunlight filtered through the dense canopy overhead. Branches swayed lazily in the gentle breeze, casting shifting patches of green and gold across his face. Each breath felt heavy at first, but steady, carrying the familiar earthy scent of the forest floor—damp leaves, moss, and the faint tang of river water not far away.

Pain shot through his body in sharp little jolts. Arms scraped, chest stinging where he'd landed hard, legs bruised and aching. Nothing seemed broken, but every muscle screamed softly with exhaustion and tension. He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing his knees, wiggling his toes. Small victories.

Everything... seemed okay.

For a heartbeat, he allowed himself a moment of relief, inhaling the cool morning air, letting his gaze sweep the forest around him. Fallen leaves crunched softly beneath his feet. Ferns brushed against his legs as he shifted. Birds called somewhere distant, high in the trees, their voices faint but strangely comforting.

Then—a branch snapped.

It was small at first, almost imperceptible. But then it was repeated—a crack, a whisper of movement among the undergrowth.

_____ froze.

The sound wasn't random. It was deliberate. Organized. Controlled. Heavy footsteps, the murmur of voices too low to discern, the occasional clink of something metallic.

The Mankwan.

His pulse hammered in his ears, thundering against his ribs. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Adrenaline surged, sharp and invigorating, sharpening his senses until every leaf, every shadow, every flicker of movement seemed amplified.

He ducked low, pressing himself against the rough bark of a nearby tree. The bark scratched along his arms and chest, but he hardly noticed. He climbed quickly, limbs working in concert as his eyes scanned the forest floor below. Branches groaned under his weight but held firm, and soon he perched high above, the world beneath him stretched out like a stage he wasn't meant to see.

And then he saw them.

A clearing.

He held his breath.

Bodies bound. Weapons scattered. Fear etched deep into every face. His heart constricted as his gaze swept over them: Jake, steady and tense even in restraints; Kiri, her hands trembling slightly in her lap; Tuk, unusually silent, eyes wide; Lo'ak, jaw tight, hands pressed against the ropes that cut into his wrists. And... Quaritch.

His stomach twisted. The man was alive, upright, eyes sharp with calculation. His posture smug, arrogant—untouched by fear.

Then his gaze shifted.

Spider.

And he froze.

The human wasn't wearing a mask. Not a single one.

Breathing freely, chest rising and falling in a normal rhythm, unflinching. His face was pale but unremarkable. Calm. Alive.

How—how was that possible?

_____'s mind raced, panic lashing against disbelief. His gaze darted, searching for any clue, any explanation. He squinted at Spider's lips, ears straining for the mechanical hum of a mask, for the faint hiss of filtered air—but there was nothing.

No mask.

No sound.

No explanation.

The logic faltered in his mind, twisting into a tight knot of fear and confusion.

Breathing like that—without a mask in this environment—should have been impossible. It defied everything he had learned, everything he had lived. His thoughts spiraled:

Is he... sick? Has Eywa abandoned him? How can he survive?

He could not comprehend it.

The forest around him seemed to shrink, compressing into the clearing below. Every branch, every leaf, every shadow seemed exaggerated, amplifying the fear that bubbled in his chest. He watched the Mankwan moving, organized and cruel, but his focus refused to shift entirely. All he could see was Spider—alive, breathing, and, somehow, safe.

His fingers tightened on the branch above him, claws digging into the bark. The rhythm of his own heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out almost everything else.

Logic returned in jagged bursts. They're Mankwan. They will kill them all. Now. I have to act.

He exhaled slowly, trying to push the panic down, forcing his body to remember its training, its instinct. He traced the path the Mankwan had taken to the clearing, memorizing each step, each deviation. The forest floor whispered secrets in fallen leaves and bent grass, and he listened, absorbing every detail, every clue to their movement.

Spider remained there, a focal point for his disbelief. How had he managed to breathe without a mask? Could he have somehow adapted? Or was it something else entirely—something unnatural?

He tried not to dwell too long on it, but his mind would not comply. The impossibility of it gnawed at him, distracting him even as the urgency of the moment pressed in.

They were preparing. The Mankwan moved with quiet efficiency, binding weapons, positioning the captives, murmuring chants in low, steady tones. Every motion was a reminder of the danger that ticked closer with each passing second.

_____ crouched higher in the branches, silent, calculating. He traced the path of escape for the captives, mapping the clearing, the surrounding trees, the likely paths the raiders would take. His mind raced, forming a plan even as disbelief and rage simmered in the pit of his stomach.

Spider still sat there, inexplicably calm, chest rising and falling, a silent question lingering in the space between them.

How can he be alive like that?

He forced the thought aside, pressing it deep, because he had no time to puzzle over it. Every second spent staring at the impossible human was a second lost—lost for planning, lost for action.

He needed to move.

He needed to act.

But first, he had to watch, had to observe, had to learn.

From the safety of the branches, he traced each Mankwan's movement, noting their positions, the subtle signals they gave to each other, the rhythm of their preparation. He inhaled the damp air of the forest, grounding himself. Pain in his arms, scratches along his chest and legs, even the ache in his stomach—they all existed, but they were secondary. Survival, protection, revenge—these were primary.

He would not let them die.

He could not.

And then he caught a glimpse of Kitty, connecting with the forest itself, manipulating vines and undergrowth with her gift. Some of the Mankwan froze, caught in the sudden grip of roots and vines that struck out like living fingers. The distraction was enough.

_____'s mind snapped into action.

He moved swiftly, dropping down from the branches. His feet barely made a sound on the forest floor. Blade in hand, eyes sharp, he approached the ropes binding Jake first, then Kiri, Tuk, and Lo'ak, cutting them with practiced precision. Every motion was careful, calculated, efficient.

But Spider...

Spider remained unbound, sitting there like a ghost among the chaos.

And still, the question burned in _____'s mind:

How the hell is he breathing like that?

The answer refused to come.

The moment demanded action, and the impossible had to be shelved for now. Survival first.

He could think about Spider later.

Now, all that mattered was freeing his family.

⸻

But the forest waited for no one. The rustle of more Mankwan in the undergrowth snapped _____ out of his daze. His pulse leapt. Every nerve in his body screamed for action, for movement, for vigilance. He couldn't linger—not now, not ever. Every second he hesitated was another second the raiders could tighten their trap, harm his family, claim lives that had already suffered too much.

He slid down the tree with practiced care, branches bending but holding beneath him. His feet landed lightly on the soft, moss-dampened ground. He moved like a shadow, gliding along the undergrowth, letting the forest itself guide him. Each snapped twig, each leaf bent in the wrong direction, each subtle indentation in the soil was a clue. His eyes scanned constantly, mapping the paths of the raiders. He kept low, silent, a ghost among the ferns and roots.

Every sense sharpened. He could feel the slight tremor of distant footsteps through the forest floor, smell the faint, acrid tang of human sweat mixed with metal and fire, hear the whispered movements of leaf and branch that spoke of hidden Mankwan presence. Each footfall, each subtle shift of the air was a warning.

Eventually, he found the clearing again. It was almost like returning to a wound he'd been trying not to think about—a wound now open and raw before him. The Mankwan were preparing some sort of ritual, their voices rising in low chants that twisted like smoke through the trees. The captives were bound tightly, weapons discarded around them. Jake, Kiri, Tuk, and Lo'ak all sat in rigid silence, their bodies tense with fear. And Quaritch, as always, moved with cruel confidence, unrestrained, surveying the scene like a predator savoring the moment.

_____'s chest tightened. Anger, grief, and determination collided in a storm within him. He pressed his back to a thick trunk, his breathing steady but controlled. Every detail—the way the raiders' eyes flicked from the captives to each other, the position of their weapons, the rhythm of their chants—he memorized it all. There was no room for error. No margin for hesitation.

Climbing another nearby tree, he positioned himself above the clearing. From this vantage, everything was clear: every subtle signal, every unspoken order, every crack of a stick underfoot. His gaze locked onto the captives, calculating every possible escape route. Every rope, every knot, every constraint became a map in his mind, a series of challenges to solve.

Then he saw her—Kiri.

The forest responded immediately to her. Vines coiled like living serpents, roots slithered across the ground, branches shifted to ensnare several of the Mankwan raiders. Her movements were fluid, decisive, lethal in their precision. The chaos below began to tilt in their favor. The raiders faltered, surprised by the sudden strike of the forest itself, and the captives' eyes widened in hope, the first spark of belief igniting in their gaze.

_____ didn't hesitate. Adrenaline coiled in his stomach like a spring ready to snap. He dropped from the tree with grace, landing lightly behind the group. His blade glinted in the faint dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. He moved with careful precision, cutting through ropes with a surgeon's focus. Jake was freed first, eyes locking with his in a quick, silent acknowledgement. Kiri followed, twisting out of her bindings as her muscles, tense from fear, finally relaxed. Tuk's small frame was liberated next, and Lo'ak emerged last, his movements sharp, ready, muscles coiled for defense.

Everything seemed to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Every action counted. Every breath was measured. Every heartbeat echoed through his chest like a drum of war.

And then—Quaritch.

_____ froze. His hand tightened around the blade instinctively, a knot of old rage and fresh anger tightening in his gut. Memories surged—the capture, the pain, the endless years of fear, the ship, the betrayal.

"Go," Jake's voice was calm but firm, cutting through the storm of his thoughts. "He helped us before."

_____ whirled, chest heaving, jaw tight. The words boiled inside him before he could control them. "No. No, I don't care if he helped once. He's the reason the team's dead. He's the reason I almost died. He's the one who captured me for the Sky People all those years ago! Are you telling me I should just forgive him because he's done one good deed? How... how is that fair?"

Jake's jaw tightened. He said nothing, only watched him, trusting that the anger would settle, trusting that instinct and reason would eventually converge.

Reluctantly, _____ stepped aside. He let Quaritch stumble free, moving awkwardly among the chaos as the forest's intervention distracted him. But even as the man escaped immediate harm, _____'s eyes never left him. Every flick of his shoulder, every shuffling step, every micro-expression of arrogance and satisfaction burned into _____'s memory. He would not forget. Not ever.

The group didn't linger. There was no room for hesitation, no time to process what had just unfolded. They moved swiftly, descending toward the river that snaked through the forest like a silver ribbon in the moonlight. The current carried them silently downstream, water whispering against rocks and roots, guiding them, offering a fragile sense of cover.

Every movement was cautious, every step deliberate. They stuck close to the riverbank, the forest thickening around them, hiding their presence. The sounds of the jungle—the croak of distant frogs, the splash of fish, the rustle of leaves—masked their passage.

Finally, after what felt like hours of tense movement, they found a small stretch of dry land suitable for camp. The group spread out, tending to minor scrapes, securing gear, and catching their breath. _____'s muscles ached from constant vigilance, but there was no room for rest yet. He scanned every shadow, every rustle of the underbrush. Every tree became a potential threat. Every flicker of movement demanded scrutiny.

He climbed a sturdy tree near the camp, settling into its branches like a sentinel. Quaritch had survived, and that meant danger was far from over. His body tensed, eyes darting, limbs coiled, ready to spring at a moment's notice. Night stretched endlessly above him. The forest around was alive with subtle sounds, creatures moving quietly in the darkness. But he didn't sleep. He couldn't. Not with Quaritch free, not with his family so close to harm, not with the weight of every memory pressing him into a vigilante's watchfulness.

Hours passed. The moon rose, silver and cold, casting long shadows through the trees. The wind whispered secrets through the leaves. And still, _____ remained above, alert, tense, coiled like a predator waiting for its moment.

Morning came eventually, pale and delicate, filtering through the canopy. Voices reached him—distant but growing, alerting him to movement in the forest beyond the river. Jake tensed, confusion and readiness written across his features. "Go! Everyone, run!"

But then realization came, immediate and undeniable. The shapes weren't Mankwan—they were Emkayaya. Familiar warriors. Allies. Relief washed through him, but he did not relax. Not entirely. He remained in his perch, vigilant, watching Quaritch like a hawk, unwilling to give the man even an inch of complacency.

The omaticaya landed with swift precision. Netiri stepped forward, surveying the scene with calculated efficiency. And in that moment, Quaritch's eyes met theirs. Panic sparked. The man bolted.

_____ didn't let himself breathe yet. Not until he saw Quaritch vanish into the forest, the threat temporarily neutralized.

⸻

And then—finally—Netiri reached him.

Her arms were strong, steady, and unyielding, but at the same time tender, wrapping around him with an intensity that pressed the exhaustion from his bones. Relief, warmth, and belonging surged through him like a tide breaking over rocky shorelines, washing away the last shreds of the night's fear and tension. He sagged into her embrace, letting his body slump against hers, muscles trembling with the release of adrenaline and anxiety he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"Shh... you're safe now," Netiri murmured into his hair, her voice low and steady, rhythmic, like the tide against the reef. Her hands pressed against his back with careful pressure, grounding him, reminding him that he was here, alive, whole—at least for the moment. He breathed her in: the faint scent of forest, the warmth of her skin, the reassuring firmness of someone who had survived battles and nightmares and still stood.

He couldn't speak. Words caught in his throat, torn apart by the storm of relief and grief and lingering dread. Instead, he leaned harder, burying his face against her shoulder, letting his tears fall freely for the first time since the chaos of the night. His arms clung around her waist as though letting go even for a second could send him tumbling back into the forest, back into the terror of losing everyone again.

"Netiri..." His voice cracked, raw and ragged, carrying fragments of anguish that he could not contain. He shivered slightly, not from cold, but from the aftershocks of everything he'd endured—capture, near-death, watching friends and family in peril, and the unrelenting weight of memory now returned in full.

She did not pull back. She held him tighter. One hand rested lightly on the back of his head, the other pressed firmly against his shoulder blade, anchoring him. "It's over," she whispered, though he could feel the tension lingering in her body too. "It's done. We are all... still here."

But _____ didn't feel entirely comforted yet. The adrenaline still coursed through his veins. His mind replayed the night's horrors in fragments: the arrows, the screams, the plunge into the river, Quaritch slipping past him again, the fear of never seeing anyone alive. Even the victory—the arrival of the Emkayaya—was tinged with relief and residual terror. He hadn't fully processed it, and he could feel his muscles coiled, ready to spring even in Netiri's arms.

"I... I thought..." His words broke off, choked with emotion. "...I thought I'd lost you all. Again. I thought..." His chest heaved violently, the last syllable caught in a strangled sob.

"You did not lose us," Netiri said firmly, guiding him upright slightly so he could breathe without crushing himself against her. Her eyes searched his, steady and unwavering, the light in them soft but unwavering, a beacon amidst the turmoil in his chest. "We are here. All of us. And you... you came back to us."

He closed his eyes and let the sensation of being held, being seen, being alive, sink in. Memories of grief, of pain, of loss, of confusion, still lingered at the edges of his mind, but for the first time, they were tempered by belonging. The ache of missing Neteyam, the weight of rage against Quaritch, the sting of the recent battle—they were there, but they did not define him in this moment. He was tethered. He was here.

Together, they made their way back to the Omaticaya village. Every step was careful, deliberate. His legs were stiff from the fall, his arms still weak from the strain of holding himself and fighting, but Netiri supported him gently when needed, her presence a steadying force. They moved past the familiar trees, the soft undergrowth, the winding paths lined with roots and leaves, each step grounding him further in the world he had almost lost.

By the time they arrived, the sun was lower in the sky, the golden light filtering through the canopy in gentle shafts. The village looked almost unchanged, peaceful in a way that contrasted sharply with the chaos he had left behind. But he knew better. He knew the village carried its own scars, its own memories of battles survived and losses endured. He could feel it in the air—the faint tension, the watchful eyes of those who had known fear, the quiet expectation of reunion.

Skilled hands attended to him first, cleaning the scratches along his arms, chest, and legs. The abrasions were minor, nothing that would leave lasting damage, but the process was meticulous. Herbal poultices were applied, gentle hands washing away blood and dirt, soothing burns and scrapes with care. Each touch was deliberate, measured, and healing, not just for his skin but for the lingering sense of vulnerability he carried. The warmth of the herbs, the soft pressure of skilled palms, the quiet murmurs of reassurance—all of it combined to ease some of the tension that had accumulated over days of fear and flight.

And then—Mo'at.

_____ froze the instant he saw her. Heart pounding, chest tight with a mixture of disbelief, joy, and relief that refused to be neatly separated. She stepped forward, arms open wide. He could see the lines of age and wisdom etched on her face, but the kindness and steadfast love shone through as brightly as ever. It was the face he had longed for during years of uncertainty, of displacement, of remembering who he was only to realize how much time had passed.

The reunion that followed was quiet but charged with unspoken emotion. Mo'at pulled him into her arms with a firmness that spoke of authority, care, and the kind of unconditional love only she could offer. Tears streaked faces, both his and hers, silent apologies passing between them without words. Words were unnecessary. Every touch, every squeeze of her hand, every heartbeat against his shoulder spoke of forgiveness, of acceptance, of home.

He pressed his forehead against hers, inhaling the familiar scent, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing. It grounded him. It reminded him of everything he had been through, of every loss and every gain. He could feel the weight of the past lift slightly, replaced by something fragile and precious: connection, presence, and the undeniable sense of belonging he had chased across oceans, forests, and memory itself.

"Mo'at..." he whispered finally, voice barely audible, quivering with exhaustion and emotion. "I... I missed you."

"And we missed you," she murmured, holding him just a little tighter. "But you are here now. That is what matters."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, _____ allowed himself to breathe deeply. The weight of grief, rage, and fear that had coiled so tightly within him over the past days eased, if only for a moment. A fragile peace settled over him, the kind that comes from being seen, recognized, and embraced without judgment.

He let his arms fall around her, relaxing for the first time since the battle, letting the warmth of her presence fill the spaces left empty by fear and uncertainty. His mind, usually racing with plans, calculations, and memories, slowed, allowing the moment itself to exist without intrusion.

He knew the road ahead would not be simple. There would be healing yet to do—emotional, mental, physical—but in this quiet reunion, in the soft embrace of Mo'at, he found the clarity and strength to face it. The forest outside continued to whisper, the river nearby murmured its constant song, and the world, for just a fleeting instant, felt right again.

In that embrace, _____ realized something profound: he could endure, he could heal, he could belong. He had returned to the heart of his family, the pulse of his home, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt... whole.

And for now, that was enough.

(TYSM for reading<333)

[cinnamqn7]

Carried By The Water: pt 13

(Aonung x male reader)

masterlist

Genre: a bit of angst ig

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.6k

////////

The morning felt wrong.

_____ knew it before he even stepped inside the Sullys' marui.

The sky outside was soft, painted in shades of early gold and pink, the sun just brushing the treetops with light. A gentle wind carried the scent of saltwater and damp earth from the nearby reef. Everything outside seemed peaceful, almost perfect. And yet, the moment he ducked under the woven doorway, he felt the weight pressing down on him. It wasn't loud, it wasn't sharp—it was just there, heavy, making the air seem thicker, tighter.

He carried a basket he had woven himself at dawn, weaving the strands slowly, carefully, as if the act could steady him against whatever he would find inside. It was filled with fruit, dried fish he had caught himself before the sun fully rose, and a small bundle of herbs the Tsahìk had said would calm the spirit. An excuse. A reason to enter without asking, without permission. But he didn't need one. Not really.

Still, he hesitated on the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The marui smelled faintly of salt, wood, and old mats, but also of tension, of something unspoken.

Lo'ak was pacing. His movements were sharp, controlled, a taut coil of energy that could snap at any second. He didn't stop when _____ stepped inside. His eyes flicked up briefly, registering the intrusion, but immediately returned to the floor.

Kiri sat stiffly near the back, back rigid against the mat, hands clenched in her lap. She didn't look up. She didn't even breathe noticeably. Every slight movement seemed calculated, restrained.

Tuk, who was usually chatty and constantly moving, was still. Too still. She pressed her small hands against her knees, staring at the floor with a blank expression that made _____'s chest tighten.

And Spider...

Spider was farther back, sitting against the far wall. Mask secured tightly to his face, visor reflecting the dim light like a cold, mirrored shield. His posture was slumped, arms hugging his knees, but there was something in the tension of his shoulders that spoke louder than his posture. His eyes were distant, almost unreachable beneath the mask.

The air in the marui didn't carry grief—not the kind that came after loss. It wasn't anger, either. The tension was sharper, tighter, harder to place. It was closer to fear, but filtered through something more... fragile, like a cord stretched too tight and ready to snap.

_____ shifted the basket in his hands. The slight weight pressed against his chest, a tangible reminder that he had come with purpose. "What happened?" he asked, voice low, careful, trying to keep it neutral.

Lo'ak's head snapped up. His eyes were sharp and alert, scanning _____'s face for any clue of emotion before he answered. Then, almost reluctantly, he glanced toward Spider. There was a pause, a hesitation, and then he stepped closer.

"His mask," Lo'ak muttered, voice quiet but precise. "Battery died in his sleep."

_____ blinked. He blinked again.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, he couldn't process them. "Oh," he said finally.

Lo'ak rubbed his forehead with a rough hand, as if trying to erase the memory of the morning from himself. "We didn't know," he said after a pause. His voice dropped, quieter, almost a whisper. "He wasn't responding. We couldn't find a charged one in time. Dad had to—he had to run to the storage crates. We almost—"

He stopped, swallowed, didn't finish the sentence.

Almost lost him.

The thought didn't need words. It hovered, invisible and sharp, in the marui.

_____ felt a flicker of... something. Relief? Fear? Maybe, but it wasn't quite that. Not exactly. He didn't know how to describe it. Because he was relieved, in a way, that Spider was alive. But beneath that, something darker, something sharper, crept into his chest.

A flash of disappointment.

Lo'ak noticed the microexpression almost instantly. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You good?" he asked carefully, almost too carefully.

_____ forced his shoulders to loosen, lifted the basket slightly as if to adjust the weight, tried to smile just a little. "Yes. Of course," he said, tone light, neutral.

Lo'ak didn't look convinced. He studied _____ for a long moment, a little too carefully, as if he could read deeper than words. There was tension in the way _____ held himself, the slight rigid curl of his fingers around the basket, the way he didn't meet anyone's gaze.

From the corner of the marui, Spider's head flicked, almost imperceptibly. The visor tilted slightly as if he were aware of the scrutiny. For a heartbeat, their eyes met.

_____ didn't speak. He didn't move. But he could feel the weight of it, the silent acknowledgment of something unsaid.

Spider looked away first.

The movement wasn't dramatic. Just a subtle shift of the head, an almost invisible turn, but it carried a world of meaning. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Or fear. Perhaps all three.

_____ swallowed. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn't let himself think about why Spider had done what he did, why he had saved Quaritch, why he had survived when so many others had not. Not yet. That would come later. For now, the tension lingered, coiling tight in the space between them, between all of them.

He set the basket down with care on the mat, ignoring the slight brush of wood against the floor. Every sound in the marui was amplified in the quiet: the shuffle of Kiri's fingers, the barely audible sigh of Tuk's breath, the small click of Spider's visor locking in place.

_____ straightened his shoulders, trying to push the chill that had settled in his chest. He took a step forward, glanced at Lo'ak, who was still pacing, restless. "Everything's... alright now?" he asked carefully.

Lo'ak exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yes," he said, more firmly this time, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "He's fine. The mask worked again. Battery replaced in time."

_____ nodded. His eyes flicked toward Spider again. The boy's expression, hidden beneath the mask, seemed calmer now, but the weight of what had happened still hung between them. He wanted to speak, to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

The marui was silent again. Too silent. It was a quiet that pressed against the ears, a quiet that demanded attention. _____ felt it press against his chest, heavy and unwelcome.

Then he realized—he wasn't angry, not exactly. He was disappointed. Disappointed in the circumstances, disappointed in the fragility of it all. And disappointment is a tricky thing; it doesn't wear itself like grief or anger. It hides. It simmers beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to burn.

Lo'ak's gaze lingered. "You alright?" he asked again. His voice was gentler now, less accusing, more worried.

_____ forced another nod. "I'm fine," he whispered. And he was. Or at least, he tried to be.

Kiri shifted in her seat, finally looking up at him, eyes soft but questioning. Tuk's tiny fingers brushed against the edge of the mat, restless. The subtle movement reminded _____ that even in this tension, life persisted. People persisted.

But the sense of unease remained, like a shadow clinging to the corners of the room.

_____ looked back at Spider one more time. He could feel the boy's gaze on him, even though Spider wasn't looking directly. There was a silent understanding forming in that space, a fragile acknowledgment that the world had shifted yet again, and none of them would forget what had happened.

For now, though, the morning held.

The air was tense, but alive.

The silence between them was not empty. It was filled with unspoken thoughts, questions, regrets, and a delicate hope that maybe, just maybe, they could survive the weight of what had happened.

And in the quiet, _____ realized he could bear it. Somehow, he could.

⸻

Later that afternoon, the sea breeze was warm, carrying the faint scent of salt and blooming forest flowers. The sun slanted low, casting long golden streaks across the ground, lighting the fibers of the weaving in soft, shifting patterns.

_____ sat cross-legged beside Aonung, hands busy with long strands of fiber, methodically weaving them into another basket. The rhythmic motion was calming, almost meditative, and the warmth of the afternoon sunlight seemed to press against his skin in gentle reassurance.

Aonung's shoulder brushed against his occasionally, lightly, playfully. The contact was grounding, a reminder that there was still connection, still presence, in a world that had lately felt unsteady. Their laughter came easily here, away from the tension and weight that lingered over the Sullys' home.

"You're twisting it too tight," Aonung teased, nudging at _____'s hands with a finger.

"I am not," _____ replied, teeth gritted slightly as he focused on the weave.

"You are. It will snap if you keep pulling like that," Aonung said, grinning, eyes bright with amusement.

"It will not," _____ shot back, trying to keep a straight face but failing when Aonung leaned closer, voice dropping in a conspiratorial tone.

"You are stubborn," Aonung murmured, teasingly.

"And you talk too much," _____ countered, smirking despite himself.

Aonung's grin widened. "You like that I talk too much."

_____ huffed a laugh, shaking his head. The sound felt lighter than it had in days, a small relief, a fleeting breath of normalcy.

For a few moments, they continued like that—hands busy with the fibers, fingers brushing occasionally, playful nudges and laughter bouncing between them like gentle waves. The heavy ache in his chest lifted, just enough for him to forget the grief that still shadowed him, just enough for him to feel... calm.

Until a shadow fell across them.

They both looked up.

Neytiri stood there, framed by the dappled light filtering through the leaves, her posture composed, but the strain in her face betrayed the weight she carried. Her gaze was steady, fixed, unyielding in its intent.

Aonung straightened immediately, respect and caution threading through his posture. "Tsmukan," he said quietly.

"May I speak with him?" Neytiri asked softly, her voice even but carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

Aonung glanced at _____, who nodded slightly, and then stepped back. Before leaving, he bent slightly, pressing his shoulder against _____'s in a gesture of quiet reassurance. "I will be here," he murmured. Always steady. Always warm. A presence that anchored him in the midst of uncertainty.

When Aonung walked away, the space felt suddenly heavier, quieter. Neytiri lowered herself gracefully to sit across from him. Her movements were smooth, but the tension in her hands betrayed her worry.

"The boy cannot stay," she said immediately, without preamble.

_____ stilled, the basket of half-finished weaving balanced loosely between his knees.

"...Spider?" he asked cautiously, needing the confirmation.

Her jaw tightened, the faintest edge of weariness and sorrow threading through her expression. "Yes," she said simply.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted.

"We are taking him back to the Omaticaya," she continued, calm but firm.

_____ blinked, setting the basket aside carefully. "Oh," was all he could manage.

Neytiri's eyes softened, as if she could see the unspoken questions in his gaze. "That is all you have to say?" she pressed gently.

He looked down at his hands, fingers brushing nervously against the strands of his weaving. "Why are you telling me?"

Her gaze lingered on him for a long moment, softening further, almost tenderly. "It is only a short journey. We will stay a few days. No longer." Her words came with a pause, deliberate, as if measuring his reaction. "I thought you might wish to come."

His head lifted quickly, eyes meeting hers. "To see your grandmother?"

"Yes," Neytiri said softly, voice gentle like the wind through the trees. "Mo'at has missed you. She asks of you."

The name sent a jolt through him. Mo'at. The forest. The home he had not seen since everything changed, since he remembered, since the loss of Neteyam. Memories of her hands, her voice, the way she had laughed softly when he had been small—all rushed back, overwhelming in their clarity.

"I—" His voice faltered briefly, caught in the swell of emotion. "I would like that," he said finally, a faint, tremulous smile tugging at his lips.

Neytiri nodded once, a small but profound acknowledgment of his answer. "We leave with the wind traders at first light," she said, then rose and moved gracefully out of the space, leaving him in quiet contemplation.

_____ remained frozen for a long moment, absorbing the weight of her words. The anticipation of returning to Mo'at, to the safety and warmth of home, was almost intoxicating after the past weeks of tension, grief, and responsibility.

Then Aonung returned, his footsteps quiet but deliberate. His gaze met _____'s immediately, reading him like an open book.

"You are leaving," he said, tone soft, more statement than question.

_____ looked up at him, surprised. "How did you—"

"You have that face," Aonung interrupted gently, a knowing edge in his voice.

"What face?" _____ asked, frowning slightly, bewildered by the accuracy of the observation.

"The one that pretends you are calm," Aonung said simply, crouching before him. His hands rested lightly on his knees, grounding, steady.

_____ huffed quietly, shaking his head. "I'm not pretending," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.

Aonung studied him carefully, reading the subtle signs: the tightness in his shoulders, the fleeting shadow behind his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward.

A soft kiss pressed against _____'s lips. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just steady. A moment of quiet reassurance in a world that had been anything but calm.

"You will come back," Aonung murmured against his lips.

"I promise," _____ whispered, words firm, weighted with sincerity.

Aonung pressed his forehead gently to _____'s, their breath mingling, a shared pulse of comfort and connection. "Be safe," he said softly, lingering in the closeness, hands lightly brushing along _____'s arms as if anchoring him to the present.

_____ felt the warmth seep through him, grounding him against the uncertainty of the days ahead. He breathed in slowly, letting the tension drain just slightly from his chest.

The basket of weaving remained between them, untouched, a symbol of the stillness they had carved out together. The wind lifted strands of hair, carried the faint tang of the sea, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had slowed its relentless march.

Aonung's eyes never left his, a silent promise of patience and presence. A reminder that even when he had to leave, he would not be alone entirely.

_____ shifted slightly, brushing his fingers against the fibers in the basket, then looked up at the sky. The colors had deepened now, fading toward warmer golds and soft mauves, stretching across the horizon like a promise of what was to come.

His thoughts drifted, not to the journey ahead, not to the weight of his past, but to the steady presence beside him, to the knowledge that someone understood, someone would be waiting. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to smile fully, softly, just a little.

Aonung squeezed his shoulder once more, a wordless gesture of reassurance. Then, standing, he stepped back, letting _____ rise in his own time, preparing for the next day, for the journey to come, for the reunion with Mo'at.

And as the sun dipped lower, casting the last golden streaks across the land and sea, _____ sat for a long moment, feeling the warmth of connection, the steady pulse of friendship—and the quiet promise that, no matter what came next, he would not face it alone.

⸻

The journey began at sunrise.

The sky was a wash of pink and gold, the horizon bleeding into the endless curve of the ocean. The wind traders' vessel cut smoothly across the water, sails full and taut, creaking with each gust. The deck shimmered with sunlight, the polished wood warm under bare feet.

The Sullys stood together near the center of the ship, shoulders brushing lightly as they maintained an uneasy unity.

Jake was quiet, his gaze drifting across the waves, eyes sharp, calculating. He did not speak. He had not asked _____ why he was coming, and _____ had not offered an explanation. It hung in the air like a fragile thread, unspoken but understood.

Spider stood near the edge of the vessel, gripping the railing, jaw tight beneath the mask. His gaze was distant, fixed on the horizon as though the endless water could offer him some small measure of peace. Occasionally, his fingers twitched, as if itching to move, to be free of his restraint, but he did not.

The hours stretched, and the sun dipped lower, turning the sky amber, then deep orange, then purple. The water rippled and sparkled like molten metal, waves rolling beneath the hull in rhythmic grace. Yet, despite the beauty, a quiet tension hummed over the deck.

Finally, night fell.

They made camp inland, a small clearing nestled among swaying trees. The fire they built crackled softly, throwing flickering shadows across faces and wood. Its warmth was comforting, but the night carried its own weight, the distant cry of nocturnal creatures echoing through the underbrush.

Spider, attempting a semblance of normalcy, began dancing in small, exaggerated, playful movements. He spun, stomped, and leaped with absurd flair. Tuk giggled, tiny and bright, despite herself. Kiri smiled faintly, amused, her eyes softening for the briefest moment.

Jake, however, remained distant. He watched everything with tired, narrowed eyes, assessing, calculating. His arms were crossed, jaw set, and he barely moved. Lo'ak shook his head at the antics, a dry smile tugging briefly at his lips, but it did not reach his eyes.

Across the fire, _____ sat very still. His legs folded beneath him, hands resting loosely on his knees, eyes reflecting the firelight like molten gold. The warmth of the flames did not touch him. The laughter and movement around him seemed faint, distant. He inhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that tried to steady his racing mind.

"Lo'ak," he murmured quietly, voice low.

Lo'ak glanced over, sensing the weight in his tone. "Yeah?"

"Kiri. Tuk. Come here."

Something unspoken in _____'s voice made them obey immediately. They moved, silently, to sit beside him, half-turned away from the others. Their presence was quiet, tentative, respectful, as though they understood that what was about to happen could not be rushed.

"What's wrong?" Kiri whispered, her breath barely carrying over the crackle of the fire.

_____ swallowed, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Each flicker mirrored fragments of memory, reflections of moments he had almost forgotten. "I remember," he said softly, voice trembling but certain.

Lo'ak blinked, his brow furrowing. "Remember what?"

"Everything."

The word hung heavy in the air. Silence fell. Kiri's breath hitched. Tuk frowned slightly, confusion knitting her brow.

"I remember Neteyam," _____ whispered, barely audible, as though saying it louder might shatter the fragile moment. "I remember him. I remember us. I remember that day. The ship. All of it."

Lo'ak's eyes widened, disbelief and wonder mingling on his face. "You're serious," he said slowly, voice low.

"I never forgot," _____ continued, voice shaking now. His fingers clenched briefly, loosening again. "It came back. When the ship was sinking. When he—" His throat closed; he could not finish the sentence.

Kiri reached out, her small hand brushing against his. "You didn't tell us," she breathed, tone both gentle and pained.

"I couldn't," he admitted, his head dipping slightly, the weight of unspoken memory pressing down on him.

Lo'ak moved closer suddenly, wrapping his arms around him in a rough, protective embrace. "You idiot," Lo'ak muttered, voice thick with emotion. "You should've told us."

Tuk pressed into the hug too, her small frame fitting against them both, wrapping her arms around them as if trying to hold them together against the memory of loss. Kiri joined cautiously, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, grounding him in the present.

For a moment—just a fleeting, fragile moment—it felt like before. Like the forest had not changed, like Neteyam might still be laughing somewhere nearby, like nothing had been lost.

Then—a scream split the air.

It was not playful. Not laughter. Real. Sharp. Danger incarnate.

Arrows whistled through the night, thudding against trees and firewood alike. Mangkwan raiders burst from the treeline, clad in jagged armor and moving with terrifying precision. Chaos erupted in seconds.

Jake sprang to his feet, voice commanding, heart racing. "Move!"

The firelight scattered as people scrambled. The cries of animals overhead mingled with the shouts of defenders. Ikran screeched as they leapt and dodged, wings cutting through the night.

Neytiri leapt for her mount, drawing her bow mid-motion. Lo'ak grabbed Tuk, yanking her behind cover. Kiri scanned frantically for a path to safety. Every moment was a calculus of survival, a beat in the dance of chaos.

Another arrow flew. A shriek cut through the night.

And then—Neytiri gasped sharply. Pain. Movement faltering.

An arrow struck her shoulder, shallow but debilitating. Her ikran jerked violently, veering unpredictably.

"No!" Jake shouted, voice slicing through the din.

Without thinking, without pause, _____ ran. He leapt, heart pounding, hands gripping desperately. He landed on Neytiri's ikran as it swooped lower in confusion, clinging with everything he had. His grip was tight, unbonded, without tsaheylu, but it was enough to hold on.

"Neytiri!" he shouted over the wind and chaos, fingers digging into the feathers along the base of her neck.

She was slipping. Her fingers losing strength. Another arrow zipped past, narrowly missing him. The ikran twisted and dove, reacting to her faltering balance.

Then—it all shifted.

Neytiri fell.

Her body dropped, a blur against the firelight, her scream carried into the night. The ikran shrieked and veered upward, instinct taking over, leaving _____ unanchored.

The sudden movement unbalanced him entirely. Without tsaheylu, without a bond, he could not correct himself. His grip faltered. The air tilted, rushing past his ears. The fire below shrank rapidly, figures reduced to moving shadows.

And then—he fell.

Not toward Neytiri. Not toward safety. He fell in the opposite direction, twisting, helpless, unseen by anyone. The wind roared past, each second stretching impossibly long.

He hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs, pain radiating through every fiber of his body. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, the impact leaving him rattled, dizzy. The cries of friends, the shrill whistle of arrows, even the crackle of the fire all faded into a distant hum.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was the sky, bleeding orange and purple into night, framed by the silhouette of trees above.

And then—nothing.

Unconscious.

Alone.

And no one knew he was missing.

(TYSM for reading<333)