i create things i wish existed

[deprivedreality]

📁 NAVI'GATION !!

about me!       ⁷teen. she/her. that's all you need to know kweens

➤ ¹ masterlist ─ avatar , bnha ² requests closed! ³ carrd

➤ ⁴ etc., wattpad , ao3 ⁵ i sometimes post my art here too!

ultimate faves! my hero; bakugo. avatar; neteyam. so'lek.

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2023 | all rights reserved.

[azzo0]

—Let's kiss! 2.6k

Synopsis: You drag your beloved knight to the library in the middle of the night and present him with a jaw-dropping question: Let's kiss? Extra yap: Bkg is your knight and the captain of guard; you're the princess, duh; characters are aged up; contains inexperienced kissing that turns into a make out; chances are you'll find a typo or two in here because I'm blind; I tried my best to proofread this

It was in the late hours of the night when you startled your knight by throwing open the door of your room, stepping out in your satin night gown and sheer chiffon robe that did little to cover the shape of your body. You wanted him to accompany you to the library so you could find the second book in the series you were reading. He did not complain as it was normal for you to go on strolls or visit the library during absurd hours of the night.

He held open the gigantic door to the library for you, following you into the low and warm, honey-coloured light coming from iron sconces. The soft carpet cushioned the sound of footsteps, the walls lined with shelves upon shelves of books, making no room for echoes. He watched you browse through the titles as you looked for the one you wanted, your fingers brushing across the spines of the books.

He tried not to pay attention to your sheer robe or how inviting it made your bare arms appear. He had seen the many faces of his princess. He'd seen you bare-faced, hair in a mess like you fought pigeons in your sleep, he'd seen you dolled up for balls and gatherings, and he'd seen you vicious in your fighting armour, but it was your night gowns that intimidated him the most because he found it difficult to look you in the eye when you wore them.

"'Suki, can you get that for me?" You pointed at a book five shelves higher.

"Tsk, makin' me do all the work." He clicked his tongue, obediently giving you the book you wanted and then following you to a table.

He looked for his favourite encyclopedia on dragons on the shelves near the small wooden table where you were seated. He found it in the same spot he had left it in before and pulled out the large book. He opened it, resting it on his arm as he looked for a specific page, stopping when you asked a question that made him go still.

Katsuki was accustomed to your random, out-of-pocket questions by now. Sometimes he rolled his eyes at you in response, or gave you an appropriate answer if he had one, or he had to stop whatever he was doing to make sure he heard you right. The question you asked him just now made him drop the book in his hand and snap his head towards you to make sure his head wasn't making up what you just said.

"What did you just say?" He asked, eyes wide.

"I said," you looked up from the book you were reading, snapping it shut and resting your chin on the back of your hand, "have you ever kissed anyone?"

Your gaze made him dizzy. He knew that look all too well. After all, he'd been serving his princess for over seven years now. He could read your thoughts with a single glance, already on the task before you could even order him to do it. And he knew what you were doing in that moment. You were plotting. You were sitting there, looking so annoyingly beautiful under the buttery light, plotting on how to get him flustered.

Fire crackled in the sconces as you watched him coolly, waiting for a response. You could hear his breathing grow heavy, although he did not seem aware of it. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.

"I don't see why you need to know that, princess." He said at last, squaring his shoulders to fake confidence, even though you had already noticed his ears flare red.

Of course, he hadn't kissed anyone yet. How could he when he'd been so busy following you around to make sure not a creature could harm you? Even as you slept, he stood outside, only catching winks of sleep during the day when you were around other people who could keep you safe just as well as he. Those were also interrupted by you barging into his room and falling on his mattress beside him like it was okay for a princess to be in her knight's bed, even if it was just to get on his nerves and begging him to accompany her to the flower gardens.

"What do you mean? I obviously need to know what my charming knight is up to when I'm asleep." You reasoned, batting your long lashes at him. You know he never leaves your quarters, but you were determined to make him answer. "Besides, we're friends. We're way past formalities, even you agreed to that ages ago."

He'd already regained his cool. He picked up the book and sat across from you on the table, flipping the pages till he found the one he was reading before you threw him off.

"You're ignoring me." You whined.

"We came here because you wanted to read." He reminded, not bothering to glance up. "Besides, it's not my job to fill you in on my personal life."

"You have this job because of me." You said casually.

He finally looked at you, blond hair falling to his forehead, making his cardinal eyes appear a few shades darker. He snarled, the bridge of his nose creasing. He knew you find joy in pissing him the fuck off by flustering him. It made him want to push you against a bookshelf and shut you up with his mouth for good.

"So? My answer?" You smirked.

"I. Have. Not." He replied, his words tight and clipped.

"I have not either." You said immediately, as if you were letting him know a fun fact.

He didn't understand why you're so eager to let him know. He knows you haven't kissed anyone. You refused to let another man get too close, and if a man did happen to try to touch you in a way you did not like, Katsuki was always there to crush his fist on the spot. He was glad you let him scare men away from you, because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to watch you kiss another man in the first place.

"Yeah, the sun is hot, and water is wet. What do I do with that information?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Let's kiss?" You suggested, leaning forward with your hands on the table.

"The fuck?" He growled, backing away, blood washing his eardrums in waves, heart beating so fast he could feel his jugular pulsing.

"We're both too old to not have kissed anyone. Let's change that."

"Is this another one of your pranks to piss me off?" He glared. "Well, congrats, princess, you win. You can fuckin' sit back down."

"I'm not joking." You stopped smiling. "I mean it. Of course, if I've made you uncomfortable, I understand, and I'm sorry."

You redirected your attention to your book, tracing the hardcover, "I'll have plenty of opportunities to learn how to ki–" You stopped abruptly with a gasp when he roughly grabbed your wrist and guided you around the table, straight into his lap.

It was your turn to be set on fire. His face was way too close to yours. Closer than it had ever been. You could see the maroon specks in his ruby eyes and the uneven depth of the little scar under his eye. You could feel the desire, the need, the yearning behind his dilated pupils, swallowing you whole.

"You fuckin' piss me off." He said, voice silken-sharp, nose brushing yours. His hand left your wrist and moved up to your shin, slowly rising to your knee and stopping there. "I'll do this only if you won't regret this."

"Kiss me, Katsuki." You whispered.

He gently pushed his lips onto yours and stayed still for a few heartbeats, etching the feeling of your lips on his into the depths of his mind. He pulled away, his palm unmoving on your knee, hoping you wouldn't notice the slight tremor in his grip. He searched your eyes for a reaction, pleased to find that you were just as bashful as he was. Everything about that kiss and his body was contained, controlled and respectful, something that wouldn't cross the line.

But the line had been crossed the moment he pulled you into his lap.

You blinked at him shyly, biting your lip. You cupped his cheek to find that his face was warm, pink ears poking out of blond tufts. He leaned into your touch, his eyes inviting you to kiss him back, and so you did.

You kissed him again. Just a sweet little peck, which he returned, making you smile. Neither of you was experienced in the field, so you sat in his lap in silence, letting him observe you from this newly unlocked, forbidden proximity.

You cradled his face, bringing yours closer to his, just watching him. You realised you'd seen the very same expression on his face seven years ago, when he had been assigned as your knight, along with being the captain of the guard. The look of devotion hot enough to burn.

His eyes kept flicking between your eyes and lips, his breath fanning your skin. His entire being screamed in desperation: don't stop now.

The very little restraint you had crumbled to the ground. You kissed him again, once, twice and then thrice. You briefly pulled back and slammed your mouth onto his, making the chair rock back. He held onto your waist, stabilising himself, taken by surprise.

There was a new fuel feeding your fire, and he could feel it. He let out a guttural sound from deep within, daring to test the waters. He brushed your lips with his tongue. Just barely. He had no clue how to do this, but he recalled seeing flashes of his fellow knight with his tongue deep in someone's mouth when he was drunk in a tavern before passing out.

You opened your mouth for him, his tongue barging in immediately. He could feel your body jolt deliciously against his. You had no idea what you were doing, but you did not care, not when this felt so foreign, so dangerous, so good.

It took a few moments to find an angle where you could both breathe without twisting your necks, but once you found a rhythm against his lips, it felt like heaven on earth you had been missing out on. It still wasn't perfect—far from it, actually. But it was so unapologetically him that it made your stomach twist.

Noses butted, teeth clashed, tongues occupied all the space there was to make a sound. His hand went back to your knee, moving up just the tiniest bit to your thigh, lifting your satin gown with it. You peppered his face with kisses, hands flat on his chest, exploring the muscles through his shirt, fingers drifting towards the buttons to undo the first three.

He had to lean back in the chair when your soft lips touched the column of his throat—the place his swallow betrayed him. You brought two fingers to his pulse, smirking against his skin when you felt it dance uncontrably under your fingers. His own body was against him, exposing him and presenting you with his feelings. You were the blade that was slowly thinning away the rope holding his sanity together.

He dared his hand to inch further up your leg, stopping right where your thighs met, giving you a harsh squeeze. You threw your head back for him, looking at him through narrow eyes with a cat-like intensity that made him go feral. The chiffon fabric of your robe slipped off your shoulder, inviting him to sink his teeth into the soft skin.

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, finding it deliciously warm; the scent of your luxurious bath soap filled his senses. He held himself back from biting, resorting to digging his fingers into your thigh instead. The little voice in his head that had lost the battle of senses long ago was still reminding him of the consequences of marking you. His teeth grazed up the side of your neck, stopping under your jaw to leave a delicate kiss.

"You're driving me crazy." He said tightly, pulling away to look at you. You didn't seem to care, as you grabbed his collar and pulled him back again.

"I'm so glad," You breathed heavily in between him stealing the air from your lungs, "that the library is empty tonight."

"Who would have thought that the princess had no self-control?" He cocked his head teasingly, hands moving up your waist and thumb caressing your midriff, "Sitting in her knight's lap and shamelessly eating his face away."

"You think you're any better?" You purred into his ear, your voice breath-kissed, "You're so desperate, I can nearly see it leaking out of you."

His eyes narrowed into slits, smirks replaced by his signature scowl, "Don't get cocky."

"Aww, the great Bakugo Katsuki's ears are red. Who would have guessed?" You continued to tease, pinching his cheeks affectionately.

Your smile dropped when his fingers wrapped around your throat. He wasn't squeezing, no, just looking, but it was the little lift in the corner of his mouth that made your heart leap. The intensity of his gaze made you squirm in his lap and bite your lip, as you dared to think of feeling his swollen lips on the rest of your body.

You were the one who was supposed to be in control, with your hand around his neck. You were royalty. Not him. Yet, here you were allowing him to take control. You let him yank you in by the neck for another kiss, this time slower than the last. It made heat pool between your legs.

You really needed him.

"Katsuki," You began, but the rest of your sentence was replaced with a gasp as he abruptly stood up and put you on the ground.

"Someone's comin'." He said in a hurried whisper, talking one quick look at the state of your robes and hair. He clicked his tongue and quickly pulled the chiffon up to your shoulders and patted your head, smoothening your hair. He grabbed the encyclopedia from the table and shoved it into your arms just in time for someone to pass by you guys.

He made his usual ugly face at you, as if his mouth wasn't on you mere seconds ago. His lip pulled up in a sneer, "Well, if you're done looking for the book you wanted, I think you should stop bothering me and head to bed, princess."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm done." You swatted his hand away, holding the encyclopedia against your chest, acknowledging the stranger's nod.

As you headed towards the library's door with him, you realised you could still feel his fingers digging into your thigh from earlier. You were sure you had his hand imprinted on your thigh.

The walk back to your quarters felt unnaturally long. Katsuki made a point of picking a faster pace and walking ahead of you so you didn't have to see the fierce bloom across his cheeks. Not that you blamed him, even you weren't sure of what to say to him. It was supposed to be just one kiss. A silly little peck, but you'd unlocked a whole new court of emotions.

Only when you reached your bedroom did he turn back to look at you. You stood in your doorway, watching him avoid your eyes bashfully. "No good night for me?"

"Tsk, good night." He rolled his eyes, freezing when you planted a peck on his cheek.

"Good night, Katsuki." You smiled, closing the door as he kissed your cheek. You sighed with your back to the door, looking down at the encyclopedia. You opened it, flipping through the pages, "This isn't even what I wanted to read."

[veleci]

My Tamtey and So'Lek <3

I love this game so much

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

fanfiction is a rare gem and a solid, living proof that, in a world of tiktok, influencers and content posting, not everything is about money and going viral. art can still be art just for the sake of the artists’ pure love, joy and passion for the art they create. fanfic writers write 100k words and more about the characters they love for free. just because they love these characters and the art of writing so much. art is not dead and the world is still beautiful.

shoutout to fanfiction and fanfic writers

[deprivedreality]

𝙏𝘼𝙈'𝙏𝙀𝙔'𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙉

pairing/content: so’lek x tamtey/the sarentu. established relationship between so'le and tam'tey. jealous sarentu. marking and scenting.

note/spoilers: rimu is a canon character from the comic, she appears in so’lek’s journey. The young so’lek fell in love with her during his time with the Tipani clan. 

synopsis: So’lek and Tamtey have found peace in their bond. While trekking through the dense Tipani jungles, they rescue an injured Tipani warrior, leading the reclusive Tipani clan to grant them shelter for the night. The reunion between So'lek and the clan takes an awkward turn when they meet Rimu, the clan’s Tsahìk, with whom So’lek shared a complicated, unfinished past. And Tamtey is not having any of it. 

Word count: 3.5k 

The mist felt heavier as they transitioned from the open forest into the ancient, shadowed groves of the Tipani, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of the RDA’s nearby destruction. So’lek moved with a predatory silence, his footsteps making no sound on the mulch, his eyes scanning the canopy with a sharp, instinctive familiarity that didn't escape Tamtey. Even with the weight of the stretcher, he seemed to belong to the darkness here, his body leaning into the gloom as if it were an old friend.

"You move differently here," Tamtey whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant drone of a Samson helicopter. Tamtey watched the way So’lek’s ears flicked at every minute rustle, his body coiled like a spring. "Like you’re expecting the trees to jump at you. You’re more... alert. Even for you."

She adjusted her grip on the handles carrying the unconscious Tswìke—a Tipani warrior they had pulled from a pile of smoldering wreckage just an hour prior. The young warrior had been caught in the crossfire of an RDA clearing operation, his breathing now shallow and labored against the moss-covered stretcher. 

So’lek let out a low, huffed breath, his tail twitching in a rhythmic arc. "In Tipani territory, they usually do. They are the shadows of the forest, and they do not take kindly to those who stomp through their home like RDA heavy-suits. I spent many moons here after my clan was lost.”

Tamtey frowned at the idea of So’lek being alone. He looked at her and sighed. “It was years ago. I was angry, reckless—a wounded animal looking for a fight I couldn't win. The Tipani did not pity me; they hunted me until I learned to disappear. They taught me that a warrior without silence is just a target, and a target is eventually a corpse."

He paused, his gaze flickering upward to a specific high branch, thick with glowing moss, that overhung a sheer drop. 

For a moment, his stern features relaxed into something resembling a memory. "A Tipani, Rimu is her name, used to challenge me to climbs no Na’vi would ever dream of. She would leap before she looked, trusting the wind to catch her. She was... impressive. She had a way of seeing through the anger I carried."

Tamtey tilted her head, her curiosity piqued by the rare, localized softness in his tone. She felt a small tug of something she couldn't quite name—a desire to know every version of the man standing before her, even the one that belonged to another clan’s history. "Did she teach you the 'Boogeyman' glare too, ma So’lek? Or was she the one who softened you?"

So’lek stopped walking for a heartbeat, turning his head to look back at her. The bioluminescence of the jungle cast deep blue shadows across his face, making his golden eyes burn with a sudden, concentrated heat. His expression remained unreadable for a moment, the mask of the veteran warrior firmly in place, before a small, private twitch of his lips appeared—a smile meant only for her.

"Rimu did not seek to soften anything," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that vibrated in Tamtey's chest. "She tried to sharpen me into a spear that would never break." He stepped a fraction closer, the scent of rain and old leather clinging to him. "You are the only one who ever managed to find the man beneath the armor, ma’Tamtey. You are the only one who softened the blade."

The hiss from the trees cut their conversation short. 

As Tipani warriors descended, So’lek’s shift was instantaneous. He stepped in front of Tamtey, his broad frame obscuring her completely, his hand not on his weapon, but held out in a gesture of firm authority.

The Tipani warriors moved with a silence that felt like a weight, their shadows blending into the dark bark of the trees. As the couple began the trek toward the main camp, So’lek didn’t move from Tamtey’s side. His hand stayed firm on the small of her back, a possessive, grounding touch that signaled to every hidden watcher that she was under his protection.

So’lek stepped in front of Tamtey, his body a literal shield. "We bring your brother, Tswìke! We come in peace, and we seek to help with the crab-blight the Sky People have caused."

The warriors hesitated until a woman stepped forward, her presence commanding. It was Rimu, now the Tsahìk of the clan. Her eyes widened as they landed on So’lek.

"So’lek?" she breathed, ignoring Tamtey entirely. "The 'Boogeyman' returns to us. And you’ve brought a... student? A Sarentu child?"

Tamtey noticed how Rimu’s tail gave a sharp, agitated flick every time she glanced back and saw them so close. Rimu’s gaze was fixed on So'lek, tracing the scars on his arms and the heavy RDA trophies on his chest, completely ignoring the woman beside him.

"You have grown into a formidable warrior, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice projecting back to him, ignoring the rustle of the leaves. "The boy I knew was fast, but this man... you look as though you have forgotten how to laugh. Perhaps the Tipani can remind you of the fire you once carried."

So’lek’s expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly against Tamtey’s waist. "The fire I carry is not the one you remember, Rimu. I have found a new purpose. My path is no longer solitary."

Rimu let out a short, dismissive breath. "Purpose is a heavy thing. Usually, it is shared with equals, not with those who need a guide through the brush." She stopped at the edge of a high platform and finally looked at Tamtey, her eyes cold and scanning. "I hope the Sarentu is as quick as she is colorful.”

“She is good.” So’lek affirms. Rimu eyes them both and Tamtey met her gaze with a steady, defiant look.

“Follow. But keep the Sarentu close. Our shadows do not play well with strangers."

As Tswìke was whisked away to the healers, the clan gathered around the central fire, the flickering orange light dancing off the sharp edges of Tipani armor. Rimu took her place beside So’lek, leaning in so close their shoulders nearly brushed, her presence a deliberate invasion of space.

"I heard stories of you, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice dropping into a melodic purr that carried over the crackle of the wood. "They say you carry the metal of the Sky People like trophies now. I remember when you only carried the weight of your bow and a restless spirit. We could take to the skies tonight, for old time's sake? The Great Canopy is beautiful under the full moon, and the winds are just as they were when we were young."

Tamtey, sitting on So’lek’s other side, felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the fire. She saw the way Rimu’s eyes traced the lines of So’lek’s face, looking for a boy who no longer existed. Without breaking gaze with the Tsahìk, Tamtey reached out, plucking a sweet piece of roasted fruit and holding it directly to So’lek’s mouth.

"Eat, ma So’lek," she said, her voice smooth but commanding, a soft edge of steel beneath the words. "You need your strength if we are to hunt the RDA. You cannot afford to be distracted by... memories."

So’lek didn't hesitate; he accepted the food from her hand and fed himself, his golden eyes meeting Tamtey’s with an intensity that clearly signaled where his loyalty lay. 

But Rimu only smiled thinly, her tail flicking with annoyance. "He was always a big eater," she remarked dismissively. "I remember sharing my kills with him when he had nothing but his hunger and his grief. He was always so grateful for what I provided."

The air between the two women grew heavy and sharp. When Rimu eventually stood, she didn't just gesture toward the maps; she placed a hand firmly on So’lek’s shoulder, her fingers lingering on the leather strap of his armor to pull him toward the map tables.

Tamtey’s patience snapped. As she rose to follow, her movement was a blur of calculated Sarentu grace. She "carefully" nudged a heavy ceramic bowl filled with thick, purple grain mash sitting on the edge of the stone hearth. It didn't just spill; it launched, coating the hem of Rimu’s ornate hide wrap and splashing across her embroidered boots.

"Oh! My apologies, Tsahìk," Tamtey gasped, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that didn't match the steady, defiant fire in her eyes. She stood tall, refusing to look down at the mess. "I suppose I haven't spent enough time 'in the shadows' to find my footing here."

Rimu froze, the purple mash dripping slowly from her fine clothing. The surrounding warriors went silent, their eyes darting between their Tsahìk and the Sarentu woman who had just dared to mark her territory.

In the dim, bioluminescent glow of their guest shelter, the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the sharp metallic tang of whetstone on steel. So’lek leaned against the curved wooden wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Tamtey. She was sitting on the edge of their sleeping furs, her jaw set in a hard line as she sharpened her hunting knife with aggressive, rhythmic precision. Each stroke of the blade was a testament to the fire burning beneath her skin.

"You are angry," So’lek stated plainly, his deep voice vibrating in the small space.

Tamtey didn't look up, her focus remaining entirely on the edge of the blade. "She thinks I’m a child who found her way into the wrong woods. She thinks you are a trophy she simply misplaced and is now ready to reclaim," she retorted, the words coming out sharp and fast. She finally looked up at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of hurt and fury. "And you... you just let her. You sat there and let her talk about 'old times' while she looked at you like you were the last hunt on Pandora. Like I wasn't even sitting right beside you."

So’lek didn't pull away or offer a hollow defense. Instead, he pushed off the wall and walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt on the furs between her knees, a gesture of humility that was rare for a warrior of his standing. Gently, he reached out and took the knife from her hand, setting it aside on the floor.

He reached up, wrapping his large, calloused hands around her wrists and pulling them toward his neck. The intensity in his golden eyes softened, turning into something molten and devoted. "Then remind her, ma Tamtey," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "Remind her. Remind the Tipani. Remind the whole forest."

He bowed his head, intentionally baring the sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders—a profound gesture of total surrender and trust among the Na'vi. It was an invitation for her to claim him in the most ancient way they knew.

Tamtey didn't hesitate. The anger in her chest dissolved into a fierce, protective warmth. She leaned forward, closing the small gap between them. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, rubbing her cheek and brow firmly against his skin. She marked him with the distinct, sweet-woodland scent of the Sarentu—a fragrance of crushed moss, rain, and wild herbs.

It was a deep, lingering claim, a sensory seal that would stay on his skin for days, signaling to any other Na'vi exactly who he belonged to. So’lek let out a low, shaky groan of contentment, the tension finally leaving his massive frame. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the shelter fading into insignificance.

"Better?" he rumbled against her skin, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her own.

Tamtey pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders, tracing the marks she had made. A small, satisfied smile finally touched her lips.

"Better?" he asked softly. "Better," she replied, her fire replaced by a calm, steady confidence. So'lek gave her a quick peck on the lips and smiled sweetly.

They returned to the communal fire together. This time, Tamtey didn't hover. She reclaimed her Sarentu roots, moving gracefully toward a group of Tipani hunters and their children. She began to share stories of the western frontier, her voice melodic and diplomatic, charming the clan members as she ate. She intentionally left So’lek to himself, knowing the mark she had left on him spoke louder than words.

Rimu approached So’lek, her eyes flashing with anger as she gestured to her ruined robes. "It is unbecoming of a Sarentu to pour food on a clan’s Tsahìk," she hissed, her voice sharp. "They are meant to be diplomats, peacemakers. Your companion lacks the discipline of her people."

Rimu was never an angry person, so’lek remembered her to be a warm and welcoming friend. Perhaps only time knew how much she had changed. So’lek looked at Rimu, then his gaze drifted to Tamtey, who was laughing with the children across the hearth. 

"Can you really blame her, Rimu?" he asked, his voice calm and unapologetic.

Rimu gave him a sharp, piercing look. "I regretted letting you go, So’lek," she whispered, her voice softening with a sudden, heavy longing. "I often wonder what would have happened if I had asked you to stay, if we had bonded back then—"

“Rimu.”

Before the words could go any deeper, So’lek stopped her. He didn't speak; he simply looked at her with eyes that were no longer searching, but entirely settled. He turned his head, his gaze locking onto Tamtey as she began a small dance with the Tipani children, her light reflecting in the fire. The look in his eyes was one of total devotion—the look of a man who was already home.

Rimu followed his gaze, seeing the way Tamtey moved and the way So’lek’s entire spirit seemed to lean toward her. She smelled the heavy, sweet scent of the Sarentu girl clinging to him, a mark she could never erase. 

Rimu let out a long, heavy sigh, the fight leaving her shoulders. She looked away, finally realizing that the boy from her past was gone, and the man standing before her belonged to someone else. She lowered her head slightly, a silent acknowledgement of defeat, and gave up.

The golden light of Pandora’s morning filtered through the dense Tipani canopy as So’lek and Tamtey readied their gear for departure. The tension from the night before hadn't entirely vanished, but it had shifted. So’lek moved with a new sense of ease, his hand frequently finding the small of Tamtey’s back, a quiet but firm reminder to the entire clan of where he stood.

While Tamtey crouched to say her goodbyes to the group of Tipani children who had followed her all morning, Rimu approached So’lek one last time near the scouting maps.

"She is... spirited," Rimu said, her voice tight as she watched Tamtey laugh while a young girl tucked a blossom behind her ear. "But she is a diplomat, So’lek. A peacemaker. Is that truly what the 'Boogeyman' needs to survive this war? Or is she just a habit you’ve picked up because you grew tired of being alone?"

So’lek’s face hardened at Rimu’s words. “Sometimes it is best to keep some thoughts to ourselves.”

His eyes fixed on Tamtey, softening in a way Rimu had never seen during his years as a hardened survivor. "Tamtey is not a habit," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "She is the only reason I still have a heart worth protecting. Can you blame her for being fierce, Rimu? She has a warrior to keep in line."

He turned his gaze back to Rimu, and for the first time, she saw it clearly—the look of a man who was no longer searching for a place to belong. Rimu looked away, a long, weary sigh escaping her. 

"I see. The shadows have truly lost you to the light, then."

As they prepared to mount their Ikrans, Rimu stepped toward Tamtey. The children were clinging to Tamtey’s leggings, reluctant to let their new storyteller go. 

“Come back, Tam’tey!” One of the children says, a pang of sadness in their voice. “We enjoy your stories! Visit us next time—continue the story of Toruk!”

“Certainly.” Tamtey laughed, muffling their hands in pure joy. 

"You should come back, Sarentu," Rimu said, her tone finally holding a touch of genuine respect. She strided towards them, hand behind her back, footsteps quiet. "The children will miss you dearly. You have a way with them that we lack."

Tamtey, still furious at Rimu’s earlier obliviousness and the way she had looked at So’lek, gave the Tsahìk a sharp cold shoulder. Enough for Rimu to notice but not be visible to the children as she shushed them back to their parents. She adjusted her Ikran’s harness without looking up. "I will come back for them," Tamtey replied shortly. "I’ll come alone next time. The children are wonderful, and they deserve to hear more from the world."

Rimu hesitated, then looked at So’lek before turning her eyes back to Tamtey. "Take care of him, Sarentu. He has been through so much."

Tamtey swung up onto her Ikran, looking down at Rimu with a fierce, possessive glint in her eyes. "Do not tell me how to treat my man, Tipani," she said, her voice echoing with the strength of a woman who had fought for every inch of her happiness. "I know exactly what he needs."

With a sharp cry, Tamtey took to the sky, and So’lek followed close behind, his Ikran’s wings beating in perfect rhythm with hers as they left the shadows of the Tipani behind.

The wind roared past the two, carrying the scent of the open plains and the freedom of the sky. They took to the sky, the wind rushing past them. So’lek brought his Ikran level with hers, watching the way the sunlight caught the Sarentu beads in her hair. 

"You were good with those children," So’lek shouted over the wind. "The Sarentu were always a small clan... but it doesn't have to stay that way." 

Tamtey’s ears perked up in surprise, eyes widened, a blush creeping up her neck. "So’lek! Are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?" 

He let out a rare, booming laugh, diving his Ikran toward the canopy below. "I am saying that I am a man of the Sarentu now, ma Tamtey! And my clan needs a future. Are you fast enough to catch me and discuss it?"

Tamtey felt her heart hammer against her ribs, not from the flight, but from the weight of So’lek’s words. She looked over at him, seeing the way the sunlight hit his face, erasing the "Boogeyman" and leaving only the man she loved—the man who had just invited her to build a future that had once seemed impossible.

"So’lek!" Tamtey called out, her voice a mix of shock and blossoming joy. "You cannot just say something like that and then dive away!"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward, his Ikran, Ìley, shrieking in delight as they banked into a steep, plummeting dive toward the shimmering treetops. So’lek looked back over his shoulder, a look of pure, unburdened mischief in his eyes.

Tamtey didn't hesitate. She urged her Ikran forward, the great wings snapping shut as she mirrored his dive. "I am a Sarentu!" she yelled into the wind, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across her face. "I am faster than any grumpy warrior from the shadows!"

They raced through the clouds, weaving between floating mountains and spiraling through the golden haze of the morning. Their laughter echoed to the plains. For the first time in a long time, the war felt far away. There was no RDA, no Tipani, and no Rimu—only the two of them and the promise of a clan reborn.

As they leveled out over a sparkling waterfall, So’lek slowed his pace just enough for her to catch up. He reached out his hand, and for a fleeting second, their fingers brushed in the open air.

"I am serious, ma Tamtey," he said, his voice dropping into a warmth that carried clearly even over the wind. "The Sarentu traditions must be passed on. And I can think of no one better to teach them than a mother who is as fierce as she is kind."

Tamtey’s eyes softened, her hand lingering near his as they soared toward their home. "Then we have a lot to prepare for, ma So’lek. But first, let’s get home."

taglist: @sosleks @just-another-idk @itskekeelise @eywaslittlelady @ravenyia @lotus-eater-69

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

[deprivedreality]

𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 ; 𝗔𝗧𝗪𝗢𝗪. series

word count: 12.5k [ ongoing ]

content/s & pairings: neteyam x fire navi! original character. kiri x rotxo content. slowburn. romance. enemies to friends to lovers. found family troupe. angst. fluff. gore. mention of abandonment. loads of stuff.

her skin as light and pale as though covered in ash. her eyes as dual colored as the vast ground of pandora and hair as crimson as dried blood. in comparison to his azure skin, amber eyes, and hair as dark as burnt sienna.

" we drown the enemy in their own blood. "

ᓚᘏᗢ | masterlist | feel free to make a request!

Table of Contents:

pilot, exordium

chapter one, she-monster

chapter two, amber eyes

chapter three, apologies

chapter four, tsakarem

chapter five, morrow

chapter six, first flight

chapter seven, feels

a/n: eywa will be a character who can speak, feel, and see in this fanfic. i imagine her as a navi that i depict in this series. and the main character is basically pandora jesus.

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2023 | do not copy my works!

[deprivedreality]

how tf did i casually write this 2 years ago????

this fic and the mc is sooo atwow era coded, especially with the fire navi and pandora jesus concept even before THE ACTUAL pandora Jesus (kiri) is revealed aint no way bro

i'm bout to reread and figure out how to continue this fic, cuz i can't let this rot omg i don't want to be stuck up, but this is peak

[signfromeywa]

Finished commission for @torukmaktoskxawng 💜

So'lek and their OC! Thank you for your trust and support 😊

[deprivedreality]

My solek x the sarentu oneshot is brewing im excited to finish it and post it!!

Its based on the comic avatar: solek's journey too fyi! You guys might want to check the canon comics just before i post it :p

Comment/reblog if you want to get tagged!

Update!!! It's heree link to tamtey's man

[deprivedreality]

𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗖 𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗥: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗦𝗟𝗜

word count: 3.9k

synopsis: Driven by a fierce jealousy he can no longer hide, Neteyam risks his life on a grueling quest to claim the legendary Tosli orchid—a pulsing flower that represents the ultimate declaration of love. 

contents: neteyam x fem! omatikaya! reader. part two to platonic horror!

The bioluminescence of the High Camp usually brought Neteyam a sense of peace, but tonight, the soft pulse of the woods felt like a ticking clock. While his brothers and sisters lay tangled in sleep, Neteyam sat hunched over a flickering glow-lamp, his eyes scanning the delicate, weathered fibers of the ancient weaving-scrolls.

These weren't just maps of the stars or lineages of the Olo’eyktan; these were the private observations of the Tsahìk, his grandmother. He moved aside a heavy record of medicinal mosses, his fingers trembling slightly from a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline, until he found it.

A sketch, faint and shimmering with silver-ink: The Tosli.

The description was written in a formal, archaic dialect that felt more like poetry than botany. It was a phantom of the Hallelujah Mountains, a flower that thrived in the "Mist of the First Ancestors"—the treacherous, gravity-defying crevices where the floating mountains wept waterfalls into the void.

According to legend, the Tosli didn't just grow; it chose its moment. It was said to be sensitive to the energy of the forest, blooming only when the air was thick with the promise of a soul-binding connection. Its deep crimson petals didn't just glow—they surged. Each rhythmic flash of light was timed to a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute thrum, mimicking the resting heart of a Na’vi.

To the Omaticaya, bringing a Tosli back was more than a gesture. It was a testament of survival and singular focus. To traverse the "U’tìl" (the jagged underside of the floating islands) where the Shadow-Stalkers prowled, just to pluck a single bloom, was the ultimate declaration. It said, I have walked the edge of the world to bring you the rhythm of my life.

Neteyam traced the drawing of the orchid’s spiraled stem. He could almost hear the teasing lilt in Y/n’s voice from earlier, the way she had looked at Hárim as if she were considering a life without Neteyam at the center of it. The thought was a cold splash of water to his soul.

He closed the scroll with a decisive thud. He didn't need sleep. He needed to prove that while Hárim could offer her the comfort of the river, Neteyam would offer her the very heart of Pandora. He stood, checking the tension on his bowstring, his golden eyes fixed on the distant, floating shadows of the mountains. He wasn't just going for a flower; he was going to reclaim his future.

The sky was a canvas of deep violet and shimmering teal, the first light of Pandora creeping over the horizon like a secret. Neteyam moved through the High Camp with a sharp, restless energy. Every strap of his leather gear was pulled tighter than necessary, his knife sheathed with a definitive click. He looked like a warrior prepared for a Great Hunt, but his mind was focused on a single, fragile bloom.

Then, he saw them.

Near the dying embers of the communal hearth, Y/n was adjusting the strap of her quiver. The morning mist clung to her skin, making the bioluminescent patterns on her shoulders glow with a soft, ethereal light. She looked devastating. Standing far too close was Hárim, leaning in with a smile that made Neteyam’s blood simmer.

"The water is calmest at this hour," Hárim was saying, his voice a smooth, low murmur that felt like an insult to Neteyam’s ears. "The river lilies are opening, Y/n. They only show that specific shade of blue for a few minutes after dawn. I’d like to show you."

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into their space, his presence looming like a storm cloud. He didn't just walk over; he occupied the air between them.

"I am heading out," Neteyam announced. His voice was deeper than usual, carrying the practiced weight of a future Olo’eyktan.

Y/n looked up, her eyes sparking with an unreadable emotion—surprise, perhaps, or a hint of the same mischief from the night before. "So early, Neteyam? The sun hasn't even cleared the canopy."

Neteyam ignored Hárim entirely, focusing solely on her. "The clan needs fresh meat for the evening feast. I intend to bring back something substantial—something a true warrior provides." He shot a pointed, jagged glance at Hárim. "Something more than just... lilies."

The insult hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Hárim stiffened, his smile faltering as he recognized the challenge in the Prince's golden eyes.

Neteyam turned back to Y/n, his posture softening just enough to let her see the raw, pleading honesty beneath his bravado. "I will be back by the time the sun is high. Wait for the feast, Y/n. The best is yet to come."

Y/n tilted her head, her gaze drifting over the scratches on his arms from the night’s training, then back to his intense, burning eyes. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "A substantial hunt, then? Don't let your ambition outpace your bow, Neteyam. Try not to come back empty-handed."

"I won't," he promised, his voice a low vow.

As he turned to stride toward the ikran cliffs, a hand clamped onto his bicep, pulling him back. He nearly spun around with his knife drawn before he saw Lo’ak’s crooked, mocking grin.

"Going after the orchid, aren't you?" Lo’ak whispered, leaning in so the others wouldn't hear. "I saw you hovering over Grandma’s scrolls last night. You’re crazy, bro. That flower grows in places even the ikran are afraid to fly."

Neteyam gripped Lo’ak’s shoulder, his fingers digging in with desperate urgency. "Lo’ak, listen to me. I need you to watch him." He jerked his chin toward Hárim, who was already trying to regain Y/n’s attention. "Do not let him take her to that river. I don't care what you have to do. Be loud, be annoying, break something—just keep her here."

Lo’ak’s eyes widened, then a slow, wicked light danced in them. This was the kind of mission he was born for. "You want me to cockblock a warrior for the future King? Say no more."

"I'm serious, Lo'ak," Neteyam hissed, his jealousy flaring as he saw Hárim laugh at something Y/n said. "If I come back and they are gone..."

"Relax, Brother," Lo’ak gave a mock salute, his grin widening. "I’ll enlist Spider and Kiri. We’ll be a nightmare. By the time you get back, Hárim will be begging for mercy, and Y/n will be so bored of his face she’ll be sprinting to meet you. Just get the flower. Don't die."

Neteyam nodded once, cast one last lingering, possessive look at Y/n, and flew toward the cliffs. He had a mountain to climb, a monster to fight, and a heart to win.

The air grew thin and frigid as Neteyam ascended. The Hallelujah Mountains were a labyrinth of floating islands and jagged archways, but he pushed his ikran, Ciraya, higher than they had ever ventured, into the "Mist of the First Ancestors." The clouds here were thick enough to swallow an Ikran whole, dampening the sound of the world below until all Neteyam could hear was his own ragged breathing and the thrumming of his heart.

He left his ikran on a narrow ledge, the beast huffing a nervous warning as Neteyam began the climb on foot. 

“Do not worry, friend. I will be back.” He pressed his forehead to his ikran before releasing the bond. 

The rock was slick with moss and ancient condensation, crumbling under his grip like wet sand. Twice, his foot slipped, sending a shower of stones into the bottomless white abyss below. But every time his muscles screamed or his spirit wavered, he saw Y/n’s face—the way she looked at Hárim, the way she had laughed. It was a fuel more potent than any adrenaline.

"You are not losing her," he hissed to himself, his fingers digging into a narrow crevice. "Not to him. Not to anyone."

The cave mouth was a jagged wound in the side of a massive, suspended peak. Inside, the world was silent, save for the rhythmic drip-drop of water. And then, he heard it.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was the Tosli. Deep in the shadows, a cluster of orchids pulsed with a crimson light so vibrant it looked like fresh blood under the skin. They were breathtaking, their petals curling like delicate fingers, glowing in a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute rhythm.

But as he stepped forward, the darkness shifted.

The Palulukan-yä-kì’—the Shadow-Stalker—emerged from the ceiling. It was a nightmare of obsidian scales and pale, milky eyes, built for the pitch-black. It didn't roar; it hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe.

The fight was a chaotic blur. Neteyam moved with the grace of a warrior, but the creature was faster in the dark. A set of claws raked across his chest, tearing through his leather harness and deep into his skin. He gasped, the metallic scent of his own blood filling his nose. He struck back with his obsidian knife, the blade singing as it sliced through the air. He managed to drive the creature back into the deeper recesses of the cave, but the effort was immense.

As he reached for the most perfect, central orchid—the one whose pulse was the strongest—the world began to tilt. The loss of blood, the lack of sleep, and the sheer physical toll of the climb finally caught up. His knees buckled. The last thing he saw was the red glow of the flower before his world went black.

In the depths of his unconsciousness, her voice was the only thing that could reach him. “Neteyam...” It wasn't a scream, but a soft, fleeting whisper that felt more like a memory of her laughter by the fire.

He jerked awake, his golden eyes snapping open to find the cave illuminated not by the gentle violet of the predawn, but by a harsh, accusing amber. The sun had already cleared the horizon.

"Skxawng!" The curse ripped from his throat, echoing off the damp, crystalline walls. Every muscle in his chest felt like it was being seared by a hot iron as he scrambled to his feet. The adrenaline masked the true depth of the gashes on his ribs, but the sight of the high sun made his heart plummet. 

He was late. 

He had promised to be back by midday, and the shadows on the cave floor told him he was dangerously close to losing his chance.

He didn't have time for a tactical retreat. His eyes locked onto the central Tosli. It was perfect—a deep, pulsing crimson that seemed to throb with an inner life. He snatched it, his hands shaking slightly, and wrapped it in the soft, treated leather he’d prepared. He tucked the bundle against his bare chest, feeling the faint, rhythmic heat of the flower against his skin.

Behind him, the darkness hissed. The Shadow-Stalker, sensing its prize was being stolen, let out a screech that set Neteyam’s teeth on edge. The clicking of its many-jointed limbs against the stone grew louder, faster.

Neteyam didn't look back. He sprinted toward the blinding light of the cave's mouth, his boots skidding on the slick, mossy floor. The cave didn't end in a path; it ended in a jagged drop of thousands of feet into the misty abyss. He could hear the creature’s claws raking the stone just inches behind his heels, the scent of its damp, musk-filled breath hitting his neck.

He didn't wait. He didn't calculate the trajectory. He tucked his chin, hugged the flower to his heart, and threw himself into the void waiting at the opening of the cave.

"Ciraya!"

The whistle was a jagged, desperate sound, torn from lungs filled with mountain air and blood. For three terrifying seconds, the world was nothing but a roar of wind and the biting cold of the mist. Neteyam was a stone falling through the sky, his open wounds stinging as the air whipped past them. Then, a massive shadow blotted out the sun.

Ciraya dived beneath him with a screech of her own, her wings snapping open with a thunderous crack that vibrated through Neteyam’s very bones. He slammed onto the saddle, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs, but his hands instinctively gripped the neck-strap.

Safely mounted, he let out a victory cry—a raw, primal sound that tore through the mountain peaks and scattered the smaller forest birds. He pulled the leather bundle back just enough to check his prize. In the daylight, the red glow was even more mesmerizing. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. 

"Fast, girl!" he urged, leaning low over Ciraya’s neck. His voice was thick with a mix of triumph and a mounting, suffocating anxiety. "Faster! The river... the date... we have to stop it!"

As they soared toward the High Camp, the reality of his appearance dawned on him. He was covered in a thick layer of grey mountain silt and dried blood; his hair was a matted mess of twigs and cave moss, and a dark stain was spreading across his midsection. He looked less like the poised prince of the Omaticaya and more like a man who had fought his way out of the mouth of a demon. He did not even have the hunt he had promised to bring.

But as he clutched the pulsing orchid, he didn't care about his dignity. He only cared about the girl who was currently walking toward the river with another man because it took him too long to realize he wanted her.

The atmosphere at the High Camp had reached a fever pitch of coordinated desperation. Lo’ak, Spider, and Kiri had formed a human—and Na’vi—barricade around Y/n, who was dressed in her finest woven hunting leathers, her hair braided with fresh beads for her outing.

"But Y/n! The tension is all wrong! If I try to hunt with this bowstring, it’ll snap and hit me in the eye!" Lo’ak wailed, physically tugging at her arm to steer her away from the path leading to the river.

"And the bug, Y/n! It’s huge! It has like, twelve legs and it’s glowing purple!" Spider added, dancing in front of Hárim to block his view. "Kiri says it might be poisonous, or worse—it might be a sign from Eywa that we shouldn't leave the kitchen area!"

Kiri just stood by with her arms crossed, nodding solemnly. "It’s a very spiritual bug, Y/n. You really shouldn't leave until we’ve... identified its aura."

Y/n pressed her palm to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. She wasn't a fool; she knew exactly why the Sully siblings were acting like they’d lost their minds. She looked over at Hárim, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot, clutching a small basket of fruit he’d gathered for their stroll.

"Is the river... still happening?" Hárim asked tentatively, sounding like a man who was beginning to realize he’d stepped into a family circus.

Just as Y/n was about to answer, the sky seemed to split open. The heavy, rhythmic thrum-thrum of Ikran wings beat against the camp, and Ciraya came screaming in at an angle that was far too steep for a graceful landing. She skidded into the clearing, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust and scattering the younger children.

Neteyam didn't wait for her to stop. He tumbled off the saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He looked horrific. He was caked in grey mountain silt, his chest was striped with deep, jagged gashes that were still sluggishly weeping blood, and he smelled like a mix of ancient cave rot and wet moss. Most notably, his hands were empty of any game.

"Neteyam?" Lo'ak blurted out, staring at his brother’s battered state. "Where’s the... uh... the 'substantial hunt' you promised?"

Neteyam didn't even hear him. He was stumbling toward Y/n, his golden eyes blown wide and fixed entirely on her face. The relief that flooded him when he saw she was still in camp—not at the river, not with Hárim—made him nearly lightheaded.

"You're here," he panted, his voice a raspy shadow of itself. He came to a halt right in front of her, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "I... I have it. I made it back."

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/n stared at him, her eyes traveling from his matted hair down to the blood soaking his loincloth. For a moment, she looked stunned. Then, her face twisted into a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.

"Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan!"

She shrieked. She stepped forward and jabbed a sharp finger directly into the center of his chest, right between two fresh claw marks. "Look at you! You look like a snack for a Thanator! You look like you went through a meat grinder and came out the wrong side!"

Now would've been a nice time to fawn at her, but he didn't want to make it seem that her concern was being disregarded. Neteyam winced, hiding the bundle behind his back. "Y/n, wait—"

"No! What were you thinking?" she yelled, her voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. How the table have flipped. It was now Neteyam being parented.

The older Na’vi and even the elders stopped their work to watch, hiding amused smiles behind their hands. "You are the future Olo’eyktan! You go out claiming you're going to feed the clan, and you come back empty-handed, smelling like a swamp, and half-dead? For what? A 'hunt'? Where is the meat, Neteyam? Where is the 'warrior's provision'?"

Hárim watched this explosion and slowly lowered his basket of fruit. He saw the way Y/n was looking at Neteyam—the way her hands were shaking, not with anger, but with a frantic, desperate fear for his life. It was a look she had never given him.

Hárim realized then that he was a footnote in a story that had been written long before he arrived. With a heavy sigh, he turned and faded into the crowd, leaving his river lilies behind.

"I must patch him up before he bleeds out on the dirt and embarrasses us further!" Y/n snapped at Lo’ak and Kiri. She grabbed Neteyam’s ear—hard—and began dragging him toward Mo’at’s healing hut.

"Ow—Y/n, wait, the flower—" Neteyam hissed, stumbling after her, but he was secretly grinning. She was holding him. She was worried. She was his.

The air inside Mo’at’s hut was thick with the scent of crushed mountain sage and dried yavo, a stark contrast to the mud and metallic tang of blood clinging to Neteyam. The heavy flap of the entrance fell shut, muffling the chaotic whispers of the camp outside.

Mo’at, the Tsahìk, looked up from her bowls. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, swept over Neteyam’s battered frame and the fierce, protective set of Y/n’s jaw. She didn't say a word; she simply gathered a few fresh bandages and moved into the shadows of the rear alcove, leaving the central mat to the two of them.

Y/n pushed Neteyam down onto the woven fibers. She was vibrating with a restless, angry energy, her tail lashing behind her like a whip. "You are a fool, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan," she hissed, her voice cracking under the weight of her worry. "A complete and utter skxawng!"

Neteyam didn't winced at her tone. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, watching her with an exhausted, dazed smile that made his golden eyes shimmer. "You’re very pretty when you’re angry," he murmured, his voice raspy from the mountain chill.

Y/n’s hands, which had been reaching for a bowl of water, faltered mid-air. Her ears twitched violently, a deep, sunset pink flushing across her cheekbones. "Shut up," she whispered, though the bite was gone from her voice. "You smell like a bog and you look like you’ve been chewed on by a Palulukan. Sit still."

She began to wipe away the grime and dried blood from his chest, her touch surprisingly light despite her scolding. Every time he hissed in pain, her expression softened into one of pained empathy.

"I have something for you," Neteyam said softly. He reached into the hidden fold of his leather vest and pulled out the small, blood-stained bundle. He held it out to her like it was a piece of his own soul.

Y/n took it tentatively. As she unwrapped the leather, the hut was suddenly bathed in a rhythmic, crimson light. The Tosliorchid sat in her palm, its petals translucent and pulsing with a deep, steady glow—thump-thump, thump-thump.

She went completely still. She knew the legends. She knew that to find this flower, he had to have climbed into the Mist of the First Ancestors, a place where even the bravest hunters feared to tread. He hadn't gone on a hunt for meat; he had gone on a hunt for her.

She stared at it for a long heartbeat, her eyes welling with a sudden, overwhelming heat. Then, she reached out and plucked a thick, glowing petal.

"Wait! No!" Neteyam cried, trying to sit up, his hand reaching out to stop her. "Y/n, I almost died for that! It's for you... to wear in your hair. To show the clan."

"It is for me," Y/n said, her voice steady and low. She dropped the petal into a stone mortar and began to grind it with a pestle. The scent of sweet, sharp mint filled the air. She mixed the glowing red paste with a bit of medicinal fat, then leaned in close—so close that Neteyam could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. "And I am using it to heal what is mine."

She took a dollop of the red cream on her fingertips and rubbed it gently over the dark bruise on his cheek. The cooling sensation was instantaneous, the throbbing pain vanishing as if it had never been there.

The silence between them was no longer tense; it was thick with everything they hadn't said for years. Y/n’s thumb lingered on his cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw. She looked into his eyes, her gaze searching and raw.

"This flower... the legends say it heals the heart of the one who receives it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the hearth. "My heart feels very healed, Neteyam. But if you ever risk your life like this again, I will be the one who finishes what that Shadow-Stalker started."

Neteyam leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her and the minty orchid. "Does this mean the river date is cancelled?" he asked, a hint of his usual playful arrogance returning.

Y/n let out a soft, shaky laugh, her nose brushing against his. "I think I’d rather stay here. I have a lot of scratches to tend to, and I don't think you're in any condition to go walking."

She pulled back just an inch, her eyes reflecting the soft red pulse of the remaining orchid petals. "But Neteyam?"

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow... you're staying in the camp. With me."

"As you wish, sevin," he murmured, his heart finally beating in the same slow, steady rhythm as the Tosli lying on the cloth between them.

ugghhh poor harim!! i absolutely loved writing this! I had to come up with many stuff, i hope its accurate to the world building HAHA

taglist: @thealatte @akebcshi @sivaninanutshell @ongak @spacecerealbowl @fluffysofi @pancakiee @bakugouswaif @jellyfrogz @kxng1 @ailozinio @toytears @vnniely @baekfast-club @chescakeplays @rielunderthecloak

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

[deprivedreality]

LMAO I DID NOT MEAN TO POST IT THIS EARLY NOOO I MISCLICKED POST WHILE READING THE DRAFT KSHEKWBWKAN

[deprivedreality]

𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗖 𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗥: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗦𝗟𝗜

word count: 3.9k

synopsis: Driven by a fierce jealousy he can no longer hide, Neteyam risks his life on a grueling quest to claim the legendary Tosli orchid—a pulsing flower that represents the ultimate declaration of love. 

contents: neteyam x fem! omatikaya! reader. part two to platonic horror!

enjoy! reblog if you guys like it! also check out my avatar x av frontiers of pandora ff (neteyam x f!reader, solek x gender fluid sarentu)

The bioluminescence of the High Camp usually brought Neteyam a sense of peace, but tonight, the soft pulse of the woods felt like a ticking clock. While his brothers and sisters lay tangled in sleep, Neteyam sat hunched over a flickering glow-lamp, his eyes scanning the delicate, weathered fibers of the ancient weaving-scrolls.

These weren't just maps of the stars or lineages of the Olo’eyktan; these were the private observations of the Tsahìk, his grandmother. He moved aside a heavy record of medicinal mosses, his fingers trembling slightly from a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline, until he found it.

A sketch, faint and shimmering with silver-ink: The Tosli.

The description was written in a formal, archaic dialect that felt more like poetry than botany. It was a phantom of the Hallelujah Mountains, a flower that thrived in the "Mist of the First Ancestors"—the treacherous, gravity-defying crevices where the floating mountains wept waterfalls into the void.

According to legend, the Tosli didn't just grow; it chose its moment. It was said to be sensitive to the energy of the forest, blooming only when the air was thick with the promise of a soul-binding connection. Its deep crimson petals didn't just glow—they surged. Each rhythmic flash of light was timed to a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute thrum, mimicking the resting heart of a Na’vi.

To the Omaticaya, bringing a Tosli back was more than a gesture. It was a testament of survival and singular focus. To traverse the "U’tìl" (the jagged underside of the floating islands) where the Shadow-Stalkers prowled, just to pluck a single bloom, was the ultimate declaration. It said, I have walked the edge of the world to bring you the rhythm of my life.

Neteyam traced the drawing of the orchid’s spiraled stem. He could almost hear the teasing lilt in Y/n’s voice from earlier, the way she had looked at Hárim as if she were considering a life without Neteyam at the center of it. The thought was a cold splash of water to his soul.

He closed the scroll with a decisive thud. He didn't need sleep. He needed to prove that while Hárim could offer her the comfort of the river, Neteyam would offer her the very heart of Pandora. He stood, checking the tension on his bowstring, his golden eyes fixed on the distant, floating shadows of the mountains. He wasn't just going for a flower; he was going to reclaim his future.

The sky was a canvas of deep violet and shimmering teal, the first light of Pandora creeping over the horizon like a secret. Neteyam moved through the High Camp with a sharp, restless energy. Every strap of his leather gear was pulled tighter than necessary, his knife sheathed with a definitive click. He looked like a warrior prepared for a Great Hunt, but his mind was focused on a single, fragile bloom.

Then, he saw them.

Near the dying embers of the communal hearth, Y/n was adjusting the strap of her quiver. The morning mist clung to her skin, making the bioluminescent patterns on her shoulders glow with a soft, ethereal light. She looked devastating. Standing far too close was Hárim, leaning in with a smile that made Neteyam’s blood simmer.

"The water is calmest at this hour," Hárim was saying, his voice a smooth, low murmur that felt like an insult to Neteyam’s ears. "The river lilies are opening, Y/n. They only show that specific shade of blue for a few minutes after dawn. I’d like to show you."

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into their space, his presence looming like a storm cloud. He didn't just walk over; he occupied the air between them.

"I am heading out," Neteyam announced. His voice was deeper than usual, carrying the practiced weight of a future Olo’eyktan.

Y/n looked up, her eyes sparking with an unreadable emotion—surprise, perhaps, or a hint of the same mischief from the night before. "So early, Neteyam? The sun hasn't even cleared the canopy."

Neteyam ignored Hárim entirely, focusing solely on her. "The clan needs fresh meat for the evening feast. I intend to bring back something substantial—something a true warrior provides." He shot a pointed, jagged glance at Hárim. "Something more than just... lilies."

The insult hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Hárim stiffened, his smile faltering as he recognized the challenge in the Prince's golden eyes.

Neteyam turned back to Y/n, his posture softening just enough to let her see the raw, pleading honesty beneath his bravado. "I will be back by the time the sun is high. Wait for the feast, Y/n. The best is yet to come."

Y/n tilted her head, her gaze drifting over the scratches on his arms from the night’s training, then back to his intense, burning eyes. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "A substantial hunt, then? Don't let your ambition outpace your bow, Neteyam. Try not to come back empty-handed."

"I won't," he promised, his voice a low vow.

As he turned to stride toward the ikran cliffs, a hand clamped onto his bicep, pulling him back. He nearly spun around with his knife drawn before he saw Lo’ak’s crooked, mocking grin.

"Going after the orchid, aren't you?" Lo’ak whispered, leaning in so the others wouldn't hear. "I saw you hovering over Grandma’s scrolls last night. You’re crazy, bro. That flower grows in places even the ikran are afraid to fly."

Neteyam gripped Lo’ak’s shoulder, his fingers digging in with desperate urgency. "Lo’ak, listen to me. I need you to watch him." He jerked his chin toward Hárim, who was already trying to regain Y/n’s attention. "Do not let him take her to that river. I don't care what you have to do. Be loud, be annoying, break something—just keep her here."

Lo’ak’s eyes widened, then a slow, wicked light danced in them. This was the kind of mission he was born for. "You want me to cockblock a warrior for the future King? Say no more."

"I'm serious, Lo'ak," Neteyam hissed, his jealousy flaring as he saw Hárim laugh at something Y/n said. "If I come back and they are gone..."

"Relax, Brother," Lo’ak gave a mock salute, his grin widening. "I’ll enlist Spider and Kiri. We’ll be a nightmare. By the time you get back, Hárim will be begging for mercy, and Y/n will be so bored of his face she’ll be sprinting to meet you. Just get the flower. Don't die."

Neteyam nodded once, cast one last lingering, possessive look at Y/n, and flew toward the cliffs. He had a mountain to climb, a monster to fight, and a heart to win.

The air grew thin and frigid as Neteyam ascended. The Hallelujah Mountains were a labyrinth of floating islands and jagged archways, but he pushed his ikran, Ciraya, higher than they had ever ventured, into the "Mist of the First Ancestors." The clouds here were thick enough to swallow an Ikran whole, dampening the sound of the world below until all Neteyam could hear was his own ragged breathing and the thrumming of his heart.

He left his ikran on a narrow ledge, the beast huffing a nervous warning as Neteyam began the climb on foot. 

“Do not worry, friend. I will be back.” He pressed his forehead to his ikran before releasing the bond. 

The rock was slick with moss and ancient condensation, crumbling under his grip like wet sand. Twice, his foot slipped, sending a shower of stones into the bottomless white abyss below. But every time his muscles screamed or his spirit wavered, he saw Y/n’s face—the way she looked at Hárim, the way she had laughed. It was a fuel more potent than any adrenaline.

"You are not losing her," he hissed to himself, his fingers digging into a narrow crevice. "Not to him. Not to anyone."

The cave mouth was a jagged wound in the side of a massive, suspended peak. Inside, the world was silent, save for the rhythmic drip-drop of water. And then, he heard it.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was the Tosli. Deep in the shadows, a cluster of orchids pulsed with a crimson light so vibrant it looked like fresh blood under the skin. They were breathtaking, their petals curling like delicate fingers, glowing in a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute rhythm.

But as he stepped forward, the darkness shifted.

The Palulukan-yä-kì’—the Shadow-Stalker—emerged from the ceiling. It was a nightmare of obsidian scales and pale, milky eyes, built for the pitch-black. It didn't roar; it hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe.

The fight was a chaotic blur. Neteyam moved with the grace of a warrior, but the creature was faster in the dark. A set of claws raked across his chest, tearing through his leather harness and deep into his skin. He gasped, the metallic scent of his own blood filling his nose. He struck back with his obsidian knife, the blade singing as it sliced through the air. He managed to drive the creature back into the deeper recesses of the cave, but the effort was immense.

As he reached for the most perfect, central orchid—the one whose pulse was the strongest—the world began to tilt. The loss of blood, the lack of sleep, and the sheer physical toll of the climb finally caught up. His knees buckled. The last thing he saw was the red glow of the flower before his world went black.

In the depths of his unconsciousness, her voice was the only thing that could reach him. “Neteyam...” It wasn't a scream, but a soft, fleeting whisper that felt more like a memory of her laughter by the fire.

He jerked awake, his golden eyes snapping open to find the cave illuminated not by the gentle violet of the predawn, but by a harsh, accusing amber. The sun had already cleared the horizon.

"Skxawng!" The curse ripped from his throat, echoing off the damp, crystalline walls. Every muscle in his chest felt like it was being seared by a hot iron as he scrambled to his feet. The adrenaline masked the true depth of the gashes on his ribs, but the sight of the high sun made his heart plummet. 

He was late. 

He had promised to be back by midday, and the shadows on the cave floor told him he was dangerously close to losing his chance.

He didn't have time for a tactical retreat. His eyes locked onto the central Tosli. It was perfect—a deep, pulsing crimson that seemed to throb with an inner life. He snatched it, his hands shaking slightly, and wrapped it in the soft, treated leather he’d prepared. He tucked the bundle against his bare chest, feeling the faint, rhythmic heat of the flower against his skin.

Behind him, the darkness hissed. The Shadow-Stalker, sensing its prize was being stolen, let out a screech that set Neteyam’s teeth on edge. The clicking of its many-jointed limbs against the stone grew louder, faster.

Neteyam didn't look back. He sprinted toward the blinding light of the cave's mouth, his boots skidding on the slick, mossy floor. The cave didn't end in a path; it ended in a jagged drop of thousands of feet into the misty abyss. He could hear the creature’s claws raking the stone just inches behind his heels, the scent of its damp, musk-filled breath hitting his neck.

He didn't wait. He didn't calculate the trajectory. He tucked his chin, hugged the flower to his heart, and threw himself into the void waiting at the opening of the cave.

"Ciraya!"

The whistle was a jagged, desperate sound, torn from lungs filled with mountain air and blood. For three terrifying seconds, the world was nothing but a roar of wind and the biting cold of the mist. Neteyam was a stone falling through the sky, his open wounds stinging as the air whipped past them. Then, a massive shadow blotted out the sun.

Ciraya dived beneath him with a screech of her own, her wings snapping open with a thunderous crack that vibrated through Neteyam’s very bones. He slammed onto the saddle, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs, but his hands instinctively gripped the neck-strap.

Safely mounted, he let out a victory cry—a raw, primal sound that tore through the mountain peaks and scattered the smaller forest birds. He pulled the leather bundle back just enough to check his prize. In the daylight, the red glow was even more mesmerizing. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. 

"Fast, girl!" he urged, leaning low over Ciraya’s neck. His voice was thick with a mix of triumph and a mounting, suffocating anxiety. "Faster! The river... the date... we have to stop it!"

As they soared toward the High Camp, the reality of his appearance dawned on him. He was covered in a thick layer of grey mountain silt and dried blood; his hair was a matted mess of twigs and cave moss, and a dark stain was spreading across his midsection. He looked less like the poised prince of the Omaticaya and more like a man who had fought his way out of the mouth of a demon. He did not even have the hunt he had promised to bring.

But as he clutched the pulsing orchid, he didn't care about his dignity. He only cared about the girl who was currently walking toward the river with another man because it took him too long to realize he wanted her.

The atmosphere at the High Camp had reached a fever pitch of coordinated desperation. Lo’ak, Spider, and Kiri had formed a human—and Na’vi—barricade around Y/n, who was dressed in her finest woven hunting leathers, her hair braided with fresh beads for her outing.

"But Y/n! The tension is all wrong! If I try to hunt with this bowstring, it’ll snap and hit me in the eye!" Lo’ak wailed, physically tugging at her arm to steer her away from the path leading to the river.

"And the bug, Y/n! It’s huge! It has like, twelve legs and it’s glowing purple!" Spider added, dancing in front of Hárim to block his view. "Kiri says it might be poisonous, or worse—it might be a sign from Eywa that we shouldn't leave the kitchen area!"

Kiri just stood by with her arms crossed, nodding solemnly. "It’s a very spiritual bug, Y/n. You really shouldn't leave until we’ve... identified its aura."

Y/n pressed her palm to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. She wasn't a fool; she knew exactly why the Sully siblings were acting like they’d lost their minds. She looked over at Hárim, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot, clutching a small basket of fruit he’d gathered for their stroll.

"Is the river... still happening?" Hárim asked tentatively, sounding like a man who was beginning to realize he’d stepped into a family circus.

Just as Y/n was about to answer, the sky seemed to split open. The heavy, rhythmic thrum-thrum of Ikran wings beat against the camp, and Ciraya came screaming in at an angle that was far too steep for a graceful landing. She skidded into the clearing, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust and scattering the younger children.

Neteyam didn't wait for her to stop. He tumbled off the saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He looked horrific. He was caked in grey mountain silt, his chest was striped with deep, jagged gashes that were still sluggishly weeping blood, and he smelled like a mix of ancient cave rot and wet moss. Most notably, his hands were empty of any game.

"Neteyam?" Lo'ak blurted out, staring at his brother’s battered state. "Where’s the... uh... the 'substantial hunt' you promised?"

Neteyam didn't even hear him. He was stumbling toward Y/n, his golden eyes blown wide and fixed entirely on her face. The relief that flooded him when he saw she was still in camp—not at the river, not with Hárim—made him nearly lightheaded.

"You're here," he panted, his voice a raspy shadow of itself. He came to a halt right in front of her, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "I... I have it. I made it back."

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/n stared at him, her eyes traveling from his matted hair down to the blood soaking his loincloth. For a moment, she looked stunned. Then, her face twisted into a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.

"Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan!"

She shrieked. She stepped forward and jabbed a sharp finger directly into the center of his chest, right between two fresh claw marks. "Look at you! You look like a snack for a Thanator! You look like you went through a meat grinder and came out the wrong side!"

Now would've been a nice time to fawn at her, but he didn't want to make it seem that her concern was being disregarded. Neteyam winced, hiding the bundle behind his back. "Y/n, wait—"

"No! What were you thinking?" she yelled, her voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. How the table have flipped. It was now Neteyam being parented.

The older Na’vi and even the elders stopped their work to watch, hiding amused smiles behind their hands. "You are the future Olo’eyktan! You go out claiming you're going to feed the clan, and you come back empty-handed, smelling like a swamp, and half-dead? For what? A 'hunt'? Where is the meat, Neteyam? Where is the 'warrior's provision'?"

Hárim watched this explosion and slowly lowered his basket of fruit. He saw the way Y/n was looking at Neteyam—the way her hands were shaking, not with anger, but with a frantic, desperate fear for his life. It was a look she had never given him.

Hárim realized then that he was a footnote in a story that had been written long before he arrived. With a heavy sigh, he turned and faded into the crowd, leaving his river lilies behind.

"I must patch him up before he bleeds out on the dirt and embarrasses us further!" Y/n snapped at Lo’ak and Kiri. She grabbed Neteyam’s ear—hard—and began dragging him toward Mo’at’s healing hut.

"Ow—Y/n, wait, the flower—" Neteyam hissed, stumbling after her, but he was secretly grinning. She was holding him. She was worried. She was his.

The air inside Mo’at’s hut was thick with the scent of crushed mountain sage and dried yavo, a stark contrast to the mud and metallic tang of blood clinging to Neteyam. The heavy flap of the entrance fell shut, muffling the chaotic whispers of the camp outside.

Mo’at, the Tsahìk, looked up from her bowls. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, swept over Neteyam’s battered frame and the fierce, protective set of Y/n’s jaw. She didn't say a word; she simply gathered a few fresh bandages and moved into the shadows of the rear alcove, leaving the central mat to the two of them.

Y/n pushed Neteyam down onto the woven fibers. She was vibrating with a restless, angry energy, her tail lashing behind her like a whip. "You are a fool, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan," she hissed, her voice cracking under the weight of her worry. "A complete and utter skxawng!"

Neteyam didn't winced at her tone. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, watching her with an exhausted, dazed smile that made his golden eyes shimmer. "You’re very pretty when you’re angry," he murmured, his voice raspy from the mountain chill.

Y/n’s hands, which had been reaching for a bowl of water, faltered mid-air. Her ears twitched violently, a deep, sunset pink flushing across her cheekbones. "Shut up," she whispered, though the bite was gone from her voice. "You smell like a bog and you look like you’ve been chewed on by a Palulukan. Sit still."

She began to wipe away the grime and dried blood from his chest, her touch surprisingly light despite her scolding. Every time he hissed in pain, her expression softened into one of pained empathy.

"I have something for you," Neteyam said softly. He reached into the hidden fold of his leather vest and pulled out the small, blood-stained bundle. He held it out to her like it was a piece of his own soul.

Y/n took it tentatively. As she unwrapped the leather, the hut was suddenly bathed in a rhythmic, crimson light. The Tosliorchid sat in her palm, its petals translucent and pulsing with a deep, steady glow—thump-thump, thump-thump.

She went completely still. She knew the legends. She knew that to find this flower, he had to have climbed into the Mist of the First Ancestors, a place where even the bravest hunters feared to tread. He hadn't gone on a hunt for meat; he had gone on a hunt for her.

She stared at it for a long heartbeat, her eyes welling with a sudden, overwhelming heat. Then, she reached out and plucked a thick, glowing petal.

"Wait! No!" Neteyam cried, trying to sit up, his hand reaching out to stop her. "Y/n, I almost died for that! It's for you... to wear in your hair. To show the clan."

"It is for me," Y/n said, her voice steady and low. She dropped the petal into a stone mortar and began to grind it with a pestle. The scent of sweet, sharp mint filled the air. She mixed the glowing red paste with a bit of medicinal fat, then leaned in close—so close that Neteyam could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. "And I am using it to heal what is mine."

She took a dollop of the red cream on her fingertips and rubbed it gently over the dark bruise on his cheek. The cooling sensation was instantaneous, the throbbing pain vanishing as if it had never been there.

The silence between them was no longer tense; it was thick with everything they hadn't said for years. Y/n’s thumb lingered on his cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw. She looked into his eyes, her gaze searching and raw.

"This flower... the legends say it heals the heart of the one who receives it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the hearth. "My heart feels very healed, Neteyam. But if you ever risk your life like this again, I will be the one who finishes what that Shadow-Stalker started."

Neteyam leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her and the minty orchid. "Does this mean the river date is cancelled?" he asked, a hint of his usual playful arrogance returning.

Y/n let out a soft, shaky laugh, her nose brushing against his. "I think I’d rather stay here. I have a lot of scratches to tend to, and I don't think you're in any condition to go walking."

She pulled back just an inch, her eyes reflecting the soft red pulse of the remaining orchid petals. "But Neteyam?"

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow... you're staying in the camp. With me."

"As you wish, sevin," he murmured, his heart finally beating in the same slow, steady rhythm as the Tosli lying on the cloth between them.

ugghhh poor harim!! i absolutely loved writing this! I had to come up with many stuff, i hope its accurate to the world building HAHA

also if you guys have any ideas but can't write as of the moment, feel free to request!

taglist: @thealatte @akebcshi @sivaninanutshell @ongak @spacecerealbowl @fluffysofi @pancakiee @bakugouswaif @jellyfrogz @kxng1 @ailozinio @toytears @vnniely @baekfast-club @chescakeplays @rielunderthecloak

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

[deprivedreality]

𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗖 𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗥

word count: 1.9k

synopsis: it only took Neteyam one time to see you smile at someone else for him to finally realize how he did not want to have to pretend having a platonic relationship with you anymore.

contents & pairing/s: neteyam x fem! omatikaya! reader.

part two to platonic horror

Geniuses. It was a heavy word, defined by an exceptional intellect or a skill that bordered on the divine. At twenty, Neteyam carried that definition like a second skin. As the heir to the Omaticaya, he was a masterpiece of expectations met, a warrior whose grace was matched only by the strategic sharpness of his mind. His grandmother, the Tsahìk, saw it. The clan felt it.

But Neteyam’s world wasn’t built solely on duty. It was built on her.

Y/n. She was the daughter of a fallen warrior—orphaned by a war she did not witness. A girl who had traded weaving needles for obsidian spears at thirteen. While other girls were learning the rhythm of the loom, Y/n was learning the rhythm of the hunt, her eyes reflecting a fierce hunger to be seen as more than a tragedy. They had grown up as mirrors of one another—two souls forged in the heat of training and the quiet of the forest.

He knew the calluses on her palms. He knew the specific way she held her breath before releasing an arrow. He had been her guardian, her spar-mate, and her confidant. He told himself he cared for her with the protective duty of a brother, yet he watched her with the soul-deep intensity of a man who had already chosen his mate, even if his mind was too stubborn to admit it.

The village was alive, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and the golden glow of a massive central bonfire. Dancers swayed in the center, their bodies painted in shimmering bioluminescence.

"That is Asïm," Or’du whispered, leaning into the circle of young warriors. "Ninat’s daughter. See how she moves? Like the river itself."

The young men leaned in, captivated. Neteyam, however, sat with his spine straight, his fingers tracing the rim of his wooden bowl. He glanced at the dancers—they were beautiful, certainly—but his eyes felt restless. They didn’t want "beautiful." They wanted home.

She would look better in those silks, Neteyam thought, his gaze drifting away from the performers. He could see it clearly: Y/n, with butterfly residue dusted across her cheekbones, her fierce eyes softened by the firelight, wearing the diadem of a lead dancer. The thought made his chest tighten with a sudden, sharp ache.

He found her in the shadows near the edge of the hall. She was laughing with Kiri and other younger girls, her head tilted back, exposing the graceful line of her throat. She looked so relaxed, so untouchable, that Neteyam felt a surge of possessive heat. He didn't just want to look at her; he wanted to be the reason she was smiling.

"Why are you staring at Y/n again?" Tsan’ti nudged him, a playful, knowing smirk on his face. "Focus, brother! There are five girls over there trying to catch the future Olo'eyktan’s eye, and you’re busy doing a head count of your sister’s friends."

"I am not staring," Neteyam lied, his voice like gravel. "I am... observing the perimeter."

"Right. And I’m a Leonopteryx," Tsan’ti laughed.

Neteyam stood to leave, needing to clear the fog of her from his brain, but he was immediately intercepted. Asïm and An’tem, two of the lead dancers, slid toward him like silk.

"Neteyam," Asïm purred, her hand sliding boldly onto his forearm, her fingers tracing the corded muscle there. "The night is young. Why leave the music behind?"

Neteyam froze. The touch felt invasive, wrong. His eyes instinctively darted across the clearing to see if Y/n was watching. She was. Her head was tilted, her expression unreadable—half-amused, half-observant.

Don’t look at me like I’m a prize they’ve won, he pleaded silently.

"Dance with us, my prince," the other girl whispered, leaning close enough that her breath fanned his neck.

Neteyam’s patience snapped. He pulled his arm back with a sharp, jarring motion. "It’s not happening," he said, his voice cold enough to cut through the humid night air. "I am not picking any of you. Find another partner."

One of the girls gasped, her lower lip trembling at the blunt rejection, but Neteyam didn't care. He turned on his heel, his eyes searching for Y/n, ready to walk over and reclaim his place by her side.

But the space beside her was no longer empty.

A young warrior named Hárim had slid into the spot Kiri had vacated. He was leaning in close—too close—whispering something into Y/n’s ear. And then, the sound that broke Neteyam’s composure: Y/n laughed. Not a polite, clan-gathering laugh, but a genuine, bright sound that belonged only to her.

Neteyam felt as though he had been struck in the solar plexus. The "brotherly" mask he wore cracked, revealing a raw, jagged jealousy that burned like acid.

"That’s Hárim," Kiri’s voice appeared at his shoulder, dripping with intentional mischief. "In case you were wondering who was making her enjoy the night."

"I wasn't wondering," Neteyam snapped, his tail lashing behind him, nearly knocking over a basket.

"And, oh, brother. He’s very romantic," Kiri continued, leaning against a post and watching her brother crumble. "He brought her a rare forest orchid earlier. I think she’s considering him. He’d be a strong mate, don't you think?"

Neteyam’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. He watched Hárim reach out and playfully nudge Y/n’s shoulder. Y/n didn’t pull away.

"She hardly knows him," Neteyam muttered, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"Oh, I don't know," Kiri hummed, adding the final spark to the flame. "Sometimes a girl just wants someone who isn't afraid to show he wants her. Maybe she's tired of waiting for someone else to open his eyes."

Neteyam didn't respond. He couldn't. His heart was drumming a war beat against his ribs. He watched Y/n smile at Hárim again, and in that moment, the "genius" prince realized he had been a fool.

He didn't want to be her guardian. He didn't want to be her brother. He wanted to walk over there, drag her away from the firelight, and make sure she never laughed at another man’s jokes for the rest of her life.

"She is mine to guard," he whispered to the shadows, his eyes locked on her.

"Then go guard her, big brother," Kiri smirked. "Before someone else takes the post."

Neteyam didn’t just walk; he prowled.

The heat of the bonfire was nothing compared to the slow burn under his skin as he watched Hárim lean closer to Y/n, his hand hovering near hers as he spoke. Every laugh that left Y/n’s lips felt like a needle pricking at Neteyam’s pride. He had spent years being the one she turned to, the one who earned those smiles. Seeing them gifted to someone else felt like a betrayal he wasn't prepared for.

"I have never seen that flower in this part of the forest," Y/n was saying, her voice soft and full of genuine interest. She was looking at a small, glowing blossom Hárim held out to her. "It’s beautiful, Hárim. You really went all the way to the high cliffs for this?"

"For you? I would have gone further," Hárim replied, his voice dropping into a tone that made Neteyam’s ears twitch.

"Y/n."

Neteyam’s voice broke through their bubble like a crack of thunder. Both of them looked up, and for a fleeting second, Neteyam felt a pang of hurt when he saw the flicker of disappointment on Y/n’s face at the interruption. She didn't look at him with her usual warmth; she looked at him like he was a stray gust of wind ruining a calm day.

"Neteyam," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I thought you were busy."

"They are gone," he said shortly, stepping into the space between them, his presence looming. He looked at Hárim, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. "The evening meal is concluding. My father requires a word with the young warriors regarding tomorrow's patrol."

It was a lie—or at least, a very loose interpretation of a command—but it worked. Hárim looked between the two of them, sensing the sudden tension radiating off the prince.

"Of course," Hárim said, standing up. He turned back to Y/n, his expression softening. "I hope to finish our conversation later, Y/n. Perhaps we can walk to the river tomorrow?"

Y/n smiled—a real, lingering smile that made Neteyam’s heart sink. "I would like that, Hárim. Thank you for the gift."

As Hárim walked away, the silence between Neteyam and Y/n grew heavy. She didn't look at him. She flicked the petals of the flower Hárim had given her, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in her throat.

"You're being quiet," she noted, finally glancing up at him. "And you look like you’ve been eating sour berries. What is it, Neteyam?"

"You like him," Neteyam said, the words tasting like ash. He couldn't hide the hurt in his voice anymore. The "perfect heir" was gone, replaced by a boy who felt like his world was tilting on its axis. "You actually like him."

Y/n stood up, brushing the dirt from her legs. "He is kind. Fine. He listens. And he doesn't treat me like someone he has to lecture or a soldier he has to train. It's... nice, Neteyam. To be looked at differently."

Neteyam flinched. The jealousy that had been roaring in him suddenly quieted into something much more painful: realization. He had spent so much time being her "guardian" that he had forgotten to be her heart.

"I don't look at you like a sister," he whispered, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her. The bravado was gone. His tail was low, and his eyes were wide, searching hers with a desperate sort of honesty. "I never have. I was just... too afraid of losing what we had to ask for what I actually wanted."

Y/n went still, her fingers pausing on the flower. "And what do you want, Neteyam?"

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, a silent plea.

"I want to be the one who brings you flowers," he murmured, dipping his head sideways ad his voice cracking with a sudden, overwhelming sweetness. "I want to be the one you laugh with. I want to... I want to court you, Y/n. Properly. If you’ll let me."

The air between them changed. The sounds of the feast faded into the background. Y/n looked down at the flower in her hand, then back up at him. A small, shy dimple appeared in her cheek—the one that only showed when she was truly happy.

"The high cliffs are a long walk, Neteyam," she whispered, her voice teasing but soft, her eyes shining with a hidden invitation. "And those orchids only bloom at dawn."

She didn't say yes directly, but she didn't walk away. Instead, she reached out and briefly, tentatively, let her fingers brush against his wrist—the same spot where the other girls had tried to grab him, but her touch felt like a blessing.

"I’ll be awake at dawn," she added, her voice a soft promise. "I suppose I could see what kind of gift a prince brings before I make up my mind about the river."

Neteyam felt the breath rush back into his lungs, his heart doing a frantic, happy dance. He watched her walk away toward her own tent, her steps light, leaving him standing there in the cooling embers of the fire, finally knowing exactly where he belonged.

This is super clichè lol. Tell me if you guys want a part 2!!

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

[enchanthings]

◦˚~ BLACK & GREY RIBBONS DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Requested designs. Info: these were all made by me. please follow my rules & reblog/like if use!

[deprivedreality]

𝘽𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙐𝙎

pairing: neteyam sully x fem! sarentu! reader. crossover: avatar movies & avatar frontiers of pandora. A human-indoctrinated Na'vi soldier must unlearn her military training and rediscover her lost Sarentu roots after being captured rescued by the very people she was sent to hunt.

chapters: be one of us, ???

word count: 6k

The air in the TAP facility was cold, smelling of sterile metal and fear. Teylan’s chest heaved as he ran with the rest of the na’vi kids, his small arms wrapped tightly around his toddler sister. [Name] buried her face in his neck, her tiny fingers clutching his TAP shirt. She cried as she felt the ragged breath and quick heartbeats of her brother, worry filling her body despite being too little to even have it.

"It is alright, little sister." Teylan said, his voice trembling. 

“Teylan…” [Name] muttered. It was the only word she knew. 

“It’s going to be okay.” They had reached the open hangar when the shouting started. Mercer, with multiple soldiers, came in. They were holding guns and pointing it at them. Teylan hugged his sister closely, protecting her head as he tried hiding behind Aha’ri and the others.

"Stop right there!" Mercer’s voice boomed. “I’m very disappointed in all of you.”

They stopped in their tracks and stood alert, crouching and tails moving anxiously. Aha’ri and Nor stood in front of them, their small frame shielding the younger children. Mercer walked towards them, anger spilling from his little human body.

“I have given you a privileged life. I have invested too much in you.” He said. “We saved you. Gave you an identity—”

“We already have an identity! We are Na’vi!” Ahari fought. She was the bravest, most fearless out of them. Distraught invaded Mercer as the tune of the Sarentu was sung by them. Tamtey, Nor, and Ri’nela sung along. Teylan hesitated, his focus was on Mercer. He never truly knew the song of the Sarentu.

Teylan was younger than most of them, confused about who he really was. He hugged his sister close, pursing his lips as he realized how scary this was. How scary it was to rebel. Maybe [Name] and me should’ve stayed back! Only then can we have safety!

“We are going home.” Aha’ri announces, bumping Mercer as she takes a step forward. The others followed.

“I’m warning you, Aha’ri! Not another step!” Mercer shouted. 

“<Come on, Teylan! Let’s go home!>” Tamtey reached their hand to Teylan. The Na’vi words barely registered in Teylan’s mind, but still, his hand reached toward them. Maybe, this could give me and my sister a chance—

The crack of the gun was deafening. [Name] felt Teylan jerk as the body of Aha’ri fell. He let out a strangled cry, his grip on his sister tightening until it hurt. Nor, Ri’nela, and Tamtey began to run towards Aha’ri’s lifeless body. Teylan was forced to drop [Name] as RDA swarmed them. 

[Name] sat on the cold floor, staring at Ahari’s still body, her toddler mind unable to process the red pooling on the white tile. 

“That kid, take her away.” Mercer commanded, pointing to [Name] who was alone. Without her older brother.

“Tey…lan…?” [Name] called out, her eyes watering as she tried walking towards her brother. But heavy arms gripped her thin arms. Teylan, occupied by his friend’s lifeless body, did not notice the RDA taking [Name] away. 

“Teylan!” [Name] cried, catching Tamtey’s attention. Everyone else were crying, calling to their friend.

“<No! Give her back! Don’t take her away! Please, Mercer!>” Tamtey screamed, landing Mercer a punch before the RDA started tackingling him. Teylan saw what was happening and tried fighting, however, was held down and pinned. 

“<That is my sister! My family!” Teylan’s tears flooded as the side of his face was pinned to the cold metal flooring. “<She is all that I have left!>  Please, Mercer!” 

The RDA, carrying the young [Name] slowly disappeared into the view. 

That was the last time [Name] was allowed to be a child.

Eight Years of Isolation

The fluorescent lights of the TAP isolation wing hummed with a sterile, rhythmic buzz that felt like it was vibrating inside [Name]’s skull. At fifteen, she stood nearly seven and a half feet tall, yet she felt small—shrunk down by the heavy fabric of her tactical jumpsuit and the weight of Mercer’s expectations.

[Name] stood at a perfect "parade rest" in the center of the room. Her tail didn't twitch; her ears didn't rotate toward the sound of the door. She had been taught that those were "animalistic lapses in discipline."

Mercer walked a slow circle around her, the heels of his shoes clicking against the tile. "Report on the morning ballistics drill," he commanded.

[Name]’s voice was flat, her accent indistinguishable from any other RDA officer. "Efficiency was recorded at ninety-eight percent, Director Mercer. Adjustments were made for windage and the higher center of gravity inherent to this... form." She hesitated to say "body." To [Name], this blue skin was just a biological suit she had been forced to pilot.

"Good," Mercer leaned in, his eyes cold and clinical. "The others—Teylan and the rest—they are weak. They have not been in dirt, yet they cling to the dirt. You are the only one who truly understands that your nature is a tool, not a destiny."

[Name] felt a hollow ache in her chest, but she didn't let it reach her face. The mention of her brother’s name had almost soften her face, but she hid it. She didn't know how to be a person; she only knew how to be a success.

But then—

Chaos erupted. The Battle of Ayram Alusing commenced. 

The transition from silence to violence was instantaneous. The ground shook as the Resistance and RDA clashed outside, the vibrations rattling the metal walls of the wing.

"Move! To the cryo-bay!" Alma’s voice was frantic, a sharp contrast to Mercer’s controlled chilling tone.

[Name] was swept into the corridor. For the first time in years, she wasn't alone. She saw them. Through the smoke of the burning facility, she saw a face that lived in the back of her mind like a faded photograph.

Teylan.

He was older, taller, his face etched with a frantic terror. He was helping Tamtey and the others, his movements desperate. The recognition hit [Name] like a physical blow, shattering the "stiff military precision" she had practiced for years.

"Teylan! Brother!" She screamed. The English words felt like rocks in her mouth, but she shouted them with everything she had. "Teylan! It’s me! It's [Name]!"

Teylan stopped. He turned, his wide, wet eyes searching to the one who called. He saw her—the tall, lanky girl in the RDA jumpsuit, standing like a soldier but crying like the toddler he had lost. His lips parted to say her name, his hand reaching out across the gap of eight lost years.

"[Name]—"

"There’s no time!" Alma’s hands slammed into [Name]’s shoulders, shoving her backward toward the open pod. She felt her back hit the cushion of the cryo-pod. 

"No! Wait!" [Name] struggled, her long fingers scraping against the edge of the cryo-pod as she tried to call to her brother. She wanted to tell him she’s okay, that she’s strong, and she remembered him. 

"Get in! Now!" Alma shouted over the roar of a collapsing bulkhead.

The pod door hissed shut, sealing out the heat, the smoke, and the sight of Teylan’s hand on the glass door. She could not hear what he was saying, but she was glad to see him. 

The last thing [Name] saw through the frost forming on the glass was her brother’s face disappearing into a blur of white. The cold crept into her bones, freezing the scream in her throat before she could even say his name one last time.

Years passed. 

The cold of the cryo-pod didn't fade gently; it shattered. One moment, [Name] was staring at Teylan’s reaching hand through the frost, and the next, the world was a cacophony of alarms, blistering heat, and the smell of burning insulation.

"Teylan!" She coughed, her lungs burning as she tumbled out of the pod. The facility was crumbling. In the thick black smoke, she couldn't see the other students. 

“<Little sister! Over here!>” Faintly, she hears a voice.

[Name] stumbled, her long, uncoordinated limbs striking the jagged debris. She ran toward what she thought was an exit, but the heavy blast doors hissed shut, cutting off the path back to her brother. Countless explosions surged. Her ears popped, almost deafening as she crouched in fright.

She was alone in the dark until a spotlight blinded her. The rhythmic thwip-thwip-thwip of a Samson gunship drowned out her heartbeat. Men in tactical gear swarmed the clearing, their rifles leveled at her chest.

"Secure the asset!" A voice barked. Before she could move, a sedative dart hissed into her shoulder. The last thing she saw was the 'Death’s Head' insignia on a soldier’s vest.

The next ninety days aboard an unknown carrier were a blur of cold steel, recirculated air, and the rhythmic thud of meat against synthetic padding. 

It didn’t even feel like cryo had given her fifteen years to rest. For her, it was like the battle of Ayram Alusing had happened yesterday. She was brought to sleep then abducted and manipulated once again for the use of Humans. For [Name], time was no longer measured by the rising of Polyphemus or the bioluminescent glow of the jungle, but by the flickering overhead lights of the training deck.

"Again! You’re telegraphing your movement, TAP moron! A Viperwolf wouldn't wait for you to find your balance, and neither will a Sully loyalist!"

The instructor, a scarred veteran named Miller, paced the perimeter of the ring. He carried a shock-baton that he didn't hesitate to use whenever [Name] showed a hint of any "Na’vi hesitation"—that natural, fluid instinct to move with grace. He wanted her jagged. He wanted her human.

[Name] lunged again. Her bare feet, large and blue, gripped the cold metal floor. She drove her shoulder into the heavy bag, followed by a sharp, short-range elbow strike. It was a move designed for cramped hallways and urban combat, a "Sky Person" technique that felt jarring in her long, elegant and bruised limbs.

"Fantastic," Miller growled, leaning in so close she could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "The Na’vi fight like they’re dancing. You fight like you’re clearing a room. They see a sister; you see a target. That’s the edge Mercer paid me for."

When she wasn't being bruised in the ring, she was being scrubbed by the "re-education" tablets. Hours were spent watching RDA tactical footage, learning to identify human superiors and Na’vi enemies. 

She was forced to wear a stiff, grey jumpsuit that chafed against her skin, and her hair—which should have been long and braided—was kept in a slick bun.

She was being broken. All for the sake of Mercer’s ego. She was being sent to Hell’s Gate—the Eastern Frontiers where humans are building their metropolis. They stripped her of everything. They stripped her world to ashes and debris.

One night, sitting in the corner of her cell, [Name] looked at her hands. They were huge, blue, and beautiful, but all she saw were tools for holding an M69. She tried to hum a melody she vaguely remembered from the TAP facility—a soft song—but the notes died in her throat. She couldn't remember the words. She didn't even know what the words sounded like anymore.

"I am Subject TAP," she whispered to the shadows, her voice flat and devoid of the tonal shifts of the Na'vi language. "I am a specialist in the service of the RDA."

The lie tasted like ash, but it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Halfway through the three months of abduction. Mercer visited her once before the transfer to Hell's Gate. He stood behind the reinforced glass, looking at her not with pride, but with the cold satisfaction of a swordsmith looking at a well-made knife.

"Look at you," he murmured over the intercom. "The others... Teylan, Ri'nela... they are failures. They kept their hearts. But you, [Name]. You are empty. And because you are empty, we can fill you with purpose."

He didn't call her a girl. He didn't call her by her name. He called her a success.

[Name] realized then that Mercer’s greatest victory wasn't teaching her how to shoot or how to fight. It was making her believe that she was an alien in her own skin. She was a Na'vi who was terrified of the forest, a girl who felt more comfortable in a pressurized metal box than under the open sky. She’s never even stepped out in the lush forest of Pandora. 

She was exactly what they wanted: a weapon that looked like the enemy, but thought like the conqueror.

When the shuttle finally touched down at Hell's Gate, the humidity hit [Name] like a physical weight. She was led through the base in handcuffs, despite being a "loyal" asset.

She was at where it all started—the colonization of her moon.

General Ardmore sat behind a desk of cold glass, barely looking up from her monitors. "So, this is it? Mercer’s prize? He spent millions to make a Na’vi that knows how to clear a room?" Ardmore finally looked up, her gaze full of pure, unadulterated disgust. "You look like a nightmare, kid. A waste of oxygen and rations."

[Name] didn't flinch. She stood at attention, her gaze fixed on the wall behind the General. "I am for the use of the RDA, General."

“Are you really?” She did not show hesitation or unease outside. 

Ardmore leaned back, a cruel idea forming. "Mercer wants you utilized. Fine. We’ll see if his 'indoctrination' holds up when the shooting starts. I’m putting you with the First Recom Squad. Quaritch needs scouts who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. If the jungle eats you on your first patrol, at least I won't have to look at you anymore. If you survive... Maybe Mercer wasn't a total failure."

[Name] did not show any emotions. 

“Escort her to Quaritch.” Ardmore commanded.

The air in the Recom facility was thick with the smell of gun oil, stale cigars, and something heavy—the scent of apex predators who didn't belong in their own skin. As the heavy blast door hissed shut behind her, [Name] felt the immediate weight of a dozen pairs of yellow eyes locking onto her. These were the Recombinants—men who moved with a swagger that was entirely human, ignoring the natural grace their biological—Na’vi bodies possessed. 

In a way, they were similar to her. 

She felt a strange, dizzying sense of "wrongness" looking at them. They were her height, her color, but they were loud and abrasive, their blue skin covered in tattoos, tactical vests and heavy weaponry rather than the traditional beads or loincloths of the people she saw in Mercer’s old files.

"Check it out," Lyle Wainfleet chuckled, leaning back against a metal locker as he cleaned a massive combat knife. "The RDA started a youth league? Or did Mercer just find a runt in the litter?"

The other Recoms laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that echoed off the metal walls. [Name] didn't flinch. She kept her chin tucked, her shoulders squared in the rigid posture of a soldier. To her, this wasn't a room full of her own kind; it was a unit of superior officers.

Colonel Miles Quaritch stood in the center of the bay, checking the magazine on his customized rifle. He looked up, his gaze cutting through the room. Unlike the others, he didn't laugh. He walked toward her, his boots thudding against the deck, and stopped so close she could see the faint scarring on his blue temple.

He didn't see a Na’vi girl. He saw a project. He noticed the way she didn't hiss, the way her tail stayed perfectly still—tucked in line with her leg rather than lashing in agitation. She was a biological mirror of the enemy, but her soul was wrapped in RDA wire.

"Skills?" Quaritch barked, his voice a low, raspy growl.

"Expert marksman, Master-level CQC, and tactical reconnaissance, sir," [Name] stated flatly. Her voice was devoid of any Na'vi lilt, sounding exactly like a human cadet.

Quaritch walked a slow circle around her, his eyes scanning her short-cropped hair, her human-style military boots, and the way she held her M69 AR. It wasn't just a prop; she held it with a familiarity that suggested she had slept with it since she was a toddler.

"Fifteen years old," Quaritch mused, stopping in front of her again. He smirked, a jagged expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, at least you aren't singing to the trees or hugging fucking hexapedes. Mercer might be a pencil-pusher, but he knows how to break a spirit. You look like a jarhead, kid. Better than some of these grunts I've been saddled with."

He turned back to the squad, raising his voice. "Pack it up! We’re hunting Sully, and we’re doing it by the book. This one’s coming with us as a specialized scout. If she’s as skilled as the reports say, she’s our hidden card."

"You really trust a native, Boss?" one of the Recoms muttered.

Quaritch glanced back at [Name], who remained in a perfect, fearful silence. "She ain't a native. She’s an asset. And out there in the green, nobody cares what your DNA says. They only care if you pull the trigger when you're told."

[Name] followed him out of the barracks, her heart like a lead weight in her chest. She was stepping out of the metal walls for the first time in years, armed with a weapon designed to kill her own people, led by a man who saw her only as a biological tool. She didn't know the forest, and she didn't know herself; she only knew how to follow the boots in front of her.

The transition from the sterile, recycled air of the RDA carrier to the living atmosphere of Pandora was a physical assault on [Name]’s senses. As the ramp of the gunship lowered, the humidity rolled in like a wave, thick with the scent of crushed moss, sweet nectar, and damp earth.

When her boots—heavy, rubber-soled human boots—finally struck the soil, her knees buckled. For the first time in fifteen years, she wasn't standing on cold tile or grated metal. The ground was soft, vibrant, and seemed to pulse beneath her feet.

Dazed, she reached out a trembling hand toward a spiraling, fan-like leaf. It was a brilliant, bioluminescent green that seemed to glow from within. Just as her fingertip brushed the velvet surface, a massive blue hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around with violent force.

"Eyes on the prize, kid!" Quaritch roared, his face inches from hers. His yellow eyes were cold, devoid of the wonder she felt. "This ain't a field trip. You start daydreaming, and the local wildlife will have you for lunch before you can blink. You're my soldier now. You betray this team or go soft on me, and I’ll personally feed you to the Viperwolves. Copy?"

"Yes, sir," [Name] whispered. The wonder vanished, replaced by a cold, familiar dread. She felt smaller than ever, a blue-skinned ghost in a world that felt like it was screaming at her to wake up.

Fast forward. The sky turned black and the jungle gleamed blue. The squad had moved deep into the lush jungles and stumbled upon young na’vis. The mission was a surgical strike to draw out Jake Sully. Toruk Makto. And by shocking wonder, [Name] and the recoms stumbled upon the children of the very man they were hunting. 

One of the Na’vi kids had five finger. [Name] seemed enthralled. 

“Is that you, Mrs. Sully?” She heard Quartich. Chaos had started, quietly. 

[Name] stayed back, crouched in the thick undergrowth, her M69 rifle held in a white-knuckled grip. Through her tactical sights, she saw one of the na’vi kids—Kiri. The girl wasn't looking at the Recoms; she was looking directly at the bush where [Name] was hidden. Her eyes were soulful, filled with a deep, confusing curiosity. It was the first time another Na’vi had truly seen her, and the guilt hit [Name] like a physical blow to the stomach, leaving her nauseous.

Then, the canopy exploded.

Jake Sully and Neytiri arrived like a whirlwind of vengeance. Gunfire and hissing arrows filled the air. [Name]’s body seized. Her training screamed at her to return fire, to find a target, to be the "success" Mercer promised. 

“Fo, focus. Aim. Kill.” 

But as she watched Neytiri move—fluid, lethal, and devastatingly beautiful—[Name] couldn't move. These weren't "hostiles." They were the people she saw when she looked in the mirror.

Suddenly, her gaze shifted to a Recom positioned fifty yards to her left. He was leaning against a mossy trunk, leveling his high-powered rifle at a boy—Neteyam—who was holding his bow and positioning himself for aim. The boy was distracted, his back turned, a clear shot for a professional killer.

[Name] didn't think. She didn't calculate windage or remember Mercer’s lessons on loyalty. A primal instinct, buried under years of conditioning, surged to the surface.

She swung her rifle. The world slowed down to the beat of her own heart.

Bang.

The recoil bruised her shoulder, a familiar sting. Her supposed ally’s head snapped back as he collapsed into the ferns. He didn't even scream. It was as smooth as she remembered. 

[Name] gasped, the rifle suddenly feeling like a serpent in her hands. She had made her choice. She had killed her own teammate to save a boy who didn't even know she existed. She was no longer a soldier, and she wasn't yet a sister. She was a traitor in the eyes of the only world she had ever known.

The boy—Neteyam gasped as he realized the swift moment of near death. He caught her eye, confusion evident in both of them.

Jake Sully, acting on the battle-hardened instincts of a warrior, didn't stop to question why a Na’vi in RDA gear had fired a shot on a fellow RDA. He saw a threat and neutralized it.

“Move, Neteyam!” He yelled and stepped from where his son was. He pointed at [Name].

The bullet tore through the air, catching [Name] in her thigh. The force spun her around, sending her crashing into the dirt. She didn't scream like a Na'vi; she let out a short, stifled grunt—the way she had been trained to take a hit in the ring back on the carrier.

Neteyam nabbed at the side of his father’s weapon.

"<No, Dad! Stop!>" Neteyam’s voice cracked through the chaos. He didn't hesitate, leaping over a fallen log to place his own body between his father’s rifle and the girl in the brush. "<She saved me! She shot them!>"

Jake froze, his eyes narrowing in confusion, but the battle didn't wait. More Recoms began pouring fire into their position. "Move! Get your siblings out of here!" Jake roared, covering their retreat. He urged and made a run from it, along with Neteyam. Leaving behind the injured [Name].

[Name] didn't try to stand. She dragged herself through the mud and rotting leaves, her fingers clawing at the earth until she was wedged behind a jagged rock. The pain in her leg was a white-hot pulse, but it was nothing compared to the blackness swallowing her mind.

The only thing lighting her surroundings were the various flower-like insects surrounding her—atokirina. [Name] trembled at the idea that even sure pure creature are willing to attach themselves to her.

She looked at her hands—blue, yet covered in the grease of a human rifle. She looked at her jumpsuit, the symbol of the people who had erased her soul. I killed Miller, she thought, her breath hitching. I’m a traitor to the only home I’ve ever known. And to the Na’vi... I’m just another demon in a blue skin.

She was a ghost. A mistake. A "success" that had finally reached its breaking point.

Her trembling hand reached out and snagged her M69. She didn't check the safety; she knew it was off. With a sob that felt like it was tearing her throat open, she pressed the cold, oil-slicked muzzle under her chin.

"Don't!"

The gun was ripped from her hands by a powerful kick. The woodsprites immediately scattered. [Name] looked up, her vision blurred by tears and the shadow of her messed up hair. The boy she had saved stood over her, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and pity. He didn't see a soldier; he saw a girl drowning in her own despair.

He dropped his bow and scooped her up. “<Za’u>!”

"Leave me!" [Name] wailed, her voice cracking into a high, pathetic shriek. She swung her fists faintly at his chest, her human-trained strikes failing her as her strength ebbed away. "Let me die! I have nothing! I am nothing!"

Neteyam didn't say a word. His grip was like iron, grounding her even as she fought him. He whistled, a sharp, piercing note that brought his Ikran diving through the canopy. With a grunt of effort, he hauled her onto the creature's back, mounting behind her to keep her upright.

As the Ikran beat its massive wings, surging upward through the mist of the Hallelujah Mountains, the wind whipped against [Name]’s face. The sensation was too much. The rush of air, the height, and the searing pain in her leg triggered a fractured flood of memories: the sharp bite of RDA needles, the hum of the carrier’s engines, and Mercer’s voice whispering, “You are a tool, TAP.”

She threw her head back and howled. It wasn't a cry for help; it was a raw cry of a spirit finally breaking under the pressure of two worlds that didn't want her. It was the sound of fifteen years of isolation finally catching up to her.

Neteyam felt the vibration of her cries against his own chest. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, pressing his forehead against the back of her neck.

"<Hold on>," he murmured into her skin, his voice steady against the roar of the wind. Though his words were alien to her, she understood his intentions. "<Just hold on. I have you.>"

High above the trees, [Name] finally stopped fighting. She slumped against Neteyam, her blood staining his hands, as the bioluminescent world of Pandora blurred into a dark, welcoming fog.

From another ikran below, Neytiri watched them ascend, her face a mask of fury and confusion. "Neteyam! What are you doing with that... that thing?" she hissed, her bow still half-raised as Kiri and Tuk rode with her.

“<Mom! Stop!>” Kiri urged.

"Neytiri, stop!" Jake caught her arm, watching the trail of blue blood falling from the sky. "She saved him. We talk later. For now, we move! We are still in the vicinity of our enemy!"

The air inside the medical facility of the Omatikaya High Camp was heavy with the scent of crushed teylu and medicinal herbs, a sharp contrast to the sterile atmosphere of the RDA carriers. [Name] lay motionless on the cot, her breath hitching in shallow, uneven intervals.

"Her vitals are stabilizing, but her neural activity is off the charts," Norm whispered, leaning over a holographic display. He looked at Jake, his expression troubled. "She’s been hardwired, Jake. The way she moves, the way she reacts... It's all Marine. Whoever’s behind it didn't just train her; they rewrote her.”

“What do you mean?” Neytifi asked as she stood with Jake.

“She’s pure Na’vi, but she’s... she's been broken from the inside out."

Mo’at stepped forward from the shadows, her presence commanding an immediate silence. She didn't look at the monitors; she looked at the girl. She traced the unique, subtle patterns on [Name]’s skin that had been partially obscured by RDA tactical grease.

"She is not just of the People," Mo'at announced, her voice resonating with a weight that made Neytiri gasp. "She is Sarentu. The Travelers. Nomad. The clan we thought was lost to the wind."

The room went deathly quiet. 

Jake felt a cold chill run down his spine as the pieces finally clicked together. "The Ambassador Program, Tap," he muttered, rubbing his face. "John Mercer’s program. She’s one of the kids the RDA took in—I mean, abducted. She’s been in their grip since she was a toddler."

Neteyam sat on a low stool by her bedside, his eyes never leaving her face. He saw the way her eyelids flickered, the way her fingers twitched as if reaching for a phantom trigger.

“Dad,” He stood, looming over her. “She’s awake.”

Suddenly, [Name]’s eyes snapped open at the sight of Neteyam. They weren't calm; they were wide with a primal, terrifying panic. She didn't see healers; she saw "hostiles."

"Get away!" She screamed, the English words tearing from her throat.

Neteyam reached out, his voice soft. "It's okay, you're—"

Slap. She struck his hand away with a precision that was startling. Despite the agonizing tear in her thigh, she threw herself off the bed. 

“Jake! Get her! She isn’t stable!” Norm and Max shouted in unison. 

Her movement was a blur of desperate, human-style kinetic energy. She scrambled toward the exit, ignoring the way her stitches groaned under the strain. She dodged everyone’s hands with sloppy precision. 

She burst through the rough and heavy door of the medical facility and stepped outside. The humans present inside the clinic scrambled to get their masks because of this. The bright light of Pandora hit her, blinding and overwhelming. She tried to run, but her injured leg finally gave out. She collapsed into the dirt, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. A pool of blood began to darken the soil beneath her.

The Omatikaya people in the highcamp drifted closer, their movements silent and fluid. They didn't draw weapons. They watched her with a mix of sorrow and reverence.   

"Sarentu!" an elderly woman whispered. “<Oh, the stories of them, such entertainment.>” The word rippled through the crowd like a prayer.

[Name] looked up, her vision blurring into a haze of green and gold. "I'm not... I'm not that," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I don't know what that is."

She expected a blow, a cage, or a command. Instead, she felt the same warmth from before. Neteyam was there, sliding his arms beneath her, lifting her head away from the dirt. He held her close, shielding her from the curious eyes of the tribe.

"You are safe here," He whispered, his voice steady and grounding, the only constant in her shattered world. "With us. With me."

For the first time in fifteen years, the "Subject TAP" in her mind went quiet. [Name] leaned into the warmth of his chest, the scent of the forest finally feeling like something she was allowed to have. Her eyes drifted shut, and she fainted into the arms of the boy she had risked everything to save.

The morning light filtered through the woven canopy of the medical hut in soft, dappled patches of gold. [Name]’s eyes fluttered open, the transition from darkness to reality slow and heavy. Her body felt like lead, but the sharp, biting chill of the RDA carrier was gone, replaced by a humid warmth and the rhythmic song of the highcamp outside.

She wasn't alone.

Neteyam sat on a low stool beside her cot, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He had been there since he carried her through the crowd, a silent sentinel against the world she didn't understand. When he saw her stir, he leaned forward, his expression softening.

"You are awake," he said quietly. His English had an accent, but it had a melodic lilt that her ears—trained for the harsh, flat tones of the military—found jarring yet beautiful.

[Name] took a ragged breath, her throat feeling like it was filled with sand. "Why... why are you still here?"

"Because you were hurting," he answered simply. He reached for a small wooden bowl of water, offering it to her. "I wanted to say thank you. For what you did back there. You saved my life, and you risked everything to do it."

[Name] remained quiet, looking at the water but not taking it. She was still processing the weight of her choice. She had fired on her own unit. She had abandoned the only structure she had ever known. To her, it wasn't a heroic act; it was a terrifying leap into a void. What would Mercer say?

"What is your name?" Neteyam asked. 

She was caught off guard, almost spilling her bowl. She had never used her name in decades now. It was only Teylan, her older brother, who spoke it with such familiarity. 

“They call me TAP,” She said. Neteyam frowned at the answer.

“Do you not recall your name? Your Na’vi name?” Neteyam tilted his head to get her attention. She looked into his eyes, encouraging and bright.

"[Name]," she whispered, the word sounding small and fragile in the vastness of the place. "And yours?"

"Neteyam."

She repeated it under her breath. She had heard many human names—Mercer, Ardmore, Quaritch—names that sounded like iron and stone. But Neteyam sounded like the wind through the leaves. It was the most comforting sound she had ever heard.

"How do you know my language?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "You speak like a... like a Sky Person."

"My father is Toruk Makto," Neteyam explained with a faint, proud smile. "He was a Sky Person once, a long time ago. He taught us." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "The adults... They say you are Sarentu. They say your clan was one of storytellers and peace. I want to learn those stories from you."

The word Sarentu hit her like a physical blow. The "Subject TAP" inside her recoiled. "I’m not that," she snapped, her voice cracking with a sudden, sharp defensiveness. "I don't know what that is! I’m a soldier. I’m a success. I don’t have stories."

The bowl of water she held spilled. Realizing what she had done, she crouched in shame. 

Neteyam didn't flinch at her outburst. Instead, he moved closer, his hand rising slowly. He didn't touch her, but he pointed a finger toward the bridge of her cheek, tracing the air just above the unique bioluminescent markings that shimmered there. 

"It is written on your skin," he said softly, his hand so close she could feel the heat radiating from his palm. "The mark of the Sarentu. It is who you are, even if you do not remember it yet."

The tension in the room became suffocating. [Name] looked at his hand, then at the medical walls, feeling the walls of her identity crumbling. She didn't know anything about her clan. She didn't know how to hunt, how to pray, how to sing or how to connect to Eywa. She was a weapon that had been broken, and the only "self" she had was a serial number and a jumpsuit.

She broke. The tears didn't come with a cry; they simply spilled over, hot and silent, as she began to sob. "I have nothing," she choked out. "The RDA made me a monster, and the Sarentu... they are gone. I’m just a shell. I don’t know how to be Na’vi. I don’t know how to be anything."

Neteyam watched her, his heart aching at the sight of her raw, jagged grief. He saw the girl beneath the soldier—the sister Teylan had lost. An idea struck him—a way to bridge the gap between the metal world she had left and the living world she was in.

"Then start over," Neteyam said, his voice firm and filled with a new purpose. "Forget… forget everything. Forget the Sky People. Learn the ways of the Omatikaya. Walk with me, see what I see. Be one of us."

“That is not—” [Name] retorted, but Neteyam stops her. He holds her shoulder, and his other hand making a sign that was unfamiliar to her. 

“<Oel ngati kameie, ma’[Name]>” 

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

Reblog and comment if you want to be tagged for part 2!!

[deprivedreality]

istg once i finish understanding afop i'm going to make a fanfic relating to the game and the movies

i'm brewing stuff for neteyam and so'lek

also inlove with solek x tamtey/the sarentu fight me

im so cooked school is back may eywa not let me stray away from this goal

[deprivedreality]

𝘽𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙐𝙎

pairing: neteyam sully x fem! sarentu! reader. crossover: avatar movies & avatar frontiers of pandora. A human-indoctrinated Na'vi soldier must unlearn her military training and rediscover her lost Sarentu roots after being captured by the very people she was sent to hunt.

here's the link to the fic be one of us

[gigiszn]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 moonlight knows.

pair: neteyam te suli x fem!omatikaya!oc

warnings: parental validation seeking / mutual hatred / SLOWburn / enemies to lovers, currently ENEMIES / broken foot / falling from a high point / teasing / mentions of war

authors: hii guys this is the long awaited new neteyam series! i've decided to do what i wish i had done with the last one. which is making it a slowburn!! i really do like slowburns. fair warning, this will be a SLOWWWW burn. i don't like when slowburns happen and then they kiss in the third chapter. i expect to write a lot of chapters for this one since this one is more fleshed out than my previous story! sorry this chapter is short, im gonna be honest i plan on making each chapter after this 6-10k words

wc: 4.1k

click here to be included in a taglist!

this is part one!

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

The animosity between Tseyala and Neteyam was so sparse and fraught with tension that one could count their cordial meetings on a single hand—and even that generous estimate felt like a stretch. To the clan, the source of this friction remained an unsolvable riddle. It was as though the Great Mother had spun them from the same cosmic dust on the exact same day, birthing them into the world merely minutes apart, only to curse them with a destiny of eternal rivalry. Theories were traded like gossip around the fire pits.

Some whispered that Tseyala harbored a deep-seated jealousy, bitter that Neteyam, who had breached the womb four minutes before her, seemed to steal the spotlight simply by existing. Others argued the opposite, noting that it was undeniable to the Omatikaya that Tseyala possessed a preternatural gift for near everything she touched. It was only natural, they presumed, that Neteyam, the son of the Olo’eyktan, might harbor a grudge that he wasn't the indisputable best at every turn.

Tseyala's mother would tease often as she braided her daughters hair, or walked through the woods with her. She would jest, stating that only the moonlight knew of the feud between the two young Na'vi, as the night is when secrets creep up your shoulders.

But in the minds of the two young 'evi, the reality was far less simple. Their hatred wasn't born from a single slight or a simple comparison; it was a chaotic storm brewed from everything all at once—jealousy, pressure, and an unnamable instinct to clash.

"Neteyam, stop! This isn't funny!" Tseyala’s squeaky voice cried out, piercing the humid air of the forest.

She sprang up from the ground, her small muscles coiling with effort as she attempted to snatch her small bow out of Neteyam’s grasp. At four and a half years old, she was barely five feet tall, her limbs still lanky and coltish. Neteyam, however, had hit a growth spurt that left him towering over her at a whopping five-foot-five. He loomed like a giant, his silhouette broadening even at that young age.

He smirked down at her, his golden eyes dancing with cruel amusement as he waved the precious weapon just out of her reach, teasing the air above her head.

"Come on, just grab it. Nobody’s stopping you," he taunted, his teasing relentless and brutal in its simplicity.

Tears brimmed in the young girl's wide eyes, stinging with the heat of her frustration. Her tail lashed behind her, snapping through the leaves like a whip, betraying the calm she was trying to fake. Desperation clawed at her chest. With a squeal of determination, she jumped again, pushing off the ground with everything she had.

But gravity was not her friend. Inevitably, her coordination faltered. She stumbled in mid-air, her foot landing awkwardly atop of his.

A sharp hiss of pain escaped Neteyam’s lips as her weight drove down onto his instep. "Gah!" He groaned out, his hands releasing the bow instantly to reach down and clutch his throbbing foot.

The bow slipped from his fingers, tumbling through the air in what felt like slow motion. Tseyala desperately reached out, her fingers brushing the wood, but to no avail. It sailed past her outstretched hand and landed squarely on a jagged, sharp rock.

Snap.

The sound was sickeningly final. The wood splintered, the bow crashing into a million pieces against the unyielding stone.

The forest fell silent for a heartbeat.

Neteyam turned toward the remains of the bow after a moment, his face pale as he registered what his carelessness had wrought. He looked at Tseyala, then back at the broken wood, and let out a bland, uncomfortable "Sorry." It lacked conviction, a hollow word offered to fill the silence.

Even still, Tseyala bit back the venom that rose in her throat. She could scream at him; she could cry and strike him. But she didn't. She swallowed the lump in her throat, squared her shoulders, and simply nodded. She was more mature than this, and she knew it. She would not let him see her crumble.

She turned on her heel, picking up her chin with a dignity that belied her years, and began to walk the other direction.

It irked Neteyam to no end. He watched her retreating back, his brow furrowed in confusion. He couldn't understand why she hadn't exploded. Maybe it was because he had only grabbed her bow to get her attention in the first place, or maybe it was because, deep down, he didn't want her to leave. Her silence was worse than her screams.

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

Nine years had drifted by, transforming the children of the Omatikaya into figures poised on the precipice of adolescence. Tseyala moved with a newfound grace across the long, thick branches of the Hometree, her feet bare and silent against the textured wood.

She was no longer the tiny, clumsy girl who stumbled over roots; she had just begun her Iknimaya training, the sacred rite of passage that would determine her worth as a warrior. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she was standing on top of the world, her spirit buoyed by the promise of the skies and the mountain banshees that awaited her.

But the weight of her lineage pressed heavily against her shoulders. Her mother and father were not merely members of the clan; they were revered warriors, standing at the pinnacle of their years. They were the pillars the people looked to when the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik were occupied with the governance of the clan. To Tseyala, they were the definition of perfection, an unassailable standard of excellence that she was desperate to emulate. She was proud, of course. How could she not be when their blood ran through her veins?

Yet, that pride was constantly crushed by an overwhelming, suffocating need to satisfy them. To be their daughter meant she had to be the best. Anything less felt like a betrayal of their legacy.

The disappointment that she feared felt like a pending doom, a dark cloud hovering on the horizon whenever she made anything less than first in her training exercises. Every missed shot, every stumble, was amplified in her mind into a catastrophic failure.

Seeking solace from the pressure that threatened to crush her chest, she climbed to the very top of the Hometree that night. The wind was cooler at that altitude, brushing against her skin as she gazed up at the beautiful, sprawling starry sky. It was the night before her second day of her Iknimaya, and she had hoped to find clarity in the constellations, to commune with Eywa in silence before the trials continued.

However, the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Her eyes adjusted to the moonlit gloom, and her heart sank. The silhouette was unmistakable, tall and broad-shouldered against the backdrop of the floating mountains. Neteyam was there. As the eldest son of Jake Sully, he was also undertaking his path to becoming a warrior.

It was all too annoying to see him, the one person who seemed to embody the effortless perfection she killed herself to achieve, intruding on the only moment of peace she had hoped to claim.

With a dramatic, exasperated roll of his golden eyes, Neteyam shifted his weight. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and wrapped his tail securely around the thick wood of the branch beneath him, anchoring himself with a lazy confidence.

"What are you doing here, skxawng?" Tseyala hissed, the insult rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. She didn't wait for a response; instead, she moved to go further up the branch, putting distance between herself and the source of her irritation.

Taking the movement as a direct challenge, Neteyam didn't hesitate. He pushed himself upright and moved further out along the limb, matching her stride for stride. So she went further, her jaw set in determination. They repeated this childish process, edging closer and closer to the precarious end of the bough, until they were barely dangling off the edge of the massive Hometree. The wind whipped around them, buffeting their loincloths and hair, but neither was willing to back down.

"Give up. I’m always gonna be better. Go farther," Neteyam bit out, his voice cutting through the rush of the air below. He watched with a mix of anticipation and arrogance as she hesitated to take a step further.

The branch was thinning rapidly here, the wood narrowing until it was barely wide enough to support her feet one in front of the other. The leaves were sparse, offering no cover from the terrifying drop that awaited below. Logic screamed at her to stop, to turn back and retreat to safety. But his words churned something deep inside her, igniting that volatile piece of her soul that desperately needed to win, that couldn't stand the thought of him claiming victory over her once again.

So, swallowing her fear, she stepped forward.

Neteyam’s ears flattened instantly against his head, his playful expression evaporating in a heartbeat. The sound of a deafening crack! ripped through the night air, sharp and terrifyingly final.

And just like that, the support beneath her vanished.

Tseyala let out a piercing cry as the branch gave way, her body tumbling backward into the void. She hit protruding branches on the way down, the impacts brutal and jarring as she fell toward the Pandoran surface hundreds of feet below.

"Tseyala!" He called out her name once, panic seizing his throat. "Tseyala!" He screamed it a second time.

All to no response. The forest swallowed her cry, leaving only the rustle of leaves she had disturbed in her descent.

His stomach dropped, gravity pulling it into his throat as he realized what he had done. He abandoned his post immediately, scrambling down the trunk of the Hometree as quickly as his claws would allow. He slid down the rough bark, ignoring the burns it left on his skin, driven by a singular, terrifying purpose.

He hit the ground running, searching the dark grounds surrounding the Hometree with frantic eyes. The bioluminescent flora cast eerie blue shadows, making it hard to see. But then, he spotted her.

She was a heap of blue limbs amidst the glowing grass, her body curled in on itself. Her skin was pale, reflecting the light of the plants around her, but it was her leg that made him freeze. Her foot was twisted in an unnatural way, the bone clearly shifted, the angle wrong and sickening to look at.

He rushed to her side, falling to his knees in the dirt. He shook her shoulders, his grip desperate. "Wake up," he commanded, his voice trembling. He shook and shook and shook, willing her eyes to open, to hear him. But she remained limp, her head lolling heavily against his hands.

Once Neteyam came to the crushing realization that she wasn’t waking up anytime soon, the reality of his nightmare set in. He didn't think; he acted. He scooped her up as gently as he could, cradling her broken body against his chest, and rushed back toward the Hometree with breathless speed.

Tears blurred his vision as he ran. "Help! Please, help!" His voice came out in broken screams, raw and ragged, echoing through the village as he burst into the clearing. He didn't stop until he reached the healing shack, rushing to his grandmother with her limp body in his arms, his heart breaking with every step.

When the elders and her parents inevitably descended upon him with questions, demanding to know how their promising daughter had taken such a catastrophic fall, Neteyam would lie. The falsehood slipped from his lips with a practiced ease, woven with a silver tongue that was maturing far too quickly. He claimed she had slipped, that the bark had been mossy and deceptive, that it was a terrible accident. He lied so smoothly, his eyes holding a steady, mournful gaze, that he almost believed it himself. Almost.

But in the quiet, solitary moments that followed—when the noise of the concern faded and he was left alone with his thoughts—the illusion would shatter. Whenever he picked up the courage to turn and look at her broken foot, the heavy guilt would swim back up and into his mouth like bile that he could just barely shoot back down. It burned his throat, a reminder of the catalyst for her suffering.

He didn’t know why he had done it. Why he always did it. It was a sickness, a compulsion to push her to the limits he knew all too well, because he had practically studied her. He knew where her insecurities lay, he knew the precise height of her pride, and he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make her crack. It was practically obsession. Though, of course, it was simply so he could become better than her.

When she finally awoke a few nights later, it was late into the shift. The healing hollow was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bioluminescent moss. Neteyam was stopping by to check on her (of course, meticulously timing it when everyone else was gone). His heart hammered against his ribs as he stepped into the alcove, hoping and praying that the impact had rattled her brain enough to make her forget. He hoped that Tseyala would have miraculously no memory of that night, of the branch, or his words.

Much to his dismay, you remembered everything.

Everything.

Her eyes snapped open the moment he stepped into the light, sharp and clear, unclouded by the haze of injury. "You did this." She hissed, her voice raspy from disuse but dripping with venom. She tried to push herself up, sitting up in the hospital bed, but her angry demeanor instantly shrinking at the pain that shot through her foot and radiated up her entire body. She gasped, falling back against the pillows, but her glare never faltered.

"I can’t train because of you," she choked out, the tears of frustration welling in her eyes—not from the physical pain, but from the ruin of her schedule, her potential.

Neteyam stood frozen near the doorway, his hands hanging useless at his sides. He didn’t know what to say. The words were there, heavy and regretful, sitting on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to apologize, really, he did. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, to take back the stupid challenge and the arrogance. But he was too stubborn for that. The defense mechanisms of the Olo’eyktan’s son were too strong, walls built too high to be scaled by something as simple as remorse.

"I hate you, Neteyam!" she screamed, the sound echoing in the small space, raw and broken.

And she meant it. It wasn't the hollow insult of children playing in the dirt, nor the frustrated cry of a girl whose bow was broken. She meant it from that day forward, carving the sentiment into the bedrock of her heart. She hated Neteyam.

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

Tseyala had matured beautifully in her years, shedding the lankiness of her childhood to reveal a woman of striking grace and formidable presence. She was taller now, of course, her limbs having elongated and filled out with the muscle memory of a hunter. Yet, old habits died hard, and her teeth would often clash and grind together at night, knowing that Neteyam was still taller. It was an irritation that gnawed at her—a persistent itch she couldn't scratch. Not by much now, certainly. He stood at an imposing height, almost nine feet, while she was only an inch or two shorter. They stood nearly eye-to-eye, a physical parity that should have satisfied her. But to Tseyala, winning barely was still winning, and that inch he had on her felt like a mountain she had yet to conquer.

Today, the rhythm of her training was interrupted by a summons. She was called to the meeting room located high within the Hallelujah Mountains. The old Hometree was long gone, a memory of wood and smoke lost to the war, but the clan had found new refuge among the floating peaks. Her brows furrowed in deep confusion as she stepped into the carved-out hollow of the room. The air was thick with tension. She assumed she and the other young warriors were being called in for a standard patrol meeting, perhaps to discuss the boundaries of their new territory.

But, to her utter confusion, the room was not filled with the usual crowd of trainees. Only her family and the Sully’s were present. The gravity in the room was palpable, the elders sitting in a semi-circle with expressions that betrayed serious deliberation.

Before she could retreat or ask a question, her mother stepped forward. With a firm hand on her shoulder, her mother guided her, pushing her to stand in a specific spot in the center of the room. Tseyala’s lips parted, letting out an audible, sharp ‘tsk’ of annoyance as she realized exactly where she was being placed—right next to Neteyam.

He stood there, rigid and stoic, looking every bit the future leader he was raised to be. As she shuffled into the space beside him, he glanced toward her. For the first time in years, the pair finally looked at each other properly.

The air between them seemed to still. The childish animosity, the screaming matches, and the petty sabotages of their youth seemed to hang suspended in the space between their faces. There was a silent understanding now, a shared look that passed between their eyes. Neither of them had any idea of what the hell was going on, and for the first time, they were united in their confusion.

"The two of you are being sent to the reef clans."

Neytiri’s voice was blunt, devoid of the gentle cushioning usually reserved for delivering bad news. The words shot into Tseyala like a physical arrow, striking her chest with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs. For a moment, the room spun, the gravity of the statement pulling the floor out from beneath her feet. The reef clans? The Awa'atlu? It was a world away, a different element, a different life.

Beside her, Neteyam let out a short, incredulous chuckle, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. It was a reflex, a defense mechanism against the absurdity of what he had just heard. But the humor died instantly in his throat as he looked from his mother’s stony face to his father’s grim resolve. This was no joke. The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in.

Then, the protesting began. It erupted like a volcano, chaotic and loud.

"WHAT?!" Tseyala shrieked, her voice cracking as she took a step back, her tail lashing violently behind her.

"Why US?!" Neteyam barked, his brow furrowed deep in confusion. "I am needed here. I cannot just leave the clan!"

"Send HIM, not ME!" Tseyala yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Neteyam’s chest. "He is the heir! Let him go swim with the Metkayina and leave me to do my duty!"

"WHAT? Send her, we don’t need any more strays!" Neteyam shot back, his voice rising to match hers. "She will only slow us down or start a war with her attitude! Send someone else!"

The argument against the families quickly dissolved into one between the two of them, as it always did. They hissed and spat, their faces inches apart, years of pent-up aggression spilling out in a torrent of insults. Their foreheads pressed against each other, teeth bared in primal snarls, the tension in the room skyrocketing until Tseyala’s father had seen enough.

With a heavy grunt of exertion, he stepped between them, using his substantial strength to push them away from each other, physically forcing them apart.

"Enough!" her father roared, his voice silencing the bickering instantly.

Jake Sully stepped forward then, his presence commanding the attention of the room. "You are the best warriors of your generation," he recalled, his tone serious and weighty. He looked at them not as children, but as soldiers.

Tseyala began to smirk proudly, her chest puffing out slightly at the rare, high praise from the Olo’eyktan. It was validation, the one thing she craved most.

"Neteyam is the next Olo’eyktan," Neytiri reminded, pointing a slender finger toward her son, emphasizing the burden he carried. Then she shifted her gaze to Tseyala, her eyes softening just a fraction. "And you are the next war leader, kanu 'eve."

The title hung in the air. War leader. It was a position of immense honor, one that Tseyala had fought for in the training rings every single day.

Neytiri walked over, closing the distance, and placed her large, warm hands onto both of their shoulders. It was a gesture of unity, forced as it was.

Tseyala looked toward Neteyam with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. Neteyam glanced back at her, his expression mirroring her own mix of annoyance and resignation. They both knew one thing, deep down where their rivalry couldn't touch the truth. She was right.

With the RDA—the Sky People—returning and breathing down the necks of the Omatikaya once more, the threat of extinction was real. The safety of the clan depended on dispersion, on hiding the seeds of the future so the tree could grow again. The only way to keep the rest of the clan safe was for the two strongest families, the two bloodlines most vital to the future leadership, to leave.

"You two must go first to ensure your safety and ours," Tseyala’s father declared, his eyes stern and unyielding as he looked down at the two young leaders. "If anything happens here... if we fall... the next generation must carry on. You two are the future."

The reality settled over them like a heavy, wet blanket. This wasn't a punishment. It was a salvation mission.

So, that night, the air was thick with the scent of damp moss and impending farewells as they climbed on their respective ikran. The beasts chittered and snapped, sensing the tension in their riders as they mounted the saddles. The wind whipped through the high perches of the Hallelujah Mountains, cold and biting.

Tseyala sat tall, her cape draped elegantly over her shoulders, fluttering in the gale. Her battle band was wrapped securely around her temples, the leather worn and familiar against her skin. She looked every bit the warrior she had trained her whole life to be.

The golden-eyed girl smiled toward her family one last time, her heart aching with a sudden, sharp intensity. She couldn't leave like this—not without a moment of warmth. She slid off her ikran’s back, dropping the short distance to the ground, and rushed to her younger siblings. She wrapped them in a tight, crushing hug, squeezing them as if she could transfer her strength to them through her touch.

"Be strong," she whispered into their ears, pulling back to look them in the eye. "No mercy."

A devilish smirk played on their faces, mirroring her own fierce determination. They were her blood, after all.

She stood up once more, composing herself. She walked to where her parents stood, her spine straightening until she stood rigid in front of them. The smile vanished as the nerves began to creep up her shoulders, crawling down her arms like icy spiders. She was terrified. She wouldn't admit it to Neteyam, not even to herself, but the fear of the unknown was a heavy stone in her gut.

"Do not disappoint us, daughter," her father warned, his voice gruff but laced with an emotion he rarely showed. He placed a rough, calloused hand on her shoulder, squeezing it firmly. It was a benediction, and a command.

Her tail curled instinctively between her legs in a display of submission and anxiety she couldn't quite suppress. She nodded swiftly, unable to find her voice. Turning on her heel, she marched back to her ikran, grabbing the leather reins and hauling herself up with a grunt of effort. She didn't look back again; she couldn't.

She was afraid, of course. There was no denying that. The place she had spent her years in, the beautiful forest, was slowly shrinking to a dot behind her as she flew forward, Neteyam flying next to her. They shared a glance, one filled with something other than hatred. With fear. With nerve. With uncertainty.

Tseyala was desperate to know what was to come. To her, to her clan.

But of course, only the moonlight knows.

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[yourlocalfriendlyhobbit]

I legit can't stand this fandom anymore. My hands start shaking with anger a little more every post i see talking shit about Spider.

Is it really so hard for them to use their 2 working braincells, or to have some damn media literacy or emotional maturity?

[eastern-lights]

Ok so there is this thing that becomes clear from ATWOW and AFAA deleted scenes and which I sorely wish had been left in, and that is the fact that Jake considers the Battle of the Halleluia Mountains a failure. In one of the deleted scenes, he tells Kiri "I didn't win. Eywa did", and that all those Na'vi who died died because of him and they died for nothing.

In his own eyes, calling the clans after Grace's death was an impulsive decision brought on by grief, and arguably an abuse of his power as Toruk Makto (don't forget that at that time, Jake had no way of knowing that the RDA was planning to destroy the Tree of Souls). He called the clans into battle they couldn't win, and at least two entire clans - the Olangi and the Trr'ong - were all but wiped out.

That's how Jake sees himself.

So when he cringes when Neytiri tells Ronal that he "led the clans to victory", it's not him being like "shit my wife is escalating the situation", she's unknowingly poking right at the heart of his trauma.

It's a small thing that if it were made explicit in the finished movies would explain so much of Jake's behavior in the sequels.