neteyam x fem!human!reader
synopsis: you're a university student assigned to gather data on a rocky planet. when your spaceship crash lands on pandora, neteyam's the one to find and take care of you.
this part: meeting the siblings, feelings between you and neteyam grow.
warnings: slowish burn, suggestive, TENSIONNN, neteyam is literally whipped for you, slight teasing, human can breathe pandora's air, omatikaya!neteyam
wc: 27K....... chill.......
You look down at the top and the bottom, bracing yourself as you shift your weight. You’re still a little sore, but considering the impact you took, you feel freaking great- certainly better than you did when you first woke up. You pushed up with your good arm and made your way to your feet. You felt remarkably light, as if the gravity of this moon was secretly trying to help you up.
The zipper of your flight suit was snagged on a bit of stray forest grit, and it took a frustratingly long minute of tugging before it finally gave way with a metallic hiss. You peeled the sweat soaked fabric away from your skin and the relief was instantaneous. You kicked the blasted fabric away with a grimace. It looked pathetic now, a crumpled reminder of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
You gaze at yourself. Green paste on your legs, but the body was still tea. You could see the curve of your waist, the softness of your belly… those stupid boots. You step on the toe of one, then the other, kicking them into a pile. Your sockless feet are free, and you let your toes wiggle against the material of the floor. You let out a small involuntary giggle, the absurdity of the situation finally bubbling up. What has your life turned to? You’re about to wear a bona fide swim suit like it’s normal, like you’re some kind of Malibu barbie- for God knows how long. The laughter helps you reason with the craziness of your circumstances.
You quickly realize Neteyam is still literally just outside, and you seal your lips, pressing your hand over your mouth to stifle any more noise. You didn’t want him to think you finally lost your mind, laughing to yourself like a loon.
The top’s the first thing you reach for. The leafy, beaded material was surprisingly supple and soft for how pretty it looks. You know that when it comes to clothes looks can definitely be deceiving, all the cutest shirts you owned were made of that stupid material that causes your pits to sweat. You slide it on, reaching behind your back to tie the fibers. It’s a bit of a struggle with your stiff shoulder, but you manage to get it secure. As much as you’d like to be lazy and ask for help, you know it’ll just turn into a cycle of having everything done for you. As tasty as that sounds, you’d never recover that way.
Managing to cinch it tight, you think your eyes are deceiving you when you look down. It fit… mostly. Your hands fly to the front to pull the leafy material over yourself.
That’s it. That’s the top. The cups were narrow, and there was a slightly obvious amount of underboob happening. Clearly it was designed for a Na’vi’s frame, but you calm yourself. Neteyam’s words echo in your head. It covers what needs to be covered. You know, if all fails, he surely won’t judge you. He’s pretty much already seen you at your worst, with a bleedy forehead and runny nose.
The bottoms came next. You stepped into them, pulling the beaded waistband up to your hips, feeling it sit low on your hips. Neteyam’s fix worked perfectly- it was ten times more secure than it would’ve been originally, and only a little bit cheeky. But you like it. You’d take it over granny panties any day. You ran your hand over the intricate beadwork, the leather of it feeling so high end and quality. You felt exposed, yeah, but you felt pretty. In a totally not in Kansas anymore kind of way. You press on your bruise one more time to feel the ache. You’re not dreaming, that’s for sure.
You shifted your weight from one foot to another, testing your balance. You opened your mouth to call out to him, then closed it, suddenly coy. You didn’t want to just yell out “I’m dressed!” like some four year old calling to mama. You swallow back some spit. You’re in your big girl britches now- you’re just gonna suck it up and go to him.
You quickly ball up your worn underwear and tuck it deep into the folds of the discarded flight suit to keep it hidden from view. There is a small, shadowed corner near a stack of woven baskets that looks like unoccupied space, and you place the bundle there neatly, smoothing out the charcoal fabric one last time. It feels like tucking away the last evidence of who you were yesterday. You make an effort to not think too deeply about your predicament. If there’s jackshit you can do about it, the one thing you can do is to keep your smile bright and your chin high.
Walking toward the entrance feels so strangely light on your feet. You hadn't noticed it as much when you were crawling through the moss but now the gravity difference hits you even more while walking. It’s got to be lower than Earth’s just enough to make your step feel springy, almost effortless despite the lingering ache in your joints. Internally, the student in you can't help but find it super cool; you’re literally experiencing a different planetary mass.
You reach the ferns, pulling the slightly damp leaves back with your fingers. The light of the forest is an almost gold color, sky bright and blue as can be. Neteyam’s standing right there, just a few feet away from the threshold. You can only see the sharp, high line of his profile and the way the sunlight catches the beads in his dark braids. You step a little closer, almost like you’re tip-toeing. You feel silly at the sight of his height- you literally reach hardly the middle of his back. Insanity. You reach out, trying to tap his shoulder, which sits so high that you have to straighten your arm almost all the way. He’s solid as a tree, the muscle beneath his skin shifting slightly at your touch.
“Hey,” you say softly, your voice finally steady.
He turns to face you fully, and you find yourself having to still tilt your head up a bit to meet his eyes. You gesture down at the beaded fabric, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. "Your sister did a beautiful job. It’s... it’s really comfortable. Thank you for fixing it for me."
His eyes begin a slow sweep over you. They start at your face, linger on the beaded neckline of the top, and follow the curve of your waist down to where the fabric sits low on your hips. You find yourself holding your breath, wondering what on Pandora could be going through his head. Usually, being looked at like this would make you want to shrink away, but under his gaze you just feel seen. You know with a certainty that he isn’t judging the way it fits or looking for flaws.
Because of that, your smile grows a little bigger, a little stupidly, as you wait for him to say something.
In truth, Neteyam is genuinely surprised. He’s spent his whole life looking at the long, lean Na’vi silhouette, all legs and elegant limbs. Torsos that have no choice but to be tight with muscles, frames built for climbing the highest of canopies. You’re simply built differently. To him, you look incredibly compact, something that he finds fascinating. Your waist curves inward, flaring out into hips that have a softness he isn’t used to seeing. He notices the way your top molds to the curves you fill it out with. He isn’t trying to stare, but he can’t help but be enthralled. You look sturdy- thicker in a way that suggests you might have more strength than he thought.
He feels a strange tinge of something in his chest, looking at you. It’s a little bit of something like pride, seeing his own handiwork on your waistband and his sister’s on your chest. But there’s another feeling trailing right behind it that he can’t quite put a name to. A sort of fondness that catches him by surprise.
“It fits,” he says finally, voice deep and unintentionally doting. He reaches out, letting his fingers graze the edge of the top to adjust one of the leaves. “The colors are good on you.” he adds softly.
You gave a little playful twirl, the earthy fabric jostling ever so slightly. The movement felt light and free compared to how heavy your feet were with those boots. "Promise?" you asked, looking up at him through your lashes with a grin that felt more like your usual self.
He watched you, his head tilting to the side slightly as he tracked the movement. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, making the vowels of his accent sound even thicker, more resonant. "I promise," he said, the amusement softening the sharp lines of his face.
You stepped closer, boldly entering his space. "Now your turn," you beam, looking up at him. "Give a little spin. Let's see the fit check"
He walked backward a few steps, his large feet silent against the foliage. His eyes gleamed with a challenge as he gestured for you to keep up with him. "Me?" he echoed. "How does this even work?" Although intrigued, he looked down at himself as if he’d never really considered his gear as more than a practical covering.
"Okay, I'll go first," you said, smoothing the soft fabric over your hips. "The top, courtesy of Tuk." You gestured to the intricate weave, then patted the side of your bikini-ish bottoms. "And my bottoms are from my personal designer, Mister...?"
"Sully," he finished for you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Yeah, Mr. Sully," you teased, giving another small sway of your hips.
"Mm, okay," he hummed, watching the way you moved with a focus. He cleared his throat. "My turn, then. My—"
"Wait, you didn't spin!" you interrupted, pointing an accusatory finger his way.
He let out a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, looking up at the sky as if asking Eywa for patience, but he actually indulged you. He gave a slow, awkward spin. It was so glaringly male- all stiff shoulders and clunky movements. His tail swung enough to count as a part of his attire. It was so endearing you couldn’t help but giggle, the sound echoing in the trees.
"Alright, alright," he said, holding up a hand to stop your laughing, though his own ears were tinged with a darker shade of blue. "No top for me," he started, his hand going to the back of his neck to rub at the skin there, a habit you were starting to realize meant he was actually a little flustered out his element. He gestured vaguely to his bare, muscled torso, his freckles slightly shimmering in the morning light.
"And my loincloth," he continued, actually reaching down, hooking his fingers into the braided ties at his hip to show them off. He looked down at the fabric, then back at you, his golden eyes searching yours. "It is purple. Good? Do I pass your fit check?" he asked, trying the slang out with a lilt that made the words sound better than they had any right to.
You scrunched your face into a big smile, shaking your head. “That’s not even how it works, Neteyam. And still, no. You missed some stuff.”
He looked down at himself, patting his chest and looking legitimately confused for a second with another tilt of his head. He looked like he was mentally inventorying every strap and bead he was wearing "Ehh... the feather?" He reached up, his large fingers gingerly touching the vibrant plume woven into one of his front braids. "I don't know. It is a feather."
His hand moved down, settling on the intricate necklace resting against the sapphire blue of his collarbones. It was beautiful, tightly woven fibers adorned with shiny small beads. "And I made this," he added, his voice dropping to something softer and more humble.
You felt that little flutter in your chest again, looking at the craftsmanship against his blue skin. "Your fit’s hard, Neteyam," you say, testing the slang on him.
He didn't know what exactly that meant, but he could read your expression perfectly. He knew it was a compliment. He offered a casual one-shouldered shrug as if to say I know, even though the little wag of his tail gave away his satisfaction.
"We still have time, but come.," he said, still smirking ever so slightly, turning to a path surrounded by deep leafy green trees. “You need to walk more. Loosen your muscles.”
"Hold on to me if you are unbalanced," he commanded softly.
You nod again, but you know you aren’t gonna settle for a quaint grip on his elbow. After the shit you went through in the last 24 hours, you’re starving for a bit of human sapient contact. You’re touch deprived! And hey, he basically offered. You fall into step beside him, wobbling the slightest bit before becoming more sure of your footing. Your shoulder hardly reached his ribs; it was like walking with goliath or something. Your eyes darted around the world he calls home. Leaves as large as dining tables and pulsing, colorful vines paint the perimeter of the path. Everything smelled all fruity and minty and leafy and natural. So natural. Such a far cry from the polluted, smoky streets you’re used to.
As you walk, you reach out and take his hand with a little spurt of confidence. Your fingers feel tiny against his palm, which is broad and calloused from years of climbing rough bark and clutching bowstrings, yet, still soft. You try to interlink your pinky with his, in a small comforting gesture you used to do with your friends back home. But as your hand slides against his, you feel a smooth gap where a little finger should be.
You look down, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. You don’t notice how you didn’t before. He doesn’t even have a pinky. He has four fingers to your five.
Back in the lab, or in a textbook, this would be seen as a sort of biological distinction. But standing here, with his hand engulfing yours, the word ‘missing’ feels wrong. It’s literally just human bias. Who said you’re the standard for normal anyway? On this moon, you’re the anomaly. You’re the one with the strange, extra limb.
"I have an extra finger," you tell him softly, with a playful nudge to his side. You wriggle your hand free and hold it up next to his, spreading your fingers so the difference is clear—your five stubby digits against his four long, cerulean ones.
He looks down at your hand, his eyes narrowing with focus. He turns his palm up, allowing your smaller, neutral toned hand to rest against the shimmering blue of his. His thumb gently brushes over your pinky, tracing the bone down to the knuckle.
“Five.” he mumbles, intrigued. He looks down at your face, tracing your expression. “Why? It’s so small, does it have a function?”
He’s genuinely curious, wondering why a tool has a redundant part.
"Yeah, sure it does. Wait, let me show you," you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes that matches the spring in your step.
Neteyam gives you a skeptical, sidelong glance, his ears twitching in a wary arc. He slows his pace, finding a massive tree with roots as big as a bus to lean his broad back on. His arms cross over his chest, the muscles of his biceps bunching at the motion. “Alright,” he says, indulgent and amused. “Let’s see this.”
You stand in front of him, trying to look as serious as a newscaster. “Okay, yeah. So this is super important evolutionary stuff. “ you tell him, trying to keep a straight face as you tuck your hands behind your back. You look up at him, watching the way he tracks your every movement, not wanting to miss a moment of what you have to say or show.
You whip your hands out, both middle fingers proudly extended to the sky.
Neteyam blinks. He stares at your hands, then up at your face, then back at the fingers standing tall. "Oh, Eywa," he groans, dropping his head back against the tree.
You jump up a little, unable to help it, shoving the digits closer to his face while you dissolve into a fit of giggles. “You know what that means?”
“Yeah, I know what it means,” he grumbles, though he’s failing to hide his smile. He runs a hand through his braids, the beads clinking together. “My brother does that all the time. He has an extra finger too, you know.”
He reaches out, his massive palm easily engulfing your hand as he gently pushes the offensive digit back down into a fist, doing the same to your other hand.
“Wait, really?” you ask, coming down from you giggles. “Thats- That’s really cool. But how come? I thought Na’vi only had four..?” you ask, feeling the same curiosity he felt for you moments ago.
Neteyam looks down at your hand, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "He is part human," he says simply, voice growing a little more sentimental. "My father is a Dreamwalker.” he trails off. “Avatar. An avatar.” he confirms, using the correct term for it. “He stayed in his blue body and my brother took after him in that way. My other sister is half too.They have the five fingers. And the eyebrows."
He pauses, his gaze drifting as he thinks of his family. "My baby sister has four too, like me. ”He trails off for a second, then looks back at you.
Despite the bomb he dropped on you, your frazzled brain is stuck on one detail. "Wait, what do you mean?" you blink, leaning in. "You do have eyebrows. I’m looking at them." you say, looking at the dark arches above his eyes.
Neteyam lets out a small, dry huff. "I mean... yeah, but there is no hair. Not like yours." He reaches up, his fingers hovering near the ridge of his brow. "I don't know... it's just skin."
His hand pulls yours toward his face so you can feel for yourself. He has to crouch a little, bending his knees so you can actually reach, bringing his face a bit closer to yours. His skin is warm and incredibly soft, and his eyes lock on yours in a way that makes your breath catch.
You run your fingertips over the ridge of his brow. It’s true. There’s a dark, pigmented pattern there that mimics the shape of an eyebrow perfectly, but it’s just smooth skin.
"Ohhhhh," you breathe, your touch lingering. "I see. But they still look good. You had me fooled."
You continue to run your hand along the curve of his brow, fascinated by the texture.
As your hand slides down toward his temple, his own hand moves, catching yours and guiding it down to his cheek. He holds it there, his palm pressing yours against the slight texture of his skin. The silence between you grows heavy, the sounds of the forest fading into the background as you look at him, really look at him.
The way his bottom lip is slightly plumper than the top, the shimmering freckles that dot the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheekbones. The more you trace his tiny, physical differences: the points of his ears, the texture of a marking, the depth of his eyes, the more alien parts of him seem to melt away. The more you catalog exactly how different he is from you, the more you feel like you’re finally seeing the boy underneath his ruggedness.
“We’re not that different” you say, softly, thumbing his cheek. He leans into your touch just a fraction, letting his shoulders further relax. “But you have more… cat-like features.”, you note, your curiosity getting the better of your manners.
You shift your hand, your fingers brushing against the bridge of his nose. It’s broader than yours, strong and flat, with a baby pink hue at the tip that looks soft to the touch.
He blinks, his long eyelashes sweeping against his skin. "A cat?" he repeats. The word sounds strange in his mouth, the "t" clicking against his teeth as he tastes the unfamiliar syllable. His ears twitch back in confusion that only makes the comparison more spot on.
"Oh, sorry, sorry," you say, a small, embarrassed smile clinging to your mouth. "Well, they’re really small and furry. They’re animals…not that I’m saying you’re an animal!” you clarify, continuing, “In mythology, they used to rule over people. Actually, they kind of still do."
You let out a soft laugh at the thought, the sound echoing lightly against the massive trunk of the tree behind him. "But you have their nose. And those big eyes. Yellow eyes."
As you speak, you let your thumb move up to trace the outer corner of his eye, following the sweeping curve of his bone structure. His eyes stay fixed on yours. "And they're all graceful and stuff. Just like you."
“Graceful?” he murmurs, looking down at you. He seems to be considering the word, eyes searching yours for the meaning behind the comparison. “Is that what you see when you look at me?”
“I really do,” you start, softly, “I mean, think about it.”
You let your head drop from his face, but you don’t at all pull away from his personal space. “It’s hard to put into words. Like, on Earth, humans aren’t the biggest animals, or the strongest, but we’ve always kind of been the most… advanced. Only ones who can speak and build.”
Neteyam watches you intently, his ears tilted forward to catch every bit of your Sky Person logic. “You think having the loudest machines makes you the most advanced?”
“No, that’s exactly it,” you say, shaking your head. Having this conversation feels like finally confronting the elephant in the room, breaking some kind of invisible fourth wall between your two species. "I think it’s the opposite. Back home, we have to build things to be strong or fast or to see in the dark. But you just are those things."
You take a breath, looking at the patterns on his chest that pulse in time with his breathing. "That must be why humans are so threatened by you all. If anything, you're miles more advanced than us. You’re something that’s like us, but better. It’s like... people on Earth want to be part of the world the way you are."
Neteyam is silent for a long moment, which is a rarity- for him to be left speechless. Hearing you speak of him, his people, in that way… a wave of warmth builds again in his belly, more persistently, not something he can just brush off as curiosity. He has never met a human with such logic, despite how obviously correct your thought process is, and it unsettles him in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He feels seen, truly. Not as something to fear or something to study, but as something you’ve taken the time to understand, and that feeling lingers longer than it should. Feels… almost drawn to you, past the intrigue that comes with you being so different from him.
"We are of the People," he says, finally his voice steady. "We don’t seek to be more or less. We are just balanced with the Great Mother. Your people fight the world. You try to break it so it fits your hands."
He looks down at his own hand, still hovering near your wrist, and then back at your face. "Is that why you were sent? To study how we’re advanced?
"I was sent to learn," you admit, your gaze falling to the beaded fabric of your new top. “Not here. I wasn’t trying to go to Pandora. But it has taught me more than I would’ve.”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyes looking down at your top too, then back at yours again.
"I feel like the one who’s primitive. I’m the one who can’t even walk here without a hand to hold. Well I can. But I kind of don’t want to.”
"You learn fast," he assures, his voice surprisingly gentle. He pushes off from the tree, offering you his hand again with a grabby motion. You grin like a cheshire cat and take it, giggling out a soft omph when he tugs you lightly to catch up with his beginning steps. "And you talk a lot” he adds, more like an adjective than an insult. His fingers close around yours, his grip firm but careful, as if he’s trying to figure out how much strength he should use for someone of your density.
“Maybe a little.” you admit, your cheeks starting to hurt from your stupid, giddy grin.
“But I like this cat thing.” he says suddenly, glancing down at you at his side. “If they rule over your people, perhaps I should meet one.”
You know exactly what he means by that. Cheeky bastard, he is. Implying that he’s ruling over you too. You squeeze his hand in a tease until he lets out a soft little grunt, like he’s entertained more than anything.
"What are you trying to say?" you ask, scrunching your face up at him like he just told the worst dad joke. "Are you saying you're the boss of me because you’re cat-ish?"
He squeezes your hand right back a few times, and you can tell he’s probably using like, 25% of his strength. His shoulders lift in a loose shrug that make his braids clatter against his shoulders. “I am just saying,” he starts, nudging a small stone out of his path with his foot. “-that if your people are so easily ruled by small things with eyes like mine, then you’re in a lot of trouble today, sky girl.”
Okay, yeah. You’re definitely not supposed to like that.
“Yeah, no. You’re so not the boss of me.” you pfft, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face, trying to play it off like your stomach didn’t just do something weird at the way he said that.
He hums a dismissive “Mhmm” in reply, not even bothering to argue, nor convinced. He’s an excellent reader of cues- verbal and nonverbal. He’s got you read like a book. Knows if he told you to jump, you’d be asking him ‘how high?’ with zero hesitation after.
You keep walking, the forest thickening around you as the path dips and curves. The moss and soil pokes and tickles at the soles of your feet, and for once in a long time, you feel very connected to nature. Unlike Neteyam, who walks as if he’s mindlessly going from his bedroom to a sort of living room, you feel yourself clinging to him genuinely tighter when the foliage merges into something a little wilder. He doesn’t have to look down at you to know that he needs to slow his pace just the slightest bit, as he does.
“Tell me about your siblings,” you say, after a minute, glancing up at him as you carefully step over a particularly thick root. “How old are they? What are they like?”
He sighs, almost theatrically, tilting his head back. “Questions, questions.” he murmurs.
Your brow quirks, feeling a sort of sting. Your shoulders slump just a little, your conjoined hands falling lower between your legs. Were you starting to annoy him? Wear at his nerves? Admittedly, you’ve been peppering him with talk since you woke up, but being soft of called out on it doesn’t feel so quite nice. You steal a glance at him past the broad line of his shoulder, and quickly your smile slides back onto your face. He’s actually grinning too, eyes tilted toward the tree tops with a thoughtful, prideful expression on his face- thinking of where to start. For someone who’s so literal as you knew thus far, you didn’t realize he’d be so acquainted with sarcasm too.
“I am the oldest,” he starts, the words coming with a sort of weight. You can understand the pressures and stressors that surely come with being the first born. You mumble a mhm, willing him to continue.
“Then there is Lo’ak. He is eighteen. My baby brother.” he sighs again, sharply, as if talking about him alone runs up his blood pressure. “He lacks a filter. Says what is in his head the moment it arrives there. But I doubt it will offend you.”
“What makes you say that?”, he’s absolutely right, but you crave to understand his train of thought.
“You seem to have a way of talking back, from the little I’ve heard.” he confirms, which you cannot deny.
“I’m sure we’ll get along” you tell him, your smile growing more hopeful. You try to imagine an eighteen year old Neteyam with more of a smart mouth and five fingers.
“Ehhh,” he counters, pulling a skeptical face. “We will see. He is a skxawng, but he has a good heart. He just... finds trouble where there is none.” you can tell he means it with the most love, despite the jab at him.
"I'm sure I'll like her even more," you say, feeling a strange pull toward this girl who preferred the forest to the rules.
“So… Kiri,” he continues, maneuvering you around a vine,” She is not my blood sister, but she’s family. She sees the world in a way the rest of us do not so much. She spends more time listening to the wind than to my father’s orders.”
“I’m sure I’ll like her so much, too.” you say, feeling curious about her introspective ways. Someone being so in tune with nature resonated with you.
“And then you know about Tuk. My baby sister. She’s only twelve.” His voice grows times more fond at her mention. “She’s the loudest of us all, I think.”
You can’t help but smile even wider at that. at the beaded, leafy material covering your chest and the high-cut bottoms Neteyam had to custom-stitch just to keep you decent. You’re literally wearing a twelve-year-old’s clothes.
“So cute.” you beam, giggling softly. “She must be tall if this is her wardrobe.” You think of the baby tee trend back at home, only making you love your outfit so much more.
His eyes flick to you, crinkling at the corners. “She is growing fast,” he nods, a hint of that brotherly pride shimmering through. “To us, she’s still small, though. She has a way about her.” he shakes his head slowly like he’s already lost the argument before it even starts.
“Tell me about it,” you prod, bumping your shoulder against his arm. You can tell there’s a story there just by the way his ears are tilted back in a soft, defeated sort of way.
He looks down to his side, making eye contact with you as he continues to walk, slowing his stride just a little bit more to match yours better. The shimmers of his freckles flit in the filtering sun beams.
“It is hard to explain,” he says, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I will tell her 'No, Tuk, you cannot go to the river today, it is too high.' Or 'No, you must finish your weaving.' And she just looks at me.” He mimics a wide-eyed, innocent stare that’s so unlike his natural one, you burst out laughing.
“And?” you prompt, grinning up at him, catching your breath.
“And somehow five minutes later, I am carrying her on my shoulders to the river. And I’m holding her weaving and picking fruits for her. ‘Give them to her when she’s done. I don’t even remember the moment I changed my mind.”
A snug ache flits in your stomach, the flutter of a single butterfly. You watch the way his shoulders relax and his posture softens when he talks about being at her beck and call. He frames it like he’s just a pushover, a slave to her whims, but there’s something so inherently nurturing about the way he describes it. It hits you that he’d probably be like that with anyone he loves. Gentle, patient, accommodating. He’d be a great husband, great father someday, you know that for shit sure.
If you didn’t know it before, you know it now. It’s like the attraction that’s been simmering under the surface finally decides to bloom, sending out warm and fuzzy tendrils that wrap around your heart. You find yourself wanting to be caught in his orbit, for him to change his mind for you, too. Take care of you, too.
You blink, trying to clear the sudden mistiness in your eyes. “Well, it sounds to me like you’re just an amazing brother. You’re so lucky to have each other.” you clear your throat a taste, trying to sound more composed, not so breathless and love lorn. “I know for certain I’m in love with her already, just from your stories.”
He hums softly in agreement, eyes all wry while he appraises you. The way he looks at you, so attentive, so present, makes your heart wanna burst all over again.
"With her, you don't really have a choice," he says, his smile growing. "She will probably want to keep you as a pet once she sees you in her favorite top.”
“She gave me her favorite?” you ask, sounding like a kid in a candy store. She doesn’t even know you; complete stranger, and she gave you her favorite outfit?
"Oh, yeah," he doesn't look at you for a moment while he steers you around a puddle, keeping his hand firmly to yours."She was hovering over my shoulder the whole time I was searching the baskets. Told me to give you the one with the seed beads, that you’ll love it. She is very excited to meet you."
Your free hand drifts up, fingers brushing along the woven strap of your top, your appreciation doubling over itself. You feel wanted here. Welcomed in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
"That's so sweet," you murmur, squeezing his hand. "I’ll make sure I don't get any green stuff on it. I really hope I don’t disappoint her. I’m no genius, but I have some stories to tell for sure.”
Maybe you can show her some of the star charts you have saved on your data pad…if it survived the wreck anyway.
“Maybe you can tell me some too.” he adds, voice careful, like he didn’t mean for it to come out like that.
“I so will,” you tell him, almost too quickly.
“So,” you start, glancing up at the sharp, handsome line of his profile. “How old are you, big brother?”
"Nineteen," he tells you, gaze fixed on a group of young hunters practicing their balance on a high branch. To him, nineteen means he is a warrior, a protector. He’s a man, here, where nineteen back at home is just the start. Nineteen back at home… some guys still don’t know how to do their own laundry. You hadn’t at all expected to be the same age as him
“Nineteen.” you repeat, a small, surprised laugh slipping out before you can stop it. "I’m nineteen too," you tell him softly.
"You are nineteen?" he asks, the word sounding skeptical in his deep accent. He lets his eyes drag slowly from your head down to your feet and back up again, his brow furrowing. "Nineteen years... and you are only this big? My sister has not even seen eighteen winters and she is twice your mass." His brow furrows, the silver freckles across his nose bunching together in confusion.
You scoff, your stature feeling personally attacked. “Age is not synonymous with height, since you think you’re so smart.”
He pauses to think that over. Maybe you do have a point in that, just this once. “Then you are not as young as you act,” he says after a beat, a faint tease slipping back into his tone.
“Oh my god?” you say, louder now, turning toward him fully as you walk, escalating things ten notches while he wears a smug little half-smile. “Excuse you? I act extremely mature. I was in college! I paid taxes!”
“Do you?” he asks, enjoying this way too much. Call a girl short and she acts like it’s a slur.
“Well, I was about to. Which is basically the same thing. I’m a grown ass woman.”
“A grown woman.” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the words for accuracy. “A grown woman who sticks her middle fingers in the air to showcase her evolution. Yes, I see.”
You mutter a string of excuses, chalking your actions up to be purely educational and not a demonstration of your immaturity. You walk a few more yards in a pout, your unheld hand crossed along your chest, clutching your own bicep.
“Alright, I believe you. I will tell my father you are my age. It might make him worry less that I am bringing home a stray pup.”
You let your lips slack at his audacity. “Okay, you’re definitely dragging this now,” you grumble between your teeth, inwardly very much enjoying the banter. You screw your face up, trying to appear genuinely offended. “I’ll have you know that back home, I am a very serio–”
Whatever half-assed comeback you were about to launch is cut short as the path ahead of you erupts with movement. A tall, lithe figure sprints down the walkway toward you, her hand pressed to her lips, hushing her obvious excitement. Behind her, a much smaller girl, though still some hairs taller than you, is practically vibrating with giggles- clinging onto her hand.
You cut a sharp glare at Neteyam’s way, and he just gives you an infuriatingly handsome shrug back. He looks like he’s fighting a massive grin, clearly relieved that his sisters provided the perfect distraction just as you were about to lay into him.
You already know exactly who they are- you know damn well that na’vi don’t just run up to sky people, as you’re finding out you are. Breaking away from Neteyam’s hand to run and meet them halfway.
The taller of the two stops short in front of you, and breathtaking isn’t even enough to describe her. Her hair rustles lightly from her movement, and her eyes have the prettiest hint of green.
“Neteyam! You actually brought her!” she squeals over your shoulder, but she’s looking at you with a smile you can tell she likely doesn’t use often. “I didn’t think you’d be upright so soon, after what happened.” she says softly, thoughtfully.
Before you can even open your mouth to reply, Tuk pushes past Kiri’s legs. Even at 12, she’s above eye level with you, which is humbling to say the least. She stares at you, tail twitching a mile a minute before her eyes drop to your chest.
“You’re wearing it!,” she chirps, jumping slightly in place. Her voice is literally bubbles and sunshine, your cheeks are hurting from the amount of smiling you’re doing “Ma Kiri, look! It fits her! I told you she could fill it out.”
“Tuk! Hi girl!” you giggle, jumping a little too, her energy entirely too infectious to resist. “Hi Kiri!” you continue, looking up at her modelesque form. Tuk steps right into your personal space, circling you once. Her ears flick excitedly as she inspects you like some sort of rare specimen, head tilted just they way Neteyam’s does when he’s trying to figure you out.
“You look like a real person now,” she says, reaching out gingerly to touch one of the beads on your borrowed top. “Not like the grey thing from the metal bird. You were a little dusty.”
"Tuk," Neteyam says in a gentle, chiding voice. You can hear the warning from behind you, but you’re already connecting the dots. The way she talks about your flight suit... they must have visited you while you were still unconscious in his marui. It’s a realization that could be creepy, but coming from them, it’s just endearing. You find a warmth in the fact that they wanted to see you. You don’t mind at all, pulling the youngest Sully into a warm hug. She’s solid and warm, smelling like rain and some kind of sweet plant.
A “little” dusty? That’s one way to put it. You probably looked like a drowned rat, but they’re much too polite, or maybe even fascinated, to say so. "My gosh, did you see me in that?" you ask, pulling back just enough to rub the back of your neck sheepishly. "I'm sure I looked like a total mess. Thank you so much for my outfit. It’s way better than that suit."
You keep one arm hooked comfortably around Tuk’s shoulder, the easy closeness delighting your both. Looking up, you catch Kiri watching. Leaning slightly toward Neteyam, her head’s tilted at a curious angle as she murmurs something to him in their mother tongue. Her eyes flicker over you with a wisdom that feels far older than eighteen. You reach out, wrapping your other arm around her waist to pull her into the group hug too.
"It’s actually so nice to meet you both. Neteyam’s been telling me all about you."
Up close, the two of them are just... breathtaking. You’ve seen models back on Earth, but this is different. Their bodies are crazy tea—long, lithe, and perfectly toned, with skin that shimmers like silk under the sunlight. Kiri’s eyes are deep and soulful, while Tuk’s are all big and sneaky, but both of them share that same striking beauty.
"Aw, thank you, Sevin," Kiri mumbles, referring to your hug. She has to crouch down quite a bit to accommodate your height, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. While Tuk is all bubbles and surface-level excitement, Kiri’s hug has a more empathetic weight. She’s older; she has the depth to see the unrest in your eyes, knowing you’re likely terrified and grieving for a world you can never return to. In that one gesture, she’s wordlessly offering herself as the rock you’re going to need for a while.
“She’s staying with us, ‘Teyam! She can sit by me at the fire.” Tuk beams playfully, leaning her head against your arm. “There’s lots for you to try. You’ll love the food.” she promises, squeezing your shoulder, matching the one you gave her.
Neteyam watches the three of you, his arms crossed over his chest, but the tension in his shoulders has visibly bled away. It’s like he’s seeing two worlds colliding, but they actually fit together, the two. Really well.
He’s just standing there, looking all handsome and left out while you’re buried in a Sully sandwich.
He stays leaning against a treeroot, but he blinks expectantly, like he’s waiting for his turn. The audacity of him. Really playing the forgotten card after he’s been basically glued to your side for the last 12 hours.
"Neteyam, you are embarrassing," Kiri groans, her face scrunched as she holds you a little tighter, like she’s protecting you from a yeti. Her eyes dart between you and him, perceptively
You look up at her, then over at Tuk, letting your arm hang loosely and comfortably around her neck, using her as a human-sized shield. You scrunch your face up at him, matching his sister’s perfect grimace.
“He doesn’t need one, right?” you ask them, looking from side to side, letting your eyes dart to his only once in a tease. “I don’t think big bad warriors need hugs.”
Tuk snorts, her tail thwacking against your calf in excitement. “He’s not that tough.” she sniggers. “He was pouting when mother made him eat his greens last week.” she whispers to you, private, but purposefully loud enough for him to catch ear.
Neteyam’s jaw drops slightly, ears going pin straight for a moment, before flattening back against his skull in indignity. He looks between the three of you, realizing he is hopelessly outnumbered..
“I was not pouting, Tuk,”he retorts, though the way his voice pitches just a fraction higher than usual is a dead giveaway. "They were overripe." he defends half-assedly, smiling at the memory.
Tuk sticks her tongue out at him, leaning her head against your shoulder with a smug little grin. "Pouting," she repeats firmly, popping the 'p' for extra emphasis.
“So that’s how it is?” he murmurs, taking a step toward the group. “I carry you halfway across the forest and you leave me hugless?”
"Exactly," you said, sticking your tongue out at him for a split second to rile him up extra. "It builds character, Neteyam."
Neteyam lets out huff and shook his head, his braids clattering softly against his neck. He looked at the three of you, hardly able to tell where you ended and his sisters began. He was happy, ecstatic, that his sisters were so eager to meet your side, that they like you as much as he might be starting to, too.
"Come," he said, gesturing toward the center of the terrace where the scent of the morning meal was getting even stronger. "Before Tuk tells her any more of my secrets. My reputation is already in the dirt." he grumbled, falling into step.
You gently disentangle yourself from the sisters with a lingering squeeze to their waists, the sudden absence of their warmth leaving a small chill against your skin despite the humid morning air. You fall into a light jog, your feet silent against the woven fibers of the walkway as you hurry to close the gap between you and the tall boy leading the way.
Neteyam doesn't look back, but he shifts his stride just a fraction, his tail giving a small flick that tells you he’s acutely aware of your approach. When you finally pull alongside him, your shoulder brushing against his forearm, you look up and catch the way the sunlight catches him so nicely. For a second you’re just a little too focused on the way his jawline looks sharp enough to cut.
You clear your throat, trying to shake off the daze and reclaim a little bit of your pride. “Alright, fine.” you start, timidly. “You can have a little hug. Since you’re so deprived and all.”
"A little hug?" he repeats, the words decorated by his accent. He doesn’t bother slowing down; his long strides easily outmatch your two-step shuffle, but his lips don’t stay uncurved.. "I thought I didn't need one. Building character, wasn't it?"
"I changed my mind," you say, looking up at him with a grin of your own, trying to keep your breathing steady despite the proximity. "Don't make it a whole thing, kay? It’s a limited time offer. "
He hums absently. Without breaking his stride, his massive arm loops over your shoulders, pulling you into a brief church hug that tucks you right into his sight for a fleeting second. His skin was hot as a furnace, like a heated, weighted blanket.
He squeezes once, then lets his arm drop back to his side, his fingers trailing off your shoulder as he keeps his eyes fixed on the gathering crowd ahead.
"Gee, thanks," you mumble, rolling your eyes and looking at the glowing embers of the communal pit. You adjust the strap of Tuk’s top, staring straight ahead as if the moss on the floor is the most fascinating thing in the universe. "I feel so cherished. Truly."
"It was a 'little' hug, as requested," he counters, his voice entirely too smug.
Kiri and Tuk are just a few paces behind, and you can hear Tuk whispering loudly to her sister about how “Neteyam is being weird,” while Kiri whispers back to her, much more discreetly. As you approach a more central clearing, dozens of Omatikaya are seated on low, carved benches or directly on the vibrant ground. It’s almost overwhelming. They all look uniquely beautiful, almost fairylike, with their glowy freckles and long limbs. Some had shawls, others wore intricate beaded jewelry that only the most talented crafters on Earth could ever dream of being able to make.
As he guided you toward a circular arrangement of mats of some sort, a loud, boisterous voice cut through the imperceptible chatter of the crowd as you sat. Neteyam immediately let out a low grumble that seemed to make his chest vibrate.
A blue boy comes striding toward you, holding a large wooden bowl tucked under his arm just as he would a football.
He stops right in front of you looming over your seated form, his eyes scanning you bluntly, curiously. He looks at Neteyam first, a smirk that could only be mischievous playing on his lips, then he drops his gaze to you. “Damn,” he breathes, his voice a bit higher and much less accented than his brother’s. “You’re the human, eh? You’re tiny, bro.”
You tilted your head back, studying him. While Neteyam had a certain stoic handsomeness, Lo’ak was attractive in a more cute way, his resting face much more approachable. His braids were pulled back into a messy ponytail, with a couple stray strands framing his face. He had the same striking yellow eyes, but they were spaced a little wider, giving him an expression a little softer.
“Me and tuk are around the same height, though,” you point out, looking between the two as Neteyam settles next to you, the bareness of your thighs brushing each other just a bit. “Can’t be that small.”
To see if he’s actually as laid back as he seems, you hold out a tentative hand to his standing form, cupping it in invitation. Lo’ak blinks, his ears flicking forward in the utmost surprise. He looks at your hand, then back at your face, a slow grin breaking across his lips- all fangs and pearly whites. He reaches out and daps you perfectly without hesitation; your hands make the most satisfying thwack.
He drops down onto the mat across from you, still grinning ear to ear as he sets his bowl between his legs. “Yo,” he chuckles, shaking his head so his beads clatter. “Didn’t know you were chill like that. I thought you’d be all.. I don’t know-uptight. And science-y like the others.”
“I have my moments.” you chip, the tension in your shoulders relieving a bit more.
"I’m Lo'ak,” he adds, leaning forward slightly like he’s already decided you’re cool enough to engage with properly “Since my brother doesn’t know how to give proper introductions."
Neteyam rolls his eyes, reaching for a berry like he’s not even going to entertain that."I was getting to it.” he mumbles begrudgingly around the fruit. Usually he’s the one being all teasing and putting Lo’ak on the spot, but with you under the family’s scrutiny, he feels a little bit of a way about the way you might be approached.
You tell Lo’ak your name, matching his smile with a softer one.
"Yeah, don't worry," he says, leaning back on his palms casually. "I already know. We all do."
"Oh, really?" you ask, your smile widening into something a bit more teasing. You can’t help but turn to look at Neteyam, wondering exactly how he's been describing you to his family.
You find him already looking at you, quickly averting his gaze when you meet his, embarrassed he was caught staring. He turns his head to look up at Kiri, saying something in Na’vi- low and quick while gesturing vaguely with his hands. Whatever it is, it makes Kiri’s eyes shimmer with amusement.
"He says the food is getting cold," Kiri translates with a graceful shrug, though the playful side eye she gives you says that is absolutely not all he said.
She and Tuk gather their own bowls, the hollowed-out wood clattering softly as they settle into the circle around you. A few other Na'vi, presumably friends of the siblings, drift into the mix as well. They’re all strikingly tall and lean, their skin glowing in differing shades of blue and indigo as they sit cross-legged on the vibrant floor.
The atmosphere is lively, filled with the gorgeous, foreign sounds of their language and the earthy, sweet scent of the meal. Being tucked in between Neteyam and his sisters, and even Lo’ak, you realize for the first time that you’re apart of their circle, just that quick.
"Don't mind them," Tuk whispers, scooting closer until her shoulder is pressed against yours. She starts excitedly pointing out which fruits are the sweetest, and you wish you had a notepad to take notes- she’s got some pretty good intel.
Across from you, Lo'ak leans over to ask Kiri something about the morning’s hunt, and within seconds, they’re bickering over their food in a way that feels universal, regardless of what planet you’re on. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to not laugh at the insults she’s throwing at him. Tuk is caught in the middle, trying to steal a berry from Lo'ak’s bowl while he’s distracted.
Neteyam pretends he doesn’t hear, nor see. At this point, he’s most definitely learned to drown out whatever petty arguments his siblings get into after years of endurance. He sits cross-legged, his long knee occasionally brushing against yours as he works. He assembles a bowl for you, selecting a variety of unfamiliar, vibrant foods:some translucent and amber, others a deep, velvety violet.
He leans in when he’s satisfied with your plate, placing the wooden bowl in your lap gently.
"Eat," he encourages softly, his voice tucked under the noise of Lo'ak and Kiri’s squabbling so that it feels like the two of you are in a different room entirely. He watches the way you eye the sustenance, continuing, "I have tasted it all first. It is good."
You look down at the colorful spread, then up at him, feeling your belly grow warm again. "Thank you," you murmur, meeting his eyes. "I don't doubt it's good at all. I'm just looking at how pretty it looks."
He chuckles, low and breathy. “Then I know you’ll like it,”
Ugh, that sound. You can’t get enough of his deep laugh.
He picks up a small, nut-like seed and cracks it between his fingers with effortless strength, offering the heart of it to you. "Try this one. It’s a favorite of my people. It tastes of…” he pauses, trying to describe the taste in english. “The deep earth."
Neteyam pauses, the small seed held between his large thumb and forefinger. He moves to drop it into your palm, but you don't reach out. You look up at him, tilting your head back slightly as you part your lips tentatively.
"My shoulder's too weak," you explain, dropping your voice a bit in mock exhaustion. Your eyes glint- half innocently, half daringly. It’s a bold faced lie, your shoulder, at this point, feel just fine. But come on, he’s right there. You’re definitely gonna take advantage of your circumstances just a bit more.
He pauses, hand hovering just inches from your face. He looks down at your oh so weak shoulder, and then back at your mouth, his browbone quirking almost imperceptively. He doesn’t call you out on it, despite knowing damn well you’re playing your condition up. He leans in, carefully placing the seed-nut whatever onto your tongue. His fingertips brush against your lower lip, the contact feeling a lot more intimiate than it should be around all these people.
You chew, the flavor feeling like it’s exploding onto your tongue It’s like a peanut but… just a million times better. Buttery, earthy, faintly sweet as you swallow it down.
"Good?" he asks, his voice a little scratchy as he watches you, his own throat bobbing as he swallows.
“So good. Better than a peanut.” you murmur, leaning back a little more to get all comfy while you eat.
“It is a tskxemauti,” he says softly, “It gives strength. Perhaps it will help your weak shoulder.”
You grin at him, then reach into your own bowl to grab a few more of the seeds. You crack them open with a bit more effort than he used, but you manage. You lightly nudge Tuk with your knee.
“Open up, Tuk-Tuk,” you tease. She beams, happily accepting the snack from your hand, going back to listen to some kind of story Kiri was recounting, eyes flitting to you every so often.
You turn back to him. “It’s not even really weakness.” you say, keeping your voice light as you lean further back into the earth. “I just physically can’t feed myself. Right, Tuk?”
She turns to you, cheeks puffed out with a mouthful meat. You give her a big, chesire smile, and she instantly gets what you’re doing. Swallowing, she nods. “Yeah… yeah. She literally can’t, Nete,” she chips, looking up at her big brother with a perfectly executed pout that matches yours. Oh, she’s good. While he’s looking down at you, she tosses a cheeky little side glance your way. Yeah, she’s the best wingwoman.
Neteyam lets out a long, slow breath, his ears drooping just a fraction in defeat as he realizes he’s been double-teamed by a twelve-year-old and a human. He knows he’s being played, but doesn't actually mind at all.
“So,” he mutters, voice low, a little dry, “I have two children to look after now.” There’s no real bite to it. If anything, the corners of his mouth are already starting to give him away, twitching like he’s trying not to smile and not trying that hard.
He reaches back into the bowl, his large fingers selecting a piece of fruit now. He doesn't even bother offering it to your hand. He just waits, the fruit held steady.
"Since you are so... incapacitated," he adds, the words coming out slow, "I suppose I have no choice. Open."
You take the fruit from Neteyam’s hand, the sweetness of the nectar literally making your toes curl.
The meal feels less like a survival ration and more like a five-star tasting menu, only with better views and a much more attractive waiter. Every time he leans in, the faint scent of something woodsy envelopes you, and you don’t even try hiding the way you’re sniffing up his pheromones. He’s methodical about it, his large hand moving back and forth, feeding you, feeding himself. He’s definitely kind of very hot, with the way you can see how sharp his bone structure is looking up at him, and the almost tender look in his eyes every time he waits for you to chew.
"This one," he murmurs, holding up a slice of something that looks like a translucent star. "It is from the high trees."
You part your lips, and he slides the fruit in. The flavor is bright, citrusy, and strangely effervescent, popping on your tongue like some kind of expensive champagne. You lean back against the springy moss, feeling pampered in a way you never expected.You're pretty sure you’ve peaked.
Every few bites, you reach into the bowl to snag some more of those delicious nut things, or a handful of sweet, purple pulp to feet Tuk. Her head rests on your shoulder, and you’re kept busy keeping up with her. It turns out that despite the blue skin and the tail, she’s basically your spirit animal. She’s got a million questions, a comeback for everything Lo'ak says, and a level of bubbly energy that mirrors your own perfectly. You realize with a start that your sense of humor is almost identical; you’re both quick witted and playful, making the rest of the table groan with your coordinated teasing.
"Eywa, then—and then." Tuk giggles, nearly choking on a seed in her haste to get the words out. "He came back covered in green slime, entirely. And Mother made him sleep in the lower hammocks for three days because he smelled like rotting swamp-root!"
"It was only two days." Lo’ak grumbles from across the circle, eyes rolling to the sky. "And it wasn't slime, it was medicinal algae! I was helping Kiri!" he defends, holding his hands up in a shrug.
You burst out laughing at the face Tuk makes, Kiri’s eyes sparkling down at you. She’s sitting right behind you, her long, slender fingers moving through your hair in a way that’s incredibly soothing. Every time you make a jab at Lo'ak, she lets out a soft amen or a hum of agreement. She carefully weaves a thin, tight braid into a front strand of your hair, securing a pretty, iridescent feather and a few smooth beads into the end of it.
"In my world, he wouldn’t live that down" you tell them, giving Tuk a little nudge while Kiri puts the finishing touches on your new braid. "Back home, if you did something that dumb, your friends would record it and show it to everyone you ever met for the rest of your life. It's called digital footprint, Lo'ak. You'd never escape it."
Okay, you might be playing it up just a little bit. But they don’t have phones, computers, nothing. Might as well sensationalize it just a little.
Tuk’s eyes go wide. "You can capture the shame forever? Sky People are truly terrifying."
"We have our ways," you joke, scrunching your face at Lo’ak, who just flashes his fangs and tosses a seed at your head, which Neteyam effortlessly bats away with a flick of his wrist. “Oìsss si” he warns, under his breath. Somebody call the ambulance because your uterus is on fireeeee.
He scrapes the bottom of the wooden bowl, offering you the very last piece of meat, watching as you swallow the final bite. He looks at your face– flushed from laughter and stained purple slightly at the corner of your mouth. You look wild in the best way.
“I see now why the Great Mother sent you to us,” he murmurs, reaching out to catch a stray drop of fruit juice from your jaw. “You are just as much of a headache as my sister.”
“Ay!” you and Tuk snap, almost at the exact same time, shooting him identical furrow-browed glares. His eyes crinkle at the both of you, affectionately. “I did not say it was a bad thing. A little noise is good for the soul.”
His hand slips away from your cheek, his fingers tailing slowly over the new braid Kiri made, the touch featherlight. He picks it up between his fingers and lets it drop back down to your shoulder with a small clack.
Lo’ak pushes himself up slightly, stretching his arms out with a groan like he just remembered the concept of time exists. He glances toward the path behind the group watching as the other Na’vi gather their things and disperse, then back at Neteyam with a heavy lidded look.
“Bro,” he says, dragging the word out dramatically, “don’t we gotta go soon or something?”
Neteyam exhales through his nose, like he’s being pulled out of something warm he didn’t realize he was settling into. Not exactly annoyed, just kind of aware again. For a moment, you made him forget himself. But the weight of his responsibilites settle back onto your shoulders. He glances at you again, a sorry written in his eyes.
“Training,” he confirms simply, the word directed more at you as an explanation as he pushes himself up from the moss swiftly.
“And I haven’t even finished my pulp,” Lo’ak complains, though he’s already reaching for his gear. Your eyes drift to Tuk and Kiri, in their own side conversation once again.
“Because you spend too much time talking, little brother.”Neteyam counters. He reaches down, hand wrapping around yours to pull you up to him. He keeps hold once you’re on your feet, ensuring you have your balance before he let go.
You sigh a little dramatically, the idea of "responsibilities" feeling incredibly unappealing. You offer a hand to Kiri and Tuk, helping them up as the circle begins to break. You look down at your feet, then shoot a playful look up at Lo’ak. "Try not to take any more algae baths today, okay? I don't think I can handle the smell of swamp-root."
Lo’ak barks out a laugh, genuinely delighted by that shot. He daps you up one more time with a satisfying smack before grabbing his bow. He nudges Neteyam with his elbow right in the ribs, a massive cheese on his face. "I like her, Neteyam. Can we keep her?"
Neteyam doesn't look at Lo'ak, focusing very intently on adjusting the leather strap of his quiver, his ears giving an embarrassed flick. "She is a guest, Lo'ak. Not a stray pet," he says firmly, sternly, despite having called you exactly that less than an hour ago. "Go, get the ikran ready. I will catch up.”
He jogs off to catch up with a few other young soldiers, knowing he definitely rattled Neteyam just a bit.
He turns to you, beckoning his finger for you to follow him. “Come. You should have something of your own if you’re to stay with my sisters.”
And of course you follow, like a stray puppy, promising Kiri and mostly Tuk that you’ll be right back. He leads you away from the more communal area, heading toward a more private cluster of woven platforms, the short walk leading to his family’s living space. As you walk, you catch your reflection in a small, still pool of water gathered in a puddle by your feet. You slow for a second, frowning at the sight of your face. Bare, slightly flushed from the humidity, and completely devoid of the products you used to pride yourself in applying.
“I look a mess,” you mumble, more to yourself than him in complaint. “I feel so bare. I’d give anything for a mirror right now.”
He looks back at you as he walks, confused by the concept of makeup, head tilting slightly. He looks at your face- the way Kiri’s feather rests against your temple, the curve of your jaw and the natural, neutral tone of your skin. He might not understand your need, but he can pick up on the insecurity in your voice. “There is always the water,” he says simply in an attempt to help, gesturing toward another puddle.
"Yeah, if only it stayed still," you mutter, frustrated. "I just feel unfinished, you know?"
He gives you a brief dismissive shrug, eyes scanning over your features once more with a blunt gaze. “I don’t see the problem, you look fine to me.”
Wow, he really does have a way with words. Swooner.
He reaches into a woven satchel near a miscellaneous sleeping mat and pulls out a small, curved blade sheathed in leather. A utility knife it looks like.Small enough for your hand but sharp enough to cut through tough vines. He hands it to you, the hilt warm from his touch. “To defend yourself, or to cut though the thick vines if Kiri takes you exploring.” You take the knife, feeling the weight of it in your hand. It’s functional and beautiful, much like everything else here. “Be careful with it. It’s sharp.”
"Thanks, Neteyam," you say softly.
He nods, taking the knife back from you as if he forgot something so simple. His brow furrows slightly, a look of calculation crossing his face as if he’s solving a complex puzzle in his head. He drops into a kneel, a movement that brings him down to your eye level for the first time today.
"What are you trying to do?" you ask, tilting your head.
"Don't make it weird," he teases, a flash of those white fangs appearing in a quick smirk.He reaches out, his large hands finding the woven waistband of your borrowed bottoms. He pulls you a few inches closer, the proximity so sudden that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest. You stumble forward an inch, your breath catching as he leans in to slide the knife into a small, hidden loop on your loincloth that you hadn't even realized was there.
His hands linger on the waistband, his knuckles grazing the skin of your hip as he looks up at you, his golden eyes searching yours. "Are you having fun?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," you breathe, the word coming out a little airier than intended. "I am. I did."
A look of visible relief washes over his features, his ears giving a soft flick. "I am happy to see you get to know them so easily," he admits, "I was worried they would be too much for you. My family... we are a lot."
"I like 'a lot,'” you reply, trying to school your breathing into something a bit more controlled. Being this close to him, close enough to see the individual specks of light in his iris, is doing something funny to your resolve. The heat of his hand hasn't left your waistband. It feels like it’s gotten warmer, his thumb tracing the very edge of the fabric in a way that makes your insides feel like they’re melting into a puddle of goo.
You decide to lean into it. You’ve always been good at this back home, you’d say you have some pretty good game. You bat your lashes at him, your voice getting all playful and needy.
"I don't want you to go," you tell him, tilting your head just enough to make it a challenge.
You lean in just a hair, giving him the best doe eyes you can manage. You let your hand drift upward, your fingers tangling in one of the intricate braids near his temple, feeling the cool beads and the soft texture of his hair. You know he has to leave,duty calls and all that, but you’re determined to make sure he thinks about nothing else while he’s gone.
He hums, a more knowing smile gracing his features. He looks genuinely amused, not at all flustered.His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.
“Aw, you gonna miss me?” he asks, gently, his accent thickening just so. His hands slide up from your waistband, going flat against your bare waist, palms large enough to meet at the small of your back. He rubs up and down your sides in a slow, soothing motion, the feel of his smooth skin against yours making your brain shut off for a sec.
Oh, shit, you think, your mind short-circuiting. You’re so easy. He knows exactly what you’re doing, and he’s playing you better at your own game, matching the exact energy you give him.
"Yeah... I will," you squeak out, your voice a octave higher than you intended. You squirm instinctively in his hands, but his grip only firms, his thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist to keep you exactly where he wants you.
His thumbs still and he stays there for a moment, kneeling at your level, weighing the heat of your gaze against the pull of the duty waiting for him outside the marui. It feels like a silent negotiation, one where he’s trying to decide exactly how much of himself he can afford to leave behind in this room.
"Yeah..." he murmurs."I figured as much."
He tracks the way your hand is still tangled in his hair, the way your body has naturally gravitated toward the heat of his chest.
"I have to go," he adds, his voice growing more hushed.
His hands slide along your sides one last time before settling back at your waist, more grounding. "You will be with Kiri and Tuk," he says, a slight tilt of his head indicating his sisters only a small walk away. "They will not let anything happen to you." He assures you, knowing that he is someone that has been familiar to you, someone you can trust. But you have no doubt that you can grant Kiri and Tuk that same trust. Not one bit. “I won’t be far.”
“I know that.” you tell him, wetting your lips with your tongue out of instinct.
It’s a line drawn in the sand, but one made of silk rather than stone. He’s refusing to let things escalate, yet the way his fingers linger against your skin betrays the logic of his words. As your fingers tighten instinctively in his braid, his nose flares almost as if on instinct, his body trying to take more of you in, get to know you better.. He catches himself, his jaw shifting as he swallows hard, his composure finally beginning to fray at the edges.
He reaches up, his large hand moving with the softest gentleness to untangle your fingers from his braid. He guides your hand down without letting it drop, his thumb grazing your knuckles in a slow caress that feels more intimate than the kiss you were seeking. He’s trying to keep the balance, trying to remain responsible even as his pulse thunders against the pads of his fingers.
He guides you back toward the communal area his stride shortening to match yours. The woven walkway hums beneath your feet, but the only thing you’re truly aware of is the warmth radiating from him. It’s like the heat of his body cuts through the humminity. When you reach the area where Kiri and Tuk are already deep in concentration, huddled over a collection of iridescent beetles that scuttle across a flat stone, Neteyam brings you to a stop.
He places a heavy hand on your shoulder, his palm large enough to cover the entire curve of it.
“She is back,” Neteyam announces, his voice carrying enough to make both sisters look up.
“I am back.” you mimic, making your voice sound all heavy. Kiri doesn’t pick up on it, thinking you’re just being extra thorough, but a little snigger falls from Tuk. You just know he’s smiling a little bit behind you, too, something to diffuse the tension you accidentally on purpose created while you were alone. His thumb grazed the base of your neck in a parting gesture before he stepped back, preparing to leave. "Keep her out of trouble, Kiri. I will return when the sun touches the horizon." Yeah, like you need a babysitter.
Kiri offers a knowing smile, her gaze darting between Neteyam’s stoic face and your flushed cheeks, and Tuk clocks it too, waving a blue hand his way.
You watch him turn and walk away toward the other boys, smiling at the sight of his tail hanging lowly. Cute. You reach down, your fingers brushing the hilt of your new knife, feeling totally badass.
The second Neteyam’s tail vanishes around the curve of the massive trunk, you let out a high-pitched squeal that’s been literally waiting in your throat since the moment you met these girls and you collapse backward onto the springy, glowing moss. You sprawl out like a starfish, staring up at the dizzying heights of the trees where the light comes in flecks of green and gold.
“I’m back i’m back i’m back!” you grin, sighing. "Oh my god," you groan into the humid air, a huge, giddy grin plastered on your face that you couldn't wipe off if you tried, partially cause, duh. Obvious reasons. And the fact that you’re getting your first dose of girl time of the week- you’d haven’t even hung out much with your girls before you went on this voyage.
“You’re so back!” Tuk immediately flops down next to you, her golden eyes wide and brimming with a mimicry of your own energy, her tail was almost wagging and it was too endearing. Kiri remained seated and cross legged near your head, tugging playfully on your braid. “After you snuck off for an hour.” she adds.
“Girl, that was like, 7 minutes tops.” you playfully grumble, looking up at her through your lashes with a sheepish smile.
You relax further into the ground, finally feeling the tension bleed out of your shoulders now that the presence of the brothers is gone. "I couldn't say anything while the boys were standing right there because their egos are already big enough," you say, your voice hush hush and secret as you look at the two of them. You gesture toward Kiri’s long, lithe limbs and the three strand twists that adorn Tuk’s hair. "But you are so freaking pretty. Like it’s crazy.”
The confusion you expected doesn't last long. Social norms must not be so different. They all get as giddy and excited as you, Tuk’s ear flipping back excitedly. She squeals with you, and Kiri giggles, tugging on a straight strand of her hair.
“Thank you!” Tuk chips, leaning into your side. “That is so kind! But I mean, we are not that out of the ordinary, you know? Everyone in the clan looks like us. Kiri is just Kiri. And I’m just Tuk.” "
Kiri tucks some strands of hair behind her ear, playing it up all mock bashfully. “Right? I mean.. Irayo, truly. But we are just as Eywa made us. Is it really so different where you come from?”
"It is, like you don't get it," you insist, nuzzling closer, your eyes darting between them." Earth girls, sky people, literally pay thousands of dollars—like, a crazy amount of resources—to try and look even a little bit like how you do naturally. They want the high cheekbones, the long lashes, the body. People use needles and paints and all sorts of things to even start looking the way you do."
Kiri gasps dramatically, reaching out to adjust the feather she tucked into your hair. "They pay to change their skin? The Sky People are even stranger than my father says."
"They're obsessed," you groan, leaning back on your elbows. "The dark want to be light. The light want to be dark.”
“And tell us about this paint? Like war paint?” Tuk asks, raising her browbone.
You giggle at that. Ah, the innocence. “No no, it’s like. Well it’s called makeup. We use it to hide things we don’t like about ourselves, like just little imperfections. Or better times, to play up what we like.”
They both hum in consideration, learning a new side of a coin. “Why would they want to hide what the Great Mother gave them?” Kiri asks thoughtfully, trailing her thumb over your forehead lightly. “I like your skin, to be clear. It is the color of the earth, the trees, the sand, the clouds. An.. earthy tone, yes.”
“You know, that’s pretty much a real phrase back home. You’re not so shabby, ‘K!” you tell her, thanking her with an even bigger smile at her compliment.
“And I think you’re pretty too.” Tuk chimes in, looking up at the sky. “Even if you don’t have a tail to wag when you get all happy. I can tell when you are anyway because your face gets all red and purple and pink.”
"Actually, it’s mostly just red and pink for me," you explain with a giggle, reaching up to press your palms against your cheeks, which are still radiating a residual heat from your excitement. "It’s called blushing. It’s when your heart starts racing, usually because you're embarrassed or, you know, excited. It kinda just pumps all the blood right up into your face."
Tuk reaches out a small, sapphire hand to tentatively poke your cheek, as if checking to see if the color will rub off like dye. "It feels so warm," she marvels, "Like a little sun under your skin."
"Exactly," you say, propping yourself back up on your elbows. "And I bet you guys do it too! It probably just looks a little different because we have different pigments. Maybe it’d be purple. Like a bruise, but... cute? Sometimes people paint that on too.”
Kiri tilts her head in thought, fidgeting with a plant. “It must be so tiring, yes? The people of your world working so hard for what Eywa gives freely?”
"It's exhausting," you agree, sighing as you feel the weight of the utility knife resting against your hip. You can see the slightest bit of your upside down reflection in a dewdrop, itty bitty. But you feel content.
Tuk rolls over onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. “Neteyam thinks you are pretty too,” she tells you, letting her elbow nudge against your sides a few times. “He looked at you like you were the only piece of fruit in the whole forest! He was being so quiet.. And weird.”
"He did not!" you squeak, feeling certain you’re blushing now. Blasted blood vessels.
"He did," Kiri confirms in a teasing, singsong voice. "His heartbeat was very fast when he was feeding you. I could hear it from here."
You bury your face in your hands with a groan, Kiri following after Tuk in giggles.
“Gosh, like.. I don’t mean to just talk about your brother right in front of you, but he really is something.” you sigh love lornly. “I mean we surely have to get to know each other. And I never even imagined I could feel something like this for someone.. So different than me.”
Tuk and Kiri immediately scoot closer, sensing the shift into ‘girl talk’ mode. They lean in so intently that Tuk’s ears brush against your shoulders and Kiri’s eyes are focused entirely on your face.
"Different?" Kiri murmurs, her head tilted with genuine curiosity. "Is the heart not the same across the stars? It beats, it warms, it yearns. Does it matter if the skin is the color of the sky or the color of the earth?"
"I mean, yeah, theoretically," you say, propping yourself up on your elbows. "But Tuk, Kiri... let me tell you about the guys back on Earth. It’s a whole different world."
They both lean in closer like you’re about to reveal some classified, world-ending secret, Tuk’s tail flicking sharp and impatient while Kiri just watches you with that quiet, knowing look like she already sees half the answer before you even say it.
“Tell us,” Tuk whispers, practically vibrating. “Are they like Neteyam or Lo’ak?”
“Oh, no, love,” you laugh, the little beads Kiri just worked into your hair clinking softly when you shake your head. “I mean, yeah, there are some handsome guys back home, I’ll give them that. Humans can be good-looking in their own way. But they could never get as tall as even you, Kiri. Most of them would have to look up at you just like I do. Honestly, some of them would need a crate just to look you in the eye.”
Tuk’s eyes go wide, like you just told her gravity works backwards on Earth. “They are all… small? Like you? How do they reach the high fruit?”
“They don’t,” you giggle, flopping onto your side and propping yourself up on your elbow. “They build machines, or ladders, or just wait for someone else to do it. That’s kind of the thing. They don’t have to be strong like you guys do, so… a lot of them just aren’t.”
Kiri tilts her head slowly, ears flicking in that thoughtful, almost skeptical way you’re starting to absolutely love. “The hunters do not seek? They do not show their strength to win a heart?”
“Hardly,” you sigh, twisting a little thread of moss between your fingers. “It’s like… they expect you to do it. They’ll sit there and wait for the girl to make the first move, do all the emotional heavy lifting, tell them they’re pretty. It’s exhausting. And half the time, they’re talking to like five girls at once.”
Kiri’s ears flatten just a touch, a soft look of distaste crossing her face. You feel a little guilty in a way, like you’re ruining human guys for them, but it truly is their nature. You don’t have it in you to act as if they’re some divine gender race.
Tuk leans in so close her nose almost bumps yours. “But they bring you food, right? The best meat? They braid your hair?”
You snort at that. Poor Tuk. “Girl, no. If I wanted a guy to provide something, he’d probably send me a link and tell me to buy it myself.”
Both of them blink. You blink right on back. Yeah girls, better believe it.
“You can capture things forever,” Tuk mutters, still stuck on your earlier comment, eyes narrowing. “And you send each other… links?”
“We have our ways, like I said” you grin a little too slyly. “But yeah,” you continue, your voice dropping a little as you glance down at the small curved knife resting beside you, fingers brushing the handle without thinking. “Na’vi men… it’s just different. They sew their own gear, they hunt, they provide, they protect. I’ve been here less than a day and I’ve already seen more competence than I saw in years back home.”
“Yeah?” Kiri asks, nodding, listening intently.
“Yeah. Ye-like, Neteyam didn’t wait for me to ask for food, he just made a bowl and fed me. He didn’t wait for me to ask for protection, he just gave me a knife. He sees something missing and he fills it. Your men are raised on great values” you say, trying to steer the conversation away from their brother, as the point you were making was general either way, extending to each and every one of their men.
Tuk’s tail is basically wagging now. “So Neteyam is a Great Hunter in your world too?”
You groan as he’s brought right back up again, dropping back onto the moss and covering your eyes with your hands. “This is insane. I literally crossed space to study biology and instead I’m like… getting a masterclass in how a real man is supposed to act. From a guy with blue skin and a tail. My friends back home would think I’ve lost my mind.”
Sneaky, cute ass Tuk out of nowhere flops onto your stomach with a giggle, knocking the air out of you a little. “Oof—okay, hi hun,” you laugh, the wind temporarily knocked out of you, wrapping an arm around her so she doesn’t slide off. Even though her legs are long enough that her feet dangle way past yours, she still feels small to you.
She props her chin on your chest, grinning up at you. “I think you found it.”
“Found what?” you squint at her, a little theatrically.
“Your mind. And the better kind,” she chirps, letting her hands tangle in your hair. You snort but don’t at all deny it.
It feels so good to see a twelve year old with this much pure, childlike whimsy. You can't help but think about the girls back home; at twelve, they’re already trying to emulate young women, caked in makeup and mocking whatever college-aged hussies are doing on social media. Not having that pressure here feels so healthy. Tuk’s curiosity is such a gift.
“And it’s not just that,” you add, looking into her almond eyes, and Kiri’s who joined the two of you in laying down.“Even physically, it’s different. They grow beards! Like, a lot of hair. On their faces they’re beards.”
Tuk recoils immediately, her nose scrunching. “Hair? On their faces?” Kiri props herself on her elbow, brows furrowed.
“Yeah,” you laugh. “Chins, cheeks… it's like.. they’re basically wearing a fuzzy sweater made of their own skin.”
Kiri makes a soft, horrified gasp, feet comfortably resting on your leg. “A sweater of skin… is it soft?”
“No,” you grin. “ It’s scratchy. Imagine hugging something that definitely has not bathed in a while.” Okay, you’re dragging it, again. But it’s entirely too fun seeing their shocked expressions. Tuk’s ears flick in disgust. “That is terrible.”, she pokes her tongue out in a blech.
“Right? And then you guys…” you gesture lazily between them. “Skin’s so smooth and pretty. And so shiny. Not even a competition.” you tell them, appreciation laced in your tone.
“And Neteyam?” Tuk presses immediately, eyes sparkling.
You let your head tilt to the side, a dreamy sigh slipping out before you can stop it. “Okay, miss match maker. I feel like you’re never letting me off the hook.” you playfully poke her side. “Help me out here Kiri!”
“I think that Tuk is right to press you.”
She giggles under her breath. “I mean, you speak of the Sky people as if they are made of dry husks and scratchy skins, but when you look at my brother, your eyes turn to hearts.”
“I will tell him you like him.”, the little voice on top of you promises, wicked glint in her eyes.
“Tuk! don’t you dare,” you squeak, immediately sitting up, but you’re already laughing too hard to be sincere. You give her a playful shove, which she absorbs with a toothy grin. You grab her back, laying your heavy head on Kiri’s belly so she can feel some of your anger. Because giggling and cuddling is surely the best way to showcase that.
The three of you eventually fall into step as they lead you through the living layers of the Hometree. You have to force your jaw closed at all the stunning plants and organisms you see. Vines that almost have their own heartbeat, leaves that react as you walk past. The floating, fluttery woodsprites that flit like butterflies.
You dine twice, tasting steamy teylu. You decide that it’s the Na’vi version of shrimp, but obviously, it is lifetimes better than shrimp. You feel the warmth of the sun kissing your skin, and the tickle of Kiri’s tail urging you to keep up with their long strides. Some curious village girls' eyes linger on you as you pass, but when you offer them a smile, most softly smile back. For a split second, your mind drifts back to the sterile white labs and the harsh school air of the university; you think of your friends, classes, family. But you push it down, let it simmer. You know you’ve got to live in the now with the cards you’re dealt. So you let the gorgeous foliage smother your anxiety.
The day peaks with the bluest blue, and it fades to a purple. The air cools and the plants jostle with a brisk wind.
“The sun is touching the horizon,” Kiri observes, her eyes tracking a streak of orange light through the distant treetrunks. Her voice sounds even more melodic with the wind accompanying it.“We should take you back to Neteyam’s marui. He will be returning from the cliffs soon, and he is the one tasked with your care, after all.”
“I mean, I feel fine, my shoulder.” you say softly, looking from her to Tuk. “Do you all usually turn in around this time?”
“Hmm, no. Turn in, as you say. Not yet, we don’t,” Kiri explains as they lead you back toward a more familiar path. “There will be the evening meal at the common fire"
“Another meal? But we already ate right?” you ask, catching up to them a bit, adjusting your speed accordingly to their quick, light feet.
“Kiri is right,” Tuk says, skipping ahead and glancing back at you with a playful, toothy grin. “I am a growing girl! I think your stomach is a lot smaller than mine. ‘Gotta eat again.” she pats her belly as if to emphasize the infinite void within.
You can’t even argue with that logic. Your sort of shrimp dinner was filling, but Tuk seems to have a bottomless pit where most people would have a stomach.
“The hunters will tell their stories tonight,” Kiri adds, her voice steady and soothing as the forest floor begins to glow brighter beneath your feet. “My mother and father will return to the circle.”
You grimace at that, a small shiver of social anxiety shooting down your spine. You try to remember what they were called. As you were spending the day, Tuk and Kiri gave you the whole run down. Olo'eyktan! That’s what. Their dad, the leader. Jake Sully. Dreamwalker. Mother, Tsahik, spiritual guide. “Yeah... I don’t know if I’m quite ready to face the Olo'eyktan and the Tsahìk just yet.” you say tentatively, testing the pronunciation on your lips. “You both have done an amazing job of hiding me so far.” You let out a nervous little giggle, navigating a thick root that you recognize from your blurry trek earlier that morning. The path is becoming familiar,the way the moss cushions your step, the specific lean of a curved branch.
Kiri gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “They will know in time. But I think laying low for now is for the best.”
You can’t argue with that either. As the three of you reach the entrance to the marui, the air has turned even more crisp, the skin of your bare belly flaring with goosebumps. The woven walls of the dwelling remain study as can be even in the wind, and some sort of light source from inside spills out like an invitation. And you are NOT declining it.
“We are here,” Kiri announces, coming to a halt. “We might bring you something from the feast later in case you are still hungry.”
Your chest warms at that. “Thank you so much Kiri. But I’m seriously stuffed, I wouldn’t want you to go through the trouble. I had such a fun day with both of you.” you beam, nuzzling into their sides.
“So did we.” Tuk tells you, sincerely, leaning down a hair to kiss the top of your head. “Goodnight future biologist!” Tuk chirps, using the words you taught her, giving you one last, bone crushing hug that you return with the same cling.“Try not to miss us too much, okay?”
“I’ll try really hard. But I will miss y’all.” you sigh, giving her and Kiri an i-don’t-wanna-go look.
“You’ll be okay.” Tuk promises, “You don’t even have to be scared of the dark. Neteyam snores. He will scare the predators away.”
You bark out a laugh at that, imagining him asleep with his mouth gaped open. There’s absolutley no way. Only one way to find that out, though.
“Tuk!” Kiri scolds gently, though she’s stifiling a laugh too, giving you a tight squeeze of her own.
You bid your last goodbyes and they turn, disappearing into the brush. You admire their retreating forms. The sisters you never knew you needed. You take a breath, centering yourself, and step through the ferns, alone. The silence of the home immidiate, profound. It feels bigger than it did this morning, with you being the only one to fill the space. The scent of him hits you, almost as if on cue when you take your third step in. So masculine, clean, sweet. You sink onto the thick pile of furs where you slept before, the knife he gave you pressing against your leg as you sat.
You sigh to yourself, remembering hours ago. Walking with him alone. His blue hands rubbing your waist. Crazily, you miss him more than you miss Earth.
Sleep is the absolute last thing on your mind. You’re way too stimulated from the girls. You reach into the sheath at your waist, pulling out a pink, trumpet-shaped flower you tucked away around the midday.
Without a phone to check or a television to distract you, you find yourself doing something you haven't done since you were a little kid. You just... sit. You use your fingernails to gently peel at the succulent stem, stripping it into long, thin blades, mesmerized by the way the sap glows faintly on your skin.
Time begins to stretch and warp in a way you aren’t used to. Minutes feel like hours, but not in a way that’s boring at all. You feel present. You feel the luxury of having ample time. To take a breath, gronud yourself. You notice the way the glowing plants cast shadows over the wall decorations. The charms hanging from the ceiling, rack of spears, the woven baskets filled with what look like sharpening stones and material scraps. Everything in the room has a purpose, and was made by not an assembly line, but agile, blue hands.
Every tiny sound outside makes your ears perk up. A distant footstep on a branch, the rustle of a heavy leaf. You find yourself holding your breath, wondering if it's the steady, heavy tread of a certain someone returning home.
You look down at the shredded flower in your lap and let out a soft, self-conscious laugh to yourself. So needy, so destructive. The silence feels like a warm blanket, holding you in place while the rest of the world, the labs, the technology, the humans…feels like a dream you’re slowly waking up from. You find yourself leaning your head back against the wall, closing your eyes just for a second, letting the quiet take over you.
The sounds of the village outside starts to fade into something a little more specific. You hear the thud of heavy, athletic footsteps from seemingly miles away, getting louder every passing second. Your heart starts pounding before the smile can reach your face, and you scurry from your slouch, smoothing the ties of your top. "Oh god," you whisper, your hands flying to your hair to smooth down any stray frizz. You try to arrange your body in a position that looks more like you’ve been meditating and not staring at a wall for half an hour, and the strands of your abused flower lay arrayed on the floor.
The curtain at the entrance rustles, and then, he’s there. He ducks his head slightly to clear the entryway, and he’s really, really there, your eyes absolutely starving as they take him in, not knowing where to look. Fine droplets of mist cling to his skin, but to you they shine like diamonds. He smells like the forest, like the rain, like him.
He stops dead in his tracks the moment he sees you.His ears shoot forward in surprise, before they give a confused flick. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, and you realize he’s been catching your scent for the last several hundred yards. He clearly thought his nose was playing tricks on him, or perhaps he was amused, thinking it was your scent lingering from the morning. Seeing you actually sitting there, bathed in the soft glow of the plants, catches him off guard.
“You,” he breathes, voice gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken for a little bit. His large hand’s still gripping the frame of the entrance, his eyes appraising you.
“Me,” you squeak, giving a small, pitifully awkward wave from your spot on the floor. “Surprise?’
A slow realization begins to dawn on him. He looks at the way the mats are laid out and the fact that his sisters are nowhere to be found. You can practically see the gears turning behind those yellow eyes as he realizes that Kiri and Tuk had intentionally steered you here and then vanished into the night. Those sneaks. You realize at the same time as him, imagining them on their walk back, probably laughing evilly, rubbing their hands together.
The corners of his mouth twitch. It’s not quite a smirk, but a look of begrudging respect for his sisters' meddling. "They told me you were with the healers," he murmurs, finally stepping fully into the room. He unslings his heavy bow, leaning it carefully against the wall, and begins to unwrap the leather bracers from his forearms. He does it slowly, his eyes never truly leaving yours. You can’t help but stare right back, the sigh of him undressing so easily, so casually, making your loins stir. "I thought you would be nursing that weak shoulder you have."
"I, uh… Well I got distracted," you say, looking down at the mangled flower in your hand and then back up at him, your lip worrying its way between your teeth, He looks so, so good. You catch the way a singular vein is nuzzled under his bicep, bulging from his accessory removal.
He moves further into the small space, his uptight posture seems to melt off him. He drops his knife onto a stone ledge and turns to face you, the heat radiating off his body somehow drifting your way.
"I am not complaining," he says softly, his voice so raspy it makes your toes curl into the moss. He reaches up to unbind the leather strap across his chest, the muscles of his torso rippling under the bioluminescent light. All his movements are fluid, and you find yourself tracking the way the light catches the intricate, darker blue stripes of his skin, wanting more than anything to reach out and trace them. Him being away from you is a very, very dangerous thing. You feel almost feral for him now, like his pheromones are calling out, telling you to come here, come to him.
"Have you eaten yet?" he asks, his eyes on only you.
You nod, your fingers absentmindedly twisting a loose thread on the sleeping mat. "Yeah," you murmur, your voice pitchy with nerve. "Kiri made sure to keep us fed. I mean she and Tuk... they're really good at that." You pause, the normalcy of the conversation grounding you,"And you? Did you eat?"
His eyes search yours, lingering on the way Kiri’s feather braid rests against your cheek. A soft, private smile spreads more apparently on his lips.
“Yes, a little,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “But today was…today was long. The trail- the wind was sharp.” he’s tumbling over his words a little, and you pout ever so slightly in a little frown, taking in the slight tension in his broad shoulders. You hope he isn’t pushing himself too hard; the thought of him exhausted while he’s fussing over you makes a little knot of guilt form in your body.
“I think I am going to go get a snack. Something to take the edge off.” he gives himself a self deprecating laugh. “My dad says that sometimes. Taking the edge off?”
"Mhm, I know what it means," you say, a genuine, fond grin breaking across your face. Watching him try to navigate the clunky idioms of your world is probably the second cutest thing you’ve seen all day, the first being Tuk.
“I will be but a moment.” he mumbles, the last thing you see being his tail as he slips through the ferns.
He returns even quicker than he did in the morning, stepping in rather hurriedly. His face is flat, but his tail wags. He moves with a newfound softness, his heavy tread replaced by something hesitant, almost shy. In his large, four-fingered hands, he carries a small woven bowl, but an object resting on top of it catches the bioluminescence of the room, throwing sharp silver glints against the ceiling.
He doesn't even say anything at first, and you’re surely not gonna be the one to break the silence. You wonder if somethings wrong, if you maybe upset him? Silent treatment time?
He crosses the distance between you in two long strides, sinking onto the mat close to you, so close that the heat radiating from his shoulder makes your skin prickle. That his leg brushes against yours, and the flecks in his eyes are ample for you to gawk at. You scoot even closer, wanting to make sure you can feel your skin on his smoothness. He offers you a timid, almost uncertain smile, his ears tilted slightly back in a way that makes him look nervous.
"You spoke of the water, I recall," he says softly, "And how it does not stay still for you."
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your palm as he places the object in your hand. It’s cool, heavy, and startlingly familiar. You look down and realize it’s a shard of glass, a thick, reinforced fragment from the wreckage of your pod. You feel a momentary urge to look away as the memories of the crash bubble up. But as you flip it over, and back again, you realize what he’s done to it.
The glass has been painstakingly ground and carved into an almost perfect circle, the sharp edges smoothed into a soft curve. Around the rim, he placed a border of dark, textured bark, woven together with thin, silver-colored vines that look like delicate lace-work. It looked like something hand crafted you’d find in a vintage boutique, dainty and beautiful. For a moment you’re at a loss for words.
"I used the stones by the river to smooth the edges," he explains, his gaze fixed on your hands as you hold the mirror. "And the bark of a tree to hold it. I thought if you were to stay here, you shouldn’t feel bare, as you called it."
You lift the mirror, and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you see yourself clearly. Not a blurry reflection in a puddle, but you. Your hair isn’t as wild as you thought, not after Kiri and Tuk’s fingers weaving through it throughout the day. You see the pretty feather against your temple, the glossiness of your skin and the slight flush on your forehead. You definitely look different, but it is in the best way.
"Neteyam," you whisper, your voice thick with a sudden, unexpected emotion. You look from the mirror to him, seeing the small, shy smile playing on his lips, a look so uncharacteristically vulnerable that it makes your chest ache. "You did this today? You went back there for me? To that place?"
He shrugs, a slow movement that brings his shoulder even closer to yours. "It’s just glass," he says, giving a dismissive flick of his ear, yet it’s as though his freckles glint with pride. "But it holds your image still. Now you can see what I see. I thought I’d give it to you tomorrow, but I also thought you’d be asleep by now."
“Neteyam,” you mumble again, his name catching in your throat, weighted with restraint. You want to kiss him, bad. Just reach out, grab that beaded collar and pull him down until the world around you fades. The urge to just jump his bones is so overwhelming you have to physically grip the edge of the mirror to keep your hands from shaking.
"I mean... I don't even know how to thank you," you whisper, all your sass and snark from earlier completely evaporated.
You scoot impossibly closer, your hip brushing against his rigid thigh. You could get drunk off how warm he is, how good he smells. “C’mere,” you murmur, beckoning him into the small circle.
You hold the pretty mirror up, tilting the glass so it catches the indigo glow of the dusk. As you adjust it, you purposefully brush your arm against his, the skin still so smooth.
Seeing the two of you together, framed in the same reflection is absolutely surreal. Your neutral skin of your shoulder smushing against the gorgeous, oceanic blue of his, striped like a tabby, or a tiger. His braids behind the curve of his shoulder, one side freed from behind his ear, framing the sharpness of his jaw. His freckles that glow just a little bit more in the dark. Seeing him is one thing. Seeing your reflection is another. But seeing you together, your face and his face. It’s everything all at once.
Neteyam goes remarkably still. His ears pin back in a feline manner, in a sort of almost distant unfamiliarity. His yellow eyes are wide and searching as they trace the sharp line of his own jaw. You realize then that he clearly doesn’t look at himself often, and likely not in years with this much clarity. He sees his reflection in the stirred silt of a river or the distorted curve of a wet leaf, but never like this. Never this still. Never this clear.
He probably had the glass tilted away from its reflective side while shaping it, even. Likely didn’t have a second thought about it. To him, his body is a tool for hunting, to protect his people. A vessel for the great mother, not something to be admired in a shard of glass.
He tracks the way your shoulder rests against him, his gaze dropping to where your skin meets his. His eyes narrow, as if he’s seeing a stranger in himself. He looks at the way the light catches the lustrous freckles on the bridge of his nose, then his gaze shifts to you, right there beside him.
"Is this..." he starts, his voice uncertain, "Is this how I appear to you? So... sharp?"
“I mean, it’s kind of reflected,” you tell him, turning to look at him too. “What you see and what I see is flipped. But yes, I see you clearly like that.” you confirm, resting some of your weight on your palm at the floor.
"Do I look as I should?" he asks softly, his hand moving from the mirror to settle on the mat just inches from your hip, his ring finger hooking around your pinky in a shy, tentative anchor. "In your world, would a man like me be... enough?"
You look down at your hands, his large finger caressing yours, almost like you’re the very thing that can quell his rising consciousness of himself. The question is so vulnerable it makes you feel closer to him than any physicality could grant. You look at the mirror one last time, and you realize that no artifact, no museum, and certainly no guy back on earth could ever compete with the masterpiece sitting right next to you.
“Neteyam,” you breathe, hushed. “In my world, they don’t even have a word to describe you. You’re more than enough, you’re everything.”
Your words simmer between the two of you for a moment.
“Do you like it?” you start again, gaining some of your voice back. “The way you look?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes fixed on the bark-rimmed circle in your hand. He looks at himself again, his features, stripes, freckles, ears. Then slowly, almost tentatively, at the way your small, human hand is curled around the mirror he made for you.
He lets out a slow breath that fans across your cheek, smelling sweet.
"I have never thought to like it," he admits, thoughtfully. "I look at my hands and I see the string they pull. I look at my legs and I see the miles they have run."
He turns to you again, some of his dark braids falling over the curve of his shoulder. "But seeing it here..." He gestures vaguely to the reflection, where your shoulder is still pressed firmly against his arm. "Seeing myself next to you, it's different. I feel less like a collection of parts and more like a man."
The sentiment is so beautiful it’s almost overwhelming, making your chest ache with a rough affection. Deciding the mood is getting a little too heavy for your racing heart to handle, you wriggle your pinky away from his ring finger on the mat, flexing your arm in a mock-tough gesture.
“Grr. Like a man, huh?” you ask, your eyes dancing with mischief as you try to lighten up the mood just a little bit.
He scoffs from his chest, amused, and nudges your shoulder with his arm. “Funny girl.” he murmurs, though the warmth in his eyes says he doesn’t mind the deflection. “Sure, I suppose.”
He gives a quick, effortless flex. The muscles beneath his skin bunch with a power that was hidden just a second ego. Your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat. Holy sleeper build. You knew he was strong, but seeing his biceps peak up like that up close makes your tongue dart out instinctively to catch some stray spit before you actually start drooling over him.
Your hand reaches out with a mind of its own, your fingertips grazing the firm, hot muscle of his upper arm. It’s like touching a rock with silk on top of its surface. He looks down at your hand with a humble, almost bashful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He reaches over with his other hand and gently takes yours, guiding it back down to the softness of the mat. He interlaces his long four fingers with yours, pinning your hand softly yet firmly beneath his palm.
“And you?” he asks lightly, leaning in just a fraction closer to you. “‘You like what you see?”
Your eyes, which had been locked onto his with such intensity, suddenly bolt away. You find yourself inspecting a random woven basket in the corner, then the texture of the mossy floor, then a hanging decoration, the mirror you were holding so surely placed shakily onto the furs.
"I mean-well, y’know.." You stammer, your voice jumping an octave as the words trip over each other. A simple, easy to answer, yes or no question at that. And you’ve somehow forgotten how to use your words.
You more than like what you see. You love what you see. You want to take a mental photograph of the way he looks at you and pin it onto the walls of your mind, forever and ever. Maybe that's it. You like what you see so much, admitting it would be flat out embarrassing. The familiar bloodrush to your cheeks arouse, and you’re hyper aware of the weight of his hand resting on yours, the rough pads of his fingers sending little flicks of sparks up your arm and to your sides.
“Like, it’s a lot,” you compile, blurting out. Your free hand mindlessly twists at the material of your loincloth. “I mean, you’re really tall. And the way you look is… it’s really good.” You groan softly, squeezing your eyes shut for half a second. “Your face is stupidly pretty. Like offensively pretty. It’s actually annoying.”
He lets out a genuine laugh that makes his chest rise with breaths. He leans in just a bit closer, at that point to rattle you a little more. He seems to find your sudden shyness fascinating, his head tilting as he watches the way you’re pointedly avoiding his eyes.
“Offensively” he parrots, slow and teasing, tasting the word like he’s deciding if he likes it. “So my face attacks you now?” You let your eyes roll to the ceiling at his literal-cy, but you’re still smiling.
“I thought I was supposed to worry about thanators. Not my own face.”
He reaches out with his free hand, his palm cupping your jaw to turn your eyes back toward him. His touch is impossibly light, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek where you’re the most warmest.
“Hey,” he says, coaxingly, just firm enough to pull you back. “Don’t look at the walls, tawtute. I’m right here.”
“Okay,” you surrender, adjusting your irises. When your eyes finally meet his again, there’s a flicker there that wasn't there before, something softer than pride, something a little more… human, almost.
“You say things like that,” he continues, voice low and even, “and then you look everywhere but at me.” His smile grows a little more boyish, lopsided. “How am I supposed to know if you mean it?”
His gaze drops for just a second, not lingering long enough to make it obvious, before coming back up to yours, steadier this time. “I think that if you like what you see, you should not be so afraid to say it.”
“Well, I think you already know the answer and you’re just putting me on the spot.” you tell him accusingly. You bite your lower lip until it stings, providing the only tether to your restraint. Every inch of you feels like it’s being toward him by a massive, invisible magnet. It aches. Feels like the few inches of space between your lips is states away.
His thumb brushes higher, tracing the more firm curve of your cheekbone. “Is that what I’m doing?” he asks, much too innocently. “Putting you on the spot?” his hand goes to the back of your neck while his thumb trails down your face, grazing the very lip you’re biting until you’re forced to let it go. “Maybe it’s something I'd like to hear. Do you always hide the truth behind such pretty, nervous words?”
“Exactly that,” you tell him, your voice teasing and pleading. You scrunch your face at him in mock annoyance, wrinkling your nose in the way he seems to find endlessly fascinating. The kind of face you’d make at a guy back home who was teasing you too much. But here, under Neteyam’s scrutiny, it feels like trying to block a nuke with saran wrap.
Neteyam scrunches his pink-tipped nose right back at you, a perfect, mirror-image of your own defiant expression.
You shriek out a laugh, huffing. “You’re the worst!” but your hand stays right where it is, underneath and interlaced with his. He hums, knowing damn well you don’t at all mean that.
"Well," he murmurs, his thumb still tracing the line of your jaw, "Do you? Do you like the way you look? In the glass I carved for you?"
“The mirror,” you correct.
“The glass.” he corrects your correction. So stubborn sometimes, you’re learning he is.
"Mhmm," you whisper in answer, finally letting the truth win. "I do." It’s one of the few times you’ve said that without your foundation on.
"That’s good," he says, thumb stroking the back of your hand before releasing your fingers. Digits rubbing your nape once before letting go.
He doesn’t at all pull away, but his focus shifts as he reaches to his side. HIs fingers dip into the bowl he brought. You watch as he picks a single plump berry from the pile. It’s a deep crimson color, nearly black in the dim light.
You can’t look away while he brings the fruit to his own lips. His fangs flash, sharp and white, as they puncture the taut skin of the berry. The juice blooms across it, staining his lips momentarily before he licks it away. Instead of eating it, he catches a thick drop onto the pad of his thumb, his eyes flitting down to yours again. He leans into you, the smell of the tartness perfuming the air.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your heart picking up its pace a little at his proximity.
“For you,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed entirely on your mouth, pupils dilated to see more of you. “Some makeup. Since you missed it so much.”
His thumb makes contact. The juice is cool, but his skin is scorching. He drags his thumb slowly across your lower lip, staring at the center and moving outward. His touch is firm enough to make your lips tingle but soft enough that it feels like a caress. You find yourself leaning into him, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of him painting your lips.
It’s so intimate. The way he looks at your mouth like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen, his ears erect at his focus. When he finishes with your lips, he takes another drop of the dark juice and reaches up to your cheekbones, blending the color into your skin with the softest strokes. Slow, circular motions that make your mind spin in the same way.
“There,” he whispers, accented, his face so close now that your foreheads nearly bump. He reaches for the mirror, tilting it up so you can see. His hand is so steady even as yours is shaking. The stain makes your eyes look darker, more intense, and the flush on your cheeks is highlighted by the rich pigment, a pretty rose color.
You brush your lips with your own thumb. Shit, you’d kiss yourself if you could. And you smile at that too, knowing that his thoughts must mirror your own to some degree.
“Thank you,” you grinned, your smile growing even wider on your flushed lips. You felt a spark of your old self returning, the you who loved to play up her features in the mirror with her products and potions. You decided to push it, have some more fun with this, with him. You tilted your head, your eyes dancing across his face. “I think I like some on my nose too. Just a little bit, like a sun kiss.
His ears relaxed, giving a delighted flip your way. He reached for another berry without hesitation, bringing it to his mouth. THis time, you didn’t even pretend to look away. You watched more closely, tacking the way the muscles in his jaw shifted as he took a bite, and the momentary flash of those pearly fangs puncturing the fruit. The dark juice pooled at the corner of his mouth once again, only for a split second before he caught it. It was so effortlessly hot that you felt an even stronger, fluttery ache settle deeply in your belly.
He caught the fresh nectar on the pad of his thumb and leaned back in, his shadow falling over you once more. His browbone furrowed in concentration as he worked. He placed a bold, wet dot of red right on the tip of your nose, blending it with another slow circular motion.
“This?” he asked between circles, looking into your eyes with a light uncertainty only you could balm.
His brow ridges lifted in a look of adorable confusion. He began to laugh lightly after a moment, the deep sound mingling with the lightness of yours. “I’m sorry,” he chuckles, “ Who’s this Rudolph? Is he a red animal?”
You nibbled on your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Nothing, nothing. Earth story. He has a very bright nose.”
He softened, his eyes dropping to your nose and back to you. “May I?” he asked softly.
You didn’t even have to think about it, you trusted him wholly, with a depth that should have been terrifying for someone you’d known for 24 hours. You would let him paint your entire world if he asked.
He maintained eye contact with you, bringing his thumb to his lips to lick away the excess juice and wet it with a quick, feline flick of his tongue. He murmured a quiet apology, something about being clumsy. You felt the cool dampness as he gently smeared the stain off the tip of your nose, his touch lingering many seconds longer than it needed to. Felt so warm and cold at the same time. Tingly and rough.
“Do it on the bridge instead,” you instruct, guiding his hand with yours until his thumb rested in a more central point of your nose.
He followed your lead, dragging the juice across the bridge of your nose in a straight shape, blending the pigment with the side of his finger until it looked like a natural blush.
“Fi’fya?” he asked, the question slipping out in his native tongue as he lost himself in the task. You looked at his mouth as he said it, stupid smile on your face. He only realizes his mistake when you continue to have that big smile for a little too long.
He blinked, clearing his throat. “I meant.. Like this? Is this better?” he corrected in english.
You looked in the mirror, seeing the perfect, delicate line of color he created. It tied everything together, making your features pop against the nighttime light. “Mhmm,” you hummed chipperly, “Perfect!”
He set the mirror down slowly, his hand tracing your jaw. He looked at his finished work, at you, as if you were the most precious art piece.
“You look pretty,” he said, the words simple and unadorned, but perfectly melodic in his accent. You feel like he means it, all the more. “You were already.” he clarifies quickly after, “But you’re smiling more now. With the makeup.”
“Thank you,” you say softly, your lashes flitting downward as you struggle to hold those big, yellow eyes. You lean into his hand, the size of your face engulfed in his warm palm. Someone as ethereally beautiful as him calling you pretty felt like the ultimate validation. Like being crowned almost. Like being seen.
“Can I.. Can I give you some, too?” you ask, your voice gaining some more of its footing. You gesture to the bowl and up at his skin. “It’s okay if not. Like, I know back home, sometimes guys can get really weird about-”
He calls your name once, cutting you off gently, eyes shimmering with slight amusement. From him it sounds like a song, the vowels are stretched in his deep accent. You stop, lips slightly parted. You obey him of course, like the puppy you are for him. He looks at you with a half-lidded, patient expression. “I don’t really care about what the men of your world think. If it is from your hand, I will wear it. Go on.”
Your grin only widens, all 32 of your teeth seemingly on display. You can tell he’s subtly telling you again that you talk too much, but the way his eyes are all soft for you makes it feel more like an endearment than a critique.
You reach into the bowl and pick one of the bloody red berries. Following his lead, you bite into it and you are not at all prepared for the flavor. It’s sharp, medicinal, bitter, the taste making your entire face scrunch up, not just your nose. “Gosh, you really like these?” your voice muffled by your quick swallows in an attempt to get that taste AWAY from your tastebuds. “They’re so bitter! Like a really punchy tea or somethin’”
You can tell he’s trying not to laugh at your misfortune. “They keep my mind sharp on long days.” he explains, watching your reaction in delight.
You do not at all even try to eat the rest. “At least the color is nice,” you reason, carefully collecting a dark, thick drop on the pads of your fingers. You lean in closer with your knees knocking against the hardness of his thigh. Your hand trembles ever so slightly as you press your fingers against his taut cheekbone. His skin is so fascinating. Cool to the touch, yet still adorned with a scorching internal heat from within. Smoother than any human skin could dream of being.
You watch the red juice blending with the blue of his skin. Thumb ghosting over his white, glowy freckles, they stain purple in their glow though the pigment. Almost lavender. You blend it upward toward his temples, making sure your touch lingers much longer than it needs to.
“There.” you lean back just an inch to admire your work. The purpley tint makes him look almost softer, warmer. Like he just stepped off a sun drenched beach laughing in the heat. “So pretty Neteyam.”
You move to the other side and repeat the process with a delicate touch.The way his eyes follow every movement of your finger through his peripheral is almost too much to take, and you have to pretend you’re way more focused on your little fruit-makeup artistry than the fact that he’s looking at you like that.
“Now we’re matching!” you tease, finally finished.
Your fingers drop from his face, moving to clutch the mirror. He shakes his head lightly, his braids clacking and swinging. He sees the way your eyes light up when you look at him,and that’s enough for him. He knows it looks good. “It’s fine, I believe you.” he tells you low and easy.
You narrow your eyes at him immediately, clutching the mirror to your chest like evidence in a trial before placing it down. “No, I think you just wanted an excuse to dramatically swing your braids around.”
His ears flick once, betraying him before his face does. “Maybe.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, like maybe that was completely possible and maybe he wasn’t ashamed of it at all. “They looked impressive, yes?”
You gasp all dramatically like he admitted to a crime. “You’re worse than I thought. So you admit it? You’re vain.”
He actually smiles at that, small and crooked and unfairly handsome, his tail giving the faintest flick behind him to match his ears. “No,” he says, leaning down just slightly, voice quieter now. “I was only being polite.” he adds like he’s helping you out.”If you are going to stare so hard, I thought I should at least give you something nice to look at.”
Alright, he’s playing with you now. You make the most offended noise possible to convey your disdain.
You crack your knuckles with two satisfying pops, squaring your shoulders like you’re actually about to start swinging at him. He tracks the movement of your hands, his dark brow ridges lifting in a look of mock terror that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. He leans back an inch, breathing out a “Please!” in exaggerated concern, watching as you prepare for a battle he knows you’d lose in roughly two seconds.
His eyes sharpen, narrowing on your hand. He catches your wrist, his grip large and warm as he gently unfurls your clenched fist, until your fingers are splayed. On the side of your index finger, a dark smear of juice is beginning to dry, overlooked from your artistry.
He doesn't take his eyes off yours as he brings your hand to his mouth without much thought about it. You feel the wet, scratchy texture of his purple-stained tongue as it sweeps across your skin, licking up the juice with a feline flick. You’re kind of frozen in place watching, the sensation of his fangs lightly grazing you sending tingles through your core, zipping down to your toes.
“Finger licking good, huh?” you giggle with nerve. You lean your weight back on your palm trying to put a little distance between the two of you. Because there’s a certain little devil on your shoulder screaming for you to sling yourself over his thighs, tell him you’ve got some juice all over your lips he’s got to lick up too.
He rolls his eyes, a very human gesture he must’ve picked up from his father, some air falling from his lips in a huff. “You are very messy,” he says, not sounding particularly bothered by it. He releases your wrist, pausing for a bit to consider your words.” But yes,” he adds after a moment, popping another one of the bitter berries into his mouth.
He chews with an ease that honestly baffles you. You watch his jaw work, the blue skin stretching the sharp line of his mandible, and you can’t help but make a gagging noise. “I genuinely don’t understand how you eat those like they’re candy.” you groan, giving him a side eye. “They taste like batteries.”
“They are not so bad,” he counters, amused. He shifts more comfortably on the mat, his thigh brushing yours again as he leans toward the other side of the bowl.” You just have a sky person’s palate.”
Technically, he’s not wrong. But he agrees that they are pungent, so your taste buds must not be too far off. He sifts through the pile of fruit, the dark, bitter ones until he finds the cluster of what he’s looking for. Smaller ones, lighter in color, looking almost like solidified honey drops.
He grasps it between two fingers, holding it up to your mouth instead of offering it to your hand. His eyes lock onto yours, waiting for you to take it. You though, you immediately recoil. No way you’re eating another one of those. You did not ask to play bean boozled. “Nah uh. Fool me once, Neteyam. I know it’s gonna be worse.”
You emphasize your point by tucking your lips inward, pressing them into a flat, tight line until they practically disappear. You widen your eyes defiantly in a look that says hell no.
He stares at your face, head, his tail flicking in genuine bewilderment. He looks at your mouth. Well, where it used to be, and the back at your eyes. “Where did your lips go?” he asks, his voice breathless with a surprised laugh. “How did you do that?”
He tries to mimic you as he did before, pressing his own mouth together. But with the way his fangs slightly tuck, he just ends up looking like a confused, yet very handsome blue cat. He lets out a muffled, frustrated sound before bursting into a bright, barking laugh at himself, and you snort a little stifling yours. “You do that to keep from talking so much, huh?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” you hum through your teeth, refusing very adamantly to open up.
“So strange. It is like your face is made of water.” he brings his hand up to your lips again, the warmth of his thumb catching onto the corner of your mouth. He grazes the skin just below your nose, this thumb hooked gently as he coaxes your lower lip back out from its hiding place.
“Open,” he instructs, letting his finger fall between your lips, just toying with you however he likes at that point. He holds the goldenish fruit closer, the scent of it, like honey and warm citrus finally reaching you.
“It’s sweet, I promise. I would not give you the bitter twice.”
And duh, you obey. Before you can even think to resist. Your mouth parts just a fraction. You can feel the tightness of your pupils dilating when he moves closer, wanting to take as much of him in as you possibly can. He guides the fruit into your mouth, his fingertips grazing the edge of your teeth and the tip of your tongue as he places the sweetness there.
He wasn’t telling a single lie. It’s so sweet it’s almost too good to be true, you can’t believe nature here can produce something so pleasant. It’s like honey, lemon, or citrus. But even those words do little to describe how yummy it is. He keeps his thumb at your mouth, stroking it absently, smiling all big when he can see all over your face that you enjoy its flavor.
“May I have another one, please?” you ask, the words a little muddled with the remnants of the pulpy texture in your mouth. You hate how easily you’re folding, but the flavor is almost addictive, and the way he’s looking at you so attentively makes you want to be fed by him forever.
He doesn’t tease you for the quick turnaround, he wouldn’t. He does just as you ask, reaching into the bowl for a slightly plumper one. “Yes ma’am,” he obeys, sliding it into your mouth with the same careful movement of his fingers.
You chew happily, letting the sugar hit your system and the citrus wash over your palette. “This is so yummy.” you admit, finally giving him the win. You scoot back, rearranging yourself on the plush furs of his sleeping arrangement. Your shoulder brushes against the woven wall as you sink down until you’re lying on your back. You aren’t quite ready to close your eyes, but the weight of your limbs feels heavy and pleasant, and the material beneath you feels better than a cloud would.
“Sleepy?” he asks, his hand resting idly on the mat near your head
“I’m not going to sleep yet.” you mumble, staring up at the patterns in the ceiling. “Ground’s so soft, is all.”
Neteyam stays propped on his elbow for a moment, his eyes tracking the way your hair fans out across the material. The light catches the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the little makeup you so happily applied for him.
“Lay with me?” you ask softly. You turn your head toward him on the furs, giving him that same doe-eyed look you gave him this morning, the one that had him BASICALLY all over you.
He looks at the space beside you, then back at your face, his expression unreadable for a moment. He caves, shifting his weight, stretching his long sapphire limbs out. His frame takes up nearly the entire length of the mat as he settles onto his back beside you. It drips under his weight, pulling you just a fraction closer to him. His shoulder brushes yours without trying. He gets more comfortable, the beads and feathers in his hair clacking softly. He rests his hands behind his head, satisfied.
You look down at the length of your body, the contrast between the two of you almost comical. Your thighs squish against the furs in that relaxed way they do when you’re just lounging in your dorm back home. The feeling of the loincloth is so minimal it’s like you’re just chilling in your favorite pair of panties. Pretty dang comfy.
Your eyes travel further down to where your feet end around his knee area. His legs just keep going on for days, long and lean and corded with muscle that’d put a footballer to shame. You feel like a doll compared to him.
A tiny snort escapes you when you look at your feet side-by-side. Your five-toed, human feet look so small and delicate next to his. His look like... well, like duck feet, broad and powerful with only four toes, built for gripping branches and probably swimming through creeks.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice vibrating through the furs and into your shoulder. His ears flick toward you, catching the sound of your stifled amusement.
“Nothing,” you dismiss, though you’re still staring at his feet. “I’m just observing the anatomy. You’ve got some flippers there.”
He scoffs from his chest. Bending one of his legs at the knee, he brushes his foot against yours in a quick, playful swipe. His soles are soft, only slightly calloused with a roughness that likely comes from a life of being barefoot. “They are the size they need to be,” he counters, his tone dry. “Maybe yours are simply too small. I don’t know how you stay upright with such little things to balance on.”
He finally turns his head, his cheek pressing into the softness so he can look at you sideways. His freckles look extra bright like this, with some shadows casted onto him. Seeing him like this, laying down so relaxed. Horizontal. Seeing him horizontally, really is something.
You’re both quiet but for both of you it’s heavy. His tail gives a small thump at the space near your ankles. You can tell he’s taking your face in with the way his eyes scan your face up and down, east west.
You shift onto your hip, propping your head up with one hand so you can get a better view of him. You take the opportunity to slide your feet (which are perpetually cold) against the solid warmth of his shin. You expect him to flinch or nudge you away, but he doesn’t even blink. You like it that way. He’s almost like a heating pad against your chilled arches. Works for you!
“Teach me some Na’vi,” you request lightly. Your voice is all hush hush, perfect tone for late night sleepover talk. Being this close, at eye level, makes everything feel ten times more intimate.
“Mm. You want to learn?” He looks thoughtful for a moment, irises scanning your face as if deciding where to start. He reaches out, hand moving slowly across the furs until his index finger finds the tip of your nose. He taps it once, very gently.
“Ontu.” he says, the word popping with a soft, glottal sound. “Your nose.” You flare your nostrils at him and he half-smiles. A blue finger drags down your philltrim, to your cupid’s bow. “Seyri. Lips.”
You repeat the word softly. He lets his fingers slide down to your hand, which is resting between the two of you. He picks it up, turning it over to inspect your palm before interlacing his fingers with yours.
“Tsyokx. Hand. Though you call it a palm sometimes, yes?”
You nod, mesmerized all over again at the sight of your fingers interlaced. The heat from his grip grounds you so.
“What about… I’m sleepy?” you ask, your eyes drooping every so slightly.
He shakes his head, his braids shifting with another soft clack. “No. That is a boring thing to say. If you’re tired, you simply sleep. You do not need a word for it.”
You tilt your head, watching him intently. “Okay,” you say, drawing the word out like you’ve just had the greatest idea in history. Cause, you do. “Teach me how to flirt.”
Neteyam narrows his eyes immediately, already suspicious. “That is not a language lesson?” he tell-asks you, skeptically.
“No, no, it absolutely is,” you insist, squeezing his hand like that somehow proves your innocence. “Like, say I’m trying to pick up a pretty village girl.”
His ears flick once, catching the shift in your tone. “Or, or, or,” you add quickly, escalating the scenario. “You are. Say you are. Put me onto game.”
That gets him smiling. He looks away for a second, staring up at the woven ceiling like the sky might rescue him from this conversation.
“I must?” he asks with a sigh. But you know he wants to. You know it. That’s why you’re grinning ear to ear, nudging your cold feet higher against his warm hammies. He sighs louder, dramatic in the way of someone who is absolutely going to indulge you anyway.
“If I were to impress a girl,” he starts slowly, “I would not use lines. Like Lo’ak would. I’d probably just be honest.”
“Boooo,” you groan immediately, letting your eyes flick to the side in a roll. He’s being such a buzzkill. “Wrong answer. I want smooth. ‘Want the village girls fainting.”
“That is because you think flirting is a performance,” he accuses, lifting your hands a little higher to his comfort level.
“No,” he says, looking at you more thoroughly now, dipping his shoulder so his eyes are lined perfectly with yours. “It is paying attention.” he continues.
“You notice what she likes, remember what she says. Bring her the best of the hunt and carry her when she tires.” his voice softens a bit, his breath ghosting over your face. “That is flirting.”
That was disgustingly attractive of him, gosh. “I mean, that’s nice.” you start, acting like you couldn’t care less about his chivalrous ways. “But still. Teach me words. Pretty words. Pretty girl words.”
Uhh, pardon? You blink, trying to remember the syllables he said, it was fast. Sounded much more intricate than the body parts he taught. “Sue…lang?”
“Syulang,” he repeats again, slower the next time, emphasizing the breathy s sound. You watch the way his blue lips navigate the unfamiliar phonics. “Flower.”
You gasp softly. “Oh, that’s good. Calling girls flowers? Incredible work, ten out of ten.”
He gives you a skeptical hum, but his eyes at the corners manage to crinkle. “You could say, ‘Nga syulang.’ “
Hmm, sounds fancier. “And that means?” you ask, letting a brow raise.
He hesitates just enough for you to know he’s choosing his wording carefully, his thumb ghosting over your wrist. “You are beautiful,” he dotes. “Like a flower.” The words would need further context, but he doesn’t let you know that fun fact. Hearing it from him obviously makes you swoon.
“Okay, okay. Next?” you ask, looking at the wall and back into his eyes. He watches you again for a second, lids heavy. He can hear the way your heart is thumping, but he chooses to take the high road and not make any prodding comments.
The one sounds different. More sound, more round, more intimate.
“Beloved.” he tells you before you can ask. “Ma’Yawne, Ma’Yawntu. My beloved, my love. It’s not casual, you don’t throw it around at everyone.”
The moment feels entirely too intimate. Yawne. His yawne. You want to someday be his yawne. He can see the gears turning in your head, and he chalks it up to you trying to conceptualize the pronunciation of the foreign words.
“There is also tanhì,” he adds, thumb stroking the back of your hand, trying to calm the racing of your heart. “Little star.”
“Oooh, I like that one.” you say softly, looking down at your interlaced hands. “Okay. So if a very handsome Na’vi was hypothetically in love with me, which one would he use?”
His thumb stops its movement on your hand, resting firmly against his skin. He looks at you again with that unreadable, steady expression.
“Porbably none of them,” he says calmly.
An ugh comes from your throat, and you rip your hand away from his. “You’re rude!” you giggle, swatting his bicep lightly, which feels like hitting a brick. He opens his mouth to explain he wasn’t finished, but you make a show of dramatically turning your body. You scoot scoot scoot, shimmy shimmy shimmy until you’re parked at the edge of the mat, away from the rude, blue man.
“Lesson’s over. I’m going to bed.” you announce with faux finality. You bury your face into the plushness, trying to hide the massive, stupid grin that's threatening to split your face in half.
You hear shifts and rules behind you, the sound of his breathing caressing your ear and heading your back. “Let me teach you one last thing before you rest.” His voice sounds like it’s right in your ear. You know its not, but it still makes your body react viscerally. You can’t help yourself. Curiously kills the cat. You turn your head just enough to show your profile, peeking over your shoulder.
“Whattie?” you question, voice a little thicker with the beginnings of sleep.
He’s still propped on his elbow, looking down at you steadily. He ghosts his hand over the curve of your bare shoulder before settling, heavy, big warm. Gives you a single squeeze, a stroke of his thumb.
"Oel nga’ru prrte’," the words come out lowly, the vowels elongated. The glottal stop at the end sounding like a soft catch in his throat.
You liked that, a lot. You try to memorize the sound of it, the way the syllables are like a spoken song. “What’s that mean?”
He lets his tongue wet his lower lip, lets his thumb trace an absent minded circle against the skin of shoulder. He looks at you, looking at him, waiting for his answer with such bleary eyed focus.
“It means, I’m glad you are finally going to bed,” he lies effortlessly, patting your shoulder twice before letting go. “So the air can have some peace from your talking.”
“You are so mean to me.” you grumble turning back to your side. You know he’s teasing. He’s done more for you in a day that many do for you in months. What you don’t know is what the true meaning of his words were. Something sweeter than he’ll admit to you right now. You shut your eyes tight, repeating all the na’vi words you learned until they blurred into meaninglessness.
You wake to a bright light, much brighter than you’d like it to be when you blink you eyes open. You reach out behind you, with grabby hands , searching for the furnace- like head that was there last night, but your fingers only meet cool, empty air.
Your entire face falls, the grogginess of sleep evaporating instantly, replaced by a sinking weight in your chest. You roll over, scanning the room. No blue man. No neteyam.
“Neteyam?” you croak, your voice dry and cracked from sleep. You know he’s not in here, but maybe he is around?
He’s not. There’s no answer. The dwelling feels huge and hollow without his presence taking up the air. You groggily sit up slowly, panic starting to claw at your throat. Did he go on one of his trips, the ones that his sisters told you about? A week at a time away from you? Got tired of the alien girl talking his ear off? The frown on your face deepens, a heavy, sinking feeling settling in your gut as you look toward the entrance.
You reach your palm behind you blindly to settle yourself, and it grazes something hard. You turn, noticing an array left by your head. You take a deep sigh of relief. Holy shit. You’ve got to be starting your period soon.
There’s a sort of basin holding clear, crisp water. And there’s a bowl, practically overflowing with a surplus of food. Fruits you recognize, a bunch of the honey-lemon-like berries you were munching on. Smoked fish, another thick fillet of meat you can’t quite name yet, and some nuts that are all cracked open, just for you. Looks like it could last you until next Tuesday, or feed a family of three. It’s enough to last you all day, left in the exact spot where he knew you’d find it.
You pick up the bowl with trembling hands, reaching for a nut, and you see something else left for you, underneath. A large, broad leaf, its waxy green surface marked with deep deliberate indents that peeled the green to white. You squint, bringing the leaf up closer to the light. It’s a series of light scratches, etched into the leaf with something sharp. Likely a knife.
Your eyes track the symbols. A big, burly man with a thick mane of dreadlocks. A skinny woman near his height, lean and sharp. A sign of a tree. Home? Family? Hometree? Next to that is a drawing of… you. It’s a tiny stick figure girl, disproportionately small, but the artist had spent a lot of attention to detail on the eyes, making them big and round, long lashes.
Over the little drawing of you, there is a clear, bold X.
It takes you a moment to piece the visual puzzle together, but it clicks for you. His parents are around. And you have to lay low. X as in… you don’t need to be anywhere near, unless you want to be… God, you don’t even know what they’d do to you, a human unannounced. Have you banished? Put under the na’vi jail? Catapulted into space?
You flip the leaf over, your thumb brushing against the rough edges of the etchings. There’s a sun sign, a horizon line, and then a poorly drawn self portrait of Neteyam. It’s unmistakable with those big ears and the way he drew his braids as crude, messy lines.
It feels so incredibly intimate. The fact that he sat here in the dim light before dawn, meticulously scratching out an explanation so you wouldn’t wake up afraid. He can’t even write your language, likely not his either, but you made sure you knew exactly where he was, and that he’s coming back for you.
He didn’t abandon you, not at all. He’s keeping you safe.
You trace the little stick-figure version of yourself, a small, watery smile tugging at your lips. The fear of abandonment vanishes, replaced by a warm, tingly, fuzzy ache in your chest. You aren't going anywhere. You stay your tush right there on those furs, clutching the leaf like it’s a sacred text, and start on the breakfast he left for you.
With your stomach full of the sweet fruits and smoked fish he’d left behind, you settled into the quiet,trying to find ways to kill the hours. You practiced the Na’vi words you’d learned, rearranged the already tidy decorations and supplies in the room, poked your fingers through the tightly knitted holes in the walls. Just as the solitude was beginning to feel asylum-ish, the fern entrance rustled, and your quiet was broken in the most unexpected and welcome way when a pair of familiar, mischievous faces poked through the hangings. They practically tumbled into the space, their expressions a mix of feigned exhaustion and genuine excitement that matched yours. You ran up and hugged them both tight tight tight. They were breathless, having clearly snuck away from the main communal area, and they spent the next few hours turning your frown upside down.
To your pleasant surprise, they hadn't come empty-handed. Kiri brought a handful of bioluminescent bugs to show you how they glowed, while Tuk immediately scrambled over to sit by your feet, her tail twitching and whacking you with excitement. She was clutching about three more two-piece outfits picked personally by her, already sewn securely in the way Neteyam had yours. For that, they both earned fat kisses on their cheeks and at least 5 hugs each. They explained, in a whirlwind of hushed whispers and giggles, that there was a seasonal celebration happening in the center of the village, an event where their parents were extra present throughout the day, making it impossible for Neteyam to slip away without being noticed.
"He is very grumpy today," Tuk whispered to you, leaning in as if sharing a huge grand secret. "He keeps looking toward the walkway. Mother had to tell him twice to focus on the weaving."
Kiri smiled wryly in a way that made yours grow all the more. She told you that Lo’ak had been pestering them thrice, asking where the human had disappeared to, but that Neteyam had shut him down quickly. According to Kiri, Neteyam had spoken fondly of you when their parents weren't listening.
"He told Lo’ak you were 'observant,'" Kiri said, her eyes dancing. "And Neteyam isn’t that much of a people person. That’s a very high compliment." the words made you pop your nonexistent collar.
They kept you busy for a while, teaching you how to braid fibrous grasses and telling you stories about the sea-creatures that lived in the ocean. You hated to see them leave when the sun began its long descent toward the horizon, watching their willowy shadows disappear through the entryway as they hurried back before they were missed more than they were already.
The silence that followed was even more lonely, and thick with anticipation. You missed everyone, even Lo’ak. You sat on the furs, clutching the leaf Neteyam drew for you, listening to the shift of the wind and the distant sounds of civilization.
It wasn’t much longer until the sound you’d been straining and aching and yearning to hear finally arrived. Those familiar, heavy footsteps came thudding along the walkway, filled with sureness. They stopped just outside the entrance, a brief shadow flitting against the woven wall, and your belly gave an excited spin. The ferns moved, and Neteyam stepped inside, a small dusting of sweat at his collarbone as if he’d run the entire way. His braids clacked softly against his shoulders as he scanned the room for you.
When his eyes landed on you, still sitting exactly where he'd left you, the tension in his jaw visibly melted. For a little bit he doesn’t say a little bit, just stands in the entryway, chest rising and falling slightly. There’s a smudge of pigment on his shoulder that he clearly tried to rub off in a hurry, and his ears are a little more obscured, his braids falling loosely around his face.
A few long steps and he’s just in front of you, his shadow eclipsing you. He drops to his knees, his large hands coming up to cup your face. Blue thumbs swipe over your cheekbones, enjoying the silken texture of your skin.
“You stayed.” he murmurs, his voice deep and breathy, just the way you like it.
“Where else would I go?” you grin, leaning into his palm. You know he can hear how fast your heart’s beating right now, but you couldn’t care less. You want him to know how much you missed him. “You leave a mean note by the way. Hard to argue with your intricate drawings.” you tell him, a touch sarcastically.
A ghost of a smile graces his lips, the first one you’ve seen of his all day. He lets out a relieved exhale, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours. The heat emanating off him is literally insane. He smells so, so good. Salty, rainy, leafy. Him. So good.
“My mother has eyes like a hawk.” he says into the narrow space between your mouths, his breath cool against your lips, like he had been chewing gum, or maybe the na’vi equivalent, if that exists. “I am sorry it took so long.” he tells you, softly. “The elders… even some of the young adults, they talk more than you do. It was difficult to leave.”
There he is. Teasing you like a brother. “Shut up.” you sigh, your smile not faltering one bit. He bumps your forehead ever so gently with his, pulling back. He scans your face, left and right, then the room, noticing the new outfits Tuk left behind.
“I see my sisters have been here,” he notes while his thumb strokes near your eyes. “They are supposed to be discreet. I should’ve known better.”
“They were great,” you say, taking advantage of his kneeling position to place one of your arms up around his neck, while he’s closer in height to you. “They told me that you were grumpy and kept looking at the doorway.”
His ears go completely flat against his head, an almost flush creeping up his neck, purpely toned. He scoffs, trying to act all touch and reclaim some of his dignity, bravado.
“They talk too much.” he grumbles, but he’s not at all mad at it. He lets his hands slide down from your face to your own shoulders, and he pulls you forward until your knees are tucked between his thighs and you’re forced to look up at him. “Did you eat? All of it?”
“Every bit. Tuk and Kiri helped me out a bit, but I did most of the work. Even the weird crunchy things.”
“Good,” he says, reaching behind you for confirmation, smiling at the empty bowl. “‘Make you strong.”
“I already am strong, you saw my muscles.”
He doesn’t even argue with you. He’s too happy to see you again. “So strong.” he echos, quieter. He takes your pointer finger in his hand, holding your little finger in his big ones. “The celebration is over. No one will come tonight.”
“Walk with me?” he asks, and he doesn’t have to ask you twice.
You scramble up from the floor, your legs feeling a little like jelly from sitting a lot of the day, but the prospect of finally breathing fresh air makes you move fast. The walk is short, only a few minutes along the ground, but it’s enough to satisfy your exploratory craving for the day.
The jungle is so alive, shifting from the vibrant greens of the day to almost neon blues, soft violets and cyans. He leads you along a narrow path of huge roots and little ones too. He walks so freaking gracefully, never once letting go of your hand. He stops occasionally to point out plants that react to your presence, fan-like flowers that fold inward with a shy shimmer when you brush past, and tall stalks that sway in the wind.
“Beautiful,” you whisper, looking up where the stars peak through the shifting leaves.
“It is,” he agrees, but he isn’t looking at the stars. He’s looking at the way the blue light reflects in your eyes, a doting smile on his mouth.
Eventually the sounds of the village fade as you navigate a more desolate area of.. Whatever city you’re in. Pandoraland, shit. The wind picks up a bit, and you blow your hair out your face to keep it from sticking. No use. Bringing your hand up to tuck it behind your ear, you swear you can feel the sticking of your armpit to your torso with sweat. You grimace inwardly.
You look up at him, studying his profile in the shifting lights. Even after a day or likely labor and social obligation, he still looks as pristine as a statue, the air around him carrying his natural, clean, crisp, woodsy scent.
“I don’t know how you still smell so good,” you start, a bit of deliriousness coloring your tone. “I feel so sweaty and just icky.” your voice sounded small and frustrated in the echoing cathedral of the forest. You’re suddenly more conscious of the day’s grit on your skin.
His feet slow, and then he just stops entirely, turning his body toward you, so that your hand, still held in his, is pulled toward his chest. He looks down at you, golden eyes sweeping over your tired features with a look that’s entirely too tender.
“You are not offensive,” he says, eyes scanning you unblinkingly. “I can smell the nectar from the fruit you ate. I mean, I can smell a lot. ‘Can smell the salt of the sea on the wind. And I can smell you.” He leans in just a little bit more. “It’s not a bad scent. It’s just.. You.”
You grow hotter, and it’s not because of the climate. You want to argue, though, to tell him that your human senses are currently screaming for a bar of soap, but he’s already moving again.
“But,” he adds, voice dropping into something more thoughtful. “I was just about to bathe before the eclipse. I did not know if that was something…” He trails off, ears flicking back with a rare moment of hesitation. He looks at the path again, then back at you.
The weight of the unspoken question hung between the both of you, thick with possibility.
“Come,” he says, his tone shifting into something more resolute. He tugged on your hand playfully, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin of your palm. Yup, he’s choosing for you. Good thing great minds think alike.
You find yourself matching his strides. You realize with a jolt that he isn’t leading you back to his village, nor his home. The sound of rushing water grows a bit crisper, and the foliage grows almost brighter, almost like a sign.
Oh, shit. You’re really about to shower with him.
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