ilyanaprtty-

multi-fandom

[neteyamthinker]

let me earn you

pairings aged-up neteyam x tayrangi!female warrior

notes reader is ikeyni’s daughter, mean neteyam (dw he will grovel for this <3) crybaby neteyam, angst, she fell first and he fell harder, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)

synopsis neteyam has always been the only boy who stirred your heart. as a man, he is everything you’ve ever wanted... and now that circumstances have finally drawn you closer, it feels like the perfect chance to make him see you. but with the looming war, the firstborn son of toruk makto has no room for distractions, and he won’t hesitate to push aside anyone who threatens his focus.

word count 17.7k

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You leaned against one of the massive pillars of the war pavilion, idly braiding a strand of fiber for your new knife sheath. Usually, your senses would be filled with the smell of salt and moss that clung to the cliffs of your home in the Eastern Sea, but here, in the rainforest, it was mostly choked out by the heavy stench of fuel and burning forest, and around you, the war council was deep in debate.

Your mother stood tall with the other chieftains, gesturing sharply at a large map laid on a long table. Beside her stood your brother, the future Olo’eyktan of your clan, listening intently.

And then, there was the real view.

Neteyam stood just behind his father, Jake Sully. He was taller than most of the men in your clan, broad-shouldered, and muscled, taking after his father, even though he had the fierce beauty of his mother. He was listening to the strategy with that maddeningly intense, perfectly disciplined look he always wore. Always the dutiful son, the perfect soldier.

You bit your lip, a slow smirk spreading across your face. He was so incredibly handsome it was ridiculous, especially when he looks like he carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. You’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that intensity... To be the subject of his focus and determination.

You shivered at the thought of it, and your brother caught your eyes across the table. He noticed where you were staring, rolled his eyes, and mouthed, “Stop it.”

“Their supply lines are vulnerable here, along the gorge,” Jake Sully was saying, moving a stone on the ridge on the map. “But they’ve got turrets scanning the skies. If we fly in blind, we’re target practice.”

“We need a distraction,” Neteyam muttered, his brow furrowed as he stared at the map. “Someone fast enough to draw the attention away from the ground strike team, but agile enough to avoid getting hit. But it’s high risk.”

“My people are born on the wind,” Ikeyni spoke up. She placed a hand flat on the table, her sharp eyes shifting from Jake to his eldest son. “If you need someone who can deliver what you need, you take my daughter.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. His golden eyes immediately finding yours from where you leaned against the pillar, as if he knew where exactly you had been standing. A frown instantly marred his handsome face and he turned back to your mother, his posture stiffening.

“Olo’eykte, with respect, the RDA has upgraded those tracking systems,” Neteyam argued, his voice tight with that dutiful edge you loved to mess with. “They aren’t just shooting blindly anymore. It is high risk. A single mistake, and the ikran and its rider are—”

“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”

You purred the words as you finally pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer to the table, tossing your half-braided sheath fiber aside. Every eye in the room tracked your movement, but yours were locked on the Omatikaya’s golden boy. You stopped right beside him, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. You tilted your head up, letting a slow smirk pull at your lips as you looked at his clenched jaw.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer, “I’d think you were trying to keep me out of the sky to keep me safe. I didn’t realize you care that much?”

A sudden bark of laughter broke out from an elder across the table and the others followed suit. Meanwhile, your brother shook his head at your sheer audacity. Jake Sully’s lips twitched upward, a faint, amused glint in his eyes as he looked between you two, clearly remembering what it was like to be young and stubborn. Even the older, stern warriors around the table began to chuckle, the suffocating tension of the war efforts breaking open to let a little light in. It was a comforting reminder to the elders that despite the demons coming back, the youth were still acting their age.

Neteyam, however, did not laugh.

He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he looked down at you. His ears twitched back in mild annoyance, but he didn't step away from you. He was tolerant, as he always was, enduring your teasing with the patience of a tree weathering a storm. He had always known that you are a lethal asset to the people’s war efforts... But unfortunately, you are also a source of a massive, distracting headache.

“I care about the success of the mission,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a low register meant only for you. His gaze was incredibly intense up close, close to the kind of focus that had made you shiver imagining just moments ago. “We are planning a raid that could cost lives. This isn’t the time for games.”

Partly slighted at his doubt, you frowned. “I am completely serious,” you said, dropping the just enough to show the deadly huntress beneath. You motioned at the map right where the turrets were marked. “These are coastal winds. I’ve navigated treacherous cliff gaps like it’s a playground snce I was a child. My ikran and I will rise to the challenge, you’ll see.”

“Alright, alright, break it up,” Jake intervened, though the grin was obvious in his voice as he tapped the map. “If Ikeyni says she’s the one for the job, then she’s the one. Neteyam, you’ll be leading the ground insertion. That means your timing with the distraction has to be perfect.”

Neteyam tore his eyes away from you, nodding sharply to his father. “Yes, sir.”

But as the council began to break into smaller groups to discuss once more among themselves, Neteyam didn't immediately walk away. He stayed right where he was, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He looked down at you, the exasperation fading into something quieter, something serious and heavy.

“It really is dangerous out there,” he said softly, his golden eyes searching yours. “The winds in the gorge are unpredictable.”

You matched his seriousness for a rare, passing second, to let him see that you are capable underneath all the flirting. “I know, Neteyam. But I’m faster than them. Trust me.”

He nodded, his jaw hardening. “I do trust you. Just... don't make me regret it.”

With a final, lingering look that left your heart hammering against your ribs, he turned to follow his father. You watched him go, your smirk slowly returning as you realized that for at least a few minutes, you had been the absolute center of his universe.

The next day, you were up before the first light, immediately going to where your ikran was roosting, smiling when you saw her already prepared, like always. “Ready, girl?“ you murmured, stroking her sleek, brightly patterned neck.

She screeched in response, a sharp, eager sound and you chuckled, mounting her back and connecting your kuru to hers, the familiar, rushing warmth of the tsaheylu flooding your senses. Your head swiveled to the side when you sensed a presence, seeing Neteyam stopping several paces away, already geared with his warrior cummerbund, longbow, amd chest knife sheath.

Your head tilted, admiring how handsome he looked as you smiled brightly. “Hi! Good morning,” you grinned. “Came to send me with a good luck kiss?”

He remained serious though, his eyes scanning your form on your ikran. “Be careful out there.” he said in a clipped tone, not waiting for a response before he turned away.

You chuckled, shaking your head. So serious, you thought, smirking. So handsome, too, anyway, the other part of your mind retorted and you rolled your eyes. You clicked your tongue and pulled at your ikran’s reins, making her surge up into the sky. You flew higher than usual, hiding in the thick clouds to scan high above the gorge. The sky was still a deep, bruised purple when the signal came through the comms secured to your ear.

“Pathfinder,” Jake Sully’s voice crackled, steady and calm. “Ground teams, position. You are clear to engage. Eye in the sky, you're up.”

A heartbeat later, a lower, tighter voice filtered through. “Be careful up there. Hit your marks.”

Neteyam.

Your smirk returned, invisible to him but it laced your voice enough for him to imagine it. “I heard that twice already, Neteyam. Are you so worried?” your honeyed teasing voice dripping through the comms.

You heard his groan and it was followed by a chuckle that sounded so much like Jake’s but it was cut short. “Just focus on the mission,” Neteyam’s voice snapped back through the earpiece.

You chuckled. “Watch the skies, Sully. Try not to blink, or you’ll miss me.”

Without waiting for a response, you clicked your tongue. Your ikran folded her wings and dove straight off the cliffside into the gaping maw of the gorge. The wind shrieked past your ears, whipping your braids wildly. Below, the metallic structures of the RDA outpost clung to the valley floor like a parasite. Within seconds, the base's automated defense grid woke up. Loud whirs echoed through the canyon as three massive turrets pivoted, their motion-tracking lasers sweeping the dark sky until they locked onto you.

“Now!” you hissed, leaning flat against your ikran's back.

You maneuvered your ikran in the sky as heavy explosive rounds tore through the air. The blasts should have scared you, but it surprised even you that it didn’t. You pulled sharply on the reins, banking hard to the left. A volley of bullet shattered the rocky cliffside right where you had been a millisecond before, reducing it to a powdery debris. You laughed out loud,  pushing your mount into a tight, dizzying barrel roll, diving directly between the narrow gaps of the cliffs.

The tracking systems couldn't keep up. The automated turrets jerked violently, scrambling to overcorrect their aim as you flew through the blind spots, From your view high above, you watched Neteyam and his ground strike team. While the turrets were completely distracted by your earlier display, they swarmed out of the dense forest like shadows. Leading the charge, Neteyam moved with terrifying precision, breaching the perimeter fencing, dropping two RDA guards before they could even raise their weapons. Behind him, Lo'ak and the other warriors systematically planted charges on the supply crates and fuel lines.

Even from up above, your eyes found him effortlessly, admiring his swift and unyielding movements, completely commanding. He was a force of nature.

“Charges are live! Pull back, pull back!” You heard Neteyam’s voice bark through the comms. He looked up into the sky, his golden eyes scanning the smoke until he caught the bright, unmistakable red of your ikran’s wings looping through the clouds. “Y/N, disengage! Get out of there!”

Swooping low one last time, you let out a victorious battle cry as a massive explosion ripped through the base behind you. You looked and saw an image of a huge ball of fire consuming the turrets and the supply lines. The explosion gave your ikran the motivation to increase her speed, launching you up and out of the fiery gotge into the safety of the skies. The raid was a flawless success.

By the time you got back to Hometree, the adrenaline was still humming under your skin. You hopped down from your ikran, patting her flank affectionately as the other warriors cheered and celebrated the clean victory. No casualties for the party and a massive blow to the sky people. A smudge of black engine soot marred your cheek, your eyes searching the crowd.

Neteyam was standing near his father, catching his breath, his skin glistening with sweat and ash. He looked exhausted, but the heavy tension that usually held his shoulders tight had momentarily melted away. As if sensing your gaze, his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours across the clearing. You stared at him, raising your brow and tilting your chind up with a proud, triumphant grin that said, I told you so.

Neteyam watched you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine, breathless smile broke across his handsome face. It was a rare, stunning sight that made your heart do a violent flip against your ribs. He broke away from his father and walked straight toward you, stopping just a foot away.

“You showboated,” he murmured, his voice low but devoid of the seriousness that usually laced it.

“I just gave them a show,” you corrected smoothly, crossing your arms. “There is a difference. And I did it.”

“You did,” Neteyam conceded, his eyes dropping to the soot on your cheek before rising to meet your gaze with an intensity that made you almost forget how to breathe. “It was an incredible show. You were incredible up there.”

Your breath hitched. For all your constant flirting and loud teasing, having his quiet praise directed entirely at you caught you completely off guard that the witty comeback died on your tongue, your cheeks warming under his stare.

Neteyam noticed your sudden silence, and a small, amused smirk, one that looked a lot like your own, as if he had just copied it, pulled at the corner of his lips.

“What's wrong?” he asked softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Quiet now? I didn't realize it was that easy to shut you up.”

You stared up at him, your mouth slightly open. The proximity was intoxicating, and for someone who usually spent his time dodging your advances, he was occupying a lot of your personal space now.

Your eyes flicked down to his smirk, then back up to his eyes. “I’m just savoring the moment. You’re more handsome up close,“ you smirked, regaining your composure a little. You leaned in, forcing him to maintain that dizzying eye contact. “And it’s not every day the great Neteyam admits I'm incredible. I might just let it get in my head.”

Neteyam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Coughing softly, he cleared his throat as he took a strategic step backward, breaking the contact but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “Don't get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone was lacking any real bite. “Go get cleaned up. My father wants a full debrief within the hour.”

He turned on his heel and walked back toward Jake, though you didn't miss the way his tail swished behind him. You let out a quiet, triumphant laugh, wiping the soot from your cheek with the back of your hand. There was still an armor, but you had managed to crack it... That’s a small victory!

In the following days, the high of the victory had settled into the familiar routine of war. The leaders gathered once again in the pavilion. This time, however, the mood was lighter. The success of the gorge raid had given the rebellion more time to breathe. Your mother pointed at the eastern coast on the map, discussing the movement of RDA sea vessels who was last seen going farther east.

“They are retreating toward the deep water,” your brother noted, crossing his arms. “The destruction of the supply lines has damaged their operations in the coastal outposts.”

“We need to take control of the momentum,” Jake said, leaning over the table. “Neteyam, what’s the status of our perimeter watches?”

Neteyam stepped forward, completely back into his professional, disciplined element. “The forest guards are doubling their patrols. But we need to ensure our aerial scouts are maintaining a strict radius. We can't afford to get complacent just because we succeed in one mission.”

You smiled, resting your chin in your palm as you leaned over the map table, deliberately putting yourself right in his line of sight. “Oh, don't worry, Commander. Our scouts are alwasys in the air. We don't get tired easily.” You paused, letting your eyes slowly track down his body before bringing your gaze back to his face. “Though, if you're so worried about our stamina, you're welcome to come up with me next time. I can show you how we stay energized.”

A collective ripple of amused snickers passed through the council. Your brother hid his face in his hands, muttering something about losing his mind, while your mother let out a small, huffing chuckle. “Daughter...” she said pointedly.

Neytiri smiled, shaking her head at Ikeyni. You watched Neteyam close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping. He was so incredibly tolerant of you, enduring the teasing with the quiet patience of a palulukan letting a cub bat at its tail.

“Y/N,” Neteyam said slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with deadpan exasperation. “I have to train the youth at the archery grounds after this. I do not have time to be a part of your games.”

“A shame,” you purred, flashing him a brilliant, unbothered grin. “You don't know what you're missing.”

Hours later, you found yourself wandering down toward the village training grounds, hearing the familiar sound of snapping bowstrings and the light thud of arrows hitting bark targets. You stood there, crossing your arms as you watched the scene. Neteyam was in his element. He was surrounded by a dozen young, aspiring warriors, all holding smaller training bows. He was patient and focused, moving down the line to correct their posture.

“Keep your elbow high,” Neteyam instructed a young boy, gently adjusting the kid's arm. “Do not fight the bow string. Let it become an extension of your arm. Look at the center of the mark, breathe out, and release.”

The boy released the string, and the arrow thudded squarely into the inner ring of the target. The kids cheered, and Neteyam offered a rare, warm smile, patting the boy's shoulder.

“Very good. Again.”

“Nice,” you called out, stepping out from the shadows.

The group of young hunters immediately turned, their eyes widening when they saw you. In your clan, you were a legend among the youth, the daughter who flew like the wind and didn't care about the rules. A few of the older teenagers standing nearby immediately started whispering and nudging each other, grinning widely because everyone knew you loved to push Neteyam’s buttons.

Neteyam stiffened, his shoulders squaring as he turned to face you. He gripped his longbow, his ears twitching back. “I am teaching, Y/N. Go find something else to do.”

“I just want to see if I can help,” you said innocently, sauntering closer until you were standing right in front of him, entirely ignoring the giggles of the children behind him. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the curve of his heavy longbow. “You see, kids, the Omatikaya are used to shooting on the ground, on their feet. But if you want real precision while moving, you need a loose hip. Like this.”

You fluidly snatched a training bow from a nearby rack, notched an arrow in the blink of an eye, and without even pausing to aim, you spun on your heel and released. The young warriors erupted into gasps and cheers when they saw the arrow hit the center of the furthest target cleanly, totally thrilled by the display. You tossed the bow back onto the rack, turning around to look at Neteyam with a smug, raised eyebrow.

“See?” you murmured, stepping into his space, tilting your head up. “It’s about flexibility, too. Maybe I should give you a private lesson sometime. I can teach you how to loosen up what’s stiff.” you murmured, biting your lip.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, his aw practically tightening into stone. His face burned a furious, deep shade of violet, his golden eyes wide as he stared down at you. He knows, with a piercing awareness, how completely trapped he is between his duty and his sheer, chaotic attraction to you, and he shouldn’t like it. But he does, so Eywa help him. He took a deep breath, gripping his bow tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

“Class dismissed,” Neteyam barked out, his voice a strained, tight rumble. “Go practice your stealth skills. Now.”

The kids scrambled away, still laughing and whispering, leaving the two of you completely alone in the training grounds. Neteyam stepped even closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you as he glared down, though the heat radiating from his skin told a completely different story.

“You are impossible,” he whispered fiercely.

You laughed, enjoying the sight of the crack getting bigger each day. You’ve never had this much progress in the past... Perhaps because you don’t really see each other for longer than a few days. Sometimes, your mother gets invited to festivals in the Omatikaya and she brings you and your brother with her, or it’s her who invites the Sullys to come for festivals in your clan.

You’ve always liked Neteyam better than his brother. Lo’ak is a good acquaintance, but it was Neteyam who you’ve always found more interesting. What with his intense focus and unyielding determination on everything he puts his mind to, but you could tell it was also born from his desire to live up to his parents’ legacy.

He is the firstborn, after all. The heir to the Omatikaya leadership. The return of the sky people was the reason why he’s grown even more serious and focused, determined to protect the people, Eywa’eveng, and his family, even more so. You respect that a great deal, but you also think he needs to loosen up a bit before he stresses himself into an early grave.

You wonder if he even has interest in women, or if he only cares about his bows and his arrows. But you don’t like to think of that. It makes you fiercely jealous to think of him directing that intense focus on a woman who’s not you... Or to think of him letting a woman see past the armor you’re working so hard to crack.

But you are too confident. You thought the crack in his armor was getting wider by the day, and you genuinely believed it was only a matter of time before he finally let his guard down.

You should have remembered that in war, the higher you fly, the harder you fall.

More council meetings ensued in the following days, and now, you found yourself back in the sky. The RDA had deployed a small convoy of armored vehicles, and Neteyam’s squad was tasked to do a quiet interception.

“Hold your position above the tree line,” you heard Neteyam’s voice through the comms, crisp and authoritative. “Do not engage until the ground team has disabled their communications. If they see you, they will lock down the area and call for reinforcements. Do you copy?”

You had copied. But as you circled in the grey mist, you saw one of the AMP suits pivoting its heavy cannon directly toward the dense foliage where Neteyam’s ground sweepers were crawling. Your heart leaped into your throat. You waited to hear from him, or for the communication to be cut, but you can’t wait when they could all be gunned down any second.

I am fast enough, you had thought, fueled by that same headstrong confidence that had always served you before. I can take out that suit before it fires.

So, you dove.

But you had underestimated the trees’ density in this sector. Your ikran’s wing clipped a massive branch, throwing off your trajectory by a fraction of a second, and it was all the automated sensors needed. The AMP suit spun, firing a volley of heavy-caliber rounds into the sky. A hot, tearing agony sliced across your thigh, a bullet graze, and the concussive blast sent your ikran screeching into a spiral.

Your sudden, messy descent completely blew the ground team's cover. The convoy opened fire on the forest blindly. Screams of pain echoed through the comms, cutting through your panic. By the time it all ended, the convoy was destroyed, but the cost to the war party was devastating. Blood soaked your leg wraps but you cared little for it, forcing your ikran into the air, flying back to the Hometree with your chest tightening in suffocating fear and shame.

When you landed in the clearing, the celebratory atmosphere of the past weeks was entirely dead. You scrambled off your mount, wincing as your injured leg buckled slightly, and rushed toward the center, catching sight of him immediately. Neteyam was lifting a huntress off the back of his ikran. Her arm was painted in deep, crimson blood from a horrific wound on her shoulder. It was Tarya.

“Get the medical bay ready! Move!” Neteyam roared, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation you had never heard from him before. He was covered in soot and someone else's blood, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

“Neteyam—” you breathed, stepping forward, your hands shaking. “Neteyam, I—I am so sorry. I saw the suit turning toward you, I thought I could—”

Neteyam snapped. He lowered Tarya into the frantic arms of the medical healers, then turned on you so fast his tail whipped the air. He closed the distance between you in two giant, looming strides, towering over you.

“You thought?” he asked, his voice drawing the shocked eyes of every warrior present. “I don’t think so! You are entirely, helplessly obstinate! You almost fell! You almost died, did you even think of that?!”

You flinched, stepping back, but he kept coming, his golden eyes blazing with a dangerous, lethal heat that made you feel incredibly small.

“And because you couldn't follow a single, simple order, these warriors are wounded!” He said in a hard voice, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. “Tarya might not survive the night! Do you understand that? Do you even care?”

“I do care!” you cried out, tears of shame finally burning your eyes. “I was trying to protect—”

“You didn’t listen! Like always!” he cut you off, his chest heaving as he glared down at you with complete contempt. “You treat this war like a game to win my attention! You are a massive, childish distraction, Y/N! Everyone knows it, and I am sick of it! Do you think people bleeding out in the mud is a joke? Do you think this war is just another festival for you to play around in?”

The words felt like physical daggers piercing straight into your chest, ripping away at your pride and your confidence. You stood frozen, completely exposed and deeply ashamed in front of the people present. Your mouth opened to apologize again.

“I'm sorry,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

“Save your apologies,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous hiss that hurt far worse than his shouting. “If you cannot take this seriously, you should just withdraw from the war efforts entirely. Frankly, your behavior is putting everyone's life on the line.”

He didn't wait for you to answer. He turned his back on you completely, jogging alongside the stretcher as they wheeled his warriors toward the human facilities.

You stood alone in the dirt. You couldn't even feel the throbbing wound on your thigh. The numbness of absolute embarrassment and guilt swallowed you whole. He was right. You had been stupid and childish. You had been playing a dangerous game with people's lives just to hear him say your name.

You didn't seek out the Tsahik. You didn't think you deserved her medicine. Weakly, you dragged yourself back onto your ikran and flew away from the Hometree, heading toward the borders of your own clan's territory. You spent the evening in isolation, using bitter, stinging ocean herbs to tend to your own thigh, weeping silently in the dark. You resolved that you would return to apologize to the wounded warriors, and thinking of doing that is already making you feel flayed.

You had been too confident in your abilities and now, you have put people’s lives on the line. You should be ashamed. He was right about you leaving the war efforts, too, perhaps that was for the better. Because of what happened, you don’t think you still have enough confidence to go out there and fight.

You went to your clan, simply to change clothes, but was welcomed by the heavy grief that befell the people. An honored elder had passed away from natural causes, and by custom, the clan had to gather for the burial rites. Your mother and brother returned from the war front to attend, their faces grim.

After the body was given back to Eywa, your brother found you sitting on a secluded cliffside, staring blankly out at the crashing waves of the Eastern Sea. He sat down beside you, sighing. “I heard of the northern ridge,” he said quietly.

You clutched your knees to your chest, refusing to look at him. “Is Tarya... is she alive?”

“She is. Jake’s human friends saved her. She will recover. The others are okay, too,” your brother assured you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “The war party didn't lose its momentum, sister, if that’s what you’re worried about. But... the injuries could have been prevented. You know this.”

“I know,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I think I should leave, before I put everyone's lives on the line.” You looked up at your brother, your eyes hollow. “I’ll fly back tomorrow. Just to apologize to those who were wounded because of me. And then... I'm coming home.”

Later that evening, you stood inside your mother's yurt, packing away your combat gear. Ikeyni watched you from the entrance, her arms crossed, as you told her what you told your brother, your voice flat and devoid of its usual spark.

“It would be better anyway if I stay back here, Mother,” you said, tying off a leather pouch. “I can act on your behalf with the local hunters. I'm just a bother to the war council over there.”

Ikeyni stared at you, her sharp eyes assessing your rigid posture, your bandaged leg, and the complete lack of confidence in your eyes.

“Whose words are those?” your mother asked softly. “Are they yours?”

You paused, your hands trembling over your gear. You shook your head slowly. “Mother, he was right,” you said, a lump forming in your throat as Neteyam's furious face flashed in your mind. “I wasn't taking the war seriously. I think it would do the council better if I leave. We have plenty of competent riders to do my job. I don't belong there.”

Ikeyni let out a long, heavy sigh. She walked over, placing a firm, warm hand on the nape of your neck, tilting your forehead up to look into her eyes.

“If that is what you truly want, then so be it,” your mother murmured softly, leaning forward to kiss your temple. “But remember who you are, daughter. You are a child of the wind. Do not let one storm ground you forever.”

The journey back to the Omatikaya clan felt different this time. Usually, you would be racing your brother through the clouds, your laughter wild and loud, but today, you simply flew silently behind your mother. When you landed and entered the pavilion, the change in you was loud. Normally, there was always a sharp, teasing smirk ready for whoever caught your eye, but now, your face was barely moving, your eyes fixed on a permanent point in front of you.

The shame was suffocating and it felt like a huge boulder they tied around you. The council proceeded, discussing territory lines and defensive strategies for what felt like hours, while you stood rigid behind your mother, your eyes watching them move pieces on the map, unknowing of Neteyam’s eyes seeking you despite Ikeyni’s body blocking him from sight.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward into the light of the pavilion when the elders finally paused. Your voice was flat as you addressed the chieftains and the elders, completely stripped of its usual playful edge. “I want to apologize for the failure of my recent mission. I disobeyed orders, and I take full accountability for the consequences. I am even sorrier that it took me days to stand before you and say this; my clan was laying an elder to rest.“

You took a breath, your hands clasped tightly behind your back so no one could see them shaking.

“As you can see, I am unfit for this council. I lack the discipline required for operations of this scale. Moving forward, I am letting my mother decide on my replacement from the Tayrangi riders.”

A heavy silence descended upon the pavilion.

“Y/N,” Jake Sully spoke first, his deep voice carrying a wave of gentleness that surprised you. He leaned over the table, his eyes soft. “The war party didn't lose its momentum. We took out the convoy. You don't need to pin the blame solely on yourself. This is war. Mistakes happen and warriors are always meant to be wounded.”

Neytiri leaned forward next, her sharp, golden eyes searching your hollow face. “Do I understand what you mean, Ikeyni’ite? Are you leaving the council?”

“Yes,” you nodded, your voice firm.

Your mother stepped into the space beside you, her voice steady and protective, supplementing your words before anyone else could question you. “I have asked her to stay back with the Tayrangi. Ruk’e and I are heavily occupied with the war efforts here, and I need someone I trust to oversee the people.”

“Olo'eykte. Tsakarem.”

The voice cut through the pavilion, low and fractured, making your heart seize painfully in your chest. You didn't want him to speak. You didn't want to look at him.

Neteyam stepped forward from behind his father's shoulder. His posture wasn't stiff with the perfect discipline of a soldier anymore, it looked strained, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I wish to speak,” he said, his eyes locked on you, seeking yours, though you kept your gaze fixed somewhere near his collarbone. “I want to apologize to you, Y/N, before the council, for my reaction days ago. I was angry, and I spoke out of turn. You do not need to leave the council because of it.”

You felt a faint ripple of shock go through you, but it didn't revive your heart. Instead, a fresh wave of mortification washed over you. You felt even more ashamed that he felt obligated to apologize in front of the entire leadership just to close the issue gracefully and maintain alliance peace. To you, him telling you not to leave was just something he was saying for the record, a diplomatic necessity.

“You have nothing to apologize for, warrior, and I have nothing to forgive either,” you said, your voice entirely level, devoid of any anger or spite. It was just empty.

One of the Omatikaya elders turned to your mother. “Ikeyni, is this decision final? We would hate to lose such a skilled asset for the war efforts.”

“Yes,” you answered for her, your tone absolute. Nothing could have changed your mind. “If the council pleases, I excuse myself. I wish to apologize to the warriors who were wounded because of me.”

You were already looking at the door, not catching how Neteyam’s head reared back as if something had clawed at him. Without waiting for a formal dismissal, you turned and walked out of the pavilion, the sudden shift to freedom doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

You walked straight toward the medical areas, knowing you would find the injured split between the Tsahik’s tent and the human facilities. You went to the Tsahik's tent first, stepping into the dim space. When you approached the wounded Omatikaya warriors, your throat tightened, but they easily brushed your apologies off with tired, warm smiles.

“It is no one's fault,” one of them murmured. “We know what we came there for. Being wounded is expected for a warrior.”

When you went to the human facilities, you found Tarya resting in a clean bed, her shoulder heavily bandaged. When you spoke your apologies to her, she reached out to pat your arm. “Do not carry this weight, sister. We are alive. That is what matters.”

The sheer kindness of their forgiveness almost made you cry. A bitter, agonizing thought crossed your mind, wishing Neteyam thinks the same.

But you immediately caught yourself, mentally slapping the thought away. Stop it. You need to stop thinking about what Neteyam thinks or what he doesn't. You knew it would take time. You had liked him for so long, possibly loved him, but that part of your life was over now.

You walked out to the clearing where your ikran was waiting, ready to leave this place behind for good. You were just reaching for her leather harness when heavy, frantic footsteps behind you, hearing your name being called.

You closed your eyes for a brief second before turning around. Neteyam was jogging toward you, breathing heavily. He had asked to leave the council to follow you the exact moment you walked out, but Jake hadn't allowed him to dismiss himself until the meeting officially concluded.

Now, as he stopped a few paces away, you actively turned off your imaginative mind. You completely shut down that part of yourself that used to over-analyze his every breath, forcing yourself not to read into the fact that he looked almost desperate, entirely at a loss for words.

Neteyam's eyes flickered down, and you saw his face almost crumple, a sharp grimace crossing his features at the sight of the cloth bandaging your thigh. You subtly shifted your weight, trying your best to hide the injury behind the wing of your ikran.

His eyes flickeredup to yours, swimming with a quiet, raw desperation you tried your hardest to ignore. “Y/N, please. I am so sorry for what I said in the clearing. I shouldn't have—”

“It’s alright, Neteyam,” you cut him off smoothly, your voice polite and empty. “You were right anyway. Truly, I should be ashamed of my behavior right from the start. I didn't take things as seriously as I should have, and that only proves how unfit I am for the council. So, you see, you were completely right about me leaving—”

“No,” he breathed, the word breaking from him like a gasp. His shoulders fell, and he took a sudden step forward, his hand reaching out.

Unconsciously, your posture tensed, and you took a sharp step backward, pressing yourself closer to the flank of your ikran as if to seek safety.

Neteyam froze. His extended hand trembled in the air before slowly dropping to his side. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice strained with a deep pain that, once again, you forced yourself to ignore.

“I know,” you said quickly, forcing a small chuckle to ease the tension. “Sorry.” You cleared your throat, gesturing vaguely to the sky. “But just as I said, everything has become much clearer to me now. I want to leave before I put more people in danger. Perhaps, I should even thank you for opening my mind about that—”

“No, Y/N, listen to me,” he stepped closer again, his voice rising in an urgent, pleading rush. “I was just... I was so scared for the wounded. I was terrified. And I said things that I shouldn't have said, terrible things—”

“You said things that were true, Neteyam,” you interrupted softly, your face completely calm as you reached up to ruffle the crest of your ikran's head. “And as I said, I am completely cool about them. I accept them, and I understand. You have nothing to apologize for. In truth, it was just a superior delivering valid criticisms that I needed to learn from.”

“I was unnecessarily cruel,” Neteyam burst out, his jaw trembling as he stared at your polite, unbothered expression. “I was unfair of me to pin all the blame on you. Their tracking systems were upgraded, the terrain was bad—I couldn't tell you how much I have regretted my words every second since. Y/N, please... it is I who needs your forgiveness—”

You let out a sigh and Neteyam stopped abruptly, as if your sigh had put a physical gag on him. He watched you, terrified of whatever words were about to leave your mouth.

“Neteyam. It is over and done with,” you said, your voice shifting into a serious, cold finality that left no room for argument. “I have no hard feelings over it whatsoever. Everything you said that day was true. I didn’t listen, and it put people in danger. I was reckless. I was foolish. You were right, so stop insisting you were wrong, because I’ll start thinking this is just your guilt talking. Stand by your words, and let’s leave things be.”

You reached behind you, grabbing your kuru and connecting it swiftly to your ikran's, before fluidly mounting her back, settling into the saddle with a practiced, rigid grace.

Neteyam stood rooted to the dirt. He had stopped breathing. He stared up at you, his chest aching so violently he wished with everything in him that your ikran’s wings wouldn't work. He wished the wind would die. He wished he could reach out, grab the reins, and drag you back down. His heart throbbed with a suffocating mix of guilt, regret, and something far heavier that he couldn't even name.

He had hurt you. He had completely broken your spirit, and it was devastatingly obvious. Sitting on your ikran, you were unrecognizable. The brilliant, chaotic spark was entirely gone. Your playful confidence was buried deep beneath a layer of careful, polite nonchalance.

“Have a good life, Neteyam,” you murmured.

With a sharp click of your tongue, your ikran surged forward, her powerful wings launching you into the open sky.

Neteyam watched you fly away, your form growing smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck in the distance. A sharp, physical spasm ripped through his chest, and his golden eyes stung, blurring his vision. His fingers curled into tight, trembling fists, his teeth gritting together so hard he thought they would crack under the pressure.

He had wanted you to take the war seriously. He had wanted you to stop distracting him. But as he stood alone in the empty clearing, looking up at the empty sky, Neteyam realized he had never been more brokenly, horribly distracted in his entire life.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The war efforts did not stop just because Neteyam’s world had lost its friction. If anything, the pace of the rebellion quickened after the destruction of the northern convoy. The Omatikaya and their allies pushed the RDA further toward the coastal margins, reclaiming three separate valleys within a single turn of the moon.

Neteyam did his duty with the same cold precision his father had drilled into him since he was old enough to hold a knife. To the common warriors, he was still the golden heir... Unshakable, vigilant, a pillar of the clan along his parents and Mo’at.

But inside his own skin, he was experiencing a slow, suffocating death.

Every hour of every day, his mind raced backward, tracing the bridge he had violently brought down. He missed you with a ferocity that physically brought ache to his gut. It felt like a boulder was placed in his ribs, overcrowding his lungs. Some days, he could barely breathe.

And the worst part was the quiet.

Before his stupidity, every spot of the Hometree was a minefield of your laughter. He had spent months training himself to ignore the sound of that, even though it was the balm to his soul at the end of every exhausting day, the honeyed delivery of your voice, and the way you would lean your shoulder against his, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from you. He had thought of you as a massive, beautiful distraction. He had braced himself against you like a tree hardening its bark against a persistent storm.

Now, it was just gone. And the silence you left behind was deafening.

Dozens of times during the mid-day meetings, Neteyam would find his head turning instinctively to the left, his eyes scanning the roots or the wooden pillars for a glimpse of your vibrant red paint. At the training grounds, his shoulder would tingle, expecting the sudden touch of your hand.

But there was none.

By the second week, the pressure in Neteyam’s chest grew so immense that he began to lose his grip on his characteristic discipline. He became desperate for any connection to you, any excuse to hear updates from you that he found Ikeyni’s intense focus on war tactics and Ruk’e’s silence very irritating.

Stop talking of war, he thought. Let’s talk about your sister.

So when Ruk’e announced he was flying back to the Tayrangi to retrieve a shipment of leather harnesses and specialized arrows for the coastal hunters, Neteyam didn't even hesitate.

“I will go with you,” he had said, stepping into the ikran roosts before Ruk’e could even clear his mount for takeoff.

Ruk’e had paused, his hand tightening on his reins as he looked at Neteyam. There was no mission along the coast. There was no tactical reason for the commander of the ground forces to waste half a day acting as a pack-beast for supply crates.

“The eastern passes are clear, Sully,” Ruk’e said, his voice carrying that protective, guarded edge that you both possessed. “I do not need an escort.”

“My father wants an updated report on the drafts near the bay,” Neteyam lied, his jaw clenching as he connected his queue to his ikran. His voice was tight, nearly fracturing under the weight of his hidden urgency. “We are moving the division soon. I also need to see the terrain.”

Ruk’e stared at him for a long, heavy moment, reading the dark circles beneath his eyes and the frantic, nervous twitch of his tail. With a slow sigh, Ruk’e nodded silently. The flight to the Eastern Sea was the longest hour of Neteyam’s life. His mind ran through a thousand different scenarios, each one more pathetic than the last. He thought of finding you by the cliff’s edge. He thought of going down on his knees, uncaring of who saw him. He would let you see past his walls. He would let you see that he was nothing but a stupid man who had torn out his own heart stupidly. He was stupid, stupid, stupid.

Your final words had been repeating in his skull like a death chant. Have a good life, Neteyam.

It had sounded like a permanent severance. A final closure. He remembered how, weeks ago, when the realization that you intended to live the rest of your days without ever seeing him again hit him, he nearly doubled over, a physical gasp tearing from his throat as if he had been struck in the gut. Now, as they finally crested the high cliffs of the Tayrangi territory, his hope was crushed into dust. Apparently, you were not around. And he thought he was imagining the smirk that passed Ruk’e’s face.

They were there for close to two hours, gathering everything and securing it on their ikrans. At one point, Neteyam had looked high above and saw the unmistakable, bright red-and-orange span of your ikran’s wings flying down. His heart leaped into his throat, a sudden, violent surge of blood hammering in his ears. He leaned forward, preparing, his mouth already forming your name.

But then, Neteyam watched in absolute horror as your ikran turn back toward the blind side of the cliffs, diving deep into the sea mists until you completely vanished from sight. He looked at his ikran, its recognizable bright blue-green scales... Even from leagues away, you had seen the beast. Even though you didn't really see him, you decided to turn away. Avoiding him. Flying away from him.

Neteyam spent the rest of the supply run standing on the landing platforms, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon, his hands gripping his longbow so tightly his knuckles turned a sickly, pale shade of blue. You never came back up. You stayed hidden in the shadows of the rocks until they had to leave and fly back home to the forest, feeling more like a ghost than a living man.

Many nights later, Neteyam sat on a log near the weapon racks, idly running a whetstone down the edge of his hunting knife when a shadow fell over him. Jake Sully stepped into the light, his large frame blocking out the stars. He watched his eldest son for a quiet minute, taking in the rigid, defensive curve of the his spine.

“You're off your mark, son,” Jake said, his deep voice slicing through the crickets. “During the perimeter check today, you missed three separate trails on the western border. That’s not like you.”

Neteyam didn't look up. He kept his head bowed, the whetstone scraping against the blade. “Just tired, sir. The patrols have been long.”

“It’s not the patrols,” Jake countered gently. He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the weapon rack, his expression softening. “I know what happened after the ridge raid, Neteyam.”

The whetstone stopped.

Neteyam’s hands tried to grip the knife tighter to hide the trembling of his fingers. For the first time in his life, he couldn't hold his mask in place. A small, ragged breath escaped his lips, and when he finally turned his face up to look at his father, Jake blinked sharply from the surprise of seeing Neteyam’s eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I hurt her, Dad,” Neteyam said weakly, his voice breaking. “I was... I was so unnecessarily cruel. I was too stupid, opening my mouth like that. Shouting at her... saying those terrible things.”

He let out a shaky breath, his face crumpling from the sheer, agonizing effort of trying not to cry, but the first tear slipped anyway.

“Have you seen her at the pavillion, Dad?” he asked. “That's not her. That is no longer her because I broke her. I took her spirit and I crushed it with my cruelty. And what’s worse, what is killing me every second, is that she thinks she deserved it. She thinks I was right.” He dropped the knife into the dirt, his hands coming up to cover his face. “I don't know how to turn it all back around. I want her to forgive me. I want her to know... I’d rip my own heart right out of my chest if it means I could take away the pain I gave her.”

Jake let out a long, heavy sigh. His own features crumpled in deep distress for the two of you. He reached down, placing a calloused hand on his son’s trembling shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Have you tried apologizing again? Truly talking to her?”

“No,” Neteyam choked out, pulling his hands away from his face, his eyes red-rimmed from his tears. “I think she doesn't want to see me ever again. I flew to the Tayrangi with Ruk'e last week... and the moment she saw my ikran, she retreated. She dove back into the cliffs... She didn't want to be near me, Dad.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his teeth. “Have you tried hiding your ikran from view?”

Neteyam shot his father a miserable, exhausted look. “Dad,” he said, his you're-not-helping tone incredibly obvious. “I don't want to force her. If she wants to be away from me, I... I have to respect that. Even if it kills me.”

“Well,“ Jake said slowly, shifting his weight as he stared out into the dark canopy. “Perhaps you should just give her time... The perfect time to talk to her would probably be when she’s mated and having children with her husband—”

“Dad,” Neteyam’s voice rose and deepened, his head snapping up in sheer horror. The tears on his cheeks dried instantly as his heart did a terrifying, sickening dive into his stomach.

“What?” Jake asked, completely straight-faced, though there was a tiny, knowing glint in his eye. “You're taking too much time, son. Men could swoop in anytime, you know? Especially now. She’s back home, heartbroken, and trying to move on from a stupid boy who is too terrified to admit that he belongs to her. That’s exactly when other men take their chances.”

Neteyam closed his eyes, his breathing turning shallow and fast. For the first time in his twenty-two years of life, he felt a wild, primitive urge to beat his own father up.

It wasn't funny, but he knew that his father wasn’t joking either, and as he sat there, his mind began to spin into a dark spiral of jealousy and terror. He had always known that you liked him, that you had liked him since you were children, but because he had been so focused on his duty, he had never allowed himself to measure the depth of it. He had taken your presence for granted. He had assumed you would always be there, annoying him, teasing him, waiting for him to finally turn around.

But you were a chieftain's daughter. You were a legendary huntress, beautiful, fierce, and wild. He knew exactly how many Tayrangi young men watched you with fierce attraction when you flew. The only reason they had stayed away before was because you were down here, making a public nuisance of yourself over the Omatikaya heir.

Now, you were back home. Heartbroken and vulnerable.

Neteyam’s fingers curled into tight fists against his knees, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure. The thought of another warrior touching your hand, the thought of another man making you laugh, or seeing that brilliant, wicked smirk return to your face, made his blood run thick.

“She is the daughter of the Olo’eykte,” Neteyam muttered, his voice dropping into a low register. “She would not just choose anyone.”

“No, she wouldn't,” Jake agreed softly. “But she will choose eventually, Neteyam. And right now, you're letting her believe she is better off without you.”

Jake turned away, leaving Neteyam to sit with the desperate fire that had lit inside him. He had broken your spirit, yes. But he would be damned if he let another man be the one to fix it.

With this new fire in him, Neteyam returned to the Tayrangi three more times over the following weeks, armed with a bag of increasingly flimsy excuses. The first time, he claimed his father needed a precise audit of the coastal clan's surplus ikran armor. The second time, he practically forced himself onto a tracking detail meant to map the migration patterns of the sturmbeast herds near the Tayrangi territories. By the third time, he was carrying a bundle of forest herbs from Mo’at that Tayrangi healers hadn't even asked for.

Yet, three times, you managed to dodge him completely.

It was maddening. It felt as though someone was deliberately feeding you a schedule of his arrivals and departures. Every time his blue-green ikran broke through the coastal fog, you were already gone, out on a hunt, or patrolling the northern borders. He even began to suspect your brother, Ruk’e, was secretly warning you through some hidden signal, but he knew for a fact that the man had no way of communicating with you.

You were simply anticipating him. You were treating him like an incoming storm, closing your doors and retreating into a safe place before the first drop of rain could touch you.

By the fourth visit, Neteyam had reached his absolute limit. He didn't bring an escort, and he didn't use the main landing platforms. He left his ikran tethered half a league away, hidden in a dense thicket, and trekked up the rocky coastal paths on foot, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was taking his father’s advice now, though he really hated the thought of surprising you.

He caught you by pure accident near the lower tide pools, where the cliffs formed a secluded cove. You were alone, repairing a frayed net, your long legs tucked beneath you on the smooth stone.When his shadow fell over you, you snapped your head up. For a second, your eyes widened in genuine, startled surprise. But the shock vanished, replaced instantly by that smooth mask of careful, polite nonchalance that made Neteyam’s stomach twist into a painful knot.

“Neteyam,” you said, your voice casual, but your fingers tightened so hard around the wooden netting needle. You made no move to stand, looking up at him as if he were nothing more than a passing trader. “What brings you here? Do you need help with anything, or were you sent here?”

You spoke the words with an easy, detached courtesy, even though your entire posture screamed that you wanted to be anywhere else but in front of him.

Neteyam closed the distance between you, his strides long and desperate. He didn't care about his dignity anymore. He didn't care that he was the commander of the ground forces or the son of Toruk Makto. He stopped just two paces away from you, his breath hitching as his eyes immediately swept down to your thigh. The bandage was gone, replaced by a white scar where the bullet had grazed you.

The sight of it made his throat tighten with a fresh wave of suffocating guilt.

“I wasn't sent, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, fractured register. He took a half-step forward, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting so desperately to reach out but forcing himself to stay back. “I came because of you. I came because I want to talk to you. I... I cannot sleep, I cannot breathe, and I—”

You let out a sharp, sudden breath, dropping the netting needle into your lap. The polite facade finally cracked, and you stood up, your tail whipping the air behind you in a sudden flash of genuine irritation.

“Aren’t we over this, Neteyam?” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared up at him. “We discussed this already. I thought we agreed to get past it.”

“Y/N, please—”

“No, listen to me,“ you cut him off, your voice rising, hard and sharp. “If this is about your guilt, you can lay it down. I told you before, I have nothing to forgive. I accepted your words because they were true. But if you are going to keep coming here with more pathetic apologies and diplomatic reassurances, you are actually going to make me angry.” You stepped closer. “I told you to stand by your words. If you cannot back your own words, Neteyam, I would be deeply disappointed. You are going to lead your clan one day, and an Olo'eyktan’s words must be solid as stone. If you are this fickle with your own tongue, how can anyone trust you?“

“That is the problem!” He said pointedly, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing emotion as he grabbed your hand, his fingers locking around your wrist before you could pull away, his grip desperate but fiercely tender. “I regret my words, I regret them every single second of every day—”

You tried to wrench your wrist free, but he held fast, his eyes blazing down into yours with a terrifying, weeping intensity.

“I know I cannot take them back,” he breathed, his chest heaving as he stared into your eyes. “I know I cannot magically wipe away the pain I inflicted on you, and I know I cannot just hand you back the confidence that I shattered, but I will work on my hands and knees to bring you back to who you used to be. I will do whatever it takes, Y/N. I swear it to the Great Mother.”

You stopped pulling against his grip, your frame going completely rigid. A bitter huff escaped you, “I don't like who I used to be,” you whispered, and his head moved as if you’d slapped him. “And you said it yourself that day, you don't like it either. You said you were sick of it. You said I was a massive, childish distraction—”

“I was a fool!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I was terrified for the warriors, but most of all, I was terrified for you. When you fell from the sky... I thought I lost you. I let my fear turn into venom, and I threw it at the one person who didn't deserve it.”

You stared at him, your jaw tight, your breathing ragged. For a second, just a fraction of a second, Neteyam thought he saw a flicker of the old warmth that used to belong entirely to him. But then, your expression hardened again.

“It doesn't matter why you said it, Neteyam,” you said, your voice flat. “The fact remains that your assessment was correct. I was reckless, and I put lives at risk. Your cruelty was just the mirror I needed to see myself clearly. Now, let go of me. I have nets to mend."

Neteyam’s fingers slowly uncurled, his arm dropping to his side as if it had been cut. You didn't give him another glance, you simply sat back down on the rock, picked up your wooden needle, and began weaving the fibers with steady, unbothered precision.

That day was completely unproductive for him. He spent the remaining hours sitting on a boulder a few paces away, watching you work in absolute silence. You didn't speak to him again. You didn't look at him. You treated him like a piece of rock, completely ignoring his presence until the sun began to dip and he was forced to hike back to his ikran, his heart heavier than when he had arrived.

Neteyam did not give up. In fact, his failure only made him more relentless.

He began flying between the Omatikaya and the Tayrangi almost every single day, uncaring of the brutal, grueling transit on top of his patrols, trainings, and war meetings. He would wake up before the first light of dawn, complete his mandatory border patrols, and then immediately push his ikran through the treacherous mountain drafts just to spend an hour or two on the cliffs.

He became a desperate fixture in your clan. He didn't care how it looked to your people. He didn't care that they watched with raised eyebrows and murmurs of amusement as the proud Omatikaya heir practically degraded himself for a glimpse of their chieftain's daughter. He didn’t know how to fully show you how sorry he is, and how sorry he will be for the rest of his life, so he started with the absolute surrender of his pride.

If you were out in the lower fields gathering ocean kelp for the healers, Neteyam would appear beside you to help without a word. He would haul the heavy, water-logged crates onto his shoulders, carrying them up the steep cliff paths so you wouldn't have to. You would tell him to leave, your voice sharp with annoyance, but he would simply set his jaw, and go back down for another load.

When you were assigned to clean and grease the riding saddles, he would sit on the floor opposite you, taking the rough scraping stones out of your hands. He would spend hours working the stiff leather until his fingers blistered, quiet despite the clear annoyance and suffocating silence you serve him. Some days, you wouldn't even show yourself, your people telling him you went to patrol or hunted, leaving him sitting alone on the rocky ledges for hours.

But he always came back the next day.

One evening, after a particularly brutal afternoon where you had completely ignored his existence while he helped the elders fix something, he caught you as you walked back toward your family's yurt. The sky was a bruised purple, and the bioluminescence was casting a soft light across your face.

He called out your name, his voice light despite the clear exhaustion on his face. He looked terrible, his shoulders were bruised from hauling timber, but there was still the sharp, military crispness of his posture despite the air of a man who was running on nothing but sheer desperation.

You stopped, but you didn't turn around to face him. “Go home, Neteyam. Take the war seriously instead of spending so much of your time here. Your father needs you.”

“My father has other warriors,” Neteyam said, stepping closer. “I will not stop. I will come here every day. I will carry every basket, I will mend every net, I will bleed on these rocks until I’ve proven myself to you.”

You finally turned your head, looking over your shoulder at him. Your face was half-hidden in the shadows, but your eyes were fixed on him.

“You are wasting your time,” you said, though your voice devoid of its usual malice, carrying only a profound, weary sadness. “The girl who would have been happy with all of these is gone, Neteyam. Even I couldn’t bring her back. You cannot bring back something that no longer exists.”

His breath hitched, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow from his father’s training sessions. His ears pinned flat against his head, but he took a deep breath, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. You silently gasped, watching the proud, golden boy of the Omatikaya, who had been raised to hold his head high, lowering himself in the dirt of the Tayrangi cliffs.

“Then who is she now?“ he asked quietly. “Would you let me meet her?” he pleaded, looking up at you soulfully, his chest heaving. “If she is a stranger, then let me earn her. Let me learn the way she breathes, the way she speaks, what makes her laugh now. I do not care if it takes the rest of my life. I will build a bridge over whatever ocean you put between us.”

You looked down at him, your eyes tracing his bruised shoulders, the raw, blistered skin on his fingers, and the deep shadows under his eyes. He looked so tired, what with his duties back home and the tasks he’s killing himself to do here, only to be ignored by you.

“You are a fool, Neteyam,” you murmured softly.

“I am,” he agreed instantly, his eyes tired but fiercely intense. “I am a fool who took you for granted and hurt you, who took too long to realize that my world has no tilt on its axis if you don’t belong in it.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. For many moons, you had kept your heart behind an impenetrable wall of ice, convincing yourself that what had happened broken something inside you that could never be mended. But looking at him now, no armor to break nor wall to climb, and entirely surrendered at your feet, a terrifyingly familiar warmth threatened to crack the frost.

You stepped around him, your tail flicking with a wave of mixed emotions. “The elders need the nets mended by first light tomorrow,” you said, not looking back as you pulled open the flap of your yurt. “If you are going to bleed on our rocks, you might as well make yourself useful.”

You left him outside and he watched the flap shut close with a twinkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there in moons. He let out a long breath, staying on his knees for a moment longer. A fierce, protective spark reignited in his chest. That wasn’t exactly forgiveness, but you had indirectly told him not to leave and tend to the nets, a complete opposite of how you’d pushed him away every single day in the past moons.

He’s not confident yet, but it was a crack in your armor.

Standing up, he wiped the dust from his knees, his eyes watching the flap with tangible longing, before deciding to walk down toward the docks where the torn nets lay waiting.

Days turned into weeks, and Neteyam’s presence in the cliffs before the first light ever crested the horizon has become a constant view. You were drinking your morning tea on a higher ledge when you saw him trekking up the hill, his ikran stubbornly left in a hidden thicket half a league away even though you’d stop avoiding him or fleeing away at the sight of his ikran. You’d seen where he hids his ikran and knew that he had to trek the rocky, miles-long paths on foot before he could even reach your home.

“You should have just brought your mount here instead of trekking that much distance,” you casually said.

He stared at you, as if surprised that you’d suggest that. “Maybe... Maybe tomorrow,” he replied.

Your eyes narrowed at how he was uncharacteristically wearing his warrior cummerbund. It was a gear he wears during missions, but one he rarely wore for casual labor. On top of that, he also looked too pale for your liking, his skin lacking its usual vibrance and his lips almost as white as sea foam.

“Did you come straight here from a mission?“ you probed and he immediately shook his head.

“Just patrol,” he answered, his voice a little gravelly.

Your eyes narrowed, refusing to press for more answers but you watched him almost the entire time, silently going straight to work, lifting heavy timber, hauling supply crates, and helping grease the stiff riding saddles of your clan’s riders. It was past mid-day when he finished, just in time for him to get back for the council meeting, if their schedule is still the same as you remembered.

You caught him just as he was walking down the mountain path. “Neteyam,” you called out.

He turned around immediately and you saw the slight sway that followed that sudden movement, which he tried to mask by shifting his weight.

“You should eat before you go,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I haven’t eaten yet, too... Only if you’d like,” you added.

A look of pure surprise crossed over his pale face. For a second, he just stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The exhaustion weighing him down seemed to lift, replaced by a twinkle in his eyes that made you almost smile. Thank Eywa, you were able to stop yourself!

“I... I would like that,” he murmured, his voice soft.

He walked back with you into the communal yurt, aware of your people’s eyes tracking your movements. After all, this was the first time you actually invited him in for anything, knowing how their imaginative minds have long came up with stories of their own to explain the presence of the Toruk Makto’s heir in the Tayrangi.

He sat across from you and you noted how slow he seemed to be moving, having known how efficient he usually is, so you handed him a bowl of steaming soup and a plate of honeyed roasted fish that you’ve already cut into bite-sized pieces. His eyes were heavy on you that your skin seemed to tingle at your every move, too conscious of yourself knowing that he’s watching you.

Your eyes snapped to his, your brow rising. “Eat. The food will go cold,“ you said.

He nodded, redirecting his attention on his food. Despite the pain on his side, a sense of profound peace seemed to settle over him. He was sitting across from you, eating your food, sharing your space. He was so glad he perservered to go today. Whatever agony pokes at him under his tight cummerbund was a cheap price to pay for this single moment with you.

When the bowl was completely empty, he placed it down with meticulous care, waiting for you to finish without speaking, but halfway your meal, your eyes snapped up to his.

“You can go, if you wished,” you said casually.

“Believe me, I do not wish to be anywhere but here,” he replied. “I knew I would have to wait, you were always a slow-eater.”

Your lips pushed forward. He knows that. You tilted your head to brush it off. “I’ve grown faster since I became a huntress,” you retorted.

“Hm. I wish I can see it,” he said, his voice laced with humor.

You stuffed the rest of your food into your mouth, chewing non-stop as your cheeks filled with food bubbling like a syaksyuk eating utumauti. A snort escaped him as he watches you, one that turned into a genuine laugh, though it was cut short, his ears twitching and his jaw tightening as he suppressed a grimace.

“Why?” you asked, your voice muffled by the food in your mouth. He looked like he was pained.

He shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on the low table. He handed you a bowl of water. “Slow down, syaksyuk, or you’ll choke...”

He chuckled when you rolled your eyes before ccepting the water he offered, continuously chewing. Once you were finished, you finally spoke, “You should get moving,” you said softly, reaching over to stack his empty bowl onto your plate. “If you are late for the council meeting, they might think that Toruk Makto’s heir lacks discipline. We don’t want that.”

Neteyam let out a quiet sigh, the humor fading into a weary but profoundly content expression. He slowly pushed himself up from the ground, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping his teeth before his hand flew to his ribs, but he quickly converted the movement into a stretch. He looked down at you with a lingering fondness.

“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly. “I must head to the council now. I will... I will be back tomorrow. With my ikran, if you meant what you said.”

You went to stand, following him out of the communal space to walk him only until the ledge. “Take care...” you whispered in the wind as you watched him go. Your eyes narrowed, noting how unusually heavy his steps were. He really looked remarkably weak.

You figured you'd ask him tomorrow, but your suspicion was answered much sooner than you expected. In the dead of night, Ruk’e quietly entered your yurt, his expression unusually grave.

“Pack your weapons,” he said, his voice low. “The war council needs you back urgently. The RDA is pushing the western flank, and they need every competent ikran rider back in the air.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Mother agrees it is time.”

He left out the part where Jake Sully himself spoke with him. What you didn't know was that back at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam had fallen ill through the night. Yesterday, during a swift ambush on an RDA scout unit, a stray shrapnel had torn into his midriff. It was just a minor injury that required only bed rest, but Neteyam had completely ignored the Tsahik's orders. He had wrapped it tightly, hidden it beneath his cummerbund, and flown straight to the Tayrangi to help haul your clan's imports.

When he returned to the forest, he could barely stand. His wound was bleeding beneath his cummerbund, and his body hot with fever.

Now, he lay on a mat in the Tsahik’s tent, practically delirious. Neytiri sat near him, her tail whipping in a furious frenzy as she scolded him. “You went to the Tayrangi? What did you even do there that you’d managed to have your flesh torn open?! Have you lost your mind, Neteyam?!”

Through the haze of his fever, Neteyam weakly opened his eyes. “Mother... it’s fine. I am fine. Just... do not tell her. She wants me to bring... My ikran tomorrow...” his mouth formed into a lazy smile.

“What?!” Neytiri cried out, her voice breaking in panic. “Neteyam, you could barely open your eyes, and you're flying back there again to do only the Great Mother knows what?!“

“Mother, it’s okay,” he muttered, brushing her hands away.

Jake stepped into the tent, his large hand resting on his wife's shoulder to calm her, though he himself was worried. “You can't do this to yourself, boy. You're going to kill yourself before the RDA even gets a chance to.”

Neteyam let out a long, ragged sigh, his eyes closed. “Have you ever had someone be your entire world, Dad?” he whispered, his voice laced with contentment. “We ate together earlier... And it felt like my entire world was narrowed down on that table... With her sitting across from me. I don't think... I don't think I can miss a single day not seeing her. If I stop showing up... She will think I gave up.”

Neytiri’s fury slowly melted away, her face falling as she watched her son finally drift into a deep, feverish sleep. She turned to Jake and his eyes snapped to her, sharing a look of understanding.

The next morning, you walked with mother and brother to the war pavilion. You had flown back with Ruk’e at dawn, your mind focused on the reports Ruk’e has told you, but some parts of you were thinking about how Neteyam would react seeing you back in the council. Now, he wouldn't have to exhaust himself flying from the forest to the Eastern Coast.

The council welcomed you, asking you about things back home and slowly easing the current climate regarding the sky people into the conversation. You assured them your brother has told you and that you know what you came here for. You turned to the pavilion’s entrance when you heard an entourage enter, freezing at the sight you saw.

Neteyam entered first, his midriff wrapped with a medical woven fabric, and there was an unmistakable fresh smear of blood already blooming through the center of the cloth. He looked very pale. His head casually snapped to your direction, and the absolute shock on his face mirrored your own. Written on his forehead was a huge why are you here?

He instinctively took a half-step backward, his tail twitching as if he wanted to flee the pavilion entirely rather than let you see him like this. But Jake was standing directly behind him. His father placed a firm, unyielding hand on his shoulder, gently prompting him forward into the room. Neteyam swallowed hard, forced his chin up, and continued walking as if everyone in the pavilion didn’t witness his panic at the sight of you.

Well, it’s not like these people are oblivious to his daily trips to the Tayrangi. They had known, it’s only that they didn’t know exactly what for though they had a hunch. And now, he practically confirmed it. He was persistently going there for you.

Meanwhile, the pieces in your mind instantly fell into place. His paleness yesterday, the cummerbund, the obvious weariness... He had been bleeding out while lifting things that normally needed the strength of two men.

“Thank you all for gathering so quickly,” Jake began, clearing his throat as he addressed the elders. “I spoke with Ikeyni and Ruk’e yesterday. We have expanded our flight perimeters, and we drastically need our most skilled ikran riders back in the vanguard. Y/N has agreed to step back into her role.”

As the chieftains murmured their approval, the briefing began. You forced your mind to focus, stepping up to the map table to report on the coastal movements. “The Tayrangi borders are currently stable,” you said, your voice serious and level. “We ran three separate scouts and extended it along the northern reef daily. So far, it's untouched.”

You reached across the wide table for a wooden marker to illustrate the scout lines, but your fingers missed it by a few inched. Before you could lean forward again, a hand moved into your field of vision.

Neteyam picked up the marker for you.

As he extended his arm, a subtle flinch crossed his features. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained, the simple effort of reaching across the table obviously hurt him. But when his golden eyes turned to meet yours, the pain vanished behind a cool mask of a hardened warrior. He stared at you with an intense, unblinking focus that made your face feel incredibly hot.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. Jake cleared his throat loudly, and from the corner of the pavilion, Lo'ak let out a highly audible, mocking snicker.

You quickly tore your gaze away, your cheeks burning. “Thanks...” you muttered, looking at the map through your lashes.

“You're welcome,” Neteyam drawled, his voice low and smooth despite the sweat glistening on his brow.

You bit your lip, your cheeks still burning as you forced your voice to level to continue your report. The moment the council was dismissed, Neteyam stayed back, lingering by his father's side to converse with the elders. He was very obviously trying to avoid leaving the pavilion at the same time as you.

But you weren't going to let him escape. You walked out with your arms crossed and waited right outside the entrance, your eyes already narrowed into slits. When Neteyam finally emerged, he stopped dead in his tracks. Seeing you standing there like a warden, he took a breath and adjusted his posture, walking toward you with every ounce of military bravado he could muster, desperately trying to hide the slight limp in his stride. The red stain on his white bandage had grown wider.

“What is that?” you demanded without so much as a greeting, gesturing sharply to his torso.

Neteyam stopped two paces away, his expression carefully neutral as he looked away toward the trees. “Just a minor injury from the recent mission. It is nothing.”

“You got shot?” you pressed, stepping closer, your voice rising in genuine disbelief.

“It's a shrapnel,” he corrected quickly as if that made it all better.

“Great! An iron slug tore through your side, and you still came to the coast yesterday? You still did the heavy lifting? You still hiked miles on foot to your ikran?!”

“It was just small,” he lied smoothly, though his breathing was shallow.

“Then why is it actively bleeding?!“ your voice rose slightly.

“It just got strained yesterday, but it’s nothing serious—”

“Are you insane?!” you huffed, your anger finally boiling over. “My father died from a small wound and left my mother a widow, Neteyam! You are not thinking! You have a responsibility to this war, to your family, to your people! How can you preach to me about discipline and taking things seriously when you are out there compromising your own body for something so small?!”

Neteyam listened to your tirade, his ears pinning back slightly against his head. But he didn't flinch away from your fury, instead, he watched you with that stupidly twinkling eyes. He took a step closer, the hardened soldier completely melting away to reveal the raw, aching man underneath.

“What are you calling small? Your forgiveness? Your attention? The chance I was asking for from you? It’s not small to me, Y/N. It is everything to me... And right now, it is all that is holding me together,” he said softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.

“Must you really put yourself at risk like that?” you cried, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

He groaned, closing his eyes momenyarily, when you could no longer hold your tears back. You are so scared right now, so worried for him, it’s not even funny.

“Just let me, alright? I said I will do everything to earn the right to at least be near you again, and this is me standing by my words. Like what you told me to do,“ he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his conviction. He stepped into your space, ignoring the sharp twinge in his side. “I told you, I will do whatever it takes. I did not want to miss a single day of trying to show you that I will show up. Even if I am bleeding, even if you do not look at me, I will be there.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. The sheer, stubborn idiocy of his devotion was infuriating, but beneath the anger, that stubborn wall of ice around your heart suffered another massive, catastrophic crack.

“Well, you don't have to do all that anymore,” you said, looking down at his bleeding bandage, your tone softening into something weary. “I am back on the council now. I will be here in the forest. You don't need to fly to the coast for me.”

“It does not change anything,” Neteyam countered instantly. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, close enough for you to feel the heat of his fever, though he refrained from touching you. “Just because you are back in the pavilion does not mean I am done. I will still work for your forgiveness, Y/N. I will still do everything in my power until you can look at me and trust me the way you used to. I am not stopping.”

You looked up at him, your mouth slightly open, completely at a loss for words. You mouth opened again to retort, but before you could even speak, a sudden, frantic rustling erupted from the pavilion entrance. Lo’ak came scrambling out, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to prevent himself from falling into the dirt.

You and Neteyam quickly turned to him, only to get surprised to see not just Lo’ak, but an entire audience: Jake, Neytiri, Ikeyni, and Ruk’e. They were all standing completely still, their expressions a mix of profound interest and varying degrees of amusement. But because Lo’ak had tripped and completely blown their cover, the privacy shattered instantly.

Ikeyni was the first to recover, clearing her throat with a loud, entirely performative cough. “Ah... Ruk'e, we must go and inspect the riders at the vanguard. Immediately.“

Neytiri smoothed down her braids, her sharp eyes twinkling as she looked anywhere but at her eldest son. “Ah, and I must find Tuk. We have... things to gather. Many things.“

Jake offered a highly unconvincing nod, clapping a hand on a thoroughly embarrassed Lo’ak’s shoulder. “Right. And I have an urgent meeting with the elders about... perimeter lines.”

“I am hungry,” Ruk’e announced flatly to the sky, ignoring the fact that he had consumed a massive breakfast less than an hour ago.

Lo’ak let out a low whistle, backing away alongside the adults. Within three seconds, the entire crowd had vanished, leaving you two alone.

You turned back to Neteyam, your ears pinning flat against your head as you glared at him, trying desperately to mask the raging blush creeping up your neck. “You need to go see the Tsahik. Right now. You are bleeding through your bandage.”

Neteyam nodded, but he didn't move. He stayed standing there, towering over you, watching your fiery exasperation with a soft, maddening look of pure adoration. You groaned, a sound of defeat tearing from your throat.

Reaching out, you firmly grabbed his wrist and began dragging him yourself toward the Tsahik’s tent. “Move, you stubborn man,” you muttered. You figured you wanted to see exactly how small this wound actually was.

When you pulled him into the warmth of the Tsahik’s tent, Mo’at didn't look even remotely surprised to see you practically hauling the clan's golden heir by his arm.

“Ah, and he returns,” Mo’at remarked dryly, setting down a bowl of poultice. “Did I not tell you last night, Neteyam, when you came home violently ill and shaking with fever, that your flesh would tear? Look at this!”

With practiced, firm hands, she unclipped the medical wrap. When the bloody fabric fell away, your breath hitched, and you winced sharply.

The wound was not small. It was an angry tear about as long as your pinky finger, stretching deep into the muscle of his side, the edges raw and weeping fresh blood from where he had strained it.

“You are a liar,” you hissed, the fear in your chest turning into a surge of anger. You reached out and forcefully pinched his shoulder. “You said it was small!”

Neteyam’s hand instantly shot up, his fingers gently trapping yours against his shoulder. His twinkling eyes locked onto yours, completely unbothered by the pinch, and he flashed a rare smile that showed his pearly whites. It was so genuine, so disarming, that the hot anger in your chest simmered down into a helpless flutter.

“There is nothing to worry about, Y/N,” he murmured softly. “I’ve had worse before.”

You merely hissed at him in response, pulling your hand back.

Mo’at wiped the blood away and applied a fresh layer of soothing poultice, wrapping the midriff with tight, clean linen. Once finished, she stood up, turning her sharp gaze directly onto you. “Y/N, I am entrusting this hard-headed man to you. He does not listen to me, to his mother, or to his father. He needs strict bed rest. That wound will never close if he keeps moving and straining himself.”

You nodded with absolute solemnity, crossing your arms. “You can trust me, Tsahik. I will personally castrate this man if he even thinks about lifting a finger.”

Mo’at let out a rare, breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she gathered her bowls and exited the tent, leaving the two of you alone.

You turned to him. “Sleep,” you hissed.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, a soft chuckle escaping him as he sank into the furs with a weary sigh, his eyes half-closed as he looked up at you through his lashes. “No need for castration... that would make you miss your babies...”

The last words were a barely audible, sleepy whisper, but the tent was so quiet that they rang like a bell in your ears. “What?!” you snapped, your entire face exploding in a violent heat.

Neteyam just smiled lazily, turning his head onto the fur pillow. “Sleeping now...”

True to your word, you made sure he took his rest. For the next week, you refused to let him leave the Tsahik’s tent unless necessary, sitting by his side, forcing him to eat, and threatening him with your dagger whenever he tried to sit up too fast.

But once his fever broke and the wound finally closed into a healthy, silver seam, he went back to waiting at your feet, and he became entirely shameless. He would bring you the sweetest fruits before morning drills, sharpen your arrow tips and hunting dagger, and sit quietly beside you during meals, completely content just to exist in the same space. He was still the same as before. There was no pushing or demanding, only working to seamlessly wove himself into your daily routines.

If you are to be asked when exactly did the remaining ice around your heart melted, you’d say it had turned into a puddle long ago. But now, as the Hometree came alive with the people singing and dancing to celebrate a turn of successful hunts, your chest was singing with a familiar hum. One you never thought you’d feel again. You stood near the outer roots, watching the dancers, when a familiar warmth bloomed at your side.

Neteyam stood beside you, wearing his formal warrior gear. He didn’t speak, but his hand hung loosely between you, his fingers inches from yours. You bit your lip, looking at his profile through your lashes, noting his sharp jawline and his beautiful patterns. It was the same image of the boy you swore to make fall in love with you. You wondered what thirteen-year-old you would have thought if she knew that this man literally bled into the dirt just to prove he wouldn't give up on you.

You let out a soft, long sigh. Slowly, deliberately, you moved your hand to intertwine your fingers with his.

Neteyam froze. His head snapping down to look at your joined hands, and when he lifted his eyes to yours, they were bright, watering. “Y/N...” he breathed, his voice trembling.

“What?” you whispered, a soft, familiar smirk finally returning to your lips. “Some would say this is the perfect time for a kiss... Unless you’re scared,” you mumbled.

He blinked, his forehead creasing for a moment before a ragged, breathless laugh escaped him. It was you who moved and tiptoed to press a soft kiss on his lips, and you felt his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer, kissing you better. You smiled against his lips.

“I forgive you, Neteyam...” you pulled away only to murmur, and he chased your lips.

“I love you...“ he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. The sheer, unadulterated happiness radiating from him was intoxicating, and you cannot help but grin.

But the beautiful moment was violently ripped away when a deafening horn blew, shattering the festival music and the celebration.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” The people announced.

High above, in the eastern branches of the Hometree’s canopy, a terrifying orange glow erupted. Your breath seized at your chest, a cry of panic escaping you as the people frantically ran to and fro in all directions. Neteyam moved, signaling to the nearby hunters.

“All hunters! Gather water from the river! Move!” he roared, crisp and authoritative.

The communal clearing exploded into calculated chaos. You and Neteyam sprinted toward the lower roots, organizing lines of warriors to haul water containers up the massive vines, while flyers are gathering water from the river to splash it to extinguish the fire. At first, everyone thought it was an accident, but as the smoke cleared, a familiar deep thrumming vibrated through the air.

From the clouds, the shapes of sever RDA gunships dropped into view firing blindly into the canopy.

“To the air!” Jake’s booming voice echoed.

You and Neteyam sprinted to the high roosts, connecting to your ikrans in a synchronized flash of movement and flying into the open sky where the warriors on their ikrans were already fighting fiercely. You dove through the smoke to shoot pilots and sent arrows to the exposed underbellies of gunships you happen to get close to. Within an hour, the invading gunships were spiraling into the jungle in balls of fire.

You watched the fire it caused to the forest, your chest aching with fury and grief at the sight of it.

The war party was victorious, but the destruction it brought made all of you grim. The eastern branches of Hometree were charred black, but it didn’t burn the entirety, and fortunately, no one was dead or gravely injured.

The council convened immediately beneath the glowing roots, the air thick with tension.

“It is no longer safe to keep the children and the elders here. Hometree is too big a target,“ Jake said, his face shadowed by the firelight as he leaned over the map.

“We must relocate... for the meantime,” Neytiri agreed, her voice tight with grief.

“The Hallelujah Mountains. It’s filled of magnetic interference, their metal birds wouldn’t like it very much up there,” Neteyam spoke up, placing a stone on a specific grid of the map.

Jake nodded decisively. “We’ll send scouts, then we’ll evacuate those who cannot fight immediately. The warriors will stay on the ground to secure the perimeter and prepare our counter-strike.”

The plan was drawn swiftly. Jake didn’t want to wait longer. As soon as the clan is evacuated, the party will strike back. As you ordered some Tayrangi men to help with the evacuation, Neteyam caught your arm near the edge of the pavilion, his grup firm and his eyes holding a fierce, protective spark in them.

“After... After the battle is over...” he began, his eyes blinking too many times per second as he stammered for the right words to say.

“Hm?“ you prompted.

“Would you like...“ he trailed. “To have me as your mate?” he added, his words stumbling over one another, and even in the dark, you could see how his cheeks were tinted purple.

You blinked, your heart jumping at your throat, causing it to close as your eyes stung with hot tears. “How could I ever say no to that?” you said in a hoarse voice, your hand holding his firmly.

He pulled you close. “Yes?” he asked breathlessly and you nodded. His breath audibly caught in his throat, leaning forward to kiss you and pulling you even closer to deepen his kiss.

Neteyam broke the kiss reluctantly, his forehead resting against yours for one final, desperate second as the chaos of evacuation whirled around you two. He held your face in his hands, pressing another deep kiss. “Great Mother. I love you so much...”

You chuckled, gripping his forearm. “Glad you’ve finally caught up,“ you mumbled, giving him a peck.

“I have always been here, I was just stupid,” he chuckled, his eyes caressing your face.

The tender moment shattered, though, when a loud cough echoed from the shadows. Neteyam stiffened, and you pulled back just enough to see your brother stepping into the dim light. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed at Neteyam that practically shouted an order to let you go this exact second.

Neteyam cleared his throat, his hands slowly lowering, though he kept his fingers loosely holding your hip for just a heartbeat longer before fully stepping back. You bit your lip, stopping yourself from smiling as you took Neteyam’s hand to hold it. Ruk’e looked at you with a look that would normally be accompanied with a snort.

“Mother is looking for you. Right now. She says the Tayrangi scouts need their final instructions for the eastern ridge, and you're the only one who knows the layout of the lower caves.”

You pushed your lips forward. “I'm on my way,” you said, turning to Neteyam and tiptoeing to kiss him again. You bit his lower lip before pulling away, patting his chest. “Later.“

You turned away, your tail moving behind you, its hairy tip brushing his lower abdomen. You heard his gasp and you grinned as you walked away. You brought this small pocket of joy as your ikran perched on a cliff along with the others, waiting for the signal to fight. Neteyam was several ikrans away from you, although Toruk’s big head was almost hiding him from sight. He caught your gaze, giving you a fierce, sharp nod.

The signal came not from a horn, but from the unnatural tremor of distant explosions. War cries from your people and from the warriors from various clans erupted as hundreds of ikran took to the sky.

You plunged off the ledge, diving straight into the smoke. Your ikran, holding a large boulder in its hind legs, flew over a gunship’s rotors and threw the boulder with a force that tilted the gunship before it exploded into a ball of orange flame. You banked hard, narrowly dodging a volley of gunfire directed at you.

You pulled your ikran’s reins up, pulling the string of your bow before releasing an arrow through the glass of the gunship pursuing you. You watched the vehicle spin wildly, clipping another gunship before exploding into the nearest floating mountain. A sharp war cry tore from your throat, raising your bow before flying higher.

Below, you found Neteyam, riding with the reckless bravery of Toruk Makto himself, but with the terrifying precision of Neytiri. He guided his ikran into a dive, sending arrow grenades directly onto the rotors of a Dragon Assault ship, flying upstream before the large aircraft blasted, his war cry echoing over the din of combat.

For what seemed like hours, the sky bled. Whenever you feared you couldn't find Neteyam in the swirling ikrans flying in the air, he’d appear by your side, moving perfectly synchronized with you. Every time a threat closed in on your blind spot, Neteyam’s arrow finds them. Every time gunships threatened to box him in, your own lethal accuracy puts an end to it.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the final RDA gunship was on a slow descent in flames. This should be a victorious moment, but the sight of the burning jungle below you filled you with a grief that seized your breath. The adrenaline of the battle took hours to fade, but after securing the perimeter of the clan’s hideout, and convening with the council to speak of the next steps the party should take to completely batter the RDA, you felt Neteyam’s hand catch your forearm again.

You turned to him, your excitement bubbling in your chest despite your exhaustion. You followed him as he navigated some steep edges and climbed a few vines, wondering where exactly you two are going, but when he pulled you up on what seemed like a hidden hollow, the sight of a secluded, bioluminescent pool surprised you. The water glowed with a soft, blue light, casting shifting, watery patterns across the jagged walls.

Your mouth curled into a huge smile, turning to him. “This is beautiful...”

“Found it when I was sixteen aimlessly flying around here. I thought then that maybe this could be a place for dates with my mate,” he said, smiling at you, his face devoid of tension.

“Dates?” you echoed.

“It’s... a human thing. My parents often go on dates. Just the two of them, spending time with each other...” he explained.

You smiled, “I like that.”

His hand traveled up your forearm to hold your elbow, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I’ve always thought of bringing you in this place,” he mumbled.

You looked up at him, the soft blue light from the pool catching the warmth in his eyes. “Even back then?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a reverent tone that made your chest tighten pleasantly. He reached down and gently slid his fingers between yours, leading you to the edge of the water. It was you who pulled him to sink into its chilly waters. “Even when I was trying to convince myself that I had to have laser focus on my duty, to be the most competent warrior I could be for my people, you were always the exception... You were always the tilt in my world.“

He held your jaw in his hand, leaning forward to press a soft kiss on your lips. His arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I know you forgave me. I know you said I didn't have to keep doing... all of that. But I need to say it, ” he paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I am so sorry. I will always be sorry... For the words I threw at you, for the pain I caused, for making you feel like you had to change who you were. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel that way again.”

You moved your head slightly, you nose brushing his. The raw, unshielded vulnerability in his golden eyes was breathtaking. The proud, stubborn commander of the Omatikaya was completely laid bare before you, entirely surrendered. You have only ever dreamed of that.

“Neteyam,” You said softly, cupping his jaw with both hands. He stared at you, his eyes bright and swimming with an overwhelming wave of emotion. “The girl who used to be reckless might be gone, but the woman standing in front of you loves you more than she ever did,” you whispered, a soft, tearful smile breaking across your face. “I see you, Neteyam. I see everything you've done to make up for what you did. You don't have to carry the guilt anymore. Lay it down.”

A breathless sigh escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, leaning heavily into the palm of your hand as if a massive weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. When he opened them again, the absolute devotion burning within them made your heart skip a beat. “I love you,” he breathed, his words an unbreakable vow. “Baby, I love you so much.”

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was entirely different from the stolen moments before the battle. This was slow, deep, yet desperate. You groaned softly, your fingers tangling into his braids, he pulled you even closer until there was no space left between you. His hands moved down to your hips, gently stepping you back until you hit the velvety edge of the pool.

He pulled away to look down at your face, his large form towering over you so much now that you’re nearly lying down on the flat edge. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his kuru forward, the glowing tendrils at the tip unfurling, searching for anything to connect with. “Are you sure you want me as your husband?”

You raised a brow, “Is that a warning?”

He pressed a hard kiss on your lips. “It’s only that there is no turning back... You are mine. Forever.” he whispered conspiratorially.

You took your kuru behind you, “I’ve never been one to turn back in fear...” You met him halfway, bringing your kuru forward until the tendrils entwined in a sudden, breathtaking flash of pure energy that caused borh of you to jerk involuntarily. You watched his pupils dilate, the black almost swallowing the gold.

His world felt as though it expanded, then narrowed down to just you, while you could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat as if it were beating in your own chest. You felt the raw, overwhelming depth of his love for you, the fear he felt he drove you away from him, the desperation that ate at him when you no longer cared for him, the hope that bloomed in him when you were so worried about his small wound, and the pure, weeping joy that had consumed him when you finally held his hand at the festival.

You let out a ragged, trembling breath, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him down into a deep, bruising kiss. Neteyam groaned softly against your lips, his arms instantly locking around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the stone as if he couldn't get you close enough. The kiss shifted from soft and tender, to the desperate hardness of a man who wanted to devour you.

His hands were everywhere on your body, unclasping your beaded top and untying your loincloth behind your tail. You chuckled in his ears when his hand on your tail tickled you, and he angled his head to press a hard kiss on your jaw, shedding your loincloth off of you. He hauled you up to the ledge before following you to hover over you, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, naked under him. The cool blue light of the secluded pool danced across his broad shoulders, making you shiver with awareness about how large of a man he actually is. He looked down at you with a hunger born from years of restraining himself.

His large hands slid down from your waist, his thumbs tracing your curves down to you thighs before firmly pressing your thighs apart. You let out a soft gasp as the cool air hit your skin, but the chill was instantly replaced by the intense heat of his body as he settled between your knees. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and searching, demanding you witness exactly how completely he belonged to you.

Slowly, he lowered himself, his calloused hands guiding your knees wider, draping your legs over his broad shoulders. Your breath caught in your throat as his breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the smooth skin of your knee, then another higher up, tracking a slow, agonizing path inward until you were trembling beneath him.

“Neteyam,” you called, panicking as you pushed him back by his shoulder.

His eyes snapped up to you, his eyes dark and dangerous, as if waiting for you to tell him no, but the heat in his eyes flustered you with a heat on your cheeks. He kissed your inner thigh again, and when his lips finally found the center of your heat, a sharp gasp escaped you, your hand squeezing his shoulder.

He pressed a gentle hand on your chest, travelling a bit sideways to cup your breast. “Lay back,“ he mumbled and you did, propping yourself up on your elbows.

His lips found you again and he groaned against your flesh, his hands wrapping securely around the back of your thighs to hold you steady as he parted you with his fingers. His tongue was warm, broad, and too deliberate, drawing upward, tasting you fully. The connection through your entwined kurus sent a jolt of unadulterated pleasure down his spine, and in turn, you could feel his own arousal spiking through the bond, heavy and demanding.

You arched your hips off the ground, your fingers digging into the thick roots beside your head. “Neteyam...” you whimpered, your head rolling back.

He grew even relentless, his pace quickening, his tongue swirling and pressing harder against your sensitive nub. Your hips bucked when his finger slid inside you, feeling uncomfortable with the slight stretch as his mouth sucked at your heat. The sensation was too noverwhelming, and the bond is only amplifying everything. You could feel his deep satisfaction at your undoing, his pride swelling as your body began to tighten around his fingers, and with a firm stroke of his tongue, you felt a powerful tremor in your body, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your thighs clamped around his head.

Neteyam held you through the tremors, swallowing your heat, his purr vibrating heavily against you until your breathing began to slow. As he dragged himself back up to hover over you, his face flushed and his lips glistening, you caught your breath. “That was insane...” you huffed.

His eyes lightened a bit, the darkness yielding to his curiosity. “Really?“

“You know how good it felt for me,” you smiled, tugging at your entwined kurus. A sudden, wicked spark flared in your chest, traveling straight through the bond to hit him. “I want to do it to you, too,” you whispered, your voice husky, your eyes locking onto his.

Neteyam blinked, a sudden wave of heat washing through his expression as his pupils dilated further. “You don’t need—”

“No,” you cut him off, your hands sliding down his muscled abdomen, until it lowered where you felt him. He breathe sharply when you felt him through his loincloth, your hand gripping the massive hardness. “I want it in my mouth, too...”

He closed his eyes for a moment before giving in with a low, defeated groan, shedding his loincloth off before rolling onto his back on the moss. You chuckled, the sound so womanly to him he felt a currently of electricity running exclusively on the margins of his body, causing his ears to pin back against his ears as he watched you rose on your knees, parting your thighs to straddle him.

His hand moved to touch you between your thighs and you jolted with a loud moan, nearly falling over if you didn’t catch yourself by propping a hand on his chest. His fingers caressed your velvety folds, gathering your fresh wetness.

“I need to concentrate, ‘Teyam...” you groaned and he chuckled. You saw him bring his fingers into his mouth.

“Sorry... You just taste so good,” he licked his lips, reaching to kiss you, but you moved your head to kiss his jaw instead.

You pressed soft kisses on his skin, contrasting his hard and heavy kisses. His hands hovered at your waist, his head falling back, letting you slide down his body. He watched you through heavy eyelids, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as you positioned yourself between his muscled thighs. You bit your lip at the sight of his length fully erect, thick, and leaking a bead of thick pre-cum at its tip.

You leaned down, your braids brushing against his thighs as you wrapped your lips around the smooth, hot head of his shaft. Neteyam’s breath hitched violently. He threw his head back against the moss, his jaw clenching so hard the cords in his neck strained as you took him into your mouth, your hands fisting and moving by instinct. Your tongue swirled around the ridge, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him as your mouth moved.

He moaned, his hips bucking as the bond flared with a white hot intensity. Through the connection, you felt the sheer, agonizing pleasure ripping through him, the tight, desperate control he was trying to maintain as the wet warmth of your mouth drove him insane.

“Oh, baby, please, I can't—“ he gasped out, his hips lifting involuntarily off the ground as your mouth sucked him harder. He reached down, his large hands tangling into your braids.

You thought he was going to push you away, but he only held your head there with more pressure for a few more desperate seconds that his largeness almost choked you, but then he gently pulled you up, his breathing completely shattered. You groaned, frowning that he had to pull his cock out of your mouth.

He looked you in the eyes, serious and with finality. “No more. I want to come inside you.”

He hauled you up by your waist, flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion. He was completely done with waiting. His large hand pinned both your wrists above your head, his other hand holding your waist in place as he aligned his hard length against your softness, his mouth coming down to capture yours.

With a slow, heavy thrust, Neteyam began burying himself inside you, until he’d sank in entirely. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders , letting out a breathless cry, feeling your walls stretching to accommodate him. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of the fit sent an exquisite pleasure for the both of you through the bond, and it felt as though your souls were melting into one another, leaving no distinction between where you and him stand.

Neteyam paused for a second, his eyes closing as he absorbed the tight, wet heat of your walls squeezing him. A ragged groan tore from his chest before he began to move in a pace that was immediately hard, deep, and desperate, as if he was pouring into you all the pent-up energy he had left from the battle.

He drove into you with a fiercely possessive rhythm, his hips pounding against yours with a strength that had you crying out his name. Every time he pulled back, he returned deeper, marking you, claiming every inch of your body as his own. His arm wrapped under your body, while the other hand hiked your knee up to your chest, making sure you receive each of his forceful thrust.

The bond left no walls or armors to crack, both of you feeling only the pure, intoxicating love, devotion, and absolute surrender you have for each other. The tension in your lower abdomen coiled tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. Neteyam’s pace became frantic, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity as he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.

“Oh, baby,” he choked out, his grip on your thigh tightening.

You screamed his name as your body convulsed around him, the pleasure shattering your vision into a thousand white sparks. Your grip on him triggered his own release, and a deep, guttural roar escaped him as he thrust brutally deep into you one last time and held himself there, his body stiffening as he spilled himself completely inside you.

“Fuck, I’m seeing stars...” he groaned, collapsing against your chest, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his own chest rising and falling in ragged, exhausted gasps. You broke into a weakened laugh, your hold on him loosening up a little as you pressed soft kisses on his temple.

The weeks that followed were a blur of war council meetings, suffocating maps, and aerial patrols around the High Camp. The ongoing struggle against the RDA had left very little time for you and Neteyam to enjoy your first days together, but it’s when you’re high above the sky that everything seemed to be yours.

You banked hard to the left, your ikran letting out a shrill cry as the wind rushed past your ears. Behind you, Neteyam dipped beneath a floating vine, a wild, unburdened laugh tearing from his throat. For a few glorious hours, the shadow of the RDA did not touch you. There were no battles, no strategies, and no bloodshed. There was only the dizzying feeling of flying, the wind, and the intoxicating freedom of racing the Neteyam through the floating mountains and its hanging vines.

He pulled up right beside you, his ikran's wingtip nearly brushing yours. When he turned his head, his golden eyes were bright, his smile throwing all his typical military crispness to the wind. You flashed him a sharp, challenging smirk, diving straight through a cascading waterfall.

“Keep up!” you taunged, leaving him to chase your laughter through the mist.

By nightfall, the adrenaline gave way to the familiar craving for quiet. You returned to the hidden hollow, slipping into the bioluminescent pool. The chilly waters swirled around your waist as Neteyam hugged you sideways, his chin finding your shoulder, bending his large frame to fit himself at your side.

Every night felt different, but tonight was calmer, filled with your soft mumurs and his low, rumbling chatters as you talked for hours about nothing at all, your fingers tracing the faint, silvery marks of his scars, before the talking faded into the slow and heavy rhythm of your lovemaking.

You are a impatient woman, but you couldn’t deny your love for his deliberate, agonizing slowness sometimes, his hands anchoring your waist as he worshipped you. Every thrust was deep and strong, his lips pressed to your throat, whispering your name like a prayer until the sensations from the bond left you both breathless, tangled together in a sweating, blissful heap.

The sky was just beginning to shift from darkness to the bruised purple of pre-dawn light when you woke up, your body singing with delicious soreness and you snuggled closer to his warmth. You kissed the soft skin of his shoulder, you hand caressing his muscled chest down to his abdomen. You smiled when he stirred, pressing soft kisses on his shoulder and neck, until you reach his jaw.

“Wake up, handsome...“ you mumbled. “It’s your turn today.”

He groaned softly, pulling you closer to him. “I hate leaving you.”

You chuckled. “So dramatic, my handsome man. I will be close behind,” you said, patting his abdomen. “Quick, quick. Before they wake up.”

He grunted, hauling you on top of him effortlessly. His eyes, though sleepy, watched you darkly as his hands moved to knead your breasts. You gasped softly, your hand clutching at his bicep as you peered down at him.

“I’m still sore from last night,” you said with a little drama, pouting at him.

He bit his lip, cooing at you. “I’ll help...” his hands moved down to your waist, ready to roll you over to your back but you were quick to sit up.

“No thanks. I know it’s not really help,” you smirked, grabbing your top. “Get up, warrior. You don’t want to get caught, do you?”

Neteyam groaned, a soft smile on his face before getting up, his hand clamping on your ankle to pull you toward him. You smiled when he bent his head a little to level with you. “Kiss,“ he mumbled and you gave him your lips.

You two kissed and kissed, but when you felt him nudging you to lie on your back, your eyes snapped open, pulling away from the kiss with narrowed eyes. “Neteyam...”

He smiled, his head falling dramatically. You rushed him, watching how the sun is almost peeking through the bruised sky, and Neteyam moved as quickly as he could, stealthily slipping back into the camp, walking with a light, quiet stride, a faint smile still on his lips as he neared his family’s tent.

“Out late?”

Neteyam froze, his ears pinning flat against his head. His father stepped out from the shadow, his arms crossed. From just inside the tent flap, Neytiri stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowed at her eldest son in a way that made Neteyam’s posture instantly snap into military rigidity.

Jake sighed. “Neteyam... I've been meaning to talk to you, boy. I know you’re sort of courting Y/N. The whole clan knows it, everyone knows it, but you cannot just spend nights after nights with her to only Eywa knows where. You are both unmated. It's a small camp, people talk, and it’s not going to be a good look for her reputation.”

Neytiri stepped fully into the dim light, her tail twitching. “Just last night, when you had to sleep here, you looked like you were being sent to war instead of just holding Tuk because she’s asked to snuggle with you,” she pointed out. “You best ask for her hand from Ikeyni, son. Formally. You can’t dishonor her with this fooling around that you young people tend to engage in these days.“

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak and explain, but the look on his father’s face had him turning his head to follow Jake’s line of vision. He then saw you stepping into the clearing, completely unaware of the tribunal happening right in front of the Sully tent. You had planned to quickly slip into the yurt you shared with your mother to change your clothes and fix your hair, but you had taken the wrong turn.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

To say you looked thoroughly ravaged was an understatement. Your hair was a wild, tangled halo of loose braids, your lips were visibly swollen, and your chest was heaving from the hurried walk. You looked exactly like a woman who had spent the last hours being thoroughly fucked. Jake blinked, looking from you to his son.

Neytiri tilted her head, her gaze shifting slowly from your wild hair down to Neteyam’s deeply flushed face. She looked at her son pointedly, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Neteyam...”

Neteyam looked at you, then at his parents, his chest rising as he took a deep, steadying breath. The boyish embarrassment vanished, replaced by the fierce, unyielding pride of a man who knew exactly where he stood.

He walked over to you, completely ignoring his father’s stunned expression, and firmly wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“I will personally apologize to the Olo’eykte, Mother. Because there is no need to ask for her hand,” Neteyam said, squeezing your waist a bit as he looked at his parents. “We are already mated.”

Your heart jumped into your throat, your cheeks burning.

Jake stared at his son, utterly speechless for three long seconds, before a slow, defeated smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Well... damn. Congratulations, I guess,” he said. “But you need to talk to Ikeyni about this. Immediately.”

“What is the matter at hand?” Your mother’s voice coming from your clan’s side of the camp.

You startled, pursing your lips. Neytiri watched you, the stern face for her son breaking into a soft smile as she shook her head in comical disbelief for your and Neteyam’s stubbornness.

“We have a ceremony to prepare, Ikeyni,“ Neytiri turned to your mother with a triumphant smile. “The two seemed to have finally met halfway.”

[rubyys-domain]

thinking of MODULO YUJI who has been secretly fucking NOBARA'S GRANDDAUGHTER. (pt. 3)

HE LIES, HE BLUFFS, HE'S UNRELIABLE !

WARNINGS: 18+, mdni, angst, hurt no comfort, porn with plot, age-gap (60 years), yuji is 78-79 years old here, reader is 20, reader is nobara's granddaughter, taboo relationship (?), yuji is a jerk tbh, almost getting caught, p in v, bathroom sex, no protection, creampie, brief oral sex (f. receiving), brief cum eating, not proofread.

CHARACTERS: ITADORI YUJI (JJK MÓDULO).

WC: 5.8k.

masterlist :: modulo yuji collection :: all reason aside (this series) masterlist

part 2

art creds :: ndsoda on x

a/n: still in the past, direct continuation of part 2.

The apartment felt wrong after Yuji left. Not empty—just...off. The pleasure was still heavy on your shoulders, and it felt like something had disturbed the peace the walls once held.

You stood in front of the mirror longer than you meant to, fingers loosely gripping the edge of the sink as your eyes dragged over your own reflection. You were bare once again, the soft sound of water running behind you as the tub slowly fills. 

Steam had already begun to gather along the edges of the glass, but not enough to blur your reflection and hide what you were looking at.

Your skin looked the same, but it didn't feel like it belonged to you in the same way. 

Your fingers moved without much thought, tracing along your skin, mapping out everything new. The marks stood out easily now that you were alone, faint bruises pressed into your neck, your chest, your stomach, anywhere where your clothes would hide them. 

You touched one lightly, then another, watching your own face shift as the memory followed right behind it.

Surprisingly, it wasn't shame that hit you first; instead, it was something lighter.

You felt...pleased. That was the only word that made sense, although it barely felt like enough. There was a quiet thrill in it, in knowing that it had been him, that after all this time of watching him from a distance, of finding excuses to stay close, he had finally given in. 

You had wanted him for longer than you cared to admit, and now your body carried proof that he had wanted you back. There was a strange sort of certainty in the fact that he was your first.

You hadn't thought much about your first time before, not in any real, concrete way, but standing here now, it felt right. You couldn't explain it, but it felt meant to be.

It wasn't because losing your virginity was supposed to be anything special, but because it had been Yuji, you were satisfied with the night before. He had been someone you had already built up in your mind, someone you had wanted long before this ever happened.

It made the fact easier to accept.

There was no disappointment to pick apart, no awkwardness, nothing that made you wish it had gone differently. 

If anything, the thought of it being anyone but him felt wrong now, like it wouldn't have carried the same weight. If it had been anyone else, it wouldn't have left you standing here like this, tracing the aftermath with something close to fulfilment.

Your fingers paused just below your collarbone, pressing lightly into a mark that seemed to have indents of teeth bitten into it. You studied it for a second longer, your thoughts drifting back. 

You couldn't stop recalling the way he had looked at you.

But that didn't mean anything, did it? You knew better than to assume it did.

For him, it could have been anything. A lapse in his judgement. A moment of weakness. 

Something easier to take and walk away from. You weren't blind to it. You knew how it looked from the outside, how wrong it was, and how easy it would be for him to treat it like nothing more than something to pass the time.

To him you might be nothing more than 'Kugisaki's grandchild'.

There was something almost ironic about it and your lips twitch faintly despite yourself. 

Maybe that was all it was to him. 

You were something he wasn't supposed to have, something that should be left untouched, not to be tainted, and it only made you easier to want.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers dropping away from your skin. You didn't care as much as you probably should. 

Even if it might be demeaning, you would take it anyway.

Whatever you received from him must have been the tiny crumbs he brushed off, but you'd still take them over nothing.

The quiet of the room shifted slightly, broken by the faint creak of a door opening beyond the bathroom. You stilled, head turning just slightly as your attention snapped toward the sound.

"Are you in the shower?" your grandmother's voice called out, distant but clear. "Why are you up this early?"

You blinked once, not even having realized your grandmother was already back home. 

"Yeah," you called back, your voice more even than you expected. "I just woke up early."

There was a brief pause and your chest tighten with worry. Was she suspicious? Had you missed anything while cleaning up? 

"Alright," she replied. "Come out quickly, I ordered breakfast."

You hummed something in response, not trusting yourself to say much more. A second later, you heard the door close again, the sound soft but final as the bathroom settled back into quiet.

And just like that, your emotions changed.

The warmth that had been sitting so easily in your chest shifted, something more daunting slipping in. Your eyes found the mirror again, but this time it was different. You were looking at something you didn't entirely recognize.

The ease from before was gone, something demoralizing taking it's place that was harder to ignore now that you weren't alone in your thoughts anymore. 

Guilt.

You pressed your lips together, your gaze dropping briefly like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

You turned away, stepping toward the tub as the water finally stilled, steam rising in soft waves. You lowered yourself into it slowly, letting the warmth settle over your skin, easing the tension that had crept over you being.

The bubbles gathered along the surface, barely shifting as you leaned back against the porcelain and stared up at the ceiling.

You tried not to think about it, but your mind didn't stay empty for long.

It drifted, almost on its own, back to him. To the way he had spoken before leaving, to the cryptic words he left behind before his departure. You hadn't questioned it, already having deciphered his message.

The date had settled in your mind without effort. The 28th. 5 days.

You exhaled slowly, your head tipping back further as you let your eyes close for a second. You should have been thinking about anything else. You should have been wallowing in guilt, but you weren't.

Instead, you found yourself counting the days.

Despite the secrecy, despite how easily it could all fall apart if anyone notices, the two of you didn't stop.

If anything, it got more steady along the way.

Yuji learned quickly. He stopped coming by when your grandmother was home and his visits were timed. When the house wasn't an option, he would find other places, quieter ones, where neither of you had to worry about being seen. 

It became a routine in a way.

You understood what you were doing.

You knew it wasn't right, not with the way your grandmother had been working longer hours and how easily you used that absence to make space for him. There were moments, brief ones, where it sat heavier than usual, where you caught yourself thinking about it a second too long.

But those thoughts never lasted.

Not when he was there, bare in your arms.

Everything else seemed to fall away the second his hands found you and the space between you disappeared like it had never been there to begin with.

And somewhere in that year, something shifted. It wasn't obvious at first, it never was with him. 

Yuji had always been hard to read, his expressions were calm, his presence quiet that didn't invite questions. But you started noticing it in small ways, in things that didn't quite line up.

Around your grandmother, he seemed...different.

Quieter, but not in the same way as before. There was a solemnity to it now, something that seemed to weigh heavy and linger around him where he sat even when he wasn't speaking. 

You caught when he looked at her sometimes, like he was holding back something on his mind. His eyes would follow her when she moved around the room, not obvious enough to draw her attention but it wasn't subtle since you noticed it every time.

He listened more than he spoke, nodding along when she talked, giving the same short responses he always had. But there was something else there now, something that made it feel less casual.

You had your speculations, but you couldn't be sure. Whether it was because she was getting older, and he wasn't. Or something else entirely. Something that had to do with you.

Because with you, he wasn't the same either.

The distance that had been there in the beginning—like he was aware of the line even when you weren't—had started to slip. 

He started to stay longer.

Not just to fuck you more, but after it, when everything was quiet and he had no reason to still be there. He stopped leaving right away, instead, he would lean back against the headboard or the couch, arms resting behind his head, like he wasn't in a rush to go anywhere else.

You would curl up on him, chin resting on his chest as your legs tangled beneath the sheets to find warmth. 

And it was those time where he would talk to you. 

It started with the small things, simple things about where he was heading later or when he vaguely described what he had to do for work that day. 

But over time, it became more than that.

He told you about people you had only ever heard about in passing, names your grandmother had mentioned without much detail. 

He filled in the gaps your grandmother had left behind, speaking about the things he had lived through, things you could only imagine.

There were moments when his voice would shift, something lighter breaking through when he spoke about certain memories, like he was somewhere else entirely for a second. 

Other times, it stayed the same, his expression barely changing.

You never interrupted him, you never asked too many follow up questions, afraid he might be reluctant to share more later. 

You just listened, tracing idle patterns along his chest, your head resting against him as his voice lulled you to sleep more often than not.

He spoke about your grandmother, about the people he had lost, about things that stretched back longer than your life had ever gone. He didn't make a big deal out of it. 

He just told you.

He let you stay close to him as his hand would settle against you without thinking. He opened up, and you started to see a side of him that resembled the version of Yuji your grandmother used to describe.

It somehow made you feel closer to him, deluding yourself to believe you were the apex of his subtle change of heart. 

But you were afraid to put titles on it, fearing the gravity of it all might just push down on you and make the absurdity all the more real. 

So, neither of you asked what it meant.

Closing in on your year together with him, the two of you had learnt each other's bodies by heart.

You knew the layout of his hands before they even moved, already anticipating how he would hold you, the way he would position you, the way he'd stuff your cunt enough to keep you going for hours. 

There was no hesitation left in him, not like the first time or even the early days where he still used to hold back.

That was gone now.

His hands were heavy on your hips as he thrusted into you from behind, the cool marble of the bathroom counter a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Your fingers remained splayed across the smooth surface, gripping it for dear life as he drove into you with increasing fervor. 

"Hnng! Hahh!" Your breathy moans and the obscene slaps of skin on skin echoed off the tile walls, mingling with his quiet grunts. You were lost in the moment, in the feeling of him filling you so completely, so perfectly. 

The rest of the world fell away until there was only the two of you, moving together in a primal rhythm as old as time.

This was one of those rare times Yuji fucked you without a condom, so you were aware of the effect it had on him. But the same could be said for you as well. 

You could feel every ridge, every vein as he stretched you around his substantial girth, filling you so completely that it almost hurt. But the pain, like always, blurred deliciously into pleasure, and you found yourself pushing back onto him, greedy for more.

The mirror had long since fogged over, the steam thick enough to blur everything except what was directly in front of you.

You watched as Yuji buried his face into the crook of your neck, his mouth latching onto your throat. 

He sucked hard, his teeth and tongue leaving bruises in their wake. He smoothly licked a stripe up your shoulder before biting down, no doubt leaving a vivid bite where none could see.

The sight of his pink hair, the line of his jaw, the determined set of his shoulders as he took you sent a thrill down your spine. You could only imagine the look on his face, the expression of pure lust and desire as he lost himself in your body.

"Fuck! Yu-ji!" you gasped, fingers scrabbling for his hands on your waist as he hit a particularly deep spot inside you. 

 "That's it, baby." He murmured against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. 

Suddenly, Yuji froze behind you, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. 

"Oh shit." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you could even register his reaction, you felt his large hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your increasingly loud moans. 

At first, you were confused, your eyes wide as they met his in the fogged mirror. 

But then, a chill ran down your spine as you heard the distinct creak of your bedroom door opening, followed by the unmistakable sound of your grandmother's voice drifting through the bathroom door.

Oh shit indeed.

She was home, a lot earlier than she was supposed to be. 

Yuji didn't pull away. 

If anything, he closed the space further, your back pressed flat against him as you kept a hand over his that kept you quiet.

You could hear her moving around your room. The soft shuffle of her steps and the faint sound of something being set down. 

"Are you in the bathroom?" your grandmother called out, her voice closer to the locked door than you expected. 

You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, your fingers tightening against him as you tried to steady yourself.

Yuji releases your face, his hand barely drifting far as it comes to rest on your shoulder, his arm circling you around your collar.

"Dear?" Her voice comes in again, but you remain frozen in shock, heart beating rapidly as all you could think about were the worst possible scenarios of how this could go.

She voice called out again, more worried now.

"Answer her." You flinch as Yuji's whispers into your ear, proximity so close it felt suffocating despite the familiarity. 

You were hyperaware of his cock still buried inside you as he slightly shuffled against you.

"Ye-yeah! Just in the bath." Your fingers gripped him hard, steadying yourself to keep your voice from giving anything away. 

"Will you be going anywhere tonight?" She inquired with a tone that almost made you believe she was suspicious of something. 

You were damn near trembling against Yuji, his hand patting your hip once to encourage the conversation.

"No. I'll just be chilling here. At home." 

"Good. I need you at home today, dear. I came back for a bit but I need to leave again. I got called somewhere else for an emergency." 

You wanted to blame your distraught mind for your observation, but you were sure that what you heard from your grandmother's voice was somewhere close to worry. 

"Is...everything alright?" You question despite yourself.

"It should be. Don't make dinner, just order something for yourself." You heard her voice along with a little shuffling around the room. 

Your worry only grew, wondering if Yuji had left something out that she might have noticed. 

Meeting his eyes, it felt like he understood your distress as he just slightly shook his head, leaning his face over to kiss along your jaw.

"Y-you won't be home?" You continued to converse with your grandmother as it was your turn to cover Yuji's mouth due to his teasing. 

He barely seemed worried now, confident that your grandmother had no clue about his presence. You turned your face to the side to properly look at him now.

"I don't think I will be. Don't keep your phone on silent, okay? And lock everything before you sleep."

"Okay." Your hand didn't move from Yuji's face, just continued to keep your gaze connected as he tilts his head slightly.

"Alright then, I'll leave now. Again, don't keep your phone on silent!" Her voice got softer with each word, indicating that she walked further away from where she was as she smoothly made her exit, her departure being marked with the thud of your bedroom door.

Your hand slid away from his face slowly, yet he didn't step back, didn't give you room to think, to breathe, to process what had just happened. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. And then you exhaled, your grip tightening again as the tension refused to leave your body. 

"She was right there. We almost got caught."

"But we didn't." 

"Did you leave anything out there? Where are your clothes Yuji?" 

"I hid them under the bed. Like always." 

"Right. Okay." You exhale harshly, running a hand down your face to wipe the cold sweat. Yuji palm brushes your hair away from your nape, then placing it flat and clutching your neck smoothly.

His other hand swiftly makes way between your legs, teasing your clit as you are made painfully aware of your walls still keeping him warm. 

He pulls you back, feeling a jolt as he thrusts only once.

"Y-Yuji. Please. I...I just need a m-moment to think!" Your words are broken as his hips continue the movement, his hand gliding from your nape to you throat as he lays it flat. 

His face comes closer yet again, nose pressed to your cheek as his lips brush your jaw.

"Do you?" He speaks against your skin, more confident now that he sensed Kugisaki was out of the house completely.

"Because it doesn't feel like it." He murmured, his voice low. Yuji's hand tightens around your throat as he starts thrusting harder, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive.

"F-Fuck..." you whimper, trying to pull away but his grip on your throat keeps you in place. Your nails dig into his skin as you struggle to keep your balance.

Yuji was rubbing slow circles around the swollen nub, his hips never stop their relentless rhythm, driving into you over and over. You're lost in sensation, drowning in the feeling of him inside you. 

Your mind goes blank, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. There's only room for the hot ache of his cock, the slick glide of his fingers on your clit, and the heat of his skin on yours.

You gasp, arching into his touch as jolts of pleasure shoot through you.

"Don't think," he murmurs, voice low and rough with lust. "Just feel."

Before the aftershocks can even settle, he was moving with a new purpose. He turns you around, his hands settling on your waist to lift your trembling weight. Without so much as a grunt, he hoists you up, settling you onto the edge of the cool bathroom counter.

The sudden change in temperature makes you gasp, but you barely have time to steady yourself before he is between your thighs. 

He spreads you wide, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of you flushed, messy, slick pussy.

As his tongue first makes contact, a sob breaks from your throat. He begins to eat you out with ease, his tongue gliding with precision over your sensitive clit. 

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Then, he pushes deeper, his tongue plunging inside you, tasting the mix of you and his own cum that was still trickling out of you. 

You cry out his name, your head falling back as you lose yourself all over again to the wet friction of his mouth.

You step out of the bathroom together, the air outside feeling cooler against your skin after a quick bath, almost jarring after the heat you had just left behind. 

You didn't stop to think about it, walking straight toward your bed as you dropped to your knees and reached underneath, your fingers brushing against the fabric Yuji had shoved there earlier.

You pulled out his clothes without looking at him, tossing his pants in his direction before straightening up, leaving his hoodie on the bed. He caught them easily, already stepping into them like a routine.

You grabbed the first thing within reach, slipping an oversized tee over your head, the fabric falling loose against your body as you adjusted it absentmindedly. Neither of you spoke, but by the time you looked up, he was already moving.

Yuji walked past you toward the bedside table, reaching for his phone like it had been waiting there the entire time. Your brows pulled together tight, mood bordering on annoyance as you pushed yourself off the bed and took a step toward him.

"You left that out?" you said, your voice lower now but edged with something sharper than your usual tone with him. "What if she had seen it?"

He paused for a second, glancing at the phone in his hand before rubbing the back of his neck, his expression barely shifting.

"Didn't think she'd come back," he replied.

"That's not the point," you said, closing the distance between you. 

"You can't just leave things like that lying around. What would we have done if she had seen it?"

You were vexed. Wasn't he supposed to be just as worried as you? Then why did it seem as though you had taken his half of the stress as well?

He didn't argue, but he wasn't stupid enough to deflect your concern. So, he just gave a small nod, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"Sorry."

A simple apology was all he offered, yet pathetically enough, it was enough for you to ease off him.

You exhaled quietly, softly pinching your nose to suppress the irritation. You had already been on edge after what conspired earlier, so this felt like a catalyst to your overtly anxious mind. 

Despite it, you to step closer, your arms wrapping around him without much thought, your body pressed against his, your head settling against his chest.

He stilled for a moment, then his arm came up, resting over your shoulders, pulling you in slightly. His hold was steady and for a second, everything felt quiet again.

It felt nice. Normal even.

For the past few months you had come very close to asking Yuji of your place in his life, hoping to put some sort of title over what you shared. But, each time your throat would close up, choking on the question long before you could voice it out.

This time, you would say it. Just three words, and a hope for a grounding answer.

All you ever wanted to ask him was,

"What are we?"

Your heard your voice before your mind could catch up, pulling your face from his chest to gauge his reaction.

You tried to bury your panic, but you were sure even Yuji could feel the faint thumping within your chest. 

You didn't even notice your breathing become frantic, only flinching to a stop when you felt his fingers touch your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.

You couldn't, for the life of you, understand what was going on in his mind. And his face didn't show much either. He just seemed...stoic.

No shock, no panic, no sorrow. 

A very tepid reaction for something that had been decaying your brain.

He took in a sharp breath, forming the words on his tongue. But just before your ears could catch his voice, his phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the moment cleanly, and you felt the way his body went rigid against yours, his arm freezing where it rested on you. The shift was immediate, making you pull back slightly, your hands loosening around him as he took a small step back.

"Yuji?"

Yuji did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen, something in his countenance tightening in a way you had never witnessed before. 

He wasn't even trying to be subtle or hide it.

"Yuji?" you called out again, softer this time.

You frowned slightly, trying to turn your head and take a peak at his for so you could understand what had changed so quickly.

That was when he stepped back, breaking  away from you completely as he lowered the phone, his jaw tense as he avoided your eyes.

"I need to go."

The words came out flat, one reminiscent to the tone you were very familiar with in the start. 

It had taken you all this time to melt down a small part of his barrier, but now it was back just a quickly, hitting you like a barrel.

You blinked at him, the response catching in your throat as you watched him reach for his hoodie, pulling it on in one quick motion.

"Wait—what?" you started, taking a step toward him, but he was already moving.

He didn't halt for even a movement, and it was enough to indicate something very dreadful had happened.

He crossed the room in a few steps, heading straight for the balcony, and before you could say anything else, before you could even process it—

He was gone with a flicker. 

You stood in the quiet of you room, hand stretched out towards the direction he once stood, before letting it fall to your side. You had no idea how to react to this situation, so all you could do was to lay in bed and let your tears lull you to sleep.

You sat across from your grandmother in the living room, the television running low in the background, though neither of you were paying attention to it. 

She had her hands folded in her lap, posture relaxed, gaze fixed somewhere ahead while you watched her without meaning to.

It had been a few days.

The house had gone back to normal. Your daily meals were made, conversations were had, the same routine carried on without interruption, but something had dull had settled. 

You felt it most when his name came up, or rather, when it didn't.

You had found out the reason soon enough.

An old friend of theirs had passed. 

Hana. 

You had gone with your grandmother to the funeral the next day, standing beside her through it all, listening to the conversations that drifted around you.

You had seen him there.

He stood there, apart from the others, close enough to be present, but distant so that no one tried to pull him into conversation unless necessary. 

He hadn't seem to be expressing the same sorrow as the ones around him, though the way he had left you the night before made sure that this indeed had shocked him enough to leave him rattled.

When your grandmother approached him, he spoke to her, giving her the attention he always did. He never glanced your way, not while he spoke to her, not during the entire duration of the funeral.

He never looked at you. Not even a single time.

You had waited for it, longer than you wanted to admit, your eyes finding him more often than you meant them to, expecting something small, anything that acknowledged you were there.

It never came. He had left soon after his conversation with your grandmother without even a goodbye.

You sat there now, your fingers loosely intertwined, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again, settling on her as she reached for the remote and increased the volume.

"You friend...he hasn't come by," you said finally, keeping your tone even, casual enough to not draw attention to it.

She glanced at you briefly, then back at the screen.

"No," she replied. "He won't."

The certainty in her voice made your chest tighten slightly. You shifted in your seat, your hands loosening before settling again.

"Why not?"

She didn't answer immediately, but her thumb paused against the remote before continuing to surf through the channels.

"He said he wouldn't be attending funerals anymore." She said, her voice steady

You frowned slightly, the words not sitting right. Your gaze dropped briefly before you looked back at her, your voice quieter now.

"Did she mean that much to him?"

Your grandmother leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful, as if she was choosing her words carefully.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. 

"But they understood each other in ways most people wouldn't. Being a vessel, it changes how you see things."

She paused for a moment, her eyes shifting slightly towards you.

"And after Fushiguro..." she continued, her voice lowering just enough. "She was one of the few connections he had left to him. Losing that was very difficult for him."

"But the three of you were friends, were you not? He won't even come to meet you, now?" You ask, trying to be subtle.

"Who knows. Itadori has always been unpredictable, even more so as he grew stronger. Reminds me of our first mentor."

You nodded slowly, though the explanation didn't settle anything inside you. All you took from it was you might never see Yuji again.

Your grandmother was back to watching the television, but you didn't move. Your mind lingered somewhere else, caught between what you had been told and what you had seen, the absence of him pressing more than his presence ever had.

Later that night, you sat alone in your room, your phone resting in your hand, the screen dimming and lighting again as you unlocked it without thinking.

His contact name sat there.

You stared at it for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen, hesitating as you already assumed the worst.

There was no label for what you had. No place for you to stand beside him that made it feel right to reach out.

But you did anyway.

With a single message.

are you okay?

You stared at it for a second after sending it, your chest tightening slightly as the screen went still again.

There was no reply. Not that night, nor the next.

A month passed, though it did not feel like something that could be measured so cleanly. The days blurred into each other, slow and uneventful, while the nights stretched longer than they should have. 

You found yourself lying awake more often than not, your thoughts circling back to him without invitation, replaying what little you had to hold onto until it lost its shape. 

You cried more than you expected to. 

It was quiet and solemn, and you let it pass through you when the house fell still and there was nothing left to distract you. 

You did not question it or try to give it meaning. 

Instead, you simply let it happen until, slowly, it began to ease on its own, time working it's wonders as it got easier to forget. 

The weight of it did not disappear, but it turned into something light, something you could carry without thinking about it all the time.

By the end of the month, you had convinced yourself you were fine.

You stopped checking your phone as often. You stopped expecting anything from him. You let your days move forward without waiting for something that had already proven it would not come.

So when he did come back, it did not feel real at first.

There was no message, no warning, no attempt to ease into it. 

He was simply there, standing in your room as if the past month had not existed, as if nothing had been left unresolved between you. 

His presence filled the space like it always had, leaving no room to question how or why he had returned.

You looked at him, your mind catching up slower than your body did. 

There were things you had held onto for weeks, questions that had built up in the silence he left behind, but none of them made it past your throat. 

You knew why he had left, and that knowledge was enough to keep you from saying anything at all.

You started to speak, his name leaving your lips in one of the many ways it had over the past year, but none of them had ever sounded so devastating.

"Yuji..."

He stepped closer, closing the distance, and whatever you had been holding onto slipped away.

You did not stop him.

Everything you had pushed down over the past month surfaced all at once, as you held onto him, as you refused to pull back even when you should have. 

The frustration he had caused, the confusion he had left behind, the quiet relief of him being there again, it all came crashing through you.

He met it without question.

He gave no explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment of the time that had passed. He did not offer anything to make sense of it.

And you did not ask for it. 

You simply took him to your bed, letting his calloused hands strip you off your clothes, baring you of your body and soul, and he fucked you, carefully ignoring the latter.

By the time everything settled, the room had gone quiet again. 

You laid there, your breathing slower now, your thoughts dulled by what you wished was peace, but knew better to be of exhaustion. 

The balcony had begun to let in the first signs of morning, a faint light creeping in, marking the time neither of you had paid attention to.

Yuji moved first.

You watched him sit up, reaching for his clothes without looking at you, pulling them on with the same ease and lack of urgency he had during the early days.

There was no hesitation, nothing that suggested he had anything to say before he left.

You stayed where you were, your gaze following him without calling out,

You didn't ask him to stop.

Not when he hadn't even looked back.

Not when he spoke no words to you at his departure.

No goodbye. No message. No promise.

The only thing he left behind was his absence.

Like always.

A month turned into two, and then into something you no longer bothered keeping count.

Just like your grandmother had said, he was unpredictable. 

He came back when he wanted to. Sometimes it was a month, sometimes longer. 

Every time your grandmother was away, leaving the house empty for you, you would expect him to be there, the show up after depriving you of himself.

But somehow he always showed up when you least expected it.

There was no pattern you could rely on, no message beforehand, no explanation after. 

He would appear in your room as if nothing had passed between the last time and now, and you would let him in without asking where he had been.

It became something you stopped questioning.

Until one night, you did.

part 4 coming soon...

modulo yuji collection [taglist open] {you will be tagged for all modulo yuji x younger reader fic}

all reason aside (this series) [taglist open] {you will be tagged for this series only}

masterlist

[rubyys-domain]

thinking of MODULO YUJI who has been secretly fucking NOBARA'S GRANDDAUGHTER. (pt. 3)

HE LIES, HE BLUFFS, HE'S UNRELIABLE !

WARNINGS: 18+, mdni, angst, hurt no comfort, porn with plot, age-gap (60 years), yuji is 78-79 years old here, reader is 20, reader is nobara's granddaughter, taboo relationship (?), yuji is a jerk tbh, almost getting caught, p in v, bathroom sex, no protection, creampie, brief oral sex (f. receiving), brief cum eating, not proofread.

CHARACTERS: ITADORI YUJI (JJK MÓDULO).

WC: 5.8k.

masterlist :: modulo yuji collection :: all reason aside (this series) masterlist

part 2

art creds :: ndsoda on x

a/n: still in the past, direct continuation of part 2.

The apartment felt wrong after Yuji left. Not empty—just...off. The pleasure was still heavy on your shoulders, and it felt like something had disturbed the peace the walls once held.

You stood in front of the mirror longer than you meant to, fingers loosely gripping the edge of the sink as your eyes dragged over your own reflection. You were bare once again, the soft sound of water running behind you as the tub slowly fills. 

Steam had already begun to gather along the edges of the glass, but not enough to blur your reflection and hide what you were looking at.

Your skin looked the same, but it didn't feel like it belonged to you in the same way. 

Your fingers moved without much thought, tracing along your skin, mapping out everything new. The marks stood out easily now that you were alone, faint bruises pressed into your neck, your chest, your stomach, anywhere where your clothes would hide them. 

You touched one lightly, then another, watching your own face shift as the memory followed right behind it.

Surprisingly, it wasn't shame that hit you first; instead, it was something lighter.

You felt...pleased. That was the only word that made sense, although it barely felt like enough. There was a quiet thrill in it, in knowing that it had been him, that after all this time of watching him from a distance, of finding excuses to stay close, he had finally given in. 

You had wanted him for longer than you cared to admit, and now your body carried proof that he had wanted you back. There was a strange sort of certainty in the fact that he was your first.

You hadn't thought much about your first time before, not in any real, concrete way, but standing here now, it felt right. You couldn't explain it, but it felt meant to be.

It wasn't because losing your virginity was supposed to be anything special, but because it had been Yuji, you were satisfied with the night before. He had been someone you had already built up in your mind, someone you had wanted long before this ever happened.

It made the fact easier to accept.

There was no disappointment to pick apart, no awkwardness, nothing that made you wish it had gone differently. 

If anything, the thought of it being anyone but him felt wrong now, like it wouldn't have carried the same weight. If it had been anyone else, it wouldn't have left you standing here like this, tracing the aftermath with something close to fulfilment.

Your fingers paused just below your collarbone, pressing lightly into a mark that seemed to have indents of teeth bitten into it. You studied it for a second longer, your thoughts drifting back. 

You couldn't stop recalling the way he had looked at you.

But that didn't mean anything, did it? You knew better than to assume it did.

For him, it could have been anything. A lapse in his judgement. A moment of weakness. 

Something easier to take and walk away from. You weren't blind to it. You knew how it looked from the outside, how wrong it was, and how easy it would be for him to treat it like nothing more than something to pass the time.

To him you might be nothing more than 'Kugisaki's grandchild'.

There was something almost ironic about it and your lips twitch faintly despite yourself. 

Maybe that was all it was to him. 

You were something he wasn't supposed to have, something that should be left untouched, not to be tainted, and it only made you easier to want.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers dropping away from your skin. You didn't care as much as you probably should. 

Even if it might be demeaning, you would take it anyway.

Whatever you received from him must have been the tiny crumbs he brushed off, but you'd still take them over nothing.

The quiet of the room shifted slightly, broken by the faint creak of a door opening beyond the bathroom. You stilled, head turning just slightly as your attention snapped toward the sound.

"Are you in the shower?" your grandmother's voice called out, distant but clear. "Why are you up this early?"

You blinked once, not even having realized your grandmother was already back home. 

"Yeah," you called back, your voice more even than you expected. "I just woke up early."

There was a brief pause and your chest tighten with worry. Was she suspicious? Had you missed anything while cleaning up? 

"Alright," she replied. "Come out quickly, I ordered breakfast."

You hummed something in response, not trusting yourself to say much more. A second later, you heard the door close again, the sound soft but final as the bathroom settled back into quiet.

And just like that, your emotions changed.

The warmth that had been sitting so easily in your chest shifted, something more daunting slipping in. Your eyes found the mirror again, but this time it was different. You were looking at something you didn't entirely recognize.

The ease from before was gone, something demoralizing taking it's place that was harder to ignore now that you weren't alone in your thoughts anymore. 

Guilt.

You pressed your lips together, your gaze dropping briefly like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

You turned away, stepping toward the tub as the water finally stilled, steam rising in soft waves. You lowered yourself into it slowly, letting the warmth settle over your skin, easing the tension that had crept over you being.

The bubbles gathered along the surface, barely shifting as you leaned back against the porcelain and stared up at the ceiling.

You tried not to think about it, but your mind didn't stay empty for long.

It drifted, almost on its own, back to him. To the way he had spoken before leaving, to the cryptic words he left behind before his departure. You hadn't questioned it, already having deciphered his message.

The date had settled in your mind without effort. The 28th. 5 days.

You exhaled slowly, your head tipping back further as you let your eyes close for a second. You should have been thinking about anything else. You should have been wallowing in guilt, but you weren't.

Instead, you found yourself counting the days.

Despite the secrecy, despite how easily it could all fall apart if anyone notices, the two of you didn't stop.

If anything, it got more steady along the way.

Yuji learned quickly. He stopped coming by when your grandmother was home and his visits were timed. When the house wasn't an option, he would find other places, quieter ones, where neither of you had to worry about being seen. 

It became a routine in a way.

You understood what you were doing.

You knew it wasn't right, not with the way your grandmother had been working longer hours and how easily you used that absence to make space for him. There were moments, brief ones, where it sat heavier than usual, where you caught yourself thinking about it a second too long.

But those thoughts never lasted.

Not when he was there, bare in your arms.

Everything else seemed to fall away the second his hands found you and the space between you disappeared like it had never been there to begin with.

And somewhere in that year, something shifted. It wasn't obvious at first, it never was with him. 

Yuji had always been hard to read, his expressions were calm, his presence quiet that didn't invite questions. But you started noticing it in small ways, in things that didn't quite line up.

Around your grandmother, he seemed...different.

Quieter, but not in the same way as before. There was a solemnity to it now, something that seemed to weigh heavy and linger around him where he sat even when he wasn't speaking. 

You caught when he looked at her sometimes, like he was holding back something on his mind. His eyes would follow her when she moved around the room, not obvious enough to draw her attention but it wasn't subtle since you noticed it every time.

He listened more than he spoke, nodding along when she talked, giving the same short responses he always had. But there was something else there now, something that made it feel less casual.

You had your speculations, but you couldn't be sure. Whether it was because she was getting older, and he wasn't. Or something else entirely. Something that had to do with you.

Because with you, he wasn't the same either.

The distance that had been there in the beginning—like he was aware of the line even when you weren't—had started to slip. 

He started to stay longer.

Not just to fuck you more, but after it, when everything was quiet and he had no reason to still be there. He stopped leaving right away, instead, he would lean back against the headboard or the couch, arms resting behind his head, like he wasn't in a rush to go anywhere else.

You would curl up on him, chin resting on his chest as your legs tangled beneath the sheets to find warmth. 

And it was those time where he would talk to you. 

It started with the small things, simple things about where he was heading later or when he vaguely described what he had to do for work that day. 

But over time, it became more than that.

He told you about people you had only ever heard about in passing, names your grandmother had mentioned without much detail. 

He filled in the gaps your grandmother had left behind, speaking about the things he had lived through, things you could only imagine.

There were moments when his voice would shift, something lighter breaking through when he spoke about certain memories, like he was somewhere else entirely for a second. 

Other times, it stayed the same, his expression barely changing.

You never interrupted him, you never asked too many follow up questions, afraid he might be reluctant to share more later. 

You just listened, tracing idle patterns along his chest, your head resting against him as his voice lulled you to sleep more often than not.

He spoke about your grandmother, about the people he had lost, about things that stretched back longer than your life had ever gone. He didn't make a big deal out of it. 

He just told you.

He let you stay close to him as his hand would settle against you without thinking. He opened up, and you started to see a side of him that resembled the version of Yuji your grandmother used to describe.

It somehow made you feel closer to him, deluding yourself to believe you were the apex of his subtle change of heart. 

But you were afraid to put titles on it, fearing the gravity of it all might just push down on you and make the absurdity all the more real. 

So, neither of you asked what it meant.

Closing in on your year together with him, the two of you had learnt each other's bodies by heart.

You knew the layout of his hands before they even moved, already anticipating how he would hold you, the way he would position you, the way he'd stuff your cunt enough to keep you going for hours. 

There was no hesitation left in him, not like the first time or even the early days where he still used to hold back.

That was gone now.

His hands were heavy on your hips as he thrusted into you from behind, the cool marble of the bathroom counter a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Your fingers remained splayed across the smooth surface, gripping it for dear life as he drove into you with increasing fervor. 

"Hnng! Hahh!" Your breathy moans and the obscene slaps of skin on skin echoed off the tile walls, mingling with his quiet grunts. You were lost in the moment, in the feeling of him filling you so completely, so perfectly. 

The rest of the world fell away until there was only the two of you, moving together in a primal rhythm as old as time.

This was one of those rare times Yuji fucked you without a condom, so you were aware of the effect it had on him. But the same could be said for you as well. 

You could feel every ridge, every vein as he stretched you around his substantial girth, filling you so completely that it almost hurt. But the pain, like always, blurred deliciously into pleasure, and you found yourself pushing back onto him, greedy for more.

The mirror had long since fogged over, the steam thick enough to blur everything except what was directly in front of you.

You watched as Yuji buried his face into the crook of your neck, his mouth latching onto your throat. 

He sucked hard, his teeth and tongue leaving bruises in their wake. He smoothly licked a stripe up your shoulder before biting down, no doubt leaving a vivid bite where none could see.

The sight of his pink hair, the line of his jaw, the determined set of his shoulders as he took you sent a thrill down your spine. You could only imagine the look on his face, the expression of pure lust and desire as he lost himself in your body.

"Fuck! Yu-ji!" you gasped, fingers scrabbling for his hands on your waist as he hit a particularly deep spot inside you. 

 "That's it, baby." He murmured against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. 

Suddenly, Yuji froze behind you, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. 

"Oh shit." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you could even register his reaction, you felt his large hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your increasingly loud moans. 

At first, you were confused, your eyes wide as they met his in the fogged mirror. 

But then, a chill ran down your spine as you heard the distinct creak of your bedroom door opening, followed by the unmistakable sound of your grandmother's voice drifting through the bathroom door.

Oh shit indeed.

She was home, a lot earlier than she was supposed to be. 

Yuji didn't pull away. 

If anything, he closed the space further, your back pressed flat against him as you kept a hand over his that kept you quiet.

You could hear her moving around your room. The soft shuffle of her steps and the faint sound of something being set down. 

"Are you in the bathroom?" your grandmother called out, her voice closer to the locked door than you expected. 

You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, your fingers tightening against him as you tried to steady yourself.

Yuji releases your face, his hand barely drifting far as it comes to rest on your shoulder, his arm circling you around your collar.

"Dear?" Her voice comes in again, but you remain frozen in shock, heart beating rapidly as all you could think about were the worst possible scenarios of how this could go.

She voice called out again, more worried now.

"Answer her." You flinch as Yuji's whispers into your ear, proximity so close it felt suffocating despite the familiarity. 

You were hyperaware of his cock still buried inside you as he slightly shuffled against you.

"Ye-yeah! Just in the bath." Your fingers gripped him hard, steadying yourself to keep your voice from giving anything away. 

"Will you be going anywhere tonight?" She inquired with a tone that almost made you believe she was suspicious of something. 

You were damn near trembling against Yuji, his hand patting your hip once to encourage the conversation.

"No. I'll just be chilling here. At home." 

"Good. I need you at home today, dear. I came back for a bit but I need to leave again. I got called somewhere else for an emergency." 

You wanted to blame your distraught mind for your observation, but you were sure that what you heard from your grandmother's voice was somewhere close to worry. 

"Is...everything alright?" You question despite yourself.

"It should be. Don't make dinner, just order something for yourself." You heard her voice along with a little shuffling around the room. 

Your worry only grew, wondering if Yuji had left something out that she might have noticed. 

Meeting his eyes, it felt like he understood your distress as he just slightly shook his head, leaning his face over to kiss along your jaw.

"Y-you won't be home?" You continued to converse with your grandmother as it was your turn to cover Yuji's mouth due to his teasing. 

He barely seemed worried now, confident that your grandmother had no clue about his presence. You turned your face to the side to properly look at him now.

"I don't think I will be. Don't keep your phone on silent, okay? And lock everything before you sleep."

"Okay." Your hand didn't move from Yuji's face, just continued to keep your gaze connected as he tilts his head slightly.

"Alright then, I'll leave now. Again, don't keep your phone on silent!" Her voice got softer with each word, indicating that she walked further away from where she was as she smoothly made her exit, her departure being marked with the thud of your bedroom door.

Your hand slid away from his face slowly, yet he didn't step back, didn't give you room to think, to breathe, to process what had just happened. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. And then you exhaled, your grip tightening again as the tension refused to leave your body. 

"She was right there. We almost got caught."

"But we didn't." 

"Did you leave anything out there? Where are your clothes Yuji?" 

"I hid them under the bed. Like always." 

"Right. Okay." You exhale harshly, running a hand down your face to wipe the cold sweat. Yuji palm brushes your hair away from your nape, then placing it flat and clutching your neck smoothly.

His other hand swiftly makes way between your legs, teasing your clit as you are made painfully aware of your walls still keeping him warm. 

He pulls you back, feeling a jolt as he thrusts only once.

"Y-Yuji. Please. I...I just need a m-moment to think!" Your words are broken as his hips continue the movement, his hand gliding from your nape to you throat as he lays it flat. 

His face comes closer yet again, nose pressed to your cheek as his lips brush your jaw.

"Do you?" He speaks against your skin, more confident now that he sensed Kugisaki was out of the house completely.

"Because it doesn't feel like it." He murmured, his voice low. Yuji's hand tightens around your throat as he starts thrusting harder, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive.

"F-Fuck..." you whimper, trying to pull away but his grip on your throat keeps you in place. Your nails dig into his skin as you struggle to keep your balance.

Yuji was rubbing slow circles around the swollen nub, his hips never stop their relentless rhythm, driving into you over and over. You're lost in sensation, drowning in the feeling of him inside you. 

Your mind goes blank, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. There's only room for the hot ache of his cock, the slick glide of his fingers on your clit, and the heat of his skin on yours.

You gasp, arching into his touch as jolts of pleasure shoot through you.

"Don't think," he murmurs, voice low and rough with lust. "Just feel."

Before the aftershocks can even settle, he was moving with a new purpose. He turns you around, his hands settling on your waist to lift your trembling weight. Without so much as a grunt, he hoists you up, settling you onto the edge of the cool bathroom counter.

The sudden change in temperature makes you gasp, but you barely have time to steady yourself before he is between your thighs. 

He spreads you wide, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of you flushed, messy, slick pussy.

As his tongue first makes contact, a sob breaks from your throat. He begins to eat you out with ease, his tongue gliding with precision over your sensitive clit. 

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Then, he pushes deeper, his tongue plunging inside you, tasting the mix of you and his own cum that was still trickling out of you. 

You cry out his name, your head falling back as you lose yourself all over again to the wet friction of his mouth.

You step out of the bathroom together, the air outside feeling cooler against your skin after a quick bath, almost jarring after the heat you had just left behind. 

You didn't stop to think about it, walking straight toward your bed as you dropped to your knees and reached underneath, your fingers brushing against the fabric Yuji had shoved there earlier.

You pulled out his clothes without looking at him, tossing his pants in his direction before straightening up, leaving his hoodie on the bed. He caught them easily, already stepping into them like a routine.

You grabbed the first thing within reach, slipping an oversized tee over your head, the fabric falling loose against your body as you adjusted it absentmindedly. Neither of you spoke, but by the time you looked up, he was already moving.

Yuji walked past you toward the bedside table, reaching for his phone like it had been waiting there the entire time. Your brows pulled together tight, mood bordering on annoyance as you pushed yourself off the bed and took a step toward him.

"You left that out?" you said, your voice lower now but edged with something sharper than your usual tone with him. "What if she had seen it?"

He paused for a second, glancing at the phone in his hand before rubbing the back of his neck, his expression barely shifting.

"Didn't think she'd come back," he replied.

"That's not the point," you said, closing the distance between you. 

"You can't just leave things like that lying around. What would we have done if she had seen it?"

You were vexed. Wasn't he supposed to be just as worried as you? Then why did it seem as though you had taken his half of the stress as well?

He didn't argue, but he wasn't stupid enough to deflect your concern. So, he just gave a small nod, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"Sorry."

A simple apology was all he offered, yet pathetically enough, it was enough for you to ease off him.

You exhaled quietly, softly pinching your nose to suppress the irritation. You had already been on edge after what conspired earlier, so this felt like a catalyst to your overtly anxious mind. 

Despite it, you to step closer, your arms wrapping around him without much thought, your body pressed against his, your head settling against his chest.

He stilled for a moment, then his arm came up, resting over your shoulders, pulling you in slightly. His hold was steady and for a second, everything felt quiet again.

It felt nice. Normal even.

For the past few months you had come very close to asking Yuji of your place in his life, hoping to put some sort of title over what you shared. But, each time your throat would close up, choking on the question long before you could voice it out.

This time, you would say it. Just three words, and a hope for a grounding answer.

All you ever wanted to ask him was,

"What are we?"

Your heard your voice before your mind could catch up, pulling your face from his chest to gauge his reaction.

You tried to bury your panic, but you were sure even Yuji could feel the faint thumping within your chest. 

You didn't even notice your breathing become frantic, only flinching to a stop when you felt his fingers touch your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.

You couldn't, for the life of you, understand what was going on in his mind. And his face didn't show much either. He just seemed...stoic.

No shock, no panic, no sorrow. 

A very tepid reaction for something that had been decaying your brain.

He took in a sharp breath, forming the words on his tongue. But just before your ears could catch his voice, his phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the moment cleanly, and you felt the way his body went rigid against yours, his arm freezing where it rested on you. The shift was immediate, making you pull back slightly, your hands loosening around him as he took a small step back.

"Yuji?"

Yuji did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen, something in his countenance tightening in a way you had never witnessed before. 

He wasn't even trying to be subtle or hide it.

"Yuji?" you called out again, softer this time.

You frowned slightly, trying to turn your head and take a peak at his for so you could understand what had changed so quickly.

That was when he stepped back, breaking  away from you completely as he lowered the phone, his jaw tense as he avoided your eyes.

"I need to go."

The words came out flat, one reminiscent to the tone you were very familiar with in the start. 

It had taken you all this time to melt down a small part of his barrier, but now it was back just a quickly, hitting you like a barrel.

You blinked at him, the response catching in your throat as you watched him reach for his hoodie, pulling it on in one quick motion.

"Wait—what?" you started, taking a step toward him, but he was already moving.

He didn't halt for even a movement, and it was enough to indicate something very dreadful had happened.

He crossed the room in a few steps, heading straight for the balcony, and before you could say anything else, before you could even process it—

He was gone with a flicker. 

You stood in the quiet of you room, hand stretched out towards the direction he once stood, before letting it fall to your side. You had no idea how to react to this situation, so all you could do was to lay in bed and let your tears lull you to sleep.

You sat across from your grandmother in the living room, the television running low in the background, though neither of you were paying attention to it. 

She had her hands folded in her lap, posture relaxed, gaze fixed somewhere ahead while you watched her without meaning to.

It had been a few days.

The house had gone back to normal. Your daily meals were made, conversations were had, the same routine carried on without interruption, but something had dull had settled. 

You felt it most when his name came up, or rather, when it didn't.

You had found out the reason soon enough.

An old friend of theirs had passed. 

Hana. 

You had gone with your grandmother to the funeral the next day, standing beside her through it all, listening to the conversations that drifted around you.

You had seen him there.

He stood there, apart from the others, close enough to be present, but distant so that no one tried to pull him into conversation unless necessary. 

He hadn't seem to be expressing the same sorrow as the ones around him, though the way he had left you the night before made sure that this indeed had shocked him enough to leave him rattled.

When your grandmother approached him, he spoke to her, giving her the attention he always did. He never glanced your way, not while he spoke to her, not during the entire duration of the funeral.

He never looked at you. Not even a single time.

You had waited for it, longer than you wanted to admit, your eyes finding him more often than you meant them to, expecting something small, anything that acknowledged you were there.

It never came. He had left soon after his conversation with your grandmother without even a goodbye.

You sat there now, your fingers loosely intertwined, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again, settling on her as she reached for the remote and increased the volume.

"You friend...he hasn't come by," you said finally, keeping your tone even, casual enough to not draw attention to it.

She glanced at you briefly, then back at the screen.

"No," she replied. "He won't."

The certainty in her voice made your chest tighten slightly. You shifted in your seat, your hands loosening before settling again.

"Why not?"

She didn't answer immediately, but her thumb paused against the remote before continuing to surf through the channels.

"He said he wouldn't be attending funerals anymore." She said, her voice steady

You frowned slightly, the words not sitting right. Your gaze dropped briefly before you looked back at her, your voice quieter now.

"Did she mean that much to him?"

Your grandmother leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful, as if she was choosing her words carefully.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. 

"But they understood each other in ways most people wouldn't. Being a vessel, it changes how you see things."

She paused for a moment, her eyes shifting slightly towards you.

"And after Fushiguro..." she continued, her voice lowering just enough. "She was one of the few connections he had left to him. Losing that was very difficult for him."

"But the three of you were friends, were you not? He won't even come to meet you, now?" You ask, trying to be subtle.

"Who knows. Itadori has always been unpredictable, even more so as he grew stronger. Reminds me of our first mentor."

You nodded slowly, though the explanation didn't settle anything inside you. All you took from it was you might never see Yuji again.

Your grandmother was back to watching the television, but you didn't move. Your mind lingered somewhere else, caught between what you had been told and what you had seen, the absence of him pressing more than his presence ever had.

Later that night, you sat alone in your room, your phone resting in your hand, the screen dimming and lighting again as you unlocked it without thinking.

His contact name sat there.

You stared at it for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen, hesitating as you already assumed the worst.

There was no label for what you had. No place for you to stand beside him that made it feel right to reach out.

But you did anyway.

With a single message.

are you okay?

You stared at it for a second after sending it, your chest tightening slightly as the screen went still again.

There was no reply. Not that night, nor the next.

A month passed, though it did not feel like something that could be measured so cleanly. The days blurred into each other, slow and uneventful, while the nights stretched longer than they should have. 

You found yourself lying awake more often than not, your thoughts circling back to him without invitation, replaying what little you had to hold onto until it lost its shape. 

You cried more than you expected to. 

It was quiet and solemn, and you let it pass through you when the house fell still and there was nothing left to distract you. 

You did not question it or try to give it meaning. 

Instead, you simply let it happen until, slowly, it began to ease on its own, time working it's wonders as it got easier to forget. 

The weight of it did not disappear, but it turned into something light, something you could carry without thinking about it all the time.

By the end of the month, you had convinced yourself you were fine.

You stopped checking your phone as often. You stopped expecting anything from him. You let your days move forward without waiting for something that had already proven it would not come.

So when he did come back, it did not feel real at first.

There was no message, no warning, no attempt to ease into it. 

He was simply there, standing in your room as if the past month had not existed, as if nothing had been left unresolved between you. 

His presence filled the space like it always had, leaving no room to question how or why he had returned.

You looked at him, your mind catching up slower than your body did. 

There were things you had held onto for weeks, questions that had built up in the silence he left behind, but none of them made it past your throat. 

You knew why he had left, and that knowledge was enough to keep you from saying anything at all.

You started to speak, his name leaving your lips in one of the many ways it had over the past year, but none of them had ever sounded so devastating.

"Yuji..."

He stepped closer, closing the distance, and whatever you had been holding onto slipped away.

You did not stop him.

Everything you had pushed down over the past month surfaced all at once, as you held onto him, as you refused to pull back even when you should have. 

The frustration he had caused, the confusion he had left behind, the quiet relief of him being there again, it all came crashing through you.

He met it without question.

He gave no explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment of the time that had passed. He did not offer anything to make sense of it.

And you did not ask for it. 

You simply took him to your bed, letting his calloused hands strip you off your clothes, baring you of your body and soul, and he fucked you, carefully ignoring the latter.

By the time everything settled, the room had gone quiet again. 

You laid there, your breathing slower now, your thoughts dulled by what you wished was peace, but knew better to be of exhaustion. 

The balcony had begun to let in the first signs of morning, a faint light creeping in, marking the time neither of you had paid attention to.

Yuji moved first.

You watched him sit up, reaching for his clothes without looking at you, pulling them on with the same ease and lack of urgency he had during the early days.

There was no hesitation, nothing that suggested he had anything to say before he left.

You stayed where you were, your gaze following him without calling out,

You didn't ask him to stop.

Not when he hadn't even looked back.

Not when he spoke no words to you at his departure.

No goodbye. No message. No promise.

The only thing he left behind was his absence.

Like always.

A month turned into two, and then into something you no longer bothered keeping count.

Just like your grandmother had said, he was unpredictable. 

He came back when he wanted to. Sometimes it was a month, sometimes longer. 

Every time your grandmother was away, leaving the house empty for you, you would expect him to be there, the show up after depriving you of himself.

But somehow he always showed up when you least expected it.

There was no pattern you could rely on, no message beforehand, no explanation after. 

He would appear in your room as if nothing had passed between the last time and now, and you would let him in without asking where he had been.

It became something you stopped questioning.

Until one night, you did.

part 4 coming soon...

modulo yuji collection [taglist open] {you will be tagged for all modulo yuji x younger reader fic}

all reason aside (this series) [taglist open] {you will be tagged for this series only}

masterlist

[neteyamthinker]

where the act ends

content aged-up!neteyam x omatikaya female!reader

notes fake dating (this trope was requested <33), he falls first AND harder, yearning neteyam, reader is the sweetest girl in the world, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)

synopsis neteyam offered a proposition to the most quiet girl in the clan: pretend to be his intended to make another girl jealous... but a short time into it and the lines had blurred for him. not for you, though! you’re serious about the mission, much to his frustration.

word count 14.4k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“The moons are ripening,” Elder Peyka remarked. “The courting season will be upon us before the next great hunt. The young warriors are already preening like forest ikrans... Oh, how nice to see.”

“And the girls are no better,” another elder chuckled, tightening a string of seed beads. She turned her clouded but sharp eyes toward you. You were sitting a few paces away, your fingers flying across a loom. “Child. Look at me.”

You paused, your heart giving a small, nervous flutter as you looked up. “Yes, elder?”

“You are of age now, are you not?”

“I am,” you replied softly, your voice barely rising above the rustle of the loom.

Peyka sighed, shaking her head. “If only you would go out there and be seen, child! You have the grace of the willow, but you hide like a yerik. You are too shy for your own good. If you do not lift your head, the season will pass you by and you might actually become a spinster, weaving alone while the rest of the clan sings of mates!”

A chorus of gentle, teasing laughter erupted from the circle. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and you quickly ducked your head back down, focusing intensely on a loose thread. You let out a small, embarrassed chuckle of your own, a soft sound that barely escaped your lips.

You are painfully aware of that but you don’t know where to start. You have friends, yes, but they are not friends you hang out with outside of the weaving looms. You are almost always alone, and while other girls had found their places among the hunters, practicing their war cries or vying for the attention of the said men, you found yourself hidden in the looms to enjoy the repetitive routine of weaving.

It’s not like you were the best weaver, too. You are not the best, not the worst either, just a girl whose hands were often stained with berry dyes and whose eyes were usually cast downward. It was safer that way. When you didn't look up, you didn't have to see the way the world seemed to orbit around people who weren't you.

A few feet away, leaning against a sturdy root, Neteyam sat silently. An elder weaver was currently binding a new leather guard to his forearm, and while he appeared to be focused on it, his ears were swiveled toward the elders' conversation.

He watched you.

Neteyam knew everyone in the clan. It was his duty as the future Olo'eyktan, but as he looked at you now, he realized he has never even heard you speak. He knew your name, he knew your family, but he couldn't recall the sound of your voice until that very moment. Your shy, quiet laughter brought a warm feeling to his chest for some reason, making him take a deep breath.

His mind drifted to Ka’ani. She was the finest huntress among their peers, just like him. And he’s always thought of a partnership much like the one his parents have. His father is a great warrior and so is his mother. To be a great leader is to stand beside a fearsome woman as well... And he thinks it’s Ka’ani. He’d do well, he thinks.

But right now, she was becoming a challenge. She’s making him look like a fool, flitting from warrior to warrior to test his patience. She wanted him to chase her until he was exhausted, and Neteyam, the proud, capable, and unaccustomed to losing firstborn of the clan’s pillars, was reaching his breaking point. He was never fond of playing, but some games need strategy, too.

Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. You were still working, your movements steady and humble, completely unaware of the weight of his stare. A slow, calculated thought began to take root in his mind.

“Finished, Neteyam,” the weaver said, patting his arm.

“Thank you,” Neteyam murmured. He stood up, taller and broader than most men.

Instead of heading back to where the warriors were gathering, he turned his steps toward the shadows. He walked with deliberate strides stopping right in front of your loom until his shadow blocked your light. “You’re doing that wrong.”

The voice startled you so badly that the bone needle slipped. “I—what?” you stammered, finally looking up.

Neteyam was standing over you. In the flickering firelight, his bioluminescent freckles were glowing like stars. “The weave,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the basket in your lap. “It’s too tight. It will snap when it dries.”

“The ones I did last moon were fine,” you murmured. You tried to look back down, to disappear into your work as you always did. “Is there something you need?”

Instead of answering, he sat. The movement was fluid, but there was a heaviness to it, sitting so close to you that his knee brushed against yours.

“I have a proposition for you, Y/N,” he said. His voice was low, dropping into a register that felt dangerously intimate. He knows your name?

You blinked, your insecurity rising up like a shield. “A proposition? Do you need help with the weaving?”

“No, no, I don’t,” he answered. “The elders speak the truth, you know,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “It would be a shame for you to be hidden in the dark.”

You finally looked up, your eyes wide. Neteyam wasn't looking at the fire, he was looking directly at you, and for the first time in your life, the Golden Son was smiling as if you were the only person in the clearing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He leaned in just an inch closer, his amber eyes sparking with a hidden intent. “Hear my proposition... It might just solve both our problems with the coming season.”

You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it difficult to breathe. You were a weaver of threads, but sitting before you was practically the weaver of destinies in this clan. You know he could alter your life and he was looking at you with a terrifying amount of focus.

“Our... problems?“ you whispered, your fingers curling tightly around the bone needle. “I don’t have problems. And I don’t think someone like you have problems, Neteyam.”

He let out a short, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if his eyes weren't so sharp. “Everyone has a role to play. Sometimes, that role becomes... suffocating. My mother is already looking at the daughters of the council. She expects a match that strengthens the line. I’m thinking of Ka’ani. She’s the finest huntress my age.”

At the mention of her name, his jaw tightened. You remembered the last time you saw the girl. She was draped over the arm of a young warrior, her laughter loud and pointed, as if it was a performance, designed to reach the ears of a certain warrior. You remembered Neteyam standing in the training grounds then and everything clicked in your head.

“She wants a chase,” Neteyam continued, silencing your thoughts. “But I do not have the time for nonsensical games. And you... The elders say you are a shadow. That you will be left behind.”

“I am fine being a shadow,” you countered, though your voice lacked conviction. “It’s not complicated. I will have what comes and accept what doesn’t.”

“Shadows are lonely,” he said softly. “Be my partner. Not just for the ceremonies, but the communal meals as well. I will be with you. Let the clan see us, let them see you.”

Your heart gave a violent thud. You weren't a fool. You knew what this was. You were the girl no one would suspect he will actually notice, which made you the perfect weapon to make Ka’ani lose her mind with jealousy.

“You want me to be a decoy,” you said. “You want her to see you with me so she’ll get jealous. You want her to stop playing around.”

Neteyam didn't flinch at your bluntness. Instead, he reached out, his large hand covering yours where it rested on the loom. His skin was warm, his touch steady. “Correct. And in return, you will no longer be the girl the elders pity. You will be the woman everyone sees. When the season ends and the act is over, every hunter in this clan will finally know your name. You won't be a spinster, Y/N. I’ll make sure of that. You’ll have your pick of any man here.”

It was a cold, calculated trade. He will get the girl and you get a reputation and a way out of the shadows. He looked so sincere. You knew you should say no, you wouldn’t know how to act around him. But the thought of being someone for once, of walking through the village and not having people look through you, was a siren song you couldn't resist.

“What if I'm not a good actress?” you asked, your voice a mere breath.

Neteyam’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a strategist who had just moved his final piece into place.

“Just sit by my side. I’ll do the rest.” he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles.

You took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. I'll do it.”

Neteyam squeezed your hand once, a seal of the contract, before standing up. He offered his hand to help you up, and when you took it, the world felt like it shifted on its axis. You were stepping out of the dark, and into a fire that you knew, eventually, would burn you to ash.

Neteyam is a meticulous director and it was very hard for you as an easily embarrassed person. Being seen isn’t even enough for him, the act had to be over the top! He wanted it to be undeniable.

“Chin up,” he whispered one afternoon. You were walking to the central clearing for the communal meal, his hand hovering over your waist. “You look like you’re walking to a funeral. Look at me. Smile.”

“It’s hard to smile when I feel like a piece of bait,” you murmured, keeping your eyes down, feeling at least a hundred eyes on you.

Neteyam let out a sharp breath. He stopped walking, maneuvering you to turn and face him. To anyone watching from a distance, it looked like a tender, private moment between lovers. Up close, his eyes were scanning the crowd, pinpointing exactly where Ka’ani was sitting with her friends.

“You agreed to this,” he reminded you, his voice low and firm. He reached out, his fingers tilting your chin upward. His touch was warm, but it lacked the softness you’d imagined his touch would have. It was the grip of a hunter holding a prized bow. “If you don't look happy, she’ll know it’s a ruse. Do you want the elders to go back to pitying you by tomorrow sun-up?”

The reminder of your own invisibility stung. You forced your lips to curve, a small, shaky smile that felt brittle. “Is this better?”

He studied your face for a beat too long, his thumb grazing your jawline. For a split second, his focus shifted from the crowd to the way your eyes searched his, but he shook it off quickly. “Better. Keep it there, hm?“

He led you toward the long tables. This was the stage. He made a show of picking out the best cuts of roasted meat for you, leaning in so close that his braids brushed against your shoulder. He was performative, ensuring the warriors nearby heard him.

“And since you’re starting a new tapestry,” he said, loud enough for Ka'ani to hear from across your table. He draped an arm over the back of your seating mat, effectively fencing you in. “I’d fly to the borders to get you fibers for it.”

You pursed your lips, lowering your head down to chuckle. “Your voice is too loud, Neteyam...“ you mumbled. “I’ll end up with busted ear drums by the time this is over.“

His own head lowered and angled toward you to catch what you’re saying, but it threw back as he let out a bark of genuine and deep laughter. You startled, your hand flying to his chest unconsciously, your head swiveling to the crowd of people who are now looking at you. You caught a glimpse of Ka’ani’s sharp eyes narrowing to slits.

The mission is working. You know it is working, you’ve seen Ka’ani’s candid reactions in the past days and it was almost comical. You don’t understand how she can let other men touch her when it was Neteyam she truly wants. It’s confusing, especially because you can see how she jealous she looks.

“You can relax, Neteyam,” you whispered, leaning toward him. “She’s gone. She stomped away five minutes ago.”

Neteyam’s posture didn't soften. He didn't pull his arm back. He took a slow sip of water, his expression unreadable. “The act doesn't stop just because the primary audience leaves, Y/N. There are other eyes. Word must travel. That is how a reputation is built.” He looked at you then, and for a moment, the strategic coldness was all there was. “Eat your food. We have a walk through the groves. People need to see us.”

The following days, and weeks, was a blur of choreographed intimacy. Neteyam was serious with his acts, he was everywhere you were. If you were gathering fibers, he was there, scouting the perimeter but always staying within your line of sight. During communal meals, he always ate with you, listening to you ramble and chuckling at everything you say.

But you don't know why... Why you feel a pang of hurt every time his eyes flitter to where Ka’ani is, to see if she was seeing how fun he was having with the weaver girl no one even paid attention to until he did, because he was right.

Now that he has brought you out to light, more and more men were trying to talk to you, asking you random stuff they wouldn't even bother asking before. For them, you were almost unreachable in the past. You are too shy, too aloof, to be in the selection of girls they dare to play with.

But as the days pressed on, the meticulous director started losing his grip on the script.

The script had been clear: Neteyam would bring you into the light, and the hunters of the clan would finally notice you. It was exactly what he had promised. But as he stood on a ridge overlooking the path back to Hometree, watching you walk beside a hunter who was carrying your bundle of fibers under his arm, the air in his lungs seemed to turn to ice.

The hunter was Ki’ong, a young man known for his easy smiles and a way of speaking that reminded him of the way you speak. If he saw this moons ago, the match would have made so much sense. The gentle hunter matches your gentleness. But today, he felt only bitterness. You were laughing, the sound he wanted to bottle and bring with him on patrol to help him calm down.

Now, Ki’ong is easily basking in it, his tail twitching with a rhythmic interest that Neteyam recognized all too well for he was a man, too. His hand tightened around the grip of the bow until the wood groaned. His jaw locked. This was the trade, wasn't it? He had told you that by the time the season ended, you would have your pick of any man in the clan. So why did he feel like he wanted to shoot an arrow through the dirt at Ki’ong’s feet as a warning?

His feet moved, and by the time you reached the shadow of the massive fern near the entrance, Neteyam was already there, blocking the path, calling your name in a sharp and dangerous tone that made Ki’ong stop in his tracks.

“Neteyam!“ you said, surprised. “I thought you weren’t back from the scout yet.”

Neteyam ignored you, his amber eyes fixed entirely on the other hunter. He stepped forward, entering your personal space with a possessiveness that felt far too real to be an act. You looked around. There was no crowd and no Ka’ani at all, and this confuses you. What more, Neteyam wasn’t even looking around for the audience. He was looking only at Ki’ong’s hand, which was hovering just a bit too close to your elbow.

Ki'ong blinked, his easy smile faltering under the sheer weight of Neteyam's stare. “I saw her in the forest, Neteyam, uh... What she was carrying was heavy—”

“Thank you for that, but I’ll take it from here,” Neteyam cut him off, his voice dropping into a warning growl. He reached out, not gently, and pulled your fiber basket from the hunter.

“I'll... see you later then... Y/N,” Ki’ong said before walking away.

Neteyam’s head snapped back to Ki’ong’s retreating form, his entire body coiled like a viper ready to strike at the mere mention of a later. You watched him, your confusion slowly melting into a mischievous realization. You looked around one more time, and there’s still nothing but a stray woodsprite. No Ka’ani. No prying hunters. Just a very, very grumpy warrior holding a basket of fibers as if it were a thermal detonator.

A bubble of laughter escaped you, and you poked his rigid bicep.

“Wow,” you giggled, leaning in close to peer up at his stormy face. “Neteyam, that was... incredible. The growl? The death stare? You’re getting really good at this. If I didn't know better, I’d think you were actually trying to pick a fight over my honor.”

Neteyam didn't relax. His jaw remained a hard line. “He was overstepping. He was touching you.”

“He was just helping me,” you countered, your eyes dancing with amusement. You started walking, motioning for him to follow with your basket. “But honestly, I’m impressed. You’re such a perfectionist. Even with no audience, you’re still acting the territorial suitor.”

He fell into step behind you, his tail still lashing even though he’s not speaking.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, walking backward for a few steps so you could admire his scowl. “Let’s just hope Ki’ong tells everyone about your reaction. If word gets back to Ka’ani that the great Neteyam almost bared his teeth at a hunter just for carrying my basket... well, our mission is as good as won. It’s going to make it sound so real!” You turned back around, a satisfied hum leaving your throat. “But I don’t think Ki’ong is the type to talk about stuff like that. He seemed too nice to gossip.”

“How would you know? You don’t know him,” Neteyam cut you off, his voice sharp.

You laughed again, the sound light and airy. “Maybe I just know. I can sense if people have good hearts,” you said, reaching back to give his chest a playful, comforting pat. “Come on,” you smiled, oblivious to the way his hand tightened on the basket handle until his knuckles turned pale. “Let’s bring that to the looms. You can put all that 'warrior energy' into helping me sort the threads.”

You turned on your heels and skipped ahead, feeling lighter than you had in days. Behind you, Neteyam stood for a beat longer, his eyes locked on the sway of your braids.

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You two were swimming in the river, not alone anyway, because it’s just one of your many stages. His fellow hunters and warriors were swimming in the river several paces away from the two of you, but he has since swam to a secluded bend away from their prying eyes. You don’t always swim in the river. Mostly because you don’t want to swim alone, so now, you’re enjoying everything, even the reflection of the shimmering canopy above. You kept diving for as long as you could, the act momentarily paused because he had stirred you two away from the audience. You shrieked when you felt something tiny dart on your ankle. You dove your head, swimming after the tiny fish, your hand shotting forward to catch it and you bubbled a laugh underwater when you actually caught it.

You swam to the surface, holding up the fish as you laughed, the sound of your mirth echoing off the rock walls like bells. Neteyam stared at you from where he is, leaning against a mossy boulder, his chest heaving slightly, though he had been idle the entire time. You waded toward him, bringing him the fish, but he looked so serious that your lips pushed forward instead. Neteyam gritted his teeth at the sight of your smile fading.

“You looked like the sky had fallen on you. What is it?” you asked, putting the fish back in the water and watching it dart away from you with a small smile.

“Our scout yesterday everning” he said suddenly, his voice low.

You nodded. He was late to the dinner last night... You figured there was something wrong, but you heard no news about it.

“There was a near skirmish with a violent clan. They were one of those clans whose lands were spoiled by the sky people's actions. Apparently, they’ve been looking for a place to settle in, but they are also harming non-combatant clans.”

You stopped splashing, the water settling around you. You hadn't heard about this. The elders usually kept such news quiet to avoid panic, but to know this now, and to see how burdened Neteyam was by it, you couldn't help but be bothered.

“The council expects me to be like him,” he said, staring at his reflection in the water. He didn't specify who him was and he didn’t have to. You know who he was talking about. As the firstborn of Toruk Makto, Neteyam has always lived in the shadow of a legend. “Every battle, every hunt, every word I speak... it's measured against a standard I will never reach.”

You stopped creating ripples in the waters, looking up at him. “You don’t need to be your father, Neteyam,” you said softly. “Have they considered a dialogue between the people of that clan? Perhaps... The chieftains of our neighboring clans could convene in a large council and speak with their representatives. I don’t think it needs to lead to people getting hurt when speaking would reach a much better conclusion.”

Neteyam went still, his gaze snapping from the water’s surface to your face. He watched you with an intensity he had directed to no one, but you wouldn’t know that. For a moment, the weight in his shoulders seemed to flicker, unsettled by the peaceful logic of your words.

“A dialogue,” he repeated. He had been so focused on formations, weapon readiness, and the cold calculations of a warrior that the idea of a diplomatic council felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. “Why do you think I am a warrior?” he asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I am taught to protect. To fight.”

“You are taught to lead,” you corrected gently, lightly splashing a bit of water toward his chest. “And a leader’s first duty isn’t to fight, but to ensure peace. Your warriors will think of war, you will think of how to protect the people and the forest. The people of that clan is desperate, for sure... They lost their home, they are living like beggars. There is a reason they steal and harm the people who stop them. Have the clans thought of helping them?”

He blinked, his amber eyes searching yours as if he could find all the answers there now.

You smiled lopsidedly, “You can think of all that later though,” you said softly, reaching into the crevice of the rock wall and plucking a small, ripe fruit that hung low. His eyes watched you peel it with nimble fingers. “But right now? The water is cool, the fish are annoying, and you can rest your mind. Try being here for five minutes.”

You gave him the fruit and when he took it, his fingers brushed against yours, lingering in a way that wasn't for show. He ate it slowly, watching you as if you were a piece of the puzzle he found after a long search. The silence was warm, humming with a new, dangerous kind of energy.

“You think it could be that simple?” he asked, his voice a low vibration.

“I think you make it too hard,” you laughed, feeling a sudden surge of playfulness. You stepped back, the water splashing around your chest. “I’ll bet a week’s worth of weaving that I can reach the falls before you!”

Before he could answer, you dove, your body disappearing into the water.

Neteyam stood there for a heartbeat, stunned. He didn't check the treeline. He didn't look back toward the other hunters. He didn't think about his father's expectations or the violent clan at the border. He simply dove in after you.

He caught up to you just as you reached the white water of the falls. You surfaced, gasping for air and laughing, only to find him right there, his eyes bright with a genuine, carefree light you had never seen before. You panicked at the sight of him, though, shrieking and kicking the hand that held your ankle. He barked a laugh, deep and resonant, that even he knows he hasn't laughed that way before. He reached out again, his hand finding yours under the water, squeezing it before pulling you to him. For the first time, he wasn't holding you so people would notice. He was holding you so you wouldn't drift away.

That night, as you both walked back to the village, Neteyam’s hand stayed on your waist even after you had passed the last group of onlookers. When you saw Ka’ani appeared near the communal fire, looking particularly striking in her new top and loincloth that seemed to match the feathers in her hair, Neteyam didn't even turn his head even after you pointed it out. He was too busy listening to you describe the specific shade of teal the river turns into when the moons are at a particular shade. There's lightness in his chest that made him feel like he was flying.

Several nights later, Neteyam moved through the crowd with a lightness in his step that hadn't been there days prior. The communal dinner was buzzing with different conversations, but for him, it was merely a background, his eyes locked on your form, looking like a man who had finally found the trail home.

Earlier that afternoon, the Council had been tense. Jake and the elders focused on battle plans, on dispatching warriors to fight when necessary. Neteyam saw how the council, including him, lack the sight you have to see things differently. He didn't know where it was coming from, but his chest was puffing with full confidence on the idea you had given him, that when he spoke of dialogue, of the displaced clan’s desperation, and of communal aid rather than battles that would only end in loss, his voice was laced with certainty.

Jake had looked at his son with a mixture of surprise and pride. “That is a path well thought of, Neteyam,” he said.

“You think like a true leader of the people now, son,” Neytiri had added, her hand resting on his shoulder. “You have grown.”

Neteyam had offered them a small, humble smile. “I cannot take the credit, Mother. It was a good friend who gave me the perspective I needed,” he said.

Neytiri tilted her head. “Oh? Who is this friend?” she asked.

Neteyam had looked at his mother. It was the easiest question he’d been asked, but it strike him quite deeply that he didn’t know what to say. “Someone I... trust deeply.”

Now, standing in the glow of the fire, Neteyam didn't even pause to greet the other hunters who called out to him. He made a beeline for the corner where you sat, tucked away with your latest weaving. When you looked up, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, genuine grin splitting his face.

“They accepted it,“ he said, dropping down beside you, his presence instantly making your corner feel warmer. “The envoys will be sent at first light. My father and the elders... actually listened. We’re calling a council of all the neighboring clans to help the displaced.”

You felt a swell of pride in your chest, your grin matching his. “See? Sometimes, you need to rest your mind and your soul, clear it until it is still water,“ you gestured in the air and be watched you with a lazy smile. “Only then can you see the path clearly.“

Neteyam’s gaze was soft, lingering on your face in a way that made your heart skip a beat. It was no longer the calculated look of someone directing a performance, it was the look of someone truly seeing you. You tear your gaze away, picking at the nuts on your leaf plate.

“I have something for you,” he murmured, reaching into the small pouch at his waist. He held out his hand, palm up, revealing a mountain of perfectly ripe berries, the kind that only grow on the highest, most dangerous ledges.

You gasped, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached out for one. “Neteyam, these are rare. How did you—”

“I was scouting the upper ridges,” he lied effortlessly, though his eyes twinkled with the truth of the effort he’d put into finding them just for you. “They’re all yours. Take them.”

You popped one into your mouth, the burst of sweetness making you hum. Neteyam let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you enjoy the small gift. He didn't even notice the silence that had fallen over the nearby tables as they all watched him dote on the girl whose voice they rarely heard.

From across the fire, Ka’ani felt the roasted meat in her mouth turn to ash. She couldn't even swallow. She had been so sure of what Neteyam wanted, sure that it was her in her strength and vitality. She was merely trying to break at his carefully cold facade, but he never did give her the satisfaction of seeing it.

But as she watched him now, she saw the way he leaned toward you, his body instinctively closing off the rest of the world to keep you in his private circle. She saw the way he laughed, unguarded, soft, and intimate. She had never seen that light in his eyes directed at her. She had never seen him look at anyone with such... peace.

Her fingers dug into the bark of her seating mat. This wasn't a game anymore. The challenge she thought she was winning had been forfeited by the man she wanted most, and the realization made her blood boil with a jealousy that was no longer a performance. As fot Neteyam, he has long forgotten to look if Ka’ani even had her eyes on them, and tonight, he had forgotten she was even there.

Days later, you were at the washing stream, submerging your fibers in the cool water. You were thinking too much of Neteyam and the ride you had on his ikran last night when he brought you to the Hallelujah Mountains, but your peace was disrupted with the presence of another. You stopped and turned around, your breath hitching when you saw Ka’ani step out from behind a massive fern.

“Ka’ani,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You adjusted the empty leaf plate in your hands, refusing to cower.

“How does it feel?” she sneered, pacing a slow circle around you, her tail lashing behind her. “To be the little pet? To be the girl Neteyam uses to get a reaction from me? You think those smiles of his mean anything? You think that look in his eyes is real?” She let out a mocking laugh. “He’s a warrior. The future Olo’eyktan. Do you think think I don’t know what he’s doing? He wants me, and he’s using a quiet mouse like you to punish me for playing hard to get.”

You pursed your lips to stop yourself from chuckling. This is comedy to you, but you also feel guilty that she seems to be really upset. If only she weren’t being mean, you’d have advised her to go to Neteyam and talk to him properly, so that they can fix things between them.

“If you are so certain of that, Ka’ani,” you said, your voice dropping to a calm, melodic register that seemed to grate on her nerves, “then why are you talking to me?”

Ka’ani froze, her lips pulling back in a snarl.

“If you're so sure he’s yours, go to him,” you continued, stepping closer into her space, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “Whine to him. Demand his attention. Tell him to come back to you. Perhaps it will do you better.”

You didn't wait for her to respond, you walked past her, maintaining your composure until you were well out of her sight. You stopped when you’re well away from her, pursing your lips. “Wah... That was a good one from me. That’s literally method acting,” you chuckled to yourself.

At the same time, Neteyam was on patrol through the high canopies of the Omatikaya lands’ borders. Patrols are usually a time of hyper-vigilance for him, he was trained to scan for the unnatural glint of obsidian or the misplaced shadow of a predator. But today, his eyes kept snagging on a bright plant. He spotted a cluster of a familiar stalk, their ribbed skin a good shade of cerulean.

Moons ago, he would have seen them as a slippery obstacle on a landing branch. Now, he found himself hovering his ikran near the cliff edge, reaching out to pluck a single stem. He rubbed the surface, watching the pigment stain his thumb.

This, he thought, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, this is the blue she said looked like the deep water in the eastern seas. He found himself wondering about every plant he passed, not for its toxicity or its strength which he is wont to do as a vigilant hunter, but for how beautiful its hidden colors would be in the eyes of a weaver he keeps thinking about. He didn’t even have names for the shades he collected, but he knew you would find them beautiful.

When he finally returned to hometree, he didn’t head for the warriors' lodge to report in. He went straight to the weaving looms. His heart doing a strange, light hop when he saw your form hunched over a weaving loom. He silently crept up behind you and leaned down to tickle the curve of your ear with the cool tip of the blue plant.

You shrieked, your shoulders jumping as you nearly dropped your bone needle. You whirled around, your eyes wide but when you saw Neteyam, standing there with that lazy, genuine grin, you glared but still laughed.

“My work will be ruined because of you,” you breathed, clutching your chest.

“I thought a weaver's hands were supposed to be steady,” he teased, his voice low, handing you the blue stalk. “I saw this on the ridge. Is it the one that turns to ink when you boil it?”

You took the plant, your fingers brushing his. “It is. I.. I'm surprised you remembered.”

“I remember everything you say,” he said, and for a second, the air between you felt thick and heavy with a truth that had nothing to do with your deal. He tore his gaze away when his cheeks burned at the realization of what he said.

Before he could lose his footing, an elder weaver called out from the circle, asking you to venture into the lower groves to find specific climbing fibers for the council’s new tapestry.

“I'll accompany you,” Neteyam said before you could even reach for your basket.

As you walked into the dappled light of the forest, your fear of the ruse ending began to fade, replaced by the sheer comfort of his presence. You started to ramble, and Neteyam, as you have discovered in the past weeks, was a good listener. He didn't interrupt, or patronize. He simply watched you with a curious, steady gaze that made you feel... heard.

“You see that?” you said one afternoon, pointing to a cluster of deep crimson berries clinging to a damp log. “Most people think they’re just for eating, but if you crush them with a bit of limestone and the sap from a yellow stalk, you get a purple that looks like the sky before the sun sets. It’s the only color that stays after the fiber is boiled.”

Neteyam leaned in, peering at the berries as if they were a new species of prey.

“And those,” you continued, stumbling over your words in your haste to explain. “If you harvest them when they’re still young, they give a gold that practically glows in the dark. I used it for the elders' ceremonial sashes last year. Everyone thought I’d traded with the reef clans for it, but it was just right here, under our feet, being stepped on.”

You laughed, a bright sound that echoed through the trees, but when you realized you were rambling, you quickly shut your mouth, touching your lips.

“Sorry.  I’m talking too much,“ you gripped the basket hard.

Neteyam stopped walking. He turned to you with a genuine frown on his face. “You can talk my ears off. I’ve spent my whole life looking at the forest for threats or targets. I never realized how much I’m missing what was right in front of me.” He chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. “I found myself looking at different plants lately, wondering if it was the right kind of hue for your weaving.”

The admission was bold and he didn’t even feel shame even though he did feel his cheeks burn. He was thinking of you when you weren't together. The deal was working, but the lines were blurring so fast he doesn’t even care about the reason it began.

Weeks later, the success of the sturmbeest hunt was the reason for the thrumming of drums and chanting of the Omatikaya warriors dancing in the hometree’s communal clearing. High on the central dais, the Olo’eyktan’s voice carried over the throng as he announced the success of the council’s efforts to begin a dialogue with the displaced clan that has been disrupting the way of lives not only of the people, but that of the neighboring clans as well.

The chieftains of the other forest clans had apparently agreed to convene in a Great Council with the envoys returning with messages of unity. Neteyam stood beside you in the crowd, his shoulder brushing your arm. The rigid, perfect posture of a mighty warrior was gone, replaced by a relaxed stance he only seemed to find when he was within your orbit.

“You did it,” you whispered, grinning up at him.

Neteyam looked down at you, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. “We did it,” he corrected softly. “I was ready to lead a war party until you handed me that fruit and told me to breathe. I would have missed the obvious path if you hadn't been standing there to point it out.”

You shrugged, picking a berry out of the leaf bowl he gave you. “So, what happens now?” you asked. “Now that the chieftains have agreed?”

“The next step may be the hardest,” Neteyam said, his expression turning thoughtful. “We have to send someone to the displaced clan. Not to fight, but to invite their Olo’eyktan. Someone has to show them we aren't their enemies and that we’ll help them settle and get back to their own feet.”

You looked at him, admiring the way the light caught the beads you’d given him which he had immediately put in his braids. “You should go, Neteyam.”

He blinked, looking surprised. “Me? My father will likely send an experienced diplomat, or perhaps a senior warrior.”

“No,” you insisted, stepping closer. “You’re the one who suggested it to the council. It’s a great opportunity for you to hone your diplomatic skills. You’re going to lead this people one day, and this might not be the last time a clan is desperate or angry. If you go, you’ll learn a lot.”

Neteyam went quiet, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He listened to you as if every word you spoke was important. “You really think I can do it?”

“I know you can,” you said firmly. “You have the heart for it.” You looked at your berries again, eating more of it.

The wind shifted then, kicking up a swirl of fine wood-dust from the dancefloor. You winced, your hand flying to your eye as you felt a sharp things.

“Ow—wait, something’s in my eye.”

“Don’t rub it,” Neteyam said immediately. His hands were suddenly on your face, his touch firm but incredibly gentle as he cupped your jaw. “Look at me. Keep it open.”

You looked up at him, your vision watering and blurred. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, and blew a soft, steady breath across your eye to clear the dust.

“Is that better?” he whispered, blowing another.

You chuckled as you blinked several times, your heart doing a frantic dance in your chest. “It’s just a bit of dust, Neteyam, you look so serious,” you said, smiling.

He stared at you, still not pulling away and when you didn’t move your head, he tilted his and pressed his lips to yours. It was deep, soft, and carried the weight of his yearning in the past moons. He didn’t know how long he had wanted to do that, but the softness of your lips is making him melt like candle wax.

In your belly, it felt like a hundred forest ikrans had suddenly taken flight. You felt giddy, almost lightheaded, but the thought of the deal flickered in your mind. When he pulled back just a fraction to let you breathe, your eyes pierced through him and spotted Ka’ani across the fire, her face fuming as she watched Neteyam’s back, specifically how he was bent at the waist just so he could kiss you.

“She’s looking...” you murmured against his lips, your voice a shaky mess.

Neteyam’s mind was hazy, drugged by the taste of your lips. His brows furrowed. “Who?” he asked, his voice a gravelly rumble as he kissed the corner of your mouth, his hands tightening on your jaw.

You closed your eyes, feeling the spark of his skin against yours. “Ka’ani...”

“And?” he responded, his nose nuzzling yours before he angled his head to kiss you more firmly. “Open up...”

“Uhm, about what? I mean, she talked to—”

Neteyam let out a low, vibrant chuckle that vibrated through your lips. “Your mouth, space cadet.”

Before you could even process what he meant, he darted his tongue out and licked at the seam of your lips. Your head reared back in genuine shock though, your eyes popping wide open.

“That was...” you sputtered, your face turning a deep, embarrassed crimson. “Why did you lick me? Neteyam!”

He barked a deep, resonant laugh, a real, belly-deep sound that made his whole frame shake. The sight of your shocked expression was too much for him. You tried to maintain your dignity, but his joy was too infectious.

“It’s a sweet gesture!” he laughed, reaching out to pull you back toward him.

“What? Like a fwampop?” you asked, but you were already giggling, the two of you leaning against each other and laughing so hard you forgot the rest of the clan was even there.

The festival fire continued to crackle, but for the rest of the night, Neteyam didn't leave your side. He followed you to the communal food pits when you offered to help the cooks, not letting you carry the heavy food trays so you just rambled about anything you could think of. Every time your hand brushed his, or you leaned in to tell him a secret about one of the dancers, he looked at you with a gaze so heavy and warm.

The next morning, the festival fog had settled over the village, but Neteyam was already awake and waiting by the weaving looms. He was standing there with a slightly large, intricately carved wooden bobbin. Something he spent days working on, but he won’t tell you that.

“Bobbin?” you asked with a huge smile when he gently handed it to you.

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if coming here early in the morning before his patrol to bring you something he had worked on for days meant nothing. “I saw you struggling with the one that kept snagging your thread,” he said. His fingers lingered on yours as you accepted it, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow caress.

“Wow... This is perfect, Neteyam,” you said, beaming up at him as marveled at the craftsmanship.

He stared at you, fighting the urge to punch the air or beat up his chest as if he won a huge prize.

“You really didn't have to. Do you not have patrol?” you asked.

“I have,” he said. But he wanted to see you. Talk to you about last night, to clarify that the kiss had nothing to do with your deal.

“Alright, then. I’ll see you at lunch,” you said, your attention already focused on your new bobbin. He stood there for a few more seconds, just watching you, his ears twitching at the sound of your voice.

Later that afternoon, though, the rain began to pour while you were in the forest, the raindrops caching you near the lower groves. You tried to shield your basket of dyed fibers with your own body but just as heavy drops soaked your braids, you saw a familiar figure coming, holding a massive, broad leaf.

“Neteyam?” you uttered in surprise.

He had a boyish grin on as he held the leaf over your head. He was getting soaked, the rain slicking down his blue skin and making his muscles gleam, but he didn't seem to care. He stepped so close that his chest was almost touching your shoulder, the heat from his body acting as a shield against the chill.

“How did you even know I was here?” you asked, chuckling and pulling him close so he won’t get wet.

“I think I already know your routines,” he said, smirking playfully, though his voice was thick with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He reached out and tucked a wet strand of braid behind your ear, his touch far more lingering than it needed to be. His eyes dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to yours, as though searching for something.

You tear you gaze away. “I swear, you’re going to catch a cold! And you’re all muddy. What if Ka’ani sees you? You always have to be in character, you know?” you exclaimed, trying to push the leaf more toward his side.

Neteyam’s smile faltered for a second, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he masked it with a soft chuckle. “Right. The act.”

He guided you back toward the shelter of the Hometree, his hand resting firmly on the small of your back. As you walked, he intentionally slowed his pace, pulling you closer to avoid a puddle. When you reached the dry roots of the tree, he didn't immediately let go. He leaned down, his face close to yours.

“Do you really think I'm doing all this for the audience?” he asked, his golden eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like a plea.

Your brows furrowed, panic rising in you before laughing nervously, patting his arm and moving away into the shelter of the hometree’s canopy. “Well, you're a very dedicated actor, ‘Teyam. I have to hand it to you. Everybody believes us,” you said with a huge smile.

Neteyam went still. He stared at you, his hand still in the air, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders dropping just an inch. “I suppose I am dedicated,” he said quietly, a sad, lopsided smile touching his lips.

“I’m just glad I can help you with this. I’ve never had an actual friend, you know?” you said brightly, grabbing your basket from him. “See you at dinner? I heard they’re serving the smoked fish you like.”

Neteyam watched you walk away, your silhouette disappearing into the winding ramp. He looked down at the hand that had held the leaf, his fingers still tingling from the brief contact with your skin. “Damn it...” he whispered to the empty air. This isn’t an act anymore and he doesn’t know how to cross the threshold between the stage and the reality.

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“No way! You can't move there, that's against the rules!” Lo’ak barked, leaning over the board.

“You’re not one to talk about rules!” Spider countered, reaching for your game piece to help you. “Go on, girl, take his territory. Do it!”

You laughed, your face flushed with the kind of rowdy joy you usually only heard from a distance before. You slammed your piece down, successfully “capturing” Lo’ak’s base. You turned to Spider and Lo’ak, throwing up a hand for a high-four. “Did you see that?“

Spider barked a laughter. “Tell him, ‘suck it!’”

“Suck it?” you repeated with a confused smile.

The word had barely left your lips when the air in the room seemed to shift. Neteyam, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar watching you with a soft, protective smile as he sharpen his bows suddenly went rigid. He looked at Lo’ak and Spider, who were both chuckling, explaining to you what it meant.

“Hey, don't look at us,” Lo’ak muttered, though his tail was twitching with mischief. “She’s just part of the crew now, brother. One of the guys.”

Neteyam pushed off the pillar, stepping into the circle. He ignored the snickering from Lo’ak and Kiri’s knowing smirk. “She is not one of the guys,” Neteyam hissed under his breath.

You turned to him, still grinning from your victory. “Neteyam,” you called and his ears twitched at your soft voice. “Are you angry?”

He blinked, shaking his head right away. “No, no, of course not,” he told you, his eyes softening but a flitter of reprimanding gaze to Lo’ak and Spider promised later. He had just introduced you to them more than a week ago, for Eywa’s sake, and now, they are already teaching you the wrong things!

“You're teaching her the wrong things,” Neteyam told the two later that night when you left the small kelku they created for their games.

“Brother, I think she’s enjoying just fine. I’ve seen her before, she’s usually alone. I’m sure Lo’ak and Spider are just who she needs,” Kiri said,

“Right! She’s really fun. Just yesterday, we played with squid fruit by the river and she threw a mashed handful on my face. Look, I still have stains all over!“ Spider said, pointing at his pink-stained face.

“What?” Neteyam replied, horrified, remembering the stain on your temple that he saw last night. “Just what are you two—”

Lo’ak snicked. “Bro,“ he put a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Don’t be too grumpy. You said you want her to have more friends and we are her friends now,“ he grinned.

Neteyam let out a huff, rolling his eyes. He understands this. You’d told him you have never had an actual friend and he thought he could remedy that. He’d give you everything, if he could.

A few days later, he insisted on coming with you to the forest and you agreeed, knowing you will have to pass by the training grounds where Ka’ani could be and she was indeed around, her eyes following Neteyam as if she’s waiting for him to spare her a glance but he was focused on the path ahead, oblivious or uncaring to her longing stares.

“Ka’ani was looking at you,“ you grinned up at him, nudging his side with your elbow.

You saw his brows furrowed for a moment and then his face hardened. You pushed your lips forward. You assumed it was because Ka’ani still didn’t go and talk to him. The woman is fierce warrior, she was probably too proud to see that as an option. She wants Neteyam to come to her. To her credit, you had not seen her in the company of man in the past weeks... You wondered if Neteyam has realized that.

“You know... I noticed Ka’ani has not been hanging out with guys lately? Have you noticed that?“ you asked, angling your head to look up at him as you rambled, “What if she’s just waiting for you to go and talk to her? I think that’s what she wants. She talked to me, you know? She was mad, so I think she was jealous, isn’t that great—”

“She talked to you? And she was mad?” he turned to you, his face etched with both anger and worry.

You grinned. “Yes. I can tell she was jealous—”

“Did she hurt you?”

“No, she didn’t...” you said. “She was just angry, because the act is working—”

You saw the bone in his jaw tick as if he was clenching his teeth. “Let’s not talk about her.”

Your lips pushed forward and you shrugged, listening instead to the soft crunch of dried leaves breaking beneath your feet. Neteyam fell quiet then, his tail twitching with a restlessness that told you something was weighing on him. You walked faster to match his face, pressing a palm on his chest which made him stop walking... and breathing, too.

“What’s bothering you?” you asked, standing in front of him and feeling his chest slowly deflate.

This is crazy. He has never noticed girls’ voices before, but now, they could probably use yours to cool him off. Your voice caresses him and your laugh sounds like bells in his ear. He wouldn’t have said a word if a different person had asked him, but you always have a way to make him open his mouth and just talk.

“The council... they are advising against it,” he said, his voice heavy. “They think sending me to the displaced clan as an envoy is too much risk, because they see me as a target, not a diplomat.”

Your eyes searched his face and he felt warm inside. “And what does your father say?”

He let out a frustrated sigh and your hand caressed his chest. His hand rose to catch your hand, pressing it against his lips. “He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just listens and only then he’ll decide. I’m worried he’ll take their advice,“ he looked at you.

You huffed a breath, patting his chest, and giving him a supportive smile. “Then remind them, Neteyam, that you are no longer a child to be shielded. At your age, your father was already Olo’eyktan. You have to learn diplomacy just as much as any other leader. It wouldn't do you any good to be a leader who is ill-equipped in the discussions of peace.”

Neteyam’s gaze softened, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he looked at you. You removed your hand but he caught it again. “Thank you... for always sharing my burden. I don't think I could have faced them today without hearing that.”

You chuckled, swinging your joined hands lightly. “Bro, it’s nothing! That’s what friends are for, as Spider says,” you beamed at him before turning back to the path ahead, missing the way his face completely dropped.

His smile faltered, and then it deadpanned. It was a total double-kill. Bro and friends in a single breath. You might as well have just shot him in the head and he would have taken it lighter. He huffed, his tail lashing once in irritation as he followed after you.

“I’m not your 'bro,'” he said, suddenly reaching forward to grab your basket from your arm.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you laughed at his sudden grumpiness. “Silly! We’re all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Great Mother,” you said, lightheartedly twirling as you walked, enjoying the dappled sunlight. You didn't even notice how his eyes narrowed as he watched you move through the forest with no care in the world, seemingly oblivious to how much Lo’ak and Spider were ruining his life with their vocabulary lessons.

He had reached his limit.

Before you could twirl again, Neteyam stepped toward you. He reached out, gently but firmly grabbing your arm. Your eyes widened in surprise as he guided you backward, gently pushing you against the trunk of a nearby tree. You looked up at him, your breath catching. His face was inches away from yours, his golden eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

“Neteyam?” you whispered, your eyes dropping to his lips before you stupidly, unconsciously licked yours.

He leaned down, and when you didn't pull away, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was deeper and more demanding than the one at the festival. He licked your lips again and you chuckled against his mouth but when his tongue darted inside yours, you made a sound that sounded so womanly it surprised even you. His tongue tangled with yours as his lips devoured yours.

Everything made you feel hot, and weirdly, tingly between your legs that you had to close your thighs together.

When he finally pulled back, his hands moved to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, his voice low and trembling.

You blinked. “Now?”

“There are things that needs to be dealt with first,“ he said, caressing your jaw. You nodded.

The thing that needed dealing was Ka’ani. He didn’t know the extent of the conversation you had with the huntress, but he knew how Ka’ani talks, and the fact tha you said she was mad solidified what he knew. You two walked back to Hometree, with him carrying your basket for you. The elders giggled at the sight of him following you around like a loyal pet, and when he left with a lingering brush of his thumb against your cheek, they nosed around and asked if the warrior was truly courting you like they kept hearing from the youth.

“No, he’s not... He’s a friend,” you said, noticing the arm band on your basket. You took it and thought perhaps Neteyam had left it there.

You followed after him, thinking he hasn’t gone far yet, but when as stood in the Hometree’s shadowed entrance, you saw him approach Ka’ani near the training grounds, your breath hitching. Ka’ani tilted her head and smirked at him, turning on her heels into the privacy of the deeper woods. You saw Neteyam follow and you tucked yourself behind a massive fern, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

In the dimmed bioluminescence of the forest, Neteyam stood in front of the huntress, seeing that Ka’ani was already smiling, a triumphant, sharp look. “No need to say sorry, Neteyam, if that’s how you’ll start your piece. Because I know,” she said. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. You’ve used that weaver girl to make me jealous, to straighten me up. I get it, so you can drop the act now. I’ve learned my lesson. I know it’s me you want—”

“I do not want you, Ka’ani,” Neteyam’s voice cut through her arrogance like a blade. “I never even thought I wanted you. Yes, you are a strong and fierce warrior, and I once thought that was what I needed by my side for when I lead one day... but I didn’t realize just how much I needed to see and be seen.“

“And have I not seen you?” Ka’ani snarled, her tail lashing. “We trained together, Neteyam! We fought, we hunted! I was always here! You just spared that girl a glance literally like yesterday and you think she’s perfect for you—”

“You don’t know me in the ways that matter, Ka’ani,” he countered. “I’ve had more connection with a rock, and I don't know why I ever entertained the thought that I needed someone strong by my side when strength is not the only thing this clan needs.”

Ka’ani’s face contorted, her pride wounded in front of the man she wanted so much and thought wanted her, too. “We can get to know each other! I regret it, alright? I regret playing around. I’ll focus—”

“Don’t regret what you did,” Neteyam said. “I’m glad you did it, because not only did it prevent me from making a huge mistake, it also brought me to her. And now, I have the rest of my life in front of me, bright and clear as day.” He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping to a warning growl. “Have a good life, Ka’ani. And do not ever approach my woman to tell her nonsense again.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Ka’ani watching him in deep contempt. All those last words he said not to do? She will do it. Back at Hometree, you sat by your loom, your fingers trembling as you picked up a strand of gold thread. You forced a smile onto your face, practicing the words of congratulations you would give him, even as you felt like the sky was turning a purple far deeper and darker than any storm. That was probably what he was going to talk about with you...

Outside, Neteyam walked back to Hometree with a sense of purpose he’d never felt before. He headed straight for the weaving looms. Tonight, you will be his. He’d tell you the act ends here and you two will start something real. No act from here on end. No games. Just the two of you.

But he never made it to the looms.

A hunter intercepted him midway, out of breath and frantic. “Neteyam! The night patrol was ambushed by the violent clan. Two are wounded. Your father is calling for the council.”

The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. The soft, yearning man disappeared, replaced by the disciplined warrior. He hurried to the council, standing before Jake with a firm resolve. “I’ll go,” Neteyam insisted. “Fighting would be the last thing I’ll do. I’ll talk to them, Dad. You call for the chieftains to convene and I’ll convince them to come.”

He left within the hour, riding on his ikran, but his heart was back at Hometree, in the weaving looms... He thought he’d be back by light, but he didn’t know he’d be gone for days.

You had been crying. You learned that Neteyam left for a mission regarding the displaced clan, so even though you were heartbroken, you went to the Tree of Souls to pray for his journey. Your vulnerability was too obvious as you walk back to Hometee, and in it, Ka’ani found her opening. You were so close to Hometree when she stepped out from the shadows, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Hi,” she greeted. “I’m pretty sure you’d heard of Neteyam going to battle... Did he say good bye to you?”

You lowered your gaze and shook your head.

“Where do you think he was last night before he went to battle?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock pity. “He was with me... getting his strength from me.” She stepped closer to you to tilt your head up. “He apologized to me, weaver. For losing sight of what’s truly for him... which is me. He loves me, which I’m sure you know... And he did make me feel loved... see?”

She tilted her head back, exposing the dark hickeys on the side of her neck. To your untrained eyes, it simply looked like bruises, but you knew what you were talking about. Pain bloomed in your chest and you felt ashamed for feeling it. You’re not supposed to feel it. You knew where this is leading to, you knew it was all an act. This woman in front of you was the only reason he approached you.

Ka’ani giggled. “Neteyam was insatiable. He missed me, as you can see... and now, I’m still sore, honestly,” she sighed, looking at you with that mock pity again. “Do you get it? He’s back with me... After he strayed. I hope you can respect that?”

You blinked, your lungs feeling as though they had turned to stone. You didn't realize you were holding your breath until she turned and walked away, and you felt like you might collapse, but the sound of Spider’s familiar voice cut through the silence. He came running toward you, laughing, with Tuk trailing just behind him.

“Was that Ka’ani?” Spider asked, his smile faltering. “What did you two talk about?”

You forced yourself to blink, the world slowly coming back into focus. “Uh... nothing. What are you two doing?”

“Playing tag!” Tuk squealed, slamming into your waist and hugging you tight. You automatically reached down to ruffle her braids. “Tag! You’re it!” she shouted, tapping your belly with a giggle before darting away.

Your soul wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner and let the tears fall, but looking at Tuk’s bright face and Spider’s expectant grin, you couldn't bear to be the killjoy.

“Oh, you’re going to get it now!” you called out, forcing a smile as you chase after them.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Neteyam had done the impossible. He had returned not just with his warriors intact, but with the promise of a unified forest. The first pace of the Great Council’s efforts to help the displaced clan find a dwelling land, he had secured a future for the displaced and for that, he was their hero.

The clan had a small celebration for it, but as the smell of roasted meat filled the air, Neteyam’s eyes were only on the winding path toward your family’s hut. He hadn't seen you in the crowd. He hadn't seen you at the landing where he expected you would be. Waiting for him. Kiri did tell him you were sick, though, which had sent a cold spike of dread that halted his celebratory high.

He didn't wait for his father’s final toast before slipping away, feeling a worry he didn't even feel during his mission. He arrived at your family’s hut, breathless, practically vibrating with the need to pull you into his arms and tell you that he had thought of nothing but your face as he sat among the displaced.

When you emerged from the flap, he froze. You were pale and your eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the telltale signs of the days you spent in quiet agony. His brows furrowed, his feet moving before he could even think. He stopped when he saw you step back though.

“I... I’m sick,” you said when you saw the question in his eyes. You didn't look at him with the warmth he’d been dreaming of. You looked at him as if he were a threat.

He stepped toward the platform, his hand reaching out instinctively. “I know. Kiri told me. But what made you sick? Why are you crying?" His voice was thick with a worry so raw it made your chest ache. “I haven't even been gone for a week, and this is what I return to?”

You stepped back into the shadows of the hut, a sharp scowl flickering across your face. “I... I don't know why I got sick. But I do know I want to lay down and rest. So if there's nothing else, I’ll go do it.”

Before he could utter another word, you grabbed the woven flap and slammed it shut. Neteyam stood there in the silence, staring at the closed entrance. His brows furrowed, his head tilting in genuine, painful confusion. He had expected a hug, a laugh, perhaps even a repeat of that soul-searing kiss in the forest. Instead, he had been shut out like a stranger. The victory he had carried on his shoulders suddenly felt hollow. For this, he didn't return to the celebration at all. He walked back to the his family’s hut in a daze, laying awake for hours wondering what could have poisoned the air in his absence.

The next day was filled with council meetings. He sat through hours of strategy and relocation discussions, but his mind was in the looms which he would check every time there's a chance, ready to scold you for working while ill, but your spot was empty. It wasn't until the following morning that he found you. You were sitting at your spot, your movements stiff and mechanical. And it seemed like you were waiting, too, because you looked at him the moment he stepped into the looms.

“Let’s talk,” he said, his voice firm, trying to reclaim some shred of authority to hide how much his heart was racing.

You stood up, your face impassive. “We do need to talk.” you said, your voice cold and sharp.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at you for more than a minute. For the first time in his life, after facing predators, raids, and the weight of a legacy, Neteyam felt a genuine, cold prickle of fear. But as he looked at the fire in your eyes, a small, reckless part of him couldn't help but admire it. He feels crazy. You are so hot when you’re mad.

You walked into the forest, feeling even more slighted when you remembered him going in this same route with Ka’ani. You felt his hand on your elbow though, steering you toward a different path instead. You glared at him. “Where are we going?”

The sight of direhorses answered your question though. You saw some warriors riding their mounts and Neteyam whistled for his. You saw Ka’ani among the warriors nearby and saw how her eyes narrowed at the sight of you and Neteyam. Shame rose in you and you tried to wriggle away from Neteyam’s hold, especially when a warrior came jogging toward you.

“Brother, will you not watch the young tame their mounts?“ The warrior asked. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

The warrior glanced at you and you took your elbow from Neteyam again, but you weren’t able to get away though, because his hand found your waist and pulled you to him.

“No. I got something more important to do,“ Neteyam said. “I’m sure they’ll do well.”

The warrior snickered, “Enjoy then,” he glanced at you meaningfully before nodding to Neteyam, and turning away.

Neteyam’s hand spanned your waist and lifted you up on his direhorse in under ten seconds, making you slightly shriek. He mounted the beast behind you, making tsaheylu with it before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. You tried to move away, but the direhorse had started moving, and in a second, it was running.

The wind roared  past your ears as the direhorse ate up the miles, forcing you to lean back against Neteyam’s chest just to stay balanced. You enjoyed the sight during the ride, fighting the urge to move your head away when you felt him pressung a kiss to the crown of your head. You felt sad when he pulled on the reins, already missing the exhilaration of riding and the good view.

Neteyam slid off the mount first before reaching up to lift you down, his movements fluid and sure. He didn't let go immediately, his hands lingered on your waist as he looked around the clearing. He felt a surge of triumph that you hadn't jumped off and bolted, though he felt a twinge of guilt, too, because he’d brought you this far specifically so you couldn't run away.

The glade was breathtaking and it immediately snagged your attention. Under any other circumstances, you would have danced through the high grass, but the weight in your chest kept your feet heavy.

Neteyam turned to you, the light dabbing across his face. “Alright," he whispered, his jaw tightening. “Tell me. What has changed since I left?”

You scowled, the image of Ka’ani’s smug face flashing in your mind. “Are you sure things didn’t change before you left? I’m pretty sure you made up with Ka’ani, and did more than just talking.”

The accusation hit him like a physical blow that his eyes widened, his head snapping back in shock. “I did not ‘make up’ with Ka’ani. Yes, I talked to her, but I simply told her to back off. I told her never to approach you again. Did she talk of nonsense to you again?” He was practically vibrating, his tail lashing behind him.

“Yes, she did! We talked,” you threw back at him. “She showed me the hickeys on her neck, Neteyam! She said she was so sore... because you were insatiable! Because you missed her so much that you had to get your 'strength' from her before you left!”

“What?” The word was a rasp of horror. A visceral disgust washed over his features, his body shivering at the image your words painted. “I did not lay with her. I never did and I never would. Oh, Great Mother... that woman is a huge liar!”

You searched his face. You looked for a flicker of guilt or lie, a shift in his eyes, but all you saw was a man who looked genuinely nauseated by the very idea. You believe him, despite yourself and without your consent, the suffocating clouds over your head began to lighten. He stepped toward you, his hands reaching for your arms, but you crossed them over your chest, refusing to let him in just yet.

“Believe me, please,” he pleaded, his words beginning to tumble over each other in a frantic rush. “That night after we were in the forest, all I did was find her and shut down her delusions. I was so mad that she dared to talk to you, dared to get mad at you, so I told her to back off and never approach you again. I was coming back to you, baby. I was going to tell you our ruse ends there and then. I was going to beg you for a chance to make it real.”

He palmed his face , sounding completely undone.

“But then the incident with our warriors happened and I had to go... Jesus. I was so stupid. I should have gone to you before I left, but I was thinking... I was thinking I probably wouldn't be able to leave at all if you told me you’d give me a chance.”

His heart was beating too fast and to hard against his chest, watching the fire in your eyes finally die out, replaced by a soft heat. You believed him. It wasn't in your nature to stay angry when the truth felt so solid, and you knew Neteyam well enough now to know he would never play around. The fact that Ka’ani had looked so bitter earlier suddenly made sense. She hadn't won anything, she had just tried to burn down your bridge.

You bit your lip, your shoulders finally dropping. “Alright...” you whispered.

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into your space, gently wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest. “That’s it? ‘Alright’?” he asked, his voice soft and breathless, his face so close yours.

You pushed your lips forward in a small pout, though you didn't pull away. “I guess I believe you... I don’t think it’s in your character to lie like that.”

A wave of shame washed over you as you realized how quickly you had let Ka’ani’s poison work. You had given him so little confidence, believing a lie over the man you know to be so genuine and kind. But then, you had been protecting yourself; you were in an act, and the lines had been so blurred you didn't know where it all ended.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured “I just... I thought it was still an act. That we were still acting to get her back...”

Neteyam tightened his grip, lowering his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ve long forgotten about the deal. I think I stopped truly caring about it just a week after I started spending my days with you. I just didn't know what it was I was feeling until the thought of it ending and not being with you anymore felt more terrifying than any battle.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb caressing your cheek. “This is why you’ve been crying...”

You pushed your lips forward. You wanted to forget that part! “Let’s just forget it...”

“No, we won’t. You don’t know how much it broke me to see you cry, to see you so gray, and not know why. She hurt you, she meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice hard and his jaw tightening. “And I played a part in it. I should have talked to you, clear everything for us so you would have confidence in me. So you won’t believe her.”

You looked up at him, your hand pressing against his chest to calm him down. “It’s over and done with, Neteyam... What’s important is that we’te okay now. Right?”

He looked down at you, his head tilting. Ka’ani was lucky that you are so kind, but she wasn’t that lucky because he’s not. He leaned down to kiss you, “Right. There will be no more acts and games... Just us.”

You looked up at him, the weight finally gone, and for the first time in days, the light returned to your golden eyes. “Just us.” you beamed at him.

He sucked in a breath, pulling you and tilting your head to kiss you hard. He was a man starved and you could tell with how he's holding and kissing you. He moaned when your tongue licked his lower lip, making him pull his head back to look at you.

“It’s you I missed so much...” he mumbled, kissing you softly. “It’s you I’d be insatiable for... And you I’ll make so sore—”

“Neteyam!” your hand lifted up to clamp around his mouth and he laughed. You shrieked when you felt his warm and wet tongue lick at your palm.

“I know... I’ll court you... Then you'll accept me as your mate... And then you’re in big trouble wth me—”

You groaned, your cheeks burning purple. He kissed your cheek before angling his head to kiss you for real.

The next afternoon, the Sully siblings were in on the plan—though only Kiri truly understood the gravity of it. They had dragged you down to the river, telling you they’ll teach you how to properly splash a person without getting soaked yourself.

“Focus! You have to cup your hand like this,” Spider shouted, sending a wall of water toward a ducking Lo’ak.

You laughed, the sound genuine and bright, completely unaware that Neteyam had quietly slipped away. He had seen Ka’ani heading toward the upper trails, and he wasn't about to let another sun set without finishing this. He intercepted her near the high roots, his silhouette blocking her path. Ka’ani stopped, her smirk faltering when she saw the look on his face. He didn’t look friendly at all, not that he had look friendly the last time they talked, but the hard storm masking his face right now was the look of a man who had seen a threatening the peace.

“Neteyam,” she started, trying to reclaim her cool composure. “I thought you'd be busy with your little weaver.“

“I am busy,” Neteyam said. “I am busy realizing how wrong I was about you. I thought you were a warrior of honor, Ka’ani. I thought that even if you were proud, you were noble. But to purposely hurt a woman who did you nothing wrong? To lie about the most disgusting things just to see her cry—”

Ka’ani’s eyes narrowed, her tail lashing. “I know what I’m doing, Neteyam! You were only using her to straighten me up! I just leveled the playing field. I was reclaiming what was mine—”

“I was never yours,” he cut her off, disgust for her delusions crumpling his face. “There was nothing to reclaim, you had nothing. The life you are living is the one you actively chose. Even if we had tried before, I know I would have quickly realized it would never work, what with our lack of connection. The only thing we shared was the training grounds.”

Ka’ani winced as if he’d struck her. “I... I was just blinded, Neteyam. I was jealous! I was envious. I’m sorry, alright? I was just trying to get you back.”

Neteyam let out a sharp huff. “I wasn’t yours to get back, we had nothing to do with each other. And you’re not really sorry. At least not yet, because you didn't think of taking your words back during the days I wasn't home. You knew she was crying. You knew she was hurting from your lies, and you sat back and enjoyed it. You are only sorry now because I am standing here confronting you.”

Ka’ani opened her mouth to argue, her hands trembling, but no words came out. The truth of his gaze was too heavy to deflect.

“I hope you grow,” Neteyam said, turning on his heel.

“Neteyam, wait!” she called out, sounding frantic as he turned to walk away. “I’m sorry! I’ll go to her right now. I’ll apologize to her! Please... can we still be friends? We’ve known each other our whole lives.”

Neteyam stopped, but he didn't turn around. He looked over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

“We were never friends, Ka’ani. You don't see me as a friend. You see me as a prize to be won.” He took a breath, thinking of your laugh echoing by the river. “Friends don’t hurt the people you love. And that is exactly what you did to the woman I love. After that, I don’t think your wish can be possible.”

He left her standing there, the weight of her own choices finally settling on her shoulders. When he returned to the river, he saw you. You were dripping wet, laughing as Tuk tried to climb onto your back.You looked up and caught his eye, beaming at him with a warmth that made his heart feel like it was soaring home.

He didn't say a word about Ka’ani. He just waded into the water, pulled you into a lopsided embrace, and whispered into your ear, “I think it’s time I started that courting I mentioned. Properly.”

And just like that, the moons had drifted by like dust in the wind, and Neteyam had kept his word. He courted you openly and even formally asked your parents for your hand, which they initially did not want to grant him. They think your life wouldn’t be as peaceful if you mated Neteyam instead of a simple man in the clan. Honestly, your parents didn’t know what to do with him. Neteyam was so intense in his courtship to you and your family that, most times, your parents were literally hiding from him. By then, he had already brought your family the finest meat and the rarest fruits, but surprise of your parents’ lives probably came when he brought Jake and Neytiri. He wasn’t really planning to bring them along, it was just... Neytiri is apparently getting impatient over the fact that Neteyam isn’t an official suitor yet, and Jake wanted to relieve your parents of their worries over you being Neteyam’s mate.

And today, the celebration for the new village of the displaced clan felt like the culmination of everything you and Neteyam had built. It seemed so long ago when you two discussed the matter when you were swimming in the river, and now, the clan found a home by the river. The Olo’eyktan of the displaced clan stood before the grand fire. You’d met him only today, but you could already tell the respect he has for Neteyam.

“For too long, we were ghosts in this forest,” the Olo’eyktan started. “We lived like beggars, raiding for sustenance, hurting our brothers and sisters among your clans, and also fearing their spears, but a path was cleared where we saw only hopelessness. Our homes are standing here today because of Neteyam te Suli, our brother of the Omatikaya. Because of him, we have peace. Our children will know only the beauty of the forest and never the tragedy that forced us out of our lands.”

You grinned as the crowd erupted, but Neteyam tried to sink into his seat, his ears pressing back in embarrassment as his arm pulled you to him. He hated the attention, but the chieftains wouldn't have it. They pushed him to the center, where he was forced to give a piece of his mind.

He cleared his throat, his golden eyes immediately finding yours in the crowd as if to ground himself. “The peace you see today was not born in my mind,” he began, his voice steadying as he looked at you. “I am a warrior, I was ready to lead with my bow. But it was my woman who showed me the wisdom in a hand offered instead of an arrow. She gave me the strength to listen when I wanted to fight. If this land is a home today, it is because her heart guided my way.”

Neytiri turned to you and smiled as the men in the crowd roared to tease the warrior they’ve been acquainted with in the past moons. As he strode back to you, pulling you into a deep kiss of victory, a warrior from a different clan hooted from the side. “Careful, Neteyam! Keep your wits about you and don’t let her hit her head, or she might wake up and realize she could leave your ass behind!”

Neteyam let out a deep, resonant laugh, pulling you flush against his side. “I have no intention of ever letting her get far enough to find out!”

As the party reached its high, Neteyam’s eyes found yours, looking at you meaningfully, in a way that made your skin tingle. You raised a brow and he jerked his head toward the dark woods. You pushed your lips forward in a playful pout but tugged his hand anyway, leading him away from the noise and into the glowing embrace of the forest.

You skipped hand in hand, admiring the bioluminescent flora lighting your path and when you reached the secluded bend of the river, the sounds of the festival was nothing but a hum. You turned to him with a grin and, without a word, untied the ties of your beaded top. His hungry eyes followed the movement, his breath hitching as if he has not seen them for a hundred times already. You untied your loincloth next, letting it pool on the floor.

He watched you with an intensity that excited you, and when his own loincloth fell, you bit your lip, seeing of the hard-on you had become quite well-acquainted with over the past moons. The glow of the river and the forest illuminated his handsome face so perfectly your heart hammered against your chest. He is so handsome.

“Hi,” he whispered, his large arms on your waist pulling you close.

Your smile grew to a grin. “You’re silly,” you chuckled, pressing a palm against his muscled chest to gently push him back. “I’m going to swim... why are you holding me?”

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. “Oh, I think there are other things that need swimming, too,” he teased, his voice dropping as his hand caught yours, bringing it down so you could feel his hardened cock. “Your babies want to swim in you.”

“Neteyam!“ you called, almost swiveling your head around in case someone could hear him. You’ve learned, in the past moons, how lewd he can be with his words but your habit of looking around will probably stay for a few years more.

He angled his head to press a hard kiss against your lips. “What? Don’t you want our kids to have fun time?”

You laughed, the sound like bells in his ears. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. “Am I in big trouble again?” you whispered against his ear.

He groaned. “You’re always going to be in big trouble with me if I had my way.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “I want to take care of you tonight...” you mumbled, your hand on his chest caressing his skin and pushing him back.

He raised a brow, always surprised still whenever you show him fire. You pulled him down to kiss him, your lips crashing into his with a hunger that made him vibrate in excitement. He let you push him back against the trunk of a towering tree, letting out a gravelly groan when his head thumped back against the bark.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you so flush against him that the ridge of his hard-on felt like it was imprinting itself on your belly. With practiced ease, he reached behind himself to bring his queue forward, while his other hand found yours behind you, making you break the kiss for just a second, watching through hooded eyes as the pink tendrils of your kurus began to reach and weave together.

The familiar psychic  jolt of his intense love, raw devotion and desire for you flooded your mind, feeling his heart hammering against your ears, echoing the rhythm of your own. His fingers cupped your jaw to kiss you again, ad you smiled against his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth before trailing your lips down. You licked and kiss his neck, your palms staying flat on his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart as you kissed your way down over the hard ridges of his stomach.

“My warrior...” you murmured, kissing his lower abdomen.

You peered up at him, seeing his head pressed against the tree, but his eyes were looking down at you. You kissed sharp V-line of his hips before your hand reached out, fisting his girth. Neteyam’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat as your hand began to move. The bond between your queues flared, sending waves of his pleasure crashing through the both of you.

“You are celebrated tonight,” you whispered, looking up at him with your innocent doe eyes that contrasted the sinful movement of your hands on him. “I think you deserve a reward, don't you?”

“Baby...” he rasped, his hands fisting as he tried to ground himself.

You didn't give him a chance to respond. You lowered your head, taking him into your mouth with a heat that made his entire body shudder. Through the bond, you felt the exact moment he weakened. His hands flew to your long braids as your mouth started sucking around his girth, your tongue playing with its underside, getting another sharp intake of his breath. You drew back slightly, then plunged deeper, taking more of him down your throat. You worked your mouth, your lips sealing around him that made him tremble. His fingers tightened in your braids in a gentle tug, guiding your movements, urging you faster.

Your tongue swirled, licked, teased, tracing the veins along his length. You felt him grow even harder in your mouth. You pulled back, then swallowed him again, your breath hitching as you felt the wide head deep inside your throat. His hips began to thrust, his hand on your jaw, meeting your eager mouth until you tasted him, the musky scent of his arousal filling your nostrils. Your throat ached, but the pleasure in his groans kept you moving.

“Oh, baby,” he gasped, his body trembling.

His hips bucked, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. You felt the first warm gush of him erupt into your mouth, hot and thick, and you swallowed as his body convulsed, still pouring into you. He groaned deeply, a powerful sound that made you shiver, his fingers digging into your hair as he emptied himself.

He slumped, his breathing ragged. “Enough, my love,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, trying to pull your head up.

But you weren’t finished. You wanted to clean him, to savor every last drop. You ignored his pleas, your tongue flicking out, licking away the remnants of his pleasure, tracing the underside of his shaft. You heard his sharp intake of breath, his abdominal muscles tensing again. He was literally fighting to hold onto his strength, and you felt his cock twitch, hardening slightly at your continued ministrations. You ran your tongue along the tip, then sucked gently, drawing out the last of his cum.

“Fuck. I regret teaching you, you know?” he said weakly, his knees buckling.

You glared at him before reluctantly releasing him, your lips glistening. He reached down, pulling you up with a sudden, fierce strength that lifted until your bodies collided. His mouth found yours in a hard, demanding kiss, his tongue plunged into your mouth, mirroring the thrusts of his shaft earlier, tangling with yours. You met him with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer still, your hips instinctively grinding against his.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw and your throat in a fiery path. He lifted you, cradling you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist before he lowered you gently against the soft moss. He knelt above you, his golden eyes devouring your body like a man starved. His hand traced the curve of your waist, then upward, toward your breasts. His fingers brushed against your nipple and you arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one of the pebbled tips, sucking hard. You gasped and shivered, your fingers tangling in his braids, pressing him closer. His tongue swirled around your breast, while his other hand kneaded the other, his thumb circling the aroused tip.

“What a great reward,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your flesh. He suckled hard that it made you arch your back both in ache and pleasure. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same intense attention until you cried out, your body writhing for more.

He pulled away, his eyes hot with a familiar predatory hunger in them. He shifted, kneeling between your legs, which had instinctively parted for him. He leaned down, his mouth moving lower. You moaned, knowing what was coming, your hips lifting in anticipation. His tongue flicked out, tracing the velvety folds of your pussy, already wet with anticipation,

He spread your lips, his tongue plunging directly into your clit, making you arch your back, your fingers scratching at his back. He licked, sucked, and torment, his mouth relentlessly sucking and his tongue playing more than it licks. He used his fingers, too, parting your lips to allowing his tongue full access on you. He tasted you, the salty-sweet essence, a taste that always drove him wild.

“So sweet,” he murmured against your folds his voice a low growl, his tongue flicking faster, harder.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your legs trembling, wrapping around his head, pressing him deeper into your pussy. You felt the suction of his mouth and the relentless assault of his tongue on your clit, and your orgasm coiled in your belly. You whimpered, unable to form words, only sounds of pure pleasure, your hips bucking as your body shivered with release, leaving you gasping. You felt the soft shudders of your pussy, contracting around his tongue.

He pulled away, moving above you, his hard cock pressing against your folds. You whimpered, still quivering from your orgasm that your pussy was still throbbing and incredibly sensitive. He still pushed though, the head of his cock sliding inside. You moaned and he pushed deeper, stretching you, and filling you completely.

You wrapped your arms around his body that hovered above yours, his eyes locked with yours. He began to move, a slow thrust, then another, pulling almost completely out before plunging back in deep and hard. The sounds of him sliding in and out of your wetness filled the air, mingling with your gasps and his grunts. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, urging him deeper and faster.

He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, lifting you slightly to control the angle, to thrust even deeper. “Harder,” you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your hips bucking to meet his.

He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming a furious assault. He pounded into you, deep and relentless, filling you with every thrust. You felt yourself tightening around him, your muscles clenching. Your breath hitched, your vision blurring. You cried out his name, again and again, as your body convulsed, leaving you gasping, clinging to him.

He groaned, his body trembling above you as he thrusted a few more times, deep, desperate strokes. His body tensed, his seed erupting inside you, hot and thick, filling your womb with your babies that needed swimming. He collapsed onto you, heaving, his breath ragged against your neck. You lay there, your entwined bodies both slick with sweat and release.

He let out a long, shaky exhale, his tail giving one final, exhausted twitch against your leg. With a groan that sounded sated and delirious, he pulled out of you, watching the gush of his heavy and thick cum dripping out of you. “You emptied me,” he mumbled, his voice thick.

You chuckled, breathless. “Complaining, are we? You’re the one who started talking about ‘swimmers’ in the middle of our conversation,” you smirked.

Neteyam let out a dry, boyish laugh, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at your stomach, then back at your face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe in my warriors. They’re fast.”

You groaned, reaching up to swat his chest, but he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “Neteyam, if my mother sees me walking back looking like this, I’m going to receive a scolding.”

“Tell her you are a mated woman,” he suggested shamelessly, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest.

“Neteyam... They don’t know that yet. We are following the traditions!” you whisper-shouted playfully. “Beside, what happened to being modest for my parents?” you narrowed your eyes at him.

He laughed, a genuine, chest-shaking sound that made you feel warm all over again. He rolled to his side, his hand grabbing your waist with a renewed look of heat in his eyes that made you groan. You sat up and his head angled to catch the pebbled tip of your breast into his mouth.

“‘Teyam...” your hand clutched at his shoulder.

“Just one more...” he said, his words muffled because he had your flesh in his mouth.

You bit you lip and laid back on the soft moss, spreading your thighs as your hand caressed the soft skin on his back. You watched his large, formidable form hover over you, his thick and long cock already pointing at your pussy as if it knows its target. You shivered at the sight of it, your excitement vibrating in your body. His hand clasped under your knee and pushed your leg back, stretching you before his cock nudged your entrance.

His other hand moved over your pussy, his thumb rubbing your sensitive nub as his length disappeared in you. You moaned a long one, arching your back, offering your rounded breasts to him and he lowered his head to take one into his mouth, his tongue immediately swirling on your nipple. In a sudden, hard movement, his hand on your hips pulled you to him, burying himself to the hilt inside you.

“Ah!” you moaned, your thighs quivering to close around him but he kept them open, restraining both of them tightly befote delivering a series of hard and intense pounding.

You held onto him, your eyes flying open and meeting his. You probably looked so aroused and fucked, because his pupils blew even wider, almost swallowing the gold. Your mouth remained perpetually gaped, releasing jagged breaths and moans as he continued pumping into you. Your hand pressed against his lower abdomen and his thrusts quickened and hardened even more.

He lowered his head to kiss you, his tongue immediately plunging into your open mouth. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his hard muscles contrasting his soft skin until all the sensations he’s giving you pushed you to the edge. He came first, shuddering above you despite his efforts to hold out longer. You hugged him tighter when you felt yourself erupt.

He kissed your neck softly, feeling your body shudder against him, you legs literally quivering as your walls clenched around him to milk him dry. He chuckled, pressing a hard kiss against your jaw. “I told you. Big trouble.”

You let your head fall on the mossy ground, feeling him lick the skin on your exposed neck. “I think I can handle the trouble,” you murmured. “As long as it’s yours.”

He squeezed your hip, giving you a lingering kiss. “I love you so much, space cadet,” he mumbled. “Now, let’s put on act that we just swam in the river and are too tired to return to the festival.”

[neteyamthinker]

hopelessly devoted

pairings neteyam x omatikaya!female reader

notes friends to lovers, slow burn, heavy pining, down horrendous neteyam, inexperienced neteyam and reader, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), dry humping

synopsis for twenty-two generations, your father’s family has guarded a sacred legacy: one woman will choose a life of solitude and remain unmated for life for the service of the great mother and the people. you decided it will be you now... except for one problem. neteyam. the boy who has looked at you with quiet and unwavering devotion since you were children.

word count 19.2k

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You sat perfectly upright in the healing pavilion, your fingers meticulously sorting herbs as Kiri hummed softly beside you, a little unfocused as she sorted her own set of herbs. She has always been a little too connected to the forest and all its creatures. Once, when you were children, she’s told you about how she can feel Eywa in every plant, and every animal that crawls and walks.

You believed her without thinking twice. You wished you could connect to Eywa the same way she does, because it is your greatest dream to follow the path of your great aunt, Äye. You could see her now in your mind’s eye, her skin mapped with the lines of nearly eighty years of wisdom. She has been serving Eywa and the people since the Tsahik that Mo’at succeeded, so her counsel is sought on all matters of faith and ritual, even by Mo’at.

For the past twenty-two generations, a woman in your father’s family chooses the same path. They are women who belonged to no man, but to the Great Mother and the people. You aspire to be just like all of them. Your great aunt is the blueprint of your soul, so at twelve years old, you had already decided to tuck away your heart, to pay attention to no boy in the clan, preparing your life for one of worship.

“He didn't even look back once,” Yaremu’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts, her chin now rested in her hands as she neglected the poultice she was supposed to be thickening. “Neteyam, I mean. He’s so focused... Remember what the elder hunters said about the sturmbeest hunt? My uncle said it was the cleanest kill he’s seen from a boy of thirteen years. Not a single wasted movement.”

“And those eyes...” Another girl, Tasi, gushed, her tail twitching with excitement. “He’s going to be such a strong Olo’eyktan one day. Imagine being the one who gets to stand beside him.”

You kept your head down, making their chatter a background sound to your more interesting work of grinding your herbs on a mortar.

“Kiri,” Tasi whispered, leaning in closer. “Since you’re the sister. Is he always like that? And what about Lo'ak? Just the other day, he teased me about my braids and I know I ought to hate it, but he’s so cute I forgot to be annoyed!”

Kiri, who was lazily braiding a length of vine, gave a lopsided grin. “Lo’ak is… well, Lo’ak. He’s a total boy. He spends half his time trying to prove he’s a man and the other half being rowdy and disobedient. He doesn't know when to be quiet.“ She rolled her eyes.

You nodded in agreement while the girls giggled.

Yaremu pressed on, “And Neteyam?”

“Neteyam is alright,” Kiri said, shrugging. “He’s the eldest, after all, so he has a lot to do. He takes care of us when Mom and Dad are not around, and since he’s a hunter now, he’s mostly out.”

“He's so handsome,” Yaremu breathed, nudging you. “Don't you think so, too? He’s always in front of you when we study. Surely you’ve noticed how good he looks when the sun hits his shoulders?”

You paused your grinding, your brows already furrowed. You did not notice that at all. You felt the weight of their gaze, three pairs of eyes curiously waiting for what you have to say. “I notice that his grinding technique is sloppy,” you said, your voice flat. “And that he distracts the circle with their nonsense. If he is to be a leader, he should learn that a healing pavilion is a place of silence, not a stage for his friends to sneaker and fool around.”

The girls exchanged looks, suppressing smiles and rolling their eyes playfully. Tasi bumped her shoulder against yours. “You’re always too serious, sister! You can always study really hard and still have eyes in your head. Everyone should appreciate a beautiful hunter.”

A sudden, raucous burst of laughter was heard from outside the pavilion, making Yaremu and Tasi sit up straighter, going back to their works in an instant. It was a sound you knew very well and it always seemed to follow a particular group. Your cheeks burned, feeling like you’d been caught talking about him even though you were just answering questions! You sat properly, your jaw tightening a little as the voices grew louder, nearing the pavilion.

“Neteyam, you almost dropped it!” a voice boomed, followed by a chorus of snorts.

“I did not! It was Lo’ak, he bumped me!” Neteyam’s voice, already deepening, carried a playful defiance.

A small, knowing sigh escaped your lips. These interruptions are now a constant backdrop to your studies, and you hated it. They weren't even supposed to be here, especially Neteyam, who had just successfully passed his iknimaya and gone through his uniltaron, yet here they were, led by him, no less. You can’t even complain because even though they are rowdy, they are not only eager to learn, this is also beneficial to them as future warriors and hunters of the clan.

Neteyam himself proved to be an exceptional student in the art of healing, which you think is simply natural for him for he excels in everything anyway. He has earned so much praise from Mo’at’s assistant healers that they are now discussing a new initiative with the senior warriors: making first-aid training a requirement for every young warrior and hunter.

The bead curtain at the entrance of the pavilion clattered as the boys spilled inside. You saw Neteyam leading the way, his stride possessing a new, grounded grace since he became a full-fledged warrior of the clan following his iknimaya last season. Close behind were Lo’ak, who was busy trying to trip Atan, while Kipey struggled to carry a bundle of practice splints. Suddenly, the pavilion felt small and their boundless energy made you dizzy. The serene atmosphere you and the girls have earlier is now all but a thing of the past.

Healers Sayka and Jahi entered the pavilion not long after, and because you were looking at them, your eyes caught Neteyam’s and saw him already looking at you. You felt the fine hair on your nape standing up, a bizarre feeling that made you smoothly roll your eyes away, greeting the healers the same time they did.

“Find your places, quickly now,” called out Sayka, the senior assistant healer, as she walked down the aisle followed by Jahi. “The Great Mother does not wait for boys to finish their jests.”

The boys scrambled to sit. Naturally, Neteyam chose the spot directly across from you and your eyes met his again which you quickly averted by looking down on your pestle and mortar. He sat straighter and every time you reached for a new herb or adjusted your posture, you could feel his gaze, not heavy or lecherous, but steady nonetheless, as if he's focusing on a single star in the night sky to properly navigate in the air.

“We heard of the incident during the hunt three days ago,” Sayka began, her eyes landing on Neteyam. “One of the hunters took a horn to the thigh. Messy business,” all of you gasped. “Neteyam took care of the first aid. Didn’t you, Neteyam?”

Your eyes drifted to him and you saw him glanced at you before he turned to Sayka to silently nod at her.

“Tell the circle what the wound look like and what you did before the hunter was brought to the Tsahik.”

Neteyam shifted his focus to Sayka, though you felt the ghost of his attention still lingering on you. “It was a jagged gash,” he said, his voice grounded. “The horn had hooked the flesh, so it wasn't a clean line. There was a lot of blood...”

You watched for any fear or anxiety on his face, but there was none, only certainty and confidence that shouldn't belong on the face of a fourteen-year-old.

“And how did you respond?” Sayka pressed.

“I used a cloth tie as a tourniquet above the wound to slow the flow,” Neteyam explained. "Then I used river water to flush out the dirt. I didn't have any paste, so I just held a soft fortune leaf over it with steady pressure until we brought him to Tsahik.”

“Good. Simple and fast,” Sayka nodded and swept around with her gaze. “A jagged wound is not like a clean wound brought by the slice of a knife. If you have observed a clean slice, it most often closes on its own, but a jagged wound is an angry one. It stays open. Neteyam did well to flush it because with a jagged wound, the first thing to do is to clean it. Dirt hides in the flaps of the skin, so you must use cool, flowing water to wash away the debris. If anything is still inside, you leave it for the Tsahik, but if there’s none, you must clean it thoroughly.”

You nodded eagerly. You haven’t dealt with wounds like that before. Mostly, it was just scraped or small cuts. You wondered what a jagged wound actually looked like and debated whether to ask Neteyam for further details after the class is over. You took a thick and waxy dapophet leaf from the bundle Jahi was distributing. As the leaves were distributed, the quiet was immediately punctured by Lo’ak’s muffled snickering. He was leaning over to Kipey, whispering something about how Neteyam sounded like a “grumpy old grandmother” when he talked about bandages.

You felt a familiar spark of irritation, looking up to to fix the boys with a reprimanding glare, but your eyes didn't even make it to Lo’ak. They crashed into Neteyam’s instead and saw him already looking. The dappled sunlight filtered through the woven roof, casting golden patterns on him and for a moment, you understood what Yaremu was talking about. He is handsome, especially when bathed in sunlight.

You felt something in you flutter. Somewhere in your belly and it tickles. You parted your lips to let out an indignant huff, snapping your gaze away to fix it on Jahi when she spoke. The girls have instilled such ridiculous notions in your head and now, this is what happens!

“The leaves in your hands have a tough outer layer, but inside it is filled with fluid. Now, each of your leaves have a jagged cut you must stitch close,” Jahi explained and you smiled excitedly, looking down at your leaf and the stitching materials being distributed. “Remember not to pierce it too deeply or pull the edges too hard, because the juice might run out. This is similar to a wounded person, you wouldn’t want to pierce them too deeply or pull their skin too hard, would you? You must be mindful to the weight of your own hands.”

You concentrated on your work, carefully stitching the leaf back together. The girls are also silent, which is something you love about them, because nothing could take away their concentration from studying, not even the boy they’ve been mooning over minutes earlier. What annoys you, though, is that you are the one distracted. You could feel his constant glances on you and you decided you’re done with it.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes and you found him with his eyes already on you, as if waiting for the contact. It was infuriating. “Is there something wrong with my stitching, Neteyam?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the silence.

The boys froze. Atan and Kipey exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Neteyam blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re perfect. I mean, I mean your technique... It’s perfect. I was just looking to see... If I’m doing it right.”

Lo’ak cleared his throat and pretended to cover his face to cough, but his shoulders were shaking, and his face and neck darkened to purple. He was laughing. What’s so funny? You tilted your head and look at Neteyam’s leaf. He was doing it right. Your own face burned in embarrassment. Perhaps, he was truly just trying to look at yours to see if he’s doing his stitching right!

“I think yours is good. It looks like a clean stitch,” you said, returning to your leaf without waiting for a response.

“Thanks...“ he said, his voice still soft.

You heard the boys snicker and from your peripheral gaze, you can see them tease Neteyam with silent nudges. You looked at them and narrowed your eyes. The healers only left for a few moments and they are so rowdy again!

Neteyam, who had been grinning at something Lo’ak said, felt the weight of your gaze. You saw him turn, his golden eyes meeting yours, and his smile died instantly. The bravado drained out of his shoulders. He sat up straighter, his ears pinning back for a second before he composed himself into a mask of sudden, intense seriousness. Lo’ak started to let out another muffled laugh, but Neteyam’s elbow caught him sharply in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Neteyam whispered at his brother before clearing his throat and looking down at his own leaf with the intensity of a scholar.

The rowdiness of the boys died down into a strained, respectful silence, all because you had looked at Neteyam. Kiri turned to you with a knowing, almost mischievous glint in her golden eyes. You fixed her with a confused look and she shook her head, softly chuckling to herself.

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You stood in a drawn circle at the training ground with your bowstring drawn back against your cheek. Tasi and Yareumu had already abandoned their targets, preferring to sit in the shade and braid flowers into each other's hair, giggling as they watched the young warriors spar in the ring. All four of you decided to train in archery just last season, but the two of them, including Kiri last week, already gave up on their trainings, citing its futility in the path they are choosing.

Two years had passed and the soft roundness of your childhood had now sharpened into lean, graceful lines of a young lady. At fourteen, the weight of the path you’re forging for yourself is no longer just a dream, but more and more like a shape forming true. You wanted to be of full service to the people, not just as a healer, but as a protector as well, even though you will not be Tsahik. So now, you’re planning to tame an ikran just like Kiri had the year before.

“It’s too much work for my arms,” Tasi sighed, waving a dismissive hand at her discarded bow. “Besides, why do I need to be an archer if I am to be a healer?“

“Because a healer must sometimes be the one to keep the patient alive before the wound is attended to,” you replied without looking back, releasing the arrow. It thudded into the center of the mossy target with a satisfying thwack.

“You are always so serious,” Yaremu teased. “Look, even the boys have stopped their sparring to watch you. Jeto looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.”

You didn't spare them a glance. You think boys are stupid... Some of them have already wasted half an hour watching and hooting at your every move. The same bunch even tried to invent “accidents” in the past moons just so you would look at them. If Neteyam hadn’t scolded them, they would have continued distracting you in your trainings. Fortunately, they’ve stopped now... But the annoyance of their constant attention has not ceased.

Neteyam stood with Kiri far behind you, supposedly discussing your plan to go up the Hallelujah Mountains soon to tame an ikran for yourself, but he couldn’t help but watch you, his ears tuning out everything Kiri was saying.

You seemed so uncaring of the boys’ antics, your chin tilted high, your air always radiating that quiet, indifferent coldness that made you seem miles above the dirt of the training ground.

“She’s such a snob,” he heard one of the boys mutter behind a rack of spears.

“As if it’s your first time. Keep doing nonsense and she’ll keep ignoring you!” Another replied, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, a familiar surge of irritation rising in him. Of course. Other boys saw in you what he saw, but he couldn't pretend you were exclusively his to appreciate. Everyone admired you, from their parents to the children, the girls and the boys. And he couldn’t claim to be so different from them...

He had known for a long time exactly what you were to him.

“Neteyam? Are you even listening?” Kiri’s voice poked through his trance. She was leaning against a wooden rack, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as if she knows a secret he doesn’t. “I said the wind currents near the mountains are shifting. If she’s going up in three days, we need to leave earlier."

Neteyam cleared his throat, adjusting the strap of his knife sheath to hide his flustered state. “I heard you. The eastern peaks. I’ll make sure the gear is ready.”

He stepped forward, his shadow touching the edge of your circle. He didn't hover or said anything stupid like the other boys. He’s a boy of sixteen years now, much more matured than the boy he used to be, and somehow, you’ve separated him entirely from the others. You respect Neteyam. He is the future of the clan after all, the next in line to the Omatikaya leadership, and nothing about his presence demanded anything from you.

He waited for you to release your final arrow before he spoke. “Your draw is getting faster,” he noted, his voice an octave lower, and Kiri couldn’t help but snicker at her brother’s attempt to make his voice sound manlier in your ears.

“I have been practicing,” you said, lowering your bow, turning to face him. Your expression was the same mask of cool indifference you wore for everyone, but your eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than they did on the others and sometimes... When it lingered too long, you can feel your belly do the thing. The crazy thing.

He tilted his head and your eyes fluttered, not knowing what to track. Dappled sunlight was on him again and his braids were longer. It annoyed you to think that no boy in the clan is as handsome as him... And perhaps your friends are right. Eywa gave the people a vision to appreciate beauty.

“I can tell,” he said, his voice soft as though he wanted only you to hear what he's saying. “But you’re gripping the bow too tightly. Your hand will cramp and it won’t be good for our climb in two days.”

“I will adjust it,” you said, tearing your gaze off of him.

“You should,” he replied, stepping a bit closer, effectively blocking the view of the snickering boys behind him. “If you’re going to tame an ikran, you can't afford a cramped hand.”

You nodded once, adjusting your hand on the bow. Neteyam watched you adjust your grip, his eyes tracing the line of your knuckles until they softened. He felt a fierce, silent satisfaction in the way his body acted as a shield between you and the persistent stares of the other boys. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way about his possessiveness... The first thing an eldest brother like him ever learned was to share... And yet.

Two days later, you found yourself climbing what seemed like a never-ending vine path upwards. You see nothing below you but mist and hear not but the splash of a distant waterfalls and heavy breathing from the three of you. From his position just behind you on the vine paths, Neteyam found it difficult to focus on the climb.

His eyes were constantly drawn upward to the way you moved. You climbed with a desperate kind of grace, your fingers gripping the ancient roots with a strength that made his chest ache. He saw the sweat beads glistening on your temple and the way your jaw remained set in that stubborn resolve.

Every time you reached a treacherous gap, he felt his own breath hitch. He wanted to reach out, to catch you or guide you, but he knew better. He knew you wouldn’t like being treated more than a casual peer, so he was careful with everything he did, determined not to be shut out like the other boys.

When you all finally reached the summit, he handed you a waterskin and a woven cloth to wipe your sweat with before he even thought of his own thirst and sweat. Though you had your own supplies, you accepted them, only realizing later as you drank the cool water that he’d given you his. He was already focused on watching the ikran, calmly assessing them without bothering to wipe his sweat.

“Hoo! That was one hell of a climb,” Kiri said, drinking from her skin. “You ready?”

You nodded, untying your own waterskin and stepping closer to Neteyam to hand it to him. “You gave me yours,” you said, your eyes sharp and reprimanding, assuming he was too tired to remember you had your own. He accepted it, but you pulled back and opened the lid for him. As your attention shifted to the shrieking, flapping ikran, you missed the way his eyes flared with surprise and intense attraction. Kiri saw it, though, and chuckled to herself. You turned to Neteyam again.

Before he could even get another sip, you huffed, your eyes eyeing the beads of sweat rolling down his temple that was, frankly, getting on your nerves. You grabbed your own woven cloth, your hand wrapping around his forearm. “Hold still,” you muttered, stepping into his personal space.

You didn't dab at him gently. Instead, you used firm strokes, wiping his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Your brow furrowed in a small scowl as you moved to his neck. He was standing perfectly still, his breath hitching as he looked down at you. He didn't care that you were practically buffing his skin raw, because to him, the rough friction felt like a brand. He wasn’t asking for reward, but don’t mind if he greedily enjoys this. He leaned into it a fraction, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm that had nothing to do with the climb you all had just finished.

“There,” you said, finally satisfied. You shoved the cloth into his hand and his fingers touched yours. “Now drink. We don't have all day.”

You turned back to the ikran, missing the dazed, lopsided grin he directed at the back of your head. Kiri, standing a few feet away, just shook her head and gagged quietly. Could there be a worse nightmare for a 15-year-old girl than watching a romance unfold between her older brother and her best friend?

“I’m ready now,” you spoke, doing small jumps on the balls of your feet.

“Good luck,” Neteyam said in a hoarse voice, staying back with Kiri.

His heart hammered against his ribs like an forest ikran trapped in a vine as he watched you step onto the rocky arena, a lone figure among the beasts.

“Choose her,” he whispered under his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms. “See her as I see her.”

He watched a forest-green ikran lunge at you, its beak snapping with lethal intent. Most would have flinched, but you didn't. Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat, he practically stopped breathing as he watched you circle the beast, a blur of blue and shadow, as you dodge each of the beast’s attempt to strike.

When you finally leaped, clambering onto the beast’s neck and wrestling it toward the precipice, Neteyam took an involuntary step forward. His stomach dropping as he watched you both tumble over the edge, a chaotic mess of wings and limbs disappearing into the white abyss of the clouds. Your name tore at his throat, a shout full of fear. He was reminded of the many Omatikaya who died trying the same thing, and for a moment he felt his heart stop beating.

Silence stretched for eternity, both he and Kiri couldn’t talk, and then, a piercing shriek broke through the mist. Neteyam’s heart soared as you flew in the air, banked in a sharp, elegant curve. A lopsided grin broke through his mouth. You are now a rider. The way you sat atop the beast, your braids streaming behind you, and your face etched with a look of pure, wild triumph, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He didn't waste a second. He whistled for his own ikran that was flying aimlessly around the mountains. He mounted in one fluid motion and pushed his mount hard, diving into the sky to join you. As he pulled up alongside you, the wind roaring in his ears, he saw you look over.

The cold indifference was gone, burned away by the adrenaline of the bond. You laughed, a sound he had heard so rarely it felt like a gift, and for a second, his golden eyes locked onto yours.

I see you. I see you. I see you.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You gripped the pestle as you grinded the dried roots on the mortar. This is one those days when your friends are not with you, leaving you alone in the quiet of the Tsahik’s tent. You’re not quite sure which version you enjoy better, and you were just deciding that you actually like the peace and quiet when the flap burst open. Kiri stumbled in, her hair a mess and her expression frantic. In her arms, a very energetic and chunky Tuk was squirming, trying to catch a glowing fly.

“Oh, thank the Great Mother, you’re here,” she gasped, nearly dumping Tuk onto your worktable. “Grandmother just sent word. She wanted me to assist her in sister Tayke’s birth, apparently it’s complicated. Mom and Dad won't be back until eclipse. I have to go.”

You looked up from the tray of dapophet leaves you were sorting, blinking in surprise. "Kiri, I have three tinctures to finish before—”

“Please!” Kiri pleaded. “Neteyam is on patrol, Lo’ak is busy training the young ones, and Tuk is… Well, I can’t bring her with me. You’re the only one I trust not to let her eat a poisonous berry or wander off and fall to her death.”

You looked down at Tuk, who was now pulling at your medicine pouch with a wide, toothy grin. You felt warmth in your chest and your eyes soften, Kiri knew you were sold. “Fine,” you sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re a life-saver! Literally!” Kiri shouted over her shoulder as she vanished back out of the tent.

For the first hour, it was chaos. Tuk treated the healing tent like a playground, toddling around and stacking your mortar bowls into towers and trying to “heal” her woven doll with the rarest medicinal pastes. But as the sun began to dip, her energy flickered out. The excitement turned into a sudden realization that she was tired and her mother wasn't there. Her small lips began to tremble, then came the first sob.

“I want Mama,” she said in a small voice, sending a pang to your chest.

“Oh, Tuk-tuk, no, don't cry,” you murmured, quickly moving to her. You scooped her up, tucking her small, heavy body against your chest.

You began to pace the length of the tent, swaying slowly which you had seen the mothers do a thosuand times. You hummed a low melody that seemed to soothe the child. Slowly, the wails turned into soft hiccups, and then into the deep breathing of sleep. You stayed there, standing in the center of the tent, swaying gently and feeling a strange, quiet peace settle over you.

Until the silence was broken by the soft thuds of footsteps outside. Neteyam moved the flap open, his large frame nearly filling the entrance. He had a large, bundled wrap of fortune leaves, the ones you had mentioned needing a few days ago. He had gone straight from his shift to the high ridges just to find them for you.

He stopped mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.

He had expected to find you hunched over your work, with your brow furrowed in concentration. This was the last thing he would have expected seeing. The low glow of the hanging firepot illuminated the side of your face and the soft curve of your arms as you cradled his sister. You looked radiant, your face devoid of the mask of cold indifference you wear like an armor. From his current view, you are something warm, something attainable, something his.

Neteyam felt a surge of heat in his chest that made his pulse thrum in his ears. He noticed, with a sudden and sharp clarity, how the last few years had finished their work on you. The slight softness of the girl he used to trail behind had vanished, replaced by the striking, lithe form of a woman. Your beauty, the confidence in the way you stood, and the depth in your gaze all felt like a challenge to everything he knew about your vows. He knew of your great aunt Äye, he knew the weight your family’s traditions. But seeing you there, swaying his sister to sleep, made his heart ache with a hunger that no amount of prayer could suppress.

You turned your head slowly, your eyes widening as you saw him. “Neteyam,” you breathed, your lips curving into a soft, genuine smile.

It didn't help with the delusions he was currently having.

For you, the sight of him was no less of a shock. You were no longer the twelve-year-old girl who was simply annoyed by a rowdy boy. Now, those “stupid” teenage flutters in your belly had evolved into something more. Looking at him now, you felt a creeping heat settle on your nape and spread down your spine.

He had grown so much. He was so much taller and broader, his skin mapped with faint scars, and his golden eyes carry a depth that made you feel exposed. You hated how handsome he had become and how his presence seemed to command the very air in the tent. You looked at the heavy muscles of his arms, then back to his face, and felt a wave of shame.

These are bad thoughts, you scolded yourself, even as your heart hammered a rhythm of betrayal against your ribs. Your skin was tingling and you were practically fighting not to hug Tuk against you harder in your attempt to quell it. A woman on your path should not hunger for the touch of a man! But as your eyes met his in the dimmed light, the ’path’ you had walked so carefully for years suddenly felt terrifyingly narrow.

“You're back,” you whispered. “Kiri said you were on patrol.”

“I was,” he managed to say. He didn't move to put the leaves down. He didn't want to break the tether of this moment. “I found what you needed. Kiri said you were planning to go and get them yourself. Don’t want you going to the ridges on your own.” His head tilted, a brow rising in challenge.

“I’m perfectly capable of navigating the ridge, you mighty warrior. Thank you very much,” you countered, though the bite in your voice was softened by the warmth in your eyes as you swayed Tuk. “I’ve had my ikran for years now. Or did you forget who beat you in that race to the mountains last moon?”

Neteyam let out a short, huffed laugh, finally moving into the tent. “I didn't forget. I merely allowed the lady a moment of glory. It’s called being a gentleman.”

“It’s called being slow,” you shot back, a genuine smirk breaking through your face.

He reached out then, his large hands moving toward the sleeping toddler in your arms. “Here, give her to me. You looked like you’ve stood here for an hour already, I’m sure your arms are ready to fall off.”

As he leaned in to take her, Tuk stirred. Instead of reaching for her brother, she let out a tiny, sleepy whimper and buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, her small fingers clutching your necklace.

“Oh,” you both whispered at the same time.

“Aww,” you cooed softly, your heart vibrating in your chest, making you almost shiver.

Neteyam echoed the sound with a look of such raw tenderness crossing his face that you had to look away. He didn't pull back; instead, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss onto Tuk’s forehead. His face was inches from yours, the scent of mint and the heat of his skin registering to your senses. You felt like a puddle of candle wax. Soft, melting, and utterly ruined.

“I guess I’m stuck,” you whispered, your voice slightly breathless.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, flashing a smile that made your belly go crazy. “Then let me be of use,” he said, turning to your workbench. “Since your hands are full, tell me what to do. I’m at your command.” He raised a brow playfully.

You didn't hesitate. You needed your tasks done and if he wanted to stay, you’re done fighting the pull. For tonight. “Fine. Those fortune leaves you brought needed to be stripped and ground. Gently, Neteyam,“ you said in a stern voice.

“Oh, I know gentle,“ he quickly remarked, looking down at his leaves just as quick as if he didn’t want to see how you’ll react.

You felt your face heat up at his remark. It could be innocent, you know, but because your mind has thought of many bad things when it came to him, you can’t react properly anymore! Your eyes narrowed. “Just get to work. Don't use your warrior strength on them, or you’ll bruise it.”

He sat down, hunched over the mortar and pestle. The sight was so domestic and it felt dangerously right. You rubbed the soft skin on Tuk's back when she nestled to you. Neteyam looked up and you raised a brow. “How was the western perimeter?” you asked instead. "Kiri mentioned the trackers saw fresh signs of a palulukan near the falls."

Neteyam’s ears flicked. “They did. A big one, too,” he paused to wipe a stray bit of leaf from his thumb. “Apparently, it crossed their path the other day. They had to stay up in the trees for an hour just to let it pass.”

The conversation drifted into something comfortable and domestic. You asked about the next sturmbeest hunt, and he asked about the last herbs he’s given you that you turned into cooling salves. It was so easy, so natural, that you feel nothing but comfort and warmth.

“Is this enough?” he asked, holding up the mortar. The leaves had been transformed into a perfect, dark-green paste, the scent of crushed mint rising from the bowl.

“It’s perfect,” you said, stepping closer to inspect his work. “You’ve missed your calling, warrior. You’d make a fine assistant to Mo’at.”

“I think I’ll stick to my bow,” he teased, his voice dropping into that lower, private register. “Stirring pots is much more dangerous work. I might get ordered around too much.”

“You say that as if you don't enjoy it," you countered, meeting his eyes.

He wasn’t only enjoying it. He was happy. He was more than happy. Every time he glanced up and saw you cradling Tuk, a small child who share the same features he got from his mother, his mind went to places that felt both beautiful and forbidden. He dared to imagine a life where this wasn't a temporary favor for Kiri, but a permanent reality.

The teasing died away when you heard the horn for the evening meal echoed. You walked together toward the communal clearing, the weight of the sleeping child in your arms and Neteyam’s steady presence at your side giving you a sense of belonging that terrified you.

“Your parents aren’t back yet,” you noticed, glancing at the empty dais.

Tuk stirred in your arms, slowly waking up from her slumber. Her eyes drifted to Neteyam, dazed at first but when it registered that her older brother is in front of her, her eyes widened. “Neteyam!” her tiny voice a shrill.

You chuckled, handing her over when she wriggled in your arms, her own tiny arms reaching for Neteyam who readily accepted her with a huff. “Ow. So heavy,” Neteyam playfully said, blowing a kiss on Tuk’s chubby cheek before looking at you. “You carried this boulder for hours?” His free hand shot down to hold one of your arm, instantly massaging.

You chuckled, pinching Tuk’s cheek. “It's alright,” you said, noticing the inquisitive looks some people are giving the two of you. Your cheeks burned, quickly sitting down. Neteyam immediately followed, settling Tuk on his lap. He sat close, close enough that your thighs where brushing, and as the food was passed around, you naturally began to tear off small pieces of roasted fish to feed Tuk.

Across the fire, Lo’ak was huddled with Atan and Kipey. The three of them were barely eating, their heads bowed together as they whispered and pointed.

“Look at them,” Atan snickered, nudging Lo’ak. “If I didn't know better, I’d say the Tsahik’s seat was already filled.”

“Total parents,” Kipey whispered, grinning. “Neteyam looks like he’s ready for a family at nineteen.”

Lo’ak snorted, watching you reach over to wipe a smudge of juice from a stomping Tuk’s chin while Neteyam watched you with a look of such longing and admiration it was almost embarrassing to witness. “He’s gone,” Lo’ak muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been gone for years. He’s practically just waiting for her to melt up.”

“Nom nom!” Tuk said eagerly while a piece of the meat she was holding fell on your thigh.

Neteyam’s hand shot out to pick it up, quickly popping it into his mouth. You looked at him in disbelief. “That just fell,” you pointed out as you watched him chew.

“Not on the ground, but on your skin. That makes it a blessing,” he countered, his voice hummed with a playful vibration.

A blessing? You rolled your eyes away, focusing your attention on Tuk’s messy face to hide the flush creeping up your face. “You are disgusting,” you muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

“I’m efficient,” he corrected, leaning in closer so his shoulder brushed yours. “And hungry. Patrolling is exhausting work, especially when you’re looking for fortune leaves on the side.”

Tuk giggled, sensing the shift in energy, decided to pat Neteyam’s cheek with a sticky hand. “Neteyam silly!”

“See? Even the little one knows,” you teased, finally regaining your composure. You reached for a damp cloth to clean Tuk’s hand, but Neteyam beat you to it. His large fingers gently wrapped around his sister’s small wrist, wiping her palm with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

As you basked in the laughter of the people surrounding you, the thought of the solitary path you were always so sure of your entire life suddenly feel like a cold, lonely place that you didn’t notice you were already leaning closer to the warmth of Neteyam’s arm against yours. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The sounds of voices and of hunters sparring in the training grounds grew louder as you hurried past, your arms filled with fresh bundles of sterilization moss and clean cloths. Mo’at had sent word about the labor of one of the pregnant women in the clan. You were in a hurry, your pace swift yet your spine remained straight, your chin tilted high, as per usual.

A hunter called your name from the weapon racks. “Careful there, the ground is uneven! Do you need strong hunter to clear the path for you?“

“She won't answer you, skxawng,“ another laughed. “Perhaps if you bring her herbs, or better yet, if you were a better warrior than Neteyam!”

“Just ask me to be the next Toruk Makto, why don’t you?” The former remarked sarcastically.

Neteyam watched from the sidelines, a senior warrior was talking to him but his gaze was busy tracking you, watching how you didn't even break your stride or tilt your head. Your chin remained high, your eyes focused on the path ahead. He had known for a long time that to you, the voices of men who call to you were merely just buzzing of summer insects, something too beneath your notice.

“I’ll work on that, brother, then I’ll get back to you,” he told the senior warrior, nodding to him seriously. The latter clapped his shoulder before walking away.

“What a shame,“ he heard one of the hunters mutter. “To have such beauty in the clan, only for it to be locked away for the Great Mother. She takes after Äye. She won't ever look at a man, let alone mate with one.”

“Unattainable,” heard another agree, sighing. “She’s like the High Peak. Beautiful to look at, but no one is meant to live there.“

Their conversation, though, halted instantly the moment Neteyam strode out from the shade. His eyes were dark and unimpressed as he looked at them, that even the hunters a few years older than him couldn’t help but look away.

“Is that what we do now?” Neteyam asked, his voice low but cutting. “Stand around the racks, bothering those on tasks for the Tsahik? Talking about our women with disrespect?”

The first hunter looked away, embarrassed. “It was just a joke, Neteyam.”

“Your mouths keep buzzing like forest insects,” Neteyam snapped, stepping forward so they were forced to look at him. “This constant hooting at her is getting old. Have you not outgrown it? She is doing important work for the clan. If I see the bunch of you doing anything other than training again, I will personally ensure all of you spend the rest of the moon cleaning the waste pits.”

They nodded efficiently, their faces the poster of good behavior, but Neteyam would remember. The next time this happens again, it won’t be just scolding they are getting. He remained standing there though, reflecting on what the hunters have said. None of it had been a lie and he’d felt the bitter, familiar spark of pride and pain flickered in his chest. They are right, he thought, you are unattainable.

He knew better than anyone the depth of your conviction. Over the past years, your quiet friendship had become the foundation of his life, but it was a foundation built on a boundary he could never cross. He had seen you at your most vulnerable and your most powerful, and in his heart, he had long ago committed a quiet kind of blasphemy. He worshiped Eywa the best he could, but you were his deity on land, one whose words he followed without question. One he guards with all of him.

Now, at twenty-one, he had become as reserved as you are, making a silent vow of his own: if you were to be alone, he would be alone with you. He would make a good Olo’eyktan but he didn’t need to be mated to ensure that. The tradition of the leaders being mated was a strong one, but Neteyam knew he could never give himself to another woman when his soul and his heart had long been claimed by a woman who belonged to the Great Mother. If friendship was all the nectar you could offer, he would live his entire life on that single drop.

He turned back to his warriors. He would lead, he would hunt, and he would protect. And in the quiet hours of the night, he would continue to love you from the distance you required, content to be the only man you didn't ignore, even if he could never be the man you held

Hours later, you are alone in the Tsahik’s tent, the adrenaline of the birth you assisted for the first time had yet to leave your system. You were wiping down a set of obsidian scalpels when the tent flap lifted, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the familiar smell that always seemed to ground you.

Neteyam didn't speak at first, standing just inside the entrance. He had showered away the dust of the training grounds, his skin gleaming in the soft light of the firepot. You lifted your eyes, your lips still curved in a small, satisfied smile. You let your eyes do the thing they always do when he’s in front of you. Feast on. He was the very image of a future leader. Muscled, scarred, and radiating an authority that silenced most men with a single look.

“Hi,” you greeted.

His lips formed a boyish smile. “The village is finally quiet,” he said, his voice dropping into that private, velvet register. “Was the delivery alright? How was it?“

You sighed softly, and for the first time that day, your mark dissolved into a radiant, tired smile. “It was a boy,” you breathed, setting the scalpel down. “Healthy and loud. He didn't stop wailing until Mo’at placed him on his mother’s chest.“

Neteyam moved closer, leaning against a support beam near your herb rack. “And the mother?“

“Strong. She was incredible, Neteyam.” You moved to a bundle of dried leaves, your hands working quickly to sort them, your enthusiasm bubbling over. “But you should have heard Mo’at. While she was cleaning the babe, she looked at him and then looked at me and said, ‘this one is small. Neteyam, now, he was a giant. The biggest baby I have seen in all my cycles’. She said you were so large she nearly wondered if Neytiri had hidden a second child behind you.”

Neteyam’s ears flicked back, a rare flush appeared on his cheeks. He huffed a laugh, looking down at his large, callous hands. “A giant, was I? I suppose I’ve given my mother’s back quite the ache.”

You let out a genuine, silvery chuckle, the sound dancing through the quiet tent. “I truly wish I could have seen you then. You were the very first of your kind, your father’s blood... and that of ours. I’m sure you were beautiful.” you mused, your voice softening as you looked at him. You realized too late how that sounded, and you quickly turned back to your jars. “It is a wonder of Eywa.”

“Is that why you look at me so closely sometimes?“ he teased, stepping into your personal space to reach for a heavy jar on a high shelf you are struggling to reach.

“I do not look at you closely,” you lied, your heart doing that treacherous dance against your ribs as he reached over your head. His arm was a solid wall of muscle beside your ear, and the scent of mint enveloped you.

“You do,” he countered softly, handing you the jar but not pulling his hand away until your fingers were firmly around his. “You track my movements like I am a complex creature you are trying to categorize. It is quite intimidating, being under the gaze of the clan’s most devoted scholar.”

You rolled your eyes, though your hands were trembling. “You are imagining things. Why would I look at you...” Your lips pushed forward, your voice lacking bravado.

Your heart is beating too heavily against your chest and your palms are sweating. He notices. He knows your eyes are often on him. He knows you watch each of his movements, he knows you feel hot every time you see how his shoulder and chest significantly broadened and filled out with muscles, or how the sight of his muscled abdomen flexing makes your breath catch at your throat.

“Research? To see how the 'hybrid' grows?” he says, his voice too innocent.

Your teeth gritted at your attempt to stop a groan from escaping. You are going to hyperventilate! You cleared your throat. “Maybe,“ you managed to say, your voice tight as you gripped the jar he’d just handed you. “It is a healer's duty to be thorough. I simply... pay attention to detail.”

He chuckled while your face felt like it had been plunged into a firepot. Neteyam is too innocent, while your mind is filled with inappropriate thoughts that shouldn’t even be there in the first place. You are a woman firm on the sanctity of your path! For Eywa's sake, gather your wits!

“Well,” he murmured. “If the research is still ongoing, I suppose I am already here. Do you need to... measure anything else? Or is the height of the hybrid sufficient for today's report?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was obviously teasing, his voice light and playful, but because you're guilty of your shameful thoughts, what is to him simple banter between friends is slow torture to you.

“I need to boil the nettles,” you said, abruptly turning your back you nearly bumped into a tray of obsidian.

Your hands trembled as you reached for a pot of water. Your mind, usually a home of prayer and medicinal formulas, was currently a chaotic mess. You’re both ashamed and shameless, because despite your guilt, you’re still thinking about how soft the chest on his skin looked in the light.

“You're using the cold-press pot for a boil,” Neteyam noted softly.

You felt him behind you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades as he reached around you to get the correct ceramic vessel. For a heartbeat, you were encased in him. You could see the way the veins mapped his hands, hands that were built for a bow and arrow but also held the young with devastating gentleness.

Eywa, strike me down, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut for a fleeting second.

“Right. Of course,”  you choked out, grabbing the correct pot from him with an unusual rashness that his surprised eyes flitted up to meet yours.

“You seem distracted,” he said, his voice losing some of its playfulness.

Your brows furrowed, intending to give him a sharp dismissal, but your gaze caught on the way his lower lip was slightly tucked under his teeth, a habit he’d had since he was ten. It was so boyish, so familiar, and yet, on this man’s face, it was lethal.

“No, of course, not... I’m just tired. It’s been a long day,” you said.

He nodded, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear. “I’ll work on that, you can go and sit down. I’ll clean up, too,” he said, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you want to scream. His hand wrapped around your upper arm to gently nudge you away from the hearth.

“I can do it,” you said, though your feet were already moving.

“You've been on your feet since the first light,” he countered, his voice firm with that quiet authority he had perfected over the years. “Let me do it, alright? I’ve got so much energy to spare. I didn’t have patrol today, so I’m practically a live wire.”

He turned back to the hearth, his movements fluid and confident. You sank onto the woven mat and from this lower vantage point, the view was even more treacherous. You tried to look at the ceiling. You tried to recite the properties of your herbs. You tried to pray. But your eyes kept drifting back to the way the light of the flames danced across the broad expanse of his back, and the way his tail flicked in a slow, content rhythm as he worked.

“There,” Neteyam said after a few minutes, oblivious to the spiritual crisis happening three feet behind him. He set the pot to simmer and began to move around the workbench. “The nettles are on. I’ve organized the herbs, cleaned everything, and put the scalpels back in its place. Is there anything else, or can I walk you back home now so you can get a better rest?”

“I can walk myself,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. You scrambled to your feet, desperately trying to reassemble the fragments of your dignity. “Thank you, Neteyam. For the... assistance.”

He stood by the tent flap, holding it open for you. He didn’t press, you know he never would. You passed by him and he gave you a small, tired smile. “Sleep well,” he murmured, your name on his lips a soft caress.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The summer heat had settled over the forest like a heavy, humid blanket, causing most Omatikaya youth to retreat to the river when the sun is at its high. Today alone, half the village had migrated to the banks, the air filled with splashes of water and sounds of laughter.

You sat on a smooth, warm boulder, the rock's heat seeping into your skin. Being bare was as natural as breathing for the people held no shame in the bodies Eywa gave them. Your legs were still submerged in the cold water as you eat the snacks you brought with you. Tasi and Yaremu were wading in the shallows nearby, their voices dropped to conspiratorial whispers that still carried easily over to you.

“He didn't stop there,” Yaremu was saying, her eyes wide and dancing with a secret, frantic energy. She was describing a rendezvous with her boyfriend las night, her hands gesturing toward her lower extremities submerged in the water. “He started at my ankles, and then… well, the way his tongue felt between my legs… I thought I was going to see the Great Mother right then and there.”

Tasi squealed and giggled, leaning in for more. “Was it better than the last time?”

“Oh, it was! It seems to get better and better, you know... We are exploring and learning each other’s bodies,” Yaremu grinned.

Tasi sighed dreamily. “I could say the same. But it’s the way he breathes against my neck that gets me,” Tasi whispered, her fingers tracing the line of her own collarbone. “The heat of it. And when he finally... when he enters, it’s like your whole body forgets how to be separate from his. You are basically a single entity, moving as one—”

Yaremu giggled, splashing a bit of water. “Oh, Great Mother! And the hands! How heavy they feel when they finally stop being polite and start claiming what they want.”

They both giggled, their bodies vibrating with frantic energy. Tasi looked at you and smiled a small one, “Oh, sister! I wish you could have experienced it... But the path reserved for the Great Mother is just as good,” she said.

You made a face of theatrical disgust. “Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sister, I’m not missing out. I can’t even imagine,” you said sassily.

But oh, that’s a big lie. Your mind, usually so disciplined, had been picturing a very specific set of calloused hands, a very specific weight. You saw them on your waist, just as Tasi had described, pulling you flush against the solid warmth of a very familiar body. You imagined the “weight” Yaremu spoke of, imagining how a certain body would weigh. Your mind even completed the picture by providing you with the familiar scent of mint and woodsmoke, you could actually smell it.

It’s like their words were seeds who fell into fertile soil, and now you felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun.

That was when you saw him.

Neteyam was waist-deep in the deeper water a few paces away, his skin glistening. He was surrounded by a few other hunters, their voices a low drone but their laughter boisterous. He was mid-laugh, but anyone can tell his eyes would wander to you every now and then, because when his gaze drifted back to where you are, his laughter died down a little. His eyes locked onto yours, and the air between you seemed to burn.

There was no boyish embarrassment in the way he stared at you, no hurried glance at the sky. He watched you with a heavy, predatory stillness it made your nape feel like it’s burning as goosebumps pricked your skin. You are not ashamed in your nakedness, the people have always swam in the river like this, and nothing is new with seeing each other naked.

But the gaze of the man across from you had given you a defiant, primitive urge. Instead of hiding, you shifted. You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the side to let the sun hit your neck. You arched your spine slowly, a deliberate, feline stretch that pushed your chest forward. Your breasts, firm and perky, on display as the tips pebbled. You felt his eyes track the movement. From this distance, you could see his pupils blow wide, his tail breaking the surface of the water behind him in a sharp, agitated flick. He didn't move, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

The tension followed you back to the village, and now, even as the sun dipped below the horizon and the communal fire dimmed, the memory of his gaze still made your skin hot. You were walking back to the Tsahik’s tent, intending to collect the herbs you dried and make the poultice you’ve been meaning to make.

The walk was silent, until it was broken by the sound of familiar footsteps behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. His scent had reached you and the air seemed to tighten, enough to tell you who it is. You plastered on a calm facade before you turned around, seeing him standing in the shadows, his silhouette tall and imposing, his breathing heavy as if he had run to get here.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, his voice a low, rough grate. He stepped into the light of the firepot, his expression uncharacteristically strained. “Earlier, at the river... I hope I did not frighten you.”

Your lower lip caught between your teeth. You remembered the way your body had reacted to him, the way you had arched your back, offering yourself to his eyes. The shame you expected to feel was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a blooming heat, and a frantic beating heart.

“I wasn't frightened,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. You took a small, daring step toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m... I’m glad you saw me.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched, and then a huff of chuckle escaped his lips. What you said was just the surface, small in the vastness of what he had always held for you. “I have always seen you,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

It seemed so simple, and yet it was all he could say. He wanted to tell you the truth of it, how he had been here since you were children, since the first time you ever looked at him after he had become aware of his feelings. That there was never been anyone else he truly saw. But he would not frighten you. To know that you were not frightened of him after his boldness at the river had been a relief.

You smiled softly, a genuine, aching look that reached your eyes. “I know... I also know that not everyone does...” you said, your hand lifted to press a palm against his muscled chest.

You are perceived differently by everyone in the clan. Just like Äye, you will soon be seen more as a figure of religion or the shadow of the Great Mother. But in your most private daydreams... This man in front of you sees you as a woman... But even if you know that he does, your path does not lead to him. Your palm felt scorched where it touched his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heart against your fingertips. He was flesh and blood and heat.

He took a half-step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “They are fools...” he whispered.

You knew you should pull back. You should change the topic and speak of the cooling salves or the morning rituals. But the memory of the river, of the way he had looked at you when you were bare and unashamed, was the only thought taking over your mind.

“Neteyam,” you breathed.

You voice was so soft, so lovely in his ears, that for the first time in his life, he dared to break through the boundaries. He leaned down, his movement slow, giving you every second to turn away. But you stayed. You stayed until his forehead and nose touched yours. You heart was beating too fast it was aching in your chest. You wanted to hold him, to grab him and hold him tight to you.

When his lips finally met yours, it was a collision of years of unspoken feelings and repressed hunger. You let out a soft sound into his mouth as your fingers curled into his chest strap, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The kiss was clumsy at first, the frantic meeting of two people who had only ever touched in dreams, but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your braids to tilt your head just right.

As he deepened the kiss, his other arm wound around your waist, hauling you flush against the unyielding lines of his body. You felt the heat of his skin and the terrifying strength of his hold. For this one moment, the twenty-two generations of solitary women in your family were silenced. The path was gone. There was only the weight of his hands and the feel of his soft lips against yours.

When he pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. He kept his arms locked around you, his chest heaving as he stared down at you with a look of pure, terrifying devotion. A huge smile sliced across your lips and he grinned, huffing a shaky laugh. You let a breathless laugh yourself, your fingers tangling in his braids.

“Are you making cooling salves? I can be of use. I make the best of them, you know that,” he said casually.

Your nose wrinkled. “I guess I’ll need the help,” you said, your eyes drifting back to his lips. “And the kisses, too.”

You startled when a thunder of laughter escaped him, pulling you to him for a more thorough hug. “Oh, my middle name has always been generous.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You felt his tail wrap possessively around your leg, a grounding, heavy weight as his mouth moved to the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. Your head fell back, a soft, traitorous moan escaping your lips. “Neteyam...” you muttered breathily. “Don’t leave marks...”

“Hmm?” he hummed with humor, his mouth already sucking some skin into its warmth.

“Tasi pointed out... the marks on my neck the other day,“ you said. “I can’t keep telling her it’s insect bites.”

His body shook as he chuckled, lifting his head to press a kiss on your lips. Then his lips repeated a trail on your jaw, leaving wet kisses and licks, making you smile as you held him tighter. “Why... Can’t help it. You taste so good,” he murmured.

“I’m not a fruit,” you countered.

He hummed, sucking on your skin softly. “So sweet, nonetheless.”

You cupped his face, bringing it up so you could kiss him. You both have improved significantly in the past weeks, having found a different hobby aside from talking, when you two are alone. He helps you in the healing tent, but it’s not always that your companions are not around, like today. Kiri and Mo’at are in the tent, preparing for a severe injury a hunter got from a hunt. You had told Mo’at you will search for night-blooming lilies, but your feet had led you straight to where you knew Neteyam finished his scout rounds.

And now, you’re here, half-lying against a massive tree root, under the comforting weight of a warrior who couldn’t stop kissing you. He deepened the kiss and you felt his hand hover on your waist. One of your hands lowered to hold one of them and his hand immediately move to intertwine his fingers with yours.

You smiled, but that was not your intention. You brought his hand to one of your peaks, moving your top aside so his hand could touch the soft flesh bare. You gained a soft groan from him and he lifted his head to look at you. You rose to chase his lips, pressing his hand on your boob and moaning when he began kneading it.

“Yes...“ you mumbled.

His lips lowered down and you arched your back, waiting for his lips to reach your peaks, and when it did, you fought with your entire body just so you wouldn’t shake and buck. The sensation felt so good, it made you feel even hotter. It made you want to close you thighs, but because his body was between your legs, you could only buck against him.

“Oh...” you moaned, bucking against him again when you felt a hard ridge make contact with your clothed softness. “Neteyam...”

He hummed, his mouth full of your soft flesh, sending delicious vibration across your chest. You felt his hand move down to your hips, holding you in place before his hips came down on you, dragging that hard ridge you felt earlier across your crotch. You shivered, squeezing your eyes tight as you moaned. He repeated it again and again until you felt so ticklish in that spot between your legs, feeling a warm pool of liquid gushing out of you.

“Fuck,“ you heard him say, moving away from you a little to fumble at his loincloth. You felt a warm wetness land on your thigh and he groaned. “Fuck, sorry,“ his deep voice grated and you felt his hand, but you were already lifting your head to see.

You lips parted at the sight of his erected cock on display, a gasp escaping you. It was long and thick, its wide tip a flush of dark indigo, wet with his own release. Most of the glistening essence was on the floor and some were on your thigh. You genuinely didn’t know what to focus on. Your mind wandered to Tasi’s talks and this can’t possibly be the thing that enters a woman.

You curiosity got the better of you though, your hand shot down to grab it but his hand was faster, grabbing your wrist and moving it away. Your nose flared in annoyance and your eyes lifted to glare at him, but he met you with eyes that spoke of challenge.

“That's right. Keep your eyes up here,” he said in that private, lower register, his hand putting that thing back inside his loincloth.

You groaned and pulled your wrist from him. “I just want to touch it,” you whined.

He angled his head to kiss you. “Unless you want to drive me insane, you can’t,” his hand hovered over your thigh to wipe his release off of your skin.

Your hand shot down again, but this time, to dip a finger on his release, popping it to your mouth before he could even react. You were like a kid left unattended with a food that fell on the ground and he's the adult keeping you away from it, because now, he's staring at you both in surprise and wonder. You hummed at its surprisingly good taste and he wasn’t even able to stop you when you dipped a finger the second time around, scooping more essence, and keeping eye contact with him as if daring him to stop you.

You broke eye contact to look at it, intending to scoop down again but his hand already wrapped around your wrist, stopping you. You glared at him, groaning again, but he was already wiping your thigh clean with a piece of cloth. Your lips pushed forward, sad to see the essence gone. “You’re such a kill joy,” you said in a whine, your tail moving under you in an agitated flick.

He huffed a chuckle, his face moving to kiss your pouting lips softly. “Sorry, my love... Maybe next time,” he murmured.

Your hands lifted to hold his face properly so you could kiss him better, smiling against his lips.

A week later, you found yourself standing above the plains, overlooking the valley below as you gripped your basket half-full of cliff-blossoms. Neteyam was leading a pack of young hunters on a sweep of the forest floor. From this distance, he was a vision of controlled power, commanding the space around him without even speaking. You watched him signal a halt with a sharp, fluid movement of his arm. He barked an order, his voice carrying upward, deep and resonant.

He was wearing his full warrior gear, the woven chest straps accentuating the massive breadth of his shoulders and cummerbund hugging his muscled torso. You felt a wave of heat wash over you, settling low in your belly. You were practically vibrating with a hunger that felt both blasphemous and inevitable. You imagined him coming to the Tsahik’s tent later tonight, covered in the dust of the hunt, and the way he would look at you when he finally got you alone.

“A natural leader, isn’t he?”

You jumped, nearly dropping your basket. Kiri was standing a few paces away, her head tilted, watching you with an expression that was far too perceptive for your comfort.

“The clan is in good hands,” you said quickly, forcing your voice into its usual even tone. You turned back to the cliff-side, picking at a blossom with trembling fingers.

She didn't say anything else, but the way she sniffed the air, a subtle twitch of her nose, made your heart stop. For weeks, she had been quiet, but you know how observant Kiri is; she knew the difference between the scent of night-lilies and the scent of her brother who had been spending far too much time tangled in your limbs.

Later that evening, the Tsahik’s tent was filled with the sounds of your friends’ chatters and the air thick with the smell of boiling herbs. Mo’at was away at a naming ceremony, leaving you, Kiri, Tasi, and Yaremu to manage the evening prep.

“He was so frustrated,” Yaremu giggled, crushing a handful of seeds. “I told him we couldn't go all the way, so he just... he took my hand and guided it. I didn't know a man could make those kind of sounds just from a touch of the fingers.”

Tasi leaned in, her eyes wide. “Wait, you just... with your hand? Like you were kneading dough?”

“More like stroking clay, but faster,” Yaremu whispered, her face flushed. “They get so sensitive there. It’s like they lose their minds.”

Kiri let out a boisterous cackle, throwing a piece of bark at Yaremu. “You two are so inappropriate! We are at the Tsahik’s tent!”

You stared into the boiling pot, the memory of Neteyam’s... thing... flashing behind your eyes. You had never seen it again, he made sure of that. But you remembered the way he had stopped you from touching it, the way he had claimed it would "drive him insane."

“Is it... difficult?“ you asked without thinking, your voice cutting through the laughter.

The tent went dead silent. Tasi and Yaremu stared at you as if you had just grown a second head. Even Kiri stopped laughing, her luminous eyes narrowing as she shifted her gaze toward you.

“Difficult?” Tasi repeated, stunned. “Since when do you care about the mechanics of a man’s pleasure?“

“I am a healer,” you said, your chin tilting up, though your pulse was racing. “I am simply curious about the... response. Yaremu mentioned they make sounds. Is it a reflex, or a choice?”

Yaremu grinned slowly. “Oh, it's a reflex, sister. They can't help it. If you move your thumb just right over the tip... they break. Even the strongest of them.”

You swallowed hard, your mind instantly picturing Neteyam breaking under your hand. The thought made the tips of your breasts ache against your top. “I see,” you said, stirring the pot with a bit too much force. “Fascinating. From a research perspective, of course.”

“Of course,” Kiri echoed. She moved closer to you, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Might I ask, sister, if you have been giving Neteyam your favorite lillies... Because he’s been smelling an awful lot like them lately.”

Your lips parted. You haven’t even noticed that! “M-Maybe... Maybe he uses them when he bathes,” you lied.

She pulled away with a smile, nodding as if she understood, while Tasi and Yaremu continued to gossip, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. You didn’t know whether to be worried about Kiri’s reactions or not, still thinking about it even when the evening meal was over. You went back in the Tsahik’s tent, focused on grinding a stubborn root into paste, your pestle acting as a heartbeat for the quiet room.

Your entire body seemed to melt into a puddle, though, when you heard the tent flap rustle. Neteyam stepped inside, looking exhausted but exhilarated. He had shed his heavy scouting gear, leaving only the chest strap. A small smudge of blue paint was smeared across his temple.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice gravelly from shouting orders all day. He didn't wait for an answer before closing the distance, reaching out to tug playfully on one of your braids.

“How was the hunt?” you asked.

“Successful, except that we saw a palulukan on the way back. The Great Mother was kind, because it didn’t see us. Young Kamu was practically swallowing air by the time it was gone, the boy has forgotten how to breathe.”

You pictured the boy, one of the youth who just passed their iknimaya last season. “Cut him some slack, you mighty warrior. The boy is only fourteen,” you said, chuckling. You reached for a damped cloth to wipe the paint on his temple.

His hand followed yours, grabbing it gently and pressing a kiss on your fingers. “Your hands are shaking, baby. How long have you been at this?” he grabbed the pestle and mortar, his forehead furrowed.

“Since the sun was high. Don’t worry about it,” you said, because your hands weren’t shaking because of what he’s thinking, but yoy were grateful for the reprieve nonetheless. You leaned back against the table, watching him take over the task with effortless ease.

“Don’t worry? Your hands seem so overwork, what with that Tsahik’s tasks and your classes at the pavillion,” he reprimanded softly.

You pushed your lips forward, ignoring him as you took your damp cloth again and began to wipe the dust from his shoulders with a damp cloth, your movements lingering. “Yaremu and Tasi were talking today,“ you started, trying to sound clinical as you moved the cloth over the swell of his chest.

“About...“ he trailed after it took you long to continue, still focused on his paste.

“About how... a man responds to a certain touch. With the hand.”

Neteyam went still, and you saw his eyes zeroing in on something. “What touch?”

“They said it makes even the strongest warriors break. That they lose their minds,” you whispered, leaning in until your breath fanned over his skin. “I find the claim about reflex... questionable. I believe I need to conduct my own study. For research.”

He stared at you before letting out a choked, dark laugh. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive heat. “Not here,” he whispered.

Your lips broke into a huge grin. “You’ll allow me?”

He moved to kiss the tip of your nose. “I will never say no to you,” he said.

“You did say no... Last week,” you pointed out and a deep laughter rumbled in his chest.

“I did say next time, didn’t I?” he replied, stealing another deep, searing kiss before pulling back with a wink. “I’ll finish here. Go up the higher branch, I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”

You pursed your lips and nodded, almost skipping your way out of the tent. The higher branch of the Hometree was so high in the clouds that the village sounds were reduced to a distant hum. It was a little cold but it was of the good kind, lulling the vibrations of excitement in your body as you looked far beyond the never-ending sight of the rainforest.

When Neteyam arrived, you two didn’t waste time. The moment he was within reach, he pulled you into a kiss that felt like a claim, his hands sliding down to anchor you against him.

“Show me this research, then,” he rasped against your lips.

Your hands were trembling as you reached for his loincloth, but curiosity was a more powerful force than shame. He was also trembling when he was finally bared to you, his cock looking even more formidable in the dimmed light. You caressed the length of it with your fingers first, hearing him take a swift, sharp breath, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, your lips parted at the heat and the velvet-like texture.

You remembered Yaremu’s advice, like stroking clay, but faster, and began to move. Neteyam’s head hit the bark of the tree with a dull thud as you caressed him, pumping your hand up and down high length. A low, gutteral sound tore from his throat, a raw animalistic noise you had never heard from him. His eyes were droopy but not even a palulukan could make him close his eyes right now.

"Oh, baby..." he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of you hips.

You watched him with fascinated eyes. He was breaking. This brave and mighty warrior was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in jagged hitches. Emboldened by your power, you moved your thumb over the wide tip, just as Yaremu had described.

Neteyam’s hips bucked uncontrollably, his entire body shuddering. "Fuck—wait, stop—"

But you didn't stop. The curiosity that had been burning in you all day reached a fever pitch. You lowered yourself, your hair spilling over his thighs, and before he could realize your intent, you took him into your mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. The taste of him, the heat, the sheer size. Neteyam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, his hands flying down to grab your hair. He only let you stay there for a few seconds, his body vibrating so violently you thought he might actually fall from the branch, before he scrambled to lift your head up.

“No,“ he gasped, his face flushed, his eyes wild. He hauled you to straddle him, crushing your lips with a kiss that was almost feral. “Not yet. I can't... if you do that, I'll never let you go back to that tent.“

He held you tight, both your hearts racing and both of you gasping for air in the high, cold wind. You cupped his face, kissing him softly. Nothing mattered, not your path, nor your vow to yourself, it was replaced by the loud, screaming truth of what you were becoming to each other.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Weeks later, the celebration of the new harvest was in full swing. The communal clearing was filled of the sounds of drums, swirling colors, and the intoxicating scent of fermented berries. The elder warriors were generous with the brew, and for once, you didn't hold back. You leaned back against a carved root, a soft giggle escaping you as you watched a group of younger children unsuccessfully try to mimic a warrior's dance.

Kiri nudged your shoulder. “Careful, sister.”

“Let her have her fun, Kiri,” Neteyam intervened, though he was grinning just as widely. He held up his own bowl, the blue paint on his arm shimmering under the bioluminescent lanterns. “To the best healer-in-training and the worst berry-picker in the clan.”

“What?” you protested. “I am an excellent picker. It’s really just quality over quantity for me.” you said sassily, rolling your eyes.

“Is that what we're calling it now?” Neteyam laughed, the sound deep. He turned to Kiri. “She spent five minutes today analyzing a single fruit while I had already filled two baskets.”

“It's called attention to detail, Neteyam! You wouldn't understand,” you shot back, your eyes dancing. The brew was making everything feel warm and golden.

Kiri watched the exchange, her head tilting in that way that usually meant she was talking to the creatures, but tonight, she just looked at you two and smirked. Neteyam took a long sip of his brew, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim of the bowl, challenge sparking in them.

“I'm going to find Tuk before she tries to eat every pie there is tonight. Try not to get ‘lost’ in the woods, you two...”

She vanished into the crowd with a knowing wink. The moment she was gone, the space between you and Neteyam seemed to evaporate, and in the chaos of the festival, you were the only two people in the world.

“Another bowl?” he whispered, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him.

“I think,” you breathed, looking at his lips, “that I've had enough of the brew. I'm starting to want things they aren't offering.”

Neteyam’s grin turned slow and predatory, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh under the table. He tilted his head toward the dark periphery of the Hometree and raised a brow. You smirked, and bowed down to your food, picking a nut to pop it in your mouth. He stood up to go, and you waited before following him, your heart racing with a fluttering excitement.

By the time you reached the outskirts, the sounds of the party were a distant muffle and the cool night air hit your skin, but it did nothing to douse the heat between you. Neteyam walked closer to you, his pupils blown wide, his movements slightly sluggish and drunken, which only made him look devastatingly handsome.

He cupped your face and kissed you. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about it,“ he murmured against your lips.

“Hm?” you hummed, kissing him softly.

He trailed a hand down your side, his palm hot and heavy, before coming to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles. “I want to return the favor,” he whispered, his breath smelling of sweet berries and forest air.

“How?” you asked, your voice breathy, your body already leaning into his.

He leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Mouth or fingers?”

A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine. You feel like you know what this was. You looked up at him, a bold, drunken grin spreading across your lips.

“Both?”

Neteyam let out a sharp exhaled breath, a flicker of nervous energy crossing his face despite the haze of the brew. “Okay,” he whispered.

He started with your neck, his mouth hot and insistent, sucking at the sensitive skin until you knew a mark would be left for sure.

You two sat by the large root of a tree, his hands were everywhere, caressing and squeezing, until it untied your loincloth around your tail. When the fabric fell away, he didn't hesitate. He knelt before you, his golden eyes filled with a sudden, sharp clarity.

He pressed a reverent kiss there, and then he parted his lips so he could lick your slit from the base to the top, making you pull your hips away in a jerk. His hands on your hips firmly held you in place, though, keeping yoy from running away from his intense ministrations. You bit your lip but small sounds still escaped you, your thighs wanting to close, and when he added a finger, you had to cover your mouth to muffle your loud moan.

Neteyam let out a low, frustrated groan as his finger worked inside you, you were so tight. His mouth and tongue never left you and you didn’t know what hit you, you just began to tremble in his grip, your fingers tangling in his braids and grabbing hard at a handful.

“The world is spinning...” you chuckled as he kissed his way up to your body, sucking hard on your nipple.

“Yeah?“ his lips came down to kiss you softly, and then he lifted his body up, fitting himself between your parted thighs.

He stared at you, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a line of restraint. You moaned in protest when your felt his thumb rub your clit, but you didn’t pull back because it felt so good. You bit your lip and moved your hips gently against his finger. He looked, looking at your bare pussy, and how he had his hand on it, his thumb rubbing you.

And you liked it. He shivered at the reality of it all, his breath catching in his throat. If a year ago, someone told him he’d be here with you, he wouldn’t have dared to believe it... And right now, if he were only dreaming, the person who’ll wake him up will receive the punch of a lifetime.

You looked at him, watching how his pupil blew so wide it’s practically eating up the gold. You smiled breathlessly, reaching to cup his face, your heart overflowing. “What do you want to do, hm?” you craned your head up a little to kiss him sotfly. “Do it... do what you want.”

He stared at you and you yelped when his fingers pinched your folds. “Are you sure?” he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel.

You nodded firmly. With an animalistic growl, he shed his own loincloth in one fluid motion, revealing the thick, pulsing length of his arousal. You tried to sit up to see his bare form better, but he pressed you back with a hand on your shoulder, and your body tingled at how dominant he seemed to be when he’s drunk.

He didn't enter you, not truly, but he lined himself up against your folds. He began to work his hips, dragging his ridiculous length against your slit in deep strokes from base to tip.

“Fuck, baby...” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found a rhythm.

The friction was overwhelming. The thickness of him was overstimulating your clit until every nerve ending in your body was screaming. You arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his. “So good, ‘teyam...” you moaned in jagged breaths.

He groaned, catching your mouth in a feral kiss. “I’m coming... fuck...”

He wanted to hold out so bad, to prolong the moment, but it was so fucking difficult, especially when you keep whispering in his ear. He came in a hot rush on your stomach just as you came your high again. You clung to him, your body quivering in the aftermath. As he collapsed against you, you reached down, scooping a bit of his essence and bringing it to your lips. You moaned in pleasure, while Neteyam let out a soft, tired laugh, kissing your cheek and letting you do as you pleased.

Once you’re both dressed, you chased each other out of the woods but Neteyam’s hand snaked out, his fingers catching the end of your tail as you tried to dart ahead of him. He gave it a light tickle, a sensation that sent a playful jolt right up your spine.

“That’s cheating!” you squealed, spinning around with a wide, lopsided grin. You smacked his muscled abdomen, but it felt like you hit a warm stone wall, stinging your palm.

Neteyam didn't even flinch, he just huffed a breathy laugh. “Did you hurt yourself?“ he asked, catching your hand.

“Humble bragging, aren’t we?” you teased, stepping into his space and poking a finger into the center of his chest. “I think the brew caused your head to grow bigger than it already is.”

He caught your finger, pressing a kiss to the tip of it. “If my head is big, it is only because you occupy every corner of it.” He pulled you closer, his tail winding around yours in a tight, possessive curl. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you giggled, and for a few more steps, the world was nothing but the scent of him and the dizzying joy of the night.

But as you rounded the final thicket leading back to the communal clearing, the laughter died in your throat. At the sight of your father standing just outside the Hometree’s entrance, you moved away from Neteyam faster than lightning could hit the ground. He was deep in conversation with another senior warrior, his arms crossed over his chest. The shift in the air was instantaneous and your joy was replaced with cold anxiety.

Neteyam felt it, too. He immediately untangled his tail from yours and straightened his spine, his posture shifting from the relaxed lover back to the disciplined son of the Olo’eyktan. Your father turned his head. He didn't move, and he didn't stop his conversation, but his gaze locked onto the two of you. You walked faster to get to your father, feeling the guilt rise in you a little. You wondered if there were marks on your neck, or if your hair was in disarray.

Neteyam reached your flock, raising his hand in a formal warrior’s greeting, his voice steady and respectful when he greeted your father. Your father offered a curt nod, his stare never leaving Neteyam’s face for a long heartbeat. It looked like a silent warning, one that acknowledged the rank Neteyam held, but reminded him exactly whose daughter he was walking home.

“Go inside, daughter,” your father said quietly.

You didn’t look at Neteyam, turning on your heels to walk toward the entrance of the Hometree. You felt ashamed of your feebleness, how you folded so easily at the presence of pressure. You knew your father won’t let it go and that reckoning will soon come, so when you heard the tent flap rustle one evening and didn’t smell Neteyam’s familiar scent, you turned and saw that it was your father. You straightened up, greeting him as you would greet a superior.

“You spend much time in the Tsahik’s tent at night, daughter,“ he started, touching one of the hanging braided ceremonial beads. “And you are rarely alone. Kiri is your friend, isn’t she?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding. “Yes, father...”

“And Neteyam?“ he inquired.

You blinked, you knew this was coming, and yet, you weren’t able to prepare a proper excuse. “Neteyam is a good friend, father. We have been friends since we were kids,” you said, your words tumbling over one another.

He nodded. “I know that. Neteyam is a fine warrior, the pride of the Olo’eyktan... But a man of his vitality and youth does not seek out a woman of your path night after night, nor does he come out of the dark woods with the same woman.”

Your fingers tightened at the herbs. “We are friends, father. N-Neteyam helps me—”

“Friendship between a future leader and Eywa’s maiden is good, yes, but this is not it," he warned, stepping closer. He gestured to you, to the way you had begun to arrange your hair with more care, the subtle oils you used to make your skin glow. “You are becoming worldly. You are looking at the ground when you should be looking at the Great Mother. Do not forget the honor of our lineage. Do not forget the path that was chosen for you.”

That warning rang in your ears for days. You had shed tears about it, spending your days weakly. You are frightened. You fear that you do not have enough will to fight against this path that has long blurred for you. The only sight you can see is the path leading to the man you have loved half of you life. The man you will have to turn your back to in favor of your family’s honor. The man you will lose to another. You can’t even stand imagining it. He will mate someone worthy and strong... She will have him and his children, and there will be nothing for you.

Those thoughts weighed you down. It was a tragedy.

It followed you into the woods a week later, where you were meant to be foraging berries for a pie you had promised Kiri. The basket felt heavy, the vibrant reds of the fruit blurring before your eyes. You were standing in a patch of sunlight, but you felt cold, your tears freely flowing, something you couldn’t do when you’re back at the village because Neteyam will surely know.

But as if summoned, the large leaves near you shifted and Neteyam appeared, his smile was bright, his eyes searching for yours, but when he saw the tears on your cheeks, the slump of your shoulders, and the way your hands moved listlessly among the bushes, his expression shifted instantly to one of deep concern.

“Hey,” his voice murmured, coming to stand before you right away. “What is it? Did something happen in the village?”

You tried to give him a small smile. “No, I’m alright,” you said in a soft voice.

Neteyam has never seen you cry before, save for whe you are moved by wonder or by something sad happening to others. You have always been composed and laid-back, sometimes he doesn't even know if you ever get mad at all. Ans right now, you were crying, and it seemed so personal it’s breaking his heart. Gently, his lips pressed against your temple, pulling you close.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice so soft it made your heart spasm.

You wanted to say you’re alright again but it shattered before it even reached your lips. The dam you had built with such effort finally broke. A sob escaped you, and then the tears were falling, frantic and unstoppable. Neteyam inhaled a sharp breath, pulling you into his arms, his chest a solid, warm wall against your grief. He didn't ask questions; he simply held you, his hand stroking your hair as you wept into his shoulder, pouring out your fears on how the path now felt like a cage, how your father’s words had cut you, and most of all, the soul-crushing fear that you would be forced to watch him mate with another while you lived a life of cold, sacred solitude.

“I can't do it,” you choked out, clutching the leather of his harness. “I can't watch you take a mate. I cannot watch you belong to someone else. Neteyam, I cannot do it,“ you are crying so hard you could barely understand your own words.

Neteyam pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. The fear in your eyes threatened to break him from the inside out. He hadn’t known you had this much fear in you, and although he knew he shouldn’t feel good about it, he still felt it, but it would never be in him to want to prolong your agony. He loves you so much, his heart could burst. He wiped your tears with his thumbs, his gaze so intense it felt like he was looking directly into your spirit.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing honesty. “I have always loved you. Ever since we were children learning in the pavillion under the watchful eyes of the healers, you were the only one for me.”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing as if in prayer.

“When I was young, I worked until my bones ached because I wanted to be worthy of you. I wanted to be a man who deserved to stand at your side. I wanted to be your mate. I wanted to be the father of your children.” His voice dropped to a reverent, shaky register, smiling at you. "But I also know the path you have chosen. And my love, listen to me, you will never, ever lose me. I have long made my decision. I promised myself I will never mate with another.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes wide with shock. “Neteyam, you are the future Olo’eyktan. You have to—”

“I can be a good leader without a mate,” he countered firmly, his eyes burning with conviction. “I have decided. If the Great Mother requires you to be alone, then I will be alone with you. I will be your shadow. I will guard you and walk your path from a distance, but I will never give myself to another woman. I have long been claimed.”

The image of him, noble, strong, and utterly alone in the dark because of you, shattered your heart into a thousand pieces. You didn't want him to be a shadow. You wanted him to be the man who held your hand in the light. You wanted it so much.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice low and steady. "Whatever happens, whatever choice you make, I am here. I will be here. You have me. You will always have me.”

You looked up at him and saw the absolute certainty in his eyes. It frightened you, to say the least, to know that he was willing to let the future of his bloodline wither away just to be the man who stood outside your door.

​“You cannot,” you whispered. You cannot possiby be this selfish. You regretted telling him your fears for you know it only solidified his decision. “Neteyam, the clan... they expect a mother for the people. Your father and Neytiri... they want to see you happy. They want to see your children.“

​“Then they will be disappointed,“ he said, his jaw tightening with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. His hands moved to cup the back of your head, grounding you. “There is no happiness for me if I am lying next to a woman who is not you. I would be a shell. How could I lead our people with a heart that is half-dead?“

“You wouldn’t be with me anyway...” you rasped, your head bowing.

He looked at you with sad eyes but still, he chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose. “You haven’t been paying attention, my love. I have long known that and I have accepted it,” he said. “I will do anything you ask of me, you know that, but you cannot ask me to be with another. I will not obey you.”

You parted your lips to breathe, gripping his forearms to feel the solid warmth of him. The selflessness of his love shamed you. What good have you done to deserve such devotion? That question lingered with you even after you two parted. You knew the answer: you have done nothing. You have never been willful your whole life.

Following your great aunt’s path, the path that twenty-two generations of women in your father’s family have taken, have never before felt like an order to be obeyed. You wanted it before you truly knew what you wanted, but now, as you looked back... Neteyam has always been there. He has always stirred your heart in the way only he could do. You have always loved him.

And you will never stop.

Driven by a desperation you couldn’t name, you found yourself at the secluded dwelling of your great aunt. The air was thick with incense and you knew this would be one of those few days where she could be disturbed from her prayers, and even now, she was a silhouette of stillness, her back to you as she whispered prayers that had been her only companions for sixty years.

You didn't speak. You simply sat behind her and began to pray, the minutes stretching into hours. You watched the way the smoke curled in the air, wondering if your life would be just like hers: sacred, hollow, and hauntingly quiet. You wanted to feel guilty for thinking it look gray, but it was what you were thinking.

When the last of the incense burned out, Äye turned slowly. Her eyes, fill of wisdom and spirit, settled on your face. She didn't see her successor; she saw the crumbling ruins of a girl in love.

“What is it that brings you to this quiet place with such a loud heart?” she asked, her voice both stern and full of concern.

“The medicinal roots in the southern ridge are coming in early this year," you said casually, your voice a dry rasp. “I’m thinking of beginning the harvest before the syaksyuk get to them."

She tilted her head, her eyes sharp and assessing.  “You have been sitting here for five hours, praying to a Mother who has already answered you, yet you refuse to listen. I can see it in your face,” she reached out, tilting your chin up. “What is it? And do not tell me it is the harvest.”

You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest becoming unbearable. “I wanted to ask if... If your heart has ever stirred... For a person, I mean. Not for the Great Mother, nor for the people. For a man.” You paused, your voice trembling. “Have you ever felt... desire?“

You waited for her to look at you as if you’ve grown two heads but she didn’t. The old woman’s eyes softened, a distant. She didn't answer right away, instead, she let her hand fall to your shoulder. “Is that what is clawing at you?”

You looked away, the first tear finally breaking free. “This is my path, Auntie... I have known this my whole life. But... These feelings I have in my heart, I have carried with me long before I knew what it was. I have loved him since we were children. And this man loves me with all he is... I supposed it would be easier if he didn’t love me back. It would be easier to accept the solitary path ahead of me, but now, because he loves me, he will forsake his own duty to the clan just so he could freely love me.” You gripped your knees, your knuckles turned white. “I do not want that for him. I cannot let him be alone and empty, I cannot deny him the love I can give him...“

Äye let out a long, slow breath. “The son of Toruk Makto.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “How... how did you know?”

A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “I have seen it, and I still see it. You have always had the boy’s eyes, and his heart. You see only now.”

“I am scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I look at the path laid out for me... This life of solitude and it feels like a cage. I want him... I love him. I want to give him myself...” you looked at her. “Is it wrong, Auntie? To want the ground more than the sky? To want a man more than a goddess?”

Äye reached out and cradled your face in her weathered hands.

“Is it truly the path she gave you?” she asked softly. “Eywa does not give paths, child. She simply makes us feel. What you feel here will tell you where you belong.” She smiled, her palm pressing firmly over your heart. “And clearly, your heart has been showing you the path for a very long time.”

You sniffled, leaning into her touch, a flicker of hope sparking in the dark.

“I have easily done my duty because Eywa did not see it fit to put desire in my heart,” Äye confessed, her gaze turning distant and thoughtful. “I walked this path because it was the only one I saw. But, if I had only felt love and desire for another... if I had felt even a fraction of what you described... I would have let it consume me. I would have allowed myself to be loved by someone I loved.” Her expression became fiercer. “It is a gift, child, and you must not deny yourself what Eywa has given you. You must not deny Neteyam the love that you could give him, or the life you two could live. To turn away from such a love is the only true blasphemy.”

“But my father... the clan...” you whispered.

She scoffed. “Do not worry about your father. He is handled,” she said with a small, knowing smirk. “You go to your warrior. Tell him everything you told me.”

The weight that had been crushing your ribs for years had simply evaporated. You hugged her and she patted your back. When you finally stood up, your legs feel so light, as though you were floating. You ran through the village, past the staring eyes of the hunters, straight toward the training grounds where you knew a certain warrior was spending his day.

You didn't care about the path anymore. There has only ever been one for you, and it led straight to him. The sounds of clashing practice staves and rhythmic grunts welcomed you as you reached the training grounds. You stood at the edge of the clearing, thinking about how you have never done this before even though you passed by it every single day. You’ve never even thrown Neteyam a glance when he was over here, so now, you indulged yourself to the sight of his skin glistening with sweat as he moved with lethal grace.

He was giving corrections, his voice commanding and steady, until his gaze swept toward the edge and snagged on you. He stopped mid-sentence and had to do a double look, his golden eyes widening in genuine disbelief. It was always he who sought you out, he who lingered at the edges, waiting for you to pay him attention. And now, to see you standing here, in the open light, was a surprise that seemed to steal the air from his lungs. A slow, radiant smile began to spread across his face, one that he didn't even try to hide.

The other hunters followed his gaze lazily, shocked as Neteyam was to see you standing there, looking only at him. When he signaled for a break, Neteyam practically glided toward you, his focus so intense it felt like he was pulling you toward him by an invisible thread. He opened his mouth to ask what had brought you there, but you didn't give him the chance.

You stepped forward to meet him halfway, reaching up, tagling your fingers in the braids at his nape to pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss.

The silence that fell over the training grounds was almost funny, jaws practically hit the dirt, and Lo’ak who was standing a few yards away dropped his staff, his eyes bulging.

“When will you be done?” you asked casually, your voice clear and steady. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, grounding him.

Neteyam looked dazed, as if he were caught in a dream and was terrified of waking up. The smile on his face was huge and utterly devoted, it brought ache to your chest. “Now,” he rasped, his voice sounding hypnotized. He didn't even look back at his men. “I’ll finish this early. Right now.”

You let out a melodic chuckle, your palm pressing flat against the heat of his abdomen. “Don’t be silly. I can just wait here,” you said, gesturing toward the wooden benches.

He nodded fervently, his tail twitching with an excitement he couldn't suppress. You couldn't resist, he looked so uncharacteristically flustered and cute that you leaned in for another quick kiss before patting his chest.

“Go,” you whispered, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I’ll wait.”

Neteyam turned back to his warriors, but the sternness was gone. The men themselves were in a state of total shock, their eyes kept on darting back to where you are. The rest of the training session was a blur and you couldn’t take your eyes on Neteyam, and you’re glad he was the opposite. He was so focused on it, even though he was less strict, the intensity of his approach did not wane.

He dismissed the session right on time, handing his staff to a young hunter and was at your side in a heartbeat, his skin still glistening with sweat. He wiped it off with a soft cloth and you stood up, grabbing the cloth to help him wipe his sweat. “I need you to come with me,” you said, fighting the urge to smirk.

He breathed, catching your hand to graze a thumb on your knuckles. “Where? The forest? The high ridges?”

“Further,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your stomach. You grabbed his hand and his fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as vines coil on a branch.

The walk was surprisingly casual, the air cooling as the forest began its slow transition into the bioluminescent glow of dusk. You stepped over a spike plant and he gripped your hand tighter. “Careful,” he said, hopping over a fallen log and reaching back to steady.

“I am a healer, Neteyam. I know which leaves bite and which ones soothe. If anything, I should be the one worried about you. You almost walked straight into a stickyplant back there because you were too busy looking at me.”

“Can you blame the warrior for admiring the view?” he countered with a cheeky waggle of his brows.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Getting bold, aren’t we? Must be all those pies Tuk didn't eat. I saw her trying to smuggle a third one past Mo’at at dinner last night. She looked like a prolemuris with its cheeks full of fruits.”

“She’s a menace,” he chuckled, his tail flicking with amusement. “The young these days...” he shook his head. “Just last time, I saw a young hunter trying to impress girls by showing off his battle scars. Most of them were from tripping over during drills.”

“Be kind,” you teased. “We were all young and desperate for attention once. Though some of us,” you glanced at him sideways, “didn't have to try quite so hard.”

Neteyam’s smile softened, his fingers tightening around yours. “I don't know about that. I spent half my youth trying to figure out why the smartest girl in the pavilion wouldn't look at me for more than two seconds.”

“I was busy studying!” you protested. “I had to learn the difference between a glow moss and a spice leaf. One heals a burn, the other causes a rash that lasts for three days. Imagine if I'd gotten those mixed up because I was staring at your growing muscles.”

“A tragedy for the clan,“ he joked, pulling you by the waist and pressing a kiss against your neck. “But a win for my ego,” he whispered.

You squealed and pulled away, running away from him. You heard him chuckle, chasing after you until you two reached the purple glow of the ancient sacred tree. You looked at him with a soft smile and he stared at you, his eyes softening into a reverent look as he savored the look of you bathed in purple light

“It is beautiful tonight,” he whispered, reaching out to caressed your jaw.

“It is,” you agreed, tiptoeing to kiss him again, your arms hooking on his nape.

His hands immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him as he deepened the kiss, his mouth devouring yours. You pulled him down with you onto the soft moss, laying back so he’d follow you. You spread your thighs and he settled his body between them, breaking away from the kiss as if he’d just noticed what position you had pulled him into under the sacred tree.

You smiled, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to his lips, “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered as if it was your secret, kissing him again.

His head lifted, his lips curling into a small, yet triumphant, smile. “I love you more, baby. So much,” he said, his arm wrapping around you to pull you to him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

You smiled and kissed him again, you didn't let him break away, and as your hands moved to his shoulders, the kiss deepened. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. You pulled back just an inch, your eyes locked onto his, and then, with a hand that didn't tremble, you reached back and brought your queue forward. Neteyam’s eyes snapped at your kuru, widening a fraction in a surprise so profound he actually moved back an inch.

“My love...” he rasped, his voice breaking. He looked from your kuru to your eyes, his face pale but his eyes dancing with joy.

You kissed him. “I want to be with you. I want to be your mate... I want to have your children...”

His smile widened, though his eyes still needed more answers. “Are you sure? Once this is done... there is no turning back to the path they chose for you. You will be mine. In the eyes of Eywa and the clan, you will be mine for life.”

“I have never been more sure of anything,” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. “The path I chose isn't the one they gave me. It’s this. It’s you.”

Neteyam’s hand was shaking as he brought his own queue forward. The intensity of the moment was suffocating, a silence so heavy it felt like the ancestors themselves were holding their breath. “I love you so much,” he said, the words a solemn vow. “You have me, until my last breath. You have always had me, baby.”

Slowly, deliberately, the pink tendrils of your queues reached out, entwining and locking together. You gasped, your back arching when a flood of physical sensations surged through you. You felt the raw, unbridled power of Neteyam’s love for you. The years of pining, the quiet agony of watching you from afar, the fierce protectiveness, and the sheer, blinding joy of this moment. And he felt yours. The fear you had felt, the desperate need for his touch, and the struggle you fought that led to this absolute certainty that you belonged by his side.

Neteyam let out a choked sound, pulling you flush against him, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that promised he would never, ever let go. You kissed him until you were both breathless, then his lips trailed down your jaw, making you arch into his touch as a low moan rumbled in your throat. Your hands found purchase in his braids, pulling his head back up, your gaze locking with his.

“Are we doing it?” you asked, your eyes looking up at him in both apprehension and excitement.

He caressed your thigh. “Do you want to? It doesn’t need to be tonight—”

“No, I want to! I want to... Just...” you cleared your throat. “I mean you’re big and... And how did the other girls take this—”

“What?” he whisper-shouted playfully. “There have never been other girls. I’ve never kissed anyone before you...” His eyes looked away from yours to look at your lips.

“What?” you chuckled breathily, the scholar part of you panicking. “No one here knows what to do?”

“No, I do know what to do,” he said, his eyes widening a little. “Trust me.“

You smiled and reached up to kiss him, he met you halfway, his mouth descending, but hungry now, no longer sweet and hesitant. His tongue plunged and you met his fervor, your own tongue dancing with his. His hands moved, tracing the curve of your hips, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a jolt of pleasure through you as you felt the hard ridge of his cock press against your thigh.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of his loincloth, your fingers caressing the soft skin of his abdomen. He undid your own, hands quick and deft, discarding the simple covering the same time you shed his. His fingers found your slippery folds, caressing it as he kisses your jaw. Your hand shot down to wrap around his cock, caressing the thick and long flesh.

He huffed, his lips pressing against your cheek before he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth gently nipping at where you’re most sensitive. You whimpered, your head falling back against the moss. His tongue traced a path down your throat, over your collarbone, until it reached the swell of your breast. He suckled, his mouth hot and wet, drawing your nipple into his mouth.

Your hips arched involuntarily. “Neteyam,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He moved to your other breast, giving it equal attention before kissing his way down your body until you felt a long swipe of his tongue on the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers brushed against your slick pussy, followed by his warm tongue, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your core, his hands slid under your hips to tilt you toward him before his mouth lapped at your wetness like a man starved.

You clutched on a moss, letting yourself moan to your heart’s content until you were a shaking mess with a spinning vision. You can feel his lips and tongue working its way up your body but your mind was zeroing in on the electrifying sensation you’re feeling on your clit, your thighs jolting every time his skin grazes it.

Only when he positioned himself between your legs did you make the effort to lift you head up to look at him, catching him with his eyes darkened with desire as they devoured your nakedness. Your connected kurus pulsed brighter and you felt the jolt of excitement and ecstasy he is probably feeling. You bit your lip, looking at his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against your entrance. You looked up at him, your own eyes burning with desire, and he met your gaze, his lips curved in a small smile and his eyes suddenly became the look of longing and adoration.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough with need.

“Yes,” you gasped, pushing your hips up, urging him forward. “Now.”

He chuckled, his hand squeezing your hips before he thrusted, slowly at first, his thick shaft pushing past your eager lips, stretching you, filling you with a sensation so profound it stole your breath. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, as he pushed deeper, until he was fully buried inside you.

He paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving, his eyes closed for a moment in pure bliss. “It feels so warm... So tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with emotion.

You hugged him, a little breathless at the feeling of being so full of him and yet, you pulled him deeper still. “You’re so big...” you groaned, clenching around him.

He opened his eyes and you saw a primal look in them as he began to move, slowly at first, a gentle motion that soon picked up pace. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged back in, his rhythm becoming more urgent, more demanding.

“Ah!” you moaned, your body arching, meeting his thrusts with equal enthusiasm. The sounds of your skin slapping together and the wet sounds of him moving inside you filled the air.

One of his hand found your folds, his thumb parting them to flick at your sensitive nub, making you buck and pull away in overstimulation but he only leaned down, his lips finding yours to devour your cries, his tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips continued its relentless rhythm. His hands gripped your hips to lift and tilt you, finding new angles that gave you so much pleasure. His cock felt enormous inside you, stretching you to your limits, yet it was a delicious fullness, a sense of being completely claimed.

The gentle rocking turned into powerful, rhythmic thrusts, his body slamming into yours with increasing force as you felt a familiar feeling in your lower abdomen, a knot that promised release. You clawed at his back, your nails digging into his firm muscles, leaving faint red marks.

“Harder,” you gasped against his lips, your voice hoarse. “Please, baby...”

He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming even more violent, more primal. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in with a force that made you scream, the air whooshing out of your mouth.

“You like that, baby?” he rasped, his voice raw, his breath hot against your face.

You whimpered, unable to speak, your hips bucking involuntarily to meet his every thrust. You felt your muscles clenched around his shaft, milking him, urging him on. He groaned and thrusted one last, powerful time, burying himself to the hilt, holding you tight as your body convulsed around him. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, giving you a full body tremor that left you breathless and clutching at him. Your muscles seized, squeezing his cock, making him cry out your name.

His body tensed, then relaxed as he emptied himself deep inside you. You felt the hot gush of his seed filling you as he collapsed onto you, his weight heavy but welcome, his breath ragged against your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, mirroring the frantic beat of your own. You lay tangled together, spent and satisfied, the purple glow of the tree a silent witness to your mating.

“I swear to the Great Mother, if this were a dream I’d beat up the person who will wake me up,” he whispered breathily, kissing you.

You chuckled weakly, hugging him tighter to you and kissing his cheek. “It is real, husband. I am here with you,” you told him.

He melted in your embrace, kissing your forehead, and then your lips. “I love you so much...”

A few hours of sleep punctuated with a series of waking up only to make love later, you lay tangled in Neteyam’s arms under the glowing tendrils,  your core still sore from the intensity of your last coupling. His chest was warm under your cheek, and you traced the faint, drying marks your nails had left on his shoulder. Neteyam shifted, his tail winding lazily around your thigh.

“The sun will be up soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand tracing the curve of your hip with a new, possessive ease. You let out a soft sigh, tightening your hold on him. Neteyam pulled back slightly to look at you, his golden eyes clear and filled with a fierce, protective light. “I’ll face your father. I’ll tell him it was my doing. The haste, the lack of a formal ceremony. I’ll take the weight of his anger.”

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face. “No. I made this choice just as much as you did. I won’t let you stand there like a criminal for loving me. I’ll handle him, and Äye said she would help. I’m more worried about Mo’at... I am a healer under her. Surely, she’d expect me to follow the traditions.”

“Then we face them together,” Neteyam said firmly, interlocking his fingers with yours. “As one. We are mated now. I am your husband and you are my wife.”

Those words brought you so much relief and joy, you couldn’t help but smile, especially when his eyes reflected a certain, even smug, light in them. The walk back to the village felt different, but as you approached the central clearing of the Hometree, the sight of the gathering made your heart skip a beat.

Not only were your parents already there, Jake and Neytiri were there, too, standing near the breakfast hearth, and beside them sat Mo'at and Äye. The air was thick with the smell of morning broth and an unspoken tension. Your father stood as you both emerged from the ramp, his eyes immediately dropping to your clasped hands and then to the unmistakable, glowing pride in Neteyam’s posture.

“You did not return last night,” your father said, his voice flat but not yet angry.

Äye, who was calmly sipping from a bowl of tea, let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, let the children breathe, Laykon. Do not overreact. Look at them, they look like they’ve finally found where the air is.”

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, gently releasing your hand only to sink onto both knees before your parents. He bowed his head low, his forehead nearly touching the ground in a gesture of profound respect and apology.

“I ask for your forgiveness,” Neteyam’s voice was calm, carrying the weight of a leader. “I have acted with haste, and I have taken your daughter as my mate without the formal blessing of the clan. But I have loved her before I even I understood what it was. I ask only for your blessing now, for I will spend every day of my life proving I am worthy of her.”

You dropped to your knees beside him, your shoulder touching his. “Father, I love Neteyam, I have always loved him. This wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness. It was the only truth I’ve ever known. I choose this life. I choose him.”

A long, suffocating silence followed. Jake looked at Neytiri, who had a soft, knowing expression on her face, one that spoke of a woman who had once made a similarly reckless choice for love. Finally, your father let out a long, heavy breath. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, urging him to stand.

“I understand that, daughter,” he told you, his voice softening. “And I do not think this kneeling and bowing are necessary anymore. Words would have sufficed. You two are already mated in the eyes of the Great Mother; what is there for me to do? To fight the wind?” He looked at Neteyam, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stony exterior. “It is my honor to have an honorable man as my son.”

Neytiri stepped forward then, pulling you into a fierce, warm embrace that smelled of woodsmoke and motherhood. “Welcome to the family, daughter,” she whispered.

You looked toward Mo’at, your stomach twisting with nerves. The Tsahik stood slowly, her face unreadable. Jake cleared his throat, glancing at the matriarch. “Mo’at? Perhaps, you can... give them the official blessing?”

Mo’at let out a sharp, huffed breath, reaching into the woven pouch at her side. To everyone’s surprise, she pulled out a bowl of ceremonial oils and a bundle of sage that had clearly been prepared in advance.

“Why do you think I am sitting here with these?” she asked, a rare humot flickering in her eyes as she looked at Äye. “Some people in this family cannot keep a secret. Come here, you two. If you are going to be mated, let us do it properly so the ancestors don’t think I’ve gone lazy.”

As Mo'at began the rhythmic chant of the blessing, marking your forehead and Neteyam’s with the cool, fragrant oil, you looked at your husband. The fear was gone. The gray path etched on sand was blown by the wind, leaving only the path forged by the Great Mother.

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The council meeting had dragged on for hours, with the elders debating trade with so much meticulousness that Neteyam can’t believe it’s starting to annoy him that the second Jake signaled the end, Neteyam couldn’t have exited the council hall faster than anyone. He moved through the village with a restless, joyful energy, his heart pulling him straight to the healer’s tent.

And when he pulled back the flap, the golden afternoon light spilled over you, hunched over a mortar, the same sight that had greeted him for years, but now, strapped to your chest in a soft woven wrap was your months-old son.

“Hello, baby,” Neteyam caressed your arm, leaning down to kiss you. He cupped your jaw and deepened the kiss.

You’d chucke at his eagerness if your son hadn’t let out a soft, melodic cry. It was as if he could sense his father has arrived before Neteyam even greeted him. Neteyam looked down at his son, his large hand caressing the boy’s head.

His face split by a wide, devoted grin. His large hands gently lift the bundle from your chest and you gave him his son, watching him settle the boy into the crook of his arm, his thumb tracing a tiny, rounded cheek. “How was he? Did he give you trouble while I was on patrol?”

You chuckled, wiping your hands on a cloth. “He is just a baby, ma ‘teyam. He slept almost the entire day, only waking to eat and then falling back to sleep.”

Neteyam let out a deep, vibrating chuckle that made the baby’s eyes fly open. “You’re the hungriest boy in this village, do you know that, hm? The biggest baby, too. You’re growing so fast, my son, look at you.”

You leaned against the worktable, watching them with a chest full of warmth. You reached out to tickle your son’s ear, watching his tiny shoulder shrug in reflex. “Remember when Mo’at said you were the biggest baby she’d ever seen?” you laughed. “She said your boy rivals you. Look at his tummy. So full, aren't you, sweet boy?”

The baby suddenly let out a tiny, gurgling chuckle, his first real laugh.

Your eyes snapped to Neteyam’s in shock. You both froze, breath held for seconds, before you both bursted into a quiet laughter. The boy stretched, his chubby limbs sprawled across his father's powerful arm, looking utterly content. As you looked at the small person you had created together, your eyes began to glisten with unshed tears and when you lifted your eyes to meet Neteyam’s his own eyes were pooling with tears.

Neteyam leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Have I told you how thankful I am that you chose me?”

You grinned, cupping his face. “You do every day, 'teyam. But I am more thankful to you. I couldn't imagine not living this life... you made me realize what I truly wanted.”

“I love you so much,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I love you more, ‘teyam—”

“That couldn't be possible—”

“Uhhmp!” A sharp, demanding shriek from your son broke the moment. His tiny hand had clamped onto your beaded top, his neck craning with singular focus toward your chest.

You laughed, booping his nose. “Hungry again?“

Your smile was huge as you reached for him. Neteyam gently handed him back, chuckling as you settled the boy and eased your top aside. The baby latched in an instant, a rhythmic, quiet sound filling the tent. Neteyam sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the sight.

He remembered being in this same tent years ago, watching you hold Tuk in your arms and drowning in a forbidden pining. Now, you are his wife, and the child in your arms is one you two created. He was no longer your shadow, he is now the man whose life is inextricably woven with yours. Your cold indifference was long gone, and in its place was a woman full of his love and the promise of his future.

[neteyamthinker]

hopelessly devoted

pairings neteyam x omatikaya!female reader

notes friends to lovers, slow burn, heavy pining, down horrendous neteyam, inexperienced neteyam and reader, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), dry humping

synopsis for twenty-two generations, your father’s family has guarded a sacred legacy: one woman will choose a life of solitude and remain unmated for life for the service of the great mother and the people. you decided it will be you now... except for one problem. neteyam. the boy who has looked at you with quiet and unwavering devotion since you were children.

word count 19.2k

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You sat perfectly upright in the healing pavilion, your fingers meticulously sorting herbs as Kiri hummed softly beside you, a little unfocused as she sorted her own set of herbs. She has always been a little too connected to the forest and all its creatures. Once, when you were children, she’s told you about how she can feel Eywa in every plant, and every animal that crawls and walks.

You believed her without thinking twice. You wished you could connect to Eywa the same way she does, because it is your greatest dream to follow the path of your great aunt, Äye. You could see her now in your mind’s eye, her skin mapped with the lines of nearly eighty years of wisdom. She has been serving Eywa and the people since the Tsahik that Mo’at succeeded, so her counsel is sought on all matters of faith and ritual, even by Mo’at.

For the past twenty-two generations, a woman in your father’s family chooses the same path. They are women who belonged to no man, but to the Great Mother and the people. You aspire to be just like all of them. Your great aunt is the blueprint of your soul, so at twelve years old, you had already decided to tuck away your heart, to pay attention to no boy in the clan, preparing your life for one of worship.

“He didn't even look back once,” Yaremu’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts, her chin now rested in her hands as she neglected the poultice she was supposed to be thickening. “Neteyam, I mean. He’s so focused... Remember what the elder hunters said about the sturmbeest hunt? My uncle said it was the cleanest kill he’s seen from a boy of thirteen years. Not a single wasted movement.”

“And those eyes...” Another girl, Tasi, gushed, her tail twitching with excitement. “He’s going to be such a strong Olo’eyktan one day. Imagine being the one who gets to stand beside him.”

You kept your head down, making their chatter a background sound to your more interesting work of grinding your herbs on a mortar.

“Kiri,” Tasi whispered, leaning in closer. “Since you’re the sister. Is he always like that? And what about Lo'ak? Just the other day, he teased me about my braids and I know I ought to hate it, but he’s so cute I forgot to be annoyed!”

Kiri, who was lazily braiding a length of vine, gave a lopsided grin. “Lo’ak is… well, Lo’ak. He’s a total boy. He spends half his time trying to prove he’s a man and the other half being rowdy and disobedient. He doesn't know when to be quiet.“ She rolled her eyes.

You nodded in agreement while the girls giggled.

Yaremu pressed on, “And Neteyam?”

“Neteyam is alright,” Kiri said, shrugging. “He’s the eldest, after all, so he has a lot to do. He takes care of us when Mom and Dad are not around, and since he’s a hunter now, he’s mostly out.”

“He's so handsome,” Yaremu breathed, nudging you. “Don't you think so, too? He’s always in front of you when we study. Surely you’ve noticed how good he looks when the sun hits his shoulders?”

You paused your grinding, your brows already furrowed. You did not notice that at all. You felt the weight of their gaze, three pairs of eyes curiously waiting for what you have to say. “I notice that his grinding technique is sloppy,” you said, your voice flat. “And that he distracts the circle with their nonsense. If he is to be a leader, he should learn that a healing pavilion is a place of silence, not a stage for his friends to sneaker and fool around.”

The girls exchanged looks, suppressing smiles and rolling their eyes playfully. Tasi bumped her shoulder against yours. “You’re always too serious, sister! You can always study really hard and still have eyes in your head. Everyone should appreciate a beautiful hunter.”

A sudden, raucous burst of laughter was heard from outside the pavilion, making Yaremu and Tasi sit up straighter, going back to their works in an instant. It was a sound you knew very well and it always seemed to follow a particular group. Your cheeks burned, feeling like you’d been caught talking about him even though you were just answering questions! You sat properly, your jaw tightening a little as the voices grew louder, nearing the pavilion.

“Neteyam, you almost dropped it!” a voice boomed, followed by a chorus of snorts.

“I did not! It was Lo’ak, he bumped me!” Neteyam’s voice, already deepening, carried a playful defiance.

A small, knowing sigh escaped your lips. These interruptions are now a constant backdrop to your studies, and you hated it. They weren't even supposed to be here, especially Neteyam, who had just successfully passed his iknimaya and gone through his uniltaron, yet here they were, led by him, no less. You can’t even complain because even though they are rowdy, they are not only eager to learn, this is also beneficial to them as future warriors and hunters of the clan.

Neteyam himself proved to be an exceptional student in the art of healing, which you think is simply natural for him for he excels in everything anyway. He has earned so much praise from Mo’at’s assistant healers that they are now discussing a new initiative with the senior warriors: making first-aid training a requirement for every young warrior and hunter.

The bead curtain at the entrance of the pavilion clattered as the boys spilled inside. You saw Neteyam leading the way, his stride possessing a new, grounded grace since he became a full-fledged warrior of the clan following his iknimaya last season. Close behind were Lo’ak, who was busy trying to trip Atan, while Kipey struggled to carry a bundle of practice splints. Suddenly, the pavilion felt small and their boundless energy made you dizzy. The serene atmosphere you and the girls have earlier is now all but a thing of the past.

Healers Sayka and Jahi entered the pavilion not long after, and because you were looking at them, your eyes caught Neteyam’s and saw him already looking at you. You felt the fine hair on your nape standing up, a bizarre feeling that made you smoothly roll your eyes away, greeting the healers the same time they did.

“Find your places, quickly now,” called out Sayka, the senior assistant healer, as she walked down the aisle followed by Jahi. “The Great Mother does not wait for boys to finish their jests.”

The boys scrambled to sit. Naturally, Neteyam chose the spot directly across from you and your eyes met his again which you quickly averted by looking down on your pestle and mortar. He sat straighter and every time you reached for a new herb or adjusted your posture, you could feel his gaze, not heavy or lecherous, but steady nonetheless, as if he's focusing on a single star in the night sky to properly navigate in the air.

“We heard of the incident during the hunt three days ago,” Sayka began, her eyes landing on Neteyam. “One of the hunters took a horn to the thigh. Messy business,” all of you gasped. “Neteyam took care of the first aid. Didn’t you, Neteyam?”

Your eyes drifted to him and you saw him glanced at you before he turned to Sayka to silently nod at her.

“Tell the circle what the wound look like and what you did before the hunter was brought to the Tsahik.”

Neteyam shifted his focus to Sayka, though you felt the ghost of his attention still lingering on you. “It was a jagged gash,” he said, his voice grounded. “The horn had hooked the flesh, so it wasn't a clean line. There was a lot of blood...”

You watched for any fear or anxiety on his face, but there was none, only certainty and confidence that shouldn't belong on the face of a fourteen-year-old.

“And how did you respond?” Sayka pressed.

“I used a cloth tie as a tourniquet above the wound to slow the flow,” Neteyam explained. "Then I used river water to flush out the dirt. I didn't have any paste, so I just held a soft fortune leaf over it with steady pressure until we brought him to Tsahik.”

“Good. Simple and fast,” Sayka nodded and swept around with her gaze. “A jagged wound is not like a clean wound brought by the slice of a knife. If you have observed a clean slice, it most often closes on its own, but a jagged wound is an angry one. It stays open. Neteyam did well to flush it because with a jagged wound, the first thing to do is to clean it. Dirt hides in the flaps of the skin, so you must use cool, flowing water to wash away the debris. If anything is still inside, you leave it for the Tsahik, but if there’s none, you must clean it thoroughly.”

You nodded eagerly. You haven’t dealt with wounds like that before. Mostly, it was just scraped or small cuts. You wondered what a jagged wound actually looked like and debated whether to ask Neteyam for further details after the class is over. You took a thick and waxy dapophet leaf from the bundle Jahi was distributing. As the leaves were distributed, the quiet was immediately punctured by Lo’ak’s muffled snickering. He was leaning over to Kipey, whispering something about how Neteyam sounded like a “grumpy old grandmother” when he talked about bandages.

You felt a familiar spark of irritation, looking up to to fix the boys with a reprimanding glare, but your eyes didn't even make it to Lo’ak. They crashed into Neteyam’s instead and saw him already looking. The dappled sunlight filtered through the woven roof, casting golden patterns on him and for a moment, you understood what Yaremu was talking about. He is handsome, especially when bathed in sunlight.

You felt something in you flutter. Somewhere in your belly and it tickles. You parted your lips to let out an indignant huff, snapping your gaze away to fix it on Jahi when she spoke. The girls have instilled such ridiculous notions in your head and now, this is what happens!

“The leaves in your hands have a tough outer layer, but inside it is filled with fluid. Now, each of your leaves have a jagged cut you must stitch close,” Jahi explained and you smiled excitedly, looking down at your leaf and the stitching materials being distributed. “Remember not to pierce it too deeply or pull the edges too hard, because the juice might run out. This is similar to a wounded person, you wouldn’t want to pierce them too deeply or pull their skin too hard, would you? You must be mindful to the weight of your own hands.”

You concentrated on your work, carefully stitching the leaf back together. The girls are also silent, which is something you love about them, because nothing could take away their concentration from studying, not even the boy they’ve been mooning over minutes earlier. What annoys you, though, is that you are the one distracted. You could feel his constant glances on you and you decided you’re done with it.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes and you found him with his eyes already on you, as if waiting for the contact. It was infuriating. “Is there something wrong with my stitching, Neteyam?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the silence.

The boys froze. Atan and Kipey exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Neteyam blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re perfect. I mean, I mean your technique... It’s perfect. I was just looking to see... If I’m doing it right.”

Lo’ak cleared his throat and pretended to cover his face to cough, but his shoulders were shaking, and his face and neck darkened to purple. He was laughing. What’s so funny? You tilted your head and look at Neteyam’s leaf. He was doing it right. Your own face burned in embarrassment. Perhaps, he was truly just trying to look at yours to see if he’s doing his stitching right!

“I think yours is good. It looks like a clean stitch,” you said, returning to your leaf without waiting for a response.

“Thanks...“ he said, his voice still soft.

You heard the boys snicker and from your peripheral gaze, you can see them tease Neteyam with silent nudges. You looked at them and narrowed your eyes. The healers only left for a few moments and they are so rowdy again!

Neteyam, who had been grinning at something Lo’ak said, felt the weight of your gaze. You saw him turn, his golden eyes meeting yours, and his smile died instantly. The bravado drained out of his shoulders. He sat up straighter, his ears pinning back for a second before he composed himself into a mask of sudden, intense seriousness. Lo’ak started to let out another muffled laugh, but Neteyam’s elbow caught him sharply in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Neteyam whispered at his brother before clearing his throat and looking down at his own leaf with the intensity of a scholar.

The rowdiness of the boys died down into a strained, respectful silence, all because you had looked at Neteyam. Kiri turned to you with a knowing, almost mischievous glint in her golden eyes. You fixed her with a confused look and she shook her head, softly chuckling to herself.

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You stood in a drawn circle at the training ground with your bowstring drawn back against your cheek. Tasi and Yareumu had already abandoned their targets, preferring to sit in the shade and braid flowers into each other's hair, giggling as they watched the young warriors spar in the ring. All four of you decided to train in archery just last season, but the two of them, including Kiri last week, already gave up on their trainings, citing its futility in the path they are choosing.

Two years had passed and the soft roundness of your childhood had now sharpened into lean, graceful lines of a young lady. At fourteen, the weight of the path you’re forging for yourself is no longer just a dream, but more and more like a shape forming true. You wanted to be of full service to the people, not just as a healer, but as a protector as well, even though you will not be Tsahik. So now, you’re planning to tame an ikran just like Kiri had the year before.

“It’s too much work for my arms,” Tasi sighed, waving a dismissive hand at her discarded bow. “Besides, why do I need to be an archer if I am to be a healer?“

“Because a healer must sometimes be the one to keep the patient alive before the wound is attended to,” you replied without looking back, releasing the arrow. It thudded into the center of the mossy target with a satisfying thwack.

“You are always so serious,” Yaremu teased. “Look, even the boys have stopped their sparring to watch you. Jeto looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.”

You didn't spare them a glance. You think boys are stupid... Some of them have already wasted half an hour watching and hooting at your every move. The same bunch even tried to invent “accidents” in the past moons just so you would look at them. If Neteyam hadn’t scolded them, they would have continued distracting you in your trainings. Fortunately, they’ve stopped now... But the annoyance of their constant attention has not ceased.

Neteyam stood with Kiri far behind you, supposedly discussing your plan to go up the Hallelujah Mountains soon to tame an ikran for yourself, but he couldn’t help but watch you, his ears tuning out everything Kiri was saying.

You seemed so uncaring of the boys’ antics, your chin tilted high, your air always radiating that quiet, indifferent coldness that made you seem miles above the dirt of the training ground.

“She’s such a snob,” he heard one of the boys mutter behind a rack of spears.

“As if it’s your first time. Keep doing nonsense and she’ll keep ignoring you!” Another replied, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, a familiar surge of irritation rising in him. Of course. Other boys saw in you what he saw, but he couldn't pretend you were exclusively his to appreciate. Everyone admired you, from their parents to the children, the girls and the boys. And he couldn’t claim to be so different from them...

He had known for a long time exactly what you were to him.

“Neteyam? Are you even listening?” Kiri’s voice poked through his trance. She was leaning against a wooden rack, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as if she knows a secret he doesn’t. “I said the wind currents near the mountains are shifting. If she’s going up in three days, we need to leave earlier."

Neteyam cleared his throat, adjusting the strap of his knife sheath to hide his flustered state. “I heard you. The eastern peaks. I’ll make sure the gear is ready.”

He stepped forward, his shadow touching the edge of your circle. He didn't hover or said anything stupid like the other boys. He’s a boy of sixteen years now, much more matured than the boy he used to be, and somehow, you’ve separated him entirely from the others. You respect Neteyam. He is the future of the clan after all, the next in line to the Omatikaya leadership, and nothing about his presence demanded anything from you.

He waited for you to release your final arrow before he spoke. “Your draw is getting faster,” he noted, his voice an octave lower, and Kiri couldn’t help but snicker at her brother’s attempt to make his voice sound manlier in your ears.

“I have been practicing,” you said, lowering your bow, turning to face him. Your expression was the same mask of cool indifference you wore for everyone, but your eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than they did on the others and sometimes... When it lingered too long, you can feel your belly do the thing. The crazy thing.

He tilted his head and your eyes fluttered, not knowing what to track. Dappled sunlight was on him again and his braids were longer. It annoyed you to think that no boy in the clan is as handsome as him... And perhaps your friends are right. Eywa gave the people a vision to appreciate beauty.

“I can tell,” he said, his voice soft as though he wanted only you to hear what he's saying. “But you’re gripping the bow too tightly. Your hand will cramp and it won’t be good for our climb in two days.”

“I will adjust it,” you said, tearing your gaze off of him.

“You should,” he replied, stepping a bit closer, effectively blocking the view of the snickering boys behind him. “If you’re going to tame an ikran, you can't afford a cramped hand.”

You nodded once, adjusting your hand on the bow. Neteyam watched you adjust your grip, his eyes tracing the line of your knuckles until they softened. He felt a fierce, silent satisfaction in the way his body acted as a shield between you and the persistent stares of the other boys. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way about his possessiveness... The first thing an eldest brother like him ever learned was to share... And yet.

Two days later, you found yourself climbing what seemed like a never-ending vine path upwards. You see nothing below you but mist and hear not but the splash of a distant waterfalls and heavy breathing from the three of you. From his position just behind you on the vine paths, Neteyam found it difficult to focus on the climb.

His eyes were constantly drawn upward to the way you moved. You climbed with a desperate kind of grace, your fingers gripping the ancient roots with a strength that made his chest ache. He saw the sweat beads glistening on your temple and the way your jaw remained set in that stubborn resolve.

Every time you reached a treacherous gap, he felt his own breath hitch. He wanted to reach out, to catch you or guide you, but he knew better. He knew you wouldn’t like being treated more than a casual peer, so he was careful with everything he did, determined not to be shut out like the other boys.

When you all finally reached the summit, he handed you a waterskin and a woven cloth to wipe your sweat with before he even thought of his own thirst and sweat. Though you had your own supplies, you accepted them, only realizing later as you drank the cool water that he’d given you his. He was already focused on watching the ikran, calmly assessing them without bothering to wipe his sweat.

“Hoo! That was one hell of a climb,” Kiri said, drinking from her skin. “You ready?”

You nodded, untying your own waterskin and stepping closer to Neteyam to hand it to him. “You gave me yours,” you said, your eyes sharp and reprimanding, assuming he was too tired to remember you had your own. He accepted it, but you pulled back and opened the lid for him. As your attention shifted to the shrieking, flapping ikran, you missed the way his eyes flared with surprise and intense attraction. Kiri saw it, though, and chuckled to herself. You turned to Neteyam again.

Before he could even get another sip, you huffed, your eyes eyeing the beads of sweat rolling down his temple that was, frankly, getting on your nerves. You grabbed your own woven cloth, your hand wrapping around his forearm. “Hold still,” you muttered, stepping into his personal space.

You didn't dab at him gently. Instead, you used firm strokes, wiping his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Your brow furrowed in a small scowl as you moved to his neck. He was standing perfectly still, his breath hitching as he looked down at you. He didn't care that you were practically buffing his skin raw, because to him, the rough friction felt like a brand. He wasn’t asking for reward, but don’t mind if he greedily enjoys this. He leaned into it a fraction, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm that had nothing to do with the climb you all had just finished.

“There,” you said, finally satisfied. You shoved the cloth into his hand and his fingers touched yours. “Now drink. We don't have all day.”

You turned back to the ikran, missing the dazed, lopsided grin he directed at the back of your head. Kiri, standing a few feet away, just shook her head and gagged quietly. Could there be a worse nightmare for a 15-year-old girl than watching a romance unfold between her older brother and her best friend?

“I’m ready now,” you spoke, doing small jumps on the balls of your feet.

“Good luck,” Neteyam said in a hoarse voice, staying back with Kiri.

His heart hammered against his ribs like an forest ikran trapped in a vine as he watched you step onto the rocky arena, a lone figure among the beasts.

“Choose her,” he whispered under his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms. “See her as I see her.”

He watched a forest-green ikran lunge at you, its beak snapping with lethal intent. Most would have flinched, but you didn't. Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat, he practically stopped breathing as he watched you circle the beast, a blur of blue and shadow, as you dodge each of the beast’s attempt to strike.

When you finally leaped, clambering onto the beast’s neck and wrestling it toward the precipice, Neteyam took an involuntary step forward. His stomach dropping as he watched you both tumble over the edge, a chaotic mess of wings and limbs disappearing into the white abyss of the clouds. Your name tore at his throat, a shout full of fear. He was reminded of the many Omatikaya who died trying the same thing, and for a moment he felt his heart stop beating.

Silence stretched for eternity, both he and Kiri couldn’t talk, and then, a piercing shriek broke through the mist. Neteyam’s heart soared as you flew in the air, banked in a sharp, elegant curve. A lopsided grin broke through his mouth. You are now a rider. The way you sat atop the beast, your braids streaming behind you, and your face etched with a look of pure, wild triumph, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He didn't waste a second. He whistled for his own ikran that was flying aimlessly around the mountains. He mounted in one fluid motion and pushed his mount hard, diving into the sky to join you. As he pulled up alongside you, the wind roaring in his ears, he saw you look over.

The cold indifference was gone, burned away by the adrenaline of the bond. You laughed, a sound he had heard so rarely it felt like a gift, and for a second, his golden eyes locked onto yours.

I see you. I see you. I see you.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You gripped the pestle as you grinded the dried roots on the mortar. This is one those days when your friends are not with you, leaving you alone in the quiet of the Tsahik’s tent. You’re not quite sure which version you enjoy better, and you were just deciding that you actually like the peace and quiet when the flap burst open. Kiri stumbled in, her hair a mess and her expression frantic. In her arms, a very energetic and chunky Tuk was squirming, trying to catch a glowing fly.

“Oh, thank the Great Mother, you’re here,” she gasped, nearly dumping Tuk onto your worktable. “Grandmother just sent word. She wanted me to assist her in sister Tayke’s birth, apparently it’s complicated. Mom and Dad won't be back until eclipse. I have to go.”

You looked up from the tray of dapophet leaves you were sorting, blinking in surprise. "Kiri, I have three tinctures to finish before—”

“Please!” Kiri pleaded. “Neteyam is on patrol, Lo’ak is busy training the young ones, and Tuk is… Well, I can’t bring her with me. You’re the only one I trust not to let her eat a poisonous berry or wander off and fall to her death.”

You looked down at Tuk, who was now pulling at your medicine pouch with a wide, toothy grin. You felt warmth in your chest and your eyes soften, Kiri knew you were sold. “Fine,” you sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re a life-saver! Literally!” Kiri shouted over her shoulder as she vanished back out of the tent.

For the first hour, it was chaos. Tuk treated the healing tent like a playground, toddling around and stacking your mortar bowls into towers and trying to “heal” her woven doll with the rarest medicinal pastes. But as the sun began to dip, her energy flickered out. The excitement turned into a sudden realization that she was tired and her mother wasn't there. Her small lips began to tremble, then came the first sob.

“I want Mama,” she said in a small voice, sending a pang to your chest.

“Oh, Tuk-tuk, no, don't cry,” you murmured, quickly moving to her. You scooped her up, tucking her small, heavy body against your chest.

You began to pace the length of the tent, swaying slowly which you had seen the mothers do a thosuand times. You hummed a low melody that seemed to soothe the child. Slowly, the wails turned into soft hiccups, and then into the deep breathing of sleep. You stayed there, standing in the center of the tent, swaying gently and feeling a strange, quiet peace settle over you.

Until the silence was broken by the soft thuds of footsteps outside. Neteyam moved the flap open, his large frame nearly filling the entrance. He had a large, bundled wrap of fortune leaves, the ones you had mentioned needing a few days ago. He had gone straight from his shift to the high ridges just to find them for you.

He stopped mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.

He had expected to find you hunched over your work, with your brow furrowed in concentration. This was the last thing he would have expected seeing. The low glow of the hanging firepot illuminated the side of your face and the soft curve of your arms as you cradled his sister. You looked radiant, your face devoid of the mask of cold indifference you wear like an armor. From his current view, you are something warm, something attainable, something his.

Neteyam felt a surge of heat in his chest that made his pulse thrum in his ears. He noticed, with a sudden and sharp clarity, how the last few years had finished their work on you. The slight softness of the girl he used to trail behind had vanished, replaced by the striking, lithe form of a woman. Your beauty, the confidence in the way you stood, and the depth in your gaze all felt like a challenge to everything he knew about your vows. He knew of your great aunt Äye, he knew the weight your family’s traditions. But seeing you there, swaying his sister to sleep, made his heart ache with a hunger that no amount of prayer could suppress.

You turned your head slowly, your eyes widening as you saw him. “Neteyam,” you breathed, your lips curving into a soft, genuine smile.

It didn't help with the delusions he was currently having.

For you, the sight of him was no less of a shock. You were no longer the twelve-year-old girl who was simply annoyed by a rowdy boy. Now, those “stupid” teenage flutters in your belly had evolved into something more. Looking at him now, you felt a creeping heat settle on your nape and spread down your spine.

He had grown so much. He was so much taller and broader, his skin mapped with faint scars, and his golden eyes carry a depth that made you feel exposed. You hated how handsome he had become and how his presence seemed to command the very air in the tent. You looked at the heavy muscles of his arms, then back to his face, and felt a wave of shame.

These are bad thoughts, you scolded yourself, even as your heart hammered a rhythm of betrayal against your ribs. Your skin was tingling and you were practically fighting not to hug Tuk against you harder in your attempt to quell it. A woman on your path should not hunger for the touch of a man! But as your eyes met his in the dimmed light, the ’path’ you had walked so carefully for years suddenly felt terrifyingly narrow.

“You're back,” you whispered. “Kiri said you were on patrol.”

“I was,” he managed to say. He didn't move to put the leaves down. He didn't want to break the tether of this moment. “I found what you needed. Kiri said you were planning to go and get them yourself. Don’t want you going to the ridges on your own.” His head tilted, a brow rising in challenge.

“I’m perfectly capable of navigating the ridge, you mighty warrior. Thank you very much,” you countered, though the bite in your voice was softened by the warmth in your eyes as you swayed Tuk. “I’ve had my ikran for years now. Or did you forget who beat you in that race to the mountains last moon?”

Neteyam let out a short, huffed laugh, finally moving into the tent. “I didn't forget. I merely allowed the lady a moment of glory. It’s called being a gentleman.”

“It’s called being slow,” you shot back, a genuine smirk breaking through your face.

He reached out then, his large hands moving toward the sleeping toddler in your arms. “Here, give her to me. You looked like you’ve stood here for an hour already, I’m sure your arms are ready to fall off.”

As he leaned in to take her, Tuk stirred. Instead of reaching for her brother, she let out a tiny, sleepy whimper and buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, her small fingers clutching your necklace.

“Oh,” you both whispered at the same time.

“Aww,” you cooed softly, your heart vibrating in your chest, making you almost shiver.

Neteyam echoed the sound with a look of such raw tenderness crossing his face that you had to look away. He didn't pull back; instead, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss onto Tuk’s forehead. His face was inches from yours, the scent of mint and the heat of his skin registering to your senses. You felt like a puddle of candle wax. Soft, melting, and utterly ruined.

“I guess I’m stuck,” you whispered, your voice slightly breathless.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, flashing a smile that made your belly go crazy. “Then let me be of use,” he said, turning to your workbench. “Since your hands are full, tell me what to do. I’m at your command.” He raised a brow playfully.

You didn't hesitate. You needed your tasks done and if he wanted to stay, you’re done fighting the pull. For tonight. “Fine. Those fortune leaves you brought needed to be stripped and ground. Gently, Neteyam,“ you said in a stern voice.

“Oh, I know gentle,“ he quickly remarked, looking down at his leaves just as quick as if he didn’t want to see how you’ll react.

You felt your face heat up at his remark. It could be innocent, you know, but because your mind has thought of many bad things when it came to him, you can’t react properly anymore! Your eyes narrowed. “Just get to work. Don't use your warrior strength on them, or you’ll bruise it.”

He sat down, hunched over the mortar and pestle. The sight was so domestic and it felt dangerously right. You rubbed the soft skin on Tuk's back when she nestled to you. Neteyam looked up and you raised a brow. “How was the western perimeter?” you asked instead. "Kiri mentioned the trackers saw fresh signs of a palulukan near the falls."

Neteyam’s ears flicked. “They did. A big one, too,” he paused to wipe a stray bit of leaf from his thumb. “Apparently, it crossed their path the other day. They had to stay up in the trees for an hour just to let it pass.”

The conversation drifted into something comfortable and domestic. You asked about the next sturmbeest hunt, and he asked about the last herbs he’s given you that you turned into cooling salves. It was so easy, so natural, that you feel nothing but comfort and warmth.

“Is this enough?” he asked, holding up the mortar. The leaves had been transformed into a perfect, dark-green paste, the scent of crushed mint rising from the bowl.

“It’s perfect,” you said, stepping closer to inspect his work. “You’ve missed your calling, warrior. You’d make a fine assistant to Mo’at.”

“I think I’ll stick to my bow,” he teased, his voice dropping into that lower, private register. “Stirring pots is much more dangerous work. I might get ordered around too much.”

“You say that as if you don't enjoy it," you countered, meeting his eyes.

He wasn’t only enjoying it. He was happy. He was more than happy. Every time he glanced up and saw you cradling Tuk, a small child who share the same features he got from his mother, his mind went to places that felt both beautiful and forbidden. He dared to imagine a life where this wasn't a temporary favor for Kiri, but a permanent reality.

The teasing died away when you heard the horn for the evening meal echoed. You walked together toward the communal clearing, the weight of the sleeping child in your arms and Neteyam’s steady presence at your side giving you a sense of belonging that terrified you.

“Your parents aren’t back yet,” you noticed, glancing at the empty dais.

Tuk stirred in your arms, slowly waking up from her slumber. Her eyes drifted to Neteyam, dazed at first but when it registered that her older brother is in front of her, her eyes widened. “Neteyam!” her tiny voice a shrill.

You chuckled, handing her over when she wriggled in your arms, her own tiny arms reaching for Neteyam who readily accepted her with a huff. “Ow. So heavy,” Neteyam playfully said, blowing a kiss on Tuk’s chubby cheek before looking at you. “You carried this boulder for hours?” His free hand shot down to hold one of your arm, instantly massaging.

You chuckled, pinching Tuk’s cheek. “It's alright,” you said, noticing the inquisitive looks some people are giving the two of you. Your cheeks burned, quickly sitting down. Neteyam immediately followed, settling Tuk on his lap. He sat close, close enough that your thighs where brushing, and as the food was passed around, you naturally began to tear off small pieces of roasted fish to feed Tuk.

Across the fire, Lo’ak was huddled with Atan and Kipey. The three of them were barely eating, their heads bowed together as they whispered and pointed.

“Look at them,” Atan snickered, nudging Lo’ak. “If I didn't know better, I’d say the Tsahik’s seat was already filled.”

“Total parents,” Kipey whispered, grinning. “Neteyam looks like he’s ready for a family at nineteen.”

Lo’ak snorted, watching you reach over to wipe a smudge of juice from a stomping Tuk’s chin while Neteyam watched you with a look of such longing and admiration it was almost embarrassing to witness. “He’s gone,” Lo’ak muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been gone for years. He’s practically just waiting for her to melt up.”

“Nom nom!” Tuk said eagerly while a piece of the meat she was holding fell on your thigh.

Neteyam’s hand shot out to pick it up, quickly popping it into his mouth. You looked at him in disbelief. “That just fell,” you pointed out as you watched him chew.

“Not on the ground, but on your skin. That makes it a blessing,” he countered, his voice hummed with a playful vibration.

A blessing? You rolled your eyes away, focusing your attention on Tuk’s messy face to hide the flush creeping up your face. “You are disgusting,” you muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

“I’m efficient,” he corrected, leaning in closer so his shoulder brushed yours. “And hungry. Patrolling is exhausting work, especially when you’re looking for fortune leaves on the side.”

Tuk giggled, sensing the shift in energy, decided to pat Neteyam’s cheek with a sticky hand. “Neteyam silly!”

“See? Even the little one knows,” you teased, finally regaining your composure. You reached for a damp cloth to clean Tuk’s hand, but Neteyam beat you to it. His large fingers gently wrapped around his sister’s small wrist, wiping her palm with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

As you basked in the laughter of the people surrounding you, the thought of the solitary path you were always so sure of your entire life suddenly feel like a cold, lonely place that you didn’t notice you were already leaning closer to the warmth of Neteyam’s arm against yours. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The sounds of voices and of hunters sparring in the training grounds grew louder as you hurried past, your arms filled with fresh bundles of sterilization moss and clean cloths. Mo’at had sent word about the labor of one of the pregnant women in the clan. You were in a hurry, your pace swift yet your spine remained straight, your chin tilted high, as per usual.

A hunter called your name from the weapon racks. “Careful there, the ground is uneven! Do you need strong hunter to clear the path for you?“

“She won't answer you, skxawng,“ another laughed. “Perhaps if you bring her herbs, or better yet, if you were a better warrior than Neteyam!”

“Just ask me to be the next Toruk Makto, why don’t you?” The former remarked sarcastically.

Neteyam watched from the sidelines, a senior warrior was talking to him but his gaze was busy tracking you, watching how you didn't even break your stride or tilt your head. Your chin remained high, your eyes focused on the path ahead. He had known for a long time that to you, the voices of men who call to you were merely just buzzing of summer insects, something too beneath your notice.

“I’ll work on that, brother, then I’ll get back to you,” he told the senior warrior, nodding to him seriously. The latter clapped his shoulder before walking away.

“What a shame,“ he heard one of the hunters mutter. “To have such beauty in the clan, only for it to be locked away for the Great Mother. She takes after Äye. She won't ever look at a man, let alone mate with one.”

“Unattainable,” heard another agree, sighing. “She’s like the High Peak. Beautiful to look at, but no one is meant to live there.“

Their conversation, though, halted instantly the moment Neteyam strode out from the shade. His eyes were dark and unimpressed as he looked at them, that even the hunters a few years older than him couldn’t help but look away.

“Is that what we do now?” Neteyam asked, his voice low but cutting. “Stand around the racks, bothering those on tasks for the Tsahik? Talking about our women with disrespect?”

The first hunter looked away, embarrassed. “It was just a joke, Neteyam.”

“Your mouths keep buzzing like forest insects,” Neteyam snapped, stepping forward so they were forced to look at him. “This constant hooting at her is getting old. Have you not outgrown it? She is doing important work for the clan. If I see the bunch of you doing anything other than training again, I will personally ensure all of you spend the rest of the moon cleaning the waste pits.”

They nodded efficiently, their faces the poster of good behavior, but Neteyam would remember. The next time this happens again, it won’t be just scolding they are getting. He remained standing there though, reflecting on what the hunters have said. None of it had been a lie and he’d felt the bitter, familiar spark of pride and pain flickered in his chest. They are right, he thought, you are unattainable.

He knew better than anyone the depth of your conviction. Over the past years, your quiet friendship had become the foundation of his life, but it was a foundation built on a boundary he could never cross. He had seen you at your most vulnerable and your most powerful, and in his heart, he had long ago committed a quiet kind of blasphemy. He worshiped Eywa the best he could, but you were his deity on land, one whose words he followed without question. One he guards with all of him.

Now, at twenty-one, he had become as reserved as you are, making a silent vow of his own: if you were to be alone, he would be alone with you. He would make a good Olo’eyktan but he didn’t need to be mated to ensure that. The tradition of the leaders being mated was a strong one, but Neteyam knew he could never give himself to another woman when his soul and his heart had long been claimed by a woman who belonged to the Great Mother. If friendship was all the nectar you could offer, he would live his entire life on that single drop.

He turned back to his warriors. He would lead, he would hunt, and he would protect. And in the quiet hours of the night, he would continue to love you from the distance you required, content to be the only man you didn't ignore, even if he could never be the man you held

Hours later, you are alone in the Tsahik’s tent, the adrenaline of the birth you assisted for the first time had yet to leave your system. You were wiping down a set of obsidian scalpels when the tent flap lifted, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the familiar smell that always seemed to ground you.

Neteyam didn't speak at first, standing just inside the entrance. He had showered away the dust of the training grounds, his skin gleaming in the soft light of the firepot. You lifted your eyes, your lips still curved in a small, satisfied smile. You let your eyes do the thing they always do when he’s in front of you. Feast on. He was the very image of a future leader. Muscled, scarred, and radiating an authority that silenced most men with a single look.

“Hi,” you greeted.

His lips formed a boyish smile. “The village is finally quiet,” he said, his voice dropping into that private, velvet register. “Was the delivery alright? How was it?“

You sighed softly, and for the first time that day, your mark dissolved into a radiant, tired smile. “It was a boy,” you breathed, setting the scalpel down. “Healthy and loud. He didn't stop wailing until Mo’at placed him on his mother’s chest.“

Neteyam moved closer, leaning against a support beam near your herb rack. “And the mother?“

“Strong. She was incredible, Neteyam.” You moved to a bundle of dried leaves, your hands working quickly to sort them, your enthusiasm bubbling over. “But you should have heard Mo’at. While she was cleaning the babe, she looked at him and then looked at me and said, ‘this one is small. Neteyam, now, he was a giant. The biggest baby I have seen in all my cycles’. She said you were so large she nearly wondered if Neytiri had hidden a second child behind you.”

Neteyam’s ears flicked back, a rare flush appeared on his cheeks. He huffed a laugh, looking down at his large, callous hands. “A giant, was I? I suppose I’ve given my mother’s back quite the ache.”

You let out a genuine, silvery chuckle, the sound dancing through the quiet tent. “I truly wish I could have seen you then. You were the very first of your kind, your father’s blood... and that of ours. I’m sure you were beautiful.” you mused, your voice softening as you looked at him. You realized too late how that sounded, and you quickly turned back to your jars. “It is a wonder of Eywa.”

“Is that why you look at me so closely sometimes?“ he teased, stepping into your personal space to reach for a heavy jar on a high shelf you are struggling to reach.

“I do not look at you closely,” you lied, your heart doing that treacherous dance against your ribs as he reached over your head. His arm was a solid wall of muscle beside your ear, and the scent of mint enveloped you.

“You do,” he countered softly, handing you the jar but not pulling his hand away until your fingers were firmly around his. “You track my movements like I am a complex creature you are trying to categorize. It is quite intimidating, being under the gaze of the clan’s most devoted scholar.”

You rolled your eyes, though your hands were trembling. “You are imagining things. Why would I look at you...” Your lips pushed forward, your voice lacking bravado.

Your heart is beating too heavily against your chest and your palms are sweating. He notices. He knows your eyes are often on him. He knows you watch each of his movements, he knows you feel hot every time you see how his shoulder and chest significantly broadened and filled out with muscles, or how the sight of his muscled abdomen flexing makes your breath catch at your throat.

“Research? To see how the 'hybrid' grows?” he says, his voice too innocent.

Your teeth gritted at your attempt to stop a groan from escaping. You are going to hyperventilate! You cleared your throat. “Maybe,“ you managed to say, your voice tight as you gripped the jar he’d just handed you. “It is a healer's duty to be thorough. I simply... pay attention to detail.”

He chuckled while your face felt like it had been plunged into a firepot. Neteyam is too innocent, while your mind is filled with inappropriate thoughts that shouldn’t even be there in the first place. You are a woman firm on the sanctity of your path! For Eywa's sake, gather your wits!

“Well,” he murmured. “If the research is still ongoing, I suppose I am already here. Do you need to... measure anything else? Or is the height of the hybrid sufficient for today's report?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was obviously teasing, his voice light and playful, but because you're guilty of your shameful thoughts, what is to him simple banter between friends is slow torture to you.

“I need to boil the nettles,” you said, abruptly turning your back you nearly bumped into a tray of obsidian.

Your hands trembled as you reached for a pot of water. Your mind, usually a home of prayer and medicinal formulas, was currently a chaotic mess. You’re both ashamed and shameless, because despite your guilt, you’re still thinking about how soft the chest on his skin looked in the light.

“You're using the cold-press pot for a boil,” Neteyam noted softly.

You felt him behind you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades as he reached around you to get the correct ceramic vessel. For a heartbeat, you were encased in him. You could see the way the veins mapped his hands, hands that were built for a bow and arrow but also held the young with devastating gentleness.

Eywa, strike me down, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut for a fleeting second.

“Right. Of course,”  you choked out, grabbing the correct pot from him with an unusual rashness that his surprised eyes flitted up to meet yours.

“You seem distracted,” he said, his voice losing some of its playfulness.

Your brows furrowed, intending to give him a sharp dismissal, but your gaze caught on the way his lower lip was slightly tucked under his teeth, a habit he’d had since he was ten. It was so boyish, so familiar, and yet, on this man’s face, it was lethal.

“No, of course, not... I’m just tired. It’s been a long day,” you said.

He nodded, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear. “I’ll work on that, you can go and sit down. I’ll clean up, too,” he said, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you want to scream. His hand wrapped around your upper arm to gently nudge you away from the hearth.

“I can do it,” you said, though your feet were already moving.

“You've been on your feet since the first light,” he countered, his voice firm with that quiet authority he had perfected over the years. “Let me do it, alright? I’ve got so much energy to spare. I didn’t have patrol today, so I’m practically a live wire.”

He turned back to the hearth, his movements fluid and confident. You sank onto the woven mat and from this lower vantage point, the view was even more treacherous. You tried to look at the ceiling. You tried to recite the properties of your herbs. You tried to pray. But your eyes kept drifting back to the way the light of the flames danced across the broad expanse of his back, and the way his tail flicked in a slow, content rhythm as he worked.

“There,” Neteyam said after a few minutes, oblivious to the spiritual crisis happening three feet behind him. He set the pot to simmer and began to move around the workbench. “The nettles are on. I’ve organized the herbs, cleaned everything, and put the scalpels back in its place. Is there anything else, or can I walk you back home now so you can get a better rest?”

“I can walk myself,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. You scrambled to your feet, desperately trying to reassemble the fragments of your dignity. “Thank you, Neteyam. For the... assistance.”

He stood by the tent flap, holding it open for you. He didn’t press, you know he never would. You passed by him and he gave you a small, tired smile. “Sleep well,” he murmured, your name on his lips a soft caress.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The summer heat had settled over the forest like a heavy, humid blanket, causing most Omatikaya youth to retreat to the river when the sun is at its high. Today alone, half the village had migrated to the banks, the air filled with splashes of water and sounds of laughter.

You sat on a smooth, warm boulder, the rock's heat seeping into your skin. Being bare was as natural as breathing for the people held no shame in the bodies Eywa gave them. Your legs were still submerged in the cold water as you eat the snacks you brought with you. Tasi and Yaremu were wading in the shallows nearby, their voices dropped to conspiratorial whispers that still carried easily over to you.

“He didn't stop there,” Yaremu was saying, her eyes wide and dancing with a secret, frantic energy. She was describing a rendezvous with her boyfriend las night, her hands gesturing toward her lower extremities submerged in the water. “He started at my ankles, and then… well, the way his tongue felt between my legs… I thought I was going to see the Great Mother right then and there.”

Tasi squealed and giggled, leaning in for more. “Was it better than the last time?”

“Oh, it was! It seems to get better and better, you know... We are exploring and learning each other’s bodies,” Yaremu grinned.

Tasi sighed dreamily. “I could say the same. But it’s the way he breathes against my neck that gets me,” Tasi whispered, her fingers tracing the line of her own collarbone. “The heat of it. And when he finally... when he enters, it’s like your whole body forgets how to be separate from his. You are basically a single entity, moving as one—”

Yaremu giggled, splashing a bit of water. “Oh, Great Mother! And the hands! How heavy they feel when they finally stop being polite and start claiming what they want.”

They both giggled, their bodies vibrating with frantic energy. Tasi looked at you and smiled a small one, “Oh, sister! I wish you could have experienced it... But the path reserved for the Great Mother is just as good,” she said.

You made a face of theatrical disgust. “Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sister, I’m not missing out. I can’t even imagine,” you said sassily.

But oh, that’s a big lie. Your mind, usually so disciplined, had been picturing a very specific set of calloused hands, a very specific weight. You saw them on your waist, just as Tasi had described, pulling you flush against the solid warmth of a very familiar body. You imagined the “weight” Yaremu spoke of, imagining how a certain body would weigh. Your mind even completed the picture by providing you with the familiar scent of mint and woodsmoke, you could actually smell it.

It’s like their words were seeds who fell into fertile soil, and now you felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun.

That was when you saw him.

Neteyam was waist-deep in the deeper water a few paces away, his skin glistening. He was surrounded by a few other hunters, their voices a low drone but their laughter boisterous. He was mid-laugh, but anyone can tell his eyes would wander to you every now and then, because when his gaze drifted back to where you are, his laughter died down a little. His eyes locked onto yours, and the air between you seemed to burn.

There was no boyish embarrassment in the way he stared at you, no hurried glance at the sky. He watched you with a heavy, predatory stillness it made your nape feel like it’s burning as goosebumps pricked your skin. You are not ashamed in your nakedness, the people have always swam in the river like this, and nothing is new with seeing each other naked.

But the gaze of the man across from you had given you a defiant, primitive urge. Instead of hiding, you shifted. You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the side to let the sun hit your neck. You arched your spine slowly, a deliberate, feline stretch that pushed your chest forward. Your breasts, firm and perky, on display as the tips pebbled. You felt his eyes track the movement. From this distance, you could see his pupils blow wide, his tail breaking the surface of the water behind him in a sharp, agitated flick. He didn't move, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

The tension followed you back to the village, and now, even as the sun dipped below the horizon and the communal fire dimmed, the memory of his gaze still made your skin hot. You were walking back to the Tsahik’s tent, intending to collect the herbs you dried and make the poultice you’ve been meaning to make.

The walk was silent, until it was broken by the sound of familiar footsteps behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. His scent had reached you and the air seemed to tighten, enough to tell you who it is. You plastered on a calm facade before you turned around, seeing him standing in the shadows, his silhouette tall and imposing, his breathing heavy as if he had run to get here.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, his voice a low, rough grate. He stepped into the light of the firepot, his expression uncharacteristically strained. “Earlier, at the river... I hope I did not frighten you.”

Your lower lip caught between your teeth. You remembered the way your body had reacted to him, the way you had arched your back, offering yourself to his eyes. The shame you expected to feel was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a blooming heat, and a frantic beating heart.

“I wasn't frightened,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. You took a small, daring step toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m... I’m glad you saw me.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched, and then a huff of chuckle escaped his lips. What you said was just the surface, small in the vastness of what he had always held for you. “I have always seen you,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

It seemed so simple, and yet it was all he could say. He wanted to tell you the truth of it, how he had been here since you were children, since the first time you ever looked at him after he had become aware of his feelings. That there was never been anyone else he truly saw. But he would not frighten you. To know that you were not frightened of him after his boldness at the river had been a relief.

You smiled softly, a genuine, aching look that reached your eyes. “I know... I also know that not everyone does...” you said, your hand lifted to press a palm against his muscled chest.

You are perceived differently by everyone in the clan. Just like Äye, you will soon be seen more as a figure of religion or the shadow of the Great Mother. But in your most private daydreams... This man in front of you sees you as a woman... But even if you know that he does, your path does not lead to him. Your palm felt scorched where it touched his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heart against your fingertips. He was flesh and blood and heat.

He took a half-step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “They are fools...” he whispered.

You knew you should pull back. You should change the topic and speak of the cooling salves or the morning rituals. But the memory of the river, of the way he had looked at you when you were bare and unashamed, was the only thought taking over your mind.

“Neteyam,” you breathed.

You voice was so soft, so lovely in his ears, that for the first time in his life, he dared to break through the boundaries. He leaned down, his movement slow, giving you every second to turn away. But you stayed. You stayed until his forehead and nose touched yours. You heart was beating too fast it was aching in your chest. You wanted to hold him, to grab him and hold him tight to you.

When his lips finally met yours, it was a collision of years of unspoken feelings and repressed hunger. You let out a soft sound into his mouth as your fingers curled into his chest strap, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The kiss was clumsy at first, the frantic meeting of two people who had only ever touched in dreams, but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your braids to tilt your head just right.

As he deepened the kiss, his other arm wound around your waist, hauling you flush against the unyielding lines of his body. You felt the heat of his skin and the terrifying strength of his hold. For this one moment, the twenty-two generations of solitary women in your family were silenced. The path was gone. There was only the weight of his hands and the feel of his soft lips against yours.

When he pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. He kept his arms locked around you, his chest heaving as he stared down at you with a look of pure, terrifying devotion. A huge smile sliced across your lips and he grinned, huffing a shaky laugh. You let a breathless laugh yourself, your fingers tangling in his braids.

“Are you making cooling salves? I can be of use. I make the best of them, you know that,” he said casually.

Your nose wrinkled. “I guess I’ll need the help,” you said, your eyes drifting back to his lips. “And the kisses, too.”

You startled when a thunder of laughter escaped him, pulling you to him for a more thorough hug. “Oh, my middle name has always been generous.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You felt his tail wrap possessively around your leg, a grounding, heavy weight as his mouth moved to the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. Your head fell back, a soft, traitorous moan escaping your lips. “Neteyam...” you muttered breathily. “Don’t leave marks...”

“Hmm?” he hummed with humor, his mouth already sucking some skin into its warmth.

“Tasi pointed out... the marks on my neck the other day,“ you said. “I can’t keep telling her it’s insect bites.”

His body shook as he chuckled, lifting his head to press a kiss on your lips. Then his lips repeated a trail on your jaw, leaving wet kisses and licks, making you smile as you held him tighter. “Why... Can’t help it. You taste so good,” he murmured.

“I’m not a fruit,” you countered.

He hummed, sucking on your skin softly. “So sweet, nonetheless.”

You cupped his face, bringing it up so you could kiss him. You both have improved significantly in the past weeks, having found a different hobby aside from talking, when you two are alone. He helps you in the healing tent, but it’s not always that your companions are not around, like today. Kiri and Mo’at are in the tent, preparing for a severe injury a hunter got from a hunt. You had told Mo’at you will search for night-blooming lilies, but your feet had led you straight to where you knew Neteyam finished his scout rounds.

And now, you’re here, half-lying against a massive tree root, under the comforting weight of a warrior who couldn’t stop kissing you. He deepened the kiss and you felt his hand hover on your waist. One of your hands lowered to hold one of them and his hand immediately move to intertwine his fingers with yours.

You smiled, but that was not your intention. You brought his hand to one of your peaks, moving your top aside so his hand could touch the soft flesh bare. You gained a soft groan from him and he lifted his head to look at you. You rose to chase his lips, pressing his hand on your boob and moaning when he began kneading it.

“Yes...“ you mumbled.

His lips lowered down and you arched your back, waiting for his lips to reach your peaks, and when it did, you fought with your entire body just so you wouldn’t shake and buck. The sensation felt so good, it made you feel even hotter. It made you want to close you thighs, but because his body was between your legs, you could only buck against him.

“Oh...” you moaned, bucking against him again when you felt a hard ridge make contact with your clothed softness. “Neteyam...”

He hummed, his mouth full of your soft flesh, sending delicious vibration across your chest. You felt his hand move down to your hips, holding you in place before his hips came down on you, dragging that hard ridge you felt earlier across your crotch. You shivered, squeezing your eyes tight as you moaned. He repeated it again and again until you felt so ticklish in that spot between your legs, feeling a warm pool of liquid gushing out of you.

“Fuck,“ you heard him say, moving away from you a little to fumble at his loincloth. You felt a warm wetness land on your thigh and he groaned. “Fuck, sorry,“ his deep voice grated and you felt his hand, but you were already lifting your head to see.

You lips parted at the sight of his erected cock on display, a gasp escaping you. It was long and thick, its wide tip a flush of dark indigo, wet with his own release. Most of the glistening essence was on the floor and some were on your thigh. You genuinely didn’t know what to focus on. Your mind wandered to Tasi’s talks and this can’t possibly be the thing that enters a woman.

You curiosity got the better of you though, your hand shot down to grab it but his hand was faster, grabbing your wrist and moving it away. Your nose flared in annoyance and your eyes lifted to glare at him, but he met you with eyes that spoke of challenge.

“That's right. Keep your eyes up here,” he said in that private, lower register, his hand putting that thing back inside his loincloth.

You groaned and pulled your wrist from him. “I just want to touch it,” you whined.

He angled his head to kiss you. “Unless you want to drive me insane, you can’t,” his hand hovered over your thigh to wipe his release off of your skin.

Your hand shot down again, but this time, to dip a finger on his release, popping it to your mouth before he could even react. You were like a kid left unattended with a food that fell on the ground and he's the adult keeping you away from it, because now, he's staring at you both in surprise and wonder. You hummed at its surprisingly good taste and he wasn’t even able to stop you when you dipped a finger the second time around, scooping more essence, and keeping eye contact with him as if daring him to stop you.

You broke eye contact to look at it, intending to scoop down again but his hand already wrapped around your wrist, stopping you. You glared at him, groaning again, but he was already wiping your thigh clean with a piece of cloth. Your lips pushed forward, sad to see the essence gone. “You’re such a kill joy,” you said in a whine, your tail moving under you in an agitated flick.

He huffed a chuckle, his face moving to kiss your pouting lips softly. “Sorry, my love... Maybe next time,” he murmured.

Your hands lifted to hold his face properly so you could kiss him better, smiling against his lips.

A week later, you found yourself standing above the plains, overlooking the valley below as you gripped your basket half-full of cliff-blossoms. Neteyam was leading a pack of young hunters on a sweep of the forest floor. From this distance, he was a vision of controlled power, commanding the space around him without even speaking. You watched him signal a halt with a sharp, fluid movement of his arm. He barked an order, his voice carrying upward, deep and resonant.

He was wearing his full warrior gear, the woven chest straps accentuating the massive breadth of his shoulders and cummerbund hugging his muscled torso. You felt a wave of heat wash over you, settling low in your belly. You were practically vibrating with a hunger that felt both blasphemous and inevitable. You imagined him coming to the Tsahik’s tent later tonight, covered in the dust of the hunt, and the way he would look at you when he finally got you alone.

“A natural leader, isn’t he?”

You jumped, nearly dropping your basket. Kiri was standing a few paces away, her head tilted, watching you with an expression that was far too perceptive for your comfort.

“The clan is in good hands,” you said quickly, forcing your voice into its usual even tone. You turned back to the cliff-side, picking at a blossom with trembling fingers.

She didn't say anything else, but the way she sniffed the air, a subtle twitch of her nose, made your heart stop. For weeks, she had been quiet, but you know how observant Kiri is; she knew the difference between the scent of night-lilies and the scent of her brother who had been spending far too much time tangled in your limbs.

Later that evening, the Tsahik’s tent was filled with the sounds of your friends’ chatters and the air thick with the smell of boiling herbs. Mo’at was away at a naming ceremony, leaving you, Kiri, Tasi, and Yaremu to manage the evening prep.

“He was so frustrated,” Yaremu giggled, crushing a handful of seeds. “I told him we couldn't go all the way, so he just... he took my hand and guided it. I didn't know a man could make those kind of sounds just from a touch of the fingers.”

Tasi leaned in, her eyes wide. “Wait, you just... with your hand? Like you were kneading dough?”

“More like stroking clay, but faster,” Yaremu whispered, her face flushed. “They get so sensitive there. It’s like they lose their minds.”

Kiri let out a boisterous cackle, throwing a piece of bark at Yaremu. “You two are so inappropriate! We are at the Tsahik’s tent!”

You stared into the boiling pot, the memory of Neteyam’s... thing... flashing behind your eyes. You had never seen it again, he made sure of that. But you remembered the way he had stopped you from touching it, the way he had claimed it would "drive him insane."

“Is it... difficult?“ you asked without thinking, your voice cutting through the laughter.

The tent went dead silent. Tasi and Yaremu stared at you as if you had just grown a second head. Even Kiri stopped laughing, her luminous eyes narrowing as she shifted her gaze toward you.

“Difficult?” Tasi repeated, stunned. “Since when do you care about the mechanics of a man’s pleasure?“

“I am a healer,” you said, your chin tilting up, though your pulse was racing. “I am simply curious about the... response. Yaremu mentioned they make sounds. Is it a reflex, or a choice?”

Yaremu grinned slowly. “Oh, it's a reflex, sister. They can't help it. If you move your thumb just right over the tip... they break. Even the strongest of them.”

You swallowed hard, your mind instantly picturing Neteyam breaking under your hand. The thought made the tips of your breasts ache against your top. “I see,” you said, stirring the pot with a bit too much force. “Fascinating. From a research perspective, of course.”

“Of course,” Kiri echoed. She moved closer to you, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Might I ask, sister, if you have been giving Neteyam your favorite lillies... Because he’s been smelling an awful lot like them lately.”

Your lips parted. You haven’t even noticed that! “M-Maybe... Maybe he uses them when he bathes,” you lied.

She pulled away with a smile, nodding as if she understood, while Tasi and Yaremu continued to gossip, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. You didn’t know whether to be worried about Kiri’s reactions or not, still thinking about it even when the evening meal was over. You went back in the Tsahik’s tent, focused on grinding a stubborn root into paste, your pestle acting as a heartbeat for the quiet room.

Your entire body seemed to melt into a puddle, though, when you heard the tent flap rustle. Neteyam stepped inside, looking exhausted but exhilarated. He had shed his heavy scouting gear, leaving only the chest strap. A small smudge of blue paint was smeared across his temple.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice gravelly from shouting orders all day. He didn't wait for an answer before closing the distance, reaching out to tug playfully on one of your braids.

“How was the hunt?” you asked.

“Successful, except that we saw a palulukan on the way back. The Great Mother was kind, because it didn’t see us. Young Kamu was practically swallowing air by the time it was gone, the boy has forgotten how to breathe.”

You pictured the boy, one of the youth who just passed their iknimaya last season. “Cut him some slack, you mighty warrior. The boy is only fourteen,” you said, chuckling. You reached for a damped cloth to wipe the paint on his temple.

His hand followed yours, grabbing it gently and pressing a kiss on your fingers. “Your hands are shaking, baby. How long have you been at this?” he grabbed the pestle and mortar, his forehead furrowed.

“Since the sun was high. Don’t worry about it,” you said, because your hands weren’t shaking because of what he’s thinking, but yoy were grateful for the reprieve nonetheless. You leaned back against the table, watching him take over the task with effortless ease.

“Don’t worry? Your hands seem so overwork, what with that Tsahik’s tasks and your classes at the pavillion,” he reprimanded softly.

You pushed your lips forward, ignoring him as you took your damp cloth again and began to wipe the dust from his shoulders with a damp cloth, your movements lingering. “Yaremu and Tasi were talking today,“ you started, trying to sound clinical as you moved the cloth over the swell of his chest.

“About...“ he trailed after it took you long to continue, still focused on his paste.

“About how... a man responds to a certain touch. With the hand.”

Neteyam went still, and you saw his eyes zeroing in on something. “What touch?”

“They said it makes even the strongest warriors break. That they lose their minds,” you whispered, leaning in until your breath fanned over his skin. “I find the claim about reflex... questionable. I believe I need to conduct my own study. For research.”

He stared at you before letting out a choked, dark laugh. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive heat. “Not here,” he whispered.

Your lips broke into a huge grin. “You’ll allow me?”

He moved to kiss the tip of your nose. “I will never say no to you,” he said.

“You did say no... Last week,” you pointed out and a deep laughter rumbled in his chest.

“I did say next time, didn’t I?” he replied, stealing another deep, searing kiss before pulling back with a wink. “I’ll finish here. Go up the higher branch, I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”

You pursed your lips and nodded, almost skipping your way out of the tent. The higher branch of the Hometree was so high in the clouds that the village sounds were reduced to a distant hum. It was a little cold but it was of the good kind, lulling the vibrations of excitement in your body as you looked far beyond the never-ending sight of the rainforest.

When Neteyam arrived, you two didn’t waste time. The moment he was within reach, he pulled you into a kiss that felt like a claim, his hands sliding down to anchor you against him.

“Show me this research, then,” he rasped against your lips.

Your hands were trembling as you reached for his loincloth, but curiosity was a more powerful force than shame. He was also trembling when he was finally bared to you, his cock looking even more formidable in the dimmed light. You caressed the length of it with your fingers first, hearing him take a swift, sharp breath, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, your lips parted at the heat and the velvet-like texture.

You remembered Yaremu’s advice, like stroking clay, but faster, and began to move. Neteyam’s head hit the bark of the tree with a dull thud as you caressed him, pumping your hand up and down high length. A low, gutteral sound tore from his throat, a raw animalistic noise you had never heard from him. His eyes were droopy but not even a palulukan could make him close his eyes right now.

"Oh, baby..." he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of you hips.

You watched him with fascinated eyes. He was breaking. This brave and mighty warrior was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in jagged hitches. Emboldened by your power, you moved your thumb over the wide tip, just as Yaremu had described.

Neteyam’s hips bucked uncontrollably, his entire body shuddering. "Fuck—wait, stop—"

But you didn't stop. The curiosity that had been burning in you all day reached a fever pitch. You lowered yourself, your hair spilling over his thighs, and before he could realize your intent, you took him into your mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. The taste of him, the heat, the sheer size. Neteyam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, his hands flying down to grab your hair. He only let you stay there for a few seconds, his body vibrating so violently you thought he might actually fall from the branch, before he scrambled to lift your head up.

“No,“ he gasped, his face flushed, his eyes wild. He hauled you to straddle him, crushing your lips with a kiss that was almost feral. “Not yet. I can't... if you do that, I'll never let you go back to that tent.“

He held you tight, both your hearts racing and both of you gasping for air in the high, cold wind. You cupped his face, kissing him softly. Nothing mattered, not your path, nor your vow to yourself, it was replaced by the loud, screaming truth of what you were becoming to each other.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Weeks later, the celebration of the new harvest was in full swing. The communal clearing was filled of the sounds of drums, swirling colors, and the intoxicating scent of fermented berries. The elder warriors were generous with the brew, and for once, you didn't hold back. You leaned back against a carved root, a soft giggle escaping you as you watched a group of younger children unsuccessfully try to mimic a warrior's dance.

Kiri nudged your shoulder. “Careful, sister.”

“Let her have her fun, Kiri,” Neteyam intervened, though he was grinning just as widely. He held up his own bowl, the blue paint on his arm shimmering under the bioluminescent lanterns. “To the best healer-in-training and the worst berry-picker in the clan.”

“What?” you protested. “I am an excellent picker. It’s really just quality over quantity for me.” you said sassily, rolling your eyes.

“Is that what we're calling it now?” Neteyam laughed, the sound deep. He turned to Kiri. “She spent five minutes today analyzing a single fruit while I had already filled two baskets.”

“It's called attention to detail, Neteyam! You wouldn't understand,” you shot back, your eyes dancing. The brew was making everything feel warm and golden.

Kiri watched the exchange, her head tilting in that way that usually meant she was talking to the creatures, but tonight, she just looked at you two and smirked. Neteyam took a long sip of his brew, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim of the bowl, challenge sparking in them.

“I'm going to find Tuk before she tries to eat every pie there is tonight. Try not to get ‘lost’ in the woods, you two...”

She vanished into the crowd with a knowing wink. The moment she was gone, the space between you and Neteyam seemed to evaporate, and in the chaos of the festival, you were the only two people in the world.

“Another bowl?” he whispered, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him.

“I think,” you breathed, looking at his lips, “that I've had enough of the brew. I'm starting to want things they aren't offering.”

Neteyam’s grin turned slow and predatory, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh under the table. He tilted his head toward the dark periphery of the Hometree and raised a brow. You smirked, and bowed down to your food, picking a nut to pop it in your mouth. He stood up to go, and you waited before following him, your heart racing with a fluttering excitement.

By the time you reached the outskirts, the sounds of the party were a distant muffle and the cool night air hit your skin, but it did nothing to douse the heat between you. Neteyam walked closer to you, his pupils blown wide, his movements slightly sluggish and drunken, which only made him look devastatingly handsome.

He cupped your face and kissed you. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about it,“ he murmured against your lips.

“Hm?” you hummed, kissing him softly.

He trailed a hand down your side, his palm hot and heavy, before coming to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles. “I want to return the favor,” he whispered, his breath smelling of sweet berries and forest air.

“How?” you asked, your voice breathy, your body already leaning into his.

He leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Mouth or fingers?”

A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine. You feel like you know what this was. You looked up at him, a bold, drunken grin spreading across your lips.

“Both?”

Neteyam let out a sharp exhaled breath, a flicker of nervous energy crossing his face despite the haze of the brew. “Okay,” he whispered.

He started with your neck, his mouth hot and insistent, sucking at the sensitive skin until you knew a mark would be left for sure.

You two sat by the large root of a tree, his hands were everywhere, caressing and squeezing, until it untied your loincloth around your tail. When the fabric fell away, he didn't hesitate. He knelt before you, his golden eyes filled with a sudden, sharp clarity.

He pressed a reverent kiss there, and then he parted his lips so he could lick your slit from the base to the top, making you pull your hips away in a jerk. His hands on your hips firmly held you in place, though, keeping yoy from running away from his intense ministrations. You bit your lip but small sounds still escaped you, your thighs wanting to close, and when he added a finger, you had to cover your mouth to muffle your loud moan.

Neteyam let out a low, frustrated groan as his finger worked inside you, you were so tight. His mouth and tongue never left you and you didn’t know what hit you, you just began to tremble in his grip, your fingers tangling in his braids and grabbing hard at a handful.

“The world is spinning...” you chuckled as he kissed his way up to your body, sucking hard on your nipple.

“Yeah?“ his lips came down to kiss you softly, and then he lifted his body up, fitting himself between your parted thighs.

He stared at you, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a line of restraint. You moaned in protest when your felt his thumb rub your clit, but you didn’t pull back because it felt so good. You bit your lip and moved your hips gently against his finger. He looked, looking at your bare pussy, and how he had his hand on it, his thumb rubbing you.

And you liked it. He shivered at the reality of it all, his breath catching in his throat. If a year ago, someone told him he’d be here with you, he wouldn’t have dared to believe it... And right now, if he were only dreaming, the person who’ll wake him up will receive the punch of a lifetime.

You looked at him, watching how his pupil blew so wide it’s practically eating up the gold. You smiled breathlessly, reaching to cup his face, your heart overflowing. “What do you want to do, hm?” you craned your head up a little to kiss him sotfly. “Do it... do what you want.”

He stared at you and you yelped when his fingers pinched your folds. “Are you sure?” he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel.

You nodded firmly. With an animalistic growl, he shed his own loincloth in one fluid motion, revealing the thick, pulsing length of his arousal. You tried to sit up to see his bare form better, but he pressed you back with a hand on your shoulder, and your body tingled at how dominant he seemed to be when he’s drunk.

He didn't enter you, not truly, but he lined himself up against your folds. He began to work his hips, dragging his ridiculous length against your slit in deep strokes from base to tip.

“Fuck, baby...” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found a rhythm.

The friction was overwhelming. The thickness of him was overstimulating your clit until every nerve ending in your body was screaming. You arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his. “So good, ‘teyam...” you moaned in jagged breaths.

He groaned, catching your mouth in a feral kiss. “I’m coming... fuck...”

He wanted to hold out so bad, to prolong the moment, but it was so fucking difficult, especially when you keep whispering in his ear. He came in a hot rush on your stomach just as you came your high again. You clung to him, your body quivering in the aftermath. As he collapsed against you, you reached down, scooping a bit of his essence and bringing it to your lips. You moaned in pleasure, while Neteyam let out a soft, tired laugh, kissing your cheek and letting you do as you pleased.

Once you’re both dressed, you chased each other out of the woods but Neteyam’s hand snaked out, his fingers catching the end of your tail as you tried to dart ahead of him. He gave it a light tickle, a sensation that sent a playful jolt right up your spine.

“That’s cheating!” you squealed, spinning around with a wide, lopsided grin. You smacked his muscled abdomen, but it felt like you hit a warm stone wall, stinging your palm.

Neteyam didn't even flinch, he just huffed a breathy laugh. “Did you hurt yourself?“ he asked, catching your hand.

“Humble bragging, aren’t we?” you teased, stepping into his space and poking a finger into the center of his chest. “I think the brew caused your head to grow bigger than it already is.”

He caught your finger, pressing a kiss to the tip of it. “If my head is big, it is only because you occupy every corner of it.” He pulled you closer, his tail winding around yours in a tight, possessive curl. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you giggled, and for a few more steps, the world was nothing but the scent of him and the dizzying joy of the night.

But as you rounded the final thicket leading back to the communal clearing, the laughter died in your throat. At the sight of your father standing just outside the Hometree’s entrance, you moved away from Neteyam faster than lightning could hit the ground. He was deep in conversation with another senior warrior, his arms crossed over his chest. The shift in the air was instantaneous and your joy was replaced with cold anxiety.

Neteyam felt it, too. He immediately untangled his tail from yours and straightened his spine, his posture shifting from the relaxed lover back to the disciplined son of the Olo’eyktan. Your father turned his head. He didn't move, and he didn't stop his conversation, but his gaze locked onto the two of you. You walked faster to get to your father, feeling the guilt rise in you a little. You wondered if there were marks on your neck, or if your hair was in disarray.

Neteyam reached your flock, raising his hand in a formal warrior’s greeting, his voice steady and respectful when he greeted your father. Your father offered a curt nod, his stare never leaving Neteyam’s face for a long heartbeat. It looked like a silent warning, one that acknowledged the rank Neteyam held, but reminded him exactly whose daughter he was walking home.

“Go inside, daughter,” your father said quietly.

You didn’t look at Neteyam, turning on your heels to walk toward the entrance of the Hometree. You felt ashamed of your feebleness, how you folded so easily at the presence of pressure. You knew your father won’t let it go and that reckoning will soon come, so when you heard the tent flap rustle one evening and didn’t smell Neteyam’s familiar scent, you turned and saw that it was your father. You straightened up, greeting him as you would greet a superior.

“You spend much time in the Tsahik’s tent at night, daughter,“ he started, touching one of the hanging braided ceremonial beads. “And you are rarely alone. Kiri is your friend, isn’t she?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding. “Yes, father...”

“And Neteyam?“ he inquired.

You blinked, you knew this was coming, and yet, you weren’t able to prepare a proper excuse. “Neteyam is a good friend, father. We have been friends since we were kids,” you said, your words tumbling over one another.

He nodded. “I know that. Neteyam is a fine warrior, the pride of the Olo’eyktan... But a man of his vitality and youth does not seek out a woman of your path night after night, nor does he come out of the dark woods with the same woman.”

Your fingers tightened at the herbs. “We are friends, father. N-Neteyam helps me—”

“Friendship between a future leader and Eywa’s maiden is good, yes, but this is not it," he warned, stepping closer. He gestured to you, to the way you had begun to arrange your hair with more care, the subtle oils you used to make your skin glow. “You are becoming worldly. You are looking at the ground when you should be looking at the Great Mother. Do not forget the honor of our lineage. Do not forget the path that was chosen for you.”

That warning rang in your ears for days. You had shed tears about it, spending your days weakly. You are frightened. You fear that you do not have enough will to fight against this path that has long blurred for you. The only sight you can see is the path leading to the man you have loved half of you life. The man you will have to turn your back to in favor of your family’s honor. The man you will lose to another. You can’t even stand imagining it. He will mate someone worthy and strong... She will have him and his children, and there will be nothing for you.

Those thoughts weighed you down. It was a tragedy.

It followed you into the woods a week later, where you were meant to be foraging berries for a pie you had promised Kiri. The basket felt heavy, the vibrant reds of the fruit blurring before your eyes. You were standing in a patch of sunlight, but you felt cold, your tears freely flowing, something you couldn’t do when you’re back at the village because Neteyam will surely know.

But as if summoned, the large leaves near you shifted and Neteyam appeared, his smile was bright, his eyes searching for yours, but when he saw the tears on your cheeks, the slump of your shoulders, and the way your hands moved listlessly among the bushes, his expression shifted instantly to one of deep concern.

“Hey,” his voice murmured, coming to stand before you right away. “What is it? Did something happen in the village?”

You tried to give him a small smile. “No, I’m alright,” you said in a soft voice.

Neteyam has never seen you cry before, save for whe you are moved by wonder or by something sad happening to others. You have always been composed and laid-back, sometimes he doesn't even know if you ever get mad at all. Ans right now, you were crying, and it seemed so personal it’s breaking his heart. Gently, his lips pressed against your temple, pulling you close.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice so soft it made your heart spasm.

You wanted to say you’re alright again but it shattered before it even reached your lips. The dam you had built with such effort finally broke. A sob escaped you, and then the tears were falling, frantic and unstoppable. Neteyam inhaled a sharp breath, pulling you into his arms, his chest a solid, warm wall against your grief. He didn't ask questions; he simply held you, his hand stroking your hair as you wept into his shoulder, pouring out your fears on how the path now felt like a cage, how your father’s words had cut you, and most of all, the soul-crushing fear that you would be forced to watch him mate with another while you lived a life of cold, sacred solitude.

“I can't do it,” you choked out, clutching the leather of his harness. “I can't watch you take a mate. I cannot watch you belong to someone else. Neteyam, I cannot do it,“ you are crying so hard you could barely understand your own words.

Neteyam pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. The fear in your eyes threatened to break him from the inside out. He hadn’t known you had this much fear in you, and although he knew he shouldn’t feel good about it, he still felt it, but it would never be in him to want to prolong your agony. He loves you so much, his heart could burst. He wiped your tears with his thumbs, his gaze so intense it felt like he was looking directly into your spirit.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing honesty. “I have always loved you. Ever since we were children learning in the pavillion under the watchful eyes of the healers, you were the only one for me.”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing as if in prayer.

“When I was young, I worked until my bones ached because I wanted to be worthy of you. I wanted to be a man who deserved to stand at your side. I wanted to be your mate. I wanted to be the father of your children.” His voice dropped to a reverent, shaky register, smiling at you. "But I also know the path you have chosen. And my love, listen to me, you will never, ever lose me. I have long made my decision. I promised myself I will never mate with another.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes wide with shock. “Neteyam, you are the future Olo’eyktan. You have to—”

“I can be a good leader without a mate,” he countered firmly, his eyes burning with conviction. “I have decided. If the Great Mother requires you to be alone, then I will be alone with you. I will be your shadow. I will guard you and walk your path from a distance, but I will never give myself to another woman. I have long been claimed.”

The image of him, noble, strong, and utterly alone in the dark because of you, shattered your heart into a thousand pieces. You didn't want him to be a shadow. You wanted him to be the man who held your hand in the light. You wanted it so much.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice low and steady. "Whatever happens, whatever choice you make, I am here. I will be here. You have me. You will always have me.”

You looked up at him and saw the absolute certainty in his eyes. It frightened you, to say the least, to know that he was willing to let the future of his bloodline wither away just to be the man who stood outside your door.

​“You cannot,” you whispered. You cannot possiby be this selfish. You regretted telling him your fears for you know it only solidified his decision. “Neteyam, the clan... they expect a mother for the people. Your father and Neytiri... they want to see you happy. They want to see your children.“

​“Then they will be disappointed,“ he said, his jaw tightening with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. His hands moved to cup the back of your head, grounding you. “There is no happiness for me if I am lying next to a woman who is not you. I would be a shell. How could I lead our people with a heart that is half-dead?“

“You wouldn’t be with me anyway...” you rasped, your head bowing.

He looked at you with sad eyes but still, he chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose. “You haven’t been paying attention, my love. I have long known that and I have accepted it,” he said. “I will do anything you ask of me, you know that, but you cannot ask me to be with another. I will not obey you.”

You parted your lips to breathe, gripping his forearms to feel the solid warmth of him. The selflessness of his love shamed you. What good have you done to deserve such devotion? That question lingered with you even after you two parted. You knew the answer: you have done nothing. You have never been willful your whole life.

Following your great aunt’s path, the path that twenty-two generations of women in your father’s family have taken, have never before felt like an order to be obeyed. You wanted it before you truly knew what you wanted, but now, as you looked back... Neteyam has always been there. He has always stirred your heart in the way only he could do. You have always loved him.

And you will never stop.

Driven by a desperation you couldn’t name, you found yourself at the secluded dwelling of your great aunt. The air was thick with incense and you knew this would be one of those few days where she could be disturbed from her prayers, and even now, she was a silhouette of stillness, her back to you as she whispered prayers that had been her only companions for sixty years.

You didn't speak. You simply sat behind her and began to pray, the minutes stretching into hours. You watched the way the smoke curled in the air, wondering if your life would be just like hers: sacred, hollow, and hauntingly quiet. You wanted to feel guilty for thinking it look gray, but it was what you were thinking.

When the last of the incense burned out, Äye turned slowly. Her eyes, fill of wisdom and spirit, settled on your face. She didn't see her successor; she saw the crumbling ruins of a girl in love.

“What is it that brings you to this quiet place with such a loud heart?” she asked, her voice both stern and full of concern.

“The medicinal roots in the southern ridge are coming in early this year," you said casually, your voice a dry rasp. “I’m thinking of beginning the harvest before the syaksyuk get to them."

She tilted her head, her eyes sharp and assessing.  “You have been sitting here for five hours, praying to a Mother who has already answered you, yet you refuse to listen. I can see it in your face,” she reached out, tilting your chin up. “What is it? And do not tell me it is the harvest.”

You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest becoming unbearable. “I wanted to ask if... If your heart has ever stirred... For a person, I mean. Not for the Great Mother, nor for the people. For a man.” You paused, your voice trembling. “Have you ever felt... desire?“

You waited for her to look at you as if you’ve grown two heads but she didn’t. The old woman’s eyes softened, a distant. She didn't answer right away, instead, she let her hand fall to your shoulder. “Is that what is clawing at you?”

You looked away, the first tear finally breaking free. “This is my path, Auntie... I have known this my whole life. But... These feelings I have in my heart, I have carried with me long before I knew what it was. I have loved him since we were children. And this man loves me with all he is... I supposed it would be easier if he didn’t love me back. It would be easier to accept the solitary path ahead of me, but now, because he loves me, he will forsake his own duty to the clan just so he could freely love me.” You gripped your knees, your knuckles turned white. “I do not want that for him. I cannot let him be alone and empty, I cannot deny him the love I can give him...“

Äye let out a long, slow breath. “The son of Toruk Makto.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “How... how did you know?”

A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “I have seen it, and I still see it. You have always had the boy’s eyes, and his heart. You see only now.”

“I am scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I look at the path laid out for me... This life of solitude and it feels like a cage. I want him... I love him. I want to give him myself...” you looked at her. “Is it wrong, Auntie? To want the ground more than the sky? To want a man more than a goddess?”

Äye reached out and cradled your face in her weathered hands.

“Is it truly the path she gave you?” she asked softly. “Eywa does not give paths, child. She simply makes us feel. What you feel here will tell you where you belong.” She smiled, her palm pressing firmly over your heart. “And clearly, your heart has been showing you the path for a very long time.”

You sniffled, leaning into her touch, a flicker of hope sparking in the dark.

“I have easily done my duty because Eywa did not see it fit to put desire in my heart,” Äye confessed, her gaze turning distant and thoughtful. “I walked this path because it was the only one I saw. But, if I had only felt love and desire for another... if I had felt even a fraction of what you described... I would have let it consume me. I would have allowed myself to be loved by someone I loved.” Her expression became fiercer. “It is a gift, child, and you must not deny yourself what Eywa has given you. You must not deny Neteyam the love that you could give him, or the life you two could live. To turn away from such a love is the only true blasphemy.”

“But my father... the clan...” you whispered.

She scoffed. “Do not worry about your father. He is handled,” she said with a small, knowing smirk. “You go to your warrior. Tell him everything you told me.”

The weight that had been crushing your ribs for years had simply evaporated. You hugged her and she patted your back. When you finally stood up, your legs feel so light, as though you were floating. You ran through the village, past the staring eyes of the hunters, straight toward the training grounds where you knew a certain warrior was spending his day.

You didn't care about the path anymore. There has only ever been one for you, and it led straight to him. The sounds of clashing practice staves and rhythmic grunts welcomed you as you reached the training grounds. You stood at the edge of the clearing, thinking about how you have never done this before even though you passed by it every single day. You’ve never even thrown Neteyam a glance when he was over here, so now, you indulged yourself to the sight of his skin glistening with sweat as he moved with lethal grace.

He was giving corrections, his voice commanding and steady, until his gaze swept toward the edge and snagged on you. He stopped mid-sentence and had to do a double look, his golden eyes widening in genuine disbelief. It was always he who sought you out, he who lingered at the edges, waiting for you to pay him attention. And now, to see you standing here, in the open light, was a surprise that seemed to steal the air from his lungs. A slow, radiant smile began to spread across his face, one that he didn't even try to hide.

The other hunters followed his gaze lazily, shocked as Neteyam was to see you standing there, looking only at him. When he signaled for a break, Neteyam practically glided toward you, his focus so intense it felt like he was pulling you toward him by an invisible thread. He opened his mouth to ask what had brought you there, but you didn't give him the chance.

You stepped forward to meet him halfway, reaching up, tagling your fingers in the braids at his nape to pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss.

The silence that fell over the training grounds was almost funny, jaws practically hit the dirt, and Lo’ak who was standing a few yards away dropped his staff, his eyes bulging.

“When will you be done?” you asked casually, your voice clear and steady. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, grounding him.

Neteyam looked dazed, as if he were caught in a dream and was terrified of waking up. The smile on his face was huge and utterly devoted, it brought ache to your chest. “Now,” he rasped, his voice sounding hypnotized. He didn't even look back at his men. “I’ll finish this early. Right now.”

You let out a melodic chuckle, your palm pressing flat against the heat of his abdomen. “Don’t be silly. I can just wait here,” you said, gesturing toward the wooden benches.

He nodded fervently, his tail twitching with an excitement he couldn't suppress. You couldn't resist, he looked so uncharacteristically flustered and cute that you leaned in for another quick kiss before patting his chest.

“Go,” you whispered, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I’ll wait.”

Neteyam turned back to his warriors, but the sternness was gone. The men themselves were in a state of total shock, their eyes kept on darting back to where you are. The rest of the training session was a blur and you couldn’t take your eyes on Neteyam, and you’re glad he was the opposite. He was so focused on it, even though he was less strict, the intensity of his approach did not wane.

He dismissed the session right on time, handing his staff to a young hunter and was at your side in a heartbeat, his skin still glistening with sweat. He wiped it off with a soft cloth and you stood up, grabbing the cloth to help him wipe his sweat. “I need you to come with me,” you said, fighting the urge to smirk.

He breathed, catching your hand to graze a thumb on your knuckles. “Where? The forest? The high ridges?”

“Further,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your stomach. You grabbed his hand and his fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as vines coil on a branch.

The walk was surprisingly casual, the air cooling as the forest began its slow transition into the bioluminescent glow of dusk. You stepped over a spike plant and he gripped your hand tighter. “Careful,” he said, hopping over a fallen log and reaching back to steady.

“I am a healer, Neteyam. I know which leaves bite and which ones soothe. If anything, I should be the one worried about you. You almost walked straight into a stickyplant back there because you were too busy looking at me.”

“Can you blame the warrior for admiring the view?” he countered with a cheeky waggle of his brows.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Getting bold, aren’t we? Must be all those pies Tuk didn't eat. I saw her trying to smuggle a third one past Mo’at at dinner last night. She looked like a prolemuris with its cheeks full of fruits.”

“She’s a menace,” he chuckled, his tail flicking with amusement. “The young these days...” he shook his head. “Just last time, I saw a young hunter trying to impress girls by showing off his battle scars. Most of them were from tripping over during drills.”

“Be kind,” you teased. “We were all young and desperate for attention once. Though some of us,” you glanced at him sideways, “didn't have to try quite so hard.”

Neteyam’s smile softened, his fingers tightening around yours. “I don't know about that. I spent half my youth trying to figure out why the smartest girl in the pavilion wouldn't look at me for more than two seconds.”

“I was busy studying!” you protested. “I had to learn the difference between a glow moss and a spice leaf. One heals a burn, the other causes a rash that lasts for three days. Imagine if I'd gotten those mixed up because I was staring at your growing muscles.”

“A tragedy for the clan,“ he joked, pulling you by the waist and pressing a kiss against your neck. “But a win for my ego,” he whispered.

You squealed and pulled away, running away from him. You heard him chuckle, chasing after you until you two reached the purple glow of the ancient sacred tree. You looked at him with a soft smile and he stared at you, his eyes softening into a reverent look as he savored the look of you bathed in purple light

“It is beautiful tonight,” he whispered, reaching out to caressed your jaw.

“It is,” you agreed, tiptoeing to kiss him again, your arms hooking on his nape.

His hands immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him as he deepened the kiss, his mouth devouring yours. You pulled him down with you onto the soft moss, laying back so he’d follow you. You spread your thighs and he settled his body between them, breaking away from the kiss as if he’d just noticed what position you had pulled him into under the sacred tree.

You smiled, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to his lips, “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered as if it was your secret, kissing him again.

His head lifted, his lips curling into a small, yet triumphant, smile. “I love you more, baby. So much,” he said, his arm wrapping around you to pull you to him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

You smiled and kissed him again, you didn't let him break away, and as your hands moved to his shoulders, the kiss deepened. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. You pulled back just an inch, your eyes locked onto his, and then, with a hand that didn't tremble, you reached back and brought your queue forward. Neteyam’s eyes snapped at your kuru, widening a fraction in a surprise so profound he actually moved back an inch.

“My love...” he rasped, his voice breaking. He looked from your kuru to your eyes, his face pale but his eyes dancing with joy.

You kissed him. “I want to be with you. I want to be your mate... I want to have your children...”

His smile widened, though his eyes still needed more answers. “Are you sure? Once this is done... there is no turning back to the path they chose for you. You will be mine. In the eyes of Eywa and the clan, you will be mine for life.”

“I have never been more sure of anything,” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. “The path I chose isn't the one they gave me. It’s this. It’s you.”

Neteyam’s hand was shaking as he brought his own queue forward. The intensity of the moment was suffocating, a silence so heavy it felt like the ancestors themselves were holding their breath. “I love you so much,” he said, the words a solemn vow. “You have me, until my last breath. You have always had me, baby.”

Slowly, deliberately, the pink tendrils of your queues reached out, entwining and locking together. You gasped, your back arching when a flood of physical sensations surged through you. You felt the raw, unbridled power of Neteyam’s love for you. The years of pining, the quiet agony of watching you from afar, the fierce protectiveness, and the sheer, blinding joy of this moment. And he felt yours. The fear you had felt, the desperate need for his touch, and the struggle you fought that led to this absolute certainty that you belonged by his side.

Neteyam let out a choked sound, pulling you flush against him, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that promised he would never, ever let go. You kissed him until you were both breathless, then his lips trailed down your jaw, making you arch into his touch as a low moan rumbled in your throat. Your hands found purchase in his braids, pulling his head back up, your gaze locking with his.

“Are we doing it?” you asked, your eyes looking up at him in both apprehension and excitement.

He caressed your thigh. “Do you want to? It doesn’t need to be tonight—”

“No, I want to! I want to... Just...” you cleared your throat. “I mean you’re big and... And how did the other girls take this—”

“What?” he whisper-shouted playfully. “There have never been other girls. I’ve never kissed anyone before you...” His eyes looked away from yours to look at your lips.

“What?” you chuckled breathily, the scholar part of you panicking. “No one here knows what to do?”

“No, I do know what to do,” he said, his eyes widening a little. “Trust me.“

You smiled and reached up to kiss him, he met you halfway, his mouth descending, but hungry now, no longer sweet and hesitant. His tongue plunged and you met his fervor, your own tongue dancing with his. His hands moved, tracing the curve of your hips, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a jolt of pleasure through you as you felt the hard ridge of his cock press against your thigh.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of his loincloth, your fingers caressing the soft skin of his abdomen. He undid your own, hands quick and deft, discarding the simple covering the same time you shed his. His fingers found your slippery folds, caressing it as he kisses your jaw. Your hand shot down to wrap around his cock, caressing the thick and long flesh.

He huffed, his lips pressing against your cheek before he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth gently nipping at where you’re most sensitive. You whimpered, your head falling back against the moss. His tongue traced a path down your throat, over your collarbone, until it reached the swell of your breast. He suckled, his mouth hot and wet, drawing your nipple into his mouth.

Your hips arched involuntarily. “Neteyam,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He moved to your other breast, giving it equal attention before kissing his way down your body until you felt a long swipe of his tongue on the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers brushed against your slick pussy, followed by his warm tongue, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your core, his hands slid under your hips to tilt you toward him before his mouth lapped at your wetness like a man starved.

You clutched on a moss, letting yourself moan to your heart’s content until you were a shaking mess with a spinning vision. You can feel his lips and tongue working its way up your body but your mind was zeroing in on the electrifying sensation you’re feeling on your clit, your thighs jolting every time his skin grazes it.

Only when he positioned himself between your legs did you make the effort to lift you head up to look at him, catching him with his eyes darkened with desire as they devoured your nakedness. Your connected kurus pulsed brighter and you felt the jolt of excitement and ecstasy he is probably feeling. You bit your lip, looking at his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against your entrance. You looked up at him, your own eyes burning with desire, and he met your gaze, his lips curved in a small smile and his eyes suddenly became the look of longing and adoration.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough with need.

“Yes,” you gasped, pushing your hips up, urging him forward. “Now.”

He chuckled, his hand squeezing your hips before he thrusted, slowly at first, his thick shaft pushing past your eager lips, stretching you, filling you with a sensation so profound it stole your breath. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, as he pushed deeper, until he was fully buried inside you.

He paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving, his eyes closed for a moment in pure bliss. “It feels so warm... So tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with emotion.

You hugged him, a little breathless at the feeling of being so full of him and yet, you pulled him deeper still. “You’re so big...” you groaned, clenching around him.

He opened his eyes and you saw a primal look in them as he began to move, slowly at first, a gentle motion that soon picked up pace. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged back in, his rhythm becoming more urgent, more demanding.

“Ah!” you moaned, your body arching, meeting his thrusts with equal enthusiasm. The sounds of your skin slapping together and the wet sounds of him moving inside you filled the air.

One of his hand found your folds, his thumb parting them to flick at your sensitive nub, making you buck and pull away in overstimulation but he only leaned down, his lips finding yours to devour your cries, his tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips continued its relentless rhythm. His hands gripped your hips to lift and tilt you, finding new angles that gave you so much pleasure. His cock felt enormous inside you, stretching you to your limits, yet it was a delicious fullness, a sense of being completely claimed.

The gentle rocking turned into powerful, rhythmic thrusts, his body slamming into yours with increasing force as you felt a familiar feeling in your lower abdomen, a knot that promised release. You clawed at his back, your nails digging into his firm muscles, leaving faint red marks.

“Harder,” you gasped against his lips, your voice hoarse. “Please, baby...”

He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming even more violent, more primal. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in with a force that made you scream, the air whooshing out of your mouth.

“You like that, baby?” he rasped, his voice raw, his breath hot against your face.

You whimpered, unable to speak, your hips bucking involuntarily to meet his every thrust. You felt your muscles clenched around his shaft, milking him, urging him on. He groaned and thrusted one last, powerful time, burying himself to the hilt, holding you tight as your body convulsed around him. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, giving you a full body tremor that left you breathless and clutching at him. Your muscles seized, squeezing his cock, making him cry out your name.

His body tensed, then relaxed as he emptied himself deep inside you. You felt the hot gush of his seed filling you as he collapsed onto you, his weight heavy but welcome, his breath ragged against your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, mirroring the frantic beat of your own. You lay tangled together, spent and satisfied, the purple glow of the tree a silent witness to your mating.

“I swear to the Great Mother, if this were a dream I’d beat up the person who will wake me up,” he whispered breathily, kissing you.

You chuckled weakly, hugging him tighter to you and kissing his cheek. “It is real, husband. I am here with you,” you told him.

He melted in your embrace, kissing your forehead, and then your lips. “I love you so much...”

A few hours of sleep punctuated with a series of waking up only to make love later, you lay tangled in Neteyam’s arms under the glowing tendrils,  your core still sore from the intensity of your last coupling. His chest was warm under your cheek, and you traced the faint, drying marks your nails had left on his shoulder. Neteyam shifted, his tail winding lazily around your thigh.

“The sun will be up soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand tracing the curve of your hip with a new, possessive ease. You let out a soft sigh, tightening your hold on him. Neteyam pulled back slightly to look at you, his golden eyes clear and filled with a fierce, protective light. “I’ll face your father. I’ll tell him it was my doing. The haste, the lack of a formal ceremony. I’ll take the weight of his anger.”

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face. “No. I made this choice just as much as you did. I won’t let you stand there like a criminal for loving me. I’ll handle him, and Äye said she would help. I’m more worried about Mo’at... I am a healer under her. Surely, she’d expect me to follow the traditions.”

“Then we face them together,” Neteyam said firmly, interlocking his fingers with yours. “As one. We are mated now. I am your husband and you are my wife.”

Those words brought you so much relief and joy, you couldn’t help but smile, especially when his eyes reflected a certain, even smug, light in them. The walk back to the village felt different, but as you approached the central clearing of the Hometree, the sight of the gathering made your heart skip a beat.

Not only were your parents already there, Jake and Neytiri were there, too, standing near the breakfast hearth, and beside them sat Mo'at and Äye. The air was thick with the smell of morning broth and an unspoken tension. Your father stood as you both emerged from the ramp, his eyes immediately dropping to your clasped hands and then to the unmistakable, glowing pride in Neteyam’s posture.

“You did not return last night,” your father said, his voice flat but not yet angry.

Äye, who was calmly sipping from a bowl of tea, let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, let the children breathe, Laykon. Do not overreact. Look at them, they look like they’ve finally found where the air is.”

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, gently releasing your hand only to sink onto both knees before your parents. He bowed his head low, his forehead nearly touching the ground in a gesture of profound respect and apology.

“I ask for your forgiveness,” Neteyam’s voice was calm, carrying the weight of a leader. “I have acted with haste, and I have taken your daughter as my mate without the formal blessing of the clan. But I have loved her before I even I understood what it was. I ask only for your blessing now, for I will spend every day of my life proving I am worthy of her.”

You dropped to your knees beside him, your shoulder touching his. “Father, I love Neteyam, I have always loved him. This wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness. It was the only truth I’ve ever known. I choose this life. I choose him.”

A long, suffocating silence followed. Jake looked at Neytiri, who had a soft, knowing expression on her face, one that spoke of a woman who had once made a similarly reckless choice for love. Finally, your father let out a long, heavy breath. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, urging him to stand.

“I understand that, daughter,” he told you, his voice softening. “And I do not think this kneeling and bowing are necessary anymore. Words would have sufficed. You two are already mated in the eyes of the Great Mother; what is there for me to do? To fight the wind?” He looked at Neteyam, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stony exterior. “It is my honor to have an honorable man as my son.”

Neytiri stepped forward then, pulling you into a fierce, warm embrace that smelled of woodsmoke and motherhood. “Welcome to the family, daughter,” she whispered.

You looked toward Mo’at, your stomach twisting with nerves. The Tsahik stood slowly, her face unreadable. Jake cleared his throat, glancing at the matriarch. “Mo’at? Perhaps, you can... give them the official blessing?”

Mo’at let out a sharp, huffed breath, reaching into the woven pouch at her side. To everyone’s surprise, she pulled out a bowl of ceremonial oils and a bundle of sage that had clearly been prepared in advance.

“Why do you think I am sitting here with these?” she asked, a rare humot flickering in her eyes as she looked at Äye. “Some people in this family cannot keep a secret. Come here, you two. If you are going to be mated, let us do it properly so the ancestors don’t think I’ve gone lazy.”

As Mo'at began the rhythmic chant of the blessing, marking your forehead and Neteyam’s with the cool, fragrant oil, you looked at your husband. The fear was gone. The gray path etched on sand was blown by the wind, leaving only the path forged by the Great Mother.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The council meeting had dragged on for hours, with the elders debating trade with so much meticulousness that Neteyam can’t believe it’s starting to annoy him that the second Jake signaled the end, Neteyam couldn’t have exited the council hall faster than anyone. He moved through the village with a restless, joyful energy, his heart pulling him straight to the healer’s tent.

And when he pulled back the flap, the golden afternoon light spilled over you, hunched over a mortar, the same sight that had greeted him for years, but now, strapped to your chest in a soft woven wrap was your months-old son.

“Hello, baby,” Neteyam caressed your arm, leaning down to kiss you. He cupped your jaw and deepened the kiss.

You’d chucke at his eagerness if your son hadn’t let out a soft, melodic cry. It was as if he could sense his father has arrived before Neteyam even greeted him. Neteyam looked down at his son, his large hand caressing the boy’s head.

His face split by a wide, devoted grin. His large hands gently lift the bundle from your chest and you gave him his son, watching him settle the boy into the crook of his arm, his thumb tracing a tiny, rounded cheek. “How was he? Did he give you trouble while I was on patrol?”

You chuckled, wiping your hands on a cloth. “He is just a baby, ma ‘teyam. He slept almost the entire day, only waking to eat and then falling back to sleep.”

Neteyam let out a deep, vibrating chuckle that made the baby’s eyes fly open. “You’re the hungriest boy in this village, do you know that, hm? The biggest baby, too. You’re growing so fast, my son, look at you.”

You leaned against the worktable, watching them with a chest full of warmth. You reached out to tickle your son’s ear, watching his tiny shoulder shrug in reflex. “Remember when Mo’at said you were the biggest baby she’d ever seen?” you laughed. “She said your boy rivals you. Look at his tummy. So full, aren't you, sweet boy?”

The baby suddenly let out a tiny, gurgling chuckle, his first real laugh.

Your eyes snapped to Neteyam’s in shock. You both froze, breath held for seconds, before you both bursted into a quiet laughter. The boy stretched, his chubby limbs sprawled across his father's powerful arm, looking utterly content. As you looked at the small person you had created together, your eyes began to glisten with unshed tears and when you lifted your eyes to meet Neteyam’s his own eyes were pooling with tears.

Neteyam leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Have I told you how thankful I am that you chose me?”

You grinned, cupping his face. “You do every day, 'teyam. But I am more thankful to you. I couldn't imagine not living this life... you made me realize what I truly wanted.”

“I love you so much,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I love you more, ‘teyam—”

“That couldn't be possible—”

“Uhhmp!” A sharp, demanding shriek from your son broke the moment. His tiny hand had clamped onto your beaded top, his neck craning with singular focus toward your chest.

You laughed, booping his nose. “Hungry again?“

Your smile was huge as you reached for him. Neteyam gently handed him back, chuckling as you settled the boy and eased your top aside. The baby latched in an instant, a rhythmic, quiet sound filling the tent. Neteyam sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the sight.

He remembered being in this same tent years ago, watching you hold Tuk in your arms and drowning in a forbidden pining. Now, you are his wife, and the child in your arms is one you two created. He was no longer your shadow, he is now the man whose life is inextricably woven with yours. Your cold indifference was long gone, and in its place was a woman full of his love and the promise of his future.

[woozycatz]

ৎ୭ before the mantle takes root

THIS IS PART TWO!! ৎ୭

prompt: after mating with neteyam and becoming tsakarem, you and him must face a multitude of obstacles to eventually love eachother freely.

pairings: Neteyam x omatikaya!reader, Neytiri x reader, Lo'ak × Neteyam, Jake sully × Neteyam, Jake sully x reader. (all platonic except for neteyam x reader)

warnings: a little cursing, slightly suggestive, angst, fighting, themes of war, bloody injuries, kinda torturous of you blink, touchy!feely!neteyam, grown up characters, kissing, body insecurities.

wc: 17.5k.

find part one... here!

notes: this took an embarrassingly long time to publish, i truly apologize!. this is part two, but this might have to be a multi part series, i am lowkey invested. kinda did bad before so i had to repost 🫩

Two days later, the night washes over the village, silver light spilling across the platform. The clan gathers beneath the sacred tree, blue seeds drifting in the air like tiny stars. Drums echo slowly, their rhythm moving through the hearts of every listener. You and Neteyam had known that there’d be a bonding ceremony, but now you doubted whether or not you were ready. 

Villagers searched frantically for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Neytiri took it upon herself to find you—and she did. You sat alone on a rock near the riverbank, hands curled in moss which stuck to the rock beneath you. 

“What is wrong?” Neytiri whispers, careful not to scare you. 

You glance back at her for a heartbeat before turning to face the water again. But she notices the way your shoulders sag, the way your ears droop low, and the way your tail is still beside you, your tail is almost never still, always flicking and alive, but not tonight. 

She moves closer, one hand reaching to rest on your shoulder gently. “Tell me,”

You spare a side glance and finally, you break apart. Her concern deepens, arm swinging carefully around you, pulling you against her side. You bury your face in her shoulder, defeat breaking you down. 

“When you are ready..” She murmurs, smoothing your hair. 

You nod slowly, soft sobs escaping you involuntarily. “Is it Neteyam?” She asks. “Has he done something?”

“No,” you manage, “It is my mother, I miss my mother and I miss my father.”

Her eyes soften immediately, though dark with understanding. War took her father as well, she understands the hatred you hold for the sky people because she feels it too. Because they took everything, and you had to grow with it. 

“Oh, Y/n…” 

“I am forgetting his face,” you cry, guilt twisting your features. 

“Do not.” She whispers, “this is not your fault. You are stronger than this, than the demons. Strong heart. And you are tsakarem.” She beams. “Your mother would be very proud, your father too.” 

Neytiri holds you there for a long moment, letting your grief spill out into the quiet night. The drums from the village drift faintly across the water, steady and patient, as if the forest itself is waiting for you.

Her hand moves slowly along your back, calming you.

“Your father’s face lives here,” she murmurs, gently touching the center of your chest. “Not only in your eyes.”

You shake your head weakly. “But it fades… every season it fades more.”

Neytiri sits beside you fully now, folding her legs beneath her. The silver light reflects across the river, turning the water pale and soft. For a moment she watches the current.

“My father,” she says quietly, “was a mighty warrior. When the war came… the sky people took him from us.” Her voice does not break, but it deepens with the memory. “For many nights I feared I would forget the sound of his voice.”

You lift your head slightly, listening.

“But my mother told me something.” Neytiri brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “The People do not vanish. They walk with Eywa. They walk with us.”

She gestures toward the forest where the sacred trees glow faintly, seeds drifting through the air.

“When you hunt with honor… when you help the clan… when you show kindness to the children… your parents see it. Through Eywa.”

Your breathing slowly steadies.

“You became tsakarem,” she continues with a proud smile. “You heal. You listen. You carry the songs of life.” Her eyes warm. “This is not forgetting them. This is becoming what they raised you to be.”

The image of your father is hazy, but you remember the feeling of his hand on your head. The sound of your mother’s laughter when you returned from gathering herbs. The way they spoke about Eywa with reverence. Your fingers tighten in the moss. “I wanted them here,” you whisper. “Tonight. I wanted them to see.”

“They will,” Neytiri says gently. “Only not with the eyes you know.”

She tilts her head toward the village. The drums have grown louder now, the rhythm calling. “The clan waits. And Neteyam waits.”

At his name, your ears twitch faintly. Neytiri notices and smiles a little. “That boy has walked circles around the platform for half the night,” she says softly. “Like a nervous ikran.”

Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escapes you. She stands slowly, offering you her hand. “Come,” Neytiri says. “Do not hide your heart from the People. Your parents’ spirits will be there tonight. I feel it.”

You hesitate only a moment before taking her hand. Together you walk back through the glowing forest. Seeds brush your shoulders as you pass beneath the sacred trees, drifting like tiny stars.

As the platform comes into view, the entire clan stands gathered in the silver light. The drums slow. at the center stands Neteyam.

His posture straightens the moment he sees you. Relief floods his face so openly that a few nearby hunters chuckle quietly. Your tail flicks for the first time that night. Neytiri squeezes your shoulder once. “See?” she murmurs. “He was worried.”

Neteyam steps forward carefully, as though afraid you might vanish again. “You disappeared,” he says, hands rubbing over your arms, checking for injuries. “I thought-” His words stop when he sees the traces of tears on your face. Immediately his expression softens. Without thinking, he reaches for your hands.

“I was afraid,” he admits quietly. The drums begin again—slow, deep, echoing through the trees.

And under the drifting seeds, beneath the watchful eyes of the clan and the unseen presence of Eywa, the ceremony is about to begin.

Neteyam guides you through the crowd, stopping just before the people, before Mo’at. the warmth of his presence is steady through the bond you already share. His hand brushes yours lightly, a silent reassurance.

At the center of the gathering stands Mo’at, her hand rises and silence passes through the crowd. “You stand before Eywa tonight,” she says, voice deep and calm. Her gaze moves between you and Neteyam. “Not as strangers.” A few knowing smiles ripple through the clan. “You have already chosen each other.”

Your ears warm slightly. Mo’at’s eyes soften for a moment when they rest on her grandson. “But tonight, the People will witness what the forest already knows.”

An elder steps forward carrying two braided cords woven with pale sacred seeds. Mo’at lifts one cord.“These are not bonds that force the heart,” she says. “They remind the People of the path that has already been chosen.”

She hands one braid to Neteyam. He turns toward you, his usual warrior’s confidence replaced with something softer, it still amazes you sometimes.

This is the same man you once argued with at every hunt. The same man who once challenged you before the entire clan because neither of you would yield. Until somewhere between anger and rivalry, something changed.

Carefully, Neteyam ties the braid around your neck. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

You take the second braid and tie it around his neck. The drums slow again.

Mo’at raises her hand slightly. “Speak your truth.” Neteyam lifts his chin. “I see her.”

The sacred words ripple through the clan. “I saw her strength even when she stood against me,” he continues, a faint smile touching his lips. “She fought me. Argued with me. Refused to bow to me.”

A few hunters chuckle softly. His thumb brushes over your wrist. “somewhere in all that fighting… I began to admire her.” Your tail flicks behind you. “I chose her then,” he finishes quietly. “I choose her still.”

Mo’at nods once and turns to you. “And you, Ma’Y/n?”

You glance briefly toward the circle of villagers. For a heartbeat your eyes find Aysea, she watches calmly, arms folded loosely across her chest, bitter.

You turn back to Neteyam. “I see him,” you say. Neteyam’s ears tilt slightly toward you. “I saw the boy who thought he knew everything,” you add, a small smile forming. “But I also saw the man he would become.” Your voice softens.“When the forest was quiet, when no one was watching, he was kinder than he allowed anyone to see.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. “I chose him then.” You breathe slowly. “And I choose him again.”

Mo’at lifts her hand once again, gesturing the the people. “Then let the clan witness.”

Neteyam glances down at you with a quiet grin. “You ready?” he murmurs. You nod, simultaneously, you lift your kurus. Even though the bond already exists between you, the moment still carries weight beneath the eyes of the clan, and beneath the eyes of Eywa. The neural tendrils intertwine. Warmth rushes through the connection between you, familiar, steady, and alive.

The clan murmurs softly as the act is witnessed beneath the sacred tree. Mo’at raises her voice. “Eywa has already seen this bond.” Her foot strikes the platform once. “Now the People see it as well.”

The drums explode into celebration. Cheers ripple through the gathered clan. Neytiri smiles with quiet pride, tears stinging her eyes while Jake crosses his arms with an amused shake of his head.

Neteyam leans close, pressing his forehead gently against yours, through your bond his thoughts brush warm against yours.  

The night goes on, celebration begins, dancing, feasting, laughter. Neteyam keeps you close all night, one hand on your hip as he chats with the warriors of the clan, men and women drown you two with blessings all night. 

 For a moment everything feels peaceful. Then the forest goes quiet, the insects stop, the distant animals go silent, a rumble rolls across the sky, your heart drops.

Gunships. Jake’s voice cut through the village. “Get down! Take cover!” 

A missile slams into the far side of the clearing, the explosion tearing through the night and flames erupt as wood splinters and platforms collapse. Children scream as searchlights cut through the forest. 

“Sky people,” you mutter, hand squeezing Neteyam’s arm tightly. 

Demon ships roar overhead, Neteyam drags you behind tree roots as bullets tear through the woods. He already grabbed his bow. “Stay behind me.” 

“No,” you snap, grabbing your own weapons.

Soldiers begin to descend from ropes, the battle erupts instantly. Arrows fly upward while machines shred branches. Neteyam fights beside you until a small voice cries out.

“Neteyam!”  Amidst the chaos, Tuk is alone with only Kiri to help. Neteyam sees. There is no running as three armed men surround them.

“I have it over here! Go!” You tell Neteyam, already pushing him toward his sisters. 

He hesitates and then he doesn’t, feet slamming into soil, running straight to them. “Kiri!” He shouts. Three soldiers advance toward them, Neteyam’s entire posture changes. 

He is not only a warrior, he is a big brother. “Get down!” His voice bellows, Kiri listens immediately, shoving Tuk behind the beam.

Neteyam’s arrow drops the first soldier, then the next two. He focuses solely on getting his sisters to a safe place and having them join the young ones which Kiri will look after.

A new kind of call roars overhead, not sky people, not your people…no. Ikran, war cries. Na’vi ones. Mangkwan raiders glide into the battlefield from above. Your body physically tenses. You have not seen the Mangkwan since your fathers death. They are who took him away when they became allies of the sky demons, they held him down before you and let you watch the sky people take everything.

The doubt that you cannot fight this creeps into your muscles, but you ground yourself immediately. This is what they would have wanted. 

Your arrows fly free the way you were taught. Your body moves gracefully, dropping many—mangkwan and the demons. 

A raider drops just a couple feet away from you, but you are too busy with others to notice, then his bowstring trembles.

A white hot pain rides up your thigh, calves buckling, bow dropping a few inches away. You reach for it instinctively, but your legs are too weak, you let yourself fall back against a fallen tree, leg trembling, ankles hovering slightly as you hold your knees against your chest.

“Ah!—” You cry, chest heaving with dry breaths, fingers trembling rapidly, a tall, broad shadow dims yours. 

“Well, well…” You look up slowly, the raider who had just shot you stands there, tall, body paint cakey and thick.

He leans down, hands clenching loosely around your necklaces. “The little healer falls…” His hand runs down to the arrow pierced into your thigh, flicking it suddenly, goading the wound. 

“Agh!” You hiss, fingers digging into his wrist. 

He frees himself with ease. “I will not hesitate to kill. Do not forget your position here, tsamsiyu.” 

He pushes the arrow in deeper, your cries bleed into short gasps, sweat beading at your forehead. “Neteyam!” You cry. You are not one to ask for help, pride keeps you from it—but right now you need someone.

“You call for who? The Mate?” The raider scoffs, “what a weak warrior you are…cannot fight for herself, needs mate to come.” 

The only thing giving you strength is pride, and you hold so much pride. “I am not weak.” 

He laughs, not loud, just a cruel breath of amusement. “Not weak?” he echoes, standing closer. The paint on his face creaks when he grins. “You are on the ground. Bleeding.”  

Your leg trembles under you, the arrow buried deep in your thigh. Every breath feels sharp. Still, you push your hand though the dirt, trying to reach the knife at your hip. 

He sees it immediately. His foot pins your wrist to the ground. “You should have stayed with the healers, helping elders and little children, not pretending to be a warrior.”  

Your ears flatten, but you don’t look away. “Move!”

He laughs under his breath and crouches closer, his hand grips the arrow and gives it a slight twist. Pain tears through your entire leg. Your back hits the fallen tree as a strangled cry escapes you. 

You suddenly jerk your free leg forward, kicking him hard in the ribs. It isn't clean, but it knocks him off balance for half a step. you lunge for your bow lying a few feet away.  

Your injured leg collapses instantly. You fall again, catching yourself on your hands. The raider quickly recovers, his hands squeezing your shoulders and forcing you back into the tree. “I will kill you,” you rasp, nails digging into the soil. 

“Kill me? I don’t think-” a whistle cuts through the battle field and just then, an arrow pierces through his shoulder. 

“Get away!” Neteyam hisses, running fast toward you two. The mangkwan stands quickly, reaching for his weapon, but Neteyam raises his. “Get away.” He warns.

The raider steps back, glancing at you. “You are lucky.” He storms off after his clan who are retreating on the ikran. 

“Y/n,” he murmurs, leaning down immediately. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, yes I am completely okay…” 

“Okay…you’re joking. That is a good sign.” One of his arms moves behind your back, the other at your thighs. “Let me get you out of here.” 

Your cheeks flush despite the situation. “Put me down, Neteyam.” 

“Are you crazy? You cannot walk.” He runs through the aftermath of the battle, rushing you to the hide where the healers are. “I have to get you to my grandmother.”

Your hand rests on his chest, the other wrapped around his neck. “Is the tree okay?” You whisper.

“Yes…thanks to you, to the other warriors.”

“Did anybody die?” 

“I am not completely sure.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes. “Wake me up when you are sure.”

“Do not sleep now, you are losing blood.”

He sets you down on the mat in Mo’at’s kelku, his fingers lingering on the wound, 

Mo’at enters, immediately getting to work. The moons pass quietly after the battle. Your leg heals slowly under Mo’at’s watchful care. The wound leaves a faint scar along your thigh, but your strength returns with each passing day. You walk the forest trails again. You gather herbs, tend to the wounded, and slowly return to training with the hunters.

Neteyam never strays far during that time. Sometimes he pretends he is simply passing by the healing hut. Sometimes he lingers longer than necessary while Mo’at checks your bandages. Neytiri notices, of course. She says nothing, but the small smile she hides is impossible to miss.

Eventually, after weeks of healing, the day arrives when Mo’at finally nods in approval. “You are strong enough,” she says simply.

The meaning behind it is clear, you can stay in your own home again. A new hut stands on the edge of the village platform. It isn’t large, but it’s beautiful in its own quiet way. Fresh woven walls. Soft moss bedding, just the way Neteyam knows you like it. Bundles of herbs hang from the rafters where you’ve already begun arranging them. The entrance opens toward the forest where glowing seeds drift through the night air. Your new home. 

A different feeling pools in your stomach as you rearrange the same object, over, and over, and over again. 

The hut is quiet except for the soft crackle of the small fire and the distant hum of the forest outside. Your new home still smells like fresh woven leaves and damp wood. You should feel peaceful, but you don’t. 

Neteyam sits across from you near the fire, loosening the leather wrap around his wrist after a long day of training the younger hunters. You’ve been moving around the hut for a while now—adjusting things that don’t need adjusting, shifting baskets, tying and retying herb bundles.

Your tail flicks restlessly behind you. Neteyam watches for a moment before speaking. He knows that this is what you do when you do not want to interact with anyone. “You’ve moved that basket three times.”

You glance at him briefly. “I like it there.” 

“You liked it in the other two places too.” You do not answer and the silence stretches longer than it should. He tilts his head, studying you. “What is wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You murmur. 

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.  “Ma’Y/n.” You hate when he uses that tone—the calm one that says he already knows something is bothering you.

You stop fiddling with the basket and sit down across from him. “You knew,” 

He blinks, hands pausing at his wrist. “Knew what?” 

“The things that Aysea said to me.” 

His shoulders shift slightly, leaning forward. “I knew you two argued, yes…” 

“Argued?” You echo. 

“Yes.” 

You laugh humorlessly.  “Is that what you thought it was?” 

His brow furrows. “You fought every time you were near each other.”

“She mocked my parents,” you say quietly.

Neteyam’s expression tightens, guilt riding up. “I know she said some things.”

“Some things?” 

“Y/n—”

“She said my mother died because she was weak.” 

The words fall flat, Neteyam straightens. “I never heard her say that.” 

“Because you never listened, Neteyam! You threw one blind eye at everything! Do you know how difficult it was to watch you side with her every time?! To watch you kiss and touch her?” You hiss. 

You continue, eyes stinging. “She would tear into me in front of everyone. And then you would stand beside her like she had done nothing. Do not think I have forgotten this just because we are mated.” 

“That’s not fair-come on, baby.” 

“Not fair? She stood in front of the hunters and told them my father died because he wasn’t strong enough to protect himself!” 

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “I did not hear that.”

“But you heard enough!” you shoot back, tail lashing sharply. “You heard the way she spoke to me. You heard the way she laughed when I trained your sister.” 

“That was rivalry,” he says slowly.

“It was humiliating!” Your voice echoes off the woven walls.

He steps toward you. “You both challenged each other constantly.”

“She tells the people that I was only chosen as tsakarem out of pity! Because my parents are dead!” 

“I… never heard that,” he whispers.

“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “You were too busy pretending it was just two warriors arguing.”

“I was trying to keep peace,” he says. 

“You were protecting her! You stood beside her all the same!”

“That is not true!” 

“You were promised to her!” you explode. “The clan expected you to defend her!”

“I did not choose her over you.”

“But you didn’t choose me either!”

The words hit him like a blow. “For months,” you continue, voice shaking, “I stood there alone while she tore into everything I had left.”

“You should have told me,” he mutters.

“I shouldn’t have had to!” Your voice cracks. “You’re supposed to see things like that. You’re supposed to lead this clan one day!”

“I cannot see everything!” he snaps. 

“Neteyam!” You cry. “You saw enough!” 

“I thought you were strong enough to handle her,” he admits, his voice quiet now.

“Strong enough?” Tears sting your eyes. “You think that meant it didn’t hurt? My parents are dead!”

He steps closer. “Y/n—”

“No!” you shout, stepping back. “You did not just stand there!” Your voice trembles. “You stood beside her!”

“I, I-” he tries, his hand reaching toward you.

“Don’t!” You shake your head sharply. “You do not get to touch me right now.” He hesitates, then lowers his hand. You take a small step back.

“I did not realize-” He starts.

“You didn’t care!” Another tear slips down your cheek, you wipe it roughly.“She told me you would always choose her. That she was the one meant to stand beside the future olo’eyktan.” Your breathing becomes uneven. “And every time you smiled at her or kissed her, it felt like she was right.”

Neteyam looks shaken. “I never chose her over you.”

“You were promised to her. And you made it seem like you did choose her.”

“But I mated with you.”

“Because you needed me.” The words hit harder than anything else, Neteyam stills. “You came to me because you could not hear Eywa anymore,” you whisper. “You said the forest felt silent. You did not come to me because you loved me, you came because you were lost.”

Neteyam steps forward. “That’s not—”

“And if Eywa had answered you sooner,” you continue bitterly, “you never would have come to me at all.”

His expression falters, he reaches for you again. “Y/n, please. Listen to me, you’re overthinking—”

“No!” Your voice shakes.

He still gently catches your wrist. “Let me-”

“No!” You snap, backing up slowly toward the doorway and running to the forest. Your feet race to the only place you will find quiet, the hollow—because when things get hard, and when you find no soft moss or biolumescent plants to sleep within, the hollow is your friend.

Neteyam starts after you, stopping at the doorway, figuring that you need time. He sits silently on your shared hammock, the hut feels wrong without you in it. 

Your scent still lingers in the woven blankets. One of your herb bundles hangs crooked because you tied it too quickly earlier. The basket you moved three times sits near the wall.

Neteyam leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressing against his face. His breathing grows uneven before he realizes it.

He squeezes his eyes shut but it doesn’t stop the burn building behind them. A tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it, he wipes it away roughly. He should have seen it.

He has been trained his whole life to read the forest—tracks in the soil, broken branches, shifts in wind. Yet somehow he failed to read the person standing beside him.

Suddenly he stands, he knows exactly where Aysea will be. The village platform is quieter now. Most of the clan sleeps, but a few fires still glow softly. Aysea sits near one of them weaving beads into a necklace.

She looks up when Neteyam approaches, a slow smile spreads across her face. “Well,” she says lightly, voice smooth. “The great warrior comes to visit, I knew it wouldn’t take too long.”

Neteyam’s eyes narrow instead of returning the smile. “Did you mock Y/n’s parents?” 

Aysea tilts her head, feigning innocence, letting her gaze linger on him a moment longer than necessary. “That is a strange greeting,” she murmurs, letting a playful smirk tug at her lips.

Neteyam’s voice drops. “Did you say her father died because he was weak?”

Aysea studies him, eyes glinting, before she shrugs. “Words are said, and sometimes in jest.”

“You told the clan she became tsakarem out of pity,” he says, stepping closer.

Aysea rises slowly, circling him. “And now you care very deeply for her,” she murmurs, letting her fingers brush lightly along his arm as she passes.

Neteyam stiffens, pulling back without a word. Her smile deepens. She leans slightly closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “You could have stopped me, you know… you didn’t.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. He holds his ground, gaze sharp. “You were promised to me,” she continues, letting her hand hover near his chest, brushing the air with a teasing intimacy. “Everyone knew it. One day, I thought maybe you would realize.” 

He steps aside, firm and composed. “I mated with her,” he says, voice cold.

Her eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge. “Because you needed her,” she counters, tilting her head, letting her hand brush near his shoulder. “Everyone knows the mighty hunter could not hear Eywa anymore…”

Neteyam’s expression hardens, his posture steady, eyes never leaving hers. “You will not speak of her like that again.”

Aysea laughs softly, a low, provocative sound. She takes a step closer, voice teasing. “Or what, Neteyam? Are you going to punish me?”

He grabs her wrist firmly, removing her hand without harshness, keeping his composure, though the tension hums through the air. “Or you will answer to the clan,” he says, voice low and unwavering.

For the first time, she hesitates, a flicker of surprise passing her features.

“If I ever hear you insult her parents again,” he continues quietly, deliberately, “you will regret it.”

He turns and walks away, each step measured, unshaken.

Behind him, Aysea watches with narrowed eyes, lips curling slightly—not in victory, but in quiet frustration. She had tested him. She had pushed, tried to unsettle him.

But he had not wavered. And now, the challenge is no longer just words. Someone else had seen her touch him—and the consequences will not be hers to command.

On his way back, Neteyam decides to go sit with Jake, still stressed as the night progresses. “Uh ohh,” Lo’ak laughs from his spot beside their father, pulling Neteyam down and watching him closely.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, teasing but concerned deep inside.

Neteyam does not answer immediately, just rubs his chin contemplatively. “It’s Y/n” he finally murmurs.

Lo’ak’s ears perk up curiously. “What about her?” 

“She’s angry.” 

Jake smiles softly, “why?”

“Cause I messed up..”

“Yeah? Just apologize.” Jake leans back slightly, arms folding across his chest as the fire crackles between them. The glow lights the deep lines in his face, the kind that come from years of leading and making mistakes.

Lo’ak snorts quietly. “Yeah, bro. Just say ‘sorry.’ Not that hard.”

“Don’t start.” Jake says, raising a hand without looking at Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak shrugs and leans back, the grin never leaving his face. Jake studies his eldest son for a moment. “What’d you do?”

Neteyam exhales slowly through his nose. “I didn’t see something I should have.”

Jake nods once. “Okay.”

“She told me Aysea mocked her parents… for months.” His jaw tightens. “Said her father died because he was weak.”

Lo’ak’s smile drops instantly. “She said that?”

Neteyam nods faintly. Jake’s expression hardens slightly, though his voice stays calm. “And you didn’t know?”

“I heard them argue,” Neteyam admits. “I thought it was just rivalry between two women, two warriors. I thought she could handle it.”

Jake lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam mutters. “She said I stood beside Aysea while it happened. That I protected her.”

Jake tilts his head. “You did, we all saw it.”

Neteyam hesitates. “…Sometimes,” he says quietly.

Lo’ak glances between them but doesn’t interrupt. Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Son, being a leader isn’t about seeing every bullet flying through the air. That’s impossible.”

Neteyam stares into the fire. “But,” Jake continues, “when someone you care about is hurting, and you miss it… that sticks with them.”

Neteyam’s ears droop slightly. Jake gestures with his chin. “You know what mistake you made?” Neteyam glances up. “You assumed she was strong enough not to be hurt.” 

Neteyam looks away again.

Jake nods slowly. “Your mother does that too. Strong people get handed more pain because everyone thinks they can carry it.”

Lo’ak murmurs, “Yeah… Y/n’s pretty scary though.”

Jake gives him a sideways look.

“I’m just saying.” Lo’ak murmurs.

Neteyam rubs his face again. “She said something else.” Jake waits. “She thinks I only chose her because I needed her to hear Eywa again.”

That makes Jake pause. “That’s what she believes?” he asks quietly.

Neteyam nods. For a moment, Jake doesn’t speak. The forest hums softly around them. Then he says, “Did you love her before that?”

Neteyam answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

Jake shrugs lightly. “Then the problem isn’t what’s true. The problem is she doesn’t know it.”

Neteyam frowns slightly. Jake gestures toward the forest. “Right now she’s sitting somewhere replaying every moment where it looked like you chose someone else.”

Neteyam’s shoulders tighten.

“And if you walk up there and just say ‘sorry,’” Jake continues, “she’s gonna hear: ‘Let’s move past it.’”

Lo’ak nods. “Yeah. That would not go well.”

Neteyam groans quietly. Jake continues seriously. “If you want to fix this, don’t defend yourself first. Listen, apologize, don’t say anything but ‘I'm sorry.’ It always works.”

Lo’ak laughs, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders. “Or you could just make loooveee”

“Lo’ak.” Jake warns, pulling him back.

“Dad, seriously… we’re not kids anymore.”

“You still act like one.” Neteyam says. “I will give her my apologies. I just hope she accepts them.”

“Yeah, she can be stubborn…but when you’re mated, things are different. She sees you, and she feels you. There is anger, there might be lingering hatred, there is jealousy, but beneath all of it, there is love.” 

Neteyam nods once, adjusting his wraps and gathering water for you to drink. 

Tonight the silence presses heavily around you. You sit curled against the curve of the tree, knees pulled close, tail wrapped loosely around your ankle. The anger from earlier has burned itself out, leaving only the ache beneath it.

You hate that you cried in front of him. You hate that the words came out the way they did. But most of all—you hate how long you held them inside.

A soft footstep breaks the quiet, you don’t look up. Neteyam stops a few paces away. He doesn’t approach immediately. He knows this place; he’s followed you here before when you needed space.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then he lowers himself slowly onto the moss—not beside you, not yet. A respectful distance away. “I brought you water,” he says quietly.

Your tail curls around your ankle, still refusing to speak. You glance at the small bowl of water but don’t reach for it. 

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence stretches long enough that the night insects begin filling it again. Then he exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Your ears flick, but you stay still. “I should have seen it,” he continues quietly.

You stare ahead at the glowing plants.

 “I heard you and Aysea argue for months,” he says. “I thought it was two hunters trying to outdo each other. That was my mistake”

Your fingers tighten in the moss as the words settle between you. Neteyam’s eyes never leave your face. “I thought you were strong enough that it didn’t matter what she said.” 

Your voice comes out low. “That’s the problem.”

Neteyam nods faintly. “I know.”

You finally turn slightly toward him, he isn’t defensive, he isn’t angry, he just looks ashamed. “I asked her tonight, about the things you said.” he says.

Your ears lift. “And?” you whisper.

“She did not deny them.”

Your jaw tightens, Neteyam’s voice lowers.“She will not speak about your parents again.”

“And why did you choose to kiss and touch her right in front of me all of those times?” You say.

“If I am being honest, I wanted to see how you would react…we just hated each other so much, I wanted you to feel how “little” I cared. But you seemed unbothered.”

“I was not unbothered.”

 “I know now, but at the time, touching and kissing her was what felt… right? Only for the moment, because it is what everybody expected.”

“And you let expectations dictate everything that you do.” Silence falls, you glance at him, part of you regrets the words, the other part doesn’t at all. 

The forest breeze moves softly through the leaves. You stare at the ground. 

“I stood beside her too often,” he admits. “Even when I thought it was nothing. And that meant something to you.”

Your throat tightens and you nod faintly. “It meant everything,” you whisper.

The quiet stretches again. Neteyam rubs his hands together slowly. “There’s something else you said. That I only came to you because I couldn’t hear Eywa.” 

You don’t answer, he watches you carefully. “That wasn’t the beginning though, the beginning was long before that.” he says. You glance at him, brows furrowing slightly. 

Neteyam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started when you beat me in front of the hunters.” Despite everything, a tiny breath of laughter escapes you. 

“You were furious,” he says.

“You challenged me.”

“You humiliated me.” He counters. 

“You were arrogant.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Kinda.”

The moment softens slightly. Then his expression grows serious again. “But even then… I admired you.”

You look at him more fully now.

“You stood your ground even when Aysea provoked you,” he says. “Even when others told you to step aside.”

“They doubted me,” you huff. 

“You didn’t care.”

“I cared,” you say quietly.

“But you didn’t bend.” The forest hum deepens around you. “I noticed that,” Neteyam says. Your chest tightens slightly. 

“I thought it was rivalry between us.” He continues. Your tail shifts faintly. 

“But when Eywa went silent, that’s when I realized the only place the silence disappeared was when I was with you.”

 Your breath catches at his words. 

“I did not come to you because I needed you,” he says carefully. “I needed you because I had already chosen you.”

The words sit deep in your chest, you look away toward the glowing roots. “I hated seeing you with her,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

Your voice grows softer. “I thought if Eywa spoke to you again… you would leave.”

Neteyam shakes his head immediately. “Never.”

You study his face. You seel something steady and warm beneath his expression. Not guilt, not obligation, just certainty. 

“Come here, come closer.” He murmurs, but before you can even process his request, he moves behind you. The argument feels far away now, replaced by the quiet warmth of Neteyam’s arms wrapped around you.

He sits behind you against the thick tree root, your back resting against his chest. His legs are stretched on either side of yours, keeping you tucked close.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. His fingers trace slow circles along your forearm. “You’re still thinking,” he murmurs near your ear.

You sigh softly. “I always think.”

“I’ve noticed.” His chin rests lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of him, the steady rise of his breathing, the bond between you—it all settles something deep inside your chest.

“You really thought I chose her?” he asks quietly.

Your ears lower slightly.“For a long time… yes.”

Neteyam tightens his arms around you. “I never chose her.”

You turn slightly in his arms so you can look at him. The glow of the forest reflects in his eyes, his bioluminescent freckles glowing brightly in the night. 

He studies your face carefully, like he’s memorizing it. “You drive me insane sometimes,” he murmurs.

A small smile slips onto your lips. “You love me.”

“That too.” His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. You don’t pull away. The kiss comes slowly at first, tentative, the last of the tension between you dissolving with the contact. Then it deepens. Your hand slides into his braids as his other arm wraps firmly around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

The bond between you warms brightly. Time fades into the quiet breathing of the forest and the soft rustle of moss beneath you.

At some point you end up lying against the roots with Neteyam above you, laughter slipping between quiet kisses as the night stretches on around you.

Eventually the two of you settle together again in the moss—his arms around you, your head resting against his chest. And the forest watches quietly while sleep finally finds you both.

Morning light filters through the canopy. You wake slowly to the warmth of sunlight and the weight of Neteyam’s arm draped across your waist. Your braids are slightly loose, and your tweng is definitely not tied the way you remember tying it.

You shift carefully, sitting up. Behind you, Neteyam groans softly. “Too early,” he mutters.

You glance back at him. He’s half awake, hair a mess, faint moss still clinging to his shoulder. “You look ridiculous,” you say. 

“You’re one to talk.” He says. You glance down and realize that almost every one of the ties keeping your covers together have come loose. Your ears warm immediately.

Neteyam notices, the soft grin that spreads across his face is insufferable. “Don’t,” you warn. 

“Don’t what?” 

You quickly retie the strings of your loincloth and top. Neteyam sits up, stretching lazily before reaching for the leather ties of his own gear scattered nearby. “You’re staring.” You mutter.

“I am appreciating.” He corrects.

Your tail flicks sharply, but you cannot hide the smile that keeps forming. “Impossible. You’re so insufferable sometimes.” 

“You did not seem to think so last night.” 

You shove him lightly. He laughs quietly while tightening the last strap across his chest. Then he leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before standing. “Come on,” he says.

“The clan will definitely notice we disappeared.” You laugh.

He teases your tail. “So? We are mated…and grown. We have the right.” He leads you through the forest, one gentle hand lingering at the small of your back, tracing absent circles there. 

“We also have responsibility, hm?” 

“Everybody needs to wind down sometimes.”

“You sound like my mother,” you leap carefully from a fallen trunk, landing gracefully on your feet. 

Neteyam watches for a moment before landing beside you himself. “Do I?” He smiles.

“Just the way you speak.. Yes.” 

“She was mighty. I am proud to have fought beside her.” 

“Yes.” You smile, taking his hand.

The outline of the settlement comes to sight. You both walk through the village slowly. The minute you step into the main platform, several villagers glance up. 

Your tail moves lazily behind you, your eyes brighter. You look lighter. Across the platform, Neytiri’s eyes find you, they move over you once, then to Neteyam. A small, knowing smile forms. 

Jake notices too. “Well,” he nudges Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak follows his gaze to you, talking to some fellow warriors, and to Neteyam, watching you closely. You’re glowing. his grin spreads instantly. “Ohhh.”

Neteyam barely makes it three steps before Lo’ak intercepts him. “So,” Lo’ak says loudly. 

Neteyam sighs. “What?” 

Lo’ak gestures vaguely between him and you. “You two disappeared.”

Neteyam keeps walking, his eyes scanning over you from a distance before looking away. “Many people disappear at night.”

“Together?” Several nearby hunters start chuckling. One of them leans toward Lo’ak.

“She looks happy.”

Lo’ak grins wider. “She looks exhausted.”

Neteyam stops walking. “Lo’ak.”

“What did you do to her bro?” 

Another hunter snorts. “Let the man breathe,” he says. “It was clearly a long night.”

Laughter breaks out. Neteyam drags a hand down his face. “You are all like children.”

Lo’ak claps him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big brother.”

“For what?” 

“I don’t know, she forgave you though..” He laughs, running off.

Neteyam shakes his head and joins the council circle, the men and women discuss patrol routes, hunting trips, and other strategies. You sit beside your mate, one hand resting on his bicep, the other on your hip. Knowing that you will stay behind for this one but still standing there for future reference.

“We’ll take a 2 day expedition.” Jake announces. 

Neteyam, as always, will lead this trip. your duties as tsakarem keep you in the village. He glances at you briefly. “I will be back soon.” 

“I know.” You say.  

Before leaving, he presses his forehead gently against yours, peppering you with soft kisses. Then the hunters disappear into the forest.

The next day passes quietly, you help the weavers repair nets and gather herbs for Mo’at. Late afternoon, one of the younger weaving apprentices approaches you hesitantly. 

“Y/n?” she says quietly. 

You look up, “yes?” 

The girl fidgets nervously. “I saw something last night.” 

Your ears tilt slightly. “What did you see?”

“I saw Neteyam with Aysea.”

Your hands pause. “They were talking,” she continues. “And she was very close to him. She touched his arm, and his shoulder”

A small knot forms in your chest, but you stay quiet. “Then he grabbed her wrist.” Your ears flick. “I thought maybe…” the weaver trails off awkwardly.

You force a calm smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

The girl nods and leaves, but the seed of doubt has already been planted. You clean up the herbs and store them away, moving to sit anywhere else. 

Jake finds you at eclipse shooting reckless arrows at woven targets, slicing them. “Now, now, you’ll break all our targets.” He laughs. “What’s got you so angry?” 

“Your son.” 

He huffs, “which one?”

“Neteyam.”

“Again?” Jake says, a hint of amusement in his expression. “Oh, it’s serious. Again?”

“Yes!” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He was seen with Aysea.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know—talking, touching!” 

There is quiet for a moment before Jake speaks. “Look, Y/n…i know my son. Neteyam is loyal, and he loves you. Have you maybe considered talking to him before jumping to many conclusions?”

You look down for a second, foot kicking grass. “No…”

“They’re getting back tomorrow morning. Talk to him, hm?” 

“Okay” 

“Okay?” He says, backing up to leave.

“Yes, okay.” 

“Alright, get some sleep, I'm sure it’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

You sigh, watching him go for one second before hanging everything back up. You head toward your new home only to find it already open, inside, your herbs—owed to Mo’at by tomorrow—trashed and knocked over. 

The careful order you’d spent hours building is gone. Bundles of drying herbs lie scattered across the floor, some crushed into the woven mats. Others have been pulled down entirely, their bindings snapped. The sharp, clean scent of healing leaves is now bitter, mixed with dirt and something trampled.

“No, no, no.” You stumble, hands curling around nothing. Who would do this? 

Your ears flatten as your eyes scan the hut again, more carefully this time. Nothing else is taken. Nothing valuable missing. Just the herbs. Just your work. Just your place. A slow, burning realization creeps in. Aysea.

Your tail lashes sharply behind you. For a moment, anger surges hot and immediate—your first instinct is to turn, to march straight back into the village and drag the truth out into the open for everyone to see. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls, chest rising too fast as you stand in the middle of the destruction.

But this is exactly what she would want. A scene, or a reaction. Proof that she can still get under your skin. 

Your hands tremble over your now destroyed, hard work. You separate what can be salvaged from what cannot. The salvageable herbs are sorted into smaller piles, re-tied with fresh fibers. The damaged ones are pushed aside, your mind already calculating what you’ll need to gather at first light. Your movements become precise again—controlled, practiced.

But your ears remain low, because beneath the control, that feeling lingers. Violation. You get little to no sleep that night, the smell of herbs lingers in the room, mocking you and your decision; not confronting her yet.

The morning comes quicker than you admit you want it to. It should feel steady, but it doesn’t. Neteyam is returning today.

You dress nicely; a low and thin loincloth hangs from the curves at your hips, your top is an elegantly adorned piece with strings that wrap at the waist and little coverage at the top.

You stand just outside the hut, arms folded, watching the hunters land and speak with Jake and other ongoers. Neteyam looks around as if expecting someone to be there beside him. But you just stand and watch.

The weavers' words ring through your mind. Neteyam is taking too long to finish speaking with warriors and hunters. too long to get back to you.

So you approach quietly. “Neteyam,” you say.

“Yes, my love?” 

“We need to talk, come.”

His posture changes immediately, eyes focused now. “Okay..” He follows you, watches how differently your hips move this morning, the way your tail flicks, sharp—not swaying and calm, but sharp.

You stand in a private area, not far into the forest, just close enough to the village for people to see, not close enough for people to hear. “I heard you were with Aysea that night, before you came to the hollow.” 

He sits on a heavy log in front of you, hands resting behind him, leaning back slightly, watching you stand above him. This time, there are no interruptions. No voices cutting in. Just the two of you and the quiet hum of the forest. “I was.” he exhales slowly. 

Your chest tightens, but you don’t lash out. 

“I went to her after you left,” he continues.

You cross your arms, grounding yourself. “And?”

“I asked her about what she said to you. About your parents.” His jaw tightens. “She did not deny it.”

Your ears flick slightly.

“She tried to get close,” he adds, more quietly now. “To distract me. To twist things.” His eyes lift to yours. “I stopped it.”

“How?” you ask, steady.

“I grabbed her wrist. I moved her away.” He holds your gaze. “I warned her. Clearly.”

Silence stretches between you. You study him. Not just his words, but the feeling beneath them.

His lips twitch faintly. “I chose you before the silence. I chose you after. I’ll keep choosing you.” He says.

There is no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just certainty. “I don’t like her touching you,” you admit finally, voice quieter now.

His expression softens just slightly. “I don’t like her anywhere near you.”

That earns the smallest breath of a smile. You step a little closer. “You should have told me,” you say.

“I know.”

Another step, you take his hands now.  “You should have shut it down faster.” You tease.

“I know that too.”

You huff softly. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m learning.”

That disarms you more than anything else. Your shoulders ease, just a fraction. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension that had been coiled tight between you begins to loosen, thread by thread.

Then Neteyam releases you—slowly, hands pausing at your waist. giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t. “These clothes are unfair.” 

“Hm? How?”

His fingers hook around the thin straps which keep your loincloth at your hips. “So thin, so beautiful.”

His hand settles at your waist again, warm and steady. Yours lifts to his chest, fingers brushing lightly over the familiar rise of muscle beneath your touch.

He pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck immediately, “I missed you,” he breathes.

“I did too. more than I'd like to admit.” 

He laughs softly. “I missed your scent. The hunt felt so long.”

“Yes.” you rub your cheek against his, his hands moving down to your ass, holding you there. 

Tuk creeps around the corner, giggling softly. “Neteyaaaam” she says.

He jumps, pushing you off of him and beside him as fast as he can. “Tuk!”

“Tuktirey,” your cheeks flush. “You’re too old to interrupt like this.” 

She laughs. “Was I supposed to knock?” She looks around.

“We’re in the forest, you cannot knock…” 

Neteyam laughs at your words, earning a sharp look from you, he corrects himself immediately, then he looks at his sister and loses it. 

“Thanks captain obvious.” Tuk manages between giggles. 

“Who is captain obvious?” You ask, ears pinned down, lips tight in embarrassment. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I don’t even know, it’s something daddy says.” 

“Oh. Sky people things?” 

“Probably,” 

Neteyam rubs his face, laughter dying down, hands wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry baby. I won’t laugh at you again.” His smile betrays him. 

“Liar.” 

Tuk shifts awkwardly, clearing her throat. “Anyways… Kiri said to come get you guys. I wish she came with me so she could see this. We are preparing the dancing circle for a celebration. Let's go! Come on!”

She runs off first, Neteyam pokes your ears which are still hanging low. He laughs softly, kissing and nipping at one gently. “I’m sorry,” 

“Stop it, let’s go.” You smile, dragging him along. “I cannot wait to dance.” 

By the time the sun begins to dip, the village comes alive again. The hunt was successful. And that means celebration.

Drums begin first—slow, steady, echoing through the trees. Then voices, laughter, movement. The entire clan gathers on the main platform, bodies swaying in rhythm as the firelight flickers gold against blue skin. 

You stand at the edge first, watching, sipping water—preparing. Then a familiar hand wraps into yours. Neteyam.  “Come,” he says simply. 

You do not resist, the rhythm pulls you in quickly. Your body remembers it easily, fluid, precise, alive. You’ve always been a skilled dancer, your movements sharp where they need to be, soft where they should flow.

Neteyam steps in behind you, hands settling naturally at your hips. The contact sends a quiet warmth through you. His head hangs low, watching the roll of your hips.

“You’re staring again. I can feel it.” you murmur. 

“I am appreciating,” he replies, just like before.

You huff softly—but your body leans back into his without thinking.

The two of you move together easily, your hips rolling in time with the drums, his hands guiding just enough to match your rhythm. The space between you disappears quickly—no awkwardness, no hesitation.

Around you, the clan dances, laughs, celebrates—but for a few moments, it feels smaller. Quieter. Just you and him. “You’re showing off,” he murmurs near your ear.

“You’re slowing me down,” you shoot back.

His grip tightens slightly in response, pulling you closer, matching you step for step now. “Better?” he asks.

You smirk faintly. “We’ll see.” The dance stretches on, heat building from movement, from closeness, from the steady rhythm of drums under your skin.

Eventually, Neteyam’s hands slip from your hips. “I’m going to sit before Lo’ak starts yelling about me abandoning him. I’ll be back,” he mutters.

You glance over to see Lo’ak already watching with a grin. “You should go,” you tease.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, brushing his fingers briefly along your side before stepping away.

You stay, of course. The music doesn’t stop. And neither do you. At first, it’s nothing. Just movement. Rhythm. The circle shifting, bodies passing close and then apart again.

And then a misstep. Your foot catches slightly, you recover instantly, eyebrows knitting faintly. And then another misstep. 

This time you feel it, not an accident. Your eyes shift and behind you, Aysea. Her expression is calm. Your jaw tightens, but you keep dancing.

Maybe it was nothing, then it happens again. Clear this time, a deliberate nudge at your ankle. You turn slightly, still moving with the rhythm. “Stop.”

She doesn’t respond, Instead—another attempt. Your patience snaps a little. “I said stop,” you repeat, sharper now.

A few nearby dancers begin to notice. Aysea finally meets your eyes and smiles. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Your stomach drops, not from fear, but from recognition. You step toward her, the dance forgotten now. “Do not touch me again.”

Her smile sharpens. “Or what?” she asks lightly.

You take another step. “I won’t ask again.”

Something flickers in her eyes. And then, she leans closer. “Like your mother,” she murmurs softly. “One wrong move… and she fell too, didn’t she?”

Everything stops, the drums, the movement. The air in your lungs. For a split second—you’re not here anymore.

You see the fall, the sky torn open by gunships. The scream. The empty space where she should have been.

Your chest caves inward. Then it explodes outward. You move before you think. Your fist connects with her face hard enough to snap her head back.

Gasps ripple through the circle. Aysea stumbles—but recovers instantly, fury igniting across her features as she lunges for you.

This isn’t dancing anymore, this is a fight.

You meet her head-on, your training takes over, clean, efficient. You block her first strike, twist her arm, drive your elbow into her shoulder. She hisses, retaliating fast, catching your side with a sharp hit that forces you back a step.

You don’t stay back, you surge forward again.

She grabs for your hair—you duck, sweeping her leg out from under her, but she twists mid-fall, dragging you down with her.

The two of you hit the ground hard, now it’s chaos. Hands, fists, breath knocked loose, bodies struggling for leverage. You land another strike—she snarls, shoving you back, nails scraping your arm. “You think you’re better than me?” she spits.

“I know I am,” you fire back, driving your forearm into her throat just long enough to pin her.

She bucks hard, throwing you off balance. The circle has broken now—people shouting, moving. But no one gets there fast enough. because you’re both warriors, and neither of you is holding back.

Strong arms wrap around your torso, yanking you backward. “No—!” you snap, thrashing.

“Enough!” Neteyam’s voice.

Another set of hands drags Aysea away as well—firm, unyielding. Jake. “You two are done!” he barks.

Your chest heaves violently, body still straining against Neteyam’s hold. “Let me go—mm!”

“No,” Neteyam says, breath tight near your ear. “Not like this.”

Across from you, Aysea is held just as firmly, blood at her lip, eyes blazing with something wild and furious.

The entire clan is watching now. Silent. Tense. The celebration is gone. Replaced by something heavier.

“Ive got you.” Neteyam whispers.

Silence settles over the platform like a heavy fog, the drums have stopped. No one moves. You can still feel Neteyam’s grip around you—firm, unyielding, his chest rising and falling quickly behind your back. Your own breath is uneven, sharp, your blood still burning from the fight.

Then, a presence strikes the air. Mo’at steps forward slowly. Neytiri stands beside her, assessing. Mo’at’s eyes move between you and Aysea. “What is this?” she asks.

Her voice is not loud, but it carries. No one answers immediately. Your chest rises and falls as you try to steady your breathing. Neteyam’s hold loosens slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Aysea is the first to speak. “She struck me,” she says, voice sharp despite the blood at her mouth.

Your head snaps toward her. “You—”

“Quiet.” Mo’at doesn’t raise her voice. But it lands like a command. You clamp your jaw shut.

Mo’at’s gaze shifts to you now. “You will speak.”

Your heart pounds hard against your ribs—but you don’t look away. “She provoked me,” you say, voice still edged with heat. “She has been provoking me.”

Aysea scoffs faintly. Mo’at’s hand raises again. “Enough.”

Silence returns instantly. Neytiri steps forward slightly now, her eyes narrowing at Aysea. “This is not the first time,” she says, calm—but dangerous.

Aysea’s posture stiffens. Jake folds his arms, gaze sharp. “and we’re not treating it like the first time.”

The weight of that settles over the circle.Neteyam finally releases you—but stays close, one hand hovering near your arm like he’s ready to pull you back again if needed.

Mo’at turns fully toward Aysea now. “Speak truth.”

Aysea lifts her chin. “We were dancing. She became aggressive.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Your nails dig into your palms—but you hold your ground. Mo’at’s eyes flick to you again, you inhale slowly. “She has been targeting me,” you say. “For cycles now.” Your voice steadies as you continue. “She insulted my parents. She disrupted my work. And tonight—” your jaw tightens “she spoke of my mother’s death.”

That lands hard. Neytiri’s expression darkens instantly. Jake’s posture shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Mo’at goes very still, Aysea doesn’t speak this time. Because she can’t deny it.

“You speak of the dead with dishonor?” Neytiri says, voice low and sharp as a blade.

Aysea finally looks uncertain. “It was only words—”

“They are enough,” Neteyam cuts in, stepping forward slightly. His voice is controlled—but there’s steel beneath it now. “You’ve said more than enough.”

Aysea’s gaze flicks to him—and something in her expression falters. Because this time—he is not standing beside her. Mo’at watches this carefully. All of it. “This ends now.”

Her foot strikes the platform.  “You have brought conflict into the heart of the clan,” she says, looking at Aysea. “You have shown disrespect—to the People, to the dead, and to one who serves as tsakarem.”

Aysea’s jaw tightens—but she doesn’t interrupt. “You will not approach her again,” Mo’at continues. “You will not speak of her family again.”

A pause, then. 

“You will serve under the tsakarem for one cycle. You will repair what you have damaged.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the clan. Your ears flick slightly, Aysea’s eyes widen—just barely.

Humiliation, public, intentional. “You will answer to her,” Mo’at finishes.

Silence falls heavy.  Aysea’s fists clench at her sides—but she bows her head slightly. “…Yes.”

Mo’at turns to you now. “And you.” Your spine straightens instinctively. “You are a warrior,” she says. “But you are also tsakarem. You do not let anger lead before wisdom.”

Your chest tightens—but you nod. “Yes.”

Mo’at studies you a moment longer, then— “It is done.”

Her hand lowers. The tension breaks—but not completely. People begin to move again, slowly, murmuring, the energy shifted entirely from celebration to something more watchful.

Eyes linger, Jake signals for the celebration to continue—but you don’t even feel like dancing any more. 

You move away from everything to go to your home. Tears stinging your eyes. You sit on your bed. Neteyam lingers at the threshold for a moment before coming inside. “Baby,” he starts.

Your shoulders drop just slightly. “I didn’t want to lose control like that,” you admit. “Not in front of everyone.”

He nods once. “You didn’t lose control.” You give him a look. “You held it longer than most would have,” he corrects calmly. “Longer than I would have.”

That almost pulls a breath of a laugh out of you—but it fades quickly. “I hate that she still gets to me,” you whisper.

Neteyam finally moves then, slow, careful—resting his hands lightly on your knees. “Of course she does,” he says. “She went after the part of you that still hurts.”

You look away because that’s exactly it. He doesn’t push you to look back.“She chose the one thing she knew would break through everything else,” he continues more quietly. “That’s not your weakness.” A pause. “That’s love.”

Your eyes close for a second. That lands deeper than anything else tonight. The anger, the fight… the humiliation. None of it was really the core of it.

It was them, always them. Your voice comes out softer now. “I thought I was doing better.”

“You are.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“It never does in moments like that.”

Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp. More like something slowly unwinding. After a moment, you finally look at him fully.

“I don’t want to be that person,” you say quietly. “The one who reacts like that.”

“You’re not,” he says simply.

“I just proved I am.”

“No,” he shakes his head slightly. “You proved you’ll defend what matters.”

When you lie down that night, he doesn’t give you space like he sometimes does. He stays close, arm wrapped around your waist, leg hooked slightly over yours, not possessive, more protective. 

Even in sleep, when you shift, his grip tightens instinctively—pulling you back against him without waking.

As if somewhere in his mind, he’s still in that moment, still making sure you’re safe.

You wake before him, or at least, you think you do. Until you shift and realize his arm isn’t resting loosely anymore. It is still there, just not relaxed.

You turn your head slightly, braids still messy from the fight. Neteyam is awake, staring out towards the forest through the open doorway, still, quiet, and thinking. 

You sit up slowly. “You didn’t sleep.” 

He blinks once, like he didn’t realize you were awake. “I did,” he says.

You study him for a second, “not much.”

“I slept enough.” 

You pull your legs in slightly, watching him. “Neteyam.”

He hums faintly in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look at you yet. That stings more than it should. “Are you going to look at me?” you ask.

That gets his attention, so his head turns. And when his eyes meet yours—you see it clearly, something tight. Something contained. “I am looking at you,” he says.

You frown slightly. “Then talk to me.”

“I am.”

You let out a small breath, frustration creeping in. “No-you’re answering me.”

He looks away again briefly, jaw shifting. You hesitate then ask it anyway. “Are you mad at me?”

This time, he looks back immediately. “No.”

You hold his gaze. “Then what is it?”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before resting his forearms on his knees. “I didn’t like it,” he says finally.

Your chest tightens. “Me fighting?”

“No.” The answer comes sharper than anything else he’s said.

Your brows knit. “I didn’t like that it happened,” he corrects, quieter now. “I should’ve stopped it sooner,” he adds.

Your expression softens slightly. “You weren’t even there at first.”

“I should’ve made sure it never got that far.”

“You cannot control everything, Neteyam.”

“I can control who I allow near you.”

““You’re angry at her?”

“Yes…and at myself.” That last part is quieter.

You move a little closer to him. “Why?”

He huffs softly—frustrated, but not with you. “Because this isn’t the first time she’s done something like this.” You don’t argue that because it’s true. “And I let it go before,” he continues. “I thought it was nothing.”

Your gaze drops slightly. “It wasn’t nothing to you,” he adds. That lands somewhere deep.

“No,” you admit quietly. Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp and more honest. You reach out, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. He doesn’t pull away. “You don’t have to carry all of that,” you say.

His eyes flick to your hand… then back to your face. “I know,” he says.

But he doesn’t move away from your touch either. After a moment, his hand shifts—turning just slightly under yours, fingers brushing against your wrist. “I’m not mad at you,” he says again, softer this time.

“I know,” you reply.

“Let me do your hair.” He laughs softly, “come here.”

You brush your fingers through your hair, but they get caught in a knot. “Fine…”

He moves to sit behind you, your back rests lightly against his chest, his legs folding on either side of you, steadying you in place.

his fingers lift—hesitating just slightly before touching your hair.

Careful, so careful it almost hurts more than if he wasn’t. He starts by separating a tangled section near the back, working slowly to loosen it without pulling. His fingers move with quiet precision, undoing the small knots left behind from the fight.

His fingers move lower, unbraiding one of the looser plaits completely before starting again—smoother this time, tighter, cleaner. He weaves each strand with practiced care, thumbs brushing lightly against your scalp as he works.

“At least she will serve under me…” you mutter. 

He shakes his head, but the smile on his face betrays him completely.  “You hit her hard.”

“Yes,”

“She pulled your hair.”

“Yes, Neteyam. I was there.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh behind you, fingers still moving through your hair with steady care. “Just making sure I didn’t imagine it,” he murmurs.

You lean back into him slightly, letting your shoulders relax as he finishes one braid and starts another. The gentle pull and weave of his hands grounds you more than anything else has since last night.

For a moment, it’s quiet again. Just the soft sounds of the forest waking up, and his breathing behind you. Then you speak, quieter this time. “She went into our home.”

His hands stop. Not roughly—just still. “What?” His voice drops, low and controlled in a way that makes your ears flick.

You don’t turn around. “My herbs. The day you left for the hunt, they were all over the floor when I got back.” Your fingers curl slightly in your lap. “Nothing else was touched.”

A long silence stretches. You can feel it now—the shift in him. His hands resume, slower this time, finishing the braids with more tension than before. 

“And you are sure it was her?” he asks.

“No,” you answer honestly. “But who else would come into our home, destroy my things, and leave your side untouched?” 

His jaw tightens behind you—you don’t need to see it to know. “A creature?” he teases.

“And what is she?” 

He laughs out loud. “Let me remind you, and maybe myself, that we are future clan leaders,” he quickly regains his composure. “She will answer for that also. Come to bed with me.”

You stand, unstable at first, then taking his hand. He lays on the moss bedding and pulls you over him, holding your hips. 

His hands move over your body, searching, teasing, loving. His lips move over your neck, breathing slow and heavy, hands squeezing wherever they can. 

The moment is peaceful, but quickly fades. Neteyam’s hands pause, his eyes closing, head turning away slightly. 

“What is it?” You ask, eyebrows pinned together.

“Aysea,” he sighs. “I cannot move past this. She came into our home.” 

He looks up at you again, jaw tight, hands still firm on your hips—not rough, but grounded, like he’s holding onto something steady.

“She didn’t just insult you in front of the clan,” he says quietly. “She entered our home. That is not anger, or rivalry. that is intent.”

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, steadying you as he sits up beneath you. His eyes don’t wander this time—they stay fixed, focused.

“That is not something I can ignore,” he continues. “Not as your mate. Not as a future leader.”

Your ears tilt slightly at that tone. This isn’t jealousy. This isn’t hurt. This is responsibility. You study him carefully. “What are you going to do?” you ask.

He exhales slowly through his nose, thinking—not reacting. “I won’t act without proof,” he says first. “If I accuse her without it, she will twist it again. Make you look unstable. Makes me look biased.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. He’s right—and you hate that he’s right.

“But,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m not letting it happen again.” There’s a pause. Then his gaze sharpens just slightly. “I’ll speak to my grandmother again. Not about the fight, just about the pattern.”

Your brows knit faintly. “She already ruled.”

“She ruled on what was seen,” he corrects. “Not what was hidden.”

That lands. His hand lifts, brushing a stray braid away from your face—this time gentler again, but the tension is still there underneath “And I’ll watch”

You tilt your head. “Watch?”

“Yes.” His voice lowers slightly. “She won’t expect it now. Not after being put under you. If she does anything again, we’ll have more proof. Not just words.”

Your tail flicks once, thoughtful. “And until then?”

“Until then,” he hesitates just briefly, then steadies again, “you won’t face her alone.”

That earns a small reaction from you. “Neteyam—”

“No. Not because you can’t handle her. I know you can.” His thumb presses lightly against your waist. “But because you shouldn’t have to.” That softens something in your chest.

The silence that follows isn’t tense anymore—it’s heavy, but aligned. Like you’re standing on the same side of something.

You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against him. “You’re taking this very seriously,” you murmur.

His expression doesn’t change much—but his grip does, just a little tighter. “She crossed into our home,” he says again, quieter now. “It is a boundary.”

You nod slowly. You feel it too now—not just anger, not just hurt, something deeper. A line that was crossed. “Okay,” you say softly. “Yes.” 

The night passes slowly, you and Neteyam lay tangled together, his leg still over yours.

Dawn comes quietly, you slip from his arms and into the forest as swiftly as ever. The forest is quieter this time of day. Not empty—never empty—but softer. The kind of quiet that lets you think too much if you’re not careful.

Your hands move automatically as you gather—sorting leaves, checking stems, tying small bundles with practiced ease. The work should ground you. But it does not. 

Your constant unease lingers; in a few days, Aysea will be following your orders, but at what cost? Nobody knows that she destroyed your herbs—and in the midst of everything, the fight, the hunts and battles, Mo’at has forgotten that you owe her those medicinal herbs.

Your ikran is perched beside you as you gather water pods, ar’lek seeds, and the healing rose. Hours of gathering lead to these beautiful discoveries, a moment of peace, just you and the forest, breathing as one. 

The walk back to the village is longer than it should be, legs heavier than ever, you truly miss the thrill of patrolling, but who said you can’t be both, warrior and healer? 

You’re still holding the woven basket when you hear your name, not spoken gently, not the way Neteyam says it.

You stop before the clearing fully opens, instincts tightening in your chest. Quietly, you slip behind the wide trunk of a tree, the rough bark biting into your shoulder as you steady your breathing.

“she doesn’t even see it,” Aysea’s voice floats through the leaves, light, amused, venom thinly veiled as laughter.

You freeze, you don’t mean to listen. But then she says his name and you can’t move. Through the gaps in the leaves, you see her circling him slowly, deliberately. Neteyam stands still, shoulders squared, eyes steady on her. He doesn’t interrupt.

“She carries too much here,” Aysea says, her hands gesturing—then settling boldly at her own hips, mimicking you. “It throws her off. Slows her down.”

Your grip tightens on the basket. Neteyam doesn’t flinch, your chest aches. Aysea steps closer, softer now, but sharper for it. “You are the future of the clan,” she says. “You need someone who can stand beside you without… breaking.”

A small laugh, cruel in its lightness. “And she is not stable.”

You press back into the tree, like it could swallow you whole.

“She tries,” Aysea continues, almost pitying. “But everyone sees it. The way she clings to you.”

A pause. Then her voice continues, softer, flirting. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Your breath catches. “I know you feel responsible for her,” Aysea goes on. “But that is not love.”

Silence follows and you wait, wait for him to say something—anything. And he does. “I do love her,” he says, low but firm, deliberate, cutting through the forest sounds. “Every part of her. I do not pretend. And no one else will tell me otherwise.”

You blink softly, a hint of a smile creeping in; but despite neteyam’s words, you realize that you really haven’t noticed the difference between your body and the average Na’vi. Then again, your hips are only a fraction wider. 

“I have never pretended, Aysea. Not once.” The light amusement in her voice falters.

“Her hips, her mind… you think she is weak? You are blind,” he continues, voice carrying through the trees, unwavering. “And I will not listen to you try to turn her against herself—or me. Y/n is beautiful, fierce in her training. She is stronger than most warriors in the clan.”

Aysea hesitates. Your chest rises and falls, relief and lingering ache tangled together. He steps back, calm but resolute, standing taller than before.

you leave before you can hear any more.

By the time you reach the hut, your face is calm, way too calm.

You start emptying the basket, laying the gathered roots, herbs, and small fruits neatly on the floor, methodical, silent. Each movement is careful, almost ceremonial, as if by occupying your hands so you can ground the storm inside you.

The woven flap shifts suddenly. Neteyam bursts in, just returning from his preparations in the forest. He moves quickly, grabbing a spear and a handful of arrows, checking the bindings and muttering under his breath.

“Back already, my love?” he asks casually, still hurried, eyes only briefly catching yours.

You nod, silent. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t see the tension in your shoulders. Doesn’t notice the quiet you wear like armor. Doesn’t ask.

Before he slips back toward the flap, he pauses. Quick, almost distracted.

He bends, pressing a brief, warm kiss to your lips, lingering only a heartbeat. You taste the faint scent of him—the forest, sweat, smoke—and it makes your chest ache.

Then he’s gone. The flap sways behind him. The hut is still. And you’re left alone with the echo of his presence, the memory of his voice defending you, and the heaviness of Aysea’s words you tried so hard to shake off.

Hours pass as you organize your herbs and fruits carefully, storing them away in separate baskets. 

You finally stand, adjusting your clothing, glancing down at your figure. Your hands fiddle with the ties at your loincloth, removing it slowly, sliding into your casual skirt woven for sleep.

You finish tying your skirt tighter than usual, pulling it higher over your hips, trying to smooth the fabric so it sits “neater,” more controlled. Your hands linger for a moment too long, messing with the ties, as if the act itself could make everything feel lighter.

The hut smells faintly of firewood and herbs. You set down the last of your things, letting them fall to the woven mat, then slip into you and Neteyam’s shared hammock, hung over the soft, moss bedding beneath it. 

On your side, facing away from the flap, you pull the woven covers Jake gifted you and Neteyam around you like a shield, careful not to invite any closeness.

You clutch the blanket tightly, needing something to hold—missing your mate. 

The door flap shifts suddenly. Soft, hurried footsteps. A familiar presence settles behind you, and you feel the weight of him leaning close, pressing warmth against your back.

Neteyam exhales, tired but carrying a tension you can feel even in the small space between you. His lips find the back of your neck, soft at first, wet and warm, brushing over the sensitive skin. Almost rough, testing. You tense and shift slightly, drawing away, but not enough to push him entirely off.

He pauses for a moment, eyebrows pinning together slightly, then he slowly rests his hands on your hips.

You jerk away more sharply, too abrupt to ignore this time. He sits up slightly, exhaling, the warmth behind you gone. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, edged with fatigue and concern, not anger.

You press your cheek into the hammock, hiding your face. “Just tired,” you whisper, small and unconvincing.

His hand lingers at your hip, hesitant, patient, waiting for a signal. But when you shift again, subtle but definite he finally sits up fully, voice firm but calm. “Look at me,” he says.

You turn over your shoulder,  just enough to meet his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “…Why are you moving away from me?”

“I’m not,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow even to you.

His jaw tightens, and he leans closer, voice quieter but firm. “Is it her?” He unclips his shoulder strapped harness, movements careful, eyes never leaving you. 

Your stomach drops. “I heard her,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, “in the forest. You. Aysea. Everything.”

He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening, then exhales, shaking his head. “And you believed her?”

You look down. “I don’t know. I do look a little different, don't I? Maybe it’s too much-“ 

“No,” he says, tone low but steady, moving a hand lightly to your shoulder instead of your hip. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re not weak. You’re not unstable. You’re exactly what I chose.” 

You swallow, heat rising, and your body relaxes slightly. He leans forward, brushing your hair back gently, letting his lips hover near your temple—but not pressing.

“Don’t let her words make you doubt yourself,” he murmurs. “…Not for a second. Not for me.”

The room is quiet except for your breath and his. You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease, just a little.

“Is that why you are wearing this skirt like this?” He murmurs, “so tight.” 

Heat floods your face, moving quickly to loosen the wrap. “No.” 

“Yes it is,” he drags his words, laying beside you again, hand moving to rest at your hips once more. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” you sigh, leaning into him. 

You shift suddenly onto your back, hands holding his. “Do you know what I miss?” 

Neteyam’s hand rests warm at your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin as the quiet settles between you again.

He leans in, slower this time—no urgency, no tension, just closeness. His lips brush along your jaw, then your cheek, lingering there. Soft.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, “what do you miss baby?”

Your breath catches slightly—not from the question, but from the way he asks it. Like he’s trying to understand you, not fix you.

For a moment, you don’t answer. Your fingers curl lightly in his as your thoughts settle.

His nose nudges gently along your cheek, almost impatient now, but still tender. “Mm?” he presses, quieter. “What is it?”

You exhale softly. “I miss the raids and stuff, I feel like we haven’t been out there together since my injury.” 

“Patrol?” He repeats against your cheek. Hand now still over your waist.

You nod faintly, your temple resting against him. “The forest,” you murmur. “Moving. Tracking. Not thinking so much, just fighting.”

His hand resumes its slow movement again, more thoughtful now.

“I miss feeling sharp,” you add quietly. “Like I’m part of something out there. Not just waiting here, and sorting herbs. I want to be tsahik someday, I am proud to be tsakarem, I relish it, even… but I love the fight.”

Neteyam pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His expression isn’t surprised anymore—just focused. Understanding. “That’s what’s been sitting in your head?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes.”

A faint breath leaves him, something softer easing into his features. “All of this… and you miss patrol.”

You nudge him lightly. “It matters.”

“I know,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek now. “I know it does.”

Your eyes flutter briefly, Neteyam’s thumb pauses for a moment. “Tired?”

“Yes.” 

“How about you come with me tomorrow?”

Your head turns toward him, your lips curl into a smile. “Where?” 

“Patrol, baby…duh.”

“What is duh?” 

He laughs softly, “nothing important. Come with us tomorrow.” 

“Really?”

“Yes. You are cleared, you are strong. You deserve to fight, not just stay here.” His thumb brushes your lips, parting them subtly. “We can start with a small stealth. Work your way up…”

“I love you.” You whisper, your own hand catching his wrist, kissing his knuckles.

“I love you,” he says with the utmost care. 

Dawn comes quietly, a thin veil of mist clings to the forest ground, glowing faintly gold as the first light of Eywa filters through the canopy. The world feels still… watchful. 

Until Jake breaks it, “this isn’t a large strike.” he says, voice low but firm as he stands before the gathered warriors. “move fast. quiet. don’t give them time to react.”

Around him, warriors listene, older ones steady and experienced. And then—the younger ones. They gather just behind, a little less still, a little more charged with energy they try to hide.

Neteyam stands at the front, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. Every bit the leader. You stand beside him. Not a single step behind.

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you. He doesn’t smile. “Stay sharp,” he says. “They won’t hesitate.”

Neteyam nods. “We won’t either.”

The forest closes around you as you move. Everything is fluid—silent leaps, careful steps, bodies weaving through roots and shadows. The younger hunters follow your signals, spreading out just enough.

You move beside Neteyam, senses open, listening, watching, until something feels off. A creature's cry cuts short. Your body reacts before your mind does. You slow. Neteyam notices instantly, his hand lifts, hold. 

Everyone freezes, silence stretches and then gunfire rips through the air. AMP suits crash through the trees, metal limbs tearing branches apart. The ground shakes with every step.

“Scatter!” Neteyam calls.

It is too late. The attack is already on top of you but you move anyway. Your arrow flies—strikes a visor. A soldier drops.

Around you, the younger hunters fight, fast and sharp, but the amp suits push forward, relentless. Neteyam sees one turn, locking onto the smaller hunters.

He moves, fast. He grabs one, shoves her aside as the AMP fires. The blast scorches the ground. “Move!” he snaps, pulling another out of danger.

The AMP shifts, targets him. You see it. Neteyam fires, once, twice. aiming for the joints. sparks burst where one arrow hits, but the machine doesn’t stop.

It keeps coming, closing the distance.

Neteyam steps back, his foot hits loose earth and he slips. He falls hard, bow skidding away. The amp looms over him, raising its weapon, barrel lowering with cold precision.

Locked, there is almost no time. You’re already moving.

You drop over him in one, controlled motion—crouching low across Neteyam’s torso, your body covering him completely. Your back faces him, hips hovering just slightly over his face. shielding him, while you face the amp head-on.

Neteyam stills beneath you, breath catching at the sudden weight, the closeness, the instinctive way you cover him.

The amp, the human inside adjusts. Now aiming at you. Slowly, you lower yourself further over him, coiling tighter, making yourself an unbreakable shield.

Your hiss is low, animalistic, sharp and feral. The sound cuts through the chaos. The human hesitates for just one moment. 

“I’m good—” Neteyam starts beneath you, trying to push up, hands careful against your thighs. Your arm shoots back, pressing firmly against him.

“Stay down.” you order, hand flying back up to point your weapon. You don’t look at him. You don’t look away from the machine. The big suit raises its weapon, you explode upward. 

You launch from your crouch straight at it, slamming into the weapon arm. The shot fires wide, blasting the ground. You climb instantly. 

Hands grip. Feet find holds. You move fast, relentlessly. Your fist slams into the visor several times until it fractures slightly. 

The pilot jerks inside, panic setting in. The suit stumbles, slamming into a tree—you don’t let go. Another slam of your fist causes the shatter. Glass bursts inward.

The suit staggers, systems glitching—then crashes to the ground beneath you. You land with it, but you’re not finished.

You climb onto the fallen machine slowly now deliberately slow. The human inside struggles, fumbling to free himself. You crawl over the metal toward him.

Slow, measured, and terrifying to any human. Your fingers drag across the steel as you move. Your breathing is uneven, sharp. Your eyes never leave him.

He sees your face, your rage. for everything they have taken from you flashes before your own eyes. 

“Wait, please!” 

You do not understand, and you do not stop. Your hand shoots forward, gripping his harness. You drag him halfway out of the cockpit with brutal force.

He struggles, but you do not care. Nothing he does matters. You pull him closer, throat tearing with weak snarls. Face to face. 

You hit him, again and again. Each strike is heavier than the last. Blood sprays at your face. He goes still. You don’t—at least, not right away. It takes one last punch before your body slows, your fist finally stopping.

Your breathing fills the space around you. The battle fades at the edges. Behind you, Neteyam pushes himself up, eyes locked on you.

You stay where you are for a moment longer, shoulders rising and falling. Then you turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him.

He moves then, waist pressed tightly against your back, holding you tight, two arms careful around your neck. “I see you.” 

You squeeze his arm just as tight, almost unable to speak. The rage is still there. It is not the only thing though, he is there, and you are too. 

You breathe together for a moment, then he takes your hands, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, your hands stained with blood. “Are you hurt?”

You reply with only the shake of your head, catching your breath and turning to face him, you check his body for any injuries as well, there is a cut at Neteyam’s ankle and a deep slash at his torso. 

Your fingers tighten in his arms, nails squeezing deep crescents in his thick, muscular biceps. “I will treat these once we get back.” 

“You okay?” He whispers.

“Yes. Where are the others?”

“Scattered. I told you to stay with them.” 

“You were in danger.” 

“We were all in danger, my love.”

Your head tilts slightly to the side, eyes searching. his. “We will find them.” 

And you do, not too long after, the group is huddled together, perched against a tree. “Can you all walk?” you inquire, crouching down beside them.

One by one, you check them. Hands steady now, voice calmer than the storm still echoing in your chest. A cut here. Bruising there. Nothing fatal. Nothing you can’t handle.

One of the younger ones winces as she stands, but she straightens under your gaze, determined. You give a small approving nod—it’s enough.

Neteyam steps in beside you then, quieter now, but fully back in himself. His hand brushes briefly against your lower back—not for show, not even fully conscious. Just there.

“Stay close. Nobody breaks formation.” He says. 

The walk back is different, there is no teasing energy between the younger hunters. The forest feels heavier now—like it saw everything and is still deciding what to do with it.

A few of them glance at you when they think you won’t notice. Not with fear exactly—but something close. 

They saw you, not just as tsakarem, not just as Neteyam’s mate, not just as a warrior. But as something else entirely.

Neteyam notices it too, of course he does. His eyes flick toward you more than once during the walk—not checking for wounds. Just checking you.

Measuring the quiet, the way your shoulders sit, the way your hands don’t quite relax. 

When the village outline appears and you step in, the elders' eyes go straight to you, Jake’s own eyes find you, and so do Neytiris. 

Tuk gasps softly from where she is, hopping to you, checking you. Neytiri greets you briskly before assessing Neteyam. 

“My son, who did this?” 

“We were attacked by sky people. a small group, but enough to cause damage. amps attacked. we defended what is ours.” 

“Good,” Jake says, patting his sons back, watching you nod and quickly leave to tend to the wounded. “She should patch this up for you. This is bad. Grandmas gathering.. won’t be back till later.”

“mmh,” Neteyam groans, nodding a little too fast, his body scorching hot.

The scent of herbs fills the area as you lather medicinal paste onto the hunters’ arms. They weren’t too hurt, so it is quick, just paste and bandaging, again and again. 

“Baby, are you done?” Neteyam says from behind you, his fingers curl around your arm, needing something to grasp.

“Yes. Come now.” You take his arm and practically drag him to your hut, careful hands skimming his cuts, stopping at the particularly deep one at his torso “You did not tell me it was this bad. I would have treated you first.”

“You couldn’t see it?” 

Your lips tighten, ears flattening. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s okay…just treat it. please.” 

Your hands work from memory, years of training quickening your muscles. Neteyam winces a couple of times, hands catching your wrists weakly, body jerking just slightly, never pulling you away.

“Shh, mawey, ma teyam.” You wrap tight herbs over the deep gash as carefully as possible. 

On the double, Neteyam stands. You rise after him, trying to maneuver past his broad shoulders, fingertips carefully nudging his shoulder. “You should sit, you need to heal.” 

“Come with me..”

You hesitate for a moment, gathering the equipment you had used for healing. “where?”

He takes your hands, thumb brushing over your bloodied knuckles. “you will see.” 

Your tail sways slowly as he begins moving toward the doorway, you are quiet most of the way there, occasionally squeezing his hand—feeling, reminding yourself that he is still here.

Neteyam leads you to a secluded ravine, private, mossy, beautiful in the canvas of the afternoon sunlight.

You release him before he can lead you any further, making your way into the water first. It is cold against your thighs, your loincloth clings to your hips like a second skin. adhering to your body. 

Neteyam comes up from behind you, wrapping his hands around your waist, slowly moving upward, thumbs leafing the slightly curved underline of your breasts. “May I?” He whispers, close. You can hear the smile on his face. 

“Yes.” You say.

His fingers work carefully to untie the wrap around your chest, fingertips skimming your skin for a moment before he pulls back, your breasts come free now, he goes deeper to stand in front of you, moving your chin to face him.

He carefully brushes his fingers over the dry blood of the human splattered across your face and body, bending to take water in his hands and let it fall gently over your skin. 

The water shifts softly around you as Neteyam’s body moves and settles closer behind yours. His hands rest along your ribs, fingers spread just above your chest. The other stays at your waist, his breath ghosts along your neck.

Then his lips brush your shoulder, leaving soft, open mouthed kisses there. 

“Neteyam…” you sigh, head falling back onto his shoulder. 

His hands move over your bare upper body, never stopping, just exploring. Your own hand lifts, covering his slightly. 

Your head tilts, giving him more access. 

Loud, unmistakable footsteps sound from across the ravine, “Bro- Neteyam!” The voice echoes down into the water.

Neteyam freezes behind you, his grip tightening just slightly before going completely still. Another voice, older, still familiar echoes, “Lo’ak, I said he was probably-“

At the edge of the ravine, Jake and Lo’ak stand wide eyed and slightly appalled. They both lean far enough to see everything.

You move almost immediately , grabbing neteyam’s wrist and pulling his hand away from your chest, turning slightly so your back and shoulders cover more of you. 

“Lo’ak. Dad…” Neteyam murmurs.

“okay! I can explain. I brought him but i didn’t know. You know?” Lo’ak stammers. “Sorry bro, i just wanted to make sure you were good cause they said you guys were attacked and you know..”

Jake is still staring, not shocked or angry, processing, maybe. Neteyam closes his eyes briefly like he’s asking Eywa for strength. “Dad,” he says carefully, “you need to leave.”

“Yes, that's fair.” Jake says. “Be careful.” he throws in. 

“We should go.” Lo’ak leans slightly toward him. 

Your ears flatten. “Why are they not going?” 

“I don’t know.” Neteyam mutters. 

Jake clears his throat, because he is, unfortunately, still a father. his eyes flick between the two of you, taking in the very obvious situation. “You’re busy.”

“No, we’re not. We were just gonna leave.” 

“Right.”

You cover your face, Lo’ak is visibly holding back laughter. Jake grabs his arm. “Move.”

“I am moving bro!”

“Don’t bro me. You’re too grown for that.”  Jake shakes his head, muttering the last part. They disappear from the edge of the ravine, voices fading. 

Neteyam doesn’t move at first, then he breaths, turning his head just enough to see you. He drops his head on your shoulder. “I am never coming back here again.”

You let out a soft laugh, hands still covering your face for a moment before dropping. “You say that now,” 

“I mean it.” He insists, lifting his head-but the faint smile tugging at his mouth betrays him. “I love everything you do, but I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me anymore.” His arms snake around your waist again, careful and smooth. 

“You were about to be shot.” 

“And you stood over me like nothing could touch you,” he replies, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You glance away, shoulders tensing. “I thought I’d lose you. I wasn’t thinking.” 

“I know, that is what worries me.” His knuckles brush gently against the tight-soft shape of your jaw, softening the weight of his words. “No more fighting today, we will rest. I can prepare a meal when we get home, yes, ma yawnetu?” 

“Yes.” You nod. 

The two of you finish washing in quieter motions. No rush now, no urgency. Just the soft sound of water and breath. When you step out of the ravine, the air feels cooler against your skin. 

You can see Neteyam wringing his loincloth from your peripheral, his eyes focused and hands straining the thick, wet cloth.

You make your way towards the rock where he left your top, fingers brushing tall, overgrown thickets. You tie the top slowly. 

Behind you, the faint sound of water and fabric shifts to something softer. Just Neteyam’s steady footsteps approaching from behind, holding your wrist, careful. 

“Come,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.” 

Your hands stay linked the entire way back, and when you arrive, villagers watch you curiously. The word always gets out, everybody knows about the way you’d “lost control” only their eyes are not judgmental, or questioning, they are understanding.

Neteyam ignores it, and so do you. He does not stop walking, occasionally squeezing your soft, slightly calloused hands.

Inside your hut, the air is still warm. Neteyam leans over the fire, already roasting meat and spreading seasoning made from crushed herbs over the succulent flesh. 

His hands reach for the provisions in your baskets next, pulling from them some seeds and teylu. 

You watch silently, not entirely sure what to do, so you just kneel beside him and watch. 

“Don’t get too close to the fire,” he murmurs. “What kind of drink would you like? swoa or just water?”

“Swoa,” you smile. “Do not add too many spices. I do not want to be rou all night.” 

“Then I will have the same.” 

You nod gently, taking the ingredients and mixing them, the liquid thickens slowly under your fingers, the scent of crushed herbs rising warm and familiar between you.

You finish mixing the swoa, careful not to over-spice it, and hand one to him. Your fingers brush briefly, he smiles. 

He takes a sip, eyes flicking to you over the rim. “It’s good, baby.”

“I know,” you murmur, taking your own.

The sound of the fire is all you can hear now, a comforting silence drifting around it. “I am not scared of you. I hope you know that.” He says suddenly.

“Good.” You say, too fast.

“Yes, I see your anger and I feel your pain.”

Silence stretches long and deep. “I love you” You say. 

“I love you.” He murmurs, pressing his forehead briefly to yours. 

Your fingers rise to brush over his cheeks, skimming his scars, lips, even his eyes. “I see you.” 

His smile grows. Hours of small talk and eating pass until you finally decide to settle, Neteyam holds you all through the night, very often, unconsciously rubbing his hands over your body. 

Dawn comes sharper the next day, the platform is already set when you arrive, clean, open, visible to the clan—deliberatey so. 

Two warriors stand at the edge, exactly as ordered by Neteyam, Jake, and Mo’at. Today is the day which Aysea will begin to work under you; following your orders, recollecting and reorganizing your herbs. 

She is late, most likely on purpose. You step onto the platform without rushing, setting down your equipment, waiting. 

It is then that she arrives, feet padding hard against the ground, arms crossed around her chest, face bitter and plain. 

“You’re late,” you say calmly. 

Her jaw tightens. “I was here before, you came too late.” 

“Then you should look less impatient.” You gesture toward the laid-out bundles behind you. “Sort these.”

She does not move at first, testing you. The warriors shift slightly on their feet, offering a half glance to one another. 

Aysea’s gaze flicks to them, to you, then to the herbs. she grumbles, low and guttural before kneeling. 

Her hands begin sorting herbs—less practiced than yours, slightly rougher. You watch for a moment, then step closer.

“No,” you say, reaching down and correcting her grip. “You will bruise the stems.”

“Then show me properly, Tsakarem.” She mocks. 

You hold her gaze, then you take her wrist, firm and controlled, guiding her movements. “Gentle, or you waste them.” 

“You care a lot about plants.” She rolls her eyes. 

“I care about the people. The herbs are vital.” 

“Strange,” she continues lightly, “for someone who enjoys fighting so much.”

You release her wrist. “You will speak when spoken to.” 

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. You do not make the passing time easy, sorting herbs, grinding roots, carrying water, rebinding old mixtures. Each task is repetitive. 

Aysea, ignorant in all of her senses, does the tasks, but not quietly. She takes too long, lets leaves fall, and breathes out in faint, exaggerated sighs.

“You messed that one up.” She points to a bundle which you had already tied up. 

“No,” you reply. 

“Yes. It is uneven.” 

You raise an eyebrow, reaching for the bundle, you examine it, then you drop it. “Redo it.”  

She only stares at you for a second. “You are lucky that the warriors are standing there.” 

You hum quietly, watching her work, then the sharp sound of a twig breaking sounds over the platform. Neteyam stands behind—watching you. 

You offer a small smile, “excuse me,” you murmur, stepping aside and approaching your mate. You place a soft kiss on his cheek, fingers curled against his chest. 

He turns his head to catch your lips in a gentle kiss, hands squeezing your shoulders. “Be ready soon. I am taking you out tonight.” 

waving your fingers briefly before focusing on Aysea. You spend the entire afternoon hovering over her work. Correcting, nudging. every little misstep reminding you how much you carry. 

By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the mountains in gold and crimson, your thoughts are only half on duty, the other half. every beat of your heart, waits for Neteyam. 

He is there at the cliff's edge when you arrive. His ikran’s wings catch the last light. You yip loudly for your girl, leaping onto her when she comes. 

You and Neteyam fly peacefully toward your usual date area, an alcove amongst mountains, high in the sky with a beautiful view of the forest below. 

You arrive shortly, landing gracefully. Neteyam’s first instinct is to tease you, to tug at your tail and run after you until you fall into the woven bedding. 

He kneels right beside you, panting slightly, hair swinging back and forth as he laughs. “I have waited all day for this.” He murmurs. 

“Mm, me too.” You say. 

Neteyam’s fingers brush yours, his breath calming down, eyes shuddering. “My love, there is something I need to tell you..” he whispers.

“What is it?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady, though your pulse is already racing.  

“There’s a mission. Tonight, I was chosen and I am unsure how long it will take. It is far from here.”

Your stomach twists immediately, fingers tightening in his. “No- let me go with you. I must go, I must fight.”

“No.” He says firmly, not unkind, just making sure his point gets across. His hands cup your face. “You can’t. You and my grandmother- right now, you’re needed here. The clan needs you both as a healing pair.”

You want to argue, to insist, but his eyes—so earnest and steady, make you stop. You exhale, letting the tension ease just slightly. “So you go? And I will stay..how long will we be apart?” 

“I don’t know. But when I come back, I will come back to you.” He presses his forehead to yours.

“The sky people’s greed sickens me, they are always after something. I can never be just.” You cry.

His hand slides down your back, pulling you closer. “No, no, no.. it will be okay. We will come back to each other, I promise.” He smiles, pulling one straight out of you. 

You pull him closer now, “let us not waste the time we still have.” You whisper against his ear, sliding onto his lap, rubbing against his cheek gently. 

Neteyam’s breath stutters, but then he tilts your chin gently, his lips finding yours, slow at first before hunger grows. 

Hands find your waist as he shifts beneath you, tongue brushing your lower lip with tentative fervor. Slowly, his tail coils around your thigh, holding you in place as warmth grows between you.

Your fingers ride up and down his body, tracing every contour, memorizing the heat of his skin. He shudders under your touch, but suddenly, a distant drumming echoes through the quiet night, signaling all warriors. 

That signal is not right. Neteyam pushes back, tense and aware. “Hold on,” he mutters to you, thumb lingering on your bottom lip. 

You whimper at the loss of contact. There is never an instance in which you have Neteyam all to yourself, and when you finally think you do.. something ruins it. 

“Shh,” he encourages, standing slowly. 

Your eyebrows furrow slightly and you stand too, “who do you think you are shushing?” You whisper. harshly. 

“Not the time baby.” 

Neteyam’s comm beeps just then, Jake’s voice a static before cutting through. “Neteyam, boy.. something is reported near your area.” Jake’s voice cracks slightly. “Could be sky people. Stay alert.”

Your heart hammers in your ribs, “we can handle it.” You say, though fear coils tight in  your stomach. 

“I won’t risk you.” Neteyam snaps. “Let’s go, now.” 

You stumble slightly as you make your way towards your ikran, still clutching Neetyam's arm. A sharp whistle cuts through the air, something slices past, narrowly missing the edge of the alcove. 

You leap onto your girl as fast as possible, flanking Neteyam, a knife in your hand. The sound of splintering wood makes your heart drop. 

Below, the forest becomes a blur of shadow and color.  Above, the stars peek through clouds, indifferent to the danger. Another object streaks past. 

“Stay low!” Neteyam yells.

For a heartbeat, you catch his gaze. A look full of promise. Your grip on your ikran’s saddle tightens, muscles flexing. 

And as she banks again, you realize that neither you nor Neteyam knows just how close it came.

taglist no one asked for: @sango-komii @finshythgurl @deeloveswriting @julietelysythe @yung7lisya @miksxz @lesbosaur1

i totally believe this could do better than it did the last time i posted it 🫩 i still thank all of my readers and i love you all so much

[woozycatz]

ৎ୭ before the mantle takes root

THIS IS PART TWO!! ৎ୭

prompt: after mating with neteyam and becoming tsakarem, you and him must face a multitude of obstacles to eventually love eachother freely.

pairings: Neteyam x omatikaya!reader, Neytiri x reader, Lo'ak × Neteyam, Jake sully × Neteyam, Jake sully x reader. (all platonic except for neteyam x reader)

warnings: a little cursing, slightly suggestive, angst, fighting, themes of war, bloody injuries, kinda torturous of you blink, touchy!feely!neteyam, grown up characters, kissing, body insecurities.

wc: 17.5k.

find part one... here!

notes: this took an embarrassingly long time to publish, i truly apologize!. this is part two, but this might have to be a multi part series, i am lowkey invested. kinda did bad before so i had to repost 🫩

Two days later, the night washes over the village, silver light spilling across the platform. The clan gathers beneath the sacred tree, blue seeds drifting in the air like tiny stars. Drums echo slowly, their rhythm moving through the hearts of every listener. You and Neteyam had known that there’d be a bonding ceremony, but now you doubted whether or not you were ready. 

Villagers searched frantically for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Neytiri took it upon herself to find you—and she did. You sat alone on a rock near the riverbank, hands curled in moss which stuck to the rock beneath you. 

“What is wrong?” Neytiri whispers, careful not to scare you. 

You glance back at her for a heartbeat before turning to face the water again. But she notices the way your shoulders sag, the way your ears droop low, and the way your tail is still beside you, your tail is almost never still, always flicking and alive, but not tonight. 

She moves closer, one hand reaching to rest on your shoulder gently. “Tell me,”

You spare a side glance and finally, you break apart. Her concern deepens, arm swinging carefully around you, pulling you against her side. You bury your face in her shoulder, defeat breaking you down. 

“When you are ready..” She murmurs, smoothing your hair. 

You nod slowly, soft sobs escaping you involuntarily. “Is it Neteyam?” She asks. “Has he done something?”

“No,” you manage, “It is my mother, I miss my mother and I miss my father.”

Her eyes soften immediately, though dark with understanding. War took her father as well, she understands the hatred you hold for the sky people because she feels it too. Because they took everything, and you had to grow with it. 

“Oh, Y/n…” 

“I am forgetting his face,” you cry, guilt twisting your features. 

“Do not.” She whispers, “this is not your fault. You are stronger than this, than the demons. Strong heart. And you are tsakarem.” She beams. “Your mother would be very proud, your father too.” 

Neytiri holds you there for a long moment, letting your grief spill out into the quiet night. The drums from the village drift faintly across the water, steady and patient, as if the forest itself is waiting for you.

Her hand moves slowly along your back, calming you.

“Your father’s face lives here,” she murmurs, gently touching the center of your chest. “Not only in your eyes.”

You shake your head weakly. “But it fades… every season it fades more.”

Neytiri sits beside you fully now, folding her legs beneath her. The silver light reflects across the river, turning the water pale and soft. For a moment she watches the current.

“My father,” she says quietly, “was a mighty warrior. When the war came… the sky people took him from us.” Her voice does not break, but it deepens with the memory. “For many nights I feared I would forget the sound of his voice.”

You lift your head slightly, listening.

“But my mother told me something.” Neytiri brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “The People do not vanish. They walk with Eywa. They walk with us.”

She gestures toward the forest where the sacred trees glow faintly, seeds drifting through the air.

“When you hunt with honor… when you help the clan… when you show kindness to the children… your parents see it. Through Eywa.”

Your breathing slowly steadies.

“You became tsakarem,” she continues with a proud smile. “You heal. You listen. You carry the songs of life.” Her eyes warm. “This is not forgetting them. This is becoming what they raised you to be.”

The image of your father is hazy, but you remember the feeling of his hand on your head. The sound of your mother’s laughter when you returned from gathering herbs. The way they spoke about Eywa with reverence. Your fingers tighten in the moss. “I wanted them here,” you whisper. “Tonight. I wanted them to see.”

“They will,” Neytiri says gently. “Only not with the eyes you know.”

She tilts her head toward the village. The drums have grown louder now, the rhythm calling. “The clan waits. And Neteyam waits.”

At his name, your ears twitch faintly. Neytiri notices and smiles a little. “That boy has walked circles around the platform for half the night,” she says softly. “Like a nervous ikran.”

Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escapes you. She stands slowly, offering you her hand. “Come,” Neytiri says. “Do not hide your heart from the People. Your parents’ spirits will be there tonight. I feel it.”

You hesitate only a moment before taking her hand. Together you walk back through the glowing forest. Seeds brush your shoulders as you pass beneath the sacred trees, drifting like tiny stars.

As the platform comes into view, the entire clan stands gathered in the silver light. The drums slow. at the center stands Neteyam.

His posture straightens the moment he sees you. Relief floods his face so openly that a few nearby hunters chuckle quietly. Your tail flicks for the first time that night. Neytiri squeezes your shoulder once. “See?” she murmurs. “He was worried.”

Neteyam steps forward carefully, as though afraid you might vanish again. “You disappeared,” he says, hands rubbing over your arms, checking for injuries. “I thought-” His words stop when he sees the traces of tears on your face. Immediately his expression softens. Without thinking, he reaches for your hands.

“I was afraid,” he admits quietly. The drums begin again—slow, deep, echoing through the trees.

And under the drifting seeds, beneath the watchful eyes of the clan and the unseen presence of Eywa, the ceremony is about to begin.

Neteyam guides you through the crowd, stopping just before the people, before Mo’at. the warmth of his presence is steady through the bond you already share. His hand brushes yours lightly, a silent reassurance.

At the center of the gathering stands Mo’at, her hand rises and silence passes through the crowd. “You stand before Eywa tonight,” she says, voice deep and calm. Her gaze moves between you and Neteyam. “Not as strangers.” A few knowing smiles ripple through the clan. “You have already chosen each other.”

Your ears warm slightly. Mo’at’s eyes soften for a moment when they rest on her grandson. “But tonight, the People will witness what the forest already knows.”

An elder steps forward carrying two braided cords woven with pale sacred seeds. Mo’at lifts one cord.“These are not bonds that force the heart,” she says. “They remind the People of the path that has already been chosen.”

She hands one braid to Neteyam. He turns toward you, his usual warrior’s confidence replaced with something softer, it still amazes you sometimes.

This is the same man you once argued with at every hunt. The same man who once challenged you before the entire clan because neither of you would yield. Until somewhere between anger and rivalry, something changed.

Carefully, Neteyam ties the braid around your neck. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

You take the second braid and tie it around his neck. The drums slow again.

Mo’at raises her hand slightly. “Speak your truth.” Neteyam lifts his chin. “I see her.”

The sacred words ripple through the clan. “I saw her strength even when she stood against me,” he continues, a faint smile touching his lips. “She fought me. Argued with me. Refused to bow to me.”

A few hunters chuckle softly. His thumb brushes over your wrist. “somewhere in all that fighting… I began to admire her.” Your tail flicks behind you. “I chose her then,” he finishes quietly. “I choose her still.”

Mo’at nods once and turns to you. “And you, Ma’Y/n?”

You glance briefly toward the circle of villagers. For a heartbeat your eyes find Aysea, she watches calmly, arms folded loosely across her chest, bitter.

You turn back to Neteyam. “I see him,” you say. Neteyam’s ears tilt slightly toward you. “I saw the boy who thought he knew everything,” you add, a small smile forming. “But I also saw the man he would become.” Your voice softens.“When the forest was quiet, when no one was watching, he was kinder than he allowed anyone to see.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. “I chose him then.” You breathe slowly. “And I choose him again.”

Mo’at lifts her hand once again, gesturing the the people. “Then let the clan witness.”

Neteyam glances down at you with a quiet grin. “You ready?” he murmurs. You nod, simultaneously, you lift your kurus. Even though the bond already exists between you, the moment still carries weight beneath the eyes of the clan, and beneath the eyes of Eywa. The neural tendrils intertwine. Warmth rushes through the connection between you, familiar, steady, and alive.

The clan murmurs softly as the act is witnessed beneath the sacred tree. Mo’at raises her voice. “Eywa has already seen this bond.” Her foot strikes the platform once. “Now the People see it as well.”

The drums explode into celebration. Cheers ripple through the gathered clan. Neytiri smiles with quiet pride, tears stinging her eyes while Jake crosses his arms with an amused shake of his head.

Neteyam leans close, pressing his forehead gently against yours, through your bond his thoughts brush warm against yours.  

The night goes on, celebration begins, dancing, feasting, laughter. Neteyam keeps you close all night, one hand on your hip as he chats with the warriors of the clan, men and women drown you two with blessings all night. 

 For a moment everything feels peaceful. Then the forest goes quiet, the insects stop, the distant animals go silent, a rumble rolls across the sky, your heart drops.

Gunships. Jake’s voice cut through the village. “Get down! Take cover!” 

A missile slams into the far side of the clearing, the explosion tearing through the night and flames erupt as wood splinters and platforms collapse. Children scream as searchlights cut through the forest. 

“Sky people,” you mutter, hand squeezing Neteyam’s arm tightly. 

Demon ships roar overhead, Neteyam drags you behind tree roots as bullets tear through the woods. He already grabbed his bow. “Stay behind me.” 

“No,” you snap, grabbing your own weapons.

Soldiers begin to descend from ropes, the battle erupts instantly. Arrows fly upward while machines shred branches. Neteyam fights beside you until a small voice cries out.

“Neteyam!”  Amidst the chaos, Tuk is alone with only Kiri to help. Neteyam sees. There is no running as three armed men surround them.

“I have it over here! Go!” You tell Neteyam, already pushing him toward his sisters. 

He hesitates and then he doesn’t, feet slamming into soil, running straight to them. “Kiri!” He shouts. Three soldiers advance toward them, Neteyam’s entire posture changes. 

He is not only a warrior, he is a big brother. “Get down!” His voice bellows, Kiri listens immediately, shoving Tuk behind the beam.

Neteyam’s arrow drops the first soldier, then the next two. He focuses solely on getting his sisters to a safe place and having them join the young ones which Kiri will look after.

A new kind of call roars overhead, not sky people, not your people…no. Ikran, war cries. Na’vi ones. Mangkwan raiders glide into the battlefield from above. Your body physically tenses. You have not seen the Mangkwan since your fathers death. They are who took him away when they became allies of the sky demons, they held him down before you and let you watch the sky people take everything.

The doubt that you cannot fight this creeps into your muscles, but you ground yourself immediately. This is what they would have wanted. 

Your arrows fly free the way you were taught. Your body moves gracefully, dropping many—mangkwan and the demons. 

A raider drops just a couple feet away from you, but you are too busy with others to notice, then his bowstring trembles.

A white hot pain rides up your thigh, calves buckling, bow dropping a few inches away. You reach for it instinctively, but your legs are too weak, you let yourself fall back against a fallen tree, leg trembling, ankles hovering slightly as you hold your knees against your chest.

“Ah!—” You cry, chest heaving with dry breaths, fingers trembling rapidly, a tall, broad shadow dims yours. 

“Well, well…” You look up slowly, the raider who had just shot you stands there, tall, body paint cakey and thick.

He leans down, hands clenching loosely around your necklaces. “The little healer falls…” His hand runs down to the arrow pierced into your thigh, flicking it suddenly, goading the wound. 

“Agh!” You hiss, fingers digging into his wrist. 

He frees himself with ease. “I will not hesitate to kill. Do not forget your position here, tsamsiyu.” 

He pushes the arrow in deeper, your cries bleed into short gasps, sweat beading at your forehead. “Neteyam!” You cry. You are not one to ask for help, pride keeps you from it—but right now you need someone.

“You call for who? The Mate?” The raider scoffs, “what a weak warrior you are…cannot fight for herself, needs mate to come.” 

The only thing giving you strength is pride, and you hold so much pride. “I am not weak.” 

He laughs, not loud, just a cruel breath of amusement. “Not weak?” he echoes, standing closer. The paint on his face creaks when he grins. “You are on the ground. Bleeding.”  

Your leg trembles under you, the arrow buried deep in your thigh. Every breath feels sharp. Still, you push your hand though the dirt, trying to reach the knife at your hip. 

He sees it immediately. His foot pins your wrist to the ground. “You should have stayed with the healers, helping elders and little children, not pretending to be a warrior.”  

Your ears flatten, but you don’t look away. “Move!”

He laughs under his breath and crouches closer, his hand grips the arrow and gives it a slight twist. Pain tears through your entire leg. Your back hits the fallen tree as a strangled cry escapes you. 

You suddenly jerk your free leg forward, kicking him hard in the ribs. It isn't clean, but it knocks him off balance for half a step. you lunge for your bow lying a few feet away.  

Your injured leg collapses instantly. You fall again, catching yourself on your hands. The raider quickly recovers, his hands squeezing your shoulders and forcing you back into the tree. “I will kill you,” you rasp, nails digging into the soil. 

“Kill me? I don’t think-” a whistle cuts through the battle field and just then, an arrow pierces through his shoulder. 

“Get away!” Neteyam hisses, running fast toward you two. The mangkwan stands quickly, reaching for his weapon, but Neteyam raises his. “Get away.” He warns.

The raider steps back, glancing at you. “You are lucky.” He storms off after his clan who are retreating on the ikran. 

“Y/n,” he murmurs, leaning down immediately. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, yes I am completely okay…” 

“Okay…you’re joking. That is a good sign.” One of his arms moves behind your back, the other at your thighs. “Let me get you out of here.” 

Your cheeks flush despite the situation. “Put me down, Neteyam.” 

“Are you crazy? You cannot walk.” He runs through the aftermath of the battle, rushing you to the hide where the healers are. “I have to get you to my grandmother.”

Your hand rests on his chest, the other wrapped around his neck. “Is the tree okay?” You whisper.

“Yes…thanks to you, to the other warriors.”

“Did anybody die?” 

“I am not completely sure.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes. “Wake me up when you are sure.”

“Do not sleep now, you are losing blood.”

He sets you down on the mat in Mo’at’s kelku, his fingers lingering on the wound, 

Mo’at enters, immediately getting to work. The moons pass quietly after the battle. Your leg heals slowly under Mo’at’s watchful care. The wound leaves a faint scar along your thigh, but your strength returns with each passing day. You walk the forest trails again. You gather herbs, tend to the wounded, and slowly return to training with the hunters.

Neteyam never strays far during that time. Sometimes he pretends he is simply passing by the healing hut. Sometimes he lingers longer than necessary while Mo’at checks your bandages. Neytiri notices, of course. She says nothing, but the small smile she hides is impossible to miss.

Eventually, after weeks of healing, the day arrives when Mo’at finally nods in approval. “You are strong enough,” she says simply.

The meaning behind it is clear, you can stay in your own home again. A new hut stands on the edge of the village platform. It isn’t large, but it’s beautiful in its own quiet way. Fresh woven walls. Soft moss bedding, just the way Neteyam knows you like it. Bundles of herbs hang from the rafters where you’ve already begun arranging them. The entrance opens toward the forest where glowing seeds drift through the night air. Your new home. 

A different feeling pools in your stomach as you rearrange the same object, over, and over, and over again. 

The hut is quiet except for the soft crackle of the small fire and the distant hum of the forest outside. Your new home still smells like fresh woven leaves and damp wood. You should feel peaceful, but you don’t. 

Neteyam sits across from you near the fire, loosening the leather wrap around his wrist after a long day of training the younger hunters. You’ve been moving around the hut for a while now—adjusting things that don’t need adjusting, shifting baskets, tying and retying herb bundles.

Your tail flicks restlessly behind you. Neteyam watches for a moment before speaking. He knows that this is what you do when you do not want to interact with anyone. “You’ve moved that basket three times.”

You glance at him briefly. “I like it there.” 

“You liked it in the other two places too.” You do not answer and the silence stretches longer than it should. He tilts his head, studying you. “What is wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You murmur. 

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.  “Ma’Y/n.” You hate when he uses that tone—the calm one that says he already knows something is bothering you.

You stop fiddling with the basket and sit down across from him. “You knew,” 

He blinks, hands pausing at his wrist. “Knew what?” 

“The things that Aysea said to me.” 

His shoulders shift slightly, leaning forward. “I knew you two argued, yes…” 

“Argued?” You echo. 

“Yes.” 

You laugh humorlessly.  “Is that what you thought it was?” 

His brow furrows. “You fought every time you were near each other.”

“She mocked my parents,” you say quietly.

Neteyam’s expression tightens, guilt riding up. “I know she said some things.”

“Some things?” 

“Y/n—”

“She said my mother died because she was weak.” 

The words fall flat, Neteyam straightens. “I never heard her say that.” 

“Because you never listened, Neteyam! You threw one blind eye at everything! Do you know how difficult it was to watch you side with her every time?! To watch you kiss and touch her?” You hiss. 

You continue, eyes stinging. “She would tear into me in front of everyone. And then you would stand beside her like she had done nothing. Do not think I have forgotten this just because we are mated.” 

“That’s not fair-come on, baby.” 

“Not fair? She stood in front of the hunters and told them my father died because he wasn’t strong enough to protect himself!” 

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “I did not hear that.”

“But you heard enough!” you shoot back, tail lashing sharply. “You heard the way she spoke to me. You heard the way she laughed when I trained your sister.” 

“That was rivalry,” he says slowly.

“It was humiliating!” Your voice echoes off the woven walls.

He steps toward you. “You both challenged each other constantly.”

“She tells the people that I was only chosen as tsakarem out of pity! Because my parents are dead!” 

“I… never heard that,” he whispers.

“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “You were too busy pretending it was just two warriors arguing.”

“I was trying to keep peace,” he says. 

“You were protecting her! You stood beside her all the same!”

“That is not true!” 

“You were promised to her!” you explode. “The clan expected you to defend her!”

“I did not choose her over you.”

“But you didn’t choose me either!”

The words hit him like a blow. “For months,” you continue, voice shaking, “I stood there alone while she tore into everything I had left.”

“You should have told me,” he mutters.

“I shouldn’t have had to!” Your voice cracks. “You’re supposed to see things like that. You’re supposed to lead this clan one day!”

“I cannot see everything!” he snaps. 

“Neteyam!” You cry. “You saw enough!” 

“I thought you were strong enough to handle her,” he admits, his voice quiet now.

“Strong enough?” Tears sting your eyes. “You think that meant it didn’t hurt? My parents are dead!”

He steps closer. “Y/n—”

“No!” you shout, stepping back. “You did not just stand there!” Your voice trembles. “You stood beside her!”

“I, I-” he tries, his hand reaching toward you.

“Don’t!” You shake your head sharply. “You do not get to touch me right now.” He hesitates, then lowers his hand. You take a small step back.

“I did not realize-” He starts.

“You didn’t care!” Another tear slips down your cheek, you wipe it roughly.“She told me you would always choose her. That she was the one meant to stand beside the future olo’eyktan.” Your breathing becomes uneven. “And every time you smiled at her or kissed her, it felt like she was right.”

Neteyam looks shaken. “I never chose her over you.”

“You were promised to her. And you made it seem like you did choose her.”

“But I mated with you.”

“Because you needed me.” The words hit harder than anything else, Neteyam stills. “You came to me because you could not hear Eywa anymore,” you whisper. “You said the forest felt silent. You did not come to me because you loved me, you came because you were lost.”

Neteyam steps forward. “That’s not—”

“And if Eywa had answered you sooner,” you continue bitterly, “you never would have come to me at all.”

His expression falters, he reaches for you again. “Y/n, please. Listen to me, you’re overthinking—”

“No!” Your voice shakes.

He still gently catches your wrist. “Let me-”

“No!” You snap, backing up slowly toward the doorway and running to the forest. Your feet race to the only place you will find quiet, the hollow—because when things get hard, and when you find no soft moss or biolumescent plants to sleep within, the hollow is your friend.

Neteyam starts after you, stopping at the doorway, figuring that you need time. He sits silently on your shared hammock, the hut feels wrong without you in it. 

Your scent still lingers in the woven blankets. One of your herb bundles hangs crooked because you tied it too quickly earlier. The basket you moved three times sits near the wall.

Neteyam leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressing against his face. His breathing grows uneven before he realizes it.

He squeezes his eyes shut but it doesn’t stop the burn building behind them. A tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it, he wipes it away roughly. He should have seen it.

He has been trained his whole life to read the forest—tracks in the soil, broken branches, shifts in wind. Yet somehow he failed to read the person standing beside him.

Suddenly he stands, he knows exactly where Aysea will be. The village platform is quieter now. Most of the clan sleeps, but a few fires still glow softly. Aysea sits near one of them weaving beads into a necklace.

She looks up when Neteyam approaches, a slow smile spreads across her face. “Well,” she says lightly, voice smooth. “The great warrior comes to visit, I knew it wouldn’t take too long.”

Neteyam’s eyes narrow instead of returning the smile. “Did you mock Y/n’s parents?” 

Aysea tilts her head, feigning innocence, letting her gaze linger on him a moment longer than necessary. “That is a strange greeting,” she murmurs, letting a playful smirk tug at her lips.

Neteyam’s voice drops. “Did you say her father died because he was weak?”

Aysea studies him, eyes glinting, before she shrugs. “Words are said, and sometimes in jest.”

“You told the clan she became tsakarem out of pity,” he says, stepping closer.

Aysea rises slowly, circling him. “And now you care very deeply for her,” she murmurs, letting her fingers brush lightly along his arm as she passes.

Neteyam stiffens, pulling back without a word. Her smile deepens. She leans slightly closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “You could have stopped me, you know… you didn’t.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. He holds his ground, gaze sharp. “You were promised to me,” she continues, letting her hand hover near his chest, brushing the air with a teasing intimacy. “Everyone knew it. One day, I thought maybe you would realize.” 

He steps aside, firm and composed. “I mated with her,” he says, voice cold.

Her eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge. “Because you needed her,” she counters, tilting her head, letting her hand brush near his shoulder. “Everyone knows the mighty hunter could not hear Eywa anymore…”

Neteyam’s expression hardens, his posture steady, eyes never leaving hers. “You will not speak of her like that again.”

Aysea laughs softly, a low, provocative sound. She takes a step closer, voice teasing. “Or what, Neteyam? Are you going to punish me?”

He grabs her wrist firmly, removing her hand without harshness, keeping his composure, though the tension hums through the air. “Or you will answer to the clan,” he says, voice low and unwavering.

For the first time, she hesitates, a flicker of surprise passing her features.

“If I ever hear you insult her parents again,” he continues quietly, deliberately, “you will regret it.”

He turns and walks away, each step measured, unshaken.

Behind him, Aysea watches with narrowed eyes, lips curling slightly—not in victory, but in quiet frustration. She had tested him. She had pushed, tried to unsettle him.

But he had not wavered. And now, the challenge is no longer just words. Someone else had seen her touch him—and the consequences will not be hers to command.

On his way back, Neteyam decides to go sit with Jake, still stressed as the night progresses. “Uh ohh,” Lo’ak laughs from his spot beside their father, pulling Neteyam down and watching him closely.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, teasing but concerned deep inside.

Neteyam does not answer immediately, just rubs his chin contemplatively. “It’s Y/n” he finally murmurs.

Lo’ak’s ears perk up curiously. “What about her?” 

“She’s angry.” 

Jake smiles softly, “why?”

“Cause I messed up..”

“Yeah? Just apologize.” Jake leans back slightly, arms folding across his chest as the fire crackles between them. The glow lights the deep lines in his face, the kind that come from years of leading and making mistakes.

Lo’ak snorts quietly. “Yeah, bro. Just say ‘sorry.’ Not that hard.”

“Don’t start.” Jake says, raising a hand without looking at Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak shrugs and leans back, the grin never leaving his face. Jake studies his eldest son for a moment. “What’d you do?”

Neteyam exhales slowly through his nose. “I didn’t see something I should have.”

Jake nods once. “Okay.”

“She told me Aysea mocked her parents… for months.” His jaw tightens. “Said her father died because he was weak.”

Lo’ak’s smile drops instantly. “She said that?”

Neteyam nods faintly. Jake’s expression hardens slightly, though his voice stays calm. “And you didn’t know?”

“I heard them argue,” Neteyam admits. “I thought it was just rivalry between two women, two warriors. I thought she could handle it.”

Jake lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam mutters. “She said I stood beside Aysea while it happened. That I protected her.”

Jake tilts his head. “You did, we all saw it.”

Neteyam hesitates. “…Sometimes,” he says quietly.

Lo’ak glances between them but doesn’t interrupt. Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Son, being a leader isn’t about seeing every bullet flying through the air. That’s impossible.”

Neteyam stares into the fire. “But,” Jake continues, “when someone you care about is hurting, and you miss it… that sticks with them.”

Neteyam’s ears droop slightly. Jake gestures with his chin. “You know what mistake you made?” Neteyam glances up. “You assumed she was strong enough not to be hurt.” 

Neteyam looks away again.

Jake nods slowly. “Your mother does that too. Strong people get handed more pain because everyone thinks they can carry it.”

Lo’ak murmurs, “Yeah… Y/n’s pretty scary though.”

Jake gives him a sideways look.

“I’m just saying.” Lo’ak murmurs.

Neteyam rubs his face again. “She said something else.” Jake waits. “She thinks I only chose her because I needed her to hear Eywa again.”

That makes Jake pause. “That’s what she believes?” he asks quietly.

Neteyam nods. For a moment, Jake doesn’t speak. The forest hums softly around them. Then he says, “Did you love her before that?”

Neteyam answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

Jake shrugs lightly. “Then the problem isn’t what’s true. The problem is she doesn’t know it.”

Neteyam frowns slightly. Jake gestures toward the forest. “Right now she’s sitting somewhere replaying every moment where it looked like you chose someone else.”

Neteyam’s shoulders tighten.

“And if you walk up there and just say ‘sorry,’” Jake continues, “she’s gonna hear: ‘Let’s move past it.’”

Lo’ak nods. “Yeah. That would not go well.”

Neteyam groans quietly. Jake continues seriously. “If you want to fix this, don’t defend yourself first. Listen, apologize, don’t say anything but ‘I'm sorry.’ It always works.”

Lo’ak laughs, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders. “Or you could just make loooveee”

“Lo’ak.” Jake warns, pulling him back.

“Dad, seriously… we’re not kids anymore.”

“You still act like one.” Neteyam says. “I will give her my apologies. I just hope she accepts them.”

“Yeah, she can be stubborn…but when you’re mated, things are different. She sees you, and she feels you. There is anger, there might be lingering hatred, there is jealousy, but beneath all of it, there is love.” 

Neteyam nods once, adjusting his wraps and gathering water for you to drink. 

Tonight the silence presses heavily around you. You sit curled against the curve of the tree, knees pulled close, tail wrapped loosely around your ankle. The anger from earlier has burned itself out, leaving only the ache beneath it.

You hate that you cried in front of him. You hate that the words came out the way they did. But most of all—you hate how long you held them inside.

A soft footstep breaks the quiet, you don’t look up. Neteyam stops a few paces away. He doesn’t approach immediately. He knows this place; he’s followed you here before when you needed space.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then he lowers himself slowly onto the moss—not beside you, not yet. A respectful distance away. “I brought you water,” he says quietly.

Your tail curls around your ankle, still refusing to speak. You glance at the small bowl of water but don’t reach for it. 

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence stretches long enough that the night insects begin filling it again. Then he exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Your ears flick, but you stay still. “I should have seen it,” he continues quietly.

You stare ahead at the glowing plants.

 “I heard you and Aysea argue for months,” he says. “I thought it was two hunters trying to outdo each other. That was my mistake”

Your fingers tighten in the moss as the words settle between you. Neteyam’s eyes never leave your face. “I thought you were strong enough that it didn’t matter what she said.” 

Your voice comes out low. “That’s the problem.”

Neteyam nods faintly. “I know.”

You finally turn slightly toward him, he isn’t defensive, he isn’t angry, he just looks ashamed. “I asked her tonight, about the things you said.” he says.

Your ears lift. “And?” you whisper.

“She did not deny them.”

Your jaw tightens, Neteyam’s voice lowers.“She will not speak about your parents again.”

“And why did you choose to kiss and touch her right in front of me all of those times?” You say.

“If I am being honest, I wanted to see how you would react…we just hated each other so much, I wanted you to feel how “little” I cared. But you seemed unbothered.”

“I was not unbothered.”

 “I know now, but at the time, touching and kissing her was what felt… right? Only for the moment, because it is what everybody expected.”

“And you let expectations dictate everything that you do.” Silence falls, you glance at him, part of you regrets the words, the other part doesn’t at all. 

The forest breeze moves softly through the leaves. You stare at the ground. 

“I stood beside her too often,” he admits. “Even when I thought it was nothing. And that meant something to you.”

Your throat tightens and you nod faintly. “It meant everything,” you whisper.

The quiet stretches again. Neteyam rubs his hands together slowly. “There’s something else you said. That I only came to you because I couldn’t hear Eywa.” 

You don’t answer, he watches you carefully. “That wasn’t the beginning though, the beginning was long before that.” he says. You glance at him, brows furrowing slightly. 

Neteyam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started when you beat me in front of the hunters.” Despite everything, a tiny breath of laughter escapes you. 

“You were furious,” he says.

“You challenged me.”

“You humiliated me.” He counters. 

“You were arrogant.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Kinda.”

The moment softens slightly. Then his expression grows serious again. “But even then… I admired you.”

You look at him more fully now.

“You stood your ground even when Aysea provoked you,” he says. “Even when others told you to step aside.”

“They doubted me,” you huff. 

“You didn’t care.”

“I cared,” you say quietly.

“But you didn’t bend.” The forest hum deepens around you. “I noticed that,” Neteyam says. Your chest tightens slightly. 

“I thought it was rivalry between us.” He continues. Your tail shifts faintly. 

“But when Eywa went silent, that’s when I realized the only place the silence disappeared was when I was with you.”

 Your breath catches at his words. 

“I did not come to you because I needed you,” he says carefully. “I needed you because I had already chosen you.”

The words sit deep in your chest, you look away toward the glowing roots. “I hated seeing you with her,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

Your voice grows softer. “I thought if Eywa spoke to you again… you would leave.”

Neteyam shakes his head immediately. “Never.”

You study his face. You seel something steady and warm beneath his expression. Not guilt, not obligation, just certainty. 

“Come here, come closer.” He murmurs, but before you can even process his request, he moves behind you. The argument feels far away now, replaced by the quiet warmth of Neteyam’s arms wrapped around you.

He sits behind you against the thick tree root, your back resting against his chest. His legs are stretched on either side of yours, keeping you tucked close.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. His fingers trace slow circles along your forearm. “You’re still thinking,” he murmurs near your ear.

You sigh softly. “I always think.”

“I’ve noticed.” His chin rests lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of him, the steady rise of his breathing, the bond between you—it all settles something deep inside your chest.

“You really thought I chose her?” he asks quietly.

Your ears lower slightly.“For a long time… yes.”

Neteyam tightens his arms around you. “I never chose her.”

You turn slightly in his arms so you can look at him. The glow of the forest reflects in his eyes, his bioluminescent freckles glowing brightly in the night. 

He studies your face carefully, like he’s memorizing it. “You drive me insane sometimes,” he murmurs.

A small smile slips onto your lips. “You love me.”

“That too.” His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. You don’t pull away. The kiss comes slowly at first, tentative, the last of the tension between you dissolving with the contact. Then it deepens. Your hand slides into his braids as his other arm wraps firmly around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

The bond between you warms brightly. Time fades into the quiet breathing of the forest and the soft rustle of moss beneath you.

At some point you end up lying against the roots with Neteyam above you, laughter slipping between quiet kisses as the night stretches on around you.

Eventually the two of you settle together again in the moss—his arms around you, your head resting against his chest. And the forest watches quietly while sleep finally finds you both.

Morning light filters through the canopy. You wake slowly to the warmth of sunlight and the weight of Neteyam’s arm draped across your waist. Your braids are slightly loose, and your tweng is definitely not tied the way you remember tying it.

You shift carefully, sitting up. Behind you, Neteyam groans softly. “Too early,” he mutters.

You glance back at him. He’s half awake, hair a mess, faint moss still clinging to his shoulder. “You look ridiculous,” you say. 

“You’re one to talk.” He says. You glance down and realize that almost every one of the ties keeping your covers together have come loose. Your ears warm immediately.

Neteyam notices, the soft grin that spreads across his face is insufferable. “Don’t,” you warn. 

“Don’t what?” 

You quickly retie the strings of your loincloth and top. Neteyam sits up, stretching lazily before reaching for the leather ties of his own gear scattered nearby. “You’re staring.” You mutter.

“I am appreciating.” He corrects.

Your tail flicks sharply, but you cannot hide the smile that keeps forming. “Impossible. You’re so insufferable sometimes.” 

“You did not seem to think so last night.” 

You shove him lightly. He laughs quietly while tightening the last strap across his chest. Then he leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before standing. “Come on,” he says.

“The clan will definitely notice we disappeared.” You laugh.

He teases your tail. “So? We are mated…and grown. We have the right.” He leads you through the forest, one gentle hand lingering at the small of your back, tracing absent circles there. 

“We also have responsibility, hm?” 

“Everybody needs to wind down sometimes.”

“You sound like my mother,” you leap carefully from a fallen trunk, landing gracefully on your feet. 

Neteyam watches for a moment before landing beside you himself. “Do I?” He smiles.

“Just the way you speak.. Yes.” 

“She was mighty. I am proud to have fought beside her.” 

“Yes.” You smile, taking his hand.

The outline of the settlement comes to sight. You both walk through the village slowly. The minute you step into the main platform, several villagers glance up. 

Your tail moves lazily behind you, your eyes brighter. You look lighter. Across the platform, Neytiri’s eyes find you, they move over you once, then to Neteyam. A small, knowing smile forms. 

Jake notices too. “Well,” he nudges Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak follows his gaze to you, talking to some fellow warriors, and to Neteyam, watching you closely. You’re glowing. his grin spreads instantly. “Ohhh.”

Neteyam barely makes it three steps before Lo’ak intercepts him. “So,” Lo’ak says loudly. 

Neteyam sighs. “What?” 

Lo’ak gestures vaguely between him and you. “You two disappeared.”

Neteyam keeps walking, his eyes scanning over you from a distance before looking away. “Many people disappear at night.”

“Together?” Several nearby hunters start chuckling. One of them leans toward Lo’ak.

“She looks happy.”

Lo’ak grins wider. “She looks exhausted.”

Neteyam stops walking. “Lo’ak.”

“What did you do to her bro?” 

Another hunter snorts. “Let the man breathe,” he says. “It was clearly a long night.”

Laughter breaks out. Neteyam drags a hand down his face. “You are all like children.”

Lo’ak claps him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big brother.”

“For what?” 

“I don’t know, she forgave you though..” He laughs, running off.

Neteyam shakes his head and joins the council circle, the men and women discuss patrol routes, hunting trips, and other strategies. You sit beside your mate, one hand resting on his bicep, the other on your hip. Knowing that you will stay behind for this one but still standing there for future reference.

“We’ll take a 2 day expedition.” Jake announces. 

Neteyam, as always, will lead this trip. your duties as tsakarem keep you in the village. He glances at you briefly. “I will be back soon.” 

“I know.” You say.  

Before leaving, he presses his forehead gently against yours, peppering you with soft kisses. Then the hunters disappear into the forest.

The next day passes quietly, you help the weavers repair nets and gather herbs for Mo’at. Late afternoon, one of the younger weaving apprentices approaches you hesitantly. 

“Y/n?” she says quietly. 

You look up, “yes?” 

The girl fidgets nervously. “I saw something last night.” 

Your ears tilt slightly. “What did you see?”

“I saw Neteyam with Aysea.”

Your hands pause. “They were talking,” she continues. “And she was very close to him. She touched his arm, and his shoulder”

A small knot forms in your chest, but you stay quiet. “Then he grabbed her wrist.” Your ears flick. “I thought maybe…” the weaver trails off awkwardly.

You force a calm smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

The girl nods and leaves, but the seed of doubt has already been planted. You clean up the herbs and store them away, moving to sit anywhere else. 

Jake finds you at eclipse shooting reckless arrows at woven targets, slicing them. “Now, now, you’ll break all our targets.” He laughs. “What’s got you so angry?” 

“Your son.” 

He huffs, “which one?”

“Neteyam.”

“Again?” Jake says, a hint of amusement in his expression. “Oh, it’s serious. Again?”

“Yes!” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He was seen with Aysea.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know—talking, touching!” 

There is quiet for a moment before Jake speaks. “Look, Y/n…i know my son. Neteyam is loyal, and he loves you. Have you maybe considered talking to him before jumping to many conclusions?”

You look down for a second, foot kicking grass. “No…”

“They’re getting back tomorrow morning. Talk to him, hm?” 

“Okay” 

“Okay?” He says, backing up to leave.

“Yes, okay.” 

“Alright, get some sleep, I'm sure it’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

You sigh, watching him go for one second before hanging everything back up. You head toward your new home only to find it already open, inside, your herbs—owed to Mo’at by tomorrow—trashed and knocked over. 

The careful order you’d spent hours building is gone. Bundles of drying herbs lie scattered across the floor, some crushed into the woven mats. Others have been pulled down entirely, their bindings snapped. The sharp, clean scent of healing leaves is now bitter, mixed with dirt and something trampled.

“No, no, no.” You stumble, hands curling around nothing. Who would do this? 

Your ears flatten as your eyes scan the hut again, more carefully this time. Nothing else is taken. Nothing valuable missing. Just the herbs. Just your work. Just your place. A slow, burning realization creeps in. Aysea.

Your tail lashes sharply behind you. For a moment, anger surges hot and immediate—your first instinct is to turn, to march straight back into the village and drag the truth out into the open for everyone to see. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls, chest rising too fast as you stand in the middle of the destruction.

But this is exactly what she would want. A scene, or a reaction. Proof that she can still get under your skin. 

Your hands tremble over your now destroyed, hard work. You separate what can be salvaged from what cannot. The salvageable herbs are sorted into smaller piles, re-tied with fresh fibers. The damaged ones are pushed aside, your mind already calculating what you’ll need to gather at first light. Your movements become precise again—controlled, practiced.

But your ears remain low, because beneath the control, that feeling lingers. Violation. You get little to no sleep that night, the smell of herbs lingers in the room, mocking you and your decision; not confronting her yet.

The morning comes quicker than you admit you want it to. It should feel steady, but it doesn’t. Neteyam is returning today.

You dress nicely; a low and thin loincloth hangs from the curves at your hips, your top is an elegantly adorned piece with strings that wrap at the waist and little coverage at the top.

You stand just outside the hut, arms folded, watching the hunters land and speak with Jake and other ongoers. Neteyam looks around as if expecting someone to be there beside him. But you just stand and watch.

The weavers' words ring through your mind. Neteyam is taking too long to finish speaking with warriors and hunters. too long to get back to you.

So you approach quietly. “Neteyam,” you say.

“Yes, my love?” 

“We need to talk, come.”

His posture changes immediately, eyes focused now. “Okay..” He follows you, watches how differently your hips move this morning, the way your tail flicks, sharp—not swaying and calm, but sharp.

You stand in a private area, not far into the forest, just close enough to the village for people to see, not close enough for people to hear. “I heard you were with Aysea that night, before you came to the hollow.” 

He sits on a heavy log in front of you, hands resting behind him, leaning back slightly, watching you stand above him. This time, there are no interruptions. No voices cutting in. Just the two of you and the quiet hum of the forest. “I was.” he exhales slowly. 

Your chest tightens, but you don’t lash out. 

“I went to her after you left,” he continues.

You cross your arms, grounding yourself. “And?”

“I asked her about what she said to you. About your parents.” His jaw tightens. “She did not deny it.”

Your ears flick slightly.

“She tried to get close,” he adds, more quietly now. “To distract me. To twist things.” His eyes lift to yours. “I stopped it.”

“How?” you ask, steady.

“I grabbed her wrist. I moved her away.” He holds your gaze. “I warned her. Clearly.”

Silence stretches between you. You study him. Not just his words, but the feeling beneath them.

His lips twitch faintly. “I chose you before the silence. I chose you after. I’ll keep choosing you.” He says.

There is no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just certainty. “I don’t like her touching you,” you admit finally, voice quieter now.

His expression softens just slightly. “I don’t like her anywhere near you.”

That earns the smallest breath of a smile. You step a little closer. “You should have told me,” you say.

“I know.”

Another step, you take his hands now.  “You should have shut it down faster.” You tease.

“I know that too.”

You huff softly. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m learning.”

That disarms you more than anything else. Your shoulders ease, just a fraction. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension that had been coiled tight between you begins to loosen, thread by thread.

Then Neteyam releases you—slowly, hands pausing at your waist. giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t. “These clothes are unfair.” 

“Hm? How?”

His fingers hook around the thin straps which keep your loincloth at your hips. “So thin, so beautiful.”

His hand settles at your waist again, warm and steady. Yours lifts to his chest, fingers brushing lightly over the familiar rise of muscle beneath your touch.

He pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck immediately, “I missed you,” he breathes.

“I did too. more than I'd like to admit.” 

He laughs softly. “I missed your scent. The hunt felt so long.”

“Yes.” you rub your cheek against his, his hands moving down to your ass, holding you there. 

Tuk creeps around the corner, giggling softly. “Neteyaaaam” she says.

He jumps, pushing you off of him and beside him as fast as he can. “Tuk!”

“Tuktirey,” your cheeks flush. “You’re too old to interrupt like this.” 

She laughs. “Was I supposed to knock?” She looks around.

“We’re in the forest, you cannot knock…” 

Neteyam laughs at your words, earning a sharp look from you, he corrects himself immediately, then he looks at his sister and loses it. 

“Thanks captain obvious.” Tuk manages between giggles. 

“Who is captain obvious?” You ask, ears pinned down, lips tight in embarrassment. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I don’t even know, it’s something daddy says.” 

“Oh. Sky people things?” 

“Probably,” 

Neteyam rubs his face, laughter dying down, hands wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry baby. I won’t laugh at you again.” His smile betrays him. 

“Liar.” 

Tuk shifts awkwardly, clearing her throat. “Anyways… Kiri said to come get you guys. I wish she came with me so she could see this. We are preparing the dancing circle for a celebration. Let's go! Come on!”

She runs off first, Neteyam pokes your ears which are still hanging low. He laughs softly, kissing and nipping at one gently. “I’m sorry,” 

“Stop it, let’s go.” You smile, dragging him along. “I cannot wait to dance.” 

By the time the sun begins to dip, the village comes alive again. The hunt was successful. And that means celebration.

Drums begin first—slow, steady, echoing through the trees. Then voices, laughter, movement. The entire clan gathers on the main platform, bodies swaying in rhythm as the firelight flickers gold against blue skin. 

You stand at the edge first, watching, sipping water—preparing. Then a familiar hand wraps into yours. Neteyam.  “Come,” he says simply. 

You do not resist, the rhythm pulls you in quickly. Your body remembers it easily, fluid, precise, alive. You’ve always been a skilled dancer, your movements sharp where they need to be, soft where they should flow.

Neteyam steps in behind you, hands settling naturally at your hips. The contact sends a quiet warmth through you. His head hangs low, watching the roll of your hips.

“You’re staring again. I can feel it.” you murmur. 

“I am appreciating,” he replies, just like before.

You huff softly—but your body leans back into his without thinking.

The two of you move together easily, your hips rolling in time with the drums, his hands guiding just enough to match your rhythm. The space between you disappears quickly—no awkwardness, no hesitation.

Around you, the clan dances, laughs, celebrates—but for a few moments, it feels smaller. Quieter. Just you and him. “You’re showing off,” he murmurs near your ear.

“You’re slowing me down,” you shoot back.

His grip tightens slightly in response, pulling you closer, matching you step for step now. “Better?” he asks.

You smirk faintly. “We’ll see.” The dance stretches on, heat building from movement, from closeness, from the steady rhythm of drums under your skin.

Eventually, Neteyam’s hands slip from your hips. “I’m going to sit before Lo’ak starts yelling about me abandoning him. I’ll be back,” he mutters.

You glance over to see Lo’ak already watching with a grin. “You should go,” you tease.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, brushing his fingers briefly along your side before stepping away.

You stay, of course. The music doesn’t stop. And neither do you. At first, it’s nothing. Just movement. Rhythm. The circle shifting, bodies passing close and then apart again.

And then a misstep. Your foot catches slightly, you recover instantly, eyebrows knitting faintly. And then another misstep. 

This time you feel it, not an accident. Your eyes shift and behind you, Aysea. Her expression is calm. Your jaw tightens, but you keep dancing.

Maybe it was nothing, then it happens again. Clear this time, a deliberate nudge at your ankle. You turn slightly, still moving with the rhythm. “Stop.”

She doesn’t respond, Instead—another attempt. Your patience snaps a little. “I said stop,” you repeat, sharper now.

A few nearby dancers begin to notice. Aysea finally meets your eyes and smiles. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Your stomach drops, not from fear, but from recognition. You step toward her, the dance forgotten now. “Do not touch me again.”

Her smile sharpens. “Or what?” she asks lightly.

You take another step. “I won’t ask again.”

Something flickers in her eyes. And then, she leans closer. “Like your mother,” she murmurs softly. “One wrong move… and she fell too, didn’t she?”

Everything stops, the drums, the movement. The air in your lungs. For a split second—you’re not here anymore.

You see the fall, the sky torn open by gunships. The scream. The empty space where she should have been.

Your chest caves inward. Then it explodes outward. You move before you think. Your fist connects with her face hard enough to snap her head back.

Gasps ripple through the circle. Aysea stumbles—but recovers instantly, fury igniting across her features as she lunges for you.

This isn’t dancing anymore, this is a fight.

You meet her head-on, your training takes over, clean, efficient. You block her first strike, twist her arm, drive your elbow into her shoulder. She hisses, retaliating fast, catching your side with a sharp hit that forces you back a step.

You don’t stay back, you surge forward again.

She grabs for your hair—you duck, sweeping her leg out from under her, but she twists mid-fall, dragging you down with her.

The two of you hit the ground hard, now it’s chaos. Hands, fists, breath knocked loose, bodies struggling for leverage. You land another strike—she snarls, shoving you back, nails scraping your arm. “You think you’re better than me?” she spits.

“I know I am,” you fire back, driving your forearm into her throat just long enough to pin her.

She bucks hard, throwing you off balance. The circle has broken now—people shouting, moving. But no one gets there fast enough. because you’re both warriors, and neither of you is holding back.

Strong arms wrap around your torso, yanking you backward. “No—!” you snap, thrashing.

“Enough!” Neteyam’s voice.

Another set of hands drags Aysea away as well—firm, unyielding. Jake. “You two are done!” he barks.

Your chest heaves violently, body still straining against Neteyam’s hold. “Let me go—mm!”

“No,” Neteyam says, breath tight near your ear. “Not like this.”

Across from you, Aysea is held just as firmly, blood at her lip, eyes blazing with something wild and furious.

The entire clan is watching now. Silent. Tense. The celebration is gone. Replaced by something heavier.

“Ive got you.” Neteyam whispers.

Silence settles over the platform like a heavy fog, the drums have stopped. No one moves. You can still feel Neteyam’s grip around you—firm, unyielding, his chest rising and falling quickly behind your back. Your own breath is uneven, sharp, your blood still burning from the fight.

Then, a presence strikes the air. Mo’at steps forward slowly. Neytiri stands beside her, assessing. Mo’at’s eyes move between you and Aysea. “What is this?” she asks.

Her voice is not loud, but it carries. No one answers immediately. Your chest rises and falls as you try to steady your breathing. Neteyam’s hold loosens slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Aysea is the first to speak. “She struck me,” she says, voice sharp despite the blood at her mouth.

Your head snaps toward her. “You—”

“Quiet.” Mo’at doesn’t raise her voice. But it lands like a command. You clamp your jaw shut.

Mo’at’s gaze shifts to you now. “You will speak.”

Your heart pounds hard against your ribs—but you don’t look away. “She provoked me,” you say, voice still edged with heat. “She has been provoking me.”

Aysea scoffs faintly. Mo’at’s hand raises again. “Enough.”

Silence returns instantly. Neytiri steps forward slightly now, her eyes narrowing at Aysea. “This is not the first time,” she says, calm—but dangerous.

Aysea’s posture stiffens. Jake folds his arms, gaze sharp. “and we’re not treating it like the first time.”

The weight of that settles over the circle.Neteyam finally releases you—but stays close, one hand hovering near your arm like he’s ready to pull you back again if needed.

Mo’at turns fully toward Aysea now. “Speak truth.”

Aysea lifts her chin. “We were dancing. She became aggressive.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Your nails dig into your palms—but you hold your ground. Mo’at’s eyes flick to you again, you inhale slowly. “She has been targeting me,” you say. “For cycles now.” Your voice steadies as you continue. “She insulted my parents. She disrupted my work. And tonight—” your jaw tightens “she spoke of my mother’s death.”

That lands hard. Neytiri’s expression darkens instantly. Jake’s posture shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Mo’at goes very still, Aysea doesn’t speak this time. Because she can’t deny it.

“You speak of the dead with dishonor?” Neytiri says, voice low and sharp as a blade.

Aysea finally looks uncertain. “It was only words—”

“They are enough,” Neteyam cuts in, stepping forward slightly. His voice is controlled—but there’s steel beneath it now. “You’ve said more than enough.”

Aysea’s gaze flicks to him—and something in her expression falters. Because this time—he is not standing beside her. Mo’at watches this carefully. All of it. “This ends now.”

Her foot strikes the platform.  “You have brought conflict into the heart of the clan,” she says, looking at Aysea. “You have shown disrespect—to the People, to the dead, and to one who serves as tsakarem.”

Aysea’s jaw tightens—but she doesn’t interrupt. “You will not approach her again,” Mo’at continues. “You will not speak of her family again.”

A pause, then. 

“You will serve under the tsakarem for one cycle. You will repair what you have damaged.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the clan. Your ears flick slightly, Aysea’s eyes widen—just barely.

Humiliation, public, intentional. “You will answer to her,” Mo’at finishes.

Silence falls heavy.  Aysea’s fists clench at her sides—but she bows her head slightly. “…Yes.”

Mo’at turns to you now. “And you.” Your spine straightens instinctively. “You are a warrior,” she says. “But you are also tsakarem. You do not let anger lead before wisdom.”

Your chest tightens—but you nod. “Yes.”

Mo’at studies you a moment longer, then— “It is done.”

Her hand lowers. The tension breaks—but not completely. People begin to move again, slowly, murmuring, the energy shifted entirely from celebration to something more watchful.

Eyes linger, Jake signals for the celebration to continue—but you don’t even feel like dancing any more. 

You move away from everything to go to your home. Tears stinging your eyes. You sit on your bed. Neteyam lingers at the threshold for a moment before coming inside. “Baby,” he starts.

Your shoulders drop just slightly. “I didn’t want to lose control like that,” you admit. “Not in front of everyone.”

He nods once. “You didn’t lose control.” You give him a look. “You held it longer than most would have,” he corrects calmly. “Longer than I would have.”

That almost pulls a breath of a laugh out of you—but it fades quickly. “I hate that she still gets to me,” you whisper.

Neteyam finally moves then, slow, careful—resting his hands lightly on your knees. “Of course she does,” he says. “She went after the part of you that still hurts.”

You look away because that’s exactly it. He doesn’t push you to look back.“She chose the one thing she knew would break through everything else,” he continues more quietly. “That’s not your weakness.” A pause. “That’s love.”

Your eyes close for a second. That lands deeper than anything else tonight. The anger, the fight… the humiliation. None of it was really the core of it.

It was them, always them. Your voice comes out softer now. “I thought I was doing better.”

“You are.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“It never does in moments like that.”

Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp. More like something slowly unwinding. After a moment, you finally look at him fully.

“I don’t want to be that person,” you say quietly. “The one who reacts like that.”

“You’re not,” he says simply.

“I just proved I am.”

“No,” he shakes his head slightly. “You proved you’ll defend what matters.”

When you lie down that night, he doesn’t give you space like he sometimes does. He stays close, arm wrapped around your waist, leg hooked slightly over yours, not possessive, more protective. 

Even in sleep, when you shift, his grip tightens instinctively—pulling you back against him without waking.

As if somewhere in his mind, he’s still in that moment, still making sure you’re safe.

You wake before him, or at least, you think you do. Until you shift and realize his arm isn’t resting loosely anymore. It is still there, just not relaxed.

You turn your head slightly, braids still messy from the fight. Neteyam is awake, staring out towards the forest through the open doorway, still, quiet, and thinking. 

You sit up slowly. “You didn’t sleep.” 

He blinks once, like he didn’t realize you were awake. “I did,” he says.

You study him for a second, “not much.”

“I slept enough.” 

You pull your legs in slightly, watching him. “Neteyam.”

He hums faintly in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look at you yet. That stings more than it should. “Are you going to look at me?” you ask.

That gets his attention, so his head turns. And when his eyes meet yours—you see it clearly, something tight. Something contained. “I am looking at you,” he says.

You frown slightly. “Then talk to me.”

“I am.”

You let out a small breath, frustration creeping in. “No-you’re answering me.”

He looks away again briefly, jaw shifting. You hesitate then ask it anyway. “Are you mad at me?”

This time, he looks back immediately. “No.”

You hold his gaze. “Then what is it?”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before resting his forearms on his knees. “I didn’t like it,” he says finally.

Your chest tightens. “Me fighting?”

“No.” The answer comes sharper than anything else he’s said.

Your brows knit. “I didn’t like that it happened,” he corrects, quieter now. “I should’ve stopped it sooner,” he adds.

Your expression softens slightly. “You weren’t even there at first.”

“I should’ve made sure it never got that far.”

“You cannot control everything, Neteyam.”

“I can control who I allow near you.”

““You’re angry at her?”

“Yes…and at myself.” That last part is quieter.

You move a little closer to him. “Why?”

He huffs softly—frustrated, but not with you. “Because this isn’t the first time she’s done something like this.” You don’t argue that because it’s true. “And I let it go before,” he continues. “I thought it was nothing.”

Your gaze drops slightly. “It wasn’t nothing to you,” he adds. That lands somewhere deep.

“No,” you admit quietly. Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp and more honest. You reach out, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. He doesn’t pull away. “You don’t have to carry all of that,” you say.

His eyes flick to your hand… then back to your face. “I know,” he says.

But he doesn’t move away from your touch either. After a moment, his hand shifts—turning just slightly under yours, fingers brushing against your wrist. “I’m not mad at you,” he says again, softer this time.

“I know,” you reply.

“Let me do your hair.” He laughs softly, “come here.”

You brush your fingers through your hair, but they get caught in a knot. “Fine…”

He moves to sit behind you, your back rests lightly against his chest, his legs folding on either side of you, steadying you in place.

his fingers lift—hesitating just slightly before touching your hair.

Careful, so careful it almost hurts more than if he wasn’t. He starts by separating a tangled section near the back, working slowly to loosen it without pulling. His fingers move with quiet precision, undoing the small knots left behind from the fight.

His fingers move lower, unbraiding one of the looser plaits completely before starting again—smoother this time, tighter, cleaner. He weaves each strand with practiced care, thumbs brushing lightly against your scalp as he works.

“At least she will serve under me…” you mutter. 

He shakes his head, but the smile on his face betrays him completely.  “You hit her hard.”

“Yes,”

“She pulled your hair.”

“Yes, Neteyam. I was there.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh behind you, fingers still moving through your hair with steady care. “Just making sure I didn’t imagine it,” he murmurs.

You lean back into him slightly, letting your shoulders relax as he finishes one braid and starts another. The gentle pull and weave of his hands grounds you more than anything else has since last night.

For a moment, it’s quiet again. Just the soft sounds of the forest waking up, and his breathing behind you. Then you speak, quieter this time. “She went into our home.”

His hands stop. Not roughly—just still. “What?” His voice drops, low and controlled in a way that makes your ears flick.

You don’t turn around. “My herbs. The day you left for the hunt, they were all over the floor when I got back.” Your fingers curl slightly in your lap. “Nothing else was touched.”

A long silence stretches. You can feel it now—the shift in him. His hands resume, slower this time, finishing the braids with more tension than before. 

“And you are sure it was her?” he asks.

“No,” you answer honestly. “But who else would come into our home, destroy my things, and leave your side untouched?” 

His jaw tightens behind you—you don’t need to see it to know. “A creature?” he teases.

“And what is she?” 

He laughs out loud. “Let me remind you, and maybe myself, that we are future clan leaders,” he quickly regains his composure. “She will answer for that also. Come to bed with me.”

You stand, unstable at first, then taking his hand. He lays on the moss bedding and pulls you over him, holding your hips. 

His hands move over your body, searching, teasing, loving. His lips move over your neck, breathing slow and heavy, hands squeezing wherever they can. 

The moment is peaceful, but quickly fades. Neteyam’s hands pause, his eyes closing, head turning away slightly. 

“What is it?” You ask, eyebrows pinned together.

“Aysea,” he sighs. “I cannot move past this. She came into our home.” 

He looks up at you again, jaw tight, hands still firm on your hips—not rough, but grounded, like he’s holding onto something steady.

“She didn’t just insult you in front of the clan,” he says quietly. “She entered our home. That is not anger, or rivalry. that is intent.”

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, steadying you as he sits up beneath you. His eyes don’t wander this time—they stay fixed, focused.

“That is not something I can ignore,” he continues. “Not as your mate. Not as a future leader.”

Your ears tilt slightly at that tone. This isn’t jealousy. This isn’t hurt. This is responsibility. You study him carefully. “What are you going to do?” you ask.

He exhales slowly through his nose, thinking—not reacting. “I won’t act without proof,” he says first. “If I accuse her without it, she will twist it again. Make you look unstable. Makes me look biased.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. He’s right—and you hate that he’s right.

“But,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m not letting it happen again.” There’s a pause. Then his gaze sharpens just slightly. “I’ll speak to my grandmother again. Not about the fight, just about the pattern.”

Your brows knit faintly. “She already ruled.”

“She ruled on what was seen,” he corrects. “Not what was hidden.”

That lands. His hand lifts, brushing a stray braid away from your face—this time gentler again, but the tension is still there underneath “And I’ll watch”

You tilt your head. “Watch?”

“Yes.” His voice lowers slightly. “She won’t expect it now. Not after being put under you. If she does anything again, we’ll have more proof. Not just words.”

Your tail flicks once, thoughtful. “And until then?”

“Until then,” he hesitates just briefly, then steadies again, “you won’t face her alone.”

That earns a small reaction from you. “Neteyam—”

“No. Not because you can’t handle her. I know you can.” His thumb presses lightly against your waist. “But because you shouldn’t have to.” That softens something in your chest.

The silence that follows isn’t tense anymore—it’s heavy, but aligned. Like you’re standing on the same side of something.

You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against him. “You’re taking this very seriously,” you murmur.

His expression doesn’t change much—but his grip does, just a little tighter. “She crossed into our home,” he says again, quieter now. “It is a boundary.”

You nod slowly. You feel it too now—not just anger, not just hurt, something deeper. A line that was crossed. “Okay,” you say softly. “Yes.” 

The night passes slowly, you and Neteyam lay tangled together, his leg still over yours.

Dawn comes quietly, you slip from his arms and into the forest as swiftly as ever. The forest is quieter this time of day. Not empty—never empty—but softer. The kind of quiet that lets you think too much if you’re not careful.

Your hands move automatically as you gather—sorting leaves, checking stems, tying small bundles with practiced ease. The work should ground you. But it does not. 

Your constant unease lingers; in a few days, Aysea will be following your orders, but at what cost? Nobody knows that she destroyed your herbs—and in the midst of everything, the fight, the hunts and battles, Mo’at has forgotten that you owe her those medicinal herbs.

Your ikran is perched beside you as you gather water pods, ar’lek seeds, and the healing rose. Hours of gathering lead to these beautiful discoveries, a moment of peace, just you and the forest, breathing as one. 

The walk back to the village is longer than it should be, legs heavier than ever, you truly miss the thrill of patrolling, but who said you can’t be both, warrior and healer? 

You’re still holding the woven basket when you hear your name, not spoken gently, not the way Neteyam says it.

You stop before the clearing fully opens, instincts tightening in your chest. Quietly, you slip behind the wide trunk of a tree, the rough bark biting into your shoulder as you steady your breathing.

“she doesn’t even see it,” Aysea’s voice floats through the leaves, light, amused, venom thinly veiled as laughter.

You freeze, you don’t mean to listen. But then she says his name and you can’t move. Through the gaps in the leaves, you see her circling him slowly, deliberately. Neteyam stands still, shoulders squared, eyes steady on her. He doesn’t interrupt.

“She carries too much here,” Aysea says, her hands gesturing—then settling boldly at her own hips, mimicking you. “It throws her off. Slows her down.”

Your grip tightens on the basket. Neteyam doesn’t flinch, your chest aches. Aysea steps closer, softer now, but sharper for it. “You are the future of the clan,” she says. “You need someone who can stand beside you without… breaking.”

A small laugh, cruel in its lightness. “And she is not stable.”

You press back into the tree, like it could swallow you whole.

“She tries,” Aysea continues, almost pitying. “But everyone sees it. The way she clings to you.”

A pause. Then her voice continues, softer, flirting. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Your breath catches. “I know you feel responsible for her,” Aysea goes on. “But that is not love.”

Silence follows and you wait, wait for him to say something—anything. And he does. “I do love her,” he says, low but firm, deliberate, cutting through the forest sounds. “Every part of her. I do not pretend. And no one else will tell me otherwise.”

You blink softly, a hint of a smile creeping in; but despite neteyam’s words, you realize that you really haven’t noticed the difference between your body and the average Na’vi. Then again, your hips are only a fraction wider. 

“I have never pretended, Aysea. Not once.” The light amusement in her voice falters.

“Her hips, her mind… you think she is weak? You are blind,” he continues, voice carrying through the trees, unwavering. “And I will not listen to you try to turn her against herself—or me. Y/n is beautiful, fierce in her training. She is stronger than most warriors in the clan.”

Aysea hesitates. Your chest rises and falls, relief and lingering ache tangled together. He steps back, calm but resolute, standing taller than before.

you leave before you can hear any more.

By the time you reach the hut, your face is calm, way too calm.

You start emptying the basket, laying the gathered roots, herbs, and small fruits neatly on the floor, methodical, silent. Each movement is careful, almost ceremonial, as if by occupying your hands so you can ground the storm inside you.

The woven flap shifts suddenly. Neteyam bursts in, just returning from his preparations in the forest. He moves quickly, grabbing a spear and a handful of arrows, checking the bindings and muttering under his breath.

“Back already, my love?” he asks casually, still hurried, eyes only briefly catching yours.

You nod, silent. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t see the tension in your shoulders. Doesn’t notice the quiet you wear like armor. Doesn’t ask.

Before he slips back toward the flap, he pauses. Quick, almost distracted.

He bends, pressing a brief, warm kiss to your lips, lingering only a heartbeat. You taste the faint scent of him—the forest, sweat, smoke—and it makes your chest ache.

Then he’s gone. The flap sways behind him. The hut is still. And you’re left alone with the echo of his presence, the memory of his voice defending you, and the heaviness of Aysea’s words you tried so hard to shake off.

Hours pass as you organize your herbs and fruits carefully, storing them away in separate baskets. 

You finally stand, adjusting your clothing, glancing down at your figure. Your hands fiddle with the ties at your loincloth, removing it slowly, sliding into your casual skirt woven for sleep.

You finish tying your skirt tighter than usual, pulling it higher over your hips, trying to smooth the fabric so it sits “neater,” more controlled. Your hands linger for a moment too long, messing with the ties, as if the act itself could make everything feel lighter.

The hut smells faintly of firewood and herbs. You set down the last of your things, letting them fall to the woven mat, then slip into you and Neteyam’s shared hammock, hung over the soft, moss bedding beneath it. 

On your side, facing away from the flap, you pull the woven covers Jake gifted you and Neteyam around you like a shield, careful not to invite any closeness.

You clutch the blanket tightly, needing something to hold—missing your mate. 

The door flap shifts suddenly. Soft, hurried footsteps. A familiar presence settles behind you, and you feel the weight of him leaning close, pressing warmth against your back.

Neteyam exhales, tired but carrying a tension you can feel even in the small space between you. His lips find the back of your neck, soft at first, wet and warm, brushing over the sensitive skin. Almost rough, testing. You tense and shift slightly, drawing away, but not enough to push him entirely off.

He pauses for a moment, eyebrows pinning together slightly, then he slowly rests his hands on your hips.

You jerk away more sharply, too abrupt to ignore this time. He sits up slightly, exhaling, the warmth behind you gone. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, edged with fatigue and concern, not anger.

You press your cheek into the hammock, hiding your face. “Just tired,” you whisper, small and unconvincing.

His hand lingers at your hip, hesitant, patient, waiting for a signal. But when you shift again, subtle but definite he finally sits up fully, voice firm but calm. “Look at me,” he says.

You turn over your shoulder,  just enough to meet his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “…Why are you moving away from me?”

“I’m not,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow even to you.

His jaw tightens, and he leans closer, voice quieter but firm. “Is it her?” He unclips his shoulder strapped harness, movements careful, eyes never leaving you. 

Your stomach drops. “I heard her,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, “in the forest. You. Aysea. Everything.”

He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening, then exhales, shaking his head. “And you believed her?”

You look down. “I don’t know. I do look a little different, don't I? Maybe it’s too much-“ 

“No,” he says, tone low but steady, moving a hand lightly to your shoulder instead of your hip. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re not weak. You’re not unstable. You’re exactly what I chose.” 

You swallow, heat rising, and your body relaxes slightly. He leans forward, brushing your hair back gently, letting his lips hover near your temple—but not pressing.

“Don’t let her words make you doubt yourself,” he murmurs. “…Not for a second. Not for me.”

The room is quiet except for your breath and his. You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease, just a little.

“Is that why you are wearing this skirt like this?” He murmurs, “so tight.” 

Heat floods your face, moving quickly to loosen the wrap. “No.” 

“Yes it is,” he drags his words, laying beside you again, hand moving to rest at your hips once more. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” you sigh, leaning into him. 

You shift suddenly onto your back, hands holding his. “Do you know what I miss?” 

Neteyam’s hand rests warm at your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin as the quiet settles between you again.

He leans in, slower this time—no urgency, no tension, just closeness. His lips brush along your jaw, then your cheek, lingering there. Soft.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, “what do you miss baby?”

Your breath catches slightly—not from the question, but from the way he asks it. Like he’s trying to understand you, not fix you.

For a moment, you don’t answer. Your fingers curl lightly in his as your thoughts settle.

His nose nudges gently along your cheek, almost impatient now, but still tender. “Mm?” he presses, quieter. “What is it?”

You exhale softly. “I miss the raids and stuff, I feel like we haven’t been out there together since my injury.” 

“Patrol?” He repeats against your cheek. Hand now still over your waist.

You nod faintly, your temple resting against him. “The forest,” you murmur. “Moving. Tracking. Not thinking so much, just fighting.”

His hand resumes its slow movement again, more thoughtful now.

“I miss feeling sharp,” you add quietly. “Like I’m part of something out there. Not just waiting here, and sorting herbs. I want to be tsahik someday, I am proud to be tsakarem, I relish it, even… but I love the fight.”

Neteyam pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His expression isn’t surprised anymore—just focused. Understanding. “That’s what’s been sitting in your head?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes.”

A faint breath leaves him, something softer easing into his features. “All of this… and you miss patrol.”

You nudge him lightly. “It matters.”

“I know,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek now. “I know it does.”

Your eyes flutter briefly, Neteyam’s thumb pauses for a moment. “Tired?”

“Yes.” 

“How about you come with me tomorrow?”

Your head turns toward him, your lips curl into a smile. “Where?” 

“Patrol, baby…duh.”

“What is duh?” 

He laughs softly, “nothing important. Come with us tomorrow.” 

“Really?”

“Yes. You are cleared, you are strong. You deserve to fight, not just stay here.” His thumb brushes your lips, parting them subtly. “We can start with a small stealth. Work your way up…”

“I love you.” You whisper, your own hand catching his wrist, kissing his knuckles.

“I love you,” he says with the utmost care. 

Dawn comes quietly, a thin veil of mist clings to the forest ground, glowing faintly gold as the first light of Eywa filters through the canopy. The world feels still… watchful. 

Until Jake breaks it, “this isn’t a large strike.” he says, voice low but firm as he stands before the gathered warriors. “move fast. quiet. don’t give them time to react.”

Around him, warriors listene, older ones steady and experienced. And then—the younger ones. They gather just behind, a little less still, a little more charged with energy they try to hide.

Neteyam stands at the front, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. Every bit the leader. You stand beside him. Not a single step behind.

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you. He doesn’t smile. “Stay sharp,” he says. “They won’t hesitate.”

Neteyam nods. “We won’t either.”

The forest closes around you as you move. Everything is fluid—silent leaps, careful steps, bodies weaving through roots and shadows. The younger hunters follow your signals, spreading out just enough.

You move beside Neteyam, senses open, listening, watching, until something feels off. A creature's cry cuts short. Your body reacts before your mind does. You slow. Neteyam notices instantly, his hand lifts, hold. 

Everyone freezes, silence stretches and then gunfire rips through the air. AMP suits crash through the trees, metal limbs tearing branches apart. The ground shakes with every step.

“Scatter!” Neteyam calls.

It is too late. The attack is already on top of you but you move anyway. Your arrow flies—strikes a visor. A soldier drops.

Around you, the younger hunters fight, fast and sharp, but the amp suits push forward, relentless. Neteyam sees one turn, locking onto the smaller hunters.

He moves, fast. He grabs one, shoves her aside as the AMP fires. The blast scorches the ground. “Move!” he snaps, pulling another out of danger.

The AMP shifts, targets him. You see it. Neteyam fires, once, twice. aiming for the joints. sparks burst where one arrow hits, but the machine doesn’t stop.

It keeps coming, closing the distance.

Neteyam steps back, his foot hits loose earth and he slips. He falls hard, bow skidding away. The amp looms over him, raising its weapon, barrel lowering with cold precision.

Locked, there is almost no time. You’re already moving.

You drop over him in one, controlled motion—crouching low across Neteyam’s torso, your body covering him completely. Your back faces him, hips hovering just slightly over his face. shielding him, while you face the amp head-on.

Neteyam stills beneath you, breath catching at the sudden weight, the closeness, the instinctive way you cover him.

The amp, the human inside adjusts. Now aiming at you. Slowly, you lower yourself further over him, coiling tighter, making yourself an unbreakable shield.

Your hiss is low, animalistic, sharp and feral. The sound cuts through the chaos. The human hesitates for just one moment. 

“I’m good—” Neteyam starts beneath you, trying to push up, hands careful against your thighs. Your arm shoots back, pressing firmly against him.

“Stay down.” you order, hand flying back up to point your weapon. You don’t look at him. You don’t look away from the machine. The big suit raises its weapon, you explode upward. 

You launch from your crouch straight at it, slamming into the weapon arm. The shot fires wide, blasting the ground. You climb instantly. 

Hands grip. Feet find holds. You move fast, relentlessly. Your fist slams into the visor several times until it fractures slightly. 

The pilot jerks inside, panic setting in. The suit stumbles, slamming into a tree—you don’t let go. Another slam of your fist causes the shatter. Glass bursts inward.

The suit staggers, systems glitching—then crashes to the ground beneath you. You land with it, but you’re not finished.

You climb onto the fallen machine slowly now deliberately slow. The human inside struggles, fumbling to free himself. You crawl over the metal toward him.

Slow, measured, and terrifying to any human. Your fingers drag across the steel as you move. Your breathing is uneven, sharp. Your eyes never leave him.

He sees your face, your rage. for everything they have taken from you flashes before your own eyes. 

“Wait, please!” 

You do not understand, and you do not stop. Your hand shoots forward, gripping his harness. You drag him halfway out of the cockpit with brutal force.

He struggles, but you do not care. Nothing he does matters. You pull him closer, throat tearing with weak snarls. Face to face. 

You hit him, again and again. Each strike is heavier than the last. Blood sprays at your face. He goes still. You don’t—at least, not right away. It takes one last punch before your body slows, your fist finally stopping.

Your breathing fills the space around you. The battle fades at the edges. Behind you, Neteyam pushes himself up, eyes locked on you.

You stay where you are for a moment longer, shoulders rising and falling. Then you turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him.

He moves then, waist pressed tightly against your back, holding you tight, two arms careful around your neck. “I see you.” 

You squeeze his arm just as tight, almost unable to speak. The rage is still there. It is not the only thing though, he is there, and you are too. 

You breathe together for a moment, then he takes your hands, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, your hands stained with blood. “Are you hurt?”

You reply with only the shake of your head, catching your breath and turning to face him, you check his body for any injuries as well, there is a cut at Neteyam’s ankle and a deep slash at his torso. 

Your fingers tighten in his arms, nails squeezing deep crescents in his thick, muscular biceps. “I will treat these once we get back.” 

“You okay?” He whispers.

“Yes. Where are the others?”

“Scattered. I told you to stay with them.” 

“You were in danger.” 

“We were all in danger, my love.”

Your head tilts slightly to the side, eyes searching. his. “We will find them.” 

And you do, not too long after, the group is huddled together, perched against a tree. “Can you all walk?” you inquire, crouching down beside them.

One by one, you check them. Hands steady now, voice calmer than the storm still echoing in your chest. A cut here. Bruising there. Nothing fatal. Nothing you can’t handle.

One of the younger ones winces as she stands, but she straightens under your gaze, determined. You give a small approving nod—it’s enough.

Neteyam steps in beside you then, quieter now, but fully back in himself. His hand brushes briefly against your lower back—not for show, not even fully conscious. Just there.

“Stay close. Nobody breaks formation.” He says. 

The walk back is different, there is no teasing energy between the younger hunters. The forest feels heavier now—like it saw everything and is still deciding what to do with it.

A few of them glance at you when they think you won’t notice. Not with fear exactly—but something close. 

They saw you, not just as tsakarem, not just as Neteyam’s mate, not just as a warrior. But as something else entirely.

Neteyam notices it too, of course he does. His eyes flick toward you more than once during the walk—not checking for wounds. Just checking you.

Measuring the quiet, the way your shoulders sit, the way your hands don’t quite relax. 

When the village outline appears and you step in, the elders' eyes go straight to you, Jake’s own eyes find you, and so do Neytiris. 

Tuk gasps softly from where she is, hopping to you, checking you. Neytiri greets you briskly before assessing Neteyam. 

“My son, who did this?” 

“We were attacked by sky people. a small group, but enough to cause damage. amps attacked. we defended what is ours.” 

“Good,” Jake says, patting his sons back, watching you nod and quickly leave to tend to the wounded. “She should patch this up for you. This is bad. Grandmas gathering.. won’t be back till later.”

“mmh,” Neteyam groans, nodding a little too fast, his body scorching hot.

The scent of herbs fills the area as you lather medicinal paste onto the hunters’ arms. They weren’t too hurt, so it is quick, just paste and bandaging, again and again. 

“Baby, are you done?” Neteyam says from behind you, his fingers curl around your arm, needing something to grasp.

“Yes. Come now.” You take his arm and practically drag him to your hut, careful hands skimming his cuts, stopping at the particularly deep one at his torso “You did not tell me it was this bad. I would have treated you first.”

“You couldn’t see it?” 

Your lips tighten, ears flattening. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s okay…just treat it. please.” 

Your hands work from memory, years of training quickening your muscles. Neteyam winces a couple of times, hands catching your wrists weakly, body jerking just slightly, never pulling you away.

“Shh, mawey, ma teyam.” You wrap tight herbs over the deep gash as carefully as possible. 

On the double, Neteyam stands. You rise after him, trying to maneuver past his broad shoulders, fingertips carefully nudging his shoulder. “You should sit, you need to heal.” 

“Come with me..”

You hesitate for a moment, gathering the equipment you had used for healing. “where?”

He takes your hands, thumb brushing over your bloodied knuckles. “you will see.” 

Your tail sways slowly as he begins moving toward the doorway, you are quiet most of the way there, occasionally squeezing his hand—feeling, reminding yourself that he is still here.

Neteyam leads you to a secluded ravine, private, mossy, beautiful in the canvas of the afternoon sunlight.

You release him before he can lead you any further, making your way into the water first. It is cold against your thighs, your loincloth clings to your hips like a second skin. adhering to your body. 

Neteyam comes up from behind you, wrapping his hands around your waist, slowly moving upward, thumbs leafing the slightly curved underline of your breasts. “May I?” He whispers, close. You can hear the smile on his face. 

“Yes.” You say.

His fingers work carefully to untie the wrap around your chest, fingertips skimming your skin for a moment before he pulls back, your breasts come free now, he goes deeper to stand in front of you, moving your chin to face him.

He carefully brushes his fingers over the dry blood of the human splattered across your face and body, bending to take water in his hands and let it fall gently over your skin. 

The water shifts softly around you as Neteyam’s body moves and settles closer behind yours. His hands rest along your ribs, fingers spread just above your chest. The other stays at your waist, his breath ghosts along your neck.

Then his lips brush your shoulder, leaving soft, open mouthed kisses there. 

“Neteyam…” you sigh, head falling back onto his shoulder. 

His hands move over your bare upper body, never stopping, just exploring. Your own hand lifts, covering his slightly. 

Your head tilts, giving him more access. 

Loud, unmistakable footsteps sound from across the ravine, “Bro- Neteyam!” The voice echoes down into the water.

Neteyam freezes behind you, his grip tightening just slightly before going completely still. Another voice, older, still familiar echoes, “Lo’ak, I said he was probably-“

At the edge of the ravine, Jake and Lo’ak stand wide eyed and slightly appalled. They both lean far enough to see everything.

You move almost immediately , grabbing neteyam’s wrist and pulling his hand away from your chest, turning slightly so your back and shoulders cover more of you. 

“Lo’ak. Dad…” Neteyam murmurs.

“okay! I can explain. I brought him but i didn’t know. You know?” Lo’ak stammers. “Sorry bro, i just wanted to make sure you were good cause they said you guys were attacked and you know..”

Jake is still staring, not shocked or angry, processing, maybe. Neteyam closes his eyes briefly like he’s asking Eywa for strength. “Dad,” he says carefully, “you need to leave.”

“Yes, that's fair.” Jake says. “Be careful.” he throws in. 

“We should go.” Lo’ak leans slightly toward him. 

Your ears flatten. “Why are they not going?” 

“I don’t know.” Neteyam mutters. 

Jake clears his throat, because he is, unfortunately, still a father. his eyes flick between the two of you, taking in the very obvious situation. “You’re busy.”

“No, we’re not. We were just gonna leave.” 

“Right.”

You cover your face, Lo’ak is visibly holding back laughter. Jake grabs his arm. “Move.”

“I am moving bro!”

“Don’t bro me. You’re too grown for that.”  Jake shakes his head, muttering the last part. They disappear from the edge of the ravine, voices fading. 

Neteyam doesn’t move at first, then he breaths, turning his head just enough to see you. He drops his head on your shoulder. “I am never coming back here again.”

You let out a soft laugh, hands still covering your face for a moment before dropping. “You say that now,” 

“I mean it.” He insists, lifting his head-but the faint smile tugging at his mouth betrays him. “I love everything you do, but I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me anymore.” His arms snake around your waist again, careful and smooth. 

“You were about to be shot.” 

“And you stood over me like nothing could touch you,” he replies, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You glance away, shoulders tensing. “I thought I’d lose you. I wasn’t thinking.” 

“I know, that is what worries me.” His knuckles brush gently against the tight-soft shape of your jaw, softening the weight of his words. “No more fighting today, we will rest. I can prepare a meal when we get home, yes, ma yawnetu?” 

“Yes.” You nod. 

The two of you finish washing in quieter motions. No rush now, no urgency. Just the soft sound of water and breath. When you step out of the ravine, the air feels cooler against your skin. 

You can see Neteyam wringing his loincloth from your peripheral, his eyes focused and hands straining the thick, wet cloth.

You make your way towards the rock where he left your top, fingers brushing tall, overgrown thickets. You tie the top slowly. 

Behind you, the faint sound of water and fabric shifts to something softer. Just Neteyam’s steady footsteps approaching from behind, holding your wrist, careful. 

“Come,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.” 

Your hands stay linked the entire way back, and when you arrive, villagers watch you curiously. The word always gets out, everybody knows about the way you’d “lost control” only their eyes are not judgmental, or questioning, they are understanding.

Neteyam ignores it, and so do you. He does not stop walking, occasionally squeezing your soft, slightly calloused hands.

Inside your hut, the air is still warm. Neteyam leans over the fire, already roasting meat and spreading seasoning made from crushed herbs over the succulent flesh. 

His hands reach for the provisions in your baskets next, pulling from them some seeds and teylu. 

You watch silently, not entirely sure what to do, so you just kneel beside him and watch. 

“Don’t get too close to the fire,” he murmurs. “What kind of drink would you like? swoa or just water?”

“Swoa,” you smile. “Do not add too many spices. I do not want to be rou all night.” 

“Then I will have the same.” 

You nod gently, taking the ingredients and mixing them, the liquid thickens slowly under your fingers, the scent of crushed herbs rising warm and familiar between you.

You finish mixing the swoa, careful not to over-spice it, and hand one to him. Your fingers brush briefly, he smiles. 

He takes a sip, eyes flicking to you over the rim. “It’s good, baby.”

“I know,” you murmur, taking your own.

The sound of the fire is all you can hear now, a comforting silence drifting around it. “I am not scared of you. I hope you know that.” He says suddenly.

“Good.” You say, too fast.

“Yes, I see your anger and I feel your pain.”

Silence stretches long and deep. “I love you” You say. 

“I love you.” He murmurs, pressing his forehead briefly to yours. 

Your fingers rise to brush over his cheeks, skimming his scars, lips, even his eyes. “I see you.” 

His smile grows. Hours of small talk and eating pass until you finally decide to settle, Neteyam holds you all through the night, very often, unconsciously rubbing his hands over your body. 

Dawn comes sharper the next day, the platform is already set when you arrive, clean, open, visible to the clan—deliberatey so. 

Two warriors stand at the edge, exactly as ordered by Neteyam, Jake, and Mo’at. Today is the day which Aysea will begin to work under you; following your orders, recollecting and reorganizing your herbs. 

She is late, most likely on purpose. You step onto the platform without rushing, setting down your equipment, waiting. 

It is then that she arrives, feet padding hard against the ground, arms crossed around her chest, face bitter and plain. 

“You’re late,” you say calmly. 

Her jaw tightens. “I was here before, you came too late.” 

“Then you should look less impatient.” You gesture toward the laid-out bundles behind you. “Sort these.”

She does not move at first, testing you. The warriors shift slightly on their feet, offering a half glance to one another. 

Aysea’s gaze flicks to them, to you, then to the herbs. she grumbles, low and guttural before kneeling. 

Her hands begin sorting herbs—less practiced than yours, slightly rougher. You watch for a moment, then step closer.

“No,” you say, reaching down and correcting her grip. “You will bruise the stems.”

“Then show me properly, Tsakarem.” She mocks. 

You hold her gaze, then you take her wrist, firm and controlled, guiding her movements. “Gentle, or you waste them.” 

“You care a lot about plants.” She rolls her eyes. 

“I care about the people. The herbs are vital.” 

“Strange,” she continues lightly, “for someone who enjoys fighting so much.”

You release her wrist. “You will speak when spoken to.” 

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. You do not make the passing time easy, sorting herbs, grinding roots, carrying water, rebinding old mixtures. Each task is repetitive. 

Aysea, ignorant in all of her senses, does the tasks, but not quietly. She takes too long, lets leaves fall, and breathes out in faint, exaggerated sighs.

“You messed that one up.” She points to a bundle which you had already tied up. 

“No,” you reply. 

“Yes. It is uneven.” 

You raise an eyebrow, reaching for the bundle, you examine it, then you drop it. “Redo it.”  

She only stares at you for a second. “You are lucky that the warriors are standing there.” 

You hum quietly, watching her work, then the sharp sound of a twig breaking sounds over the platform. Neteyam stands behind—watching you. 

You offer a small smile, “excuse me,” you murmur, stepping aside and approaching your mate. You place a soft kiss on his cheek, fingers curled against his chest. 

He turns his head to catch your lips in a gentle kiss, hands squeezing your shoulders. “Be ready soon. I am taking you out tonight.” 

waving your fingers briefly before focusing on Aysea. You spend the entire afternoon hovering over her work. Correcting, nudging. every little misstep reminding you how much you carry. 

By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the mountains in gold and crimson, your thoughts are only half on duty, the other half. every beat of your heart, waits for Neteyam. 

He is there at the cliff's edge when you arrive. His ikran’s wings catch the last light. You yip loudly for your girl, leaping onto her when she comes. 

You and Neteyam fly peacefully toward your usual date area, an alcove amongst mountains, high in the sky with a beautiful view of the forest below. 

You arrive shortly, landing gracefully. Neteyam’s first instinct is to tease you, to tug at your tail and run after you until you fall into the woven bedding. 

He kneels right beside you, panting slightly, hair swinging back and forth as he laughs. “I have waited all day for this.” He murmurs. 

“Mm, me too.” You say. 

Neteyam’s fingers brush yours, his breath calming down, eyes shuddering. “My love, there is something I need to tell you..” he whispers.

“What is it?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady, though your pulse is already racing.  

“There’s a mission. Tonight, I was chosen and I am unsure how long it will take. It is far from here.”

Your stomach twists immediately, fingers tightening in his. “No- let me go with you. I must go, I must fight.”

“No.” He says firmly, not unkind, just making sure his point gets across. His hands cup your face. “You can’t. You and my grandmother- right now, you’re needed here. The clan needs you both as a healing pair.”

You want to argue, to insist, but his eyes—so earnest and steady, make you stop. You exhale, letting the tension ease just slightly. “So you go? And I will stay..how long will we be apart?” 

“I don’t know. But when I come back, I will come back to you.” He presses his forehead to yours.

“The sky people’s greed sickens me, they are always after something. I can never be just.” You cry.

His hand slides down your back, pulling you closer. “No, no, no.. it will be okay. We will come back to each other, I promise.” He smiles, pulling one straight out of you. 

You pull him closer now, “let us not waste the time we still have.” You whisper against his ear, sliding onto his lap, rubbing against his cheek gently. 

Neteyam’s breath stutters, but then he tilts your chin gently, his lips finding yours, slow at first before hunger grows. 

Hands find your waist as he shifts beneath you, tongue brushing your lower lip with tentative fervor. Slowly, his tail coils around your thigh, holding you in place as warmth grows between you.

Your fingers ride up and down his body, tracing every contour, memorizing the heat of his skin. He shudders under your touch, but suddenly, a distant drumming echoes through the quiet night, signaling all warriors. 

That signal is not right. Neteyam pushes back, tense and aware. “Hold on,” he mutters to you, thumb lingering on your bottom lip. 

You whimper at the loss of contact. There is never an instance in which you have Neteyam all to yourself, and when you finally think you do.. something ruins it. 

“Shh,” he encourages, standing slowly. 

Your eyebrows furrow slightly and you stand too, “who do you think you are shushing?” You whisper. harshly. 

“Not the time baby.” 

Neteyam’s comm beeps just then, Jake’s voice a static before cutting through. “Neteyam, boy.. something is reported near your area.” Jake’s voice cracks slightly. “Could be sky people. Stay alert.”

Your heart hammers in your ribs, “we can handle it.” You say, though fear coils tight in  your stomach. 

“I won’t risk you.” Neteyam snaps. “Let’s go, now.” 

You stumble slightly as you make your way towards your ikran, still clutching Neetyam's arm. A sharp whistle cuts through the air, something slices past, narrowly missing the edge of the alcove. 

You leap onto your girl as fast as possible, flanking Neteyam, a knife in your hand. The sound of splintering wood makes your heart drop. 

Below, the forest becomes a blur of shadow and color.  Above, the stars peek through clouds, indifferent to the danger. Another object streaks past. 

“Stay low!” Neteyam yells.

For a heartbeat, you catch his gaze. A look full of promise. Your grip on your ikran’s saddle tightens, muscles flexing. 

And as she banks again, you realize that neither you nor Neteyam knows just how close it came.

taglist no one asked for: @sango-komii @finshythgurl @deeloveswriting @julietelysythe @yung7lisya @miksxz @lesbosaur1

i totally believe this could do better than it did the last time i posted it 🫩 i still thank all of my readers and i love you all so much

[woozycatz]

ৎ୭ before the mantle takes root

find part two…here!

prompt: in a world where spiritual bonds dictate life, neteyam struggles with forbidden desire, rivalry, and destiny, forcing love, loyalty, and leadership into a dangerous collision that could change the clan forever.

pairings: Neteyam x reader, neteyam x enemy!reader, Neteyam x you, Neteyam x rival!reader

wc: 18.1k (had fun writing this lol)

warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, slow burn, takes place in the future (in which the sully’s never left the omatikaya people and neteyam is still olo’eyktan-to-be), grown up characters, angst, tsaheylu, kissing, touchy!feely! neteyam, established relationships.

notes (please read): this was supposed to be just one, long, one shot but tumblr won’t allow more than 1000 blocks so part two is already (almost) done and will be out! lmk if i made any mistakes because this isn’t proofread.

i didn’t see you before, but i see you now.

The forest has never cared for titles, it does not fold to bloodlines or future leaders. It answers only to balance. You move through it without sound.

The undergrowth parts beneath your soles, grass brushing your calves in silent recognition. Your fingers skim bark as you pass, feeling the pulse beneath it—slow, ancient, alive. The air is thick with green and gold light, the scent of damp flora rising with every breath. 

Eywa hums softly in the forest, not words—never words. Only by instinct, by the way your heartbeat slows when you draw your bow so fluently. 

You kneel, pressing your free palm to the soil, warm, recently disturbed. Hoofprints ahead, small herd, moving east—one limping. 

You rise, mercy is a part of balance too. When you pull the arrow back, the world narrows into breath and distance. The string presses into your fingers—the forest holds her breath. 

The arrow flies true. This is strength. Not inheritance. A clean kill, right through the yerik’s airway. You kneel beside her carefully, hands tapping lightly against the succulent meat just beneath her skin. 

“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmuke, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì.” You pray before her, a distant call breaks the quiet. Your name, again.

You exhale sharply, irritation flaring through the serene patience you held one moment ago. The call does not belong to the forest, it belongs to the village. 

You retrieve your arrow and draw out your knife, preparing to slice these gifts into small pieces for the clan. Then the call comes again. 

“Y/n!” 

Your tail flicks in utter gall, snarling to yourself—pocketing the knife and lugging your kill back with you instead. 

By the time you reach the tree line near the Omatikaya settlement, the air feels different, heavier.

A large council of warriors sits before you, planning something. You drag the yerik to the communal fire pit anyway, where it will be used later. 

You move swiftly to sit amongst other warriors inside the circle, voices overlap in low debate. Warriors stand along edges, hunters, apprentices, watching. 

And in the center, Neteyam, leading this raid—straight backed, composed, the weight of expectations resting easily across his shoulder as if it had always belonged there. 

“…increase patrols along the western frontier. Defensive positioning only. We observe before we act.” He speaks, measured, controlled. 

Murmurs of agreement ripple outward, you step in without waiting to be invited. The movement shifts attention like a stone thrown into unmoving water. Neteyam’s eyes find you immediately, they do not widen, or narrow, but they sharpen. 

You dip your head briefly to most warriors—not him. “Observation will not stop a threat from growing,” you say evenly. Your voice does not rise, it does not need to. “If something tests our borders, we meet it before it grows teeth, before it knows our patterns.” 

A few warriors exchange glances. Neteyam pauses briefly, his lips parting—then closing again, every word you speak fuels anger in him. You always think that you’re right. Everyday, he watches the villagers honor you with such reverence that it sets his teeth on edge. 

On the other hand, his family has nothing but respect for you. They see you in the strength that mirrors their own. Courage, decisiveness, a vision that promises safety and prosperity to the people. 

Only Lo’ak understands Neteyam’s deep dislike directed towards you. He does not hide it either—scowling when you speak, his words clipped when he must interact. He only sees you as a feeble thing who craves attention. 

Neteyam finally answers without looking away from you. “And if we strike without understanding what we face?” His voice is calmer than you’d expected. 

Yours is steadier, never fiery or clipped, just smooth and humble. “If we strike without understanding what we face, we will show the forest that we are not prey.” 

He steps forward presently. “Leadership is not a reaction. It is restraint.”

Leadership. There it is, not his name, not the plan—just the title waiting for him. 

The hunting grounds are quieter at the far edge, where the smallest of bows are kept. Tuk stands in front of you—large ears twitching in concentration, tiny fingers gripping the bow too tightly. 

“Relax your hands,” you murmur, stepping behind her. “gentle…like this. The bow is not your enemy.” 

She huffs. “It feels like it.” 

You smile, crouching so you are at level with her. “Then you must show that you are not afraid.” You gently adjust her elbow, lift her chin, and guide her breath.

“Inhale. Allow the Great Mother to steady you. Exhale, and draw.”

The string trembles as she lets go, her eyes shut, shoulders tense. 

Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects postures sharply, commands are barked. Your tail, once stilled, now flicks in irritation. 

But here, where you teach—it is still. You do not rush anyone, you do not take hold of her bow, because your spiritual, placid nature keeps you from teaching children harshly. 

Tuk’s arrow releases, it misses the center, but strikes the woven target cleanly. Tuk gasps like she has felled a thanator. You just grin, tapping her shoulder gently. “Again.” 

Behind you, Neytiri watches from beneath a broad leafed tree, arms folded loosely across her chest. Just observing. 

Tuk draws her arrow again, stronger this time, the arrow strikes closer to the center and you laugh softly with her. That is when Neteyam notices, he had been mid instruction when the sound carried. His gaze lifts from the boy in front of him to you, leading by instinct. 

He perceives the approving glance from your mother, the slight bow of your head which you offer to her—and she only retaliates, inclining her hand forward. I see you. 

Neteyam steps away from his group, crossing the field with measured strides. The young warriors part instinctively, respectfully. 

“Tuk,” he says, voice controlled, “your shoulders are lifting when you release.” 

You step back immediately, giving space. Tuk looks between you both, her mentor, and her brother. “Listen.” You mouth encouragely. 

Her brother adjusts her stance, more precise, more structured. You watch silently, hands behind your back. After a moment, Tuk releases again. 

The arrow lands nearly center, her delighted squeal cutting through everything. Neteyam allows a soft smile, then his eyes flick to you—an eyebrow raising, not playful, not friendly…challenging. 

Your head tilts slightly. “She breathes better when she feels safe, worry about position too much and you won’t catch a thing.” 

“She shoots better when she is corrected,” he replies, hands at his hips, commanding—correcting. “Fix her position now, and she will learn to shoot that way for the rest of her life. Then there won’t be any problems. She will never miss.” 

“You do not get to stand here and insult my teaching.” You try to remain as calm as ever, but he makes it so, so hard.

“You both are correct.” Neytiri steps in quickly, raising a hand between you and her son. “You teach instinct,” she says to you before her golden eyes shift to Neteyam “and you, teach control.” 

You step back first, Neteyam does not. 

“Those are both spirits that the clan needs. instinct, and control. Our people are not led by one spirit alone.” Neytiri continues. “The Olo’eyktan decides, the Tsahìk listens. You mistake each other's paths for opposition.” 

Neytiri nods to you once more before walking Tuk back to the village, a hand lingering on her son’s arm. 

The clearing empties, just you, Neteyam, and other mentors remain. You kneel, arranging small arrows, quivers, and bows. 

You can feel Neteyam’s gaze tearing through you, the edge in it makes your tail flick reflexively. “What?” You sigh without sparing a glance, hands curling around a small bow. 

“Why must you always show off?” His voice is low, yet sharp. 

“show what?” you ask evenly, rising slowly. Your simple top swinging over the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips moving naturally as you shift your weight. Carrying with you a poise imperceptible to Neteyam.

“You dishonored my authority. Publicly. Before many warriors.”

The air between you tightens, not loud, or explosive. Just taut. You straighten fully now, meeting his stare without wavering. “I dishonored nothing,” you reply, calm but unyielding. “Authority is not so fragile that it shatters when merely questioned.” 

His jaw tightens, that lands where you meant for it to. “You stepped into my council,” he says, taking one measured step closer. “You contradicted me before warriors who look to me for direction.” 

“They look to the clan, not to pride.” 

For a moment you think he might snap, but Neteyam has never been reckless. That is the problem. His restraint is carved into bone. The perfect son of Jake Sully and Neytiri. The future Olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya.

“The clan needs unity,” he says, voice lower now. Controlled. Dangerous in its calm. “Not division.”

“And unity does not mean silence,” you answer. “If I believe something threatens us, I will speak. Even if you do not like how it sounds. I will not yield to you simply because you are the next big thing.” 

“I am not asking you to yield to anybody.” His voice is steady, even, controlled, down to the last breath. 

You let out a low scoff. “You expect it anyway. And you know that.” 

“That is not the same thing.” 

“Oh?” Your brow lifts. “Explain.” 

“You assume I haven’t thought through my decisions,” he says. “You assume I speak for effect.”

“If you don’t want it questioned,” you reply, “make it stronger.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly over it. “You undermine me again in council,” he says, “and I will address it formally.”

The patrol was meant to be observation only, it’s what Neteyam instructed. You move along the western ridge regardless—four warriors trail behind you, quiet, uncertain. They had looked to him when the patrol had begun, now they look to you. 

The forest feels wrong, Eywa does not hum here. The hum is more mechanical than anything, the sound does not belong to the flora, or to the wings of your ikran, it is metal. Biting into bark.

You raise a hand and the warriors behind you pause immediately, you crouch, pressing your fingers to the soil, smelling. There are no hoofprints this time, only boots. Your jaw tightens instantly.

Through the lattice of the ferns you see it, glint of alloy against green. A small extraction rig, half concealed beneath camo netting. It is not a full scale assault, they are testing, measuring, and mapping.

“Tsamsiyu, we were ordered to stay back, to observe.” The scarred warrior behind you speaks, eyes wide, tension coiled in his shoulders. 

You close your eyes, allowing the forest to breathe around you, letting the winds stir the leaves. You have always been spiritual—have always hoped to someday take the role of Tsahik. “Yes. I know. I moved anyway.” you reply finally, voice low.

You nock an arrow, taking careful, practiced aim. The wind hums through the leaves, you feel the Great Mothers pulse beneath your palms, in the dirt, through the bark of the nearby trees. The arrow flies steadily, cutting straight through your jagged breath. Sparks flare and the humans freeze, panic rippling through them. Another shot, precise. The rig’s control panels shatter, wires exposed, metal dented.

The humans scatter into the foliage, the ridge smells now, of scorched earth and iron. And then you hear it, the screech of the ikran, your tail flicks instinctively at the sound of wings cutting through treetops. 

Neteyam. The patrol rode with him, ikran stretched in perfect formation, the riders poised and alert. He is the first to dismount, eyes sweeping the ridge before landing on you. 

“You disobeyed my orders.” he says, voice flat. “You moved ahead of the warriors I sent. You engaged without permission. Do you understand what you have done?” 

“I saw a threat. I acted before it became a danger.” 

Neteyam steps closer, the patrol behind him watching silently, tensely. “You put yourself—and every warrior who followed you at risk. You overstepped. You act as if you are in charge. Do not mistake your skill for authority.” 

A flick of his tail punctuates the words slipping off of his tongue so easily. “Your father was a good warrior, yes. Brace, skilled. Dead. You are not your father. You are not above orders. You are not above the clan.” 

You tighten your grip on your bow, glancing to the side, raising four fingers in his face. “I protect the clan,” you say, voice unwavering. “I act when I must. I will not wait for permission to protect what is ours.” You lower your hands sharply. 

His eyes narrow. “You think courage is enough? You think instinct is enough? You are reckless. Dangerous. If anything had gone wrong today, it would have been your fault.” 

“I did what needed to be done.” 

He steps forward, so close you can feel the heat from his presence. “No. You do not get to make that choice. Orders are not optional, you are not your father, and you are not the clan. You are a woman who thinks her skill makes her untouchable, and it will not. Not with the sky people. Not now. Not ever.”

Your tail whips violently, muscles coiled. Your eyes meet his without flinching. “I do not serve you, Neteyam. I serve Eywa and the Omatikaya. If that conflicts with your pride then so be it.” 

He turns, gesturing to the warriors behind you, and the ones behind him. They mount their ikran and rise above the canopy. Leaving you on the ridge with the forest humming, the charred remnants of the rig, and the echo of his words slicing through the quiet. 

You sink to your knees, bow resting across your lap. Fingers brush the soil, a rhythm of life, now absent. Your tail droops loosely behind you. Alone, for the first time since your father’s death, the weight of the years presses down.

He would have known what to do, you think. He would have felt the threat without hesitation, acted without question, moved with certainty. And now… you do, you feel it, yes. But you act alone. And every time you do, the memory of his absence gnaws at your chest.

At eclipse, the walk back to the village is deliberately slow, bow leaving deep, rigid streaks in the soil. You step past the last stretch of trees—elders bow their heads in recognition, others notice your slower pace, the dark brown staining your knees, and your tense shoulders.

You do not waste time, not even bothering to enter your own home—fastening your steps, going straight to your mother. 

She sits near the fire, weaving a strap of leather. She looks up, eyes large, golden. You feel the familiar mix of warmth and quiet judgment. “You’re late.” She says simply, voice calm but knowing.

“I needed to move.” You reply awfully fast, kneeling beside her. 

She shifts closer, hands brushing yours as she lifts them from the bow resting across your lap. “You carried more than you should alone,” she murmurs, voice soft but firm. “Even the strongest warriors need rest, Y/n. Even the bravest must lean back sometimes.”

You close your eyes, head tilting into her touch. 

“Come now, Ma’ite. The gathering is beginning now.” Your mother brushes your cheek, already collecting new weavings for you to wrap yourself in. “Dress well. The tsahik is making an announcement.”

“I will see you there,” you smile, letting her go and changing into a new loincloth, laced in deep, earthy tones—the fabric is soft, supple, and wraps low across your plump hips, the edges fraying naturally. Your top fits just right, a wrap of dyed plant fibers and fine leather riding up your sternum, the swell of your chest visible. 

You rise from the quiet of your mothers tent, the soft laughter of children filling your ears, men and women discussing patrol routes and food.

The communal gathering sprawls ahead, filled with every member of the clan. The scent of smoke and roasting meat carries, layered with the subtle sweetness of forest blooms and the resinous tang of recently carved wood. 

Villagers part as you and your mother arrive, recognizing the two of you with gentle bows or subtle nods. You keep your gaze forward, catching glimpses of familiar faces; Lo’ak near the edge, Kiri leaning against a tree, Tuk tucked close to Neytiri. The elders murmur quietly among themselves, eyes flicking toward the center where Mo’at stands.

Neteyam stands at her side, composed, commanding—utterly controlled. The very sight of him sends a prickle through your spine, a mixture of irritation and something sharper you dare not name. Beside him, Aysea stands quietly, serene, wearing a confidence that feels both earned and infuriating. 

The gathering stills when Mo’at raises a hand. You crouch beside your mother, her hand squeezing yours gently. 

Everyone’s eyes are on the Tsahik, her smile is large, yet serious. “The Omatikaya gather under Eywa’s watchful gaze to honor the bonds that guide our people,” Mo’at begins, her voice calm but resonant, carrying across the circle. “Our clan thrives because of the strength, courage, and wisdom of those who lead, and the choices made today will shape our path forward.”

Your stomach twists. You already sense the pivot of the moment, the shift in destiny that has nothing to do with your skill, your instinct, or the years you’ve spent preparing for this. Your gaze lowers, eyes shutting briefly.

She pauses, eyes sweeping across the circle, briefly resting on you and your mother. “It is time to recognize the role that Eywa has laid before our people. Neteyam will soon take his place among the leaders of our clan as warrior and protector.” 

The announcement draws no gasp, no surprise from the people. It has been destined since his iknimaya, Neteyam will take after his father in every sense.

“And by Eywa’s blessing,” Mo’at continues, her gaze shifting from Neteyam to the figure standing beside him, “the one who will serve as the clan’s next Tsahìk, guiding the Omatikaya with wisdom, clarity, and vision, will be Aysea.” 

You press your mother’s hand harder, grounding yourself as the weight of the announcement settles in. The role you had trained for under Mo’at’s watchful eyes, the path you had worked toward, is no longer within reach. Your tail flicks in agitation, the beads along your outfit clinking faintly.

You swallow, forcing your shoulders to relax, tail coiling beneath you. The forest hums faintly beneath your feet, reminding you that you are still a warrior, still strong, still capable.

Everything settles, you are too burdened to notice. Your gaze lifts only to see Neteyam’s steady hands guiding the future Tsahik through the crowd, finding a space to sit and eat together. 

It is not his pitiful hand on the small of her back that bothers you, it is the role. That was supposed to be your role. Your mother leans down slightly, whispering, “Stay present, Y/n. The clan watches, always. Learn from this, even if it is not yours to hold.”

The next days go by slowly, only emphasizing the tightness in your chest. Eywa knows you’ve prepared thoroughly for the role Aysea has been given—perhaps it is because you and Neteyam had never connected, Mo’at needed somebody who could rule with her grandson together, not divided in the way you two are. 

However, the idea of mating had never even reached you. especially the idea of mating with Neteyam. Several warriors had made attempts at courting you—did they ever succeed? No. You were far too busy for that kind of thing, but it never stopped the men from giving you their gifts, their praise, and their intense gazes. 

The training grounds are crowded when you arrive, you’d been quiet since the announcement was disseminated, moving as productively as ever—just allowing the forest to guide you. 

Tuk leaps to you as soon as you are in eyeshot, hands hooking around yours, dragging you to the target she’s been training with since the beginning. “Tuktirey,” you sigh, leaning down to her level and smiling. 

“What?” She giggles cutely, hands squeezing yours.

“Come with me, to the ponds. It will be a hunt.” Tuk has been your student since she began learning, you thought it was about time she had learned to hunt at least one small creature.

“A real hunt?!” She exclaimed, hands letting off of yours, flying up in loud celebration. 

“Shhh,” you laugh, handing her a smaller, yet stronger bow and setting off. 

The ponds are alive and sounded in the early morning, fish of all kinds swimming about. Mists curl over the water in pale ribbons.

“The water is not like the soil,” Tuk observes, leaning down to touch it.

“No,” you murmur, crouching at the bank. “The water listens in another way.” 

You guide her into the shallows where the currents grow thick, silver bodies flicker beneath the surface, quick and clever. 

“Fish do not fear footsteps,” you explain softly. “They fear shadows. Keep your back to the sun.” 

She nods with solemn intensity, mimicking your stance. You do not correct her immediately, you let her feel the water first—cool around her calves, alive against her skin.

A fish darts and Tuk jerks her bow too fast and splashes, missing wildly. You stifle a laugh, covering your lips. “Again.” 

Across the bank, you feel his presence before you see him, Neteyam. 

He stands leaned back against a broad tree, arms crossed lazily over his chest. Your stance is steady in the shallows, water curling around your calves. The low tweng at your hips is darker now where it’s soaked, clinging to the curve of your thighs. Your braids hang forward over your shoulders as you lean to correct Tuk’s angle, beads chiming softly. You pretend not to see him watching.

You adjust Tuk’s wrist gently. “Slow your breath. The water keeps moving even when you don’t.” 

This time she waits, tongue poking at her cheek in concentration. She releases. the arrow pierces right through a mid sized fish, the water blooming red for a second.  “I did it!” She gasps. 

You grin, pride softening your features. “You did.”

A slow clap sounds from across the bank, your smile fades. Neteyam pushes off the tree, crossing towards the waters edge. His movements are measured, deliberate—like he’s stepping into a battlefield instead of a shallow pond.  

“You took her beyond the perimeter. Beyond the training grounds.” He says, not calm, but not sharp.

Tuk beams up at him, holding her catch triumphantly. “I hunted!”

His expression softens for her. “I see that.”

Then his eyes shift to you. Hard again. “The ponds are not cleared for training.”

You straighten slowly, water slipping down your thighs as you step toward shore. You do not rush. You never rush for him. “They are now.”

His jaw sets tight, “you do not get to decide that.” 

“I did not bring her into danger,” you say evenly. “I brought her to learn.”

“You brought her beyond secured ground without informing the patrol.” 

“You secured the ground?” Your brow lifts slightly. “Or you simply marked it and hoped the sky people would obey your lines?”

His nostrils flare faintly. He hates when you frame it that way.

Tuk steps closer to you, small hand brushing your thigh. “There was no danger,” she insists, holding up her fish again as proof of triumph.

Neteyam exhales slowly, kneeling so he is level with her. His voice gentles instantly. “That does not mean we stop being careful, Tuk..”

She frowns. “But Y/n was careful.”

“Sometimes Y/n is wrong.” He shoots you a pointed glare. “You move as if the rules do not apply to you,” he says quietly, standing slowly. 

“And you make rules as if they are always right.”

His tail flicks once, controlled but sharp. “Since the announcement, you have pushed every boundary I set.”

Your spine stiffens at that. “Since the announcement, you have tried to tighten every boundary around me.”

The air between you thickens. Tuk senses enough to step back, clutching her fish and edging toward the bank.

“You think this is about the Tsakarem,” he says, voice low.

“You think it is not?” You finally let a crack show—not anger, but something raw. “I trained for years. Under Mo’at. Under my mother. I learned the songs. The herbs. The dreams. And in one breath it was given to someone who stands beside you more easily.”

“Aysea was chosen by Eywa,” he mutters. 

“And I was not?!” 

Neteyam does not answer immediately, his eyes running over the riverbank—not at you. 

“Should I take the fish back?” Tuk asks awkwardly.

“Yes.” you both say at the same time.

Tuk scrambles off, glancing back one more time before disappearing into the trees. 

“Do not twist this.” You say, tail flicking sharply. “I am disappointed in the choice.” 

“Aysea is very capable.”

“I did not say she wasn’t.”

“But you think you are more so.” 

“Yes.” 

“Confidence is not destiny.”

“And lineage is?” you fire back.

His shoulders square, he steps closer instinctively, chest falling and rising with each deep breath. “You think everything I have is handed to me?” 

“I think everything you have is expected of you.” That lands differently, the silence between you two is tense, chests heaving with anger.

“Do not…bring Tuk here again.” He takes angered steps back, whipping around and walking back to the village. 

The following day begins with chaos, your mother, a mighty huntress, a warrior—helping you to your ikran, mounting her own, and flying after several others.

A raid. This time Jakesully leads it, Neytiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak following close behind as always. Several warriors surround you. Gunships roar over the canopy, rotors chewing the air into shrapnel. Smoke spills downward in gray ribbons, staining the green—gold morning. 

Your mother flies to your right, posture unshaken, braids snapping in the wind. The other warriors orient subtly around her without meaning to. They always have. Even the eldest hunters defer to her aim, to the quiet certainty in her movements. She does not bark orders because she does not need to.

You dive together, arrows streaking downward. One of yours pierced a gunner's throat. Another explodes through a rotor housing. The sky people scatter, recalculating. 

A concussive sound cuts through the air, a thud so violent it folds the air inward. You turn just in time to see the missile strike her ikran’s wing. 

The creature streaks as membrane tears. Your mother does not scream, she shifts her weight, compensating, trying to pull upward. 

Gunfire rips through smoke, three rounds, center mass. Her body jerks, the world slows into a crawl, your soul leaping to your throat.

You see the way her fingers tighten once around the reins. The way her chin lifts, not in fear, but in refusal. Then gravity claims her.

“Ma’ Sa’nok!” You yell, diving without breath, without thought. The forest canopy rushes up in a violent blur of green and shadow.

Your hand almost reaches her, almost. A hand clasps around your tricep with bruising strength. Neteyam. “Let go!” you roar, thrashing.

“She’s gone!” He shouts back, voice raw. “You cannot save her.” He holds you back despite the loud cries escaping your throat.

The battle ends in pieces, you do not remember landing, you remember only the moment your feet met the soil and you ran. You find her where the canopy broke her fall, she is not intact.

The forest is eerily careful around her. Leaves drift down like quiet witnesses. Her body lies twisted but proud. She lies cradled in ferns, as if the forest—Eywa tried softening the blow she could not prevent. 

Your legs no longer understand how to move. You kneel beside her. You cannot touch her at first. Your hands hover over her chest, trembling. There is blood—too much blood. It has soaked her leather, pooled beneath her spine, darkened the roots of nearby plants.

“Ma,” you whisper. Your voice does not sound like yours. You press your palm to her sternum. It is warm, still warm. Hope detonates in your chest. “Can you stay? Stay please, do you hear me?”

Your hands run over her neck, searching for the pulse you felt at birth. The pulse she taught you to find in wounded animals. There is one, two, three beats. But no fourth. 

You lean down, pressing your forehead to hers the way you did as a child when storms frightened you. Her skin is cooling under yours.

Your hands are slick with her blood when the others finally reach you. You hear them dimly—the rustle of warriors parting leaves, the low murmur of disbelief. Someone inhales sharply, another whispers her name.

You press your forehead harder to hers as if heat can be forced back into her by will alone. “Ma’ sa’nok…” It breaks this time. Not a whisper. A fracture.

“She fought well.” Jake murmurs, sitting opposite of you. 

“She was not supposed to fall.” 

Jake holds your gaze from across with a grief he does not try to hide. His jaw works before he answers, voice roughened by smoke and memories. “No one is.”

Branches part behind him, you raise your weapon instinctively as measured footsteps approach. Neytiri emerges first from behind Jake’s shoulder, her eyes fall to your mother’s body and something inside her fractures silently—one hand lifts to her mouth, yours falls slowly, letting your bow slip from your fingers. 

Lo’ak steps into view from behind her, his expression hardens the moment he sees you kneeling there. Not sympathy, not softness. And then, Neteyam. He stops when he sees her there. 

He steps forward once, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. His voice, when it comes, is low and stripped of commands. “I am sorry.” 

“You had no right,” you say, it is not shouted, it is hollowed out of you. “You had no right to stop me.” 

His jaw tightens. Not anger, but containment. He kneels opposite you, beside his father, mirroring the way you crouch over her. “If I let you fall too—” 

“You do not decide that!” The sound tears from your throat, sharp enough that Lo’ak shifts behind him. “You do not decide who I lose!” 

Neteyam’s voice lowers before he speaks. “She was gone before you dove.” 

“You do not know that.”

“I do.” 

“How?” Your eyes blaze, wet but unyielding. “Because you are always certain? Because you’re always right?” 

His nostrils flare. “Because I watched the rounds hit her,” he says quietly. “Because I saw where they struck.”

You glance down at your mothers chest as if defiance alone will restart it. But the warmth is fading beneath your palms. The forest hums, soft and distant. Your shoulders begin to shake, though you refuse to bow your head completely. Not here, not in front of him. 

Jake moves then, placing a hand gently on your shoulder, then another on your mother’s. “We’ll take her home.”

You do not move as the warriors step forward, Neteyam stands before you, offering a hand. You only stare at it before standing without taking it.

 When you reach the village edge, elders bow their heads. Your mothers absence moves through the clan like a shadow. Neteyam walks beside you the entire way, not close enough to touch, not far enough to escape. 

Aysea watches from the crowd, her eyes dark with something discourteous. 

You do not sleep that night. You stay hidden in your home, letting the tears fall down where they won’t the next day. 

And when the day comes, you stand in the crowd, your mother being lowered into the ground. Her braids have been cleaned and restrung. Her weapons rest beside her, not as trophies, but as parts of her life returning with her. 

She looks as if she is sleeping, too still. Too quiet. At the center stands Mo’at—her posture is unwavering, her age carried like carved stone. When she raises her hand, the forest stills.

Beside her stands Aysea. Tsakarem. She carries the bowl of sacred herbs, arranging the woodsprites at your mother’s feet. She does not lead, but she is being shown how too. Mo’at begins the song, it is soft—carrying through the crowd and into the night. 

Low and ancient, vibrating through the roots beneath your knees. She speaks of courage. Of sacrifice, of a warrior who did not falter. She presses her palm to your mothers brow. “Eywa receives what was always hers.”

Aysea kneels when instructed, placing the woodsprites along your mother’s chest. Her movements are precise, reverent, and

The soil falls over your mothers head, a piece of your soul is returning with her. When the clan disperses it is only you, your fingers press into the soil, feeling the warmth beneath them. 

There is only continuation, and you sit there until the light fades completely.

Three long months pass, the change happens slowly, at first, the clan thinks grief has softened you—it hasn’t, it has refined you. 

In council, when Neteyam outlines patrol rotations, you do not interrupt. You do not challenge his flanks or question his caution, you only nod. 

When he assigns you to a specific perimeter—the most tedious stretch. You accept it without comment. That is what unsettles him. 

He watches for the tilt of your chin, for the spark in your eyes, and for the inhale before you dismantle his strategy—but it never comes.

During training, he corrects your stance. “You are compensating too far left.” He murmurs too close to your ear.

“I will adjust,” you reply evenly, not sarcasm, no bite. You do adjust, perfectly. He studies you longer than necessary. 

At the communal gathering, Aysea sits at his side, one hand splayed over his thigh. His arms are wrapped around her waist, nose dug into the crook of her neck—but when he looks up, his eyes find you, crouched over the fire, helping the elders cook. 

Lo’ak nudges his side gently, whispering into his ear. “You prefer her to be angry.” He teases, laughing too loud.

The tension—you—sharpen weeks later. Aysea spends more time assisting Mo’at. Learning chants, preparing meals and medicines, walking beside Neteyam after council discussions about spiritual morale. You tell yourself it does not matter. 

One afternoon, the warriors gather for coordinated target drills. The air is thick and humid, insects buzz lazily over the clearing. Neteyam moves between archers, correcting forms. He steps behind another female warrior—tsu’ren, adjusting her elbow with careful precision. “Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs. 

His hands are close to her waist as he demonstrates alignment. It is nothing inappropriate, it is leadership. You know that, but your jaw tightens anyway. When your turn comes, you draw your arrow harder than necessary. 

The string snaps forward and the arrow veers wide, a miss. You never miss. Neteyam’s head turns instinctively, he approaches you then. “You are distracted.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are.” He says, stepping behind you. his hand hovers near your elbow, not touching. Then he adjusts your arm, fingers brushing your skin. 

“Stop it,” you pull away, shooting another arrow dead center. He steps away immediately, a little smirk creeping through his exterior.

The sun had barely set over the horizon when jake approached you, moving carefully along the platform where you were just weaving, several men and women surrounded. Neteyam sat behind Aysea, her head laid back against his shoulder as she weaved him an armband. 

Jake paused, eyes lingering on you and then shifting to Neteyam. “You two are going to patrol together.” he said, voice firm. “It’s about time you two learned to read the forest as a unit.” 

Your protests fall flat under your Olo’eyktan. Neteyam’s eyes meet yours briefly, sharp yet unreadable. You simply nod, not speaking and letting the weight of the task settle over you.

Aysea stood then, gliding up beside Jake and letting her hand brush your shoulder. “You’ll see, Y/n,” she said, voice sugary. “He can be…” she glances at Neteyam, winking slyly. “Difficult… But don’t worry, you’ll manage, I'm sure.” 

You pulled your shoulders back subtly, keeping your voice neutral. “I manage just fine on my own.” Her smile faltered ever so slightly, replaced with a cool glare that she masked quickly. 

The forest had received the assignment before you had even registered it. At dawn the following morning, mist clings low to the roots around your ankles as if testing whether you will move differently today. You will not. You braid your hair tighter than usual, reaching first for your warriors' raspu’—they fit close to your legs, leather hugging your skin tight from the curve of your hips to your ankles. 

Your top fits sung across your chest, made for fighting. You secure your bow, your knife and walk to the ikran perch without looking at him. He is already there. Neteyam stands beside his ikran, one hand resting along the creature's neck ridge. He does not greet you. His eyes skim you once—that glance that you hate—quick, assessing, then away.

“Ready?” He asks, securing his cummerband.

“I was ready before I arrived.” 

A muscle in his jaw shifts. “We patrol the north ridge first. Then sweep east toward the ravine.” You nod, no argument. It unsettles him more than defiance ever did. You mount your ikran in silence, the slice is clean—two shadows slicing through gold, morning light. Wind whips past your ears, braids snapping behind you. The village disappears beneath the canopy.

The forest below feels heavy—no metal scent, no smoke. Just leaf and life and breath.

When you land along the north ridge, you dismount smoothly and kneel without instruction. Fingers press into soil. Cool. Undisturbed. “Nothing crossed here,” you murmur. 

“I know,” he replies, eyes watching over you. 

“You did not check yet.”

“I watched the birds.”

Your eyes narrow faintly, you hadn’t noticed the pattern shift until he said it. “You are not the only one who listens,” he adds quietly.

You move east, chest tight, weapons ready—the ravine narrows into stone and shadow. Vines hang thick like curtains. The air dips cooler, you step first this time, not asking, simply moving. He follows—for once, not correcting.

Halfway through the descent you freeze, he nearly walks into you, but your hand lifts and he pauses instantly.

Below, faint but distinct, boot tread. Fresh, pressed into soft clay near the polluted water’s edge. His breath shifts, you look at him once he only nods, no words needed.

You slide down the slope silently, positioning left flank. He takes right without discussion. Years of tension crystallize into instinctive coordination. You draw first; he mirrors the motion half a breath later.

Through bushes you spot it, a lone survey drone wedged low between rock walls, scanning. Not a full rig, but a scout. 

You meet Neteyam’s gaze across the ravine. strike or observe? This time, he waits. You inhale slowly, fighting the urge to shoot. 

 “If we destroy it, they know we found them. If we track it, we know where they return.” Neteyam says.

“Track,” you mumble, lowering your bow. You climb higher along the rock shelf, keeping wind at your backs. The drone hums faintly below, unaware. 

After nearly an hour, a small retrieval skiff emerges downstream. Two sky people, lightly armed. Careless. 

You nod, this time, you fire together. Two arrows, two clean kills. The drone sparks as Neteyam’s third blade severs its stabilizer.

When silence returns, the forest exhales. You remain still, no scattered panic, no chaos. 

He steps down the rock shelf carefully, nudging one of the sky people’s weapons away with his foot. “Clean,” he murmurs. Not praise, not surprise, just fact.

You descend after him, cutting the drone’s core free with precise efficiency. “They were careless,” you reply. “That will change.”

The light thins faster than any of you had anticipated. By the time you clear the ravine and reach the upper ridge again, the sun has dipped low enough that the canopy swallows what remains of it. The forest shifts into its night breath, cooler, denser. Neteyam glances west, gauging distance. The ikran cry again, but farther now. “We won’t make it back before full dark,” he says. Not irritated. Just calculating.

You already know. The shadows here are too thick to risk flying blind. “Come.”

He follows you because of course he does. Because you always move like you already know where you’re going.  

The light drains faster, canopy swallowing what remains of day. “Where are you going?”

“You’ll see.”

The edge in your voice makes something flicker in his expression, irritation, suspicion…challenge.

You push through a low sweep of fern and descend into thicker undergrowth. The air warms, the soil softens beneath your feet.

He notices the change immediately, less rock, more loam. The forest hums deeper here, you part a final curtain of vines.

The hollow opens before you—nestled between two massive roots that arc like protective arms. The ground is layered in thick moss and spring grass, lush and undisturbed. Soft enough to sink into. Hidden enough that even moonlight filters in gently through biolumescent leaves.

You step in first, kneeling to test the ground, you sigh contentedly when the moss dips around the curve of your hips—yielding under your weight.  

Neteyam watches silently from the entrance, the way the moss parts around your knees. The way it cushions you when you lean forward to press your palm into the ground. Your raspu’ stretches across your thighs as you settle back onto your heels, leather hugging the roundness of you as the ground gives.

“You come here often?” He asks, finally entering and dropping his weapons—leaving them close by. 

“I used to. Is there a problem?” 

“No.” He forced his gaze anywhere else. You rise slowly, moss clings to your calves before springing back. The movement is unhurried and controlled. “This will hold warmth,” you say. 

“…it’s concealed.” He admits.

“Yes.” You unstrap your bow, crouching to set it within reach. When you kneel again—this time lowering fully onto the moss, the ground dips more deeply beneath you, forming to the shape of your body.

He inhales, stepping past you abruptly, circling the hollow, checking sightlines, elevation, and canopy breaks. So efficient, so controlled.

But when he returns, you are still kneeling—this time adjusting the placement of your knife against your thigh.

You shift to sit back more comfortably, the movement slow. The soft ground still molds beneath you, cushioning the curve of your hips, supporting the arch of your spine.

He lowers himself opposite you, The moss compresses under him, but not the same way. It irritates him. “You chose this place because it’s comfortable,” he says.

“I chose it because it is smart.” You reply starkly. 

“And soft,” 

You tilt your head slightly. “Do you object to soft ground?” 

“No.” 

“Then stop complaining. Sleep.” You close your eyes first, your back flat against the soft moss, fingers curled in it. 

He exhales sharply, watching the rise and fall of your chest. The way the moss cushions you. The way even in sleep your brow remains faintly furrowed, as if ready to argue with him in your dreams.

You hate him so much. So much that it feels like a second heartbeat. It lives between your ribs. And he hates you just as much, but he lays back tonight—not because he trusts you, but because he’s simply just tired. 

You wake first, rousing him. Dawn bleeds pale gold through the village when you and Neteyam return. By the time your ikran’ touch down near the training grounds, the clan is already stirring. Warriors gather in loose formation. The air smells of damp flora and smoke.

Jake stands at the center, arms wrapped around his mate, Neytiri, who stands beside him—posture relaxed but eyes sharp. A few spaces behind them, Mo’at stands with her staff, near the woven target posts with Aysea. 

You and Neteyam land in unison, Jake steps forward, nods once, and speaks. “Report.” 

Neteyam begins, voice steady. “Scout drone in the eastern ravine. Two retrieval personnel, eliminated. No trace left.” Murmurs ripple.

Jake’s gaze shifts to you. “Anything else?” You hesitate half a breath, Neteyam notices.

“There was a secondary track north of the ravine,” you add evenly. “Light, testing perimeter range. We extended patrol through the night to confirm.”

Jake’s brow lifts slightly. “Extended without rotating?”

“Yes.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. That had been your call. Jake studies you both. “Risky.”

“It ensured no follow-up unit was waiting,” you reply.

Neteyam does not look at you—but you feel the flicker of irritation roll off him. You made it sound like your insistence carried the patrol.

Lo’ak shifts nearby, muttering under his breath, but loud enough. “She’s so unbelievable.” 

Aysea steps closer, soft voice floating through the clearing. “It is good you were protected through the night.”

“Protected?” You echo. 

She smiles faintly. “The ravine is unpredictable terrain. Thankfully, Neteyam is experienced with difficult environments.”

Neteyam exhales through his nose. “It was handled.”

Jake claps once, waving his hands to the clan surrounding you. “Good, training continues.” 

You move automatically toward the small bows. Tuk is already waiting, bouncing on her heels—grinning wildly. “You were gone forever!” 

“Forever is one night?” you murmur, crouching to adjust her grip. Behind you, drills resume. Commands barked. Arrows thudding into woven targets. You guide Tuk’s elbow gently. “Relax here.”

She nods seriously. Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects stances with sharp efficiency. His voice carries. 

Tuk releases—her arrow strikes wide. “Again,” you whisper. A shadow falls over you, this time it is not Neteyam, it is Aysea. 

“You teach her like she is fragile,” Aysea observes lightly.

You don’t look up. “She is learning.”

“Correction builds instinct.” 

“Do not question my teaching when all you do is stand around and watch.” You say, hands falling to your thighs. “Safety builds courage.” A few warriors pause—listening from where they are perched.

Aysea only smirks. “Courage without discipline is recklessness.”  

At that, you finally rise to stand. “Discipline without trust brings fear. You and your mate or whatever always find a reason to diminish my teaching. Leave.” Tuks small fingers press tightly into yours.

Aysea tilts her head, voice lowering. Still audible to the closest. “You always resist structure.” You know what she is doing, framing, positioning.

“I resist nothing when it makes sense.”  

Her mask flickers. “And yet you always resist him. Neteyam.” There it is. Several heads turn now, Jake’s voice fades mid conversation, Neytiri’s eyes sharpen. 

“This is not about Neteyam,” you say, turning back to Tuk. 

“It always is with you.” She fires back, sharp and measured.

Tuk frowns, squeezing your fingers. “Why is it about my brother?” 

“It is not.” You kneel slightly toward her.

Aysea’s composure cracks. “You spend an inappropriate amount of time at his side,” she says, dropping her voice. 

“I patrol where I am assigned,” you say, trying to keep it even.

“You seek those assignments.”

“That is untrue.” 

Her tone dips lower, sharper now. “You were not chosen. Not as Tsahìk. Not as mate. Perhaps that is why you cling to proximity.”

Your eyes flash, back straightening, hands moving to rest on your hips. “I do not cling to anyone. I do not want his shadow.”

“Then why are you always in it?”

Your voice cools. “Because I am a warrior. And he leads warriors.”

“And you cannot accept that you do not lead beside him.” 

Tuk tugs your hand. “Y/n…” You squeeze her fingers gently.

“I trained for a role,” you say evenly. “That role was given elsewhere. I accepted that.”

Aysea lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Accepted? You have grown quieter, yes. But silence can be resentment.”

“You mistake discipline for bitterness.”

“No,” she says softly. “I recognize hunger.”

“You speak boldly for someone still learning to carry Mo’at’s bowl without trembling,” you say, voice low, not sharp, not raised. The warriors nearest you go completely still. Lo’ak turns first, Kiri straightens in her more secluded spot, Jake’s voice pauses mid conversation, Neytiri’s gaze is still sharp, only turned to you. Mo’at stills—only observing.

“You walk as if something was taken from you,” she says. “As if the clan wronged you.” 

“I lost my mother,” you say flatly. “Something was taken. I do not blame the clan.”

“And yet you act as if that loss entitles you.”

“Entitles me to what?”

“To stand above correction. To challenge leadership. To speak as if you know better than those chosen by Eywa.”

“You questioned my readiness?” she asks.

“I question your restraint.”

“At least I understand reverence,” she snaps. “I do not parade my defiance as strength.”

“And I do not mistake proximity to power for wisdom.”

“You think your parents would approve of how you behave?” she asks suddenly.

Your shoulders stiffen, fists clenching involuntarily, The shift is subtle, but it is there. “This is not about them.” 

“Everything about you is also about them,” she presses. “Your father’s reputation. Your mother’s name. You carry it like armor.”  

“Do not.” 

“Your father was brave,” she says, voice tightening. “But bravery without restraint is recklessness.”

In this moment, the clearing is silent, it is just you and her in your mind. You feel the silence before you hear it.

“And your mother,” Aysea continues, “she followed leadership. She did not challenge it at every breath. Perhaps if you learned from that—”

“That is enough.” This time your voice cuts across the training ground, drills stop. Neteyam arrives seconds later, drawn by the sound—not the words. He steps between you instinctively.

“What is happening?” His gaze lands on you first. Lo’ak steps to his side immediately. 

“She started it,” he says. “Disrespecting Aysea again.”

“I was reminding her of boundaries,” Aysea cuts in. “She grew defensive.” 

Your jaw tightens. “She mentioned my parents.” you say, voice tight.

Neteyam’s gaze flicks to you, a small hesitation creeping through. “And?”

“And she implied my mother reached too far.”

Lo’ak steps forward, “You think too much of yourself,” he mutters under his breath.

Neteyam’s eyes narrow. “You always assume the worst,” he says to you, low and firm. “Not everything is an attack.”

“You did not hear what she said,” you reply, pain threading your words.

“I heard enough,” he says.

“No,” you insist. “You heard her version.”

Aysea touches Neteyam’s arm lightly, claiming space. “The clan sees tension,” she says. “It weakens unity.”

Jake steps forward. “Enough.”

Silence falls heavy. Mo’at studies you, Neytiri watches with quiet concern, Kiri frowns but says nothing.

You drop your gaze briefly, letting yourself feel the sting of solitude. Always alone. Always the one who bears the weight quietly. You close your eyes for a second, swallow, then lift your head—steadying the tremor in your voice. “I have done nothing unprofessional,” you state.

Neteyam’s stare is unyielding. “Then it should be easy.”

Tuk tugs lightly at your hand. “Did I do something wrong?”

You kneel instantly, smoothing her braids. “No, my love, you did perfectly.” 

You rise, keeping your composure, though your chest still aches from the loneliness that never truly leaves.

Arrows fly again. The clearing feels colder now. Neteyam’s gaze lingers longer than he intends. Lo’ak mutters a discontented hiss directed towards you to Aysea. Aysea stands serene, claiming her place beside him.

You do not look at them again, finishing Tuk’s lesson with quiet exactness. When she runs off towards Kiri you remain kneeling for longer than necessary—collecting scrambled arrows from the dirt ground.

Mo’at watches silently, realizing—Aysea speaks of the dead in an unlikely manner. Eywa could not have chosen her. 

The night settles gently over the forest, glowing with quiet bioluminescence. Blue and violet lights flicker along vines and roots, reflecting softly across the wide communal gathering.

The clan gathers around the growing fires, a successful hunt always loosens spirits—laughter ripples between groups, children dart between legs, elders trade quiet stories. The scent of roasted sturmbeast and spiced roots fills the warm air. 

You sit among the warriors closest to the cooking pit, helping to carve portions from the evenings catch. Grease glistens faintly on your fingers as you pass a strip of meat to one of the younger women.

Across the fire, Neteyam sits with his back straight beside Aysea, who leans slightly against his side, he has an arm pressed tightly against her waist. Her presence there has grown natural to the clan. too natural.

Your eyes never linger long enough to make it obvious. But his sometimes do. Only not tonight.

Tonight he keeps his focus on the warriors beside him as they recount the hunt. His father, Jake, laughs loudly at something Lo’ak says, while Neytiri quietly distributes bowls to the elders, a large smile on her face.

Near the center platform stands Mo’at, speaking softly with the older women of the clan.

The moment is peaceful until Aysea notices you. You are laughing softly with one of the younger warriors, head tilted back slightly, the firelight tracing the curve of your cheek and the braids along your shoulder. 

Aysea’s smile stiffens, she watches the way several hunters gather around you naturally as you help divide the food. It is effortless.

No position, no title, yet they gravitate towards you anyway. Her fingers tighten around Neteyam’s arm. “You seem comfortable tonight,” her voice carries faster than she’d intended, a few conversations pause.

You glance up from the meat you’re slicing. “We ate well today,” 

“That is not what I meant.” Now more heads turn. Neteyam shifts slightly beside her, sensing the switch in tone. “Aysea,” he murmurs quietly, but she continues.

“It is admirable,” she says, eyes fixed on you. “How easily you settle back into the clan.”

You wipe your hands slowly on a cloth, rising to your feet. “I never left.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Aysea laughs softly, the sound is brittle. “No. But grief often isolates people.” Your shoulders stiffen faintly.

“I would not know,” you say evenly, and she tilts her head, a challenge.

“You carry it loudly enough.” A few elders exchange uncomfortable glances. Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Aysea,” he says again, firmer this time.

But something has already slipped in her composure. “You challenge council decisions,” she continues, voice sharpening. “You undermine leadership in training. And yet you stand here tonight as if nothing has changed.”

Your gaze remains steady. “I do my work.”

“You resent your place.”

“I accepted it.”

“No,” she snaps suddenly. “You endured it.”

The clearing grows quiet. Even the children have stopped running. Aysea rises to her feet now, stepping away from Neteyam entirely. “You think everyone cannot see it?” she says, voice rising. “The way you linger around command. The way warriors still look to you first?”

You cross your arms loosely. “I cannot control where people look.”

“That is the problem,” she says.

Neteyam stands now too. “Aysea,”

She ignores him. “You act as if you deserve more,” she continues. “As if something was stolen from you.”

“Nothing was stolen,” you reply calmly.

“Then why do you behave like a displaced leader?”

The insult lands heavily, several hunters shift uneasily. Your voice remains level. “I behave like a warrior.”

“No,” she says sharply. “You behave like someone who cannot accept she was not chosen.”

Silence spreads across the clearing, Mo’at has turned fully toward the confrontation now. Your expression does not change, but your voice grows colder. “You speak boldly tonight.”

“I speak honestly.”

“You speak emotionally.”

Her eyes flash. “And you speak arrogantly!”

That word cracks through the clearing like a snapped bowstring. Neteyam steps forward immediately. “That is enough.”

But Aysea is no longer listening. “You hide behind humility,” she continues, pointing at you now. “But you believe you would have been the better Tsahìk.”

You do not answer, and your silence is confirmation enough for her. “Say it,” she presses.

You meet her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

The word drops calmly into the firelight, gasps ripple through the circle. Neteyam’s head snaps toward you. “You think Eywa made a mistake?” Aysea demands.

“No.” Your voice stays measured. “I think Eywa has reasons we do not yet understand.”

“That is convenient,” she scoffs.

You tilt your head slightly. “Faith often is.”

The clan watches, frozen between shock and fascination. Aysea’s composure finally fractures. “You think you are wiser than the Tsahìk?” she demands.

“No.”

“Then stop behaving like it!” Her voice cracks. And the crack is everything. Mo’at sees it, the lack of stillness, the loss of reverence. The anger.

You, meanwhile, remain completely calm. “You asked my belief,” you say quietly.

“I did not ask for your pride!”

Neteyam steps between you now, physically separating the two of you. “Enough.” His voice is sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Aysea’s chest rises and falls rapidly.“You defend her now?” she demands.

“I am stopping this,” he says firmly.

You glance at him briefly, then step back. “I will remove myself.”

Without another word, you turn and walk away from the firelight, disappearing into the darker edges of the clearing, no anger, no retaliation, just absence. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any argument.

Mo’at watches the aftermath, her eyes linger, not in the direction which you disappeared, but on Aysea. A Tsahik must carry stillness, a Tsahik must hold grief, anger, fear, and transform it. 

But Aysea did not transform anything tonight, she unleashed it. Mo’at's fingers tighten subtly around her staff, across the clearing she noticed something else. You had been attacked, your parents invoked, your grief questioned. And still—you never raised your voice, never insulted Aysea, never lost control. Mo’at exhales slowly. For the first time since Eywa’s supposed sign months ago…

A doubt stirs—soft, unwelcome but undeniable. Perhaps Eywa had not finished speaking.

Later that night, Neteyam stands alone near the outer platforms of the ridge, the forest breaths quietly around him, his mind refuses to settle. 

He had expected anger from you, defiance, sharp words, that was the usual pattern. But tonight, you had simply said yes. Yes, you believe you could have done better, not arrogantly, not loudly, just honestly. And somehow that unsettled him more than any argument you ever threw at him. 

He remembers the way the firelight caught your face, calm, unafraid, even when Aysea pushed harder. His jaw tightens, Aysea had crossed a line.

He exhales slowly, running a hand over his braids. For years, he believed you challenged him because you claimed authority, but tonight—somethjng shifted. You had walked away from it completely with quiet certainty. 

He wonders if the person he misunderstood the most was you.  

Far deeper in the forest, beneath towering roots and glowing vines, Mo’at kneels alone before a sacred tree as the clan sleeps. Only the soft breathing of the forest remains.

Mo’at places both hands against the bark, whispering ancient prayers. “Great Mother… guide your children.” Her mind returns again and again to the feast. Aysea’s anger. Your stillness. The imbalance.

Something about it disturbed the harmony of the moment. Mo’at closes her eyes. “I ask not for judgment… only truth.” The tendrils of the tree sway softly. She reaches forward, connecting her kuru to the sacred fibers.

The bond forms, the world dissolves. For a moment there is only light. Memories ripple through Eywa’s network—voices, laughter, battles, births, deaths.

And then a sudden pulse. Not calm, not balanced, it is disruption. Images flash across Mo’at’s vision; You as a child kneeling beside your mother during healing rituals.

Your father teaching you battle forms. Your hands glowing faintly beneath the Tree of Voices. Aysea standing before the clan tonight, anger, fear, possession. The images fracture. Another pulse surges through the connection, strong. 

A whisper flows through the roots, not words, but direction. Mo’at gasps softly as the connection breaks. Her eyes open slowly, the forest glows brighter than before.

For decades she has served Eywa, she knows the difference between imagination and guidance. And what she felt tonight…was guidance.

Her fingers tighten around her braid. “If I ignored you once,” she murmurs softly, “I will not ignore you again.”

You were laid comfortably in the warm embrace of your home, the doorway pinned shut— your weapons stored away.

The long day had left your muscles heavy, and you had only just begun loosening the ties of your top. The leather cords slipped slowly through your fingers as you untied them.

The night air moved softly through the woven walls of your hut. Insects hummed outside, and somewhere far off an ikran cried into the darkness.

You were just pulling the garment over your head when a knock sounded from outside. The sudden sound against the woven wall of your hut frightened you. 

No one ever came this late, so of course, your head snapped towards the door. For a moment you stayed still, just listening—then the sound came again. “Who is there?” You called quietly.

A female voice sounds from the other side. “Warriors,” Torchlight flickered faintly through the woven curtain. 

A male voice followed. “The Tsahik calls for you.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed almost immediately. “For me? At this hour?” A brief pause followed, then the woman spoke again—her tone respectful but certain. “Yes. She asks that you come now.” 

Your mind drifts to earlier, to Aysea’s raised voice, the anger that had flashed across her face when the argument turned against her. The words she had thrown at you in front of others. And to Mo’at, who watched silently.

“One minute.” You mumble, retying your coverings, knotting them properly. You push other thoughts away and move towards the door. 

When you pull the curtain aside, torchlight spills into the hut. The warriors stand on the platform outside, inclining their heads respectfully. Both are older hunters you recognize from patrol, their bows resting over their shoulders. “Tsahik.” They say simultaneously, reminding you.

“Did she say why?” 

“No, she only said to bring you.” 

Something in the way he says it makes a quiet tension coil in your chest. Mo’at is not a woman who acts without reason, you fall into step behind them. 

You pass sleeping huts, quiet cooking fires, racks of drying fish and woven baskets, no one stops you, no one even notices. The warriors lead you deeper into the center of the village until the familiar scent of herbs begins to drift through the air. Mo’at’s kelku. 

You had spent countless hours there growing up, training, learning plants, grinding roots, listening to Mo’at speak of Eywa and the old ways of the People. 

The woman gestures toward the curtain. “She waits.” 

They step aside, you lift the curtain and step inside. The flames burn low but steady, casting warm gold across the hut. Bundles of herbs hang from the beams above, and bowls of crushed leaves and medicinal pastes sit scattered across the floor. 

The Tsahik sits beside the central fire. Mo’at looks exactly as she always does; calm, still. Yet the moment you enter, her eyes sharpen. 

She gestured to the mat across from her. “Sit.” Her voice is quiet, but firm. You lower yourself onto the floor immediately. The fire crackles softly between you. 

Mo’at studies your face as if she is searching for something inside of you. Finally she speaks. “I went to the tree of voices tonight.” 

A Tsahik only seeks Eywa there when she needs answers. Her gaze never leaves yours. “For many years,” she continues slowly, “I believed the path of this clan was already clear.” Her fingers rest loosely against her knees. “Aysea walks the tsakarem path. She was meant to follow me.”

You nod once. Everyone knows this. Mo’at exhales softly. “But tonight… I asked that Eywa show me the truth. And she showed me something I did not expect.” She leans forward just slightly. “Two paths. One was Aysea, and the other was you. Y/n.”

You shift slightly on the mat, trying to steady the sudden wave of pressure. “Me?” You whisper, though it’s hardly a question. 

“Yes, you.” Her fingers tap the edge of the mat, moving to rest on your knee. “The path… it is always inside you, Y/n.  Your bond with Eywa, it is strong, steady. Never waver, even with anger, with fear. You have strong heart.” 

“But…” you say. “Aysea is chosen. She is to be mated with Neteyam. People expect her to lead.”

“Yes,” Mo’at says. “But the expectations of others cannot change the path that the Great Mother has set for you. You carry more than duty. You carry choice.”

You swallow, feeling the weight of it all press into your ribs. “Choice…” you whisper, testing the word as if it were foreign.

Yes,” Mo’at replies softly. “And with choice comes responsibility. The path will not be simple. It will be tested by anger, jealousy, and fear. You will face those who doubt you, who challenge you at every step. But it is yours to walk, not theirs.”

Your fingers rest on your knees, still trembling slightly. “And Neteyam?” you ask, your voice low. “He… he will not understand this.”

Mo’at tilts her head, expression unreadable. “Neteyam is loyal to the clan, as all warriors are. But loyalty does not always see the vision of Eywa. Your bond with him is strong, but it is separate from the path you are called to. You must lead with stillness, with patience, and with courage—beyond personal feeling.”

“I feel it. Sometimes. I don’t understand this feeling. If it is acceptance or still hate, or rejection.” 

“The bond?” 

“Yes.” You say honestly 

She nods thoughtfully, swallowing heavily.  “Go. Rest now. I will seek you continuiously, my dear.” 

“Yes, Tsahik.” The hut quiets when you leave, your steps are steady leading you back to your home, the night is deep, the forest alive with soft murmurs of insects and distant calls of nocturnal creatures.

A sudden movement ahead makes you pause, Neteyam stands there, just beyond the curve of the path. His shoulders are squared, his expression unreadable. “Y/n.” He says, voice quiet—but fierce.

“Neteyam.” You say, continuing to walk. 

His hand hooks around your arm. “Wait.” You pause, letting him hold your arm, though you make no move to pull away. His grip is firm, measured.

“I watched you tonight.” 

You scoff, your other hand resting on your hip. “Didn’t everyone?”

“That’s not—that’s not the point. I saw through the clearing. how you carried yourself. the way you handled everything.” 

“I did what i needed to,” 

“Yes.” He lets out a slow breath, releasing some tension, but he doesn’t let go of your arm. “I underestimated you. I thought I knew you.” He mumbles under his breath. 

“And?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“And…you’re impossible to ignore.” He releases your arm slightly, but the tension between you is thicker than the forest itself. “Not because i agree with you. Not because i like your choices. i just see more clearly what i’ve been dealing with.” 

Your lips twitch, half a smirk, half a warning—but you stay silent. “I handled tonight poorly,” he continues, voice measured, no apology in it. “I let assumptions cloud my judgment. But that doesn’t mean I respect everything you do, or that you’ve changed my opinion of you.”

“Good,” you say simply, stepping around him. “I wouldn’t want it if you did.”

Dawn paints the canopy in soft gold, bright and early the next day. You move silently through the forest with Neteyam at your side. Neither of you speak at first. The quiet is precise, disciplined—almost a competition. Your steps are measured, your eyes scanning the ground, and you feel him mirror every movement.

“You’re overcompensating." he says after a moment, voice a clipped whisper. 

“I’m aware,” you reply evenly, not looking at him. The irritation in your tone is subtle but deliberate.

He grunts and falls silent. You sense the weight of his gaze, but it is neither approval nor criticism—just attention. you refuse to meet it. 

Later, at council, Aysea leans slightly towards him like always, a faint smile playing at the edge of her lips. Her presence is deliberate. Every suggestion she makes seems designed to highlight your supposed mistakes. 

“You persist with impractical strategies,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to you. “The clan cannot afford impulsive actions.” 

“I act when hesitation would cost lives,” you reply evenly. Neteyam shifts, jaw tightening. He doesn’t speak, only watches, and the subtle tension makes you aware of his presence in a way nothing else does.

“You two are always at odds,” Lo’ak speaks from his spot. 

“You are always noticing.” You say back. 

“Never,” he murmurs, almost to himself, low enough that only you hear.

Hunts are no different. You and Neteyam track a sturmbeast through dense brush. You push forward, determined, and he snaps, “You’re reckless!”

“And you’re slow,” you fire back, ducking under a branch.

The sturmbeast leaps, growls vibrating through the ground. He moves fluidly to protect the group, his proximity brushing against yours in a way that sends a fleeting awareness through you—your back stiffens, lips sealed. He does not meet your eyes. He doesn’t have to. 

At the feast later, the tension does not ease. You pass bowls to children, helping them navigate the chaos. Neteyam stands nearby, not speaking, just observing. Every subtle movement feels deliberate, and your chest tightens when his gaze lingers slightly too long. 

Aysea notices, of course. Her fingers tighten against his arm more than usual, her eyes flicking to you with sharp calculation.

“You favor her too much, why?” she snaps quietly to him once, voice low but venomous.

“I maintain balance,” he says every time, tone even and controlled, and she stiffens as if struck.

During another council, after a rough patrol, Aysea escalates her provocations. She questions your judgment, your strategy, your loyalty, framing each comment to imply your presence is inappropriate.

“You influence him more than you realize,” she hisses, eyes flashing at you.

“I influence no one,” you reply calmly. “I do my work.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens, a subtle flare of irritation crossing his features. He does not intervene, not yet, but his attention lingers in a way that makes her anger grow.

Her lips press into a thin line, ears flicking back slightly. The reaction is small, so small most of the council misses it. But you do not. And neither does Neteyam. Silence settles over the council circle. 

Aysea straightens, smoothing invisible creases from her arm bands before speaking again, voice controlled but sharp. “If you do not influence him,” she says carefully, “then perhaps you simply enjoy standing where you do not belong.”

A few murmurs ripple through warriors close enough. As if she’s done anything during patrol. The words slip from her tongue as if you haven’t been trained for this your entire life.

You remain calm, hands resting loosely on your knees, posture relaxed. “I stand where the clan needs me,” 

“The clan needs stability,” she presses. “Not someone who constantly challenges the structure that has protected us for generations.” Lo’ak shifts beside Neteyam, clearly sensing the rising tension. His gaze flicks between you and Aysea with open curiosity.

“You mistake challenge for instability,” you say calmly.

“And you mistake defiance for leadership,” Aysea shoots back.

For the first time, Neteyam moves, not dramatically. Just enough. His shoulders straighten slightly, his tail flicking once behind him. The motion pulls several sets of eyes toward him. And of course, Aysea notices it too.

Her voice softens immediately. “Neteyam,” she says gently, turning toward him as if inviting agreement. “You see the same problems I do. The clan cannot move forward while certain individuals continue disrupting—”

“That is enough.” His voice cuts through the air like a clean blade, the council stills. Aysea freezes. Neteyam rarely interrupts. When he does, people listen. He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes focused on the ground for a moment before lifting toward the circle. “I hear both sides,” he says carefully.

But then his gaze shifts to you, only for a second, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “And I decide based on what protects the clan,” he continues.

Aysea studies him carefully. “You agree her methods are reckless.”

Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately but his jaw tightens faintly. “She takes risks,” he says. Your brow lifts slightly, a small reaction, almost amused. “But reckless?” he finishes slowly. His eyes flick briefly toward you again. “Not always.”

The silence that follows is thicker than before, Aysea’s fingers curl slightly against her thigh. Lo’ak grins faintly under his breath. You say nothing, your expression is unchanging. But something quiet and electric shifts between you and Neteyam across the council circle.

Something complicated. 

Later that evening, the forest is quieter than usual. Most of the clan has retreated to their homes to spend quality time with family. You move along one of the higher walkways, balancing easily across large branches, you feel him before you see him. “You followed me,” you mutter.

“I walked,” he replies, stopping a few steps away. 

You glance over your shoulder. “That path leads nowhere except for here.” 

His ears twitch, tail slowing. “Then perhaps I meant to come here.” 

You lean slightly against a tree trunk, arms crossed over your chest, the faint glow of bioluminescent plants reflect in his eyes. “You defended me today,” you say.

“Barely.” He corrects. 

“Still.” 

“For someone who claims not to influence people,” he says quietly, “you occupy a concerning amount of my thoughts.” Your breath pauses. Only briefly, then your composure settles again.

“That sounds like your problem, Neteyam.” 

His gaze sharpens. “Maybe.”

Another silence, it lingers longer this time.

Then, from below the platform, two younger warriors whisper as they pass beneath.

“…they’re at it again.”

“…they always are.”

“…one day they’ll either kill each other or—”

Their voices fade into the forest, Neteyam closes his eyes briefly in visible irritation. You  almost laugh. When he opens them again, you’re still watching him, calm and unmoved.

Over the following weeks, each hunt, each training session, each patrol is a battleground of unspoken tension. He anticipates your moves, sometimes too close, sometimes just far enough to frustrate or test you. His restraint is deliberate, but it hums beneath the surface like a taut bowstring.

At first it is only small things, a glance that lingers too long, a silence that stretches between sentences, the way the air shifts when you and Neteyam occupy the same space. 

But there are some people in the clan who notice everything. and none of them have the guts to say a thing.

Mo’at notices first, she always does. During a quiet afternoon near the healing circle, you kneel beside her sorting dried herbs. Your hands move automatically, separating leaves, stems, and roots with practiced precision.

She watches you; not openly, just assessing, like she always does. “Neteyam has been restless,” she says after a while. 

“Many warriors are.” You say without looking up. 

“That is not what I said.” 

You finish tying a small bundle of leaves before answering. “Then tell me what you mean,” 

Mo’at hums thoughtfully, her wrinkled fingers roll a seed pod between them. “He watches you when you are not looking.” 

You finally glance at her, expression flat. “He watches everyone.”

“No.” The word lands gently but firmly.

“He studies everyone,” she corrects. “But watching is different.” 

Your gaze shifts back to the herbs. “Perhaps he studies longer when I am present.” 

Mo’at’s eyes glint with quiet amusement. “You deflect well.” 

“It keeps conversations short.” You smile, hands pausing briefly. 

She leans forward slightly. “But not with him. Hm?”  

Your hands stop completely. Mo’at notices, of course she does—but she says nothing more. 

Jake notices next, not because he is looking for it. Only because Lo’ak will not stop talking about it.

“You should see them,” Lo’ak says one evening while helping his father repair a bowstring. “It’s like watching two thanators circle each other.”

Jake snorts. “That sounds healthy.”

“I’m serious!” Lo’ak insists. “They argue about everything.”

“Also healthy.”

“But they keep ending up together.”

Jake pauses—that part catches his attention. “Together how?”

“Like…” Lo’ak waves his hands vaguely. “Not together together. Just always near each other.”

Jake leans back slightly. Thinking. Then he mutters, “yeah… that tracks.”

Lo’ak blinks. “That tracks?”

Jake shrugs. “Boy, some people fight because they hate each other.”

“And?”

“And some people fight because neither one knows what to do with the other.”

Lo’ak squints at him. “You’re being so cryptic.”

Jake grins slightly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I am older!”

Jake pats his shoulder. “Exactly.”

Neytiri is the last to say something about it—though she probably noticed before Jake, or Lo’ak. Who knows?

But her reaction is the most intense. She stands at the edge of the training grounds one afternoon, watching the warriors spar.

Neteyam faces you across the clearing, both of you are calm. Both of you are focused. And both of you are very clearly trying to win.

Your spear strikes first, fast. Neteyam blocks it smoothly, stepping inside your guard. You twist away, pivoting with fluid precision, sweeping your leg toward his ankle.

He jumps back—barely. The watching warriors murmur quietly. The pace increases. Strike. Block. Counter.

Neither of you speak, just pant and hiss softly. But the tension between you crackles like lightning. Finally your spear locks against his staff.

The two of you freeze, faces only inches apart. Your eyes narrow, his jaw tightens. For a moment it looks less like a spar and more like a challenge neither of you intends to surrender.

Then Mo’at’s staff taps against a root nearby, the sound is soft, but final. You both step back immediately, training ends. The watching warriors disperse.

But Neytiri remains where she stands. Her eyes follow you as you leave the clearing, then they shift to Neteyam. He notices and immediately looks like a child who has been caught doing something he cannot explain.

She approaches him slowly. “My son.”

“Yes, mother?” 

Her gaze sharpens, a hint of a smile creeping through from the corners of her mouth. “You fight her differently.”

Neteyam stiffens. “I fight everyone differently.”

“That is not what I meant.”

He exhales slowly, Neytiri folds her arms.

“You watch her.”

He says nothing. “You defend her.” She continues.

There is only silence, Neteyam’s soft pants filling the air, breath leaving silver as the sky darkens.

“And she challenges you in ways the others do not.”

Neteyam’s tail flicks in irritation. “She challenges everyone.”

Neytiri tilts her head slightly. “No.”

Her eyes soften slightly. “Only you.”

That lands harder than anything else. Neteyam rubs the back of his neck. “It is not like that mother.” 

Neytiri raises an eyebrow. “I did not say it was.”

He groans quietly—across the clearing, you disappear into the forest path without looking back. But Neytiri’s gaze lingers on the direction you went, thoughtful and gentle. 

Then she says something that makes Neteyam freeze completely. “She is strong.”

She pauses, nodding gently. her attention redirecting—slowly—towards Neteyam. “Perhaps too strong for someone who cannot decide how he feels.” Her hand pauses on his shoulder. 

Neteyam blinks. “Mother—” But Neytiri is already walking away, smiling softly. 

The tension in the village does not fade after the spar. If anything it grows. People talk, quietly, carefully—but they talk. And the person who hears the most of it is Aysea.

For two days she says nothing. She trains. Hunts. Attends council. Things she never used to do before, but the warmth she usually shows Neteyam becomes sharper. More deliberate.

One evening you pass near the upper platforms and hear quiet voices. Neteyam and Aysea. You do not stop, but the wind carries their words.

“You are pulling away,” Aysea says softly.

“I am not.”

“You are.” There is a small pause.

Then you hear the faint sound of beads shifting as she steps closer. “You used to come to me when things were difficult,” she continues. “You trusted me.”

“I still do.”

“Then why do you watch her?”

Silence falls between them, you keep walking.

But the conversation continues behind you. “She challenges everyone,” Neteyam says.

Aysea laughs quietly. “Do not lie to me.”

A longer silence follows, then she does something unexpected. Her hand lifts to his face, you do not see it, but you hear the small intake of breath. 

“You and I understand each other,” she says quietly. “We always have.”

Then, a soft kiss, not passionate nor desperate, but intimate—familiar. The kind shared by people who have done it before. You keep walking, your pace unchanging.

Behind you, Neteyam exhales slowly. “Aysea…”

Her voice is gentle. “You do not have to choose.”

But the way she says it makes it clear—she expects him to.

The next morning Mo’at summons you, this time it is a summons. You enter her hut quietly, she is kneeling beside a bowl of glowing seeds, eyes half closed in thought.

“You wished to see me.” Your voice is soft in her quiet home. 

“Yes.”

You wait, shifting as she studies your face. “The clan shifts,” she says.

“Clans always shift, don’t they?” 

“This one shifts around you.”

You say nothing, chest tightening 

“You provoke strong reactions.” She continues. 

“That is not new.”

“No,” Mo’at agrees. “But now it touches my grandson.”

Your eyes flick toward her. “You disapprove?”

Mo’at smiles faintly.

“I observe. And I see you.”

“I see you, Mo’at.” You whisper. 

She gestures for you to sit, and of course, you do. “You fight him.” She says. 

“Yes.”

“You challenge him.”

“Sometimes.”

“You refuse to soften for him.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers tap lightly against the floor, head nodding slowly. “Good.”

That word surprises you. “He needs someone who does not bend,” she says calmly.

You blink once. “I am not here to shape him.”

“No.”

Mo’at’s eyes glow softly in the dim light. “But Eywa places people in each other’s paths for reasons.”

You lean back slightly. “And you believe I was placed in his?” 

Mo’at studies you for a long moment. “I believe you may both be placed in something larger.”

You don’t answer, but the thought stays with you longer than you like.

Three days later another hunt is called. This time the prey is dangerous. A massive forest predator has been attacking smaller herds near the eastern cliffs.

Jake assigns the team personally. Neteyam, you, two young learners, Aysea volunteers as well. Nobody objects, so the hunt begins at dawn. 

Mist curls through the forest as the five of you track the beast’s path through broken branches and claw marks. The tension between you and Aysea is quiet but sharp. Neteyam notices but he says nothing. Hours pass before you find it. The creature explodes from the brush like a living storm.

Everything happens fast. You leap aside as it charges. Neteyam fires an arrow. Aysea circles left. The beast slams into one of the younger warriors, throwing him into a tree.

You lunge forward with your spear, the predator turns toward you—fast, strong. Its claws swing. You realize too late you are exposed.

Then Neteyam hits you hard. His shoulder slams into you, knocking you sideways. The claws that should have ripped through your chest rake across his side instead.

He hits the ground hard, blood spills across the leaves. Your stomach drops. The predator roars again—but now the entire team attacks.

Aysea drives a blade into its flank, you thrust your spear deep into its chest. The creature collapses with a final violent thrash. Silence crashes down over the clearing, your heart pounds—but your eyes are already on Neteyam. He’s on one knee, breathing hard, blood running down his ribs.

You kneel beside him instantly. “That was unnecessary,” you say sharply.

He grimaces.“You were about to lose your arm.”

“You miscalculated.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aysea arrives seconds later, her face tight with fear. “Neteyam—”

He waves her off slightly. “I’m fine.”

You press your hand against the wound, stopping the bleeding, your voice is quieter now. “You are not.”

Neteyam looks down at you. Something strange flickers in his eyes. “Seems I owe you a rematch.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

But your hand does not move from his side. And for the first time—Aysea sees something in your expression she has never seen before. Concern, the real kind.

The walk back to the village is slow. Mist clings to the roots of the forest, and the hunters move carefully through it. The two younger warriors stay ahead, still shaken. Aysea walks on Neteyam’s other side, though her gaze flicks toward you more than once.

You are the one keeping pressure on the wound. Blood continues to seep between your fingers along his ribs. Not enough to panic—but enough to matter.

“I’m fine,” he mutters after a while.

“You are bleeding,” you reply calmly.

“That happens when you get cut.”

You glance at him briefly. “Your understanding of injury is remarkable.”

Despite the pain, he gives a quiet huff of amusement. Behind you, Aysea remains silent.

The village smoke appears through the trees, an injured warrior never goes unnoticed.

As expected, people do notice immediately. Warriors climb down from the higher walkways, children lean over tree tops, and someone runs toward the healer’s hut. A young apprentice returns moments later, slightly out of breath, “Mo’at is with a birthing mother,” she explains.

No one interrupts the Tsahik during a birth. Neteyam exhales slowly. “Well. Good timing.”

You ignore his comment. “Bring me some boiling water.” You guide Neteyam to the healer's hut;  Mo’at being absent, delivering new life in a hut farther away.

He raises an eyebrow slightly as you push the woven door aside. “You sound very confident for someone who isn’t the Tsahik.”

“And who do you think trained me?”

His gaze shifts to the floor, an amused glint in his eye. “My grandmother.”

“Yes.” 

You move immediately, selecting herbs from the bundles with practiced certainty. Neteyam watches with open curiosity. “You’ve spent a lot of time here.”

“I have made this clear.” Your tail whips against the ground in exasperation.

“Mawey, I was just observing.” 

The bandage is nearly finished, paste being squeezed between the wraps and his ribcage. Your hands move steadily as you wrap the final strip of cloth around Neteyam’s ribs. The herbs have already begun to stain the fabric a faint yellow.

“You are frowning again,” he says quietly.

“I am concentrating.”

“You were concentrating before.”

“And now I am finishing.” You pull the bandage snug.

Neteyam exhales sharply. “That was unnecessary.”

“It will keep the wound closed.”

“It will also prevent breathing.”

“You exaggerate.”

He shifts slightly, testing the wrap. The moment he moves, your hand presses instinctively against his side to steady him. “Do not move yet,”

“You move through this space like you belong here.”

“I spent many seasons training here,” 

“And you can just talk to Eywa?” 

“To a certain extent, yes.” Your careful hands store away the healing supply.

“And you feel her?” 

“Don’t we all?” You smile, lifting yourself before assisting him.

“Yes.” He whispers. 

You and Neteyam exit the hut together, Aysea approaches immediately, placing soft kisses along Neteyam’s cheeks. 

You step away immediately, Lo’ak sees you first, his grin spreading. “ look who survived.”

“Were you hoping otherwise?” 

“Depends,” he says cheerfully. “Did you two kill the beast or eachother?” 

Neteyam walks with Aysea by his side, an arm wrapped carefully around her waist. He ignores Lo’ak’s comments, rolling his shoulders stiffly.  “The beast.” 

Jake looks pleased, Neytiri watches more carefully—the way her son leans towards you even when the tsakarem is wrapped in his arms. 

The drums echo across the village platform, steady and strong, their rhythm moving through everyone. Fires flicker, coasting dancing shadows across the dancers, and blue seedlights shimmer in the trees above.

Children laugh and stumble between adults, copying the steps as best as they can. You crouch beside a small child, guiding her tiny feet. Beside you, Kiri moves fluidly, helping the other children find the rhythm. Together, you two are a seamless unit, teaching, laughing, and moving with effortless grace.

Neteyam doesn’t notice anyone else. Not Jake, not Lo’ak, not the circle of warriors or women. His gaze is fixed entirely on you. Every sway of your hips, every controlled turn, every movement of your shoulders and arms draws him in.

Tonight, you’re not in your usual training garb. Your outfit is elegant yet functional for dancing; a fitted top that traces the curves of your chest and waist while leaving your arms free, a flowing skirt that clings to your hips, fluttering with each step, and a loose sash around your waist catching the firelight. Your hair is half pulled up, half cascading down your back, straight, glossy, swinging lightly with every turn, framing your face and shoulders beautifully. Every motion feels deliberate, confident, sensual, and utterly captivating.

A male warrior steps into the circle, matching your rhythm. His hands brush your hips as he mirrors your steps. You smile, guiding him through spins and turns with ease, laughing softly, all while keeping the children moving with Kiri beside you. Every gesture is smooth, controlled, and magnetic.

Neteyam stiffens, a coil of jealousy tightens in his chest, but he does nothing. Jaw set, fists brushing his sides, eyes locked on you, but he doesn’t speak or move.

Lo’ak notices immediately, leaning toward him with a wicked grin. “Brother…look at you. Is the mighty warrior jealous? And those hips? She’s practically daring you not to notice. And that outfit? Sooo dangerous.”

Neteyam exhales sharply, sparing a sidelong glance at him. “Lo’ak, stop.” He says, voice low and clipped.

Lo’ak freezes for a moment, smirking, but doesn’t push further. Then, leaning closer again, he murmurs, “And what about Aysea, huh? She’s over there trying to get your attention, and yet your eyes are glued to… well… you know who.”

Neteyam mutters quietly under his breath. “I said stop.”

Jake, leaning against a post and watching Neytiri dance, shakes his head with a knowing grin. His gaze lingers on her, deep and appreciative. The curve of her arms, the effortless strength of her shoulders, the way her torso twists naturally with the rhythm, her feet moving precisely yet fluidly, the swing of her braids, the playful sparkle in her eyes. He drinks it in, admiration and desire mingled. Then his attention flicks to Neteyam, a smirk spreads across his face.

He chuckles low, already walking over “well, locked eyes…tight jaw,” he pokes Neteyam’s jaw. “Chest puffed, and not a single step taken.”

Neteyam groans quietly, jaw tightening even further. The warrior brushes lightly against your hips again, moving perfectly with the rhythm. You spin, guiding him with subtlety and ease, your laughter soft and flowing. Every motion, the sway of your hips, the roll of your shoulders, the fall of your hair—draws Neteyam in further.

His chest rises faster, fists clenching slightly, yet he remains frozen, passive, watching. Lo’ak leans in again, smirking. “That’s not even the worst part,” Lo’ak continues, enjoying himself far too much. “You’re doing it right in front of—”

“Finish that sentence,” Neteyam mutters quietly.

Lo’ak raises both hands in surrender, though the grin never disappears from his face.

The drums taper off, slowing into a softer, lingering rhythm. Children stumble and giggle, Kiri guiding them beside you. The warrior steps back slowly, leaving you moving alone now, every motion fluid and deliberate, commanding the circle while teaching the little ones. The firelight traces your curves, the sway of your hips, the movement of your hair, highlighting every detail.

Near the fire, you straighten from your crouch as the last child runs back toward their family. Kiri brushes her hands together, laughing softly.

“You make them dance better than the adults.”

“They are easier to teach,” you reply calmly.

Kiri tilts her head slightly, following your gaze across the clearing. Her lips twitch. “Ohh.”

You blink. “What?”

Neteyam stops just inside the circle, the firelight casting long shadows over his shoulders. The fresh bandage beneath his chest wrap is hidden, but the stiffness in his movement betrays it.

You glance at him briefly. “You should not be walking so much.”

He ignores that entirely. “You dance well.”

Your eyebrow lifts, “that is a strange observation.”

“You were impressive. what can i say?”

You dust ash from your hands, completely composed. “I was teaching the young boys and girls.”

“And a warrior.”

You look at him now, properly. “Is that why you were watching so intensely?”

Neteyam pauses—for a moment the village seems to fade behind you two. “Yeah.”

Your tail flicks once, the honesty was unexpected. “You should be resting.”

“I am standing.”

“That is not rest, Neteyam.”

“You did not answer my question earlier,” he says.

“I do not recall asking one.” You almost turn away but he steps in front of you.

“When I asked if you feel Eywa.”

Your expression softens, just slightly. “Yes, yes I feel her.”

“And what does she say?” His hands mess around with his songcord absently, you study him for a long moment, then you walk past him, shoulders brushing. “She says you should stop getting injured.”

Neteyam lets out a quiet breath of annoyance. Behind him—Lo’ak, sitting among the group of hunters, huntresses, and warriors, wheezes. Across the clearing, Aysea is still watching, composed for the sake of the people surrounding.

And near the outer ring of the dancing circle, Neytiri notices everything. Including the way her son turns to follow you with his eyes again.

She exchanges a slow, knowing look with Jake, and he smirks. “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention—but you probably noticed, right?” he murmurs under his breath.

Of course, you notice it first, others see small things, Neteyam leaving prayers early, his answers in council arriving half a breath too late. His eyes drifting upward into the canopy as though he expects something to answer him.

But you see the deeper shift, he no longer breathes with the forest, he breaths around it. The first time you approach him, he brushes you off. “I am fine.”

You watch him for a moment longer than he likes. “You are not listening.”

His jaw tightens. “I hear everything,”

“No,” you hiss quietly. “You are thinking.”

That irritates him, he turns away before the conversation can continue, but the seed is planted and you can feel it.

Several days pass, days of quiet wonder, you’re always watching him now, always feeling the shift. He is bothered more often than ever, always gone—Aysea following, not grounding.

One night, footsteps approach your home, you do not have to turn to know who it is. “I knew it would be you.”

Silence hangs for a moment, then his voice, low and rightly controlled. “I cannot hear Eywa.”

Your neck twists to see his face, now you look at him, not with pity, not with surprise, just understanding. “Since when?”

“Since the last assault.”

It has been weeks. weeks since the last assault. “And you told no one?”

“I don’t—i’m not allowed to be so uncertain. especially not now.”

You stand and step closer, “you are allowed to be alive. There is more to life than expectations.”

He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding into the sound. “You still feel her,” he says.

“Yes I do.”

“How?”

You tilt your head slightly, “because I stopped trying to lead her.”

Silence settles, then he says the words that cost him the most. “Help me.” He asks.

You bring him to the moss hollow deep in the forest, the one that remembers the shape of your body. He does not question you, he kneels where you tell him. You sit directly behind him, close enough to feel his heat. “Breathe,” you whisper.

At first, like always, he resists. He always does. Your palm presses lightly to the center of his back. “Let it go”

He does, he lets go of everything. The weight of the clan's expectations, Mo’ats legacy, the future of the clan, You, opposite him. His breath shatters.

You lower his hand to the soft moss beneath you. “Listen.”

For a long time, there is nothing. Then something does answer, something faint, but warm, alive. His shoulders tremble. “I feel her,”

You smile softly against his back. “I know.” When he turns to face you, your foreheads almost collide—he is closer than he should be.

“You brought me back,” he says quietly.

“No,” you murmur. “You let yourself be found.”

His fingers brush your jaw, the contact sends shivers up your spine, making you straighten just a little bit.

Something that the forest will hold begins then, something sacred.

After that night, things shift, subtly. Neteyam looks at you before speaking in council, he pauses when you inhale, as if waiting for your thoughts, at gatherings, he drifts closer without realizing it.

Other’s notice, Lo’ak notices first, he watches the way his brother’s gaze finds you across the fire before anyone else has spoken. The way Neteyam’s shoulders loosen when you enter a gathering.

Kiri notices too, Neytiri notices, Jake notices, and Mo’at notices everything. Aysea sees most of all. Her gaze lingers longer now, sharp, searching. But nothing has even happened.

You sit alone in the hollow again, your back to the entrance, hair cascades down your spine like satin falls. You do not expect him, but you feel him before he speaks.

“You are quieter tonight.” His voice moves through the darkness like a ripple through water. You turn slowly. Neteyam stands at the edge of the hollow, shoulders tense, as though he has walked here arguing with himself every step.

“So are you,” you answer. For a moment, neither of you move. The forest hums around you. Finally he exhales, long and unsteady.

“I am trying,” he says, “not to need you.”

The words land like a bow, they are not accusation, but they are confession. “Why?” You ask softly.

His jaw tightens, so much that you can see the muscles moving. “Because I am promised.”

You hold his gaze. “Promised is not mated.”

His eyes darken, heavy, dangerous. “You will not make this easy.”

Your voice is quiet but steady. “You do not like easy. You do not want it.”

He steps closer then, the careful distance he has kept for weeks collapsed in three strides. “You make me forget who I’m supposed to be.”

You feel the weight of that, he is the son everyone depends on—you take one step toward him, then another, until the space between you disappears.

“Then stop being who they expect,” you whisper, eyes glossing over his broad shoulders and tense, muscular arms. “Be who you are”

His restraint snaps like a bowstring pulled too tight, his hands find your waist with sudden certainty, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself in something real.

Your foreheads meet, for the first time—none of you are pulling away. Your breaths meet his, the world narrows to just his warmth.

“You choose this?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes.” You breathe.

His thumb traces the curve of your hip. “Even if it changes everything?”

You do not hesitate to answer. “Yes, Neteyam.”

He kneels, bringing you down with him—your kurus brush instinctively, Neteyam freezes. The weight of what that means floods his expression, connection is not casual, it is truth, memory, soul.

You do not hesitate, hand lifting. Your tendrils seep into each other's, the bond clicks into place. The world explodes open, spirit crashes into spirit. There is no hiding inside tsaheylu. You feel him, all of him.

Your breathing deepens, his hands squeeze the ground as if longing for something to finally hold, but he can’t reach for you right now. You feel the pressure of expectation crushing his ribs every morning. The moment he first realized he might never truly be free to choose his own path.

And the quiet fear that one wrong step could fail his entire clan. His loneliness, his longing, and he feels you. Your mother’s final breath, you, a young girl who’d just seen her father gunned down by the sky people.

The way your hands trembled when you held your mother beneath the forest. The grief you carry like a bullet hidden in your ribs. Your pride, your stubborn strength, your refusal to bend. It is too raw, too honest.

For a heartbeat, none of you move. Your foreheads still rest together, your breath mixed. You feel the storm inside him through the bond, fear, relief, and want. It trembles through his chest.

Your hand lifts slowly, fingers sliding up his arm. His muscles tense under your touch, not in rejection, but in the effort it takes for him not to pull you closer too fast.

Your palm settles against his shoulder. He exhales, the sound shaky, raw, and desperate.

His nose brushes yours first, tentative, testing the space between you. The contact sends a quiet spark through the connection, heat floods into you like a wave, pooling low inside you—neteyam feels it, the true awareness that this moment cannot be undone.

“Tell me to stop, baby.” he murmurs.

But you don’t, instead your fingers curl into the braid at the back of his neck and pull him the smallest inch closer.

That is all the permission he needs, the kiss is slow, that’s how it starts. Almost careful. Neteyam kisses you like someone learning the shape of something precious—lips brushing yours softly at first, barely and pressure, as if memorizing the feeling.

But the bond betrays him. Through tsaheylu you feel the surge of emotion he tries to hide. Weeks of restraint, every time he looked away first, every time he forced himself to keep distance.

It all rushes forward at once. His other hand slides up your side, fingers spreading along your ribs as he pulls you fully against him. The kiss deepens instinctively, his control slipping as the reality of you settles in his hands.

You answer without hesitation, your hand moves from his braid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below his queue. The reaction is immediate, a shiver that runs through his body.

Neteyam makes a low sound against your mouth, half breath, half disbelief. He shifts, guiding you gently backward until the soft moss meets your back. You sink down with him following, one knee braced beside you so he can keep your body close to his.

His fingers trace slowly along your side as if mapping you through touch. Every brush of skin sends another ripple through the connection between you. You feel how much he is holding back. How badly he wants to lose that control.

“Do you know,” he murmurs breathlessly against your lips, “how hard it has been not to do this?”

“Please, let go of your restraint Neteyam, I am ready.” You snap.

He pulls back, a small smile on his face. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He moves closer, teasing at first—but even he knows how hard it is to resist you.

His lips crash against yours, hungry, relieved. Not the slow, careful kisses from before. The contact rips a small, involuntary noise from your mouth.

The reaction only makes him tighten his hold on you. Tongue pushing against the line of your lips, the last bit of contact that had been missing.

His hands fumble slovenly with your loincloth, he pulls away for a second to focus on untying the tight knots there, his braids swinging in your face.

“Neteyam—“ You whisper, eyes fluttering, hands moving to help his.

“Hm?” He hums, finally pulling your cloths off.

Your body tenses, you squeeze his arms tightly when the cool air hits the bare, sensitive skin between your legs.

He sits back to take in the sight before him, eyes wide and pupils blown dark.

Then, with a reverent kind of slowness, he lets his fingertips skim your thighs, the heat of his hands trailing higher, urging you open.

He lowers his mouth, breath ghosting over your skin, his voice rough as he murmurs your name just before his tongue finally touches you.

Heat blooms beneath his mouth, an embarrassing cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“Neteyam-“ he flicks his tongue again, steady, eager, the sensation sending shocks of pleasure prickling up your spine.

He buries his face between your legs, sucking and licking greedily until your thighs tremble around his head, each gasp drawing him deeper into the task, determined to wring every sound from you.

Instinctively, your hips cant upward, seeking more pressure from his mouth. Neteyam grunts in approval at your desperation, hands tightening to hold your hips still.

Still, he refuses to rush, slowing the movements of his tongue deliberately as your frustration grows.

“Teyam, please.” He pauses, lips barely brushing you, then finally gives in completely as he drinks in your pleas.

He glances up at you through half lidded eyes , watching your chest rise as you struggle to breathe in the heat of the moment, hunger clear in his intent stare.

He pushes two fingers inside, scissoring them to stretch you just right. He pumps them in and out, slow at first—curling them each time. You mewl softly below him, nails digging into his forearms.

He smiles softly against your clit, the curve of his mouth sending another jolt through your body as he presses a lingering kiss, savoring every trembling reaction.

Your orgasm comes with a sudden, unstoppable force, making your legs clamp around his head as everything else disappears.

“Oh, Neteyam..” You fall back into the moss, body still trembling as the aftershocks ripple through you, heart thundering in your chest while his hands never leave your skin.

He finally lifts his head, chin dripping with your juices, cheeks flushed with heat as he watches you reclaim your breath. Still catching your breath, you reach for his hand, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch.

He lays back beside you, pulling you up to straddle him. Heart pounding, you settle onto his lap as his hands roam over your hips, grounding you in the present.

His hands struggle to find their place anywhere below the hips, unsure if he can handle all of it, his pulse thrumming with nervous excitement as you lean into his touch.

You untie his loincloth slowly, easing the fabric away to reveal him fully as anticipation pools between your thighs, heavy with shared need.

He sucks in a shaky breath, the heat in his eyes intensifying as your fingers brush against his bare skin, desire thrumming loud between you both.

You guide him into you in a single, deliberate motion, savoring every second of the joining as the new sensation overtakes your senses.

A broken whimper escapes his throat, hands kneading your ass, finally. You roll your hips smoothly as he digs his fingers in deeper, helpless against the pull of your body eliciting shudders with every steady thrust.

His hips buck involuntarily, trying so hard to take over. You grab his wrists, forcing his hands flat against the earth as you set the pace.

He smirks slightly. “Let me touch you at least.”

Your eyes narrow, letting go of his wrists slowly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, immediately cupping your breasts. He kneads them gently, thumb brushing over the sensitive peaks.

Your walls flutter around him, movements slowing down, that’s when he decides to take over for you, pushing you down against the ground softly, hands clasping your thick thighs, folding you just enough to hit the sweet spot inside you continuously.

He leans over you, chest brushing yours, forearms on either side of your head as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I see you.”

You freeze for one second, eyes closed, your lips curve with a gentle smile, hands brushing his shoulders. “I see you.”

His fingers brush your jaw, his hips thrust just twice more and you come down first, legs trembling, hands shaking against his shoulders.

Then he does, thrusts slowing, hands squeezing the moss beside your head, low, guttural groans escaping his throat as he continues to push in.

Neteyam crumbles, sensitivity at it’s peak, sending small shivers through his body. “I love this—i love you.” He murmurs, brushing your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You lay together for a second before he pulls away, shoving his loincloth back on and laying beside you.

You sleep tangled together, his hand resting possessively at your lower back, your leg hooked around his.

A sharp inhale wakes you, you open your eyes slowly, morning light filters through the leaves above, pale and gentle.

Neteyam still sleeps beside you, arm still braced over your waist—your queues remain loosely entwined. Your body hums with the quiet warmth of the bond, bliss.

You shift slowly, feeling the weight of the morning and lingering closeness, then— “mm…” A soft, tired murmur escapes him. His lips part slightly in sleep. You freeze, watching him breathe.

Movement sounds at the leafy entrance. Aysea's closest friend stands there, frozen. Her gaze sweeps over you, then drops. Your bare shoulders, Neteyam’s arms around your waist, your loosely entwined kurus, her face fractures and she screams.

Neteyam stirs immediately, mumbling again. “Mm…Y/n” He jolts awake when he feels your body tense.

Hunters crash through the opening, you instinctively curl in on yourself, arms across your chest—but not in fear, just instinct.

Neteyam rises in an instant, still in his loincloth, positioning himself between you and the entrance. “Look away!” He snaps.

The hunters hesitate. “Turn around. Now.” He commands again, voice sharp, almost trembling with the need to protect.

Your ears flatten, mirroring his. “Do not look at her.” His authority makes them obey. Only then does he glance down at your scattered clothing, the top and loincloth from the night before. He picks them up quickly, holding them out to you without meeting your eyes.

“You can dress,” he murmurs softly, still low, still protective.

You take the clothes, cheeks warm. Fingers fumble as you pull the top over your shoulders, then the loincloth, shy, still humble, not timid, a fighter. Blush rises, but your posture stays firm.

Neteyam waits patiently, never turning from the hunters until you are fully dressed.

The forest trail feels heavier underweight. Some hunters still lag behind, muttering lowly about alliance, duty, and foolishness. “You went against the alliance,” one murmurs.

“The Olo’eyktan-to-be, defending her over duty… what kind of leadership is that?” another adds.

Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately. His hand brushes near yours—not touching, just close enough to ground you.

“Shut your mouths,” he says finally, low and unwavering. “All of you. Now.”

The murmurs die.

You glance at him, shoulder brushing his, feeling his calm authority anchor you, but you keep your head high. Not shame, not humiliation. Just quiet humility.

Ahead, the village clearing opens, fire burning low. Familiar faces are already gathered. Jake, Neytiri, Lo’ak, Kiri—all calm, observing, understanding.

Neteyam steps fully into the clearing beside you, shoulder brushing yours, shielding, steady. Aysea steps forward first, voice sharp and trembling with anger.

“You mated with her?” Her lips curl in disgust.

The clearing falls silent. Neteyam blinks, gathers himself, and looks at you. “Yes,” he says firmly.

A sharp gasp escapes Aysea. Her hands clench. “You lied to me!”

“I never promised you mating,” he replies quietly.

“You allowed it to be believed!” Her gaze swings toward you, fiery. You meet it calmly, humbly, but with strength.

Her hand swings suddenly. You shift, catching her wrist with ease, eyes wide, not to strike, but to block. The movement is calm, precise, controlled.

“Enough,” Neteyam says, stepping between you and her. Voice low, certain. Gasps ripple through the clan.

Aysea jerks free, eyes blazing. “You think Eywa chose you?” Before she can strike again, Mo’at raises her hand. Silence falls instantly.

“You think I did not see this growing?” she says to the clan. Her gaze settles on Neteyam. “You are Olo’eyktan-to-be. If your spirit is divided, the clan suffers.”

Her eyes move to you. “You steady him.”

Aysea stares at her in disbelief. “You allowed this?”

“I allowed truth,” Mo’at replies.

“And me?” Aysea asks bitterly.

Mo’at’s voice softens. “You were worthy. But you were not chosen.”

Her eyes move over the gathering, settling finally on you. “This one,” she announces, voice clear and measured, “stands where spirit and balance meet. She steadies the olo’eyktan-to-be, not with pride, but with humility. She is our Tsakarem. Y/n has always been.”

Her words ripple across the clearing. Every head inclines in acknowledgment, Jake’s expression softens, subtle yet certain. Neytiri smiles, her gaze steady, filled with quiet understanding. Lo’ak leans back, relaxed, a small smile of approval finally touching his lips. Kiri watches, wide eyed, absorbing the weight of the moment.

Aysea’s gaze lingers, sharp and searching, but the firelight softens her features. Finally, she exhales, lowering her hands. “This… is your path,” she says, voice tight but measured. “I will not stand against it.” Her eyes meet yours for a long moment, and though there is still tension, there is understanding, too.. but beneath it, something entirely different.

Neteyam nods once to her, then he turns to you, hand brushing lightly against yours, smiling softly.

Mo’at steps forward, raising her hand again. “My People,” she calls, her voice ringing clear. “Witness this bond, for it steadies the Olo’eyktan-to-be and strengthens our people. Let all know that these two carry the future, not for power, not for pride, but for balance and truth.”

[woozycatz]

NETEYAM TE SULLI MASTER-LIST ˗ˏˋ:⁀➷

the risk of wanting you - click here

➥ what will you choose, love or duty? in which you, the metkayina tsakarem, and neteyam, are in a secret relationship.

carrying tomorrow - click here

➥ as the last daughter of the snow, you keep you and neteyam’s children’s true heritage a secret out of fear and protection.

before the mantle takes root

• click here for part one • click here for part two

➥ as neteyam’s enemy, you struggle with this unnamed, forbidden desire, pulling you towards making a decision that could change the clan forever.

“what do you see?” -click here

➥ your mate, and the father of your children, Neteyam’s hate for the sky people has expanded over the years because of the war, making you doubt his love for you.

no more daddy’s little girl - click here

➥ your mate, neteyam is burdened by the lack of attention your daughter has been giving to him since she’s grown—he’s unsure how to handle it and just needs someone to talk to.

aesthetic inspired by my lover goat @vaniellea

[ilynaaa]

Need help! Lost a Neteyam fic in this app and I really want to read it again!! The fic goes reader is a really good hunter and stood by Neteyam for long, Mo'at misreads the sign from Eywa and arranges Neteyam with someone else but that 'someone' has a foul mouth and keeps provoking reader with her dead mother, in the end, Neteyam & Mo'at chose reader to be Tsahik. It's like a slowburn story with lots of misunderstanding!! Plsss help me find it!!

[almostholyfest]

The Winner Takes It All

—and the loser has to fall

Context: Arranged to be married since a young age, the reader tries to be perfect in order to fit the status of "The Golden Boy's Wife." She changes her whole personality and does everything for Neteyam, yet she still cannot win his heart. Will their love bloom, or will Neteyam give his heart to another?

Author's Note: Have you ever watched Mamma Mia? There is a moment when— Meryl Streep sings: "The winner takes it all, the loser has to fall." That very verse made me think. About what it means to be groomed for perfection before you even understand what perfection costs. What happens when you pour your entire childhood — every lesson, every sacrifice, every quiet tear under Eywa's canopy — into becoming worthy of someone who never asked you to? Will a love like that ever bloom? Or will it simply... wither in the dark, bioluminescent and unseen?

Warning: emotional pain, heartbreak, rejection, harsh words, arranged marriage, and childhood sacrifices.

Life would always play the silliest, most vicious little tricks on you. Even the ones you never deserved. Even the ones that dressed themselves up in fate and called it Eywa's will. Mine arrived the moment I was born — wrapped in the scent of night-blooming flowers and the glow of a Kelutral branch that had not lit up like that in living memory.

His name was Neteyam. Son of Toruk Makto. Son of the Olo'eyktan. First-born of the clan's most sacred lineage. And, according to two mothers standing beneath the Tree of Voices while the whole of Pandora seemed to hold its breath — my intended.

Our mothers had spoken of it long before either of us could walk. When we were both newborns, it is said that the Hometree's luminescent roots flared gold and teal in a pattern that no elder could explain. Mo'at herself had pressed a wrinkled hand to the bark and whispered something none of them were permitted to repeat. My mother took it as a sign. His mother — the fierce, war-painted Neytiri — had tilted her head, studied my sleeping face in the woven cradle, and said nothing. Which, my mother always insisted, was its own kind of agreement.

Neteyam, when he was old enough to understand, apparently did not share his mother's silence. He listened — because he was disciplined and the clan's golden son obeyed — but he listened the way rain listens to a drought. Politely. Without wanting to.

I did not know any of this the first time I truly met him, face to face, when we were both seven years old and the forest around the Omaticaya village smelled like rain and warm earth. I only knew that he was tall for his age. That his queue was already neatly braided the way older warriors wore theirs. That he frowned — not cruelly, but with the furrowed brow of someone deeply inconvenienced by the universe — and that his eyes, when they finally landed on me, were enormous and amber-gold and entirely unimpressed. My face went the color of a Pandoran sunrise. Warm and uncontrolled.

I know what you are thinking. How could you fall for a boy who did not do a single remarkable thing? Who stood there frowning at the dirt like it had personally offended him? Well. I have always had a soft heart for beautiful, unattainable things, and ofc my heart is extra weak when your that cute. My mother says I inherited it directly from her. She married my father because he looked unbearably handsome standing at the edge of a thanator hunt and did not flinch. It seems, i fell for a boy because he frowned and the world still bent around him like he was the center of gravity. Eywa forgive me. I have my work cut out for me.

Years passed the way years do when you are trying to become something you were not entirely born as. I trained. God, did I train.

While other Na'vi children were still learning to braid their queues and chase each other through the bioluminescent undergrowth at dusk — still falling out of trees and laughing about it, still pressing their small palms to the Tree of Voices just to feel the warmth without needing to understand it — I was already seated, spine straight, in a circle of the clan's eldest women before the morning mist had finished lifting from the forest floor.

I was eight years old the first time I was corrected for sitting incorrectly. Eight. I had crossed my legs in the way that felt natural, that every child sits when they are tired and the ground is soft and there is no particular reason to perform. Elder Ralu had looked at me without breaking her own posture and said, quietly and without cruelty, that the intended of the first son does not sit like she is waiting for nothing. She does not slouch. She does not fidget. She does not exist casually. I spent the next three hours learning how to fold my legs in a way that communicated presence, not comfort. By the time I was allowed to stand, both of my feet had gone numb and I had not yet said a single word.

That was the first lesson. There were hundreds more. I learned to weave ceremonial garlands — not quickly, but correctly, which meant a single crooked petal could undo a morning's work and earn nothing more than a calm instruction to begin again. I learned to walk with a clay vessel of water balanced on my head, first on flat ground, then on the uneven roots that snaked across the village paths, then on the narrow walkways that connected the Hometree's higher platforms, where the drop below was not something you wanted to think about. I spilled. I spilled many times. I was told to fill the vessel again and try once more, and I did, because I had no other choice available to me.

I learned the herbs. Which roots reduced fever. Which leaves, when pressed into a paste, drew infection from a wound. Which seeds should never be combined. Which bark the Tsahik preferred for the morning rituals and which was reserved for ceremony only, and the difference between those two things was not written anywhere — it was simply known, and therefore I had to know it too. I memorized it all. I recited it in my sleep. There were nights my mother would find me murmuring plant names into my pillow and she would smooth my hair back and say nothing, which was the kindest and saddest thing she ever did for me.

I learned how to speak in the presence of elders — not too softly, which reads as hiding, and not too clearly, which reads as performing. The correct pitch was somewhere between the two, as though you had an opinion you were confident in but were gracious enough not to impose. It took months before I found that register naturally. Before that, I practiced in front of still water, watching my own reflection make adjustments that I could not feel from the inside.

I learned the songs. All of them. The harvest songs that require four-part harmony and a specific tonal drop on the third verse that has no written notation — it must be felt. The mourning songs that the women carry when a warrior does not return from the hunt, low and circular, designed to pull grief out of the chest before it calcifies. The songs for iknimaya, for first bonds, for the naming of newborns, for the planting of the season's first seeds. I learned every one. My voice was not exceptional — it was adequate — and adequate, I was told, is its own kind of acceptable as long as everything else compensates.

I learned to embroider. The patterns that encode a Na'vi woman's lineage in thread — her grandmother's clan, her mother's role, the sacred name given to her at birth and the one she will carry after her bonding. I learned to do it without pricking my fingers, which is far harder than it sounds, and then I learned to do it in low light, and then I learned to do it while holding a conversation, which is the real skill, the one that no one names out loud but everyone expects.

I gave up the Tree of Voices. Not all at once — that would have been a grief I could have named and mourned properly. It happened gradually, in the way that important things are often lost: an afternoon replaced by a fitting, a morning stolen by a ceremony rehearsal, a whole season gone before I noticed that I could no longer remember the last time I had pressed my queue to the roots and simply listened. The other children went. I heard them talking about what they heard there — ancestor voices, old songs, something that felt like being held by the whole history of the clan. I smiled when they described it. I did not tell them that I had stopped going. It seemed like something worth being ashamed of, though I was not entirely sure why.

I gave up the floating rocks. The reckless, breathless joy of climbing them on a dare, of hanging off a ledge while the valley spooled green and impossible below you, of screaming just because the sky was that enormous and you were alive inside it. I was told once, gently but clearly, that the intended of the first son does not take unnecessary risks with her body. Her body belongs, in a sense, to the lineage she will carry. I understood this. I did not argue. I watched the other children from the platform's edge instead and practiced keeping my expression pleasant and still.

I gave up being seven in the way that seven is supposed to feel. I gave up ten, and twelve, and fourteen. Each age arrived and passed over me like a season that I had not quite been present for — I was always one step inside the next lesson, one correction behind the current expectation, one performance away from being ready.

There was one afternoon — I was twelve, I think, perhaps thirteen — that I keep returning to when I am trying to remember the exact moment I understood what this life was costing me.

I had been asked to serve at a small gathering in the Sully family's living space within the Hometree. Nothing ceremonial — simply a meal, a meeting of the clan mothers, the kind of quiet domestic occasion where an intended learns to move invisibly and usefully through a room. I had prepared for it. I had worn the right beadwork. I had practiced the correct way to present a vessel of food — two hands, a small inclination of the head, eye contact held for exactly the right duration before a modest glance downward.

And then I dropped it. Not dramatically. Not with a crash that shattered the gathering and drew every eye at once. It simply — slipped. The clay bowl turned in my fingers and hit the woven mat with a dull, definitive sound, and the contents scattered, and the smell of the food was suddenly too present in the quiet of the room, and every woman looked up.

I froze. I recovered quickly — bent, gathered, apologized in the right register, kept my voice level. But the heat in my face was uncontrollable, and the silence in the room had a particular texture, the kind that has an opinion in it.

It was Neytiri who spoke first.

Leave it. Stand up.

I stood. The bowl was still on the mat. My hands felt enormous.

You have been training for how long now? Four years?

Six, Ma Neytiri.

Six years. And you cannot carry a bowl across a room without losing it.

I — yes. I apologize. It will not—

Do not apologize to me. An apology is not a correction. Look at me.

I looked at her. Neytiri, who had ridden a Toruk. Who had fought the sky people in the dark of a burning Hometree. Who looked at me now with the flat, measuring gaze of someone who had very little patience for the performance of effort when effort itself was missing.

You are pretty. Everyone says so. The elders talk about your face, your posture, the way you hold yourself in ceremony. Very lovely. Very composed.

She paused. The other mothers had gone very still around us.

What is the point of being pretty when you fail your role?

The room did not react. The clan mothers looked at their hands, at the walls, at the space above my left shoulder. Nobody disagreed with her. Nobody said anything at all. I do not remember what I said in response. I think I said something measured and appropriate, because I had been trained to say measured and appropriate things, and by that point the training had gone deep enough that it activated even when the rest of me had gone completely blank. I cleaned the mat. I refilled the bowl from the cooking pot. I finished serving the meal without another mistake.

I did not cry until I was outside, around the curve of the Hometree's roots where the dark was thick enough to be private, and I pressed my back to the bark and breathed through it the way you breathe through something you cannot fix, long and deliberate, until it was small enough to carry again. I was twelve years old. And I understood, for the first time with my whole body rather than just my mind, that beauty was not the goal. Beauty was only the entrance fee. The goal was perfection, and perfection had no ceiling, and every time you believed you had reached it, the floor simply rose to meet you and the distance above remained exactly the same.

"What is the point of being pretty when you fail your role?"

I trained harder after that. I trained the way you train when fear has replaced ambition — not because you want to reach something, but because you cannot afford to fall short again. I trained until the bowl never slipped. Until my hands knew the weight of every vessel in the Sully household by memory. Until I could cross a room in any light, on any surface, carrying anything, and arrive at the other side looking as though nothing about it had cost me effort.

Eventually, I became precise. I became poised. I became — and the clan said this openly, as though it were a gift rather than a verdict — "The flower that attracts all." Every elder approved of me. Every ceremony I attended, eyes would follow. The mothers of unmated warriors would watch me pass and lean together to murmur. I had become, by every measurable standard of Omaticayan womanhood, the ideal.

What they did not say — what none of them ever said — was what it had taken. The twelve-year-old girl with her back against the bark. The years of sitting in classrooms of patience and refinement while her feet went numb. The mornings she had woken up already exhausted from the weight of the person she was required to be before she had fully finished becoming a person at all. They saw the flower. They did not ask about the roots.

Then the rumors started. They moved through the village the way whispers always do in a close clan — in glances, in pauses, in the sudden hush that falls when you walk into a gathering that was loud the moment before. I caught fragments. A name I did not recognize. A girl. A girl that Neteyam had been seen with at the edge of the forest canopy, away from the village paths, away from where the elders walked. Her name was Mhari.

The worst part was not the hearing of it. The worst part was the two seconds before I understood what I was hearing — when it was still just sounds, still just a name, still just a sentence without a shape — and how quickly that blankness curdpled into something I did not have a graceful word for. Not quite pain. Not quite rage. Something older and quieter than both. The feeling of having spent years building a house in someone else's name and arriving one morning to find the door already locked from the inside.

I had given up afternoons. I had given up the Tree of Voices. I had stood in a clan mother's gathering at twelve years old and swallowed Neytiri's words whole and trained harder because of them, because I believed that the harder I trained the more real this would become, the more he would see it — see me — and understand that I had chosen him, not just obeyed the arrangement, chosen him, over and over, every single day in every small sacrifice he never witnessed.

And he had been in the forest. With her. Laughing, presumably, the way people laugh when nothing is at stake. I had been so careful. I had been so unbearably careful. And it had not mattered at all.

I did not want to believe it. I am not, I told myself, a jealous creature. I had been raised to be gracious, to be composed. The perfect intended of the clan's first son does not run after rumors like a child chasing an ikran shadow.

But I was also, underneath every careful layer of training, still the seven-year-old girl who had gone red in the face over a frowning boy. And that girl — the one who had never been permitted to be unfinished, or useless, or simply young — she could not sit quietly and breathe. She was already on her feet. So I went to find him.

I found them at the edge of a mossy overlook not far from the village — a place where the bioluminescent fungi lit the ground in soft turquoise rings, the kind of spot that lovers chose precisely because it was beautiful and secluded and nobody who mattered would think to look there. Neteyam was there, leaning against a root as though the world owed him its ease. And beside him, laughing softly at something he had said — something small and private, the kind of thing you only say when you are completely comfortable — was a girl I did not know. Mhari.

She was lovely in the uncalculated way that things which have never been trained are lovely. Easy. Natural. Unaware of being watched in the way that I had not been unaware of anything since I was eight years old.

The sight hit me somewhere behind my sternum, in a place I had not known could hurt that particular way. Not a sharp pain. Something worse — a slow, spreading recognition, the way cold water rises. I had spent six years learning to be perfect for him, and he was here in the dark with a girl who had not tried at all.

I stepped forward. My voice came out far steadier than I deserved.

Neteyam. What is this?

He turned slowly. No startled guilt. No shame. Only that familiar, exhausted look — a boy braced for exactly this moment and deeply resentful of its arrival.

We are engaged. You understand that, yes? The whole village understands that. The elders understand that. What in Eywa's name are you doing out here with her — alone — where anyone could see you? Do you know the whispers already running through the clan? Do you have any idea what this looks like to the Tsahik, to your father—

Neteyam: Let go of my arm.

I'm not — I don't even have your arm, I'm just — Neteyam, talk to me. Please. Tell me this is nothing. Tell me I misunderstood. I will believe you. I want to believe you. Just say something that makes this make sense—

Neteyam: I am so tired.

...What?

Neteyam: I said I am tired. Of this. Of the engagement. Of watching you walk into every room like it's an audition. Of the way you speak to my mother's circle with that perfect, measured voice. Of the way you exist around me like you are always one step away from being graded. It is exhausting to be near you.

That one landed differently. Not like a blade — like something dropped from a great height, flattening everything underneath it on impact.

I am — I do that because — Neteyam, I was taught to—

Neteyam: I know you were taught to. That is the problem. Everything about you is taught. Every smile, every gesture, every word you choose. I look at you and I cannot find a single thing that is actually you. Do you even know who you are underneath all of it? Or did they train that out of you too?

That is not fair—

Neteyam: It is not about fair. It is about what is real. You are not real to me. You are a role. A very well-executed role. But I cannot — I will not spend my life standing next to a performance.

You think I don't feel things? You think I have stood beside you at every ceremony, learned everything I was asked to learn, become everything I was told to become — and felt nothing? I have felt everything. I have felt it for years and I had nowhere to put it because you never once—

Neteyam: Stop. I did not ask you to do any of that.

I did it for you—

Neteyam: You did it for an idea of me. There is a difference. You decided what I needed from a wife before you ever asked me a single question about what I actually wanted. You built your whole life around a version of me that I never agreed to be.

He said it so simply. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious. Like I was the last one in the clan to understand something everyone else had long since stopped discussing.

Then tell me what you want. Tell me who Neteyam is and I will — I will learn that too, I will—

Neteyam: That is exactly what I mean. You will learn it. Like another lesson. Another thing to practice in front of still water until it looks convincing enough. Do you hear yourself?

What else am I supposed to say?! I don't know any other way — they didn't teach me any other way—

Neteyam: I know. And I am sorry for that. I genuinely am. But that is not a reason for me to pretend that what is between us is something it has never been.

There could be something. If you gave it time — if you just — Neteyam, we have barely spoken, how can you know that there is nothing when we have never—

Neteyam: Because every time I have looked at you, I have felt nothing. I have tried. I want you to know that — I have tried to feel what I was supposed to feel. I waited for it. And there was nothing. There was just a girl performing being my future and a weight in my chest that got heavier every season.

The bioluminescent fungi pulsed around us in their soft, indifferent turquoise. Mhari had not moved. She stood against the mossy rock with her eyes down, as though she understood that this moment was not hers and was trying very hard to take up less space in it.

And her? You feel something for her?

A pause. The kind that answers before the words do.

Neteyam: That is not what this conversation is about.

It is exactly what this conversation is about. Answer me. Look me in the face and answer me.

Neteyam: ...Yes.

One word. One syllable. And somehow it undid more than everything else combined — because everything else had been about the engagement, about the performance, about what I was or was not. But that yes was about something I could never have trained my way into. Something that simply existed between two people who had not been assigned to each other by a glowing tree and two mothers with opinions.

I gave up my childhood. Do you know that? I gave up climbing the floating rocks. I gave up the Tree of Voices. I gave up afternoons and laughter and being useless and young because someone told me that was how I would be worthy of you. I have bruises on my knees from kneeling on training mats for hours. I have memorized every herb in your mother's household. I have perfected a smile that doesn't reach my eyes because the reaching kind was called too eager. I did all of that. For you. And you stood in this forest and felt nothing.

Neteyam: I know. And I am—

Do not say you are sorry again. Do not say it.

He closed his mouth. The forest breathed around us — warm and bioluminescent and completely unconcerned. Somewhere above the canopy the floating mountains drifted, green and impossible and indifferent to every small human grief happening beneath them.

Neteyam: Do you even love me?

I—

Neteyam: Do not. Do not say it. That word, coming from you — it doesn't sound like love. It sounds like something you decided before you were old enough to decide anything. You do not love me. You love the version of me that would complete the story you were handed as a child. The golden boy. The first son. The ending your mothers planned. That is what you love. Not Neteyam. You have never even met Neteyam.

Then let me meet him. Let me — please, just—

Neteyam: It is too late for that.

How can it be too late? We haven't even—

Neteyam: Kehe. I am done. I am ending this engagement. I am sorry — truly, I am — but I will not say it again, since you have asked me not to. Do not follow me.

He walked away. Past the turquoise rings of glowing fungi. Past the moss, past the overlook, past the place where the floating mountains were just barely visible through the canopy — green and vast and silent. Mhari lifted her eyes to mine for exactly one second. Not unkind. Just honest. Then she followed him. And I stood there.

Alone under Pandora's sky. The bioluminescence pulsed around me, gentle and entirely uncaring, the way it always did. The way it would tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that — because the forest does not register the specific weight of a girl standing in the dark realizing that the life she built has just been handed back to her, quietly and without ceremony, like something nobody wanted to keep.

I did not move for a long time. Not because I was dignified. Not because I was composed. But because every graceful thing I had ever learned — every step, every word, every carefully managed expression — had been arranged around the axis of him, and without that axis, I genuinely did not know which direction to face. The fungi pulsed. Pandora breathed. And somewhere in the warm dark of the forest, Eywa's network carried the weight of my grief into the roots, the way it had carried every grief before mine, without judgment and without answer.

My childhood was gone. I had handed it over willingly, in small pieces, every single day, like offerings pressed into soil — and the soil had taken everything and grown nothing in return.

I had not learned to play with the other young Na'vi the way they played — reckless and loud and beautifully present — because I had been too busy being prepared. I had not climbed the floating rocks for joy because I was told it was unbecoming of the first son's intended. I had not sat with my queue unbraided and my feet in the river, listening to nothing in particular, simply existing in the uncomplicated way that children are supposed to exist before someone assigns them a purpose. There was always another lesson. Another refinement. Another layer of polish to apply to a surface that nobody was ever going to look at the way I needed them to.

I had sat at the roots of the Tree of Voices not to listen to my ancestors — not to feel that warm, enormous hum of belonging that the other children described — but to rehearse. To practice what a perfect daughter-in-law would say in every imaginable social situation. I had approached Eywa not as a child running home, but as a student in a lesson she could never afford to fail. I had turned even the sacred into curriculum.

And now he stood in a bioluminescent clearing with a girl who laughed without measuring the sound, and he looked at her with something open and unguarded in his face — something I had spent years trying to earn and had never once been given — and I understood with the kind of clarity that only arrives when it is already too late that no amount of training, no degree of perfection, no sacrifice made quietly in the dark had ever been going to change what he did not feel.

You cannot train someone into loving you. I wish someone had told me that when I was eight years old, sitting with numb feet, learning how to fold my legs correctly. I wish someone had told me that at all.

The crying, when it came, was not elegant. There was nothing practiced about it, nothing composed, nothing that resembled the measured, appropriate display of emotion I had been taught to produce when grief was socially expected. It was the other kind. The kind that bends you. That starts somewhere deep in the chest and moves upward without asking permission, that takes your breath and your posture and every careful thing you have constructed and dismantles them simultaneously. I knelt on the moss and I pressed both palms flat against the forest floor — against the soft glow of Pandora pulsing beneath my skin — and I cried so hard my shoulders shook.

I cried for the afternoons. For the floating rocks. For the Tree of Voices and every ancestor I had never properly listened to because I was too busy rehearsing how to speak to the living. I cried for the twelve-year-old girl who had stood in a clan mother's gathering with a dropped bowl and absorbed Neytiri's words and turned them into fuel, who had believed — genuinely, completely, with her whole small heart believed — that if she tried hard enough, the trying itself would become a language he could hear.

I cried for the seven-year-old who had gone red in the face over a frowning boy and decided, in that ridiculous, tender, irreversible moment, that he was worth becoming someone new for.

He was not worth it. Or — no. That is not right either, and I have never been able to lie convincingly, not even to myself. He was worth it. He was. That was the cruelest part. He was worth every bit of it. He simply did not want it.

Was all of it not proof? Were years of silent devotion not love made visible? Or was I simply a shadow — not even a shadow of him,

but a shadow of someone who had never existed at all?

Somewhere far above me, through the canopy, the stars of a sky that was not Earth's burned in colors that had no names in any human language. I thought about what Mo'at had always said — that Eywa does not give signs without reason. That the bond of tsaheylu cannot be faked. That what is real will endure.

I had built something real. I had built it for years, brick by brick, lesson by lesson, sacrifice by sacrifice. I had believed in it with the whole weight of my childhood, with the entirety of everything I had been willing to give, and I had given so much. I had given until there was very little of me left that had not been shaped by the giving.

And it had endured for no one. It had stood perfect and untouched and entirely unwanted, like an altar built in a temple that nobody visited. The Eywa network hummed through the roots under my palms — ancient and enormous and full of every grief any Na'vi heart had ever pressed into the soil. I wondered if it felt mine. I wondered if it carried the weight of it the way it was supposed to. I wondered if, somewhere in the vast living archive of the forest, there was a record of a girl who tried too hard for too long and was not thanked for it.

And then something shifted, quietly, in the deepest part of my chest. Not healing — nothing so clean as that. Something more like a door closing. A decision made in the marrow before the mind has finished catching up.

What is the point of loving someone who does not even see your worth?

The trees bioluminesced above me. The fungi pulsed below. And for the first time in my life — the very first time, without an audience, without a lesson, without a purpose — I stopped performing. I simply cried, screamed wondering why such love even exist? why i can't have that one thing that i wanted, why loving someone must hurt so much. Until there was nothing left to cry with. Until I was emptied out completely, light and hollow and strangely, terribly clear. And then, when the crying was done, I made the only decision that had ever been entirely my own.

I went back to the village. I walked the path I had walked a thousand times, the one I knew so well I could have navigated it in darkness — and I did, because by then the forest's glow was the only light there was. I walked it perfectly, out of habit, because even now my body defaulted to what it had been taught.

I went to my sleeping space. I did not take much. The beadwork my mother had made for me when I was small — not the ceremonial pieces, not the ones they had given me for the engagement, just the childhood ones, the ones threaded before anyone had decided what I was going to be. A small carving. A length of woven cloth. Things that belonged to me, not to the role. I did not leave a note. There was nothing I knew how to say that was not going to sound like an accusation or an apology, and I was done performing both.

I walked out of the village before the first light touched the canopy. I did not look back. I had been told, once, that looking back is the body's way of asking permission to return, and I could not afford to ask that. Not now. Not when the asking would undo everything.

Pandora received me the way it always had — without opinion, without ceremony, bioluminescent and enormous and entirely indifferent to the smallness of one girl walking away from the life she had been assigned. The roots glowed beneath my feet. The canopy whispered above. Somewhere behind me, the Hometree stood as it always had, vast and ancient and unchanged. I did not say goodbye to it. I had given it enough.

He found out the way bad news always arrives — sideways, from someone who assumed he already knew. One of the younger clan women mentioned it in passing, the way you mention weather, the way you mention something unremarkable — a pity about the girl, leaving so suddenly, do you know where she has gone? — and Neteyam had stopped walking in the middle of the village path and said, very carefully, what.

She was gone. Her sleeping space was cleared. Her ceremonial beadwork was still there — all of the engagement pieces, every careful, beautiful thing she had been given to mark her as his — but the small childhood ones were missing. Whoever she had been before the training had taken what it could carry and walked out before dawn.

He stood in the empty space for longer than he intended to. It smelled faintly of the herbs she had always kept nearby — the ones from his mother's household that she had memorized so completely she had begun keeping her own supply. He had not known that. He had not known a great many things, he was beginning to understand, because he had not looked.

He found his mother in the place she went when she was thinking — high in the Hometree, on the platform where you could see the floating mountains through a gap in the canopy. Neytiri was sitting with her back to him when he arrived, and she did not turn around.

Neteyam; She is gone.

A long silence. The floating mountains drifted in the middle distance, unhurried.

Yes.

Neteyam: Did you know she was going to—

No. But I am not surprised.

Neteyam: — I told her the truth. I told her what was real. I cannot be blamed for—

Turn around and go back to your sleeping space, Neteyam. I do not want to say something I will regret.

Neteyam: Then don't. Just — talk to me. Tell me where she might have gone. I only want to make sure she is—

Safe?

She turned around then. And Neteyam, who had faced his father's disappointment and his teachers' corrections and the judgment of a hundred elders without flinching — Neteyam took a half step back from the look on his mother's face.

You are concerned about her safety now. Now that she is gone. Now that she made a decision you did not anticipate and it has unsettled you. Now you are thinking about her.

Neteyam: That is not fair—

Do not talk to me about fair. Do you know what that girl did? Do you have any idea?

Neteyam: She trained. I know. She trained and she prepared and she—

She was eight years old when she sat before the elder women for the first time. Eight. I was there. I watched her sit with her legs folded wrong and get corrected and fold them again without complaint. I watched her carry water vessels on those floating platforms for three seasons before she stopped spilling. I watched her come to my household and learn every herb, every root, every preparation — not because she was required to, not because anyone was standing over her with a consequence, but because she wanted to know the things that mattered to the people around you.

Neteyam said nothing. His mother's voice had dropped — not softer, but lower. The kind of low that means a fire burning at its base rather than its tips.

She asked me once — she was perhaps ten, eleven — she asked me what your favorite meal was. Not what was appropriate to serve at a ceremony. Not what the household required. What you liked. What made you happy when you ate it. I told her. She learned to prepare it. She never once served it to you because she was afraid it would seem like she was trying too hard. So she just — knew how. In case you ever needed it. In case it ever mattered.

The words settled over him like weight. Quiet, and accumulating.

Every single thing she did — every lesson, every sacrifice, every morning she woke up and chose to keep becoming something difficult — she did it with you in her mind. Not your title. Not your lineage. You. She used to watch you train from the upper platform when she thought no one was looking. She was not watching the golden boy. She was watching my son. She learned the difference between those two things long before you did.

Neteyam: sa'nok, I didn't — I didn't know—

No. You did not know because you did not look. Because it was easier to see the performance than to ask what was underneath it. You told her she was fake. You told her she was a role. You told her you felt nothing when you looked at her — and she stood there and listened and then she went home and she left. Because what else was she supposed to do? You took everything she had built and told her it was worthless, and then you walked away. You fool.

Neteyam: I—

Don't you know? Don't you understand what that kind of love costs? I do. I know exactly what it costs. Your father and I did not have an easy beginning either — but I saw him. I looked. I asked. You never once asked her a single question, Neteyam. Not one. In years. You decided what she was and you stopped looking. And she kept trying anyway. That is not performance. That is devotion. And you called it fake to her face.

He sat down. Slowly, without intention, the way a person sits when their legs have simply made the decision for them. The platform's edge, the gap in the canopy, the floating mountains hanging green and impossible in the air beyond. Something was moving in his chest that he did not have a clean name for. A recognition arriving in the wrong order — the understanding coming long after the moment it would have been useful.

Neteyam: She watched me train.

Every morning she could manage it.

Neteyam: She learned what I liked to eat?

Years ago. And never used it because she didn't want to seem like she was trying too hard. Does that sound like someone who loved a title?

He pressed his hands flat against the platform and stared at them. The bioluminescence of the Hometree moved faintly beneath the bark. Slow and steady, the way a heartbeat is steady. The way hers must have been, he thought, when she stood in that clearing and tried to say something and he had told her not to finish the sentence.

Neteyam: ...I told her the word made me feel ill.

A silence. His mother did not fill it.

Neteyam: When she tried to say she loved me. I told her it made me feel sick.

Yes. You did.

Neteyam: — where is she? Which direction did she go, someone must have seen—

No one knows. She left before the light. She did not tell anyone because there was no one to tell — she had given every hour of her friendship and companionship to becoming your wife and had very little of either left for herself. She walked into Pandora alone. That is what you gave her.

Neteyam: Then I will find her. I will go now, I will follow the path toward the eastern forest and—

Neteyam.

Just his name. The way she said it when he was a child and had made a mistake that could not simply be corrected. He stopped.

Pandora is vast. She has a full night's head start and she knows how to move quietly — you made sure she never had reason to learn otherwise. You do not know which direction she went. You do not know which clan she might seek shelter with, or whether she intends to seek any shelter at all. You do not know, because she made herself invisible to you so carefully and for so long that you have no map of her. You never built one.

Neteyam: Then tell me where to start. Please. mother, please—

I cannot tell you what I don't know. And even if I knew — I am not certain I would tell you tonight, while you are still thinking about what you feel rather than what she needs. Go and think. Go and sit with what you have done. And tomorrow, if you still want to find her, you will have to earn that. The way she earned everything. Slowly. With nothing guaranteed at the end.

She turned back to the mountains. The conversation was over. He remained on the platform for a long time after that, not moving, with the Hometree's pulse beneath him and the wide dark of Pandora spread out in every direction below — vast and bioluminescent and full of a girl he had never properly looked at.

He thought about what she had said in the clearing. I gave up my childhood. Said it not as a weapon — said it as a fact, the way you name something that has already happened. No plea in it. No bid for sympathy. Just the accounting of a person who had kept meticulous records of every cost and was finally, briefly, permitted to read them aloud before the file closed.

He thought about the dropped bowl. He had heard about it, years ago, from one of the younger warriors who had a sister in the clan mothers' circle. He had filed it away as a story about her training and not thought about it again. He had not thought about what it cost a twelve-year-old girl to stand in front of his mother and receive those words and then go back and try harder. He had not thought about her at all, not really, not as a person with an interior life that continued when he was not present to observe it. He thought about her watching him train from the upper platform.

He had never noticed. He had never looked up. And somewhere in the vast living dark of Pandora, under a sky full of stars with no names,

she was walking away from everything she had ever built

toward something she had not yet decided to be

and he did not know which direction she had gone.

He had spent years certain he felt nothing. Standing at arm's length from her certainty, her devotion, her relentless, quiet, costly love — and feeling nothing, he had told himself, nothing, it is simply nothing.

But sitting on this platform with her gone and the empty space of her absence already reshaping the air around the village like a removed stone reshapes the current of a river — sitting here now, he was no longer certain that what he had felt was nothing. He thought it might have been something he did not recognize because no one had taught him what it looked like from the inside. He thought it might have been the beginning of something he had ended before it could finish becoming. He thought: I did not know. I genuinely did not know.

And then, with the particular cruelty of realizations that arrive precisely one moment too late: that does not change anything. She is still gone. And I do not know where she is.

"The winner takes it all. The loser has to fall. It's simple, and it's plain. Why should I complain?" — ABBA, Mamma Mia

[almostholyfest]

Maybe we get married one day, but who knows?

Warning - Mature, Tragic love arc — emotional damage ahead, Amnesia trope — memory loss of romantic feelings, Unrequited love (one-sided, then mutual, then lost), Themes of sacrifice and right person, wrong time ,Brief depictions of conflict/injury (non-graphic), Canon-adjacent Na'vi culture, language, and spirituality.

Two Days After

The Omatikaya had a word — txantslusam — that meant, roughly, wisdom that comes too late. The kind of understanding that arrives after the moment it could have changed anything. The elders repeated it with sorrow rather than judgment, because they were old enough to know the truth of it. The universe does not brief you before the lesson. The universe does not ask if you are ready. It simply arrives, and you are simply in it, and you learn what you learn in the wreckage rather than the warning.

You had learned the word young. You had not expected, at twenty-one cycles, to need it this badly. You had not expected to be this — sitting in the pre-dawn dark with your hands flat on your own stomach and the whole world rearranged around you while you were not looking.

Two days. It had only been two days.

Two days since they had carried Neteyam out of the smoke and the chaos, his body limp and enormous and wrong in the arms of the warriors who bore him — two days since his head had struck the ground with a sound that had no name in any language, a sound your body had understood before your mind did, a sound that had traveled up through the earth through the soles of your feet and lodged in your sternum where it was still living, still reverberating, a stone that would not stop moving.

Two days since Mo'at had knelt over him in the healing tent with her hands pressed to his temples and her eyes closed and her face the specific closed expression of a healer who is listening to something no one else can hear, and said nothing for so long that you had counted your own heartbeats to have something to count.

Two days since he had opened his eyes.

Two days since he had looked at you — at you, through you, past you and through you and to somewhere you were not — and said, in a voice that had been scraped clean of fourteen years of everything:

"Who are you?"

Three words. Three words and the whole architecture of your life had come down so quietly it was almost dignified. Not a collapse. A dissolving. The way salt dissolves in water — you could not find the exact moment it stopped being itself.

You had kept yourself together in the tent. You had kept your face still and your breathing even and your hands at your sides while Mo'at said give it time, the mind heals in its own order, do not lose hope — and you had nodded and you had been a person of the People, which meant you had not crumpled, which meant you had performed steadiness as the last remaining act of love you could offer someone who no longer knew your name.

You had kept yourself together walking out of the tent. You had kept yourself together through Lo'ak's face — Lo'ak, who was not built for concealment the way you were, Lo'ak whose every feeling lived directly on the surface of him, whose expression when he looked at you in the doorway of the tent had said I am so sorry, I am so sorry, I am so sorry without a single word leaving his mouth.

You had kept yourself together through Kiri's hands finding yours in the dark outside the tent, and holding on, and not letting go until you gently, carefully, pulled away. You had kept yourself together.

And then you had walked into the forest alone and sat down at the base of a great root and you had not kept yourself together at all.

The second morning — the morning — you woke before the sun had any right to be considered rising, your body pulling you up out of sleep with the insistence of something that needed to be known. Your eyes opened to the dark ceiling of your sleeping space and you lay still, cataloguing. The exhaustion that sat deeper than tired. The particular nausea that was not illness. The way your body felt like it had been quietly rearranged in the dark, reorganized around a new center without your permission, your own interior suddenly someone else's territory.

You had grown up at Mo'at's knee. You had learned the signs that bodies give before they speak. You had learned them young and you had learned them well and you lay in the dark of your sleeping space and you knew — with the flat, irrefutable certainty of knowledge that does not care how inconvenient it is — before you had confirmed it, before you had risen, before you had done anything at all. You knew.

You went to the healer's stores in the early grey-black of pre-dawn, moving quietly through the sleeping village, past the banked communal fires and the slow breathing of the People in their rest. You retrieved what you needed. You went back to your sleeping space and you performed the small ceremony — the one the elder healers had taught you, older than the sky-people's machines, older than the words for what it detected — and you sat in the dark.

And you waited. And the result came. You sat with it in your hands for a very long time. Positive.

You were carrying Neteyam's child. The child of a man who had looked at you two days ago with eyes cleared of everything and said who are you as though you had never existed, as though the fourteen years and the bark with words on it and the seven flowers and the river and the dark and Nga oeru lu tirea — as though all of it were a story you had told yourself and none of it had left a mark.

The child of that man. Growing, right now, in the small dark of your body. Present. Real. Composed of both of you, carrying both of your histories in its new blood, knowing nothing yet of what it had been born into. You pressed both hands flat against your stomach.

You breathed. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way Mo'at had taught you when you were nine cycles old and a storm had come in fast over the Hallelujah Mountains and the whole village was grey with it and you had been afraid.

You are of the People, Mo'at had said, her hands on your small shoulders. The People do not break. You pressed your hands against your stomach and thought, with a clarity so sharp it bordered on fury: Mo'at has never had to do this.

Kiri came an hour later. You had not told her. You had not told anyone. But Kiri had always listened to Eywa more carefully than any person you had ever known, and Eywa, apparently, had not kept your secret.

She sat down beside you without preamble. She looked at your face and then at your hands, still flat on your stomach, and she went very still — the specific stillness of someone receiving information that requires the whole self, every part, every listening thing inside them, to process all at once.

"Tell me," she said. So you told her.

The silence after you finished lasted long enough that you counted three slow pulses of bioluminescence in the vine above you. Then Kiri reached out and covered your hands — both of them, still pressed flat against your stomach — with hers. "Oh," she said. Barely a word. Just a sound. And then, quieter: "Oh."

"Three days," you said. Your voice was level. You were holding the leveling the way you hold water in cupped hands — with total attention, knowing that any movement, any distraction, any small failure of focus, and it would be gone. "The wedding is in three days, Kiri."

"I know."

"He doesn't know my name." The sentence tasted like ash. "He looked at me and there was — nothing. Like I was a stranger who had wandered into the wrong tent. Like every single thing we — like I made it up. Like I invented it."

"You didn't —"

"Like the years were a story I told myself." Your voice cracked, finally, on years. You felt it crack the way you feel a branch give beneath your weight — that instant of knowing before the falling. "Like the bark, the flowers, the first hunt celebration, all four times I — like the river, like the night we — like the ring he — like none of it left any mark on him at all and I am the only one carrying it and Kiri —"

You stopped. You pressed your hands harder against your stomach.

"Kiri, I am carrying a child to a man who doesn't know my name."

Her hands tightened over yours. "Why is Eywa doing this to me."

It came out flat. Not a question, exactly. More like something you were laying at the feet of whatever was listening. "Stop —"

"I need you to tell me why." The flatness gave way and beneath it was something enormous years of patience worn down to its last thin layer, something raw and not quite rage and not quite grief but containing both, pressing up against the back of your sternum like it needed more space than your body could give it. "I waited. I waited so long. I tried correctly and I tried incorrectly and I respected his answer when it hurt and I was patient and I loved him in the way I was supposed to love and I let him choose me in his own time and we were three days away — three days, Kiri, I could count them on one hand — and now he is in that tent and he doesn't know my face and I am sitting here in the dark with his child in my body and I need someone to explain to me —"

Your voice broke all the way through. "Is this the punishment?" The words came from somewhere below language, from the place that existed before you had learned to manage yourself. "Is this what I deserved for wanting something I was not supposed to want? For reaching for someone above my — for presuming that I was allowed? Is Eywa saying to me: child, you were warned, he was never for you, and here is what arrogance costs?"

"Stop." Kiri's voice was sharp in a way you rarely heard from her. "Stop that right now."

"Tell me it isn't true —"

"It isn't true." She took your face in both of her hands — the gesture your grandmothers had used, the oldest gesture of the People, I am here, I am present, I am looking directly at you and you are not invisible. Her eyes were bright and fierce. "Eywa is not made of punishment. She is not a clan elder with a ledger keeping score of who reached too high. She is —" Kiri's voice faltered, just briefly, and in the faltering you could hear how much she meant it. "She is every root and every voice and every thing that has ever been joined to every other thing. She does not look at a love that survived fourteen years of being unreturned and decide it deserves destruction. That is not what she is."

"Then what is this?"

"I don't know." And Kiri saying I don't know was more frightening than most people's certainties, because Kiri always knew, Kiri listened to the world in frequencies you couldn't access. "I don't know and I am angry about it and I think you are allowed to be angry about it too. But it is not your punishment. Say that back to me."

You couldn't. She pressed her forehead to yours — tsaheylu without the queue-braid, the gesture made in bare human contact, the way of the People when words stop working.

"I'm carrying his child," you whispered, against her forehead. "Kiri. I'm carrying his child and in three days I am supposed to stand under Eywa's Tree and —" "I know."

"I'm scared." "Ma 'ite." She said it so gently it split something open in your chest. My family . She only ever used it for the people she truly meant it about. "I know. I know you are. I'm here."

You sat together in the dark that came before the dawn — her hands on your face, your hands on your stomach, the bioluminescent forest breathing its slow luminous breath around you, syaw fko oeru Eywa, syaw fko oeru Eywa, Eywa lives in me, Eywa lives in me — and the world did not offer you comfort in any form you could reach, but it offered you this: being witnessed. Being held. Being known by someone who had chosen to know you, who had come before you asked, who sat in the dark beside you without requiring you to be alright. You thought: I am being taken apart by something that isn't even looking at me. The cruelty of indifference. The cruelty that doesn't notice.

You didn't say it out loud.

You only said: "Don't tell anyone about the child. Not until —"

You stopped. You didn't know what came after until.

"Not yet," Kiri said.

"Not yet," you agreed.

You watched the sun come up together. It had no decency, the sun. It came up anyway, slow and amber and enormous, flooding the forest with light that had no interest in what had happened in the dark. It came up anyway. It always did.

The Wedding Day

The dress was white.

Not the white of sky-people fabrics — that cold, manufactured white that had always looked wrong against Na'vi skin, too sharp, too clean, too much like absence. This was the white of moonbell flowers, hand-processed over seven days by three elder women who had sat together in the early mornings doing the work with the quiet focused love of people who understood what they were making. They had threaded luminescent fibers through the fabric — vines from the deep forest, the kind that grew only where the spirit-lines ran strongest — so that in the dark of Eywa's Tree the whole dress would glow. Softly. Like something lit from within.

You had stood for two fittings with your arms out and your chin up and your chest doing something complicated that you had not let reach your face. You had thought, both times: he is going to see me in this and remember.

You had thought: when he sees me in this, something will come back. Something has to come back. The bouquet was pale na'rìng blooms — forest flowers that grew only near spirit-lines, flowers that smelled like deep places, like the dark before dawn, like everywhere Eywa was most present. They had been bound with a cord braided by your mother and Neytiri together on a single afternoon, the two of them sitting in the warm communal light, not quite speaking, occasionally reaching across the weaving to touch hands. You had watched them from a distance and thought: these two women are making something for the life I am about to have.

The altar was under Utral Aymokriyä. The Tree of Voices. Of course it was. Because it had to be somewhere that meant something — somewhere the vows would travel down into the roots and be kept, somewhere every ancestor who had ever spoken into this earth would be present, holding the moment like cupped hands.

Jake had come to you, quiet and a little sheepish, three days before — before everything, before the accident, when three days had still felt like a small and manageable distance rather than an ocean — and said: "Human custom. Father of the groom stands next to his son. I just — I'd like to be there beside him. If that's alright."

You had said yes. You had smiled at him, at this sky-person man with his human face trying to participate in his son's Omatikaya wedding with the earnest awkward sincerity of someone who loved his family with his entire self and sometimes didn't know quite how to hold it. You had liked him enormously for asking instead of assuming.

That had been before. The ring had been made by a craftsman in the tradition of both worlds — because Neteyam had wanted that, had specifically asked for both, had said I am of two peoples and she deserves something that holds both of them. Metal from a sky-people source, shaped in the Omatikaya fashion, small and precise and curved like a promise. The inside had been engraved in Na'vi, in Neteyam's own handwriting — he had gone to the craftsman himself with the words already written, unwilling to trust the translation to anyone else.

Nga oeru lu tirea. You are my spirit.

You had held the ring exactly once, the night the craftsman delivered it. You had turned it in your fingers and found the engraving in the dark by feel alone, each letter a small groove pressed into the metal, and you had thought: he chose these words. Out of every possible thing to say, he chose these words. He wanted you to carry this on your body. He wanted it to be permanent.

The ring was in its woven box, lined with soft leaves, sitting in your sleeping space. You were standing at the edge of the village in your moonbell dress with the na'rìng bouquet in both hands, waiting, while the whole clan gathered at Eywa's Tree.

Waiting. The sun was already high. He did not come on his own.

You had known, in the part of yourself that had learned to know things before they happened — the part that had pressed itself against every surface of this situation and mapped its contours — that he would not come on his own. You had known it the way you had known about the child. Quietly, with no ceremony. Simply as a fact your body had accepted before your mind caught up.

They brought him.

Mo'at on one side — her face arranged into the healer's neutrality, the expression of someone who has seen enough of the world's worst and best moments that she no longer permits either to change the architecture of her face. Jake on the other side, and Jake's face was not neutral, Jake's face had never been neutral a day in his life, and you looked at it once — the complicated human grief of a father watching his son not-recognize his future wife, the guilt of someone who cannot fix this and knows it — and then you looked away because you could not hold what was on Jake's face and also hold yourself together.

You had been holding yourself together for three days. You had one more hour to hold. Just one more hour. You could do one more hour. Neteyam walked to the altar.

He was wearing the ceremonial dress of a firstborn Omatikaya son — the colors of his family, the markings of his rank, the braided queue that Neytiri had prepared for him that morning because she could not do nothing and this was something she could still do. He looked like himself. From a distance, in the right light, he looked exactly like himself — tall and careful and present, moving with the quiet sureness that had always been native to him.

And then he looked at you. And you saw his face. Polite.

That was the word. The only word. The face of someone who has been told they are supposed to be somewhere and is applying their full intelligence and goodwill to the task of being there correctly. The face of someone solving a problem with insufficient information. The face of a stranger in his own ceremonial colors, looking at you in your glowing white dress the way a person looks at something they can see is significant and cannot feel the significance of.

He looked at you like you were a beautiful stranger at someone else's wedding. You held your bouquet with both hands.

"You are —" He paused. Not cruelly. Carefully. The pause of someone accessing information they've been given rather than information they hold. "You are the one I was —" Another pause. His jaw tightened slightly — frustration, you recognized it, you had memorized every micro-expression his face made over the years, this one meant he was angry at himself for not having the words.

He looked at you. There was effort in it — visible, genuine effort, the same effort he gave everything he valued, and for one suspended, terrible second you thought: he's going to find it. It's there. He's going to reach back and find it and this will be alright.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I — I'm trying."

"I know," you said. "I know you are."

The elder began the ceremony. You had heard these words at a dozen weddings. You had attended every joining ceremony you could since childhood because you had always known — with the same certainty you knew the forest paths, the same certainty you knew the smell of rain before it came — that you would speak them yourself one day. You had listened the way a student listens to something they intend to use. You had let the words wear grooves in you, deep comfortable grooves of repetition, so that when your turn came the words would feel like coming home rather than arriving somewhere new.

Before Eywa and before the People and before all the voices in the roots of this Tree, these two spirits declare themselves woven. What Eywa has drawn together, no thing of earth or sky may separate. What is joined here is joined in every root, every voice, every light in the dark of the world— Neteyam's hands were in yours.

You felt them. You knew these hands — you had learned these hands in the dark, you had held these hands at the river, you had been held by these hands in ways that were still written on your body if not on his. You knew the weight of them, the exact temperature, the particular way his thumb moved when he was thinking about something.

His hands were in yours and they were being careful. Not tender. Not the tenderness of someone touching something they love. Careful. The careful of someone who has been told to hold something fragile that belongs to someone else. The careful of a person doing the right thing in a situation they do not understand, trying very hard not to cause harm, trying to be good in the only way they currently know how.

His hands were in yours and they felt like a stranger's. That was when the first wall came down. Not with sound. Not with drama. Simply — a quiet internal collapse, something structural giving way in the deep foundation of you, and you felt it happen and you kept your face completely still because the elder was still speaking and the whole clan was watching and your mother was somewhere in that watching crowd and Kiri was behind you and you were three days pregnant with this man's child and you were not going to fall apart in front of Eywa's Tree.

You were not. Then Neteyam stepped back. One step.

One single step backward, away from your hands, away from the altar, away from you — and it was not dramatic, it was not a shove or a shout, it was quiet in the way only the worst things are quiet, and his face had moved past polite and past trying and arrived at something you recognized with the bottom-dropping-out sensation of someone who has walked off a ledge they didn't know was there. Distress.

The elder stopped speaking. The whole clearing stopped.

"I —" Neteyam pressed the back of his hand against his mouth for a moment, a gesture you had never seen him make, a gesture that meant he was fighting something. "I cannot."

"Son," Jake said, low and tight.

"I cannot do this." Not loud. Not angry. Quiet in the way of someone speaking from a place so far below ordinary language that volume becomes irrelevant. "I have tried. I — I want to do what is right. I want to be — I know that everyone is telling me this is right, and I believe that they believe it, but I stand here and I look at —"

He looked at you. You looked back at him.

"I look at you," he said, and his voice was not unkind, it was never unkind, that was the unbearable part, "and I feel nothing that tells me this is true. I feel nothing that says I know you. And I — I have been told so many things about who you are to me and I want them to be real, I want it, but wanting something to be real is not the same as it being real, and I —" He stopped. His throat moved. "I cannot stand at this tree and speak vows to someone I do not know. I cannot make that promise to Eywa for someone I do not remember. It would be a lie. And I would rather —" His voice cracked, just slightly. "I would rather disappoint everyone here than lie at the roots of Eywa's Tree."

The silence that fell was total. Not the silence of shock — though that was in it. The silence of an entire clan holding their breath in collective recognition that they were watching something irreparable happen in real time and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

You could hear the bioluminescent roots of the Tree pulsing. You could hear your own heartbeat. You could feel, with absolute clarity, the child that no one else knew about — the small fact of it, nestled in the dark of you, present and real and utterly unknowing of the world it had been made into.

Neteyam was looking at you. His expression was — remorseful. That was the word. The expression of a genuinely good person who has caused genuine harm and knows it and is not going to pretend otherwise. And you knew him well enough — you knew every chamber of him, every hallway, every locked door — to know that the remorse was real. That he meant every word. That he was not being cruel.

He was being honest. He had always been honest with you. Even when it cost him. Even when it cost you more.

"I'm sorry," he said, to you, directly to you, in a voice that meant it completely. "I am so sorry. You deserve someone who — you deserve to be known. And I don't — I can't give you that right now. I don't know if I —"

"Okay," you said.

The word came out of somewhere that was past hurt. Past anger. Past the grief and the exhaustion and the three days and the child and the dress that seven women had made and the cord your mother had braided with Neytiri on a warm afternoon. Past all of it. In the place where there is nothing left to lose you sometimes find a strange, terrible clarity, and you were in that place now, and from that place the only word was:

"Okay." "_____." Kiri's voice, from behind you. Barely a word. A hand at your back, barely touching.

"Okay," you said again. To no one. To the air. To Eywa, who was in the roots beneath your feet and the light in the trees and who was apparently having some kind of day. You looked down at the bouquet in your hands. Na'rìng blooms. Pale and forest-dark. Bound with the cord your mother and Neytiri had made together, touching hands above the weaving. You looked up at Neteyam one more time.

He was looking at you with remorse and distance and the particular helpless expression of someone watching something they've broken and being unable to retrieve a single piece of it. You thought, clearly and without bitterness, the most devastating thought you had ever had: He broke this and he doesn't even remember making it.

Then you turned. You walked away from the altar. You walked through the parting crowd — the People making space for you the way the forest makes space for something that is moving with the inevitability of water, because there was no stopping what was happening and the most respectful thing anyone could do was get out of the way. You did not look at their faces. You could not look at their faces. You had counted on one hand the number of people you loved most in the world and they were all standing in that crowd watching you walk away in a dress that was still glowing and you would not look at a single one of them.

You walked until the Tree of Voices was behind you. You walked until the jungle was in front of you. You walked until no one could see you anymore. Then you stopped.

You stood in the deep green dark of the forest in your moonbell-white dress, alone, glowing softly like something sacred that had been left somewhere with no altar to rest on. The na'rìng blooms were still in your hands. The bioluminescence of the forest pulsed slowly around you, the way it had pulsed at a hundred important moments of your life — at the hunts, at the namings, at the night you and Neteyam had sat in the dark together and the world had rearranged itself into something finally, finally right. The same light. A different world. You pressed one hand flat against your stomach.

The child did not know. The child was simply there, in the dark of you, growing with the complete and trusting indifference of something that does not yet have the context to understand what it has been born into. Neteyam's child, you thought. Growing in my body. While he stands at a tree and tells our whole clan he doesn't know me.

You thought: I came to you with years on my back and a child I haven't told you about and a ring in a box in my sleeping space and a dress that seven women made with their hands and I stood at that tree and I was so ready.

I was so ready. I have been ready for so long.

You looked up at the canopy. The light came through in shafts, amber and green, the forest's own cathedral, the place where Eywa breathed most audibly if you knew how to listen. Eywa ma'weya, you thought.

Eywa. I have been patient. I have been so patient. I have asked nothing of you that wasn't mine to ask. I loved him correctly and I waited and I respected and I carried and I endured. And I am standing in this forest in a dress that glows and I am alone and I am carrying your son's grandchild and I do not know— I do not know what you want from me. I do not know what this is supposed to teach me. I do not know what I was supposed to do differently. The forest breathed. The light shifted. A fan lizard called from somewhere high above, bright and completely indifferent.

You held your bouquet. You stood in the dark.

And the thought arrived, not with dramatics, not with the crash of revelation, simply quietly, the way the worst truths always arrive: I have lost everything. I have lost him and the wedding and the future and I am carrying a child whose father just stood at Eywa's Tree and called me a stranger. And the forest is still breathing. And Eywa is still here. And none of it — not a single piece of this — is going to stop because I am standing here broken.

It doesn't stop. It never stops. It just keeps going, and it takes me with it, and I do not get to choose.

You stood in the moonbell-white dress that no one was going to see, glowing softly in the dark for no one, holding flowers that were never going to be laid at any altar, and you breathed.

In. Out. Eywa ma'weya, tskxe si oeru. Eywa, speak to me. Let the stones be still. The stones were not still. You breathed anyway.

You waited until dark. Not because the dark made it easier. Nothing about this was going to be easy. You waited because the dark meant fewer eyes, fewer faces, fewer people who loved you having to watch you do something that could not be watched without cost. You had spent the hours between the altar and the dark in your sleeping space with the door closed, still in your dress — you couldn't bring yourself to take it off, not yet, not while the sun was still up, not while the day was still technically the day it was supposed to be — sitting with your back against the wall and your hands on your stomach and your eyes on nothing.

You had not cried. You had been saving it.

When the last light went out of the sky and the bioluminescence of the forest took over — that slow, breathing, ancient light that had been here before the sky-people came and would be here long after all of this, long after you, long after whatever mark this day left on the world — you stood up.

You changed out of the dress. Carefully. Slowly. The way you handle something for the last time, with the deliberate attention of someone who knows they are saying goodbye and refuses to rush it. You folded it with your hands flat and your breathing measured and you did not let yourself think about the seven days it had taken to make or the three elder women who had made it or the morning you had put it on and pressed your face into the na'rìng blooms and told yourself: today. Finally. Today. You gathered what there was to gather.

You built the fire at the edge of the village — far enough from the sleeping spaces for privacy, close enough to Eywa's roots that the earth could hear. You knelt in the dirt. The fire took on the third try, which felt like the universe being difficult on purpose, and you almost laughed except that you didn't have the architecture for laughing right now, your interior was arranged for something else entirely.

You knelt in the dirt. You began.

The Bouquet

You picked it up and for a moment you just held it. Na'rìng blooms. Pale and deep-forest dark, the kind of flower that only grew where the spirit-lines ran strongest, where Eywa was most present in the ground. They had smelled, this morning — this morning, which felt like it belonged to a different century — like everything sacred. Like the deep places. Like the dark before dawn when the world is still deciding what it wants to be. You had pressed your face into them this morning.

You had been standing in your glowing white dress with the whole day in front of you and you had pressed your face into these flowers and breathed them in and thought — with the stupid, stubborn, exhausted faith of someone who has survived so much that they genuinely cannot conceive of the universe having one more cruelty left in reserve — today is the day everything was worth it. You had believed that. This morning, with these flowers against your face, you had believed it completely.

You looked at the cord binding them — the cord your mother and Neytiri had braided together on that warm afternoon, the two of them occasionally reaching across the weaving to touch hands without speaking. Two mothers making something for the life you were about to have. Two women who loved their children enough to sit together in the light and make something with their hands. Your mother had touched Neytiri's hand above the weaving and Neytiri had touched back.

You held the bouquet over the flame. The cord went first. It caught faster than you expected, and for a second you almost pulled it back — the reflex of someone who has changed their mind — but you hadn't changed your mind. You hadn't. You held steady.

Then the petals. One by one, curling at the edges the way living things curl when they are becoming something else, glowing briefly — that same bioluminescent glow, just for a moment, just long enough — before they darkened. The smell of burning na'rìng was nothing like the smell of living na'rìng. You had not known that before tonight. You knew it now, and you understood that you would know it for the rest of your life, that this smell would find you in unexpected moments — a cooking fire, a torch in the dark — and bring you back here, kneeling in the dirt, watching something sacred become ash.

This was the bouquet I was going to carry to you, you thought. Not to the fire. To him. To Neteyam, who was somewhere in the village right now, who had stood at Eywa's Tree and said I don't know her and meant it, who was probably asleep by now, who would wake tomorrow with no knowledge of what you were doing in the dark tonight. I carried these flowers to an altar you left. I am returning them. I am returning them to Eywa, who made the flowers and the spirit-lines and the cord and the hands that braided it and whatever it was between us that made any of this make sense.

I am giving it back. I don't know how to give it back but I am trying. You watched until the last petal was gone.

The Dress

You almost didn't do this one. You sat with it in your lap for so long that the fire had burned lower before you moved. You kept touching it — running your thumb along the hem, along the seam where the luminescent vines had been woven in, along the neckline that one of the elder women had redone twice because she hadn't been satisfied with it the first time, because she had wanted it to be right.

Seven days. Three elder women who had woken before the sun every morning for seven days to make something for a life you were supposed to have. They had gone into the deep forest for the luminescent vines because you had asked. They hadn't asked why you wanted vines from that far in. They hadn't asked anything. They had simply gone, because you had needed something and they were the kind of women who went when someone needed, the kind of women the People made in the old way, in the tradition of Mo'at and Neytiri, in the tradition of every woman who had ever understood that love was sometimes expressed most purely as going.

You pressed your lips to the fabric. Once. Just once. In the place where the vines were woven thickest, where it would have glowed the brightest if anyone had been there to see it.

You were supposed to be seen, you thought, and the thought broke something in you cleanly, the way clean breaks are almost worse than ragged ones. You were supposed to be the last beautiful thing before the rest of my life started. You were supposed to be what I was wearing when Neteyam looked at me for the first time as his wife.

You were supposed to mean something other than this. You laid it on the fire. It caught slowly — fabric always did, taking its time, as if it too was reluctant — and then all at once, the way things do when they have made their decision. The luminescent vines went last. They burned blue-white, briefly, a color that had no name in any language you knew, a color that belonged to deep forest and spirit-lines and the specific quality of light in Eywa's most present places. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. It was the most terrible thing you had ever seen.

You sat with your hands in your lap and you watched it go and you did not look away. You owed it that. You owed it the dignity of being witnessed as it disappeared, since no one had been there to witness it as what it was supposed to be.

You watched until there was nothing left but the memory of blue-white light.

The Altar Decorations

You had made these yourself. That was the thing about these — they were entirely yours. The bouquet had been bound by your mother's hands. The dress had been made by the elder women's hands. The ring had been shaped by a craftsman's hands following Neteyam's words. But these — these lengths of forest vine strung with hand-carved beads, each bead a different size and shape depending on what it held — these were yours. Your hands. Your knife. Your nights spent working by low firelight when everyone else was sleeping, carving the specific weight of specific memories into small pieces of wood and bone.

There was one bead for the first hunt celebration. One for the night at the river. One for the fourth attempt, the dawn he'd appeared at your door undone and honest before he'd finished thinking. One for the moment he'd taken your hand and said slow like it was a direction he'd chosen. And one — the one you had carved first, before any of the others, the one you had spent the longest on — for the day he had removed a thorn from your ankle without being asked. When you were seven cycles old. When it started.

You had not told anyone about that bead. Not even Kiri.

You held the vine in your hands and you tried to find it — the thorn bead, the first one, the beginning — and then you stopped yourself. If you found it you would not be able to let go of it. And you had to let go of it. You dropped the whole length of vine into the fire without looking for it. You turned your face away as it caught. You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth and you breathed through your nose — in, out, in, out, Eywa ma'weya — and you did not watch this one go.

Some things you could witness. Some things you could not.

The Sketch

This one you had been carrying against your chest.

Since the accident — since the terrible sound and the healing tent and who are you — you had kept it folded against your skin, inside your wrap, close to your heartbeat, the way of the People when they carry something sacred. You had pressed it there every morning when you dressed, the way of carrying a prayer, and it had been warm from your body every time you touched it. It was a piece of flattened bark. He had drawn on it one evening, not long ago — it felt like a different lifetime, a different version of the world — sitting beside you with a marking root and his tongue slightly between his teeth in the way he had when he was concentrating. He had been sketching the altar layout. He had been embarrassed about it before he even started, saying I cannot draw, sa'nu always said I draw like Lo'ak describes things, which is to say incorrectly and with too much confidence.

You had laughed. You had told him it would be perfect. It had been. Not because the drawing was skilled — it wasn't, his proportions were off and the Tree of Voices looked, generously, like a large and enthusiastic bush, and one of the decorative arches he had drawn appeared to be load-bearing in a way that would have been structurally impossible. But because of his face. Because he had been so genuinely, openly excited, the way Neteyam was excited about things he cared about — with his whole self, without self-consciousness, with the focused energy of someone who had decided this mattered and was going to give it everything regardless of whether his spatial reasoning cooperated.

He had been excited to marry you. He had sat beside you with his bad drawing and his marking root and he had been excited. You unfolded it now. His handwriting was in the margins. Small. Careful. The handwriting of someone who was accustomed to leaving notes for himself, practical and direct: Flowers here — ask _____ what she prefers.

Make sure Jake has somewhere to stand. He'll worry if he doesn't have somewhere to stand. Eywa's roots visible from the guests — important.

Ask _____ what she prefers. You read it twice. Ask _____ what she prefers.

He had written your name in the margins of a drawing of your altar. He had written it the way he wrote everything — like it was simply part of the practical landscape of his life, like consulting you was as natural as noting where the flowers should go. Like you were assumed. Like you were the person whose preferences were the relevant ones, always, automatically, without question.

Ask _____. You folded it back up.

You held it against your chest one more time. Pressed it flat against your heartbeat. Just for a moment. Just for the length of one breath.

Then you put it in the fire.

"This was the future," you said, out loud, to the air, to the roots of Eywa's Tree nearby, to whatever was listening. "I am returning it. I am giving it back. I don't — I don't know what to do with a future that didn't happen, so I am giving it back to you, and I am asking you to do something with it that I can't."

The bark caught quickly. His handwriting went last — the ink darkening, the letters holding their shape for one final moment before the shape dissolved.

Ask _____ what she prefers. Gone.

The Ring

You had known, from the moment you gathered everything, that this was last. You had arranged the order deliberately, consciously, the way you arranged everything — with the full weight of your attention, with the care of someone who understands that how you do something matters as much as what you do. You had known that this was last and you had known what last would cost and you had done everything else first so that by the time you arrived here your reserves would be depleted enough that the shaking would be honest rather than something you could manage.

You opened the box. River grass, woven tightly. Soft leaves for lining, the kind that stayed supple even when dried, the kind the healers used when they wanted something to feel like care. The craftsman had included them without being asked. He had understood what he was making.

The ring sat in the leaves.

You looked at it for a long time. It was small. You had not expected it to be so small — not delicate, not fragile, but precise, in the way of something that had been thought about carefully and made to fit exactly one thing and nothing else. The metal caught the firelight and held it. The Omatikaya shaping along the outside was fine work, patient work, the kind of work that took hours and required the craftsman to care about what they were making.

You picked it up.

You turned it in your fingers until you found the inside. Until you found the engraving. You did not need the firelight to read it. You had memorized it the first time you held it. You had traced it in the dark of your sleeping space, letter by letter, until the words lived in your fingertips as much as in your mind. Nga oeru lu tirea.

You are my spirit. He had written those words himself and brought them to the craftsman on a piece of bark. He had not trusted the translation to anyone else because he had not wanted anything to be lost between the choosing of words and the cutting of them into metal. He had wanted it to be his words. His handwriting. His decision, made permanent in a material that could not be reconsidered.

He had chosen spirit. Not heart — heart was the easy word, the obvious word. He had chosen spirit. Tirea. The whole of a person. The part that persisted. The part that Eywa received when the body was returned. He had chosen the word that meant: not just this life. Not just this body. You.

You.

He had chosen you. You pressed your thumb against the engraving. You could feel every letter. You could feel where each groove had been cut by a careful hand following careful instruction. You could feel the word tirea under your thumb, five letters, permanent, made with the specific intention of being unable to be undone.

He had not wanted it to be possible for this to be undone.

Nga oeru lu tirea. Your hand was shaking. You noticed this the way you notice things when you are very far inside your own grief — from a slight distance, with something approaching clinical interest, as if the shaking were happening to a hand that belonged to someone else. Your hand was shaking and your vision had gone uncertain at the edges and there was a sound building in your chest that you had been holding back since the altar, since the okay, since the walk through the parting crowd, since the forest and the dark and the glowing dress and the realization that you had lost everything.

You held the ring over the fire.

The firelight came up to meet it. Amber and gold. The metal warmed in your fingers instantly, the heat traveling up through the band and into your skin. The engraving was against your palm now. You could feel it even through the warmth.

Tirea. Spirit. You breathed in.

You breathed in and you held it — the breath, the ring, the fourteen years, the seven flowers and the four attempts and the bark with words on it and the river and the dark and the child currently growing in your body whose father was asleep somewhere in the village not knowing any of this — you held all of it in one inhale, everything that had been building since you were seven cycles old and a thorn was removed from your ankle by careful hands —

You let go. The ring fell into the embers.

It did not burn. Of course it didn't burn — it was metal, it was made to last, it was made specifically to be the thing that did not change — and that was the thing that broke you, finally, completely and without remainder. It sat in the embers, glowing with borrowed heat, and it was still there, still Nga oeru lu tirea, still exactly what it had been made to be, unchanged, unburned, permanent in the middle of all this ash.

He wanted something that couldn't be undone, you thought. He made something that couldn't be undone. And here I am trying to undo it. And even the fire won't help me.

The sound that came out of you was not a cry. You had cried before — in trees, in forests, in the dark of your sleeping space after the third attempt, in your mother's arms after the fourth. You knew what your crying sounded like. This was not that.

This was older than crying. This was the sound that lives below language, below the part of you that knows words and uses them and organizes itself around them — the sound of something structural giving way in the oldest part of you, the part that had been built around him since you were seven years old. It was the sound of Nga oeru lu tirea entering a fire. It was the sound of a wedding that did not happen and a child who did not yet know it had no father who remembered it and a woman in the dark who had tried with her entire self, her entire life, every available tool, for fourteen years — and had been given everything and then had it all removed in the space of one terrible sound on one terrible afternoon. It was the sound of someone putting down a weight that has left permanent damage.

You screamed once, into the forest, into the indifferent breathing dark of Eywa's world. Not a word. Not a name. Just sound. Just the thing that had been living in your chest since the tent, since who are you, since the altar, since okay — just that, released finally into the air where it could dissipate, where it could be absorbed by the roots, where Eywa could take it if she wanted it.

Then you folded forward.

You pressed your forehead to the earth — the old gesture, the deepest gesture, the one the People made when they had nothing left to stand on, when the only honest position remaining was down, face to the ground, returning the weight of yourself to the mother who made you.

Take it, you thought, forehead against the earth, hands flat in the dirt, the fire burning beside you, the ring glowing in the embers with its permanent words. Take all of it. The fourteen years. The four attempts. The flowers and the bark and the wedding that didn't happen and the future that isn't mine anymore. Take the child I'm carrying who deserves more than this world has arranged for them. Take the sound his head made when it hit the ground. Take the look on his face when he stepped back from me at the altar.

Take all of it. I can't carry it anymore. I'm returning it. I'm giving it back to you. Do something with it that I can't.

The earth under your forehead was cool and solid and utterly patient, the way earth always is — it had been here before you and would be here after and it would receive whatever you gave it without comment, without judgment, without the particular cruelty of being witnessed by someone whose face you had to manage. You stayed there.

The fire burned lower. The ring glowed in the embers and eventually the smoke became too thick to see it and eventually your vision had gone too wrong to see anything properly anyway, because you were crying now, finally, past the place where you could hold it, past the place where control was a thing you could afford — and these were not the small careful tears you had trained yourself to cry in private. These were the tears of someone who had run out of private. Someone who had put down every single thing they were carrying and had discovered, in the putting-down, that the things had been load-bearing.

You had been holding yourself up with fourteen years of loving him. You had put it in the fire. And now there was nothing between you and the ground except the ground. You pressed your forehead to the earth.

The forest breathed around you — syaw fko oeru Eywa, syaw fko oeru Eywa — Eywa lives in me, Eywa lives in me, Eywa lives in the roots against your forehead and the air in your lungs and the fire beside you and the ring in the embers and the child in your body and the sleeping village just beyond the trees and Neteyam, somewhere in it, asleep, unaware, whole in a way you were not.

Eywa said nothing. Eywa never said anything. That was the thing about her — she held everything. Every grief, every joy, every love that didn't work out the way it was supposed to, every wedding that became a burning, every ring that sat permanent and unchanged in the embers of something that had tried very hard to be a future. She held it all. She answered none of it. She simply continued. And so did you. For a while. And then you stopped.

You woke to a ceiling you recognized. That was the first thing — the ceiling, the familiar weave of it, the way the morning light came through the walls of your family's sleeping space in that specific amber-grey that belonged only to this place, only to this hour, only to the home you had grown up in. The smell of dried herbs your mother kept in bundles along the upper beams. The distant sound of the village beginning its morning in the way villages always did — slowly, unevenly, the sounds of people who had not had their worlds ended arriving into their ordinary days.

You lay still. You stared at the ceiling.

And for one half-second — one single, suspended, merciful half-second that you would spend the rest of your life trying to get back to — you did not remember. You were simply a person, waking up. Ceiling above you. Herbs on the wall. Morning light. The uncomplicated animal fact of being alive in a body in a place you knew.

Then it came back.

Not gradually. Not in pieces, the way sleep sometimes releases you slowly into waking. All at once — the altar and the step backward and I don't know her and okay and the forest and the fire and the bouquet and the dress burning blue-white and the ring that wouldn't burn and your forehead against the earth and the sound that had come out of you that you had never heard yourself make before. All of it. Simultaneous. Like a wave that had been building while you slept and chose the exact moment of your waking to arrive.

You breathed. In. Out. You turned your head. Your mother was beside you.

She was sitting in the way of someone who has been sitting for a very long time — not the sitting of someone who chose to sit, but the sitting of someone who arrived and then could not find the reason to move. Her hands were in her lap. Her back was straight with the effort of straightening it. She was looking at you with an expression that stopped your breath completely.

Your mother was not a woman who showed grief easily. You had always known this about her the way you knew things about the deep forest — not because anyone had told you, but because you had simply grown up in proximity to it and learned its geography by living inside it. She was made of the same material you were made of: controlled, steady, the particular kind of strong that looks like stillness from the outside and costs everything on the inside. You had inherited it from her. You had always been proud of that inheritance.

She was sitting beside you with grief on her face so open, so unguarded, so completely unmanaged — grief that had overrun every wall she had ever built, grief that was simply there the way weather is there, not chosen, not performed, just present and enormous and hers — that for a moment you did not recognize her.

Your mother. Your steady, controlled, unbreakable mother. Broken.

"Nìmun," you said. The word came out wrong — too small, too uncertain, the voice of someone much younger than you were. Mother. "What —" She made a sound.

Not a word. Not language. Something older than language — a sound that lived below the part of her that knew how to speak, below the part that had always known the right thing to say in every difficult moment of your life. Just a sound, pressed out of her by something she had been holding since before you woke, and she brought her hand up and pressed it flat over her eyes as though she could hold it in if she just covered the right part of herself.

"Nìmun." You sat up. The movement sent something through you — a wave of physical information, your body asserting its current state, something you named and then unmade, refused entirely, pushed down into a place you would deal with later. "Look at me. Tell me right now." Her hand came down slowly.

She looked at you with eyes that had been crying recently — not just now, not just this morning, but for long enough that the marks had settled into her face, into the lines around her eyes, into the particular exhausted gravity of someone who has been given something terrible to carry toward someone they love and has been carrying it through the dark hours waiting for them to wake up so they could set it down.

"The healer came," she said. Her voice was the controlled voice. You recognized it because it was your voice — the water-in-cupped-hands voice, the voice of someone using every available resource to hold a shape that wants to collapse. She was using it the way you had used it at the altar. She was using it and it was costing her the same thing it had cost you.

"When I fainted —" "The healer came. Mo'at came." Her throat moved. "They examined you. They found —"

"I know what they found."

Your hand moved to your stomach before you had decided to move it. Automatic. The new habit, worn into you in only two days, the gesture of a body that had begun organizing itself around a new center — a center that had existed for two days and been the only piece of hope you had left, the only thing you had been carrying into the future with you when everything else had been placed in the fire.

Your mother's hand came down over yours. Over your hand. Over your stomach. Her fingers pressed warm and deliberate over yours and you felt her touch travel through your palm and into the skin beneath it and into the place where the new fact had been living, and something in the quality of her touch — something in the weight of it, the gentleness, the particular careful grief of it — told you, before a single word, what she was about to say.

"No," you said.

Just that. Just no. Aimed at the air, at the information, at the next sentence before it could become real. As though refusal were a physical thing that could stop the words from arriving. As though you had any power left over what the universe was about to hand you.

"Ma 'ite —"

"No."

"My child." Her voice broke on it — not at the edges, not the small controlled fracture you were used to from her, but all the way through, the word splitting open in her mouth, and you realized she wasn't just saying it to you, she was saying it for both of you, for you and for the thing you had both just lost, for the grandchild she had not yet known about and now never would. "The child —"

"Don't."

"_____ —"

"Don't say it. Don't —" Your voice had gone somewhere below language. Below the place where words lived. "Don't say it yet. Give me one more —"

"Ma 'ite." And her voice, even broken, even fractured all the way through — her voice was the steadiest thing left in the world. "I have to say it. I have to say it because you need to know and because there is no way to carry this for you and I have tried, I have tried since Mo'at told me, I have been sitting here since before the sun came up trying to find a way to carry it for you and I cannot, I cannot, so I have to give it to you even though —" She stopped.

She pressed her lips together. She looked at your joined hands on your stomach. "The stress," she said, finally. Each word placed with the anguished care of someone crossing unstable ground, testing each stone before putting their weight on it. "The grief. The body — when the spirit is in too much pain, the body answers. It cannot help it. It answers the way the forest answers a fire — by releasing what it cannot protect. Mo'at said — she said the child was not yet strong enough. It was too new. The night by the fire, the days before, the wedding — it was too much, and the child was too small, and the body —"

Her voice gave out entirely on the last word. She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to. The silence that came after was the loudest thing you had ever heard. You sat with her hand over yours over your stomach and you looked at the dried herbs on the wall and you said nothing.

You looked at the herbs — the bundles your mother had hung there for as long as you could remember, the healers' herbs, the ones that smelled like safety and home and the particular comfort of being small and cared for — and you thought about absolutely nothing. Your mind had gone somewhere entirely empty. Not numb. Not blank. Empty. The specific emptiness of a space that has just been cleared out suddenly, the space left behind when something that was there is no longer there, the absence louder than the presence ever was.

Your body was not a vessel anymore. It was just a body. Just yours.

Just yours, alone, the way it had been before, before two days ago, before the dark and the rain-washed night and the bioluminescent walls and his hands learning you — just a body, just a single body, not two. Nga oeru lu tirea, you thought, from somewhere very far down. You are my spirit.

You had been carrying him inside you. For two days you had been carrying him — not in the way you had carried him for fourteen years, not in the invisible interior weight of loving someone who did not love you back, but literally, physically, actually — a piece of him, a piece of both of you, a small impossible fact that you had held in the dark and the cold and the wedding morning and the altar and the fire. Through all of it. Through the okay and the walking through the parting crowd and the forest and the burning and the screaming and the forehead against the earth — through every single one of the worst moments of your life, the child had been there. The last piece of something that had been whole. The one thing you had not put in the fire. And now the fire had come to find it anyway. The universe had waited until you had nothing left and then it had taken the one remaining thing.

He exists in me, you thought. He was in me. Half of him was growing in my body and it was the only part of him that still —

You stopped. You could not finish the thought. You could not finish it because finishing it meant accepting what the finished thought said, and you were not — you were not there yet, you were not anywhere near there yet, you might never be anywhere near there.

"I lost my child," you said.

Out loud. To the room. To the herbs on the wall and the morning light and your mother's hand over yours. Not to anyone. To the air. Because it needed to be said in words, in language, in the specific irreversible form of a sentence spoken aloud — because until something is said aloud it can still pretend to be uncertain. You were not going to let it be uncertain.

"I lost my child," you said again, in the voice from below the control, in the voice you had used at the fire. "I was going to — we were going to — I had not even — I hadn't told him, I hadn't told anyone, I was going to tell him after the wedding, I was going to tell him and see his face, I was going to watch him understand, I was going to —"

Your mother moved. Both arms. Around you. The way she had not held you since you were very small — since before you had learned to be a person of self-control, since before you had inherited her steadiness and made it your own, since the time when being held was still something you reached for instead of something you carefully didn't need.

She pulled you in and she held you with both arms and she pressed her lips to the top of your head and she held you the way you hold something you are afraid of losing and have already lost, the way you hold something when holding is the only thing left, the only gesture remaining in a language that has run out of words.

And you — You who had held yourself together through four attempts and one honest conversation on a ridge above three valleys. You who had held yourself together through three weeks of deliberate distance and a dawn visit at your door and I don't function correctly when you're far. You who had held yourself together through the accident and the tent and who are you and the two days after and the wedding morning and the altar and okay and the fire and the ring that would not burn.

You did not hold yourself together. The sound that came out of you was not crying. It was not the small careful crying you had practiced in trees and forests and the dark of your sleeping space over fourteen years of loving someone quietly. It was not the once-in-a-private-tree grief you had permitted yourself after the third attempt. It was not any kind of crying you recognized as yours.

It was the sound of a person who has lost a child. It was the sound of a person who stood at a wedding altar carrying a secret and walked away carrying it still and burned everything else and came home with nothing — nothing at all, nothing left, not the wedding, not the man, not even the small impossible proof that the love had been real enough to make something. Nothing. Just your body. Just your mother's arms.

Just the sound you were making that you did not recognize as yours but that was the most honest sound you had ever made in your life. You pressed your face against your mother's neck and you grieved.

Not decoratively. Not with the dignity that grief sometimes allows you when it is witnessed. Fully, messily, without architecture, without the control you had spent fourteen years building and maintaining and using as the primary load-bearing structure of your entire interior life — you grieved Neteyam, the real one, the one who had known your name, the one who had drawn a bad sketch of an altar with ask _____ what she prefers in the margins. You grieved the wedding that had been three days away and then had not happened. You grieved the ring in the embers with its permanent words. You grieved the dress that had burned blue-white and the bouquet that had smelled like spirit-lines and the bead you had carved and never shown anyone, the one for the thorn on your ankle when you were seven cycles old, the bead for the beginning. And underneath all of it — deeper, more fundamental, the grief beneath the grief, the loss that made all the other losses feel manageable by comparison: You grieved your child.

You grieved the small impossible fact of them. You grieved the two days you had carried them through the worst events of your life, unknowing, growing, completely trusting in the body that had failed to protect them. You grieved the face you would never see, the queue-braid you would never braid, the first hunt you would never watch. You grieved tell him after the wedding, watch him understand, see his face. You grieved a future that had been, briefly, in your body. Gone now. Gone.

Your mother held you and said nothing, because there was nothing to say, because some griefs are not the kind that language can enter — they are weather, enormous and indifferent, and you must simply let them move through you because they are too large to resist and resisting them will only break you further.

She held you and pressed her lips to the top of your head and occasionally made a sound against your hair that was not a word, just a sound, just the oldest sound a mother makes for a child in pain — the sound that predates every language the People had ever spoken, the sound that Eywa had built into the specific frequency of a mother's voice. You let it move through you. The weather moved. From somewhere very deep, in the storm of it, a thought arrived. Small. Quiet. Almost inaudible beneath everything else. He does not know.

Somewhere in this village, in his own sleeping space, in his own ordinary morning — Neteyam was waking up. He was waking up to a world he understood, a world he could navigate, a world that did not contain the specific wound of this morning because he did not remember making it. He would rise and speak to Lo'ak and eat his morning food and sit in the sun that had come up without decency and he would know none of this.

He did not know that you had been carrying his child. He did not know the child was gone. He did not know about the fire, the ring, the dress, the forehead against the earth, the sound you had made that you did not recognize as yours. He did not know that you had fainted at the edge of his world and woken up in the ruins of what his accident had made. He did not know.

And you were not ready to tell him.

You were not sure you would ever be ready to tell him. You were not sure that the words existed in any language — Na'vi or sky-people or the older tongue that the elders sometimes used for things that had no modern name — that could carry what you would need them to carry. You were not sure you could form the sentence I was carrying your child and I lost them because the grief of losing you was too much for my body and remain in one piece on the other side of it. But you had learned, this morning, in the oldest way — the way of txantslusam, of wisdom that arrives too late to be useful and arrives anyway — that the universe does not ask if you are ready.

It does not consult you. It does not brief you before the lesson. It simply hands you the thing and says: carry this. Carry this.

You had been carrying things for years. You had become, without meaning to, a person defined by carrying — carrying love that was not returned, carrying patience that had no guaranteed end, carrying hope when hope had nothing to rest on. You had been carrying things since you were seven cycles old and a thorn was removed from your ankle and the ground went unreliable beneath your feet and never quite went reliable again. You could carry this too. You didn't want to. You were so tired.

You were so profoundly, bone-deeply, soul-deeply tired, in the way that goes past sleep, in the way that rest cannot touch, in the way that only comes from having spent too many years pouring yourself into something that kept not being enough. But the universe had not asked. Carry this, it said.

Ma 'ite, your mother said, against the top of your head, and the words meant my child and they were true and they would always be true, no matter what had been lost, no matter what the morning had taken — you were still hers. That had not been placed in any fire. Carry this, the universe said. You breathed in. You breathed out.

The herbs hung on the wall. The light came through the woven walls in amber-grey. The village continued its morning outside, indifferent and ordinary and entirely unaware. Somewhere in it, Neteyam was waking up. He did not know.

Eywa ma'weya, you thought, from the bottom of everything, from the place you had not known existed until today. Eywa ma'weya, tskxe si oeru. Eywa, speak to me. Let the stones be still. Please. Please.

The stones were not still. But your mother's arms were around you. And you were still here. And for now — for this moment, in this room, with the herbs on the wall and the unreasonable morning light — that was the only thing that was required of you. Still here. Still carrying. Still here.

You became cold. Not unkind — you were too essentially yourself to be unkind, and kindness had been worn into your muscle over twenty-one cycles until it operated independently of your intention, the way breathing operates, the way the heart beats without being asked. You could not have turned it off if you'd tried. It was structural.

But the warmth — the specific, particular warmth that had lived in the center of you for fourteen years, the warmth you had aimed, almost entirely, in one direction, the warmth that had been the organizing principle of your entire interior life — that warmth had gone somewhere you could not follow it. Somewhere behind glass. Somewhere on the other side of a fire that had burned everything you could name and some things you couldn't.

You did your work. You spoke when spoken to. You sat at the communal fire in the evenings and let the light fall on your face and produced the appropriate responses to the appropriate questions. You were, by every visible measure, present. You were not present.

You were somewhere behind your own eyes, watching yourself perform the shape of a life, waiting for something you couldn't name and were no longer sure would come. Txantslusam, the elders would say. Wisdom coming. Not yet. Coming. You had been waiting for wisdom your whole life and it kept arriving after the moment it could have changed anything. You went once to the place where the child had almost been — the sleeping space, the walls, the specific quality of the dark in that room that you had memorized on a rain-washed night that had felt like the beginning of everything and had turned out to be the beginning of the end of everything. You stood in the doorway and you looked at the walls and you felt nothing.

And then you felt too much. And then you left, and you did not go back, and you added it to the list of places in the village that you navigated around now, the geography of your own grief mapped onto the physical landscape of your home — the altar path, the doorway, the edge of the forest where you had built the fire, the tree where you had cried after the third attempt, the river where he had held your hand and said slow like a direction he'd chosen. The whole village was a map of him.

You lived in it anyway. You had no other village.

Neteyam, without knowing why, began to remember. You knew this not because he told you — you were not speaking, not in the way you had spoken before, not in the way of people who share the same interior landscape — but because the People talk, and because Lo'ak had a face that communicated everything his mouth chose not to say, and because Kiri had taken to sitting beside you in the evenings with a careful, watchful expression that meant she was monitoring something she hadn't told you about yet.

You knew he was remembering. You knew it the way you had always known things about him — the way you had learned the forest, by living in close proximity until the knowing was simply part of you.

You did not go to him. You told yourself you were giving him space to heal. You told yourself it was a kindness, a mercy, the most loving thing you could do for someone who was putting themselves back together piece by piece and did not need you standing in the doorway asking if the pieces fit yet.

You told yourself this. You knew, underneath the telling, the actual truth: you were afraid. Not of him. Never of him. You were afraid of yourself — of what would happen to whatever structural integrity you had managed to rebuild if you stood in front of him and he looked at you with the new thing in his eyes, the searching thing, the almost-recognizing thing, the thing that looked like the song coming back from a long way away.

You were afraid that if he looked at you like that, you would go toward it. And you could not survive going toward it again. You had nothing left to survive it with.

Lo'ak found you one evening, sitting alone at the edge of the village where the ground dropped away into the valley and you could see three rivers from a single vantage point. He sat beside you with the particular Lo'ak energy of someone who has something to say and is trying to decide whether to say it. You waited.

"He asked about you," Lo'ak said finally.

You said nothing.

"He asks about you every day." Lo'ak picked up a small stone and turned it in his fingers. "He remembers more every day. He remembered the river yesterday. He came and told me about it like — like someone who found something they'd given up on finding. He was —" Lo'ak stopped. Pressed his lips together. "He looked the way he used to look when he talked about you. Before."

You were quiet for a long time.

"Lo'ak," you said finally.

"Srane."

"Tell him —" You stopped. You looked at the three rivers. You thought about everything you could ask Lo'ak to tell him and how none of it was something you were willing to put in someone else's mouth. "Tell him nothing. Tell him I'm alright."

"Are you?" The question sat between you.

"No," you said.

Lo'ak didn't say anything. He put the small stone down carefully, like he was returning something that belonged to the earth.

"He's falling in love with you again," Lo'ak said, very quietly. "I think you know that."

"I know," you said.

"And?"

You looked at the rivers. The bioluminescence was beginning to come up in the valley below, the slow nightly miracle of Eywa's world lighting itself from within — the thing that had been happening every night since before you were born and would happen every night long after, the thing that did not stop because of weddings that didn't happen or children that didn't survive or men who forgot and then remembered too late.

"And," you said, "it's too late, Lo'ak."

He didn't argue. He sat with you until the valley was fully lit below, and then he left, and you sat alone in the glow of a world that was still beautiful despite everything, which you had decided to take as neither comfort nor insult but simply as information. The world was still beautiful. You were still in it. That would have to be enough for now.

You hadn't planned to talk to him. You had been careful — precise, deliberate, architectural in your avoidance — not out of cruelty but out of self-preservation, out of the understanding that you were a person operating on the last of your reserves and that certain things would spend those reserves faster than you could rebuild them. Neteyam was one of those things. The sight of him, the sound of him saying your name in the new way — the way that meant something again — was one of those things.

But you had not accounted for an afternoon in late dry season when the light came down through the canopy at exactly the angle it had come down at a hundred important moments of your life, golden and specific and unreasonably beautiful, and you turned a corner at the edge of the village and he was simply there.

Sitting at the boundary where the village met the forest, where the root systems of Eywa's Tree reached the surface of the ground in great curved arches that the children used as benches and the elders used as altars. He was sitting on a root with his forearms on his knees and his head slightly bowed and the expression on his face was the one you had mapped fourteen years ago and never forgotten — the searching expression, the one that meant he was trying to locate something he'd lost in a dark room and was applying his entire self to the problem of finding it.

You could have turned around. You did not turn around. You sat beside him. Not close — a careful, measured distance, the width of everything that had happened between you. He heard you arrive. He turned his head. And there it was, exactly as you'd feared it would be — the thing in his eyes that was almost recognition and softer than recognition, like someone who has been hearing a song without being able to name it and has just, just, found the title.

He looked at you and you could see him remembering. Right there, in real time, while you watched. You could see the pages returning.

"_____," he said.

And the way he said it destroyed something in you quietly. He said it the way he used to say it. Not the blank careful politeness of the healing tent, not the labored effort of the wedding altar. He said it the way he had said it on a ridge above three valleys, on a riverbank, in the dark — like it was the most natural word his mouth knew how to make, like it had been waiting in him all along and had simply been temporarily misplaced.

He said your name like it meant everything.

Because it does, something in you said. It always did. You've known that since you were seven cycles old. You looked at your hands.

"I remember more," he said. His voice was careful and urgent in equal measure, the voice of someone who has found something precious and is trying to hold it without breaking it. "Every day there is more. I remember — I remember a river. I remember sitting in a tree above the village at night and counting the fires below. I remember bark — words on bark that someone gave me, and I remember sitting down when I read it, I remember the ground coming up —" He stopped. "I remember the way you look when you are trying not to feel something. You press your lips together and you look slightly to the left. You have been doing it since we were children and you have never known that I noticed."

The ground went unreliable under your feet. Even sitting down. Even motionless. The ground went unreliable the way it had gone unreliable when you were seven years old and a vine was removed from your ankle by careful hands.

"Neteyam —"

"I need to tell you something," he said. And he said it with the urgency of someone who has learned, through the specific education of loss, that there is no such thing as later, that later is a promise the universe does not honor, that if you have something to say you say it now while the person is in front of you and the air is still between you and there is still time. "I need to say it and I need you to let me finish."

You said nothing. You pressed your lips together. You looked slightly to the left. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He had always noticed.

"I remember you," he said. "Not just the facts — the river, the bark, the tree. I remember — I remember what it felt like to realize. I remember sitting at a river and taking your hand and thinking: oh. Oh, this is what this is. I remember learning that the word I had been using was wrong, that tsmuke was the wrong word, that I had been calling a song by the wrong name for years and then someone told me the real name and the world rearranged." His voice was quiet and completely direct. "I remember falling in love with you. The first time. I remember it coming back. And I am — I am telling you that it is coming back again. Now. Here. Whether I have the right to say it or not."

The forest breathed. Somewhere in the canopy, something called. You sat with your hands in your lap and the ground unreliable beneath you and fourteen years of loving this man pressing against the back of your chest like weather that had been building for a very long time.

You breathed in.

"Neteyam." His name in your mouth felt like the oldest word you knew. Like something worn smooth by use. "I need you to listen to me now." "I'm listening." "I lost a child," you said.

The words fell into the space between you like stones into deep water. You watched him receive them — watched the expression on his face move through surprise and then something that had no name, something that was the face a person makes when they are handed a grief so specific and so enormous that the face does not have a prepared response for it.

"I know," he said, very quietly. "Lo'ak told me — he told me you had lost something. I didn't know —"

"Our child," you said. "Yours and mine. I had been carrying them for two days. Since before the wedding. I found out the morning of — the morning before the ceremony. I didn't tell you because there was no —" Your voice held. You were so tired of your voice holding. You were so tired of being the person whose voice held. "There was no version of that conversation that made anything better. So I carried it alone. To the altar. Through the fire. And then my body —"

You stopped. "My body answered the grief," you said. "Mo'at said it was too much. The child was too new and the pain was too large and the body answers. It answers whether you want it to or not."

He made a sound. You did not look at him. You had decided, before you sat down, before this conversation existed, that you would not look at him during this — that you would say it to the air and the roots and the forest, the way you had said this was the future, I am returning it, because some things needed to be spoken into the open rather than into a face, because some things were too large to be contained in the space between two people looking at each other.

"I lost the wedding," you said. "I lost you. I lost the child. In three days. In that order. And I am telling you this not to wound you — you are not responsible for what happened to your mind, I know that, I have always known that — but because our child existed, briefly and completely and really, and I am the only one who has been carrying that, and it is too heavy to carry alone for the rest of my life, and you are their father, and you deserved to know."

The silence that followed was the deepest silence you had ever sat inside. Not the silence of the altar — that had been a held breath, a crowd of witnesses, a public grief. This silence was just the two of you at the edge of the world, with the forest breathing around you and the roots of Eywa's Tree beneath you and the late afternoon light turning everything amber and merciless.

"I am so sorry," he said.

And you heard it — you heard what the words were carrying, heard the genuine weight of them, heard that this was not the apology of a person who doesn't know what they're apologizing for. He knew. He understood exactly what had been lost and exactly what his forgetting had cost and he was receiving it, with both hands, without trying to set it down or soften it or make it into something that could be more easily survived. He was receiving it. He had always been good at receiving things, when he knew what they were.

"I know," you said. "I know you are."

"Our child —" His voice broke on the word our and he stopped and you heard him collect himself, heard the specific sound of someone doing the work of being present in something unbearable. "Our child deserved —"

"Don't," you said. "Please don't. I cannot — I cannot hear about what they deserved. I know what they deserved. I have been knowing it every day. Please." He stopped. Silence.

Then: "Can I —" and you heard his hand move, heard the whisper of it through the air toward you, felt the warmth of him at the edge of your peripheral vision reaching, and you wanted — you wanted — you felt the wanting the way you felt the ground go unreliable, the way you always felt anything to do with him, with the full involuntary weight of fourteen years —

"No," you said. Gently. Carefully. With the last of the control you had.

"Not right now." He withdrew his hand. You heard it return to his own lap. You heard the specific sound of a person who has been stopped short of the one thing they wanted and is trying to accept that gracefully. He tried.

"I am remembering you," he said, after a long time. "Every day the pages return. I look at you and it is like finding something I was convinced was gone forever, something I had — I had given up on finding, and then I turn a corner and it is simply there, and I do not know what to do with the having-found-it because I also know what the losing of it cost." His voice was very quiet. "I think I was given something extraordinary. I think I had something that most people never have — to be loved the way I believe you loved me — and I did not know what I was holding, and then I forgot I was holding it at all, and by the time I remembered —"

He stopped.

"By the time I remembered," he said, "the holding had cost you everything."

You looked at him then. You couldn't help it. You looked at him — at this man who had been your entire interior landscape since you were seven cycles old, at the face you had memorized in every light and mood and season, at the eyes that were amber-gold and shaped like his mother's and were looking at you right now with the thing in them that had been growing since the memories started returning — the thing that was no longer almost-recognition, that was simply recognition, full and unqualified and too late.

He looked like himself. He looked like your Neteyam. And that was, somehow, the worst and most important thing about this entire scene — not that he had forgotten, not that he had stepped back at the altar, not that he had said I don't know her in front of everyone you loved. But that he had come back. That he had found his way back to himself, to you, to the song with the right name — and that you were standing on the other side of a fire looking at him and feeling the warmth that had never gone anywhere, that had simply gone behind glass, and knowing that the glass was there for a reason.

The glass was there because you were still standing. Because you had survived by building it. And you could not dismantle the thing that was keeping you alive just because the reason you'd built it was looking at you with full eyes and a voice that said your name the right way again.

"I know," you said. "I know you did. I know you lost it. I know you found it again."

"_____—"

"And I know —" Your voice cracked and you let it crack, you let it be audible, you did not manage it back into stillness because you had been managing things into stillness for fourteen years and you were done, you were so done, with performing steadiness as a substitute for being known — "I know that what you're feeling is real. I can see it. I have been able to see it for weeks. I see you, Neteyam, I have always seen you, that has never once been the problem."

"Then—"

"I lost our child." You said it a final time, not because he needed to be reminded, but because you needed to say it — needed to say it in his presence, needed him to hear the specific weight of those three words in your specific voice, needed there to be a witness to the truth that you had been carrying alone. "I lost our child and I lost you on the same day and I burned everything we built on the night between, and I woke up the morning after with nothing — nothing left, not a single thing — and I have been rebuilding from nothing, Neteyam. From nothing. With my hands. Alone."

"You are not alone —"

"I have been alone in the ways that matter."

The words landed. You watched them land. You watched him receive them and not argue with them because he was honest and he knew they were true.

"You are the fire," you said, and your voice was barely above a whisper now, and the whisper was somehow more final than any volume could have been. "You are the thing I burned. And I cannot — I cannot take the ash of something and make it new again just because the burning is over. I don't know if I have enough left. I don't know if I will ever have enough left. And I refuse to give you what remains of me and have it not be enough. You deserve more than the ruins of someone. And so do I."

He was looking at you. He was looking at you the way he had looked at the bark with words on it, years ago — with the full weight of his attention, with the enormous careful heart that had always been his defining characteristic, with the expression of a man who is being honest with himself about something that costs him. He said nothing for a long time. And then, quietly, in the voice of someone who has understood something fully and is not going to pretend otherwise:

"I know," he said. "I know. I am not — I am not asking you to give me what you don't have. I would never ask that. I am only —" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I am only telling you that I am here. That I remember. That if you ever —" He stopped again. "That the door is not closed on my side."

You stood up. Your legs held. They had always held, eventually, through every version of this — every altar and fire and forest and waking-up-to-bad-news. Your legs held and you stood and you looked down at him, at this man, at this specific and irreplaceable and devastating man who had been the organizing principle of your entire life and who was looking up at you now with eyes full of everything he had remembered and everything he understood it had cost. You felt something.

You always felt something. You had stopped pretending you didn't. It lived in the same place it had always lived. It was behind the glass. It was warm behind the glass, it had always been warm, it would probably always be warm — that was the thing about loving someone since you were seven years old, you didn't get to choose whether it stopped, you only got to choose what you did with the continuing.

You had chosen to walk. Walking was not the same as not loving. It was just the only thing left that was entirely yours to do.

"Neteyam," you said. His name in your mouth one last time, in this conversation, in this afternoon, in this version of your lives. He looked up at you.

The light was amber and late and the forest was breathing and somewhere in the roots beneath your feet, every voice that had ever spoken into Eywa's Tree was still speaking, still held, still permanent — every vow ever made and every grief ever given and every love that had been real enough to leave a mark on the world's memory, held in the wood and the root and the bioluminescent dark.

Yours was in there. You had stood under that Tree in a dress that glowed, with flowers that smelled like spirit-lines, and even though the vows had not been spoken, you had been there. You had shown up. You had carried fourteen years and a secret and a child and you had shown up in a white dress with your mother's cord around the bouquet and you had been ready. You had been so ready. The Tree had heard that, even if no one else had.

Eywa held everything. You looked at Neteyam — at his tired, searching, newly remembering face — and you felt the enormity of what you were leaving, felt it the way you felt the ground go unreliable, felt it the way you had felt everything to do with him for fourteen years, with the full weight of a love that had survived being unreturned and returned and lost and burned and was, even now, even here, even after everything —

Still warm. Still there. Still yours. "Maybe," you said, "we get married one day."

His breath caught. "But who knows?"

You turned away before you could see his face change. Before you could see what those words did to him. Before the thing behind the glass could find a crack and come through, before the warmth could reach you in a way that would make the next step impossible. You turned away and you walked.

Past the roots of Eywa's Tree where an altar had been prepared and not used. Past the elder woman with the knowing eyes who had given you seven flowers for permanence and watched them mean nothing and left offerings at the Tree of Voices on your behalf in quiet faithfulness. Past Lo'ak, who looked at your face and then looked at the ground and pressed his fist briefly to his chest — the gesture of the People for I see your grief, I honor it, I will not make you speak it. Past the path that led to the communal fire. Past the sleeping spaces and the morning-herb smell of your mother's home. Past all of it. The village fell behind you. The jungle opened ahead.

You walked into it and the bioluminescence rose around you — the ancient light, the living light, the light that was Eywa breathing through every root and vine and glowing thing in this world — and it fell on you the way it had fallen on you your entire life, indifferent and beautiful and present, and you let it.

You breathed. In. Eywa ma'weya. Out. Tskxe si oeru.

The stones were not still. The stones were not still and Eywa did not speak and somewhere behind you Neteyam was sitting on a root with five words in his chest — maybe we get married one day — and the but who knows that came after them, and the silence where your presence had just been, and all of it, all of it going into the roots beneath him, into the Tree, into the memory that Eywa kept of every love that had ever been real enough to hurt this much.

You were still walking. Not toward. Not away.

Forward. Simply forward. Into whatever the world was going to be next, with what remained of you, carrying what you had been given to carry — the thorn and the fourteen years and the fire and the child and the ring with its permanent words and the glass that was keeping you alive and the warmth behind it that had never, not once, not for a single moment, gone out. You were still yourself. Smaller, in some ways. Larger in others.

Changed in the way that only real things change you, the way that only real losses leave real marks, the way that only a love that was genuinely enormous can leave a genuinely enormous absence in its place. You were still you. The forest received you. Eywa breathed.

And behind you, in the village, in the amber light of a late afternoon that neither of you would forget — Neteyam sat on the root of Eywa's Tree and looked at the place where you had been and understood, fully, for the first time, the thing that wisdom always costs:

That knowing what you had, and losing it, and remembering it, and watching it walk away from you into the forest — was not the same as having it back. That love, returned too late, was still love. That it simply had nowhere left to go.

I debated for a long time whether to write this chapter. And then I thought about what it means to love someone completely — to build a life around a person, — and then to have all of it taken. Not by cruelty. Not by choice. Just by the indifferent machinery of fate, which does not care what you deserve. I thought about what it means to carry that. And I thought: this story has to go here. Because some loves are real and enormous and they still end. And the ending doesn't make the love smaller. It just makes the world quieter.

[neteyamthinker]

show me, warrior

pairings aged-up neteyam x omatikaya!female warrior

notes canon divergence, mutual pining, neteyam has a phd in yearning, neteyam and reader are always bantering, reader is cocky and very protective of neteyam, funny lo’ak as always, so much smut, p in v sex, oral (f and m receiving), big dick neteyam 🙏 tell me if i missed anything !

2 always, paskalin | 3 he has the blood of warriors

word count 23k

synopsis you are one of, if not the, fiercest huntresses of the omatikaya clan, skilled with your bow and arrow on the ground, but even more unparalleled on top of your ikran. for this, your being neteyam’s second during missions against the RDA is a no-brainer. everybody knows you’re the only one who can go toe to toe with him. he knows that, you know that.

————————

"The south ridge perimeter reports another breach," you heard Neteyam’s voice cut through the hum of the warriors' chatters, his tone sharper than a freshly honed arrow. "A scouting party, four demon soldiers, armed with heat rays. They’re probing our defenses near the West Bridge."

"Heat rays?" you asked, leaning back against the rough bark of the Hometree's roots, the woven mat beneath you shifting slightly. “Do they wish to paralyze us with heat now? And what do they feel about that being used on them?”

Neteyam turned his head to you, his gaze, usually so intense, flickered with something akin to amusement. "Perhaps they wish to roast us." A low growl rumbled in his chest. "Their arrogance grows with each passing cycle."

"Their arrogance is merely a pretense because we keep swatting them away like moonwraith," you countered, pushing yourself upright. "A moonwraith, if persistent enough, still annoys. What's the plan, warrior?"

"The plan, huntress, is to send them back to their metal boxes with a clear message." His eyes, the color of a golden pool, fixed on yours. "They will not pass. I will lead a swift strike team. You will be my second."

"Naturally," you drawled, a smirk playing on your lips. "Who else would you trust to keep you from getting your ass kick when you inevitably get too persistent?"

A low chuckle escaped him, a rare sound. "My persistence has served this clan well, paskalin,“ his voice laced with sarcasm. “And your vigilance has saved my ass more times than I care to admit."

"Oh, don’t humble yourself, ma ‘teyam,“ you taunted with a deliberate soft voice, making him stand taller because your voice sent a jolt of shivers down his spine. “Your foolishness sometimes provides a challenge for me." You rose, stretching, your muscles coiling beneath your skin. "Where do you want me? High cover? Flank? Or should I just shadow your every move like a loyal hound?"

His lips curled into a smirk as he cleaned the council’s table. Under me, he thought mischievously and the thought sent another powerful spark in his middle that he had to clear his throat and remind himself to be serious.

"Your 'loyal hound' act is commendable, but I require your eyes in the sky, above the canopy. Spot their escape routes before they even think of them. Cut them off." He began to move towards the exit of the council tent, his strides long and purposeful, a stark contrast to the nervousness he's feeling at the prospect of being left in the tent alone with you. "And ensure no one gets caught in their heat rays. Those things could disorient the ikran."

"Understood," you called after him, already picturing the turbulent air, the scent of the forest floor rising to meet you. "I'll make sure their asses burn for weeks, even without their fancy toys."

————————

"They're moving faster than the last group," you reported, your voice a calm current in Neteyam’s ear via the link, the wind whipping past your face as your Frakrr, your ikran, banked sharply, a shadow against the clouds. "One of them carries a larger disruptor, a portable cannon. It’s heavy. He’s lagging."

"A cannon?" Neteyam’s voice was a low growl. "Pinpoint its location. I’ll approach from the ground, through the undergrowth. We’ll separate them."

"He's near the old Root Bridge, southwest of your current position. The other three are fanning out, covering his six. They think they’re clever." You tightened your grip on your bow, the string humming faintly with the tension of your intent. "I see a clear shot at the cannon-bearer. If I take him out, it might disorganize the others."

"Hold your shot," Neteyam commanded, his voice firm. "We don't want to alert the entire forest just yet. Let them feel secure. Let them make mistakes."

"My patience wears thin when they threaten our home, Neteyam," you retorted, though your ikran remained steady, circling high above. "But your decision, as always, guides us. Tell me when to strike."

"When I give the signal. Watch my back, paskalin. They're good at flanking."

"I always watch your back," you murmured, more to yourself than to him, your eyes scanning the dense foliage below, every rustle, every glint of metal, a potential threat. You saw the three scout outriders, their human forms clumsy against the natural world, their rifles held ready. They were too focused on the ground, too confident in their air superiority. A mistake.

"Now!" Neteyam’s voice boomed, sharp and sudden.

You didn't hesitate. Your ikran dipped with a single tap of your foot, a controlled fall, wind screaming in your ears. You drew your bow, the arrow a blur against the moonlight, aimed not at the man, but at the power pack on the back of the heat cannon. The thud of the impact was almost imperceptible over the wind, but the resulting shower of sparks, a brief, violent flash, was unmistakable. The human carrying the cannon stumbled, a cry of surprise ripped from his throat.

"Cannon disabled," you announced, pulling up sharply, your ikran letting out a triumphant cry. "One less nuisance."

Below, you saw Neteyam, a blur of blue and shadow, engage the remaining three. He moved with a predatory grace, a warrior's dance. One human went down with a guttural cry, another staggered back, clutching his arm. The third, the leader, turned to face Neteyam, raising his rifle.

"Behind you!" you yelled, already releasing another arrow. It whistled through the air, finding its mark in the human’s shoulder. He cried out, dropping his weapon.

Neteyam, without even looking, spun, his knife ending the skirmish with brutal efficiency. He looked up, his gaze finding yours in the darkness. A silent acknowledgment passed between you.

"Clean work, Y/N," he said, his voice now calm, the adrenaline receding. "As always."

"You leave too many openings," you replied, a playful edge to your tone. "Someone has to patch them up."

"And you always do." He turned, surveying the fallen humans. "Let's secure the area. No more surprises tonight."

————————

The war council tent hummed with a different kind of tension now, a dull, persistent thrum like a distant storm. The recent skirmishes, though repelled, were increasing in frequency.

"They're probing our supply lines," one of the older warriors, a seasoned hunter named Ak’tan, reported, his voice gravelly. "Targeting the fishing grounds, the herb gathering paths. They want to starve us out."

"Starve us out?" you scoffed, crossing your arms. "They'll find our resolve tougher than their metal ships. We know these lands better than they know their own names."

"But their numbers are growing," Neteyam interjected, his eyes scanning the faces around the circle. "And their technology advances. We cannot simply rely on our knowledge of the forest."

"So, what do you propose, Neteyam?" you challenged, meeting his gaze directly. "A frontal assault on their fortified positions? A suicide mission?"

"No," he said, his jaw tightening. "A strategic disruption. We hit their communication relays. Blind them. Deafen them. They rely on their machines too heavily. Without them, they are lost."

"A bold plan," Ak’tan mused, stroking his chin. "But their relays are heavily guarded. It would require a deep penetration into their territory, a small, stealthy team."

"Exactly," Neteyam affirmed. "A team of our most skilled warriors. Those who can move unseen, strike swiftly, and disappear without a trace." He looked at you, a challenge in his eyes. "And those who can provide air cover, neutralizing their patrols before they even know we are there."

"You're volunteering me for another one of your adventures, then?" you asked, a smile playing on your lips, even as your heart quickened. The thought of flying deep into RDA territory, the danger, the exhilaration, was a potent mix.

"Only if you believe you are up to the task, paskalin," he returned, a slight tilt to his head. "It will be dangerous. More dangerous than anything we've faced before."

"Danger is merely a measure of the challenge, ma ‘teyam," you countered, pushing off the ground, your stance radiating confidence. "And I thrive on challenges. When do we leave?"

"At the next full moon," he replied, his eyes holding yours, a silent agreement passing between you. "We will need to scout their patrols, map their movements. It will require patience."

“Patience,” you rolled your eyes. That’s something you famously lack.

————————

Dust plumed from beneath the thudding feet of young warriors, their bodies a symphony of muscle and grace on the Omatikaya training grounds.  You stood at the archery targets, the familiar weight of your bow a comfort in your grip, the wood worn smooth by countless hours of practice. Your fingers, calloused from pulling taut strings, nocked an arrow with a fluid motion. The tip, obsidian-sharp, gleamed under the sun.

A low whistle, like a wind through hollow reeds, cut through the din of training. Neteyam, his torso bare and glistening with sweat, leaned against a gnarled tree trunk, a casual pose that belied the coiled power within his frame. He watched you, a smirk playing on his lips, his tail a slow, rhythmic sway behind him.

“Still practicing your aim, huntress?” he called out, his voice a warm rumble that carried easily across the clearing. “Thought a warrior of your renown would be above such mundane tasks.”

You released the arrow. It cleaved the air with a sharp sound, burying itself dead-center in the target’s heart. A perfect shot. You didn’t even glance at it, instead turning your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a challenging glint in your own eyes.

“A true warrior never ceases to hone their craft, Neteyam,” you countered, your voice a silken thread, laced with just enough bite to keep him on his toes. You pulled another arrow from your quiver, the feathers brushing against your hip. “Unlike some, who seem content to merely observe.”

He pushed off the tree, his movements effortless, a predator stretching. He walked towards you, his long strides eating up the distance. The other warriors, though engrossed in their own drills, shifted their eyes, a subtle ripple of attention following his approach. He commanded a space, an unspoken reverence in their regard.

“Observation is a critical component of strategy, paskalin,” he said, stopping a few paces away, his height towering over you, casting a long shadow. His eyes roamed over your form, lingering on the taut curve of your arm, the elegant line of your neck. “One must understand the capabilities of their allies… and their rivals.”

You drew the bowstring back again, the muscles in your shoulders bunching, a testament to your strength. Your tail flicked, a nervous habit you’d long since learned to ignore, but one he always noticed.

“Are you implying I am an ally, ma ‘teyam?” you asked, your voice dropping to a low purr. The arrow hummed, trembling slightly as you held your breath, aiming. “Or a rival?”

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that vibrated through the air. His hand, warm and calloused, brushed against your elbow, a seemingly innocent adjustment to your form. Your skin tingled where he touched.

“You,” he murmured, his voice now a low whisper meant only for you, “are too wild to be tamed, too fierce to be contained. A rival, perhaps, for the title of the clan’s most stubborn warrior.”

You released the arrow. It struck the previous one, splitting the shaft cleanly down the middle, a feat of precision that drew gasps from some of the younger recruits. You lowered your bow, turning to face him fully, your hips swaying subtly as you shifted your weight. His eyes, you noticed, dropped to your hips, a flicker of something raw and hungry in their depths before he quickly masked it.

“Stubborn, am I?” you challenged, a playful smirk curving your lips. You took a step closer, invading his personal space, your gaze locked with his. “Or merely persistent for excellence? Perhaps you find my ambition… threatening, Olo’eyktan-in-waiting.”

He leaned in, his breath warm on your face, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. “So fiery, little huntress. Makes me wonder what other fires you keep hidden.”

A shiver traced its way down your spine, but you met his gaze unflinchingly, your own eyes sparkling with mischief. You knew the effect you had on him, the way his pupils dilated, the subtle tension in his jaw. You reveled in it.

“Some fires,” you whispered back, your voice husky, “are best discovered in the dark. Away from prying eyes.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that was almost a growl. His hand, which had rested lightly on your elbow, now squeezed, a possessive grip. The undeniable hardening against his loincloth almost frustrated him, a result of the images that are assaulting his mind now. You watched his eyes dilate as he stares at you. The thought of him, aroused by your words, by your mere presence, sent a thrill through you.

“You play a dangerous game, paskalin,” he breathed, his voice tight with barely suppressed desire.

You pulled away, a slow, deliberate movement, your hips swaying provocatively as you turned to collect your scattered arrows from the targets. You knew he watched every line of your body, the flex of your muscles, the sensual rhythm of your every step. You felt his gaze like a tangible heat on your skin.

“Only with those brave enough to challenge me, Neteyam,” you tossed over your shoulder, a final, teasing shot. Your tail, you knew, gave away your own excitement, twitching subtly behind you. You heard him release a ragged breath, and a small, private smile touched your lips. He was always so transparent with you.

You didn’t even know when this started. You two have always had a good rapport with each other despite the two-year difference. The sharpness of your archery skills had earned you a place on his level when you two were still aspirants, and while you wouldn’t call him your best friend, you definitely have the best chemistry especially in the battleground. No one knows him like you do and no one knows you like he does.

Warriors around you have long seen what you two refuse to acknowledge and that is why, even at the ripe age of one and twenty, you still remained unmated. Without any prospects, too. Which is a non-issue for you. You’re not eager to get mated, anyway.

The sun began its slow descent during one of your usual trainings, painting the western sky in hues of orange and purple. The training grounds slowly emptied as warriors drifted away, their day’s exertions concluded. You remained, meticulously gathering your arrows, each one a testament to your skill. The soft thud of your bare feet on the ground was the only sound for a moment, save for the distant chirping of forest creatures.

A shadow fell over you. You didn’t need to look up to know it wasn’t Neteyam. The scent was different, heavier. A sense of unease pricked at your senses.

“Still here, Y/N?” A voice, rough and unpleasant, intruded on the quiet. Takrem. One of the clan's warriors known more for his brutish strength than his intellect or grace. His eyes, huge on his head, always seemed to linger too long on the women of the clan.

You continued collecting arrows, ignoring him, hoping he would simply move on. Your tail, which had been still, now twitched with irritation.

“Ignoring me again, are we?” he sneered, stepping closer. You felt his presence loom over you. “Too busy dreaming of the Olo’eyktan’s son, perhaps? You make it so obvious, the way you preen for him, the way your eyes follow him. Think batting your eyelashes will get you a mate, little orphan?”

You straightened, turning slowly to face him, your eyes narrowing. Your voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. “My parents died fighting for this clan, Takrem. They earned my place here, and I earn it every day with my bow, not with my eyes.”

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh, you earn it, alright. With your pretty face and your even prettier body. Think you’re so special, don’t you? Always with Neteyam, always whispering in his ear. But he’s the Olo’eyktan’s son. He needs a Tsahik, a true leader, not a… a stray.” He took another step, his hand reaching out, fingers splayed as if to touch your arm. His words achieved its desired emotion from you, its truth gripping your heart. “Maybe you should try making yourself useful to other warriors, too. You might find it… enjoyable.”

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, a blur of blue and black streaked past you. Neteyam. He had come from nowhere, drawn by some unseen tether, and his eyes, when you saw them, were not the warm, teasing pools you knew. They were twin points of pure, unadulterated rage, glowing like embers in the twilight.

Takrem, caught off guard, stumbled back with a yelp when Neteyam grabbed him by the nape, effortlessly dragging him so he could face his fist, a blur of hardened bone and muscle, connected with his jaw. The crack echoed through the near-empty training grounds. Takrem’s head snapped back, his body reeling, and he crashed to the dirt in a heap.

Neteyam didn’t stop. He launched himself at the fallen warrior, his hands closing around Takrem’s throat. His knuckles were white, his teeth bared in a snarl. Takrem clawed at Neteyam’s arms, his face rapidly turning a sickly purple.

“You touch her again,” Neteyam snarled, his voice a guttural rasp, “and I will break every bone in your body. I will rip out your throat.”

The sound of pounding feet announced the arrival of other warriors, drawn by the commotion. They scrambled to intervene, their faces etched with alarm. Five of them wrestled Neteyam away from Takrem, who lay gasping, clutching his throat.

Neteyam fought them with a ferocity that stunned them all. He bucked and thrashed, his muscles coiling and flexing, each movement a desperate attempt to break free. He was a wild beast, consumed by a protective fury.

“Let me go!” he roared, his voice raw.

The warriors strained, their feet digging trenches in the dirt as they tried to hold him. He was too strong, too driven. With a sudden, explosive surge of power, he tore free from their grasp, sending two warriors sprawling. His eyes, still blazing, immediately found Takrem, who was now scrambling to his feet, fear etched on his face.

Neteyam lunged again. Takrem let out a whimpering cry, too slow to escape the onslaught. Neteyam’s fist aimed straight for Takrem’s face again.

“Neteyam!” Your voice, though not a shout, cut through the chaos like a sharp blade. It was low, firm, imbued with an authority that brooked no argument.

He froze after having delivered several punches, his arm hanging in the air, his body trembling with suppressed violence. His head snapped towards you, his eyes still burning, but a flicker of recognition, of obedience, began to dawn in their depths. The other warriors, relieved, let out collective breaths, their bodies slumping with exhaustion.

You walked towards him, your movements calm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the storm of emotion swirling around him. You reached him, your hand gently closing around his wrist, pulling his arm down. His muscles were rigid, his skin hot beneath your touch. You pulled him and he stood up, towering over you now but everyone knows who has the authority.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice quiet, but firm. Your gaze was steady, unwavering.

His chest heaved, his breathing ragged. He looked at you, then at Takrem, who was now backed against a tree, shaking. “He… he was harassing you, Y/N. He spoke to you with disrespect. He touched you.”

“He barely touched me, Neteyam,” you stated, your voice devoid of anger, yet laced with an undeniable disappointment. You looked around at the other warriors, their eyes wide, their faces a mixture of awe and concern. “You can’t act like this around your warriors. You are the son of the Olo’eyktan, the one they will follow into battle. Do you understand that?"

His head dropped, his gaze falling to the dirt, the fire in his eyes dimming, replaced by a sheepishness that was almost comical given his earlier rage. He looked like a scolded child. The contrast was stark, and the other warriors shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. They had seen him like this before, also so completely under your command.

You reached out, gently cupping his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You will apologize to Takrem, Neteyam. And then you will bring him to your father for appropriate punishment. After all, he’s done this to many women before. His actions deserve to be judged by the clan’s laws, not by your fists.”

He sighed, a long, weary sound, the fight draining from him. His shoulders slumped. He looked at you through his lashes, his eyes searching yours for any lingering anger. “Are you… are you alright?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern. He reached for your hand, his fingers gently closing around your wrist, his thumb stroking your pulse point. “He truly didn't touch you?”

You shook your head. “I’m fine. But your hands…” You gestured to his knuckles, which were already swelling, a deep bruise blooming across them. “Come back to me. I’ll tend to your hands.”

He nodded, a silent agreement. He turned, his shoulders still tense, and walked towards Takrem, who flinched as he approached. The other warriors watched, a silent testament to the power you held over him. He spoke to Takrem in low tones, the words indistinguishable, but the meaning clear. Takrem, head bowed, nodded meekly.

You watched Neteyam lead Takrem away, a strange mix of pride and exasperation swirling within you. He was so fiercely protective, so passionately devoted. It was both endearing and, at times, utterly infuriating.

You returned to your arrows, finishing your task as the last vestiges of daylight bled from the sky. The air grew cool, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Soon, Neteyam would return. You knew he would. He always did.

The stars, brilliant pinpricks of light, began to emerge in the velvet expanse above. The sounds of the forest, the rhythmic chirping of insects, the distant call of a hexapede, filled the silence. You sat on the packed earth, a small bowl of soothing herbs and a strip of clean cloth beside you, waiting.

A rustle in the undergrowth, and then he emerged from the shadows. Neteyam. He walked with a subdued air, his usual proud bearing tempered by a quiet humility. He approached you, his eyes meeting yours, a silent question in their depths.

“He will be punished,” he said, his voice flat, as he sat beside you, his large frame settling onto the ground. “My father… he understands.”

You nodded, taking one of his hands in yours. His knuckles were indeed swollen, the skin broken in places. You gently dabbed the herbal paste onto the wounds, the cool sensation a stark contrast to the heat of his skin.

“You know, for a warrior who is supposed to lead with wisdom and strategy, you often resort to brute force,” you chided, though a soft smile touched your lips.

He grunted, wincing slightly as you applied more paste. “Only for you...”

You wrapped the cloth around his hand, securing it with a careful knot. You then took his other hand, repeating the process. “That’s not valid, Neteyam. Do you hear me? Think of your reputation. The Olo'eyktan's son, always losing his temper because of some girl, resorting to brawling like a forest beast.“

He looked at you, there’s anger in them now, his jaw working. “My reputation means nothing if someone dares to disrespect you. If someone dares to threaten you. You— You are— I will not stand by while someone diminishes you.”

Your heart fluttered, a small, private forest ikran taking flight in your chest. His sincerity, his raw protectiveness, always disarmed you. You finished wrapping his second hand, then gently cupped his jaw, turning his face towards you.

“I know,” you whispered, your thumb tracing the strong line of his cheekbone. “And I appreciate it. But there are other ways. Ways that maintain your authority, your standing among the clan.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, savoring the warmth of your hand. “I’ll... I’ll do better next time.” He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with yours, a deep, soulful intensity.

The words hung in the air, heavy with emotion. You felt a familiar warmth spread through your chest, a gentle ache that was both sweet and profound. You are protective of him, too, with a fierceness that matched his own.

————————

You and Neteyam, two shadows among the leaves, moved with practiced grace. The forest pulsed with the rhythm of the wild, but your focus remained outward, scanning the horizon for any unnatural blight. The RDA's footprint, though distant, left a lingering unease.

You pointed a finger, tracing an invisible line across the distant mountains. “They’ve pushed further west. Two more patrols sighted yesterday, deeper into the territory.”

Neteyam’s gaze followed yours, his brow furrowing slightly. “That’s too close to the nesting grounds. What are they looking for?” His voice, a low rumble, held the edge of a predator.

You shrugged, a subtle shift of your shoulders. “Resources. Or perhaps they're testing our patience.” You glanced at him, a glint in your eye. “Or maybe we’re just getting soft, letting them creep so close.”

A low chuckle escaped his lips, deep and resonant. “Soft? We are prioritizing caution over a headlong charge, paskalin,” the way he drew out the endearment known only to him, sent a shiver down your spine. “I remember a time when a certain huntress would have been the first to advocate for reconnaissance before reckless engagement.”

“Reconnaissance is one thing. Paralysis is another,” you countered, your lips curling into a playful smirk. “Besides, I’m just trying to keep you on your toes. Someone has to remind the great Neteyam that even the mightiest warrior needs a nudge now and then.”

A rustle in the undergrowth, sharp and sudden, cut through the air. Neteyam stiffened, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his knife. His eyes, usually warm, narrowed to slits, scanning the dense foliage with an intensity that could peel back layers of deception. You watched him, a flicker of amusement dancing in your own eyes. He was always so coiled, so ready.

Then, a small, spotted head poked through the leaves. A hexapede fawn, no larger than your torso, blinked up at you with wide, innocent eyes that were immediately marred with fear. It let out a soft bleat, then darted away.

A laugh, light and free, bubbled from your chest. You couldn’t help it. The stark contrast between Neteyam’s coiled tension and the tiny creature was too much. “False alarm, warrior. Your paranoia is showing.”

He relaxed, a slow exhalation of breath, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Better safe than sorry. My father always says…”

“Your father also says a true warrior knows when to laugh,” you finished for him, rolling your eyes playfully. “And right now, you look ridiculous.”

He stepped closer, his movements fluid, deliberate. “Perhaps. But you, huntress, are always like this. You remain so calm, so collected, even when danger, real or imagined, is at our doorstep.” His voice softened, admiration clear in its depths. “How do you do it? Be like that and still manage to question my decisions, challenge my authority, and make me want to prove myself to you?”

You met his gaze, a warmth spreading through you. The air thickened, charged with an unspoken current. “Perhaps,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a low, husky tone, “I just like seeing you rise to the challenge.”

He took another step, closing the distance between you until his warmth radiated against your skin. His eyes, dark as the deepest jungle night, held yours captive. “And do I?” His voice was a soft whisper, a breath against your ear.

Your eyes, drawn by an irresistible pull, drifted down to his lips. You imagined the press of them against yours, the taste of him. “You know you do, warrior…”

He caught the direction of your gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Is that a challenge, too?”

You smiled then, a slow, languid curve of your lips, a smile that promised both mischief and surrender. You looked at his mouth again, then, deliberately, you ran your tongue along your own lower lip, a silent, undeniable invitation. Your fingers, light as a feather, found the hard curve of his bicep. The muscle flexed beneath your touch, a testament to his strength. He was a mountain of a man, taller than most, broader.

“You impress me, warrior…” you purred, the words a silken caress, threatening to unravel his carefully constructed composure. It wasn’t that he had much resolve left when it came to you, not really.

His hands, warm and firm, found the small of your waist, pulling you against him until no space remained between your bodies. He dipped his head, his lips brushing yours, a light, quick caress. “Do I impress you enough to allow that?” he breathed, his voice rough with suppressed desire.

You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “More than enough, Neteyam…”

A soft groan escaped him, a sound of pure relief and burning hunger. He captured your mouth again, this time deeper, more invading, a hard, demanding kiss that stole your breath. His tongue, slick and urgent, swept into your mouth, tasting, exploring, claiming. You met his fervor with your own, your hands rising to tangle in the thick braids at the back of his head, pulling him closer still.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath ragged. "I have wanted you. I want you so much," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion, "for so long. Every time you challenged me, every time you saved my life, every time you just looked at me…”

“Oh?” you cockily raised a non-existent brow, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. “Were you plotting on me, warrior?” you teased.

He lowered his head again, bending at the waist now so his lips could reach the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers through you as you wrapped an arm around him. “I’ve tried, honestly,” he chuckled, kissing your neck. “You are far more elusive than a syìl.”

You giggled, your neck almost breaking at your attempt to evade his ticklish lips. Saying that as a skilled hunter who has caught a syìl, a deer with a keen sense of its surroundings, twice before is funny of him. “I shouldn't have been then?”

He fought the urge to groan, his hand tracing the curve of your back, then slipping beneath your loincloth, his fingers finding the bare skin on the back of your thighs. If you hadn’t been too elusive, he’s confident that you two would have had a child by now, no doubt.

He kissed you again, his hands, no longer gentle, roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine, pressing you tighter against his hard frame. When he finally broke the kiss, a ragged gasp escaped your lips, your vision swimming. You leaned your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily, the jungle sounds fading into a distant hum.

“Here?” you whispered, the single word thick with question, a soft plea.

He blinked, his eyes unfocusing for a moment as if just remembering your location. Then, a primal glint ignited within them. Without another word, he scooped you up into his arms. A small yelp escaped your lips, a surprised sound that dissolved into a gasp as he cradled you against his chest. He moved with swift purpose, his powerful strides carrying you deeper into the dense undergrowth.

He found it: a secluded hollow, hidden behind a towering thicket of luminous plants, their soft glow casting an ethereal light. The ground was a carpet of thick moss, soft and inviting. He knelt, then gently lowered you onto the mossy bed, his eyes never leaving yours. As you settled, he leaned down, his lips finding yours once more, a soft, lingering kiss that promised everything.

His hands, no longer trembling with uncertainty but with raw, focused desire, moved to the fastenings of your garments. The straps and woven fabric fell away with practiced ease, revealing your skin to the soft, dappled light. He stripped your top first, his head dipping to kiss your breasts, sending shivers through you. Then your loincloth, the soft fabric sliding down your thighs. He took his time, his gaze devouring every inch of you as you lay exposed before him.

When you lay stark naked, the soft light illuminating your form, he paused. His eyes, dark and hungry, traced the curves of your body. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated yearning. He leaned down, his lips trailing fire along your collarbone, down your neck, to the soft slope of your shoulder.

His mouth found your breast, suckling gently at first, then with increasing fervor, his tongue laving the taut peak of your nipple. A delightful hum vibrated in his chest as he drew you deeper into his mouth, tugging, teasing, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. Your fingers, tangled in his braids, pressed him closer, arching your back into his embrace.

Then, his fingers, warm and calloused, brushed against your most intimate skin. A jolt, sharp and exquisite, shot through you. Your hips involuntarily arched, a gasp catching in your throat. No one had ever touched you there, not like this. The sensation was foreign, overwhelming, and utterly thrilling.

A deep satisfaction bloomed in his eyes, a possessive glint. He watched your face, a mask of pleasure and surprise, as he gently, slowly, inserted a single finger into your slick folds. You were so tight, so warm, clenching around him, making his breath hitch.

He began a slow, rhythmic pressure, his finger sliding in and out, exploring the depths of you. All the while, his mouth continued its delicious assault on your breasts, suckling, nipping, leaving a trail of fire. His other hand traced the curve of your hip, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

Then, he broke away from your breast, his tongue tracing a path down your abdomen, following the line of your navel. You watched him, mesmerized, as he moved lower, his intentions becoming terrifyingly clear. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm against you. Your hips instinctively tried to pull away, a protest forming on your lips. But he was quicker. His hands, firm and unyielding, tightened their hold on your thighs, spreading them wider, pushing your knees back until you were fully exposed to his hungry gaze. He dipped his head, his tongue flicking out, tasting you.

A gasp tore from your throat. The sensation was electrifying, a shockwave of pleasure that radiated through your entire body. His tongue, hot and wet, swirled around your clit, teasing, flicking, then circling with a deliberate rhythm. He pushed his face into you, his nose buried in your wet folds, inhaling your scent like the most precious of perfumes. His lips parted, drawing your clit into his mouth, suckling it with a voracious appetite.

You cried out, a raw sound, your body arching violently against the mossy ground. He devoured you, his tongue delving into your depths, swirling, licking, teasing, until your entire being vibrated with an unbearable pleasure. Your fingers dug into the soft moss, your back arched, your legs trembling uncontrollably. Wave after wave of exquisite sensation crashed over you, building higher and higher, until you were a writhing mess of pure, unadulterated bliss.

When he finally pulled away, your body spasmed with a final, shattering climax. You lay there, shaking, tears streaming silently down your temples, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Every nerve ending sang with a delicious ache.

He rose slightly, his face flushed, his eyes dark with triumph and lingering desire. He cooed softly, a tender sound, and leaned down to press a kiss to your damp forehead. “Still with me, baby?” he asked, his voice thick with affection. “What do you want?”

You blinked, slowly regaining your senses. A flush of indignation, mixed with a healthy dose of lingering pleasure, washed over you. You pinched his side, a sharp, playful jab. He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your body.

“Why am I the only one naked?” you demanded, your voice still a little breathless. “This is unfair…”

A wide grin spread across his face, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. He pushed himself up, his powerful form rising above you. You couldn’t help but stare, your gaze tracing the magnificent lines of his body. His broad shoulders, the sculpted planes of his chest, the ripple of muscle in his abdomen—he was a masterpiece of strength and grace. As he shed his loincloth, your breath hitched.

His cock, thick and long, sprang free, already engorged and glistening with a pearl of precum at its wide head. It pointed directly at your pussy, as if it knows its target. It seemed to pulse with a life of its own, eager, demanding.

A sudden, unexpected wave of fear washed over you. You tried to push yourself up on your elbows but his hand flew to your shoulder, gently pushing you to lie down again. “Neteyam…” you whispered, your voice laced with genuine apprehension. “I… I want to know. Will that fit? Have you seen yourself?” You gestured vaguely towards his impressive erection. Has this monster always been down there? “Will it hurt?”

He knelt between your thighs, his gaze softening, though the hunger in his eyes remained undimmed. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, then licked them. “It will fit, yes…” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. “And baby, it will also hurt. But I’ll take care of you. Do you trust me?”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. His sincerity, his tender concern, cut through your fear. You met his gaze, searching, then nodded, a small, decisive movement. “Yes. Yes,” you breathed, he pushed you back down onto the soft moss and you surrendered to him completely.

A slow, possessive smile curved his lips. He spread your thighs wider, positioning himself, his cock pressing against your wet entrance. He leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as his body prepared to invade yours. His lips moved from your mouth to your neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses, distracting you from the impending invasion.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed. A sharp intake of breath escaped your lips as the thick head stretched your slick, tight folds. You clenched, instinctively trying to resist, but he held you firm, keeping your hips still. He waited, letting your body acclimate, letting the exquisite ache begin to transform into something else. The tip of him pressed deeper, a slow, agonizing stretch. You whimpered, a soft sound of pain and growing pleasure.

He pushed again, a little further, then paused, his eyes locked on yours, searching for your consent, for your acceptance. You nodded, your breath ragged, urging him on. With a low groan, he pushed again, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully inside, stretching you to your limit. A sharp, searing pain, quickly followed by a rush of intense fullness, made your eyes water.

You cried out, a muffled sound against his shoulder as he leaned down to kiss you, absorbing your cries. He held himself still, letting your body adjust to the incredible stretch, letting the pain subside, letting the pleasure build. You felt him, thick and throbbing, filling you completely.

When your body began to relax around him, clenching and releasing in tentative pulses, he pulled back slightly until only the head remained inside, then pushed in deeper, a slow, deliberate rhythm. The initial pain had given way to an overwhelming sensation of being utterly filled, stretched, claimed. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, instinctively seeking more of this profound connection.

He began to move, a slow, deep thrust, withdrawing almost completely, then plunging back in, each stroke a testament to the years of yearning, all the fantasies he’d harbored. The air around you filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin, the rhythmic thud of his hips against yours. He was a man unleashed, his control slipping, his body driven by an insatiable hunger for you.

He thrust harder now, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes half-closed in a haze of pleasure. You met his rhythm, bucking your hips to meet each powerful stroke, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. The friction, the depth, the sheer power of his invasion, sent shivers through you. You felt yourself spiraling, caught in a tempest of sensation, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.

His balls slapped against your ass with each powerful thrust, a rhythmic beat that echoed the frantic pounding of your heart. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, pulling back to look into your eyes, his face contorted with raw passion. “Baby,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, “You’re so… so tight. So good.”

He slammed into you again, a deep, powerful thrust that made you cry out, your climax building swiftly, fiercely. You felt the delicious pressure building, a sweet, unbearable tension that promised to shatter you. He drove into you, over and over, his movements becoming frantic, desperate, pushing you to the brink. Your body convulsed around him, squeezing, milking him, as you cried out his name, your own climax exploding within you, a blinding flash of white-hot pleasure.

He groaned, his body tensing, shuddering. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips grinding against yours as he spilled his hot seed deep inside you, a torrent of liquid fire. He collapsed onto you, his heavy weight pinning you to the moss, his breath ragged against your neck, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his release.

"Fuck, that was good..." you whispered, your voice still shaky.

He lifted his head, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours. A tender smile touched his lips. "Understatement of the year. It was so much better than all of my fantasies," He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a lingering, possessive kiss before he stared at you with eyes filled with emotions. You are his now, even though you don’t know that.

You smiled at him, tracing the strong line of his jaw. “I’ve imagined this, too, handsome...” you admitted.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your body. "Perhaps you should have stopped fighting my plotting sooner."

A bark of laughter tore at your throat but it sounded like bells in his ears. "Perhaps," you conceded, snuggling closer into his embrace. "But the tension… it made this all the more potent, didn't it?"

"It did," he agreed, tightening his arms around you. "But now… now there is only this. Only us."

————————

The next morning, a soft glow filtered through the leaves, painting the forest floor in dappled light. You stretched, feeling the delicious ache in your muscles, a testament to the night's exertions. Neteyam was already awake, propped on his elbow, watching you with a soft smile.

"Good morning, fierce huntress," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep and something else, something tender and possessive.

"Good morning, mighty warrior," you returned, a smile curving your lips. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in years," he confessed, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your hip. "Knowing you are beside me… it is a peace I have not known."

"A peace you deserve," you said, leaning into his touch. "Though I suspect this will be short-lived once the council convenes."

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Indeed. They will be wondering why their two most volatile warriors are suddenly… quiet."

"Quiet?" you scoffed playfully. "Never. Not even this could make me shut up, Neteyam."

"And I don’t wish for you to shut up, paskalin. I have other ideas for your fiery mouth though," he teased, his eyes glinting.

You, too innocent to catch on his innuendo, are now focused on the actual reason you two are even here last night. “Speaking of the council. We have a mission.”

"I haven't forgotten," he replied, sitting up, grabbing your garments first and helping you clothe yourself. "And now, I have even more reason to ensure their defeat. To protect this home, and everyone in it." He met your gaze, his eyes filled with a new resolve as his fingers fixed your braids in place.

You grinned at him and cradled his cheek in your palm. “And I’ll do as I have always done... I'll protect you. Always, Neteyam.”

He reached out, pulling you into a fierce embrace, his lips finding yours for a deep, lingering kiss that promised a future beyond the war, a future filled with shared passion and unwavering loyalty.

————————

The war council tent hummed with a familiar tension. The air, usually thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs, now carried a faint, metallic tang, a ghost of the RDA’s presence nearby. Neteyam stood in the center, a map etched into the table before him, his gestures precise as he outlined their next move.

"Their patrols along the eastern ridge have doubled," he announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "They’re establishing a new forward operating base, a supply depot for their ground units."

"A depot this far inland?" Ak’tan, the seasoned hunter, grunted, his brow furrowed. "They grow bolder with each passing cycle."

"Or more desperate," you countered, leaning against a support beam, your arms crossed. Your eyes, however, found Neteyam’s, a quick, knowing glance passing between you. He felt it, that sudden spark, a private language spoken in the crowded tent. "They’re stretching their supply lines thin, exposing themselves."

"Exactly," Neteyam affirmed, a subtle shift in his posture, a slight straightening of his shoulders as if your agreement amplified his conviction. "Their arrogance is a weakness. We exploit it."

"How?" another warrior, Sio, asked. "A direct assault would be costly. Their defenses will be heavy."

"We don’t assault," Neteyam explained, his finger tracing a winding path on the map. "We disrupt. A small, agile team. Infiltrate under cover of darkness, disable their communication arrays, sabotage their fuel cells. Blind them, then cut off their lifeline."

"And the air?" you inquired, your gaze locked on his, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. "They’ll have air support. Scorpions, Samsons. They won’t let a ground team operate unmolested."

"That, paskalin," he said, his eyes glinting, "is where you come in."

A smirk played on your lips. "Of course."

A low chuckle escaped him, a sound that seemed to ripple through the tent, drawing curious glances. "Thanks. Your skills will be invaluable. You’ll draw their air support, create diversions, keep their eyes on the sky while we work below."

"A dangerous game," Ak’tan observed, his gaze traveling between you and Neteyam. "To face their air power alone."

"Not alone," you corrected, meeting Ak’tan's gaze with unwavering confidence. "I’ll have the sky. And I’ll have Neteyam’s team counting on me not to let them down." You turned back to Neteyam, your voice dropping slightly, for his ears only. "Don't get too comfortable down there, warrior. I expect a spectacular show from you."

"And I, from you, huntress," he replied, a challenge in his tone, a flicker of heat in his eyes. The air between you crackled, a palpable energy that made even the seasoned warriors around you shift uneasily. Neteyam was already dismissing them.

Lo’ak, seated near the edge of the circle, cleared his throat loudly. "Are we discussing strategy, or... are we just admiring each other’s battle prowess?"

A few snickers broke the tension. Most of the warriors are already making a bee-line toward the door. Neteyam shot Lo’ak a withering look. "We are discussing the survival of our clan, Lo’ak. Next time, pay attention."

"I am," Lo’ak insisted, eyes wide and innocent. "It’s just… the way you two look at each other. It’s like you’re having a whole other conversation in your heads."

You rolled your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips as you gave the remaining warriors a nod, watching them go out. "Lo’ak, maybe you’re just tired. You’re reading too much into things."

Neteyam crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "See, I told you that time you hit your head would one day result in this."

Lo’ak snorted. "I saw what I saw. I’m merely telling you two."

"We’re acting normally, I don’t know what you’re talking about," you chuckled, shaking your head.

"Exactly. Your normal is eye-fucking each other. Especially you, brother. You think you’re so slick—"

"Lo’ak!" Neteyam berated, his voice sharp, effectively shutting his younger brother up. Lo’ak visibly flinched, then slumped back, a knowing smirk playing on his lips despite the reprimand.

You two decided to behave in the next meetings that ensued, but the undercurrent of unspoken communication between you remained, a silent hum beneath the surface of tactical discussions. Every time you looked at the map, you felt his gaze on you. Every time you spoke, his eyes, dark and intense, sought yours. The tension was a living thing, a palpable force that pulled you together, even across the space of the council tent.

————————

After another gruelling council with the elders this time, the tent seemed to expand, the silence stretching between you. You moved to help Neteyam clear the map, rolling up the hides, gathering the small stones and twigs used to mark positions. He watched you, his movements slower than usual, his eyes following the curve of your back, the sway of your hips.

"You're very quiet, warrior," you observed, turning to face him, a playful glint in your eyes. "Lost your tongue?”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray braid from your shoulder. "My tongue is perfectly capable, paskalin. It merely chooses its moments." His voice was a low rumble, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Oh?" you challenged, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers grazed your neck. "And is this one of those moments?"

He didn't answer with words. His mouth descended, claiming yours in a kiss that was both urgent and deliberate. You met him with equal hunger, your hands finding purchase on his chest, then sliding up to tangle in his braids. The kiss deepened, a silent conversation of desire, of the unspoken longing that had simmered between you all evening.

He pressed you against the rough bark of the support beam, his body a warm, solid weight against yours. Your hips bucked instinctively, grinding against his, a moan escaping your lips. The soft hide of your garments provided little barrier to the heat building between you.

His hands, surprisingly gentle yet firm, found the ties of your loincloth, working them loose. You gasped, pulling back slightly from the kiss. "Here?" you breathed, glancing around the empty tent.

"No one will disturb us," he rasped, his lips trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive skin of your neck. "They know when to leave us to our… discussions."

His fingers slid beneath the fabric, finding the warm, damp skin of your inner thigh. You arched into his touch, your body responding with a primal urgency. His thumb brushed over the delicate folds, sending a jolt of pure sensation through you.

"Neteyam," you whispered, your voice thick with desire.

He pulled back, his eyes, dark with lust, met yours. "You wanted to see a spectacular show, huntress?" he murmured, a predatory glint in his gaze. "I can provide one."

He knelt before you, his powerful frame folding with practiced ease. Your breath hitched as his eyes locked onto yours, a silent question passing between you. You nodded, your fingers tangling in his braids, pulling him closer.

His lips, warm and wet, found you, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your entire being. You gasped, your head falling back, a low moan escaping your throat. His tongue flicked, tasting, teasing, exploring every sensitive curve. You whimpered, your fingers clutching his hair, urging him on.

He worked his magic, his mouth a potent instrument of pleasure. You felt yourself unraveling, the world narrowing to the exquisite sensations his tongue and lips created. Your legs trembled, threatening to give way. You braced yourself against the support beam, your body arching, desperate for more.

The climax hit you like a sudden, violent storm, shaking you to your core. Your body convulsed, a cry tearing from your throat, echoing softly in the tent. He kept his mouth on you, lapping up your release, savoring every drop until your tremors subsided.

He rose, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Spectacular enough, huntress?"

You were breathless, your legs still weak. "More than enough, warrior," you gasped, pulling him closer for a deep, hungry kiss. "More than enough."

————————

The forest was a symphony of night sounds, the bioluminescent flora casting an ethereal glow on the path. You moved with practiced stealth, your hand resting at your sheathed knife, your senses heightened. Neteyam walked beside you, his presence a comforting anchor in the vast wilderness. You were checking the perimeter again, a routine patrol that had become a pretext for stolen moments.

"The wind shifts to the north," you observed, your voice a low murmur. "Good for masking our scent from any stray RDA patrols."

"Or good for carrying the scent of prey to a hungry predator," Neteyam countered, his eyes scanning the dense canopy above before picking some utumauti fruit. "Always two sides to the same coin, paskalin."

"Always," you agreed, a small smile playing on your lips. "Which side are you on tonight, warrior? Predator or prey?"

He turned, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "With you, huntress, I am always the predator."

You chuckled softly. "A bold claim. I've seen you run from a charging sturmbeest."

"Only to lead it into a snare," he retorted, stepping closer, his hand brushing yours. "A tactical retreat, not a flight of fear."

You squeezed his hand, your fingers intertwining. "And what snare do you plan for me tonight?"

He led you off the main path, deeper into a thicket of willow trees, their long, flowing branches creating a private, secluded chamber. The air here was cooler, softer, filled with the scent of damp earth and sweet-smelling blossoms.

"This is our spot," he murmured, pulling you further in. "No prying eyes, no curious ears." He turned to face you, his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs tracing the lines of your cheekbones. His gaze was intense, possessive. "I want to teach you something new, paskalin."

Your heart quickened. "Oh?" you breathed, your eyes locking with his. "And what might that be, my mighty warrior?"

He pulled you to take a seat on the soft, mossy ground, with him leaning on a rock and pulling you close to his body. He handed you the fruit he picked earlier and you quickly peeled it off, taking it to your mouth and humming at its sweetness. You glanced at him when you felt his eyes on you, your forehead creasing when you caught him watching you intently.

You offered him the fruit and he bit on it without taking his eyes off you. You licked your lips wet and closed your thighs tightly, suddenly feeling too tingly. “What were you going to teach me?”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb finding your lower lip. “You know I put my fingers in you, right... When I want to pleasure you?” he asks, his cheeks burning up.

You cheekily smiled and nodded, “Yes. And I like it,” you said and adjusted yourself to lean more toward him. “Is there something like that... That I can do for you?“ Your golden eyes are practically shining in excitement now, making him laugh.

“Yes... There is,” he nodded at you, learning to kiss you sweetly.

You reared your head back to refuse for the kiss to go deeper. You’re too excited. “Show me.“

“Let’s kiss first,” he said and you’d have protested if he didn’t look so nervous, so you nodded and tilted your head up to give him your lips.

He kissed you hungrily, his hand on your waist pulling you close to him as if he wanted to weave you into his own skin but straddling him is the closest thing to that. His large hand spanned the side of your head, tilting it to the side so he could kiss your jaw, down to your neck. You moved your hips to grind your mound against the hard ridge poking it and he groaned.

His hand on your waist tightened to hold you still. You felt his hands move behind him and you know that he’s unfastening his loincloth. You broke the kiss to watch and his eyes didn’t leave yours, too, until he has freed himself from his garment. You looked down, your breath hitching at your throat. You’ll probably never get used to the daunting size of it... And yet you take it every time, when it comes to it.

You adjusted yourself so he could bring his cock properly between you two. “That...“ he said, his voice a low, rough growl. "With your hands."

Your cheeks flushed and a thrill of excitement coursed through you. You had seen him naked and felt him inside you several times before, but this raw, unapologetic display of his desire, coupled with his explicit instruction, was something entirely new.

"How," you whispered, your voice almost trembled.

He took your hand, his fingers guiding yours around his shaft. The skin was hot, velvety smooth, stretched tight over rigid muscle. You felt the pulse of him, the sheer power contained within. He guided your hand, showing you the rhythm, the pressure, the subtle movements that made him groan.

"Like this," he murmured, his eyes half-closed, his head falling back slightly as your touch intensified. "Yes, just like that, baby. You learn quickly."

You followed his lead, your fingers finding their own rhythm, mimicking the sensations he craved. He watched you, his gaze burning, a silent testament to the pleasure you were giving him. His hips began to thrust into your hand, his breathing growing ragged.

"Faster," he urged, his voice tight with suppressed desire. "More. You’re doing it perfectly."

You increased the speed, your hand moving with a newfound confidence. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your bones. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours, filled with a raw, primal intensity.

"Eywa," he gasped, his body tensing, "I'm close."

You continued, matching his frantic pace, until he convulsed in your hand, his seed spurting, hot and thick, onto your fingers. He cried out, a powerful, primal sound, his body trembling as he emptied into your palm.

He collapsed against you, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged. You held him, your fingers still slick with his release, feeling the tremors that wracked his powerful frame.

"You are a great teacher, warrior," you murmured, a triumphant smile on your lips as you brought your fingers to your mouth, tasting him.

He lifted his head when he heard you hum, his eyes heavy-lidded, a deep satisfaction etched on his face. "And you, a most eager student, huntress." He kissed your fingers, now spotless after you’ve licked them clean then looked at you, a possessive glint in his gaze. "Next time, your mouth."

————————

The next few weeks became a dance of stolen moments. War council meetings were filled with a heightened, almost electric tension between you and Neteyam. Your banters became sharper, laced with double meanings only you two understood. Your glances lingered, your smirks more knowing. The other warriors, though oblivious to the full extent of your clandestine activities, sensed the shift. Lo’ak, however, remained stubbornly perceptive.

One evening, after a particularly grueling council session dissecting RDA drone patterns, you and Neteyam were the last to leave. You were rolling up the map, your movements fluid, when Neteyam’s hand brushed your hip, a quick, possessive caress that sent a jolt through you.

"Their drone coverage is denser than expected," he murmured, his voice low, his eyes scanning the empty tent. "We'll need to adapt our approach."

"Adaptability is our strength," you replied, your voice equally hushed, your gaze meeting his. "Perhaps a distraction, a feint in the north to draw their aerial eyes away from the eastern depot."

"A sound strategy," he agreed, his eyes lingering on your lips. "But it would require a significant aerial presence."

"I am significant," you challenged, a playful glint in your eyes. "And my ikran is faster than any of their metal birds."

"I do not doubt it," he said, stepping closer, his hand finding the small of your back, pulling you gently towards him. "But I would prefer you did not face their full force alone."

“This huntress does not fear a challenge," you whispered, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "No, but her warrior fears for her."

Just as his mouth was about to claim yours, the hide flap of the tent rustled, then opened. Lo’ak stood there, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Forgot my knife," he mumbled, his eyes widening as he took in your proximity, your hands on Neteyam’s chest, the palpable tension in the air.

You reacted instantly, pushing Neteyam away with surprising force, almost sending him stumbling. He caught himself, a look of annoyance mixed with amusement on his face as he looked at his brother.

Lo’ak, however, burst out laughing. "Eywa! You two are ridiculous! I knew it! I knew something was going on!"

"Lo’ak, go!" Neteyam growled, his face flushed.

"My knife!" Lo’ak insisted, pointing to the spot where he’d left it. He retrieved it, still chuckling. "You know, for two of the fiercest warriors in the clan, you two act like startled hexapede fawns."

"Go, Lo’ak!" you snapped, trying to regain your composure, your own cheeks burning.

"I’m just saying," Lo’ak continued, shaking his head as he backed out of the tent, "the way you two look at each other, the way you banter… it’s practically indecent in the council tent. You’re going to do some shady shit here and don't even try to deny it." He laughed again, the sound echoing as he disappeared.

You and Neteyam stood in silence for a moment, the aftermath of Lo’ak’s observation hanging heavy in the air. Then, Neteyam let out a low chuckle.

"He's not wrong," he admitted, a wry smile on his lips. "I was definitely eye-fucking you."

You punched his arm playfully. "You were practically drooling."

"Only because you look so hot when you challenge me," he countered, pulling you back into his embrace. "It makes me want to put you in your place."

"Oh?" you challenged, your eyes gleaming. "And what place is that, Neteyam?"

He bent down, his lips brushing your ear. "Under me, paskalin. Always under me."

He kissed you then, a deep, hungry kiss that banished all thoughts of Lo’ak and council meetings. The brief interruption had only heightened the desire, made the forbidden taste even sweeter.

————————

The next evening, you and Neteyam were deep in the forest, supposedly checking the perimeter for RDA incursions but found yourself now at a small, hidden clearing, shielded by massive roots and hanging vines. Your secret spot, the one he’d found for you.

The faint scene of damp soil and blooming plants hung in the still air. You knelt before him, the cool, mossy ground pressing into your knees, your eyes locked on his. Neteyam, propped against a smooth, ancient stone, watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. The air hummed with an unspoken promise, thick and potent.

“Are you ready?” His voice, a low rumble. His hand found the intricate braids framing your face, a gentle tug guiding your head closer to the swollen, purple head of his cock. It stood proud, thick and rigid, slick with a single bead of pre-cum that glistened in the muted light.

You met his gaze, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your lips. “Was I ever not?” Your eyes, dark and gleaming, held no trace of hesitation, only a burning eagerness. You leaned in, the tip of your tongue tracing the slick crown, tasting the musky saltiness that made your own mouth water. A soft gasp escaped him, a sound that thrilled you.

“Good, baby,” he breathed, his fingers tightening in your braids, a silent command. “Take it slow.”

Your lips parted to take him in slowly. The heat of him filled your mouth, a sensation both alien and utterly intoxicating. You felt the thick ridge of its head slide against the roof of your mouth as you took more, your cheeks hollowing, your throat working to accommodate his impressive length.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from his very core. His hips twitched, a subtle movement against the rock behind him. “That’s it, baby...” he murmured, his fingers still held your braids, a firm, guiding pressure, encouraging you to go deeper, to explore every inch.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to let the air rush into your lungs, your eyes never leaving his. A thin strand of saliva connected your mouth to the slick head of his cock, stretching and breaking. You licked your lips, tasting him, before diving back down, this time with more confidence, more hunger. Your tongue swirled around the ridge, then sucked him in with a steady pressure.

You worked him, your head bobbing, your throat stretching. You felt the tremors start in his body, a subtle shiver that ran through his powerful frame. “Oh, baby,” he gasped, his head falling back against the rock, eyes half-closed, heavy-lidded with burning pleasure. His grip on your braids loosened, his fingers now threading through the loose strands, a soft caress. “You’re so good. So goddamn good.”

You grinned, a small, triumphant curve of your lips, and continued your work, your pace quickening. You wanted to push him over the edge, to hear the raw, uninhibited sounds of his release. Your tongue flicked, danced, teased, then swallowed him as much as you could, sucking hard, pulling him into the depths of your mouth.

A guttural cry tore from his chest, a sound of pure pleasure. His hips bucked, arching off the rock, and a thick, hot gush of cum exploded into your mouth. It was a torrent, warm and salty, filling your mouth, coating your tongue. You swallowed, instinctively, greedily, taking every drop, not wanting to waste a single bit of him. He pulsed inside your mouth, emptying himself completely, his body trembling, collapsing back against the rock.

You held him there, letting the last tremors subside, then slowly, deliberately, pulled away. Your mouth was slick with his essence, your chin glistening. You looked up at him, your eyes still locked on his, a challenge, a question in their depths. His chest heaved, his breathing ragged, his face flushed. He was weak, utterly spent, but his eyes, though heavy-lidded, still burned with an intense desire as he watched you.

You ran your tongue over your lips, cleaning away the last traces of his cum, then leaned down, licking the length of his cock, from the tip all the way down to the base, cleaning every drop as he has always done with you. You licked the underside of his shaft, leaving him pristine. You caressed him softly, your palm cupping his cock gently, feeling the warmth radiating from him.

You pushed yourself up onto your hands and knees, still kneeling before him, your body radiating heat, a triumphant smile playing on your lips. Neteyam, head still resting against the rock, watched you with eyes gleaming with a raw, primal look in them. He was beautiful in his vulnerability, his broad chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his muscled abdomen, then another, trailing a path up his chest. Your hand, still around his cock, gently stroked him, feeling the soft, warm skin, the subtle twitch beneath your fingers. His hips shifted, a small, involuntary movement, a testament to the lingering arousal that still simmered within him.

“Was I good?” you teased, your voice low, husky with satisfaction, your lips brushing against his warm skin. You looked up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

He chuckled, a rough, breathy sound that vibrated through his chest. “Good?” he repeated, his eyes finally opening fully, meeting yours. “Understatement. I almost forgot where we are, baby.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, still swollen from your ministrations. “You were incredible. You have a natural talent for making me lose my mind.”

You grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Let’s do this again.” You leaned in closer, your fingers still circling his cock, making it twitch again. “With you standing. Fuck my mouth or something.” You pulled away slightly, your hand rising to caress your own throat, your fingers tracing the delicate hollow there. “I want to feel you here. Deep. Feel you fill me, right here.” Your eyes, dark and burning, met his, challenging him, promising him more.

His breath hitched. His gaze dropped to your fingers on your throat, then back to your eyes, a fierce, hungry glint igniting within them. He groaned, a deep, primal sound that resonated through the forest. In one swift motion, he pulled you forward by the nape of your neck, his mouth crashing down on yours, a desperate, raw kiss that stole your breath and promised an eternity of exquisite pleasure.

————————

The mission to disrupt the RDA supply depot was set for the next moonless night. The air crackled with anticipation, a mix of tension and grim determination. Neteyam gathered his ground team, their faces painted with war markings, their weapons honed. You stood apart, your Ikran a dark silhouette against the fading light, its massive wings occasionally rustling.

"Remember the plan," Neteyam commanded, his voice low, yet carrying through the gathering gloom. "Stealth is paramount. We move like shadows, strike like viperwolves. No unnecessary confrontations. Our goal is disruption, not eradication."

“And if we encounter resistance?" one of the younger warriors, Ru’nak, asked, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

"Then we fight," Neteyam replied, his eyes hardening. "But we fight smart. Preserve yourselves, preserve the mission." He turned his gaze to you. "Y/N, you have your orders. High cover. Prioritize their air assets. If a Scorpion or Wasp gets close, you take it down."

"Consider it done," you confirmed, your voice steady. "They won't touch your team, Neteyam."

"And I expect you to return," he said, his eyes locking with yours, a private message passing between you. "Both of you."

You nodded, a fierce determination in your gaze. "Always."

With a final nod, Neteyam led his ground team into the dense jungle, disappearing into the shadows. You mounted your ikran, the familiar leathery skin warm beneath you. A surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. This was your domain, the vast, open sky.

You soared upwards with a war cry, your ikran a silent hunter in the night. Below, the jungle was a tapestry of dark greens and blues, punctuated by the occasional glow of bioluminescent plants. You located the RDA depot, a sprawling complex of metal structures and harsh, artificial lights, a festering wound on the face of Pandora.

Suddenly, a blip appeared on your comm link, a warning from Neteyam. "Airborne contact. Two Samsons closing fast."

"Understood," you replied, your voice calm, even as your heart pounded. "I see them."

Two sleek, metallic Samsons, smaller and faster than the heavy Scorpions, detached themselves from the depot’s perimeter, their searchlights cutting through the darkness. They were fast, designed for rapid interception.

"They're coming for me," you muttered, a predatory smile spreading across your lips. "Good. I’m letting them."

You pushed your ikran into a steep dive, then pulled up sharply, using the dense canopy as cover. The Samsons, although designed for open air combat, struggled to maneuver through the twisting branches. Their pilots, accustomed to clear skies, were disoriented.

"They're clumsy," you reported, a hint of disdain in your voice. "Like flies in a spiderweb."

"Don't get cocky, paskalin," Neteyam warned, his voice tight. "They still carry heavy firepower."

"And I carry a sharper arrow," you countered.

You circled, drawing the Samsons deeper into the maze of trees. Their searchlights danced wildly, trying to pinpoint your location. You waited, patient, calculating. Then, you saw your opening. One Samson, attempting a tight turn, exposed its underbelly.

You dove, your ikran screaming through the air, a blur of blue and red. Your bow was already drawn, the arrow a silent, deadly projectile. It struck the engine housing, a dull thud followed by a shower of sparks. The Samson sputtered, losing altitude, then exploded in a fiery ball, crashing into the jungle below.

"One down," you announced, your voice devoid of emotion. "One more to go."

The remaining Samson, now wary, pulled back, its pilot more cautious. It hovered, its weapons locked onto your last known position. But you were already gone, a ghost in the trees.

You circled high above, waiting. Below, you heard the faint sounds of skirmishes, the distant crackle of RDA weapons, the cries of your clan. Neteyam’s team was engaging the ground forces. You had to keep the sky clear.

The Samson finally made a move, cautiously advancing towards the ground skirmish. You saw your chance. You dropped from the sky, a silent, deadly predator. The Scorpion’s pilot, focused on the ground, didn't see you until it was too late.

Your ikran slammed into the Samson, a jarring impact that sent shivers through your body. You held on tight, your bow already aimed. You fired, the arrow piercing the cockpit, silencing the pilot instantly. The Samson, now pilotless, spiraled downwards, crashing with a deafening roar.

"Air clear," you reported, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your ikran let out a triumphant cry, circling above the battleground. "The sky is ours."

"Understood," Neteyam’s voice crackled, relief evident in his tone. "We're almost at the communication arrays. Keep watch for reinforcements."

You watched, a silent guardian, as Neteyam’s team moved like shadows through the depot. You saw him, a blur of blue, moving with lethal efficiency. He was a force, a storm of controlled violence. You felt a surge of pride, a fierce, possessive joy. He was yours, and you were his.

Suddenly, a new blip appeared on your comm. "Heavy air contact! Scorpion gunship, inbound from the south!" Neteyam’s voice was urgent.

A Scorpion. A massive, heavily armed gunship, a flying fortress. This was different. This was a true challenge.

"I see it," you replied, your jaw tightening. "It's coming for the depot."

"You can't take that alone, Y/N!" Neteyam warned, his voice laced with concern. "Fall back! Draw it away!"

"No," you declared, your voice firm, resolute. "Not while you are still on the ground, warrior."

You pushed your ikran into a full assault, soaring directly towards the incoming Scorpion. It was a massive target, its rotors churning the air, its weapons array bristling. You were a tiny speck against its imposing bulk, but you were also faster, more agile.

You weaved and dodged, avoiding the Scorpion’s initial volley of fire. It was like dancing with death, each near-miss a chilling whisper against your skin. You needed to get close, to find a weakness.

"I'm drawing its fire!" you yelled into the comm. "Hit those arrays, Neteyam! Now!"

Below, you saw flashes of explosions as Neteyam’s team breached the arrays. Good. You had bought them time.

The Scorpion roared, its heavy machine guns spitting fire. You felt the wind of the bullets as they tore through the air around you. Your ikran cried out, a small wound appearing on its wing. You groaned at the sight of it.

"Hold fast, Frakrr," you murmured, patting its neck. "We are almost there."

You dove directly beneath the Scorpion with guttural, angry roar for your wounded mount, a risky maneuver. Its heavy guns couldn't track you at such close range. You flew up its underbelly, ignoring the frantic attempts of its smaller turrets to engage you. You saw it, the fuel lines, exposed and vulnerable.

You drew your last arrow, a specially tipped incendiary. You aimed, your entire being focused on that one shot. You released.

The arrow struck true, piercing the fuel line. A small flicker, then a gush of highly flammable liquid. The Scorpion shuddered, then a massive explosion ripped through its underbelly, tearing it apart from the inside. The massive gunship disintegrated in a spectacular fireball, raining debris down on the jungle below. You pulled your Ikran away, soaring clear of the inferno, your body aching, your heart pounding.

"Scorpion down," you reported breathlessly, your voice rough with exertion. "The sky is clear. Again."

A moment of silence, then Neteyam’s voice, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite place. "Baby… you are insane."

You chuckled, a tired, triumphant sound. "And you, warrior, are alive. Mission accomplished."

————————

The aftermath was a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Neteyam’s team returned to the Hometree, tired but victorious. The RDA depot was crippled, its communication arrays destroyed, its fuel cells sabotaged. The impact of the Scorpion’s explosion had sent shockwaves through the jungle, a clear message to the Sky People.

You and Neteyam met at the edge of the ikran roost, your ikran now being tended to by the healers. He walked towards you, his face streaked with grime and war paint, but his eyes, when they met yours, were clear and intense. He grabbed you gently by the nape and pulled you to him, your face hitting his chest before he wrapped his other arm around you in a fierce, possessive embrace.

"You were reckless," he said, his voice low, a hint of anger in it. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't," you countered, meeting his gaze defiantly. "And your team is safe. The mission is complete."

He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the faint line of a new scar near your temple. "I watched that Scorpion fall. My heart stopped."

"A warrior's heart should be stronger than that," you teased, leaning into his touch.

"Not when it beats for you, paskalin," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Never when it beats for you."

You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him. "You did well, Neteyam," you whispered. "You always do."

He pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes. "And you, huntress," he said, his gaze burning, "you are magnificent. The fiercest warrior I know."

He kissed you then, a kiss that tasted of victory, of relief, of a love that had blossomed in the crucible of war.

Later, the central clearing of Hometree thrummed with celebration. Fires danced, casting long, flickering shadows against the massive trunks, illuminating faces painted with joy. The air sang with the rhythm of drums and the sweet scent of roasted hexapede lathered with honey. On a raised dais, adorned with vibrant flora, sat the Sully family, their presence a quiet anchor amidst the joyous chaos. Jake and Neytiri watched their people, their faces etched with pride.

Neteyam, however, did not watch the dancers or the feasting. His gaze, steady and unwavering, found you. You sat on the ground, a cluster of orphaned children gathered around you, their small faces upturned, utterly captivated. Your hands moved, painting vivid pictures in the air as you spun tales of ancient hunts and brave warriors. A soft laugh bubbled from your throat, infectious, and the children erupted in giggles. One small girl, her eyes wide with wonder, reached out to touch your braid, and you smiled, ruffling her hair. Neteyam’s lips curved, a private, tender smile that only grew as he watched you, bathed in the firelight.

Neytiri, ever attuned to her eldest, followed his gaze. Her eyes softened as she saw you, a radiant presence among the young ones. She knew this look on Neteyam’s face, had seen it many times before, subtle yet persistent, whenever you were near. A quiet knowing settled on her features, a silent approval for the path her son seemed destined to walk. She smiled to herself, a gentle, almost imperceptible movement of her lips, happy for the future she saw unfolding before them.

————————

The war council tent, usually a sanctuary of strategic thought, felt charged tonight, thick with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with the looming RDA threat. Neteyam stood before the map, his back to the entrance, a silhouette against the bioluminescent markings. His voice, usually a steady current, held a sharp, almost brittle edge as he detailed his plan.

"Their new weapon shipments," he began, his finger tracing a path deep into enemy territory, "they’re moving them through the Northern pass. Heavily guarded, but also predictable."

"Predictable, perhaps," you countered, your voice cutting through the hushed murmurs of the other warriors, "but impenetrable. That pass is a known choke point. Their heavy artillery will be dug in, covering every angle."

He turned, his eyes, dark and unyielding, meeting yours across the space. "Which is why we won't assault it directly. We go for the source. A preemptive strike on the storage facility before they move the payload."

Ak’tan grunted, a low, rumbling sound. "Deep behind enemy lines. A suicide mission, Neteyam."

"Not if executed with precision," he replied. "A small, agile team. In and out before they even realize what hit them. Sabotage the weapons caches. Make them useless."

"And the approach?" you pressed, stepping forward, your arms crossed. "Their air patrols are relentless in that sector. Scorpions. They won't miss a ground team, no matter how 'agile'."

"That’s why you're here. You’ll draw their attention. A diversion,” Kinul, a warrior in Neteyam’s meticulously chosen team, answered.

Neytiri produced a short, sharp sound. "A diversion? You want the girl to lead a fleet of their metal birds on a merry chase while you sneak into their nest? This isn't a game. That’s a suicide mission for her.”

You bit your lip as silence followed Neytiri’s comment. You figured no one would speak after her. You can’t afford to not side with Neteyam when his authority is being questioned, especially by his mother.

“I guess it wouldn’t be easy," you conceded, gazing at the map. "But I’m the only one who can do it. Their air assets will be focused on me, giving the assault team the window they need on the ground."

"And if they overwhelm you?" Neytiri asked, her voice low, a challenge hanging in the air. "If you fall?"

Neteyam groaned from across the room but you didn’t look at him. “Then the clan will have to avenge me,” you said easily, refusing to dwell on things.

“Stop,” Neteyam’s voice boomed from where he is.

You turned to him. “I’ll bring an aerial team. Lo’ak and Entu. We'll give your plan a chance,” you told him. His eyes softened, just for a fleeting moment, a spark of concern visible beneath the warrior's facade.

Jake, sitting beside Neteyam shook his head. "This mission is asking too much," he stated, his voice flat. "This isn't a supply depot, Neteyam. This is a fortress. They’ll have ground-to-air defenses, too. You’ll be walking into a trap.

"I've considered all angles," Neteyam insisted, his voice firm, shutting down further argument. "The risk is calculated. The reward is worth it. Crippling their heavy weapons will save countless lives." He swept his gaze across the council. "I know it’s dangerous. But it must be done. I will lead the ground team. Who will join me?"

A ripple of unease passed through the warriors. Even the bravest among them hesitated. You tilted your head, “I will.”

Neteyam’s eyes didn’t leave you, his face unreadable as he watched you. You stared back, a storm brewing in your gut. You wanted to argue more, this is reckless, there are impossible odds he was setting for himself, but you’ll follow him wherever and you know that. The image of him, exposed and vulnerable on the ground, flashed through your mind. You couldn't leave him. You never could.

"I will," Ak’tan followed you, his voice gruff. Others followed, their loyalty to Neteyam overriding their apprehension.

"Neteyam," you called, your voice tight, “if you get so much as a scratch, I will personally tie you to a tree and leave you for the viperwolves."

A genuine, albeit brief, smile touched his lips. "I wouldn't expect anything less, paskalin. It will be alright. I promise."

————————

The predawn air tasted of damp leaves and the metallic tang of fear. You watched Neteyam’s team disappear into the dense undergrowth, moving like ghosts, their forms swallowed by the pre-dawn gloom. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. It will be alright, he'd said. A hollow promise in the face of what lay ahead.

You mounted your ikran, Frakrr, its massive wings beating silently, lifting you into the still, dark sky. Entu and Lo’ak away on your rear. The air grew colder, thinner, as you ascended, the world below shrinking into a tapestry of shadows. You flew high, a silent guardian, your eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of RDA air patrols.

An hour passed, slow and agonizing. Below, the forest remained quiet, undisturbed. Too quiet. There is no presence of the Scorpions you thought you would face. Your comm link crackled, Neteyam’s voice, strained.

"We're in position," he whispered, the sound of distant, muffled alarms just audible. "They've detected us. Engaging."

Then, chaos. A sudden burst of gunfire erupted from the ground, followed by the roar of heavy machinery. Not the muted sounds of a stealth mission, but a full-blown firefight. Your blood ran cold.

"Neteyam!" you yelled into the comm. "What's happening?"

"Too many!" his voice, raw with effort, came through fragmented. "We're surrounded!"

Your ikran let out a guttural cry, mirroring the terror that seized your heart. You pushed Frakrr into a dive, plummeting towards the inferno below. The forest floor exploded with light, a blinding array of searchlights and muzzle flashes. You saw them then: a swarm of RDA soldiers, far more than anticipated, their armored forms swarming Neteyam’s small team.

They weren't just soldiers; some were in AMP suits, their hulking forms casting long, menacing shadows, their heavy cannons spitting fire. Neteyam’s team, caught in the open, fought valiantly, but they were being overwhelmed, pushed back, their numbers dwindling.

You saw Neteyam, his movements a blur of lethal grace, taking down two soldiers with his bow. But then an AMP suit, its massive arm swinging, sent him sprawling. He scrambled to his feet, but another soldier was on him, then another. There were too many. They were cornering him.

A primal scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage and terror. You pushed Frakrr harder, faster, a blue and red streak descending from the heavens. You saw them closing in, their weapons aimed. They were going to kill him. Lo’ak and Entu followed your descent.

Just as you descended, a familiar roar echoed through the sky. Neytiri, on Sa’ata, soared into view, followed closely by Jake, his ikran a blur of blue. They had seen you, seen your desperate dive, and followed.

"Neteyam!" Neytiri’s fierce war cry sliced through the din of battle.

Below, Neteyam was on his knees, his hands bound, his head bowed. His team, what remained of them, were similarly subdued, surrounded by a menacing circle of RDA soldiers and AMP suits. The clan's fiercest warriors, skilled in stealth, caught like common prey.

You didn’t hesitate. Your bow was already drawn, an arrow nocked. You moved instinctively, a blur of motion, your heart a cold, hard knot of fury. An RDA soldier, adjusting the scope on his rifle, aimed directly at Neteyam’s head. Your arrow flew, a silent, deadly whisper, burying itself in the soldier’s neck. He dropped, a choked gurgle escaping his lips.

Another soldier, piloting a smaller, agile robot designed for close-quarters combat, moved to stand over Neteyam. Your next arrow found the robot’s optical sensor, blinding it. The machine sputtered, then toppled.

You were a force of nature, your arrows finding their marks with sickening precision. You targeted the pilots wearing AMP suits, the exposed joints of their armor, the communication arrays on their backs. Each shot was a prayer, a curse, a desperate plea to Eywa to protect him.

From above, Neytiri’s arrows rained down, each one a testament to her legendary skill, finding gaps in armor. Jake, dismounting his ikran, unleashed a volley of gunfire from his assault rifle, the alien weapon spitting fire and death. Lo’ak, too, dropped to the ground, his own rifle barking, his movements swift and sure.

The RDA soldiers, caught between a relentless aerial assault and a sudden, brutal ground attack, faltered. Confusion spread through their ranks. You saw your chance. You dismounted Frakrr, landing silently amidst the chaos, your knife already in hand.

A soldier turned, his rifle coming up. You were faster. Your knife flashed, finding the soft spot beneath his helmet. He crumpled. You moved to another, a blur of motion, a terrifying, avenging spirit. Your rage was a cold, pure fire, burning away all thought, leaving only the instinct to kill, to protect.

You fought your way through the remaining soldiers, your eyes fixed on Neteyam. The last AMP suit, its pilot already wounded by Neytiri, tried to bring its cannon to bear. You dodged, and with a desperate lunge, plunged your knife into the exposed neck of the pilot. The suit shuddered, then went still.

Silence descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors. The ground was littered with the fallen, a stark testament to the ferocity of the battle. You knelt beside Neteyam, your hands trembling as you worked at his bindings. Lo’ak and Entu attended the others.

A cut was bleeding above his brow, but his eyes, when they met yours, were alight with a mixture of relief and something else, something almost like… joy?

"Are you hurt?" you demanded, your voice hoarse, your fingers fumbling with the cuffs.

He didn't answer. The moment you freed his hands, he pulled you into a crushing embrace, his arms tightening around you, pulling you against his chest. You clung to him, your body trembling, the adrenaline finally receding, replaced by a wave of nausea.

"I told you," you whispered fiercely, pushing against his chest, trying to pull away, "I told you, one scratch! You almost—"

You looked up at him, ready to unleash the full force of your fury, but his face was split by a wide, brilliant smile. A smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners, making him look young and utterly foolish. He was happy.

"You came for me," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes shining.

Your jaw dropped. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface exploded. "Are you smiling?" you hissed, your voice trembling with disbelief. "You were caught! They almost killed you! You promised me it would be alright! You promised!" You pushed him again, harder this time, your hands finding the rigid curve of his bow. You shoved it into his chest, a desperate, angry gesture. "You cannot do this again! Do you hear me? You cannot do this to me again!"

He reached for you, but you spun away, tears blurring your vision. You sprinted towards Frakrr, leaping onto its back with a desperate cry. You dug your heels into its flanks, sending it soaring upwards, away from him, away from the scene of near disaster, away from the foolish, infuriating smile that had almost broken you.

Neytiri watched you go, then turned to Neteyam with dagger eyes. Jake, holstering his rifle, walked over, a weary look on his face.

"Best you go after her, son," Jake said, his voice laced with exasperation. "She seems pretty upset, and you're being stupid."

Neteyam, still smiling faintly, looked from the retreating speck of your ikran to his father. "She was amazing, Dad. Did you see her?"

"I saw her, Neteyam," Jake replied, his voice flat. "I also saw you on your knees, about to get your head blown off. Go. Now."

Neteyam nodded, the smile finally fading as the weight of your anger settled on him. He turned to Lo’ak, who was already mounted on his ikran. "Lo’ak, give me a ride. Mine’s back at the Hometree."

Lo’ak raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Took you long enough, brother. Better hurry, she looks like she could spit fire."

————————

The ikran roost at Hometree was a cacophony of squawks and rustling wings, but you barely registered it. You paced the wide platform, your heart still pounding, a cold knot of fear and fury twisting in your gut. Frakrr, sensing your distress, nudged you gently with its head.

Then, Neteyam landed on the roost with Lo’ak on Lo’ak’s ikran. He dismounted, his eyes immediately finding yours. He started towards you, his steps hesitant. "Paskalin," he began, his voice soft, "baby, wait."

You whirled around, your eyes blazing. "Don't 'baby' me, Neteyam! Don't you dare!"

He tried to reach for your hand, his fingers brushing yours. "Come on… baby, I’m so sorry." His voice, though, held a forced sincerity, a hint of that infuriating amusement still lingering beneath the surface. He was trying to sound apologetic, but his eyes betrayed him. He was still high on the adrenaline, still thrilled by your rescue.

You pushed him back, hard, your hands flat against his chest. The tears you had held back finally streamed down your face, hot and angry. "I was so scared, Neteyam! You cannot do that again! You can’t do this to me again!" Your voice broke, ragged with emotion. "Your family can't lose you. This clan can't afford to lose you. I. Can't. Lose. You!"

The words, raw and unfiltered, hung in the air between you. The forced apology, the lingering amusement, vanished from his face, replaced by a stark, dawning realization. He saw the terror in your eyes, the genuine, visceral fear that had consumed you. He saw the depth of your anguish, the way your body trembled, not with anger now, but with the lingering shock of what almost was.

A warmth spread through his chest, a feeling so profound it almost buckled his knees. He had never seen you like this, so utterly vulnerable, so openly terrified for him. It sank in then, the true weight of your words, the unspoken love that fueled your fury. He loved you so much, with a fierce, aching tenderness that stole his breath.

He pulled you into his arms, this time not possessively, but gently, carefully, as if you were made of fragile glass. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, letting your tears dampen his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse, devoid of any pretense now. "Eywa, I am so sorry, paskalin. I didn't think… I didn't know you would be so scared. I promise. I will never scare you like this again. Never."

You clung to him, your sobs wracking your body, the fear slowly giving way to relief, to the overwhelming comfort of his embrace. He held you tight, stroking your hair, murmuring reassurances until your tears subsided, until your trembling stopped, until only the quiet rhythm of his heart beat against your ear.

————————

Later, much later, in the secluded heart of the forest, the bioluminescent flora painted your secret spot in soft, ethereal hues. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, a sweet, earthy perfume. You lay tangled with him, bodies slick with sweat, the echoes of your climax still vibrating through your limbs.

He kissed you then, a deep, searing kiss that tasted of lingering passion and profound emotion. He pulled back slightly, his eyes, dark and intense, locking onto yours.

"I love you so much," he whispered against your lips, his thrusts still fast and hard, a primal rhythm connecting your bodies.

You stared into his eyes, a gentle smile blooming on your face, your hands gripping his biceps, urging him deeper. He moved inside you, a slow, deliberate rhythm now, riding out the high, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It's true," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion, "I love you so much. I know you don’t feel the same way yet, but I'll change that. I will court you, and I'll have your love. I promise. Please, have me." His voice was raw, determined, yet laced with a vulnerability that stole your breath.

You chuckled, a soft, breathless sound, letting your head fall back against the soft moss. His face fell, a flicker of hurt in his eyes, thinking you mocked his confession, or perhaps didn't take him seriously.

But you pulled him down by the nape, your fingers tangling in his braids, and he allowed it, his body still, waiting. You pressed a hard, possessive kiss onto his swollen lips, then pressed your forehead against his, your breath mingling.

"Neteyam, where are you?" you asked sweetly, your voice a husky whisper, tired from the battle, from the fear, from the love that had consumed you.

His forehead creased, a slight confusion in his eyes. "In the forest?"

You chuckled, a low, throaty sound, and kissed him again. "Wrong. Where are you?" you repeated, your gaze unwavering.

"In our spot?" he tried again, a hint of desperation in his tone.

You shook your head slowly, a playful glint in your eyes, and narrowed them at him. Your legs, still wrapped around his waist, tightened, squeezing around his cock, making him groan. "You’re inside me," you smirked, the words a soft caress against his lips. "You just fucked me so hard I’m still aching... and you're talking about courting me..“ you grinned, cupping his cheek. “Oh, how chivalrous, my mighty warrior."

He blinked, his hips moving, a slight recoil as he began to pull out from you. "Do you... do you feel disrespected—"

"I don’t," you answered, wrapping your legs behind him, holding him fast, refusing to let him withdraw. "I am merely saying... it is not needed. I... love you, too, Neteyam. And I—"

He groaned, a guttural sound, and kissed you hard, cutting off your words. He broke away, his eyes, dark with lust and something else—anger, determination—burning into yours. "Do not say that. That a courtship is not needed just because we’re doing this already. I will court you, and I will win your favor before you choose me as your mate." His voice was firm, resolute, leaving no room for argument.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, your smile radiant. "I already chose you, Neteyam. I choose you. I love you." The words were a soft caress, a balm to his warrior's heart, making him groan again, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"I love you more, paskalin. So much," he told you soulfully, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, "and I’ve chosen you a long time ago. But no, I’m going to court you first. We’ll do it the right way, baby."

————————

The forest, a canvas of emerald and sapphire under the distant moons, whispered secrets. You watched Neteyam, his silhouette etched against the vibrant bioluminescence, as he carefully placed a carefully woven choker on your hand. Its pattern, delicate and precise, caught the faint light.

"For you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

You picked up the choker, feeling its beaded surface beneath your fingers. "It's beautiful, Neteyam." You met his gaze, a playful challenge in your eyes. "But I still hate this... right way of courtship you’re talking about," Your fingers traced beads, then, subtly, raising your hand to cup the firm line of his jaw. "This is not what I had in mind."

His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching. He stepped back, a small, almost imperceptible distance. "Baby," he began, his voice firm, "we agreed. A proper courtship. No more... stealing moments."

A huff of disbelief escaped you. "Stealing moments? Neteyam, you were inside me barely a week ago, whispering promises. Now this?" You gestured to the two of you. "I can’t even touch your face.”

He knelt, his movements fluid, and picked up a cluster of glowing mushrooms, arranging them around the choker. “We’re courting, paskalin. I want to show you tokens of my regard. Show you my respect for you and for what we will build,“ he looked up, his eyes earnest, almost pleading. "I want to show you, truly show you, how much you mean to me. Not just in the heat of passion."

"Oh, the heat of passion," you drawled, a smirk playing on your lips. You leaned closer, your scent, a mix of forest and your own unique musk, filling his senses. "I remember that heat. It was always... intense. And you seemed to enjoy it immensely." Your finger trailed down his arm, leaving a tingling path.

He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him. He rose abruptly, putting more space between you. "Paskalin, you make this difficult." His voice was strained, a hint of desperation there.

"Difficult?" You laughed, a low, throaty sound. "I am merely being myself. You're the one who decided to become a monk overnight." You took another step towards him, narrowing the distance he tried to create. "Are you sure this isn't just an excuse? Perhaps I wasn't... satisfying enough?"

His eyes flared, a dark fire igniting within them. "Never say that." He seized your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "You are more than satisfying. You are everything to me.” He pulled you closer, his breath hot against your face. "That is precisely why. I want to honor you. Truly honor you. As my future mate. My love."

You felt the tremor in his hand, the tautness of his muscles. He was struggling. And you, the fiercest of huntresses, knew exactly how to exploit a weakness. "Honor me?" You leaned into his touch, your body molding against his. "Is this how you honor me? By denying me what we both crave?" Your voice dropped to a whisper, a seductive lure. "I crave you, Neteyam. Right now. Here. In this forest you so carefully chose for your... tokens."

He groaned, a raw sound torn from his throat. He released your wrist, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. His eyes, dark pools of desire, locked onto yours. "Paskalin," he breathed, his voice ragged, "do not tempt me. Not now. I have made a vow. To myself. To you. I will not break it."

"A vow?" You arched a brow. "To whom? Eywa? Or your own stubborn pride?" You pressed your body fully against his, feeling the undeniable evidence of his desire. "Your body says otherwise, mighty warrior."

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a battle raging within him. When they opened, they held a renewed resolve. He gently pushed you back, creating space again. "It is not pride. It is respect. For us. For our future." He looked away, towards the distant glow of Hometree. "This is important. For me. For us. Please. Understand."

You watched him, a flicker of something akin to admiration, mingling with your frustration. He was unyielding. A true warrior, even in matters of the heart. "Fine," you conceded, the word clipped. "But don't think for a moment this makes it easy. For either of us." You pressed a palm against his chest, feeling his thundering heart.

————————

The sun, a fiery orb in the Pandora sky, warmed your face as you sat weaving a basket by the river. The rhythmic splash of water against stone, the chirping of forest creatures, a soothing balm. Until a small, insistent tug on your braid broke the calm.

Tuk’s voice, bright and clear, cut through the air as she called your name. You turned, a smile already forming as the seven-year-old launched herself into your lap, followed closely by a scowling Lo’ak, a serene Kiri, and a perpetually curious Spider.

"Hey, little warrior," you greeted Tuk, ruffling her hair. "What trouble are you bringing me today?"

"Kiei said you're going to be Neteyam’s mate!" Tuk exclaimed, her eyes wide with innocent wonder. "Is it true? That means we’ll be sisters!"

Lo’ak snorted, dropping down beside you. "Of course it's true, Tuk. Everyone knows Neteyam's been mooning over her for ages." He shot you a knowing look. "You just took your sweet time noticing."

"Mooning?" You feigned offense, raising a brow at him. "Neteyam doesn't moon.”

"Oh, Neteyam did more than just 'moon'," Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Remember that time we were playing by the river and you decided to climb a tree? He had a fit when you slipped."

"I did not slip," you corrected, a faint flush creeping up your neck. "I was testing the branches."

"Sure, you were," Lo'ak scoffed. "And then he spent the next two days following you around, making sure you didn't, quote, 'test' anything else."

"He was just being protective," you defended, though a memory of Neteyam's frantic face, his grip on your arm, flashed in your mind.

"Protective, my tail," Lo'ak countered. "He was terrified. And then he got into a fight with that older warrior, Maru, because Maru dared to joke about your..." he gestured at his chest and you smacked his arm.

"Maru was a fool," you stated, dismissing the memory. "He deserved it."

Kiri, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. "Neteyam has always liked you." Her voice was soft, ethereal. "Even before he knew what it meant to like someone."

You paused, your basket-weaving forgotten. "What do you mean?"

Kiri shifted, her gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the present. "I remember when he was twelve. You two were always together at training. You had this new loincloth, bright green, woven with beautiful threads. It was very striking."

You remembered it. One of the garments your mother has woven for you before she died.

"Neteyam," Kiri continued, "he wouldn't wear his old one anymore. He insisted on getting one the exact same color. His was a bit too small for him, but he wore it anyway. He looked ridiculous."

"He did!" Lo'ak burst out, laughing. "I forgot about that! Mom and Dad kept asking him why he wouldn't wear his proper training gear, and he just kept saying, 'It feels right'."

Spider, who had been listening intently, chimed in. "And remember when she and Neteyam had that huge argument about the hunting grounds? You wanted to push further into the eastern territories, and he thought it was too risky."

"He was being overly cautious," you grumbled, remembering the heated exchange. You had been so angry, you hadn't spoken to him for days.

"He was furious when you didn't talk to him," Spider recounted, a grin spreading across his face. "He snapped at everyone. Even Neytiri. He wouldn't eat properly. He just kept pacing, muttering about 'stubborn huntresses' and 'reckless decisions'."

Lo'ak nodded vigorously. "Yeah! And then when you finally made up, after you brought back that enormous hexapede, he was practically glowing. He made everyone listen to your story twice, even though he'd been there."

"He always makes a big deal out of you," Kiri added, her eyes meeting yours. "Everything you do. Everything about you."

A strange warmth spread through your chest, mixing with a sudden, unsettling realization. You had always thought it was just a strong bond, a shared warrior's spirit. His protectiveness, his arguments, his attention... you’d attributed it to his role as future Olo'eyktan, his innate sense of responsibility. You always saw his intensity as a reflection of your own.

"He was... always like that?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

"Always," Kiri confirmed, her hand patting your arm. "He always looks at you. Even when he's talking to someone else, his eyes still find you."

Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it was annoying. We'd be planning a hunt, and he'd just... stare. Like you were going to disappear if he looked away for a second."

A wave of understanding, slow and powerful, washed over you. All those subtle glances, the way he always seemed to know when you needed backup in a skirmish, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, even when he was trying to be stern. The arguments, the reconciliations, the shared laughter, the fierce camaraderie... it wasn’t just rapport. It was devotion. It was love, long before either of you had given it a name. You had been so focused on proving yourself, on holding your own, that you had been blind to the obvious.

You had been so dense.

A small, rueful smile touched your lips. "Eywa," you breathed, "I really was so dense."

"It's okay," Kiri said, her gaze gentle. "Some things take time to see."

————————

The three moons and a half of courtship passed in a blur of small, thoughtful gestures and simmering frustration. Neteyam brought you rare flowers from the deepest parts of the forest, their petals glowing with an inner light. He carved you another animal, a graceful viperwolf, its fangs bared in a silent snarl. He hunted for you, always bringing the choicest cuts, leaving them discreetly at your sleeping alcove in the communal hut you share with other unmated women. He sang you ancient songs when you two are together in your spot, his voice, usually so commanding, soft and melodic beneath the stars.

Each gesture, each token, spoke of his deep affection, his unwavering commitment. And each night, you lay on your mat, the wooden carvings beside you, the scent of the flowers filling the air, and felt the ache of longing grow. He was courting you, truly. He was showing you his heart. But Eywa, you miss him. You miss his gentle touches, his lips on your skin...

One evening, as the first moon dipped below the horizon, casting long, ethereal shadows, you found him by the river, skipping flat stones across the water. The air was cool, carrying the earthy scent of the riverbed.

"Neteyam," you called, your voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned, his eyes, usually so composed, showing a flicker of surprise, then something else, anticipation, perhaps. "Paskalin."

"This is enough," you stated, walking towards him, your steps firm and purposeful.

He frowned, a slight crease appearing between his brows. "Enough? Do my tokens displease you?"

You stopped before him, placing your hands on your hips. "No, your tokens are... charming. Your songs are beautiful. Your restraint, however, is becoming a problem."

He blinked, confusion clouding his features. "Restraint? I do not understand."

"You do not understand?" You scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "We have been doing this for moons now, Neteyam. Three moons and a half of chaste glances and beautiful gifts. Do you honestly think I don't feel you watching me? Do you think I don't feel the tension between us, thick as the morning mist?" You stepped closer, invading his personal space. "I feel you, Neteyam. Every moment. And I know you feel me."

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a fierce battle raging in their depths. "I… I want to do this properly. For us."

"Properly?" You leaned in, your voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "What is proper about denying what Eywa put in our hearts? What is proper about denying the very essence of our connection?" You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the taut muscles of his neck. "I have chosen you, Neteyam. You said you would win my favor. You have it. You've had it for a long time, apparently, even when I was too blind to see it."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Baby, we’ve gone over this. I want to make you feel my love... That it is not just lust I feel for you.”

You smiled. "Lust is a part of it, Neteyam," you countered, your fingers tangling in his braids, pulling his head down. "A powerful, undeniable part. But it is not just lust. You know that. I know that. And after three moons and a half of you being a saint, I am beyond ready for you to be a sinner." You pressed your lips to his, a soft, teasing kiss, then pulled back slightly. "Mate with me, Neteyam. Now. Tonight. Without all the strenuous clan celebrations and the endless speeches. Just us. Under the stars. As Eywa intended."

His eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of shock, desire, and a hint of relief. He stared at you, truly stared, as if seeing you for the first time, seeing the depth of your desire, the strength of your conviction. The unwavering certainty in your gaze.

"You... you want to mate?" he finally managed, his voice hoarse.

"I do," you affirmed, your smile radiant. "I want you. All of you. Tonight."

A profound sigh escaped him, a sound of surrender and immense joy. He pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, burying his face in your hair. "Eywa," he breathed, "alright. Alright, baby. A thousand times, yes."

You chuckled, a triumphant sound. He gave in so fast it almost made you laugh. All that talk of proper courtship, of restraint, of honor. One word, one touch, and he crumbled. You loved him for it.

————————

The ancient Tree of Souls, its roots delving deep into the earth, its branches reaching for the heavens and also draping around its beholders, bore witness. The air shimmered with an unseen energy, the bioluminescent plants around you pulsing in a silent symphony. You stood before Neteyam, his eyes, dark and fathomless, locked onto yours. The traditional mating ceremony, stripped of its usual grandeur, held a profound intimacy, a spiritual weight that transcended any celebration.

He reached for his kuru behind him, bringing it in front of you and you did the same, smiling at him. His other hand held yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, a gentle, possessive grip. The pink tendrils of your neural queues danced in the air as your hands moved closer, the tendrils reaching for each other until it embraced into a beautiful woven tapestry, sending a shiver through you, not of cold, but of a deep, resonant warmth that settled in your very bones. You felt the raw power of his love, a force so overwhelming it threatened to drown you. It was in the fierce tenderness of his gaze, the slight tremor in his hands, the silent, unwavering promise in his eyes.

"I see you," he spoke, his voice a low, guttural murmur, raw with emotion. "My mate. My heart. My everything."

You felt it then, the surge of his devotion, a tidal wave of feeling that washed over you, pulling you under its glorious current. His passion burned, a fierce, protective flame that wrapped around you, claiming you, making you his. You saw the possessiveness in his eyes, not a desire to control, but a desperate yearning to keep you safe, cherished, forever by his side.

"I see you," you echoed, your voice thick with unshed tears, your own heart swelling to bursting. "Neteyam. My sky. My heart. My soul."

He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours, the scent of him, wild and uniquely Neteyam, filling your senses. You closed your eyes, feeling the tremor that ran through him, a resonance that echoed deep within you. This was it. The culmination of years of unspoken longing, of fierce camaraderie, of a love that had grown, strong and resilient, in the crucible of battle and the quiet moments between.

When you opened your eyes, you saw yourself reflected in his. But it wasn't just your image. It was a vision. You saw a woman, glowing with an inner light, her features softened by love, her eyes shining with a fierce, untamed joy. You were so beautiful. Radiant. When he says he sees you, he does. This is what he sees.

And then you felt it, a frantic, thunderous beating against your chest, so violent it threatened to shatter your ribs. For a terrifying, exhilarating moment, you thought it was your own heart, racing out of control.

But then you realized. It was his.

His heart, a wild drum against your chest, thrumming with such overwhelming love, such fierce devotion, such boundless passion, that it echoed through you, consuming you. He was watching you, truly seeing you, and in that moment, he was realizing the full, breathtaking extent of his love for you. It was a love that transcended words, a bond forged in fire and starlight, a promise whispered on the wind.

He kissed you then, his lips eventually sliding down your jaw, trailing fire along your neck. The tendrils of your kuru, still intertwined, pulsed with a heightened energy. Every touch, every breath, sends a jolt directly to your core. His hands, no longer restrained, found the hem of your top, pushing it up, peeling it away from your skin.

Cool night air kissed your exposed chest, only to be replaced by the heat of his palms, cupping your round breasts. A gasp escaped you as his thumbs grazed your nipples, already hard and yearning. He devoured your mouth again, his tongue mirroring the urgent thrust of his hips against yours. The soft moss beneath you became a bed as he lowered you, his weight a delicious pressure. He tore his mouth from yours, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, locking onto yours.

"I missed you," he rasped, his voice raw, laced with the hunger of months denied. "So much, baby..."

His fingers found the knot of your loincloth, untying it with practiced ease. The fabric fell away, leaving you bare to the cool night and his searing gaze. He shed his own with brutal efficiency, the pink bioluminescence of the tree you're under allowed you to appreciate his magnificent form. He was a force of nature, all taut muscle and simmering desire.

He knelt between your legs, his eyes burning into yours. The connection through your kurus intensified, a surge of pleasure coiling low in your belly. You felt his mind, a torrent of desperate longing, his body echoing the same fierce need. He shifted, nudging against you, and a whimper escaped your throat.

"Please," you breathed, your hips arching instinctively.

He didn't wait. He plunged into you, a deep, full thrust that stole your breath. A cry tore from your lips, half pain, half ecstasy. He was everything you remembered, and more. Tighter. Hotter. The months of forced celibacy made him a primal beast. He drove into you, hard and punishing, each thrust a declaration of his hunger, his possession.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, demanding more. His hands kneaded your breasts, his thumbs circling your swollen nipples, sending electric currents through your core. You arched your back, exposing yourself fully to his ministrations, relishing the glorious friction, the exquisite pressure. He pulled your hips to him with every powerful push, his free hand tangling in the hair at your nape, holding your head steady as he claimed your mouth again, kissing you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

You met his rhythm, bucking against him, crying out his name as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. The connection through your kurus made it almost unbearable, every sensation amplified, every nerve ending singing. You felt his pleasure, his intensity, his absolute surrender to the moment, mirroring your own. He pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, a primal growl rumbling in his chest.

"You're so tight," he gasped, his voice thick with desire. "So good. I could stay inside you forever."

He shifted, pulling you onto your hands and knees. The moss, soft and cool against your skin, gave way slightly under your weight. He spread your knees wide, taking you from behind with a rougher urgency than before. You cried out, your hips rocking back to meet his relentless thrusts. He gripped your waist, pulling you back with each powerful surge, burying himself deep inside. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin behind your ear, nipping and sucking, his teeth grazing your lobe.

"Mine," he whispered, his voice dark and possessive. "Always mine."

You were a mess of gasps and moans, your body trembling on the verge of splintering. He flipped you onto your back again, his strong hands sliding under your hips, lifting you, tilting you, taking you at an angle that sent new waves of sensation through you. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one engorged nipple, suckling hard, then moving to the other, until they were both swollen and aching, exquisitely sensitive.

He didn't let go until you were spent, your body trembling, a tremor of pure exhaustion and satisfaction. You felt yourself drifting, the world blurring around the edges, his body still a heavy, comforting weight on yours. He shifted, pulling you close, his arm wrapping around you, his hips still moving, slow and shallow, inside you. You felt his lips on your neck, a soft, lingering kiss, then another, and another, until sleep claimed you.

————————

You woke to the gentle rocking of Neteyam’s body, a soft, rhythmic thrusting that had continued even in your sleep. Your entire body ached, a delicious soreness settling deep in your muscles, especially between your legs. The air was cool against your skin, but a deeper warmth enveloped you. You opened your eyes to the soft, diffused light filtering through the leaves, and the sight of Neteyam’s face, peaceful in sleep, his chin resting on your head.

You were clean. Your loincloth and top were back on, though loosely arranged. He had taken care of you, even in his sleep-addled state. You smiled, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.

"Good morning, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes fluttering open. A lazy smile spread across his face, his gaze warm and heavy. Fuck, you are actually his wife now. His mate.

"Morning," you whispered back, stretching slightly, a groan escaping you as your sore muscles protested.

"Was it too much?" he teased, his hand caressing your back.

"Never too much," you countered, though your body begged to differ. "Just... thorough."

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "I missed you."

Your delightful laugh sounded like bells in his ears. “I told you... Staying away from each other that way was a bad idea...” you yawned and he pulled you tighter into him.

“But it made our lovemaking more pleasurable, didn’t it?” he whispered in your ears, now trailing kisses down your jaw.

You stayed there for what felt like hours, simply existing in each other's presence, the quiet intimacy a balm to your soul. The sun climbed higher, painting the forest in dappled gold, before Neteyam finally stirred.

"We should go back," he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. "They will be wondering."

The forest floor felt different beneath your feet, no longer just earth and roots, but a path imbued with a new significance. You walked beside Neteyam, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining. The air around you hummed with a subtle charge, a faint, sweet musk clinging to your skin, a testament to the night’s communion.

As you approached the communal area, the familiar sounds of the clan drifted towards you. Laughter, the rhythmic thud of weaving, the distant echo of a hunter’s call. Kiri was the first to spot you, her head tilting, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

"Eywa, Y/N," she said, her voice a low, amused hum. "You positively reek of Neteyam."

Lo’ak, leaning against a tree, burst into laughter, throwing his head back. "I swear to Eywa, they've been doing what couples do since forever! Thank goodness they finally mated!"

A blush crept up your neck, hot and undeniable. You felt Neteyam’s hand tighten around yours, a silent show of solidarity. Just as you were about to retort, a stern voice cut through the air.

"Who mated?"

Mo’at stood before you, her eyes, sharp and knowing, sweeping over the two of you. Kiri, Lo’ak, and Spider, who had been listening intently, suddenly became intensely interested in anything but the newly-mated couple. Lo’ak pretended to examine a leaf, Kiri stared at the sky, and Spider meticulously cleaned dirt from under his fingernail.

Neteyam squeezed your hand, pulling you closer, his chin resting lightly on your head. "Us, Mo’at. We mated before Eywa."

Mo’at’s gaze softened, a flicker of a distant memory in her eyes. Twenty-four years ago, Neytiri had stood before her, saying the same words about Jake. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

"Lo’ak," she commanded, her voice regaining its usual authority. "Go find your parents. Tell them to come here."

Lo’ak, visibly relieved to be given a task, bolted. Moments later, Jake and Neytiri arrived, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

"So," Neytiri began, her eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking between you and Neteyam. "You mated without the clan, without ceremony. Is this how you honor your mate, my son?"

Jake, however, clapped Neteyam heartily on the shoulder, a wide grin splitting his face. "Attaboy, Neteyam! Took you long enough." He turned to Mo’at, a twinkle in his eyes. "Mo’at, can we just get the blessing done? They look like they've been through a war. Especially," he paused, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, "they look absolutely drained."

Lo’ak snickered from behind his father. "Neteyam is definitely drained."

Your cheeks burned, the embarrassment a physical heat. Everyone knew what you two did. Everyone could see... smell. Neteyam, sensing your discomfort, gently nudged you forward.

"Come," he said, his voice soft, ignoring Lo'ak's comment. "I have something to show you."

He led you away from the curious stares, past the familiar paths, towards an unfamiliar part of the Hometree. A new hut stood nestled among the magnificent and large stems facing the distant river, its woven walls and sturdy frame speaking of careful craftsmanship.

"Whose hut is this?" you asked, your brow furrowing in confusion.

He smiled, a slow, possessive curve of his lips. "Ours." He opened the entrance flap, ushering you inside. "I had it built several moons ago. Before I even started courting you."

You stepped inside, admiring the spacious interior, the soft mats laid out, the scent of fresh wood and woven fibers filling the air. "Before courting me? What would you have done with this if I didn't agree to be courted?" you teased, turning to face him.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, his lips brushing your neck. "It would still be ours, paskalin. Because I would have done everything to win you,” he said it like a promise. “It will need more decorations," he murmured, his gaze sweeping around the hut. "What do you have in mind?"

You leaned back into his embrace, your fingers tracing the rough weave of the wall. An orphan, you had never truly had a home of your own, not like this. Your mind, already buzzing with ideas, began to fill the space. You turned in his arms, your eyes bright.

"Oh, Neteyam," you began, your voice brimming with excitement as ramble, "we could hang glowing plants from the ceiling, I’ll have to work on a tapestry to hang on the main support beam, and we need a special place for our weapons, and a bigger mat for sleeping, and a place for the children’s things..."

He stared at you, his eyes full of love, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "Children?" he asked, his voice soft. "Do... Do you want them?” he asked as if he’s determined to get one now once you answered yes.

You grinned, a wide, uninhibited smile. "Yes. Yes, I want them, Neteyam. I... I didn’t have siblings and I can’t remember much of my parents. You are my only family... and I want to build a big one with you."

His eyes, dark pools of devotion, searched yours. He leaned down, kissing you tenderly. "I will give you everything you want. As many children as you want... I will give it to you. I love you so much, baby.

You smiled. “I love you more, ma ‘teyam.“

————————

The festivities of your mating was a fanfare event both you and Neteyam can't wait to escape, if only you weren’t on the dais with his family, being the center of everyone’s attention. You’ve barely enjoyed the confines of your new home for a whole day when Tuk and Kiri arrived, excitedly whisking you away, apparently so you all could work on your hair and attire for the ceremony.

Joined with some girls that were also your good friends, they renewed your braids and laid out several tops and loincloths you can choose from that were so beautiful you’ve never worn anything like those before. Even though you’ve always believed yourself to be very resolute, especially emotionally and mentally, you found yourself tearing up.

You have no clear memory of your parents so growing up, the taunts of your being orphan would only occasionally pierced through your hard shell. But now... You can’t help but wonder what your parents would think about your mate. Judging from the garments your mother left behind, you assume she loved dressing up so would she like the cascade of vibrant crimson red feathers you chose to adorn your chest with?

You watched Neteyam conversing with the elder warriors after Lo’ak had asked to borrow your mate and didn’t even wait for you to agree before dragging him away. Jake had joined them a few minutes ago and now you’re left alone with Neytiri and you suddenly feel awkward. You’ve rarely talked to her outside of council meetings and the times you talked to her about random stuff when you were a teenager and Kiri’s closest friend don’t seem to count.

You sipped on your cup of fermented fruit wine and cleared your throat. You seemed to remember also... That you mated with Neteyam without ceremony and without telling anyone. She knows her son and she also knows you, so she must have deduced already that it was your idea. You looked down at your food, your face heating up.

“Daughter,” she called, her voice carrying despite the loud celebration. You turned to her with an awkward smile but she smiled at you warmly, taking your hand in hers. “I don’t think I have thanked you yet,” she said quietly now. “For saving my son. In fact, for always—”

You turned to her, putting your other hand over hers. “There is nothing to thank,” you said firmly, squeezing her hand slightly. "Everything I did for Neteyam, I did because I can’t...“ you cleared your throat and your cheeks burned at what you’re going to say to his mother. “Live in a world without your son. Every time he does anything reckless, I know I would dive without thinking... And die saving him...”

Your eyes stung with the tears that pooled in them and you bowed your head so she wouldn’t see it. Neytiri herself had started tearing up as she squeezed your hand. “I know, daughter. I’ve seen it,“ she whispered, . "You love him. And you don’t know how thankful I am for the love you have for my son...”

You shook your head. “There is nothing to thank,” you repeated, a sob tearing at your throat.

You sniffed when you heard footsteps approaching. You already see Jake beside Neytiri and you lifted your head when you felt a familiar hand gently tug at your elbow, looking up and seeing Neteyam’s face marred with worry and his eyes glancing at his mother with accusatory glint as he pulled you to him. You chuckled and let him pull you up so he could hug you.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, cupping your cheek.

You smiled up at him, realizing that you rarely ever cry, but whenever you do, it always has anything to do with him. You shook your head, “Your mother and I were just talking about something important. Nothing bad...” you nonchalantly said as if you didn’t just vow to his mother that you’d die for him.

Lo'ak had made it back to the dais before Neteyam could respond, clicking his tongue. "See, the women of this clan are already weeping and I haven’t even departed for Awa'atlu yet,“ he shook his head.

You sniffed. “Awa’atlu? What are you going to do there?”

You remembered a time when you were teenagers and their family spent a whole moon there, you feared they were never coming home. But most of all... You were anxiously thinking about all the girls who would see Neteyam the way you do. When they came back though, only Lo’ak had brought home stories about a certain Metkayina girl.

“Father’s sending me to convene with the Metkayina, sister. Tulkun hunting led by Sky people had severely worsened in the past moons. Tonowari had apparently sent a message through Peylak,” now he’s gone serious, no traces of his earlier rumor.

You glanced at Neteyam. You’ve never been to the reef but from the stories Neteyam, Lo’ak, Kiri, and even Spider have told you in passing, one of the most beautiful features of it is the tulkun and to hear of them being hunted and killed mercilessly by these greedy Sky people who burn your forests and kill your brethrens... It fills you with inconceivable anger.

You wished Lo’ak well in his journey and wished that you could do more than that for the reef people even though you have your own fight here in the forest. The people are still at the height of the celebration when you and Neteyam slipped away to go home. Home. To your kelku, the one he had built before he even asked to court you.

He hugged you from behind as you two walked inside, his lips leaving soft traces of kisses on the nape of your neck. “I’d have to babyproof this... For the little ones,“ he said in a thick voice, sending shivers down your spine.

You watched his hand gesture to some spots in the hut where little kids could fall if left unattended. You smiled and turned in his arms so you could hook your arms on his nape. "I haven’t thanked you for this yet, ma ‘teyam,” you murmured, pulling him down so you could kiss him.

His hands settled on your waist. “What for?” A slow smile spread across his face.

“For this. This will be my first actual home,” you said with a small smile.

His forehead creased and it looked as though he was in pain for a moment before he pressed his forehead against yours. “There is nothing to thank, baby... You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this. Being with you like this... Knowing for sure now that you’re going to be the mother of my children. It was a pleasure to build where we will start our family,” he pressed a kiss against your lips.

You smiled, pulling him for a hug as your eyes glistened with tears. “I’ve never cried this much in a single day before,“ you said as you buried your laughter in his neck. “Well, perhaps when you guys went to Awa’atlu. I thought you were never coming back...” You sniffed.

He released you from the hug and made you face him. “Why am I only hearing of this now?“ his eyes crinkled with joy and confusion.

You pushed your lips forward. “I didn’t like what I thought of then. I thought you’d never come back and you’ll settle down there...”

"What?“ He chuckled. “Baby, I was only fifteen!”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I don’t know. Lo’ak can’t stop blabbing about this Tsireya girl and I was just waiting for you to talk about some girl and I don't even know why I wanted to strangle you every time I think of it.”

Now, he’s fallen in a fit of laughter, pulling your face to kiss you. “I would never,“ he said. “But they do know who you are. I told them about you,“ he smirked, his eyes glinting with a light of possessiveness. “We’ll go there soon. Check on Lo’ak. So they’ll know you're actually real.”

Your forehead creased. “They thought I wasn’t?“

“No, it’s just that I keep talking about you. I happen to always find a way to insert your name in conversations that they start wondering, curious and all,“ he smiled.

In your excitement, you kissed him then, a kiss that tasted of forever, of home, of a future intertwined, irrevocably and beautifully. You were his, and he, unequivocally, was yours.

[meluwinne]

could I req an angsty, hurt w comfort, established relationship neteyam x metkayina reader ? 🤤

it's basically the scene where neteyam got shot BUT it's the reader who takes the bullet instead, resulting reader to a coma

I don't rlly have any other like tags (?) to add to this ... I would js like angst ( READER LIVES OFC )

anyway LOVE you and your fics btw 🥹🥹 I love and need metkayina reader everyday 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

not a lot, just forever

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neteyam x metkayina!reader

intertwined, sewn together. (pt.2)

𝜗ৎ synopsis. you and neteyam argued about who would save lo'ak, tuk and tsireya on the ship, leaving words left unsaid. As neteyam saw the bullet strike through your chest, the bullet meant for him- he didn't know if you would ever wake up.

𝜗ৎ a/n. i didn't expect so many requests but i'll do my best to get to them all!! fair warning it will take a while but im really grateful for all the love and support, thank you!

GUYS IM SO PROUD OF THIS ONE PLS LIKE IT!!

a lil ooc bc we all know neteyam would never yell at u + tried to make this rlly gut wrenching when u got shot... heh...

also if anyone wanted to be in a taglist, feel free to comment below because idk how to set one up :,D

𝜗ৎ tags. angst, angst, angst!!, established relationship, hurt w comfort, typical avatar violence, war, mentions of gunshots and blood

keep reading below!

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"Neteyam, you cannot go there- it's too dangerous. You're going to get your skxawng self killed!" You hissed, firmly holding his hand.

He had spotted his younger siblings and Tsireya, hopelessly tied to the metal railing with thick bounds around their wrists on the demon ship, with a gun to the side of Lo'ak's head.

His eyes were swimming with fear, threatening to swallow his entire being whole- heart pounding as he put up a brave facade. Tuk was trembling next to him, her small frame being wracked with sobs, breath hitching at the sound of her father's voice. Her usually bright face was tear streaked, eyes glossing over with a new set of tears. Tsireya was protectively positioned against Tuk, eyes darting from the gun to Lo'ak's head to the crowd of Metkayina warriors. She whispered soft and quiet reassurances to Tuk, almost moving to cover her entire being as to not see her brother in such a dangerous situation.

"I cannot sit by and watch my family get murdered." His ears flattened to the sides of his skull, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on his ilu's saddle. There was an unbridled anger in his eyes, shaking his very being. His tail flicked in agitation behind him, wanting to do nothing more but shoot an arrow through Quaritch's thick skull.

"I know it's hard, but your father has a plan. Be patient." You whispered, trying to reassure him despite your own fear.

"Are you seriously asking me to be patient, Y/N?"

"I'm asking you to not make rash decisions." You sighed, trying to be calm despite the fear brewing in you. The last thing you wanted was to have an argument with Neteyam before a fight with the RDA.

"You are only saying this because deep down, you are scared." He gritted his teeth, his ilu slightly squirming underneath the pressure.

The waves seemed to sense the unease between you two, the waves becoming more violent- angrily lapping at the grated deck of the demon ship, swaying your ilu's with an off rhythm.

"I am scared and I know you are scared too, but please Neteyam you could get yourself hurt." You sighed, eyes zeroing in on Lo'ak's position.

"If you are so worried, leave me alone. I do not need dead weight when I am trying to save my family." His eyes were blank as he said it, mind solely focused on devising a plan to save his siblings. You knew he said it out of frustration and impatience, never meant to hurt you- but your heart ached at his words.

You had never seen this side of Neteyam before- so unfocused, agitated and offensive. He knew of your insecurities of not being strong enough, opting to heal from the side lines instead of fighting head on. Despite your obvious capabilities and his help during training, you had always preferred the medicinal aroma of the healing tent- seeing the smiles on soldier's faces as they reconnected with their families after getting injuried.

But you weren't weak. Everyone knew that, especially Neteyam.

Your eyes slightly widened in shock as you processed his words, hurt flashing across your face before you masked it with a blank expression. Did Neteyam really consider you dead weight? You knew that you weren't the strongest in the clan, but you could handle yourself with ease when it called. Not to mention, you were a child cradled by the waves, one with the current as it eagerly pushed you forward.

"Do not say stuff you do not mean, Nete. You and I both know very well I am not dead weight." Your tail betrayed your nonchalance as it flickered with annoyance behind you, creating small, harsh ripples on the surface of the water. The grip on your weapon was so intense, leaving raw imprints in your hands.

"And if I do mean it?" His tone was sharp, loud enough for it to pierce your heart but quiet enough for others to turn a blind eye. His gaze was not on you, but rather Tuk, whose little body shook with each sob. The fear coiling in your stomach was replaced with disappointment and a taste of bitterness as Neteyam's words settled in your mind.

Your response was quickly interjected by Jake Sully's signal to engage in battle, with Neteyam straying off from the group and headed onto the demon ship.

Hundreds of the members from your clan immediately charged into battle, spears and other weapons in hand as they cried out. Bullets were fired out from all angles, it had felt like metal rain pouring down from the skies.

The air became thick with the pungent stench of metal and smoke, the seas becoming ever more restless. It swayed you violently, tears brimming in your eyes as the fear of death became all too real around you. You swallowed thickly, wiping your eyes before thinking back too all your training and hidden capabilities. The sea staggered beneath you, the Tulkun's cries resonating with the struggle within you- stuck between fighting and following.

You had two choices; follow Neteyam, or follow the plan.

An annoyed grunt escaped your throat as you steered your ilu to follow Neteyam's, rolling your eyes in frustration as you wondered about the immense scolding you would receive later.

-

You followed Neteyam silently onto the demon ship, eyeing him down as he blended in with the shadows- quietly taking down RDA soldiers from above. You shielded him from behind, bowing down soldiers with a swift arrow through their padded vests.

The looming shadows of the demon ship shielded you from the eyes of others, your footsteps silent on the metal deck of the ship as you made your way towards Lo'ak, Tuk and Tsireya. You watched with a soft fondness as Neteyam cut the binds on their wrists, quickly ushering them into the ocean.

"Who's the mighty warrior, hm? Come on, say it." He teased Lo'ak as he cut through the leather binds on his wrists, a smile on his face as he took in his younger brother's dishevelled appearance. You emerged from behind the metal tanks, leaping over the metal railings before landing behind Neteyam, bow still in hand as you meekly smiled at Lo'ak.

"Quick, get into the ocean. Tsireya will show you how to get back." You guided Lo'ak with a gentle hand on his back to Tsireya, who was looking at him with lovesick eyes. Your gaze landed back on Neteyam, who was looking at you with golden pools of guilt, his eyes flattened at the back of his head as he reached for you to say something. From his overall demeanour, you knew he was trying to apologise for his brash behaviour before, the thought of him hurting you plaguing his mind.

Truth is, Neteyam regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Why did he say that? Why was he acting like this? You were not the cause of any of his problems, yelling at you would not prove anything. Moreover, why did he call you dead weight? He himself knows better than anyone that you are not useless in battle.

His attempts at a quick reassurance and apology were immediately interjected by a bullet flying past the side of your face, barely missing your head. A small knife was then thrown at the both of you, with a cut landing clean on the skin of your cheek, droplets of blood gathering like tears which slowly dripped down the side of your face.

Neteyam put a steady arm on your back, guiding you to jump over the metal railings before himself.

Little did he know, there was a gun aimed right at him.

Hidden at the top of the demon ship, covered by the thick smoke and ash which protruded from the surrounding mechanisms hid a rifle. The shadows enveloped the guard from Neteyam's sight, a blanket of darkness shielding him from Neteyam's piercing gaze.

But you were trained to see things like this.

The slight glint of light from the metallic surface of the gun caught your eye, even if it was just a second. You acted on instinct, violently pulling Neteyam over the metal railing before he had time to question your actions, hauling him into the water after yourself. Your lithe body had acted as a shield to his, protecting him from the array of bullets heading your direction.

"Ma [Name], what was that for? Are you alright?" Huffed Neteyam, spitting out water as he rose to the surface.

You were unable to respond, hands uselessly grabbing at the gaping hole above your heart. Blood spurted from the wound at a dangerously quick pace, your vision blurring with every second as you slowly made your way towards Neteyam.

"Neteyam, I...- I'm shot." You gasped out the words, hands clawing through the water towards Neteyam, whose eyes were now blown wide with fear.

The water which had felt so soft beneath your touch turned violent, thrashing at your every attempt to reach Neteyam's outward hands. It pulled you under, suffocating you as you tried to balance keeping afloat and stopping the blood that was seeping into the ocean. The familiar feeling of the calm waves which had once cradled you, pushed you through the currents with an unparalleled elegance and guided you to hidden treasures- now threatened to swallow you whole.

One of the last things you saw was Neteyam's broad back as he hauled you on his ilu, your head drifting off against the warmth and steadiness radiating off of him. His hand was set on your thigh, keeping you from falling off while Lo'ak, Tsireya and Tuk supported you from behind, shouting unknown reassurances.

It had all become white noise to you as you quietly succumbed to Eywa's embrace, seeing her ethereal beauty as you closed your eyes.

Your cold body was laid gently on a rock, slightly pulsing with a glimpse of life in your veins as Neteyam's tears fell on your cheeks, begging you to stay awake.

And in that moment, Neteyam didn't know if he would ever be able to talk to you again.

-

It had been nearly two months since the RDA attacked the Metkayina clan.

Nearly two months since you took the bullet meant to strike Neteyam.

He had laid at your side everyday, staring at your peaceful state, your lashes kissing the apples of your cheeks as the life slowly returned to your face. Your chest was bandaged and salve was applied to the wound daily by Tsireya, taking after her mother. The bioluminescent markings on you gently pulsed with your heartbeat, a soft and steady reminder that you were still alive.

He wondered what you were doing in your state of rest.

Did you think about him? Did he haunt your dreams like you have to him every night since the attack?

Neteyam's heart was weighed down by the lack of your bright presence, becoming ever more visible physically with each passing day. Everyone saw it- the dark circles that formed under his now dulled golden eyes, the dishevelled state of his braids as you were usually the one doing his hair. His friends and family tried their best to offer him support, a crumbling wall of hope built around him.

Jake hugged him more- stopped demanding Neteyam to call him "sir", having long talks during the night when he couldn't sleep well, allowing him to be cradled in his father's steady embrace as he sobbed about you in his dreams. He was no longer involved in the plans against the RDA, as on a mission after your injury he acted with nothing but brashness and impatience.

Neytiri watched with mournful eyes as she watched her son slip away from her. She tried laughing around him more, helping him repair his broken weapons and taking care of you in your slumber. You were the one who saved her son, and she saw you as family. But it would never bring you back, even if your head laid right in her lap. She sang songs to you, hands stroking your hair as if you were one of her own. She would tearfully brush the apples of your cheeks affectionately, cupping your jaw as she whispered pleas for you to wake up.

Your hair would be braided everyday, with Tsireya stroking your scalp with care as Tuk and Kiri decorated your braids with golden rings, small pearls and seashells. Neteyam would watch with tired eyes, taking in the way her fingers filtered through your locks, mentally taking note of how he would do your hairstyles when you awoke. Lo'ak would sit by you too, a silent presence accompanying his brother as they both watched over you. Ao'nung was surprisingly caring as well, standing outside your marui pod, using his authoritative presence and attitude to ward off anyone who was too loud.

But the ocean still breathed, waves rising and falling with the movement of the travelling Tulkun. The trees still danced in the breeze, and the sun still formed ribbons of sunlight through the woven walls of your marui pod.

Life went on without you, whether you were here to witness it or not.

-

Your head lulled in Neteyam's lap as he braided your hair, a small groan escaping your lips as your eyes slowly opened.

You had been in a state of silence for months, it had seemed.

Your body was laid in the lush grasslands of Eywa, her song filling your ears as your body felt hushed and light. Yet you never saw any of your ancestors, only the floating bodies of woodsprites surrounding you through your wandering.

You were lost, but you knew what had happened.

This was Eywa's way of giving you a second chance at life.

You were the ocean's child, and it was not yet your time.

Neteyam's hands flickered in shock as your cerulean eyes, which he had begged to see, opened to meet his golden ones. Your hair fell from his grip as he gently moved your body to hug you, his tears soaking your bandage as he whispered for your forgiveness in your ears.

Your arms, which had felt so heavy, were light as it moved to embrace Neteyam on instinct.

You had seen him briefly in your sleep, visions of his worn eyes staring at your sleeping body. You had flown with him in his dreams, your laugh in the wind as he soared through the skies on his ikran. He talked to you as if you were there, cheering in success whenever he "beat" you at the races, only to turn around to find a whisper of your form drifting away.

In a way, it was like you had never gotten into a coma.

Your presence was in the ocean, your melodic voice in the songs of the Tulkun, in the sway of seaweed as it danced along the seabed. It was in the mountains looming over the people of the Metkayina tribe, your happiness in the wind and your eyes in the stars, watching over the people you loved.

Your body may have been asleep, but your presence was felt.

Neteyam held onto your body like a lifeline, his hands desperately clawing at your back as he took in your warmth. Your body felt frail in his hands, nothing like the fierce warrior he had met months prior. Your touch was as soft as the rainforests which sheltered him, as loving as the morning dew which kissed his forehead as he awoke, as familiar as the feeling of grass beneath his feet.

You were awake.

And in that moment, it was all that mattered.

-

sorry if the ending seems kinda rushed, i didnt want it to be too repetitive. but yay some comfort after all that angst!!

did u guys miss me after my 5 days of not posting... heh

masterlist

: @rielunderthecloak @zhongchithoughts

[tokoyamisstuff]

I know you only write for dilfs usually, but could you make an exception? I'm starved for Invincible content🥺

so many perfectly fine dilfs /gilfs in this series, smh...but for you I'll make an exception. 💌

Variant! Invincible x gn! Reader

Second Chance At Love

...in which another version of Mark invaded your world to claim something he once lost.

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, yandere adjacent, blood, kidnapping, murder, not proofread A/N: I didn't specify which variant, pick your poison

This is it. That’s how you’ll die.

One of innumerable casualties in the wake of this surreal destruction, caused by no one else than the man you were still helplessly in love with. Well, at least the people responsible for this chaos all wore his stupidly handsome face, though the innocence in his eyes despite everything being long since absent in theirs.

You’re cowering in a corner of the nearest safehouse, huddled in there with countless other civilians as you start to reminisce and regret in the face of doom.

Maybe you should have told Mark about your feelings after all. Not that there ever was an appropriate moment to do so, between his relationship with Amber and Eve seamlessly afterwards. Both were amazing women in their own right, and you could never think of comparing yourself to either of them. But damn it you couldn’t even be mad at those wonderful two, even through all your jealousy.

Mark and you had been childhood friends ever since you had moved into the same neighborhood as a preteen. It was a storybook-like friendship that eventually turned into a one-sided infatuation as you grew older, but not wanting to ruin your friendship you cowardly suppressed them until it was too late.

And when your friend's powers finally awakened, you found the perfect opportunity to end this bond once and for all.

You remember it as if it was yesterday: His face, so full of shock and hurt as you broke out in tears and told him you couldn’t do this anymore. It wasn’t a complete lie.

Being this close to a literal hero made you a walking target, you claimed. Even if you as an individual are insignificant in the greater picture, even if villains wouldn’t try and hurt you to get through to him, conflict seemed to follow him everywhere, so you’ll most likely get into harm’s way at some point.

It was a cheap excuse to hide the pitiful truth that you couldn’t stand to see him build a life with someone else. And in hindsight you hated yourself for having done this. Invinc- Mark had gone through so much already, suffered great losses and was carrying guilt that weighed so heavy it astonished you that he hasn’t yet broken down under all the pressure.

And to add insult to injury, you - one of his closest and most trusted friends - abandoned him out of a selfish hurt that didn’t even make up a fraction of what he felt on the regular.

Enough self-pitying. You’re not the victim here.

If – by any miracle – you survive this, the first thing you’ll do is make things right. Contact him immediately, explain yourself, and promise to overcome this silly crush to be a friend he deserves this time.

But just when you made up your mind, a loud, grating noise cut through your pondering…

…and when you looked up, you were horrified to see the view of a bright night sky.

That meant someone had not only found this place, but also effortlessly tore off the rooftop which was made up of strengthened steel.

For the fraction of a second, when your eyes met all too familiar ones, a naive hope inside of you thought it was your Invincible that had arrived, worried for your safety. But the vastly different costume – covered with blood and viscera - reminded you painfully that again it’s just wishful thinking. A dream that would never become reality, no matter how long you refuse to acknowledge it. This world’s Mark is probably fighting alongside Eve right now, not wasting a single thought about you, and you couldn't blame him.

The Viltrumite scanned the crowd for god knows what, his face falling flat as his gaze fell on you. A flash of recognition flickered in his eyes, just to be replaced by an almost predatory glint.

“Found you!” his tone was oddly cheerful, yet sent a shiver down your spine as you could barely perceive him lunging at you with his sheer inhumane speed. You were sure that now you’ll experience pain beyond your greatest imagination, praying he'd make it quick...

...but much to your surprise the impact never came.

Instead you found yourself high in the air, fighting the nausea rising in the pit of your stomach due to the way too fast ascend. Beneath you the outline of the collapsing safehouse became blurred by darkness and distance, the dust driving tears in your eyes even long after the rubble drowned out everyone's screams.

“He’ll drop me” is the only thought present in your mind, feeling tremendously selfish for not caring about the others whose death you just witnessed. Yes, soon this sociopath will make you fall to your death and laugh at your misery like it’s some kind of wicked game.

And you deserved it either way, didn’t you?

Maybe you disappointed Mark in other realities as well. That must be it, that’s the reason he went out of his way just to find you – to get his revenge for you abandoning him in his darkest hour.

Your first instinct was to scream and lash out at him, and yet you knew trying to oppose a force of nature like him was to no avail. So with no other options you cling to your captor like a lifeline.

Clutching the fabric of his costume in tight fists, you hide your face in the crook of his neck, desperately trying to shun out the reality of your situation. Your behavior earns a low chuckle from the villain, who in return wraps his arms a little tighter around you as he carries you through the sky nearly bridal style.

“Don’t tell me your Mark never brought you flying with him?” he asked nonchalantly, as if any of this wasn’t an absolutely terrifying concept for you. Concerned at your lack of response, he slowed down in midair, gently squeezing your sides. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you. We’re almost there.”

You wanted to ask where to exactly, but your voice failed you each time you tried. So you stayed cradled against his muscular chest like this, trying your best to ignore the way you felt his gaze burning into you even though you refused to open your eyes.

“There we are” he announced, carefully letting you down. And still, as soon as your legs touched solid ground again they gave up and you fell to your knees right away. Initially this foreign Mark wanted to help you, to catch you in his arms once again and reassure you that everything was gonna be alright - but upon seeing tears dwelling in your eyes he knew he had to stop himself, hands falling loosely to the sides and balling to fists in mild frustration.

For a while you remained like this, staring at each other in awkward silence while a storm of conflicting emotions was raging beneath.

“You’re safe here” Mark ultimately spoke, and looking around this place really did seem rather peaceful compared to what you've seen in the news. “The others won’t attack rural areas. We were ordered to destroy main cities and crucial infrastructures mainly.”

“By whom?” The question was burning on your tongue but it died right there, because what does it matter? Knowing wouldn’t make any difference since you couldn’t change the outcome anyways. So instead you ask “Why…why did you bring me here?”

You were already dreading the answer as your mind conjured concerning possible scenarios, however the variant merely gave you a confused puppy gaze that almost made you forget the threat he posed.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He sheepishly rubs the back of his head, avoiding your eyes. “I wanted to get you before the others would."

That sounded more like a subtle threat than a honest reassurance.

“Please…don’t hurt me…” you beg and whimmer, overwhelmed by all the recent events. You’re shaking violently, tears now wettening your cheeks. The mere sight of it - and knowing he’s responsible - shatters what’s left of his rotten heart.

“Wha- of course I won’t-" He nervously paces around, wildly gesticulating as if he's struggling to put his thoughts into words - seems like they all do have similarities after all. "Oh man, sorry. You know I suck at comminicating! Shit, I fucked up the first impression already..."

Continuing to mumbles inaudible ramblings under his breath, he grips a pillar so harshly that it's combined to dust, making you shuffle even farther away from him.

“Nonononono, please don’t be afraid of me!" he yells so loud that you wince, and the fact that he keeps making things worse upsets him even more. "I could never hurt you, I swear!"

The man in front of you looks utterly devastated, and you can't put your finger on why that is or what you have to do with it.

After all, you're no one important, especially to him. Right?

At first keeping his distance, he hesistantly approaches you while simultaneously trying to appear as harmless as possible. Hands raised in a placating manner, voice calm and quiet, he whispers "I'm so, so sorry...I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's- it's okay..." you stammer feebly to appease him, your body still paralyzed by fear. A small squeal escapes your throat as you feel his palm stroke your cheek, the blood sticking to his gloves drying on your skin.

The former hero was watching you intently, face contorting through a mixture of relief and despair. But there was something else about him - the Mark you knew never acted like this. It's probably only your imagination, but he's so...

Before you could finish your line of thoughts, he closes the gap between you and his lips crashed over yours in sheer exasperation. You could feel the heat radiating off of him as he pulled you close, the barely contained strenght of his grip both frightening and thrilling.

"Damn...I keep fucking up" he blurts out, an enamored smile playing on his lips nonetheless. "Sorry for...well, this...got a bit carried away."

It was such a bizarre view: Someone possessing an indescribable strenght, unmatched on nearly the whole universe, being reduced to a stuttering, blushing mess in the presence of a pathetic human.

He was still holding you, without any intent to let you go any time soon, blissfully unaware - or rather ignorant - of how insane this whole situation actually was.

"I always wanted more than friendship, you know?" He confessed this so casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world - and opposed to all logic you felt your heart flutter at his words. "But in my world I never had the guts to confess...I was too afraid to lose you completely in case you don’t reciprocate."

You shouldn't feel guilty that you briefly thought back about the Mark you once knew, wondering if he ever felt the same, and yet you did. As if you owed the one in front of you right now some kind of loyality just because he was currently pouring his heart out.

No. Stop. What are you doing here? This isn't right!

The man in front of you is a homicidal maniac who did god knows what to his homeworld, and caused mayhem and suffering across the whole globe without any remorse, just to...

...yeah, why exactly?

As if your thoughts were clearly written on your forehead, he tries to explain himself, expression turning somber as he spoke.

"Back at my world I made some mistakes- no. I did so many irredeemable, atrocious things...and I only understood what truly mattered after I already lost it...after I lost you because of my actions. But I won't repeat those errors again, I swear. I promise I'll keep you safe and sound at my side to cherish you forever..."

You shouldn't feel anything but hatred and disgust at his display, yet you couldn't help but pity this forlorn, broken shell of a man that clutched you like a child would cling to their soothing blanket.

"This world's Mark, he...doesn't appreciat you." His eyes were manic, bordering on pure madness and you felt his fingers possessively digging into your flesh just shy of being painful. "But me, I would erase as many planets as it takes if only it meant being able to hold you like this for another day."

This man was truly a wolf in sheeps clothing - a vicious, instable monster that could snap any time shall your reaction not appeal to his delusions. All that's left for you to do is playing the part and hoping that the remnant of his humanity was enough to postpone a horrible fate.

So instead of answering you quietly sobbed in his vice-like embrace, tears mixing with the stains of death on his costume. You felt him rubbing soothing circles on your back, so tender and tentative you wondered just how long it's been since those hands had inflicted anything but pain.

Who would've thought that getting the one thing you had wished for an eternity could turn into a literal nightmare?

[Next Part]

[sunaskura]

thinking about an alternate mark whose first and only objective in the invincible war is to get to you. you were his first love - his only love, and he's missed you desperately...

in your universe you were too nervous to make a move and now it's too late since mark and eve are basically meant for each other... so when chaos hits and all the invincible variants come to wreak havoc and mark rushes to make sure you're safe, you don't understand why he's not out there saving the world with eve.

you're in his suffocating embrace when you ask him this and he stiffens briefly, before pulling away to look down at you. his eyes so full of adoration and he asks: "who's eve?"