ʚ iv ɞ

⋆.˚ 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺. / 𝙞𝙫―𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙞 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨. / 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨. ₊⊹

[inukiiexe]

swinging through you.

CH 1┆spiderman!yuji itadori x f!reader CH 1 ⇒ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3

ʚ⁺˖ » synopsis: your roommate and childhood best friend, yuji itadori, has two grave secrets: 1) he has a crush on you. 2) he's spider-man. spoiler: he's awful at keeping either.

ʚ⁺˖ » w.c: 18k, art cred: ig@/baaoozhe〃fluff, angst, smut, spiderman au, college au, living together, childhood friends, domestic fluff, cuddling, dogs, cooking together, kissing, tooth-rotting fluff, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), implied domestic abuse, happy ending.

ʚ⁺˖ » songs: playlist〃notes: i love spider-man and yuji so much like this actually feels like a proposal omg... ps: the playlist is like vibes i think this spider!yuji fic would have- hope you guys enjoy!!

Yuji Itadori has never wanted to be the centre of attention. Not even when he lands the biggest home run of the decade, or when he crosses another finish line first, smashing records that the campus won’t stop bragging about.

As soon as the clock strikes seven, he’s gone. 

No frats, no parties, no messy drama. In the kindest, nicest phrasing possible, he’s a dud. He’ll even disappear mid-conversation, too, sprinting off with some sorry excuse of a “study session.” And if you’ve ever seen his grades, you’d wonder how these “study sessions” even happen at all.

Well, he is a jock—and he is reciting his script for tomorrow’s anthropology presentation... Just with someone else hanging upside down beside him, cocooned in sticky white web on some cityside rooftop.

...Hold up. Rewind one hour.

Gunshots echoed, bullets ricocheting, and in the midst of this circus of a firework show, there Yuji was—dodging clattering cans, cartons, and cereal boxes he was trying to save.

“Okay, think, think—don’t die, don’t die.”

The robber, in his ridiculous ski mask, barreled through the aisles in his frantic craze with his crowbar. 

“Out of my way!” he shouted, knocking over another pyramid of canned chickpeas.

Yuji smirked.

Suddenly, a web shot out from his wrist, and the robber yelped as the strand snagged his ankle, tripping him into innocent chips. It’s almost pitiful as his arms flailed helplessly, packs crashing at the spectacle. With a grin, Yuji shot another string of white around the man’s torso.

“Relax! I’m the friendly neighbourhood jock—wait, superhero! Friendly neighbourhood superhero!”

Though the robber still spun in place, tumbling like a washing machine on spin cycle, “You little—”

Yuji fired again, webbing his arms and yanking him upright, “Ohhh, you like being dramatic? We can do dramatic.”

Another around the legs, another around the torso, and suddenly the man found himself dangling midair like a piñata—arms pinned to his sides, legs stiff as broomsticks. A jar of olives bounced off his head for emphasis.

“PUT ME DOWN! WHAT IS THIS—?!”

With a swing from the shelf, Yuji landed with flair, crouching on a layered stack of cereal boxes as he grinned in amusement. “Relax, dude. You’re… uh… artfully suspended. Also, please stop moving, you’re making me dizzy.”

To his dismay, the robber still gyrated, knocking over carts and cans skittering across like tiny rockets. Thankfully, Yuji ducked just in time. With a sigh, he simply shot another web again.

“Hold still! Or I swear, I’ll—wait, nope, I’m not threatening you. I’m… just trying to help! With style!”

So, fast-forward to now, and really, it’s just another Tuesday in 2010s New York.

“The main cultural differences shape America in—”

“Hey! Can you let me down already?!”

Yuji, eyes squinted, snaps his head toward the man, coins jingling from his pockets. But he isn’t frowning at the robber… He just can’t read his notebook properly, especially with the thin fabric over his eyes. Each word is blurred into hazy smudges of grey.

Sometimes, Yuji Itadori doesn’t mind being the centre of attention.

Not when he's wearing the tight red-and-blue jumpsuit Nobara had stitched for him, seams puckered in all her nagging perfection.

Not when Megumi’s tech—definitely not borrowed, not stolen from his lab—glimmers faintly at his wrists.

And not when local news crews are scrambling to post grainy cellphone footage online, captions labelled with ridiculous, corny hashtags like #NYCSpidey, #OvercaffeinatedAcrobat, and #UnmaskThisGuy.

As soon as his last lecture of the day ends, he pulls down the mask, slips into the famous suit, and swings through the empire city that never sleeps.

He’s not Yuji Itadori anymore. He’s Spider-Man.

But tonight, though, he has an even greater problem than petty robberies and saving cats in trees. He has college.

“Dude, can you keep it down? I have an assignment due tomorrow, and I’m stuck here babysitting you—" Police sirens wail in the distance, cutting him off. And underneath his mask, he simply smirks, snapping his notebook shut as red and blue sweep across the graffiti‑scrawled walls. “Aaand that’s my cue.”

With a flick of his wrist, the man is left gaping, flailing uselessly as Yuji leaps from the ledge. 

The moon hangs low and full tonight. In the midst of its glow, he arcs over streets, headlights glinting like glass, weaving in between scaffolding poles. Trash swirls in the gusts around him, while faint damp concrete lingers as he glides past flickering streetlamps. The grids of blocks lie dark, the breeze sharp, yet every window glimmers with golden light; they’re constellations scattered across the city that guide him home.

Even if what he does is nowhere near world-changing, he’s always reminded that the city is full of life and narratives. Every window, every golden light that spills through each pane of glass, hides a story—a heartbeat—and that fact alone is enough to lessen the weight of his double life just a bit.

As always, while swinging past, his gaze skims the streets, searching through the blur of headlights and shadows. He finds you like clockwork. Trudging home, arms full of groceries: a paper bag with lettuce, a baguette tucked under your arm, and vegetables brimming atop. You’re humming a song from your dangling earbuds, oblivious to the world around you.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but when you live in the same flat, coming home at the same time he clocks out from patrol… well, it’s only natural he makes sure his crush roommate gets home safe, too, right?

“I wonder what she’s making tonight…” he mutters.

With one soft push, he slips his window open and dives back inside.

The wooden floor doesn’t even creak under his landing, and the globe lamp atop his desk glows like a dim moon over scattered paper. He passes sticky notes plastered across his wall, zipping out his suit and tossing his book onto the bed. Stepping out, he flicks on the hallway lights—and it isn’t long before he hears the usual. 

Your keys, the gentle click of the lock, and the first step you take inside, wrapped in the flat’s cosy warmth.

“Welcome back!” Yuji beams, hair tousled.

You nod back with a smile, shutting the door behind as you toe off your shoes. As you set the bag of groceries onto the kitchen island, you give him a smug smirk. “Did you just wake up?”

His eyes dart away, guilty, all while he rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish chuckle escapes. “...Maybe?”

You raise an eyebrow, sighing as he pulls a chair from the island. 

Ever since you moved in together with your childhood friend, you’ve learned three things about him: he eats terribly, naps like a cat, and will stare at you from the corner of the room with glassy, desperate eyes if he ever smells food.

And whether he admits it or not, you know when to drag him by the wrist, plop him down in front of a bowl, and pour him something warm. You’ve done it since high school. You’re still doing it now.

Sure, he’s stubborn, but so are you, and tonight is no different.

“I’m just making some simple tomato soup,” you say, spreading the groceries across the counter.

The city skyline glitters faintly from behind him, setting aglow the twinkling fascination in his golden eyes.

“Because you—” you tap his forehead with a finger, nudging him back, “are finishing your presentation script tonight. And I’m helping you with it.”

His eyes widen. “What?! How do you know about that?”

“If I have to hear Megumi complain one more time about you cramming your share of the load,” you groan, washing the vegetables, “I might start seeing both of you in my dreams.”

“Oops…” Yuji whistles, caught red-handed.

In the corner of your eye, you see him drift over as you slice the tomatoes.

“Can I help you cook then? Y’know… as repayment?” 

You nearly slice the tip of your finger at the audacity, but his hands, as usual, catch your wrist before anything disastrous happens. “You?”

You turn to look at him, his smile as bright as ever. “The last time you offered, everything tasted bland.”

He pouts under your gaze—lips pursed, brows scrunched. “I’ll never learn if I don’t try...”

A beat passes.

You sigh in resignation, and that’s all he needs. Yuji’s already pumping his fists triumphantly in the air, snatching the spare apron hanging off the oven handle.

“Let’s goooo!” he cheers.

On the other hand, you giggle at his flippant victory cry, but you don’t notice how his gaze lingers on you in the soft golden kitchen light—the curve of your eyes, the bloom of your cheeks. He’s taller than you, so it goes unnoticed, hidden in the shadow between you.

“And this time, don’t forget the salt,” you tease, stepping toward the pot.

“Yeah, yeah—oh! Put on that Cowboy Bebop opening. It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

You frown, eyeing the tiny apron stretched ridiculously over his frame. Your thumb’s already swiping across your battered iPhone 4, searching. When the first chord blasts, Yuji just stares.

“Based on how you’re holding that knife,” you chortle, “this feels more fitting.”

“…You think I’m gonna break into kung-fu fighting?!”

You shrug mockingly, moving to boil the water as he sputters just beside you. And it isn’t long before the kitchen settles into a cosy rhythm—the chop of vegetables, the hiss of butter, the soft swirl of simmering broth—and of course, your constant two-minute interval scoldings.

“Why are the tomatoes diced like… that?”

“I-I swear someone did this on Hell’s Kitchen last night—”

“I told you a little oil. Why is the pan half full?!”

“Uh…”

“I’m monitoring what kind of weird cooking shows you’re watching from now on.”

Soon enough, all that’s left is the soup’s fragrance wafting throughout the room—sun-ripe tomatoes, roasted garlic, and basil blooming bright with butter. It smells like warmth, like home, and the little life you’ve carved out together. Even Yuji stops mid-chop, knife still hovering in the air, just to inhale.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the bowl toward him. On cue, he drops into his chair—shoulders rolling, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips. He thinks you don’t notice, but his fingers are still faintly red around the knuckles. The moment his eyes land on the bowl, something bright flickers in him.

The soup glows a deep orange-red, thick and velvety, droplets of olive oil shimmering across its sheen like tiny flecks of gold. Steam curls upward, brushing his cheeks, and in the dead of winter, the warmth blooms against him like late summer. Softening the night sky, brightening it like morning light.

When he takes the first spoonful, his eyes go wide.

Silence hangs in the room, but he just sets the spoon down gently, shoulders dropping another inch. He takes another bite, slower, and holds it in on his tongue. Under the table, his foot taps out its usual restless beat to a steady rhythm.

You have no idea what kind of day he’s had to be this hungry.

You don’t see the scuff on the side of his shoe, from where he landed too fast on the rooftop across the street. Or the tiny tear at the hem of his sleeve, where something sharp grazed him. Or the way he’d winced when you turned away earlier, instantly straightening as if nothing had happened.

All you see is Yuji—sunshine, sweetness—devouring the soup as if it’s literally saving him. You quietly rest your chin in your hands, grinning while he inhales spoonful after spoonful, like it’s the single greatest thing he’s tasted all week.

“Is it good?” you coo, and he nods so fast his hair bounces.

With all his enthusiasm, a smear of soup somehow ends up on the corner of his lip. He doesn’t notice, but you do, and you’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

You turn toward the window, watching the city smear into streaks of gold and red, and in that split second, he lifts his gaze, eyes catching on you. His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair, forgotten for the still of a heartbeat as his own breath stumbles, chest rising too quickly in the quiet. Goosebumps prick along his arms, and this time, it isn’t from the danger his sixth sense is warning him of. It’s from the way the skyline burns in your eyes, as if every light in New York decided to gather just to admire you with him.

He catches the soft amber strokes on your cheeks as your small smile curls like cotton-soft warmth—and underneath the dim neon glow, you look too gentle for the shadows, too bright for the night. For a breathless moment, he wants to steal you away.

To borrow you from the world, and keep this evening tucked somewhere only for the two of you.

“...Let’s go see something.” The words slip out before he can catch them.

You blink up at him, and the room instantly falls away, softened to all but a hush of the world. “What?”

He’s already getting up from his seat, draping his jacket over your shoulders as he takes your bowl. Without a word, he just reaches out for your hand, urging you to take his lead. Following him to the window, you watch as he pushes it open to the rushing cold air.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.”

He steps onto the fire escape’s metal platform. You hesitate for only a heartbeat, then follow, fingertips brushing the cold iron railing. Halfway up, he glances back at you, and his smile spills across the dim rooftop glow. Brighter than Manhattan’s windows, brighter than the neon signs, and even more so than the giddiness in your chest.

Your heart stutters for a bit.

The hum of traffic drifts up from below, weaving through the gaps in the grating, and when you reach the rooftop, the wind tugs at your clothes, ruffling hair and jacket alike. Stretched beneath you is the entire glitter of New York ahead, a glowing chaos of gold veins and shadows.

You suck in a breath, clutching Yuji’s jacket tighter around your shoulders.

“...It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at the shimmering skyline, but only at you. The spark in your eyes catching the glint of distant lights. Sitting down, he pats away the dust beside him, pulling you down to follow him. You plop yourself down, knees brushing.

“Right? When things are heavy, I like to sit and just watch the lights from above.”

Giggling, you take the warm bowl from his hands, the heat spreading through your fingers and mingling with the steam curling like tiny ghosts between you. “I didn’t know you were also a rooftop climber.”

He flinches slightly, but you don’t notice, lost as you are in the flickering tapestry of lights and the comforting weight of his jacket draped around your shoulders.

“...Thanks,” you murmur.

He tilts his head to your voice, and his smile blooms like a lantern in the cold fluorescent glow of the city. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the slump of your shoulders while cooking, and the faint, heavy sighs. Time hangs between you, quiet. 

“Is it because of your mother?” He doesn’t mean to pry. He simply waits, patient and quiet.

Years ago, when he was eleven and the weight of the world had abandoned him to debt and despair, it was you who had pulled him into the light.

You, who had brought him home, were pleading with your parents to let him stay, working alongside him through three jobs, shielding him from bullies, and carving out space for him in a world that had none.

And it wasn't because of pity—it was simply because it was right.

That small, steady truth had been more than enough for him to realise, walking home together one evening at fourteen, that life without you was unthinkable. Impossible.

But ever since that incident, Yuji spends his nights differently now, wondering if he even still has the right to be sitting next to you. Perhaps that’s why he’s swinging across buildings now, a distraction to the ache he can’t name. The tugging knot of fear that writhes from his core.

“Mm… same old,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the golden veins of streets below, lids heavy.

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” 

You shift your gaze toward him. His brows crease, jaw tight, lips parted, as if he’s waiting for a question you’ve buried too deep to speak. Yet your hands move betrayingly, fingers brushing against his, seeking him out over the coarse, cold brick beneath you.

He threads his fingers through yours with an ease so natural, it terrifies you. A knot coils low in your stomach, tightening with every heartbeat, your hand trembling beneath the gentle heat of his.

The wind tugs at your hair, lights flickering beyond the skyline like tiny stars. Amidst the faint hum of traffic and the electric scent of the city, each glow pulses, just like the racing of your heart.

You can feel it, the quiet certainty in his touch. You know he means it. You really do.

But even so, your lips betray you. They tremble against a single word, from the weight of too many nights spent replaying every thought, every fear.

“...Thanks.” A fragile whisper, soft as paper, heavy as stone.

Somewhere far below, a taxi honks. Somewhere far above, a neon sign blinks. But in between both, it’s just the two of you. And even with all the uncertainty, the nights, and the unspoken truths that linger between breaths, you settle.

This litany of quiet is enough.

It’s eleven o'clock out, the sun is stupidly bright, and you want to die. Like—crawl six feet under and stay burrowed in there—die. 

“See you tomorrow!” the woman calls as you leave, a paper bag of tangerines digging into your fingers.

You flash her a beaming smile, hiding your soul-rotting exhaustion. The door’s jingle follows you onto the bustling sidewalk.

New York is already in full chaos mode. Yellow cabs are barking at each other, crowds are shoving downstream like human traffic jams, and tourists are wrestling with crumpled city maps like they’re cursed.

When you glance up, you see the usual pigeons parading shop awnings, lined like entitled landlords. Scaffolding poles crisscross above you, towering between skyscrapers, and your earphones dangle uselessly around your neck.

No song is strong enough to fight the throbbing migraine pulsing behind your eyes, and it’s probably because you were up until 5:00 a.m. helping Yuji.

The memory punches you in the brain.

“Why the hell is it blank?” you’d blurted—because how else were you supposed to react to that monstrosity? You were both on the living room carpet, his laptop glowing tragically atop the coffee table.

Yuji jerked his head toward you, scandalised. “Um, no? There’s the title slide, the body slide, and the bullet points. It’s got everything it needs.”

You didn’t need a degree to see all the ways that was a crime, and maybe you’re just a saint—that’s what he thinks—but you were already storming into your room, grabbing your laptop.

“Okay, you—” you pointed at him, “write your script. I’m fixing your slides.”

His eyes widened, watching as you flipped open your laptop, copied the link, and sent it over.

“We’ll revise the whole thing on four, and—”

Bla bla bla… your words were already blurring into the mindless static of Yuji’s head. In that deserted hollowness of a brain, there was just awe.

The way your focus sharpened, the way your brows pinched, the way you sank into a task like the world around you melted away… it was the same look you’d had four years prior.

When both of you still worked for some cramped, greasy kitchen in Queens—and then, he’d been elbow‑deep in suds, wrist aching, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

Suddenly, you burst through the door.

“What the—” Yuji had jumped, nearly dropping a plate. But you didn’t even flinch at his shock. You were already rolling up your sleeves, sweeping half his stack of dirty dishes into your arms.

“No wonder you’re coming home late every day,” you muttered, scrubbing. “I asked the manager how many extra shifts you took. Care to explain?”

Yuji immediately paused. Your eyes still stayed focused on your side of the sink, though. The plate in his hand, the steam, and the music drifting faintly from the restaurant’s old radio all seemed to stop.

“We need the money,” he said gently, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a hopeful smile. He reached to take the plate from you, “Come on—hand it back. It’s my responsibility.”

Your grip didn’t budge. You just glared at him from under your lashes. “We promised not to keep secrets from each other,” you murmured.

Silence fell. Only the muted hum of jazz seeped in from the dining area, trembling throughout the fragile string in the air.

Then you whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear. “...It's not like I want to stay home either."

His stomach tightened.

You weren’t supposed to say—even, feel that kind of hurt. Hell, he didn't want you to think of uttering those words... At least when he was by your side.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. But after a few moments of still silence, he dug his fingers into his palms. His chest paused mid-rise. “We’re moving out as soon as I get paid.”

Your head snapped toward him. And there it was—that boyish grin. The same one he’d given you at six years old on the playground, when he offered you half his juice box just after you scraped your knee.

“I checked our savings,” he said softly. “We’ll have enough by this month.”

Your lips parted. Your eyes widened. And when the realisation hit you, Yuji quickly stripped off his gloves and ruffled your hair with a warm, shaking laugh. “New York, angel. New life.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart stopped.

And before you knew it, your vision was blurring up like fog. His hair still spun rose-gold, soft and shimmering through the garble—and somehow, even through the haze, he was still the brightest thing in the room.

He had prayed to every God he knew to do anything, to never see you cry again. That if sadness ever had to choose, it would pick him, and not you.

So when your tears finally spilt under the cheap fluorescent lights, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in, firm arms wrapping around you as you clung to the back of his hoodie, shoulders shaking.

You choked on your own soft sniffles, finally surrendering to the dam of emotions you’d bottled all these years. All the while, he quietly kept his hold on you, whispering it again, breath warm against your ear.

New York. New life.

Flash forward four years—after the spider bite, after the powers, after the secrets that clawed at his nights—and some things never changed.

“Angel…” he murmured, stunned all over again. Because sure, he saved cats, strangers and entire banks on his better days, but it came at the cost of everything else.

His friends all think he’s unreliable, a dud, and weirdly bad at showing up—college deadlines slipped, plans fell apart, and every time the hairs on his arms stood up, that electric buzz tingling in his bones—he had to go. He just had to.

He knew what happened when he ignored it, and even in the darkest of nights, he still hears the crackle of fire from the apartment next door.

But you stayed.

You always stayed.

He wanted to hug you.

To kiss you.

To press his forehead to yours and promise that he’d protect you from everything—even himself.

But he swallowed it down, locked it away where it couldn’t slip out too easily.

And he just… smiled.

That boyish, earnest smile he never realises has the power to crumble all your walls.

Enough to also keep your whole world from collapsing. Enough to make you brave. Enough to make you trust him even when everything else in your life feels like it’s slipping between your fingers.

For as long as you can remember, it’s always felt like you and him against the world.

You know how he disappears every night, how he’s never on time for anything, how he comes back scraped or breathless or exhausted—but you never ask. You don’t pry. You don’t push.

Because Yuji is the one person you’d bend your whole life around if it meant easing his burdens. You trust him—you trust him in a way that terrifies you. You’ve known him long enough to understand the softness of his heart, the way he tries to carry everything alone, the way he refuses to let people worry for him.

And you know, deep down, that he’d never hurt anyone.

He’d never hurt you.

So you keep your silence with that one line he’s unknowingly drawn between you. 

Even when you feel his gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

Even when goosebumps rise along your arms in the soft, living warmth of the room.

Even when you ache to reach out, to cup his face, to ask him why it feels like something is always slipping away.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you steps forward.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, all while his clench slightly at his thighs.

Even when this fragile string you’re threading so carefully on is the very thing hurting you both.

You’re slipping through the afternoon crowd like a loose page torn from a book, shoving past another tourist whose camera strap is swinging wildly. The air today smells faintly of burnt bagels, exhaust, and wet asphalt from last night’s rain, the earth’s sigh as it drinks the sky’s frigid tears. Metal trash cans clatter in the wind, lids rattling against their rims, and somewhere above, the faint screech of the subway reverberates from the tracks below.

Footsteps echo around you, tyres hiss against the wet asphalt, yet even in this city that never sleeps, your thoughts drift as you shuffle through the bustle.

I wonder how Yuji’s presentation went?

Hopefully well. Otherwise, you’ll have to suffer through the hell of Megumi’s complaints for at least another month. God, anything but that.

You yawn, squinting as your vision blurs slightly against the harsh reflection of the rising sun on glass skyscrapers. The traffic light clicks, the pedestrians’ signal flipping to red, but suddenly, your eyes catch something else entirely.

Something small, trembling, utterly out of place in the chaos. A golden-furred bundle curled in the middle of the crossing. 

A puppy.

Your heart stutters.

Everyone sees it, yet no one moves. Cars keep rolling, and the pup curls in on itself, shaking so violently you can feel it even from the curb.

What the hell?

Your mind scatters in ten directions at once, tripping over every worst-case scenario. Logic screams, “don’t run into traffic”, so you're forced to stand there—foot tapping, throat tight, breath trapped—waiting. As soon as the pedestrian light turns green, your legs run before you can even think.

You sprint.

Your sneakers slap against the asphalt, the city blurring around you in a rush of horns and exhaust. With a quick drop of a crouch, breath heaving, you slowly stick out a hand for it to sniff, but it shrinks back, paws skittering against the cold pavement. 

It’s terrified. Of everything. The honks, the stomps, the chatter—New York’s roar is swallowing the tiny thing whole.

The pedestrian countdown crackles overhead, each tick like a punch to your ribs, and your heartbeat syncs with it—frantic, stuttering, racing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” you whisper.

But it’s not. Not even close.

You glance up.

Ten seconds left.

Fuck it.

You drop the paper bag. Tangerines scatter across the crosswalk, bumping under shoes, rolling into gutters as you sweep the trembling puppy into your arms. Its ribs flutter against your palms frantically. You whisper whatever calming nonsense you can manage—

HOOOONK.

The blare is so loud it splits your thoughts in half.

Before you even fully straighten, the world explodes into white behind your eyes. You snap your head toward the sound.

A truck is barreling toward you.

Too close.

Too fast.

Your entire body locks. There’s no time to run, no time to scream. The world narrows to the shadow swallowing you—

An arm suddenly clamps around your waist.

The ground vanishes, wind knifes past your ears. In the blink of an eye, you’re off the asphalt and slammed into the blur of motion. 

The city snaps back into focus just as your feet touch down on solid pavement, and right behind you, “Whoa there—careful!”

You freeze, heart slamming into your ribs. You know that voice. You’d know it in a thunderstorm, a blackout, a dream.

“Yu—” But when you whirl around, ready to scream at him, you freeze. The person holding you isn’t Yuji.

It’s Spider-Man.

The spandex, the mask, and the red and blue in all its stupid glory—standing right in front of you, fingers still trembling slightly where they had been gripping your waist. He slowly lets go of it, watching as you spin to face him, face shaken. 

As more and more people start to crowd the two of you, they’re lifting phones, shouting.

It’s his voice. You know it.

But there’s also absolutely no way that Yuji Itadori—your perpetually late, starving, ghost of a roommate—is the same Spider-Man plastered all over the Daily Bugle every day, busy saving lives.

You swallow hard. “…Thank you.”

He glances down, raising his knuckle for the shaking pup—and after a few sniffs, he boops its nose, its tail giving a tiny, shy wag. 

“What a cutie,” he says softly. “Is this yours?”

He knows the answer. He shouldn’t even be talking this much. But when you look up at him—stunned, scared, and shocked—he stays.

You pause for a moment, brain short-circuiting before shaking your head. He gestures gently. “I can take him to a local shelter, if you want.”

What?

Your arms instinctively tighten around the pup, but after a few beats, the tension in your shoulders eases. With a hesitant nod, you slowly pass it over—and to your surprise, he holds the little thing way too gently, cradling it close to his chest.

Then, he asks, “Do you want to come with us?”

Your head instantly perks up to him. 

He wants you… to come with him.

You feel your own heart thudding against your ribs, the cluster of crowds sending your brain into cartwheels now. Your fists are still against his chest, clenched. Finally, after a few seconds, you nod once.

“...Please?” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Something in him melts.

“Alright,” he murmurs, hooking an arm around your waist with the pup. “No tall skyscrapers this time, though. Gotta make sure I don’t scare the pup.”

Before you can even process what he’s saying, a white web shoots out from his wrist—

And you’re fucking airborne.

“AAAAAAAAA—!!” You’re screaming as the wind whips across your face, the ground blurring beneath your feet.

One awning leads to another, gilding just above the traffic—and somehow, that makes it even more terrifying; you can see the cars, the flashing lights, the stunned pedestrians filming you as you pass.

You cling to him like your life depends on it, (because really, it does) your yell trembling amidst the racing wind as your arms stay wrapped tight around his neck. Meanwhile, this idiot is laughing. Laughing. And even the puppy is having fun, tail wagging like a metronome of betrayal.

You swear you can even see his tail wagging as well, burrowing your face even deeper into his neck as you shut your eyes.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shout, voice cracking. The idiot of a vigilante only laughs harder, grip still strong on your waist.

He doesn’t know how his heart nearly stopped when he saw you kneeling in front of the barreling truck. He doesn’t know how close he came to losing his mind. And he doesn’t know how many Gods he’d prayed for the shortest split second.

Every God, to reach you in time.

But he knows one thing:

You’re here, screaming—scared shitless, sure—but alive.

“Put me down, put me down, put me down!” You’re sobbing into his neck, eyes glued shut as the wind smacks the hair into your face. 

Finally, the world slows to a stop. He lands softly on the asphalt, and everything stills—all but your trembling breaths. Shallow, shaky, and way too embarrassingly loud in your own ears.

He leans in, voice low enough that only you can hear it through the muffled city noise.

“We’re here,” he whispers.

You refuse to move. Absolutely not.

Your face stays buried in the crook of his neck, arms locked tight, fingers curled stubbornly. He chuckles softly.

Cute.

The pup wiggles out from between you two, popping its head out. It yaps once, twice, and you slowly crack open one eye, hands weakly releasing their grip on his suit. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you finally peel yourself off him, stumbling back—only for him to catch you again by the elbow.

“And we haven’t even reached forty feet yet,” he teases, head tilted.

You glare weakly, voice hoarse. “I am never doing that again.”

He doesn’t even need to say anything; you can feel the smug grin through the mask. 

With a soft spin on his heel, he steps past you toward a storefront wedged between two towering brick buildings. The sign above it is faded, chipped around the edges, and the door’s chime jingles as he slips inside with the puppy nestled in one arm.

You stand there in the midst of the pavement, though, heart still thundering, sneakers planted on solid ground, and even if you’ve touched the ground for at least a few minutes now, it feels like you’re still up there mid-swing.

The city moves like normal around you. Horns, footsteps, conversations—it all feels muted, stuffed cotton in your ears. You’re floating.

Absolutely floating.

A few moments later, the chime rings again. He steps out… with the same puppy still in his arms. You blink as he gives a tiny shrug.

“Sooo… turns out they’re totally out of vacant spots right now," he glances at the pup, the critter innocently tilting its head. “I can swing to another one, maybe—”

“I’ll take him.” The words leave your mouth before you even think them through, cutting through the fragile string of silence.

He looks at you, stunned. You’re taking it in?

Before he can say anything, you crouch immediately, scratching the puppy under the chin as it whines into your palm, tail flailing like a fuzzy little helicopter.

Sure, why not? Maybe Yuji will finally start showing up more often. Maybe he’ll actually help take care of it. Maybe—

“Uh—you sure?”

All the while, Yuji, as mentioned above, is panicking to death in his head. He’s not even there for half the night, how the hell is he gonna take care of it? But there’s you, of course, so it can’t be that bad, right?

“Mhm,” you nod, scooping the warm ball of golden fluff against your chest. “Look, it loves me already!”

You giggle as it barks happily, tiny paws scrambling at your collar as it leans up to lick your jaw. Warm little breaths puff against your skin, sunlight breaking through the thinning clouds overhead, catching on its fur and turning it into a tiny halo of honey-gold—soft enough to melt winter, blithe enough to quiet the city. 

He goes still. 

Of course, it loves you.

The breeze rolls by, threading through the loose strands of your hair, and he watches the sunlight kiss them the same way it kisses the dog’s fur, as if the two of you were made of the same warmth.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The tilt of his head, the stillness of his hands, the way he forgets about the crowd, the noise, the city—all of it betrays him.

You’re shining underneath the bleeding sun, laughing even with the trembling puppy in your arms, and for one still second, the weight of what almost happened hits him harder than any fall he’s taken tonight.

Harder than any punch, any rooftop landing, any sprint through the freezing wind.

And he knows it. He knows exactly what that ache is.

“Where do you live?” he asks, voice lower than before, too casual even to be casual.

Your gaze snaps to him. And the second you see the curve of his masked grin—smug, obvious, and entirely too proud of himself—your stomach sinks.

“So…” he drawls, head tilting. “Round two?”

You groan, clutching the dog a little tighter like it might suddenly save you. “God, save me.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

You smack his arm. He laughs. 

And the sun, traitorous as ever, lights you up like something worth falling for.

The metal railing trembles as he steps onto your balcony, but unlike it, you don’t steady—not even after your sneakers touch the concrete. Your knees are still jelly, your stomach is still somewhere midair, and you’re pretty sure you’ll never get used to this.

Frankly, you’re praying you won’t ever have to.

Behind you, the sun melts into winter’s edge, streaking the clouds with bleeding crimson.

“Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” you breathe.

The golden pup squirms in your arms, and the moment you crack open the balcony door, it launches inside. You can’t help but laugh as it bounds across the living room, sniffing corners, trotting in frantic circles, all while its tail wags with a delirious joy only pure innocence can have. 

You’re tired—he can see it. The slope of your shoulders, the soft drag of your steps, the yawns you pretend are subtle. Even your laughter sounds like it’s holding up the walls of a crumbling day.

He leans against the railing behind you, watching with a chuckle, and he knows he shouldn’t linger, shouldn’t risk even this much, but it’s you. And tonight, for reasons he can’t name out loud, he wants to show you something special.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “ever wondered what it’s like sixty feet up?”

You turn. He stands there with his arms crossed, head tilted, grin smug enough to see even beneath the mask.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. “You look like you need a pick‑me‑up. And I think I know just the thing.”

Before you can argue, his hands are slipped around your waist already, like he’s done this a million times before. And somehow, like your body recognises him from somewhere you can’t name, you don’t pull away. You only lift a brow, smirking. “Literally?”

He huffs a boyish laugh and reaches past you to slide the balcony door shut. His gaze flickers to the puppy already curled on a cushion, drifting into a soft nap after its chaotic afternoon.

“The vet said he’s trained and vaccinated. So…” His voice dips, playful. “It wouldn’t hurt if I steal you for a few minutes, right?”

You pretend to think about it. “Maybe.”

Maybe.

Damn, if he didn’t have his stupid mask on, you’d see the way his whole face breaks into the most hopeless grin ever. God really does send his hardest missions to his strongest soldiers.

“Hang on tight.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. Your arms loop around his neck, and just as quickly as you can breathe, you’re suddenly up in the air—you still can’t help but scream at the sudden jump in height.

A strangled cry rips out of your throat as the city drops away beneath your feet. He’s still laughing at the ridiculousness of your reaction, and for once in both your lives, you’re screaming with the sort of freedom that only comes with the wish of a shooting star.

You definitely feel like one, too. 

Skyscrapers streak past, wind clawing at your clothes. Your face is buried in his shoulder—because looking down might as well kill you—but even through your terror, a traitorous warmth swells in your chest.

He hears every sound you make, every breathless scream, and he’s stupidly amused. Even when your eyes are screwed shut from how fucking terrifying this is.

Finally, he lands on what sounds like concrete with a soft thud, steadying you before your knees can give out. Your fingers are still clutched to his suit, but he pries them off gently, turning you around. 

You crack open one eye.

Then both.

And instantly, your breath catches.

The horizon is on fire.

The wild, bright yellow flame burns in the centre of the molten gold, every skyscraper splinting it in fractured sheets of amber and rose. And as it dips right across the water, your heart skips a beat, the sky bleeding with streaks of orange and bruised violet. Light scatters from the heavens, a gorgeous shower that shimmers just across the horizon’s sea—a ramp of falling stars just for the two of you. 

“…It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

The same words you told him the first time he brought you to the rooftop. He remembers. God, he remembers everything. He turns his head.

The horizon is burning in the distance, but he doesn’t glance up. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the way the light brushes your hair, the tilt of your jaw, the slow inhale of your awe—and in that moment, the city, the sunset, the wind, nothing else exists.

You outshine every single drop of light in the bleeding sky, and he hates that he can’t even tell you.

Something in your chest loosens, then gives. For one strange, impossible moment, the pressure of everything—your deadlines, your rent, your exhaustion, the heaviness of simply existing—feels lighter.

You turn to him, smiling. “Thank you.”

The sun flares behind you, painting you in gold, and he thinks helplessly that even this sunset pales beside you.

His heart punches against his ribs, hammering hard enough to bruise.

He keeps his hands in fists so you won’t see them shake, nails digging into his palms, trying to anchor himself.

Because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something reckless.

…Like pull his mask up and kiss you under a dying sun.

He jabs a gloved knuckle against the glass of Nobara’s bedroom window—once, twice, thrice—fast. Even muffled behind the mask, Nobara can recognise it anywhere. Especially when it’s coming from her window on the tenth fucking floor.

“Knock, knock! House of fabulous engineers and fashion icons! Hellooooo?”

A muffled groan leaks from the glass.

The window slides open with a wet creak, and Nobara leans out—hair damp from a shower, hoodie half-zipped, face frowning. She’s literally one inconvenience away from shutting it on his fingers.

“What,” she deadpans, “the hell do you want?”

Yuji straightens proudly, chest puffing out. “Guess who just saved someone from a truck, carried them to a view that’d make Van Gogh rise from the grave, and completely turned their day around! And they don’t even know it was me!”

His words are tumbling over like runaway marbles, tripping out of his mouth in the sudden rush of excitement. Each breath fogs the inside of his mask, tiny clouds drifting up as he gestures wildly, eyes sparkling even behind the webbed veil.

From behind her, Megumi’s voice drifts, monotonous as ever. “You look like a five-year-old who drank too much espresso.”

Yuji spins halfway, giving him a thumbs-up. “And you built the tech that made that possible! So technically, I am a caffeinated genius who saves people, sooooo—you’re the genius behind the genius!”

“Obviously it’s about her,” Nobara says, arms crossed, one brow arched. “Why else knock on my window like some homicidal pigeon?”

Yuji grins boyishly beneath the mask, tilting his head. “Because someone had to tell the people who made me this awesome that I did something awesome!”

He hops back onto the slick rooftop, landing with barely a splash. Rain glazes over the red and blue of his suit, gloves leaving faint smudges of rain, but he doesn’t care. He crouches—knees loose, fingers tapping, eyes flicking between Nobara and Megumi—and he rambles.

“You’d be so proud. I got her out of danger—like, barely-saw-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes danger—and she held onto me and we just… we ended up on this roof where the whole skyline looked like it was melting gold. And she laughed! And I—”

His hand stills over his heart.

Nobara squints at him, expression softening for half a second before she ruins it deliberately. “You’re ridiculous. Just confess already.”

Yuji crouches lower, fists on his knees, eyes practically sparkling. The rain slides off his mask in thin streams, glossing over like small scattered stars. All the while, the skyline stretches behind him, windows blinking like constellations.

He’s glowing too, like he can’t hold all his giddiness inside. 

Behind her, Megumi doesn’t move, but there’s a faint, reluctant curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. They’ve both seen this a million times.

Yuji, hopelessly in love. Yuji, trying not to be obvious. Yuji, failing.

But then, he thinks of you, back in your apartment, probably waiting for him with that puppy curled on your lap—probably wondering why he’s coming back late again.

His heart kicks.

Without warning, he shoots a web to the edge of the rooftop. “Okay—gotta go—BYE!”

Before Nobara can yell, he launches himself into the storm-soaked night, flipping once, twice, and vanishing into the wind.

“YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT THIS TOMORROW, I SWEAR!” he hollers back, voice bouncing between the buildings.

Nobara sighs dramatically and shuts the window, all the while Megumi’s smirk survives exactly three seconds before he wipes it off.

As he disappears into the glittering darkness, the city continues to shine. But it’s obvious who he’s rushing home for, and somewhere below, the night hums with the secret only three people know:

Spider-Man Yuji Itadori is swinging through New York like a boy in love.

When Yuji comes back, he’s yelping in surprise when the little rascal of a pup rushes over to him. Its paws are already scattered across the wooden floor for a launched attack. “What the—?!” 

He picks up the pup in his arms, snuggling into it as you appear from the corner of the hallway, snickering at the scene. “Kiniro likes you already.”

It takes everything in him to bite back his laughter and act surprised. After all, he can’t quite literally tell you he was the one saving you both just earlier today, right?

“I didn’t know you brought back this little pup,” he giggles, letting it lick his face. “You even named him?”

You sigh, plopping yourself onto the carpet. “He was in the middle of a pedestrian street. Thankfully, Spider-Man saved him.”

You pat your lap, Kiniro eagerly running straight back to you, “The animal shelter was full, though, but I think we’re stable enough to afford just another pet, don’t you think?” 

Yuji’s already walking over to you, slinging his bag across the couch as he ruffles your hair. “I can just pick up another job if you really want to.”

He doesn’t miss that you don’t include yourself in being saved, but he doesn’t nag. All that matters is you’re safe and sound, and with the arrival of little Kiniro, your grin seems just a tiny bit wider. 

“Ugh, you’re not even home half the time,” you groan, tugging him down to sit next to you. “Don’t.”

He smirks at your comment, simply shrugging. “You would not believe my day, though,” he starts, running a hand through his hair.

“Coach made us do sprints at 8 a.m. Eight. A. M. The sun was barely awake. I was barely awake,” he plops himself down beside you. “Then I had to do that boring presentation for Anthropology.”

You snort. “What about it? Did you actually, I don’t know—not screw it up?”

“Ohhh, the presentation? Killed it. Destroyed it. Megumi totally knew you helped, too.”

You shake your head, smiling as he continues. With a soft sigh, you raise both hands behind you as you stretch out your sore arms. “Thank God. We still need to go grocery shopping, though… We don’t have food for either him or us.”

“Do you want me to go?” 

You’re already getting up, though. “Nah, let’s go together, like usual.”

He smiles. Yeah. Like usual.

So flash forward now, one hour later—

He’s tossing all sorts of odd combinations into your trolley, and when he’s the one pushing it, that means you’re going to be barely stopping him from picking yet another pack of chips in the aisle beside.

Because, seriously, what kind of trolley has fruits, meat, chips and dog food all at once? Any other college student, he says. Well, you don’t complain further, because you’re already busy thinking about what to cook for dinner.

Metal shelves press together like metro train commuters, all the while humming coolers whisper across aisles—stacked with the classic 99¢ ramen, chips, and plastic-wrapped bagels. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly amidst the static hiss of the radio’s pop song, always a little too bright, and it cuts through the shuffle of tired locals grabbing dinner after work.

Both of you pass each aisle, and when he reaches up just one more time, he says, for the latest bag of chips, you slap his hands away. He gives you a pout, but you shoot it back down, eyes still peeled ahead, while the trolley miserably follows behind now.

“So what’s on the menu, Chef?” Yuji asks, arms on the handle. 

“Japanese curry,” you hum back, already tossing the small sticks of chives into the trolley behind.

His eyes glisten at the thought of it, his mouth watering already. “You always make the best dinners.”

With a mere huff and the slightest curl of your lips, you refuse to turn back to face him. You can already feel the piercing stare of awe on your back, but it does little to keep the budding brim of pride at bay.

Because honestly speaking, that’s all you need.

When the tiny 2010s New York apartment smells like onions sizzling in butter—warm, sweet, it seeps both into the walls and your mind that you’re actually home.

The window above the stove rattles a little every time a subway roars somewhere underground, but inside, it’s just the two of you, moving around the cramped kitchen like you both have a hundred times.

“You’re cutting them too big,” you tease, nudging his elbow as he chops another carrot chunk.

“They’ll shrink in the pot!” he fires back, puffing his cheeks. “Plus, big pieces are funner to chew.”

“That’s not how carrots work.”

“Sure it is.”

You break into laughter, and he falters into the same grin behind his ever-so-bravado. 

Before you can turn back to the stove, his hands slip around your waist from behind, pulling you just close enough that your back warms against his chest. It’s second nature to him by now—but somehow, this time, his touch reminds you of someone else just earlier this afternoon.

“Hey—hey,” you giggle, trying to stir the pot while he sways you side to side, “I’m gonna spill the roux.”

“That’s the plan,” he murmurs, chin gently resting on your shoulder as he watches the stew bubble. 

“Teamwork, right? I’m moral support.”

“Moral support doesn’t usually involve hugging me every five seconds.”

He gives a soft, guilty hum. “Hmm. Guess I’m extra supportive.”

Outside the window, the streetlights of early-night Manhattan cast a warm orange glow across the counter, mixing with the flicker of your old fluorescent kitchen light, and somewhere below, a taxi honks, someone yells. Your radio’s playing the classic pop songs on repeat rotation this week, and inside, tucked within the mellow warmth, there’s just the soft simmer of curry and the occasional clatter of utensils. Yuji leans forward to peek into the pot, arms tightening around you as if he can’t help it.

“That smells so good,” he says, voice a little softer now.

You feel your cheeks warm more than the stove ever could, but you still shove him with your hip anyway. “Then set the table, you sap.”

He laughs boyishly before finally letting go. Grabbing bowls, he’s humming off-key to the radio, and when you glance back at him, his sleeves are already rolled up. He plates the curry bubbling behind you, and the two of you settle snuggishly into the couch, blanket tossed over both of your legs.

As usual, Yuji sits close, stretching his arm along the backrest so that he can tug you closer whenever he feels like it. He’s already rambling off into the darkness, and long before you know it, you’re both talking over the show more than actually watching it.

“But, uh… lunch was good,” he adds quietly. “Ate outside. The weather felt nice. I kinda wished you were there, though.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it; Yuji seldom does things like this. He just rubs the back of his neck, cheeks burning pink.

“Y’know… campus stuff is better when you’re around,” he murmurs. “Feels less like I’m just running around all day and more like…” He pauses, searching for the word. “…I’m just living day-to-day.”

You snort. “You’re such a dork.”

“A dork who had a rough day,” he huffs, nudging your knee with his. 

You card your fingers through his soft pink hair despite yourself, and he melts instantly, like he’s been waiting all day for this. At some point, the warmth of the curry settles into your stomach, the weight of his arm drapes heavier against your shoulders, and your eyelids grow heavier with each second.

His heartbeat is steady, right under your ear, and beneath the warmth, you don’t even notice when your bowls slide onto the coffee table. You just fall asleep tucked into his side, wrapped in his hoodie and the low hum of the city outside the window.

He simply watches, and somewhere, underneath the warmth of the quiet, his hand stops just a beat from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You don’t know how long you’ve slept, but when the sudden, distant siren of an ambulance cuts through the silence, you wake. The apartment’s dark except for the TV’s dim blue, and your head’s still snuggled against the couch cushion, but Yuji isn’t there.

His spot is still warm, yet the empty bowls are already in the sink.

“Yuji?” you whisper, sitting up as the floor creaks softly beneath your bare feet. Silence echoes, and only the faint late-night wail follows through the room, the ticking of your clock.

It's dead midnight.

Outside your window, a breeze seeps softly from the fire escape. The curtains shift, and you turn to read the single sticky note pasted on the coffee table, scribbled in his ever-so messy handwriting:

“Sorry. Something came up. Didn’t wanna wake you.

Be back soon :)”

You run your thumb over the smiley face, feeling the echo of warmth where he’d been.

You don’t know why he disappears every night.

But for now, all you know is the apartment still smells like curry and him—and the couch feels just a little too big without his arms around your waist.

Dawn breaks as gold washes over the pavement, daylight spilling into the still-waking streets. You’re shuffling along beside Yuji, shoulders brushing now and then. In both your hands are cups of cocoa from the corner cart, each crowned with a swirl of whipped cream he swears is just “the best in the city.”

Steam lifts from the paper cup, curling into the damp morning air, all the while streets still glisten from last night’s rain, passing headlights shimmering in fractured streaks. Inhaling, the air smells of salt and roasted peanuts, tinged with the sweet bite of chestnuts toasting somewhere behind you.

“You’re going to burn your tongue if you sip that too fast,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He sticks his tongue out at you, laughing even harder when you snort back at him. You simply shake your head as he bumps your shoulder, grinning.

The crowd hums around you, a river of people rushing with purpose, but you walk slower than usual, matching his pace. His hair catches the sunlight in golden highlights, and as he turns to glance over at you, the corners of his mouth tilt when he notices you staring.

“And you’re gonna spill your drink if you keep staring,” he laughs, holding out his hand. 

You giggle, letting him grab your wrist gently, tugging you just slightly forward as you step over a puddle. His warmth lingers a second too long, and as the sun rises a little higher, he watches you sip from your cup—eyes soft and warm.

Kiniro’s barking as well, his leash wrapped just around Yuji’s knuckles. The boy gives it a little tug, but for a split second, his shoulders tense. He’s distracted for a moment, silent. 

There’s a siren somewhere uptown. A horn blast. Something sharp flickers across his expression before he smooths it away.

You pretend not to notice. Instead, you just nudge your shoulder into his again. “You okay?”

He grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But his fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist.

You tilt your cocoa toward him. “Trade?”

He huffs a relieved laugh. “Fine, but only because I know mine has more whipped cream.”

You swap cups, and his shoulders loosen, the tension in his jaw melting away. Somehow, the warmth of the moment softens the city around you—right up until your phone buzzes. You glance down, frowning.

“Did you eat yet?” “Are you really out with him again?”

Your chest tightens. No matter how far you’ve moved, her messages still slice like winter wind. Instead, you shove the phone deeper into your pocket, just as Yuji starts rambling about some comic he swears he didn’t dream up. 

“Everything okay?” It’s his turn this time, unaware of the text buzzing under your coat.

You nod in response, though, forcing a smile. “Yeah… just distracted.”

He doesn’t probe, and you just follow him down a narrow side street, fire escapes shadowing over cracked sidewalks. The city hums with distant trains, honking taxis, and the usual rumble of early traffic. He twirls you once in the crosswalk, and for a brief moment, your worries fade. Laughter bubbles up easily, sunlight spilling through breaks in the buildings.

Everything is gold.

You don’t even pass five blocks before you hear the sudden strum of a guitar, faint from a musician tucked just beside a subway entrance, tin cup right at his feet. 

Yuji’s eyes sparkle instantly like a kid spotting magic.

“Dance battle?” he asks, grin stretching mischievously.

You nearly choke on your cocoa. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He’s already bending his knees, taking a fighting stance. “You. Me. Right here. Winner gets bragging rights for life.”

You groan, trying to pull him away, but the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, the laughter in his voice, makes it impossible to resist.

And before you know it, both your cups are set on the window ledge just beside, and he’s twirling you gently in the middle of the sidewalk, weaving through the small cluster of pedestrians staring in a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Yuji! Stop, I’ll—” you squeal, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

He only snorts harder, spinning you until your hair whips across your face and you bury your head against his shoulder. “You’ve got moves,” he teases, voice softening. “Better than I thought.”

When the music shifts to a slower melody, he doesn’t let go. His grip on your waist pulls you closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours, eyes half-closed. The rest of the city fades, and in the midst of it, there’s only the pulse of your laughter, the warmth, and the soft brush of his breath against your cheek.

For a second, it feels like the world stopped just to let him hold you. Everything melts away, and time stills.

Then… he freezes. The sparkle in his eyes dims.

“I—I gotta—” he starts, pulling back slightly, fingers brushing yours.

You frown, confused. This isn’t the first time he’s bailing midway, and suddenly, the warmth’s twisting with the usual tension.

“What?” Your voice cracks. “Where are you going?”

He bites his lip, hesitating. “Something came up… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning, weaving through the crowd and quickly disappearing like he’s done so a hundred times. You watch, heart sinking, as the tide of bodies swallows him.

Your phone buzzes then—again—in your pocket.

Your stomach knots, all the while the sweetness of the morning is turning brittle at the edges. 

You frown at the screen, fingers trembling slightly… another message. 

This time, you take a deep breath, lukewarm cocoa in your hand, and look back down the street where Yuji vanished.

For a heartbeat, the world was quiet.

Almost enough to drown out the buzzing phone. The crawling ache.

Almost.

The campus is loud as usual, and your bag is slung lazily over your shoulder. It’s field day, and Nobara’s perched by your side like a hawk.

Field day always turns the campus into a festive frenzy—music blasting, banners everywhere, and the smell of grass and sunscreen wafting with the crispy fry of food from student stalls. The sun’s golden light is just enough to dust everything with a warm edge, shedding the tiniest bit of warmth amidst the early winter, but your chest still feels tight, and every cheer from the bleachers is merely another headache pulsing beneath the last.

Your fingers curl around your bag strap. 

“You better scream your lungs out for him,” she says, flipping her hair as the two of you shuffle through clusters of crazed students. “He made me promise I’d drag you here even if you tried to run.”

You roll your eyes with a huff of disbelief, but still, your chest warms at the mention of him. In the midst of it, Nobara pauses.

“Hey, you okay, though?” she asks, nudging your side. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. 

The football field is already swarmed by the time you reach it. Voices rise and fall like crashing waves, bleachers trembling under stampeding students trying to get good seats. You spot Megumi standing near the edge in all his emo glory, stretching like he’s prepping for a battlefield instead of just another friendly match.

He sighs when he spots you and Nobara, but you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches just a bit upward.

“Told you she’d come,” Nobara smirks.

He mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” but his eyes flick briefly toward the locker tunnel—where Yuji should be…

And right on cue, the man himself bursts out.

Yuji comes sprinting with his helmet in hand, hair ruffled, grin stretched wide enough to split galaxies. His jersey clings to his shoulders, the number glowing against the sunlight. He’s sprinting across the grass like his body was built for this—shining, bright, unstoppable. His hair catches the morning light like rose-gold flames, the soft pink of it glowing warm against his skin.

But he’s late again, and not just a little—ten minutes behind schedule. Yet no one seems to mind except you.

Your chest twists. The familiar pang rises again. 

The moment he notices you, he practically trips over his own feet from how fast his attention snaps your way.

“There you are!” he calls, waving the helmet wildly above his head.

Nobara snorts. “Lord, he’s so lovesick it physically hurts.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Yuji jogs up to the fence separating players from spectators, leaning against it with both forearms as if he can’t stop himself from getting closer. His breath comes out quickly from the run, but his grin is wide and bright.

“You made it,” he says too eagerly.

“We always make it,” you scoff, nudging your bag up your shoulder. “Don’t disappoint us.”

“Yes—yes, Ma’am,” he salutes, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna win extra hard now.”

Behind him, the team captain shouts his name. Megumi barks at him, “If you miss the huddle again, I’m making you run laps.”

Yuji jumps, jolting upright. “Coming!”

But before he turns, he reaches out—fingers brushing yours through the fence. Just a fleeting drag of warmth, but enough to leave your pulse scrambling.

“I’ll look for you after every play,” he says sheepishly. “So… don’t leave, okay?”

Nobara rolls her eyes so dramatically that she might strain something. “He’s going to combust.”

You’re definitely not telling her you just might too.

But even then, Yuji still runs back to his team, helmet tucked under his arm, shouting something stupidly upbeat that gets the whole bench laughing. The field hums with energy, sunlight bouncing off jerseys, the grass almost glittering.

Finally, the game commences.

And Yuji—it’s like he was born for this.

He’s fast. Focused. And ridiculously competent.

Every time he steals the ball, the crowd roars. Every time he dodges someone twice his size, Nobara shrieks. And when he scores—an impossible curve just inside the goalpost—he swings both arms up, searching the stands until he locks eyes with you.

He beams like you just handed him the universe.

And the whole world feels golden—sunlight, victory, thrill. Megumi is yelling instructions, Nobara’s screaming insults at the opponents, and Yuji’s just there in all of his radiant glory—shining without even trying.

It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s alive.

You’re cheering too, but your smile still falters, tight around the edges. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your bag strap.

But for now… Yuji wins.

And he looks at you like you’re the reason he did. Truly, he does. He barely hears the final whistle over the roar of the crowd. One second, he’s sprinting across the field, cleats kicking up dust, teammates shouting his name—

And the next, he’s tearing off his helmet and running straight for you.

You barely get a sound out before he crashes into you, arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a dizzying spin. His laugh bursts warm against your neck, almost boyish in how free it is.

“You saw that, right? You saw that, right?” he breathes, grin blinding, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs proof—needs you—to make it real.

Nobara’s whooping behind you. Megumi’s pretending not to stare, and he’s shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn’t just sabotage two passes solely so Yuji could score. The field is a riot of noise—whistles, cheers, the brass band warming up again—but all of it blurs around him.

Yuji’s still holding you there, thumbs brushing your ribs. The pink of his hair, the warm brown of his eyes, the soft grin that always pulls at the corner of his mouth. His hair brushes your forehead when he leans in.

A voice cuts through the crowd. “Congratulations, you all! What a play!”

It’s a senior guy from another team—someone charming, loud, the type Yuji knows people tend to gravitate to. He jogs past, tossing you a quick smile like it’s nothing.

“You were cheering SO loud,” he tells you, laughing. “Honestly, I think you were louder than the team.”

Yuji’s smile twitches.

The guy just continues, leaning in a bit too close, “You coming to the afterparty? Nobara said you might—”

Yuji steps in without thinking, placing a hand on your back.

“Oh,” the guy says, blinking. “Hey, Itadori. Great game, man.”

“Thanks,” Yuji answers—but something in his eyes dims.

Nobara simply smirks with a cross of her arms.

His eyes flick back to you. Quick. Searching.

Did you smile back? Did you think the guy was cool? Did you—

Suddenly, the team crowds around him—slapping his back, grabbing his shoulders, shouting over each other, and you’re both separated from the wave of intrusion.

“You’re coming with us tonight, right?”

“Yo, we’re buying you dinner!”

“We’re gonna replay that touchdown like a hundred times—”

Yuji’s flustered, overwhelmed. His chest is heaving, and sweat trickles down his forehead. He doesn’t like the sudden attention, and he keeps looking back at you over their heads—checking, making sure you haven’t drifted away in the crowd, but he loses you just as quickly as they came.

Megumi sighs, nudging him. “Go,” he mutters. “We’ll catch up.”

And that’s all he needs.

He practically breaks out of the huddle just to run over to you—soft murmurs of apologies as he bumps into someone else’s shoulder. 

Everything else is noise to him, and it isn’t long until he catches the familiar sight of the back of your head again.

He settles beside you, still breathless. His fingers hover, then hook lightly around your wrist, tugging you closer.

“You’re walking with me, right?” His voice drops. “Please?”

Nobara wiggles her eyebrows. “You two are disgusting,” she groans, then pats your shoulder. “I’m getting drinks. Don’t do anything gross while I’m gone.”

She disappears. Megumi drifts off too, yelling something at a teammate.

And suddenly, it’s just you and him again.

The air is warm from the sun, the grass glittering with confetti. His hand is still curled around yours. “I’m really glad you came, y’know.”

You smile softly. “Of course I did.”

“And… that guy earlier,” he adds too casually, “Do you… know him?”

There it is—the tiny crack in his voice.

And something sinks in your stomach. You’re exhausted—raw beneath the skin. And you’re way too tired to explain the history he’s scarred you. Not today. Not after this win. Not when he’s glowing like a sun you don’t want to dim.

So you answer gently, “Not really. Don’t worry about it.”

Yuji’s silent.

But you can feel the tension humming beneath his ribs as he tries to read your face. After a few steps, he murmurs, barely audible underneath his breath. “Hey, so… did you really cheer that loud?”

You grin. “Yeah. For you.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” he asks.

Your steps falter. “I’m fine.”

His brows pinch. He looks at you closely.

“You don’t have to say ‘fine’ just because you think it’s easier,” he says. “I can handle it. Whatever it is.”

But your mind is still tangled from the morning, from the noise, from everything you haven’t wanted to burden anyone with. You look away.

It should’ve been easy—Yuji’s arms around you, the campus buzzing with leftover cheers, Megumi shouting something smug in the distance, Nobara somewhere in the corner of your eye. Everything is loud, and warm, and safe.

But Yuji doesn’t see the phone screen still lighting up in your pocket.

He doesn’t notice how your fingers have been curling in on themselves, and suddenly, the sunlight feels too bright. Your pulse crawls up the back of your throat. Softly, without meaning to, you’re muttering under your breath.

“You’re not even here half the time. How are you gonna ‘handle it’?”

He catches it too, but he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even know he heard it… because you aren’t entirely wrong. He’s been either late or disappeared midway through the last three times you hung out. Last weekend, he ditched you mid-dance, and you told him it was fine—of course it was fine—it just stung more than you want to admit, and today, he barely made it to field day on time.

Something about helping someone, getting caught up, you weren’t even sure.

He’s always trying, always running. Always tired.

You don’t want to be another thing that drags him down.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about me today. You’ve got more important people to celebrate with.”

Yuji stops walking altogether. The shift is small—barely a misstep on the pavement—but it feels like the ground trembles.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Everyone’s congratulating you. You should enjoy it. You don’t need to be glued to me.”

His face falls in slow motion. “Is that… what you think? That I’m only here because I feel like I should be?”

You don’t answer fast enough, and your silence hurts him more than any shouted insult could have. The tension that holds in the air now is unbearable.

His face contorts into a frown.

“Seriously?” he murmurs. “I just ran straight to you after the biggest game of the semester, and you think I wouldn’t choose you?”

His voice wavers, and you quickly shake your head, tilting your head to look at him. “Yuji, that’s not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, stepping back, eyes darting everywhere except your face. 

“Yuji—” His expression ruins you, and now, you wish more than anything but to take back your words.

He swallows hard. “I get it."

There it is.

The crack in the glass. The place where he breaks. You reach out for him, but all he does is step away.

“You know I didn’t mean that, I was just tired—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the cheering behind you erupts, but the world between you stills.

The stadium burst into cheers for the next round of the competition, and his teammates are shouting his name, waving him over for the afterparty. “Yuji! Let’s go!”

He hesitates.

Because he wants to stay. You can see that. But still, he pulls his hand back.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, smiling the way he always does—the one that makes your chest warm and ache and twist all at once. “Promise.”

You just… nod. It’s easier than saying you’re not sure you believe it anymore.

And even in the blinding afternoon sun, the warmth he leaves you with still feels cold.

The bleachers, the crowd, the pats on his back—they all drift into nothing.

Nothing matters.

Not when guilt claws at him with each step he takes further from you. He can’t stop himself, though.

He doesn’t deserve you, and even when he sees the faltering pain in your eyes, when it seems like he’s ripped your whole heart out, even when he didn’t mean to—

He should walk away from you.

You deserve better.

But when the hair on his skin stands, the jolt of every nerve in his system sparking up, the dread of what he’s always feared crawls back up into him.

He runs straight back to you.

You slowly step away from the crowd, letting the chatter fade into the background. The noise of the campus stadium and cheering grows distant, muffled, yet every step feels heavier than the last. Your bag drags against your shoulder, but truthfully, that’s not even what’s weighing you down.

Each breath catches in your chest as you walk through the shortcut through the science wing. Home. You just want to go home now.

The afternoon sun glares against the metal supports of the demo tents. You barely notice them. Instead, your mind is wrapped up in everything, and you hate that you even feel this way. Hate that even until now, every time you think you’ve grown to be logical enough, your heart always gets the better of you.

Your steps echo softly within the hollow of your mind, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours. You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking. How far you’ve wandered. All you know is that you’re all alone—both literally and in your head.

A loud metallic groan rips through the air.

Suddenly, the metal pole just above the building snaps. There’s no thought, and only the sudden, sickening realisation that it’s coming down.

Oh.

You just stand there, memories flashing through your eyes in replay.

Yuji flashes through your eyes.

This is it—

But suddenly… in the blink of an eye, all you see is a blur of red and blue.

Your chest slams against a familiar chest, and the world flips upside down for a heartbeat. Air screams past your ears. The pole crashes behind you, scattering debris, a deafening clatter that reverberates in your bones.

You gasp, clutching him, every nerve ending on fire. Pain lances through your arm where the pole grazed you, and your knee scrapes against the pavement as he manoeuvres you away. 

The wind tears at your hair, and even in the chaos, your mind reels. 

“You… you okay?” His voice is low, urgent, but behind the mask, it trembles.

It’s Spider-Man.

But you can’t answer. Your body shakes, each blink glowing hotter and hotter as the weight of everything finally crashes.

“I—I—” You can’t finish.

Your throat tightens, and you simply break in his arms. His grip tightens, swinging you back toward a safer alleyway, ignoring the chatter, the noise, and everything else.

“It’s okay… you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers, and somewhere in the midst of it, his voice cracks.

“Hey, look at me. Just—just look at me,” he lowers himself beside you, knees hitting the cold concrete, his hands closing around yours with a trembling gentleness. 

You choke on a breath, shaking your head furiously, face buried in your arms. “I can’t… I can’t—”

His voice softens, frays at the edges. “Please. Breathe. Just breathe.”

The tears spill faster, hot and relentless. You’re folding in on yourself, small and shaken, and the words slip out in pieces you can’t hold back.

“I—Yuji… I can’t… I just…” Your voice quivers. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to—”

“You’re not!” he almost shouts, but it cracks, breaking down into a whisper.

“Do you hear me? Your life matters. It matters.” His breath trembles. His hands cup your face now, fingers digging into the sides of your jaw as he kneels beside you. “And if no one else can keep you safe, then I will. I will. So don’t ever—ever say that again.”

Your sobs shake all the way through you, and he pulls you into him, arms banding around your body, holding you. Even then, the panic still claws at your ribs. He presses his forehead to yours, his voice barely holding itself together. “I’ve got you. Just… just trust me. Do you want to go home?”

You’re sobbing into his chest now. Your ribs are aching, your shoulders throbbing, and you’re stuttering in shallow gasps, yet somehow, with the last tiniest bit of strength left in you, you manage a nod.

His arms wrap around you again, lifting you gently. The wind roars past as he swings, your body cradled against his chest. The city blurs into streaks of silver and orange, but none of it grounds you. Everything still bites.

By the time he lands on your balcony, your legs buckle, and he sets you down with a quick turn away. Like he thinks he should leave. Like he thinks he’s the problem.

Your chest caves in.

“I can’t… I don’t—” you whisper, and then, with trembling fingers, you grasp his wrists.

He freezes, panic flashing behind the mask.

You tug him down to your level, breath shaky, heart ricocheting against your ribs.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear the storm around you—and for the first time, Yuji wants nothing more than to rip off his mask. Right here. Right now.

Because trust has always felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have… yet here you are, the one constant in the chaos of his double life, holding onto him like he’s the only steady thing in your world.

The home he was never sure Yuji Itadori deserves, not when Spider-Man’s saving lives, all the while Yuji is running late for another hangout somewhere else.

The slope of his jaw beneath the mask, the shape of his shoulders beneath the soaked suit, the faint scent of detergent he always uses at home. You’re exhausted—tired of the uncertainty, tired of the guessing—everything about him feels almost too familiar.

It breaks something loose inside you. “Yuji…?” 

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but to him, it lands even harder than lightning.

He freezes.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even move a muscle.

Not even when your fingers slide to the edge of his mask, and in a heartbeat of terror and clarity, you pull it up. 

Your world stops.

The way his voice cracks in the exact shape of Yuji’s kindness, the way he whispers comfort with words only Yuji has ever spoken to you. The way he knows exactly how to hold you, just like Yuji did when you both danced in that one street.

And now, seeing him—wet-faced, trembling, eyes glassy with fear and relief—it hits you like a punch straight through the ribs.

“Y–You…” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry—I was going to tell you, I swear, I just—”

You don’t let him finish.

You just lean in and kiss him. Desperate, shaking. Relief, anger, and love all at once. Fear—that you could’ve lost him before you ever got to say any of it.

It’s right there and then he goes stiff with shock… before he finally melts with a shaky exhale, pulling you so close your feet practically leave the ground.

“You… you’re alive,” he whispers into your hair as he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought—God, I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, arms still locked around you.

Your fingers curl into the back of his suit. “...Don’t go.”

He lifts his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering.

“Stay. Please.”

You’re whispering, shaking. He looks at you for a second—and it doesn’t take another until his lips crash into yours again.

The floorboards creak. The air is heavy. Kiniro’s sleeping somewhere in the kitchen, but your legs are wrapped tight around Yuji’s waist now. He’s holding you up, fingers digging into your thighs.

“Wait—” He cuts you off with another kiss as he stumbles into the living room, lights still off.

Your hands gently clutch the back of his suit even tighter. Your kisses are sloppy, frantic, and desperate. He quickly yanks his mask off, throwing it straight at the couch while he lifts you like nothing with one hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but he’s already back to nibbling your bottom lip, working his way up to your breathless gasps.

“Mm… Yuji,” Your fingers lace through the pink threads of his hair, ruffling through them as something pools just beneath your stomach. 

The door rattles behind you as he pushes it open with your back against it, a creak rattling across, and when he does pull away, a drool lingers just between the two of you, and he looks up at you, lifted, like the most gorgeous angel ever. You pant, hand grasping his clothed bicep, as he presses a thumb under your chin, tipping your head further back. 

He’s wanted this for the last five years of his life, and now here you are—lost in it and in his arms—he just might explode into a million pieces.

“I love you,” he peppers even more kisses, agonisingly dragging a trail from your chin, all the way up to your drooped eyelids, hazy, muzzy even as your breath heaves with each gasp. “So fucking much.”

Your heart’s also pounding loudly, and even when he plops you down on his bed, you refuse to let go. You watch as he fumbles the unbuttoning of your clothes, and you tilt your head back as he trails even more wet kisses on your face. His knee slides right between your legs.

Goosebumps trail each time his lips meet your skin, and his fingers are still gripped tight onto the flesh of your thighs. His bed, his taste, your head is so intoxicated with him, it’s driving you insane. Even inhaling the fresh lemon detergent of his sheets makes you nuzzle against it, whining as he plants yet another kiss on your neck.

“Slow down,” you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he trails down to your stomach, nails scratching his scalp as he nuzzles into your touch, kissing the thin fabric separating you from his desperate mouth.

But as drunk as he is, lost in the whirlwind of your moans driving him insanely, unbearably hot amidst the cold air, he pauses for a second.

Just above your stomach, he slowly turns to look up at you. “...Are you okay with this?”

He looks up at you like he’s worshipping a goddess, because even in all your dazedness, you’re drop-dead gorgeous—eyes glossy, lips curled, breath panting.

“Mhm…” He instantly snuggles his face into your stomach, making you giggle, “What the—Yuji!”

Every kiss feels like worship, his mouth tracing shakingly down the insides of your thighs until he reaches the heat between them. With a gentle press of his hands, he nudges your legs apart and slips your pants down your hips, letting them fall away completely.

He goes utterly still.

God, he thinks, it’s so fucking pretty. And even though he’s never done this before, not really, he’s seen enough, learned enough, to know what to do.

His thumbs glide through your slickness and gently spread you open, baring every trembling part of you to his stare. The cold whisper of air makes you shift and whimper, embarrassment warming your cheeks. You don’t see it, though—the way his gaze drops, dark with want, his breath nearly catching at the sight of you.

Slowly, he leans in, breath warm against you before his tongue draws a long, deliberate lick through your folds. He can’t help but utter a low, hungry groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck… taste so sweet,” he mutters against you, hips pressing hard into the mattress as if he can’t help himself.

“Yuji—” Your back bows off the sheets in an instant, a startled cry slipping out as your thighs snap around his head.

But he only growls softly in response, arms locking around your legs to hold you open for him. He doesn’t stop—not for a second—as he devours you, messy yet greedy, drinking down every drop of your sweet slick.

His throaty groan vibrates straight through you, sending shivers up your spine. Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering shut as you melt back into the mattress. "You're so beautiful— so..."

He can’t help it—can’t help melting into your taste.

His mouth grows sloppier, jaw loosening so he can slurp louder, tongue moving with sprouting confidence. He circles your clit again and again, then dips lower, pushing his tongue clumsily but tenderly into your heat. His lashes brush his cheeks as he moves, muddled and klutzy—yet careful, and worshipping you with every greedy stroke.

Your fingers glide down your stomach, trembling as you reach for him, burying your hand in his hair. At the same time, your nails drag lightly across the nape of his neck as you tug him closer, guiding him deeper between your thighs. He groans into you, then pulls back only long enough to slick his fingers with his tongue before rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Silently, he watches your slick drip down, following the trail with dark, dilated eyes.

Your tongue slips out, thumb brushing your lower lip as you look down at him. The sight alone makes him shudder.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

Heat flares over your cheeks, but you nod with a soft, breathy hum, lips parted as he lowers his mouth again. He laps at your folds slowly, savouring you, sweet warmth spilling over his tongue while he keeps his gaze on you.

“Mhm… Yu…” you breathe, a small moan escaping as your lids grow heavy again.

Something warm blooms in his chest at the sight of you weakly squirming, voice all soft and sweet, and he dives back to your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud until your moans climb higher, your hips jerking. He’s rutting subtly into the mattress.

“Yu—ahh, I’m gonna—gonna cum—” Your legs tremble, thighs trying to snap shut on instinct, but he only tightens his arms around them, holding you open as his mouth works you through it—pushing you right to the edge.

And then you’re falling.

Your jaw drops slack, tongue lolling slightly as stars burst behind your eyelids. You gasp out a broken “Haagh—” all the while, soft, desperate moans spill from your lips.

The sound you make has him tensing all over again, breath catching as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, watching the way your lashes flutter, and how your body trembles with the aftershocks he pulled out of you.

He stares like he’s mesmerised.

And in the heat of it, he just can’t stop himself.

His thumb finds your clit again, pressing lightly, and your words dissolve into breathy whines. He's talking you through it. Watching as your pretty lashes kiss your cheeks as your hips lift, chasing more, and he gives it to you—sliding a finger inside with a low, desperate sound.

“Your voice… fuck—” he groans, the sound almost a plea.

You yelp, grip tightening—one hand buried in his hair, the other fisting the sheets.

Then he adds a second finger, humming as your walls stretch around him, giving you barely a heartbeat before he’s thrusting them in and out, building pace. Your eyes go wide, back arching sharply, nails sinking into his bicep as he peppers kisses up your neck.

“I—Y-Yuji—ahh, please—I just came—” Your voice breaks so sweetly it nearly kills him, and maybe he should give you a second to breathe—but he’s already kissing down your chest, already pulling your top up without you noticing, clumsily unclasping your bra with unsteady fingers.

He’s dreamed of tasting you like this for years. God, you can’t even imagine.

His tongue drags over your nipple, lips closing around it as his fingers keep working you open, and all he can think—watching you squeeze his arm, bury your face in his shoulder, thighs trembling around his wrist—is how heartbreakingly cute you are, and how intoxicatingly soft your breasts feel.

Your legs shake as he finally pulls his fingers out, and he pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean while staring right at you in all his dazed hunger. You feel yourself grow embarrassed at the obscene sight, your lips part in silent awe, chest rising and falling as you watch him.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he reaches for his suit, unzipping it and letting it fall to the floor. His hands fumble with his boxers—slow, torturous—and you can’t tear your gaze from the dark shape straining against the fabric.

When it slips free, your breath catches. Your heart lurches into your throat.

It’s fucking huge. Your pupils blow wide, a tiny sound catching in your throat. He gathers the pre-cum on his thumb, spreading it over the swollen head before settling beside you on the bed.

“'Kay, angel…” he exhales, voice shaking, “think we’re… good…”

Your face burns, dizzy with need. His lips find yours again as he rocks his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing you both. You grind up instinctively, but he pulls back with sudden panic in his eyes. “Shit—condom—”

You cut him off. “I’m safe.”

He freezes. Looks at you once, and his fingers tremble. Both of you are flushed, breathless, then he kisses you again—harder, desperate. 

“I fuckin—“ he’s gasping through each clumsy kiss, “fuck—I love you—so fuckin’ much.”

The words—messy, breathless, dripping with sincerity—turn your mind to nothing but mush. By the time he settles back between your thighs, lifting your legs high around his waist, you’re already trembling. A slow, burning stretch blossoms inside you as he presses just the head of his cock in.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

“Ngh—Yuj—” you start, but he kisses you before the rest can leave your lips, fingers threading through your hair with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“You’re, urgh, doing so well… Yeah…” He watches in fascination at the lewd scene of your cunt taking in his cock. “Fuck—so fuckin’ good—“

He's panting, eyes fixed on where your body’s parting around him. He’s only seen stuff like this on his phone, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing, and the sight alone makes him choke on a groan.

Your moan breaks loose, higher and needier as he rocks his hips, inching in deeper. You’re tight—so tight—and the mix of pressure and pleasure has you clinging to him, whining when his hand squeezes your thigh.

“I-It’s okay, angel—fuck, b-breathe,” he huffs, eyes squeezing shut as a low groan rumbles out of him. “I’m not gonna last like this, baby.”

The name hits you like a spark—your body involuntarily clenches around him, and he notices instantly. He lifts his head despite the sweat trailing down his temple, a breathless, smug little smile tugging at his lips.

“You l-like that, baby?” he teases, voice cracked and warm. His hand cups your chin, guiding your gaze back to him as he pants through the ache.

“Y-Yuj…” you whisper, gasping as he sinks in deeper. You nuzzle instinctively into his palm, stroking your cheek.

And fuck—you can’t expect him to hold back when you’re kissing the rough heel of his hand like that.

He can’t doesn’t wait for you to adjust fully. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue greedy and eager as he kisses you like he’s drowning. Because really, he is, with how his knees shake as he digs into the mattress, all before he slowly thrusts forward—each controlled drag burying more of his thick length deeper inside you.

You cling to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders, into the hard cut of muscle beneath his skin, and he grunts at the sting, hips rutting deeper, each movement slow and heavy enough to make your breath stutter.

You feel everything—every ridge, every pulse, every maddening inch of him, and your moans twist into soft, breathy cries, mixing with his low, guttural groans against your lips.

You don’t even hear how the room’s engulfed with nothing but the lewd squelches echoing through the quiet now, his hips softly plapping against you, grunting in your ear whenever you unintentionally clench around him.

Your soft whines turn into sweet cries, and his eyes dilate in awe, cheeks flushed as your vision blurs. Your wet lips part, crying his name over and over, and with each cry, you can feel him somehow grow even larger as he kisses your cervix like he’s addicted.

“Angh—wait!” you whine, grasping his nape, back arching as he continues his torturous pace, the burning yet filling stretch leaving you breathless.

Your mind is scrambled, completely lost to the pleasure as you try to adjust, but he’s already slowly picking up his pace. And it didn’t matter how pathetic your whines got, or how much you came, because he's just kissing you with worship, peppering every part of you like you’re heaven itself, tongue peeking into your mouth again.

And he’s hooked. Hooked with how every time he tries to pull, you’re sucking him back in.

“It’s too much—Yuj—Please—“ and he’s also whimpering right above you.

“Haah—Fuck, fuck, I’m close, baby—“ his lips part, groaning when you instinctually clench around him again.

He swallows each pathetic whine of yours and vice versa, grunting into you with every thrust, both of you panting against each other.

Your mouth’s dangling open with trails of drool, and each time he whispers sweet praises of how gorgeous you are, you can’t help but string out moans and whimpers, filling the thick air of his bedroom. “You’re taking me… so well… ”

You can hardly squeeze any comprehensible thoughts out of you, and your head falls back against him, strength slipping away, hips quivering as quiet whimpers escape you. “Hnngh, Y-Yujiii..."

“Can I cum inside?”

“M-Mhmm,” you agree instantly, breath catching as your body betrays you. You’ve forgotten long ago, anyway, how to resist him.

A certain shiver ripples through you, and Yuji’s pace picks up even more, breath even heavier for the release he's been saving just for you, his whole life.

“Baby,” He pleads. “Fuck, baby, please—Look at me,”

The same strong hand on your jaw softly tilts your head to turn, and your eyes meet his dilated pupils. “Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me, baby? Ngh—”

You feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you while he’s whimpering, and all at once, the air seems to leave your lungs as he slides his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s standing with you in his arms, the weight and closeness leaving your heart racing.

"Does this feel better for you?”

As if. Your legs go weak in his arms, trembling as your body twitches now with every subtle movement he makes. You’re completely at his mercy, breath catching and chest rising and falling faster than you can control. Tiny, messy traces fall from your lips, dripping out onto the floor with soft splatters down below.

He spreads you out wider, aims sliding beneath your thighs, and fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. You feel like you’re simply floating, all whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you helpless as you sink back into everything he’s sliding desperately into you.

“N-Ngh, Yuj—!” Your voice catches, eyes misting as he burrows closer into the crook of your neck.

A deep, almost dizzying warmth pulses through you, and suddenly, it all bursts. Your hands claw at his back, squirming and desperate for the grounding presence of him. He huffs against your skin as well, breath ragged. His voice drops eager, and you feel it shiver straight through you. “Haah… I’m so close.”

All you can do is tremble around him, giving a slow, lazy nod, lost in the crazed intensity between you.

He’s spilling every rope of cum inside you, and even through it, he doesn’t stop. He keeps a slower, gentler pace, thrusts kissing your cervix even more like he’s thanking you, same as how he’s peppering your face with kisses now.

"Yuji…"

He pants softly in your ear, plopping his cock out tiredly from your hole and onto your bed below. Both of you are still heaving; your bodies stay pressed tightly together.

You murmur from underneath his weight, voice muffled against his shoulder, and it makes him melt as he still holds you close.

“I love you so much... Fuck, I’m sorry I acted like a jerk,” he whispers, gazing into your tired, adoring eyes. “I’ll jump off a cliff if I ever make you cry again.”

You laugh, playfully punching his arm. With a quick peck to his nose, you’re already readjusting so you can straddle him again.

He traces a finger gently along your lips, a little grin on his face.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Can we um—“ he leans in for a quick kiss, “Can we try doggy style now?”

Okay, cross his weird cooking shows—you’re monitoring his weird porn stash too.

Everything aches when you wake up.

Your arms are stiff, and your legs are all sore, peppered with bite marks and faint crescents from last night. Sunlight filters through the peeping blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed, but that’s not the only weight you’re feeling on top of you.

Yuji’s arm is draped over yours now, warm and comfortably heavy. He’s sprawled on his stomach beside you, hair a chaotic mess, eyelids shut, face practically buried in the pillow. You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness, and his eyes snap open like he’s sensed you awake.

Under his breath, a groan escapes him, followed by a tilt of the head as he glances at you, face squished adorably into the pillow. The memories of last night hit you like a freight train, and your face instantly blooms scarlet.

“Good morning,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile.

“…Morning,” you croak, voice hoarse.

He instantly breaks into laughter, rolling lazily onto his back beside you while you frown at him, still too self-conscious.

Your gaze drifts over him unconsciously, eyes tracing over last night’s scratches on his broad back. The little ridges where his elbows pressed into you, his chest rising and falling from sleep and… other marks. His ears are pink, warm under the sunlight, and he buries his face into your hair, all snuggled with you. Both of you stay like that for a few heartbeats, breathing each other in, disbelief lingering like the soft haze after fireworks.

Eventually, you reach for your phone, which you’d carelessly tossed on the bedside table yesterday. But when the lock screen lights up, your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.

“What—” Yuji murmurs, groggy and confused.

“I have class in thirty minutes!” you gasp, scrambling off the bed despite the soreness. “I cannot miss this one!”

His eyes instantly widen, and before you can blink, he’s already on his feet. He rushes over to your side, scooping you into his arms as he carries you bridal-style to the shower.

“I’ll get your clothes, uh— hold on!” he calls, and just like that, he’s darting to your room, leaving you blinking and flustered. 

The shower’s warmth does little to soothe the ache of your limbs, but you linger just long enough to pull the towel tight around yourself. When you finally do open the bathroom door, you freeze.

Spider-Man. In. The. Flesh.

He’s standing there, folded clothes in hand, looking every bit like the superhero he is. Though the awkward, nervous smile beneath it? 100% Yuji. You pause, staring, and when you finally reach for your clothes, you whisper a hurried thanks, cheeks burning.

He gives a little wave back at you.

You’re not telling him thanks, this time, though—when fast-forward five minutes, you’re in the air, soaring past skyscrapers, strapped in some ridiculous ghost mask he bought last Halloween.

Your stomach flips every time the wind picks up, hair whipping across your face, and the city below blurs into dizzying streaks of light. When you eventually land in a quiet alleyway, you’re gasping for breath, legs trembling, and he finally lets go of your waist. You glance at your watch.

Ten minutes left—cue panic.

You start to turn and dash, but can’t resist sneaking one last glance over your shoulder. Yuji simply stands there, chest heaving, mask slightly crooked, head tilted. He's waving you to get moving already.

But you can’t leave it at that, so quickly, you run back, grab his clenched fists gently in one hand, and lift his mask just slightly to plant a brief peck on his lips.

“Thanks,” you whisper. And before he can say a word, you’re off—rushing back into the bustle, heart hammering, adrenaline still sending quivers through your shaky legs.

"Oh my god...." He dramatically leans back against the cold alley wall, sliding down slowly while clutching at his own head beneath his zipped get-up.

His suit definitely needs an upgrade from Megumi, he thinks, because you’d left him totally knocked out.

And right now, his brain is half-filled with how easily you just slipped away—the other half overclocking on how he's so, so down bad for you.

A pigeon coos from above, judgmental in its stare.

Class has barely ended when your phone buzzes. The hallway is in its usual chaos—sneakers squeaking across scuffed linoleum, laughter ricocheting, backpacks slung over shoulders. You’re juggling your bag, your water bottle, and an overdue sense of exhaustion as you pull out your phone, fully expecting a group chat notification or a calendar reminder.

But then you see the name on the screen. Yuji.

Yuji: look at the manhattan bridge :))

Your brows knit, confused, but curiosity wins still, and you turn toward the tall window overlooking the city, breath fogging faintly against the cold glass. The sky is rinsed in a soft apricot glow today, dripping over the skyline like spilt honey. Its golden hour tints with warmth, enough to melt even the sharpest edges of steel and glass.

And that’s when you see it.

Strung between the beams like frost, shimmering in the golden, like it’s snared a wandering cloud amidst the bleeding sky—three words are strung across the Manhattan Bridge in enormous, gleaming webs.

Each letter is woven thick, looped around half a dozen times so they won’t blow away in the wind.

Your eyes widen. There is absolutely no way.

I LOVE YOU.

Your heart skips violently, and your breath stumbles out of your chest in a gasp.

A stupid, giddy laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, and your hand flies to your mouth as if you can physically push your stunned smile back in.

“Idiot…” you whisper.

Around you, other students press against the windows, whispering, pointing. Someone mutters,

“Brother did a whole Hollywood sign…”

“Is Spider-Man in love?? With who??”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yuji: empty classroom, east wing. the one w the broken light. hurry! :(

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight off the warmth spreading through your chest as you practically float down the hallway. Your steps are light, your face is on fire, and your heart's busy doing backflips inside.

By the time you reach the forgotten old classroom in the east wing, your pulse is sprinting. The door sits slightly open, the flickering ceiling light casting lazy pulses of brightness across the desks like it’s trying, yet failing, to stay conscious.

You push the door open.

And there he is. Yuji stands near one of the desks, mask pulled back and tucked into his hood, pink-peach curls mussed from the wind.

His cheeks are flushed, hoodie slightly crooked, and even though he’s leaning like he’s been waiting forever, he probably swung here mere seconds just before you arrived.

How do you know that? Because the flowers in his hands look like they've just gone through hell and back.

When he sees you, something in him softens so completely it makes your breath catch.

“Hey,” he says, smile tugging gently at the corners of his mouth.

It’s so pure, so bright, it almost tricks you into thinking he didn’t just do something as insane as webbing a literal confession across a whole bridge.

You let out a breathy laugh as you approach him. “Yuji… you webbed the entire Manhattan Bridge.”

He rubs the back of his neck, practically glowing.

“I—uh—wanted to make sure you saw it?” He winces. “And that you didn’t think I was joking.”

His voice gentles. “I mean it.”

Before your brain can even catch up with your racing heart, he reaches out. His hands slip like usual to your waist.

He looks at you like sunlight through glass, stars folding into themselves—unfathomable heaven of devotion graced into every line of his expression.

“You ready to go home?” he asks softly. 

You wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and his forehead drops to your shoulder in the tiniest, softest surrender.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as you giggle and ruffle his hair.

“I love you too, silly.”

Outside, the sun sinks slowly behind the skyline, ember light scattered across the room as it catches on a stray fleck of web on Yuji’s sleeve. It glows like silver fire as he lifts you effortlessly, stepping toward the window. You simply cling to him, heart soaring as he pushes the pane open and the cool wind rushes in.

With a soft laugh, Yuji leaps, both of you cutting through the evening breeze as the city roars beneath.

Taxis honk, trains rattle, pedestrians shout, but everything muffles the moment his arm curls tighter around you.

With him, flying feels safe.

With him, the city feels small.

With him, the skyline with I LOVE YOU strung across it feels like the only world that matters.

He steals a glance at you mid-swing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

New York watches as he swings past skyscrapers—and this time, he isn't alone. He holds you like he has nowhere else to be but by your side, basking in the afterglow of a love he had written across the skyline just for you. 

Petals float below from the two of you, and you say his words back. Barely louder than the wind, but just enough for him, and only him, to hear.

It's what you’ve found between this litany of quiet you’ve both settled into:

“Home.”

CH 1 ⇐ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3 જ⁀➴

CH 2┆with great power comes great responsibility; and a thousand reasons to run. his father left him grief, your mother gave him rules. you gave him a reason to stay.

[ivsarchive]

holy shit, how you wrote the raw love and adoration in that smut scene is absolutely beautiful, it's so warmly intimate it's jaw dropping oml

[lolli-apop]

More Than Strangers, Less Than Friends - Neteyam // Part One

You are the eldest daughter of Ronal and Tonowari. Several months after his recovery from a bullet wound that rendered him comatose, your parents have arranged a bond-pact between Toruk Makto's son and you to be mated. It wouldn't be such a problem if not for the glaring issue—your lover.

Warnings- ooc Neteyam, obsessive

A/N- This fanfic is old, like 2023 old. I wrote it but never posted it! I decided since Avatar is getting popular again to do it! Here's part one to... I think a five part series? Most likely more knowing myself. I kinda cringe seeing my old writing but eh! Hope you enjoy!

Part Two

You were the first daughter of your clan’s Olo’eyktan, second-born and always second-chosen.

From the beginning, your life had been shaped around the things you were not. Not the next heir. Not the next Tsahik.

It had been simple, really. From the moment you were old enough to understand words. It had been explained gently at first, then plainly as you grew: Tsireya possessed the healer’s gift, not you. Ao’nung was a natural leader, you lacked charm. You suppose your parents thought that by saying it softly, it’d somehow prevent the slow-growing rot of envy. 

So you remained something in-between, between earth and sea.

“You do not need to be more than what you are,” your mother always said, brushing your cheek with her thumb. “Eywa makes nothing without reason.” You believed her.

Or tried to.

Years passed, and you made your own purpose. By duty you supposed. It was the only thing you could really accomplish.

If a predator stalked too close, you killed it.

If a child wandered off, you found them.

If a duty was too tedious, too tiring, too thankless—your hands were already reaching for it.

So dutiful.

So indispensable.

So quietly wanted.

Your days always began with you stepping forward and rarely did it slow: walking, running, tracking, fetching, carrying. Your father wanted the reserve spears checked. Your mother requested another set of bowls she trusted only you to choose. The elders needed the births of the new calves recorded before the second eclipse. This, you told yourself, was the shape of your life. This was Eywa’s path.

It never truly bothered you. You found no resentment in your heart. If Eywa needed you to be a steady pair of hands, then you would be steady. You would not question it.

Until that is, your little sister appeared one morning with that smile she wore when she wanted something—and a boy trailed behind her. A darker-skinned, thin-limbed forest boy. The Sully’s third child.

The one whose people dragged death like nets behind them.

And yet Tsireya loved him, utterly and without hesitation.

“Sister,” she said, she would not stop tugging your wrist. “come with us, please? I want to gather some rocks, and Lo’ak has to practice his ikyanama with Ao’nung.”

“Join you? Why?” You had been hauling some baskets of fruit, weathered by the heat and soreness of yesterday's chores. “You are going with Lo’ak, yes?” Speaking of which…Your eyes moved towards the boy. 

“Because I like your company. And if anything were to happen—”

“Fine.” You sighed. You dropped the basket gently, placing it on some random mat.

“If mother or father ask,” Tsireya chirped, “I’ll tell them it was my idea.”.

Her idea. Right. As if they’d believe it. But you did not fault Tsireya for your parents' misunderstanding of her. Instead, you pat her back and gently lead her away, narrowing your eyes at Lo’ak.

Lo’ak was smart enough to look away, at least.

When you first spotted Ao’nung, Roxto, and the Sully children gathered in a loose circle—heads tipped in, shoulders brushing, laughter spilling between them—you weren’t surprised. Their closeness had become predictable, albeit a bit concerning in your eyes.

What was strange was Tsireya’s insistence on keeping you glued to her side when such skilled warriors surrounded her. And the looks—the way Tsireya watched you, the way Lo’ak pressed his lips tight, as if swallowing a laugh or a secret.

Strange, you thought.

You kept walking, nonexistent eyebrows lifting a fraction, spear shifting easily over your shoulder.

A flicker of movement—“Y/n!” Kiri called, one arm wrapped around little Tuk’s squirming body.

Their gazes tracked you, polite but persistent, yet none as unwavering as the golden stare of the eldest Sully. Neteyam sat straighter than the others, but his attention never fully left you—not even as he continued polishing gear with practiced motions.

“Hello, Kiri. Everyone.” Your gaze slid to the ocean. “Is something funny?”

“No, no, just—please, sit.” Kiri gestured toward the space beside Neteyam. He caught the cue, offered a small smile, then pat the stone beside him.

You hesitated, studying the spot, then studying him. Oldest child. Steady spine. Quiet strength. Too much like you in temperament, but marked by something different. It was stupid to pretend otherwise.

Dead once, killed by sky-people fire. Returned only because Eywa willed it.

And still, you stayed standing.

“I apologize. I’m only here to guard my sister.” You stilled your tail, which awkwardly curled at the ends. “Er…I should return to my duties.”

A tug yanked your tail.

“Agh—!”

Your sister’s pout nearly eclipsed the force of it. “They’re going swimming! And I need to collect shells. You promised. Stay.”

You swallowed a curse, eyes narrowing at her. “You…” You closed your eyes and calmly frowned. “You owe me.”

.

.

.

“Isn’t he a fast learner, Y/n?” Tsireya whispered, breaking you from your thoughts. 

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

She only gave a look, returning to the thread stretched between her fingers, drawing it thinner, finer, until it resembled the edge of silk. “I said, Isn’t he a fast learner, Y/n?”

A sigh escaped you before you could stop it. “It is necessary if they wish to stand among our people. Mother has… little patience for slow progress.” Your lashes fluttered at the familiar sounds behind you. Something of water and laughter, an Ilu’s chip. It made the corner of your mouth lift.

Her fingers danced across the beads. “I know,” she murmured. “But still…” Her ears twitched when your weight shifted in the sand. “I only meant…It’s been hard for him. After everything.”

“The past is the past. We honor it, but we do not live inside it. Eywa offered us a future for a reason.”

She didn’t argue, instead she offered a smile, gentle and secret as she carved into a blush-colored shell. The bead slid through the rope, then another shell, then another bead. When she lifted the strand for inspection, you counted only five, though she meant to mark seven. One for each of the Sullies—but Tuk’s was missing. And Spider’s.

You did not understand this. It is a waste.

For some reason, she’d begun updating her songcord more often. In her heart, the Sully family had become a kind of anchor—something worth preserving in memory. You’d added only one stone: amber, for the battle of the three brothers. Newcomers arrived often; that was the way of things.

“Would you like me to gather more shells?” you asked.

“If you find a yellow one and a blue one, I would be grateful.”

So here you were, with soft sand crushing between your toes, steadily searching—combing the shoreline for color, for shape—anything. You even scanned the shoreline for shells. Not one. It was almost insulting. So when your search dragged you across the island, you let out a silent, aggravated groan.

By the time the Sully’s came into view, you were already regretting it. They were acquaintances in the loosest sense—warm enough in passing, but not people you sought out alone. You usually had siblings beside you, a buffer. Now it was just you.

You didn't look at them much. A spare of a glance, nothing more, just a passing confirmation they were still there. Afterall, you didn’t want to invite conversation.

You knelt, fingers brushing the spiraled rim of the shell. By the great mother never again. I need to tell Tsireya no more often, or else she’ll—

You turned.

Neteyam was looking at you.

Then, he sank beneath the water.

What was that?

You had no answer. And honestly, you weren’t the sort to dwell on boys you barely knew, and certainly not on ones who looked at you like that. So you kept walking, brushing stray grains from your palm, until you heard the familiar voices of women.

On the opposite bank, a group of women you recognized leaned together, voices rising in chipped, giggling words.

“If he decides to go in naked, should we steal his twang?”

“Do not.” You grumbled. They jumped at you, before giggling.

“Y/n!” They waved. “Don’t tell anyone! It’s just…” One of them trailed off, looking offside to where Neteyam had been. “Oh! Damn the spirits, where did he go!” You heard them whine and complain as you went past.

Ah… well everyone had their…. taste.

Neteyam was attractive. Hard not to notice. His differences only amplified it—those strange yellow eyes, his skin that caught the sea at an eclipse, frame lithe but carved through with strength. He was all lean and muscle, taller in height than most boys his age. A warrior where he came from. A capable weaver. A presence.

You could appreciate the shape of him, sure. Anyone with eyes would.

But attraction wasn't the same as calling. And yours belonged entirely, stubbornly, hopelessly to someone else.

Tey

That boy…

That stupid, stupid boy.

Just thinking of him made you sigh lovingly. It was absurd, really—how the disciplined daughter of the Olo’eyktan could be undone by someone so… other. Where he was the sun—brash, golden, impossible to ignore—you were the distant stars, distant and sharp-edged. And yet he had slipped past every wall, and laid his hand directly upon your heart.

And though you would never confess it aloud, not even to the Great Mother herself:

He was yours.

You only needed him to finish his Iknimaya so he could stand beside you, and when he did, you two could be mated.

A shadow broke the curve of the rock spire. 

Tey stepped out from behind it in that careless, buoyant way of his. Tall, bright-eyed, tail flicking with an easy confidence. His skin was a warm, creamy blue, his stripes soft as seafoam. Thick braids hung over his shoulders, threaded with polished shells that clacked gently when he moved. He was—if one were being painfully honest—beautiful. 

By the great mother you love him.

He carried a woven basket in both arms, heavy with fresh fish. The moment he saw your shocked face, he barked a laugh, setting the basket down with theatrical gentleness.

“You’re here!” he laughed, setting the basket down. “Tsireya said you might’ve slipped away, but—hah, didn’t think I’d scare you.” His ears dipped, his gaze falling guilty to the sand. “Eywa, look at me, coming all this way to say something important and instead frightening you.”

“Oh.” The word left small, your throat tight. You dragged your gaze aside, concentrating on willing your freckles to dim. Their glow betrayed too much! But it was hard when he was so near, folding his arms as if he was serious, as if he could ever be serious. “What happened? Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

“No…” he said in a whisper. “Not really a big deal, it’s just hard to say aloud, Y/n.” He muttered. He peered back at you, bearing a sheepish smile. 

He lifted his gaze.

And when he looked at you like that—soft stolen glances, Eywa help you.

Before you could think, you said it. “Why are you here then?”

Stay calm. Keep your face still. Eywa, why can’t you ever—

He simply lowered his gaze. “Shoot, I-”

A sudden poke to your back made you jolt.

Before you turned, before you could hear him, you felt him. Wet hair dripping in slow, rhythmic taps across your spine. A broad hand settling on your shoulder. Warm breath sliding along the shell of your ear. When you turned, his amber eyes were already fixed on you, pupils soft, almost molten. His chest rose too fast. His smile curved too gently.

Still, he leaned in.

“Y/n,” Neteaym murmured, “Could you help me carry these?”

He lifted some Makks, a hard shelled creature that floated in salt water, beyond the reefs. They were notoriously difficult to harvest. Only the best swimmers dared.

Did he swim all the way to the outer reef for these?

Then his gaze shifted—past you, toward Tey. The smile stayed on his lips, but something in it tightened. “I apologize if I interrupted something, is it fine if I take her for a bit?” 

Tey only chuckled. “Of course not. Go. I’ll speak with you later, Y/n.”

You frowned lightly. “Okay, Tey… stay safe. And— here.” You pressed the shells into his palms, the ones Tsireya had asked for. “Give these to her, all right?” He nodded with that earnest bob of his head, and finally drifted off. Your gaze slid to Neteyam.

Neteyam moved immediately. Of course he did. To your side. Slightly bowed. Attentive in that quiet way of his. His stride shortened to match yours, slowing himself for you alone. Basket raised to settle against his shoulder. Every few steps, his golden eyes flicked back to you, the corners of his mouth softening into a smile.

Little steps, so wonderfully articulated. Golden eyes not watching, seeing you.

By the great mother, he creeped you out sometimes.

The walk stretched on, quiet and strange. He led when the path narrowed—turning through a cave, skirting the swell of rocks slick with moss. His tail would lift, pause, settle, as he checked you were still behind him. You caught yourself watching the motion: the rise of his shoulders with each breath, the small clack of the beads braided into his hair, rattling like a slow heart.

And then, shamefully, you stared at a leaf instead, anything to pry yourself out of the silence.

Coward.

Because this quiet was not the usual quiet. You felt inclined to talk, strange in itself, but what words could you form? Nothing, nothing at all. And with that, you didn’t. Instead, you counted the Makks. Until finally, he stopped, turning slowly. 

“There are whispers about you,” he muttered, almost steady. Almost.

You laced your fingers together, a practiced gesture of politeness, even as a flicker of suspicion narrowed your eyes.

“They say you will participate in this year’s Fertility Festival.”

A swallow.

Another.

His gaze dropped to the sand.

“That you are… waiting for someone.”

You paused, not expecting that to come out of his mouth. “Where did you hear this?” You angled your head to watch him.

He looked up too quickly, at least you thought so. His breath hitched before he met your eyes again. “Some elders.” he said. “I don’t know which.” His fingers tightened around the basket, holding it like a pitiful shield before the sweet color of violet rushed across his cheeks.

In the clearing behind him, mates strolled arm in arm—hands linked, heads bent together, sharing secrets that came from boredom and too many idle days. Stories tended to multiply that way: one whispered into a lover’s ear, passed to another, then another—until rumor became something with teeth.

You slowed your steps until you stood beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“They speak too much,” you murmured. “Huntlessness makes them restless. Weaving won’t tame their tongues.” You slowed your steps. “But… I have thought about it.”

Your gaze drifted skyward. “It is likely I will not attend. Not unless Tey himself decides otherwise.”

His tail froze mid-sway.

You studied him for a heartbeat longer. “You will do the Iknimaya this year, no?”

The village outposts came into focus as you walked. The guardians wore their status proudly: inked bands curling over flesh. Neteyam had none yet. Young still. Though in a year, maybe two, you imagined those patterns would decorate him too.

He dipped his head at your side, fingers tightening around the woven basket. “That is true, yes.”

His braids tumbled forward, shadowing most of his face, but not the shy downturn of his mouth. “I will become part of your clan officially…”

Your mother had pressed him relentlessly these past days, whispering how his age expectancy neared its limit, how the rites needed completing soon. All this so soon after his waking—after the long, punishing coma that had hollowed him, slowed his muscles, stolen his ease. You had been annoyed when told. The boy needed rest, not ritual.

Boy. He was already an adult—just in another clan.

There was a pause, where the waves sounded near. You weren’t particularly close to him. More than strangers yet less than friends. But despite it, you patted his back nonetheless. “I know you will.” You gave a soft smile in return. 

His eyes lifted to you. Soft. Wide. The pupils stretched, drinking you in. His ears tipped forward. His tail nudged subtly toward your leg.

You drew your hand back at once. And pretended not to notice.

“We should hurry. The eclipse will come soon,” you whispered.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a breath nearer.

“You know…” He rolled his shoulder, offering his hand, fingers curled in expectation. “Let me carry those for you. I’m close anyway. And you—” He dipped his head. “You have much to do. I shouldn’t have taken your time, Y/n.”

You nodded quickly. “Of course, Neteyam. But it’s fine. Truly. I like helping. So if you need something, ask, alright?”

You lifted the basket from your knee to pass it to him. He took it easily.

Too easily.

Hadn’t he struggled before? You blinked. Maybe he’d just been tired. Maybe he wasn’t now. It didn’t matter.

He drew in a quiet breath. “Of course.”

“Rest easy, Neteyam.”

.

.

.

You were really starting to regret joining Tsireya. Tired eyes slumped evenly to the ground. 

It was with each step, another to the front, another to the back. They dragged behind you as if they were a second body barely attached to yourself. 

You could see your home just a crook away. A top the hill with blazing grass, decorated with your mothers hefty hands of shells and flower. 

Just there, barely there. 

Yet finally, as your feet dragged to the top of the hill, you brushed away the cloth separating you and the outside world. 

The light in your family’s marui was warm—golden, flickering, softened by bursts of laughter that rolled from wall to wall. The air smelled thickly of fish and brine; clay bowls of stew sat steaming on woven mats as bodies leaned close in a circle of familiar ease.

None of them noticed you at first.

But Tey did.

Your would-be mate was crouched just behind the others, entertaining your baby sister with little chirring sounds. When he looked up, he rose from the ground, and it was then your family took notice. They gave soft smiles with even softer embraces.

Immediately, you placed the leather armor down, weapons included. 

“Hello mother, father. How are you?” 

Your mother ignored your words, instead brushing a single hair off your cheek. 

Your father’s hand found your back—rough, calloused and beloved. “Sit, sit,” he murmured. He guided you toward Tey, who caught your hand in his warm grip and seated you beside him with a soft kiss to your temple.” 

Your mother was serious as awlays, stroking your head a bit. “If you wish to sleep, I can save your food? Or maybe dry it for tomorrow's duties?” 

“No mother, I wish to eat with all of you.” 

She didn’t fret, understanding as she sat alongside your father and took your sister from your potential mate. The mat made of sewa, bent to the extra weight, but did not complain. 

Ao’nung, chewing loudly, leaned in with a smirk. “Y/n, aren’t you a little late? Oh wait—never mind. I saw baby-tail practically wagging at the sight of you. So scandalous. He even took you for a wa—Ow!”

You pinched his cheek mercilessly.

“Some of us work,” you hissed, tail flicking in annoyance.

Your mother shot him a warning glance that silenced two conversations at once.

Oh?” your father asked, sipping from his bowl. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “He found a school of Makk—heavy ones. He needed help carrying the baskets.”

Your fathers brows rose. “By himself? Surely another hunter—”

“Nope,” Ao’nung cut in, far too pleased. “We were swimming. He vanished. Came back an hour later hauling two baskets like some heroic fisherman—then practically sprinted the moment he saw Y/n. I think he was trying to impre—OW!”

You lunged again, fingers itching for war. “It was nothing like that.”

You glanced at Tey, expecting embarrassment, defensiveness, anything. 

Instead he looked distant. His fingers hovered above his bowl like he’d forgotten how to eat.

You touched his thigh gently. “He needed help,” you continued, eyeing Ao’nung now. “Since you are too weak and his brother too foolish, naturally he asked me.”

Ao’nung rolled his eyes but let it die, not without sharing a look with Tsireya.

Finally, when everyone had eaten, Ronal lifted her chin and eyed Tey. “Now. You had something to say.”

Tey snapped back to the present and swallowed hastily, eyes wide. “Ah—yes. I—” He glanced at you, then at your family, then inhaled nervously. “I just… I wanted to say…” He frowned.”I’ll mate with Y/n by this year.” He grumbled. “No hesitation,” he continued, voice firmer. “No trouble. No waiting. I will give everything. And I will mate with your daughter.”

Ao’nung’s mouth opened. “I mean you’ve failed the last three—OW! Tsireya stop that—”

Your cheeks were a sweet purple, eyeing him.

Your mother broke into a radiant smile. “About time. I was wondering if you had turned into a cold fish. I was prepared to banish you myself if you said nothing this year.”

She meant it.

Tey flushed, his large hand warm and grounding on your thigh. Laughter erupted. Hands clapped his back. Tsireya made obnoxious kissing noises.

You couldn’t help your smile then. It pulled at your cheeks, unwilling to be suppressed.

“So when will we have nieces?” your little sister giggled.

Tey was unbothered. “We can begin right after I complete my second birth.”

.

.

.

On another Mauri, Neytiri was deep in thought as she carved a new toy for Tuk. Neytiri worked the small blade with slow, thoughtful precision, shavings of pale wood curling into her palm as she shaped the new toy for Tuk. The marui was quiet in that late, second eclipse.

Her eldest had eaten earlier and left his bowls scattered beside the fire. A year ago, she would have scolded him, but now, she looked at it. 

She smiled. 

Neteyam.

Whenever someone spoke his name, she had once bloomed, shoulders lifting, pride brightening her eyes. She would answer with all the warmth a mother could hold: That he was noble. That he was gentle. That he led so naturally. He had her face and her fire, they said—but his father’s steady heart beat in his chest.

And every time she said these things, her eyes lowered.

Because she had once believed she would have to speak of him only in memory.

She had begged Eywa with a broken voice. She had offered her own breath in exchange for his. She had wept until the world blurred and swelled and emptied of color. Night after night after night.

Yet his body had not rotted.

She remembered the moment he twitched—a movement so sma;; she thought it memory playing tricks. But Jake fell to his knees, pressing the heel of his palm to their son's chest, and Neytiri held him close, whispering thanks to the Great Mother through breaking sobs.

Norman’s machines came after. Max’s tubes. Foreign breath and foreign feeding forced into Na’vi flesh. For once, only once—she let the sky-people touch her son without protest.

They said the word coma. Neytiri only heard miracle.

They could not explain it. No one could.

But no one questioned Eywa’s hand.

Then the courters came.

They came with herbs and whispers and trembling hands, asking to sit at his side. They brushed fingers through his hair. Murmured their hearts into his unhearing ears. Asked for blessings. Asked for his future. Asked for his hand while it lay limp in hers.

Neytiri watched them with bared teeth, and she sent most away. Only the clan leaders and their children could visit.

Especially you.

You were strange in your stillness. You did not whisper. You did not cry. You changed bandages with steady hands and eyes half-bored, half-distant. And yet, every time you entered, Neteyam stirred. His breath eased.

More then her, more then Kiri’s, more then Ronals or Tsireya’s. You.

So she wondered. She wondered often.

Would you two fit? Could you?

You did not love him. You did not claim him, either. Once, you even sighed—as if burdened by the task. And his ears had twitched at that, too.

She would sit beside him and murmur your name, tell him of your visits, nudge fate the way a mother nudges a child toward their first steps. She had done it before—when he was young and painfully oblivious to affection.

Because Neteyam, Eywa love him, was terrible at love.

When he was young, Neytiri had known he would be fought over one day. She had watched the glances follow him long before he climbed his first ikran. She had been certain that by Iknimaya he would choose a mate.

He did not.

She had pushed gently at first. Too gently, maybe.

She had arranged hunts between him and sweet-eyed girls, weaving projects between him and hopeful boys. The young always returned as friends, laughing, glowing with new companionship… but nothing more.

Every time, Neteyam wore that same proud little smile, thinking friendship was the outcome she had wanted all along.

So she wondered, quietly, carefully, if perhaps his path turned elsewhere. The boys came next. Weaving. Sparring. Laughter. Still nothing.

Once, she had caught his shoulder and pressed a water skin into his hands with feigned innocence. “Neteyam,” she had said lightly, one brow raised. “You two grow close. Will you bring him again?”

He had only smiled. “He and I like different things, mother.”

At one point, she stopped trying. Some spirits simply did not open early. Perhaps he would bloom late, as her own sister once had.

But today… Today her son stepped into the marui with a tired shuffle and sleep-heavy lids, and Neytiri felt the old fear crawl up her ribs. And yet, the freckles along his cheeks blinked faintly—those traitorous lights that only flared with fear, surprise, or—

Attraction.

Neytiri’s heart tightened.

“My son,” she murmured, crossing the space between them too quickly, dropping the knife without care as her arms closed around him. She pressed her ear to his chest as if the rhythm might vanish again if she did not listen hard enough.

He kissed her cheek with tired affection and eased himself onto his mat beside Lo’ak and Tuk, who played at his knees. “I am fine, mother,” he said softly. “Only tired.”

He turned the fish-bone bead on his songcord between his fingers, and the soft glow along his skin dimmed with his breath.

Neytiri was not a fool.

Neytiri had raised four children; she knew when one of them carried a secret, and Neteyam had always been an open book.

Lo’ak had mentioned a girl once, in that offhand way brothers do when they’re trying not to be helpful. He keeps looking at a girl. But Lo’ak never said which girl.

But every time Neytiri pressed, Neteyam’s ears flattened, his gaze slid away, and the wall came up.

I like no one.

You are being overprotective.

So Neytiri swallowed her questions and turned her attention to her younger children instead.

Which, at the moment, proved no refuge at all.

Lo’ak sat cross-legged behind Tuk, fingers clumsy as they worked through her dark tangles. A wicked grin split his face as he twisted another braid. “Hmm… you sure everything was fine? I mean, you kept—”

“Lo’ak!” Tuk shrieked. “You’re pulling too hard!” She squirmed violently, tail lashing. “This is why I like Kiri better!”

Lo’ak hissed at her in playful outrage, then—because he was Lo’ak—tugged her hair even harder. “Yeah? Well Kiri doesn’t do your hair anymore because you’re too fussy—”

Tuk bit him.

Hard.

“AAGH—! MOM—SHE BIT ME—OW, OW!” Lo’ak wailed, clutching his wrist as he stumbled backward. Tears sprang instantly to his eyes. “Look! Look, she really—AGH!”

Tuk launched herself at him again, teeth flashing, fury unrestrained.

Neytiri surged forward and hauled them apart by ear and collar. “Lo’ak. Tuk. Enough! I will tell your father—”

Neteyam, stretched out nearby like a viperwolf before lifting an arm over his ears with a tired smile. “Tuk, the mighty warrior,” he murmured.

He thought no one heard him.

Kiri, arriving with her catch bag slung at her hip, absolutely did. “Hello—oh spirits, she bit you too?” She laughed at the chaos as Neytiri hauled the culprits away, both children offering loud, tear-bright blame.

Kiri had already turned away, her attention settling on Neteyam.

And what she saw made her smile fade.

He looked peaceful at a glance, eyes closed, limbs loose. But she saw past that. The tension in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. The quiet heaviness that had followed him for months now.

She set her bag aside, slipped the fishnet-styled garment from her shoulder, and hung it on a wooden stake. Then she lowered herself beside him, knees drawn up.

“So,” she said gently, patting the ground near his hip. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

Kiri shifted and laid her head lightly on his stomach. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Neteyam opened his eyes at that. “It really isn’t anything,” he said. “Why does everyone keep asking me this?”

She glanced down at her hands, brushing grit from her fingers. “Is it so strange that we worry about you?”

He studied her for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted upward again. “You’re all treating me like I’ll break.”

“Because you were broken,” she said carefully. “And you healed. But this—whatever this is—isn’t that. Something else is weighing on you, ‘Teyam. I can feel it.”

His chest rose and fell in a slow breath.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

He nudged her gently aside and sat up. “Mom—Kiri and I are going to the reefs.”

Neytiri nodded once from across the space.

“Oh! I want to go too!” Tuk cried, bouncing on her feet.

“No, my sweet girl,” Neytiri said, smiling as she cupped Tuk’s cheeks. “You must rest. So you may grow big and strong enough to surpass Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak stared at her in wounded betrayal. “Mom!”

Neteyam almost laughed, but it quickly stifled it when they lifted the cloth separating their shared home and the outside world. The beautiful eclipse showed the golden array of sun marking their bodies with its light. Yet the ground itself was layered with the bluish night tint. Towards the mountains, they could see the glow of colors that reminded them of their home. 

But as they walked, Kiri couldn’t help herself from worrily gazing at her brother. An immediate reaction of questions would not be wise in this situation. Kiri knew that her brother preferred the slow approach, so she refrained from asking her curiosities for a bit. 

Walking on the sands, treading through waves. It was nice and peaceful. Enough to satiate Kiri.

It wasn’t until Neteyam lowered himself to pick up a few marbled pebbles, did Kiri finally reveal her question. 

Folding her arms close, she swayed her body in a slight impatient hurry. “Ok, tell me what happened.” 

Neteyam looked at her, eyes droopy. He straightened himself, clutching the rocks together in a clink. He hesitated, looking straight ahead in equal impatience. 

In a pause, he said nothing. Then, he skipped the rocks on the pond, gaining two before it plopped. 

“I am in love with Y/n.” The words seemed to tear from his throat, eyes watery as he blinked the tears away, rolling up his lips with his teeth. 

For a moment, Kiri thought she misheard. Maybe he said it weirdly. When Neteyam sensed her confusion, he restated it again. His back pointed at Kiri, yet eyes looking away with a softening look. 

“I love Y/n. I want her, I want to be with her.”

Kiri’s mouth went agape, her hands immediately touching her chin in surprise. “You…what- but she…isn’t she-” 

“The clans first daughter?” He said this bitterly, clenching his hands into tight fists. “In love with another? Barely knows I exist?” His voice rang higher and more desperate with each tell. His eyes were wetter than ever before, and his teeth were bare, moving into a snarl. 

He was unraveling. Kiri could see it in the way his shoulders drew tight, in the way he couldn’t remain still—eyes wet, teeth baring, anger trying and failing to hide his breaking heart.

“When…did you start loving her?” She muttered, looking around. 

He calmed down a bit, glancing back at her only to soften his gaze when he realized his outburst of anger. He then closed his eyes, thinking deeply. “From the moment I met her. I knew.”

Kiri led him down, both of them sitting on the sand as she furrowed her brows.

Neteyam hid his face within his body, hands clapped around his braids. “When I…” There was pain in his voice. “After I awoke, she was the first thing I saw. She was changing my wounds at the time, pressing cold water on my forehead. She was singing and…” 

Neteyam then gently caught his songcord from his waist, moving his fingers at the beads. He was so enamored that he carved some fish bone on that event alone. When people asked him about it, he refused to answer any further than a ‘special event’.

Kiri took a deep breath and looked up to the stars. Soulmates were real, yes. Rare. Sacred. But they were mutual. They were felt on both sides. And Y/n, from what she’d seen… did not look at Neteyam with the same brightness that lit him from the inside out.

Unless she did, and no one saw.

Unless she hid it just as well as he had.

But soul-bonds were mirrors…. Weren’t they?

“I’ve never loved someone as much as I do for her…Eywa- why did she bring me back. I can't be with her, can’t protect her either…” He was sobbing so loud, it hurt. 

Neteyam was clutching his chest, letting go of the position he was in to lean back on the sand, faltering.

Kiri didn’t know what to do, and didn't want him to feel so terrible. She wouldn’t allow it, she would do anything to make him feel better. 

Eywa you-

Eywa. 

Eywa.

Neteyam then felt a hand on his cheeks, pulling him to look at her. He wished he hadn’t opened his eyes.

There she was, freckles brighter than the stars. Her eyes seemed to be glowing. They were wide, pulling him in and spitting him out. 

“I have a plan.” She said, and she rubbed away those tears

Oh Eywa, she did promise she was going to make him happy, after all.

A/N- It was nice reading and editing something that wasn't Avatar Odyssey for once! I might post more whenever I feel burnt out on my other fanfic XD

[ivsarchive]

this series is so good, really excited for more!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

[hon3y0logy]

Notice Me

Neteyam x Reader

Summary: All of your friends were pursuing or have already found their mate, but you on the other hand weren’t focused nor worrying about that and it made it extra hard for the poor guy who was trying so hard to gain your attention.

The day you walked into Neteyams life he was absolutely taken by you. You were introduced to the Sully family by your mother who was one of the finest weavers in your clan, she had weaved them a baby basket for their newborn Tuk’tirey. You followed her path being one of the best in your age group. Anything you touch was gold.

Although you thought your skills were useless up against your dream of becoming a fierce warrior, the eldest Sully thought otherwise. Over the years of knowing you, he would always come to you if his loincloth had been torn in flight, asking for a new armband, a new vest, or asking you to create decorative tapestry art for his family’s home. (They got sick of him filling up the family’s space with stuff he didn’t need.) With each request, he would bring tools and accessories he found while he was hunting. He would always sit and listen to you sing weaving songs along with your fellow weaving circle. Little did you know, the man was infatuated.

“Sa’nok (mother) I’ll be back, I’m going to collect some trinkets from the forest.” Your mother responded with ‘be careful’ with a kind smile.

You secured your satchel over your shoulder and tucked your knife into its sheath. You swung open the flap of your home to be greeted by and well known face.

“Kaltixì (hello)” you greeted with a smile that he returned even brighter.

“You ready?” You nodded following him to his Ikran, he grabbed your hand helping you on.

“Is that a new top?”

Your cheeks warmed at the thought of him noticing “Yes I finished it yesterday.”

“It is beautiful, the colors of the beads suit you well.”

•••

You two landed gracefully outside the forest. He helped you off and walked alongside you. You excitedly got started, finding trinkets to add to your future crafts. Seeds you can sit out to dry, feathers, multicolored pebbles, and picking a few colorful flowers neatly putting them in your pouch, and even with medicinal herbs that could come in handy.

While you look around you felt a sense of longing, you missed the forest more than anything. It saddened you your clan had to move to high ground in order to be safe now the only way you could get here is by being a passenger on someone else’s Ikran.

“I miss this” you blurted out as you ran your fingers along the beautiful glowing plants.

“As do i” he chimed in.

He watched you for a moment longer than needed, eyes following the way the forest light kissed your skin. Working up the courage to present you with something’s he’s been holding onto. Then he reached into the satchel at his side.

“I made something for you,” Neteyam said quietly.

You turned, surprised, as he held out a woven armband tight, clean craftsmanship, threaded with deep blues and warm golds. His colors.

“For me?” you asked, genuinely shocked.

He nodded, suddenly shy. “For protection. And… so you think of me when you wear it.”

Your smile was instant and sincere as you slid it onto your slender arm. “I will treasure it. Irayo (thanks), Neteyam.” You didn’t notice the way his chest lifted, the way his ears flicked back in satisfaction. In his mind, it was done. You were claimed.

Sadly you weren’t aware of any of it.

•••

Back at the Hallelujah Mountains, the weaving circle buzzed with quiet talk and laughter. You sat cross-legged among your friends, hands moving easily as you reinforced tool wraps and braided cord for hunters.

“You’ve been smiling all day,” Na’vani teased, nudging you. “Something I should know?”

Before you could answer, a shadow fell across your work. “Kaltixì,” came a warm voice.

You looked up to see K’u’thal, spear resting at his side. He was well known through out your clan, talented in many ways especially when it came to hunting. Many women pursued him as a potential mate.

His eyes glanced over your work curious rather than bold. “What are you making?”

You happily explained with a smile, holding up your work, and he smiled softly, impressed. Soon the two of you were talking easily, sharing stories that had Na’vani grinning to herself.

Not far away, Neteyam watched.

His jaw tightened.

•••

A few days later the Tlalim Clan arrived, the rainforest came alive with voices and trade. Everyone and their loved ones were back where they belonged, children running around with toys in the shape of animals mimicking sounds, laughter echoing through the forest, and stories being told about clans you have yet to meet. It felt good.

As you walked around with an unwavering smile on your face, Neteyam found you near the stream.

“Finally I have found you” a smile adorned his face as he pressed a small bundle into your hands, hair beads carved from traded bone and shell.

“I saw them and thought of you,” he said.

Your smile widened and hugged him without thinking. “They are beautiful! Irayo (Thank you).”

He watched you basically float away convinced you finally understood his intentions.

•••

Later, at the communal dinner, Na’vani toyed with your armband, eyes dancing in the firelight. “Let me guess… K’u’thal?”

You laughed softly. “No, Neteyam made this.”

Her smile turned knowing just as K’u’thal appeared at your side, setting a small woven charm into your hands. Before you could protest or even thank him he was gone again, swallowed by the crowd.

Na’vani sighed, shaking her head in amusement. “Eywa help you,” she muttered. “You’re leading on two of the finest warriors our age and don’t even know it.”

Shocked by her statement you barely had time to respond before a hand closed around your wrist.

Neteyam.

He didn’t speak as he guided you away from the fire, past the laughter and music, until the noise dulled and it was just the two of you beneath the glow of the mountains. Only then did he turn to you, jaw tight, eyes burning.

“Why are you accepting gifts from him?” he asked, voice low and strained.

You recoiled slightly, confused and hurt. “What do you mean it’s harmless”

“Harmless? This is far from harmless he knows i am pursuing you as a mate yet he continues to fight for your attention.” Your eyes bulge.

“I- what? I thought you were pursuing Veyt’ari. That is word around the village.”

He scoffed softly, stepping closer causing your heart to beat just a little faster. “I do not want Veyt’ari.” He tilts his head and his voice dropped. “I want you.”

The world went quiet as he leaned in. Your ears perk and tail sway in anticipation.

When he kissed you, it was hesitant at first like he was giving you one last chance to pull away. Instead, you kissed him back, breathless, stunned, hands curling into his chest. The kiss deepened, years of unspoken longing finally breaking free.

When you pulled apart, both of you were flushed, foreheads resting together.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Neteyam smiled, satisfied at last.

“Yes, paskalin… oh.” (Sweet Berry)

•••

Extra

Neteyam didn’t realize how obvious he’d been until Lo’ak wouldn’t stop grinning at him across the fire.

“So,” his brother drawled, pulling meat off his skewer, “all it took was…what? Three years? Four?”

Neteyam shot him a warning look. “quiet.”

Kiri tilted her head, eyes glowing with amusement. “You know, most people say they’re courting someone. They don’t just… silently offer crafts and hope Eywa delivers the message.”

“She thought you were being nice?,” Tuk innocently chimed in, swinging her legs. “That’s kind of sad.”

Neteyam groaned, burying his face in his hands. Embarrassed that even his little sister caught on and she hasn’t even had the mating talk.

“I was clear.”

Lo’ak laughed outright. “Bro you literally watched another guy give her gifts and still said nothing , yeah that’s real clear”

Jake cleared his throat, lips twitching despite himself. “Alright that’s enough leave ‘em alone.”

“Son, next time…maybe use words.”

From across the clearing, you glanced over, confused by the sudden burst of laughter. Neteyam looked up just in time to see you smile at him.

Worth it.

Kiri leaned in, smirking. “Only took you years to get noticed.”

Neteyam didn’t argue, he was just happy now that he has you.

©hon3y0logy 2026 — any reposts or translations of my works are strictly prohibited unless granted permission

Masterlist

[ivsarchive]

this is so cute, i'm melting ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[dasvidny4]

Hheyyy……👀👀👀👀i Loaf your Neteyam fics sm and is it Ok 👍 if you do a fic of Neteyam comforting reader 👀 it can be of whatever U want ❤️❤️ Thank U and havw a blessed 2026❤️

come here — neteyam, determined to earn forgiveness, showers you with kisses. tags hurt & comfort, neteyam being everyone's ideal bf, kissing (1.0k wc)

The heavy flap of the marui pod had been closed tight for an hour, sealing you in the dim, humid air of your home. Outside, the sounds of the clan settling down for the evening filtered through the woven walls, but inside, it was just you and your stewing frustration.

You were curled into a tight ball on your sleeping mat, arms hugging your knees, glaring at nothing. The knot in your chest hadn't loosened since the words left his mouth earlier that afternoon. It was a stupid training session. You had hesitated, just for a split second, and Neteyam—ever the perfectionist, ever the future Olo'eyktan born for duty—had snapped.

"You fight like a child," he had said, his voice clipped and sharp in front of the others. "Stop hesitating or go home."

It wasn't even the insult that hurt the most; it was the tone. The dismissal. Like you were a burden he didn't have time for. So, you had taken his advice and gone home, leaving him standing in the clearing.

The rustle of the entrance flap broke your sulk. You stiffened, instinctively pressing your face further into your knees to hide the tears that had managed to escape.

"Sevin?" Neteyam’s voice was low, cautious. The heavy thud of his bow hitting the woven mat signaled he had dropped his gear at the entrance. "I know you're awake"

"I have been standing outside for ten minutes debating if I should come in or let you kill me in my sleep," he tried, a tentative lilt in his voice.

You huffed, shifting your weight so your back was fully turned to him. "You should sleep outside. With the ikran."

Neteyam let out a short breath, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he sat down behind you. The heat of his body was immediate, a comforting presence you were angry to still want. "I would rather sleep in the mud. But I would prefer to make peace with my mate."

"Shut up," you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

"I really am sorry, yawntu," he said, and this time the playful veneer was gone. His voice was deep, rough with regret. "It was unworthy of me to speak to you that way, especially in front of the others. I forget myself when the pressure is on, but that is no excuse to wound you."

You felt the urge to forgive him instantly warring with your pride. You stayed silent, chewing on your lip.

"You are not a child," he murmured. "You are fierce. And today, you were cautious. I... I just wanted you to be safe, and I showed that through anger. It was stupid."

You heard him shuffle closer. Suddenly, his hand landed on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over your skin. When you still refused to turn around, he leaned forward. You felt his lips press gently against the curve of your shoulder, a lingering, warm apology.

"Forgive me?" he whispered against your skin.

You grunted, noncommittally.

"Look at me," he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head, burying your face in your arms. "No."

He sighed, but you heard the smile tugging at the edge of it. "You are impossible when you are sulking. You know that?"

"Go away."

"Alright," he said, though he made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted around you, moving to sit cross-legged directly in your line of sight. You immediately squeezed your eyes shut, turning your face away toward the mats.

"Open your eyes," he coaxed.

"No."

"Come on. Look at me."

"Go away, Neteyam."

He laughed, and you felt his fingers graze your knee. You didn't pull away—he's so lucky, as he’d say later, that you let him grab your hand at all. He gently pulled your hand toward him, cradling your hand in both of his. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, one by one, before turning your palm over to kiss the center. The touch was reverent, his lips warm and soft.

You felt your resolve crumbling like dried sand.

Peeking through one eye, you saw him watching you intently, his yellow eyes glowing with affection and no small amount of amusement. He looked devastatingly good, hair falling over his shoulders, brow furrowed in that perfect, boyish pout.

"There you are," he said softly.

He shifted forward, cupping your face with both hands, forcing you to hold his gaze. His thumbs stroked your cheekbones.

"I was a skxawng," he asked, his expression turning serious, though a playful glint remained. "A complete skxawng. Say you forgive me."

You looked at him for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch, feigning deep thought. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

Neteyam’s face split into a grin. "Good."

That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there long enough for you to feel his eyelashes brush against your skin. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

You giggled, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as his hair tickled your cheek.

"Stop, that tickles!" you laughed, trying to squirm away, but his grip on your face was firm but gentle.

"Nope," he murmured, kissing your chin, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. "I have to make sure I covered every inch of the apology."

You were laughing now, pushing weakly at his chest, but he followed you down, carefully maneuvering you until your back hit the woven mats. He hovered over you, his weight supported on his elbows, his tail lashing happily behind him.

"Neteyam!" you gasped as he attacked your neck with kisses, his breath hot against your skin.

"I love you," he said between kisses, punctuating each word with a press of his lips to your face—your temple, your eyebrow, your cheek. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

You were breathless, trapped beneath him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You reached up, burying your hands in his braids, pulling him closer until he finally captured your lips in a searing, proper kiss that stole the air from your lungs. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, staring up at him with wide, happy eyes.

"Forgiven?" he asked, his nose brushing yours.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Completely."

an: thank u, anon! u tooooo,, hope u like this onee

[ivsarchive]

this made me smile so hard omggg ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)

[moonlitmeadow06]

heartstopper

masterlist ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 pairings : aged up!neteyam x fem na'vi!reader ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 synopsis : feelings left unsaid between the both of you are revealed when neteyam, in a jealous and feverish daze, finally decides to speak his mind. ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 word count : 4.8k ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 note : this is the first fic i've written that i've actually dared to post on here so!!!! i'm sorry if there are any errors since i wrote this half asleep after watching fire and ash ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 warnings/tags : mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff, kiri playing matchmaker, minor injury, neteyam being an absolute wreck

as morning crept in on pandora, rays of golden light filtered through the dense canopy above, seeping between leaves and casting a gentle warmth on the forest floors. dewdrops adorned leaves like glimmering jewelry, reflecting the morning light.

you sat with your back against a tree, quietly inspecting the contents your satchel : some nuts and berries your mother insisted you carry, an empty gourd, and a small stone knife, a gift from your closest friend — neteyam sully.

neteyam was perfect in every sense of the word. son of the great toruk makto, future olo'eyktan of the omatikaya clan, the most skilled warrior amongst the youths, the list went on. you had known neteyam sully since you were children, your lives intertwined before either of you could properly remember a time apart, countless days of your childhood spent trailing the older youths, playing on the forest floor, listening to elders’ tales of the sky people. the both of you virtually grew up together, never to be seen without one another. you spent time with the other sully children, but none as much as neteyam.

you watched neteyam grow, the changes though not all at once, so slow and so steady that one day it was impossible to ignore how different he had become. as a child he was lanky, with longer limbs than he knew what to do with, his soft face adorned with a smile on most days. when you were young adults, you noticed the first subtle changes before anyone could speak of them — his shoulders broadened, his once thin frame replaced with muscle, and his face, once soft, had sharpened into strong lines, his jaw defined and cheekbones high. when he laughed it was deeper, quieter, and it appeared much less often, reserved for moments of ease — usually around you.

neteyam sully was the kind of boy that made girls swoon. you included.

your crush on neteyam had developed so early and subtly, that for years, you mistook it for something else entirely, the sort of bond that came with growing up side by side. though you’d never tell him (or anyone for that matter) directly, you’ve loved every version of him, the awkward bumbling boy he was and the striking young adult he is today. it was easier to deny your own feelings than to admit why your gaze always lingered on him a moment too long, and the way your heart pounded erratically against your chest any time he stepped closer.

today was no different.

“morning,” neteyam placed a hand on your shoulder, the sudden feeling of warmth on your skin startling you. “what is my mother bothering you with this time?”

“she’s not bothering me, skxawng” you replied, playfully nudging him for the remark. “she needs nectar of the healing rose for a salve. i volunteered to retrieve it for her.”

neteyam extended an arm toward you, beckoning for you to rise from your seat against the tree, and you accept it gladly, his large hand enveloping yours. his touch on your skin was both electrifying and familiar at the same time, leaving your cheeks flushed a pale shade of azure. you silently prayed to eywa that he wouldn’t notice.

observant as ever, he did notice the subtle flushing of your cheeks. and the bioluminescent freckles that adorned your face, and your wide amber eyes, which always seemed to sparkle. in fact he seemed to notice anything and everything that had to do with you, his gaze always managing to find you no matter the circumstance. his breath hitched in his throat, the air suddenly all too warm as sweat gathered on his palms where his skin had grazed yours moments before. you had always been beautiful, to him especially, and even more so in today's morning light. he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.

“ill come with you.” neteyam said, more of an announcement than it was a suggestion. “it’s not safe out here for you alone.” even as children neteyam had always been dependable, never allowing you to fall behind or come into harm’s way.

his concern warmed your heart, though you knew better than to mistake it for anything more. of course he was dependable, the same way he was to his siblings, or to any other member of the clan. the pressure that weighed on him was immense, duty and honor was drilled into him before he could even shoot his first arrow.

you aren’t special, you thought to yourself. he cares for you as he does a friend. he cares for you out of duty. nothing more, stupid girl.

though the thought stung, you pushed it aside. you couldn’t let your pining for neteyam distract you, you had more important matters to deal with. taking the lead, you walked, with neteyam trailing behind in silence, treading a path through the dense greenery of the forest floor.

“i’m to lead another hunt,” neteyam broke the silence, his voice soft. “a rogue nightwraith was spotted near hometree. heard it tried to snatch a child from their hammock. we’ll begin to track it after dusk.”

neteyam had been allowed to lead most hunts since he came of age, a testament to his skills. you’ve never even seen a nightwriath up close and alive, only the skins of the ones your father had brought home after a successful hunt, with the scars that decorated his skin to match. ‘a warrior’s best trophy’, he’d call them.

impressed as you were, the urge to tease him was irresistible. “oh thank you, mighty warrior, what would we do without you?” you giggled.

neteyam rolled his eyes. even now, nearing the age of 20, you were still almost as childish as you were years ago. he didn't know if he loved it or hated it. he didn't like the true answer to that question.

soon you reach a clearing, where the trees opened into a small, luscious patch of land blooming with wildflowers. healing roses sprouted from the ground, towering over the both of you. their petals, bathed in the morning sun, bore a deep, luminous hue. the air was sweet with the scent of their nectar. reaching into your pouch, you grabbed your knife, making a small incision at the base of the nearest flower.

neteyam watched as you extracted the flower’s nectar with precision and ease, knowing just where to slice to retrieve it’s most precious healing elixir, letting the sweet substance trickle into the gourd you had brought. he admired the colorful beads that adorned your hair, tracing the soft highlights of sunlight that adorned your shoulders and the curve of your waist as you knelt there, the sway of your tail mirroring your work, effortless and unaware. unaware of the way he was eyeing you, unaware of—

he stopped before he could finish that thought. he couldn’t think of you that way, not now, not ever. he pushed those thoughts back into the depths of his mind, the ones that had plagued his mind for years, the reason behind many sleepless nights. you were his closest friend, the one person outside of his family he could trust completely. he couldn’t risk gambling everything on his own stupid feelings and losing it all, losing you.

no, this was all he had. a few stolen moments and glimpses when your back was turned and your gaze elsewhere. this was all he would allow himself. her mere presence is more than you deserve, he thought to himself.

"that should be enough," you turned to face him, a satisfied hum escaping your lips, now curved into the slightest smile as you fastened the lid of the gourd, now filled with sweet nectar. neytiri would be pleased with your harvest, you thought. your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and when your eyes met his gaze neteyam swears he physically feels his heart skip a beat.

that smile of yours would be the death of him, he was sure of it.

────୨ৎ────

neytiri watched as you tended to the concoction brewing in your earthen pot — a mixture of sweet nectar and herbs. the recipe had been passed down through generations, from neytiri’s mother to her, and now you.

you had never been a skilled hunter, your arms far too weak to wield a spear with the adequate force needed, much less a bow and arrow, though you more than made up for it with your skills in foraging and herbalism, able to identify rare herbs and spices to be used in rituals and healing. it was for this very reason neytiri chose to teach you, of all people. you would make an excellent healer, if not a hunter. she would not let that talent go to waste.

“the nectar is best for treating wounds,” neytiri stirred the mixture, humming in approval as she observed the texture and the scent of the salve you had prepared. “remember—“

“never extract too much at a time, or we risk harming the rose.” you replied before she could finish her sentence. your mother, while not an excellent healer, was an exceptionally good botanist, studying plants of all and any kind. she passed that knowledge onto you, through stories whispered to you when you were still small enough to sleep in the same hammock, stories you held on to long after she passed. “we take only what we need. eywa provides for all.”

neytiri’s lips curl into a subtle smile of approval. you were excellent, far better than she had ever anticipated. she had always seen you as one of her own, especially with how much you hung around her children, and especially her eldest son, neteyam.

the opening of the tent you were seated in flapped open, kiri poking her head in.

“hi,” she stumbled into the tent, greeting both you and her mother. “i hope i’m not interrupting. mind if i steal her for the day?”

your ears perked up at the suggestion, both you and kiri looking towards neytiri for approval. though you loved your work, the idea of staying in this tent for the rest of the day bored you to no end. any escape, even a brief one, would be a well needed break from your duties. when neytiri finally gave you a silent nod, you rise from your seat on the ground, muttering an incomplete thank you before your friend kiri whisked you away.

“i found a guy who can get you the fibers you need,” kiri clung to your arm as you walked. “for the necklace you wanted to make. come, you must meet him.”

kilvan was one of the best climbers in the clan, often leading expeditions scaling the trees in search of fruit and other treasures the trees of pandora had to offer. he often tended to the ikran, who preferred to rest their wings at the highest points of hometree, feeding and grooming them. so, when kiri heard of your request to find the iridescent fibres of a plant that only grew on branches high up in the trees, she knew he was the only man for the job.

she had no idea why you so desperately needed to use those fibers, to make a necklace of all things, a necklace which you planned on giving away, no less. she often wondered who would have the honor of receiving such an intricate gift. then it hit her, all at once, when one night at dinner she noticed the way you stared at her older brother with a longing that shouldn’t exist between friends. any time his gaze was anywhere but on you, your eyes would wander, eventually to him. every time, without fail.

and without fail, every time you looked away, he would stare back.

shit. how long had you two been doing that? kiri had no idea. she had every intention of interrogating you and neteyam both for every detail of this crush you seemed to harbor for eachother, but she knew her own curiosity had to wait. without her intervention, this was headed nowhere.

she pondered for a moment, about confronting you, but she knew convincing you to confess outright would be a hopeless pursuit. and out of fear of witnessing the two pining idiots yearn for each other in silence for the rest of eternity, she conjured up what she deemed to be the most reasonable solution : to make neteyam jealous.

it was simple, really. all her older brother needed was a little push in the right direction, to realize he was not the only young male who had you in his sights, and everything would unravel perfectly. if there was anything that would push neteyam to make the first move, it was a little competition. all she needed to do was find someone to do the job, and there kilvan came along, happy to retrieve the fibers in exchange for the gossip kiri was willing to share about the clan’s most dashing young warrior. all kiri had to do, was get the three of you in the right place, at the right time.

kiri flashed you a mischevous grin, taking your hand in hers as she lead you through the forest.

────୨ৎ────

neteyam had no idea why his sister had called on him at that hour of the day.

he was in the midst of discussing tonight's plans with the younger hunters, who were buzzing with excitement to hear what wisdom their future clan leader had to offer them, when kiri, stumbled into his group with a huge grin plastered on her face.

she must be up to something, neteyam thought to himself.

"im sorry for interrupting, but y/n needs help with something, mind sparing a minute?" the mere mention of your name is enough to grab his attention. what could you need from him? did you have something to tell him? though, he didn't stop to ponder, his legs moving to find you, as if they had a mind of their own.

he excused himself, and quickly followed kiri into the forest.

"so, what is it she needs help with?" he couldn't help but ask out loud, kiri walking with an unusual bounce in her step. kiri shrugged her shoulders, refusing to answer his burning question.

she couldn't help but feel a little bad, for deceiving her brother like that, and for arranging the whole debacle without your consent, but it was necessary, she reassured herself. it was the right thing to do, probably.

suddenly, kiri came to a halt, an outstretched arm blocking neteyam from moving forward. the scene before them made neteyam's chest tighten.

there you were, knelt beside a creek, your back facing the two observers, quietly weaving the iridescent plant fibers, the strands dancing between your fingertips. and beside you — kilvan, guiding you on how to best weave the fibers, pointing out your mistakes.

"oh," kiri shot kilvan a knowing look. put on a show. he nodded in mutual understanding, sending a wink her way that neteyam didn’t quite catch. "i guess someone beat you to it." kiri tried her best to sound genuinely surprised, though it didn’t really matter, not that neteyam was paying attention to her anyway.

from afar, neteyam couldn't see the comfortable distance between you and kilvan, couldn't hear the words he was actually whispering to you. "you messed up the pleat here," kilvan chuckled. "you wanna impress him, right?"

all he saw, was your small figure, close up against kilvan's, and his head was spinning.

what were you doing with him? when had the two of you become friends? why were you so close? why didn't you wait for him to help you? a thousand questions raced through neteyam's mind as he watched, the knot in his stomach growing tighter and tighter. he felt like he couldn't breathe.

no, he attempted to steady himself, to reason with himself. they're just friends. just like us. just friends. his breathing became more erratic as the seconds passed, his skin hot to the touch. his mind conjured up every scenario imaginable. was he courting you? had he been courting you all this time?

jealousy was an ugly feeling. one that brewed deep within neteyam at this very moment, one that ate at his composure. he couldn’t bear to watch for another second, fearing his heart might actually break.

"well," neteyam barely mustered the strength to whisper. "i guess i'm not needed here." he turned on his heel, and left as if he had never came in the first place.

kiri didn't know if she'd just helped or destroyed your friendship.

────୨ৎ────

neteyam’s heart was racing.

dusk was approaching, and the hunters had gathered their weapons, ready to set out for the hunt. the small clearing near hometree was bustling, with women bidding their mates goodbye, young boys and girls ready to mount their ikrans, excited for the thrill of their first hunt.

dusk was approaching, and you were not here.

you had always been there to see him off before every hunt, no matter big or small, and this time he didn’t want it to be different. you were his good luck charm, and though he’d never admit it out loud, he wanted you to be there, no, he needed you to be there. especially today.

maybe you were brewing salves, or helping the elders prepare food for the feast, a thousand scenarios flashed in his head, trying to make sense of why you weren’t there. but his mind lingered on one, the memory of you in the forest earlier that afternoon coming to mind, kilvan close to you, too close, he recalls.

dusk was approaching, and the sight of you with kilvan had not left his mind since the moment he laid eyes upon it.

did he like you? did you like him? why? what did kilvan have that he didn't? sure, he was an excellent climber, but so was neteyam. why? about a million more questions raced through his mind, haunting his every thought. he'd never dared to admit he had feelings for you, never dared to confront the way he felt about you. he had always pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, distracting himself with the endless responsibilities pushed upon him by his father.

there were no distractions now.

nothing could make him ignore this. this was too much, the sight of you with another, it made neteyams skin crawl. for the first time in his life, neteyam was jealous. jealous that you seemed to welcome kilvan's touch, that you let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, or so he thought. you let him do all the things neteyam longed to do.

he tried his best to snap out of it. after all, it wasn’t his business. you weren’t his mate, you were merely friends. he had no right to be jealous.

“you good, bro?” lo’ak noticed the way his brother shifted uncomfortably in his hunting attire, constantly toying with his bowstring. “the great warrior neteyam, scared of nightwraiths, huh?” he teased.

under normal circumstances neteyam would have retaliated, yanking his younger brother's tail or sending an equally humiliating retort his way, but he was far too nervous today. as dusk finally settled, the sunlight dipping below the horizon, the hunting party was ready to set out.

you were still nowhere to be found.

he sighed, ready to mount his ikran. with or without your greeting, he would have to lead the hunt.

────୨ৎ────

you held the necklace close to your chest, weaving through the crowd at the base of hometree, anxiously searching for neteyam. you had spent the entire afternoon adjusting braids and pleats, adorning it with beads and feathers, even skipping your afternoon meal in your attempts to perfect it.

you hoped neteyam would like it.

unfortunately, by the time you made it to the clearing, the hunting party had already left, the crowd remaining to prepare for the feast ahead. the hunt would be successful, surely.

────୨ৎ────

cries rippled throughout the air near roots of hometree , ikrans flocking towards the clearing. the hunters return was supposed to be one of joy, of celebration, but elders and young alike watch in fear as the group of hunters descend from their ikrans, huddling around an unconscious body.

neteyam.

neytiri was the first to move, mustering her strength to haul her eldest son on her back towards her healing tent, despite jake's attempts to help. he had been knocked unconscious, streaks of red painting his cerulean skin, his freckles glowing weakly against the darkness of the night.

you rushed over, tears welling in your eyes, though you wiped them away. you had to help him. you had to see him.

when you finally arrived at the healers tents, you push through the small crowd that had gathered outside and force you way in. the commotion startled neytiri, but she welcomed you with a weak smile.

"what happened?" your voice is frantic as your gaze settles on neteyam, wounds already bandaged, though his war paint is smeared with the remnants of blood and sweat. his brow remains furrowed, even while unconscious. even knocked out, neteyam seemed restless.

"he wasn't paying attention," lo'ak cut in, ruffling his hands through his braided locs in frustration. "got knocked of his ikran. thank eywa dad was there to catch him, well, sort of, or—"

"he is stable now." neytiri reassured you, cutting lo'ak off. "i have patched and cleaned his wounds. they will need to be changed again."

you volunteered without hesitation, quickly picking up a clean cloth and wiping away the blood and paint that stains his face. the necklace you made, the one you were supposed to give him, lay in your satchel as you worked.

────୨ৎ────

neteyam roused from his unrestful slumber, head pounding and spinning all at the same time. as his eyes adjusted to the dim light surrounding him, he made out a small silhouette by his hammock, you, gently snoring, clutching a now dirty wash cloth.

he admired you in silence, your subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the way your cheek was pressed flat against the base of the hammock. you were so pretty, he thought. he often wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every morning-

he stopped the thought right in its tracks. eywa, the last thing he needed to be doing now was fantasizing about you. he needed answers. why was he here, in his mothers tent, covered in bandages? what happened during the hunt? did they manage to subdue the rogue beast? where were you at dusk? were you with kilvan?

he groaned audibly, face palming himself hard, annoyed at his own wandering mind. he felt as though his world was still spinning, threatening to black out again at any moment, yet all he could think about was you.

you woke, jolting to your feet. he was finally awake.

"neteyam?" you called out to him. he froze, the sound of your sweet voice calling his name bringing him to his senses.

"h-hii," he dared not meet your gaze. "i dont suppose the hunt went very well." he chuckled under his breath.

"not funny, neteyam. you could have been seriously hurt," there was no mistaking the concern in your voice. "or even worse, killed." your hands moved quickly, unravelling the bandages on his arms. he had fallen through countless branches, the rough bark scraping his skin like a thousand cuts to every exposed surface. he winced as you applied fresh salve to the wounds, though he more than welcomed your touch.

"m' sorry, sevin" the words slipped out without thought. the air felt as if it had shifted, only the crackling of the bonfire outside and neteyam's ragged breathing breaking through the silence of hometree. neteyam's head was still pounding, fingers curling around your wrists. the grip wasn't strong, but it was desperate. he wasn't sure if he was all there mentally, and he wasn't sure if he was in the best condition to speak to you, considering the day's events, but in that moment, nothing else mattered to him. he needed to feel you close to him.

even half-knocked out neteyam was strong, with one swift motion he pulled you into him, your face pressed flush along his chest, the rest of your body pressed against his on the hammock. his brows furrowed, wincing at the strain, but he didn't care. all that filled his mind were thoughts of you and a certain someone.

"neteyam, i-" you muttered, confused. your heart was beating so fast it threatened to jump out of your chest.

"is he courting you?" he swallowed hard, trying to hide the way his heart was shattering at the thought. “did he touch you? did you—do you—” tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill at any moment.

the great neteyam sully, warrior and future leader of the omatikaya, clung to you like a child. you had seen neteyam cry before, sure, when you were children, over scraped knees and scoldings, but not like this. this was something raw. a side of him he never showed to anyone, not until now, and you didn't dare to look up, to meet his gaze.

"who, neteyam?" you pressed the palm of your hand, still within his grip, flush against his chest. feeling his chest rise and fall with every uneven breath he took. you had never felt this confused in your life. "i don't understand.." your voice faltered.

"kilvan," his breathing slowed for a moment, as if the storm inside him had calmed. his eyes softened, fear melting into something rawer, something more vulnerable than he intended. "i-is he courting you?" he mustered up the courage to ask again.

was neteyam sully jealous?

then all at once it hits you. he must have seen you earlier that day, in the forest with kilvan. why was he there? he was supposed to be training the new hunters — then your mind settles on one conclusion : kiri. she was behind this, the damned bastard.

"i-i'm sorry. i'm so sorry." a sudden calm washed over him, suddenly all too aware of what was happening. neteyam grew anxious at your silence, heart thumping louder than before. fuck, he'd just ruined everything, didn't he? "i'm not myself. i'm so sorry, i—"

"no, he's not." your heart raced, mustering all your courage, you pulled his hand that gripped your wrist and placed it against your own chest. "neteyam, are you-"

"yes," he answered before you could ask. "yes, i'm jealous. really fucking jealous. please tell me you don't like him. please," his pleading sounded desperate, like the thought had plagued his mind for centuries.

"no, neteyam, i don't like kilvan." you held back a chuckle, not wanting to ruin the moment. you peeked at him through your lashes, his eyes squeezing shut as if the relief hurt almost as much as the fear had. a quiet, broken sound escaped his lips him—half laugh, half sob.

“i saw you with him,” he admitted. “In the forest. you were close, and my head—” he stumbled, trying to recall the events of midday. "the thought of you with him...it terrified me-" he choked back the tears he was holding.

you reached out, placing a hand on the side of his face, gently running your thumb along his jawline. he shuddered at the touch, closer than you had ever been.

"it's alright, neteyam." your voice was soft, warmer and sweeter than anything he'd ever heard. "i...i don't like kilvan, someone else already has my heart."

neteyam felt his heart drop to his stomach. "who?" it's a simple question, one he didn't really want you to answer. not if the answer wasn't his name. a thousand names rushed through his head all at once. was it the boy you once fished with, back when you were 14? was it the boy who helped you gather flowers all those months ago?

"you are an absolute moron, neteyam sully." you laughed, his palm still pressed flat to your chest. you pressed it impossibly closer, as though it would enable him to see through to your heart directly. "it's you." you blurted.

the world—hometree, the firelight, fell away until there was only the warmth beneath his palm and the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. it’s you. the words echoed in his mind until it was the only thing he could hear.

“…me?” he whispered in disbelief. his eyes searched your face frantically, but every smidge of fear melted away when he saw the smile you bore, the same smile that made his heart stop.

eywa, it was him.

“i..i made you this.” you stumbled, reaching into the satchel strapped to your waist, pulling out the necklace. it glimmered, even in the dark. neteyam took it in his hand, admiring your work. “i love it.” he didn’t hesitate, running his thumb over every bead and feather you’d woven into it.

“you have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he murmured. “you say my name and the world stops.”

for a moment neither of you moved, your breath mingled with his. his gaze met yours, amber eyes searching yours as if asking permission.

you leaned in first, lips crashing against his. neteyam froze, stunned—then he exhaled, a broken sound of relief, and kissed you back. it was gentle, like he was afraid this was all a dream he might wake up from.

“so this is real,” he pulled away first, an azure flush spread across his face. “this is real, right?”

you leaned in again, and he met you halfway without hesitation. the second kiss lingered longer—still tender, but carrying all the words he didn't know how to say before.

"yeah," when you finally parted, neteyam stayed close, nose brushing yours, breathing steady at last. he smiled, still holding you flush against him. "definitely real."

[ivsarchive]

stars he's just so soft and a sap, it makes my heart clench ♡

[jakeycore]

horizons collide // neteyam

neteyam x f! windtraders! reader

Summary: It started with simple trades. Sea stones for a wooden bird, grilled fish for a walk on the beach. But as the visits turned into months, Neteyam found himself trading his heart for a few precious hours with the girl from the sky. Warnings: 5.5k words, no smut, strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, major character death, grieving, sad ending

The arrival of the Windtraders was always marked by the blast of a horn that cut through the sound of the crashing surf and the flash of vibrant banners against the pale blue sky of Awa'atlu.

While the Metkayina were people of the deep, the Windtraders were children of the breeze, traveling from the floating mountains to the distant coasts to exchange rare woods, woven silks, and forest pigments for pearls and sea shells.

Neteyam stood on the edge of the high walkway and shielded his eyes from the sun. A huge shadow moved across the bright water, turning the reef dark as something massive drifted overhead. High above, a giant floating Medusoid looked like a living airship as it drifted toward the village. Smaller flat-bodied Windrays were tied to it, flapping their wings like oars to guide the big creature through the air.

As the massive Medusoid hovered lower, the village of Awa'atlu came alive. Metkayina families poured out of their homes, shouting and waving at the traders above. It was a rare day of celebration, and the docks were quickly becoming packed. The sound of children laughing and the heavy thud of cargo hitting the sand filled the air.

Neteyam felt a sharp tug on his hand. He looked down to see Tuk, her eyes wide as she pointed at the giant living ship. "Neteyam, look! It's so big! Do they live up there the whole time?"

"I think so, Tuk," Neteyam said, smiling at her excitement. He saw his parents nearby, talking with Tonowari and Ronal, but he was more interested in the market starting to form in the airship.

He held Tuk's hand tightly as they pushed through the crowd. The market was a maze of temporary stalls and colorful rugs spread over the docks. It smelled like dried herbs, mountain resins, and sweet incense, smells that felt very different from the usual scent of salt and fish. People were everywhere, touching the fine silks and arguing over the price of wooden tools.

Tuk pulled him toward a stall tucked away near the edge of the shade. "Look at those colors!" she whispered.

You were standing behind a long wooden table covered in small clay pots and carved trinkets. Your hands were stained a deep, earthy red from the pigments you were sorting, and you were busy explaining the value of a high-mountain seed pod to a curious Metkayina woman. You looked busy but calm, moving with a steady energy that caught Neteyam's eye.

When the woman moved on, Neteyam stepped closer. Tuk immediately reached for a small, polished stone that glowed with a soft blue light.

"Is this from the sky?" Tuk asked, looking up at you with wonder.

You looked down and smiled at the little girl. "Not quite the sky, but very close to it. We find those in the caves near the mountain peaks. They hold the light of the sun for a long time."

Your gaze moved up to Neteyam. You noticed right away that he didn't look like the others.

"You are a forest Na'vi," you said. It was not a question. You recognized his darker blue skin and his leaner frame. He did not have the thick tail or the wide arms of the reef people standing nearby.

Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck and gave a small nod. "I am. My family moved here a few weeks ago."

"Only a few weeks?" you said. You looked at him with a little bit of sympathy. "That is not a long time at all. No wonder you still have the look of the woods on you."

You reached under your table and pulled out a small bundle of dried leaves. They were tied with a simple piece of string. You held them out toward him and watched as he took them. "Here. Take a breath of this. It is from the deep forest near the base of the mountains."

Neteyam leaned in and took a breath. For a second, his eyes closed. He looked like he was back under the thick canopy of the trees instead of standing on a hot, sandy dock.

"It smells like home," Tuk whispered. She leaned in to smell the leaves too, her eyes wide with wonder.

Neteyam opened his eyes and looked at you. He seemed a more relaxed now, his shoulders dropping just a little. "It does. Thank you. It is hard to find anything that smells like the earth here. Everything is just salt and fish."

You smiled. "I know how that is. My people are always moving, but we started in the trees too. Being away from the shade of the branches can make your heart feel a little heavy."

Neteyam straightened his back and held out his hand. "I am Neteyam. And this is my sister, Tuk."

The little girl waved, her eyes still fixed on the glowing mountain-glass. "I'm Tuktirey! But everyone calls me Tuk."

You gave a small bow, the beads in your hair clicking together. You mentioned your name as you shook Neteyam's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Neteyam and Tuk."

Tuk was still busy looking at the items on your table. Her eyes landed on a small wooden toy that looked like a bird. When she pulled a tiny string at the bottom, the wings flapped gently. She gasped and looked up at Neteyam with her best pleading face.

Neteyam sighed, but he was smiling. "How much for the bird?"

You looked at the toy and then back at the boy. You could tell he didn't have much on him, and honestly, you didn't really need more currency. "Do you have any of those blue sea-stones? The ones the reef children find in the shallows?"

Neteyam reached into the small pouch at his waist. He pulled out a smooth, bright blue stone that looked like a piece of the ocean frozen in time. He set it on the table. "Is this enough?"

"More than enough," you said. You handed the wooden bird to Tuk, who immediately started making it fly around Neteyam's head.

Neteyam started to turn away, but then he paused. He looked back at you, his golden eyes searching your face. The busy noise of the market was all around you, but he seemed focused only on your stall.

"How long does your ship stay in one place?" he asked.

"Usually just a few days," you replied. "Once the trading is done and the baskets are full, we catch the high winds. We have many more stops to make before the season ends."

Neteyam looked down at the docks and then back at the massive Medusoid floating above. "And when do you come back this way? When will the Tlalim return to Awa'atlu?"

"We come back more often than most," you said, adjusting a stack of woven mats on your table. "About once every month or two, depending on how the winds are blowing. The Metkayina have the best pearls and shells on the coast, so we make sure to keep Awa'atlu on our regular route."

Neteyam's face brightened. He didn't look as worried as he did a moment ago. A month or two was not a long time at all. It was much better than waiting for a whole year.

"That is good to hear," he said, and his voice sounded a bit lighter. He looked at the sea stones he had given you and then back at the bird toy in Tuk's hand. "It gives me more time to think of something better to trade you next time."

Tuk started pulling on his arm again, her feet dancing with impatience. "Neteyam! Come on! Kiri and Lo'ak are already at the other side of the docks!"

Neteyam sighed and let her pull him a few steps away, but he looked over his shoulder one last time. "I will see you tomorrow before the market closes," he called out over the noise of the crowd.

"I will be right here," you called back with a wave.

The next day, the heat of the afternoon was just starting to fade. The market was a bit quieter now that the first rush of the arrival had passed and people were now just talking or sharing meals. You were sitting behind your table, reorganizing your remaining clay pots when you saw a familiar tall figure walking toward you.

Neteyam was alone this time. He was carrying a large green leaf wrapped around something steaming. He looked more relaxed without Tuk pulling on his arm, and he had a shy smile on his face.

"I promised I would come back," he said as he reached the table. He set the leaf package down in front of you.

The scent was amazing. It was fresh fish, seasoned with local herbs and grilled over a fire. It was a huge improvement over the dried fruits you usually ate while living on the sky-ship.

"I thought you might be tired of the dried rations you keep on that ship," Neteyam said. He pushed the fish toward you. "It is a gift. Or a trade, if you prefer."

You took the bundle and opened it. The fish was white and flaky, covered in a sweet-smelling glaze made from local berries. You took a bite and couldn't help but sigh. It was the best thing you had eaten since leaving the mountains.

"You were right," you admitted, looking up at him as you took another bite. "The dried fruit on the ship is starting to taste like leather. This is amazing. Thank you, Neteyam."

He watched you eat for a moment, looking satisfied. He leaned his shoulder against one of the wooden poles that held up the roof of your stall.

"So," you said, wiping your hands on a cloth once you were finished. "Since you brought the best meal I have had in weeks, what do I owe you for the trade? More mountain glass?"

Neteyam shook his head and pushed off from the pole. "I have enough glass for now," he said. He looked out toward the shore where the water was turning a deep gold in the afternoon light. "How about a walk instead? Just a few minutes before your ship leaves and the winds take you away again."

You stood up and wiped the last of the crumbs from your hands. You looked at the crates you had already packed and then back at him. "A walk? Fair trade."

"I thought you might say that," Neteyam said. He waited for you to step out from behind the table.

You walked beside him, leaving the busy market docks behind. Your feet felt steady as you moved from the wooden platforms onto the packed sand of the beach. The air was warm and heavy with the smell of the ocean, but the breeze from the hovering Medusoid above kept things cool.

Neteyam led the way toward a quiet part of the reef, away from the crowds of Metkayina hunters and children. The water here was shallow and clear, showing off the bright purple and green coral beneath the surface. He walked with a calm stride, his tail swaying slowly behind him.

"You really enjoy the water, don't you?" you asked, watching the way he looked at the waves.

"I am learning to," Neteyam replied. He stopped at the edge of a tide pool and looked back at you. "At first, it was hard. Everything is so open here. In the forest, you are always covered by trees. But out here, you can see everything. It reminds me of the sky, in a way."

You nodded, looking up at your ship. "The sky is like that too. There is nothing to hide behind. It makes you feel very small, but also very free."

"The sky sounds a bit like the ocean," Neteyam said. He looked down at his feet in the shallow water and then back at you with a playful glint in his eyes. "But does the sky have anything that can do this?"

Before you could ask what he meant, he flicked his tail. A spray of cool seawater hit your legs and the front of your wrap. You gasped, more surprised than cold, and looked at him in disbelief.

"You did not just do that," you said, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

Neteyam laughed, a sound that was bright and free. "You said you wanted to see the reef. Getting a little wet is part of the experience."

"Is that so?" you asked. You reached down, cupping your hands in the water, and sent a much larger splash right back at him. It hit his chest and face, making his ears twitch as he shook the water away.

"Okay, maybe you have a better aim than I thought," he admitted, wiping his eyes.

"I spend my days throwing ropes in high winds, Forest Boy," you teased, stepping closer. "I do not miss my targets."

You both stood there for a moment, laughing and splashing water at each other like children. For a few minutes, you weren't a trader with a ship to run, and he wasn't a warrior in training. You were just two people enjoying the sun and the salt.

Neteyam reached out and lightly tapped your shoulder. "The next time you come back, I will have an ilu ready for you. If you think walking the reef is fun, you should try riding through it."

"I might be a bit too heavy for a sea-creature with all my gear," you joked, though the idea made your heart beat a little faster.

"I will find you a strong one," he promised.

The playful moment was cut short by the hollow blast of the horn from the Medusoid. It echoed across the water, a signal that the winds were shifting and it was time for the ships to rise. You looked up and saw the giant banners on your ship beginning to unfurl, snapping in the breeze.

"That's my signal," you said, feeling a sudden weight in your chest. The fun was over for now.

Neteyam's smile faded, replaced by a look that was quiet and a little sad. He walked with you back toward the docks, keeping his pace slow as if to make the walk last just a little longer.

"A month or two," he said, repeating your words from the day before.

"Maybe sooner, if the winds are fast," you replied. You stopped at the base of the ramp that led up to your ship. You reached into your bag one last time and pulled out a small, simple ring made of dark mountain wood. It wasn't fancy, but it was smooth and strong.

You pressed it into his hand. "A trade for the fish. So you don't forget which stall to look for when the ships come back."

Neteyam closed his fingers over the ring. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the shouts of the other traders told you that you had to go.

"I won't forget," he said firmly. "Safe travels. Watch the winds."

"Watch the tides, Neteyam," you said.

You turned and ran up the ramp, joining your crew. As the Medusoid began to rise slowly into the air, you looked down. Neteyam was still standing on the dock, a small blue figure against the vast white sand. He raised a hand in a final wave, and you watched him until the clouds finally hid the reef from view.

After the Windtraders left, the village felt a little too quiet for Neteyam. He went back to his daily chores, practicing with his bow and learning to ride the skimwings, but his mind was often somewhere else.

He kept the small wooden ring you gave him on a thin cord around his neck. Every morning when he woke up, he would touch the smooth wood and think about the smell of the mountain leaves.

"One week," he whispered to himself as he watched the sun rise over the ocean.

By the second week, his brother Lo'ak started to notice. They were out on their ilu, waiting for a school of fish to pass by, when Lo'ak nudged him.

"You are staring at the clouds again," Lo’ak said with a grin. "Are you waiting for a storm, or are you just looking for that sky-ship?"

Neteyam just shook his head and dived into the water, ignoring his brother's teasing. He didn't want to admit that he was counting every single day.

Thirty days passed. Then forty.

Neteyam spent his free time diving deeper into the reef. He found a hidden spot where the sea-anemones grew in a perfect circle, glowing even in the daylight. He practiced guiding his ilu through narrow coral tunnels, making sure he knew the safest and most beautiful paths. He wanted everything to be perfect for when you came back.

Every evening, he would sit on the edge of the high walkway, the same place where he first saw your shadow. He would look at the horizon until the stars came out, waiting for a sign.

On the fifty-fifth day, Neteyam was helping his father move some heavy nets when he heard it. It was faint at first, but then it grew louder. The deep blast of a horn echoed across the water.

He dropped the nets and stood up, his heart suddenly racing. He looked up, and there it was. A giant shadow was slowly moving over the reef, blocking out the sun. The massive Medusoid was drifting toward the village, its colorful banners flapping wildly in the breeze.

"They're back!" Tuk screamed, running down the beach toward the docks.

Neteyam didn't wait for his father to give him permission. He let out a loud whistle to call his ikran. He leaped onto the saddle and took off, the wind hitting his face as he pushed higher and higher.

He flew straight toward the giant floating Medusoid. As he got closer, he saw the Windtraders moving around on the wooden platforms hanging from the ship. They were busy pulling ropes and preparing to drop the anchors.

He spotted you standing on the edge of the main loading deck, leaning over the rail to look at the reef below. When you heard the cry of his ikran, you looked up.

Neteyam guided his mount to hover just a few feet away from your platform. He looked like he hadn't stopped smiling since he heard the horn.

"You are early!" he shouted over the sound of the wind.

You laughed, grabbing onto a thick rope so you could lean out further toward him. "The winds were on our side this time, Forest Boy! I told you we would be back!"

Neteyam reached up and pulled the small wooden ring on the cord around his neck, showing it to you. He wanted you to see that he had kept it with him every single day.

Neteyam didn't wait for the ship to dock. He signaled his ikran to fly closer, leaped from the saddle, and landed lightly on the wooden deck. His ikran let out a loud cry and banked away, circling the giant Medusoid as it waited for its rider.

A few of the other Windtraders stopped what they were doing to stare. It wasn't every day a forest warrior landed on their ship while it was still in the air. Neteyam didn't seem to mind the attention. He stood tall and looked around, his tail flicking with excitement.

"Where is it?" he asked, walking over to you. "Show me where you keep all those treasures when you are not on the docks."

You laughed and led him toward your stall.

Neteyam walked up to the table and ran his hand over the surface. It was covered in new items you had picked up since you last saw him.

"You have been busy," Neteyam said. He picked up a small carved figure made of bone and turned it over in his hands. "Is this from the high mountains too?"

"That is from the northern plains," you said, standing beside him. "We traded some sea pearls for a whole crate of those. They say they bring good luck to travelers."

Neteyam set the figure down and looked at you, his eyes moving from the carvings to your face.

"So," you said, leaning against the wooden frame of your stall. "What do you want to trade this time? I have a lot of new things."

Neteyam didn't look at the table. Instead, he reached into a small pouch at his waist and pulled out something that made you stop breathing for a second. It was a necklace made of dozens of tiny pearls, all woven together with silver thread. In the center hung a large, polished shell that shifted colors in the light, moving from deep blue to a soft violet.

He held it out, the pearls clinking softly in his hand.

"No way," you said, your voice dropping as you looked at it. "This is too beautiful, Neteyam. This could be worth my entire stall, and maybe the ship too."

Neteyam didn't look at the necklace. He kept his eyes on you, a steady and serious look on his face.

"I don't want your stall," he said. He stepped a little closer, so close you could feel the heat coming off his skin. "I want a night with you. No trading, no work. Just a night for me to show you the reef."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head in surprise. You looked at the pearls and then back at his handsome face. "So the cost is higher this time, I see. A whole night?"

"The whole night," Neteyam repeated. He held the necklace out toward you, letting the pearls catch the light.

You took the necklace from him, the pearls feeling cool and heavy in your palm. "You are a very good trader, Forest Boy."

The sun had gone down, and the reef had changed completely. The bright turquoise water was gone, replaced by a glowing world of neon purples and soft blues.

Neteyam was waiting for you at the water's edge. When he saw you walking down the beach, he whistled softly toward the waves. A sleek ilu surfaced nearby, chirping and clicking as it swam toward him.

"You ready for your part of the trade?" Neteyam asked. He patted the side of the ilu and hopped onto the saddle, looking back at you with an encouraging smile.

You stepped into the water, feeling the cool glow swirl around your ankles. You were used to the dry winds of the mountains, so the wet feeling of the ocean still felt a bit strange. You climbed onto the back of the ilu behind him, your knees gripping the sides of the creature.

"Hold on to me," Neteyam said. "And don't let go. This one likes to move fast."

You reached forward and wrapped one of your arm around his waist and one arm on his shoulder, pressing your chest against his back. His skin was cool from the water but his muscles were solid and warm. You could feel the steady beat of his heart as he took a deep breath.

"Ready?" he whispered.

Before you could answer, the ilu surged forward. You gasped and tightened your grip on him as the creature dove just below the surface. The world turned into a blur of light. Thousands of tiny glowing organisms lit up as you passed them, looking like stars rushing past you in the dark.

Neteyam steered the ilu with perfect control. He took you through the narrow coral tunnels he had practiced in for weeks. Huge plants pulsed with light when the ilu brushed against them, and schools of small fish scattered like living fireworks.

That night became the start of a rhythm that neither of you wanted to break.

During your third visit, Neteyam didn't even wait for the ship to fully anchor before he was at the docks, his ilu already whistling in the surf. That night, he took you to a hidden cove where the sand was as white as bone, and you sat for hours telling him about the Great Stone Arches of the mountains.

By the fourth time the Tlalim ships appeared on the horizon, the trade was an unspoken rule. You would bring him a piece of mountain fruit or a new carving and he would bring you a meal and a ride through the waves.

When the fifth meeting arrived, the air was thick and heavy with the scent of an approaching storm, but the water was still calm. Neteyam met you as the sun was dipping below the sea, painting the sky in deep purples and bruised reds.

As the ilu surged forward, you didn't even have to be told to hold on. You leaned into his back, your arm wrapping around his waist with a familiarity that made your chest ache. As you dived beneath the surface, the familiar blur of stars and glowing coral rushed past, but this time, you weren't looking at the fish. You were focused on the warmth of his skin and the way he leaned back into your touch.

When you finally surfaced in your secret lagoon, the silence felt different. As you sat behind him on the ilu, your hand stayed locked around his waist, and you felt a strange flutter in your stomach that had nothing to do with the speed of the ride.

Neteyam guided the ilu to a shallow bank where the water only reached his waist. He hopped off and reached up to help you down. As your feet hit the soft sand, he didn't pull his hands away. He kept them on your waist, and you kept yours on his shoulders.

"You are quiet tonight," Neteyam whispered.

"Just thinking," you said, your voice a bit breathy. "About how much I hate leaving this place."

Neteyam stepped closer, closing the small gap between you. His golden eyes were searching yours. "I hate it too. I spend the weeks between your visits just waiting for the wind to change. It is like the best part of the month leaves when your ship does."

The spark you had been feeling for months finally caught fire. The flutter in your stomach turned into a pull you couldn't ignore. Neteyam’s gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes, asking a silent question.

You leaned in first, just an inch, and Neteyam met you halfway.

The kiss was slow and deep, tasting like salt and the cool mountain air you always brought with you. It was a bridge between your two worlds, the high peaks and the deep reef finally meeting in the middle. His hands moved up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a gentleness that made your knees feel weak.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing in the same humid air.

"That was a very good trade," Neteyam murmured, his voice rough and low.

You let out a shaky laugh, pulling him back in by the cord of his necklace. "The best one yet, Forest Boy."

The sixth time the horn blasted, Neteyam’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. He had spent the last two months replaying that kiss in his head, feeling the warmth of your skin and the salt on your lips every time he closed his eyes.

He was nervous, his stomach doing flips as his ikran climbed higher toward the massive shadow of the Medusoid. He wondered if things would be awkward, or if you had missed him as much as he had missed you.

He landed on the deck with a practiced leap, his eyes immediately darting toward the spot where your stall always stood.

The space was empty.

There were no colorful banners, no jars of pigment, and no scent of mountain cedar. It was just bare wood. Neteyam stood frozen for a moment, his heart sinking. He thought maybe you had just moved to a different deck, so he started to run.

He searched the entire main ship, then whistled for his ikran and flew to the smaller vessels in the caravan. He checked every stall, looking for your face, but you weren't there.

Panic began to set in. He ignored the confused looks from the other traders and headed straight for the center of the lead ship. He found Peylak, the Olo’eyktan of the Tlalim, who was overseeing the unloading of heavy timber.

"Peylak!" Neteyam called out, his voice cracking. "Where is the girl who runs the pigment stall? The one who trades the mountain glass and the glowing seeds? She’s always right there by the railing."

Peylak stopped and looked at Neteyam. The older man’s face was drawn and pale. He didn't speak, only sighed and gave a small nod. "Wait for a second," he said quietly.

Neteyam stood there, his hands shaking slightly. He told himself you were probably just resting or working in the lower cargo holds. He imagined you walking out from behind a curtain, laughing at him for being so worried.

But when Peylak returned, he was alone. He was carrying a small wooden box, the lid carved with the symbols of the high mountains. He held it out with both hands, his head bowed.

"The Mangkwan raid was crazy these days," Peylak said softly. The mention of the Ash People made Neteyam’s blood run cold. "They came in the night, with fire and wings. She didn't survive the last Mangkwan raid. I believe this is her belongings."

Neteyam didn't take the box at first. He couldn't move. The bright sun of the reef felt suddenly freezing, and the sounds of the busy market seemed to fade into a dull hum. He looked down at the box, his breath hitching in his chest.

He slowly reached out and took it. It was light, too light to hold a whole life. When he opened the lid, he saw the blue pearl necklace you had traded your night for. It sat on top of a small bundle of dried forest leaves and the blue sea-stones he had given you during your very first meeting.

Neteyam didn't say anything. He couldn't. He just stood on the deck of the ship you loved, clutching the box to his chest as the winds you used to sail whistled past him.

Neteyam didn't stay to watch the rest of the cargo be unloaded. He couldn't stand the sound of the traders laughing or the clatter of wood on the docks. He took the small box, mounted his ikran, and flew away from the village.

He didn't go back to his family’s tent. Instead, he flew toward the hidden lagoon. It was the place where you had held onto him, where the air had tasted like salt and mountain breeze, and where he had finally felt like he belonged.

Neteyam landed on the white sand and sat by the edge of a tide pool. He opened the box and carefully took out the items inside.

He picked up the blue pearl necklace. He remembered the look on your face when he gave it to you. The way you had told him it was worth more than your whole stall. He wrapped the pearls around his wrist, feeling the weight of them.

"I am sorry I was not there," he whispered to the empty air.

He stayed there for a long time. He thought about the trade you had made, a whole night for few pieces of necklace or meal. He realized then that he would have given every night he had left just to see your ship on the horizon one more time.

In the forest, when someone died, they were returned to the earth to become part of the trees. Here, they were given to the sea. But you were a child of the breeze. You belonged to the wind.

He took a deep breath and took the wooden ring you gave from his cord before throwing it as hard as he could into the air. He watched it catch the light one last time before it vanished into the dark blue of the night sky.

"Go back to the sky," he said softly, his voice breaking.

He stood in the glowing water until the moon was high, the blue pearls still wrapped tight around his wrist. He knew he would keep counting the days, even if he knew the shadow of the Medusoid would never bring you back to him again. The forest boy would stay by the sea, but his heart had left with the wind.

[ivsarchive]

this gutted me so bad, angst and yearning served right

[chromemolars]

Sky girl

Neteyam x kekunan!reader

a/n this is a repost from my previous post/request answer bc i want people to see it and get their attention asap bc this is the longest and best fic ive ever written

trash sequel

The mist of the Hallelujah Mountains did not just cling to the rocks; it breathed. It was the living respiration of Pandora, a swirling, ethereal ocean of white that separated the grounded world from the kingdom of the clouds. For a daughter of the Kekunan, this vertiginous world was the only one that made sense. To the forest clans, the "edge" was a place of danger. To you, the edge was where life truly began.

You were born to the sky, a child of the clan that first taught the Na'vi how to touch the heavens. While the Omatikaya were rooted in the deep shadows of the jungle, your people were the bright sparks of defiance against gravity. You were clothed in the colors of the sunrise—boisterous, screaming shades of crimson, saffron, and violet that mirrored the plumage of the mountain banshees.

As the daughter of the Olo’eyktan and tsakarem, your life was a tapestry of duty. You were expected to be the swiftest, the bravest, and the most composed, embodying the legend of Taronyu, the first rider. But today, the heavy mantle of being a chieftain’s child had been set aside. Today, you were simply a creature of the wind.

You were alone with Ni’muna, your ikran. She was a magnificent beast of fire and blood-orange, her wings dappled with patterns that looked like cooling lava. You had spent the morning painting yourself to match her, dragging fingers dipped in thick orange clay across your sapphire skin, creating bold, aggressive streaks that trailed down your arms and thighs. It was a tribute to her, a sign of the tsaheylu, that she was you— and you her.

High above the tree line, where the air grew thin and cold enough to bite, you sat tall in your saddle. You wore a thin, feathered top—a vibrant, daring red that fluttered violently in the wind, the feathers plucked from the Great Leonopteryx’s smaller cousins. It offered little protection against the elements, but the Kekunan did not dress for comfort; you dressed for the dance.

“You ready, girl?” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper against the gale.

Ni’muna didn't need the words. Through the bond, you felt the thrum of her heart—a rapid, powerful rhythm that mirrored the pounding in your own chest. You felt the twitch of her wing muscles, the way she tasted the thermal drafts, and the sheer, unadulterated hunger for speed.

With a sudden, violent thrust of her wings, she tipped her nose toward the abyss.

The stomach-flipping drop was your favorite part. You leaned forward, flattening your chest against her neck, your wind-swept curls whipping behind you like a dark cloud. The air roared past your ears, a deafening whistle that drowned out the world. You were practicing a maneuver inspired by the old stories—the ones your father told about the Great War. He had spoken of a warrior, the Toruk Makto, who used the sky as a three-dimensional battlefield, twisting and diving in ways that the traditional aerial dances hadn't yet touched.

“Now!” you thought, a command sent through the braid.

Ni’muna tucked one wing and flared the other. You went into a violent, high-speed barrel roll. The world spun—sky, rock, fog, sky again—in a blur of turquoise and gray. Amidst the centrifugal force trying to tear you from the saddle, you reached back, your fingers finding the notch of your bow by muscle memory alone.

You saw the target: a small, crimson shell fruit you had balanced on a jutting branch of a solitary floating islet.

In the split second where your horizon leveled during the roll, you drew. The tension of the string was a familiar ache in your shoulder. You released.

Thwack.

The arrow pierced the fruit dead center, pinning it to the bark as you zoomed past. Ni’muna leveled out with a triumphant shriek, her own roars joining your piercing whoop. You banked a wide, graceful turn to retrieve your arrow, expecting to be alone with your victory.

Instead, as you approached the small islet, Ni’muna’s head crested with a low, wary hiss.

Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam stood on the edge of the floating rock, his breath hitching in his throat. He had been sent out on a long-range patrol, seeking the solitude of the high altitudes to clear his head from the pressures of being the "perfect son," when he had heard the scream of an ikran—not the usual cry of a hunter, but a sound of pure, reckless joy.

Then, he had seen you.

From his vantage point, you looked like a streak of falling fire. He watched, mesmerized, as you executed a barrel roll so tight it seemed to defy the physics of flight. He saw the flash of your red feathered top against the blue sky, a vibrant spark that shouldn't have been there. And then, the shot. A blind release in the middle of a terminal velocity spin.

"holy shit," he whispered to himself, stunned.

As your ikran circled back and landed, Neteyam found himself unable to move. He was a forest boy, raised among the towering trees of the Omatikaya, but he had always been a creature of the air at heart. Yet, he had never seen anyone fly like this.

He watched as the great orange beast touched down, its claws scraping the stone. Then, you dismounted.

In the eyes of Neteyam, the world seemed to slow down. You didn't just step off the ikran; you flowed. As you landed on the uneven stone, you moved with a strut that was uniquely yours—a rhythmic, predatory grace that spoke of absolute confidence. Your tail, long and twitching with the remnants of your adrenaline high, swayed behind you in a rhythmic arc that he found himself tracing with his eyes.

He took in the details of you, his heart hammering against his ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with the altitude. Your hair was a wild, beautiful mess of curls, tangled by the wind and smelling of the high atmosphere. The orange clay streaks on your skin caught the sunlight, making you look like a being carved from the mountain itself. And that red top—the way the feathers shivered with every breath you took—made you look like a bird of prey that had just taken human form.

You were analyzing him, and he knew it. Your golden eyes were sharp, scanning him from his toes to the top of his head. He felt the weight of your gaze, the way you flattened your ears slightly in a gesture of territorial suspicion.

He realized he was staring. He realized he looked like a fool. But he couldn't help it. There was a fire in you that he had never encountered in the jungle. You were daring, strong, and clearly impulsive—everything the stories said about the Kekunan, but the stories hadn't mentioned how the wind would look in your hair.

He rose his hand, his fingers trembling just a fraction, and extended them to you. “Oel ngati kameie,” he said, his voice a little rougher than usual.

Gracefully, and without breaking eye contact, you wordlessly returned his greeting. Your silence was a challenge.

“Your move just now—it was amazing!” Neteyam shouted, his smile breaking through his nervousness. It was a bright, warm smile, the kind that usually made people trust him instantly. “The way you held the line through the roll... I have never seen an ikran move that way.”

You paced a small circle around him, your tail lashing behind you. You were like a forest cat deciding whether to play with a stray pup or drive it off a cliff.

“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you quipped. Your voice was melodic but carried the sharp edge of the high-altitude winds. Before he could even draw breath to answer, you stepped into his personal space, your chin tilting up as if you were looking down on him despite the fact that he was taller. “Nga za’u ftu peseng?”

Neteyam felt a rush of heat to his face. He quickly stood his ground, though your presence was overwhelming—the scent of ozone, damp earth, and woodsmoke clinging to you. Remembering not all na’vi speak english he corrected himself and the words began to blend back for him. He placed his hand on his chest, his posture straightening as he reclaimed his dignity.

“I am Neteyam te Suli Jake’itan,” he spoke, his voice ringing with the quiet pride of his lineage.

He watched your eyes. He saw the flicker of recognition, the way your pupils dilated slightly at the mention of his father. He waited for the awe or the bowing that usually followed. But you were Kekunan. You didn't bow to legends; you challenged them.

You looked him up and down one more time, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. Your tail gave one final, decisive swish.

“A son of the Omatikaya,” you said, your voice dropping to a purr that sent a shiver down his spine. “Tell me, Neteyam... does the forest feel very small once you’ve seen how we live up here?”

Neteyam looked out at the horizon, at the endless expanse of the Hallelujah Mountains, and then back at the girl in the red feathers who looked like she owned the sun.

“It does now,” he admitted softly.

The silence that followed was thick with the sound of the wind and the distant cry of other banshees. You studied him, seeing the way his eyes lingered on the orange paint on your shoulders. Most forest Na'vi found the Kekunan's love for bright colors to be "boisterous" or distracting, but Neteyam looked at you with something that felt like reverence.

You liked the way he didn't look away. You liked that he was a rider, too—you could tell by the calluses on his hands and his worn visor.

"You are a long way from home, son of Toruk Makto," you said, turning back toward your arrow. You pulled it from the tree with a sharp tug, the fruit sliding off and tumbling into the fog below. "The currents around these peaks are treacherous for those who do not know them. They can peel a weak rider from their saddle before they can even scream."

Neteyam followed you, his eyes fixed on the sway of your hips and the confident stride of your walk. "I am not a weak rider," he said, a hint of playful defiance entering his tone. "And I'm a fast learner."

You turned back to him, your curls obscuring half your face. You reached up, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, and saw him track the movement. A small, wicked idea began to form in your mind.

"Is that so?" you challenged. "Then perhaps you should see if you can find your way back to your clan before the sun dips. Or..." You vaulted onto Ni’muna’s back in one fluid motion, the orange and red feathers of your top flared like a warning. "You could try to keep up with me."

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He let out a sharp whistle, and his own ikran, a sleek forest-green beast, emerged from the mists below, banking hard to land beside yours.

"Lead the way, Kekunan," he said, his eyes bright with a challenge of his own.

You laughed, a wild, free sound that echoed through the canyons. “I am y/n te Kenat Okéyi’ite.” you spoke and with a sharp kick, you and Ni’muna dived back into the clouds, a streak of orange and red against the endless blue, with the boy of the Omatikaya racing to catch the fire you left behind.

The days that followed were marked by a new kind of rhythm, one that had nothing to do with the heavy drums of the Kekunan council fires or the structured patrols of the Omatikaya. It was a secret cadence, timed to the movement of the sun as it began its slow descent toward the horizon.

Every morning, you moved with a blurred efficiency that left your family blinking in surprise. You gathered the medicinal mosses from the cliff faces, assisted with the weaving of new ikran harnesses, and completed your martial drills with a fierce intensity that made your brother joke that you were preparing for a second Great War.

Your father, the Olo’eyktan, watched you with a curious tilt of his head, noticing the way his daughter seemed to be vibrating with an unseen energy, but as long as your duties were fulfilled, he granted you the freedom the sky-born so cherished.

And so, every afternoon, you would whistle for Ni’muna. The two of you became a streak of fire against the sky, heading toward that same solitary spire where the clouds parted just right.

You weren't the only one.

Neteyam, the golden son of the Omatikaya, was discovering that his "long-range patrols" were becoming increasingly focused on one specific coordinate in the Hallelujah Mountains. He pushed his ikran harder, his heart leaping every time he saw a flash of orange and crimson through the mist. He’d arrive with his lungs burning from the high-altitude air, a crooked, breathless smile on his face as he found you already there, usually performing some death-defying feat just to see if he was watching.

On this particular afternoon, the air was unusually still, heavy with the golden light of a Pandoran sunset. You had arrived early, spreading out a newly knitted cover you had spent your nights working on. It was a masterpiece of your craft—thick, durable fibers dyed in shades of neon pink, solar yellow, and deep sunset orange. It was so bright it almost seemed to emit its own light, a vibrant stain against the ancient, gray stone of the mountain peak.

You lay back on the cover, your wild, curls fanned out beneath you like a dark halo. You had reapplied your war paint today, the orange streaks across your cheekbones and collarbones glowing in the fading light. Your new feathered top ruffled slightly in the breeze, the soft down tickling your skin.

Then, you heard it. The familiar, rhythmic hiss-clap of wings beating against the thin air.

You didn't move. You didn't even open your eyes, though your ears swiveled toward the sound, twitching as the heavy thud of an ikran landing vibrated through the rock beneath you. You heard the soft thump of feet hitting the ground, followed by the familiar, steady stride of the forest boy.

“Watching the sunset?” Neteyam quipped.

His voice was closer than you expected. You opened your eyes to find him standing over you, his silhouette framed by the colossal, glowing orb of Polyphemus in the distance. He looked down at you with those curious, amber eyes—the kind of look that always made you feel like he was trying to memorize the exact pattern of your stripes. He looked tired, his own riding gear dusted with the grime of a long day’s work, but his smile was as bright as ever.

“Yes,” you spoke, your voice smooth and low, lacking the sharp defensive edge it had possessed the first day you met. “Join me. I never noticed how quickly it went by until now.”

You reached out, your hand—still stained with a bit of orange clay—patting the empty space of the vibrant cover beside you.

Neteyam hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering from your face to the empty spot, before he sank down. He leaned back on his hands at first, watching the way the sky began to bleed into deep purples and bruised oranges. Then, following your lead, he eased himself down until he was lying flat beside you.

The silence between you wasn't empty; it was full of the sound of Ni’muna and his ikran grooming each other a few yards away, and the low hum of the mountain's magnetic fields.

“My mother is starting to wonder why I come back with mountain mist in my hair every night,” Neteyam admitted softly, his head turning on the cover to look at you. From this close, he could see the way your eyelashes caught the golden light. He found himself mesmerized by the way you looked in repose—still fierce, but with the sharp edges softened by the twilight.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. “And what do you tell her? That you are being schooled in the art of flight by a girl who lives in the clouds?”

Neteyam chuckled, a soft sound that vibrated in the small space between you. “I tell her I am studying the terrain. It is not a lie. I have learned more about these mountains in the last seven days than I have in my entire life.”

He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the edge of your vibrant cover, before he grew bold enough to let his hand rest near yours. “The Omatikaya see the beauty in the roots and the shadows. But you... you Kekunan... you see the beauty in the heights that should be terrifying. I’m beginning to understand why.”

You watched his hand, then looked back into his eyes. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to boast or to prove your status as the Olo’eyktan’s daughter. You felt a strange, grounding warmth—a feeling that was entirely new to a girl who had spent her whole life trying to leave the ground behind.

“The sky doesn't judge you, Neteyam,” you whispered, your tail giving a soft, rhythmic flick against the fabric of the mat. “It only asks if you are brave enough to stay in it. i am starting to believe that you just might be.”

Neteyam shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and for a long moment, you simply watched the world turn gold, together.

Eventually the sky began to deepen into a bruised purple, the bioluminescence of the distant forest floor beginning to wake up like a thousand fallen stars.

Lying there, side by side on the vibrant orange and yellow cover, the world felt suspended. The high-altitude winds that usually whipped through the peaks had died down to a gentle sigh, as if the moon itself was holding its breath.

Neteyam shifted, turning onto his side to prop his head up on his hand. He watched the way the fading light played across the orange streaks on your skin.

He looked like he wanted to say something, his brow furrowing in that serious, thoughtful way he had—the "future leader" look that he couldn't quite shake off even when he was relaxing.

"The mountains are beautiful," he began, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone. "But they are only half of Pandora. You spend all your time looking down at the fog, waiting to dive through it. You rarely walk beneath the canopy."

You turned your head toward him, a playful, skeptical glint in your golden eyes. "And why should I? The ground is slow. It is full of shadows and tangled roots that trip you. Up here, there is nothing to stop you."

Neteyam smiled, but there was a challenge in it this time. "The shadows are where the best stories are. And the best game." He sat up slightly, gesturing toward the vast, dark expanse of the jungle far below.

"The Omatikaya have moved to High Camp now. The old hunting grounds near the ruins of the Hometree... they are quiet. The Sky People stay away from the deep bush there. We would have the area all to ourselves."

He looked back at you, his eyes locking onto yours. "Let me take you hunting. On the ground. No ikran, no diving from a thousand meters. Just the forest floor, the bow, and the heartbeat of the woods."

You let out a short, melodic laugh, sitting up and crossing your legs. Your red feathered top rustled, and you tossed your wind-swept curls back with a haughty flick of your head. "You want to teach me how to hunt, forest boy? I have been a hunter since I was small enough to climb into Ni’muna’s saddle. I can hit a fkew fruit while spinning in a terminal dive. My aim is truer than any warrior in my clan."

You gestured to the bow resting near your mat, your chin tilting up in that classic strut of confidence. "I am an excellent hunter."

Neteyam’s grin widened, becoming something a bit more mischievous. He didn't look intimidated by your boast; in fact, he looked like he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.

"Oh, I know you’re a good hunter," he said, his voice trailing off as he let out a soft snort of amusement. He leaned in a little closer, his amber eyes dancing with light. "From the back of your ikran."

He let the comment hang in the air for a second, watching your ears twitch in indignation.

"It’s easy to hit a target when you have the entire sky to maneuver in," he continued, his tone teasing. "But on the ground? In the thick brush where you cannot see ten paces ahead of you? Where you have to move without a single leaf whispering against your skin? That is a different dance. There, your ikran cannot save you if you miss your mark."

You bristled, your tail lashing behind you and striking the bright fabric of the cover with a sharp thud. "I can move silently. We are not clumsy, Neteyam."

"I didn't say you were clumsy," he replied softly, his gaze softening as he took in your fierce expression. "I’m saying you’re a daughter of the sky. I want to see if you can handle being a daughter of the earth, too."

He stood up, offering his hand to you—the same hand that had greeted you with respect on the first day. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in a soft, blue twilight.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Meet me at the base of the weeping spires at dawn. Leave Ni’muna at the high ledge. We walk."

You looked at his hand, then up at his face. The arrogance within you fought with a sudden, sharp curiosity. You wanted to prove him wrong—to show him that you could master his world just as easily as you mastered yours. But more than that, you realized you weren't ready for these afternoons to end.

You placed your hand in his, your orange-painted skin a sharp contrast against his deep blue palm. Your grip was firm, a silent acceptance of the wager.

"Do not cry when I outrun you through your own trees, Neteyam te Suli," you warned, though the corners of your mouth were twitching with a hidden smile.

He squeezed your hand gently before letting go. "We shall see, sky-girl. We shall see."

You didn't give him the satisfaction of a long goodbye. With a sharp whistle, you urged Ni’muna toward the ledge. But as you reached the precipice, you couldn't resist one last display. Instead of taking flight normally, you stood up in the stirrups and leaned forward, falling off the edge of the cliff into a dead-weight dive.

For a second, you were just a blur of red and blue plummeting through the dark. Then, with a roar that shook the stone, Ni’muna dived after you. She snatched you out of the air with her massive talons, tossing you upward with practiced precision. You flipped in the empty space of the abyss, the wind roaring in your ears, before slamming back down perfectly into the saddle.

You banked a hard turn, looking back over your shoulder to see Neteyam standing at the very edge of the rock, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and absolute awe. You offered him a sharp, two-fingered wave before vanishing into the mist.

Neteyam watched the spot where you had disappeared for a long time, the image of your form burned into his mind.

“Always showing off,” he murmured to the empty air, a helpless, lopsided smile playing on his lips.

He whistled for his own ikran, mounting with a far less dramatic take-off. His mind was a chaotic swirl of orange paint, red feathers, and the way your golden eyes had challenged him. By the time he reached the high-altitude forest where the Omatikaya had established High Camp, the moon was high, and his focus was entirely elsewhere.

He landed on the ikran platforms, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish as he unmade the tsaheylu. He was still picturing the way you had looked lying on that bright cover, the sunset turning your skin into glowing amber.

"Neteyam!"

The sharp bark of his father’s voice snapped him back to reality. He winced, turning to see Jake and Neytiri standing near the communal fire. His father looked weary, his arms crossed over his chest, while his mother stood with a hand on her hip, her golden eyes narrowed in a way that suggested she had been waiting for a long time.

"Sir," Neteyam said, quickly lifting his riding visor and straightening his posture.

"I asked you to watch Tuk today," Jake said, his voice flat with disappointment. "Mo'at was stuck with her all evening while she was trying to prepare the medicinal tinctures. She’s five, Neteyam. She can’t be left to wander alone."

Neteyam felt a sinkhole open in his stomach. He had completely forgotten. "I’m sorry, sir. It... it must have really slipped my mind this time. I was out on the ridge and lost track of the shadows."

Jake sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Slipped your mind? That’s the third time this week you’ve missed a rotation or a chore, boy. You're the eldest. You’re supposed to be the one I don't have to worry about."

"I know. It won't happen again," Neteyam promised, but his ears swiveled toward his mother.

Neytiri hadn't said a word, but she was watching him with a terrifyingly perceptive intensity. She stepped forward, her tail flicking with a slow, deliberate curiosity. She reached out, grabbing her son’s hand between her own, turning his palm up.

"Ma Itan... we are a little worried for you," Neytiri spoke, her voice softer than Jake's but carrying a different kind of weight. "Your head has been in the clouds. These are small mistakes, yes, but they are so unlike you. You have always been most diligent."

She ran a thumb over his palm, her eyes darting to the faint, dried smudge of orange clay near his thumb—a color that didn't belong to the forest or the Omatikaya.

"And this especially is not the time," Jake added, pacing a short line. "With the Sky People coming after us as aggressively as they are now, we need every scout focused. We need you here, Neteyam. Not drifting off into the mountains for hours on end."

Neteyam stood there, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him—a tell-tale sign of his inner agitation. He thought of the way you laughed, the way you moved with that predatory strut, and the challenge for tomorrow's hunt. He felt like he was living in two worlds at once, and the one with you was becoming much brighter than the one under the canopy.

He gently patted his mother’s hand before she dropped his. He couldn't meet her eyes for a second, fearing she’d see your name written in his pupils.

"I am very sorry," he said, his voice regaining some of its formal steadiness. "I am not sure what has gotten into me lately. The altitude, perhaps. I will do better. I'll check in with Mo'at and Tuk now."

"See that you do," Jake said, turning back toward the command center.

Neytiri, however, lingered. She watched her son walk away, noticing the way his step was a little lighter than it should be for someone who had just been scolded. She looked down at her own hand, sensing the faint trace of that strange, mountain-clay scent.

A small, knowing smile touched her lips, though it was tinged with the protective shadow of a mother’s intuition. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who had found something more captivating than duty.

"The clouds," she whispered to herself, glancing up toward the darkened peaks of the Hallelujah Mountains. "Or someone who lives among them."

The morning mist was a thick, silver curtain that clung to the damp bark of the Weeping Spires. Down here, the air was heavy with the scent of wet earth, blooming night-flowers, and the low, hummed vibrations of the forest floor. It was a world of muffled sounds—a sharp contrast to the whistling gales and screaming banshees of your home.

You had arrived early, grounding Ni’muna on a high, moss-covered shelf several hundred meters up. You’d patted her snout, whispering for her to stay hidden, before beginning the long, athletic descent on foot.

To meet Neteyam on his own turf, you had stripped away the boisterous identity of the Kekunan girl. Gone were the screaming oranges and the vibrant reds. Instead, you had dressed in muted tones—a wrap of deep forest green and a loincloth of slate blue that helped you blend into the shadows of the massive ferns.

More notably, your skin was clean. You had scrubbed away the aggressive orange clay streaks, leaving your sapphire skin bare. For the first time, the natural bioluminescent patterns of your body were fully visible—intricate, shimmering dots that traced the elegant curve of your spine and the slope of your shoulders like a map of the stars.

Even your hair was different. Your riding visor had been tossed aside in favor of a simple woven headband that kept your curls pulled back from your face, exposing the sharp, inquisitive line of your jaw.

You heard him before you saw him. The soft, rhythmic thud-thud of a runner who knew how to distribute his weight. You perched yourself on a low-hanging branch of a giant root, your tail coiled tightly around the wood for balance.

Neteyam rounded the bend of a massive tree trunk, moving with a fluid, easy pace. He slowed as he reached the clearing, his eyes scanning the greenery. He looked focused, his bow held loosely in one hand, but the second his gaze landed on you, he stopped dead.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. His amber eyes traveled over you, taking in the transformation. Without the bright paint and the visor, you looked less like a beautiful mountain spirit and more like... a beautiful girl. He noticed the way your natural markings glowed faintly in the dim forest light, and how the headband made your eyes seem even larger, more piercing.

"You look..." He started, then cleared his throat, a rare blush creeping up his neck. "You look like you belong down here."

You dropped from the branch, landing silently on the balls of your feet. Even in the shadows, you kept that strut—hips swaying, shoulders back, a natural predator’s grace. "Do not get used to it, forest boy. I only wore these colors so I wouldn't have to hear you complain that my bright feathers were scaring away your prey."

Neteyam stepped closer, his gaze still lingering on the patterns on your shoulders. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by the sight of you without your "warrior's mask" of paint. "It’s not just the colors," he murmured, his voice softening. "I can finally see your face."

You felt a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. To hide it, you reached back and checked the tension of your bowstring. "Less talking, more hunting. The sun is climbing, and you promised to show me what makes a 'daughter of the earth' so special."

Neteyam’s lopsided smile returned, though it felt more intimate this time. "Right. Follow me. And try to keep your feet light—the ground has ears."

As he turned to lead the way into the deep brush, he couldn't help but glance back over his shoulder. He had spent all night being scolded for having his head in the clouds, but standing here in the quiet heart of the forest, watching the way your tail flicked with anticipation, he realized the danger wasn't in the clouds at all.

The danger was right here, walking beside him.

The forest was a cathedral of filtered light and heavy silence. To you, it felt claustrophobic; the air didn't move the way it did at the peaks, and every step felt like an intrusion on the earth. Neteyam moved like a ghost, his deep blue skin blending into the shadows of the massive ferns.

He kept glancing back, not to check if you were keeping up—you were a good hunter, your athleticism was never in question—but to watch the way you navigated this new terrain.

Without your visor and bright paint, you felt exposed, but there was a strange freedom in it. The headband kept your curls from your eyes, allowing you to see the intricate textures of the moss and the way the light caught the bioluminescent veins of the leaves.

"There," Neteyam whispered, his hand going flat in the air to signal a stop.

Through a gap in the oversized fan-foliage, a hexapede was grazing. It was a beautiful creature, its fan-like ears twitching as it dipped its head to feed. It was calm, unaware of the two predators watching from the brush.

Neteyam looked at you, a challenge in his eyes. He gestured to your bow, stepping back to give you the shot. He wanted to see the sky-girl handle the ground.

You notched an arrow, your muscles coiling. Your heart hammered—not with fear, but with the frustration of the stillness. Usually, when you hunted, you were screaming through the air at eighty kilometers an hour, accounting for wind resistance, Ni’muna’s wing-beat, and the frantic escape of your prey. Here, everything was too quiet. Too steady.

You drew the string back, your eyes locked on the hexapede’s vital spot behind the shoulder. You released.

The arrow whistled through the air, but just as it flew, your body instinctively twitched as if to compensate for a sudden updraft that wasn't there. The shaft struck the hexapede’s flank—a solid hit, but not a kill shot. The creature let out a pained cry and bolted.

"shit!" you hissed, reaching for another arrow, but Neteyam was already a blur of motion.

He didn't leap or shout. He simply flowed forward, his bow rising in one fluid movement. He tracked the animal through the dense brush with a terrifyingly calm precision.

He released. His arrow found the mark, piercing the hexapede’s heart and dropping it instantly. It was the "clean kill" of a forest hunter.

You reached the animal first, looking down at your misplaced arrow and then at his. You felt the hot sting of pride in your cheeks. "The ground moved," you muttered, though you knew it hadn't.

Neteyam knelt beside the animal, offering a prayer to Eywa for its spirit. When he finished, he looked up at you, his expression soft rather than mocking. "You accounted for the wind, didn't you? You hunted like you were still on Ni’muna."

"It is how I have always hunted," you snapped, but your tail gave a frustrated flick.

He stood up, stepping into your space. "It was a good shot for a rider. But here..." he stepped even closer, his hand reaching out to steady your shoulder. "Here, you only have to trust your own feet."

Despite your miss, the excitement of the chase took over. You let out a small, sharp whoop of victory—the high-pitched cry of the Kekunan—and began to laugh at the sheer absurdity of your error. "I suppose I am a little out of my element."

Neteyam laughed with you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the side of your neck. The humor faded, replaced by an intensity that made the forest around you vanish. "I don't think you're out of your element anywhere," he whispered.

Not far away, hidden behind a curtain of weeping vines, Neytiri froze. She had been collecting rare medicinal fungi for Mo’at, her basket half-full. The high-pitched, melodic whoop had startled her—it wasn't an Omatikaya cry.

She moved with the silence of a shadow, parting the leaves just enough to peek into the clearing.

Her breath caught. She saw her son, his back to her, standing dangerously close to a girl she didn't recognize. This wasn't the girl from his childhood. This girl had the lean, long-limbed build of the mountain clans, her skin bare of paint, her natural star-map patterns glowing softly in the shade.

Neytiri watched as Neteyam leaned in. He spoke words that were lost to the rustle of the leaves, but the intent was clear. He reached out, his fingers tangling slightly in your dark curls, and gently pulled your head toward his.

You stiffened at first. Your ears flickered back in surprise, and your tail went rigid behind you, the tip twitching with a sudden spike of nerves. But as his forehead touched yours—a connection of a deep, personal confession—you melted. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands finding the steady muscles of his chest, and you leaned into him, accepting the silent vow he was making.

Neytiri stayed perfectly still. She saw the way your tails began to entwine instinctively, the way her son’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. She saw the children of two different worlds finding a middle ground that her husband had once found with her.

She didn't interfere. She didn't let them know she was there. A small, bittersweet smile touched her lips. She understood now why the "mist was in his hair" and why his head was in the clouds.

She slowly backed away, disappearing into the greenery as silently as she had come, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet heart of the world.

The moons of Pandora turned, and the secret path between the High Camp and the floating spires became a well-worn trail for two pairs of feet. What started as a daring wager had shifted into something deeper—a bridge between the canopy and the clouds.

It happened on a day when the mist was thick enough to hide a leonopteryx. Neteyam had led you to a secluded ledge just below the Omatikaya’s main camp. He looked more nervous than he had been when facing down the hexapede.

"Just... be patient with them," he whispered, adjusted his loincloth.

"I am a tsakarem, Neteyam. I know how to handle children," you teased, though your tail gave a nervous flick.

When the siblings emerged from the brush, the reaction was instantaneous. Tuk, a blur of blue energy, let out a gasp so loud it echoed. "She’s so bright!" she squealed, running up to you. She didn't hesitate, her small hands reaching out to touch the vibrant purple weaving of your new top. "And your hair is so curly! Is it because of the wind?"

Kiri followed at a more measured pace, her eyes wide and luminous. She didn't look at your clothes; she looked at the way you stood, sensing the rhythm of the mountain air still clinging to your skin. "You smell like the high places," she said softly, a smile of genuine wonder spreading across her face. "Like ozone and cold stone."

Lo’ak, however, stayed back, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Neteyam, then at you, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "So... this is where you’ve been," he drawled, his voice dripping with playful malice. "And here I thought you were actually becoming a better scout. Turns out you were just chasing a bird-girl."

"Lo’ak, shut up," Neteyam muttered, his ears burning a deep violet, but he couldn't hide the pride in his eyes as Tuk began to climb your leg like a small prolemuris.

"Higher! Higher, Ni’muna!" Tuk’s voice was a high-pitched gale of laughter.

You had strapped the youngest Suli into a modified tandem harness. For a child of the forest, the heights should have been terrifying, but Tuk had her father’s blood. You took her on a tour—not the steady, horizontal flight of the Omatikaya, but the vertical, spiraling dance of your people.

You banked Ni’muna hard, skimming the underside of a floating island where the glowing moss hung like chandeliers.

"Look down, Tuk!" you shouted over the wind.

The little girl leaned over the edge of the saddle, her eyes reflecting the vast, green world below. She wasn't screaming in fear; she was reaching out as if she could catch the clouds in her palms. You felt a surge of affection for the girl. She had a strong spirit —fearless and full of wonder. When you finally landed, her hair was a wild nest and her eyes were glowing. She hugged your waist so hard you nearly lost your breath. "I want to live in the sky forever," she whispered.

Later that evening, while the boys were off competing in a target-shooting contest, you sat with Kiri on a flat rock overlooking the valley. You were showing her how to repair a frayed strand of an ikran harness.

"Is it true?" Kiri asked, her voice hushed. "That your clan is born from the first rider?"

"Taronyu," you confirmed, your fingers moving with practiced grace. "In our clan, the bond with our ikran isn't just for hunting or war. It is a conversation that never ends. When I sleep, I sometimes feel Ni’muna’s dreams—the sensation of falling, the taste of raw meat, the itch of a new feather. We are taught to listen to their heartbeat before we even learn to track a hexapede."

Kiri touched the leather harness, her expression distant. "I feel the forest like that," she whispered. "Like it’s a heartbeat under my feet."

"Then you are far more touched by eywa than you know," you said, pressing your shoulder against hers. "she’s blessed us with the ability hear the heartbeat of the wind."

The peace was shattered a week later. You and Neteyam were sitting at the edge of the "meeting ledge," sharing a piece of fruit, when the air suddenly grew heavy.

Ni’muna let out a sharp, warning squawk. You stood up, reaching for your bow, but relaxed when a tall, muscular Na’vi stepped out of the fog. He wore the boisterous, sun-bright yellows of your clan, his skin painted with aggressive black stripes.

It was your elder brother, Ka’ru.

"So," Ka’ru boomed, his voice echoing off the rocks. "little sister has a shadow."

Neteyam stood up quickly, his hand moving toward his knife before he realized who it was. He straightened his shoulders, meeting your brother’s intimidating gaze with the steady composure he was known for.

"Ka’ru, stop it," you hissed, stepping between them.

"I have been following you for three days," Ka’ru ignored you, stepping into Neteyam’s personal space. He was a head taller and much broader. He looked the Omatikaya heir up and down, evaluating every muscle. "You are the son of the Toruk Makto. I see the resemblance. But can you fly, or do you just fall gracefully?"

"I hold my own," Neteyam replied, his voice calm but firm.

Ka’ru let out a short, barking laugh. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he lunged forward—not to strike, but to grab. He seized Neteyam’s right forearm in a crushing grip.

Neteyam didn't flinch. Understanding the gesture instantly, he reached out and clamped his own hand around Ka’ru’s forearm, the two of them locked in the traditional Kekunan greeting—a test of strength and a sign of mutual respect. They stood there for a long beat, muscles tensed, eyes locked.

Ka’ru gave a single, sharp nod, his grip tightening once more before he let go.

"He has a good grip, sister," Ka’ru said, turning to you with a wicked grin. "His bones aren't made of hollow bird-feathers after all." He turned back to Neteyam, his expression turning serious. "Keep her safe, forest boy. Or I will find you, and there is nowhere in the sky you can hide from me."

Neteyam didn't back down. He inclined his head, a respectful but undaunted smile on his face. "I think she’s the one keeping me safe, but I hear you."

As Ka’ru whistled for his ikran and dived back into the mist, Neteyam let out a long, shaky breath, rubbing his sore forearm. "Your family is... intense."

"We are known for our boldness," you laughed, pulling him back down toward the mat. "Did you expect anything less?"

The evening air at High Camp was heavy with the scent of roasted meat and the sweet, fermented nectar the Omatikaya gathered from the deep-forest blossoms. The Suli family sat gathered around their central hearth, the fire casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls of the cavern. It was a rare moment of peace in a time of growing shadows, but for Neteyam, the silence felt heavy.

His mind was leagues away, floating among the mist-shrouded peaks where a girl with wild curls and orange-streaked skin was likely preparing for the night. He was physically there, his fingers absentmindedly tearing at a piece of fruit, but his spirit was soaring somewhere near the Hallelujah Mountains.

Neytiri leaned forward, her golden eyes reflecting the hearth-fire. She watched her eldest son with a mother’s quiet, predatory scrutiny. She had seen the change in him—the way his gaze drifted toward the horizon even during tactical briefings, the way he moved with a new, restless energy that seemed to vibrate beneath his skin.

"Neteyam," she began, her voice melodic but carrying the weight of tradition. "You have been a hunter of the people for many moons now. You have walked the path of the Iknimaya. You have proven your heart to the forest and your loyalty to your people."

Neteyam snapped back to the present, his ears twitching forward. "Yes, Sa'nok?"

"It is time you think of the future of our clan," Neytiri continued, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She wasn't blind; she had seen the mountain clay on his skin, but as a mother and a leader, she had to test the waters. "A leader must have a mate to ground him. To share his burden when the sky grows dark. There are many fine daughters in the Omatikaya who look at you with eyes of hope."

Jake looked up from the spear-tip he was sharpening, nodding in agreement. "She’s right, son. You’re the future Olo’eyktan. You need someone strong by your side. What about Sa'eyla? Her father is one of our best warriors. She’s quick, she’s smart, and she’s made it pretty clear she’s interested in you. I saw her trying to help you with your harness yesterday— she’d also make a fine tsahìk."

Neteyam felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The thought of Sa'eyla—or any forest-born girl—felt like a tether pulling him away from the sky. Sa'eyla was kind, yes, but she didn't smell of ozone and mountain mist. She didn't have a laugh that sounded like a challenge to the wind.

Before he could find the words to deflect, Kiri spoke up. She was lounging against a mossy rock, her eyes half-closed as she tuned into the vibrations of the earth. "What about Y/N te kenat?"

The name hung in the air like a lightning strike.

Jake paused, his bow-stringer stilled in his hands. He furrowed his brow, looking at his daughter. "The Tsakarem of the Kekunan? The Olo’eyktan’s daughter?" He let out a low whistle, a mix of respect and concern. "She’s a hell of a rider, that’s for sure. I remember her father from th War. But babygirl, she’s from a different world. The Kekunan are... impulsive. They don't take to the forest life easily."

Jake looked back at Neteyam, his expression turning serious. "And besides... I’ve heard talk from the scouts who trade near the northern cliffs. They say she’s already being courted back at her own camp. A young hunter named Tswaya. Apparently, he’s been bringing her the best kills for weeks. Her father favors him. He’s a 'sky-born' through and through."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Neteyam’s ears flattened instantly against his skull. His tail, usually a rhythmic pendulum of calm, went deathly rigid behind him. The image of another man—a Kekunan who flew like you, who shared your air, who spoke your dialect without an accent—seared through his mind like dragon-fire.

"Tswaya?" Neteyam’s voice was low, vibrating with a sudden, sharp edge that made Lo'ak look up in surprise.

"Yeah, that’s the name," Jake said, oblivious to the storm brewing in his son. "He’s a strong candidate for their next lead hunter. It makes sense for their clan to keep the lineage strong. Strategic, you know?"

Neteyam stood up so abruptly his stool nearly toppled over. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Tuk stopped chewing, her large eyes darting between her brother and her parents.

"I... I am not hungry," Neteyam spoke, the words forced through a tight jaw. "Excuse me. I need to check on my ikran."

"Neteyam, wait—" Neytiri started, but he was already gone, a shadow disappearing into the moonlit woods with a speed that bordered on reckless.

He didn't just fly; he pushed his ikran to the point of exhaustion. The wind roared past him, but it couldn't drown out the roar in his blood. Every beat of his ikran's wings felt like his own heart hammering against his ribs. Tswaya. The name tasted like ash.

By the time he reached your usual meeting spot—a secluded, flat-topped peak hidden by a permanent veil of mist—his lungs were burning from the thin, cold air.

You were there, sitting on your vibrant, neon-colored cover. You had been mending a leather strap by the light of a small bioluminescent lantern, the soft blue glow reflecting off your bare, star-mapped skin and the beaded halter top that left almost nothing covered didn’t go unnoticed. You looked up as he landed, a smile of greeting starting to form on your lips, but it died the moment you saw his face.

Neteyam didn't wait for a greeting. He dismounted before his ikran had even fully settled, his stride predatory and heavy as he marched toward you. the slinging of his beaded braids adding to it.

"Who is Tswaya?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the stone pillars.

You blinked, startled by the sheer heat radiating from him. You stood up, the leather strap falling from your lap. "What? Tswaya is... he is a hunter of my clan. Why are you—"

"My father says he is courting you," Neteyam interrupted, stepping into your space. He was so close you could feel the heat coming off his body, see the way his pupils were dilated with possessive rage. "He says he brings you kills. He says your father favors him. You told me he wasn't a threat. You told me there was no one else."

The jealousy in him was a living thing, raw and jagged. It was the first time you had seen the future olo’eyktan,the calm warrior, truly lose his composure. It was a side of him that was all Jake Suli—the human-born fire—mixed with the fierce territoriality of the Na'vi.

"Neteyam, listen to me," you said, reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinched back at first, his eyes searching yours for a lie, but you stepped closer, refusing to let him retreat. "Tswaya is a fool who chases my tail. Yes, he brings meat to my father's hearth. Yes, my father thinks he is a strong rider because he is loud and boastful. But I have never accepted a single gift from him. Every piece of meat he brings, I give to the elders. I have never shared those feelings. To me, he is nothing but a brother of the clan. He is a child playing at being a man."

You took another step, placing your hands flat against his chest. You could feel his heart thudding like a trapped bird. "He is not you, Neteyam. He does not know the way I breathe. He does not know the way the wind feels at the edge of the world. Only you and I know that."

Neteyam’s breathing began to slow, the rigid line of his shoulders softening just a fraction. He looked at you—truly looked at you—in the soft blue light. He saw the bare skin of your shoulders, the intricate star-patterns of your markings, and the way your eyes held nothing but a fierce, unwavering truth.

"I cannot lose you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I spent all dinner hearing about forest girls and 'proper matches.' My father talked about strategy and lineage. But none of them are you. I don't want to just meet you in the mist anymore. I don't want to worry about who is bringing meat to your father's fire."

He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to an intimate, gravelly depth. He reached out, his fingers tangling in your curls, pulling you slightly closer until your foreheads were almost touching.

"I want to be closer to you," he said. "As close as two souls can be. I want the clans to know you are mine, and I am yours. No more secrets. No more 'courting' from others."

He looked deep into your eyes, his gaze searching for any hint of hesitation. "Are you ready? To mate with me? To choose me before Eywa and leave the world of 'what ifs' behind?"

The breath left your lungs. In the almost every na’vi culture, mating was a sacred, permanent bond—a promise that outlasted the wind and the stone. To choose a forest-born boy was to bridge two worlds forever, to potentially face the judgment of your clan. But as you looked at Neteyam—the boy who had learned to dance in the sky just to see you, who had challenged your arrogance and earned your heart—there was no doubt.

"I have been ready since the day I saw you standing on my mountain," you whispered. "I choose you, Neteyam te Suli."

The Tree of Voices in the Hallelujah Mountains was a place of ancient, terrifying power. Unlike the grand, sprawling trees of the forest floor, this one was a marvel of vertical life. It clung to the side of a massive floating spire, its glowing white tendrils cascading down like a waterfall of starlight into the bottomless fog below.

You and Neteyam arrived as the moons reached their zenith, the light of Polyphemus casting a giant, ghostly shadow across the peaks. The silence here was holy. The only sound was the faint, melodic chiming of the tree’s glowing fibers as they brushed against one another in the mountain breeze.

Neteyam led you to the very center of the glow, where the roots of the tree drank from the moisture of the clouds. He turned to face you, his expression one of profound, hushed reverence. He reached back, uncoiling his long, dark braid, the neural tendrils at the end glowing with a faint, expectant light. You did the same, your wild curls falling free over your shoulders.

"Under the eyes of the ancestors," Neteyam murmured, his voice a part of the wind.

You reached out, taking the end of his neural queue in your hand, while he took yours. The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation, the very atoms of the mountain hummed.

"I see you, Neteyam," you whispered.

"I see you, Y/N." The tickles of wood sprites began, Eywa herself blessing the union. As the neural tendrils connected, the world didn't just change—it disappeared.

The tsahaeylu was an explosion of light and feeling. It wasn't just a physical sensation; it was an inundation of the soul. You were suddenly inside his mind, feeling the weight of the forest floor, the smell of rain on hot leaves, and the crushing pressure of being the eldest son of a legend. You felt his love for Tuk, his protective frustration with Lo'ak, and the moment he first saw you—the way his heart had skipped a beat when you dived off that cliff.

And he was inside you. He felt the cold, sharp bite of the high-altitude air. He felt the exhilaration of the first time you bonded with Ni’muna. He felt the pride you took in your bright colors and the loneliness of being the chieftain's daughter who never quite felt like she fit the mold.

The link deepened, binding your nervous systems until your heartbeats synchronized into a single, thudding rhythm. The bioluminescent dots on your skin flared in unison with his, a pulsing, rhythmic glow that lit up the white tendrils of the tree around you.

In that moment, there was no Omatikaya and no Kekunan. There was only the link. You felt his vow—not spoken in words, but in the raw data of his soul. A promise to protect you, to fly with you, to bridge the gap between the trees and the stars. You mirrored it back, your spirits intertwining as tightly as your braids.

As you leaned in, your foreheads pressing together in the final, sacred seal of the bond, the whispers of the tree seemed to swell into a song of approval. The ancestors were watching, their voices a soft, shimmering static in the back of your shared consciousness.

You were no longer just two people. You were a single entity, a union of earth and sky.

When you finally pulled apart, hours later—or perhaps only seconds, as time had no meaning in the link—the world looked different. The mist was brighter, the stars were sharper, and the tether between you was a living, breathing thing you could feel in the center of your chest.

Neteyam pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "You are mine," he whispered, the possessiveness from before now replaced by a deep, unshakable peace.

"And you are mine," you replied, looking out over the mountains that were now your shared kingdom. "Let Tswaya bring his meat to my father’s hearth. He will find only a cold fire and a daughter who has already flown away."

Neteyam laughed, a sound of pure, unburdened joy that echoed off the cliffs, and as the first light of dawn began to touch the peaks, the two of you sat together— you leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss.

The return to the ground felt different this time. For the first time in your life, the descent from the Hallelujah Mountains didn't feel like a loss of freedom; it felt like a journey toward a new kind of gravity. The bond was a hum in your marrow, a constant, glowing presence that made the air in your lungs feel sweeter.

Neteyam flew beside you, his green ikran banking in perfect synchronization with Ni’muna. He kept glancing over, his eyes bright with a mixture of terror and triumph. He had won the heart of the sky, but now he had to defend that victory before the two most formidable leaders on Pandora: his father and yours.

The landing at High Camp was silent. The usual bustle of the morning—hunters prepping gear, children playing—seemed to still as the two of you walked into the center of the common area. You still wore your muted forest tones, but you hadn't put back on the headband. Your wild curls were free, and your star-patterned markings were still glowing with the residual energy of the tsahaeylu.

Jake Suli was standing by a tactical map, Neytiri at his side. They looked up as you approached, and the air immediately grew heavy. They didn't need to ask. They saw the way you walked—not as a guest, but as someone who had anchored their soul to their son. They saw the way Neteyam stood slightly in front of you, his hand habitually finding yours, his eyes steady and defiant.

"Neteyam," Jake said, his voice a low rumble. He looked at your joined hands, then at the marks of the bond on your necks. "What have you done?"

"I have chosen, sir," Neteyam said, his voice ringing with a maturity that silenced the murmurs of the gathering crowd. "I have mated with Y/N of the Kekunan. She is my heart. My life is hers."

Neytiri stepped forward, her eyes searching yours. She didn't look angry; she looked like she was seeing a prophecy fulfilled. She remembered the orange clay on his hand, the mystery in his eyes. She looked at you—bare, honest, and fierce—and she saw the strength that her son had seen.

"You are a daughter of the sky," Neytiri said, her voice echoing. "To mate with our son is to take on the burden of our war. We are a people hunted. To be Omatikaya is to live in the shadows. Can you give up the sun for him?"

You stepped forward, matching Neytiri’s gaze. "I do not give up the sun, Sa'nok. I bring it with me. The Kekunan do not fear the shadows; we just fly above them. I will fight for your people as if they were my own, because they are my own now."

Jake let out a long, slow breath. He looked at Neteyam—the son he had tried so hard to mold into a perfect soldier—and realized that the boy had found his own way to lead. "You're a lot like your mother," Jake muttered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Headstrong. Reckless." He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, then looked at you. "Welcome to the family, Y/N. I hope you're ready for a lot of noise."

If the Omatikaya was a test of heart, the Kekunan camp was a test of fire.

As you and Neteyam landed on the main communal ledge of the Kekunan cliffs, the reaction was explosive. Your people didn't do quiet disapproval. Within seconds, you were surrounded by a sea of bright yellows and screaming reds. Your brother, Ka’ru, was the first to push through the crowd, his eyes landing on Neteyam with a look of pure shock.

"Sister," Ka’ru barked. "What is this? Why is the forest boy wearing the mark of the bond?"

Your father, the Olo’eyktan, emerged from his dwelling. He was draped in a cloak of leonopteryx feathers, his presence as vast and intimidating as the mountains themselves. He looked at Neteyam, then at the way you stood beside him, your chin tilted high, your hand locked in his.

Behind your father stood Tswaya. The young hunter looked like he had been struck. He held a freshly killed mountain bird in his hand—a courting gift that now looked pathetic and small.

"Father," you said, your voice carrying over the whistling wind. "I have made my choice. We are mated before eywa." A roar went up from the clan—some in shock, some in outrage. Tswaya stepped forward, his face flushed. "He is a forest-walker! He does not know our ways! He cannot even fly with the grace of a fledgling!"

Neteyam stepped forward. He didn't reach for his bow. He didn't shout. He simply looked at Tswaya, then at your father. "I may be a forest-walker," Neteyam said, his voice calm amidst the storm. "But I have seen the world from your daughter's eyes. I have flown through your mists and stood at your Tree of Voices. I do not ask for your lands or your titles. I only ask to stand by her side."

Your father walked a slow circle around Neteyam. He looked at the boy's posture, the steadiness of his gaze, and the way he didn't flinch even as the Kekunan hunters hissed and brandished their spears. Here and now neteyam realized where you got your strut and intensity from.

"The Toruk Makto came to us in a time of great need," your father said, his voice deep and gravelly. "He showed us that the sky belongs to those brave enough to claim it. His son seems to have inherited that courage."

He turned to Tswaya, who was still fuming. "Tswaya, take your kill to the elders. Your courting is over. My daughter has chosen."

Your father then turned back to you, placing a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder. "You were always of the wind, Y/N. I knew the cliffs could not hold you forever. If this boy is the one you choose to fly with, then he is a brother of the Kekunan."

Ka’ru let out a loud, boisterous laugh, stepping forward to clap Neteyam on the back so hard the boy stumbled. "I told you he had a good grip! Welcome to the family, forest boy. Now, let’s see if you can eat like a Kekunan without choking!"

The tension broke. The clan began to cheer, the bright colors of their garments swirling in a celebratory dance— their screeching ikrans just as happy. You looked at Neteyam, who looked like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He pulled you close, his forehead resting against yours once more, oblivious to the chaos around you.

"We did it," he whispered.

"We haven't even started yet," you replied, your tail entwining with his. "Now you have to survive the bonding feast."

Neteyam smiled, the brightest you had ever seen. "As long as I'm with you, I can survive anything."

[ivsarchive]

absolutely fell in love w this fic omg, it's so good ( ̧⸝⸝⍢⸝⸝)ෆ

[cxffeedreamer]

𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Synopsis: Nobody danced the fine line between love and hate like Neteyam did when it came to you. Or alternatively; five times Neteyam ‘hated’ you, and one time he didn’t.

Contents: neteyam being your biggest 'hater', fluff, jealousy, mentions of injury (in brief passing), 5+1 fic (maybe?)

Word Count: 2.9k

Note: yes i used the word hate a lot i do NAWT wanna hear it. (idea came from listening to ‘Everything is romantic’ omw to uni)

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥…

Neteyam knew who he was from a young age. His parents, his grandmother, the rest of the clan made sure he did. The next Olo’eyktan, a young na’vi with a bright future, a promising warrior. He’d heard it all. And he dutifully accepted his role without question.

That didn’t mean he didn’t wish he could spend more time as what he was. A child.

He watched you with envy. Wishing he could trade his duties for the free time to go on adventures with other na’vi his age.

You, who always disappeared in the early hours of the day, only to return for supper, claiming you were on yet another “quest.”

You, who would spend all your time dawdling, choosing to explore the forests surrounding your home instead of training for your iknimaya. Your rite of passage to becoming one of the people.

You, who despite slacking off every chance you got, could still best Neteyam in every training activity. No matter how lazy you seemed, you had the talent. The potential to be as good of a warrior as Neteyam did.

He loathed it. The way the elders would bring up your name alongside his in hushed gossips about your generation of warriors. Loathed the way he couldn’t even disagree with them.

Because when all is said and done, you were an incredible warrior, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how you could beat him without breaking a sweat.

Neteyam never understood how you were so much better than him when he’d spend tenfold the amount of time you would honing his skills. It didn’t make any sense.

And he absolutely despised how your face was the first to flash in his mind when others were talking about his generation’s strongest warriors.

He swore to Eywa that he would never admit out loud how much he respected you after that. How much he admired your abilities. Because knowing you, you’d be all smug about it.

But he hated how you chose to walk the path of a healer. He thought of it as wasted potential. You could’ve been by his side as his equal. Instead choosing to hide your talent for combat, confining it to the walls of your healing tent.

Although, maybe it was for the best. He wouldn’t have to see your stupid grin every time you’d successfully complete a hunt. That stupid face that he’d be forced to see for years to come.

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧…

You had spent the better parts of your childhood training for this day. The day you could finally complete your rite of passage. Your first chance to mark your transition into adulthood.

Everyone (you and your friends) made sure Neteyam knew that they wouldn't let him live this day down if he failed his first attempt at his iknimaya. Especially when the both of you stepped forward simultaneously to begin your challenge, focused intensely on the multicoloured mountain banshees in front of you.

When your eyes landed on one, slightly tucked away behind a few others, it stared back, a piercing screech cutting through the air as surrounding ikran began taking flight.

Neteyam watched as you almost immediately found your ikran, his eyes still searching for one of his own, eyes finally locking with one.

He watched as you swiftly muzzled the ikran, mounting yourself on its back as it fought back, desperately trying to undo the binds around its snout. The way you quickly made tsaheylu without a moment's hesitation.

He hated the sound of your scream as the banshee dove off the cliff with you on its back, the chance to complete your iknimaya and earn the title of ikran makto. The way he couldn't check whether you were okay or plummeting to your death without risking his own life.

When he finally made tsaheylu with his ikran, his first thoughts weren't to show off that he had completed his rite. It was to calm his frayed nerves, to see for himself that you were safe.

As if his ikran understood already, it took a nosedive off the edge of the floating mountain, only pulling out of it when he was a mere inches away from colliding with another set of floating rocks.

His head immediately snapped towards the sound of cheering. Your cheering. When he turned to look beside him, he saw a bright flash of colour. The colour he had seen minutes prior dive off the ledge that had left a sense of dread that settled in his stomach as he thought of the worst case scenario.

You settled into a steady pace beside him, eventually landing back on the edge of the floating mountain, cheers from your fellow warriors erupting around the two of you.

Neteyam hated you. Not because you had bonded with an ikran and beaten him (in his books) yet again.

But because the thought of you dying in front of his very eyes terrified him more than he would've ever thought, because he looked for you first when he successfully completed his iknimaya. Not his friends, not his younger siblings, not even his father whom he desperately wanted to please.

He hates that your reaction to him completing his rite meant more to him than anyone else.

Not that he'd admit it out loud.

As if it couldn’t get any worse for the boy? His ikran was mated. To none other than your brightly coloured banshee. Meaning the two of you were almost always beside each other in flight formations.

Neteyam swore from that day onwards that Eywa had it out for him.

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞…

There was nothing Neteyam hated more than finding himself in his grandmother’s tent, watching you dance around with practiced ease. Your graceful, methodical movements held purpose as you grabbed everything you needed before turning to him.

Why did you just have to excel at everything you did? You had learned the ways of a healer in mere months, working your way up to now learn directly from his grandmother.

And why was he always the one you tried new recipes on? Surely he didn't visit the healers quarters that often...

As much as he really didn't want to stroke your ego, the ointments and salves that you'd test on him always worked better than he thought. He couldn't even remember he was injured within the next few days.

Sometimes he’d have the misfortune of being treated solely by you, left alone by his grandmother as you’d rub salves across his injuries. The heat of your fingertips leaving him painfully aware of his surroundings.

You’d let out quiet teasing comments as you massaged the ointments into his skin. The mighty warrior being so reckless with himself on hunts and missions, leaving him exposed in front of you.

He’d let out small hisses as you’d cover more tender areas. Mentally cursing himself for allowing you to see this part of him that he tries so desperately to keep hidden from everyone in the clan.

Yet he slowly eased up as you continued, the tension leaving his shoulders and he felt your touch. He knew you could feel it too.

The poor boy knew you’d hold moments like these over his head 'til the day he died.

He could practically hear the amused chuckles, the hushed whispers that would follow him for the remainder of the day once he left your tent. Because for Eywa knows why, he was always treated by you if not his grandmother. Not another elder, not his sister, just you.

But what he hated the most about having you as the one who would tend to his injuries, was the fact that he knew you would keep moments like these secret. You could tease him all you want, but you wouldn't tell a soul about anything that happened between the two of you in your healing tent.

He knew that he didn't have to worry about any unwanted attention directed his way afterwards, that you respected him and his privacy as much as he did you.

He hated you for being the way you were. For being someone he could feel himself relax with. Someone he didn't have to worry about putting a front up to.

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧…

He hates this. Hates you for and your ridiculously flirty comments towards him. Hates himself for being unable to control his heart rate whenever he hears them. And he absolutely despises the young na'vi that's been following you around like a lost viperwolf pup.

The boy had been by your side practically every second of the day ever since you saved his life after a raid gone wrong.

That was weeks ago.

He couldn't even go to you when he needed to be patched up anymore.

He was rigid the first time he walked into your quarters and saw him sitting beside you as you explained the best healing techniques. And you noticed how tense he was the whole time with the additional presence.

He hated how your once private moments were now being turned into teaching lessons in a party of three.

Curse you for noticing. Because after that you passed the word to his grandmother, ensuring she was the one to tend to him instead of you.

But what really ticked Neteyam off was the fact that you were entertaining the boy. You allowed him to follow you around, smiling and laughing at things he said, inviting him out when you left the village to gather supplies for healing.

You used to ask him to go with you. Granted, he waved you off every time, claiming he had duties to finish when in reality, all he was really doing was ignoring the way his heartrate would spike around you.

Now it was like he was a mere afterthought.

Perhaps it was his fault. He'd been so wrapped up in whatever you made him feel and how to get it under control that he had completely brushed your feelings off.

Neteyam absolutely hated you for just existing at this point. Because how could one person know everything about him when nobody else did. Not even his family.

He hated that your absence left such a big gap in his daily life. He hated that he'd grown so accustomed to having you constantly around. And he absolutely hated the way his heart ached at each laugh and smile that others could pull from you during times you used to spend by his side.

But there’s no way he was in over his head. You had to feel it too. The connection, the spark. There was no way you didn’t. So why were you just acting like he was the same as every other na’vi you talked to?

He almost tripped over himself when he heard whispers of another na’vi wishing to court you. Moments from his younger years playing through his mind.

You when you'd beat him in hand to hand combat. Your smile as the two of you flew beside each other after completing your iknimaya. Your gentle hands across his back as you tended to his injuries.

But Neteyam hated you. Everything about you. That dumb smile and those sweet words you’d whisper. You infuriated him.

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧…

You’ve cursed him. At least that’s what he told himself.

And how did he come to this conclusion you may ask?

Because as of recently, he’s been unable to get you out of his head. Everything he did somehow reminded the poor boy of you.

His apparent distress was very noticeable as well. His grandma noticed the way his eyes snapped to the entrance of the hut. Almost as if hoping it was someone in specific.

He brushed her off when she gently asked about it.

His siblings noticed how much of a pushover he’d been as of lately. He hardly scolded Lo’ak when he did something stupid. Didn’t stop Kiri from wandering the forest on her own. He didn’t even try to decline Tuk when she asked him to play dress up with her.

They even cornered him after another week passed of complete compliance. Forced him to spit out whatever had him so dazed.

He wished he could give them an answer. But truthfully, he hardly knew himself what was happening. Everything was attacking him all at once. And knowing his siblings, they wouldn’t let him live it down.

Neteyam knew something was wrong when his father pulled him aside, asking him if everything was okay. Telling him he had a distant look in his eyes.

He tried brushing it off, convincing himself more than his father that everything was fine. That he was just tired.

But the way his head turned to Jake at the mere mention of your name told a completely different story.

The boy immediately tried to play it off, covering his anticipation with a cough. But his father already clocked it.

Turns out he and Neytiri had their suspicions about the pair of you for years. You were the only one Neteyam seemed to deem worthy of mention over meals. The only one they noticed to have the skills to rival their son’s.

You pushed him to be stronger, better. Without knowing it, he had shaped himself into the na’vi he was in the best ways possible because of you.

Neteyam thought about it. About having you by his side all these years. All the times he’d dust himself off after having his ass handed to him. When he’d seek you out to tend to his injuries over others (he always claimed it was because you were probably with his grandmother anyways).

He thought about how he hated all those moments. Or… how he thought he did.

Jake seemed to notice the gears turning in his son’s head and let out a chuckle, patting him on the shoulder.

‘You know what you have to do.’ He offered a small smile as he dismissed Neteyam for the rest of the training session.

Did he? Not really. Was he going to try anyways? Yes, yes he was.

It didn’t take him long to find you chatting with that same skxawng that wouldn’t leave you alone. The anger that bubbled in his chest as he saw you smile at someone else practically confirmed his feelings for you.

He pulled you aside, not even bothering to excuse himself in front of the other na’vi boy.

For a moment, he just stared at you. At the face he spent years convincing himself he hated. At the one he fell for somewhere while dancing along the line between love and hate.

Neteyam didn’t wait for you to speak—to question why he abruptly interrupted your conversation with the other boy. He just went for it.

Truthfully, the boy had absolutely no idea where to start. The whole situation only happened because of an impulsive decision. But that didn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

Somewhere along the lines of ‘I hate you.’ and ‘I see you,’ Neteyam had lost track of what he was saying. It wasn’t until you physically cut him off that his mind caught up to his mouth.

You kissed him. Gentle, fierce, so sure of yourself. It was so… you.

He hated you. Hated the way his knees nearly gave out on him as you returned his feelings, the way your smile had his heart pounding in his ears.

Neteyam hated how much he loved you.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜

How Neteyam ended up in this position was beyond him. With you lying next to him, his arm around you, looking up at the stars.

But he was by no means complaining. In fact, he was savouring every second of it.

His eyes flicked between you and the sky above, thoughts racing in his mind. Thoughts about how stupid he was. How he could’ve lived like this—with you like this with him—a long time ago.

Because his feelings were always present. Dormant beneath his ribcage, covered with the excuse of rivalry and hatred. He knew they were there. Just didn’t want to admit it.

You gave him such a hard time about how long it took for him to come to terms with his feelings.

Despite it all, he didn’t regret a single thing. He grew to love it all.

You and your stupidly smug grin as you’d hold up the first catch of the hunt. He adored the sparkle in your eyes knowing your skills had shone through again.

The way the two of you were forced beside each other during flight formations because both of your ikran couldn’t be apart from each other for longer than they absolutely needed to. He silently learned to appreciate knowing you’d be nearby, watching his back during raids.

Your experienced hands that he used to hate feeling all over him. The gentle touch he had come to savour as the heat your fingers left cut through the sting of the treatments.

How jealousy took over his sense of reason every time he saw you smile at something another boy said. He never learned to love the ugly feeling it left in his chest, he just knew he trusted you, and he loved you for your loyalty.

He used to hate the way you slowly consumed his thoughts. The way everything he did reminded him of you. Yet slowly, he accepted it as the days went on. His thoughts of you pushed him to do his best.

No matter how ridiculous you were, or how infuriating you could be, you were wholeheartedly his. He wouldn’t trade that fact for the entirety of Pandora.

He loved you. Your quirks, your strength, even the stubbornness that challenged his. He didn’t know why, or how. He just did. And he learned to let the feeling blossom as your relationship grew.

Neteyam didn’t know what he did in his past life to earn you in this one, but he prayed to Eywa that he could work hard enough to earn you again in the next. And every one that followed.

Because Neteyam did not in fact hate you. He loved you more than words could describe.

[ivsarchive]

his hatred stems from knowing so well, from noticing too closely and good god, this is so fucking good (˶>˶˶<˶)

[lilacnavi]

you’re beautiful

pairings: aged up neteyam x mangkwan female reader

notes: obsessed neteyam, gradual dark neteyam, reader is varang’s mean younger sister, manipulation, angst/comfort, miscommunication trope, forbidden lovers, neteyam is a literal yearner, reader is realistic, love at first sight for neteyam, selective amnesia, reader is disgusted by neteyam’s demon blood, betrayal, smut & suggestive themes, p in v sex, themes of noncon & dubcon, breeding, spitting, tummy bulge, big dick neteyam.

word count: 34.5k (i literally have no brain juice anymore)

prompt: from the moment you had your blade pressed against his neck, all he could think of was how beautiful you are. he does not care if you’re a mangkwan and he does not care if you are disgusted by him, you are what he wants even if he has to go to extreme lengths to get you.

selective amnesia series: neteyam | ao’nung | lo’ak

main masterlist | neteyam masterlist

credits to @uzmacchiato (divider)

The dense canopy of Pandora's forest filtered the midday sun into dappled shafts of light casting shifting patterns on the undergrowth as Neteyam soared above on his ikran. His form honed by years of vigilant scouting, blended seamlessly with the creature's sleek blue hide, his golden eyes scanning the perimeters of Omatikaya territory with unwavering focus. The wind whipped through his braided hair carrying the earthy scent of moss and distant rain but today, an unfamiliar tension hummed in the air like Eywa herself was holding her breath.

A flicker of movement below caught his sharp gaze. A cluster of Na'vi figures darting through the underbrush, their movements predatory and coordinated. He signaled his ikran with a subtle shift of his thighs and the beast banked sharply, descending in a controlled spiral toward a concealed ledge. Wings folded with a soft rustle as he dismounted, his bare feet silent on the mossy ground. Crouching behind a thick fern and bow already in hand, Neteyam peered through the leaves, his heart steady but alert.

What he witnessed chilled him.

A raiding party from the Mangkwan clan of fierce warriors painted in ritualistic ash, their bodies smeared with the dark residue of volcanic soil that marked their savage tradition. They had ambushed a small group of Olangi travelers. The Olangi clan, a peaceful foragers from a neighboring grove, were outnumbered and overwhelmed, their pleas echoing faintly through the trees. The Mangkwans moved with brutal efficiency, spears glinting as they subdued their prey but it was the figure at the center that seized Neteyam's breath.

You.

Leading the raid with an air of unchallenged authority, your form cut an intoxicating silhouette against the chaos. Ash coated your skin like a second hide, obscuring the true hue beneath in swirling patterns that accentuated the sharp angles of your jaw. Even veiled in grime, your beauty pierced through with full lips curved in a predatory smile and eyes like smoldering embers, scanning the fray with calculated glee. Your body was clad in minimal hides, a beaded top that strained against the soft perky swell of your breasts, rising and falling with each commanding breath, and a loincloth that hugged the firm curve of your hips revealing toned legs braced for action.

Neteyam found himself entranced, curiosity gnawing at him. What lay under that ash? Smooth azure skin perhaps, glowing with the vitality of your clan or something rarer, more alluring?

But beauty masked cruelty.

He watched as you circled a kneeling Olangi male, his kuru held taut by one of your warriors.

The victim's pleas tumbled out in desperate sobs. "Please we mean no harm. Eywa, mercy!"

Your laughter rang out, mean and cutting, a sharp trill that sliced through the air like a blade. "Your goddess has no dominion here."

It wasn't joyous, it was mocking and laced with sadistic delight as you raised your obsidian knife, the edge catching the light. The Mangkwans deferred to you utterly, their eyes on you as if you were their spiritual guide yet Neteyam knew you weren’t the clan’s leader.

During a prior scouting run with his father, Jake had pointed out Varang, the true Tsahìk of the Mangkwans. Tall and imposing with an aura of unyielding command. That wasn't you. So who were you? Varang's kin perhaps her younger sister, wielding influence through blood ties? Or a favored enforcer, a prized weapon in her arsenal? The mystery only deepened his fixation, his gaze lingering on the way your ash-streaked arms flexed, muscles coiling like vines ready to strike.

The Olangi's kuru dangled vulnerably, the warrior presenting it for your ritual severing. A fate worse than death was severing one's bond with Eywa. Neteyam's jaw tightened with a surge of protectiveness igniting in his chest and he couldn't stand by. Nocking an arrow with fluid precision, he drew back the bowstring with the familiar creak grounding him. His aim was true, released with a whisper, the shaft flew straight and embedding in the hand of the Mangkwan holding the kuru. The warrior yelped dropping the kuru as blood welled while the Olangi collapsed in shock.

You hissed sharply in a venomous sound that reverberated through the trees, your head snapping toward the underbrush where the arrow had originated. Your ember eyes narrowed, piercing the foliage as if you could will the shadows to part. Though the leaves concealed him, your stare felt like it locked onto his golden ones, a challenge unspoken.

Neteyam held his breath, pulse thundering in his ears.

"How amusing." You chuckled lowly, the sound dripping with dark amusement with the thrill of the hunt sparking in your veins, your lips twisting into a smirk that revealed sharp canines.

Shifting your attention, you glanced at the injured warrior clutching his hand with pain etching his features.

"Tend to that." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand, voice cool and authoritative boredom masking your intrigue.

No time for weakness in my ranks.

Grinning to yourself with a secretive curve of your mouth that hinted at games yet to play, you barked orders to your group. "Retreat! Take what we came for."

The Mangkwans obeyed instantly, their weapon’s clubs thudding against Olangi skulls to knock them unconscious. Greedy hands snatching woven satchels of herbs, glowing crystals, and carved totems as prizes of the raid. They melted into the forest like smoke but you lingered a moment, casting one final lingering look toward Neteyam's hiding spot. Your smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with promise of a predator sensing prey nearby before you turned, your form vanishing into the green.

Neteyam exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a heartbeat as his muscles uncoiled with relief washing over him. Slumping against the fern, he berated his caution for being too close and too reckless. The raid's echoes faded leaving only the rustle of leaves.

Then cold steel kissed his throat.

His golden eyes flew open, meeting yours up close. Sadistic glee swirling in their depths like storm clouds over the sea. You had circled silently, a shadow among shadows, your blade now pressed under his chin, tilting his head back against the earth. The ash on your face cracked slightly with your predatory smile, revealing glimpses of smoother skin beneath that was flushed with exertion.

The bow and arrows lay discarded beside him, the telltale fletching matching the one that embedded in your warrior's hand.

"Nice shot, forest boy." You purred, voice laced with mocking admiration and excitement bubbling beneath the snarl, your breath warm against his skin. "Had a good time interrupting my fun?"

He didn't answer, lips pressed into a thin line, inwardly cursing his lapse. How had you slipped past? His body tensed beneath you but he held still and assessing.

You tsked, a sharp disappointed sound, your snarl twisting your features as you surged forward. With effortless strength, you pinned him to the ground. Your knee digging into his abdomen, the blade you held angling deeper. Its tip pricking his flesh just enough to draw a thin bead of blood. The metallic tang mingled with the forest's humidity, your weight settling over him dominantly, your thighs clamping his waist in a vise of muscle and heat.

From this vantage, you were breathtaking.

The ash smeared across your cheeks like war paint but the proximity unveiled nuances. The delicate slope of your nose, the way your braids framed your face and swaying with each controlled breath. Your body pressed against his firm one, soft perky breasts heaving through the scant hide while your thighs hugged him possessively, the firm ridges of your muscle flexing. The loincloth you wore rode up slightly in the struggle, teasing the shadowed juncture between your legs in a forbidden glimpse that stirred something primal in him.

Neteyam's gaze betrayed him, trailing downward despite the danger. Over the generous curve of your breasts, your nipples faintly outlined against the fabric from the adrenaline rush then to the powerful expanse of your thighs gripping him like you owned him already.

You hissed again, low and threatening as irritation flared hot in your being, the sound vibrating through your chest as you caught his wandering eyes. Leaning in closer with your blade steady, your face hovered inches from his. "I'll cut your throat for that."

He stared up at you dazed, the world narrowing to the beauty before him. The cruel spark in your eyes, the subtle sheen of sweat tracing a path down your neck.

Words escaped him before he could cage them, his voice rough with unintended awe. "You're beautiful."

Your eyes widened fractionally, the sadistic gleam flickering with surprise as an unwelcome heat coiled low despite yourself but you didn't falter. The blade nicked deeper against his skin, a warning as you ground your hips down experimentally, testing his resolve.

"Flattery won't save you, skxawng." You snarled though your voice held a husky edge, your curiosity warring with the cruelty you held.

The pressure of your body against his sent unwelcome sparks through both of you. His cock twitching involuntarily beneath the confines of his own coverings, your breath hitching as you felt it.

Neteyam's hands, bound by instinct not to fight yet, flexed at his sides, his golden eyes locked on yours now and unflinching. The forest seemed to hold its breath around you, the distant calls of ikran fading into irrelevance. He could smell the ash on you mingled with the wild scent of your skin, it was earthy and intoxicating.

"Why do they follow you like that?" He asked, voice steady despite the blade, deflecting while his mind raced.

Attraction bloomed dark and insistent in him, a shadow creeping over his usual honor. You weren't just beautiful, you were a storm and he found himself drawn to the eye.

You laughed then in a mean throaty sound that vibrated against him, amusement laced with dark promise shrouding it as you tilted your head to study him like prey. "Maybe you're not as foolish as you look."

Your free hand trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his toned abdomen feeling the ridges of his muscle tense. The touch was teasing and cruel, testing boundaries that doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Your breasts brushed his chest with the movement softly and enticingly, the ash transferring in faint streaks to his skin.

He swallowed hard, your blade's edge a razor reminder but his body betrayed him as his hips shifted subtly upward seeking more friction from you.

"Let me go." He murmured, though it lacked conviction as desire thread through the plea. His eyes darkening as they traced the curve of your hip and the way your loincloth shifted hinting at the heat of your cunt beneath.

"And miss this?" You countered, voice dripping with sadistic playfulness as the thrill of power surged, pressing the blade just enough to draw another drop of blood from him.

But your eyes, those ember depths, held his. A challenge, an invitation to the darkness you both sensed brewing. The raid's adrenaline still pumped through your veins, mingling with this unexpected tension, your thighs tightening around him as if to claim victory.

Neteyam's breath came ragged now, the softness of your form contrasting the hardness of your intent, igniting a fire he hadn't anticipated. In that moment amidst the ash and threat, the future Olo'eyktan's resolve cracked with a darker hunger awakening for the woman who could lead with cruelty and beauty in equal measure. The forest watched as a silent witness to the spark that could and would inevitably consume you both.

"Who are you?" He repeated, his voice a low rumble with frustration edged in fascination, refusing to yield even as the steel bit into his skin. "Why do they follow you?"

You tilted your head slowly, braids swaying like dark serpents against your ash-smeared shoulders, your expression an enigma. Your eyes were narrowed to slits, unreadable as the depths of a hidden cenote. The motion caused your torso to shift, the beaded strands of your top grazing his chest once again with a whisper of friction, your soft curves molding briefly against the hard planes of his warrior's build.

After a deliberate pause, you leaned in closer, lips parting to reveal the edge of your teeth.

"I am Varang's younger sister." You murmured, voice smooth as polished obsidian and a hint of pride sharpening the words. "Her Tsakarem."

The revelation hung between you like a taut bowstring as Neteyam's mind raced.

Tsakarem, the heir apparent, groomed to ascend if fate claimed Varang. High standing indeed, woven into the spiritual fabric of the Mangkwan with threads of power and ritual. Your authority made sense now, the way your warriors had deferred, their eyes alight with reverence. But it also sparked unwelcome questions in him. Were you already mated? Bound in tsaheylu to some brutal consort, your being entwined with another?

A surge of fury clawed at his chest but he shoved it down, his jaw clenching as he focused on the way your thighs still gripped his sides, their toned length flexing with subtle control. Your eyes flicked to his face catching the flicker of turmoil and you pressed the knife deeper, the edge singing against his flesh as the thrill of dominance coursed through you.

"What clan are you from?" You demanded, your breath ghosting over his cheek, warm and laced with the metallic tang of anticipation.

"Omatikaya." He answered, voice steady despite the sting, his gaze never leaving yours, golden depths locking with ember ones.

You threw your head back and laughed, the sound rich and mocking as it echoed through the undergrowth.

"Oh, the clan of that tawtute turned Na'vi?" You sneered lowering your face again, your lips curling in contempt. "The clan of Toruk Makto?"

"He's my father." Neteyam replied with a quiet defiance threading his tone, his pride warring with the vulnerability of your proximity as his hands twitching at his sides resisting the urge to reach up and trace the curve of your jaw.

Your grin widened, sharp and predatory, teeth flashing as you savored the revelation, a spark of malicious delight igniting. The expression transformed your features, your cheekbones sharpening and your full lips stretching over a sadistic curve making you appear even more alluring in your cruelty.

"Ah, so you're a filthy sky demon then." You hissed, voice dripping with revulsion, loathing twisting like a vine in your gut at his unpure lineage. "How disgusting."

His heart clenched painfully at the look in your eyes.

Pure unfiltered disgust as if he were tainted by his human heritage, as if he’s unworthy of the ground you straddled. It stung deeper than the blade, a rejection that fueled the shadows creeping into his soul. Yet even as pain lanced through him, he couldn't tear his gaze from the line of your neck and the way sweat beaded along your throat tracing a path down to the valley between your heaving chest.

"What is your name?" You pressed, the knife steady while your free hand now rested on his shoulder, nails digging in just enough to anchor him as curiosity sharpened your focus amid the hate.

"Neteyam." He said simply, the word escaping like a confession, resignation mingling with an undercurrent of longing.

You laughed again, meaner this time with a throaty bark that vibrated through your core.

"Neteyam, the filthy sky demon." You mocked, rolling the name on your tongue like a curse. "My sister would be pleased that I bring the kuru of Toruk Makto's son before her."

Your eyes gleamed with dark promise, imagining the trophy of his kuru severed as a symbol of Mangkwan supremacy dangling in your marui.

Panic flickered in Neteyam's chest but it warred with an unwillingness to harm you. If he fought back now, twisting free and overpowering you, his hands might mar that flawless skin and leave bruises on your arms or that captivating face. Eywa he wished for a disturbance, anything to shatter this moment without violence for you. As if the Great Mother heard his silent plea, the air stirred with the powerful beat of wings slicing through the canopy followed by urgent voices calling his name echoing from above.

"Neteyam! Where are you?" Lo'ak's shout cut through the trees laced with worry while Jake's deeper timbre joined in, commanding and steady.

Relief nearly escaped him in a breath but he held it as he watched your reaction.

You heard it too. The approaching ikran and the unmistakable cadence of Omatikaya warriors. A snarl ripped from your throat, low and feral as frustration boiled over like lava, your beautiful features twisting into a mask of fury.

"Interrupt me again next time." You growled, leaning down until your lips nearly brushed his ear, voice a venomous whisper with rage simmering beneath the threat. "And I'll have your kuru hanging from my marui."

With a fluid motion, you dismounted him, your thighs releasing their grip leaving a ghost of warmth where they'd clamped. Your body uncoiled, ash flaking from your limbs as you rose, your knife still clutched in your fist. You shot him one last glare, hateful and disgusted, eyes raking over him as if committing his form to memory for future vengeance. Then without another word you melted into the foliage, your form vanishing into the green shadows with the silent prowess of a seasoned hunter.

Neteyam lay there for a moment staring at the canopy above, the imprint of your weight lingering on his hips like a brand. He missed it already, the press of your curves and the dangerous allure of your scent. A low groan escaped him as he shifted, his arousal evident in the insistent throb beneath his loincloth, a betrayal of his body's response to your dominance.

Shaking his head to clear the haze, he sat up slowly, snatching his bow and arrows to drape across his lap to conceal the evidence of his desire.

"Bro, are you okay?" Lo'ak's voice broke the silence first, crashing through the underbrush with his usual reckless energy.

He skidded to a halt beside Neteyam, his tail flicking in concern while Jake approached more methodically. His gaze sweeping over the unconscious Olangi people sprawled nearby, their forms battered and kurus mercifully intact.

"Yeah." Neteyam replied curtly, forcing composure into his tone as he adjusted his position before rising to his feet with deliberate slowness.

Jake turned to them, his broad frame casting a long shadow, eyes sharp with paternal scrutiny.

"What happened here?" He asked, voice gravelly and worry etching lines around his eyes.

"Mangkwans raided the Olangi." Neteyam explained slinging his bow over his shoulder, the wood cool against his heated skin. "They were about to cut off their kurus. I intervened from the brush, shot an arrow to stop it."

He kept the details sparse, omitting the blade at his throat and the intoxicating weight of you atop him.

Jake tensed visibly, muscles coiling under his blue skin like a predator sensing threat. "Who was leading the raid? Varang?"

Neteyam's mind flashed to your face, those ember eyes and the cruel tilt of your lips, the ash-veiled beauty that haunted him already.

"No." He said, voice even even with the shadow of obsession stirring. "It's her sister. The Tsakarem."

Jake and Lo'ak whipped their heads toward him in unison, surprise widening their expressions.

"You saw her?" Lo'ak blurted, brows shooting up with intrigue sparking in his mischievous gaze.

Neteyam nodded once, curt and evasive.

He'd done far more than see you. He felt you, he breathed you but those truths stayed buried, coiling dark in his chest like a secret vow.

"Let's move." Jake commanded, already kneeling to check on the nearest Olangi, his hands gentle as he assessed wounds. "We need to help them. Bring them back to Omatikaya."

Neteyam inclined his head in agreement but as they gathered the dazed travelers by supporting limp arms and murmuring reassurances, his gaze drifted to the spot where you'd vanished. The undergrowth seemed to whisper your being, a siren call pulling at the edges of his honor. The future Olo'eyktan felt the first true fracture in his resolve, a darkness blooming not from duty but from the cruel beauty who'd marked him without a touch.

As ikran cries heralded their departure, he mounted his own bond-beast last, the wind carrying him homeward yet his thoughts lingered in the ash-scented wilds and chasing the ghost of your snarl.

Meanwhile, you sprinted through the tangled roots and bioluminescent vines, heart pounding with a mix of fury and something sharper, more unsettling. The forest blurred around you, the towering trees with bark etched like ancient scars turned into the familiar scorched ones but your mind replayed the encounter.

Those golden eyes staring up at you unafraid, calling you beautiful amid the threat. Disgusting sky demon, you reminded yourself, snarling under your breath as revulsion clashed with an unwelcome curiosity for the Omatikaya warrior.

Your legs pumped with relentless energy, thighs burning from the raid and the brief wrestle, the loincloth chafing against your sweat-slicked skin. Ash flaked from your arms as you vaulted a fallen log and landing with cat-like poise, your breaths coming in sharp bursts that made your chest ache.

Why had I let him live?

The question gnawed at you even as your marui came into view. Woven from volcanic fibers, perched on stilts over a steaming pool. Warriors milled about who were tending stolen goods such as the shimmering crystals piled in nets and the herbs bundled for Varang's rituals. You slowed, straightening your top where beads had shifted, exposing a sliver of your midriff, the soft undercurve of your breasts rising with each calming inhale.

Your sister's voice called from within, authoritative and probing but you waved it off, slipping inside to wash the encounter away.

Water from a nearby basin splashed over your face, rinsing rivulets of ash to reveal the true azure of your skin which was freckled with faint glowing spots that danced like stars under the dim light. You stared at your reflection in the rippling surface, cheekbones flushed from exertion, lips still curved in residual disdain, and eyes smoldering with unresolved fire.

Neteyam.

The name echoed, stirring a heat you crushed down. He was the enemy, a filthy intruder on your domain. Yet as you traced a finger along the scar on your palm from past battles, you couldn't shake the memory of his body beneath yours that’s stirring instincts you hadn't anticipated.

Varang entered then, her taller frame filling the entrance as her eyes narrowed at your disheveled state.

"Little tsmuke, the raid—success?" She asked, voice like grinding stone with concern veiled in command.

You met her gaze as you forced a smirk. "More than. We took what we needed."

Omitting the details, the blade, the almost-kill.

She nodded satisfied but you turned away, mind already plotting the next border push. Deep down though, a thread of anticipation wove through your thoughts.

Would those golden eyes seek you again?

The Tsakarem of Mangkwan didn't yield to weakness but this sky demon had cracked something open in you, a fissure where darkness and desire might mingle unchecked.

The air in the Tsahik's marui hung heavy with the scent of healing herbs, bitter yarrow and soothing aloe mingling in the steam rising from clay bowls.

Neteyam sat rigidly on a woven mat, his broad shoulders tense beneath the dim glow of suspended lanterns that cast flickering shadows across the curved walls of pandora vines. The shallow nick on his neck throbbed faintly, a reminder of your blade's kiss yet it was nothing compared to the deeper ache gnawing at his core.

His grandmother Mo'at, the revered Tsahik, was occupied elsewhere in the communal space, her hands deftly tending to the battered Olangi refugees who huddled in clusters, their faces dimmed by exhaustion and pain. Murmurs of gratitude and soft chants filled the air as she moved among them as a pillar of calm authority.

Instead, it was Alayni who attended to him, the young healer-in-training whose gentle presence had long been a fixture in his life.

She knelt before him, her slender fingers working with practiced care as she dabbed a cool poultice onto his wound. Alayni was pretty in a soft unassuming way, her eyes a warm amber that often darted shyly from beneath long lashes. Her braids were neatly bound with feathers, signifying her devotion to the healing arts and her movements were fluid and almost reverent as she applied the salve.

She had always been kind to him.

Slipping morsels of fresh fruit into his training satchel when he pushed himself too hard under the midday sun or lingering after lessons to ask about his day with a blush coloring her cheeks. His parents adored her, Neytiri saw in her the quiet strength of a future Tsahik while Jake appreciated her steadiness, a counterbalance to the chaos of their family. She was one of the potential mates they urged him to consider, especially now with his ascension to becoming Olo'eyktan looming in just a year.

Neteyam had entertained the idea once.

Alayni would make a good mate. She was loyal and nurturing, her shyness a balm to his burdens. She had expressed her interest subtly but persistently. A lingering touch during healings and invitations to walk the glowing paths at dusk, her voice soft with hope trembling in every syllable as she suggested they share a meal by the river. He had even agreed a few times out of duty, their conversations polite but devoid of the spark that now eluded him entirely.

But that was before you. Before the raid, before your ash-streaked form had pinned him down, your eyes burning with contempt that only fueled the fire in his blood.

Alayni was pretty, yes, but she paled against the vision of you. Your fierce beauty a storm to her gentle breeze, your cruelty a magnet to his unraveling restraint. He wanted you with a ferocity that bordered on madness, even after mere moments in your presence. He craved you despite the disgust twisting your lips when you spat "filthy sky demon," he craved you despite the enmity of your clans carving chasms between you. You were the enemy, a Mangkwan Tsakarem destined to lead raids that spilled Omatikaya blood, yet the thought of your thighs straddling him and your blade at his throat consumed him like a fever.

It was absurd, this pull. A betrayal of everything he stood for as the future leader but he couldn't deny it. His heart raced at the memory of your scent and his body stirred unbidden with a low heat pooling in his core.

As Alayni's fingers brushed the edge of the wound, her touch feather-light and caring, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Her amber eyes searched his golden ones, wide with unspoken affection and a flicker of longing softening her features. But Neteyam kept his stare fixed on the far wall where woven tapestries depicted Eywa's embrace, his jaw set in quiet detachment.

His mind wandered relentlessly to you.

The curve of your hips as you dismounted, the snarl that bared your teeth, and the way your laughter had vibrated through him like a challenge. How could he see you again? Touch you? The forest was vast and the borders were tense but he would find a way. He would scout the edges, risk the shadows, anything to glimpse that fire once more.

"There." Alayni murmured finally, tying off a thin strip of leaf bandage with delicate precision as satisfaction warmed her voice. Her hand lingered, sliding down to caress his arm in a gesture of concern, her palm warm against the corded muscle of his bicep. "Are you alright, Neteyam? That cut... it could have been worse."

Her fingers traced a subtle path, innocent yet hopeful, her breath catching slightly as she awaited his response. In her mind, visions danced. In a year when Jake stepped down, she could be at his side, as Tsahik to his Olo'eyktan, their kurus entwining in tsaheylu under the Tree of Souls. The thought made her pulse quicken with a giddy flutter in her chest.

Neteyam nodded curtly, his voice flat and dismissive with impatience edging his tone as he rose to his feet making the mat rustle beneath him. "I'm fine. Thank you, Alayni."

He didn't meet her eyes, already turning toward the entrance, the weight of his bow slung across his back as a familiar anchor.

"Neteyam." She called out softly standing as well, her form silhouetted against the herbal steam, disappointment tinged with persistence. "Do you want to take a walk later? The glowworms by the falls are blooming. I thought... we could talk."

Her hands clasped together twisting nervously, the beads on her wrists clinking like a plea.

He paused at the flap of the marui, the humid air of the village filtering in and carrying the distant calls of ikran. His mother would beam if he accepted, she would see it as progress toward the merging they craved. But today the will eluded him, drowned out by the echo of your mocking laugh.

"I have something to do." He replied over his shoulder, the words clipped with feign regret buried under his resolve.

"Oh." She echoed faintly, the syllable hanging like a wilted petal, a quiet hurt settling in her posture as she watched him go.

Neteyam stepped into the bustling heart of the Omatikaya village, the high trees weaving a cathedral of leaves overhead yet his thoughts plotted a solitary path. He would scout the borders at dawn and venture closer to Mangkwan lands than wisdom allowed. Risk be damned, he needed to see you again, to unravel the enigma that had ensnared him.

The next day dawned with a veil of mist clinging to the forest floor, the air crisp and alive with the symphony of awakening life.

Neteyam mounted his ikran early, the creature's leathery wings cutting through the canopy as they soared toward the contested fringes. His heart thudded with anticipation, his golden eyes scanning the terrain below from the rivers snaking like veins to the clusters of ferns hiding potential threats.

Hours passed in fruitless search. There were no raiding parties and no ash-painted warriors, only the indifferent pulse of Eywa's domain. Disappointment settled heavy in his chest in a dull ache as he urged his ikran toward home, the wind whipping his braids like accusations of folly.

Just as resignation crept in, a flash of color caught his eye. A solitary figure by the river's bend, nestled in a sun-dappled clearing. His breath hitched, deep in his gut he knew it was you.

With a sharp command, he guided the ikran into a steep dive, landing silently in a thicket nearby as the beast's talons sank into moss without a sound. Dismounting swiftly, Neteyam crept forward, his warrior's grace muting his steps as excitement pounded in his veins like war drums. The underbrush parted under his careful hands, leaves whispering secrets as he approached with his heart racing in a mix of thrill and trepidation.

There you were, reclining on a bed of soft moss beside the lazily flowing river with the water's gentle murmur as a lullaby. Clearly sleep had claimed you with your body lax in repose, unguarded in a way that stole the air from his lungs.

For the first time, your face was bare, no war paint or ash to veil your features, washed clean by the river's touch. Your true azure skin gleamed under the filtered sunlight, smooth and unmarred, dotted with subtle bioluminescent freckles that shimmered like scattered stars across your high cheekbones and the bridge of your nose. Your lips, full and slightly parted, curved in the faintest hint of relaxation, a stark contrast to the snarls he remembered. Long lashes fanned against your lids, framing eyes hidden now but etched in his memory as embers of defiance. Strands of your dark hair, freed from the raid's bindings, cascaded over the moss like midnight rivers and framing the arch of your neck.

You were breathtaking, vulnerability wrapping around your fierce beauty like a fragile shroud. Out here alone with only the river as sentinel, you seemed almost ethereal. Chest rising and falling in slow even rhythms, the soft swell of your breasts straining gently against the thin weave of your top with each breath. No armor, no blade in hand, just you exposed to the world, exposed to him. Anyone could stumble upon you like this. A hunter, a rival, a man like him and do... something.

The thought sent fury through Neteyam, his gaze lingering with possession and hunger. His eyes trailed downward, drinking in the rest of you with unrestrained fervor.

Your arms were folded loosely beneath your head, elbows bent revealing the toned length of your limbs, muscles subtly defined from years of wielding weapons and commanding warriors. The curve of your waist dipped invitingly where your top rode up slightly exposing a sliver of taut midriff, the skin there flawless and warm-toned as if inviting touch. Your legs stretched out languidly, one knee bent in sleep, the other straight showcasing the powerful thighs that had pinned him so effectively and was now relaxed, their azure expanse glowing faintly in the light. The loincloth rode high on your hips, simple yet accentuating the flare of your form with the fabric clinging to the subtle contours beneath.

Every inch of you spoke of strength wrapped in allure like a siren in repose and Neteyam's breath grew shallow. His body responding with a surge of heat, fists clenching at his sides to restrain the urge to close the distance.

You stirred faintly in your slumber with a soft sigh escaping your lips as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead but your eyes remained closed and lost in dreams unknown.

Neteyam lowered himself silently onto the moss beside you, the soft earth yielding under his weight like a conspirator in his forbidden vigil. The river's gentle current whispered nearby, a serene counterpoint to the storm raging within him.

His golden eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed first on the rise and fall of your chest then drifted upward to your face. His gaze lingered on those parted lips which was plush and inviting, a stark vulnerability amid your warrior's form. They begged to be claimed and the thought sent a shiver through his frame making his tail flick restlessly behind him.

Lower still, his eyes traced the delicate beaded necklace top that clung to your torso. The strands of iridescent woven fibers draping just enough to shield the peaks of your breasts from full view. Yet the swell of them was evident, they were firm and rounded as they rise with each breath in a rhythm that mesmerized him. The azure curves peeking teasingly at the edges where the beads shifted. They were soft yet perky, a contradiction to the ferocity he knew you wielded and he imagined their weight in his palms, imagined the warmth and plushness yielding under his touch.

Further down, the simple loincloth of supple hide and vines rested high on your hips as it concealed the most intimate sanctum of your body, the place he yearned to uncover as selfish curiosity burned in him.

What secrets lay beneath that barrier?

The smooth contours of your mound perhaps flushed with the same azure hue, the delicate folds he fantasized would glisten with your essence. He wondered at the scent. Maybe it would be musky and wild like the forest after rain mingled with your unique fire and the taste? Maybe it would be sweet and tangy on his tongue, a forbidden nectar that would drive him to madness. His breath hitched, a low heat coiling in his abdomen as he shifted closer, the air between you thickening with unspoken tension.

Unable to resist any longer, Neteyam extended a hand, his callused fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that belied the darkness creeping into his soul. Your skin was impossibly soft there, like the finest moss under moonlight, and as he caressed the curve of your face, you nuzzled into his palm instinctively with a sleepy murmur escaping your lips.

The simple act undid him, it was a glimpse of innocence beneath your cruel exterior. He grinned, fangs peeking through his lips, a mix of affection and hunger lighting his features as he marveled at how cute you were in this moment when you’re stripped of your armor and snarls. This woman, who had threatened his life with such venom, now sought comfort in his touch without knowing it.

Biting his lower lip to stifle the growl building in his throat, Neteyam leaned down with his braids falling forward like dark curtains. He had to taste you just once, to etch this reality into his being. His lips pressed softly against yours in a tentative peck and the contact was electric. Your mouth yielding like ripe fruit, warm and plush that sent a jolt straight to his core.

And yet it wasn't enough, the hunger gnawed deeper within him.

Emboldened, he traced his tongue along the seam of your bottom lip lewdly and deliberately, savoring the faint saltiness before parting your lips further and sliding inside. He explored with unrestrained greed with his tongue curling against yours, sucking gently as a groan threatened to escape him from the pleasure rumbling low in his chest. The intimacy was intoxicating as if you were already mates bound in tsaheylu, your flavors mingling in a dance that blurred the lines of enemy and desire.

You stirred beneath him, a haze of sleep fracturing as awareness flooded in. Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes widening in shock at the invasion.

There he was, the Omatikaya warrior from the raid, Neteyam.

His face inches from yours, his tongue delving deep into your mouth with shameless possession. The wet heat of him and the bold suction on your tongue, it was an assault wrapped in seduction, his breath hot against your skin. Disbelief warred with fury as you registered the intimacy, your body tensing like a coiled spring. Your hands flew up to shove at his chest, your palms pressing against the firm planes of his pectorals feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath.

But Neteyam only groaned aloud now that you were awake, a sound of raw need vibrating against your lips. His large frame pinning you gently but firmly as he deepened the kiss. His mouth claimed yours harder, his tongue thrusting to muffle your rising protests as he swallowed your gasps in a fierce tangle that left you breathless. The world narrowed to the slick slide of him, the scrape of his fangs against your inner lip, and the way his body heat seeped into yours like an unwanted brand.

Finally he pulled back, a glistening thread of saliva bridging your lips that shimmered in the dappled light. He grinned down at you, eyes dark with triumph and yearning etched in the curve of his mouth.

"I've been searching for you." He murmured, voice husky and low with intensity lacing every word as if confessing a sacred vow.

Rage ignited in you like dry tinder to flame. With a feral snarl that bared your sharp teeth and venom dripping from the sound, you lashed out with your leg snapping up to kick him squarely in the ribs. The impact sent him reeling sideways with a grunt escaping him as he rolled onto the moss. Your hands scrambled to your side, fingers closing around the hilt of your dagger before yanking it free in a blur of motion. You surged to your feet, blade glinting as you loomed over him. Your form coiled for violence and breasts heaving with each furious breath that strained against the beaded top you wore much to his delight.

"You filthy demon." You hissed, voice laced with disgust and hatred sharpening your tone like your weapon, the dagger you held poised at his throat. "How dare you do that to me? Touch me like some lowly beast in heat?"

Your free hand wiped at your mouth as if to erase the lingering taste of him but the flush creeping up your neck betrayed a flicker of something else. Intrigue at the boldness of his claim and the way his words hung in the air like a challenge.

Neteyam didn't flinch even as the tip of your blade nicked his skin anew, a thin bead of blood welling up. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his muscular torso flexing under the thin straps of his chest covering as his golden eyes locked on yours with unyielding fervor.

"I can't stop thinking about you." He confessed, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered with desperation underscoring his plea. "From the moment you pinned me down, your fire... it haunts me. Tell me your name. Let me know who has captured me so completely."

His gaze roamed your form again, not with shame but with open yearning. Tracing the wild tangle of your hair framing your furious expression, the taut lines of your abdomen glistening with a sheen of river mist, and the powerful stance of your legs planted wide in defiance.

Disgust roiled in your gut, hot and acrid, at this Omatikaya intruder who dared invade your solitude and your body with such audacity. He was the enemy, son of the sky demon Toruk Makto, a threat to your clan's dominance and yet, the memory of his tongue and the heat of his mouth lingered like a poison you couldn't quite spit out. Intrigue twisted through the revulsion, what madness drove him to seek you out and kiss you as if you were his destined one?

Your grip tightened on the dagger, your knuckles paling as fury warred with a treacherous curiosity in your eyes.

"You think you can waltz in here and claim what isn't yours?" You spat stepping closer, the blade pressing harder against his jugular. "I should gut you here, leave your corpse for the viwiswasp to feast on. You're nothing but a pest, a filthy sky spawn with delusions."

But even as the words lashed out, mean and cutting, a part of you hesitated. The way his chest rose and fell mirroring your own ragged breaths, the earnest plea in his voice that clashed with the warrior's resolve. You wanted to kill him, to end this absurdity with a swift strike, to reclaim the control he'd stolen in that kiss. Your arm trembled slightly, your beauty twisted into something lethal as your lips curled in a sneer, and eyes blazing with the cruelty that defined you as Varang's sister, the Tsakarem destined to lead with iron will.

Neteyam's hand rose slowly, not to defend but to reach for you, fingers brushing the air near your wrist with longing softening the edges of his gaze.

"Kill me if you must." He whispered, voice thick with emotion and dark passion fueling his defiance. "But know that even in death, I'd want you. Your fire, your cruelty, all of it. You're no enemy to me, you're the one who's awakened something I can't ignore. Your name... please."

He wanted to love you, to pull you into his world of shadows and bind you there, consequences be damned.

Your heart thundered in your ears, a war drum echoing the chaos of betrayal and unwanted heat that his touch had ignited. The dagger trembled in your grasp, its razor edge kissing the pulse point at Neteyam's throat where his azure skin flushed with a mix of exertion and unbridled want. His golden eyes held yours unblinking, a predator's stare that refused to yield even in the face of death.

If giving him this scrap of yourself, of your name, would sever this madness then so be it.

"If I tell you my name…" You growled, voice low and edged with finality as threat wove through each syllable like thorns. "You must leave me alone. Swear it on Eywa or I'll carve your heart out here and now."

But you didn't wait for his oath, the words spilling from your lips like venom you needed to purge.

"(Y/N). Now leave me be or I'll make sure you die by my blade."

The name hung in the humid air, a reluctant offering that tasted like ash on your tongue. Your lips curled into a savage snarl, fury twisting your features and fangs glinting as you wrenched the dagger away to spun on your heel. Your bare feet sank into the cool moss, propelling you toward the river's edge where the water's gleam promised escape from his suffocating presence. Every muscle in your body coiled with the urge to flee, your hips swaying in a warrior's stride, and the loincloth brushing against your thighs like a reminder of the vulnerability he'd exploited.

"I can't do that." Neteyam called after you, his voice a rough timbre that cut through the rustle of leaves as desperation cracked the edges of his resolve.

He rose fluidly, his form unfolding like a shadow detaching from the earth with broad shoulders rolling as he took a step forward, clearly undeterred by the blood trickling down his neck.

You whirled around with disbelief flooding your veins like ice water, your wild mane of braids whipping across your shoulders in a dark cascade. The motion made your beaded top shift, the shells clinking softly against the curves of your chest which draw his gaze for a fleeting heated instant before you jabbed the dagger toward him accusingly.

"Why do you keep insisting?" You demanded, your voice rising in incredulous outrage while your confusion sharpened into a blade of its own. "Are you stupid, forest boy? We are enemies, I’m born of a clan that spills blood for sport and yet you want me?"

Your free hand gestured wildly between you, emphasizing the chasm that no words could bridge. Beauty radiated from you even in anger, the full swell of your mouth still tinged with the ghost of his kiss and a flush blooming across your collarbones like forbidden wildflowers.

"You and I could never be." You continued, the words lashing out with cruel precision, scorn dripping from your tone like poison. "My sister, Varang, would sooner see you flayed alive than accept you as the one to claim her tsmuke. She'd rip out your eyes for even dreaming it. And your precious Omatikaya? They'd never accept me. A Mangkwan, the Tsakarem who leads raids into your lands. What a fool you are, chasing shadows that will only lead you to ruin."

In your mind, he was a pathetic spectacle. This golden-eyed warrior, the son of legends, reduced to begging at the feet of his foe. His persistence grated against your pride, a fool's errand that mocked the iron walls you'd built around your heart. You turned away again with your shoulders squared, the dagger sheathed at your hip with a decisive snap and determined to outrun his folly.

"I don't care." Neteyam replied, his words steady and unyielding, a quiet fire burning beneath the surface as he stepped closer until the heat of his body brushed the air at your back.

But you didn't listen nor did let the plea sink in. You vanished into the underbrush, the forest swallowing you whole leaving him with the echo of your name and the sting of rejection.

Ever since that day, he haunted your steps like a specter woven from Pandora's own mists. Neteyam followed you through the tangled wilds of Mangkwan territory as a silent shadow at times, his presence a prickle at the nape of your neck when you scouted alone. Other moments, he'd emerge from the foliage, voice soft yet insistent, murmuring words meant to chip away at your defenses.

"The way you move through the trees, it's like you're part of them." He'd say one afternoon, golden eyes tracing the graceful flex of your calves as you leaped across a fallen log and your frame twisting mid-air with effortless poise.

Or in the hush of twilight as you sharpened your arrows by a flickering fire, he'd linger at the periphery and commenting on the stars reflected in your gaze, how they mirrored the fierce spark within you.

He was persistent, a relentless force driven by a singular goal. To soften you, to peel back the layers of cruelty until the woman he'd glimpsed in your sleep, the one who nuzzled his hand, emerged fully.

His approaches varied, sometimes bold with questions about your hunts, drawing out tales of Mangkwan prowess that made your chest swell despite yourself. Other times, quiet vigils where he'd simply watch, his muscular form leaning against a trunk, the scars on his arms catching the light like badges of battles fought for a cause, now fixated on you. Each encounter left you seething yet a treacherous warmth stirred in your core. His unwavering attention a balm to the isolation of your role as Tsakarem.

Weeks blurred into a tense rhythm, his pursuit weaving into the fabric of your days until one night, under a canopy heavy with the scent of night-blooming vines, you found yourself cornered.

Not by force but by the weight of his words.

You'd been tracking a hexapede through a secluded glade, the moon casting silvery paths on the dew-kissed ferns when he appeared blocking your path with a vulnerability that disarmed you. His braids were tousled from the chase, framing a face etched with raw honesty, the broad planes of his chest rising and falling as if he'd run for miles to reach you.

"Every duty, every breath I take without you feels empty." He confessed, voice a husky murmur, longing threading through like vines around your resolve. "You're not just an enemy, (Y/N). You're the fire that lights my darkness, the cruelty that makes me feel alive. Let me show you, let me prove that clans mean nothing when Eywa binds two souls like this."

His hand reached out not to grab but to hover near yours, the calluses on his fingers speaking of battles and bows. His golden eyes locking onto your lips with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.

The air thickened, charged with the unspoken pull that had simmered since that first kiss. Against your better judgment you stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath ghosted your skin.

What was it about his persistence, the way he saw past your snarls to the beauty you wielded like a weapon?

Your body betrayed you as you leaned in, the soft peaks of your breasts brushing his chest through the thin barrier of beads sending sparks racing down your spine. His lips met yours in a tentative press then deepened as you responded, tongues tangling in a heated dance that tasted of forbidden fruit and shared secrets. Your hands fisted in his hair pulling him closer, the world fading to the firm press of his hips against yours and the low groan he emitted vibrating through you like thunder.

But reality crashed in like a tidal wave. Images of Varang's disapproving glare, the blood-soaked raids between your clans, and the impossibility of it all. You remembered who you were, the Tsakarem, Varang's unyielding sister, not some lovesick dreamer.

With a gasp you shoved him back, your palms slamming into the unyielding wall of his abdomen feeling the ripple of muscle beneath. He stumbled, eyes wide with shock and hurt, confusion flickering in their depths but you didn't let him speak.

"Do not come see me again nor follow me." You commanded, voice breaking with a mix of resolve and regret as steel hardened your tone to mask the tremor.

Your chest heaved, the beaded strands shifting with each ragged breath. You backed away, beauty sharpened by the pain of denial. Eyes stormy with unshed tears, lips swollen from the kiss, the lines of your body poised for flight.

"You and I... we could never be. Go back to your forest, Neteyam. Forget me or the next time I see you, my blade won't hesitate."

You turned and melted into the shadows leaving him kneeling in the glade, the echo of your rejection a wound deeper than any dagger could inflict. "(Y/N), wait—"

The night closed around you but his presence lingered like a scar like a persistent ache that neither distance nor denial could fully erase.

Weeks dragged on like vines choking the life from a once-vibrant tree and Neteyam hadn't caught even a whisper of your shadow flitting through the undergrowth. It was as if Eywa herself had woven you into the ether, erasing every trace of your presence from the tangled borders where your worlds collided. The forest, once a realm of purpose and patrol now felt hollow, its bioluminescent glow mocking the void you'd left in his chest.

He patrolled the edges of Omatikaya territory with mechanical precision, his bow slung across his back, but his golden eyes scanned not for threats but for the sway of a familiar form cutting through the mist-shrouded ferns.

Distraction clawed at him, a relentless predator that turned his thoughts into a storm of obsession. Training sessions blurred into forgotten commands. He'd miss cues from his father's strategies, his mind replaying the ghost of your lips against his and the way your body had arched into the kiss before rejection shattered the illusion. Your beauty haunted him, the elegant sweep of your neck as you snarled threats and the curve of your hips that spoke of battles won and raids led with unyielding command.

It consumed him, this dark hunger that twisted his once noble heart into something feral with nights spent pacing his marui pod, fingers tracing the air where your warmth had once pressed against him. Sleep evaded him replaced by visions of your eyes flashing defiance, your full mouth curving in cruel dismissal.

His family noticed the fracture in their golden son, the way his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight, his once-sharp focus dulled like a blade left too long in the rain. Meals passed in silence with his portions untouched until Lo'ak, ever the bold sibling, cornered him one evening by the central fire pit. The flames danced across their azure skin, casting flickering shadows that mirrored the turmoil in Neteyam's gaze.

Lo'ak dropped onto the woven mat beside him, his tail flicking with casual concern, lean muscles shifting under his arm bands as he leaned in.

"Bro, are you okay?" Lo'ak asked, voice laced with brotherly worry and a teasing edge softening the probe with his ears twitching forward. "You've been off lately like you're hunting ghosts or something."

Neteyam nodded absently, his jaw tightening as he poked at the embers with a stick, sparks rising like fleeting hopes. The motion was rote, his mind elsewhere and tangled in the memory of your scent.

Lo'ak wasn't convinced, his brow furrowing as he studied the distant look in his brother's eyes.

He nudged Neteyam's arm, the contact grounding but insistent. "Did something happen during the Mangkwan raid before Dad and I found you? Spill it."

Neteyam stilled, the stick snapping in his grip as the question yanked him back to that fateful clash. The ash-streaked warrior who'd pinned him with a blade, your body a taut bowstring of lethal grace. The memory ached like a fresh wound, your name a thorn embedded deep in his being.

He exhaled sharply, golden eyes darkening with the weight of confession.

"The Tsakarem of Mangkwan." He murmured, voice rough with longing, a raw edge betraying the storm within him. "I want her. (Y/N)."

Lo'ak's eyes widened stupefied, his mouth parting in shock as he processed the impossibility. His golden brother, the perfect heir, ensnared by an enemy? The very heart of Mangkwan cruelty?

He leaned back running a hand through his braids as disbelief etched lines across his face. "Bro... you know Dad and Mom would never approve. She's one of them. The ones who raid our allies, spill blood like it's water. What the hell, Neteyam?"

Neteyam's jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly under his skin, a fortress against the truth that echoed your own words like a cruel refrain.

He knew it, his Dad’s stern lectures on duty, his Mom’s unyielding gaze on clan purity but it did nothing to quench the fire you'd ignited. Your rejection replayed in his mind, the push of your hands against his chest, and the storm in your eyes as you declared your worlds irreconcilable. It only fueled the madness in him, making him crave the challenge of breaking through your walls.

As the brothers' tense exchange hung in the air, a soft rustle drew their attention.

Alayni emerged from the shadows of the surrounding pods, her steps hesitant and shy glances darting toward Neteyam like fireflies seeking light. Her frame was draped in healer's vines, the gentle swell of her hips swaying with quiet grace, her face framed by loose tendrils that caught the firelight and highlighting the soft blush on her cheeks. She carried a small pouch of herbs in a pretext for her approach but her eyes betrayed the deeper intent.

Lo'ak spotted her first, a mischievous grin splitting his face as he clapped Neteyam on the shoulder, the pat teasing and knowing amusement dancing in his tone. "Looks like your admirer is here for you. Don't mess this up, golden boy."

With a wink, he rose and sauntered off leaving Neteyam to the awkward solitude.

Neteyam rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his features but he schooled his expression as Alayni settled beside him. Closer than usual, her knee brushing his thigh in a tentative claim of space. The warmth of her proximity was gentle and unthreatening, her fingers twisting the pouch nervously as she met his gaze.

"How are you?" She asked softly, voice a melodic lilt with shyness threading through like delicate vines as her full lips curved in a hopeful smile. "It feels like I haven't seen you around since I treated your wound. You've been... distant."

Neteyam shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting in a noncommittal motion making the scars on his arms flex subtly under the fire's glow.

"Duties." He replied curtly, voice flat as an evasion masking the turmoil, his mind already drifting back to you, the one whose touch lingered like a brand.

Alayni leaned in slightly, her breath warm against his ear preparing to bridge the gap with words of care, her hand hovering near his as if to offer solace. But before she could speak, shouts erupted from the tree line with harsh cries of victory and the thud of bound feet against the earth.

Neteyam's head snapped up, heart thudding against his ribs like a war drum as he spotted his father and the warriors returning, their forms silhouetted against the fading light.

The captives trailed behind, ash-streaked skins marking them as Mangkwan raiders, their bodies slumped in defeat. Five in total, wrists bound with sturdy vines but one sight stopped Neteyam's breath.

You.

Unconscious, your form cradled in the arms of a warrior with your head lolling against his chest, the ash paint smudged across your high cheekbones and the elegant line of your jaw. Your braids hung limp framing a face pale from exhaustion, the resilient curves of your body draped in tattered raiding gear that clung to the subtle flare of your waist and the firm strength of your thighs.

The others were dragged roughly but you were carried like a precious cargo even in enmity.

He scrambled to his feet, abandoning Alayni mid-breath, her confused expression lost in his haste. Legs pumping, he wove through the gathering crowd following Jake and the warriors into the large containment hut at the village's edge. The structure loomed, woven from sturdy branches and hides, its interior dim and partitioned for holding foes.

The captives were deposited inside. The four males shoved into a far corner with their glares defiant as their hisses of Mangkwan curses filled the air.

You were placed apart in a secluded alcove screened by a heavy cloth drape, your unconscious form laid gently on a mat of woven reeds. The warrior who carried you stepped back wiping sweat from his brow as Jake oversaw the securing of the space.

"Dad, what happened?" Neteyam demanded, voice edged with urgency and concern sharpening his tone like a drawn arrow as he stepped into the hut's shadowed confines with his tail lashing behind him.

Jake turned, his massive frame blocking the entrance momentarily, his eyes weary from the skirmish but sharp with command.

He wiped a streak of dirt from his arm, the muscles there corded from years of battle. "We were about to capture Varang. Had her cornered in the ravine but the female blocked it, took the hit meant for her. Bought enough time for their Tsahik to escape."

The female. You. The only one among them, your role as shield a testament to the fierce loyalty that bound you to your sister in fire and ash.

Neteyam's gaze flicked to your still form, hidden now behind the cloth and a pang twisted in his gut.

"She's the Tsakarem." He supplied, the words heavy with a mix of protectiveness and dread lacing his revelation.

Jake's eyes widened, surprise flashing across his stern features as he processed the implications, his hand pausing mid-gesture. "She's important to the Mangkwans then. Varang will probably come after her. Ransom or rescue, doesn't matter. We can't let that slide."

"She will." Neteyam confirmed stepping closer, his voice low and resolute, the ache of your vulnerability fueling his words. "That's her younger sister. Varang won't rest until she's free."

Jake nodded at the confirmation, his expression hardening into strategic resolve, clapping a hand on Neteyam's shoulder in brief solidarity. "We will keep a tight watch then. I'll ask them questions later. See what we can pry loose about their next moves."

With that he turned and strode out, the warriors filing after him leaving the hut in tense silence broken only by the captives' low growls from the corner.

Neteyam lingered, the air thick with the scent of sweat and earth from the raid. He approached your alcove parting the cloth with a steady hand, the fabric whispering against his fingers. There you lay tied loosely at wrists and ankles to prevent escape upon waking. Vines that bit gently into your skin, marked by fresh bruises blooming like dark petals along your arms and the arch of your collarbone.

Still as beautiful as he remembered, even in captivity. Your lashes fanned against your cheeks, full lips parted slightly in unconscious repose, the soft rise and fall of your chest drawing his eye to the swell beneath your disheveled top, and beads scattered like fallen stars.

He wanted to see you again, to clash words and wills in the wild freedom of the forest but not like this. Bound and broken at the mercy of his clan. Not with his family's eyes now fixed on you as a prize in their war. Kneeling beside you, the mat dipping under his weight as he reached out, callused fingers tracing the curve of your cheek and brushing away a smudge of ash to reveal the smooth glow beneath. Your skin was warm, alive with the pulse he knew so well, and the touch sent a shiver through him as desire warred with regret.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Gentle and lingering, tasting the faint salt of battle and the sweetness he'd stolen before.

"Foolish girl." He whispered against your mouth, tenderness laced with dark possession as his breath mingled with yours in the dim light.

The words were a caress and a claim, his thumb stroking the plush line of your lower lip as he pulled back, golden eyes devouring the sight of you vulnerable yet unbroken. In this moment with the world outside plotting your fate, he vowed silently to shield you. From his clan, from Varang's wrath, from everything but the bond that refused to die.

You stirred faintly under his touch, a soft murmur escaping your throat but consciousness eluded you still. Neteyam remained, a sentinel in the shadows, his heart a battlefield where love and enmity bled into one.

Hours slipped by in the dim hush of the containment hut, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering smoke from the raid. Flickering torchlight danced across the woven walls, casting elongated shadows that twisted like serpents in the undergrowth.

You stirred slowly, the haze of unconsciousness peeling away to reveal the ache throbbing through your limbs, a dull fire from the blow that had felled you, protecting Varang's escape. Your eyelids fluttered open, gaze sharpening as the world came into focus. The sturdy reeds beneath you, the vines binding your wrists and ankles in a loose but unyielding embrace, and worst of all, the two figures looming nearby.

Neteyam knelt close, his golden eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on hunger, broad shoulders tense under his warrior's harness, the lean cords of muscle in his arms flexing as he leaned forward. Beside him stood Jake Sully, Toruk Makto, his massive frame radiating authority, scarred torso marked by battles long past, tail swaying with restrained impatience.

A snarl ripped from your throat, low and feral disgust curling your lips like a predator's warning, your body coiling against the restraints as you bared your teeth. The sight of them, your captors and enemies, ignited a blaze in your chest, your form tensing, the subtle strength in your thighs pressing against the mat as you tested the bonds.

Jake crossed his arms, his gaze steady and unyielding, a hint of weary respect in his tone. "Your warriors stabbed themselves refusing to talk. You are the only one left."

You met his eyes, a smirk twisting your full mouth despite the vulnerability of your position, the line of your jaw lifting in defiance. Ash still clung in faint traces to your high cheekbones, accentuating the beauty of your features.

"Their loyalties bind them to us." You replied, voice smooth and laced with pride, a mocking edge sharpening the words, your chest rising with a steady breath that drew attention to the swell beneath your tattered top.

Jake tsked, shaking his head, the sound rough like gravel, underfoot frustration etching faint lines around his eyes. "You're one stubborn clan."

You hissed at him, the sound sharp and venomous, hatred flashing in your stare, ears flattening against your skull as you glared at the legend before you, the human-turned-Na'vi who embodied everything your clan despised.

"You will remain here, captive." Jake continued, his voice firm, command underscoring the decree. "You'll be our leverage if your sister ever decides to attack."

A growl rumbled deep in your chest, directed solely at him. The Toruk Makto, the anomaly who dared threaten your bloodline. Your fingers curled into fists within the vines, nails digging into your palms, the taper of them drawing faint crescents on your skin.

Jake sighed, the exhale heavy with the weight of leadership, and clapped a hand on Neteyam's shoulder, the gesture paternal and trusting as a subtle nod of handover. "Keep watch on her. The responsibility is on you."

Neteyam nodded, his expression composed outward, calm masking the thrill surging through his veins, but inside, glee bubbled like a hidden spring. He alone would guard you, tend to you, unravel the fortress of your resistance. As Jake strode out, the flap of the hut falling shut behind him, the space shrank to just the two of you, the air humming with unspoken tension.

"Baby." Neteyam murmured, voice low and intimate, affection warming the endearment as he shifted closer on his knees, his warm breath ghosting over your bound form.

You recoiled, disgust twisting your features, revulsion flaring hot in your gut, your head snapping back as far as the position allowed, the cascade of your braids shifting across your shoulders.

"Don't call me with that filthy tawtute terms of yours." You spat, words dripping venom as anger sharpened each syllable, your torso arching away from him.

He ignored the barb, golden eyes gleaming with unshakeable resolve as he leaned in, the scent of forest and him invading your senses. "Why did you let yourself get captured?"

You snarled baring fangs, fury igniting your gaze like struck flint, straining against the vines that held your wrists above your head, the motion pulling taut the supple curve of your arms.

"I am protecting our tsahik." You hissed, loyalty a shield as unyielding as your will, your voice echoing the sacred bond to Varang.

His lips curved into a grin, wide and boyish yet edged with something darker, delight sparkling in his eyes, the sharp angles of his face softening in the torchlight. "I've missed you."

You rolled your eyes, the gesture exaggerated, exasperation warring with the unwelcome flutter in your chest, turning your face away, the slope of your neck exposed in the motion, beads from your disrupted adornments clinking softly.

"I've missed your lips." He added, voice dropping to a husky whisper, desire threading through like vines claiming a tree, his fingers reaching out to trace the plush contour of your mouth, calluses rough against the sensitive skin.

You shook him off with a jerk of your head, the touch igniting sparks of unwanted heat irritation flaring alongside a traitorous shiver.

"Do not touch me, demon." You commanded, tone icy, loathing masking the conflict stirring within you.

But he only grinned wider, happiness radiating from him like bioluminescent blooms, his joy unmarred by your barbs as he settled back on his haunches to simply watch you, the weight of his gaze a caress in itself.

The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of captivity and unwelcome intimacy, the hut your world narrowed to woven walls and the single guardian who haunted your every waking moment.

Neteyam was the only face you saw, his presence a constant. Bringing woven baskets of fruit and roasted meats, feeding you with deliberate care. His fingers would brush your lips as he offered bites of sweet berry, the juice staining your chin, and you'd snarl with defiance in every bite, snapping at his hand like a cornered ikran, yet he persisted undeterred, his touch lingering on the delicate skin of your jaw.

He touched you freely, hands roaming while you snarled and twisted as fury boiled beneath your skin, the vines holding you fast to the mat or a sturdy post when he deemed it necessary. Stolen kisses came unbidden, his mouth claiming yours in quick heated presses when your guards were down, tongue teasing the seam of your lips until you bit back with rage fueling the clash of teeth.

He was utterly smitten, golden eyes devouring every inch of you with the way your chest heaved with indignant breaths, the flex of your thighs as you kicked futilely, the wild beauty of your stare that promised retribution.

One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the hut's slits in golden shafts, he untied your ankles just enough to pull you onto his lap, your back pressed against the solid wall of his chest. His arms encircled your waist, strong and unyielding with possessiveness in his hold, the heat of his body seeping through your sparse coverings.

You snarled writhing, disgust and something perilously close to anticipation warring within, but the bonds on your wrists kept you captive to his whims.

"Shh, just relax." He murmured against your ear, tenderness laced with command, his large hands sliding upward, cupping the soft perky mounds of your breasts through the thin beaded top.

His thumbs circled the peaks, teasing them to firm points, desire evident in the hitch of his breath as he massaged your breasts with slow deliberate strokes that sent unwelcome jolts through your core. The sensation was maddening, the rough pads of his fingers kneading the yielding flesh, tracing the alluring undersweep before pinching lightly, drawing a gasp you couldn't suppress betrayal in the sound.

Your body arched involuntarily, nipples hardening under his touch, the azure skin flushing with heat as he lavished attention, his lips grazing the curve of your shoulder.

"See? You like it." He whispered, smug satisfaction coloring his voice, nipping at the tender skin there, his hips shifting subtly beneath you, the growing hardness pressing against your lower back.

You growled low, humiliation burning alongside the forbidden pleasure, twisting your head to glare at him, but the fight in your eyes dimmed fractionally with each passing day.

Weeks wove onward, the passage marked by the changing light outside and the subtle shift within you.

The snarls grew less fervent, your body anticipating his arrivals from the brush of his fingers to the the warmth of his frame, though you'd never admit it, never let the fondness crack your armored facade. You'd avert your gaze when he fed you, lips parting almost eagerly for the morsels, or lean into his massages despite the huffs of protest, a secret thrill coiling in your belly.

His touches became a ritual with his hands exploring the lines of your sides, thumbs dipping into the dip of your waist, or tracing the strong taper of your legs, always pushing boundaries while you feigned outrage.

One evening, as the stars began their vigil beyond the hut, Neteyam had you straddled across his thighs once more, your bound hands resting on his shoulders for balance.

The air hummed with humidity, your skin glistening faintly, the elegant fan of your lashes lowered as his palms worked their magic on your breasts again. This time bare, the beads pushed aside to expose the soft rounded swells. He kneaded them with reverence, awe in the gentle pressure, rolling the sensitive buds between fingers slick with shared sweat. His mouth following to lave hot open-mouthed kisses along the valley between.

Your breath hitched, conflict evident in the stutter, hips rocking subtly against him, the friction igniting sparks that blurred the line between hate and hunger. He groaned against your skin as need roughened the sound, one hand sliding down to grip the firm curve of your ass, pulling you closer as his tongue flicked teasingly.

It was in this haze of intimacy, bodies entwined like mates in the privacy of the alcove, that Alayni slipped into the hut unseen, her steps silent as a healer's grace. She had come under pretense of checking the captives' wounds, her pouch of salves clutched tightly, but the sight that greeted her froze her in the shadows.

You and Neteyam, lost in each other, his hands worshipping your form, your head thrown back in a moment of unguarded surrender.

Fury ignited in her chest, hot and consuming jealousy twisting her features into a mask of rage, eyes narrowing to slits.

Neteyam was supposed to be hers. The shy glances she'd cast, the wounds she'd tended with lingering touches, the dreams of bonding under Eywa's gaze. And now, here he was, defiling that future with you. An enemy, a Mangkwan witch, doing filthy things that should have been hers alone. Her fingers tightened on the pouch, knuckles paling, as she watched his mouth claim a nipple, your soft moan piercing the air like a betrayal.

But anger birthed cunning.

Alayni's lips curled into a smirk, cold and calculating as vindictive glee sparked in her gaze, she backed away silently, melting into the night. She knew just what to do, whispers to the right ears, seeds of doubt sown in fertile soil.

Varang would come for her sister but before that, she'd ensure this forbidden flame was snuffed out, one way or another.

The days dragged on in the stifling confines of the hut, your world reduced to the flicker of torch flames and the relentless pull of the vines that bound you. Whispers from beyond the woven walls hinted at unrest, scouts reporting movements in the ash-choked territories but you paid them little mind, your thoughts a whirlwind of simmering resentment and the unwelcome echoes of Neteyam's touches.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Alayni moved like a shadow through the camp, her steps light and purposeful as she sought out a Mangkwan scout. With a healer's gentle facade masking her venom, she slipped him a message etched on a leaf. The location of the Omatikaya's hidden holding ground, the precise hut where you were kept. Satisfaction curled her lips as she watched him dispatch immediately after hissing at her.

Varang would come, of that she was certain, and once you were ripped away, the stain you'd left on Neteyam's heart would fade, leaving her path clear.

She bided her time with calculated grace, weaving herself deeper into the fabric of the Sully family.

Mornings found her at Neytiri's side in the healer's marui, her hands steady as she ground herbs for poultices, her voice soft with feigned humility, adoration shining in her wide eyes as she praised Neytiri's wisdom. Evenings brought her to Jake, offering insights on the refugees' wounds, her touch lingering just a fraction too long on his arm as she murmured concerns for the clan's future.

Approval warmed their gazes, nods of encouragement that fueled her ambition. Everything unfolded as she envisioned. His parents' favor solidified, pressure mounting on Neteyam to seal the bond before the shadows of war encroached further.

One humid afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the canopy in a blaze of amber, Alayni slipped into your hut unannounced, the flap rustling like a conspirator's whisper.

You lay there, wrists still secured to the low beam overhead, your frame stretched out on the mat, the faint sheen of sweat tracing the elegant hollows of your collarbones. Your azure skin glowed softly in the diffused light, the subtle freckles across your shoulders like scattered stars, and your chest rose in steady rhythms.

She knelt beside you, her posture demure yet predatory, knees folding gracefully onto the earth as her tail flicked with restrained triumph. Her fingers brushed the edge of the mat, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your body.

"So this is where my soon-to-be mate has been occupying himself with." She said, voice honeyed with mock pity as a saccharine smile curved her lips, eyes glinting with malice.

You stared at her blankly, eyes narrowing slightly as you took in her features.

"Who?" You asked tone flat, your head tilting just enough to let a braid slip over your shoulder, brushing the firm flesh of your bicep.

Her grin widened, sweet as overripe fruit, revealing the gleam of her teeth as she leaned closer, the scent of healing herbs clinging to her like a veil.

"Neteyam." She purred, the name rolling off her tongue with possessive delight, triumph lacing the revelation. "We will be mated earlier than planned, as per his parents."

Something twisted in your chest. A sharp unexpected clench that stole your breath like thorns snagging delicate vines. Your heart stuttered, a betraying ache blooming beneath your ribs, but you schooled your features into impassive stone, the high planes of your cheekbones unchanging, your gaze steady as unyielding rock.

All this time, his whispers, his hands mapping your skin like sacred territory, his stolen kisses that left you breathless and conflicted, they were lies woven around another. A potential mate waiting in the wings while he toyed with you, the enemy captive.

Sick demon bastard.

"Put him on a leash then." You replied, forcing a grin that mirrored hers, malice flashing in your stare like lightning over ash plains, your voice dripping with feigned amusement. "So your future mate will stop coming to pester me."

The words tasted like bile but you held the expression as you met her stare head on.

Meanwhile, across the camp in the central marui, Neteyam stood rigid before his parents, the air thick with the scent of spiced tea and unresolved tension.

Jake's broad frame filled the space, his scarred arms crossed over his chest while Neytiri sat poised nearby, her fingers tracing patterns on a woven mat, golden eyes watchful.

The news fell like a stone into still water. A mating with Alayni, sealed in just one month's time, earlier than tradition dictated, a safeguard against the uncertainties of leadership should fate claim both Jake and Neytiri in battle.

"It's for the clan, son." Jake said, voice gravelly with finality, concern etching deeper lines into his brow, clapping a hand on Neteyam's shoulder, the weight meant to ground him.

Neytiri nodded, her tail curling supportively around her leg gentle resolve in her tone. "Alayni is devoted and strong, she is who we have chosen. She will stand beside you as Olo'eyktan's mate."

Fury burned through Neteyam's veins, hot and unquenchable, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscles bunched along his sharp jawline.

He didn't want her. Not her shy glances, not her dutiful presence, they were chains disguised as comfort. No, his thoughts raced to you. The fire in your snarls, the beauty of your form yielding under his touch, the forbidden pull that consumed him. You, with your pretty eyes that pierced like arrows, your body a landscape he longed to claim eternally.

He said nothing, golden eyes darkening with suppressed rage, turning on his heel without another word. The marui's flap snapped shut behind him as he stormed toward your hut, craving the solace of your presence, the one anchor in this storm of obligation.

He pushed through the entrance, the dim interior unfolding before him like a betrayal frozen in time.

There you were, bound and defiant, but your face. Oh, Eywa, your face, it was lit with a grin that sliced deeper than any blade. The malicious glint in your eyes was back, amplified tenfold, a savage spark that echoed the day he'd first seen you amid the raid's chaos, ash-streaked and commanding.

Beside you knelt Alayni, her expression a mask of innocence shattered by the scene.

"Look, your future mate is here." You said, the words laced with venomous glee as your grin widened, teeth flashing as you tilted your chin upward.

The coldness in your stare pinned him, stripping away the fragile warmth he'd coaxed from you over weeks of stolen intimacies.

Neteyam stiffened, his broad chest heaving with a sharp inhale, the lean planes of his abdomen tensing beneath his harness.

You knew. The progress, the softening glances, the reluctant leans into his embrace crumbled to dust before his eyes. Alayni had poisoned it all, her meddling a dagger to his desires.

His gaze flicked to her, fury igniting like dry tinder. Without a word, he lunged forward, large hand wrapping around Alayni's slender wrist in a grip of iron, frustration boiling over in the tremble of his fingers. He dragged her up and out, her body stumbling in his wake, the flap whipping shut behind them.

You watched them go, the grin on your lips turning colder and sharper, like frost on volcanic glass a hollow ache gnawing at your core despite the armor. They did look good together, her demure form tucked against his towering strength, a picture of clan-approved harmony. And that truth stung more than any admission, a barb lodging deep, twisting with the realization of your own foolish vulnerability.

Outside, in the shadowed alcove between huts, Neteyam released Alayni with a shove, whirling on her as a hiss escaped his throat, low and guttural rage vibrating through the sound, his ears pinning back flat against his braided hair.

"What did you tell her?" He demanded, golden eyes blazing, the sharp angles of his face hardened into lines of accusation, his tail lashing like a whip.

Alayni glanced up at him through her lashes, the gesture shy and fluttering, feigned innocence veiling the satisfaction in her depths, rubbing her wrist with delicate fingers.

"That we will be mated in a month." She replied softly, voice trembling just enough to evoke pity, a subtle pout forming on her lips.

Neteyam growled, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder, frustration etching fury across his features, stepping closer until his shadow engulfed her.

"You ruined everything." He snarled, fists clenching at his sides, the cords of muscle in his forearms standing out in stark relief.

"I was just saying the truth." Alayni countered, chin lifting with quiet defiance, resolve strengthening her tone, eyes locking onto his. "Especially since it's been blessed by your parents. It's for the good of the clan, Neteyam."

He opened his mouth to retort, words of denial and desperation bubbling up, but the air shattered with a deafening roar. Explosions ripped through the camp, blooms of fire and ash erupting from the perimeter like vengeful spirits unleashed. The ground trembled, screams piercing the night as warriors scrambled, bows drawn and ikran screeching overhead. Mangkwans, fierce shadows descending from the shadows, their forms painted in war cries and fury.

They had come for you.

The chaos erupted like the fury of Eywa's wrath, the night sky fracturing with bursts of flame and acrid smoke that clawed at the senses.

Neteyam froze at the threshold of the marui, his hand outstretched toward the flap, every fiber of his being screaming to reach you, to shield you from the encroaching storm. But another explosion thundered closer, shaking the woven platform beneath his feet, the ground vibrating with the impact of Mangkwan ikrans diving from the shadowed cliffs. Warriors' cries pierced the air, sharp desperate calls to arms and he knew with a sinking dread, that duty bound him first.

His golden eyes lingered on the shadowed interior for a heartbeat longer, the pull toward you a magnetic ache in his chest before he spun away, muscles coiling like a predator's as he sprinted into the fray. m

Alayni stood forgotten in the dust, her form shrinking in his wake as he vanished among the leaping shadows of Omatikaya defenders.

Inside the marui, the world tilted on its axis. You had barely settled back against the mat, the vines around your wrists a familiar rasp against your skin, when the first boom reverberated through the walls, deep and ominous, like the rumble of volcanic depths stirring awake. Your eyes snapped open, head lifting as the air grew thick with the scent of scorched earth and distant blood.

What was this? Another raid? Or something far worse, born of the tensions that had simmered since your capture?

The flap burst open without warning, a silhouette materializing in the torchlight like a specter from the ash plains. Tall and imposing, her frame clad in the jagged armor of Mangkwan war paint, stripes of obsidian gleaming across her broad shoulders and down the powerful lines of her thighs.

Varang, your sister, the unyielding force of your clan, stepped forward, her presence filling the space with an electric menace, her tail lashing once in sharp triumph.

"Little tsmuke." She rumbled, voice low and edged with possessive glee, a fierce grin splitting her face, revealing the sharpened points of her canines as her amber eyes locked onto yours with predatory affection.

Your breath caught, a surge of relief flooding through you like cool rain on parched soil, your body shifting upright despite the bindings, the subtle flex of your toned abdomen drawing the loincloth's edges taut against your hips.

"Varang." You whispered, the word laced with raw vulnerability, hope flickering in your gaze, your full lips curving into a tentative smile that softened the sharp beauty of your features. "You came for me?"

She moved with purposeful strides, her large hands reaching for the vines with swift efficiency, slicing through them with a hidden dagger that flashed in the dim light. The fibers parted with a soft snap, and freedom rushed back into your limbs, a tingling warmth spreading from your wrists as you rubbed the faint red marks blooming on your azure skin.

Varang's grin widened, menacing and triumphant, her broad chest heaving with barely contained energy, the intricate scars across her collarbone catching the fire's glow like badges of conquest.

"Yes." She said, tone brooking no delay, commanding resolve in her stance as she gripped your arm, pulling you to your feet with effortless strength. "Come."

You followed her out into the night, the marui's warmth giving way to the chaotic symphony of battle.

The village platform teemed with motion. Omatikaya warriors leaping between branches, their forms blurring as they nocked arrows and unleashed volleys into the descending horde. Mangkwan fighters swarmed from the treeline, their ikran shrieking as they clashed mid-air, talons raking through flesh and wing. Explosions bloomed sporadically, grenades of volcanic powder hurled by your kin, igniting the underbrush in furious orange. The air hummed with the twang of bowstrings and the guttural roars of combat, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the earthy musk of sweat-soaked bodies.

Your bare feet padded softly over the woven walkways, heart pounding in sync with the frenzy, your unbound arms swinging freely for the first time in weeks, the cool night breeze kissing the exposed curves of your waist and the gentle swell of your breasts beneath the beaded strands.

Then, amid the turmoil, you spotted her. Alayni, huddled against a nearby post, her slender frame trembling in the flickering light, wide eyes darting as if seeking an anchor in the storm.

Varang strode past without a flicker of acknowledgment, her focus laser-sharp on escape but you couldn't hold back.

A snarl tore from your throat, low and feral fury igniting in your gaze, your lips peeling back to expose teeth in a vicious baring, the line of your neck tensing as you leaned toward her.

Varang's hand clamped down on your shoulder, firm and unyielding, halting your advance mid-step.

You glanced up at her, confusion etching across your face, the high cheekbones flushing faintly with the heat of your anger.

"She was the one who told us where you were. I would have cut her kuru off but we will be wasting time." Varang explained, voice a gravelly murmur as disgust curled her upper lip.

The revelation hit like a spear to the gut.

This fucking bitch, going to such depraved extremes just to claim Neteyam? Betraying her own people, inviting destruction upon them for a twisted shot at his bond?

Rage and amusement simmered in your veins, hot and unfiltered, but you channeled it into a smirk, slow and menacing, your eyes narrowing to slits that gleamed with cruel intelligence. You stepped closer to Alayni despite Varang's hold, your posture shifting into one of mocking poise, the graceful sway of your hips accentuating the lithe power in your legs.

"You became a traitor to your people just to have him?" You taunted, voice silky with venom as a low chuckle bubbled up, your head tilting to let a braid sway against the smooth plane of your shoulder. "Do you think you'd be mated with him once they found out you were the one who caused this destruction, their deaths?"

You giggled then, the sound cruel and crystalline, echoing like shattering glass amid the distant clamor, your laughter laced with derision as you watched her eyes sharpen, the shy facade cracking to reveal the venom beneath.

Alayni's features twisted, her soft mouth compressing into a thin line, but she forced a grin in return, brittle and defiant, her hands clenching at her sides, knuckles paling against her blue skin.

"No one will know." She hissed, the words dripping with false sweetness, a predatory glint flashing in her gaze, her chin lifting in haughty challenge. "Because you won't be here anymore to tell him."

You met her stare with a taunting calm, your smirk unwavering, the corners of your mouth quirking upward in serene mockery, your body relaxed yet poised, the subtle rise and fall of your chest betraying none of the storm within.

Varang's fingers dug into your arm then, urging you onward with a sharp tug, her massive form shielding you as she propelled you toward the edge of the platform.

"Enough." She growled, impatience sharpening her tone, her free hand gesturing toward her waiting nightwraith in the shadows.

Hesitation gripped you like invisible chains, heavier than the vines ever were.

Over those endless days and nights, fondness had crept into your heart for Neteyam. Unwanted and insidious, a warmth that bloomed in the wake of his persistent touches, his whispered promises that now rang hollow. You had grown accustomed to the way his golden eyes softened for you, the reverence in his caresses tracing the valleys of your spine, the heat of his body pressing close in the dim hut.

But to stay?

To linger as their prisoner, forced to witness him bound to this scheming viper in a month's time? No. The betrayal stung deeper than any wound. He had lied, omitted the truth of his impending mating while his hands roamed your skin, murmuring of futures intertwined, of desires that now felt like cruel jests. Your chest tightened, a sigh escaping your lips, soft and resigned, your shoulders slumping ever so slightly, the curve of your back arching as you drew in the smoky air you were familiar with.

You ran then, matching Varang's powerful strides, your legs carrying you with renewed vigor over the swaying bridges, the wind whipping through your hair and cooling the flush on your cheeks. The battle raged around you, but your focus narrowed to escape. The distant calls of your ikran, the path to freedom amid the chaos. Behind you, the marui faded into the night, a chapter closing with bitter finality.

Minutes stretched into an eternity of skirmishes before Neteyam could break free, his bow still humming from the arrows he'd loosed into the fray, his chest heaving with exertion, streaks of soot marring the defined ridges of his torso. He raced back to the marui, ignoring the sting of superficial cuts along his arms, his mind a singular blaze.

You.

Bursting through the flap, he scanned the interior, the empty mat, the severed vines scattered like discarded shackles. His heart plummeted, a cold void yawning in his chest, the lean muscles of his frame going rigid as denial clawed at him.

He whirled out, golden eyes landing on Alayni, who lingered outside, her posture a picture of feigned distress, arms wrapped around her slender waist as if to ward off the night's terror. He ignored the way she reached for him, her fingers brushing his elbow and fixed her with a glare that could shatter stone.

"Where is she?" He demanded, voice rough and edged with panic, his jaw clenching, the sharp planes of his face taut with desperation, tail flicking erratically behind him.

Alayni's expression crumpled into one of artful fragility, her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears, lashes fluttering as she gazed up at him, her voice emerging soft and quivering, laced with sorrowful conviction. "She ran away, Neteyam. Her sister came and freed her. I told her you wouldn't want her to leave but she was happy to be free. Said she didn't want to be here... nor be in your presence."

Silence crashed over him like a tidal wave, his breath stalling in his lungs, the world narrowing to the echo of her words.

You really didn't like him. All those weeks,the stolen moments where your body arched into his, the fleeting softness in your gaze, the reluctant sighs that he mistook for yielding, they were illusions, born of captivity's coercion. You had endured him, nothing more, your responses a prisoner's survival, not a spark of true connection. The fire that had burned in his soul for you flickered and died, leaving only ashes in its wake, his heart turning to ice, numb and unyielding.

His broad shoulders sagged imperceptibly, the golden light in his eyes dimming to shadowed resolve.

Alayni stepped closer, her hand finding his arm again, this time with gentle insistence comfort threading her tone, a subtle smile curving her lips as she pressed the advantage. "It's okay, Neteyam. She is a Mangkwan, she's been wanting to escape. At least our people will have no problems anymore, and in a month, we will be mated."

He didn't pull away, the words settling over him like a shroud.

Acceptance seeped in, cold and inevitable, you did not want him, and perhaps it was time to let the obsession fracture, to forge ahead with the path laid before him by clan and kin. The battle's din faded to a distant roar as the warrior's mask slipped back into place, burying the remnants of his shattered longing for you.

Since then, weeks had slipped by like shadows fleeing the dawn, each day etching deeper lines of detachment into Neteyam's once-vibrant spirit. The lush canopy of the Omatikaya village hummed with its eternal rhythm, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant calls of ikran wheeling overhead, but for him, the world had dulled to a muted haze. His golden eyes, once alight with the fire, now stared out with a steely impassivity, scanning horizons not for wonder, but for threats to be neutralized.

The raid led by Varang had receded into memory, its scars healed on the village platforms, yet the wound it inflicted on him festered unseen, a quiet erosion of the warmth that had defined him.

Tuk, with her boundless energy and innocent delight, felt the chill most acutely. She bounded up to him one evening as he sharpened his blade by the communal fire, her small hands clutching a fresh weave of beads, iridescent stones and feathers intertwined in a pattern mimicking the bioluminescent vines that glowed at night. Her tail swished with eager anticipation, freckles dancing across her cheeks as she thrust the creation forward, her wide eyes sparkling with hope voice bubbling with excitement.

"Neteyam, look! I made this for you, it's like the stars we saw last eclipse!"

He paused, the whetstone halting mid-stroke against the obsidian edge, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the woven straps of his chest harness. For a fleeting moment, his gaze softened, tracing the delicate craftsmanship in her tiny fingers, the way the beads caught the sunlight and shimmered like captured fireflies. But the spark didn't ignite, no smile curved his lips, no playful ruffle of her hair followed.

Instead, he nodded curtly, resuming his task with mechanical precision, his jaw set in a firm line, voice flat and distant, devoid of the affectionate lilt she craved. "It's nice, Tuk. Put it with the others."

Her face fell, the joy draining like water from a punctured gourd, her ears drooping as she clutched the beads closer to her chest. She lingered for a beat, searching his profile, hoping for the brother who would scoop her up and declare it the finest gift Eywa ever bestowed. But he turned away, eyes fixed on the blade's gleaming surface, and she scampered off, shoulders slumped, the weave trailing forgotten in her wake.

The once-loving brother and son had hollowed into a shell, his movements efficient but soulless as if the essence that bound him to family and clan had been leeched away. All because of you, your escape a silent verdict on his delusions, a rejection that echoed in the empty spaces of his nights.

He threw himself into duties with relentless fervor. Leading patrols along the outer borders, training young warriors in the art of silent strikes, overseeing the weaving of new nets for the ikran handlers. His body moved with the grace of a predator, but his mind was a fortress, walled against reminiscence of you.

He avoided the routes where fate had first tangled your paths, the shadowed glades where Mangkwan raids had brushed too close to Omatikaya lands. No longer did he linger at the river's bend, where the water ran swift and clear, its banks lined with ferns that whispered secrets to the wind. Those places, once alive with the thrill of pursuit and stolen glances with you, now held only ghosts. He charted new paths, deeper into the heart of the forest, where the air grew thicker with the scent of moss and blooming nightflowers, forcing his focus to the tangible such as the snap of a branch underfoot or the distant roar of a thanator claiming territory.

Jake and Neytiri watched from afar, their concern a quiet storm brewing in stolen moments by their marui.

Jake's brow furrowed as he cleaned his rifle, a human relic he rarely touched these days, his massive frame leaning against a post, eyes tracking Neteyam's solitary figure vanishing into the treeline. The change had been stark, a full revolution from the son who joked with Lo'ak over shared kills to this impassive sentinel. It started after Varang's assault, the explosions that had torn through the night like Eywa's judgment, and though the Mangkwan leader had retreated with her forces, the aftermath lingered in Neteyam's silence.

"He's not himself." Jake murmured one evening, his voice rough with worry, arms crossed over his broad chest and the lines around his eyes deepening as he gazed at Neytiri.

Neytiri nodded, her braids swaying as she stirred a pot of herbal stew, the steam rising in fragrant curls that carried notes of healing roots. Her golden eyes, sharp and knowing, held a mother's intuition, tracing the invisible threads connecting her son's withdrawal to the captive who had slipped away.

"I think it is the Mangkwan tsakarem." She said, conviction lacing her tone, her tail curling thoughtfully around her ankle, fingers pausing on the wooden spoon as a memory of your face surfaced. "I believe she has woven herself into his thoughts. The attack... it freed her but it broke something in him."

Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his braided mohawk, the weight of leadership pressing on him as surely as the humid air. They had suspected as much, the way Neteyam's gaze had lingered on the empty marui, the subtle flinch at mentions of Mangkwan scouts. But pushing him now, with the mantle of Olo'eyktan looming in a year's shadow, would only drive the fracture deeper.

"Let him be." He decided, voice resolute yet tinged with reluctance as be stood to clasp her shoulder, his callused palm warm against her skin. "He'll find his way. Duty will anchor him."

Alayni, meanwhile, bloomed in the vacuum of his detachment, her happiness a radiant veil masking the shadows of her deeds.

Two weeks until the mating ceremony and the village buzzed with preparations of fresh flowers woven into garlands and chants rehearsed under the great tree's glow. No one knew of her betrayal, the whispered coordinates she had passed to Varang's men, the calculated risk that had invited chaos to claim you and clear her path. To the clan, she was the dutiful future tsahik, her shy smiles and gentle hands a perfect counterpoint to Neteyam's stoic resolve.

She walked beside him now on a routine patrol, her steps light and synchronized with his longer strides, the sway of her hips accentuated by the fitted loincloth that hugged her slender curves. The sun filtered through the canopy in dappled patterns, gilding her azure skin and highlighting the subtle bioluminescent freckles dusting her collarbone. Alayni glanced up at him often, her dark eyes alight with unspoken triumph as a soft giggle escaped her lips, brushing a leaf from his arm, fingers lingering on the firm swell of his bicep.

"The forest feels peaceful today, doesn't it, Neteyam? Like Eywa is blessing our union already."

He nodded absently, his gaze fixed ahead on the winding path, the play of light and shadow across his chiseled features unchanging.

Accompanying her was duty, escorting his future mate through the clan's territories, ensuring her safety amid lingering threats from rival clans. His hand rested on his knife hilt, posture alert, the lean lines of his torso shifting with each measured step, sweat beading along the ridge of his spine from the midday heat. To him, it was rote, a task etched into the rhythm of leadership, devoid of the spark that had once ignited at your proximity.

But to Alayni, every moment was victory incarnate.

She had won, the enemy tsakarem fled, the obstacles in her way shattered, and soon his kuru would bond with hers under the eyes of the clan. Her heart raced with giddy elation, a flush warming her cheeks as she imagined the ceremony. His strong hands on her waist, the tsaheylu sealing their fates. She linked her arm through his pressing closer, the soft press of her breast against his side a deliberate intimacy, voice breathy with feigned shyness yet her eyes gleamed with possessive delight.

"I can't wait for the weaving of our kurus. It'll be perfect, won't it? Just us, forever."

Neteyam murmured agreement, the words automatic as his mind was elsewhere, on maps of patrol routes or on the warriors awaiting his command.

He tried with iron will to banish thoughts of you from the recesses of his soul. He would be Olo'eyktan soon, the weight of the clan on his shoulders, mated to Alayni in a union forged for stability and strength. There was no space for yearning, no indulgence for a ghost who had recoiled from his touch, who had fled at the first chance, eyes cold with disgust rather than desire. You hadn't loved him, your responses had been chains of circumstance, feigned to survive the cage of captivity.

The realization was a blade at his chest, twisting deeper with each suppressed memory.

Yet, in the quiet hours when the village slumbered and the stars wheeled overhead, your image weaseled in unbidden. He would lie on his mat, the thatch roof above him a barrier against the night's whispers but sleep evaded him. Visions assailed of the arch of your neck as you tilted your head in defiance, the silken glide of your skin under his fingertips during those stolen intimacies, the reluctant parting of your lips that he had mistaken for surrender. An ache bloomed in his chest like thorns embedding in its flesh, a hollow throb that echoed the void you had left.

He clenched his fists, nails biting into palms, forcing his breath steady as his eyes squeezed shut, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he willed the phantom away.

Duty. Clan. Future.

The mantra repeated, a shield against the erosion but the cracks persisted, widening with every heartbeat of his.

In the days that followed, the preparations intensified. Alayni flitted about with renewed purpose, her laughter ringing clearer as she helped Neytiri select ceremonial beads, her fingers deftly sorting the vibrant strands. Neteyam joined when required, his presence a steady anchor amid the festivities, but his smiles were rare, reserved for elders and children who demanded them.

Jake pulled him aside once, during a strategy session by the war council, his father's hand heavy on his shoulder voice gruff with concern, eyes searching his son's face for the boy he remembered. "Son, whatever haunts you, face it. Don't let it consume the leader you're becoming."

Neteyam met his gaze evenly, the golden depths unyielding as his shoulders squared with a nod crisp and final. "It's handled, sir. The clan comes first."

But as he walked away, the forest closing around him like a living shroud, the ache resurfaced again as a persistent whisper of what might have been, tangled forever in the undergrowth of his resolve.

Hours went by, the eclipse had long since painted the sky in deep indigo, the bioluminescent vines along the village platforms casting a soft ethereal glow that did little to ease the knot of worry twisting in Neytiri's chest.

She lay beside Jake in their marui, the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad back a testament to the exhaustion of leadership, his braided kuru draped loosely over the woven mat. But sleep eluded her, her golden eyes flicking toward the entrance flap, where the night sounds of Pandora filtered in.

Neteyam was late, far past the hour warriors returned from solitary vigils or patrols. Her eldest, the pillar of their family, had become a ghost in his own home, his steps silent and his words fewer than the stars above.

With a quiet resolve, she rose, her lithe form unfolding gracefully, the faint scars from old battles tracing faint lines along her arms like maps of survival. She draped a light shawl over her shoulders, the fabric whispering against her azure skin, and slipped out into the cooling air. The village slumbered, maruis dimly lit by inner fires, but her hunter's instincts guided her toward the outer platforms, where the great tree's roots intertwined with the earth.

There, perched on a low branch overlooking the valley, she found him. Neteyam with his back to her, broad shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible burdens. He stared upward, the starlight reflecting in the wet trails of tears carving paths down his cheeks, his golden eyes distant and shattered.

Her heart clenched like a fist around a thorn, a sharp ache blooming as she witnessed tears streaming freely from the face of her unbreakable son. In all her years, through battles and losses, she had never seen him cry. Not as a fierce young warrior facing his first hunt, not even when Kiri's visions had shaken the family to its core. These past weeks, he had been a hollow vessel, his laughter silenced, his touch withdrawn, but this vulnerability cracked the shell wide open, exposing the raw wound beneath.

She approached softly, her bare feet padding against the mossy wood, and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling his solid frame against her chest.

"My son." She murmured, her voice a gentle caress laced with sorrow, her chin resting on his shoulder, braids brushing his ear as she held him close. "What ails you? Speak to your sa'nok."

Neteyam sighed, a heavy exhale that carried the weight of unspoken tempests, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He leaned into her embrace, the tension in his neck easing fractionally, but words remained locked behind clenched teeth.

How could she understand?

The gravity of his love for you, a Mangkwan woman, an enemy incarnate had pulled at him like an undertow, drowning his sense of self. Each day chipped away at his resolve, the choice between duty to clan and the selfish pull of his heart a torment that left him adrift. He was losing pieces of himself in the effort to bury the ache, to forge ahead as the future Olo'eyktan.

"I am tired." He finally whispered, his voice cracking as he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, the muscles in his jaw flexing as fresh tears welled. "I cannot do this anymore, Mom. The weight... it's crushing me."

Neytiri's heart fractured further at his confession, the raw despair in his tone echoing the cries of a wounded ikran. She tightened her hold, her arms encircling his torso, fingers splaying across the firm planes of his abdomen as if to anchor him to the world.

She had suspected for weeks that this shadow over him stemmed from you, the woman who had been his captive, the one whose escape had coincided with his unraveling. Whispers of your name in council meetings, the way his gaze sharpened at mentions of Mangkwan movements, it all pointed to a bond forged in secrecy and strife. But she said nothing, offering only the silent strength of her presence, her tail curling protectively around his leg. In the quiet, she sent a fervent prayer to Eywa, her mind weaving pleas through the neural network of the land.

Great Mother, guide my son through this storm. There must be purpose in his pain, a path unseen amid the chaos.

The night deepened around them, mother and son entwined in shared silence, until exhaustion finally claimed him, his head lolling against her shoulder. Neytiri guided him back to the marui, her steps steady despite the turmoil churning within.

Soon, dawn broke with the first calls of prolemuris swinging through the canopy, painting the forest in hues of gold and green. Neteyam rose with the sun, his face a mask once more, his eyes hooded and expression schooled into impassive resolve.

Today, duty demanded he scout the eastern fringes, perilously close to the glades where he had first glimpsed you weeks ago, your form a vision of lethal grace amid the raid's fury. He had avoided those paths like a festering wound but intelligence from outriders reported Mangkwan activity stirring anew and evasion was no longer an option.

He joined Jake and Neytiri at the ikran roost, along with a cadre of warriors.

Neytiri watched him from afar as he checked his bowstring, the morning light catching the subtle sheen of sweat on his brow from the humid air. Memories of the previous night flooded her, the vulnerability in his tears, the plea in his voice and now, seeing him revert to this emotionless sentinel, her worry deepened like roots delving into soil. His movements were precise and efficient but there was no spark, no anticipation in his posture.

Alayni hovered at the periphery, her presence a flutter of nervous energy amid the preparations. She had risen early, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of impending union, and now she approached Neteyam with a sway in her step, the beads of her top clinking softly. Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his cheek, the kiss lingering a beat too long, her hand brushing the curve of his arm, voice soft and adoring, eyes sparkling with feigned innocence as she pulled back slightly.

"Stay safe, Neteyam. Come back to me whole."

He nodded, the motion mechanical, his golden eyes sliding past her without warmth, fixed instead on the horizon.

Neytiri observed the exchange, her tail flicking in subtle disapproval, the contrast between Alayni's eagerness and her son's detachment a stark reminder of the fractures in his spirit and the duty they had handed to him.

The group saddled their ikrans, the massive creatures rumbling with impatience, wings unfurling like sails in the breeze. Neteyam mounted with fluid ease, his thighs gripping the creature's sides, the bond forming through their queues in a pulse of shared intent. With a collective cry, they ascended, the wind whipping through braids and loincloths as the forest shrank below, giving way to the vast expanse of floating mountains and vine-draped cliffs.

The skies were clear at first, the patrol weaving through thermal updrafts, Jake leading with hand signals sharp and commanding.

But peace shattered like fragile crystal, an ambush erupting from the clouds and the forest below, Mangkwan warriors on their own direhorses and winged mounts descending in a hail of fire-arrows and poisoned barbs. Flames licked at the air, ignited by incendiary tips, while the sharp whistle of shafts cut through the roar of wings.

Neytiri and Jake unleashed war cries that echoed across the valleys, primal and fierce, their ikrans diving into the fray. Neteyam clenched his teeth, the familiar surge of battle adrenaline sharpening his senses, but beneath it thrummed a deeper tension, his heart pounding not just from the clash, but from the scan of faces below, searching for yours amid the chaos.

No sign of you and the absence twisted like a knife at him. Disappointment that you weren't there for him to see once more and yet relief that you remained untouched by this violence.

He urged his ikran higher, bow drawn in a blur, arrows flying true to fell two attackers in mid-air, their bodies plummeting with guttural cries.

On the ground, Neytiri broke from the aerial skirmish, her ikran landing with a thud amid the underbrush as she spotted Varang, her form a whirlwind of aggression with war paint streaking her face in crimson patterns.

They clashed blades, Neytiri's movements a dance of lethal precision, her body twisting to evade a swipe snarling with protective fury, eyes blazing as she parried, the clash of metal ringing like thunder. Jake and the other warriors followed suit, dropping to engage the Mangkwan foot soldiers, the forest erupting into a symphony of grunts, screams, and the sizzle of flames devouring foliage.

Neteyam circled above, his ikran banking sharply to loose another volley, the wind tearing at his queue as he targeted a rider closing on Kiri's position.

It was going well, the Omatikaya numbers swelling as reinforcements crested a ridge until a shadow flickered in his periphery. An arrow, swift and unerring, punched into his chest just below the collarbone, the impact a searing bloom of agony that stole his breath. His grip faltered, the bow slipping from numb fingers, and he tumbled from his ikran, the world spinning in a vortex of sky and green.

Neytiri gasped, her head snapping upward mid-fight, horror etching her features as she saw her son plummeting as a dark silhouette against the sun. Jake's roar joined hers, raw and desperate as his face contorted in dread, fists clenching around his knife as he shouted orders to cover.

Neteyam fell far, the ground rushing up mercilessly as his body slammed into the earth with a sickening thud, head bouncing against a root, his vision exploding in stars before blackness edged in.

"Neteyam!" Neytiri's scream tore from her throat, a mother's anguish that pierced the din of battle.

The spot where he fell into was an inferno's cradle, flames from stray arrows encircling the clearing, vines crackling and popping as they fed the blaze. Smoke billowed thick and acrid and without intervention, the fire would claim him, his labored breaths already ragged from the embedded shaft and the impact of the fall.

You arrived on the fringes of the skirmish, the scene unfolding like a nightmare etched in firelight. Your eyes widened at the sight, Neteyam crumpled amid the chaos, his chest heaving around the protruding arrow, blood staining the azure expanse of his torso in rivulets that soaked his harness. Your heart clenched as a vise of unwelcomed emotion squeezed it tight, the pulse of it echoing in your ears over the clash of weapons. Torn, you gripped your bow tighter, gaze flicking to your sister locked in combat with Neytiri then to your warriors pressing the attack.

Aid them, your people and your blood or the enemy who had haunted your thoughts, his touch a ghost that lingered in fevered dreams?

He's the enemy. Let him burn, let the flames erase the complication he brought to my life.

You turned your back, the wind catching the loose strands of your braids, whipping them across your face like accusations. But your body halted, muscles locking as if Eywa herself rooted you in place.

You couldn't—wouldn't—leave him to this end.

The weight of what passed between you, the tangled web of resentment and reluctant pull, demanded closure. This would be the last, a one final act to sever the thread, to walk away unburdened. With a curse under your breath, you ran to him, your legs carrying you through the underbrush.

The heat battered you as you reached the flames' edge, the air shimmering with intensity but you plunged in, hauling his weighty form by the arms. His body was heavy, limp yet solid, shoulders broad and unyielding even in unconsciousness, the corded strength of his arms dragging across the scorched earth.

You pulled him free, grunting with effort, the muscles in your back flexing under the strain. Laying him on clearer ground, you assessed the damage. The arrow jutting from his chest, fletching charred at the edges, blood pulsing steadily from the wound, soaking the ground in dark pools.

You bit your lip, the sharp sting grounding you as concern warred with caution.

The severity was dire, his pulse thready under your probing fingers. But you were not just a mere warrior, you were also a healer and a tsakarem, healing coursed through your veins like the forest's lifeblood even with the violence in your being.

Kneeling beside him, your hands moved with practiced urgency, pressing woven leaves from your pouch against the entry to staunch the flow, murmuring ancient invocations to Eywa for mercy. The herbs' bitter scent mingled with the metallic tang of blood, your fingers smeared crimson as you worked, the curve of your neck arching forward in concentration, eyes fierce with determination.

Varang spotted you from across the fray, her snarl twisting her features mid-clash with Neytiri, eyes narrowing in disbelief and fury voice booming over the din, laced with betrayal as she parried a strike. "(Y/N)! What are you doing? Come, we have to leave!"

Neytiri, locked in the duel, glanced toward the sound, her gaze landing on you bent over her son, a flicker of stunned gratitude warring with the battle's rage in her.

More Omatikaya warriors surged forward, tipping the scales, forcing the Mangkwan to retreat.

You didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the call. Your focus absolute, hands pressing firmly to seal the wound, willing his life to hold.

Varang shot you one last glare, venomous and pained, before snarling at Neytiri with a guttural promise of unfinished business and then she signaled the fall back. Her warriors melted into the trees, their forms thundering away, leaving the air thick with smoke and the echo of conflict.

Your focus narrowed to the rise and fall of Neteyam's chest, each shallow breath a fragile tether to life, the arrow's shaft now crudely bound but the wound beneath pulsing with insistent threat. Sweat beaded along your temple, tracing a cool path down the arch of your cheekbone, your eyes locked on his face, the sharp angles softened in unconsciousness, the full curve of his lips parted as if in silent plea.

You didn't notice the delicate swirl of an atokirina, that ethereal seed of Eywa, drifting lazily on an unseen current, hovering above you both like a benediction unspoken.

Neytiri saw it, though. Her golden gaze catching the pale spinner as it lingered, a luminous point against the hazy sky, before floating onward. Her breath hitched, a profound shiver rippling through her frame, her shoulders seeming to pulse in quiet awe.

Eywa's will.

She broke from the fray with Jake at her side, their footfalls urgent through the trampled ferns, weapons still gripped tight but lowered in the face of this revelation.

You sensed their approach before you saw them, the rustle of leaves and the heavy cadence of warrior steps pulling your attention. Instinct flared of enemies closing in and you hissed low, a feral sound vibrating from your throat as you shifted away from Neteyam, your body coiling like a viper ready to strike. Your tail lashed behind you, the tip slicing the air with agitation, while your fingers twitched toward the knife at your hip, the leather sheath warm against your hip bone.

They were still foes, the Omatikaya who had chained you and humiliated you and you'd meet them with fangs bared, your toned legs braced against the earth, ready to spring.

Jake opened his mouth, his broad jaw setting with the intent to command, but Neytiri's voice cut through first, steady and resonant, her eyes fierce yet softened by gratitude, one hand extended palm-up in a gesture of uneasy truce. "You will come with us."

He paused, confusion flickering across his scarred features, but he moved without protest, kneeling to gather Neteyam's limp form. The future leader's weight sagged in his father's arms, head lolling against Jake's shoulder, the azure skin of his neck exposed in vulnerable slackness.

Other warriors converged, their ikrans circling low with throaty calls, assisting as Jake hoisted Neteyam toward the nearest mount, muscles bulging under the strain along his arms and back, the harness straps digging into his flesh.

You snarled at Neytiri, the sound raw and defiant, your tail flicking sharper now, brushing against the back of your calves as your fangs glinted in the dappled light. Your posture was rigid with suspicion as you rose to your full height, the beaded strands of your top shifting with the heave of your chest. "I will not be your captive again. Touch me and I'll carve my freedom from your hides."

Neytiri regarded you, her own tail curling thoughtfully at her side, the fire in your eyes mirroring the unyielding spark she knew from her own youth, the same blaze that had drawn Jake to her across clan lines.

Mercy stirred in her chest, unbidden and perplexing. Was it the debt of your aid to her son or the atokirina's silent sign that compelled her?

She straightened, her silhouette cutting a commanding figure against the fading smoke, voice firm and laced with an undercurrent of respect as she turned toward her ikran. "You will not be captive. You saved him, pulled him from Eywa's grasp. I believe the Great Mother has plans. Come, you waste time."

Suspicion coiled tight in your gut, a serpent ready to strike, yet beneath it hummed an inexplicable pull. A whisper urging yes, born of exhaustion, of the chaos you'd wrought by choosing him over your kin.

You hissed once more, baring your fangs in a final warning as your lips curled back, the sharp points catching the light as your ears flattened against your skull. "Lie to me and I will not hesitate to draw my blade even if it means my end."

She met your gaze without flinching, recognizing the kindred fire, the warrior's unbreaking will. With a nod, she mounted her ikran, the bond queue connecting in a soft neural sigh, wings unfurling with a leathery snap.

You approached cautiously, every sense alert. The warmth of the creature's hide under your palms as you swung up behind her, your thighs clamping around its sides, the curve of your hips settling against Neytiri's back. The ascent was swift, wind tearing at your braids, carrying the scent of singed earth and distant rain as the group soared towards their home.

The village emerged like a living tapestry below.

Jake dismounted first upon landing, Neteyam's body cradled securely in his arms, the young warrior's limbs dangling limply, blood crusting along the wound's edges. He ran toward Mo'at's healing marui, feet pounding the woven platforms, Neytiri and you following at a urgent pace.

Eyes turned as you passed, Omatikaya faces hardening at the sight of your Mangkwan markings, the ash remnants of war paint streaking your arms and thighs, whispers rippling like wind through reeds. You ignored them, chin lifted defiantly, your strides long and purposeful, the sway of your hips fluid despite the knot of unease in your belly.

Inside the marui, the air hung thick with the aroma of medicinal pastes and smoldering herbs, shelves lined with jars of glowing extracts. Mo'at moved with ancient grace, her wrinkled skin etched with the wisdom of seasons, drawing Neteyam onto a low pallet woven from supple vines. Her hands, gnarled yet precise, peeled back the hasty bandages you'd applied, assessing the damage with a cluck of her tongue as her eyes narrowed in concentration, fingers probing the inflamed flesh around the arrow's path.

You shifted uncomfortably near the entrance, arms crossed over your chest, the soft swell of your breasts pressing against the crossed forearms, your bare midriff taut with tension.

What madness had brought you here, into the heart of enmity? Why save this man, the one whispered to be bound to another in mating rites, his future woven without you?

Once assured of his survival, you'd slip away, beg for Varang's mercy, atone for the betrayal etched in your choice to heal, to drag him from flames.

Neytiri noticed the storm brewing in your eyes, the way your shoulders hunched slightly under invisible weight. She guided you to a woven mat beside her, her touch light on your elbow as she settled cross-legged.

"Sit. The weight you carry shows in your eyes."

Jake hovered nearby, his confusion etched in the furrow of his brow, arms still bearing faint smears of his son's blood as he glanced between you and Neytiri, tone edged with bewilderment. "Neytiri, why bring her? She's Mangkwan, an enemy blood in our home."

Mo'at's voice rose then, steady and authoritative, cutting the tension as she worked a poultice into the wound her movements rhythmic, the paste's earthy scent filling the space. "He is in critical condition. The arrow pierced deep, nicking the lung's edge. Without the temporary aid to stem the bleeding, he would have crossed to Eywa's embrace already."

Both parents turned to you, realization dawning as Neytiri's gaze held quiet thanks, Jake's a grudging respect.

"And the head trauma is severe, his skull bruised from the fall so visions may haunt him upon waking. He will recover but stress must be barred from his path. No extremes of anger or despair, lest the balance tip and fracture his spirit. Do not put him in situations where he will experience such."

Jake and Neytiri nodded solemnly, Jake's hand squeezing his mate's shoulder, resolve hardening his features. "We'll guard him like the tree itself."

You sat quietly, the breath easing from your lungs in a slow sigh of relief, your fingers unclenching from where they'd dug into your palms, leaving crescent marks on the soft pads.

He would live, the man whose golden eyes had pierced your defenses, whose touch lingered like a forbidden echo.

Neytiri looked at you then, not through the lens of a deadly warrior but as a mother whose heart swelled with gratitude, her expression softening, the lines around her eyes crinkling with unspoken emotion. "You have our thanks. Your hands brought him back to us."

Rising, you met her gaze steadily, your voice even despite the turmoil tail curling loosely at your feet, posture straightening with resolve. "He breathes. My part is done. I will leave now before your people remembers what I am."

She shook her head gently as her braids swayed, tone insistent yet kind, a hand gesturing to the marui's depths. "Stay the night. The forest paths grow treacherous after battle and dawn will light your way clearer. Tomorrow, go with Eywa's guidance."

Hesitation gripped you as visions of Varang's wrath flashed along with her snarl of betrayal but the offer Neytiri gave bought time, a buffer against the storm you'd unleashed. You nodded curtly, the motion causing a loose braid to slip over your shoulder, brushing the gentle slope of your collarbone.

Mo'at interjected, her voice carrying the weight of authority as she pointed to a partitioned alcove, the entrance draped in soft kelp weaves. "There is space in the marui for you. Rest there, no harm under this roof will fall upon you."

You inclined your head uncomfortably, the unfamiliar kindness chafing like ill-fitted armor, and retreated to the indicated area.

The partition muffled the outer sounds, but voices filtered in with familiar cadences of concern, perhaps Neteyam's siblings clustering with worried murmurs or that scheming Alayni's honeyed tones probing for weakness.

You sighed deeply, sinking onto the low sleeping platform, the woven fibers cool against your skin. Gazing at your hands, still faintly stained with his blood and nails chipped from the frantic extraction, you felt the weight crash down.

What have I done?

Varang's face loomed in your mind, her loyalty unyielding and yet you betrayed her, your blood for him. A traitor in your own eyes, cast adrift by a mercy you couldn't explain, the contours of your form curling inward as doubt gnawed at your thoughts.

The first light of dawn filtered through the woven walls of the marui, casting a soft glow that danced across the kelp partitions like whispers from the great tree itself.

You stirred from a fitful sleep, the platform beneath you cradling the subtle curves of your body with its resilient fibers, though no true rest had really come.

The air hummed with distant murmurs, low voices laced with concern, the rustle of movements that spoke of vigil. Neteyam's family, no doubt, gathered in their quiet desperation.

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes adjusting to the dim interior, a stray lock of ebony hair falling across your forehead, brushing the high plane of your cheek as you sat up. The faint ache in your muscles from the previous day's chaos lingered, a reminder of the flames you'd pulled him from, your frame still bearing the subtle smudges of ash along your arms and the line of your neck.

Pushing aside the drape with a steady hand, you stepped into the main chamber, the cool floor mats yielding under your bare feet, toes curling slightly against the texture. There they were, clustered around Neteyam's pallet. Neytiri's poised form kneeling closest, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on his azure skin, while Jake stood sentinel nearby, his broad shoulders tense.

The siblings hovered at the edges, Tuk's small hands fidgeting with a beaded string, Lo'ak's jaw set in watchful silence, and Kiri sitting to the side with a faraway look.

You remembered them from his stories when he was pestering you and you remembered how you tried so hard to tune him out as you rolled your eyes.

Neteyam's chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his features serene in repose, full lips slightly parted as if dreaming of battles yet unfought.

Your gaze locked with Neytiri's across the space, her golden eyes holding a depth of unspoken understanding, the faint lines at their corners deepening as she rose fluidly. The others' stares prickled your skin. They were curious and wary, the weight of enmity pressing like unseen hands, save for Jake whose attention remained fixed on his son, oblivious or perhaps deliberately so.

You held your ground, chin lifting subtly, the soft undulation of your torso accentuated by the morning light as it played over the beaded strands draping your chest.

Her voice emerged, a hand extending in quiet invitation as she closed the distance, the warmth of her presence cutting through the chill of suspicion. "Are you about to head out? The paths await but let me see you safely beyond our borders."

You nodded once, the motion causing your braids to shift, one grazing the delicate hollow of your throat.

Before words could form, her fingers encircled your wrist, firm but not forceful, the calluses of a huntress brushing your smoother skin. "Okay, I'll take you with my ikran. The skies are clearer at this hour."

Together, you moved toward the exit, your steps synchronized in wary alliance, the chamber's herbal scents fading behind you. Halfway there, Tuk's voice pierced the air like a sudden arrow, high-pitched with unbridled joy as her tiny frame bounced as she pointed, eyes wide with wonder.

"Neteyam! You're awake!"

Neytiri gasped beside you, a sharp intake that reverberated through her body, her grip tightening momentarily on your arm before releasing as she whirled, long legs carrying her back in a blur of urgency. His family converged instantly, a protective circle forming around the pallet, voices overlapping in a cacophony of relief.

Jake's baritone cut through as his hand raised in caution, posture rigid as he scanned his children's eager faces. "Easy, give him space. Let him breathe."

You didn't turn, didn't allow the pull of curiosity to drag you back.

Relief flickered in your chest that he lived, that his spirit is unbroken but seeing him now, vulnerable and surrounded by their bond, stirred too much. Your tail flicked once, a subtle lash against your calf, as you fixed your gaze on the exit, the woven flap beckoning like freedom's edge.

A groan echoed from the pallet, low and pained, followed by Neytiri's voice, thick with emotion as tears glistened on her lashes then spilling down the curve of her cheek as she cupped his face, her thumbs tracing the strong line of his jaw.

"Ma Teyam, my child, you're awake. Eywa has returned you to us."

Neteyam's first words hung in the air, raspy yet insistent, freezing you mid-step as his voice threaded confusion and longing, golden eyes blinking open to search the faces around him. "Where's my mate?"

Your heart clenched like a fist around a thorned vine, a sharp twist that stole your breath, the muscles of your back tensing beneath the thin straps of your top.

He meant her, that conniving soft-spoken healer, the one fate had chained him to.

The betrayal you'd wrought for his sake soured further, urging you toward escape, but Neytiri remained entangled in the moment, her form a barrier you couldn't breach without drawing eyes.

He spoke again, urgency sharpening his tone as he propped himself up slightly on one elbow, the defined planes of his abdomen flexing under the strain, beads of sweat gathering along his collarbone. "Where is my mate? Why is she not here? Where is (Y/N)?"

Silence crashed over the marui like a sudden storm, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of a nearby incense burner. You couldn't believe the words echoing in your ears. Your name on his lips like a claim, a delusion born of fever or fracture. His family still shielded him, their bodies a living wall, blocking any chance of his gaze finding you.

What madness gripped him?

Jake broke the hush, his voice measured, laced with concern as he kneeled closer, one large hand resting on Neteyam's shoulder, fingers splaying across the flesh there. "Kid, what do you mean mate? Talk to me, clear your head."

Neteyam frowned, confusion etching furrows across his forehead, his ears twitching slightly as he tilted his head, the kuru at his back shifting against the pallet as he scanned the circle of faces. "Huh? She's my mate. What do you mean what do I mean, Dad? We chose each other, it is done."

Neytiri exchanged a fleeting glance with Jake, her expression a mask of reassurance as she smiled gently, though her eyes held a storm of questions as she leaned in, her braids falling forward to brush his arm. "What's the last thing you remember, Ma Teyam? Tell your sa'nok, help us understand."

He groaned again, wincing as he pressed a hand to his temple, his fingers threading through his hair as his voice faltered, piecing together fragments like scattered leaves.

"We were together in the forest... deep in the glade, away from eyes. We mated, bound our kuru. I remember the warmth of her, falling asleep in her arms... then nothing. I woke up now. Why am I here? Where is she?"

Jake's mouth parted, words forming on the edge of his tongue but Neytiri's hand clamped onto his forearm, urgent and unyielding as her nails digged lightly into his skin, a silent reminder of her mother's grave warning, her gaze flicking to the tsahik for affirmation.

No stress, no shadows to cloud his fragile recovery.

Mo'at inclined her head subtly from her perch nearby, her weathered features serene, the wisdom in her eyes underscoring the peril of truths unspoken.

However, shock rippled through you like a current, your pulse thundering in your ears, the arch of your neck flushing with heat.

What sorcery had befallen this demon blood?

The forest encounter, the stolen touches, and the heated whispers had been a fever dream of his desire, not a true bonding. Yet here he proclaimed it as reality, your name woven into his delirium.

Your fingers curled at your sides, nails biting into palms, the soft pads whitening under pressure.

Jake rose then, his frame casting a long shadow as he leaned toward Neytiri whispering low, his jaw clenched in resolve. "I'll get Norm, let him scan the boy's head, figure out what's twisted in there."

He straightened, striding past you with purposeful steps.

You shifted sideways instinctively, pressing against the wall's curve, your body folding into the shadows to evade Neteyam's searching eyes, the faint scent of his blood still clinging to your skin like a ghost.

The drape parted again, admitting Alayni in a rush of hurried grace, her form halting abruptly at the sight of you lingering near the threshold. Her face fell, features draining of color, eyes widening in a flash of alarm as her lips parted in silent accusation, her tail coiling tight behind her as panic etched sharp lines around her mouth.

What is she doing here?

The enemy in their sanctum, everyone would know her schemes, the whispers of betrayal she'd sown.

You couldn't suppress the satisfied smirk curling your lips, a predatory glint in your gaze as you savored the tremor in her composure, the way her fingers twisted the hem of her wrap.

She glared daggers, a venomous spark in her eyes, before hurrying inside voice pitched with concern, dropping to her knees beside the pallet, her hand reached out to caress his cheek, nails grazing the smooth azure expanse. "Neteyam, are you okay? We've been so worried—"

He recoiled at her touch, jerking back with a hiss as his body tensed, shoulders hunching as if her fingers burned, golden eyes narrowing in instinctive rejection. "Don't touch me. My mate would not like that, keep your hands to yourself."

Alayni froze, confusion clouding her features as she glanced around the circle, her posture crumbling slightly. The gentle swell of her chest heaving with rapid breaths, seeking answers in their stunned expressions. First, you're here like some honored guest, unwatched and unchained and now Neteyam denying their bond, as if the ceremonies planned for days hence meant nothing.

"What do you mean? You have no mate, Neteyam. We will be mated in several days. It's all arranged, for the clan—"

His stare was blank and unyielding as he leaned away further, the muscles along his arms corded with tension, voice flat with conviction that brooked no argument. "I am mated, Alayni. Do not disrespect me and her by saying that. I've chosen, Eywa witnessed it."

Alayni's mouth opened for protest, words tumbling forth in a desperate rush as her hands gestured wildly but Lo'ak's fingers closed around her wrist, firm and ungentle, his grip steady as he pulled her back with a warning growl low in his throat.

"Enough, let him rest. You're making it worse."

Neytiri forced a smile then, thin and strained as she rose to her full height, her frame interposing as she pried Alayni from Lo'ak's hold, guiding her toward the entrance with a maternal hand on her shoulder.

She had once favored the girl.

Her respectful demeanor, the sweet softness that promised stability for her son, the shy affections that bloomed like night flowers. It was why she'd championed the union, envisioning harmony in their future. But now, Alayni's invasiveness grated, a threat to the delicate balance of Neteyam's healing. What she'd once seen as endearing now loomed as disruption, especially with the girl's recent clinginess fraying nerves that are already taut.

Her tone remained even, laced with polite finality as she steered Alayni through the drape, the fabric whispering against their forms. "Go now, child, rest and prepare for the day's duties. He'll need quiet to mend, we'll call when he's stronger."

Alayni resisted briefly, a flicker of indignation in her eyes, but Neytiri's unyielding gaze quelled it. As she was ushered out, you caught her eye from behind Neytiri's shoulder, your smirk deepening into something triumphant as your lips curved wickedly, the sharp tips of your fangs peeking as you watched her retreat.

Stupid bitch, starting to pay her karma.

The satisfaction bloomed warm in your chest, a counter to the earlier ache at the unraveling the web she'd spun.

The marui's air thickened with the scent of medicinal herbs and lingering tension as footsteps approached from beyond the drape. The flap parted with a soft rustle, admitting Jake first followed by a figure that made your eyes narrow in instinctive distrust.

He was another of those sky people avatars, shorter and bulkier than the Na'vi around him, with blue skin stretched over an unfamiliar musculature, his movements jerky and mechanical as he hauled a satchel bulging with strange, gleaming devices. In your eyes, he was just another demon in disguise, his eyes too round and probing behind a mask of false familiarity.

Neteyam's family parted slightly to allow them access, his golden gaze widening in confusion propping himself up on his elbows despite the wince that tugged at his full lips, the cords of his neck straining as he tilted his head.

"Dad? Norm? What's all this?" His voice carried a mix of bewilderment and faint alarm, the sharp angles of his shoulders tensing beneath the thin covering draped over his torso.

Jake placed a reassuring hand on his son's arm, the gesture firm yet gentle. "Just a check-up, son. Norm here's gonna make sure everything's healing right, no big deal."

Norm nodded efficiently, unpacking his tools with practiced haste. A handheld scanner humming to life, its blue light flickering like captured bioluminescence, and thin probes that beeped softly as they connected to Neteyam's temple and chest. The warrior submitted with reluctant patience, his ears flicking at each unfamiliar sensation as his chest rose and fell in shallow rhythms, the bandaged expanse over his ribs shifting with each breath.

You remained unseen, a ghost in the periphery, gratitude coiling in your gut that he hadn't glimpsed you yet, sparing you the complication of his fractured gaze.

The assessment dragged on, Norm murmuring readings under his breath, Jake hovering like a sentinel. Finally, they withdrew, the group filing out into the humid morning air. Norm repacking his gear with a satisfied grunt, Mo'at gliding behind with her staff tapping rhythmically, Neytiri close at her heel, her posture a blend of maternal poise and veiled anxiety.

Curiosity tugged at you drawing your steps toward the exit despite the risk. You hovered just inside, the soft swell of your hips swaying faintly as you strained to catch their words, the faint breeze carrying snippets through the kelp weave.

Norm's voice filtered back, clinical and detached gesturing vaguely at the air as if diagramming an invisible wound.

"Selective amnesia, most likely from the trauma to his skull. Concussions like that can scramble memories, make him fill in gaps with what his mind wants to believe. It'll probably clear up with rest but no pushing him. Avoid contradictions, let it fade naturally."

Mo'at's response came sharp and authoritative, her aged frame straightening one hand raised in admonition. "Precisely. No stress, Jake Sully. His spirit is fragile as fresh-woven thread, negative winds could unravel it further."

Jake glanced over his shoulder then, his eyes locking onto yours through the partial drape.

You met his stare blankly, your expression a mask of cool indifference, the line of your jaw set firm, lashes casting shadows over your irises.

He sighed heavily, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder as he rubbed a hand over his hair before nodding to Mo'at. "Understood. Thanks, Norm. Appreciate you coming out here on short notice."

He clapped the avatar on the back, steering him toward the path, their forms receding into the foliage.

Mo'at turned fully to you then, her wrinkled features softening into a knowing smile as she extended a gnarled hand in gentle summons, the beads on her bracelets clinking softly. "Come, child. He searches for you. Eywa's threads bind him still even in confusion."

Hesitation rooted you for a beat, your bare feet shifting against the mat, toes flexing into the fibers as doubt warred with obligation. But you moved forward, weaving through the siblings' loose circle, your presence rippling the air like a stone in still water. Neytiri observed from the side, her arms crossed over her chest, the arch of her back rigid with unspoken calculations.

Neteyam's eyes ignited at the sight of you, a spark of pure recognition and warmth flooding their golden depths as his face brightened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a boyish smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. "Baby, where have you been? I've been calling for you. Come here, let me see you."

Words failed you, caught in the tangle of your throat like thorns. Your pulse quickened, the delicate skin at your wrists flushing as you glanced desperately at Neytiri. She stepped in seamlessly, her voice a soothing murmur kneeling beside him. "She was just helping Mo'at with some herbs, Ma Teyam. Nothing to worry over. You're safe now, all of us here."

He nodded absently, already shifting to rise as his elbows dug into the padding, his torso twisting with intent, the play of muscles along his flanks evident even through the strain. But a sharp hiss escaped him as pain lanced through his chest. He glanced down, fingers probing the white bandages wrapped taut around his ribs, tracing the edges where faint bloodstains bloomed, his brow furrowing in dawning alarm.

"What happened? Why am I... like this?"

Neytiri's response flowed quick and fabricated, her tail flicking once in reassurance as she pressed him back gently, palms flat against his shoulders. "A minor fall during a hunt, nothing more. You're mending well but rest is key. No straining this body of yours."

Lo'ak chimed in from his perch nearby, his tone laced with concern as he leaned forward, one hand hovering as if ready to steady him. "Yeah bro, don't push it. You've been out cold, give yourself a break."

Tuk, unable to contain her awe any longer, stared up at you with unabashed wonder, her small fingers twisting in her lap, round cheeks dimpling as she beamed, the innocence in her voice cutting through the heaviness.

"You're pretty like the glowing vines at night."

Neteyam caught the words, his grin widening into something radiant and possessive as he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest despite the wince it provoked, his gaze raking over you with unabashed adoration. "She is, isn't she? Eywa blessed me beyond measure with the most beautiful woman as my mate."

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a traitorous warmth that clashed with the snarl building in your chest. Your fangs ached to bare but Neytiri's sharp glance pinned you, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly, a silent command as she rose.

"I'll speak with her first, important matters."

She drew you aside into a quieter nook, the privacy of the woven screen shielding your exchange, her sigh heavy with exhaustion as her shoulders slumped slightly, the taper of her ears drooping as she met your eyes. "Please, play along just until his memories return. It's a delicate weave we're threading here."

A hiss bubbled up, low and frustrated, your claws flexing at your sides, a flicker of resentment darkening your features.

This wasn't the plan. It was only saving him from the flames and slipping away into the wilds. But now pretending this farce of a bond?

It deepened the chasm with Varang, a blade twisted further into your sister's trust, your loyalty fracturing like dry earth under storm.

Yet you exhaled sharply, the breath stirring the beads at your throat. "Just for today then I'll leave. I've lingered too long already, debts are paid."

Gratitude softened Neytiri's gaze, her hand squeezing your forearm in quiet alliance. "Thank you. Eywa sees your heart."

Eywa, their false goddess.

You refrained from speaking it and returned to the pallet together, his siblings' eyes tracking your approach.

Mo'at interjected then, her voice carrying the weight of authority as she gestured toward the exit with her staff, the carved wood glinting. "He may leave the healing hut now. Rest in your family marui where care is close."

Neteyam's confusion creased his forehead anew as he tilted his head, his kuru swaying as he pushed to sit fully, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Why the family marui? I have our own, shared with my mate. That's where I belong, with her."

Neytiri froze for a heartbeat then mustered a feigned grin, her lips curving upward in playful conspiracy, though tension lined her jaw. "Oh yes, of course you can sleep there. Silly of us to forget."

Relief lit Neteyam's face, a grin splitting wide as he eased to his feet with Lo'ak's support, his brother's arm slung around his waist, the lean power of his legs steadying as he leaned into the aid.

You walked in silence beside Neytiri, your steps measured, the sway of your form guarded against his occasional glances.

She guided the group to a nearby empty marui, its entrance framed by dangling vines that swayed like welcoming tendrils, the interior sparse but inviting with a low cot piled with fresh furs.

"I'll bring your things later." Neytiri explained smoothly as she waved a hand at the empty space, her posture relaxed in fabrication. "You forgot them before, rushing off to tend to (Y/N). Always so devoted."

Neteyam nodded, his attention fixed on you. Golden eyes tracing the cascade of your braids down your back, the subtle glow of your skin under the filtered light, though you kept your gaze averted, fixed on the horizon.

Kiri approached then, her touch feather-light on your arm in a soft pat, wordless solidarity in her empathetic eyes before she stepped back.

Tuk waved enthusiastically as she bounced on her toes, her laughter bubbling. "Bye! Take care of him, he's grumpy when hurt!"

Lo'ak gave a curt nod and Neytiri mirroring it with a final meaningful look before they departed, leaving the marui's quiet to envelop you.

You lingered at the entrance, the woven threshold framing your silhouette, arms crossed over the gentle rise of your chest as Neteyam settled onto the cot, his form reclining against the bolsters, long legs stretching out, the bandage peeking from beneath his wrap as he watched you expectantly.

"Baby, what are you doing all the way over there? Come here. I've missed you too much already."

You restrained the urge to roll your eyes, the old grudge simmering within you. Alayni's shadow, the secrets he'd buried back then, it fueled a quiet fury that tightened your lips. With deliberate slowness, you crossed the space, perching on the cot's edge at a careful distance, the furs dipping under your weight, your thighs pressing together in restrained tension.

He frowned at the gap reaching out, his hand encircling your waist with insistent warmth, drawing you nearer until your hip brushed his, the heat of his body seeping through the thin barriers. "Why so far?"

Without waiting, he leaned in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there before his lips pressed soft lingering pecks along the column of your throat, tracing the pulse that fluttered beneath.

You shifted away slightly, a hand rising to his chest, gentle but firm against the bandaged expanse to halt him. "You must not move so much, your wound will reopen if you keep this up."

"I don't care, the ache is nothing compared to being without you." He dismissed it with a low hum undeterred, nosing deeper and inhaling your scent like a lifeline, his free arm looping around your midriff to anchor you. "You always smell so good."

Your eyes rolled despite yourself, exasperation sharpening your tone as you leaned back just enough to create space, though his hold persisted. "Do you not listen? Rest means rest, not this."

A grin curved his lips, playful and unrepentant as his eyes sparkled with mischief. He tilted his head, the sharp line of his jaw brushing your shoulder. "I do listen but my mate is just so irresistible. How can I resist when you're right here, pulling me like the tide?"

The words ignited a storm within you. The urge to drive your claws into his chest, to end this delusion with finality, to flee into the jungle's embrace, and beneath it all, a treacherous pull to lean in, to claim those lips and drown the betrayal.

Your breath hitched, eyes flashing as your voice dropped to a warning growl. "If you do not stop, you will sleep in your family's marui tonight, without me."

He chuckled, the sound rich and affectionate, as he tugged you flush against him now, his head resting on your shoulder, one hand tracing idle patterns along your arm, savoring the silken texture of your skin. "I don't want to be away from you, ever. Even for a night. You're my world, (Y/N). Tell me you feel it too. The bond, the pull. We've always been this way, haven't we?"

You stiffened, the weight of his touches pressing like chains, his body molding to yours, warm and insistent, nuzzling closer as if to weave your scents together anew.

"Neteyam..." It came out softer than intended, a conflicted murmur as your hand hovered over his, torn between pushing away and letting it linger. "Just... be still. For now."

He hummed contentedly and undaunted, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone, his fingers interlacing with yours, thumb stroking the back of your hand in slow circles. "As you wish but I'm not letting go of you."

The marui fell into a charged hush, his affection a balm and a burden, the line between pretense and peril blurring with every shared breath.

You spent the entire day ensnared in Neteyam's unyielding embrace, his body a constant insistent presence against yours. He was every bit the spoiled brat his amnesia painted him to be. Demanding, playful, and utterly oblivious to the storm raging within you. From the moment the morning light had fully crested the horizon, he refused to release your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours in a grip that was both tender and possessive, the calluses on his palms rough against your smoother skin.

"Feed me." He murmured during the midday meal, his voice a low rumble and laced with mischief.

He propped himself up on one elbow, the lean muscles of his forearm flexing as he gestured to the woven basket of fruits and roasted kelp strips. His golden eyes sparkled with expectation, the sharp angles of his cheekbones highlighted by the soft luminescence filtering in. You hesitated, the curve of your shoulders tensing beneath the lightweight shawl draped over them, but his pout, lips pursing in exaggerated plea, drew a reluctant sigh from you.

Slicing a piece of sweetfruit with your knife, its juice glistening on the blade like dew, you held it to his mouth. He leaned forward eagerly but paused just before taking it. His breath warm against your fingertips, eyes locking onto yours with feigned innocence.

"A kiss first." He demanded softly, tilting his head so his kuru brushed your thigh. "For every bite. It's our thing, remember?"

Irritation flared hot in your chest, your free hand itching to deliver a sharp smack to that smug jawline as the taper of his ears twitched in anticipation. Yet, beneath the annoyance, a treacherous warmth bloomed low in your belly, spreading like sunlight through mist. His affection, fabricated or not, wrapped around you like the humid air itself. You leaned in grudgingly, pressing your lips to his in a brief chaste touch, your mouth soft against the firm warmth of his, the faint taste of herbs from his earlier tonic lingering.

He hummed in satisfaction, finally accepting the fruit, chewing slowly while his gaze never left your face.

This ritual repeated through the afternoon. Bite after bite, kiss after kiss, each one pulling you deeper into the pretense. His laughter bubbled up between mouthfuls, light and carefree as his chest vibrated with the sound, though he winced slightly when it jostled his bandaged ribs, the white wrapping stark against his azure skin.

"You're too good to me." He said after one particularly lingering peck, his hand sliding up your arm to trace the delicate ridge of your collarbone. "How did I ever deserve you, baby?"

You only answered with an eye roll, willing yourself to calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the interior in hues of amber and violet, he grew more reflective, his clinginess evolving into quiet confessions. He pulled you onto the furs beside him, your legs tangling with his as he recounted the day he first laid eyes on you, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, fingers idly stroking the cascade of your braids that spilled over your shoulder.

"It was during that raid, I thought you were the most beautiful creature Eywa ever wove, all fire and grace in one breath. Even with your blade at my throat, I couldn't look away."

Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged, your pulse thrumming in your ears as you absorbed his words. The memory twisted in your mind, the confrontation, the kiss that had ignited everything yet led to this tangled web. Finally, you broke the quiet, your voice steady despite the knot in your throat shifting slightly, the soft swell of your hips pressing into the furs as you turned to face him.

"What do you think of Alayni?"

He blinked, surprise flickering across his features, the smooth plane of his forehead creasing. "Alayni? She's... nice. She's been around since we were children, always helping with the young ones or joining hunts. Reliable, like a sister almost."

The answer hung there, innocuous yet loaded. You pressed further, curiosity sharpening your tone with your eyes narrowing, lashes casting faint shadows on your high cheekbones. "Do you like her?"

His eyes widened, golden irises flaring with incredulity, leaning back as if the question physically pushed him.

"Like her? How could you even ask that when I burn for you alone?" He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him, though it carried an edge of disbelief. "She's shown her interest. Blushing around me, weaving extra beads for my gear but I don't see her that way. Never have. My heart's been yours from the start."

You wanted to roll your eyes, the truth bubbling beneath your restraint.

Oh yes, but you were set to mate her if fate hadn't intervened.

The words clawed at your tongue but you swallowed them, maintaining the fragile peace.

He studied your expression, a sly smile curving his lips as he reached out to cup your chin, thumb brushing the plush curve of your lower lip. "Are you jealous? Tell me baby, does it sting knowing others vied for me?"

A snarl ripped from your throat, low and feral as you bared your fangs briefly, the lines of your neck corded with tension as you pulled back from his touch. "No. Jealousy is for the weak. I'm merely curious about your tangled loyalties."

His smile deepened, brimming with adoration as his eyes softened, he drew you nearer, his broad palm splaying across the small of your back.

"Alayni was just one of the candidates my parents pushed before I met you. They thought her steady, a good match for a future Olo'eyktan." He paused, gaze distant, reliving the memory of when you left. "I came to the marui where you were that night, heart heavy because I'd just learned they'd chosen her. I didn't want it, I wanted you. So I went there to confess everything, to seek comfort in your arms but I saw you with her first. She told you, didn't she? But twisted it to make it seem like it was decided long ago, that I was playing you all along. She lied, (Y/N). It wasn't set in stone, I was ready to fight it from the moment I knew."

Your eyes grew wide, the revelation crashing over you, pupils dilating in shock as pieces clicked into place.

So he hadn't been deceiving you, not entirely. The betrayal you'd nursed, the fury at his supposed duplicity... it shifted, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.

"I almost went through with it, you know. Why you fled with your sister that night, she said you wanted nothing to do with me. I believed her, let the pain fester." He chuckled then, the sound bland and tinged with bitterness as his shoulders rolled in a shrug, the play of tendons in his neck visible as he tilted his head. "But then you came back, told me the truth... we mated, formed tsaheylu under the stars. It was perfect until I woke up like this with no recollection of why I'm bandaged."

The words hung false in the air, his mind's desperate weave to fill the voids. None of it had happened, the bond a phantom of his selective forgetfulness. Frustration boiled within you, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth, claws aching to rake through flesh, to lash out at the cruel irony.

But you schooled your features into neutrality, jaw setting firm as you met his gaze evenly. "I... see."

Undeterred by your reserve, he pulled you closer, nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his nose traced the sensitive hollow there, inhaling deeply as if committing your essence to memory. With a gentle tug, he guided you both down onto the furs. Mindful of his injury. you positioned carefully at his side, your head resting on the unbandaged plane of his shoulder, the rise and fall of his breathing syncing with yours.

"I see you." He whispered fervently, lips brushing your temple in soft reverent kisses, each one a feather-light promise. "Since the day you held that blade to my throat, your fire called to mine."

You bit your lip, the sharp sting grounding you amid the whirlwind, teeth pressing into the tender flesh, a faint metallic tang blooming as you held your silence.

His affection enveloped you like a cocoon, warm and suffocating, lulling the day into evening's embrace.

The next morning dawned with a hush, the first rays piercing the marui's weave before Neteyam's eyes fluttered open. You stirred early, slipping from his arms with the stealth of a shadow, your movements fluid and silent, the contours of your legs uncoiling as you rose, bare feet padding softly against the cool floor.

Pausing at the threshold, you cast one last look back at him, his handsome features softened in sleep with his lashes fanning dark against his cheeks, the strong bridge of his nose casting a subtle shadow, lips parted in quiet breaths that stirred the air.

A pang twisted in your chest before you turned away, vanishing into the misty paths without a backward glance.

You wouldn't wait for Neytiri. By then, Neteyam would stir, his questions a net you couldn't afford to tangle in further. The jungle welcomed you back, vines parting like old allies as you wove toward the treeline, the weight of departure lifting with each step. Just as the clan's central paths faded behind you, a figure emerged from the underbrush.

Alayni, her posture rigid with venom, arms crossed over her chest as she blocked your way, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"Had fun playing mates with mine? Taking advantage of his amnesia like the snake you are?" She spat, her voice dripping with accusation as she stepped closer, the aggressive sway of her hips belying the fury in her clenched fists.

You grinned at her, slow and evil, letting the malice curl your lips as your head tilted "Just as much fun as he had. Clinging, kissing, whispering sweet nothings. You should thank me for keeping him occupied."

She hissed lunging nearer, her breath hot and ragged as her fangs flashed. "Why are you even here? Skulking around like you belong?"

Your snarl matched hers, a guttural warning as your tail lashing behind you, claws extending slightly as you held your ground, the poised strength in your stance unyielding. "Don't worry, I'm leaving and never coming back. You won't have to betray your people again, teaming up with my sister to raid your own clan just to dispose of me in your twisted way."

Her grin twisted maliciously, a flash of triumph in her eyes lips pulling back in a sneer, one hand gesturing dismissively. "It was worth it. Every scream, every flame because it means Neteyam will be mine."

You pouted mockingly, the expression dripping with sarcasm as you puffed your cheeks slightly, eyes rolling in exaggerated pity.

"You had your people slaughtered, homes reduced to ash, all to eliminate me and claim him? You're not just delusional, you're a traitor through and through. Soon, your clan will uncover your rot and they'll see you for the venomous wretch you are."

Disgust curled your features, a final withering glance raking over her figure, the lines of your face hardening before you spun on your heel. Without another word, you melted into the foliage, the jungle swallowing your form whole, leaving her seething in the undergrowth.

The jungle's embrace felt mocking as you pushed through the dense foliage, the vines brushing against your arms like accusatory fingers. Your clan's territory loomed ahead, the familiar spires of woven huts rising against the canopy but the air hummed with a tension that set your nerves alight.

Once, the gazes that met yours were filled with awe, reverent whispers trailing your steps as the Tsakarem, the chosen one destined to weave Eywa's will into the clan's future next to your sister. Now, those same eyes shifted uneasily, darting away or narrowing in suspicion, the subtle flinch of shoulders and the hurried averting of faces speaking volumes.

You had betrayed them, after all, by dragging that Omatikaya warrior from the flames, his blood staining your hands as surely as your mercy had branded you a turncoat. Just as Alayni had sold her own people to the shadows for a chance at Neteyam's side, so had you fractured the bonds of your kin. The weight of it settled in your gut like river stones as you stepped into the clearing.

Whispers rippled through the gathered figures. Warriors pausing mid-stride, healers glancing up from their herbs with lips pressed thin.

Dread coiled tighter when she appeared.

Varang, your sister, emerging from the central marui like a specter carved from obsidian. Her presence commanded the space, broad shoulders squared beneath the weight of adorned armor, the scars across her arms a testament to battles won. But it was her face that chilled you. Blank, devoid of the fiery rage that usually ignited her amber eyes or twisted her full mouth into a snarl. This emptiness was worse, it was eerie and calculating, a void where her vicious fury should have roared.

"Tsmuke." You murmured, voice cracking despite your effort to steady it knees bending slightly as you lowered yourself in supplication, the soft curves of your torso shifting under the thin straps of your top. "Forgive me. I... I couldn't let him die there. Eywa's will—"

"Eywa's will? The boy had you believing that false goddess who abandoned us?" She approached, her movements deliberate, the powerful swing of her tail betraying nothing.

Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your kuru with a gentleness that belied the threat as her nails grazed the sensitive neural tendrils, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as she caressed it like a fragile vine. The touch was almost tender for her being yet it carried the promise of something darker.

"You are a traitor to your people." She said flatly, her voice a low monotone that echoed unnaturally in the hush as her eyes locked onto yours unblinking, the sharp angles of her jaw set like carved stone. "To your own sister. I should claim your kuru for that, sever it clean, or perhaps your head to remind all of divided hearts."

Horror bloomed cold in your chest as she drew her blade, raising it with fluid precision, the metal glinting in the dappled light, her biceps flexing with restrained power as she looped the edge toward your kuru. You breathed out sharply, bracing for the pain, your muscles tensing along your spine as your heart pounded against your ribs.

But she halted, the blade hovering inches from you before she withdrew it, letting your kuru slip free from her grasp. Her expression remained a mask of indifference, shoulders rolling back as she sheathed the weapon, the beads in her hair swaying with the motion. "You are not welcome here anymore. I have no use for divided loyalties, there is no place for traitors among the Mangkwan. Leave this place and if you ever return, I will not hesitate to forget you are my blood."

The words landed like a spear to the core, your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach as a wave of nausea churned, you rose unsteadily, legs wobbling beneath the strength of your thighs. You bit your lip hard, the sharp sting drawing a bead of blood that you tasted metallic on your tongue, and turned away without another plea. The clan's stares burned into your back as you walked, first heavy steps then a numb stride, your heart a leaden ache in your chest.

Exile.

You belonged nowhere now, a ghost adrift in Pandora's vast wilds, your cruelty once a shield now a hollow echo of your being.

Hours blurred into an endless trek, the jungle's symphony fading to a distant hum as exhaustion clawed at you. Your feet ached against the uneven terrain, the sway of your hips slowing with each mile. The sun climbed and dipped, painting the undergrowth in shifting patterns, until the rush of water drew you onward.

The river, the same crystalline vein where Neteyam had found you before, time and time again, his persistence a thorn in your side. It curved invitingly, fringed with glowing ferns but solace it offered right now was a lie.

You collapsed onto the mossy bank, knees buckling as the fight drained from you curling into yourself, silent tears carved warm paths down your cheeks. Sobs caught in your throat, muffled against your knees, the isolation crashing over you like the current's foam.

"This is what happens when you try to leave me."

The voice sliced through the quiet, low and resonant, startling you upright. Your head snapping up, braids whipping across your damp face, eyes wide with wary as you scanned the shadows.

There he was, Neteyam, stepping from the treeline in all his imposing glory, the sunlight gilding his azure form. But this was no vulnerable soft version, his face was etched with darkness, his golden eyes hooded and intense, the usual warmth replaced by a predatory gleam as his broad chest rose steadily. The faint scars on his arms standing out as he moved with purpose, his tail flicking like a whip.

"What are you doing here? How did you—?" You stammered, scrambling back on your hands as your palms sinked into the cool mud.

He chuckled, a dark velvety sound that sent chills racing across your skin. He closed the distance with unhurried strides, his long legs eating the ground. Crouching beside you, he invaded your space effortlessly, his heat radiating like a forge. One knee pressing into the earth, forearm resting on his thigh as he leaned in, the sharp cut of his jaw tilting toward you.

"I followed you." He said simply, amusement curling his lips fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to touch you, eyes tracing the tear-streaked glow of your cheeks. "I wasn't asleep when you slipped away."

Confusion swirled with the resolve in your chest. You straightened, forcing firmness into your voice as your chin lifted defiantly, the subtle curve of your neck exposed as you met his gaze, refusing to cower. "Leave me be, Neteyam. This isn't your concern."

He tilted his head, a knowing grin spreading across his features though the shadows in his expression deepened the hollows of his cheeks. "You're mine. Why would I leave you alone? We've danced this evasion too long, it's time you accept it."

A snarl tore from your throat, raw and unrestrained. The culmination of betrayal, exile, and this relentless pursuit bubbling over. Your fangs bared, the muscles of your shoulders coiling as you lunged forward slightly, claws extending in warning. You didn't care anymore about Neytiri's pleas to play along, to shield him from stress or negativity. Your world had shattered and his delusions were the final straw.

"I'm not yours! We aren't mated, none of it was real. You're supposed to be with that woman, Alayni. You hit your head in that fall. It's selective amnesia twisting your memories, making you think we're bonded when we're enemies. Demon blood runs in you and you're tainting everything, leave me alone!"

The words spilled out in a torrent, your chest heaving with the force of them as your breath comes in sharp bursts, the soft peaks of your breasts straining against the fabric as fury flushed your skin a deeper hue.

You expected shock, denial, perhaps anger but he remained calm, face blank as a still pond, absorbing every accusation without a flicker. His arms folding loosely across his torso, the defined ridges of his abdomen shifting subtly with each even inhale.

"Are you done, baby?" He asked softly, the endearment laced with dark affection, voice dipping low, one corner of his mouth quirking as he watched you unravel.

Confusion made your lashes fluttered along with disbelief as you looked at him. "Did you not hear what I said? It's all a lie, your mind's broken!"

"I heard you loud and clear." He replied evenly, unfolding to rise slightly, towering over you even in his crouch as his shadow fall across your form. "You think I'm stupid? That I don't know the truth of it all? I know everything, baby."

Your mind reeled, questions piling like storm clouds as your pulse thundered in your ears, fingers digging into the earth for stability as you searched his face for deceit.

What game was this?

He leaned closer, grin widening with a flash of something primal in his eyes. It was dark and unyielding possession, his pupils dilating as the golden hue sharpened like a predator's stare.

"I do not have selective amnesia." He tapped the side of his head, the words dropping like stones into deep water.

"What?" The syllable escaped as a whisper, shock rooting you in place as your body goes still, the taper of your waist tensing as realization dawned.

"Do you not get it, baby?" His grin softened into something almost tender, hand reaching out to caress your face lovingly. His palm cupping your jaw, thumb tracing the high plane of your cheekbone with feather-light pressure, calluses rough against your silken skin. "It was all a ploy, (Y/N). The confusion, the clinging, the fabricated memories. I orchestrated it to keep you close without resistance from my family, the clan, or even you. I needed you unbound, willing in my arms, away from the barriers who wants to keep us apart."

Shock rippled through you, the extreme lengths he had gone to. For you. This enemy, this forbidden flame, leaving you breathless. Your eyes widening, the vibrant irises reflecting his intensity as your lips parted in stunned silence.

Insanity woven from obsession stared back at you in his gaze.

"You're insane." You breathed, shaking your head in denial trying to twist away, the sleek strands of your braids swaying as your shoulders rolled back, seeking distance from him.

He chuckled again, the sound rich and unrepentant, pulling you flush against him with effortless strength. His arms encircling your waist, his chest a solid wall of warmth pressing into your softer frame, tsking softly as you resisted. "You made me this way."

You pushed against his chest, not with full force but enough to test the boundary, your palms flattening against the firm planes of muscle there, feeling the steady thrum beneath azure skin marked by faint healing scars.

"You're still gonna be mated to Alayni." You insisted, voice edged with defiance lips pressing into a thin line, the subtle quiver of your chin betraying the storm within. "We are not truly mated. She's what your parents want, what the clan demands. This changes nothing."

Neteyam tilted his head, golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that bordered on reverence, but his gaze drifted inexorably downward, fixating on the full curve of your lips. His pupils darkening as he leaned fractionally closer, the sharp line of his nose nearly brushing yours, ignoring your protest like a whisper lost in the wind. He didn't flinch, didn't argue, instead a soft hum escaped him as if your words were mere ripples on the surface of his resolve.

"She won't be." He murmured finally, voice low and threaded with certainty as one of his hand sliding up your back, fingers tracing the delicate ridge of your spine through the thin weave of your top. "Once my parents and the clan know what she did, Alayni will be cast out like the poison she is."

Shock rippled through you anew, widening your eyes as you searched his face for any sign of bluff breath catching, the slope of your shoulders tensing beneath his touch.

"What do you mean?" The question tumbled out, laced with suspicion.

Did he know? Had the threads of deception of that bitch unraveled further than I realized?

A grin split his features, slow and predatory, revealing the gleam of his fangs as amusement danced in his irises, tail curling possessively around your calf.

"I heard every word from your conversation with her earlier." He confessed, the admission rolling off his tongue like a secret long savored. "How she betrayed our clan, orchestrated the attack that brought death and ruin to so many. She sold us out for her own ambitions, your escape included."

The pieces clicked into place, stealing your breath.

When you'd risen that morning, believing him lost to sleep in the cot, he hadn't been. He'd lain still, eyes cracked just enough to watch you slip away, granting you a mere twenty seconds' head start before rising silently. His instincts had guided him through the underbrush, shadows cloaking his pursuit until he caught the murmur of voices.

Yours and Alayni's, sharp with accusation.

He'd lingered at the edge, ears attuned to every damning syllable. Alayni's confession, her gloating over the attack she'd ignited, the way she'd twisted your departure not as rejection of him, but as her calculated strike to claim what she coveted. Rage had simmered in him then but so had resolve, fueling his steps as he trailed you deeper into the wilds.

From there, he'd shadowed you to the Mangkwan borders, concealed among the vines as you faced Varang's cold judgment. Witnessing your banishment, exiled for the mercy you'd shown him had ignited something primal in his chest. His heart had burst with a twisted joy, not from your suffering, but from the irrefutable proof of your bond.

You'd chosen him over blood, over everything. No longer could you deny the pull between you.

He wanted to laugh at how successful his plan had worked.

It all stemmed from that fateful night, long before the ploy took shape. He'd woken in the dim glow of the marui, the haze of injury lifting just enough to catch his parents' hushed voices. Jake's gruff concern, Neytiri's soft recounting of your heroism.

You, the Mangkwan Tsakarem, his enemy, had saved him.

For weeks, his world had been a void, convinced you'd fled because you couldn't bear his touch, his clan's shadow tainting any future with you. But hearing of your sacrifice breathed life back into him, a spark that demanded action.

Right then, amid the quiet vigil of his family, he'd devised the selective amnesia. A performance to bind you to his side without the chains of duty or suspicion snapping shut. When morning came, he'd stirred with feigned confusion, clinging to you as his “mate,” weaving tales of a bond forged in secret. His grin had widened inwardly as belief took root. Lo'ak's wary glances, Jake's reluctant nods, even Alayni's frantic interjections when she knew, it all swallowed the lie whole.

His grandmother’s counsel had sealed it, her wise eyes warning against stress that might fracture his fragile recovery. He knew his parents would honor that, allowing you unrestricted access under the guise of healing him. No forced mating with Alayni, not while he played the vulnerable son. And his mother... she'd softened, her fierce maternal love yielding to the sight of him animated again, how she saw the hollow shell of who he was weeks past was banished by just your presence.

She wanted her son whole and you'd become the key to that illusion.

He intended to exploit every fracture, every concession. You were his obsession, the fire that consumed his thoughts, and he would claim you fully. No matter the cost, the lies, or the darkness it demanded from him.

You breathed out shakily, the weight of his machinations settling over you like a shroud, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, the soft swell of your form molding against his as resignation flickered in your gaze.

"So you know." You whispered, not a question but an acknowledgment, the fight ebbing from your limbs.

He nuzzled your nose then, an affectionate gesture laced with possession as his breath fanned warm across your skin, the bridge of his nose gliding gently against yours in a promise of intimacy.

"She will pay for taking you from me." He vowed, voice husky with a blend of love and unbridled obsession, eyes half-lidded, the raw edge of his tone vibrating through you.

You heard it all in his voice, the devotion twisted into something fierce and unrelenting, the madness born of longing.

He was the architect of your chaos. The raid's echoes, Alayni's schemes, Varang's blade at your kuru, all traces led back to this pull between you. Yet, against the ache of loss, attraction bloomed unbidden within, a heat coiling low in your belly. Now knowing the depths he'd plumbed, the deceptions, and the risks just to ensnare you... it stirred something reciprocal. His love was a storm, dark and consuming, but genuine in its fervor.

Darkness wasn't alien to you. As Varang's shadow, you'd wielded cruelty like a blade, reveling in its sharp clarity. Your clan, your sister, they were ghosts now, severed by your choices. What remained? Emptiness or the shelter of his embrace? He'd toppled empires of tradition for you and in his arms, you could rebuild from the ruins.

Your gaze lifted, locking onto his with a newfound resolve, lashes fluttering once as you held his stare. Slowly and deliberately, you drew him down as your lips parted to capture his in a kiss. Hesitant at first then deepening with the surrender you'd long resisted.

Surprise flashed in his eyes, a brief widening before satisfaction curved his mouth against yours. Hands tightening on your hips, pulling you flush as he responded with fervor, tongue teasing the seam of your lips in hungry invitation. He kissed you back like a man starved, pouring weeks of pent-up yearning into the press of mouths and the tangle of breaths.

His body ignited, mind flooding with visions of you.

The plush give of your breasts against his chest, the rounded allure of your hips begging for his grasp. He craved to peel away the barriers, to uncover the dusky peaks of your nipples for it to harden under his gaze, to part your thighs and breathe in the musky essence of your arousal, to lap at the slick heat until you shattered in his mouth.

The kiss ignited like dry tinder under a spark, Neteyam's mouth claiming yours with a ferocity that left no room for retreat. His tongue swept in, bold and demanding, curling around yours in a slick dance. You gasped into him, a sound he swallowed by the deepening press of his mouth. Your hands fisting the straps of his woven belt as denial flickered one last time in your chest. But his grip on your waist tightened, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above your hips, pulling you impossibly closer until your curves molded to his unyielding frame.

"Mine." He growled against your lips, voice roughened by weeks of suppressed hunger.

He sucked on your tongue then, drawing it into his mouth with a wet obscene pull. His teeth grazing the sensitive underside, his low moan vibrating through you as saliva pooled and trickled at the corners. It was filthy and possessive, his obsession laid bare in the way he devoured you as if your very essence was the antidote to his torment.

You pulled back fractionally, breath ragged, the arch of your neck exposed as you tilted your head. Strands of dark hair cascading over one shoulder, catching the river's glow in silken waves.

"Neteyam... this is madness." You whispered, voice laced with lingering resistance, lips swollen and glistening from the onslaught of his hungry mouth. "We can't—Alayni, your clan—they'll never accept—"

His laugh was low and predatory, rumbling from deep in his chest as he nuzzled the curve of your jaw. Hot breath fanning your pulse point, fangs scraping lightly in a tease of possession.

"Fuck Alayni. Fuck the clan. You're the only one I see, the only one I crave." He captured your mouth again but this time his hand roamed lower, cupping the rounded swell of your ass through the thin fabric of your loincloth, kneading the flesh firmly eliciting an involuntary arch of your back. "Look at you. Soft, perfect, made for me. I've dreamed of this body every night, wanted to touch myself to the thought of burying myself inside you. Give in to me, baby. Surrender to what we both want."

His words coiled around you like vines, a manipulative silk weaving through your doubts. You were no innocent. Cruelty had been your armor but here, stripped by his gaze, vulnerability cracked through. And the heat building between your thighs betrayed you, a slick ache that made your denial ring hollow.

"I... I shouldn't." You murmured, even as your fingers traced the ridges of his abdomen, your nails dragging lightly, feeling the taut flex of muscle.

"But you will." He coaxed, voice dropping to a husky whisper as lips brushed your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine. "Because you feel it too, this pull, this need. Let me show you how good it can be. Just say yes and I'll make you forget everything else."

His free hand slipped under your top, callused palm gliding up your ribcage to cup one breast, his thumb circling the peak through the fabric drawing a sharp inhale from you as it pebbled under his touch.

Your resistance crumbled under the weight of his desire. You nodded, a small surrender, and he wasted no time. With deft fingers, he untied your top, letting it fall away to reveal the soft perky mounds of your breasts, nipples dusky and erect in the cool air.

Neteyam's breath hitched, eyes widening with reverent hunger as he stared with pupils dilating, a low groan escaping as he traced the curve with his gaze, committing every detail to memory.

"Eywa... so beautiful." He breathed, voice thick with awe leaning down to capture one peak in his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while his hand kneaded the other.

Pleasure shot through you like lightning, your head falling back and throat bared, a soft whimper slipping free as your fingers threaded into his braids. He lavished attention on your chest, alternating between sucks and gentle bites leaving faint red marks that bloomed like petals on your azure skin, his obsession evident in the way he murmured praises against your flesh.

"These tits... fuck, I've wanted to taste them since the first time I saw you. So full, so responsive. Want to watch how they bounce for me."

Your body responded traitorously, hips grinding against his thigh as arousal soaked through your coverings. He sensed it, a wicked grin curving his lips as he pulled back eyes dark with intent, trailing kisses down your sternum.

"Eager already? Let me see all of you." His hands worked at your loincloth, peeling it away to expose your core as your thighs parted instinctively, the cool air kissing your heated folds.

For the first time, he beheld your pussy. It was swollen, glistening with need, the musky scent rising like an intoxicating fog.

Neteyam inhaled deeply, nose brushing the softness of your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss, a shudder rippling through his broad shoulders. "Oh fuck, your scent."

He buried his face closer, tongue darting out to lap at the juices trailing down your thighs, savoring the tangy essence with a filthy groan.

You cried out, legs trembling as he licked a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, the flat of his tongue pressing firm, coaxing more of your arousal to drip in his awaiting mouth. "Neteyam—ah!"

The sensation was overwhelming, his mouth relentless in sucking your folds, circling the bundle of nerves with expert flicks. His fingers parting you wider, exposing every inch to his voracious hunger. Your juices leaked freely now, coating his chin as he feasted, the lewd sounds of his slurps and your moans filling the air.

"Taste so fucking good." He rasped between laps, voice muffled against your heat, one hand pinning your hip while the other teased your entrance. "Dripping for me, aren't you? This pretty little cunt leaking like it knows it's about to be claimed."

He spat then, a deliberate dollop of saliva landing on your frothing core as he watched it mix with your slick before diving back in, tongue plunging deep to gather every drop.

Ecstasy built swiftly, your walls clenching around nothing, but he pulled away just as you teetered on the edge lips shiny, eyes gleaming with dark promise. "Not yet. I want to feel you come around my cock first."

Rising to his knees, he shed his own coverings, revealing his massive length. The flared head already beading with precum standing proud against his abdomen, the sheer size making your eyes widen in a mix of awe and apprehension.

You reached out tentatively, fingers wrapping around the girth barely encircling it, feeling the velvet heat pulse under your touch.

"It's... huge." You breathed stroking experimentally, thumb swiping over the tip drawing a hiss from him.

"All for you." He panted guiding your hand, hips bucking into your fist as he watched your face. "Gonna stretch you so good, fill you up until you're ruined for anyone else."

He positioned himself between your thighs, rubbing the head along your slit, coating himself in your combined wetness, teasing your swollen clit with each pass.

"Wait—Neteyam, we can't... not fully." You protested weakly, even as your body arched toward him in anticipation.

"We can and we will." He murmured manipulatively, nipping your lower lip as his eyes locked on yours with hypnotic intensity. "Just the tip first then the rest of my cock, baby. Let me in, surrender this much and I'll make it worth it."

He pressed forward slowly, the broad head breaching you and stretching your walls with a burn that bordered on pain before morphing into exquisite fullness. You moaned, nails raking down his back leaving red trails that made him growl in approval.

"Too much... oh." You gasped but your legs wrapped around his waist urging him deeper.

"That's it baby, take me." He cooed inching further, watching your face contort in pleasure, his own features twisting with restraint. Once fully sheathed, he paused letting you adjust to the bulge forming low in your belly, his hand pressing against it feeling himself inside you. "Look at that, my cock making a home in your tummy. You're made for breeding, aren't you?"

You mewled at his words and he began to move then, slow thrusts that built to a punishing rhythm with his hips snapping in lewd slaps, the riverbank echoing the sound. Love bites peppered your neck and shoulders, his teeth sinking in just enough to mark, scratches from your nails mirroring on his skin, a canvas of mutual claim.

"Fuck, you feel so good. Gripping me like you never want to let go." His words were shameless as raw sweat beading on his temple.

Pleasure mounted coiling tight until you shattered as your walls convulsed around him, a cry tearing from your throat and body arching off the ground, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

He didn't stop, chasing his own release with frantic drives. "Coming inside you. Gonna flood this pussy, make it mine."

He spilled, hot ropes of cum painting your depths, sloshing audibly with his final thrusts, the excess leaking out around his base obscenely.

But one round wasn't enough.

He flipped you onto your hands and knees, re-entering with a single brutal stroke, hand fisting your hair gently, arching your back as he pounded deeper.

"Again. Need to feel you milk me dry." He demanded, spitting into your open mouth this time, watching you swallow with a filthy grin.

The second climax hit you harder, mind fogging as he filled you anew, your tummy bulging visibly now, a lewd testament to his claim. By the third round, you were fucked dumb. Limbs heavy, moans incoherent with eyes glazed, body limp as he rutted into you from behind, one hand rubbing delicious circles on your clit.

"So good for me. Dumb on my cock, just how I like you." He praised, nipping your ear, his free hand roaming to squeeze your breast and pinched your nipple.

In your haze, he moved with purpose. Gathering your kuru, he connected it swiftly with his own. Tsaheylu forming in a surge of connection that bound your souls, the bond electric, amplifying every sensation as he thrust through your overstimulation. You felt the gravity of his love and obsession with you. How he wanted to etch himself into your being until he’s all you’ll ever know. How he was ready to defy everyone and leave his clan just to be with you. How he wanted to fill your pussy over and over again until you give him a big family. He burns for you and he will burn for you if he must.

You whimpered realizing too late but the pleasure drowned the protests bubbling up in you.

"Now it's real." He whispered triumphantly, voice laced with obsession and his eyes wild as the bond deepened. "Mated for life, no escaping me anymore. I'll take you home and no one can touch what's mine."

"Neteyam, what have you—" You slurred but he silenced you with a deep kiss, tongues tangling as he drove toward another peak.

"I'll make you a mama." He vowed between thrusts, manipulative edge sharpening his tone as his hand splayed over your lower belly pressing the bulge. "Keep getting you pregnant every damn time. Swelling with my seed so everyone knows who you belong to. Your sister, Alayni, the whole damn clan, they'll see you're mine forever. You just have to give in fully baby, surrender yourself to me."

The words, the bond, the relentless pleasure, it broke you.

Or perhaps remade you.

As he came again, cum sloshing deep and overflowing in thick rivulets down your thighs, you clung to him, your denial shattered. You were mated truly now and escape was a faded dream. In his arms, you found a twisted peace. His darkness mirroring your own, binding you to him.

Your body trembled in the aftermath, every nerve alight with the echoes of ecstasy and the profound weight of the bond now thrumming between you. Neteyam's cock remained buried deep in your walls, a deliberate barrier sealing his cum within your tender overworked folds. The raw heat of your core clenching sporadically around him, holding back the warm flood that threatened to spill. A soft whimper escaped your lips as overstimulation lingered like a sweet ache.

"Shh, baby." He murmured soothingly, his voice a low rumble against your ear as one large hand stroking the sweat-damp curve of your spine. "You did so good. So perfect for me."

His tone wrapped around you like a cocoon, possessive yet tender, the darkness in his eyes softened by satiated affection for you.

Your vision swam in a haze of bliss, eyelids heavy as you gazed up at him with your lashes fluttering, the lines of your face flushed with exertion, a faint sheen of perspiration highlighting the subtle glow of your skin.

"Neteyam—" You breathed, the word half-protest, half-plea, your voice husky from cries long silenced by his kisses.

He grinned then, a slow, predatory curve of his lips as he drank in the sight of you.

Naked and utterly claimed, scattered love bites blooming like violet bruises along your collarbone and the swell of your breasts, faint red welts from his nails marking your hips where he'd gripped too fiercely in the throes. Your beauty struck him anew, wild and unmarred by the world's judgments, every curve and stripes a testament to the obsession that had driven him to this.

Leaning down, he captured one dusky nipple between his lips again, suckling with gentle insistence as his tongue flicked the sensitive tip drawing a fresh gasp from you as sparks reignited low in your belly. He released it with a soft pop, only to claim your mouth in a lingering kiss. Lips molding to yours, the taste of shared passion still lingering on his tongue, his breath warm and ragged against your skin.

Without withdrawing, he shifted, strong arms banding around your waist to pull you upright with him. His cock still lodged deliciously inside, shifted angles that sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through you, your walls fluttering in response. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there, the stripes on his arms pulsing faintly in the dim light, a mirror to the bond's electric hum.

He stepped into the shallow river, the cool water lapping at your joined forms as he waded deeper. Cradling you against his chest, the current swirling around your thighs and teasing the sensitive juncture where you remained connected. Droplets clung to his broad shoulders, tracing rivulets down the defined planes of his torso as he began to wash you both. His free hand dipping into the stream to cup water over your marked skin, gentle swipes cleansing the evidence of your frenzy, though his eyes never left yours, still dark with lingering hunger.

All the while, he stole nasty smooches from your lips. Quick heated presses that deepened into tongue-tangling explorations as his fangs grazed your lower lip, a low hum of approval vibrating from his throat each time you yielded to his advances.

"My mate is so fucking pretty." He growled between kisses, voice thick with raw adoration as his gaze raked over you, from the tousled waves framing your face to the subtle sway of your hips in the water. "All full of my cum and marked. Look at you baby, mine in every way now."

You felt him stirring within you, thickening once more as arousal rebuilt. The lazy twitch of his hips pressing him deeper, sloshing the trapped seed inside you with obscene wet sounds that made your cheeks burn. A groan built in your throat, the sensation both soothing and igniting, your body betraying any semblance of fatigue.

"Do you not get tired?" You groaned, the words tumbling out as he mouthed at your nipple again, his teeth nipping the pebbled flesh, his hot breath fanning across your chest while the water buoyed your weight.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending vibrations straight to your core as he lifted his head to meet your eyes, his own gleaming with unquenchable fire. "I'd fuck your pussy every day and still complain it's not enough."

The shameless declaration hung in the air, filthy and fervent, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, urging a subtle grind.

Your cunt pulsed at his words, a fresh wave of slick easing the way as desire coiled anew. Your inner muscles squeezing his cock involuntarily drawing a hiss from his parted lips. He responded in kind, fucking up into you with languid thrusts. Each roll of his hips deliberate, the friction building as your clit ground against the coarse texture at his pelvis, sparks blooming in your pussy with every press.

"You're so beautiful, baby." He whispered reverently, voice laced with awe, his free hand cradling the nape of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw as he held your gaze.

The water splashed softly around you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the deepening cadence of his movements.

Capturing your mouth once more, he parted your lips with his tongue, only to pull back slightly. Spitting a deliberate saliva into your open mouth, watching with hooded eyes as you swallowed, the act intimate and depraved. Then he dove in, sucking on your tongue with voracious pulls. Teeth grazing, saliva mingling in a messy heated exchange that left you breathless.

The pace quickened, his thrusts growing firmer despite the lazy intent. Your bodies rocking in the current, the bond amplifying every sensation until pleasure crested like a wave. You came first, a muffled cry against his lips as your walls clamped down. Stars fracturing your vision, limbs tightening around him in shuddering release. He followed moments later, spilling anew with a guttural moan. Hot pulses joining the existing warmth, the fullness overwhelming as it sloshed within you.

This time, he withdrew gently, the sudden emptiness making you whine softly. A trickle of his cum escaping to mingle with the river's flow. He cleaned you up for real then, thorough and attentive, rinsing away the remnants with cupped handfuls of water. Fingers careful over your sensitive skin, tracing the insides of your thighs before helping you into fresh coverings from his nearby pouch. He dressed himself swiftly, the woven fabric hugging his powerful frame, his kuru draped over one shoulder still tingling from the bond with you.

Scooping you into his arms, he cradled you bridal-style against his chest. Your head nestling into the crook of his neck, the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulling you. You snuggled closer instinctively, limbs heavy with exhaustion, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours like a balm.

He grinned down at you, that obsessive light in his eyes undimmed as his fangs peeked through before he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Go to sleep, baby." He coaxed softly, voice a gentle command as one hand rubbed soothing circles on your back while he began the trek back towards his clan. "When you wake up, we'll be back in our marui as mates. Nobody can set us apart now."

Your eyes fluttered closed, the fight drained from you entirely. A quiet warmth blooming in your chest at the depth of his love, twisted as it was, mirroring the shadows in your own heart.

"You're still a disgusting demon to me." You mumbled, the words laced with weary affection rather than true venom you used to hurl at him.

He chuckled, the sound rich and fond echoing softly in the night, adjusting his hold to keep you secure as your breathing evened out. "And you're still beautiful to me."

As sleep claimed you fully, the world faded to the rhythm of his steps, the bond a unbreakable tether pulling you into his darkness.

His smile turned into a dark smirk as he continued to walk with you in his arms. He wasn't done yet. His plan still yet to unfold. He wasn't gonna rest until he's sure nobody will be an obstacle and he sure knows who to start with first.

Alayni will be an example of how far I'm willing to go for you, baby.

He laughed to himself as he realized, he really was obsessed with you.

next part

[ivsarchive]

the way his devotion gradually morphed into obsession and how his love is intricately intertwined with a darkened sense want is written so so so good, holy fuck.

[pandoraslxna]

Be brave, I‘m worth it — Ch. 1

female human rda!reader x Neteyam

Words: 6.6k

Summary: The mission was simple: keep the prisoner alive. But Neteyam isn’t interested in survival— he’s interested in you.

Warnings: explicit smut, enemies to lovers, flirting, handjob, mating cycle/in rut, mentions of hunger strike, starving, humiliation, needles (to take blood samples), physical fights, violence (not against reader), Neteyam is a prisoner of war, na‘vi dirty talk, language barrier, alien biology, a/b/o dynamics, knots, yes he whimpers

Notes: this is short, lazy and not properly proof read, i just had this idea that I wanted to write down between my other wips and now I don’t know if I like it or not lol enjoy

You have heard of him before. The na‘vi they’ve taken hostage.

Not just any warrior from any clan, but the well trained son of the resistance leader. Jake Sully‘s son. He, who took down an entire armed outpost alone. With a fucking bow and an arrow against heavy machinery.

In the hallways, they speak of him in hushed tones, as if saying his name too loudly might summon him from the shadows of the trees. Neteyam. The eldest Sully.

The soldiers who have seen him and lived call him a demon, though not the kind they once thought all Na’vi to be. No, he is something else. Something worse. A ghost that strikes without warning, an archer whose arrows never miss, whose footsteps make no sound. And if you see the shadow of his banshee, you’re already dead.

They say he moves like the wind— there one moment, gone the next, leaving only bodies in his wake. The son of the great Toruk Makto and his sinister, gruesome wife. Raised in war, molded by it.

And now, he is the companies prisoner.

You don’t know how he managed to get himself captured, but it’s not like it matters much anyways. He’s here now and he‘s been the talk of the entire base for weeks. But there is something wrong with him. Which brings us to you.

You’ve worked with the Na’vi before. At least, that’s what your record says. You’ve studied their physiology, their biology, the way their systems work. You’ve patched up recombinant soldiers on the rare occasions they needed it, adjusted their treatments, monitored their vitals.

But this? This is different.

This is a real Na’vi. A wild one. An untamed, battle-hardened warrior who, if circumstances were different, would kill you without hesitation.

When you stepped into General Ardmore’s office this morning, she had barely looked up from her screen as she acknowledged your presence.

"General," you nodded with a tight smile.

"Doctor," she said, voice clipped, eyes scanning through reports. "He is sick. On a hunger strike since tuesday. Not drinking much either." Without mentioning his name, you already know who she’s talking about. You swallow thickly. "If he dies, it’ll be a problem."

She doesn’t say why and you don’t ask.

"I need him stabilized," she continues. "Figure out what’s wrong. Do whatever you need to, just keep him alive."

You nod, swallowing the questions that want to rise. She doesn’t like questions. You’ve learned that much.

Outside, a guard was already waiting to escort you down.

The hallways of the RDA facility feel colder than usual as you make your way toward the cell block. Armed guards stand at every turn, gripping their weapons a little too tightly, their faces set in grim determination. It’s not the usual tight security of a military base, this is fear.

They’re afraid of him.

The room they lead you into is sterile, clinical. White fluorescent lights hum softly above. It smells of antiseptic and recycled air, the way all RDA facilities do. Empty. Lifeless.

A single table and chair sit in the center of your side of the room. Nothing else. No distractions, no unnecessary details.

The partition is thick, reinforced, likely designed for containment more than observation. On the other side, the air is different. Dimmer. The lights are broken, he made sure of that on his first day here. You’ve heard the whispers. He shattered the lights above with his bare hands, tried to turn the shards into weapons, cut off a man’s hand in the process of disarming him. And then they took everything after that. Gutted the room of anything remotely useful. Now, there is nothing.

The walls are bare. The floor is smooth. No furniture, no bedding, not even a cot. Just cold steel and silence.

And in the farthest corner, where the darkness swallows him whole, he crouches. Even now, reduced to this trapped, starving and caged animal, he does not look broken. His posture is low but not slumped, his body wound tight like a coiled spring. Watching. Waiting.

Your gaze flickers to the plastic bowl on the ground. Untouched. The humiliation of it is sharp. No utensils, no dignity. Just a feeding dish, as if he were no more than a dog to be kept alive.

You swallow.

You exhale slowly, trying to regain focus on your task. You set your bag down on the cold metal table, the sound echoing too loudly in the sterile space. One by one, you take out your equipment. Your tablet, your scanner, a notepad for observations. A pointless habit, really. The RDA wants everything digital, but writing things down helps you think. Helps you process.

You press your palms against the table’s smooth surface, inhaling deeply. How the hell were you supposed to do this?

It’s not like you can just walk in there and ask him to hold out his arm for a vitals check. No, if you wanted to get close, you would need security, at least two, maybe three guards. And even then, it’ll be a risk. He is a risk.

You’re so lost in thought that when you finally turn around, your heart nearly explodes out of your chest.

He’s right there, nearly pressed up against the glass.

A sharp gasp leaves you as you stumble back, your hand flying to clutch the fabric of your blouse over your racing heart.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss sharply.

He’s close, so much closer than before. His forearm is braced against the glass, his forehead resting on it, his other hand relaxed by his side. It’s almost a casual posture, but there’s something about it. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to see you better past the glare of the artificial lights.

Your pulse hammers in your throat.

Surprisingly, there is no aggression in his stance, no bared teeth, no clenched fists. You’re so on edge, it seems ridiculous for you to have reacted that way, but you couldn’t help it. This whole situation was beyond terrifying.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

You stand frozen, your breath shallow, your fingers still curled into the fabric of your blouse as if that might somehow steady your racing heart. He doesn’t move either, just watches you with unsettling patience, his golden eyes sharp, studying.

The silence stretches.

You aren’t sure what you expected. Perhaps hostility, maybe a snarl or a glare, something that would confirm everything you’ve heard about him. But instead, something shifts in his expression. A slow grin spreads across his face, baring sharp canines, and then—

"Kaltxì, sevin tawtute" [Hello, pretty human].

His voice is low, rough around the edges from disuse, but there’s an unmistakable amusement in it. Like he knows something you don’t.

You blink. Your mind scrambles to process the words, but they mean nothing to you. You don’t speak na’vi. So when you don’t immediately respond, he’s quick to open his mouth again. And again, it takes you utterly by surprise.

"You don’t speak my tongue," he says, sounding equally as surprised as you feel. "I assumed most white coats do."

"White coats?" You frown, then glance down at yourself, at your outfit. The white coat you’re wearing. "Oh! Oh, no I’m not a scientist. I’m—," you pause, considering, "not supposed to be talking to you at all."

"What's the harm in talking to me?" He asks, then flicks the glass with a finger and a ping echoes off the walls. "I can't bite you."

Can't. Not won't, you note.

You ignore his words, pushing past the unease still curling in your stomach, and step closer to the glass. You came here for a reason and you needed to focus.

Up close, he looks worse than in the images you’d seen in his file. The hunger strike is taking its toll. His skin, normally a deep, rich blue, looks dull under the dim lighting. There’s a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and bruises, faded but present, blooming along his forearms and dried blood across his knuckles.

You pull out your notepad, jotting down quick observations. When you glance up again, you realize he’s watching you intently.

His ears are high, alert, fully focused on you. His tail curls slightly, the tip twitching, and there’s something almost… expectant in the way he’s standing now, his weight shifting forward, as if waiting.

You hesitate, then take another slow step forward. And the change in him is immediate.

Neteyam straightens to his full height, a fluid, effortless motion. God, this guy was tall. Easily nine, probably even ten feet tall. His three-fingered hands drop from the glass, but he doesn’t step back. His eyes flick downward, skimming over your coat, and his lips part slightly as if sounding something out.

Then, to your astonishment, he says, "You are a Doctor."

He taps a finger against the glass twice, right where your name tag sits.

Your brows lift. "You can read?"

His ears flick forward, a pleased glint flashing through his golden eyes. He licks his lips, dry, you note absently. Another symptom of dehydration.

"I can," he says simply. "Can you?"

Heat rises to your face and you shift uncomfortably, gripping your notepad a little tighter. In all honesty, it never even occurred to you that he might be able to read english, let alone speak it this fluently. The reports never mentioned it and none of the briefings prepared you for this.

"Forgive me for assuming…" you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Neteyam tilts his head slightly, considering you. The grin he wore just moments ago fades into something unreadable. Then, he huffs softly through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides.

"Hm." He makes a low sound of acknowledgment. His eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and searching, as if trying to decide what to make of you.

You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. Straightening, you glance down at your notes, reviewing what little information you were given before being sent here.

According to General Ardmore, Neteyam must be sick. Some kind of flu or disease like the pandorian rabies they’ve said. You look up at him, then back to your notes. Then back up. Huh. But he doesn’t seem sick. Sure, he’s in an overall bad condition, but that must be due to the circumstances.

The reports are vague, but they all say the same thing: he refuses to eat, he barely drinks. He‘s been acting overly aggressive for the past week and refuses any human contact. Several guards and scientists have both noted his erratic behavior.

He also appears feverish and perpetually on edge. There are nights when he doesn’t sleep at all, tossing and turning as if tormented by unseen pain, and days when he lies in a fitful slumber for hours, his body curled in on himself in a way that suggests both exhaustion and deep distress. It’s an unusual pattern, a disturbing cycle of wakefulness and forced rest, that defies any simple explanation.

And all of this, after over a month of captivity in which he was acting relatively normal. For a na‘vi that is.

But right now? He seems fine, you think, brows creating a deep crease on your forehead as you scan him up and down. Is he just pretending?

You wonder if this fevered state is a defense mechanism, a way for him to mask his vulnerabilities, or if it’s simply the physical manifestation of the abuse he’s endured. The puzzle is as chilling as it is complex, and the urgency to understand it grows with every labored breath he takes behind the reinforced glass.

"So," you nervously clear your throat. "Why aren’t you eating?" You manage to get the courage to ask.

His ears flick at the sound of your voice, but he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looks at you, his golden eyes unreadable, like he’s weighing whether your question even deserves a response.

Seconds stretch.

Then, finally, he exhales through his nose. His expression hardens, and when he speaks, his voice sounds strained.

"Because it is not food that I crave," he murmurs.

That’s not helping. You don’t know what that means, but the look he gives you is uncanny. He’s just trying to scare you, you try to remind yourself.

You open your mouth, about to press him further, but before you can get another word out, the heavy door behind you hisses open.

"Time’s up for today, doc," a guard calls from the entrance. His voice is flat, bored, like this is nothing more than routine. Already?

You exhale, forcing yourself to step back from the glass. Neteyam doesn’t move. He just keeps watching you, his gaze tracking your every motion with quiet intensity. And even as you turn away, you could still feel his eyes on your back.

As you pass the guard, you stop just long enough to give a quiet instruction. "Please make sure to take blood samples for me first thing in the morning. I want to check them before I come see him tomorrow."

The guard nods. "Sure thing."

With one last glance toward the figure in the dimly lit cell, you step out into the hallway.

— ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ —

The next day arrives, and you brace yourself as you make your way back to the facility.

Before you see Neteyam, you stop to speak with the guard from yesterday. He’s stationed near the entrance, looking more worn than he did before, his face set in an angry scowl.

As you approach, he doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

"That motherfucker is not cooperating in the ways we thought he would,” he says, voice low and tight with frustration. "Getting that sample when he’s in that kind of mood was a shit idea, doc. No offense." Then his expression hardens and your brows raise in a mixture of shock and surprise. "Two of my men are seriously injured, and one has permanently lost a damn finger."

You feel a sharp pang of guilt at his words. In all honesty, you hadn’t anticipated this. The thought of Neteyam, a prisoner already broken physically and mentally by his circumstances, causing such violence…

"And we didn’t even get your sample," the guard continues bitterly. Your shoulders slumped. "He fought us every step of the way. I don’t know how much longer we can keep him under control like this."

A sense of dread curls in your stomach. "Did you try sedating him?" you ask, almost hesitantly, unsure of the answer you’ll get.

The guard’s jaw tightens, and he lets out a frustrated exhale, as if the question itself irritates him. "We did," he snaps, then adds more grimly, "but it’s not working. He fights the medication too much. The lab coats said if we keep doubling the dosage, we might risk his health permanently. We’ve already given him enough to knock out a horse! This guy is stubborn, I’ll have to give him that."

You blink, trying to process the information. You had assumed the sedation would be a simple solution, but now it’s clear it’s not. Neteyam isn’t just fighting back physically, he’s resisting in a way that seems impossible. For a human.

You glance down, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "That’s not," you shake your head. "That’s not possible."

"Look, doc, here’s the deal. You know what this freak’s been doing for the last goddamn month? He’s been making a damn mockery of us. We try to get samples, he won’t have it. We try to sedate him, he either spits it out or rips out the syringe. You think he’s just playing along?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "This guy’s a goddamn nightmare. I don’t care who his daddy is, but his son is a pain in my ass."

The guard sighs, rubbing his temples. "But… here’s the kicker." He leans in slightly, eyes narrowing. "He’s made a condition. Can you believe that? Never even heard him speak before you showed up, so there’s that."

You stare at him, confused. "A condition?"

The guard gives a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, you heard me right. He said he won’t give us shit— unless you come in and get it yourself. So that’s the situation now."

You feel a wave of unease sweep over you and a cold prickle runs down your spine.

"He what?" You say a little to loud, then, quieter, "Why?"

The guard huffs and shrugs, "hell if I know."

Your hands feel clammy, your pulse hammering uncomfortably in your ears. This doesn’t make sense. Out of all the things Neteyam could’ve demand, like better food, freedom, actual negotiation… this is what he asks for?

The thought of stepping into that room, alone, with him makes your stomach churn. He’s unpredictable, dangerous, but the guard informs you that the General has approved of his condition.

You swallow hard. Of course, she would approve this. If Neteyam is as valuable as they claim, they’ll bend over backward to keep him alive, no matter what it takes. And now, you are part of that equation.

With a sharp buzz, the locks disengage and the door slides open. The Guard nods as you enter, then closes and locks the door behind you.

On the other side of the glass, Neteyam doesn’t move right away. He stays crouched, both forearm resting over his knees. His golden eyes gleam in the darkness, locked onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

You force yourself to stand tall, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A long moment of silence stretches between you, but then, slowly, he unfolds himself from the crouch, rising to his full height.

And he looks bad. Horrible, even. So much worse than yesterday that the sight shocks you. He appeared fine yesterday, so what happened since the last time you saw him?

Neteyam sways slightly as he straightens, and for a fleeting second, you think he might stumble. But he catches himself with a hand against the glass wall, sharp chin tilting upward, his expression one of stubborn defiance. His breathing is heavier than before, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if he’s trying to keep himself steady.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

"You need us to check on you," you say carefully, your voice softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. "You’re sick and your condition is getting worse by the hour."

His pupils are so blown that the gold of his irises is barely visible, swallowed by darkness. Fever, dehydration, exhaustion, whatever this is, it’s consuming him, and fast.

"I need—" You hesitate, then correct yourself. "I want to help you," you tell him. "But you have to let me."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there, eyes locked onto yours, unblinking.

"I am not sick." He says stubbornly.

You shake your head, irritation flickering beneath your concern before you step closer to the glass. Setting your bag down to the ground, you approach the keypad on the wall. Your finger hovers over the numbers.

"Neteyam. If I come in," you swallow, "will you hurt me?"

Immediately, "no."

"Will you try and use me to escape?"

Again, "no."

"Then why me?"

This time there comes no immediate response. Neteyam‘s expression is unreadable, his fever-bright eyes locked onto yours.

"You ask many questions, little doctor," he murmurs after a beat, voice low and rough.

You exhale sharply, then shake your head as you enter the code to the door separating you from him. "Because it doesn’t make sense," you say, frustration creeping in. "You don’t make sense."

The door seals shut behind you with a weighty finality, cutting you off from the sterile white light of the observation room. Inside the cell, the air is different. Thicker, warmer, oppressive in a way that settles uncomfortably against your skin. It smells faintly of sweat and metal, a sharp contrast to the clinical sterility of the rest of the base.

Neteyam stands just a few feet next to you, his hand still steadying him against the glass, his golden eyes tracking your every movement. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just watches. You try not to let it rattle you as you kneel down and begin unpacking your supplies.

"Give me your arm," you say, keeping your voice neutral and professional as you step closer. "Just so you know, if you still decide to try anything, there are guards waiting for me right outside."

At first, he doesn’t react. Then, slowly, he extends it toward you, the movement precise, controlled. His skin is slick with sweat, an unnatural heat radiating off of him in waves. As you swipe an alcohol pad over the inside of his forearm, he flinches when you press your fingers down on his upper arm to stop the blood flow. His breathing shifts, deepens.

Your eyes flicker up to his face. "Did that hurt?"

He shakes his head once, curt. "No."

A lie, perhaps. But you don’t push. Instead, you press forward, inserting the needle carefully, watching as dark crimson fills the vial. He doesn’t react to the puncture, not even a flicker of discomfort. But when you remove the needle and your fingers brush against his burning skin, his breath hitches, a tremor running through him so faint you almost miss it.

Your brow furrows. Something isn’t right.

You set the vial aside and scan his body with a practiced eye, looking for any signs of injury. If he fought back this morning, it’s possible he took a blow, maybe even fractured something. "I need to check you for wounds," you murmur, reaching for his arm again. "You might’ve—"

The second your fingertips press against his skin, his whole body shudders. This time, you ignore it. You let your fingers wander, stretching to reach over his bicep, his shoulder. And then down on his collarbone. Carefully, you prod at his bones, the strong fiber of muscle of his chest, his abs. By the time you’ve checked all of his ribs, his chest heaves.

His breath comes slower now, deeper, as if each inhale takes effort. Up close, you can see the fine tremors in his muscles, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a bowstring pulled too tight. If you thought his pupils were blown wide before, they’re nearly completely black by now, swallowing almost all the gold in his irises, leaving behind only a thin ring of color that’s barely visible.

And god, he’s burning up. Too hot, far beyond a normal fever. The heat reminds you of a furnace, stifling, suffocating. You don’t dare acknowledge it, but his head hangs low. Low enough, his forehead almost rests against your shoulder. He‘s exhausted, tired from whatever illness is plaguing him.

He‘s close enough now, you could only pretend to not hear him groaning whenever your fingertips prodded his flesh. And they sounded breathier the further down your hands wandered.

They move carefully over the planes of his body, fingertips pressing against fevered skin, mapping the unyielding muscle beneath. You try to focus on the task, searching for anything unusual, something that would explain the state he’s in, but it’s difficult.

Neteyam is scorching beneath your touch, the heat of him bleeding into your palms, making it hard to ignore the way his skin twitches beneath your fingers. And the sounds, soft, shuddering exhales that catch in his throat whenever you press a little too firmly. He’s feeling every touch, too much of it, like his nerves are raw and burning.

You swallow against the tightness in your own throat and keep going, moving downward. Over the ridges of his ribs, across the taut plane of his stomach, feeling for swelling, a break, a tear.

But there’s nothing.

No wounds, no fractures, no sign of external trauma. Just heat and tension and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.

You tell yourself not to look. To keep your eyes level, professional. But then your gaze flickers downward— just for a second, just to check.

But what you see makes your breath catch in your throat, makes heat creep up the back of your neck.

Just below where his stomach tenses and his prominent V-line marks the way for your eyes to travel down, down, down, before you see it. He’s… Oh god. He’s hard!

Oh.

Your eyes widen in shock.

"You’re—" He‘s in rut!

The realization hits you like a lightning strike and you pull your hand away from his lower abdomen just as quick. But Neteyam is quicker. His three fingered hand wraps around your wrist and keeps you hovering over his skin.

"Figured it out, hm?" He exhales, long and slow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing grin.

You feel embarrassingly dumb for not coming to this conclusion earlier. Or at least, before you started torturing him with your hands all over his body. Of course he’s burning up like this, you think as you mentally slap a hand to your forehead. You’re the only fertile female around and while you doubt you were anywhere near compatible to a Na’vi, their senses were strong enough to pick up even the slightest scents. Even those of a human ripe enough to mate. And the dampness in your underwear from feeling him up and down must’ve been his final straw, you internally groan.

With your eyes wide and your gaze still fixed on it, on him, as you curse yourself for acting so foolish, you don’t even notice how Neteyam shifts his other hand to cup his length. He groans when he squeezes himself over his loincloth, then leans in to sniff at your throat. A gasp escapes you, but you can’t step away. You’re trapped between him and the glass, heart beating like a drum inside your chest.

"Go one, little tawtute, [human]" Neteyam rasps, his voice rougher than before, almost strained. "You can keep touching."

He’s still holding your wrist, but not that tight. It seems more careful, as if he wanted you to want it but couldn’t risk letting you go and loose the warmth of your touch. When you hesitate for a minute too long, he simply guides you to where your eyes are already fixed on. He pushes the cords of his loincloth down until his cock springs free, then wraps your dainty little fingers around the shaft.

"You wanted to help," he whispers. "Then help me out."

You exhale shakily, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you let him. God, you just let him!

You can’t believe yourself.

The part of your brain still rooted in rationality, your duty, the strict protocols etched into every step of your career, scream at you to step back. To draw the line. But your body doesn’t listen. It stays. You stay.

You tell yourself it’s compassion. Just your concern. Just your professionalism being tested in the worst way imaginable. That his fever is spiking, that he’s just disoriented. That this is just some strange byproduct of his rut, something all na‘vi of age experience every other month, you know that. Hell, even the recombinants are required to take a week off and lock themselves into their quarters whenever it happens.

That’s why your hand stays against his burning skin. Because you’re his doctor. Because you want to ease the pressure in his chest, calm the tension running like wire beneath his skin. That’s all. That has to be all.

Your face is burning, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a question you’re too afraid to ask.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. He just watches your hands, eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath the weight of heat and exhaustion.

You don’t know what he’s thinking. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking anymore. But you know one thing: if this is a line, you’re toeing it and Neteyam seems about ready to push you right over it.

Then his hand squeezes yours, before he pulls back entirely, leaving you to the task. You blink.

He‘s… huge. So alien looking it makes you shiver. He’s smooth and warm, his cock extruding from a slit on his lower abdomen. His tip looks humanoid, and the shape as well. But it also doesn’t.

He feels so heavy in your hand, you instinctively reach out to take him in both. You don’t even mean to, it was just a reflex, but he’s audibly pleased by this. Even more so, when you squeeze him slightly.

"Hmm, good girl. Keep doing that."

When Neteyam presses himself closer against you, you swallow thickly. However, even with his giant frame looming over you and basically caging you in, you don’t feel threatened. Strangely enough, you just feel desired.

Unable to peel your eyes off of him and his length in your hand, you give him the tiniest stroke. The reaction is instantaneous.

Neteyams mouth parts as he pants, hot and wet, against your throat. You feel— jesus, you feel his cock pulse in your palms. When you do it again, twice, stroking with an upward curve and slight pressure on his soft tip, the mighty warrior whimpers.

"Are you okay?" You whisper, afraid you might’ve hurt him since you don’t know how na‘vi react to physical touch in certain places or if their pleasure spots are similar to humans. But Neteyam wantonly pushes into your hand, so that sort of answers that.

You then try to get a decent grip so you can continue to stroke. The size difference makes this a funny angle and he’s not giving your arms enough room to move. When you finally get it right, though, Neteyam makes more noises, little whimpering sounds and deep moans that leave you feeling feverish, too.

By the kind of sounds your touch elicits out of him your hands must feel heavenly. He must’ve been so pent up and frustrated, you think. So needy and driven by these animalistic urges, so much lust with no where to relieve himself, you almost feel pity for him.

"B-Be quiet," you shush him as you glance over your shoulder to the door. There are guards right outside that you haven’t forgotten about and the thought of getting caught with both of your hands around the prisoners cock makes your stomach do jumping jacks.

"Tì'efu Tsìltsan [Feels good]," he whispers, his breath a little puff against your neck. "Eywa srung oe… i want to burry myself in you so bad, tawtute [human]."

It's weird to be able to feel Neteyams reactions, how he gets tenser as you touch him, how his breathing gets uneven. You chew the inside of your cheek, trying not to pay too much attention to the way you’re getting all tingly between your thighs. That's not what this is about. You’re not messing around together. You’re just... helping him out, is all.

"Pretty little doctor, you like this? I can… smell your arousal." Neteyam says lowly. Goosebumps raise all over your skin when his tongue glides over your pulse point. "So sweet. Ftxìlor [Delicious]."

That such dirty thoughts exist behind that inscrutable mask of a warrior still kind of shocks you. Neteyam is back to nosing along your neck, under your ear before you can even find it in yourself to tell him that’s not true. But you could hear him breathing in deep, and while it was good that his breaths were evening out a little as a result, it still made your own arousal deepen. Fuck, you needed to control yourself.

"You’re in rut," you mumble, more to yourself than to him as your hand glides over his shaft. "You’re not yourself. I‘m only helping."

"Oh, you are helping me." Neteyam hissed in pleasure. You had this way of twisting just a bit at the head, like turning a doorknob, that made him wild. "Do you treat all prisoners like that or am I just special, hm?" He chuckles between breathy moans.

With both hands twisting in opposite directions, your blush deepened even more. Then you stroked all the way down his length and back up. Coating the inside of your palms with pre-cum that dribbled down his slit, you stroked down to his base, getting him all wet and slippery. The groan that vibrated through his chest at that made your knees goes momentarily weak.

The faster you moved, the more some of his less human characteristics would take hold of him. Like his tail that whipped and twisted behind him, his lips pulling back and canine flashing in the dim light as if he was holding himself back from ramming them underneath your flesh and claiming ownership on you.

Neteyams hands were balled into fists on either side of your head as he held himself up against the glass. His knuckles white from how hard he was holding himself together not to touch you.

"Zun oen… [If i could]," he grit out between clenched teeth, "oel mìn nga io sì nga skien fìtseng. [I would turn you over and fuck you right here.] Oe would kä'ärìp fta nefma your 'ekxin tsongropx ulte teya si nga fa rina', tawtute. [I would force my knot into your tight hole and fill you with my seed, human.]"

Neteyam says all these words under his breath, low and guttural, in that fluid, lilting Na’vi tongue, and though the words mean nothing to you, the tone coils tight around your spine. It sounds like a plea. Or a warning. Maybe both.

You’re not sure which would be worse.

You might not understand the words he speaks, but your body understands the energy behind them. It’s like he’s fighting himself, like there’s something building inside him that he’s desperate to hold back— for your sake, or for his, you can’t be sure.

But you feel it.

God help you, you can feel it.

There’s a thick tissue of flesh that swells on the base of his cock and every time your fingers brush it, Neteyam makes a sound of pleasure. That must be his knot. It ensures successful breeding when a male and female Na’vi mate, locks them together for a period of time.

You use one of your hands to stroke him in an upward curve once more, while the other gentle massages the knot. Carefully you test for the right amount of pressure, watching out for any negative reaction as you feel it grow in your palm. The skin there is taut and feels hot to the touch, and you swallow thickly as the thought crosses your mind that this will eventually go inside his desired mate one day. A shiver runs through you when you can’t stop yourself from imagining it going inside you.

"Tsu‘sì," Neteyam breathes, so quietly you almost don’t hear him over the thundering of your own blood.

"H-Huh?" You stutter, your blush intensifying as you glance up and meet his half lidded and lust filled eyes.

"Close," he rasps, "I‘m— fuck, I’m so close."

His lips are back on your throat, not really kissing, just licking and sucking as if giving his mouth something to do or he‘ll loose himself in something else entirely. His tongue tickles and his salvia is hot and wet against your skin, but you will yourself to focus. Your grip around his cock tightens and your hand moves faster.

Soon, your strokes are becoming irregular and jerky. Neteyam’s shamelessly thrusting into your hands and when he shudders from head to toe, presses his slick forehead into your hair and swears in his native tongue, he finally comes over your hands in intense waves that makes you flinch and gasp. The ropes of cum that you manage to catch in your palm are thick and sticky and you watch as his cock throbs with his own heartbeat as more and more of it spurts into your hands.

Moments later and with a final, deep exhale, it stops then.

The whole room is spinning around you as reality settles in. You feel hot under your skin and damp between your thighs. Fuck. Fuck! You shouldn’t have—

But then, just as you’re about to wriggle free, before the weight of what you’ve just done crashes in full, Neteyam leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Thanks for curing me, sevin [pretty]," he murmurs, low and dangerous, followed by a soft, knowing chuckle that sends your heart racing once more.

"A-As your doctor—" you start, voice trembling. Neteyam who seems rather unfazed by what just happened, ties the cord of his loincloth back into place before he tips your chin up with his finger. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he grins at you. You almost miss the way his ears twitch as heavy footfall approaches the door.

"As my doctor," he says, voice smooth and steady, "you should probably look like you are doing your job. Look busy." The last words come out as a whispered command and you blink a few times to process them.

Your brows knit, confused, about to ask what the hell he means by that, when the metallic hiss of the security door behind you makes your blood run cold.

Before you can even react, he steps back, the heat of his body gone like a sudden gust of wind. His posture shifts instantly, expression wiped clean save for the sharp curve of a smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth.

The door slams open.

Two, three guards flood into the room, all tense shoulders and scowls on their faces. They’re accompanied by two of the recombinant soldiers. You flinch instinctively, heart hammering, and hastily clasp your hands behind your back, trying to hide the trembling in your fingers and the cum still staining the inside of your palms. You internally cringe when you feel it drip to the floor behind your back and you pray that nobody will take notice of it.

When the recombinants step into the cell, they eye you warily, their noses twitching and for a moment, you hold your breath. But then they just walk past you.

"Sully. Hands up, you know the drill," one of them barks.

Neteyam lifts his arms with practiced ease, wrists exposed in surrender you didn’t expect from him. You’re not used to seeing him yield, if this even is that.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t resist. Not even a twitch. Just lets them slap the cuffs around his wrists, that grin never fading. They say something to you about the General wanting to speak with him personally, but your mind’s too clouded to process the details. It’s as if you’re acting on autopilot, simply nodding to whatever’s being said to you.

Then comes the second recombinant, slower, more cautious. He approaches with something in his hand that you recognize as a muzzle.

Neteyam’s smile falters just slightly when he sees it, not out of fear, but disdain. Still, he doesn’t fight when they wrap it around the lower half of his face and fasten it tightly behind his head. It’s not to silence him. You know that. It’s to stop him from biting.

You just watch, mute and stunned, as they lead him past you. Luckily, none of them pays you any attention now. They’re too focused on securing him like handlers with a dangerous animal.

Just before he crosses the threshold, Neteyam turns his head, golden eyes catching yours. And then he winks. He fucking winks at you. You don’t move. Can’t. Your limbs are rooted to the floor like they’ve forgotten how to function.

And then he’s gone.

Chapter 2

[ivsarchive]

this got me feeling a lil too warm and hungry for more ( ꩜///꩜;) 

[xluvablz]

❀: “healers hands”

pairing: neteyam sully x f!omatikaya!reader

summary: neteyam keeps coming to your tent; first with wounds, then excuses, then nothing at all. teasing and care turn to trust and unspoken feelings. it isn't until he returns with a serious injury that the truth finally unfolds.

warnings: pure yearning. mostly fluffy and a bit of pining, but there is also some angst.

word count: 1.9k

tsakarem - tsahìk-in-training. paysyul flower - water lily.

The first time he limps into your healing tent, he’s all arrogance and sharp edges.  

A gash runs down his thigh; deep enough to need stitching, shallow enough that he insists it’s nothing.  

"Sit," you command, voice steady despite the way his towering frame fills the space.  

He smirks, blood dripping between his fingers, but obliges. "Didn’t take you for the bossy type, tsakarem," he teases surveying your features for a reaction.

You ignore him, gathering yalna bark and spider silk. When you kneel beside him, his breath hitches, just once, as your fingers skim his skin.  

"This will sting," you warn.  

He leans in, voices a low rumble. "I like it when it stings." 

You swallow hard.

With practiced care, you smooth the thick paste along the wound, nimble fingers gentle against his skin. Taking the thread, you begin stitching the edges closed, each careful pull precise and steady, your focus unwavering as you work to ease the pain and ensure the wound heals cleanly.

He barely moves beneath your touch, jaw clenched as he watches you from beneath his lashes. You murmur soft reassurances as you work, reminding him to breathe, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin whenever his muscles tense. 

When the last stitch is tied off, you press a clean cloth over the wound, checking your work with a quiet nod, before sending him off.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Three eclipses later, he’s back – this time with a bruised rib.  

"Fell off a branch," he mumbles, wincing as you prod the swelling.  

You arch a brow suspiciously. "You? The great warrior… fell?”

His laughter is warm, and closer than necessary. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you scold me again."

Your hands hesitate over his ribs. His heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingertips. “You need to be more careful, Neteyam,” you chastise, unimpressed at his new-found clumsiness.

Your hands still, clicking your tongue. “One day I won’t be here to patch you up.”

You reach for the salve anyway, smoothing it over the bruise with gentle pressure. He hisses, then relaxes, leaning subtly into your touch as if the pain is worth it just to be here; under your careful hands and watchful gaze.

His smile falters, just a fraction, at your words. “Yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “But you are now.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You glance up at him, warmth settling in your chest as your thumb traces a soothing circle near the bruise.

“You enjoy this too much,” you mutter, face falling serious, trying to sound stern.

“Maybe,” he replies softly, eyes fixed on your face. “But I trust you.”

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The next time, his excuse is thinner than mist. You have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. 

A shallow scratch across his palm; barely deserving of the poultice you press to it.

But when your fingers linger, he turns his hand, his touch grazing yours, almost – almost – intertwining. The contact sends a quiet jolt up your arm, unwelcome yet undeniable.

“Tell me, healer,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over your knuckles, voice low and deliberate. “Do you tend to all the warriors… or just me?”

Your pulse stutters. “Just the reckless ones,” you scoff, forcing a lightness into your tone as you dab the salve more firmly than necessary.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grin widens, all trouble and fangs. “Lucky me.”

You finally look up at him then, catching the way his eyes linger – soft, searching, entirely too familiar. For a fleeting moment, neither of you moves, the air between you taut with something unspoken, before you clear your throat and tug your hand free, pretending your heart isn’t racing.

“All done.”

He gives you a knowing look, head tilting slightly. Your gaze does not meet his, and your fingers writhe gently in your lap. He rises silently uttering a careful ‘thank you’ before disappearing behind the flaps of your tent.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Then comes the night he arrives with no wound at all.  

Just a single, perfect paysyul flower – rare, delicate, glowing softly in the dark.  

"For you," he says, uncharacteristically quiet.  

You stare at his outstretched hand offering you the delicate bundle of petals. Your body is enveloped by a warmth akin to the sun-soaked shallows of the forest, where the water holds heat long after the day has faded; it paints your face with a faint violet tint, and causes a familiar fluttering sensation in your chest.

His fingers brush yours as you take the flower, his touch too deliberate to be accidental. The petals glow softly between your hands, casting shimmering reflections across his face, illuminating the quiet intensity in his golden eyes.  

"You… brought me this?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.  

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and can catch the scent of earth and morning dew clinging to his skin.  

"Couldn’t think of a better excuse to see you," he admits, voice rough at the edges. His thumb grazes your wrist before he adds, softer. "Missed you." 

The confession lingers in the air between you, fragile as the flower’s glow.  

And then – 

His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his.  

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, lips hovering so near yours you can taste his breath, sweet with the nectar of the forest.  

You don’t.  

The moment hangs, heavy with anticipation. His thumb is tracing circles on your jaw, his gaze locked on your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and just slightly desperate.  

And then, from outside the camp, the sound of footsteps and a familiar voice rings through the night…  

"Neteyam!"  

His head snaps up, eyes flashing with irritation, before he lets out a sigh, almost annoyed. "Damn it,” he mumbles with a small huff.

"What is it?" he calls back, not taking his hand off your cheek. Your skin burns where he holds you, blush deepening into a plum hue.

A few moments later, a figure appears behind the tent flap. Lo’ak peers curiously, his gaze flicking between you and his brother for a beat. He arches a brow, taking in the sight of Neteyam’s fingers now shifted underneath your chin, before an amused smile creeps onto his face.  

"What’s this?" he asks, feigning surprise. "Am I interrupting something here?" 

Neteyam shoots him a warning glare. "What do you want, Lo’ak?"

Lo’ak doesn’t miss your reaction, or the way Neteyam’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing into your skin like he’s silently staking a claim.  

A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across Lo’ak’s face.  

"Ohhh," he drawls, crossing his arms. "So this is where you’ve been sneaking off too lately." His eyes flick to you, mischief dancing in them. "Funny how you only seem to get hurt when she’s on healing duty, bro."  

Neteyam’s jaw clenches – hard. 

"Lo’ak," he growls, voice low and dangerous.  

But his little brother just laughs, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is." He wiggles his eyebrows. "But dad wants you for something."

And with that, he ducks out of the tent, leaving behind only the sound of his fading laughter and tension thick enough to choke on. 

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Weeks pass.  

Neteyam stops showing up with flimsy excuses. The playful tension between you fades into something quieter, made of lingering glances, fleeting brushes of fingers – but nothing more.  

Then, one night, the tent flaps burst open.  

Lo’ak stumbles in, panting, Neteyam slumped heavily against him. Blood soaks through his chest wrap, his breaths ragged. Your stomach plummets.  

"What happened?" you demand, already moving, hands steady despite the panic clawing up your throat.  

"Stupid ikran hunt," Lo’ak grits out, lowering him onto the mat. "Tried to show off – got clipped mid-dive."  

Neteyam’s eyes flutter open, hazy with pain. But when they land on you, his lips twitch weakly. "...Missed you," he slurs, delirious.  

Your hands tremble as you peel back the fabric, revealing the deep gash across his ribs.

"You idiot," you whisper, pressing a dapophet pad to the wound. "You could’ve died."  

His fingers brush your wrist, barely a ghost of touch. "Worth it… to see you… scowl like that."  

Lo’ak groans. "Oh my Eywa, half-dead and he’s still flirting."  

You ignore him, focusing on the way Neteyam’s breath hitches when your fingers trace his skin; gentle, but firm.  

"Don’t you dare bleed out on me," you murmur, voice thick.  

His hand finds yours, squeezing weakly. "...Wouldn’t dream of it, baby."

Your heart pounds out a desperate rhythm as you work, trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but he keeps making it worse. Every ragged breath, every brush of skin, every stolen glance sends adrenaline surging through your veins.  

Lo’ak watches quietly from the side, his amusement replaced with concern. He knows better than to distract you, but his eyes flit between you and his brother with growing curiosity.  

Neteyam’s gaze is hazy, fever-bright, but still filled with an almost reverent fascination. His fingers find your wrist again, a little firmer this time. The salve stings, but Neteyam doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as sweat beads at his temples, even as his fingers twitch against the mat. 

You lean closer, checking the stitching. "You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung," you mutter, trying to ignore the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his bare ribs.  

His hand suddenly catches yours, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his pounding heartbeat.  

"Feel that?" he rasps.  

You freeze.  

"That’s you," he continues, voice rough with pain and something else entirely. "Every time you touch me – every damn time – it does that."

Your breath catches.  

Lo’ak, still hovering near the entrance, makes a strangled noise. "Okay, I’m out. I’ll just– go tell Dad you’re not dead." 

The tent flaps swish shut behind him, a silence following.

Neteyam’s thumb strokes your wrist. "Stay," he murmurs.  

"I’m your healer," you whisper, trembling. "I have to."  

He shakes his head, wincing at the movement. "Not… what I meant." 

And then – weak but determined – he tugs you down until your forehead rests against his, his breath mingling with yours.  

"Stay after," he clarifies, voice raw. "When I’m not just… another wound to fix." 

Your pulse thrums where your skin meets his.  

Outside, the wind rustles the leaves. Inside, something fragile and long-avoided finally snaps.

You let out a breath shakily, his words settling deep within you. He had stumbled his way into your tent – your life – and had made a home out of your heart.

"I could never leave you," you begin. "You know that. I've always been here– waiting." You take another breath, letting it fill your lungs before you continue, "I will always be with you.” Another breath.

“I see you.”

His grip tightens around your hand, desperate and reverent, words feeling as though they are caught in his throat.

“Say it again," he breathes, voice cracking.  

You don’t hesitate.  

“I see you.”

A shudder runs through him – half pain, half relief –before he tugs you even closer, your lips hovering just above his, sharing the same air, the same heartbeat.  

"Took you long enough," he rasps, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth; just yours. “I see you.” 

And when his eyes finally flutter shut from exhaustion, his fingers stay tangled with yours.  

Finally.   Finally.

[ivsarchive]

yearning neteyam is one of the best, if not the best neteyam on god.

[jakeycore]

friendly fire / neteyam

aged up! neteyam x na'vi reader. MDNI 🔞

Summary: Neteyam Sully has spent his whole life being perfect. You’ve spent yours surviving. On the battlefield, you’re constantly at each other's throats. Behind closed tent flaps, you’re... well, still at each other's throats, just differently. Warnings: 3.8k words, aged up! neteyam, rival with benefits, explicit smut, p in v, hate sex, fingering, a lot of teasing, mdni

Chapters: friendly fire, friendlier fire, friendliest fire, frozen fire, seed of fire

For his entire life, Neteyam was the standard. He was the firstborn son of Toruk Makto and the heir to the Omaticaya after all.

In the training ring, he was faster, stronger, and smarter than every other kid his age. He was used to looking back and seeing everyone else trying to catch up. He lived with the heavy weight of expectation, but he carried it easily because he knew, deep down, he was the best.

Then you limped into High Camp.

You weren't Omatikaya. You were a Windtrader, a nomad born to the open skies and shifting trade routes, not the dense and suffocating forest. But you didn't arrive at High Camp with rare beads or woven songs to trade. You arrived with nothing but the blood-stiffened clothes on your back and a survivor's hollow stare.

The Mangkwan or what they also called the Ash People had descended on your caravan like a pyroclastic flow, brutal and silent until the screaming started. You were the only thing that crawled out of that smoke.

When Jake Sully took you in, Neteyam looked at you with that unbearable softness. Pity. To him, you were just a merchant’s child whose wings had been clipped, a broken traveler terrified of the dark. He saw your silence as trauma that needed gentle handling, not the calculating quiet of a predator waiting for the right moment.

He expected to have to teach you how to hold a bow, to slow his pace for the poor wanderer who had lost their way. He thought he was your savior. He had no idea he was looking at a survivor who had learned to fight dirty long before he even learned to fly.

That illusion shattered the first time you stepped onto the sparring mat.

Neteyam had offered to go easy on you. He remembered the look on your face, it was an insult. When he lunged, expecting you to cower, you moved with a feral, desperate speed that he had never seen in a structured lesson.

You fought with the raw, desperate instinct of a survivor, casting aside all ideas of honor and form. Within ten seconds, the future Olo'eyktan was face-down in the dirt with your forearm crushing his windpipe.

The silence in the camp was deafening. You crushed his pride alongside his defense.

From that day on, everything changed. You had grown from a charity case into a real threat.

Suddenly, Neteyam wasn't automatically the best archer, because you never missed a shot. He wasn't the best tracker, because you could smell an RDA patrol from a mile away. He stopped looking at you with pity and started looking at you with a burning and obsessive intensity.

He trained harder, stayed up later, and pushed himself to the breaking point just to reclaim his spot at the top, but you were always right there, matching him step for step.

He hated it.

You were the only person who didn't treat him like royalty. You rolled your eyes at his orders, you corrected his stance, and you smirked when he missed. You became the grit in his eye, the one variable he couldn't control. The rivalry consumed both of you, bleeding into everything you did until that aggression and need for dominance found a different outlet in the back of a weapons tent.

Now, he doesn't just want to be the best for his father. Instead, he wants to be the best to prove it to you.

The mist clinging to the Hallelujah Mountains hadn't even burned off yet, but the thwack of arrows hitting woven targets echoed through the clearing.

Neteyam stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his posture text-book perfect. He drew the string back to his cheek, exhaled slowly, and released. The arrow flew straight, embedding itself directly in the center of the painted circle.

He lowered his bow, glancing sideways at you with that maddeningly arrogant tilt of his head. "Center mass. Clean kill. That is how you conserve energy."

You were leaning against a rock, chewing on a piece of dried fruit, looking unimpressed. You swallowed and picked up your own bow— a scavenged thing you’d re-strung yourself, rougher than his ceremonial weapon but just as deadly.

"That's how you kill a target that stands perfectly still and waits for you to shoot it," you drawled, stepping up to the line. "But out there? The Sky People don't wait."

"Form dictates accuracy," Neteyam lectured, watching you closely. "If your foundation is sloppy, your shot is lucky. We don't rely on luck."

"Watch and learn, Golden Boy."

Instead of planting your feet like the instructors taught, you broke into a run. You sprinted parallel to the targets, sliding on your knees through the mud. In mid-slide, you twisted your torso, drew, and fired.

The arrow hissed through the air and struck the target— not dead center, but an inch to the right, deep in the 'lung' area. A kill shot.

You stood up, wiping mud off your knees, and smirked at him. "Dead is dead. Doesn't matter if it's pretty."

Neteyam scoffed, walking over to inspect the target. He pulled your arrow out with a sharp yank. "You exposed your back during the slide. If there was a second shooter, you’d be down."

"If there was a second shooter, you’d still be standing in your perfect pose getting shot while I was already moving to cover," you shot back, snatching the arrow from his hand.

"You are undisciplined," he muttered, stepping closer, invading your space under the guise of instruction.

"Your elbow was too high on the draw. You’re going to tear a muscle."

"My elbow was fine," you argued, standing your ground. "It works for me."

"It’s wrong." Neteyam moved behind you, his chest brushing your back. To anyone watching, he was the dutiful squad leader correcting a subordinate. But you could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his breath hitched slightly. "Raise your arm. Like this."

He gripped your forearm, his touch firm, sliding up to your bicep. His fingers dug in slightly, a silent reminder of who had pinned whom against the tent pole hours ago.

"You're hovering, Neteyam," you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. "Distracting."

"If you're distracted, you're dead," he murmured into your ear, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave. "Focus."

"Get off of me," you said, shoving him back with your elbow, though there was no real bite in it.

"Hey! Break it up!"

The voice made you both jump apart. Lo'ak came jogging into the clearing, looking between the two of you with a confused frown. He held a basket of fish, looking tired.

"By Eywa," Lo'ak groaned, rubbing his face. "Do you two ever stop? I could hear you arguing from the breakfast fire. 'Your form is bad,' 'You're too stiff.' It’s exhausting."

Neteyam immediately straightened up, the perfect soldier mask sliding back into place. "She refuses to listen to protocol, Lo'ak. Someone has to make sure she doesn't get herself killed."

You rolled your eyes, re-nocking an arrow. "And someone has to make sure your brother doesn't turn into a statue while the war happens around him."

Lo'ak laughed, shaking his head. "I swear, you two hate each other more than we hate the demons. One day you’re going to kill each other."

Neteyam glanced at you. A tiny, imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a secret just for you.

"Maybe," Neteyam said smoothly. "But until then, we train. Again."

He looked at you, his golden eyes challenging. "And this time, try to actually hit the center."

"Make me," you hissed at him, just before loosing another arrow.

The War Tent was stifling, smelling of damp earth and stale smoke. Jake Sully stood over the holomap, the blue light casting long, harsh shadows across his face. You stood in the back, arms crossed, while Neteyam stood right at his father’s elbow, mirroring his stance perfectly.

"We’ve got reports of a supply train moving through Sector 4," Jake said, pointing to a glowing red line on the map. "Neteyam, I want your squad to scout the perimeter. Do not engage. Just eyes on. If the RDA is moving heavy equipment, we need to know."

"Yes, sir," Neteyam nodded sharply. He leaned over the map, tracing a path with his finger. "We’ll take the southern ridge. It provides the best cover from the gunships. We can observe from the high ground and exfil before they scan the area."

It was a safe plan. A smart plan. A textbook plan.

You let out a short, sharp huff of breath. It wasn't quite a laugh, but in the quiet tent, it was loud enough.

Neteyam froze. He didn't turn around, but you saw his ears twitch back. Jake looked up, his yellow eyes locking onto yours.

"You have something to say?" Jake asked, his voice neutral but commanding.

"The southern ridge is a wind tunnel this time of year, sir," you said, stepping forward. You ignored Neteyam’s glare burning into the side of your face. "If we take the Ikrans that way, the downdraft will make us fight for stability the whole time. We’ll be loud, and we’ll be slow. If a Sampson patrol catches us there, we’re sitting ducks."

Neteyam turned to you fully now, his jaw tight. "It’s the standard recon route. We’ve flown it a dozen times."

"And the Sky People know that," you countered, meeting his gaze evenly. "They aren't stupid, Neteyam. They predict the safe moves. I say we cut through the Needle hills. It’s tight, it’s dangerous, but the magnetic interference there blinds their sensors. We can get right on top of them before they even know we’re there."

"The Needles?" Neteyam sounded incredulous. "You want to fly a squad through a rock field where one wrong turn means smashing into a cliff? That’s reckless."

"It’s unexpected," you corrected. "Survival isn't about being safe. It's about being invisible."

Silence stretched between you. Neteyam looked like he wanted to strangle you. You looked at Jake.

Jake looked between his son—the careful, burdened heir and you—the survivor who had crawled out of the ashes. He rubbed his chin.

"She's right about the sensors," Jake said finally. He looked at Neteyam. "Take the Needles. But Neteyam leads. You follow his pace. If he says pull back, you pull back. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," you said, a flicker of victory in your voice.

"Sir," Neteyam said stiffly, though he looked like he’d swallowed a rock.

Ten minutes later, outside the tent, the explosion happened.

Neteyam grabbed your arm before you could reach your Ikran, yanking you behind a stack of supply crates, out of sight of the others.

"What is your problem?" he hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You undermine me in front of the Olo'eyktan? In front of the squad?"

"I gave tactical advice," you shot back, wrenching your arm free. "You were walking us into a trap because you’re too afraid to take a risk!"

"I am responsible for their lives!" Neteyam stepped into you, forcing you back against the crates. The gap between you vanished. "I don't have the luxury of playing hero like you do. If I make a mistake, people die. If you make a mistake, it’s just you."

That stung. You barred your teeth, grabbing his shoulders and jerking him down to your level. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know I’m expendable compared to the Great Toruk Makto’s son?"

"Stop saying that," he growled.

"Then stop acting like your way is the only way just because you read the manual!" you shouted, then lowered your voice to a harsh whisper. "I’m trying to keep you alive, you idiot. The southern ridge is a kill box today. I felt the wind."

Neteyam stared at you, his chest heaving against yours. The anger in his eyes warred with something else, the realization that you weren't trying to outshine him, you were trying to protect him. It confused him. It made him furious and desperate all at once.

"You are impossible," he breathed.

"And you're welcome," you snapped.

The tension snapped. He grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers tangling violently in your hair, and crushed his mouth to yours. It was an angry, biting kiss, fueled by the adrenaline of the argument and the fear of the mission ahead.

It was a battle for dominance, a way to scream at each other without words. He broke away, gasping, his forehead resting heavily against yours. His eyes were dark, blown wide.

"We take the Needles," he whispered roughly, his voice scraping against the air. "But if you crash, I’m leaving you there."

You smirked, though your heart was racing like a drum. You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, which was swollen from the force of the kiss.

"Deal. Try to keep up, flyboy."

You shoved him back and turned toward your Ikran, your hands shaking slightly as you reached for the reins. Behind you, you heard Neteyam take a deep, stabilizing breath before shouting orders to the squad, his voice once again steady, commanding, and perfect.

The mission through the Needle rocks had been a success, but it had been a nightmare. The wind shears were worse than you predicted, and at one point, you had to dive your Ikran vertically between two colliding floating mountains to avoid a gunship scan. It was insane. It was brilliant.

And Neteyam looked like he wanted to kill you.

The moment the squad landed back at the High Camp, amidst the pouring rain of a sudden storm, Neteyam didn't even dismiss the others properly. He barked a generic "Equipment check, then rest!" to the group before grabbing the harness of your vest and practically dragging you toward the secluded overhang where the extra saddles were stored.

He shoved you into the dry space, the sound of the rain roaring outside like a waterfall. It was dark, cramped, and smelled of wet leather and ozone.

"You dove," Neteyam seethed, shaking the water from his hair, his chest heaving. "We said stay in formation. You dove into a blind gap!"

"I saw the scanner!" you yelled back, shoving his hands off your vest. "If I hadn't dove, they would have pinged the whole squad! I saved your ass, Neteyam!"

"You risked the mission on a hunch!"

"I was right!"

"You're a maniac!"

The shouting stopped abruptly as he slammed you back against the rock walls. The anger was still there, blazing in his eyes, but it had mutated. The adrenaline from the near-death flight was vibrating under his skin, seeking an outlet.

He looked at you—wet, defiant, chest rising and falling rapidly—and the restraint snapped.

"I hate you," he growled, his voice dropping into that rough, unrecognizable register.

"Feeling is mutual, skxawng," you hissed.

He didn't need to be told twice. He crashed against you, his mouth capturing yours with bruising force. There was no tenderness, no romance. It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a continuation of the argument by other means. You bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and he groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against your chest.

His hands were frantic, fumbling with the buckles of your heavy vest. He tore the leather straps loose, not caring if they broke, desperate to get the armor off. As soon as the vest hit the dirt, his hands were on your skin, hot and rough, gripping your waist with enough force to leave marks.

"You think you're so smart," he muttered against your neck, hiking your leg up around his waist. He pressed you hard against the rock wall, the friction of his body against yours sending electricity shooting through your veins. "Always have to be the hero."

"Someone has to be," you gasped, throwing your head back as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. You dug your nails into his back, scraping down the spine. "Since you're too busy following rules."

"Shut up," he breathed, his hand sliding down to the waistband of your loincloth. "I'm going to make you shut up."

"Try it."

He lifted you effortlessly, and you wrapped your legs tight around him, anchoring yourself.

Then you hissed at him.

He laughed, the sound like honey and venom in your ears, his breath fanning your neck and sending shivers down your spine. "Someone is eager," he purred, lips brushing your skin. His arms tighten like a vice around you, holding you tight. "Already getting the shivers and I've barely touched you."

"Shut up," you snapped, struggling to sound confident and not at all affected by his proximity.

Neteyam kissed you again. His kiss was demanding, hot, and possessive, swallowing your gasp before you can even think of protesting. He pressed you harder against the rock, the rough texture biting into your back, but all you can focus on is the way his tongue teases yours, the way his body pins you in place.

He started to undo your loincloth. His fingers are rough but quick, the knot of your loincloth unraveling easily under his touch. The fabric slips away, leaving you bare against him. His heated skin pressed flush against yours, the teasing friction making your breath hitch.

"Finally," he growled, nipping at your jaw before dragging his lips down your throat.

His touch is both light and maddening, his fingers teasing at your entrance in slow, torturous circles, only to pull away just as you're about to grind into it.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. His fingers trace teasingly, just enough pressure to make you shudder but not enough to give you what you truly crave. "So desperate already."

"Fuck you," you spat.

A sharp grin cuts across his face at your defiance like he was waiting for it.

"Oh?" His voice is pure sin, low and rough as his fingers finally press in, just enough to steal your breath. "That what you want?"

He worked you open slow, deliberate, twisting just there until your hips jerk against him helplessly.

His smirk widens as he feels your body respond, betraying you far more than your words ever could. "Thought so," he murmured, lips grazing your jawline before catching your earlobe between his teeth.

His fingers sink deeper, slow and purposeful, each movement calculated to wring every reaction from you. "You're so fucking tight," he grits out, his own breathing uneven now. His thumb circles your clit, the pressure just shy of cruel, and he watches your face as he does it.

He can read your body like a damn book, every shiver and squirm giving him exactly what he needs to drive you closer to the edge and then pull back just in time.

You let out a whine, hips jerking forward, but before you can even protest, he moved with practiced ease, shifting his own loincloth aside in one smooth motion.

The thick length of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, teasing at your entrance but not giving you what you desperately want.

You hissed again at him. "Stop playing."

"But you look so damn pretty all desperate," he murmured, the words more breath than sound. He rolled his hips again, just enough to make you squirm, his fingers tracing over your waist, your stomach, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Like you'd do anything I asked, right now," he added.

"Fuck," you cussed but finally give in. "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely," he said, the words rumbling through his chest, thick and full of promise, and then he's sliding into you with a harsh breath.

You arched and cried out, fingers digging into the flesh of his back, hips jerking to take him as deep as possible.

You gasped when he moved. The slide of him inside you gave a slow, torturous burn that goes straight to your head. It feels like fire and lightning all at once, sending sparks through your veins, setting you alight from the inside out.

He's everywhere. His hands on your hips, his lips on your neck, his voice in your ear. You can feel him everywhere, overwhelming all your senses.

But of course, you won't admit it.

"You're terrible," you panted against his skin, moving with him, matching his rhythm instantly. It was a competition, just like the sparring, just like the flying. Who could push harder? Who could last longer? Who would break first?

"And you're loud," he gritted out, his hands tightening on your hips, driving into you with a punishing pace that made your head spin. "Focus."

"I am... focused," you managed to say, though your voice wrecked as he hit a spot that made your vision blur. You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming his name because you refused to give him that satisfaction.

The sound of the rain outside was drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and harsh, ragged breathing.

He wanted to see you come undone. He wanted to prove that he could control you, even if he couldn't control you on the battlefield.

"Say I was right," he gasped, his rhythm faltering as the edge approached. "Say... the southern ridge... was safer."

You laughed, a breathless, broken sound, tightening your grip on him. "Never."

"Stubborn little slut."

When he finished the insult, he felt your orgasm hit, the pleasure spiking so hard it felt like pain, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode out the waves.

Then he pulled out, stroking his cock few times before releasing his cum on your stomach.

For a long time, there was only the sound of heavy panting and the rain.

He pulled back, his chest slick with sweat, and looked at you. His hair was a mess, his pupils blown wide. Then, he cleared his throat and stepped back, letting your legs drop. He reached down and picked up his dropped gear, turning his back to you to fix his loincloth.

"Your landing was sloppy, by the way," he said, his voice raspy but returning to that cool, detached tone.

You slumped against the wall, legs shaking, pulling your vest back over your chest.

"And you finish too fast, Sully."

Neteyam whipped around, eyes narrowing, though his ears burned a dark purple. "Watch it."

"Or what?" you challenged, standing up on wobbling legs. "You'll punish me again?"

He stared at you for a long beat, the heat flaring up in his eyes again, before he shook his head and shoved past you toward the cave entrance.

"Get back to the barracks," he ordered over his shoulder, stepping out into the rain. "And don't be late for dawn patrol."

"Yes, sir," you called after him, wiping a smear of his war paint off your cheek.

[ivsarchive]

the tension between them got me kicking my feet and giggling so bad ꉂꉂ◟(˃᷄ꇴ˂᷅๑)༡

[mayawne]

Crimson Tides

words: 3.36k

summary: Neteyam x human! reader

During a brutal RDA raid on Pandora’s eastern seas, a human medic—trained as both nurse and soldier—finally seizes the chance she has planned for in silence. Haunted by years of complicity, she flees the chaos with only her medical kit and her guilt, diving into the ocean with no clear destination—only instinct.

What she finds is a dying Na’vi warrior bleeding out on a rock, abandoned by circumstance but not by fate.

As gunfire echoes and the sea runs red, she makes a choice that will brand her a traitor to her own kind: she saves him.

When his family returns, weapons drawn and grief-stricken, her presence ignites tension, fear, and fury—but her work speaks louder than her species. In the midst of explosions and impossible decisions, the wounded warrior refuses to let her go, binding their fates together.

notes: guys i've been dreaming about this idea for days and i couldn't find a fic like my imagination ˙◠˙ so i wrote this during the hours of midnight in a literal daze, i rlly hope its ok. I want to continue but i genuinely don't know how i would finish the story - idk i guess i'll see how it plays out in my dreams HAHAH

(๑ > ᴗ < ๑) ᡣ𐭩

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The water feels wrong.

Neteyam notices it before the pain—before the weight in his chest, before the way his limbs suddenly refuse to answer him with the same sharp precision they always have. The ocean closes over his head as he dives, powerful stroke after powerful stroke, chasing the silhouettes of his siblings toward safety.

The reef blurs past him, light bending and warping through salt and motion. He kicks harder, muscles burning, lungs screaming—but then—

His strength falters.

It’s subtle at first. A drag. Like the sea has hooked its fingers into him and decided he should stay.

Neteyam frowns, confusion flickering through him. He adjusts his stroke, tries to correct, but his body lags behind his intent. The water presses heavier against his side, each movement suddenly costing more than it should.

He reaches the rock outcropping on instinct alone.

His hand scrapes stone, fingers slipping before finding purpose. He hauls himself halfway out of the water, breath stuttering—sharp, shallow, wrong. The sounds of the battle crash around him now, no longer distant: engines, shouting, the crack of gunfire echoing across the open sea.

He looks down.

Red.

Not the soft glow of reef light or the shimmer of bioluminescence clinging to coral. Something darker, blooming outward in lazy clouds beneath the surface, curling around his thigh and drifting away with the current.

His ears flatten.

He presses a hand to his side and feels warmth.

Too much warmth.

“Oh,” he breathes, barely audible over the crash of waves. Not fear—realization. “No…”

His knees buckle.

Lo’ak is there instantly.

Neteyam barely registers the impact as his brother grabs him, shouting his name, eyes wide and wild. The world tilts as Lo’ak pulls him upright, panic bleeding through every sharp movement.

“I’m shot,” Neteyam manages, the words tearing out of him like they cost something vital.

Lo’ak’s face crumples.

“No—no, no—” he says, voice cracking as he swings Neteyam onto his back. “Stay with me. Stay awake. I’ve got you.”

They plunge back into the water.

Neteyam clings loosely to his brother’s shoulders as they move, each second stretching thin. The pressure of the sea is unbearable now, his vision dimming at the edges, sounds muffled as if he’s sinking deeper than he is.

By the time Lo’ak reaches the rock outcropping again, Neteyam is barely conscious.

Lo’ak drags him up, hands shaking as he presses hard against the wound, blood slicking his fingers no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

“I’ll get Dad,” Lo’ak says desperately, voice breaking. “I’ll get Mom. Just—just stay here, okay?”

Neteyam doesn’t answer.

Lo’ak hesitates only a second longer before diving away, fear driving him faster than exhaustion ever could. Tuk’s small form follows, her cries swallowed by the sea.

The rock grows quiet.

Neteyam lies half-submerged, chest rising faintly, blood continuing to leak from beneath his ribs and slide into the water.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You have been waiting for this moment longer than you care to admit.

Not this—not the RDA shooting against a few boys —but the distraction. The fracture. The second where the RDA’s attention splinters just enough for someone small, quiet, and expendable to disappear.

You move through the flooded wreckage like a ghost.

The raid has fractured the ocean into chaos—noise above, silence below—but beneath it all, the water speaks. It always has. You’ve learned to listen to it the same way you listen to a pulse or a breath.

Your waterproof pack is tight against your back, weight familiar and reassuring. Inside: compressed rations, emergency meds, suture kit, antiseptic foam, sealant patches, two spare breathing masks. You packed light on purpose. Everything else waits for you—hidden deep in the mountains, far from sea lanes and patrols. Your avatar body. Your exit.

You slip from the sinking structure without hesitation. The mask seals with a soft hiss as you dive, breath evening out as the sea closes around you.

The water is cold as it envelops you, pressure squeezing your ribs as you kick downward, mask sealing with a soft hiss as it engages. You’ve done this before—escaped patrols, sunk into shadows, stayed unseen.

For years, you’ve walked the edge of this war—patching wounds, issuing orders, following protocols that kept your hands busy and your conscience quiet. You stayed detached because you had to. Because speaking up meant disappearing in a way no one would ever question.

You tell yourself to focus.

Then you see it.

Blood drifts past your visor in slow, terrible ribbons.

Thin at first. Then thicker. Dark, unmistakable.

Your chest tightens.

This was supposed to be clean.

You were supposed to disappear.

You slow instinctively, adjusting your course, following the trail without thinking. You don’t tell yourself why. You don’t justify it. You just move.

The blood leads you to a rock formation breaking the surface.

There—someone lies sprawled across it, massive body barely moving, skin marked with streaks of red that the sea keeps trying to claim. No one else is there. No weapons. No guards.

Just a Na’vi male, young, badly wounded.

You hover at a distance, heart pounding.

This is not your fight.

Surfacing here means risk—cameras, patrols, witnesses. Everything you’ve planned could unravel in seconds.

But you’ve watched too many bodies sink quietly into water like this.

You surface.

The air hits your lungs as you pull yourself onto the rock, movements careful, deliberate. You stay low, scanning the horizon once before crawling closer.

The Na’vi male stirs faintly.

His eyes flutter open, unfocused, catching on your shape. A human. Small. Close. His fingers twitch weakly against the stone, confusion and pain etched into every shallow breath.

You lift your hands slowly.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, even though you know he won’t understand the words. “I’m a medic.”

You kneel beside him, hands already working, pack open, supplies laid out with practiced efficiency. The wound is severe—but not beyond saving. Not yet.

As you press gauze to his side, his breath hitches.

He watches you dimly, vision slipping, but something in your touch steadies him. Your hands are sure. Your movements confident.

For the first time in years, you stop waiting for someone else to do something.

You choose.

And you don’t stop.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Your hands don’t shake.

Not now.

They used to, years ago, when you were still just a nurse moving through bombed-out clinics and half-lit tents, learning how to keep your voice calm while the world came apart around you. They trained that out of you eventually—first through repetition, then through necessity, then through war.

You push fear down where it belongs and let instinct take over.

“Okay,” you murmur, more for yourself than him. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You start at his shoulders, palms firm and efficient as you sweep down his torso, checking fast for additional wounds. Entry wounds hide. Exit wounds kill. You’ve learned never to assume there’s only one.

Your fingers slide over smooth, warm skin, then around his back, careful but thorough. Blood slicks your gloves, saltwater diluting it just enough to mask how much he’s lost.

“One,” you breathe quietly. “Just one.”

Relief flickers through you, sharp and fleeting. You don’t let yourself linger on it.

You press gauze to his side again, harder this time, and his breath stutters in response. His chest rises shallowly beneath your hand—too shallow, but present. Still fighting.

“That’s it,” you say softly. “Stay with me.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his eyes don’t leave you.

They’re glassy, unfocused at the edges, but locked on your face with a quiet intensity that makes your throat tighten. You’ve seen this look before—patients anchoring themselves to a single sensation because everything else hurts too much to hold.

You keep talking.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t understand the words. Tone has always mattered more than language.

“You’re doing really well,” you tell him, voice low and steady as you cut away the damaged edge of his armor. The material is intricate—layered, etched with patterns you’ve seen on warriors before but never this close. “This is beautiful craftsmanship,” you add, deliberately conversational. “Someone put a lot of care into this.”

His ears twitch faintly.

Good. He’s still responding.

You peel the armor back just enough to expose the wound properly. It’s ugly—ragged at the edges, still oozing—but clean enough to work with. You irrigate quickly, antiseptic hissing softly as it hits raw tissue.

His jaw tightens.

“I know,” you murmur immediately. “I know it hurts. You’re okay. Breathe with me.”

You exaggerate your own breathing, slow and deliberate, letting him follow the rise and fall of your shoulders. His chest mirrors it, unevenly, but enough.

Shock is the bigger threat now.

You keep him talking—asking gentle, meaningless questions he can’t answer, filling the space so he doesn’t slip too far inward. You tell him about nothing. About the sea. About how the light looks different under water. About how his armor caught the sun when you first saw him.

Your hands move with ruthless efficiency.

Packing the wound. Sealing it. Needle out. Thread through.

You stitch fast but careful, fingers sure despite the blood and the risk and the pounding of your heart. Every second feels stolen. Every sound from the distance makes your spine go tight with the fear of being seen—of being labeled what you already know you are choosing to be.

A traitor.

Like Jake Sully.

The thought flashes through you, cold and sharp, but you don’t let it slow you down.

You’ve lived too long doing nothing.

Neteyam barely registers the pain anymore.

It’s distant, like thunder heard from deep underwater. His body feels heavy, unresponsive, but the pressure on his side lessens slowly, gradually, in a way that tells him something important is happening.

He focuses on you.

On your voice—soft, steady, grounding. On the warmth of your hands as they move over him, purposeful and kind. On the way your fingers trail along his skin as you work, not hesitant, not afraid of him.

He doesn’t know who you are.

Only that you are here.

His breathing stays faint but constant, each inhale an effort, each exhale shallow. His eyes never leave your face, even when they sting, even when the edges of the world blur.

When you near the end, his fingers twitch.

They lift weakly, drifting until they brush your arm.

Just barely.

You still.

You look down at his hand where it rests against you, blue fingers trembling with exhaustion. A tear slips free from the corner of his eye, tracking slowly along the curve of his ear.

Without thinking, you reach up.

Your thumb is gentle as it wipes the tear away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

He tries to smile.

It’s small. Crooked. Barely there—but it’s everything he has left to give. Gratitude floods his chest, heavy and warm, even as his body fails him. He wants to thank you. To speak. To offer something—anything.

Instead, he holds your gaze.

Eywa, he thinks dimly. Thank you.

Thank you for sending her.

And then his eyes flutter, his grip loosening, breath still there—still fighting—as the world finally, mercifully, slows.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You don’t hear them.

Not the rush of wings overhead. Not the heavy, rhythmic flapping as skimwings circle low, nor the frantic splashes as bodies break the surface and scramble onto the rock.

Your entire world has narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest.

To the faint warmth still present beneath your palm. To the steady—miraculous—fact that he is breathing.

You’re adjusting the final dressing, fingers already moving to secure it when the shadow falls over you. Then another. Then several.

A sharp intake of breath cuts through the air.

You look up.

They are there—suddenly, impossibly close.

Na’vi warriors crowd the rock, wet and wild-eyed, weapons half-raised on instinct alone. Their grief is raw, barely contained, and when their eyes land on you—

A human.

Small. Unarmed. Kneeling beside their son.

Neytiri moves first.

A sound tears from her throat, sharp and broken, and she lunges forward with lethal speed, blade flashing in her hand. Her face is contorted with fury and terror, grief so sharp it borders on violence.

“Get away from him!”

You freeze.

Not because you don’t understand her—but because you do.

You know enough Na’vi to catch the edge of it. The command. The mother’s scream beneath the words. You’ve studied the language in secret for years now, late at night, hunched over stolen files and recordings, telling yourself it was only practical. That if you were going to disappear into Pandora one day, you couldn’t afford to be ignorant.

You had thought knowing the language might help you stay invisible.

It doesn’t help now.

Before Neytiri can reach you, a voice cuts through the chaos.

“Wait—!”

Lo’ak.

He stares at the scene in front of him, eyes darting wildly. His gaze drops to Neteyam’s chest.

To the bandages.

To the stitching.

To the fact that his brother’s chest is rising.

“He’s—” Lo’ak chokes. “He’s breathing.”

That stops everything.

Neytiri falters mid-step, eyes snapping down to her son. She drops to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she presses her ear to his chest, one hand cradling his face.

A sob rips free from her, unrestrained and devastating.

“Oh, my son,” she whispers, voice breaking completely. “My son…”

You understand that too.

Enough that your throat tightens painfully as she clutches him, forehead pressed to his, trembling with the aftershock of a grief she had already begun to accept. Her hands roam him desperately, checking for wounds, for warmth, for proof that he is still here.

Jake is there too—immediately, solid and steady despite the way his jaw tightens as he takes everything in. He helps turn Neteyam carefully, eyes narrowing as he inspects the wound.

It’s clean.

Stitched.

Packed properly.

Jake looks up at you.

Really looks at you.

Recognition hits you like a blow.

You know him.

Everyone does.

Jake Sully. The name whispered through RDA halls like a warning. The human who crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The example they used when they wanted to scare you straight.

This is what happens when you forget your place.

You meet his gaze without flinching.

“I’m a medic,” you say, voice hoarse but steady. “He had a single entry wound. No exit. Blood loss was bad, but I caught it in time.”

Jake studies you, eyes sharp, guarded. You can see the calculation happening—threat assessment, intent, risk.

“You RDA?” he asks quietly. English, clipped.

“Yes.”

Neytiri stiffens at the word.

You swallow. “Not for much longer.”

Jake’s brow furrows.

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to leave,” you continue, the words spilling out now that they’ve started. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I—” Your voice catches. “I couldn’t keep watching.”

Silence stretches.

Then Jake nods once.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “We’ll take it from here.”

That’s your cue.

You shift back, slowly rising to your feet, suddenly very aware of how small you are among them. You hesitate, eyes drifting back to the Na’vi warrior still lying between his parents—still alive because you chose not to look away.

You kneel again.

Just for a moment.

You reach out, resting your hand gently on his shoulder. His skin is warm beneath your fingers.

“You’re going to be okay,” you whisper—instinctively, softly—using the few Na’vi words you trust yourself not to break. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to mean something.

You start to pull your hand away.

You don’t get far.

His fingers close around yours.

Weak—but deliberate.

The grip isn’t strong, but it’s enough. Enough to stop you. Enough to tell you that somewhere beneath the haze and pain and exhaustion, he knows.

Lo’ak notices.

So does Jake.

You look down at him, breath catching as his hand tightens just a fraction more, like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

You squeeze back—just once.

Then, gently, you try to pull away again.

He doesn’t let go.

And for the first time since you dove into the water, fear gives way to something else entirely.

Connection.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

His fingers don’t loosen.

They tighten.

The pressure is shocking—sharp enough that it steals the air from your lungs for a split second. You glance down instinctively, disbelief flickering through you. He has been shot. He has lost blood. You stitched him together with shaking hands and hope.

And yet he holds you like this—like letting go would cost him something vital.

The others notice.

Lo’ak’s eyes widen first. Neytiri stills completely, her gaze snapping from your hand to her son’s face. Even Jake hesitates, registering the way Neteyam’s grip curls around your wrist, knuckles pale, stubbornly alive.

Another explosion tears through the air.

Closer this time.

The rock shudders beneath your feet, spray erupting around its base. Gunfire cracks in jagged bursts, echoing off the water.

Jake straightens instantly.

“We need to move,” he barks, voice cutting clean through the chaos. Commanding. Absolute. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask—it directs. You see it then, fully: not just a father, but a leader forged in war.

“Now!”

The family springs into motion.

Jake crouches beside Neteyam, already positioning himself to lift him. “I’ve got him,” he says, decisive. “We fly.”

But when Jake reaches for his son, Neteyam doesn’t respond the way they expect.

He doesn’t release you.

Jake pauses, eyes narrowing. He follows the line of Neteyam’s arm. Sees the way his son’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist—not frantic, not confused.

Intentional.

Jake looks at you.

Then at the sky, where tracer fire lights up the clouds.

A decision is made in a heartbeat.

“She comes,” Jake says.

Neytiri whirls on him. “Jake—”

Another blast detonates somewhere too close for comfort, the shockwave rattling your bones. Neytiri flinches, eyes snapping back toward the horizon, calculating the danger with a warrior’s instinct.

She looks at Neteyam again.

At the steady rise and fall of his chest.

At the way his hand still clings to you.

Her jaw tightens.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Move.”

They lift Neteyam carefully, Jake shifting him onto his back with practiced ease. You’re pulled along with them, swept into motion before you can even process what’s happening.

Only then—only when you’re moving, when the decision is no longer theoretical—does Neteyam’s grip finally loosen.

His fingers slip from your wrist.

You feel the absence immediately.

His eyes are closed now. His breathing is stronger than before—still weak, but steady enough that relief floods through you in a dizzying rush. You don’t know if he’s conscious, but something in your chest tells you he is.

That he chose this.

Gratitude wells up unexpectedly, fierce and aching. Toward him. Toward fate. Toward the impossible mercy of timing.

You mount behind Neytiri, hands gripping tight as the skimwing launches into the air. The force of it punches a breath from your lungs.

And then—

You are flying.

The world opens beneath you in a way no sim, no cockpit, no briefing ever prepared you for. The eastern sea stretches endlessly below, a living mosaic of color and light. Coral reefs bloom beneath the surface like constellations—turquoise, gold, burning pink—threaded together by currents that glow faintly in the fading light.

You gasp, unable to stop it.

The wind roars past your ears, warm and salt-heavy. You glimpse the others flying ahead—Jake steady and sure despite the weight on his back, Lo’ak flanking him protectively, the family moving as one.

Ahead, the water shifts.

Structures rise organically from the shallows—woven marui homes nestled within the roots of colossal mangrove-like trees. Their trunks arch outward and upward, forming a living cradle above the waterline, shielded from the open ocean by a natural, ring-shaped seawall of coral and stone.

It’s not built against the sea.

It’s built with it.

Your breath catches.

This—this—is what they were destroying.

As Neytiri guides the skimwing lower, banking toward the village, something settles inside you. Not peace. Not yet.

But certainty.

You didn’t just save a life.

You crossed a line you could never uncross.

And as Pandora rises to meet you, glowing and alive beneath the sinking sun, you know—without doubt—that you are not going back.

[ivsarchive]

the smile on my face with the physical contact between them, i can't- ( > 〰 < )♡

[logysworld]

an accident, I swear.

fem!human reader x neteyam | 2.5k wc

summary: fluff! human reader is a nurse, treating the fallen na’vi and avatar friends of the lab when needed. one (possessive...) patient seems to keep having minor accidents; neteyam needs an excuse to see her whenever!!

a/n: do people care if I capitalize or not… I’m thinking of starting to do it for all future fics but does it ruin the aesthetics.. idk 🫣

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The lab was like a boundary between worlds- human constructed but softened by the Na’vi influence around, woven vines creeping up the metal beams. Bioluminescent plants grew across (what once were) sterile white walls. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, but also your perfume, a scent that kept you awake.

You weren’t a soldier, and not a professional scientist like Norm or Max. You were a trained medic, sharp and the best at your job given the circumstances. Somehow, you had earned a place among the Omaticayan that few humans could reach. You treated whoever needed treating, remaining respective of the Tsahìk way. You learned names, customs, boundaries; you respected Pandora as if it were not something to be studied, but a place to be thanked. This respect was easily returned.

Na’vi warriors came to you without hesitation now. Hunters let you tend their wounds. Elders even nodded when you passed. You spoke the language well, though your Na’vi wasn’t perfect, still rough around the edges but near fluency. You had never asked to use an avatar, satisfied with the way you were and always had been. Still, you belonged.

It was like the Sully family had claimed you early.

Tuk adored you with a ferocity that bordered on possessive, constantly at your side, tugging on your sleeves and demanding stories while braiding your hair with flowers that stained your scalp purple. Sometimes, when you stayed out late in the forest, you told Tuk the human stories you had learnt yourself - old fairy tales and legends of lost princesses, brave girls, and a variety of magical forests. Neteyam listened too, sitting cross-legged and just as invested as Tuk. He found himself loving the way you spoke dramatically, a gentle method you used to translate the magic of your world into his sister’s.

As for the others, Jake trusted you fully. Neytiri watched you with sharp eyes, but they softened when she thought you weren’t looking. You earned her approval the way everyone else did, with competence and skill that she felt matched her own.

Neteyam though, he had always liked you. Not in the same careless, loud way Lo’ak once did. That phase of his had been short-lived. Lo’ak was perceptive in his own way. He noticed the way Neteyam watched you with admiration, and how his shoulders would tighten if someone else’s attention lingered too long.

Lo’ak laughed once, clapping his brother on the shoulder after being asked why he was so close to you.

“Don’t worry, bro,” he said lightly. “I see what you’re doing. I don’t want her like that.”

Neteyam looked away, not bothering to counter.

You and Neteyam existed in a relaxed orbit; flirty without being reckless, no crossing lines. He brought the injured to you, even when they didn’t need guidance, and you teased him for hovering. Neteyam was one of the strongest, most precise fighters that you had known in your career.

And somehow, he always ended up in your lab.

Nothing ever serious, of course. A shallow cut on his forearm, a bruised shoulder, or a miniature scrape across his abdomen. Injuries that made absolutely zero sense considering his skill. Each time he arrived, shy with a hand rubbing the back of his neck, you’d glance up at him over your laptop and say something like,

“People are going to start thinking I’m bad at my job if you keep this up.”

He’d return a calm, composed look. One that suggested he was a disciplined warrior that simply needed some human assistance.

“I am a cautious man, sevìn-tawtute.” (pretty human)

“No, you’re dramatic, hiyìk-tsamsiyu.” (funny warrior) you’d reply, tightening a bandage hard enough to make him blink hard. You smoothed your hand over the bandage and giggled, not missing the way he took a deeper breath.

His tail was first to betray him when it came to you. A flick, slow curl, just never still.

Even his family noticed.

Lo’ak made exaggerated coughing sounds whenever Neteyam was caught staring into the direction of the lab, tail curled on his thigh.

“Feeling sick, bro?”

Kiri raised knowing brows, smiling to the others when he came home with another bandage day after day. Jake said nothing, but he tracked Neteyam’s habit of visiting you in his mind. Neytiri pretended not to see, which meant she saw everything and was definitely gossiping with Jake about it all after hours. Tuk, unfiltered and innocent, announced once to a room full of companions as you all ate lunch near hometree:

“I think Neteyam likes the healer more than his bow.”

Neteyam had gone still, his ears flicking back and down in embarrassment. But you and Kiri, you laughed so hard you had nearly dropped your bowls on each other.

Despite it all, Neteyam never pushed for anything. He lingered because he wanted to, and he came back again because it gave him an excuse to be near you without risking rejection. You couldn’t turn away a patient, right? He knew you weren’t dumb, but he didn’t realize how obvious he was being with this crush of his.

You never missed the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, only you. How his shoulders eased when you spoke to him in Na’vi, tail flicking with his attention caught. How he stood a little taller, smile widening, when you praised his leadership and skill.

You liked him too. That part was undeniable. You just hadn’t figured out how to approach that yet.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Rel’yan, the Na’vi warrior sitting on the edge of the treatment table was far too relaxed for someone with a gash along his forearm.

“You are very gentle, little human,” he said, watching your hands with a careful admiration. His smile was smug, eyes bright. “I think I will come to you next time, as well.”

You hummed softly, tightening the wrap with ease. “Try not to get injured too much then, there’s only one of me here.”

He laughed. “Perhaps I will simply visit.”

Before you could say something, the air in the room shifted. You turned to look at the entrance.

Neteyam stood in the doorway, watching with observant eyes. His eyes flicked from the warriors smile to your hands, and the distance - or lack of - between you two.

“Hello, sevìn.” he said, voice quieter than usual.

The warrior followed your gaze and turned his head. Recognition sparked, followed by amusement.

“Ah,” he sighed. “I am finished, yes?”

You nodded . “All set. Keep it clean, please.”

He lingered for a beat before giving you a nod. As he moved to leave, he brushed a hand briefly against your shoulder, passing Neteyam on the way out. Neteyam followed his figure with raised brows, tail lashing once against the hard floor.

You exhaled, turning back to your supplies with a smile on your face.

“If it isn’t my most frequent visitor.”

“You are… busy today?”

You glanced up, eyes deliberating following the left hand that hovered behind his back.

“Busy is good,” you said lightly. “Keeps certain warriors from finding creative ways to see me.”

His ears flicked, and he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

He hesitated. Then, he relaxed his jaw, a grin revealing itself on his face. He brought his hand forward.

A fresh cut across his palm.

Your eyes narrowed.

“…Neteyam,” you said slowly, dragging the ‘mmm’. “That looks exactly like the cut you had last month.”

He cleared his throat. “Does it?”

“And last month,” you continued, already reaching for antiseptic, “you told me it was from a tree.”

“Correct, tawtute.”

You looked at him. “Was this the same tree?”

“Yep.”

You paused mid movement, lips curling into a smirk. “Wow. Sounds like a personal vendetta.”

His ears flushed the faintest shade darker. “It is a very… sharp tree. A large one.”

“Mhm.” You gestured for his hand. “Did you… accidentally brush past it... again?”

He placed his hand in yours without hesitation. “I was not paying attention.”

You hummed, cleaning the wound carefully. “Funny. You’re usually very focused, Neteyam.”

His fingers curled slightly around yours. Just barely, but enough to catch your eye.

“Not always,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched, but you recovered quickly, taping the bandage into place.

“Okay, sayrìp. (handsome) Try not to pick a fight with that tree again.”

He opened his mouth to respond and Lo’ak’s voice cut through the room.

“Wow,” Lo’ak said, leaning against the doorframe. “That tree must really like you, bro.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes.

Lo’ak’s grin widened. “What happened here? You slip and fall into the healer’s lab again?”

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam warned, ears burning.

You shook your head, still smiling as you stepped away. “You’re done, warrior. Go. Before he injures himself further.”

Neteyam stood quickly, suddenly very interested in the floor, while simultaneously not being able to keep his eyes off of you.

“Thank you,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “For treating me, again.”

Any composure he had left evaporated when you added, softly, “Anything for the prince.”

He nodded once—too fast—then turned and left, shoulders tense, cheeks unmistakably flushed.

Lo’ak watched him go, then looked at you.

“You know,” he said, smug. “He practices what he’ll say before coming in here.”

You stared at him. “He does not.”

Lo’ak laughed and walked out.

You leaned back against the table, pressing your palm to your warm face, still smiling like an idiot.

Somewhere outside, Neteyam was probably cursing a tree that had never touched him once.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the next day…..

During breakfast, laughter echoed through the trees, children weaving between seated friends, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and fruits. The Sully family sat close together, Kiri with Tuk, helping her peel something that glowed faintly in her hand.

Neteyam sat with his arms resting on his legs, posture relaxed in appearance only. He was halfway through his meal when he saw him. Rel’yan. The same warrior from yesterday. Neteyam had been keeping a watchful eye on him since his arrival to breakfast, so when Rel’yan rose from his place, he almost did too. The warrior glanced toward the far end of a path, the one that led directly to your lab.

Neteyam’s jaw tightened, the chewing of his food coming to a halt. Lo’ak clocked it straightaway.

“Oh, here we go,” he said, nudging Kiri. “He’s doing the thing.”

Neteyam tore off a final bite of his skewer, chewing fast, eyes never leaving Rel’yan as he stepped off the platform onto the path.

“Eat slower,” Neytiri said, voice sharp. “You will choke.”

“I am finished.” he replied, mouth still full of food but already standing up.

Lo’ak tilted his head to the side, grinning.

“Bro… not even gonna pretend anymore, huh?”

Neteyam shot him a scowl. “What? I’m checking something.”

Lo’ak followed his gaze. “Sure you do. Do you have to check something… healer-shaped?”

Jake laughed quietly, contrasting Tuk’s dramatic gasp.

Neteyam groaned under his breath, forcing a swallow down of the last of his food before stepping off the platform entirely. As he walked past, Lo’ak made a makeshift speaker with his hands.

“Try not to trip over a tree on the way!”

Neteyam didn’t respond. He was already moving fast, long strides carrying him down the path. He hadn’t even walked this kind of fast during hunts. To his surprise, Rel’yan seemed to be on his own mission too. Neteyam felt his ears flatten when he saw him slipping into the lab from a distance, heartbeat picking up instantly. His chest tightened. A plan formed in his mind, one that came with no thinking at all.

He scraped past a low-hanging branch, dragging it deliberately across his entire abdomen. Sharp enough to sting and leave a faint mark.

By the time he entered the lab, his breathing was shallow and urgent. He practically leaped through the door, only to find the warrior already speaking with you, leaning against your table far too comfortably.

“You again, Rel’yan?” you said, amused. “Thought I fixed you.”

Neteyam stepped forward loudly before he could reply, hand pressed onto his stomach. “I need help.”

Both of you turned, but your eyes went wide.

“Neteyam?”

He winced, sounding genuinely hurt. “Now.”

The urgency in his voice made your stomach shake. You moved fast, gesturing him forward to the table. The other warrior watched impatiently.

“I was planning to-“

“Later.” Neteyam cut in, tone so firm that Rey’lan appeared startled. You shot Neteyam a warning look, pulling and stretching your gloves on.

“Sit. What happened?”

“Training,” he said quickly, arms still holding his front and postured caved, hiding the small wound.

The warrior stood mindlessly, arms crossed and clearly confused.

“I will return,” he said to you.

Neteyam’s tail slammed on the metal table. “Don’t waste her time. You don’t look like you need to come back.”

The warrior scoffed but backed off, muttering something incomprehensible as he left. You reached for Neteyam’s wrist, guiding it away from the site of injury. “Okay, tsamsìyu. (warrior) Let me see.”

He lifted his arm slowly.

You stared at the skin. The cuts were shallow, barely bleeding, just red. Then, you looked up at him.

“You’re kidding.”

His ears flushed dark. “I am most certainly not.”

You tugged your gloves off, then resting your hands on either side of his thighs.

“Neteyam. This is nothing. Even Tuk wouldn’t come to me for this.”

“I wanted to see you, alone.”

You lowered your voice. “So, you scared me on purpose?”

“I did not mean to scare you, sevìn.” He said quickly. “Only to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?”

He stayed quiet, gaze dropping to your mouth.

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You are unbelievable.”

He grabbed the end of your shirt, pulling you closer. “How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

You looked up at him, the way his restraint was fading, obvious by the way his hands hovered just over your waist.

“You don’t need to keep hurting yourself for my attention, Neteyam.” you said, voice gentle.

He settled his hands on your waist now, pulling you even closer. “Apparently, I do,” he replied.

“You are a difficult one to steal, tsawke.” (sun)

He dipped deliberately, brushing his nose against yours, smirking when your breath caught.

“I don’t think I am.”

Your hand lifted, fingers tracing the strong curve of his jaw. He leaned into your touch instantly, skin warm on your hand.

“Say that you want me,” he whispered. “So I do not have to keep inventing ways to bleed for you.”

You laughed, a blush forming on cheeks. “Neteyam, I see you.”

“I see you.”

He came forward and his lips met yours, slow at first, no rush. His hands wrapped around you, protective, trapping your smaller figure between him. You tilted into him, fingers clawing into the skin on his neck.

The kiss deepened quicker than expected, full of heat, breath, all of your precious mental boundaries unraveling.

When he pulled back from the kiss, foreheads touching and heaving chests, his voice was rough. “I will stop hurting myself now.” he said, rushed.

You laughed breathlessly. “Good. I’m running out of bandages.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

a/n: hey people... idk how to do all this but should I start a taglist?? comment if u want to join <3 AND! please send in requests. i can only come up with so much. heh my first tag queen: @pandoraxvibes

[ivsarchive]

the yearning, the possessiveness- good lord (⸝⸝•̀⸝⸝•́⸝⸝)

[yawntutsyips]

the long horizon

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ fem!na'vi reader x neteyam, post-awow, chronic pain, recovery, angst, character study, slow-burn, hurt/comfort, ~30k

After the war, after the wound, Neteyam learns to lead from the planning ledge instead of the front line. You learn his body’s new limits as his healer, and then his mind’s burdens as his counsel. Seasons turn. The work is slow, the silences long, the trust between you a thing built in the quiet aftermath. This is how a future is forged; not in a moment, but in the thousand small choices to stay, to see, and to quietly, irrevocably, belong to one another.

you can also find this on ao3

The bullet had missed his heart by two centimeters. The Sky People’s surgeon, examining the scan in a cold metal room on the SeaDragon, would later call it a statistical miracle. For Neteyam, son of Jake Sully, there was no miracle in the aftermath. There was only the damage.

He did not remember the frantic swim through the glowing water, the hands clawing at his vest, his brother’s screams muffled by the sea. His memory carved itself into two sharp pieces: the deafening impact, a white-hot sunburst that erased the world, and then the profound, penetrating cold that followed. The cold lingered long after Ronal and the others had pulled him back from the edge. It sat in his bones, a deep chill that the forest’s humid air could never quite dispel.

He woke to the smell of burning inciense and the low chant of the Metkayina tsahik. His mother’s face was the first thing he saw, her golden eyes wide and stripped of all their ferocity, holding only a naked, terrifying fear. His father’s hand was on his shoulder, the grip so tight it felt like it was the only thing tethering Neteyam to the ground of the living. For three days, he drifted in a haze of pain and the whispered prayers that seeped through the woven walls. The skilled hands of the tsahik stitched flesh and spirit back together, but some breaks were too complex to mend fully. The scar on his lung was a thick, ropey knot that refused to expand as it should. The nerves along his left side, shocked by the trauma, fired in confused bursts, leaving a faint, persistent tremor in his fingers and a stiff, unreliable weakness in his leg that the damp cold of night tightened into a cage.

The war ended, not with a bang, but with a strained retreat. The Sky People fell back to their fortified positions, licking their wounds. The Sullys returned to the High Camp of the Omatikaya, to the familiar embrace of the Hallelujah Mountains. The clan celebrated their return, singing songs of bravery for Toruk Makto and his family. They sang for Neteyam, the warrior who stared death in the face and walked away. They expected the same young man who had left them: quiet, capable, a steady shadow of his father, the unshakable future pillar of the people.

He was not that person.

The first attempt to resume his old life came six months after the wound, on a clear morning sharp with the scent of pine. He stood at the archery range, the familiar weight of his bow in his hands. Lo’ak was beside him, already nocking an arrow with a fluid, easy motion. Neteyam took a breath, felt the familiar catch in his left side, and drew. The muscles in his shoulder and back engaged, a symphony of motion he had performed ten thousand times. But as he reached full draw, a violent, uncontrollable shudder ran through his left arm. The arrow tipped, fell from the rest, and clattered to the mossy ground.

The world did not go quiet. He heard the distant laughter of children, the call of a tetrapteronoverhead. He heard Lo’ak’s sharp, indrawn breath beside him. His brother did not speak, did not offer help or pity. He simply turned his head away, his jaw working, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The silence between them was more articulate than any words.

Neteyam looked at his hand, still trembling slightly. He bent down, picked up the arrow, and slotted it carefully back into his quiver. He turned and walked, not towards the target, but towards the armory cave. His gait was careful, measured to hide the slight drag in his left leg. He spent the next three hours oiling hunting knives, methodically coating each blade with a thin sheen of resin until they shone in the dim light. The work was quiet. It was useful. It did not require two steady hands.

That was the pattern he established. He found the edges of his new limitations and then built a world within them. He took the patrol rosters from his father and reworked them with a meticulous, ruthless efficiency that Jake could only nod at, a grudging respect in his eyes. He memorized the forest not as a playground for flight, but as a tactical grid—every defensible clearing, every blind approach, every choke point. He began to train the youngest hunters, the ones still wide-eyed and clumsy. He taught them to read tracks, to listen to the warning calls of the nantang, to understand wind direction. He demonstrated with calm, precise movements. He did not demonstrate climbing. He did not demonstrate the swift, silent leaps through the canopy. He stood with his feet planted on the firm earth and taught them how to think.

The quiet that settled on him was of a different quality. Before, his silence had been observant, a leader listening. Now, it was a fortification. He sat with his family around the evening cookfire, Tuk chattering about her day, Kiri humming absently, his parents discussing clan matters. Their voices washed over him, pleasant and familiar, but they seemed to reach him from a great distance, muted, as if he were listening from underwater. Tuk would often curl against his right side, and he would wrap his arm around her small shoulders, but the gesture felt deliberate, the motion of a caretaker, not a brother. His touch was careful, as if he were made of something brittle that might fracture under the weight of real affection.

And Lo’ak. They orbited each other, two satellites bound by gravity but separated by vacuum. They spoke when necessary. They fought back-to-back on patrol with flawless, instinctive coordination, each knowing the other’s movements without a glance. But afterwards, in the calm, a chasm opened. All the words that needed to be said—I’m sorry, I should have been faster, It’s my fault, Don’t leave me—piled up in that space, too massive and dangerous to cross. So they left them there. The unspoken things gathered mass, making the silence between them heavier with each passing season.

You were there. You were an apprentice to the tsahik, but your path was not Kiri’s. Kiri’s connection to Eywa was a vast, humming network, a language of roots and light she was still learning to speak. Yours was the language of the physical. You knew which moss staunched bleeding best, which bark tea lowered fever, how to set a bone so it would knit straight. You had come to the Omatikaya as a child of eight, the only survivor of a skirmish between the RDA and a small, northern clan. Your memory of that time was a blur of smoke and fear, followed by the gentle hands of the Omatikya women. You remembered little of your birth clan’s songs. What you remembered was how to be useful. You were quiet, you were thorough, and you did not flinch from blood or fatigue or the long, monotonous work of healing.

Before the Sullys departed the reef, Ronal had shown Neytiri the techniques for his ongoing care—specific, painful stretches to re-educate the muscles, deep tissue massages to break up the scar tissue and encourage suppleness. It was brutal, intimate work. Neteyam endured it with his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on some distant point, his spirit seemingly absent from the body being manipulated. When the family returned to the forest, the duty was passed to you. Neytiri was needed as a hunter, a leader, a mother to the others. You were capable. You were not family. It was easier that way.

The first session was in a small, sun-dappled clearing behind the healing huts, chosen for its soft floor of fallen leaves. He arrived on time, his expression neutral. You pointed to the mat you’d laid out. Without a word, he removed his chest wrap and sat, his back to you. The scar was uglier than you’d anticipated. The entry wound was a rosette of twisted, pale blue flesh the size of a tawpawng fruit, with smaller, precise scars from Ronal’s interventions radiating from it like cracks. The muscles of his back and shoulder on that side were visibly atrophied, drawn tight.

“This will hurt,” you said, your voice flat. There was no point in softening it.

“I know,” he replied, his tone matching yours.

You warmed the salve between your palms and began. Your hands were firm, probing the rigid landscape of his injury. You sought the knots of tension beneath the shoulder blade, the adhesions along his ribs. He was utterly still, his breathing controlled. Then, as you pressed deep into a particularly stubborn ridge of scar tissue near his spine, a sharp, hissed breath escaped him. You paused.

“Continue,” he muttered, the word tight.

You did. You worked in silence for a long time, the only sounds the rustle of leaves overhead and the occasional distant call of a bird. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile. It was a space for a necessary task. When you were finished, you handed him a damp cloth to wipe away the excess salve.

“Tomorrow, we work on the range of motion in the leg,” you said.

He nodded, pulling his wrap back on. He left without another word.

That was how it began. Not with a meeting, but with a routine. Every other day, you met in the clearing. Sometimes you spoke of inconsequential things—the migration of the sturmbeest, the best time to harvest spiral wort. Mostly, you worked in quiet. You learned the specific geography of his pain: how the stiffness traveled from his hip up his side on rainy mornings, the subtle way he would favor his right leg when he was tired, the faint, wheezing catch that sometimes punctuated his breaths after exertion. You learned it not through his words, but through the reactions of his body under your hands, the minute flinches he could not suppress.

One afternoon, well into the first year of his return, he arrived for his session with fresh, raw scrapes across his palms and a new, guarded stiffness in his movement.

“What happened?” you asked, reaching for the jar of antiseptic paste.

“Fell. During patrol.” His voice was clipped.

He offered nothing else. Later, while checking a dressing on Kiri’s skinned knee, you heard the story. He’d been on a routine sweep with Lo’ak. They’d taken a challenging route, a series of rapid ascents up a network of vines. Neteyam’s left leg had suddenly buckled, the strength evaporating without warning. He’d lost his grip and slid ten feet down a rough-barked branch before his right hand caught a hold. The scrapes were from the bark. The stiffness was from shame.

As you smoothed the cool paste over his torn palms, he stared straight ahead, his profile sharp and unreadable against the green foliage.

“Stupid,” he said, the word a brittle, self-contained thing.

You finished wrapping his left hand with clean bandages.

The silence after his single, self-condemning word stretched. You finished wrapping his left hand with the clean bandages, the linen stark against the blue of his skin. You tied the knot off, not too tight, your fingers careful over the fresh abrasions. His hand lay still in your grasp, the tremor quieted for the moment. He did not pull away, but you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a bowstring drawn too long. His gaze was fixed on the distant trees, but you saw the rapid flutter at his temple, the forced, even rhythm of his breath. The shame was a scent on him, sharp and sour.

You released his hand. He flexed the bandaged fingers slowly, watching them as if they belonged to a stranger. The tremor returned, a faint, persistent vibration. He made a fist, his knuckles paling, then released it with a soft, defeated exhale.

You began cleaning the unused salve from your fingers with a damp leaf. The quiet was heavy, but not empty. You had learned long ago that silence could be a place of shouting, or a place of rest. His was the former. You let it be for a moment, not rushing to fill it. Sometimes, the first step toward comfort was simply acknowledging the discomfort existed, and letting it sit without flinching.

He shifted to rise, and you saw the subtle catch in his movement, the brief hitch where his body refused the command. He masked it by turning the motion into a slow stretch, his face a careful blank. He picked up his chest wrap, holding the familiar fabric. He didn’t put it on. He just held it, his thumb tracing a familiar seam.

You understood then that the scrapes were the least of it. The real wound was in the way he inhabited his own body now—like a rider on an unfamiliar ikran, every movement a conscious calculation, every instinct mistrusted. Your gift, as your teacher had said, was not in seeing the injury, but in seeing the person around the injury. You saw the proud line of his shoulders, now perpetually braced for a failure that had already happened. You saw the intelligence in his eyes, now turned inward in a constant, exhausting audit of his own limitations.

“The salve will help the stiffness by morning,” you said, your voice measured and calm, a simple statement of fact. It was not pity. It was information, offered like a tool. “But the muscles are strained. They need stillness more than movement tonight.”

He gave a short nod, his eyes still avoiding yours. It was a concession, small but real. He turned to leave, his steps measured. He made it to the edge of the clearing where the ferns grew thick before he paused. He stood there for a long moment, his back to you, head slightly bowed. The dappled light played over the scars on his shoulder blades, old marks from a life lived in the canopy, now joined by this new, brutal geography.

When he spoke, his voice was low, not with the tone of a command or an exchange, but with the rough texture of something being reluctantly dragged into the light. “It is… frustrating. To ask your body for what it once gave freely.”

The words hung in the humid air. They were not about patrols or unstable ground. They were a raw, unadorned truth. He did not look at you to gauge your reaction. He simply stated it to the ferns, as if confessing to the forest itself.

Your response formed not as a fix, but as a reflection, a way of showing he had been heard. “The body has its own memory,” you said quietly, gathering your kit. “It remembers the fear as deeply as it remembers the strength. Learning which one to listen to… that takes time.”

He was silent, his back still turned. Then, another small, almost imperceptible nod. He did not offer any more information. He simply stepped into the green shadows, the sound of his careful footsteps growing fainter until the forest absorbed them completely.

You were of the Omatikaya now, but your roots were from a different soil. Your mother had been a weaver of stories as much as tapestries, from a small, northern clan that valued perception. “Listen to what is under the words,” she had told you, her fingers carding through your hair. “The truth is a shy animal. It shows itself in the glances people hide, in the breaths they hold.” That lesson had become your anchor after the Sky People’s fire took everything else. The Omatikaya Tsahik had seen that anchor in you, a quiet child who watched more than she spoke. She had nurtured it. “You have the eyes for the hurt that does not bleed,” she had said. It was why she placed you with the wounded warriors, the grieving mothers, the sullen children. And it was why, when the Tsahik returned with the Sullys, she had gently guided you toward Neteyam.

“His father sees a soldier who needs retraining,” the old woman had murmured, grinding herbs with a steady rhythm. “His mother sees a child who needs protecting. He sees a shadow of himself. Your task is not to be any of those things. Your task is to see him. And to let him see that he is seen.”

It was a subtle art. It meant that during your sessions, you matched his energy. When he was closed and clinical, you were efficient and quiet. When a flicker of frustration bled through, you did not soothe it with empty words; you gave it space, perhaps by focusing on a different part of the routine, allowing the feeling to exist without becoming a focal point. Your comfort was in your consistency, and in your lack of demand.

You saw his family orbit him, each grappling with the changed gravity of his presence. At the communal fires, Jake would often include him in discussions of strategy, his voice firm, expecting the sharp, tactical mind he’d always relied on. Neteyam would contribute, his observations precise, but his physical stillness was a stark contrast to his father’s animated gestures. Neytiri’s love was a watchful, simmering thing. She would sit near him, not touching, her keen eyes missing nothing—the slight pallor, the minute adjustments in his posture. You saw the conflict in her: the hunter’s instinct to eliminate the threat to her cub, warring with the knowledge that the threat was now internal, a part of him she could not fight.

One evening, you brought a freshly mixed batch of strengthening tea to the Sully pod. Tuk was chattering about a fledgling ikran she’d befriended. Kiri was listening with a soft smile, her hands busy repairing a net. Lo’ak was honing a blade, his movements quick and a little angry.

Neteyam sat slightly apart, mending a tear in his father’s old hunting satchel. The fine work required concentration. His left hand lay across his thigh, a steady weight, while his right did the delicate stitching. You saw the focused line of his mouth, the total absorption in the task. It was a good task for him—useful, quiet, demanding just enough attention to keep the darker thoughts at bay.

You handed the tea bundle to Kiri with a smile. “For the morning. It’s bitter, but it helps with the deep aches after long rains.”

“You always know when the rains are coming,” Kiri said, taking it gratefully.

“The pyon leaves curl a day before,” you shrugged, a simple observation.

As you turned to leave, Tuk, in her excitement, knocked over a small basket of throwing pebbles. They scattered, several skittering toward Neteyam. Reacting to the sudden noise and movement, he twisted sharply to see the source. It was a fast, unthinking motion.

The effect was instant. His breath seized. His face, moments before relaxed in concentration, went taut and grey. He dropped the needle, his right hand flying to clamp over the scar on his side. A hard, stifled sound—more a choked-off groan than a gasp—escaped him.

The pod froze. The chatter died. Lo’ak’s honing stone slipped from his fingers and thudded to the floor. Kiri’s hands stilled in the net. Tuk’s eyes filled with immediate, bright tears.

Neteyam’s recovery was a physical act of will. You watched him master it, breath by forced breath. He unclenched his hand from his side, laid it flat on his thigh, and slowly, deliberately, bent to pick up the fallen needle. His movements were glacial, controlled to the point of painfulness.

“The pebbles, Tuk,” he said, his voice a dry, strained rasp utterly devoid of its usual calm. “They are a hazard. Pick them up.”

It was not anger. It was a desperate redirect, a command issued to stop the flood of concern he saw rising in his sister’s face. Tuk scrambled to obey, her small hands frantic.

Lo’ak stared at his brother. You saw the journey on his face: the initial shock, the lancing guilt, and then a hardening into something like resentment—anger at the situation, at the pain, at his own helplessness. He couldn’t bear it. He stood up, the movement violent, and stalked out into the night without a word.

The atmosphere in the pod was shattered glass. You caught Kiri’s eye; she gave a tiny, helpless shake of her head. Your teacher’s words echoed: See the hurt that does not bleed.

You did not leave immediately. You walked calmly to the spilled basket and knelt, helping Tuk gather the last of the pebbles. Your movements were slow and unthreatening. When they were all returned, you placed the basket securely on a shelf.

“The night air is cool,” you said, your voice soft, directed at no one and everyone. “It will be good for sleeping.”

It was a mundane, gentle observation, an attempt to weave the torn fabric of the ordinary back together. You inclined your head to Kiri and Neytiri, who had appeared in the doorway, her expression stormy, and then you left. The image you carried was not of Neteyam’s pain, but of Lo’ak’s fleeing back, and the vast, silent chasm that had opened between the two brothers in an instant.

The next afternoon, Neteyam came to the clearing. He was closed off tighter than a sealed seed pod. His movements were stiff, his greetings non-existent. The air around him hummed with a defensive energy. As you worked, you felt the fresh, hot knots of protest in his muscles, the physical echo of yesterday’s shock.

You prepared a poultice, this one with a faint, soothing fragrance. “This may make you drowsy,” you informed him, your tone pragmatic. “It is meant to. The body heals in sleep, not in vigilance.”

He didn’t argue. He sat on the mat, submitting to the treatment, but his mind was elsewhere, his eyes fixed on some internal horizon. The work was done in a thick silence.

Afterward, he did not rise. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, fingers laced through his braids. The posture was one of sheer exhaustion. The careful posture of the future leader was gone. Here was just a young man, tired to his bones.

You busied yourself with your kit, giving him the privacy of the moment. The forest chirped and rustled around you.

“Lo’ak,” he said, the name muffled by his hands. He didn’t lift his head. “He… I cannot…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t know how. The sentence hung, a perfect representation of the impasse: I cannot reach him. I cannot fix this. I cannot even explain it.

You stopped your busywork and sat quietly on the ground across from him, not too close. You waited until his breathing evened out slightly. You did not offer solutions about his brother. You offered a reflection of what you had observed, a piece of the truth he was struggling to hold.

“He feels the weight of it,” you said, your voice low and even, like you were describing the type of wood for a bow. “Your pain. He feels responsible for carrying it, and he does not know how. So he tries to outrun it.”

Neteyam slowly lifted his head. His eyes were weary, but clear. He looked at you, and for the first time, there was no mask, no strategic calculation. There was just a profound, bewildered fatigue. He was looking at you not as a healer, but as someone who had just accurately named a beast that had been haunting him.

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say thank you. He just held your gaze, and in that shared look was a moment of stark, mutual understanding. The beast had a name. He was not alone in seeing it.

He looked away first, down at his own hands. He took a deep, full breath, one that didn’t hitch. He pushed himself to his feet, the movement heavy but fluid.

At the edge of the clearing, he stopped. He didn’t turn back. He simply stood there for a long moment, as if settling the new knowledge inside himself.

“The talioang herd is moving to the southern meadows,” he said, his voice regaining some of its grounded calm. “The hunting parties will have an easier time next week.”

It was not a transactional piece of information. It was a sharing. An offering of normalcy, of the continued, turning world outside the small, painful orbit of his recovery. It was him finding his footing again, and showing you he had found it.

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “That is good news. The children will be glad for the softer meat.”

He stepped into the forest. The silence he left behind was different now. It was not a silence of shouting, or of brittle defense. It was a quieter, more porous silence. A silence that could, eventually, allow something new to grow.

The seasons turned. The Great Mother’s breath grew cool, then cold, then warm again. A year bled into a second, marked not by dramatic events, but by the slow, granular accumulation of days.

Your sessions with Neteyam continued, a fixed point in the turning world of High Camp. The clearing became a familiar territory. You learned the pattern of light through the canopy at mid-morning. He learned the rhythm of your preparations. The work evolved from managing crisis to managing life. You showed him stretches for long days at the war map. You adjusted your poultices for endurance over inflammation.

Your teacher, Mo’at, watched this progression. One afternoon, as you sorted lorran buds, she spoke. “The body’s memory is long. But the heart’s memory is longer. He is like the utraya tree after a lightning strike. The core is alive, but it grows in a new shape now.”

You understood she was not just speaking of Neteyam. She had been the one to peel your small, silent form from the arms of the hunter who found you in the ashes of your clan’s kelutral. She had seen that lightning strike. Your own growth had been quiet, shaped around an absence. It was perhaps why you understood his silence not as emptiness, but as a space where something once was.

This understanding began to weave you into the fabric of his family through small, necessary moments.

It started with Tuk. She began to seek you out, a bright, anxious bird drawn to a still branch. You were calm, like Neteyam used to be before everything got complicated. She’d appear at the healing hut, a tangled bundle of feathers or a smooth river stone in her hand. “Can you fix it?” she’d ask, holding up a broken feather hairpiece. You would take it, not as a healer, but as a craftswoman. “The quill is snapped. But see? We can bind it here with sinew, and it will be strong again. Different, but strong.” You showed her how to mend things. In return, she brought you stories, cascading and unfiltered. She’d chatter about her ikran’s first molt, about a funny-shaped cloud, and in the middle of it, a piece of family life would fall out, unadorned. “...and then Kiri got that look she gets when she’s listening to the trees, and Mom got quiet, and Neteyam was sharpening his knife but he was doing it all wrong, like this—” She’d mimic a stiff, awkward motion, then immediately bounce back to her tale about the cloud. The significance wasn’t in her delivery, but in the raw data of it. You collected these fragments, seeing the family portrait in her childish kaleidoscope.

Kiri was a different kind of closeness. Your paths crossed in the spirit of healing, but where your knowledge was of the physical vessel, hers was of the flow within it. She would sit with you as you worked, her presence a soft hum. “The valerian root you are using,” she said once, her eyes half-closed. “It dreams of deep water. It will bring sleep, but the sleep may be heavy. For someone with bad dreams… perhaps mix in sun-dried palulukan moss. It remembers the warmth of rock.” You learned to integrate her impressions. She, in turn, seemed to appreciate your groundedness. “You pull things back to the now,” she observed. “It is a good thing to be pulled.”

Lo’ak was the most gradual. He was wary, likely seeing you as an extension of his brother’s condition. The shift came after a messy hunt. He appeared at the healing huts late, holding a poorly wrapped binding for another hunter’s arm. “It’s still bleeding,” he said, his voice tight with frustration that wasn’t for you. You took it. “Sit. I will show you.” You demonstrated the correct way to wrap a joint that needed to flex. He watched, his anger cooling into tired concentration. “Neteyam used to do it like that,” he muttered as you finished. “The cross goes here, not over the bone.” “It is the way Mo’at teaches,” you said. “He paid attention.” Lo’ak was quiet, turning the leftover roll of binding in his hands. His shoulders slumped slightly, the defensive hunch leaving them. “He paid attention to everything.” The words were heavy, not with resentment, but with the weight of a missing standard. “He still does,” you said, cleaning your tools. “It just looks different now.” Lo’ak didn’t reply. But the next time he passed you carrying a water skin, he didn’t look away. He lifted his chin in a silent, truncated greeting. It was a start.

Neytiri’s recognition was the quietest, and the most significant. She did not delegate to you. Instead, she began to include you. You would be checking a stores inventory when she would arrive, standing beside you to examine a newly fletched arrow. After a moment of shared silence, she might speak, her voice low. “Tuk’s dreams are restless since the last storm. Is there a tea for this that does not taste of mud?” Or, watching Neteyam walk a new patrol route on the map with Jake, her eyes tracking his careful steps, she might say, almost to herself, “The ground there is soft after rain. It will pull at the leg.” She was not asking you to fix it. She was voosing an observation to someone who would understand its full context. It was an acknowledgment that you, too, were watching. That you, too, were measuring his strain against the terrain. Her trust was in the shared vigil.

Jake Sully was the most direct. He found you one day replenishing the warriors’ medical packs. “Mo’at says you have a good head for logistics. Neteyam’s patrol schedules are efficient. But they don’t account for morale. You see the hunters after. Tell me what you see.” So you told him. That Hunter Tarsem hid a knee strain. That the young ones on the eastern ridge were more scared of looking weak than of the Sky People. Jake listened, his face giving little away. He began to cross-reference your observations. You became a quiet source of intelligence, a bridge between the strategic plan and the Na’vi element carrying it out.

And through it all, there was Neteyam. He watched this integration happen. He said nothing. But you noticed. He began to pause at the entrance of the healing hut if he heard Tuk’s voice inside. He started including a small, extra bundle of lorran buds in his pack when he went on his short walks, the ones he took to test his leg’s limits, knowing you used them frequently. Once, when you mentioned to Kiri that a certain resin was low, a fresh container appeared at your workstation. No note.

Your communication became a quieter thing. A shared glance across the cookfire when Lo’ak told a joke that almost landed. The slight tilt of his head when you entered a room. The way he would sometimes, after a session that left him drained, simply remain seated on the mat, and you would stay too, giving him the cover of your presence to collect himself.

One afternoon during the rainy season, he arrived soaked, his leg stiff. The work was harder. The scar tissue was stubborn. Halfway through, he went utterly still. “Stop,” he said, the word a strained wire. You withdrew. He was breathing hard, eyes shut, one hand fisted in the mat. It wasn’t the physical pain. You saw the tremor in his jaw, the panic at the edges of his control. He was back in the cold water, the breath bleeding out of him. You didn’t touch him. You moved to sit beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the grey rain. You matched your breathing to the slow, rhythmic patter on the leaves above, an anchor in the present sound. Minutes passed. His breathing slowly synced. The fist unclenched. “The cold damp,” he said finally, his voice scraped raw. “It feels similar.” “I know,” you said quietly.

When he was ready, he gestured for you to continue. You did, your hands gentle. Afterward, as he dressed, he didn’t look at you. “The arryong vines by the western cliff are blooming early,” he said, his tone flat. “The syaksyuk will swarm. Good for nectar. Bad for patrols without wraps.” It was information. But it was also a return. He was telling you he was back in the world of practical, living things. He was telling you he was alright. You nodded. “I will prepare more anti-itch salve.” He fastened the last clasp, his movements sure again. At the clearing’s edge, in the soft drizzle, he didn’t turn. “Thank you,” he said, the words almost lost in the drip of water.

Then he was gone. You sat in the clearing, the damp seeping in, holding the space he had left. The silence now was not a space of shouting, nor simply a space of rest. It was becoming a space you shared. And within it, something was slowly, patiently, taking root.

The third year was marked by a new kind of settling. The initial, raw shock of Neteyam’s limitation had calcified into a permanent, accepted factor in the clan’s—and the family’s—calculus. He was no longer the wounded hero fresh from battle. He was Neteyam-te-awp, Neteyam-who-survived, a figure whose authority was now nuanced, tempered by a visible vulnerability that commanded a different, deeper kind of respect. He planned, he advised, he trained. He did not lead the most dangerous patrols. The protest in his spirit at this arrangement was a silent, private war you alone saw glimpses of in the tight line of his mouth when Jake assigned Lo’ak to lead a deep scout.

Your own place within the Sully orbit solidified into something unremarkable, and therefore permanent. You were simply there. You ate at their cookfire more nights than not, because you were often coming from the healing huts at mealtime, and Neytiri would place a bowl in your hands with the same unceremonious efficiency with which she served her own children. You listened to Jake’s stories of the Sky People’s strange, boxy strategies. You helped Tuk with the frustrating intricacies of a new knot. You passed Kiri a specific herb without her having to ask. You sat in the companionable silence that often fell over Lo’ak and Neteyam, a silence that was no longer charged with broken glass, but with a mutual, exhausted truce.

One evening, after a meal where the conversation had been light, Tuk leaned against your side, her small fingers idly tracing the beaded pattern on your armband. “Your patterns are different,” she murmured, sleepily. “Not like ours.”

“They are the patterns of my first people,” you said, your voice soft. “The Sänume. They were meant to look like the lines of light through the high valley moss.”

“Where are they?” Tuk asked, a child’s blunt curiosity.

The gentle chatter of the family quieted. Not completely, but you felt the shift in attention. Jake took a slow sip of his tea. Neytiri’s hands stilled on her weaving. Neteyam, who had been examining a map, lifted his gaze to you.

You kept your tone even, factual, as you would when describing the properties of a plant. “They are with Eywa. The Sky People came for the stone beneath their valley. My people stood in the way. So the Sky People burned the kelutral.”

Tuk’s eyes were huge. “All of them?”

“I was small. I was hiding in the roots by the river. An Omatikaya hunting party found me. Mo’at took me in.” You gave a slight shrug, a gentle closure to the tale. “The patterns are what I remember. So I keep them.”

The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of acknowledgment. Jake gave a single, slow nod, his human eyes holding a grim understanding no Na’vi could fully share. Neytiri’s gaze on you was different now—sharper, reevaluating. You were no longer just a foundling she had tolerated for her mother’s sake. You were a survivor of a specific, familiar kind of fire. Her hatred for the Sky People was a living flame; your loss was a quiet, cooled ash from the same blaze.

Kiri reached over and placed her hand over yours, a simple press of warmth and shared sorrow that asked for no words.

Later, as you helped clear the bowls, Neteyam approached. He was bringing the water skin to hang by the fire. As he passed you, his shoulder brushed yours. It was an accident in the cramped space of the pod. But he didn’t jerk away. He paused, for a fraction of a second, and in that pause was a communication as clear as if he’d spoken. A recognition. I see that, too. I understand carrying a weight that no one else can lift.

He moved on without a word.

The planning ledge was a flat shelf of rock where the evening light died early. Neteyam stood before the spread map, the fading orange glow inadequate. He had been there for some time; you could tell by the set of his hips, the way his weight had settled onto his right leg. Charcoal sticks and counting stones lay scattered like dark insects across the parchment. The clan’s movement to the ceremonial grounds was a complex, living organism, and he was trying to chart its skeleton.

As you approached with a fresh bundle of torch-grass, you saw the problem. His left hand was braced against the cold stone to steady himself. The fine muscles in his forearm stood taut with the effort of simply holding his position. In his right hand, a charcoal stick hovered over a potential route, but the line he attempted was shaky, wavering like a vine in wind. He stopped, his breath leaving him in a short, frustrated huff. He slammed the stick down, the crack of it splitting the quiet. He closed his eyes, his head bowing.

You did not speak. You walked to the edge of the ledge, took the old, spent torch from its bracket, and fitted your new one in its place. The resin-soaked grass caught with a soft whoomph, casting a warm, immediate circle of light that swallowed the dying day. You picked up the charcoal stick he had discarded.

The sound of the flame drew his gaze. He looked from the new light to you, his expression a closed door.

You nodded toward the map. "Mo’at says the Tayrangi tsahik cannot climb after the second river crossing. Her knee is bone-on-bone. The route must be flat."

He was silent for a beat, processing your words not as an intrusion, but as a missing piece. The tension in his jaw softened a fraction. He pointed to a constriction on the map, a place where the canyon walls pressed close. "Here. If we send scouts ahead to secure this, it leaves the families exposed in the open section for too long. But if we do not, the bottleneck is a risk."

You leaned over the map, following the logic of ink and topography. "Then do not send them ahead. Keep the scouts integrated. Let our fastest hunters be the head and the tail of the snake. The Tayrangi are plains riders. The canyon walls will make them nervous. Let them see our strength surrounding them, not just a report of what lies ahead."

He was quiet, his eyes tracing the route with this new configuration. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped. "It is a defensive posture."

"It is a protective one," you said. "The meaning is different."

A flicker of something—relief, recognition—passed through his eyes. He took the charcoal from your fingers. His hand was steady now. "Then we place the families here, flanked by their elders and our hunters. The scouts range here, and here. No further than a shouted warning."

"Yes," you said. "That will work."

The rest was a quiet synergy. He dictated notes; your hand was steadier for the small, important markings. It was not assistance. It was collaboration. When the last symbol was drawn, he rolled the parchment with a smooth, sure motion, tying it with a leather thong.

He did not look at you as he spoke. "You should be on the planning council. You see the people. The map only shows the ground."

Your role was with Mo’at, in the realm of remedies and whispered truths. "The Tsahik is my voice."

He finally turned his head. The torchlight caught the gold of his eyes, making them seem to hold the flame itself. "You should use your own."

He left then, the map secured under his arm, his footsteps echoing faintly on the stone path. You stood in the circle of torchlight, the smell of resin and night air sharp around you. His words were not thanks. They were an acknowledgment of a tool he had not known he needed, and a subtle, undeniable challenge.

That evening, as final preparations hummed around the central fires, Lo’ak voiced his discontent with the travel order, calling it a "slow crawl."

Neteyam, checking the harness of a supply pa’li, didn't pause. "It is the pace that brings everyone there. Your 'swift run' last season left two hunters with shattered ankles on loose stone."

Lo’ak's face tightened. "We were being chased."

"We are always being chased," Neteyam said, his voice low and final. "The only question is if we are wise enough to know it."

The brothers' eyes met, a silent clash. Lo’ak's gaze flickered to you, standing nearby sorting packets of medicinal bark. A connection seemed to click into place; your presence at the ledge, this new, unassailable logic in his brother's plan. He said nothing. He shook his head and returned to his work, the fight gone out of him.

Neytiri, observing this from where she was sharpening her spear, caught your eye. She gave a single, slow blink. It was the Na’vi equivalent of a nod. Approval. You had not just helped make a plan. You had helped forge a piece of Neteyam’s new authority - one built on foresight and protection, not just speed and strength. And in doing so, you had silenced a challenge to it.

You were no longer just weaving yourself into the family. You were becoming part of the structure that held it together. And in the quiet, watchful eyes of Neteyam te-awp, you saw a dawning realization that your presence was not just a comfort, but a foundation.

The fourth year brought a dryness that cracked the riverbeds and tightened the air with a constant, gritty tension. Water disputes with the eastern Tayrangi, once ceremonial allies, frayed into sharp words and posturing patrols. Jake’s face grew lined with a familiar, weary vigilance. The clan’s energy, once focused outward on recovery and rebuilding, turned inward, coiled and watchful.

Neteyam’s role solidified further under this pressure. He became the fulcrum on which the clan’s internal stability balanced. His plans accounted for drought, for scarce game, for the short tempers that flared in the long heat. His body, though no longer capable of the explosive physicality of a frontline warrior, had hardened into a different kind of endurance. The tremor in his hand was mostly gone, vanquished by years of stubborn, repetitive drills done alone in the dim light of dawn. The limp was a subtle thing, visible only on steep inclines or after a full day standing at the planning ledge. But the scar, and the memory it anchored, were permanent. They lived in the careful way he calculated risk, in the extra margin of safety he built into every order. Some of the younger hunters, those who only knew the legend, privately called his strategies overcautious. Those who had fought at the Three Brothers, who had seen him fall, did not.

Your place was no longer beside the Sully fire by chance, but by default. Your bedroll often remained in their pod, especially during the tense weeks when Jake and Neytiri were both needed on extended patrols along the disputed border. You became a steadying presence for Tuk, whose youthful energy grew anxious under the unspoken strain. You helped Kiri manage the increased demands on the healing huts as the dry air brought respiratory ailments. With Lo’ak, your relationship had settled into a mutual, gruff respect. He would bring you snapped bowstrings or cracked arrow shafts without a word, knowing you had the tools and patience to mend them, and you would return them with a nod, no commentary needed.

With Neteyam, the collaboration on the planning ledge became routine. He no longer waited for frustration to set in. He would simply send a quiet summons—a glance across the common area, the barest tilt of his head—and you would find your way to him, often with a fresh torch already in hand. The work was silent, efficient. You learned to read the minute signs of his physical fatigue: the slight drag of his finger on the map’s edge, the way he would shift his weight more frequently. On those nights, you would bring a cup of the mild, non-drowsy tea you kept for him, placing it by his elbow without a word. He would drink it, and the tension in his neck would ease by degrees.

One such night, the problem was not tactics, but people. A respected elder, Mansk, was insisting his extended family take a safer, longer route to a foraging site, arguing the shorter path was vulnerable to Tayrangi ambush. Neteyam’s maps showed the shorter path was, in fact, more defensible. It was a clash of instinct versus analysis, and the clan’s morale was splitting along the seam.

“He will not listen to grids and sightlines,” Neteyam said, his voice low with a frustration that was more personal than professional. “He remembers the massacre of the Tawkami runners twenty years ago. He sees ghosts in every shadow.”

You studied the map, then studied Neteyam’s face in the flickering light. The stubborn set of his jaw mirrored old Mansk’s in spirit. Two forms of protectiveness, speaking different languages.

“You cannot convince him the ghosts are not there,” you said finally. “Only that you have a way to walk among them.”

Neteyam looked at you, waiting.

“Assign Lo’ak to lead Mansk’s family group,” you said.

His eyes narrowed. “Lo’ak is impulsive. Mansk will see it as an insult. A boy leading elders.”

“Not as a leader. As a scout. Put Lo’ak out front, with the strictest orders to report back every quarter-mile. Give Mansk’s eldest son the formal lead. But have Lo’ak be the eyes.” You met his gaze. “Mansk trusts no one’s eyes like he trusts those of Toruk Makto’s son in the trees. And Lo’ak… he needs to be trusted with something that is not just speed.”

Neteyam was silent for a long time, his gaze turning inward, weighing the human elements as carefully as the topographic ones. He saw the potential for Lo’ak’s pride to chafe, for Mansk to feel patronized. But he also saw the possibility of a bridge.

He gave a single, sharp nod. “It is a risk.”

“All choices are risks now,” you replied. “This one uses the tools we have.”

The plan was enacted. There was grumbling, but it worked. Lo’ak, burdened with a responsibility that required patience over prowess, performed with a focused seriousness that surprised many. Mansk, seeing the young scout’s diligent, frequent returns, felt reassured. The foraging was successful. No ghosts appeared.

Afterward, Lo’ak sought you out. He didn’t thank you. He stood awkwardly at the entrance to the healing hut, running a thumb over a new callus on his bow hand. “Mansk… he told Dad I had ‘the makings of a patient hunter.’” He said the words as if they were in a foreign language.

“You listened,” you said, not looking up from grinding herbs. “That is the first part of patience.”

He lingered a moment longer, then left. That evening, you saw him sitting slightly closer to Neteyam at the fire, the space between them less a chasm and more a simple gap.

Neteyam said nothing to you about it. But later, as you both reviewed a stock inventory, his hand brushed yours as he passed a clay tablet. The contact was deliberate, brief, and warm. “The tool worked,” he murmured, his eyes on the inventory list.

A week later, the tension broke—not in reconciliation with the Tayrangi, but in a sudden, vicious skirmish on the border. It was not a planned attack, but a clash of patrols that escalated fast. The wounded began arriving at High Camp at dusk.

The healing huts erupted into controlled chaos. You worked alongside Mo’at and Kiri, your world narrowing to blood, bone, and the application of pressure. The air grew thick with the smells of antiseptic paste and fear.

It was during this fray that you felt a presence at your side. Neteyam. He shouldn’t have been there. He was needed at the command post. But he was there, his face a mask of calm, his hands clean and ready. He had no skill for stitching or setting, but he had strength and an unshakable steadiness. Without a word, he took over the role of holding warriors still as you worked, his grip firm and immobilizing. He fetched tools, boiled water, applied tourniquets when you pointed. He was an extension of your will, his movements efficient, his presence a silent anchor in the storm of pain and panic.

Once, as you leaned over a deep gash in a hunter’s side, your fingers slippery with blood, a wave of dizziness from the long hours and thick air washed over you. You swayed, just slightly.

A hand settled firmly on the small of your back, bracing you. It was his. He didn’t look at you, didn’t pause in his task of holding the hunter’s shoulders. The touch was there for only three steadying seconds, then it was gone. But in that contact was a wordless exchange: I see your fatigue. I am here. Lean if you must.

Hours later, the last wound was bound. The quiet that descended was hollow, ringing with exhaustion. You stood by a wash basin, scrubbing the blood from your arms, your hands trembling now that the crisis had passed.

Neteyam appeared beside you, handing you a clean, dry cloth. He was still pristine, save for a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His own hands were raw from handling boiling water pots.

“They will live,” you said, your voice hoarse. It was a statement, not a question.

“Because of this work,” he said, his gaze sweeping the quiet, lantern-lit hut. Then his eyes returned to you. “Your work.”

You dried your hands, the clean cloth absorbing the last of the battlefield. “It was my duty.”

“It is your skill,” he corrected, his voice low. “Like seeing the people on the map. It is who you are.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked into the night, heading not toward the command post, but toward the Sully pod, to where his family would be waiting, whole and unharmed. You watched him go, the weight of his words settling into the spaces between your ribs, warmer and more solid than any blanket.

The dry season finally broke with a torrential rain that washed the blood from the stones and filled the riverbeds to bursting. The conflict with the Tayrangi cooled into an uneasy, brooding standoff. Life, scarred and wary, continued.

And in the quiet aftermath, something between you and Neteyam had shifted. It was not declared. It was in the way he now saved a space for you at the planning ledge without looking to see if you were coming. It was in the single cup of tea he would sometimes have waiting for you when you arrived, after a long day in the huts. It was in the fact that when Jake or Neytiri asked after the state of the clan’s health, his eyes would find you first, deferring to your assessment before offering his own.

You were no longer a foundation just for his recovery, or a tool for his strategies. You were becoming a part of his decision-making process, a trusted element in his calculus for survival. And the yearning, once a faint, unrecognized pull in the depths of your spirit, had grown into a quiet, constant hum, as familiar and essential as your own heartbeat. You still had no name for it. But you no longer needed one to feel its truth.

The dry season stretched the clan’s nerves thin. The tension with the Tayrangi was a constant, low hum, but the more immediate strain was internal—the careful rationing of water, the shortened tempers, the relentless sun. Neteyam’s role was to manage this quiet, grinding pressure. His strategies were about conservation and prevention, a duty that felt like holding a heavy bowl, utterly still, for days on end.

Lo’ak understood the weight of consequences now. That understanding was a cage. He no longer made reckless choices from ignorance, but from a stifling need to do something, to prove his worth was not solely measured by his greatest failure. This made his decisions more deliberate, and in some ways, more dangerous. He volunteered for the hardest duties, the most remote patrols, carrying them out with a grim, solitary focus that worried his mother and irritated his father.

His three-day scout to the northern salt flats was such a duty. He returned with a deep gash down his left bicep. The story he gave Jake and the gathered hunters was sparse: a fall on sharp rock, a lost arrow quiver. His ikran was skittish from a distant storm.

You were in the command pod, delivering a report on the healers’ supply needs to Mo’at. You saw Neteyam go very still as his brother spoke. His eyes were on the wound, not Lo’ak’s face. You saw him note what you noted: the cut was too straight, too clean for a jagged rock fall. It spoke of a sharp edge wielded with intent.

Jake listened, his arms crossed. When Lo’ak finished, there was a long silence. Jake rubbed a hand over his face, the human gesture looking particularly weary.

“The northern flats are empty,” Jake said, his voice low. “Nothing to hunt. No water. Why were you there three days?”

“Covering ground,” Lo’ak replied, his gaze fixed on a point past his father’s shoulder. “Looking for anything.”

“Your ikran’s saddle is full of red canyon dust.” Jake’s tone was flat, tired. “Not salt. You went east. Into the canyons we’re avoiding.”

Lo’ak’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. The admission was in his silence.

Jake sighed, a heavy sound. “You know why we’re staying clear. One wrong move, one seen shadow, and we’re back to burying friends. You know the cost.” He didn’t look at Neteyam. He didn’t need to. The cost was in the room with them, breathing carefully. “You’re grounded from solo scouts. Two weeks.”

It wasn’t a shouted reprimand. It was the disappointed decree of a commander who had no energy for lectures. The punishment was practical, a clipping of wings. It was perhaps more galling to Lo’ak than any anger would have been.

Lo’ak’s eyes remained fixed on that distant point. He did not look to Neteyam for support. He had stopped doing that a long time ago. To look would be to ask for an absolution he knew his brother could not give, and that he did not believe he deserved. He gave a single, sharp nod and left, his movements stiff.

The gash on his arm festered. He ignored it, letting the physical pain stand in for the other kind. You found him two days later in the weapon-smithing alcove, trying to work a leather strap with fever-clumsy hands. The smell was unmistakable.

“It’s infected,” you said. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, his eyes dull. The fight had burned out of him, leaving only the sickness. He followed you to the healing hut.

You had just laid out the cleansing tools when Neteyam appeared in the doorway. He must have been looking for him. He saw the state of his brother, the prepared instruments. He didn’t speak. He walked in, sat on a stool beside the cot, and picked up a roll of linen. He began cutting it into bindings, his movements methodical.

Lo’ak looked at him, then away, a flush of shame on his cheeks. He said nothing.

The work was painful. You had to open the wound again. Lo’ak gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping as you cleaned out the poisoned flesh. His hand scrabbled against the cot’s edge. Neteyam’s hand shot out, not to hold him down, but to slide one of the newly cut linen strips into his brother’s grasping fingers. Lo’ak’s hand closed around it, knuckles white.

The only sound was Lo’ak’s ragged breathing and the soft tear of more linen. You worked in silence. The shame in the air was a third presence.

When it was done, packed and wrapped, you handed Lo’ak a cup of the most bitter restorative tea. He drank it without complaint.

Neteyam stood. He looked down at his brother, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You will walk the inner perimeter,” he said, his voice quiet. “Every day for the next moon cycle. You will map it. Every drain, every soft spot, every place a man could hide. You will know our ground until you dream of its roots.”

It was not a punishment. It was an order of profound, tedious, critical importance. It was the work of a sentinel, not a scout. It required patience, observation, a deep, unglamorous knowing. It was, you realized, exactly the work Neteyam himself had been doing for years from the planning ledge. He was giving Lo’ak a piece of his own burden.

Lo’ak stared at the floor for a long moment. Then he nodded.

Neteyam left. In the following days, the silent offerings began. A better waterskin for the long walks appeared by Lo’ak’s bedroll. A stick of high-energy ration paste was left with his gear.

One evening, you saw Lo’ak sitting alone at the edge of the common area, sharpening his knife. The firelight caught the faint, polished gleam of a single, deep blue shell strung on a thin cord around his neck. It was not Omatikaya. It was Metkayina. You had never seen him wear it openly before. His fingers brushed against it absently as he worked the stone along the blade. It was a small, private touch. A tether to a different self, to a time of healing by the sea, to a voice that had spoken of peace with an unwavering gentleness he had not encountered since. He never spoke of her. But the shell was a quiet testament to a connection that persisted across distance, a reminder of a standard of calm he still struggled to reach.

On the first morning of the new duty, Lo’ak stood at the trailhead. Neteyam was there, checking a messenger’s harness. He didn’t offer encouragement. He simply pointed west. “Start at the lightning-struck hometree. The fungus growth on the north side is new. Note it.”

Lo’ak nodded and set off, his pace steady, his eyes already scanning the ground. His hand rose once, unconsciously, to touch the shell at his throat before he dropped it back to his side, focusing on the task.

You came to stand beside Neteyam, both of you watching him go.

“He will see things the rest of us miss,” you said.

Neteyam watched until his brother disappeared into the green gloom. “He always has,” he replied. The words were not an apology, not a forgiveness. They were a simple, long-overdue acknowledgment.

The inner perimeter became Lo’ak’s world. He walked it with a dogged precision that surprised everyone, especially himself. He returned each evening with detailed notes—not just on threats, but on the health of the forest: a patch of blight on the luminescent moss, a tetrapteron nest with a damaged egg, the first signs of a rare orchid that only bloomed in drought. He reported these findings to Neteyam in terse, factual sentences. Neteyam would listen, ask a clarifying question, and add the information to his ever-growing mental map. It was a dry, practical reconciliation, but it was functional. The silence between them now was the silence of shared work, not of severed ties.

This small stability allowed other things, quieter things, to surface.

It began with a shift in Neteyam’s awareness of you. Before, you had been a fixed point in his recovery, a constant like the sunrise or the ache in his side. Now, you became a variable he tracked. He noticed the small things. How you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear when concentrating. The specific way you lined up your herb jars before beginning a compound. The faint, clean scent of the soap-root you used that clung to your hands and sometimes lingered in the air of the planning ledge after you’d left.

He didn’t comment on these things. He simply absorbed them. They were data points in the ecosystem of his life, and your presence had become a significant part of that ecosystem.

For you, the pull had always been there, a low hum beneath the rhythm of duty. Now, it began to color your perceptions. You noticed the way the torchlight gilded the lines of his face when he bent over a map, the intense focus that made the rest of the world fall away. You saw the surprising grace in his hands when he was not fighting his own body—when he was tying a complex knot or sketching a terrain feature. You became aware of the space he occupied in a room, a subtle gravitational pull that your senses tuned to without permission.

The attraction was not bold or fiery. It was a quiet magnetism, a compulsion to be near, to be within the orbit of that steady, wounded strength.

It manifested in small, almost invisible ways.

One afternoon, you brought him a revised list of medicinal stores to cross-reference with patrol schedules. He was at the ledge, but he was not working. He was sitting on the stone bench, his head leaning back against the rock, eyes closed. The afternoon sun was warm on his face, highlighting the faint scars, the weariness. He was not sleeping, just resting in a rare moment of unguarded stillness.

You stopped, not wanting to disturb him. But he sensed your presence. His eyes opened slowly, finding yours. There was no startlement, only a calm acknowledgment. He didn’t straighten up. He simply held your gaze for a long, silent moment. In that look, there was no demand, no expectation. There was just a simple, profound recognition of your presence. A silent I see you here. It felt more intimate than any touch.

You placed the list quietly on the map beside him. “When you have time,” you murmured. He gave a slow nod, his eyes still on you. “I will.”

Another time, during a sudden, drenching downpour, you were both caught on the far side of the common grounds from the shelters. He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh, and pulled you under the broad, waxy leaves of a fan palm. The space was cramped, forcing you close. Water streamed off the leaves around you, creating a silver curtain that isolated you from the world. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the drumming rain. Neither of you spoke. He released your wrist, but the imprint of his fingers seemed to linger. You stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain, and the silence between you was charged with a new kind of awareness. It was the awareness of shared, confined space, of the simple, animal fact of proximity.

When the rain eased to a drizzle, he stepped out first, holding the leaf aside for you. He didn’t look back as he walked away, but his pace was slow, as if giving you time to follow, or to stay.

The most telling moments were in the Sully pod. You were helping Kiri string beads for a ceremonial necklace. Neteyam was across the room, repairing a fishing net. Tuk was chattering about something. Lo’ak was sharpening a blade. It was a scene of normalcy.

Then, Jake told a story—an old human story from his time in the Marines, about a friend who had gotten lost in a place called a ‘desert’. He described the blinding sun, the endless sand, the hallucinations. It was a funny story, about his friend arguing with a mirage. The family laughed.

You laughed too, a soft sound. And Neteyam, from across the room, looked up from his net. Not at his father, but at you. He watched the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners. He didn’t smile himself. His expression was contemplative, studying your joy as if it were a rare and fascinating phenomenon. He held that look for several heartbeats before returning to his work, a faint, unreadable softening around his own eyes.

You felt his gaze like a physical touch. It wasn't predatory or possessive. It was observant. He was collecting that moment of your happiness, filing it away. The realization made your breath catch. You were an object of his quiet study, just as he was of yours.

Later that week, a minor crisis emerged. A group of children, Tuk among them, had eaten some brightly colored berries they shouldn’t have. It meant hours of careful monitoring, administering anti-nausea tinctures, soothing frightened little ones. You were up most of the night in the healing hut.

At first light, as you finally sat down, weary to your bones, a shadow fell across the doorway. Neteyam entered. He held two steaming cups of black tea. He wordlessly handed one to you, then sat on a stool nearby, sipping his own.

“They are sleeping,” you said, your voice hoarse. “All will be well.” “I know,” he said. “Tuk told me you made the bad taste go away.” You managed a tired smile. “The taste, yes. The lesson, perhaps not.” A corner of his mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. He drank his tea, his presence a solid, silent companionship. He didn’t ask if you needed anything. He didn’t fill the silence with empty words. He simply was there, sharing the quiet aftermath of the storm. It was a gesture of solidarity that went beyond duty. It was personal.

When he left, he paused at the doorway. “Rest,” he said, not looking back. “I will tell Mo’at you are not to be disturbed before noon.”

The command was gentle, but it was a command nonetheless. A protective one. It settled over you like a warm blanket.

This was the new pattern. A glance held a second too long. A brush of hands when passing a tool. A shared silence that felt deeper than before, filled with unsounded questions. The pull was there, a steady, deepening current beneath the surface of their everyday lives. Neither of them reached for it. Neither named it. To name it would be to give it shape and weight, to make it a thing that could be examined, and perhaps, could be broken. So they let it exist in the periphery, a silent, mutual understanding that something had shifted, something was growing in the fertile, untended ground between duty and companionship. It was not love. Not yet. It was the soil in which love could take root. And for now, that was enough.

The fifth year arrived not with a fanfare, but with a deepening of established rhythms. The clan had adapted to the persistent tension with the Tayrangi, the conflict cooling into a watchful, grinding stalemate. Neteyam’s meticulous, defensive strategies were now the unremarked-upon norm, and Lo’ak’s perimeter walks had yielded such a wealth of concrete, usable data—water seepage points, new animal trails, unstable rock faces—that even the most traditional hunters acknowledged their value. The brothers’ relationship settled into a functional partnership, communicated in terse shorthand and annotated maps, their shared history a shadow they had learned to walk beside rather than stare directly into.

It was in this period of calibrated stability that the quiet undertow between you and Neteyam grew stronger, and the tapestry of your place in the family gained finer, more personal threads.

The opportunity to weave one such thread came unexpectedly with Neytiri. You were in the deep forest, gathering the fragile, papery bark from the sorrowful trees, a task that required silence, respect, and a precise touch to avoid damaging the living layer beneath. She was already there, her hands moving with a hunter’s lethal efficiency rendered gentle, peeling long strips with ritualistic care. For a long time, you worked in parallel silence, the only sounds the soft, tearing sigh of the bark and the distant call of a syaksyuk. The air was cool and carried the damp, mineral scent of the stream nearby.

“You move quietly among the trees,” she said finally, her voice low, not looking up from her work. “Not like a hunter stalks. Like one who listens for a heartbeat.”

Your hands paused on the rough, cool surface. “My mother’s people believed the trees held memories in their rings,” you replied, the words forming slowly. “That if you were still enough, your own breath could sync with theirs, and you could hear the echoes of rains from seasons past. Or the footfalls of creatures long gone to the Great Mother.”

Neytiri’s hands stilled completely. She looked at you then, her intense golden eyes weighing your words not as a story, but as evidence of a skill. “The Sänume. Your clan. They were keepers of the high valleys, where the air is thin. My grandmother spoke of trading salt cakes for their dream-moss.” There was a rare, soft curiosity in her tone. Not pity, but a hunter’s respect for a unique prey, for a lost song she had only heard echoes of.

“I remember the moss,” you said, and the memory surfaced not as a painful wound, but as a clear, sharp skill—a shard from a buried mosaic. “It grew on the north faces, silver-blue like a fish scale. My aunt would harvest it only at the dark moon, with a shell knife. She said it did not make you dream of the future, but helped you hear Eywa’s voice not in the shout of the river, but in the spaces between the drops.” You fell silent, realizing you had spoken more in the last minute about your first family than you had in the past year. It felt not like an excavation of grief, but like the sharing of a tool, its shape and purpose described to a fellow craftswoman.

Neytiri nodded slowly, her gaze returning to the tree. She resumed her peeling, her movements thoughtful. “A different way of listening. We Omatikaya hear her in the cry of the hunt, the rush of the wind through the hometrees. But the spaces between…” She was quiet for a long moment, her profile sharp against the dappled green. “My eldest son. He lives in the spaces between now. Between what his body once was and what it is. Between the duty he was born for and the duty he can now bear.”

It was the most direct acknowledgment she had ever made of Neteyam’s inner world to you. It was an offering, a piece of her own raw understanding passed to you because you had shared a piece of yours. From that day, your interactions with her changed in subtle, tangible ways. She began teaching you the exact songs for seasoning and strengthening bow-wood, her voice low and sure as she guided your hands through the smoking process. She did not teach you because you would ever need to make a bow, but because the knowledge itself, to Neytiri, was a form of kinship, a thread woven into the clan’s fabric. You were no longer just a competent apprentice or a steadying presence for her children. You were becoming someone with whom she could share the silent, daily weight of watching her firstborn navigate a fractured world.

Neteyam observed this new, quiet rapport between you and his mother. He said nothing, but you saw the evidence in his body. The slight, unconscious tension that always lived in his shoulders when his parents were near seemed to loosen a fraction when the three of you were in the same space. It was a silent relief that two pivotal, often intense forces in his life were not just in harmony, but in a wordless alliance.

With him, the pull evolved from a background hum to a language of deliberate, careful proximity. He began to seek you out for reasons that bordered on the frivolous, always cloaked in the armor of practicality. He would find you sorting herbs to ask your opinion on the morale of the weavers’ circle, arguing that strong clan spirit was as important as strong nets for long-term resilience. He would linger after planning sessions, rolling the cured leather maps with a slow, precise care that took twice as long as necessary, until the other hunters had dispersed and you were left putting away the ink stones and charcoal nubs.

One evening, under the thin pretext of finalizing the distribution of a new, milder batch of pain-relief salve to the perimeter guards, he walked you back from the command ledge to the healing huts. The path was well-trodden and safe, the conversation dry and logistical—storage conditions, dosage rates, which guards were most likely to downplay their chronic aches. But when you reached the woven doorway, its familiar scent of dried lavender and loam spilling out, he didn’t immediately turn to leave. He stood there, the last molten gold of the day cutting through the canopy and casting long, stretched shadows that made the world seem both sharper and softer.

“The salve,” he said, his voice dropping from its official cadence into something quieter, meant only for the space between you. “The base you use now. It is less… pungent than the old formula.”

You turned, the worn threshold at your back. “The old one used spirit-root. It drew heat out powerfully, but it stung on open wounds. This base is from the velvet leaf. It works from within the skin, not on top of it. Gentler.”

He nodded, his eyes holding yours. In the fading light, the gold of his irises seemed to hold the last of the sun. “A better way,” he said. He seemed to be speaking about more than the salve. The air between you was perfectly still, the forest holding its breath. A lone nantang howled in the far distance, the sound a clean, cold wire drawn through the twilight, breaking the spell. He took a half-step back, the motion a physical punctuation. “Rest well,” he said, the words formal again, a retreat to safer ground. Then he was gone, his silhouette dissolving into the deep blues and purples of the approaching night.

The moment replayed in your mind for hours, a loop of silent potential. The attraction was no longer a peripheral hum; it was a central, quiet drumbeat you both walked to, though neither of you dared to acknowledge the music aloud.

Lo’ak, with his scout’s eyes honed by months of obsessive, ground-level observation, was the first outside observer to notice the shift. He saw the specific way Neteyam’s gaze would scan a crowded common area, find you, and settle, as if using your presence as a fixed point to orient his own. He saw the almost imperceptible tilt of your head, the slight angling of your body towards Neteyam when he spoke in council, a subtle alignment like a flower to a hidden sun. He noted, with a pragmatist’s eye, the absence of other suitors around you—a fact that had previously seemed unimportant but now felt like a cleared field waiting for a specific seed. Most tellingly, he saw his brother, who carried the weight of the clan like a stone yoke across his shoulders, soften minutely in your presence. Not a weakening, but a slight unclenching of a perpetually guarded fist, a slow, measured breath taken when he thought no one was watching.

It came to a head after a clan ceremony celebrating the first genuine, soil-soaking rain after the long drought. The celebration was a physical release of pent-up tension, filled with the deep thunder of log drums, the whirl of dancers, and the sweet, tangy scent of fermented fruit drink. Neteyam, as always, participated from the edges, his smile polite and fixed, his eyes continuously scanning, assessing the mood, the crowd, the exits. You were swept into a circle with Tuk and some of the other apprentices, caught in a rare, unburdened moment of laughter, the sound bright and clear above the rhythmic noise.

Lo’ak, leaning against the broad trunk of the Mother Tree with his own half-finished cup, watched Neteyam watch you. He saw the expression on his brother’s face—not longing, not desire in any obvious sense, but a profound, almost painful focus. It was the look of a man studying a safe path through a known minefield, or assessing a perfect, defensible position on a ridge. It was, Lo’ak realized, Neteyam’s love, expressed in the only vocabulary he had left: utter, rapt attention.

Later, when the fires had burned low to embers and the clan was retiring to their pods, Lo’ak found Neteyam alone at the spring that fed the camp. He was methodically washing the ceremonial white and yellow paints from his arms, the water swirling in cloudy rivulets around his wrists. The sound of the spring covered Lo’ak’s approach.

“You watch her like she’s a trail you need to memorize,” Lo’ak said, his voice neutral. He wasn’t teasing. He was stating a fact observed.

Neteyam’s hands stilled in the cold water. He didn’t look up. “What do you want, Lo’ak?”

“Nothing. Just making an observation. Like you’re always saying to do.” Lo’ak came to sit on a flat, damp rock nearby, the chill seeping through his legs. The silence stretched, but it was a new kind of silence—one that could, tentatively, hold a conversation. “You get quiet when she’s around. Your shoulders drop maybe half an inch. You stop counting the people in the room.”

Neteyam was quiet for so long Lo’ak thought he’d pushed too far. He wrung out the cloth, the water dripping steadily like seconds ticking away. “She is not a problem to be solved,” Neteyam said finally, the words emerging stiffly.

“Didn’t say she was.” Lo’ak picked up a smooth, dark pebble from the spring’s edge, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “You just look at her like you’re checking the wind direction before a long shot. Every time.”

Neteyam finally looked at him. In the weak light of the few remaining torches, his face was stripped bare, just tired. “And what do you see when you look?”

Lo’ak met his gaze, held it. “I see you not planning your next move for a whole ten seconds. It’s weird. Noticeable.”

A short, hard breath left Neteyam, something between a sigh and a scoff of frustration. He looked back at the dark, moving water. “It is… a distraction. One I cannot afford.”

“Maybe you can’t afford not to be distracted,” Lo’ak countered. He tossed the pebble into the center of the spring. It sank with a soft, definitive plunk. “You’re wound so tight you’re gonna snap a bowstring. She’s… she’s steady. You’re steady. It just makes sense.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along its line. “Sense has nothing to do with it.” The words were clipped, final. “A thing that makes perfect sense can still get people killed.”

There it was. Not an abstract fear of cost, but the specific, bloody memory that governed every calculation, that sat like a cold stone in his gut. The memory of a choice, a diversion, a gunshot.

Lo’ak was quiet for a long moment, watching the ripples from his pebble die out. “She’s not us,” he said finally, his voice lower, almost gruff. “She’s not a patrol that went wrong. She’s just here. She has been here. Through all of it.” He stood up, brushing dampness from his legs. “Just saying. The staring is getting obvious.” He turned and walked back towards the pods, leaving the words hanging in the cool, clear air.

Neteyam didn’t move. He stared at his own reflection in the black water, shattered by the now-vanished ripples. His brother hadn’t offered him philosophy or comfort. He’d offered an observation, then named the hard, simple truth Neteyam never allowed himself to utter aloud: I am afraid of getting someone killed.

But Lo’ak, in his blunt way, had countered with a harder truth: She is already here. She has already chosen to stand in the line of fire.

The quiet drumbeat of attraction now had a counterpoint: the faint, terrifying realization that his careful, self-imposed isolation might be a choice, not an immutable law of survival. And that someone, with a patience as deep as the forest, was simply waiting for him to realize it, too.

The first frost came early, silvering the moss and hardening the ground. With it, the clan’s focus sharpened. The stalemate with the Tayrangi grew brittle. Scouts reported not raids, but a quiet, persistent gathering of resources across the border—a stockpiling that spoke of a long winter and longer intentions.

Neteyam’s planning absorbed this new reality. The maps on the ledge now included notations on Tayrangi hunting patterns and estimated grain stores. The quiet moments between you grew shorter, not from avoidance, but from necessity. He was mentally living in a future of potential conflict, a space that demanded total focus.

You adapted. Your sessions became more efficient. You brought the strengthening teas directly to the planning ledge, placing the cup beside his elbow without a word during a lull in his calculations. He would drink it absentmindedly, his eyes never leaving the lines of territory and supply routes. The care was still there, but it was streamlined, integrated into the machinery of preparation.

One afternoon, you found him in the armory. He was inspecting a batch of new arrowheads, brought by a trading party from the mountains. They were fashioned from a dark, flint-like stone. “They pierce thicker hide,” he said, sensing your presence. He didn’t turn. “But the weight is wrong for our bows. They pull the shaft down.” You picked one up. It was cold and sharp, beautifully made but foreign. “They were crafted for a different forest. A different wind.” He finally glanced at you. “We need the penetration. The yerik herds are thinner. Every shot must count.” “A shot that misses because the arrow flies wrong counts for less than a weaker one that hits,” you said, placing the arrowhead back. It was a practical observation, not a philosophical one. He was silent for a moment, then gave a short nod. “We will reset the fletching. Adjust the balance.” He marked a note on a slate. Problem identified, solution devised. Your input was a factor in the equation, calmly considered.

This was the new pattern. Your grounded sense of real-world function tempered his strategic abstractions. When he worried over the stamina of hunters assigned to a distant, freezing watch-post, you didn’t speak of morale. You pointed out that the cooks had perfected a way to pack rendered fat and dried meat into a dense, lasting cake. “It sticks to the ribs. Cold bothers a full stomach less.” He had the cakes made and distributed within two days.

Neytiri observed this. One morning, as you sorted frost-resistant medicinal bark, she spoke. “You see the knot in the wood before the bow is drawn.” It was high praise. You were helping her son anticipate fractures, not just react to them.

The pull between you and Neteyam didn’t vanish under the pressure. It distilled. It was in the way he now automatically handed you the cup to hold when he needed both hands to stretch a map tight. In the way you knew, without asking, to bring an extra wrap when the evening meetings ran long and the cold seeped into his bones. It was a wordless coordination, born of years of routine and a deepening, unacknowledged awareness.

The council meeting about the Tayrangi cache was tense. Lo’ak argued for a show of strength, a targeted strike. Neteyam listened, then laid out the reasons against it: the distance, the risk of escalation, the drain on their own scarce resources in deep winter. His logic was airtight, his tone devoid of emotion. He won the argument without raising his voice. Afterwards, Lo’ak lingered, frustration in the set of his mouth. He looked at his brother, who was already annotating a supply list. “You always see the reasons not to act,” Lo’ak said, the challenge quiet. Neteyam didn’t look up. “I see the costs. Someone has to.” “And what’s the cost of doing nothing? Of letting them think we’re weak?” Now Neteyam met his gaze. “We are not weak. We are waiting. There is a difference.” He held Lo’ak’s eyes until his brother looked away, then returned to his list. The exchange was clean, sharp, and left no room for dramatics. It was simply a clash of perspectives, settled with the weight of experience.

Later that night, you found Neteyam not brooding or training, but in the storage cave, taking inventory of the winter seed stock. It was a monotonous, vital task. He was counting sacks of tawpawng seeds, his lips moving silently, his hand resting against the rough hemp of a sack. You picked up a second tally stick and began counting the next stack, matching his rhythm. He didn’t acknowledge you, but his shoulders lowered a fraction. For an hour, you worked in silence, the only sounds the rustle of sacks and the scratch of marks on wood. The air was cold and smelled of dust and dry grain.

When the last sack was counted, he straightened, pressing a hand briefly to the small of his back. He looked at the tallies, then at you. “It will be enough. If the frost does not linger into sowing season.” “It will be enough,” you agreed. It was a statement of shared responsibility. You had just helped ensure the clan’s future, one sack at a time.

He blew out the lamp, plunging the cave into near darkness save for the faint light from the entrance. As you both moved towards it, he paused, letting you go first. In the close confines, your shoulder brushed his arm. It was a simple accident of space.

“Your hair,” he said, his voice very low in the dark. “It smells of the cleansing smoke from the healing hut.” You stopped, turned slightly. You could barely see his face. “The juniper keeps sickness from settling in the walls.” “I know.” He was silent for a beat. “It is a good smell. It means… things are in order.”

Then he moved past you, out into the starlit cold. You followed, the simple words settling deep. It wasn’t poetry. It was an observation of a fact that brought him comfort: your presence was associated with order, with healing, with a world kept functional. In the chaos he constantly planned against, that was a powerful anchor.

The attraction was no longer a separate feeling. It was woven into the fabric of duty, of shared work, of quiet reliability. It was in the tally of seeds, the note about arrow fletching, the scent of juniper smoke in your hair. It was mature because it was not about passion overpowering sense, but about a profound recognition of a compatible counterpart. The love, though still unspoken, was in the trust that the other person would be there, counting the sacks, when the winter came. And for now, in the face of the cold and the gathering quiet beyond the border, that trust was the most definitive thing either of them had.

Winter tightened its grip. The world narrowed to the essentials: warmth, food, vigilance. The planning ledge was abandoned for the chief’s hut, where maps were spread near the central fire. Neteyam’s presence became a constant in the smoky, warm space, his figure often silhouetted against the hearth as he updated routes for patrols that now had to contend with deep snow on the high passes and brittle ice in the gullies.

You were there often too, reporting to Mo’at or Jake on the health of the clan—the coughs going around, the state of the elderly, the inventory of medicinal bark. Your paths crossed with a new, domestic frequency.

The tension was in the proximity. It was in the way you had to step around him to reach a water skin, the brush of your arm against his as you both studied a map of the freezing southern trails. It was in the way he would, without looking up from a report, reach out to steady a clay cup you were placing too near the table’s edge. The contact was brief, functional, and it hummed.

One evening, a problem arose. A hunting party had returned early, empty-handed, their tracker nursing a twisted ankle from a hidden ice patch. Morale, already stretched thin by the cold, dipped visibly. Jake’s face was grim. Neteyam stared at the map of the hunting grounds, his expression closed.

“The game has moved to the lower valleys,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “Following the last of the sun. Our routes are for the old patterns.” “The lower valleys are closer to the Tayrangi line,” Jake countered. “It’s riskier.” “Starvation is also a risk,” Neteyam replied, his voice flat.

You were mixing a poultice for the injured tracker nearby. “The teylu grubs in the deadfall near the hot springs,” you said, not looking up from your mortar. “They fatten before the deep freeze. It’s not meat, but it is protein. The gathering parties could collect them. It would free the hunters to scout the new game trails without the pressure of an empty return.”

Neteyam turned his head to look at you. Jake considered it. “The hot springs are on our side of the border. Safe ground. But can we spare the hands?” “The very young and the old can gather teylu,” you said. “If the snow near the springs is cleared. It gives everyone a task.”

It was a small, logistical solution. It didn’t solve the hunting problem, but it alleviated the immediate pressure. Neteyam gave a slow nod. “We clear the snow. We send the gatherers at first light, with a light guard.” He looked at Jake, who nodded his assent. Neteyam’s eyes flicked back to you for a second, a silent acknowledgment of a problem shared and halved.

Later, when the hut had emptied except for the two of you—he was finalizing the guard rotation, you were cleaning your tools—he spoke into the quiet. “You think like a strategist. But with different pieces.” “I think like someone who has been hungry,” you said simply, wiping a pestle. “And who knows that idle hands in a hungry camp breed more sickness than any chill.” He was quiet. “Your first clan. The Sänume. The high valleys would have had hard winters.” “Long ones,” you confirmed, the memory a cold stone in your chest, not sharp, but worn smooth by time. “We stored not just food, but occupation. Carving, weaving, storytelling. A busy people is a patient people.” “We are not patient,” he said, a rare admission of a collective flaw. “You are learning to be.”

He fell silent, absorbing that. You had given him a piece of your past not as a wound, but as a textbook. He used it, as he used all information. The next day, he tasked Kiri and some of the other youths with organizing the evening storytelling, focusing on tales of endurance.

The tension between you now lived in these exchanges. It was a meeting of minds that felt both practical and deeply personal. He was learning your history not through confession, but through applied wisdom.

A few days later, a different moment. You were in the healing hut, grinding a particularly tough root for a pain tonic. The mortar was deep, the root fibrous. You were putting your back into it, the rhythm steady but strenuous.

Neteyam entered, looking for a salve for a frost-nipped ear one of the gatherers had suffered. He watched you for a moment from the doorway, your shoulders working with the effort. “The root of the ironwood,” he noted. “It dulls the finest blade.” “It requires a steady pressure, not a sharp force,” you said, not pausing.

He walked over, put the jar of salve down, and held out his hands. “Let me.” It was an offer, not a command. You hesitated, then handed him the pestle and stepped back. His hands, larger and stronger, wrapped around the stone tool. But his first grind was too aggressive; the pestle skidded against the tough fiber, scoring the side of the mortar. He stopped, frowned. He adjusted his grip, settled his weight, and tried again. This time, he pressed down with a slow, relentless force, turning as he went. The root began to yield, crumbling into a fine powder. He found the rhythm you had used—steady, patient pressure.

You watched him. It was an intimate thing, to see this usually strategic mind fully absorbed in a simple, physical task. To see his focus shift from the abstract map of the clan to the very concrete destruction of a root in a clay bowl. A sheen of sweat appeared at his temples. He was using muscles his body no longer favored, but he was doing it correctly, effectively.

When it was done, he set the pestle aside and brushed the powder from his hands. He looked at the result, then at you. “Steady pressure,” he said. “You learn quickly.” “I had a good teacher.”

The air in the hut was warm and thick with the scent of the crushed root. He didn’t move to leave. You were both aware of the closed door, the dim light, the completed task that left no immediate reason for him to stay. “The salve is on the shelf,” you said, nodding towards it, your voice softer than you intended. “I see it.” He didn’t move. His gaze was on you, calm but intent. The tension was no longer just in accidental brushes. It was in this: the deliberate sharing of a burdensome task, the silent acknowledgment of competence, and the quiet space that lingered after the work was done. It was a choice to be in the same room, doing nothing.

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the hide over the doorway, breaking the stillness. He blinked, as if coming back to himself. He fetched the salve jar, his movements once more efficient. “The gatherers did well today,” he said, his tone returning to its normal, even cadence. “No new cases of frostbite. Your idea worked.” “It was a simple adjustment.” “The best solutions often are.” He paused at the door. “Do not work too late. The light is poor for your eyes.”

Then he was gone. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension hadn’t been broken; it had been acknowledged, briefly sustained in the quiet, and then carefully set aside. It was more potent than any dramatic confession. It was the quiet recognition of a mutual, comfortable gravity—a force that pulled you into the same small room to share the weight of an ironwood root, and made the space feel charged even after the work was done.

The crisis, when it came, was not with the Tayrangi. It was internal, a quiet, brutal unraveling. A sickness swept through High Camp—not a warrior’s wound, but a relentless fever-cough that settled in the lungs of the very old and the very young. It was the kind of plague that thrived in the close, smoky air of a clan hunkered down against a long winter.

Suddenly, your world was not the planning ledge or the armory, but the overcrowded healing hut. The air grew thick with the smell of steam, sweat, and astringent herbs. You moved from pallet to pallet, measuring fever, spooning broth, applying poultices. Mo’at worked tirelessly, but her age showed in the deepening lines around her eyes. Kiri’s connection to Eywa was a profound comfort to the dying, but it could not stem the tide of infection. The bulk of the physical labor fell to you.

You were steady. You had to be. You showed no panic when a child’s breathing grew ragged, only adjusted the steam tent. You did not flinch when an elder cried out in confusion, only held their hand and hummed a low tune until they calmed. You worked until your vision blurred, slept in snatches on the floor, and rose to do it again.

Neteyam watched this from a distance, his own work hampered by the sickness. Patrols were short-handed. Plans were delayed. He saw you pass through the common area like a ghost, your eyes shadowed, your movements on autopilot. He tried to help in the ways he could—ensuring a steady supply of clean water and firewood was brought to the hut, redirecting hunters to forage for specific herbs you’d listed. His help was logistical, impeccable, and felt utterly insufficient against the tide of suffering.

The breaking point came on the tenth day. Two elders had passed in the night. A toddler, little Rini, the daughter of a hunter you’d once saved from a viperwolf bite, was fighting a fever so high it sparked seizures. You’d been holding her through the latest one, your arms trembling with fatigue, whispering nonsense sounds against her damp hair as her small body jerked against your chest.

It passed. She fell into a fitful sleep, her breath a terrible, wet rattle. You laid her down, your hands shaking as you smoothed the blanket. You stood up, and the world tipped. You stumbled into the supply shelves, knocking over a basket of dried leaves. They scattered across the floor like forgotten hopes.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You simply stood there, staring at the mess on the floor, your hands hanging uselessly at your sides. The weight of it all—the memories of your own clan’s end, the relentless, losing battle of the last ten days, the feel of Rini’s tiny, seizing body—crashed through the dam of your composure. You were not a Tsahik. You were an orphan who had learned to mend things, and right now, nothing could be mended. A dry, silent sob shook your frame. You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if to push the failure back in.

That is how Neteyam found you. He had come to deliver a fresh batch of fever-break leaves he’d personally gathered. He stood in the entry, the winter light framing him from behind, and saw the scattered leaves, your bowed head, the rigid line of your back fighting a collapse.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He stepped inside and let the heavy hide flap fall closed behind him, muting the sounds of the camp. He set the leaves down. Then, with a matter-of-factness that brooked no argument, he took your arm and guided you to the small, hard stool in the corner. He pressed down on your shoulder until you sat.

He turned away. You heard the soft sounds of him righting the basket, gathering the scattered leaves. You kept your face in your hands, the shame of your breakdown a hot coal in your throat. After a minute, a clay cup was pressed into your hands. It was not medicine. It was just hot water. The simplicity of it undid you further.

You took a sip, the heat scalding a path down your frozen insides. You finally lowered your hands. He was crouched in front of you, his elbows on his knees, not looking at your face but at the floor between you. He waited.

“Rini may not last the night,” you said, your voice a raw scrape. “I have used every remedy. I have sung every song I know. It is not enough.” You weren’t just talking about the child. You were talking about the ashes of your first home, about the limits of all your hard-won knowledge.

He nodded, still not looking up. “I know.” “I cannot save everyone.” The admission was a whisper. “No one can,” he said, his voice low and sure. “That is not the duty. The duty is to fight for each one. As if they are the only one.”

You looked at him then, truly looked. He understood this. He lived this. His entire existence now was a fight for each member of his clan, conducted through maps and schedules and endless, wearying vigilance. He fought a war of attrition against fate itself, knowing he could not win every battle.

“I am tired of fighting,” you whispered, the most honest and desolate thing you had ever said. Finally, he lifted his gaze. His eyes held yours, and there was no judgment in them. Only a deep, resonant exhaustion. “I know,” he said again. It was an echo, a shared truth.

He reached out then, not to take your hand, but to carefully, so carefully, remove the cup from your shaking grasp before you spilled it. He set it aside. Then his hand returned, and he did something he had never done before. He placed his palm over the back of your clenched fist where it rested on your knee. His hand was warm, dry, and calloused. It completely covered yours. He didn’t try to pry your fist open. He just held it, a solid, heavy weight of pure connection.

“Rest,” he said, the word not a suggestion but a strategic order. “For one hour. I will sit with Rini. I will call you if there is a change.”

He was offering to take a watch. In a battle he had no skill for. It was the only thing he had left to give.

You wanted to argue. But the warmth of his hand on yours, the simple, unbearable understanding in his eyes, drained the last of your resistance. You gave a faint, broken nod.

He stood, his hand leaving yours, the absence immediate. He moved to Rini’s pallet, pulling a stool close. He did not touch her. He simply sat, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the little girl, a sentry against the unseen enemy.

You curled on your side on the thin mat in the corner, your back to the room. The tears came then, silent and hot, soaking into the woven reed. They were not tears of hysterics, but of a profound, grieving exhaustion. And as you cried, you listened to the sound of his breathing, steady and calm across the hut, a rhythmic counterpoint to Rini’s ragged struggles. You were not alone in the fight. For the first time, someone had seen you break, and had not asked you to be strong. He had simply taken up a post beside you.

You slept. It was a thin, troubled sleep, but it was rest. When you awoke an hour later, the hut was quiet. The light had changed. Neteyam was still sitting by Rini’s side. The child’s breathing, while still labored, had lost its terrifying, whistling edge.

He heard you stir and turned his head. His face was drawn with its own kind of fatigue, but his eyes were clear. He gave you a single, slow nod. She holds on.

You stood, your body aching but your spirit no longer splintered. You went to the wash basin, splashed cold water on your face. When you returned to Rini’s side, Neteyam stood and yielded his place without a word. As you passed, his shoulder brushed against yours—a deliberate, solid contact.

“The leaves are on the shelf,” he said quietly. Then he left, returning to his own war on the planning ledge.

The fracture had not been repaired. It had been shared. And in the sharing, the silent, steady pull between you had transformed. It was no longer just about attraction or compatible minds. It was a bond forged in the mutual recognition of cost, of limit, of the crushing weight of duty, and the silent agreement to bear it within sight of each other. It was deeper, quieter, and far more dangerous.

The sickness crested like a wave, then began to recede. It left behind a scarred landscape. Empty pallets were cleared, their former occupants mourned in quiet ceremonies where the smoke of the funeral pyres hung low and greasy in the still winter air. Little Rini lived, her breath slowly clearing, a testament to stubborn life and relentless care. The cost was etched in the faces of the healers.

You did not break again. But the steady, unflappable composure you were known for was gone, replaced by something quieter, more grounded. The clan saw it not as weakness, but as a new layer of depth. You had fought alongside them in the mud and blood of a different kind of battle, and you had wept. It made you more real to them.

Neteyam’s behavior towards you shifted in subtle, definitive ways. It was no longer just about shared strategy or quiet companionship. It became protective, not in the loud, possessive way of a young warrior, but in the practical, sweeping way of a sentinel. He didn’t ask if you needed help. He assumed it.

He began to meet you at the end of your long shifts in the healing hut. He would appear just as you were washing your hands in the freezing outdoor basin, your fingers red and raw. He wouldn’t speak. He would simply walk with you to the Sully pod, a silent escort through the dark camp. If your steps faltered with fatigue, his pace slowed imperceptibly to match.

One evening, he found you staring blankly at a bowl of stew Neytiri had pressed into your hands, your body too tired to remember how to eat. He sat down beside you, took the bowl and spoon from your limp grasp, and ate a few bites himself. Then he handed it back. “It is good. It is fuel.” The simple, logical statement cut through the fog. You ate.

Neytiri and Jake watched this. They said nothing, but their silence was permission. Their pod had become your default resting place, your bedroll permanently in a quiet corner. Neteyam’s silent shepherding of you into their family space was now a routine, an unspoken law.

The turning point came with the first thaw. A late, vicious storm swept down from the mountains, threatening the newly gathered teylu grub stores sheltered in a lean-to near the springs. It was a critical food reserve. All able hands were called to secure the harvest.

You worked alongside the others in the driving sleet, hauling baskets to covered storage. The ground was a slurry of ice and mud. Neteyam was directing the effort, his voice cutting through the wind. He saw you struggle with a heavy, slippery basket, your feet sliding. In three long strides he was there, taking the weight from you. “Go with Tuk. Help her tie down the covers.” It was an order, redirecting you to a less physically taxing task.

As you turned, your foot caught on a hidden root. You fell hard, landing on your side in the freezing muck. The shock of it, the cold, the sudden public clumsiness after weeks of strain, was a final insult. You pushed yourself up, mud-smeared and trembling, not from injury but from a furious, helpless humiliation.

Neteyam was there instantly. He didn’t offer a hand. He crouched in the mud beside you, his back to the others, blocking their view. His eyes scanned you for injury, but his voice, when he spoke, was low and for you alone. “The ground is treacherous. It betrays everyone.” He said it as a statement of fact, removing the blame. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, unable to speak, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the stupid, hot tears of frustration.

“Good.” He rose, then did offer his hand. It was steady, sure. He pulled you to your feet with ease. Then, without releasing your wrist, he turned to the nearest hunter. “Take over the directive. I will be back.” And he led you, not towards the pods, but away from the work, towards the steaming mist of the hot springs.

He didn’t ask. He guided you to a secluded, rocky alcove where the spring’s heat met the icy air in great billowing clouds. “The mud will stain. Wash it off. The heat will ease the chill.” His tone was still that of a commander, but the order was one of care. He turned his back, giving you privacy, taking up a post at the entrance of the alcove as a guard.

You peeled off the soaked, filthy outer tunic and knelt at the water’s edge, scrubbing the cold mud from your skin and clothes. The mineral heat seeped into your bones, thawing the knot of shame and exhaustion. When you were clean and shivering less, you wrapped yourself in your damp, but cleanish, tunic.

“I am decent,” you said, your voice echoing softly in the stone space.

He turned. He had built a small, hot fire at the alcove’s mouth from dead, resinous wood he’d gathered. “Come. Warm yourself.”

You sat beside the fire, the steam from your clothes mingling with the woodsmoke. He sat an arm’s length away, poking at the flames with a stick. The storm still raged beyond their sheltered niche, but in here, it was a world of heat and quiet.

“I lost my footing,” you said, staring into the flames. “Yes.” “It was not… like me.” “You are tired,” he said, still watching the fire. “Your body remembers fatigue before your mind does. It has its own intelligence.” He was echoing, almost word for word, what you had said to him years ago in the clearing after his fall. The circle of it left you breathless.

You looked at his profile, firelight dancing on the strong lines of his face, the faded scar. “You do not have to do this. Guard me. Escort me. I am not your duty.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he threw the stick into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “You are wrong.” He finally turned his head to look at you, and his gaze was utterly serious, stripped bare of all strategy. “It is the only duty I have ever chosen for myself.”

The words landed between you, simple and devastating. Not a confession of love, but something perhaps more profound: a declaration of priority. In a life ruled by inherited obligation and brutal circumstance, his care for you was a conscious, personal choice.

The storm howled outside. The fire crackled. You held his gaze, and in the warm, damp air, the last of the walls you each held crumbled into nothing. There was no need for them here. The understanding was complete.

When the sleet turned to a cold, clean rain, he doused the fire. “Come. They will be finished. We will have teylu cakes for supper.”

The walk back was silent, but the silence was new. It was not the quiet of things unsaid, but the deep, resonant quiet of a thing finally, mutually understood. He walked beside you, his shoulder close to yours, not touching, but the space between you charged with a new and peaceful certainty.

That night in the Sully pod, as you ate the dense, savory cakes, Lo’ak watched the two of you. He saw the way Neteyam passed you the water skin without you asking. He saw the way you handed him a cloth to wipe the grease from his fingers. It was seamless, automatic, like the well-practiced movements of a single unit. Lo’ak’s eyes met Kiri’s across the fire. She gave him a small, knowing smile. He just shook his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips, and went back to his food. The observation was made. No commentary was needed.

The thaw continued. The crisis of sickness and storm passed. But the landscape of their relationship had permanently changed. They had moved from the steady pull of attraction, through the shared fracture of vulnerability, and arrived at a silent, chosen pact. It was not yet love spoken aloud. It was something firmer: a mutual, deliberate standing on the same ground, come what may. The winter had been long, but it had cleared the air, leaving everything sharp, clear, and waiting for the spring.

The snows melted, revealing a forest both familiar and changed. The clan emerged thinner, wearier, but resilient. The focus shifted to assessment and repair, and with it, a subtle friction returned.

Your dynamic with Neteyam had solidified into a partnership, but the peace of the hot springs alcove had been a temporary truce, not a resolution. The choice had been made, but the acting upon it was a different matter. The unspoken thing between you was no longer a quiet pull; it was a contained pressure, and the container was growing thin.

His protectiveness became more pronounced, almost edgy. He didn’t just include you in debriefs; he positioned himself between you and any potential source of agitation. His hand at the small of your back lingered, a brand of heat through your tunic, his fingers pressing slightly before he forced them to withdraw. You found yourself cataloging the movements of his body with a new, acute awareness: the flex of his shoulders as he lifted a supply crate, the shift of muscle along his jaw when he was thinking.

The tension crackled during a weapons inspection. You were checking the balance of a new batch of knives when he reached across you to take one from the rack. His chest brushed against your shoulder. You both froze. The contact was incidental, but in the close, quiet armory, it felt seismic. You could feel the heat of him, the solid wall of his torso. He did not pull away immediately. His breath stirred the hair at your temple. A long, silent second passed. Then he cleared his throat, a rough sound, and stepped back. “This one,” he said, his voice tighter than usual. “The balance is off. See?” He held it out, avoiding your eyes. When you took the hilt, your fingers brushed his. A spark seemed to jump between you.

That evening, the atmosphere in the Sully pod was warm with the smell of stew. You were helping Tuk with a knot, your mind still circling the charged moment in the armory. Neteyam entered, fresh from a final check of the scouts’ gear for the next morning’s mission. He sat opposite you, his presence a tangible force that pulled your attention like a lodestone.

Neytiri, stirring the pot, glanced at you. “You will sit for eating,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was not an invitation. It was an integration. She pointed to a place between Kiri and Tuk with her ladle. You moved to sit, and as you did, Neteyam’s eyes tracked you, a silent, intense follow.

As the meal began, the simple act of passing a bowl became fraught. Your hand reached for the salt at the same moment his did. Your fingers touched, not a brush, but a brief, full press of skin against skin. You both pulled back as if scalded. You stared at your bowl, the heat in your cheeks having nothing to do with the fire.

Across the low table, Lo’ak’s eyes flicked from your face to Neteyam’s stiff posture. He nudged Kiri with his elbow, tilting his head almost imperceptibly toward the two of you. Kiri, without looking up from her food, gave a tiny, knowing smile and shook her head once, a silent command for him to leave it alone. Lo’ak rolled his eyes but returned to his meal, a smirk playing on his lips. The observation was made. The family’s silent witness to the building pressure was its own kind of exposure.

Neteyam seemed to feel it too. He ate methodically, his gaze fixed on a point past the fire. But you saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the tight grip he kept on his eating knife. Your own awareness was a physical thing—the way your leg was just a hand’s breadth from his under the table, the shape of his mouth as he drank, the faint scent of pine and leather that clung to him cutting through the smell of herbs and smoke.

It was becoming a problem. A delicious, agonizing problem. You would catch him watching you, his gaze a tangible weight that traveled from your face down to your hands, your waist, and back up, a slow, thorough inventory that left your skin feeling warm. He would look away when caught, but the intensity of the glance had already been released into the air between you.

The frustration of it—of being so close, so understood, yet separated by the very habits of discipline that had brought you together—began to wear at the edges of your steady composure. Later, after the meal, he approached you as you cleaned the bowls by the water basin. His voice was low. “The scout mission. Three days.”

“I know. The kits are ready.” You kept scrubbing, focusing on the clay. “I will take the high ridge pass. It is the fastest route to observe the Tayrangi camp.” You paused. The high ridge was exposed, treacherous with melt-runoff. You knew he chose it because his eyes were the best, and because he would never send another on the most dangerous path. The old fear for him, a constant, dull ache, sharpened into a sudden, piercing point. “The stone will be loose with the thaw.” “I know the ground.” He was close enough that you could feel his body heat. “Do you?” You turned to face him, your hands wet and cool. “Or do you just know the maps of it?” His eyes narrowed, a flash of something defensive and raw in their gold depths. “You question my competence?” “I question your recklessness!” The words were out before you could stop them, born of a fear that felt dangerously close to possession. “You push that leg on the most unstable ground. For what? To prove you see everything first?” He took a step closer, the space between you vanishing. “I see what is necessary,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet night. “To keep this family safe. To keep this safe.” His gaze swept over you, and the word this encompassed everything—the clan, the fragile peace, the untouchable thing between you. “The cost of a mistake is not mine alone to bear anymore. I know that. Do you think I do not feel the weight of it every time I look at you?”

The confession was stark, stripping him bare. It wasn’t just about duty. It was about the terror of having something that made the stakes of every decision agonizingly personal.

You stared at him, your breath caught. The physical pull was a live wire between you, humming with the charge of his words. You could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you. The want was a living thing in the air, mixed with the fear, making it all the more potent.

“Then feel the weight of this,” you whispered, the boldness shocking you. “I will be here, counting the hours, listening for your ikran’s return. That is my part of the cost. Do not make it a heavier one than it needs to be.”

He was silent, his chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. The battle within him was visible: the leader who calculated risk against reward, and the man who was tired of denying himself the one thing he truly wanted. He lifted a hand, slowly, and for a heart-stopping moment you thought he would cup your face. But he stopped, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he let it fall back to his side, a surrender to the discipline that still ruled him.

“Three days,” he repeated, the words a promise and a prison. He turned and walked away into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the night.

You stood there by the basin, the cool water dripping from your fingers. The tension hadn’t been resolved. It had been amplified, named, and charged with a new, desperate electricity. The physical attraction was now inseparable from the fear, the care, and the sheer, maddening fact of the distance he was about to put between you. The waiting was no longer passive. It was an active, aching vigil. The spring air was sweet, but it carried the sharp, metallic scent of the storm to come.

The morning of the scout mission dawned clear and cold. Mist clung to the lower valleys, but the high ridges were sharp against a pale sky. The departure was a practical affair—final gear checks, quiet words to family, the soft chuffing of restless ikrans. You stood with Mo’at at the edge of the clearing, a healer seeing off warriors, your presence official and unremarkable.

Neteyam moved through the preparations with a calm efficiency. He checked Lo’ak’s gear with a critical eye, tightened a strap on his father’s saddle, and listened to Jake’s final low-voiced instructions with a focused nod. He was the picture of a composed leader. But you saw the fine tension in the way he held his shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his breaths as he turned to mount his own ikran.

His eyes found you across the space. It was not a dramatic, longing look. It was a swift, precise targeting—a data point collected. You held his gaze, letting him see your steady composure, the mask you wore for the clan. You gave a single, slight nod. I am here. The ground is steady.

He acknowledged it with a blink, then swung up onto his ikran with the fluid, practiced motion that always made your heart catch, a reminder of the warrior’s grace his body still possessed. As he gathered the reins, his gaze swept the clearing one last time, a commander’s check. It lingered on you for a half-second longer than protocol dictated.

Lo’ak, already mounted beside him, followed his brother’s line of sight. He didn’t smirk this time. His expression was unreadable, but you saw him glance from Neteyam’s rigid profile to your still form. He leaned over slightly. “She’s not the one you need to worry about today, brother,” he said, his voice low enough that only Neteyam—and your keen, listening ears—could catch it. “Worry about the loose rock.”

Neteyam didn’t reply. He clicked his tongue, and his ikran leapt into the sky, the downdraft whipping up dust and leaves. Lo’ak followed, and then the rest of the scouts, a dark arrowhead piercing the morning mist.

The silence they left behind was immediate and heavy. The clan returned to its work, but the air felt thin, the camp oddly hollow. Your own work awaited—restocking the kits they’d taken from, tending to a sprained wrist from a hunter who’d stayed behind. But for a long moment, you just stood, watching the empty sky where they’d vanished.

The three days stretched, elastic and thin. You moved through your duties, your senses tuned to a distant frequency. Every sound of an ikran’s cry made your head lift; every shout from the lookout post tightened your stomach. The tension that had been a live wire between you and Neteyam was now a solitary, humming anxiety in your own chest. It was different from the fear you’d felt during the sickness. That had been a vast, communal dread. This was a sharp, personal point of pressure, located precisely behind your sternum.

You found yourself in his spaces. Checking the planning ledge out of habit, straightening the maps he’d left weighted with stones. Spending an extra moment in the armory, where the memory of his chest against your shoulder lingered in the cool, metal-scented air. The physical attraction, denied an outlet, turned inward, transforming into a hyper-awareness of your own body—the empty space beside you in the pod at night, the way your hand felt cold without the potential of his touch.

Neytiri watched you. On the second evening, as you helped her scrape a hide, she spoke without looking up. “The heart is a hunter. It tracks what it wants, even when the eyes are closed.” She ran her blade along the skin with a firm, sure stroke. “The waiting is part of the hunt. It teaches patience. And value.”

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “And if the hunt fails?” She paused, her golden eyes meeting yours. “Then you have still learned the shape of the prey. You are changed. That is not failure. That is experience.” It was neither comfort nor warning. It was the truth of a woman who had loved a dream-walker and forged a life from the chaos that followed.

Kiri sought your company in the healing hut, her quiet presence a solace. She spoke of the forest’s whispers, of the slow, sure pulse of Eywa beneath the anxiety of the clan. “He is part of the pulse,” she said once, her fingers tracing the veins of a leaf. “His fear is loud. His care is… a deep root. It is hard for him to tell the difference.” She looked at you. “You help him hear it.”

On the afternoon of the third day, the lookout’s cry finally came. “Scouts! East ridge!”

You were at the smoke-curing racks, but you were moving toward the landing clearing before the cry had fully faded, your pace measured but urgent. The clan gathered, a quiet, watchful crowd.

They came in low and fast, the ikrans shedding altitude wearily. You counted them quickly. All present. Your eyes went straight to Neteyam. He dismounted first, his movements stiff but controlled. There was a fresh tear on his right vambrace, and a dark smear of dirt and what might have been blood along his jaw. But he stood straight, his eyes already scanning the crowd, finding Jake, finding Neytiri, finding you.

The debrief began instantly. Jake clasped his shoulder, a wordless assessment, then listened as Neteyam delivered his report in a clipped, steady voice. Tayrangi numbers, defensive positions, signs of movement. The news was tense but not catastrophic. As he spoke, his gaze flickered over the heads of the warriors, landing on you again, a silent check-in.

Lo’ak stood nearby, drinking deeply from a water skin. He caught your eye, gave a slow, deliberate nod, then jerked his chin subtly toward his brother. The message was clear: He’s in one piece. Barely.

As the formalities wound down, Neteyam finally extricated himself. He walked toward the path leading to the spring, the path for washing off the grime of travel. He didn’t look back, but his pace was slow, deliberate. An unspoken invitation.

You followed after a respectable minute, a fresh washing cloth and a pot of cleansing salve in your hands. The practical tools of your trade. The pretext was thin, but it was enough.

You found him at the secluded pool, the same one he’d taken you to months before. He had already removed his torn vambrace and chest wrap, and was scooping handfuls of cold water over his face and neck. The muscles of his back and shoulders worked under skin marked with old scars and new bruises. The sight of him, half-bare and real, solid and returned, hit you with a physical force that stole your breath.

He heard your approach and straightened, turning. Water dripped from his braids onto his shoulders. The cut on his jaw was shallow, already clotted. The dirt smeared across his collarbone and the impressive bruise forming on his ribs told a story of a hard impact.

You didn’t speak. You walked forward, wet the cloth, and began to wipe the grime from his jaw. He stood utterly still, his eyes fixed on a point over your shoulder, his breathing even. Your fingers worked gently around the cut, then moved down his neck, over the strong column of his throat. The silence was total, thick with the things that had been said and unsaid over three long days.

Your touch moved to his collarbone, swiping away the dirt. Your knuckles brushed the warm, solid plane of his chest. You felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath beneath your hand. Your own breath hitched in response.

You knelt to dampen the cloth again, giving yourself a moment to steady the pounding in your ears. When you rose, your eyes were level with the bruise blooming over his ribs, just above the old, roped scar. Without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips hovering just above the discolored skin.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes,” he said, the word a low rumble. His gaze was on you now, heavy and direct. You looked up, meeting his eyes. The gold was dark, intense, stripped of all strategy. The contained pressure of years, of months, of the last three agonizing days, was a visible storm in their depths.

You slowly, deliberately, pressed the cool, damp cloth against the bruise. A small, compassionate act. A healer’s touch.

His hand came up, not to push you away, but to cover yours, holding it against his heated skin. His palm was rough, his grip firm. The contact was electric, a circuit finally closing. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t move. He just held your hand there, over the proof of his mortality, his eyes locked on yours, and in that shared, silent hold, the tension reached its zenith. It was no longer a building pressure. It was a poised, trembling thing, waiting for the slightest shift in the balance to send it crashing into motion. The hunt, as Neytiri had said, was in its final, breathless moment.

His hand was a furnace over yours, pinning your palm against the vivid bloom of the bruise. The cool cloth was forgotten, crushed between your skin and his. You could feel the rapid, heavy drum of his heart beneath your fingertips. The sound of the spring filled the silence.

You didn’t pull away. You met the storm in his gaze and held it. Your other hand came up to rest lightly on his waist, a point of balance. You felt the muscles there jump.

“Neteyam,” you said. Just his name.

A shudder went through him. The last vestige of the mask shattered. His eyes closed for a brief second, a surrender. When they opened, the look he gave you was devastating in its simplicity: raw want, clear of fear. It was the look of a man stepping off a cliff because the ground behind him had finally crumbled.

His hand slid from over yours, trailing up your arm, leaving a path of fire. He cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the roots of your hair. The touch was certain. He pulled you forward, slowly, until your forehead rested against his, your noses brushing. His breath warmed your lips.

“I am tired,” he whispered, the confession breathed into the space between your mouths, “of holding this line.”

And then his lips were on yours.

It was not a gentle first kiss. It was a release. A desperate sealing of a pact years in the making. His mouth was warm and sure, and you responded in kind, your fingers curling against his bruise, your other hand sliding around to the small of his back to pull him closer. A low sound, part groan, part relief, vibrated from his chest into yours.

It was hungry. The years of restraint dissolved. Your hands learned the map of his back—the ridges of old scars, the powerful sweep of his shoulders. His own hands traced your spine, gripped your hip, tangled in your hair as if to assure himself you were real.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, your foreheads still touching, the world had narrowed to the mist and the ragged sound of your breathing. His eyes were dark, his lips slightly parted. He looked utterly disarmed.

He didn’t ask for words. He sought them in your face, in the way your hands still clung to him. What he saw there—the same years of waiting, the same surrender—made his breath catch. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his eyes closing as if absorbing a truth too vast to look at directly.

He kissed you again, softer this time, a slow, deep exploration that tasted of promise. The urgency eased into a mutual discovery. Your hands gentled, stroking rather than grasping. His touch became reverent.

Time lost meaning. There, in that hidden alcove, the wariness of the world fell away. There was only the heat of the water, the cool stone under you, and the overwhelming reality of him.

The physical attraction, so long banked, burned clean and bright. It was in the way he whispered your name against your throat, in the way your body arched against his. It was not just passion; it was the final, undeniable language of a union forged in patience. Clothes, damp and in the way, were pushed aside with a practicality that felt ancient, necessary. The cool air raised gooseflesh on your skin, quickly replaced by the heat of him.

This was not the hurried, fumbling union of youngsters. It was the deliberate, profound convergence of two people who knew the cost of things, who had carried their own weights for years. There was a gravity to it. When he entered you, it was with a slow, controlled intensity that made you gasp, your nails biting into the hard muscle of his back. His own breath hitched, his forehead dropping to yours, his eyes screwed shut as if the sensation was almost too much to bear—not physically, but emotionally. This was the vulnerability he had guarded against for so long, finally, willingly surrendered.

He moved with a rhythm that was not frantic, but deep and searching, each stroke a word in the silent conversation you had been having for years. Here. I am here. You are not alone. The pleasure was a rising tide, intense and overwhelming, but it was inextricably tied to the profound relief in his eyes, the way his arms trembled as they held him above you, not with weakness, but with the effort of maintaining this last, fragile shred of control.

When release came, it was not a shout, but a shared, shuddering silence. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, a broken sound escaping him that was your name, or a prayer, or both. You held him as the tremors passed through him, your own body singing with a completion that felt less like an ending and more like a homecoming.

Later, you lay tangled together on the bank, wrapped in his discarded chest wrap. His arm was a heavy weight across your waist, his face buried in your hair. His breathing was deep and even, the tension finally absent from his limbs.

You stroked his damp hair, your mind quiet. The pull was gone. It had been answered.

He stirred, nuzzling closer. “They will be wondering where we are,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “Let them wonder,” you whispered back.

He was quiet. Then, “Lo’ak will know.” “Lo’ak has always known.”

A soft, genuine chuckle shook his chest—a rare, beautiful sound. He lifted his head to look down at you. In the fading light, his face was softer. The weight in his eyes was shared now.

He leaned down and kissed you, a slow, tender press of lips. “Come,” he said, his voice firming into a gentle command.

You rose together, helping each other dress, your movements synchronized. The walk back was made in a companionable silence, but you did not take his hand. The understanding was too new, too vast to be displayed. It lived in the space between your steps, in the way your shoulders nearly brushed as you walked, in the occasional meeting of your eyes that held a universe of quiet knowing.

As you approached the common area, the first person you saw was Lo’ak. He looked up from sharpening his knife. His eyes took in the two of you, the new, invisible charge in the air, the subtle shift in how you orbited each other. He didn’t nod. He just raised one eyebrow, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips before he looked back down at his work.

That evening in the Sully pod, the difference was felt.

Jake watched as Neteyam, for the first time, did not sit slightly apart. He settled beside you, his arm resting along the log behind you, not touching, but his body angled inward, a shield and an admission. Jake’s eyes met his son’s for a moment. He saw the quiet there, the absence of a war that had raged behind Neteyam’s eyes for years. Jake said nothing. He simply reached for another piece of fruit, a small, satisfied curve to his mouth.

Neytiri’s observation was more acute. She noted the way Neteyam’s hand paused halfway to passing you a bowl, his fingers lingering on the clay as your hand reached for it. She saw the way you breathed in, just slightly, when he leaned close to speak to Tuk. She served the stew, and when she handed you your portion, her fingers brushed yours and held for a second longer than necessary. Her gaze was a quick, fierce spark of recognition before it moved on.

Kiri simply smiled, a soft, private thing, as she listened to a song only she could hear. She looked from her brother to you and back, and her smile deepened, as if a harmony had finally resolved itself.

Tuk, ever practical, simply scooted her sitting-mat closer to yours, slotting herself into the newly configured space between you and Neteyam as if it had always been there. “Tell the story about the moss-people again,” she demanded, leaning against your side.

You told the story. Neteyam listened, his eyes on your face, on the fire, on the family around him. His posture was easier than anyone could remember.

That night, when you all retired, you went to your own bedroll. Neteyam went to his. The old patterns held, for now. But as you lay down, you felt his gaze on you in the dark. You turned your head. He was lying on his side, watching you, his face soft. He did not beckon you over. He did not need to. The promise was there, solid between you.

Tuk, half-asleep, murmured something and rolled over. Kiri’s breathing was deep and even. Lo’ak was already asleep, his back to the room.

Neteyam’s lips curved into the faintest, most private of smiles, meant only for you. Then he closed his eyes.

You lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of the family breathing. The yearning was gone, replaced by a deep, settled rightness. The slow burn had not ended, but it had transformed. The lonely, silent war within him was quiet. You were his peace, and he was yours. The ground beneath you was not just shared. It was yours. The rest—the bonds, the promises, the future—could wait. They had won the only thing that mattered: the truth of each other.

The morning after was not a dawn of grand declarations or changed worlds. It was a morning of frost melting on moss, of the same duties waiting. You woke to the sound of the camp stirring, to Tuk’s sleepy mumbling, to the smell of last night’s fire gone cold. Your eyes met Neteyam’s across the pod as he sat up, stretching his shoulders with a slight, familiar tightness. There was no hesitation in his gaze, only a deep, calm certainty. He gave you a single, slow blink—a Na’vi kiss in the quiet morning—before rising to begin his day.

The shift was in the details, in the altered currents of ordinary life.

At the planning ledge, your presence was no longer that of an occasional advisor. When you arrived with the morning tea, Neteyam simply moved a stack of maps, clearing space for you beside him without a word. It was not a discussion. It was an adjustment of reality. Jake arrived, took in the new arrangement with a grunt that might have been approval, and began discussing the Tayrangi stockpiling reports. Neteyam listened, his eyes on the map, but his hand rested on the stone bench, his fingers brushing your thigh. It was an absent touch, a point of contact as natural as breathing.

The work itself changed. Before, your insights were offered; now, they were woven into the strategy from the start. “The ground near their eastern cache is soft,” you said, pointing to a area on the map. “The same peat that holds the numtsengmoss. It will not support heavy movement if the rains return.” Neteyam nodded, making a notation. “Then we watch the weather as closely as we watch their hunters,” he said, and it became part of the plan.

Lo’ak’s scout team was assigned to monitor the peatland approaches. When he came for his briefing, he stood before Neteyam and you, his demeanor serious but lacking its old defensive edge. “The ground’s a sponge,” he confirmed. “They’d need to build walkways to move anything heavy out of there. We’d see the construction.”

“Good,” Neteyam said. “Report any tool marks, any cut saplings.” He paused, then added, “Take Rè’ya with you. Her eyes are sharp for that kind of work.”

It was a small delegation of trust, assigning a specific hunter from another family. Lo’ak accepted it with a nod. As he turned to leave, his eyes flicked to you. “Got any of that salve that stops itch? The peat-midges are vicious.”

You handed him a small pouch from your belt. “Rub it on your neck and wrists before you go in.”

He took it, a ghost of his old smirk touching his lips. “Knew you’d have it.” He left, and the exchange felt normal, familial. You were the healer, he was the scout, and Neteyam was the strategist who connected them. The machinery of the clan simply ran more smoothly with you in this new position.

Neytiri’s integration of you was more physical. She began including you in the warriors’ morning stretching rituals, not because you would fight, but because “a body that knows its own limits is a strong body,” she stated, her hands adjusting your posture with firm, impersonal precision. It was an education in Na’vi discipline, a silent investment in your permanence. When she showed you a specific breathing technique to steady the hands for fine work, you realized she had noticed the faint tremor of fatigue in yours after long sessions in the healing hut. The lesson was not just about skill; it was about endurance, about belonging to the warrior’s world through a different path.

Kiri sought your presence in a new way, too. She began bringing you plants, not for their medicinal properties, but for their spiritual echoes. “This one remembers a great flood,” she would say, placing a gnarled root in your hand. “It holds fear, but also the memory of the sun’s return.” She was teaching you her language, offering you the keys to understand the world as she sensed it. It was a gift of immense trust, an invitation into the sacred interior of the Sully family.

Days blended into a week, then two. The tension with the Tayrangi remained, a held breath on the horizon. But within High Camp, a new stability took root, one centered quietly around the two of you.

The physical intimacy, once unleashed, became its own kind of dialogue. It was not frantic or greedy, but a deep, replenishing necessity. In the quiet hours after the camp slept, you would slip from your bedroll to his, or he would come to you. It was less about passion, though that was ever-present, and more about affirmation. In the dark, with his body curled around yours, the last of the day’s calculations would leave him. You could feel it in the way his muscles finally loosened, in the deep, sighing breath he would release against your hair. Your touch along the old scar on his side was no longer clinical; it was a reminder of survival, of the life that persisted after the wound. His hands on you were both possessive and reverent, mapping a territory that was now his to cherish and protect.

One night, he lay on his back, your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. The air was cool, the hide flap of the pod drawn back to show a slice of star-dusted sky. “The Tayrangi elder,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “The one with the bad knee. He has sent a message. A complaint about our scouts being too close to their sacred spring.” You listened, your eyes on the stars. “Is it the same spring where the healing clays are found?” “Yes.” “Then it is not a complaint. It is a opening.” He was silent for a moment. “Explain.” “They do not accuse us of trespass for hunting. They accuse us of nearing a place of healing. It is a softer accusation. They are telling us what they value. They are giving us a thing to respect.” He shifted, turning his head to look at you. In the faint light, his eyes were thoughtful. “You see a path in their words.” “I see the shape of their worry. It is different from ours, but it is still worry. You can negotiate with worry. You can only fight against threat.” He was quiet for a long time, his fingers stilling on your skin. “I will have the scouts avoid the spring. We will send a gift of the clotting moss that grows only on our side of the ridge. A healer’s gift for a healer’s place.” It was a perfect, diplomatic response. A strategic move born from a perspective you had provided. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, a gesture of thanks and shared understanding.

The next day, he tasked Lo’ak with finding and gathering the rare moss. When Lo’ak brought it, he dropped the bundle at your feet for inspection. “Neteyam says you’ll know if it’s good enough.” You sorted through the delicate, gray-green fronds. “It is perfect. Tell your brother the Tayrangi tsahik will be pleased.” Lo’ak snorted softly. “He doesn’t care if she’s pleased. He just wants her quiet.” But there was no malice in it. It was an understanding of Neteyam’s methods, now accepted.

The gift was sent. No immediate reply came, but the tense silence from the eastern border did not worsen. It was a stalemate that felt fractionally less brittle.

Life, in its mundane, relentless way, began to weave the two of you together as tightly as any formal bond. You mended his clothes. He carved a new, finer mortar and pestle for your herbs after noticing the old one was cracked. You started leaving a portion of your morning tea for him, already sweetened the way he preferred. He began to save the tenderest piece of game from his share of the hunt, placing it in your bowl without comment.

The family saw it all. Jake would catch Neteyam’s eye after one of these small exchanges and give an almost imperceptible nod. Neytiri’s sharp gaze would soften when she saw you using the new mortar. Tuk simply took to climbing into your lap and Neteyam’s, claiming the space between you as her rightful territory.

It was not the dramatic culmination of a love story. It was the quiet, daily work of building a life. The slow burn had not ended in a explosion, but had banked itself into a steady, enduring heat that warmed everything it touched. The war within Neteyam was over. The peace he had found was not a passive thing, but an active, growing reality, built in shared glances over maps, in silent touches in the dark, in the gentle, relentless weaving of your life into the fabric of his family and his clan. The future, with all its threats and uncertainties, was no longer a lonely burden. It was a path they would now walk side by side, their footsteps falling in rhythm on the solid, familiar ground they had made together.

The peace was not a blanket. It was a patchwork, and the old wounds beneath it could still ache in the wrong weather. For Neteyam, the wrong weather was not just in the sky, but in the remnants of his own body.

A week of steady, cold rain moved in, turning paths to mud and making the world a study in damp greys. The old injury in his side, usually a manageable stiffness, became a persistent, deep-seated throb. You saw it in the careful way he lowered himself to sit, in the extra breath he took before standing. He never complained. He simply moved with more deliberation, his calculations factoring in this increased physical cost.

One such rainy afternoon, the planning session ran long. A debate over redistributing hunting grounds to avoid over-stressing the recovering herds grew heated. Neteyam stood at the map, his weight subtly shifted to his right leg, his left hand braced on the table. His arguments were sound, his logic impeccable, but his voice held a thin edge of strain. Jake, focused on the problem, pushed back on a point, his tone sharpening.

You watched Neteyam’s jaw tighten. A faint sheen of sweat glossed his temple, not from the warmth of the hut, but from the effort of holding his body upright and his mind focused through the fog of pain. His fingers on the map trembled, just once, a quick, violent spasm he thought no one saw.

You rose silently. You poured a cup of the strong, warming tea you kept for such days—a blend of ginger-root and numbing silvertongue bark. You did not interrupt the debate. You simply walked to the table and placed the cup by his braced hand. Your fingers brushed his knuckles, a fleeting touch.

He didn’t look at you. His eyes remained fixed on his father, on the map. But his hand left the table, wrapped around the warm clay, and he took a slow sip. The debate continued. A minute later, his shoulders dropped a fraction. The tremor did not return.

Later, when the others had left, he remained at the table, finishing his notes. You stayed, tidying. The rain drummed a steady rhythm on the hide roof.

“It is the pressure,” he said finally, his voice low. He wasn’t looking at you. He was stating a fact about the weather system, about his body. “The damp pushes on the scar. It feels… like the cold water again. The memory is in the tissue.”

You came to stand beside him. “The memory is strong. But it is only a memory. The water is not here.” “It feels here,” he said, and the raw honesty in his quiet words was a testament to the trust that now lived between you.

“Then we remind the tissue where it is.” You placed your hands on his shoulders, your thumbs finding the knotted muscles at the base of his neck. He stiffened for a second, a reflex of a man not used to being approached from behind, then exhaled as you began to work the tension loose.

This was new. This intimacy was not about passion, but about maintenance. About tending to the flawed machinery that kept him going. You worked in silence, your touch firm and knowledgeable. He let his head bow forward, his braids slipping over his shoulders. A low, involuntary groan escaped him as you pressed into a particularly stubborn knot.

“You should have said something earlier,” you murmured. “It was not relevant to the herd distribution,” he replied, his voice muffled. “Your ability to think clearly is always relevant to the clan.”

He was silent, absorbing that. Your hands moved lower, working along the ridge of the scar through his tunic. He flinched, just once, a ghost of the old, bright pain. You didn’t pull away. You softened your touch, but kept your hands there, a steady, warm pressure against the memory of the wound.

“When it is like this,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear, “the fear… it is closer. The calculation becomes harder. The cost of every choice feels… heavier.”

You understood. The pain was not just physical. It was a key that unlocked the vault where he kept his deepest terrors—the cold, the helplessness, the responsibility for lives that felt too fragile in his damaged hands.

You stopped kneading and simply rested your palms flat against his back, over the places where his lungs expanded. You matched your breathing to his, slow and deep. “The cost is real. But you do not carry it on this,” you said, pressing gently over the scar. “You carry it here.” You moved one hand to rest over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat under your palm. “And you do not carry it alone.”

He turned then, carefully, on the stool. His face was pale, his eyes dark with a fatigue that went to the bone. He looked up at you, and the vulnerability there was absolute. This was the Neteyam no one else saw—not the strategist, not the survivor, but the young man weary from a war his body refused to let him forget.

He didn’t reach for you. He just looked at you, letting you see it all. It was a greater intimacy than any physical joining.

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “The rain will pass,” you said. “The pressure will ease. I am here. I will always be here, to remind you where you are.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, a gesture of such profound gratitude it made your throat tight. When he opened his eyes again, the storm in them had calmed to a weary, but manageable, swell. “I know,” he said.

That night, the rain still fell. In the pod, as the family slept, the pain kept him awake. You felt the restless shift of his body beside you. Without a word, you shifted closer, turning onto your side. You guided his arm around your waist and pulled his hand flat against your stomach, your own hand covering his. You pressed his palm firmly against you, anchoring him in the warm, living reality of your body, in the slow rise and fall of your breath.

“Here,” you whispered into the dark. “This is where you are.”

His body, rigid with silent suffering, gradually softened against yours. His forehead came to rest between your shoulder blades. His breathing deepened, syncing with yours. The panic of the memory, triggered by the ache, was soothed by the steady, present rhythm of your life against his hand. He slept.

The next morning, the rain had lessened to a drizzle. He moved more easily. At the morning meal, Neytiri’s eyes followed him as he passed a bowl to Tuk. Her gaze was assessing, then it flicked to you. She saw the faint shadows under your own eyes, the way you sat close enough for your knee to touch Neteyam’s thigh. She gave a single, slow nod, not of approval, but of recognition. She saw the vigil you had kept. She saw the unglamorous, essential work of loving her son—not in spite of his wounds, but in daily communion with them.

Lo’ak noticed too. He saw the way Neteyam’s hand rested on the small of your back as he stood to leave, a brief, grounding touch. He didn’t comment. But later, when you were checking the stores in the armory, he appeared, holding a frayed bowstring. “Can this be saved?” he asked, his tone offhand. You examined it. “No. But I have a new one that’s been treated for damp. It will hold its tension.” You fetched it for him. As he took it, he didn’t immediately leave. He looked at you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “He slept last night,” he stated. “Yes.” Lo’ak was quiet for a moment, rolling the new string between his fingers. “Good,” he said, the word simple and profound. Then he was gone.

The vulnerability had been shared, and in the sharing, it had lost some of its power. The relationship was no longer just about attraction, or comfort, or even partnership. It had become a sanctuary. A place where the strongest among them could finally lay down his armor, where the steady one could reveal her own fatigue, and where the peace they guarded for the clan could be found, quietly, in the touch of a hand in the rain-drenched dark. It was the deepest form of trust, and it became the unshakeable core of everything they were building, together.

The idea came as a quiet, inevitable pull. It had been living in you since the night you spoke of the Sänume to Neytiri, since the peace you had built began to feel like a home you wanted to consecrate.

You went to Mo’at first, as was proper. She heard your intention to seek your first people’s Tree of Voices, and gave her wise approval. Then, you went to Jake.

You found him with Neteyam at the planning ledge, reviewing patrol rotations. Jake looked up, his expression open. Neteyam’s gaze sharpened, sensing a shift in you.

“Olo’eyktan,” you began, formal in your address. “I ask permission to be absent from my duties. I must journey to the high northern valleys, to the place of the Sänume. I will be gone five days, perhaps seven.”

Jake’s brow furrowed slightly. “The high valleys? That’s a long flight and a hard climb. What’s the purpose?”

“It is a personal journey. A pilgrimage.” You kept your voice steady, offering no more. It was not a clan matter, and to say more would be to expose a sacred, raw nerve.

Neteyam had gone very still beside his father. His eyes were fixed on you, the strategist in him already mapping the dangers. “The northern passes are clear of Tayrangi, but they are treacherous alone,” he said, his voice tight. “The weather changes without warning. The rock is unstable. Why must you go alone?”

“It is something I must do alone,” you said, meeting his gaze. You saw the conflict there—the protector warring with the man who had learned to respect your boundaries. You were asking him to accept a risk he could not manage, a journey he could not plan for you.

Jake watched the silent exchange between you two. He rubbed his jaw. “A personal pilgrimage… I understand that.” He’d had his own, to a place called the Hallelujah Mountains, a lifetime ago. “You’ll take an ikran?” “To the foothills. Then I walk. The final valley is a sacred walk.” “And if you’re injured? If you don’t return in seven days?” “I will take signaling stones,” you said. “If I do not return in seven days…” You glanced at Neteyam. His jaw was clenched. “Then a search may be sent.”

Jake looked from your resolute face to his son’s tense one. He saw it was not his decision to make. “You’re not a child. You know the risks. You have my permission. But you report to Neteyam on your final route and supplies. He’s responsible for the scouts and the territory. He needs to know.”

It was a fair compromise, binding Neteyam into the process in the only way he could be—as a logistical overseer, not a companion.

“Yes, sir,” you said.

The planning that followed was a study in restrained tension. Neteyam pored over maps of the northern reaches with you, his finger tracing ridges and gullies, his voice flat as he pointed out potential shelter caves and known avalanche chutes. He insisted on packing the medical kit himself, checking every item with a surgeon’s focus. When he handed it to you, his hand lingered on the strap. “The silvertongue bark is in the sealed pouch. For deep pain. Do not hesitate to use it.”

Neytiri entered the hut as you were rolling your sleep-mat. She said nothing. She picked up your travel tunic, examined the seams, and then took it to her own basket, returning later with it reinforced at the shoulders and knees with tougher leather. She added a small, sharp skinning knife to your pack. “For cutting saplings for a shelter,” she said, her tone practical. Then she produced a small, tightly woven pouch. “Iknimaya moss, from the highest peaks. It holds a spark longer than any other. For your fire.” It was a hunter’s gift, a mother’s care. You accepted it with a nod, the gesture speaking volumes.

The morning of your departure was clear and cold. The clan gathered as they did for any scout’s leaving. Tuk hugged you fiercely. Kiri pressed her listening stone into your palm. Lo’ak gave a grunt. “The wind screams in those canyons. Don’t let it spook your ikran.”

Neteyam stood apart, a silent, watchful statue. As you finished securing your pack, he came forward. He adjusted a strap on your ikran’s saddle that was already perfect, his hands needing to do something. He turned to you, and for a moment, the mask of the calm leader faltered. You saw the fear in his eyes, stark and unguarded—not just fear for your safety, but the terror of the empty space your absence would leave in the careful world he’d built.

He didn’t speak. He pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you with a sudden, crushing strength. It was not a gentle embrace. It was a claiming, a grounding, an imprint of his presence meant to last you through the lonely miles. His face was buried in your hair for one long second, and you felt him breathe you in. Then he released you, stepping back as if the contact had burned him. His expression was once more composed, but his eyes were dark.

“Your mother’s people were brave,” he said, his voice rough. “Their daughter is braver. Go. Hear what you need to hear. Then come home.”

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his in a fierce, brief kuru, then mounted and left.

The journey, the valley, the Tree of Voices—this remains unchanged, a beautiful and sacred solitary experience.

You returned on the sixth day, as the sinking sun gilded the Hometrees. You were weary to your bones, dust ground into your skin, your eyes holding the vast, quiet echoes of the high valleys.

Neteyam was there. He hadn’t been waiting at the landing clearing; he’d been walking the perimeter, a patrol that just happened to circle back as your ikran’s cry echoed. He watched you descend, his body rigid.

You dismounted, your legs stiff. You turned, and he was already there. He didn’t stop to look, to assess. He closed the distance in three strides and pulled you into his arms. This hug was different from the one at your leaving. It was not desperate, but profound. He folded you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, his chin resting on your crown. He held you as if absorbing your very presence back into himself, his body curving around yours. You felt the long, shuddering breath he let out, the final release of a tension he had carried for six days. You buried your face in the familiar scent of his neck and simply held on.

When he finally loosened his hold, it was only to pull back and look at you. His hands framed your face, his thumbs sweeping over the dust on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours, reading the journey there—the grief, the peace, the closure. He saw you were whole. Changed, but whole.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. He kissed your forehead, a gesture of pure, unspoken gratitude, and took your pack from your shoulder.

That evening, after the meal, the family settled into its comfortable rhythm. The fire crackled. Tuk dozed against Kiri. The sense of your return was a quiet warmth in the pod.

You sat beside Neteyam, closer than you used to, your shoulder touching his. The hum of the clan around you felt different now, not like a refuge you had found, but like a home you had chosen.

Under the cover of the soft chatter, you turned your head toward him. “I went to hear if a blessing was left in that place,” you said, your voice so low it was almost part of the fire’s whisper. “I heard no words. But I felt… a letting go. The past is at peace. It does not hold me anymore.” You paused, gathering the truth that had solidified within you on the long walk back. “My life, the one I want to build… its roots are here now.”

He had been looking into the fire. Slowly, he turned his gaze to you. In the flickering light, his eyes were soft, his attention absolute.

You took his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I am ready to make the bond, Neteyam. With you. I have never been more sure of anything.”

For a moment, he was utterly still. Then, a look of such profound, tender reverence washed over his features that it stole your breath. He brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yawne,” he whispered, the word a vow in itself. Beloved. He leaned closer, until his forehead rested against yours, and you breathed the same air. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, the promise resonating in the space between your lips. “At first light. We will go to the Spirit Tree, and we will weave our lives together for all time.”

The pilgrimage was over. The path ahead was clear, chosen, and waiting. In the quiet of the family pod, with his forehead against yours and the future shining brightly before you, you knew you were already home.

The air in the deep forest before dawn was a living thing—cool, damp, and thrumming with a silence that felt less like absence and more like a held breath. You walked beside Neteyam along a path worn not by feet, but by memory. No words passed between you. The decision was a solid, quiet stone in your chest. The world around you—the silvered bark of the trees, the faint glow of bioluminescent moss—seemed sharper, as if you were seeing it for the first time, or the last.

The Spirit Tree loomed ahead, its tendrils a cascading waterfall of light against the lingering dark. Here, the air tasted of ozone and ancient soil.

Neteyam stopped at the edge of the roots. He turned to you. In the pre-dawn gloom, his face was all stark lines and solemn purpose, but his eyes held a softness that made your throat tighten. He reached out, his fingers finding the first tie of your chest wrap. His touch was not hesitant, but infinitely careful, as if unwrapping something long cherished and fragile. You did the same for him, your hands steady on the knots his own fingers suddenly fumbled with. The practical act of undressing each other was a silent liturgy. The cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps, but the heat of his gaze was a tangible counterpoint.

When the last garment pooled at your feet, there was no shyness. You stood before each other, laid bare in every sense. Your eyes traced the familiar map of him—the powerful sweep of his shoulders, the lean strength of his torso, the old, roped scar a pale constellation against his skin. His own gaze was a slow, burning journey over your body, not with conquest, but with a reverence that felt like worship. He saw the strength in your arms from grinding herbs, the curve of your hip, the steady beat of your heart at the base of your throat. He saw you. All of you.

He closed the distance then, not with a rush, but with a deliberate, inevitable step. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “Yawntutsyìp,” he breathed. My great love. The words were a vibration against your lips before he captured them with his own.

This kiss was not like the desperate release by the spring. This was a vow, sealed in the shared breath of a sacred place. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly sweet. It tasted of trust, of years of silence, of a future trembling into being. Your hands came up to slide over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the fierce, rapid drumming of his heart against your palms. His skin was hot, so hot.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. The question hung in the air between you, not in words, but in the slight tremble of his hands where they cradled your face, in the dark, vulnerable plea in his eyes. It was the last outpost of his control, the final guard at the gate, asking not for your permission, but for your shared courage.

You didn’t answer with words. You brought your hands up, covering his where they held you. You leaned in and captured his lips again, this kiss a different promise—fierce, unequivocal, pouring every ounce of your certainty into him. You felt the exact moment his last reservation crumbled, a shuddering release against your mouth. A low, desperate sound vibrated from his chest into yours. It was surrender, and it was answer enough.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, your voice steady as stone. “I am here.”

Those three words held everything. I am here, choosing this. I am here, knowing you. I am here, and I am not afraid.

A breath rushed out of him, hot against your skin. His eyes searched yours, and what he found there—not just passion, but a fearless, matching certainty—made his gaze soften with a wonder that was almost painful to behold.

“The bond,” he breathed, the words thick with emotion. “First.”

You nodded. The physical union would be the seal, the celebration, the living proof of the connection you were about to forge. But the joining of souls came first.

With hands that no longer trembled, you reached for each other’s queues. The neural tendrils, silken and alive, twined eagerly around your seeking fingers. The air itself seemed to grow still, the forest holding its breath. You turned your head, your eyes locking with his—a final moment of singular consciousness.

You brought the tendrils together.

The world did not explode. It unfolded.

It was a slow, then all-encompassing flood, not of images, but of essence. You were not seeing his memories; you were feeling the shape of his soul. The profound, aching responsibility that was his bedrock. The cold, dark water of his deepest fear, not of death, but of failing those he loved. The guarded, tender space where he had kept your name for years, a secret so precious it had terrified him.

And you felt his perception of you: not as the steady healer, but as the quiet, resilient tree that had grown beside him, your roots gently disrupting the barren, hard-packed soil of his solitude. He felt your sorrows as old, weathered scars, not wounds. He felt the depth of your patience, not as passivity, but as a formidable, gentle strength. He felt your love for him, not as a sudden flame, but as the constant, warm light by which he had, without realizing it, begun to re-map his world.

There were no more secrets. No more silent rooms. You stood in the absolute center of each other, known and knowing. It was terrifying. It was the most profound peace you had ever experienced.

In that infinite space, his spirit curled around yours, not in possession, but in recognition. At last.

At last, yours echoed back.

You were two distinct melodies that had found they were part of the same, eternal song.

Slowly, you let the queues separate. The sensation was not of severing, but of carrying the connection inward. You opened your eyes. He was staring at you, tears tracking clean lines through the dawn light on his cheeks. You were crying too. You were different. You were the same.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The bond hummed between you, a new, quiet sense at the edge of your awareness—a second heartbeat, a shared breath.

Now, his touch changed. It was no longer a question, but a confirmation. His hands slid down your back, over the curve of your spine, pulling you firmly against the hard, hot line of his body. The full, shocking contact of skin on skin—the softness of your breasts against the solid plane of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs against yours—was no longer an exploration, but a homecoming. A low, mutual groan escaped you both, the sound swallowed by the other’s mouth as he kissed you with a renewed, focused intensity.

This kiss was the first act of your bonded selves. It was deep, claiming, and endlessly giving. The pleasure of it was magnified, echoing along the nascent bond, feeding back on itself in a rising loop of sensation. You could feel his awe at the softness of your skin, the thrilling sensation of your nails scoring his back. He could feel the dizzying spike of pleasure his mouth sent through you as it traveled down your neck, your collarbone, lower.

When he took your breast into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, the sensation wasn’t localized. It reverberated through the bond, a sweet, sharp ache that he felt as his own, making him shudder against you. Your hands in his hair, guiding him, urging him on, sent waves of possessive delight cascading back to you.

He worshipped you with his mouth, his hands, every touch amplified, shared, until you were trembling on the edge, your shared breath coming in ragged gasps. When his fingers finally found your core, slick and ready for him, the sensation was so intensely doubled, so profoundly shared, that you cried out, and his own echo of your pleasure broke from his lips as a stifled groan.

“Now,” you pleaded, the word a ragged thread of sound. “Now.”

He moved over you, his body a welcome weight, his eyes holding yours. The bond was wide open, a conduit of pure feeling. You felt his awe, his reverence, the almost overwhelming love that threatened to undo him as he positioned himself at your entrance. You felt your own anticipation, your longing, your complete trust reflected back at you through his soul.

He pushed forward.

The stretch, the exquisite, burning fullness was yours, and it was his. You felt his own shock of tight, hot pleasure, the staggering rightness of it, as if he were being sheathed within his own sanctuary. You felt the strain in his muscles as he held himself back, his control a tangible thread in the bond, thrumming with the effort. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, taking all of him, and the shared gasp was one sound from two mouths.

He began to move.

This was not just a joining of bodies. It was a dance conducted along the bond. Each slow, deep withdrawal was an ache you both shared. Each powerful, rolling thrust was a mutual surge toward a shared sun. You could feel the pleasure coiling tighter in his belly, a mirror of your own. You could feel the love, vast and terrifying, that was the foundation of every movement. The physical sensation was overwhelming, but it was the emotional current flowing beneath it—the sheer, staggering rightness—that unlocked you.

Your climax began not as a peak, but as a deep, resonating tremor within the bond itself. It started in the core of your shared space, a wave of pure, golden light that then exploded outward into your separate bodies. Your muscles clenched around him, and through the bond, you felt his ecstasy at the sensation. His own release was triggered by yours, not following it, but merging with it—a hot, pulsing rush that was both his pleasure and yours, a feedback loop of completion that seemed to have no end.

He collapsed upon you, his weight a grounding anchor, his face buried in your neck. You were both shaking, breathless, fused in every possible way. The bond hummed with a contented, radiant quiet, saturated with the aftershocks of shared pleasure and a love so dense it felt like a new gravity.

The dawn had won, filling the clearing with soft, gold-green light. It played over the sweat-slicked planes of his back, over your tangled limbs. Slowly, he shifted, rolling to his side and gathering you against him so your back was to his chest. His arms locked around you, his face nuzzling into your hair. You were still joined, both of you clinging to the last, fading pulses of physical connection.

In the bond, there was no need for summation. There was only the quiet, awe-filled knowledge of what was. Two had become a new one. The silence between you was fuller than any speech, thrumming with the profound, silent dialogue of intertwined souls. The first birdsong of the morning pierced the air, and you felt his appreciation of the sound as if you had heard it with his ears. You sighed, contentment a warm liquid in your veins, and felt his spirit curl tighter around yours in response.

The path back to camp awaited. The world, with its duties and dangers, still turned. But you would walk into it now on the same steady ground, with the same silent song echoing between your hearts. The long horizon you had watched for years was no longer a distant line. You were standing on it, together, and the view was everything.

The walk back to High Camp was made in a silence so profound it was its own language. Your hand in his felt different. It was not just skin against skin; it was a continuation of the bond, a constant, low hum of awareness that traveled up your arm and settled deep in your chest where his presence now lived. You didn’t speak. The bond spoke for you—a gentle pulse of warmth, a flicker of shared memory from moments before, a profound, settling peace that belonged to both of you.

You did not sneak in. You walked into the heart of the camp as the morning fires were being stoked, the smoke curling up to meet the dawn. You were both still dusted with the moss of the Spirit Tree, your hair loosened from its braids, a new, quiet gravity in your movements.

The Sully pod was stirring. Tuk was the first to see you. She stopped, a berry halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide. They darted from your face to Neteyam’s, to your joined hands. A slow, sunrise-bright smile spread across her face. She said nothing. She just popped the berry in her mouth, her smile turning into a knowing, satisfied grin, and went back to her breakfast.

Neytiri was at the fire. She looked up. Her hunter’s eyes took in every detail: the peace on her son’s face, a expression she had not seen since before the sea; the subtle, new harmony in the way you stood together; the faint, luminous mark of the bond that seemed to hang in the air between you, visible only to a mother’s sight. She held Neteyam’s gaze for a long moment. Her chin lifted, a proud, fierce gesture. Then she gave a single, slow nod. It was a transfer of stewardship. An acknowledgment. She looked at you, and her eyes were sharp but soft. She gestured with her chin towards the pot. “Eat. You have both had a long night.”

Jake emerged, stretching. He saw you. His human eyes missed none of the subtle cues his Na’vi family understood instinctively. He saw the changed space between you, the way Neteyam’s shoulders had lost their permanent defensive hitch. He clapped a hand on Neteyam’s back, a firm, wordless thump of approval, then ruffled your hair as he passed, a familiar, paternal gesture that now carried the weight of a welcome. “About time,” he grumbled, but the warmth in his voice was unmistakable.

Kiri simply reached out as you sat, her fingers brushing your arm. A wave of gentle, knowing energy flowed from her touch—an echo of the Tree’s own blessing. She smiled, her eyes seeing the beautiful, complex tapestry of the bond where others only saw the result. “It sings,” she whispered, just for you.

Lo’ak was last. He sauntered over, bowl in hand. He looked at his brother, then at you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He didn’t tease. He just shook his head, his voice a low mutter. “Took you long enough.” Then he reached over, snatched a extra piece of fruit from Neteyam’s portion, and walked away, the act so normal it was the greatest acceptance of all.

The day unfolded not as a celebration, but as the first day of a new era. You went to the healing huts. Neteyam went to the planning ledge. But everything was different.

While sorting herbs, you felt a sudden, sharp flicker of frustration—not yours. You paused, looking towards the ledge. A moment later, Lo’ak jogged into the hut. “Neteyam needs the yield maps from the southern orchards. He says you know where the updated ones are.” The request was ordinary. The fact that Neteyam had sent the request through the bond, a silent, instantaneous call, was world-altering.

You fetched the maps. As you handed them to Lo’ak, you asked, “Is it the dispute with the Weaver’s Circle about the shading?” Lo’ak blinked. “Yeah. How’d you know?” You just smiled. “A hunch.”

Later, a deep ache bloomed in your lower back from hours of bending over a patient. You straightened, pressing a hand to the spot. Across the camp, at the warrior’s training grounds, Neteyam paused in his instruction. He turned his head, his gaze finding you through the gaps in the huts. A wave of gentle, soothing warmth flowed down the bond, a psychic touch easing the muscle. You sent back a pulse of gratitude.

It was in these small, silent exchanges that the bond proved its worth. It was not intrusive. It was a constant, gentle awareness of the other, like knowing the position of your own breath. It made you a more efficient healer, anticipating the clan’s needs through his strategic awareness. It made him a more compassionate leader, feeling the physical and emotional toll of the clan’s struggles through your senses.

That evening, as the family sat together, the bond hummed with a new, shared contentment. Tuk chattered about her day. You felt Neteyam’s fond amusement as a warm glow in your own chest. When Jake spoke of the ongoing Tayrangi standoff, you felt Neteyam’s focus sharpen, the weight of it settling in, and you felt your own calm certainty flow back to him, a silent reminder that the burden was shared.

As the fire died down, Neteyam stood. He held out his hand to you. No words were needed. The family’s eyes were on you both, but it was not a watching. It was a witnessing.

You took his hand. He led you not to your separate bedrolls, but to the sheltered space at the rear of the pod that had always been his. He had already moved your things there. Your sleeping furs were laid out beside his.

You lay down together in the familiar dark of the home that was now unquestionably yours. He drew you into his arms, your back to his chest, his nose buried in your hair. The bond was wide open, a river of quiet emotion flowing between you—the day’s minor irritations, the deep satisfaction, the awe that still lingered from the dawn, the fierce, protective love that now had a permanent channel.

The long years of silence, of yearning, of patient work, were over. They had built this: not a dramatic ending, but a seamless beginning. The quiet war was won. The peace that followed was not an absence of conflict, but the presence of an unbreakable alliance. In the dark, with his heart beating against your back and your souls woven together, you knew the truth you had both earned:

You were home.

[ivsarchive]

oh my god this is the epitome of slow burn, the slow and gradual fall between them had me yearning so bad omg. when the familiarity between them and the act of knowing each other slowly became intimate- omfg (˶𖦹﹏𖦹˶)

[ruya4four]

love me anyway 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐 neteyam x fem!reader | angst

a/n | this is for the 3 requests asking for neteyam angst. i'm actually dying, the people yearn for that man badly omg. apologizes in advance if he's OOC. :,)

synopsis | after passing your iknimaya, neteyam takes you to the tree of voices under the guise of celebration. he confesses what he’s carried in silence: he wants you. he always has. but you were never meant to be together.

content warning(s) | aged up characters, cheeky neteyam, naive reader, crying, kissing, flirtation, argument, self-worth insecurity

Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan was born of legends. Son of Toruk Makto and the fiercest huntress of the Omatikaya. He was raised beneath the weight of greatness and carried it like a second skin. The blood of warriors flowed through his veins; every movement he made was purposeful, every breath shaped by discipline, tradition, and honor. From the moment he could stand, he was trained to protect, to lead, to bear responsibility not only for himself but for his people. And he did it all without flinching. His arrows flew straighter than most adults', his bond with his ikran was forged with a strength that made even seasoned riders pause, and when he walked through the village, he did so with a quiet certainty that turned heads. Not from arrogance, but from the calm assurance of someone who never failed. He was Neytiri’s bow and Jake’s shadow, sharpened by love and expectation both.

But when he was with you, none of that mattered.

You, who had just passed your Iknimaya after years of quietly watching the sky with wonder, more enchanted by color and shape than flight. You, who painted your thoughts on bark and plaited necklaces with fingers that trembled when others watched. You were nothing like the warriors who surrounded him, and that’s what made you sacred. Neteyam could be still around you. He could laugh, tease, let himself unfold in the hush between your questions. You didn’t ask him to lead. You didn’t demand his strength. You just listened. Softly, patiently, the way the forest does when the wind wants to talk.

Today, you were wrapped around him on the back of Seze, his ikran soaring high above the Hallelujah mountains, gliding on the thermals with ease. Your arms rested around his waist, your cheek against his shoulder, warm and trusting. The steady beat of your voice was low in his ear, rambling about nothing in particular—how your sister had cried when she saw your bond with your ikran, how the wind had smelled like smoke that morning, how you weren’t sure if your beadwork would hold together long enough to gift it. You didn’t notice how his breath caught when you laughed softly, didn’t feel how his pulse leapt when your fingers brushed his side.

You had no idea.

Neteyam had flown you toward the Tree of Voices with one intention. Today, he would ask Eywa to witness his vow. Today, he would speak your name into the roots of the world and ask you to become his mate.

But you thought this was a celebration.

You thought he was just proud of you.

You had no idea.

His jaw tensed slightly as the Tree came into view, violet strands pulsing softly with ancestral light. He guided Seze down into a gentle glide, not trusting his voice yet. The silence stretched comfortably between you, but inside his chest, his heart thundered like a war drum. He could feel the warmth of your breath on his neck, and he wondered if you could feel how tightly he was gripping the reins.

He landed beside the Tree, steady as always, even if his thoughts were a mess. You slid down first, your bare feet brushing the moss-covered stone, your eyes wide as you looked around at the swaying roots. The soft violet glow of the tree bathed your features in a dreamlike shimmer, making your eyes seem almost lit from within. You giggled to yourself, spinning slowly in place, the hem of your woven chest wrap fluttering as you turned in a lazy circle. Light traced your outline, flickering like fireflies at your feet. Neteyam watched you with open awe, his lips parted, his hands still tight on the harness as if he couldn’t yet move, afraid that if he blinked, you would vanish into the glow.

The atokirina’ began to descend, weightless and ethereal, drawn to you like moss drawn to light. They landed in your hair, on your shoulders, on the backs of your hands. You stilled, wonder blooming across your face, and you laughed again, not loud or boastful, but a quiet, reverent sound, like a song sung under your breath. You didn’t reach for them or try to catch them. You just let them come. That alone made Neteyam’s heart twist. You always let the world be what it was. You never forced it to change for you.

You moved deeper into the heart of the Tree of Voices, stepping with soft reverence, your fingers grazing along the glowing tendrils of root and vine. The ground beneath you lit with bioluminescent footsteps as you walked, pulses of soft turquoise in your wake. Neteyam followed, slower, more hesitant, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he belonged in this moment beside you. You had no hesitation, no fear of the sacred. You belonged to the world the way flowers belonged to rain.

You turned to him as you reached the tree’s central root, your smile soft, private, like a secret you hadn’t decided whether to share. “I prayed here,” you said, voice hushed. “Before my Iknimaya. I asked Eywa to guide me. But not for myself.” Your hand lifted to touch one of the long, gently swaying filaments. “I prayed for my friends. For my family. That if I was meant to pass, let it be so I could stand beside them. That I would not slow anyone down.”

Neteyam’s throat tightened. There was no trace of pride in your voice, no quiet hope for praise. You didn’t say it to impress him. You said it like truth. You had walked through fire, not to be admired, but to hold your place in the circle of those you loved. He wanted to touch you then, not in hunger, not in desire, but in gratitude. For being who you were.

You lifted your braid and reached forward, the end of your kuru brushing against the Tree. The bond flared, that strange, sacred connection fusing flesh and spirit. Your breath caught for a moment, your lashes fluttering, and your lips parted into a quiet gasp as the whispers of your ancestors curled into your ears. You laughed again, but it was different this time. Brighter. It came from a place inside you that Neteyam had always longed to reach. Your joy was untouched by fear. Even in the presence of the voices beyond death, you laughed.

Neteyam didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply watched you, caught in the gravity of who you were.

He thought about the first time he realized he loved you.

You had fallen from a low branch, nothing dangerous, just a tumble that left you breathless and laughing, sprawled in the underbrush with leaves in your hair and your bracelet snapped. He had dropped to his knees beside you, frantic, but you had only smiled up at him like the sun breaking through canopy, holding up your broken bracelet and asking if he had any string. It was not the fall that stayed with him, but the way you had laughed through it, unafraid of being seen at your most ungraceful. He had loved you then, in that tangle of grass and laughter.

Another time, much later, you had come to him with stained hands and tearful eyes after spending hours trying to dye a piece of barkcloth the color of twilight. It had come out muddy and wrong. You were furious with yourself, eyes shining with disappointment, but you hadn’t asked him to fix it. You just sat beside him, quiet, your head on his shoulder, as if being near him was enough to soothe the ache. He remembered the way your tail curled around your ankle, the way your lip trembled but never let the tears fall. You had been so brave in your softness. He had loved you then, too.

There had been quieter moments, countless ones, like leaves on the wind. The way you chewed your lip when you were focused. The way you hummed to yourself without noticing. How you never stepped on a trail of ants, no matter how busy your thoughts were. How you always gave Tuktirey the juiciest berries and never told anyone you’d done so. He had watched all of it, let it carve deep grooves into his heart, until he no longer knew when affection became devotion. It just had.

He saw you now, your fingers trailing through the glowing strands of the Tree, your eyes wide with the shimmer of voices only you could hear, and he thought, fiercely, hopelessly: This is why I cannot love anyone else. You were not meant to be a warrior. You were rare. You were the kind of soul that made warriors lay down their weapons just to hear you laugh.

Your eyes fluttered open, a soft breath falling from your lips, and you turned toward him. The light danced across your skin, catching in your lashes, making you seem half-made of stars. Your expression was open, vulnerable in a way that struck him deep in the chest. You stepped toward him, your braid still flickering with the energy of the bond. The subtle hum of Eywa’s presence seemed to follow you, lingering in the space between each breath. It clung to your skin like dew, and Neteyam could only watch as you closed the distance with quiet purpose, your steps unhurried, like the planet itself guided you toward him.

When you reached him, your fingers found his, curling around both of his hands with an ease that felt ancient. You didn’t look at him at first. Instead, your gaze dropped to where your hands swayed gently between you, fingertips tracing invisible arcs in the warm air. It was a childlike motion, absentminded and soft, the kind of gesture that carried no performance, only instinct. Your smile stayed small but sure, mouth curved like you were holding a song behind your teeth.

“I thought about you,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out softly. “When I made the bond with her.”

Your thumbs rubbed slow circles against the backs of his hands as your eyes traced those quiet shapes in the air, still not looking up. “When she chose me, I felt her wings through my spine. Her heartbeat inside mine. It was so loud, so wild. I didn’t know what I was doing. But through all that—I kept thinking… you’d be watching. Or that maybe you had been.” You laughed under your breath, a self-conscious sound. “Not in a weird way. Just… I wanted you to see me do it. I wanted to make you proud.”

Neteyam couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, not when you were holding his hands like that, saying things he’d never thought you’d admit out loud.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you went on, finally lifting your gaze to him. “But I named her Kiri’pa. Because when she first flew with me, she moved like wind through leaves. Sharp and fast and kind of… twitchy.” Your smile widened, teasing. “She’s a ridiculous color. Like, lavender and turquoise. She looks like she rolled in paint.” You laughed again, eyes shining. “She’s perfect.”

His mouth quirked at the edges, the warmth in his chest blooming too fast to control.

“I also—” you hesitated, then tilted your head, voice softer, “I never told you I thought it was really sweet that you named yours after your mother’s ikran.”

Neteyam didn’t speak. He only hummed, the sound deep and quiet in his chest, a low vibration that passed through your palms where they rested in his. His expression didn’t shift much, but his ears twitched, and his thumbs brushed over the backs of your hands like it soothed him. You looked up at him then, blinking slowly, as if just now remembering where you were. The smile you wore didn’t fade, only deepened, and your eyes traced over his face with the kind of familiarity that felt too intimate. Your hand slipped free, reaching up to brush a loose braid back behind his ear with surprising tenderness. The gesture was so natural, so instinctive, it made his breath catch in his throat. Your fingers lingered near his temple, feather-light, and you tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“You dressed up,” you murmured, voice full of shy wonder. “Your chest wrap is new. Is that…did you weave that beading yourself?” Your gaze moved over the accents of his jewelry, the careful braids threaded with colored cord, the faint dapples of ochre paint along his collarbone and shoulders. “You look really good, Neteyam.”

He tried not to react, but his laugh burst out before he could contain it—low and warm, touched with mischief. His grin curled at one side, just a little lopsided, just a little wicked. “Only for you,” he said, voice dipping into the teasing cadence he knew always earned your eye-rolls. “You think I get painted up like this for the trees?”

Your laugh came easily, bubbling out of your chest like a spring breaking through the earth. It crinkled the corners of your eyes and made your shoulders lift, your whole body leaning in just a little closer. You didn’t pull your hand away. Your fingers still hovered near his face, the heat of your palm close enough to feel but not quite touch. “Well,” you said, still laughing, “you could’ve told me. I would’ve worn nicer beads.”

“You always look beautiful,” he said automatically, his mouth betraying him before his brain could catch up. The words slipped from his lips like a reflex, shaped by months of watching you tilt your head at him like that, all innocent curiosity and guileless joy.

You blinked at him again. Not confused. Not even surprised. You took the compliment with the same grace you took everything, with quiet gratitude, like it had been offered by the wind or the water, not with the flirtatious weight it carried. You smiled again, a little crooked this time, and you nudged his shoulder with yours, teasing. “You’re being nice because I passed my trial, aren’t you?”

He could’ve laughed. He could’ve told you that he had been nice to you long before your trial, that he had carried kindness for you like a stone in his chest for seasons now, heavy and warm, but he didn’t. He only squeezed your hand, that same smile still ghosting his mouth, and said nothing. You hadn’t realized he was flirting with you. 

But the forest around you did. The air was thick with energy, thick with the echo of prayers and the stir of sacred roots. The atokirina’ still lingered, watching. Listening. You were glowing in the soft light of the Tree, your body calm, your breath steady. You had no idea what you were doing to him. How the softness of your voice, the way your fingers curled into his, the way you said his name like it belonged only to you made his thoughts scatter and re-form around you over and over again.

You had no idea how close he was to falling on his knees and asking Eywa to make you his right then. Not tomorrow. Not in some distant ceremony. Now. Here. While your eyes still shone like moonlight and your laugh still echoed in the canopy above.

Neteyam blinked, as though waking from a dream, and drew in a slow breath through his nose. His chest rose with it, his lips parting slightly as he cleared his throat. His tail twitched behind him, flicking once, betraying the nerves he had kept buried beneath layers of calm. He looked composed, he always did, but inside, his heart thrummed wildly, louder than drums, louder than his thoughts. He had faced viperwolves with less trembling in his blood.

“I am not being kind to you only because you passed your Iknimaya,” he said at last, his voice smooth, low, but taut with meaning. “That is not why I brought you here.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but your smile never faded. “Sure, Neteyam,” you said lightly, turning your face a little away, though your body stayed near. “I’m just the mighty warrior now. Of course you’re being sweet to me.”

He didn’t smile back.

His gaze stayed fixed on you, quiet but piercing. His next words came slow, each one chosen like a bead in a songcord. “I never doubted you. Not once. Not when you said you were afraid to fly. Not when you thought you were not strong enough. Not when others whispered that you were different, because your heart did not run with the hunt.”

You looked at him again, this time with more stillness in your posture, your head tilted slightly, uncertain.

He stepped forward, closing the small space between you with care, with reverence. “You have always been strong, yawne. Just in ways others cannot see. You do not fight with blade or bow. You do not howl for blood in the hunt. But your spirit?” He paused, chest rising with the weight of what he was trying to say. “Your spirit is strong. It sings.”

Your breath hitched softly. The way he looked at you, like the stars bowed for you, like the wind itself waited for your word—was unfamiliar and grounding all at once. You did not know why his voice had gone quiet, almost trembling. But you did not interrupt.

“You remember the day you found Tuk crying by the river?” he continued, voice dipping lower, eyes never leaving your face. “When she lost her necklace in the current. You walked into the water—did not even hesitate. You were soaked. You slipped. You laughed. But you did not stop until you gave her that necklace back. She still talks about it.”

You smiled, a little bewildered, your hands gently clasped in front of you. “Neteyam…”

He shook his head, slowly. Not to stop you. To hold the moment. “Or the time you stayed up all night fixing Lo’ak’s bowstring because he was too proud to ask anyone else. You didn’t tell anyone. I only knew because I saw you asleep on the weaving mats the next morning, your fingers blistered.”

You blinked, the memory surfacing like a ripple in still water. “That was—”

“That was you,” he said simply. “Always you. The way you care for others. The way you listen. The way you hold light in your hands without even trying.”

The words settled between you like ash from a sacred fire, it being impossible to ignore. Your smile had faded now, not from discomfort, but from the weight of his voice. He had never spoken to you like this before.

Neteyam lifted his hands then, and one came to your face with the care of a healer, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone. His fingers barely touched you, yet it felt like a prayer. His breath was shallow, lips parted, his eyes flicking across your features like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your confusion, your quiet.

“I have rejected many,” he said, and his voice cracked just slightly on the words, like the admission cut on its way out. “There were girls—daughters of warriors, daughters of healers. They came with woven gifts. With smiles. With eyes full of hopes I could not return.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. Your heart was thudding so hard it pulsed in your fingers, in your ribs. You couldn’t understand why he was telling you this, why the intensity in his voice was so raw, so close to unraveling. But still, you said nothing.

“I told them all no,” he continued, quieter now. “Not because they were not worthy. But because I already knew. My spirit had already chosen.”

Your lips parted. Air stuck in your throat. Neteyam’s fingers trembled against your cheek, just once.

“I want you,” he said, the words small and huge all at once. “Nga lu oeru.”

Silence fell like mist—thick, unbroken, impossible to see through.

Your body froze. The words echoed, reverberating like footsteps across stone. I want you. Nga lu oeru. The simplicity of it was devastating. You stared at him, blinking once, twice, the world narrowing to the press of his thumb on your skin, the hush of the forest around you, the impossible closeness of his breath.

“I don’t…” you started, voice faint. “You want me?”

He smiled, soft and sad, like he had been holding this truth for years. “Yes,” he said. “I have for a long time.”

Your knees nearly buckled. The words hit you too fast, too deep. You had never imagined this. Never dared to.

“I thought we were just…” Your voice trailed off into the air between you, words unraveling like frayed thread.

Neteyam’s forehead tilted toward yours, the space between your bodies shrinking until you could feel the heat of his skin. “You are my dearest friend,” he murmured, “but my heart no longer hears you that way. It has not for many moons.”

Your breath stilled in your chest. His voice, rich and low, carried more honesty than you’d ever heard from him. His eyes were wide, unguarded, their golden depths drawing you in like a tide you had no way to resist. You had always known they were beautiful, but never like this. Never when they were staring at you like you were the only soul Eywa had ever breathed life into. His irises shimmered in the dim light, every fleck of amber catching the violet glow of the Tree, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away. He looked like Neytiri. Fierce. Stunning. Honorable.

The thought of his mother sliced through the haze like a blade. Your breath caught as it struck you—who he was, where he came from. The golden child. Firstborn of Toruk Makto. Grandson of the great Eytukan. He was carved from legends, sculpted in the stories that surrounded your people like mist, and you were—

You leaned back abruptly, your brow furrowing as you pulled just out of his reach, the warmth of his body still lingering on your skin. His expression shifted instantly. Confusion etched into his features as his head tilted slightly, ears twitching with uncertainty.

“Ma—” he said your name gently, voice full of concern, “what is wrong?”

You shook your head, once, twice, harder the second time, like you were trying to dislodge the thought that had buried itself deep behind your ribs.

“No,” you whispered, your voice tight and thin. “This is wrong.”

He took a half-step forward, his hand tightening around yours instinctively. “Why?” he asked, his voice still quiet but less steady now. “Why is it wrong?”

You exhaled sharply, a choked noise that trembled out of your chest like you were trying to keep yourself from breaking apart. “Because,” you said, voice catching, “you should not like me.”

His brow knit together. “Why?” he asked again, but more firmly now. “You must tell me.”

“You are Neteyam te Suli,” you said, eyes wide, filling with tears that blurred the tree’s glow. “You are the golden son. The warrior. The future leader. Your family—your family is legend. Your name carries weight across the entire forest. You are—”

“I am just Neteyam,” he interrupted, his voice rough, strained with disbelief. His grip on your hand tightened. “I am only a man standing before you.”

You shook your head again, pulling slightly at his hold, but he did not let go.

“You are not just a man,” you said, the words breaking over your tongue like cracked stone. “You are the one we all look to. You are brave, strong, you have the best of your father’s leadership and your mother’s fire. You deserve someone who matches that. Someone who runs beside you. I—I cannot. I do not hunt. I do not fly well. I am not…” Your breath faltered. “I am not meant for you.”

He stepped closer again, not letting you retreat further. “That is not for you to decide,” he said, voice quiet but fierce. “That is for me to decide. And I have already chosen.”

Tears began to gather in your eyes, burning, slipping over your cheeks. You didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now. But the weight of his words and the ache in your chest collided too hard to contain.

“I do not understand you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Why me? There are many. Many who are stronger. More graceful. More like you.”

His jaw clenched slightly, and his eyes shone with frustration, with grief, with the agony of watching you crumble beneath the weight of doubt. “Because you see me,” he said fiercely. “Not my blood. Not my name. Not my title. You see me.”

You tried to pull your hand from his again, but he stepped forward, both of his palms cradling your face now, holding you like you were glass. “You think I do not know what others expect of me?” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Every day I carry their eyes. Their stories. Their hopes. And none of it feels real—except when I am with you.”

You blinked hard, more tears sliding down, and your lips trembled as you tried to form a reply. But he didn’t stop.

“You are not like them,” he said. “And that is why I love you. You make space for quiet. You listen when others speak only to be heard. You find beauty in small things. You have never once asked me to be more than I am, or less than I am. I can breathe when I am near you.”

Your chest ached with the force of it all, your lungs struggling beneath the weight of words you had never dreamed he would say.

“I am not worthy of you,” you said, your voice faint, lost.

He shook his head, pressing his forehead to yours once more, his breath warm across your cheek. “Do not say that,” he whispered. “You are more than worthy. You are everything.”

A sob escaped your lips and your fingers clenched in his. “But I do not know how to be loved like that,” you admitted. “Not by someone like you.”

“You do not have to know,” he said, his voice shaking now, the last edges of his calm crumbling. “You only have to let me.”

Your lips parted, your breath hitching on a sob that caught in your chest before it could leave. More tears slipped down your cheeks, warm trails of salt gliding along your skin as your hands clenched weakly at your sides. The ache behind your ribs was growing, spreading like water through cracked earth, a helpless kind of breaking you didn’t know how to stop. Words pressed at your throat, but before you could speak, a delicate flicker of light danced at the edge of your vision.

Atokirina.

One. Then two. Drifting down from the canopy like the breath of Eywa herself, they moved on invisible currents and began to circle you and Neteyam in slow, reverent spirals. You gasped, a choked sound full of disbelief and dread. Your eyes lifted, catching the faint, ethereal glow as more of the seeds descended like mist, glowing like the sky before dawn.

“No,” you whispered, your voice cracking apart. “No, this is not—this is wrong.”

The words shook as they left you, trembling beneath the weight of fear and disbelief. Your gaze darted to Neteyam, wide with panic, as if hoping he would say it too, that he would agree and the world would tilt back into place. But he did not. His golden eyes only searched yours, fierce and full of pain.

“They come because Eywa listens,” he said, his voice hoarse, trying to stay steady. “She hears me.”

“She should not!” Your hands trembled as they rose, curling into fists against your chest. “Neteyam, you are the future of your people. Eywa should not be listening to this! You should not want me!”

His jaw clenched. His tail lashed once behind him, a quick flick of frustration that betrayed what he was trying to contain. “Why do you keep saying that?” His voice rose, still controlled, but louder than before. “Why do you believe you are not worthy of me?”

You shook your head violently, stepping back, your chest rising and falling with the effort to breathe. “Because! Because you could have anyone! Ney’en is the best singer in the village. She sings to Eywa and the whole forest quiets. You could have her.”

His ears flicked back. “I do not want Ney’en.”

“She is graceful,” you pressed, the words tumbling fast, your throat aching. “She moves like water, like the wind. And Pevi. She has already led three successful hunts. She is strong. Respected.”

“I do not want Pevi.”

Your breath hitched, your lip quivering as you spoke again, more names spilling from your tongue like you were drowning in them. “Sänu is beautiful. Everyone says she has the eyes of the moons. Even your father said she was—”

“I do not want Sänu!” Neteyam’s voice cracked with raw frustration, the words torn from him like a growl, his chest heaving with the force of it. “You do not understand!”

He took a step forward, closing the distance again. You tried to pull away, but his hand found yours. His touch burned through your skin with the intensity of a soul reaching out for another. He was trembling now too, though he hid it better than you. His eyes were wide, dark with emotion, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, but no less intense.

“I do not want the singer, or the warrior, or the girl with moonlight in her eyes. I do not want what others think is best for me,” he said, each word deliberate. “I want you.”

You stared at him, tears falling harder now, your face hot with the pressure of emotion you could no longer hold. Your lips parted, but no sound came.

“I have always wanted you,” he continued, voice cracking, “from the moment you scolded me for picking the wrong color dye for Spiders’ bracelet. From the moment I watched you dance by yourself because no one asked you, and you smiled anyway.”

The atokirina drifted closer, swirling around the space between your bodies like a silent witness. One brushed your shoulder, weightless and warm, and you shivered beneath it. Eywa was listening.

Neteyam's breath hitched, and without another word, he surged forward and kissed you.

His hand rose to your cheek, fingers trembling as they pressed into your skin with reverent care. His other arm wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle, drawing you into his chest. His lips met yours like a vow—full of a desperate, aching tenderness that melted through your bones. He kissed you like he had been waiting his entire life for permission.

Your sob cracked open against his mouth, a broken sound, but you didn’t pull away.

Your lips answered his without thought, without plan. Your hands fisted into the fabric of his chest wrap, clutching him like the earth was falling away beneath you. His mouth moved slowly against yours, warm and soft and steady. He tasted like the forest, like wind and bark and crushed leaves. The kiss deepened as you pressed closer, your breath stuttering, tears spilling down your cheeks even as your lips clung to his.

Neteyam made a sound in his throat, quiet and raw, like the first exhale after surfacing from deep water. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone, brushing away tears he didn’t try to stop. He kissed you again, slower now, his lips parting yours gently, savoring each movement, like he was learning the shape of your soul through your mouth.

You were still crying. But your hands held him tight, and your kiss told him what your words could not. His hands drifted from your face, down the slope of your neck and across your shoulders before settling at your waist. His touch was grounding, his palms large and warm against your sides, like he was trying to hold all the pieces of you together. His mouth never left yours for long, though the kisses grew softer, slower, more delicate, as if he was trying to kiss away the tears clinging to your lips. Between each breath, between the trembling of your chest and the hiccups that shuddered out of you, he murmured to you in soft, hushed Na’vi, his voice full of quiet devotion.

“Ma yawne… ke'nu, do not be afraid,” he whispered against your lips.

Your sobs still came, small and broken, but you didn’t pull away. His words were like salve to the ache in your heart. Even as your body trembled, even as your breaths caught in uneven gasps, you held onto him like he was the only solid thing in the world. The feel of his body pressing closer to yours was overwhelming in the most delicate way.

You felt your tail moving behind you, twitching rapidly, betraying your emotions no matter how still the rest of you tried to remain. Neteyam’s own tail brushed against yours, and with a slow, tentative curl, it wound around your ankle, loose and tender, like a question. You shuddered in his arms. He kissed you again, slower this time, his lips grazing yours in a rhythm that echoed with quiet promise.

“You feel this, ma yawntu?” he breathed between kisses. “This is right.”

Each word fell into your mouth like prayer. You could feel the forest pressing in close around you, not in suffocation, but in celebration. The Tree of Voices pulsed with soft bioluminescence at your backs, its roots humming beneath your feet like a heartbeat you both shared. The atokirina drifted in your peripheral vision, still circling lazily, like they knew. Like Eywa was holding her breath just to witness you.

Neteyam’s lips moved away from yours slowly, trailing down across your cheek, past the salt of your tears, and down the gentle curve of your jaw. His breath tickled your throat, and your fingers clutched tighter at the fabric of his chest wrap. When he reached the side of your neck, he brushed a kiss there too, his smile brushing your skin.

“I should have brought you here long ago,” he murmured, the mischief returning to his tone. His mouth curved against your neck. “You look very pretty when you cry for me.”

Your breath hitched, and your eyes flew open, wide with disbelief. His voice was warm and teasing, and you could hear the grin behind it. Your body went rigid in his arms.

“Neteyam…” you breathed, horrified.

He chuckled quietly, another kiss pressed to your neck. “I am being honest.”

“You cannot say that,” you said, a little sharper now, your stomach twisting. “You cannot—” You couldn’t finish. The words clogged in your throat as the weight of what this meant came crashing back down.

You pulled away suddenly, chest heaving. His arms dropped from your waist as you stepped back, and your eyes locked with his; wide, pained, confused. “You cannot say things like that,” you repeated, voice shaking. “You cannot make me feel like this. We cannot… we cannot do this.”

His smile faded. His expression faltered completely. “Ma—” he said your name, low and broken, but you turned from him.

Your feet moved before your thoughts caught up, your breath ragged and uneven. You walked quickly, shoulders tense, head low. You didn’t want him to see your face. You moved through the roots of the Tree, your fingers brushing vines as you passed, your voice rising to the canopy in a fractured call.

“Kiri’pa!” you shouted, calling for your ikran, the cry unsteady. “Kiri’pa, syaw lu oeru!”

Behind you, Neteyam was moving, fast and light, his footsteps chasing yours. “Wait—kehe, do not run from me!” His voice cracked with desperation.

You kept walking. “You kissed me, and you say those things, but you know! You know I cannot be your mate!”

He was behind you now, too close, his voice rising like the storm winds before heavy rain. “Why do you keep saying that? Why must you decide for me?”

You didn’t answer. Your breath shuddered from your chest as your ikran’s wings echoed overhead, the beat of them washing across the branches like a gathering wind.

“I have waited for you,” he said behind you, voice hoarse. “Every day. Every eclipse. While others danced and laughed and asked for my hand. I waited.”

You froze, hands clenched at your sides, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.

“You say I cannot want you,” he continued, his voice lower now, more tired than angry. “But I already do. I have.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, silent now, carving new lines into the old.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, quieter. “Do you not feel it?”

Your shoulders trembled. You could hear the hurt in him, the unspoken plea that threaded beneath his every word. He wasn’t just chasing you now. He was chasing the truth of what bloomed between you, the fragile, precious truth you both had held at arm’s length for too long. It was there in the way his voice broke, in the way his footsteps slowed behind you, not because he had given up, but because he was afraid of scaring you further. His breaths were uneven now, and you could feel the silence swelling between you like the space before a storm.

You tried to speak, your mouth opening around a thought you couldn’t name, couldn’t tame. Your voice faltered before it found shape, the weight in your throat too heavy, your heart beating too fast to steady your breath.

“Say something,” Neteyam said, softly. He wasn’t demanding, his tone was aching, threaded with disbelief and a fear he couldn’t hide anymore. “Please. If you feel nothing, say so. But do not leave me in silence.”

You looked back at him, your lips trembling, tears still glimmering along your lashes. He was standing there beneath the glowing tendrils of the Tree of Voices, his braids slightly disheveled from the chase, his chest rising and falling as he watched you with eyes that begged for an answer.

But you didn’t speak.

You turned to your ikran instead. Kiri’pa let out a soft chuff as you approached her, her wide lavender wings folding close to her sides. You reached for her harness with shaking hands, your chest heaving. The trembling breath you let out fogged in the cool night air. When your fingers touched the bond tendrils at her neck, you hesitated, only for a second. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

You lifted your braid, your kuru, and made tsaheylu.

Her presence flooded your body like water through dry roots. She greeted you with recognition, immediate and whole, and your knees nearly gave out beneath the rush of sensation. Your heart was already fragile, already cracked open wide, and her welcome nearly undid you. You climbed onto her back, hands tightening around her reins.

Neteyam’s voice cracked through the air. “No—wait!”

You flinched, but did not turn. Your legs shifted, guiding Kiri’pa into motion.

“Wait! Ke tswayon! Not like this!”

His voice broke, desperation laced with disbelief. The sound of it tore through you, your heart wrenching with each syllable. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t see his face. You knew if you did, you would not leave.

Neteyam shouted his call for Seze. The piercing sound rang out into the trees, echoing into the canopy like a last cry, sharp and wild. You didn’t wait to see if his mount came. You didn’t wait for the rustle of wings. You urged Kiri’pa into the air.

Your ikran leapt from the ground with a roar and beat of wings, wind slicing across your face as you rose high above the Tree of Voices. The forest spread below you, vast and glittering, alive with the whisper of ancestors and the glow of sacred breath. But it felt hollow. It felt far away.

Below, Neteyam watched you disappear into the sky, his hand still half-outstretched, fingers curled like he had tried to hold on, like the air had betrayed him.

He stood in the clearing long after the sound of your wings faded. The atokirina still circled him, their glow dimming as they drifted higher into the trees. His chest felt tight, each breath shallow.

All he could think—over and over—was how he hated this.

He hated the title, the legacy, the perfect image carved into him since he was a child. He hated what it made others see. What it made you see. He hated being the golden child.

And for the first time, he told himself he would never be it again.

weLl I dONt WaNt NiNaT

[ivsarchive]

i absolutely adore how the tragedy played out between them. this is so sad and so well written, like it hurts so good ( ˶•ᴖ•) !! <3

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ dairy queen closes in 10 minutes ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ tim drake ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are. word cnt. 16.2k

includes ›››› sexual language, dairy queen, car make out, denial, you match his freak and that's why you dumped him

Tim has been living inside the fraction of a second you hesitated before sitting beside him — that infinitesimal pause where your body seemed to remember him before your mind could intervene. He’s worried it like a loose thread, convinced it means something, that it proves there is still warmth there, buried but intact.

“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you’d murmured, voice dulled by exhaustion rather than certainty, even as your hands betrayed you—tugging your scarf tighter around his neck, fingers lingering just long enough to make the words feel like a lie you were both pretending to believe. You’d said it gently, like a confession instead of a sentence. Your eyes were watering, your hands shaking against the scarf. That was a year ago.

He remembers the cold that night more vividly than your words, the way you tried to protect him from it even as you stepped away, leaving him standing there with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with—except keep it.

Tims kept it alright.

It’s almost grotesque, how fiercely.

He’s preserved that pause of yours the way people preserve saints’ bones—wrapped in memory, reverent to the point of ruin. The fraction of a second where you hovered before sitting beside him, knees angled toward him before you caught yourself. That hesitation lives under his skin. Proof, he tells himself. Evidence that your body remembered him even when you tried not to.

And God, the things he’s kept.

The ribbon, slid carefully from your hair when you slept over, breath held like a thief afraid of waking something holy. The broken bracelet beads, every last one collected from the floor on hands and knees, replaced weeks later with diamonds he pretended meant nothing — an upgrade, he said lightly, as if he hadn’t memorized the exact way the original had looked against your wrist. The origami robins and flowers you folded when boredom softened you, creased wings and petals tucked into books, pinned above his desk, carried with him through every move like talismans.

You’d said it so quietly, then.

“I don’t think you’re good for me.”

Murmured, not declared. Your mouth said no while your hands betrayed you — tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw, thumbs warm against his throat as if instinct refused to let him freeze. The words felt practiced. The touch didn’t. He remembers the smell of your shampoo, the faint press of your knuckles, the way you exhaled like you were bracing for something sharp.

That was a year ago.

A year of being careful. A year of agreeing, without ever speaking it aloud, to be friends.

Friends.

After he’s been inside you, after he knows the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to beg, after he’s memorized the curve of your spine like scripture. 

Sure. Friends.

School makes it easier to lie. Same friend group, same bleachers at lunch, same unspoken rule: don’t touch, don’t linger, don’t look like you remember.

Your new boyfriend is a theater geek.

Volleyball team captain, too, and somehow managing to keep a perfect tan even in the dead stretch of Gotham’s winter, when the sun feels more like a rumor than a fact and everyone else looks faintly gray around the edges. 

Lloyd. 

Same height as Tim, just a little bulkier—closer to Dick’s build than Jason’s—but he doesn’t carry it the way Dick does, doesn’t wear his body with confidence. He's a blonde, freckles scattered across his face like someone forgot to finish the job.

Gemini.

Six hundred fifty-two followers on Instagram. Bio reads ‘i love my gf’.

Yeah. 

Tim loves his girlfriend too.

“Stop glaring,” Stephanie hisses, elbowing him sharply in the side beneath the library table, her shoe nudging his ankle a second later just to make the point stick.

“I’m not glaring,” Tim mutters back, not looking away.

“You’re still watching,” she says, exasperated, “and it’s creepy.”

You’re a few tables over, earbuds in, head bent forward just enough that Tim’s almost certain you’re blasting white noise—something steady, something meant to drown out the world. The library hums around all of you: pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations bouncing gently off tall shelves and stained-glass windows that filter Gotham’s weak afternoon light into dusty gold.

You were seated with Steph and a few other friends at one of the long tables, five chairs pulled in close, bodies overlapping in that casual, communal way people slip into without thinking. But now your back is to Tim, the familiar line of your shoulders framed by your coat draped over the chair, the curve of your neck half-hidden by your hair.

And there he is.

Lloyd sits next to you, angled just enough that his face is fully visible to Tim, a script spread open on the table between you, pages already dog-eared and marked up with pencil notes. He mouths lines under his breath, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it might jog something loose.

Every so often, his green eyes flick up.

They land on Tim.

And every single time, the idiot smiles at him—awkward, polite, uncertain—before ducking his head back down and returning to memorizing lines for whatever stupid play he’s involved in this week.

Tim exhales slowly through his nose.

“He’s not even the main lead,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck is it taking him so long to memorize so few lines?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucas says from beside him, tone flat and edged with sarcasm, “maybe he wants to spend time with his girlfriend. Just a thought.”

Tim doesn’t bother looking at him. Lucas isn’t exactly close—not really—but Stephanie and you had introduced him to Tim after spending time together in art class, and he lets Tim rant without interruption, which counts for something.

“My girlfriend,” Tim corrects automatically.

Dina, Lucas’s girlfriend, groans outright from where she’s leaning back in her chair. “This is why she isn’t sitting with us,” she mutters.

“She isn’t sitting with us because the idiot needed help,” Tim snaps back, keeping his voice carefully light, carefully neutral, even though the words come out sharper than intended.

And he’s not wrong. You had been sitting at the head of the table, comfortably centered, until Lloyd showed up—nervous, bashful, clutching his script like it might bite—and asked if you could help him run lines for an audition. You’d hesitated for exactly half a second before changing seats, scooting closer, tilting the pages toward yourself with practiced ease.

Tim had wanted to shove the script straight into Lloyd’s mouth.

Instead, he watches.

Watches the way you lean in when Lloyd gets stuck, the way you tap the page lightly and murmur corrections, the way Lloyd listens with an intensity that borders on reverence. The library settles around them, quiet and warm and heavy with books that smell like dust and ink and old promises, Gotham pressing its gray, unlovely afternoon up against the windows while, inside, you sit close enough to someone else that your shoulders almost touch.

Tim keeps his gaze fixed there, steady and unblinking, like if he looks away for even a second something permanent might shift without his permission, like the world might quietly rearrange itself while he isn’t watching.

“I hope they start making out,” Dina murmurs into her tea, voice low and wicked, steam curling up around her face, “just so I can watch Tim strangle himself with his computer cord.”

Lucas snickers beside her, shoulders shaking.

Tim finally drags his eyes away from you and turns to Dina, incredulous. “Come on,” he says, voice clipped, restrained by effort alone. “You can’t seriously think he’s actually good for her. He’s a fucking idiot.”

That makes Dina pause. She cups her mug in both hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, gaze drifting back toward your table as if she’s trying to see something she missed. “I’m not saying that, Tim,” she says, slower now. “I’m just… she seems happy. I guess.”

“You guess?” Tim echoes, one brow lifting as he flips his notebook open and starts scribbling absently, blue ballpoint pen gliding across the page. A stick-figure Scarecrow takes shape under his hand—crooked hat, lopsided grin—the ink dark and precise. One of the fancy pens you bought him for his birthday a few months ago. He presses a little harder than necessary.

Stephanie shrugs, spinning her pencil between her fingers. “It could be worse,” she says. “He’s just… awkward.”

Lucas snickers again when he catches the expression that crosses Tim’s face, all tight disbelief and quiet offense.

Tim turns on him immediately. “Fuck you, man,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I mean,” Lucas adds, holding up his hands, “I’m actually with Tim on this one. I don’t like him that much either.”

Oh.

Oh okay.

So Lucas is Tim’s best friend now, apparently, and they are the closest people in the fucking universe.

Tim straightens instantly, pointing at Lucas like he’s just been handed a winning card and swiveling back toward Dina and Stephanie. “You hear that?” he says, vindicated. “He agrees!”

Stephanie shoots Lucas a look and tilts her head. “Dude, come on—”

“She had to ask him out,” Lucas says, shrugging like this is obvious. “Once or twice, whatever, but it’s like—every time. Even for the winter dance. She had to ask him.”

“What happened to feminism?” Dina tries weakly, staring into her cup.

“That’s not what I mean,” Lucas replies, turning toward her. “Come on, you’ve seen how much she overthinks it every time. When have I ever made you feel like you needed to ask me just to see me?”

Dina huffs, looking away, lips pressed thin. “You’re inflating Tim’s ego.”

“I’m not complimenting him!”

“Then why does he look like you just proposed?” Stephanie asks, exasperated and amused in equal measure.

Lucas furrows his brow, confused for half a second before following her gaze.

Locking eyes with Tim.

“Dude…?”

Tim leans in immediately, grin sharp and hopeful, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So you’ll help me?”

“Fuck no.”

Oh.

Okay.

Tim Drake fucking hates Lucas, actually, and he can go die.

Tim groans, letting his forehead drop forward onto his notebook with a soft thunk, pen rolling slightly under his hand. “You all want me dead,” he mutters, voice muffled by paper. “What if I killed myself, huh? What if—”

“She’d probably save you a seat at her wedding with Lloyd,” Stephanie cuts in cheerfully, chin propped in her palm, freckles creasing as she smiles, “and just keep it empty.”

Tim kicks her under the table.

The library exhales as the evening thins out. Lucas and Dina leave around six, their voices fading down the marble stairwell, footsteps swallowed by the building’s cavernous quiet. Gotham presses itself against the tall windows, the sky outside bruised purple and gray, streetlights flickering on one by one like tired sentries. The stained glass above the stacks bleeds muted color onto the floor—dusty golds and blues that settle into the cracks of old stone.

By seven, Stephanie finally closes her textbook, the heavy thud echoing louder than it should in the near-empty room. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, curls spilling down her shoulders in loose blonde spirals that catch the lamplight. Her skin still holds a faint tan despite Gotham’s winter, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations she never bothered to memorize.

She glances between Tim and you.

Lloyd left a few minutes ago.

You drifted back to the head of the table after, slipping into the seat like it was always yours, familiar and effortless. Tim doesn’t look up—not once—but Stephanie notices everything anyway. The way his fingers fly faster over the keyboard, knuckles pale, veins standing out against skin that’s already too light from long nights indoors. The way he takes a sharp pull from his energy drink, throat working like he needs to swallow something down before it crawls out of him.

Gods save him.

She stays put.

Doesn’t pack.

Doesn’t even pretend to.

Just slouches sideways in her chair, one knee tucked up, phone glowing softly in her hand as she doomscrolls with deliberate casualness, firmly wedged between the two of you like a human barricade.

“Don’t you have a date with Cass?” Tim asks eventually, voice rougher than he means it to be.

He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes locked on his screen, lashes casting dark shadows against sharp cheekbones, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, untouched since this morning, making him look more tired than he’ll ever admit in Stephanie's eyes.

Stephanie lifts her head slowly. “What?”

Tim swallows. Shifts in his chair. Still doesn’t look at you. Not at the way you tilt your head when you’re confused, not at the way the overhead lamp warms your eyes into something soft and dangerous. “Your date,” he clarifies, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “With Cassandra.”

Stephanie’s eye twitches.

Ah. Message received.

“I don’t recall what you’re talking about, Timothy,” she says, tone sugary enough to rot teeth.

There are maybe six people in this world Stephanie Brown would willingly do something stupid and petty for.

Right now, she’s sitting between two of them.

“Dinner,” Tim adds, coughing slightly. “That ramen place.”

He probably assumed she’d help him for free.

And leave you alone with this monster?

Absolutely not.

“Ohhh,” Stephanie drawls, suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah. That nice, expensive one near the GCPD? The new one?”

Tim blinks, confused, watching as she nods to herself and begins packing her bag with exaggerated slowness, slipping pens into pockets, zipping and unzipping compartments. “Yeah, I guess—”

“Oh darn!” she interrupts brightly, patting her jacket pockets. “I left my wallet at home. Guess it’d be easier to cancel on Cass and reschedule.”

You pull one earbud free, brow knitting as you glance between them, noticing the way Tim’s eyebrow jumps, a sharp little tell he never quite learned to hide.

“You—” Tim cuts himself off, exhales hard through his nose, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He doesn’t even look at Stephanie when he hands it over. “Here. Don’t be a bad girlfriend and—”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” Stephanie cuts in, batting her lashes dramatically as she plucks his black card straight from his wallet. She slips on her jacket, curls bouncing as she turns to you with a grin that’s all mischief and affection. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”

You hesitate, head tilting slightly. “Uh… yeah.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE,” Tim suddenly snaps, voice echoing through the quiet library, drawing irritated looks from a few remaining students as he stands and physically herds a giggling Stephanie away from the table. “GOODBYE. HAVE FUN.”

She laughs as she goes, practically skipping toward the exit, boots clicking against stone, blonde curls swinging as she throws a careless wave over her shoulder.

Tim watches her disappear into the stairwell, shoulders slumping just a fraction.

With the way she vanishes into Gotham’s night, he already knows—deep, deep down—that he’s losing at least two thousand dollars tonight.

The library settles again, lights humming softly, the city breathing outside the windows.

And you’re still there.

There’s an empty seat between the two of you where Stephanie sat.

You don’t hesitate. You stand and move into it like it’s muscle memory, like gravity still knows where to put you, like you didn’t just walk Lloyd out to his car ten minutes ago with your hand wrapped around his sleeve, laughing softly like you were something out of a storybook—like his fucking prince charming.

The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as you pull it in, close enough that Tim feels the shift in air before he sees you settle beside him. His shoulders tense instinctively, pale skin already gone tight under the library lights, hair falling into his eyes as he stares a little too hard at his screen.

“What are you working on?” you ask, easy and conversational, fingers sliding up to tune your music down as you keep sketching, pencil moving in loose, confident strokes. It looks like something for art class—shading layered gently, lines purposeful without being precious. Stephanie finished the final touches on her landscape the moment she arrived, declared it done, and promptly started meddling.

Tim’s answer comes a beat late.

“Uh—” His voice stutters slightly, like it caught on the way out. “Just… trying to learn this new code. Finished school stuff already.”

You lean just enough to glance at his screen, not touching him, not quite, but close enough that he can see your reflection faintly in the dark glass. You nod, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Looks complicated.”

And then you go back to drawing.

Just like that.

Like you didn’t used to lean into him when you worked, shoulder to shoulder, knee pressed against his under the table. Like your head didn't tilt toward his when you concentrated, lashes brushing his sleeve. Like that wasn’t a year ago, like it wasn’t still burned into him in exact, brutal detail.

Tim swallows.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound rougher than he intends, barely there, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard as the library hums around you both—lights buzzing softly, pages turning somewhere far off.

And you sit there beside him anyway, close enough to undo him, drawing like nothing has changed at all.

Tim doesn’t take your closeness for granted. He never has. Tim breathes it in the way he’s learned to breathe in every narrow allowance of proximity these days, slow and careful, like the moment might bruise if he holds it too tightly. You smell like your perfume—soft, familiar, worn into the fibers of your coat—layered with the papery dryness of old books and the faint, comforting bitterness of tea you shared earlier with Dina, mugs cooling forgotten on the table between half-finished thoughts.

And under all of that–barely there but persistent once he catches it–is cedarwood.

Not his.

The stupid blonde’s.

It clings faintly, like static, like a reminder pressed into the air itself. 

You walked him to his car. 

Tim isn’t a traditionalist, not really, but it’s winter and Gotham doesn’t do gentle cold; it bites, sharp and personal, and it only took Lloyd four quiet, “No, I insist—”s from you to give in. 

Amateur. Tim files it away automatically before he lets himself breathe again anyway, because denying it would hurt worse, because this is still you. His fingers crack at the knuckles without him realizing, a soft, dry sound swallowed by the library’s hush, and his gaze drifts—unintentional, unguarded—down to your sketchbook.

And stops.

Freezes.

Red Robin stares back at him from the page.

Not stiff. Not posed. Caught in motion, balanced on the edge of something unseen, weight shifted to one hip like he’s mid-turn, cape flaring in a way that suggests momentum rather than drama. 

The pencil work is confident—dark where it needs to be, light where it breathes—shading layered patiently along the lines of the suit, the texture of the fabric suggested with nothing more than pressure and restraint. The mask sits just right on the face, angular but not harsh, eyes narrowed with focus rather than anger.

It isn’t copied. It’s remembered.

Tim sees details no camera would ever bother with: the slight tension in the jaw, the way the line of the neck curves when he’s bracing to move, the subtle asymmetry that makes the figure human instead of iconic.

When Tim looks up, slow and careful, he finds you smiling softly as you draw, lashes lowered, pencil moving with quiet certainty. You once told him you’d never draw him—that it was bad luck, that you loved him too much to risk it, that some things shouldn’t be pinned down or flattened onto paper.

Gods help him, you’ve drawn him the way people draw something they’re afraid to lose.

Tim almost scoffs. Almost tells you that Red Robin looks worse in real footage, that cameras catch the sweat, the smudges, the moments where he’s off-balance and barely holding it together. He almost jokes, almost reaches for distance—

And then he sees it.

The small beauty mark at the base of the neck, just beneath the line of the mask, placed so casually it could only come from familiarity. From proximity. From having looked at him up close, when the mask was off and the world was quiet.

Something in Tim’s chest tightens, not painful, just full.

You drew him. And you did it sitting close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm when you shift, close enough that he can feel the steady warmth of you beside him, real and grounding, like you never stopped knowing exactly who he was beneath the masks and names and careful compartments.

“Thought you were a Nightwing fan,” Tim murmurs, the words coughing their way out of him in a whisper meant for no one else.

You glance up at him, pencil pausing mid-stroke where it’s shaping the fall of hair along the mask line, graphite smudged faintly along your fingers. “Thats all you, Tim,” you say easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “I’ve always liked Red Robin the most.”

“…Yeah?” Tim says after a second, his heart thudding too loud in his chest, the sound filling his ears until it feels like it might spill out of him. He shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing in slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “He’s kinda boring, though. Don’t you think so?”

You laugh softly, the sound low and warm, shoulders lifting just a little as you shake your head. Your gaze drops back to the page, curls of hair falling forward as the pencil moves again—confident, unhurried—adding loose locks along the mask line, adjusting the angle of his jaw with a few precise strokes. “He’s nice to look at, and his suit is cool” you say, thoughtful, like you’re deciding it in real time. “That’s all that matters for the project.”

Heat rushes to Tim’s face, sudden and overwhelming, creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks under the blue glow of his laptop screen. He swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if that might anchor him. “Just… nice?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d like, cracking ever so slightly at the end.

You don’t look up. You hum instead, soft and considering, a small sound tucked between breaths as your pencil hesitates—then continues. “Mhm. Well,” you add after a beat, lips curving faintly, “maybe a little bit more.”

Tim’s knee starts bouncing under the table, fast and restless, the motion telegraphing everything he refuses to say. He doesn’t know what to do with that—whether it’s a compliment or a deflection or something gentler and more dangerous. His mouth opens, closes, then settles on a useless, noncommittal, “Mhm…”

You tilt your head, studying the sketch with a critical eye, tapping the pencil lightly against the paper once. Then, without warning, you say, “He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”

Tim pauses.

His fingers still on the keyboard. His knee stutters mid-bounce. The blush drains from his face, replaced by pure, quiet confusion as his brain stalls out completely. He stares at his screen like it’s betrayed him, cursor blinking patiently in the corner.

“Tim?”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s surfacing from deep water.

You’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and earnest, lashes catching the warm lamplight, pencil hovering mid-air. Your mouth is tilted into something unsure, something fond.

“Mhm?” he says, automatically, voice distant.

“…Dairy Queen closes in ten minutes.”

The words land soft and absurd between you. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction, something in his chest easing even as his heart picks up again. He glances at you, then at the sketch, then back at you—caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

“…I know.” His voice is careful, deliberate, each word weighed like a stone he’s been carrying around for years. “…And… what does that have to do with us?”

You groan, letting the edge of your sketchbook tap softly against his forearm, a playful, almost affectionate smack that makes him flinch just slightly. “Come on!” The protest is sharp but light, threaded with warmth that curls into the space between you despite the library’s stale, paper-scented air and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Tim giggles, curling his fingers around the spot where the sketchbook landed, the sound of it mingling with his heartbeat in his ears, loud and jarring in the quiet. “Hey! You just watched me give my card to Stephanie, Tim Drake is broke now.” he protests, voice clipped with mock indignation, but the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betray the joy of being near you, of sharing this space with you.

“I’ll pay!” you insist, leaning a little closer, pencil still in hand, tracing shadows in the sketchbook as if the very act grounds you enough to be closer.

“Absolutely not,” Tim says, shaking his head, pale skin still flushed faintly beneath the library’s dim glow, sharp jawline catching light, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. His grin is soft, but the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders draw back and his hands still, betray a protective instinct he never can fully hide from you. “When have I ever let you pay for anything?”

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, “Well… that was when we were dating, that’s different—”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence. The words hit him like a sudden draft of winter air, sharp and real, and he sees it: the way your eyes flick toward his, the trace of hesitation. His smile falters, eyes no longer crinkling into the familiar crescent moons but softening into a tentative curve, a dimple barely showing at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders draw in slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s bracing himself against a memory he’s never allowed himself to touch.

He’s never heard you say it—name it—before. 

That what you two had, what you still carry in the spaces between words and touches, was over and that the over part was actually real. Broken, maybe, but real. Your breakup wasn’t a spoken ending; it was a silence he’d been forced to interpret, a confession he always assumed, but now you’re saying it anyway, in subtle, quiet ways, and it feels like the city itself has paused to make him process it.

“…Mhm…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the soft hum of the library. His gaze drops to his lap, hands brushing against each other in that small, nervous way he does when he’s unsure what to say but doesn’t want to let the moment slip. “…Uh I should have a 20 on me though, I'll just pay, yeah?”

The casual tone is a mask. He’s giving up the nonchalant act he’s perfected over months of careful observation, of distancing himself from his own feelings, of hiding in plain sight. Beneath it, there’s something else—something protective, careful, a quiet pursuit to make this moment of pause yours as much as it is his, because he's so sick of your pauses only having an impact on him.

You glance at him, heart squeezing faintly at the expression on his face, at the way he shapes his sadness into something neat, contained, so it doesn’t spill over into the world. There’s frustration in it, sure, but it’s measured, practiced—the same way he’s always measured his words with you, the same way he’s always carried your heart alongside his own without ever breaking stride.

The subtle history of your relationship—the jokes, the shared silences, the afternoons spent wandering Gotham’s streets side by side, the whispered plans, the quiet fights and louder reconciliations—all of it hums beneath the surface, threading through every glance, every brush of sleeves, every half-smile that was exchanged across the sketchbook between you.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside the library disappears, and the city—gritty, cold, unforgiving Gotham—fades behind the steady pulse of proximity, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet certainty that some things, even after endings, never truly go away.

Not if Tim will let it. 

He didn't let go of Robin and he won't let go of you.

“Come on,” Tim mumbles, already rising to his feet, a small, careful smile tugging at his mouth as he starts packing up—laptop slid into its sleeve, notebook stacked neatly on top, cords coiled with muscle memory precision, the pens you gifted him gathered like he’s afraid to leave any trace of you behind. “We can use my car. You probably walked here right?”

You don’t answer right away.

You’re still stuck on the look he wore just moments ago, the way his expression cracked open without warning. Tim has always been controlled about this—too controlled. When you called things off, he didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t ask you to stay. Sometimes, in your worse moments, you resented that. It felt like indifference masquerading as respect.

But the way his blue eyes widened earlier, bright and unguarded for just a second, the way his composure slipped—it was the first time you saw how deeply it landed. How much it still mattered.

The realization unsettles you, stirring something low and uncertain in your gut, the quiet sense that maybe following him now isn’t as harmless as it feels.

“You comin’?” Tim asks over his shoulder as he adjusts the strap of his bag, posture easy but hopeful. He pauses, glancing back. “Or… I can heat up the car first. If you want.”

“No, I—” You stop yourself, then shake your head gently, moving to pack your things instead. Pencil tucked away, sketchbook closed with care. You hesitate only a moment before taking one last look at the Red Robin drawing, fingertips lingering at the edge of the page like a goodbye—or a promise—before you slide it into your bag, almost reverently.

When you turn back around, Tim is already there.

Holding your coat out for you.

You jump a little, startled enough to laugh, the sound breaking the tension. “God,” you chuckle, slipping your arms into the sleeves, “Alfred is rubbing off on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim says casually, adjusting the collar for you without thinking, “he says you rubbed off on me, so.”

He hopes what he just said sticks.

It does.

Your fingers pause mid-button, the moment stretching thin and quiet between you.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

“How bad is it?” you mumble, voice pitched with playful dread as Tim cracks the heavy library doors open just enough to peer outside.

Your fur coat does not have a hood.

“Uh…” Tim glances back at you, a nervous smile flickering as a gust of icy wind snakes raindrops inside. “How about I just pull the car up front?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer. “They won’t let you.”

Gotham’s library sits stubbornly away from main roads, tucked back like a secret it’s trying to protect. With the city’s endless appetite for destruction, they’ve decided some things are worth guarding—this place being one.

“Come here,” Tim murmurs.

He tugs gently at the sleeve of your coat, pulling you closer before you can overthink it. He unzips his jacket and angles himself instinctively, lifting one side to shield your head and shoulders from the cold, creating a small pocket of warmth that smells like clean fabric, ozone, and something unmistakably him.

You falter.

Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush it. Just stands there, steady, letting you decide.

Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like you’re reminding yourself that friends do this too. That this doesn’t have to mean more.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

The cold rain hits the moment you step outside, sharp and immediate, Gotham winter cutting through fabric and skin alike, the wind threading itself between buildings like it knows exactly where to hurt. Snow hasn’t quite committed yet, but the ground is slick with old ice and slush, the sidewalk shining faintly under the amber streetlamps like it’s been lacquered with danger.

Tim moves first.

Not rushing you, not pulling—just angling himself so his shoulder blocks the worst of it, his jacket still half-open, one arm hovering close enough to guide without touching. You fall into step beside him automatically, boots striking the pavement a little too fast, breath puffing white in front of you, laughter caught somewhere between nerves and cold.

The library looms behind you, all stone and quiet judgment, while Gotham opens up ahead—wet streets, distant sirens, the low hum of traffic threading through the night. The parking lot feels farther than it should, stretched thin by the cold, by the way your coat slips just slightly on your shoulders, by the fact that your fingers are numb and your steps are getting shorter.

You slip.

It’s small—just a fraction of a second where your heel skids on a patch of ice you didn’t see—but it’s enough. Enough for your balance to tip, for your stomach to lurch, for the world to tilt wrong.

Tim catches you without thinking.

His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splaying through the fur of your coat, his other arm bracing you before you can even gasp. The contact is sudden and close and undeniable, your momentum carrying you straight into him, chest to chest, the impact softened only by the way he adjusts instantly, grounding you like this is a problem he’s solved a hundred times before.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Your breath tangles with his, warm against cold, your gloved hands pressing instinctively against his jacket. You can feel the tension in his grip—not rough, not hesitant—just precise, protective, like his body decided this was non-negotiable. His pulse jumps under your palm, fast and real, a quiet tell he never quite learned how to hide from you.

Then the moment passes.

He steadies you, eases you upright, hands lingering a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling back, giving you space without fully stepping away. The cold rushes back in immediately, reclaiming what little warmth you stole from him.

The car is close now.

He opens the passenger door for you, quick and efficient, one hand still hovering near your elbow as you slide inside, the seat cold even through your clothes. Snow crunches under his boots as he rounds the hood, movements smooth, practiced, the kind of unconscious choreography that comes from years of doing things fast and right.

You watch him through the windshield as he slips into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals the world out. The car fills with the quiet whir of the heater starting up, the windows fogging faintly at the edges.

Inside, the air is warm, sealed tight against Gotham’s cold, the heater humming low beneath the dash. Everything unsaid sits between you, dense and heavy, pressing at your ribs.

Friends do that, right?

You’d catch Stephanie at the waist if she slipped. You’d grab Lucas too, even if he made a joke about it afterward.

Yeah.

You’re friends.

+2 points to you.

You turn just in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair, trying to shake the rain loose, droplets scattering across his knuckles and the collar of his jacket. His black hair sticks up in damp, uneven strands, darker with moisture, lashes clumped slightly as he blinks. 

When he catches you looking, his mouth curves without hesitation—easy, familiar—eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek.

Your heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.

+2 points to Tim Drake.

You look away too quickly, forcing your hands to move, to do something normal, something harmless. You dig through your bag like you’re on autopilot, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until you find the packet of tissues. You hold it out to him, tone light, practiced, the way you talk when you don’t want him to notice anything’s wrong.

“Dry your hair, you’re going to get sick—”

“Hands are full,” Tim hums, distracted but smiling, one hand reaching back to shove both your bags into the backseat, the other twisting the key and cranking the heater higher. Warm air spills over your legs almost immediately.

So you move.

You pull a tissue free and lean in, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you. You scrunch the damp front of his bangs between your fingers, careful at first, then a little more deliberate, dragging the tissue through dark strands.

Tim freezes.

Not stiff—not pulling away—just… still. Like his body hasn’t been updated with whatever rule you’re operating under now. His shoulders lock, breath hitching just slightly as your fingers brush his scalp, familiar in a way that hurts. You can feel how soft his hair still is, how it curls faintly at the ends when it’s wet.

God. It’s been so long.

You’d do this for Stephanie.

You would.

You’d even do it for Lucas if he complained enough.

Tim is caught somewhere between letting himself melt into the touch and the dull ache of realizing he’s been reduced to the same category. Just another friend. Another person you’re gentle with.

+2 points to you.

“I think it’s dry,” he mumbles, voice lower now.

“No, it’s—” You pause, lifting the tissue, fingers brushing through once more. It’s slick. Too slick. You frown slightly, eyes narrowing as realization clicks.

You look at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“Uh—” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed firmly on the windshield.

“Tim.”

“So what do you want to get?” he rushes out, too fast. “Soft serve, maybe? Blizzard probably—”

“Tim.”

“You know I was thinking—”

“Tim Drake,” you burst out laughing, the tension snapping, “you stole my fucking hair serum!”

You smack his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make a point, before leaning back to toss the used tissue into the tiny trash can tucked by the console—the one you bought and insisted he keep there. He complained about it. Still kept it.

“You left it in my room,” Tim huffs, finally looking at you again, defensive but amused, cheeks pink as he flips on the seat heater under you. “That’s your fault.”

You stare at him for a second, mouth still parted like you’re gearing up for an argument, then think better of it. The tension drains out of you in a soft exhale, and you turn toward the mirror instead, lifting a hand to smooth down a few stray flyaways, checking your reflection in the dim interior light. Your smile lingers there, small and unguarded, like it always has.

Some things, annoyingly, haven’t changed at all—even if it feels like everything else has.

And that’s what makes it so sickening for Tim.

Because you still smile at him the same way, still tilt your head when you listen, still buy him an extra soda from the vending machine without asking because you know he’ll drink it later, still memorize a new coffee order for him every season like it’s muscle memory. Like loving him was a habit your body never quite unlearned.

You do all of that—and then you kiss someone who isn’t him.

Tim presses his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the library parking lot, jaw tightening just enough to ache. The tires hiss softly against wet pavement, streetlights bleeding into long, smeared reflections across the windshield as Gotham opens up around them—brick and neon and rain-slick streets, the city breathing low and restless even this late.

He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than real. The heater hums, the radio stays off. There’s no room for anything else.

Five-minute drive to Dairy Queen.

Plenty of time to pretend this doesn’t hurt.

The radio settles into a song neither of you bothered to change, something mellow and familiar, the kind that feels like it’s always existed in Tim’s car. The bass is low, steady, syncing with the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires over rain-dark pavement. Gotham slides past in slow motion—storefronts half-lit, steam curling up from subway grates, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes that never quite close.

The dashboard casts a soft glow over Tim’s hands on the wheel, pale against the dark interior, veins faintly visible where his grip tightens and relaxes in small, unconscious adjustments. His black hair is still slightly damp, curling at the edges, lashes casting shadows when he blinks. 

There's a drop of water at the corner you watch fall from the reflection on your window. He drives like he always does—precise, smooth, attentive—but there’s something restrained about him now, like he’s holding himself a fraction too carefully.

You sit angled toward the passenger window, knee pulled up slightly, coat tucked close around you. The glass reflects pieces of you back at yourself—your eyes, the curve of your cheek, the movement of your fingers as you absently toy with a loose thread. Every so often, without really deciding to, your gaze drifts back to him.

It happens at a stoplight first.

Tim glances over, brief and instinctive, like checking a mirror. Your eyes meet, and for a second the city noise dulls, the song flattening into background hum. 

It’s not charged.

It’s worse than that.

It’s soft. Easy. Like nothing ever broke.

There’s no surprise, no tension, just recognition—quiet, familiar, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission. You look away first, clearing your throat softly, adjusting the hem of your coat like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

The light turns green. He looks forward again.

His free hand lifts from his knee, fingers flexing once, twice, hovering in the narrow space between you and the console. Close enough that you feel the shift in air, the warmth of him. 

Tim’s knuckles brush the seam of your jeans when the car rolls over uneven pavement, and for half a heartbeat his hand drifts higher, instinctive, memory-driven to protect you.

He almost rests it on your thigh.

Almost.

You feel it—the pause, the jerk—before he pulls back, settling his hand firmly against his own leg instead, thumb rubbing into his black jeans like he’s trying to erase the impulse. His jaw tightens, then eases. The song swells briefly, chorus bleeding into the small space, and the moment dissolves without ever being acknowledged.

You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pretending it’s just for comfort. The next time you glance at him is when you move to put your hands in front of the heater, he’s already watching you, eyes softer now, unreadable in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. The road curves, and he turns his attention back to it, streetlights sliding in rhythmic flashes across his face.

The Dairy Queen sign appears ahead, bright and almost ridiculous against Gotham’s muted palette. The song on the radio fades into its final notes as Tim signals and slows, the car easing into the lot.

Five minutes have passed.

It felt longer than that. Gods save him.

+2 points to you.

“I’ll go order,” Tim mumbles, already reaching for his wallet like it’s a lifeline, fingers curling tight around the worn leather. He cranks the heat up another notch before you can protest, warm air rushing over you in a sudden wave, fogging the edges of the windshield. Then he’s gone—door opening, cold slicing in for half a second before it shuts again.

You watch him through the glass. Trying to ignore the fact he still remembered your order, that he didn't need to ask.

The night swallows him immediately, Gotham’s winter biting hard, breath blooming white as he steps onto the slick pavement. Tim shrugs his jacket higher on his shoulders, posture straightening as if the cold has given him something tangible to focus on. His reflection ghosts faintly in the window as he walks, pale under the fluorescent lights, black hair getting soaked again before he remembers to put his hood on.

He looks smaller out there. Or maybe farther away.

Inside the car, it’s too warm, too quiet. The radio hums low, some late-night song bleeding softly into the space he left behind. You rub your hands together, then still them, feeling strangely restless. The seat still holds the impression of him, warmth lingering like a memory your body hasn’t caught up to yet.

You lean back in the seat, staring at the ceiling for a second, exhaling slowly.

Outside, snow starts to fall—not enough to stick yet, just thin flakes catching the light as they drift down. Gotham pretending, briefly, to be gentle.

You don’t know why your chest feels tight.

You don’t know why you’re counting the seconds until he comes back. 

You don’t know why the way the warm lights of the Dairy Queen reveal the fact that Tim is blushing makes you want to whine into your hands.

It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. The glass is smudged, the fluorescent glow too soft for Gotham, and yet there he is—standing a little too close to the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, ears pink where his dark hair curls against them. 

He keeps shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like the choice between a Blizzard or soft serve is somehow a high-stakes decision. You can tell exactly when the cashier smiles at him, because the color in his face deepens, creeping down his neck.

You shouldn’t notice things like that anymore.

You press your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. People blush. Tim has always blushed easily. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

And yet.

Your chest feels tight in that familiar, unwelcome way—like your heart has recognized something your brain is refusing to name. You told yourself you ended things because it was the right choice, because timing and fear and the city itself were all stacked against you. You told yourself that love doesn’t always mean staying. You’ve repeated it enough times that it almost sounds true.

Almost.

Because watching him now, framed in broken tile and menu boards and warm yellow light, you feel that old ache stir, the one you never quite managed to bury. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s worse than that—dull and constant, like a bruise you keep pressing just to check if it’s still there.

You think about the way his hand hovered in the car.

About how easily you slipped back into orbit around him.

About how natural it felt to sit close, to touch his hair, to laugh like nothing fragile existed between you.

You loved someone else. You’re supposed to now too. 

Lloyd is kind and steady and uncomplicated, and you chose him because choosing him felt safe. Because he doesn’t know how to look at you the way Tim does—like he’s memorizing you for later, like he’s afraid of forgetting.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Tim has never forgotten you. Not once. And some treacherous part of you wonders if you ever really wanted him to.

You swallow, forcing your gaze away from Tim, staring instead at the fogging glass, your own reflection staring back at you—uncertain, flushed, caught somewhere between past and present.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know it hasn’t gone away.

And maybe that’s because you never really knew it at all—never gave it a name, never looked it straight in the eye—especially not in that library parking lot not even five hours earlier when Lloyd ended things, headlights painting the asphalt gold and gray, cutting long slices of shadow between you. 

You’d walked him to his car like you always did, side by side, shoulders brushing ever so slightly, pretending the cold wasn’t gnawing through your coat.

You gave him a blow job in the back seat. Thinking back on it now, you cant really find it in yourself to regret it even if it ended in a break up, because imaging Lloyd as Tim in the moment was so fucking easy.

“Hey… look, you’re great and all, but—” Lloyd had said after, voice low and panting as his hand started fumbling at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but yours, like he was afraid of seeing something permanent there. “I just think you like me a bit more than I like you and– fuck its making me feel so guilty that…its kind of hard to be around you.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

You had liked Lloyd. You liked that he could smile and make it feel ordinary, the sort of steady warmth that didn’t demand constant attention or complicate your life. You liked that he made it easy to exist without thinking twice, that holding his hand didn’t feel like carrying a secret you weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He was the right shape for comfort. A safe harbor in a city that preferred to chew up and spit out anything soft.

But every time he leaned close, every time his lips brushed yours, your mind betrayed you, sneaking past the warmth and settling on the memory of someone else.

You had always pretended it was Tim. Always.

Lloyd’s hands on your waist became Tim’s in your imagination—steady, careful, asking permission in the way only Tim ever had. Lloyd’s smile faded into the one Tim gave you when he was nervous, the way it crinkled his eyes and made his dimple appear like a secret he didn’t know you had already discovered. 

The warmth in Lloyd’s chest became the slow, even thrum of Tim’s heartbeat, the one you had memorized during years of side-by-side walks through rain-slicked Gotham streets. 

Every kiss, every casual touch, every laugh you gave Lloyd was quietly replaced in your head by a ghost that looked like a boy in black and red, hair curling into his forehead, sharp jawline cut just enough by shadows to make you think of nights spent leaning too close, breathing too fast, and wanting to memorize him in ways that felt too intimate to ever say aloud.

With Lloyd it felt like standing under a lamp-post in the rain that only warmed one shoulder. 

Comfortable. Enough. But never whole. 

Never the way Tim was whole, even when he was frustrating, even when he made you want to scream or run or hide.

Because Tim would always stand in the rain and hear you scream at him to come in the warmth too with a smile on his face.

Tim would never listen to you.

You never meant it to be cruel. You never wanted to betray the quiet warmth Lloyd offered. You told yourself it wasn’t fair to Lloyd. You tried—God, you tried—to be present, to let yourself fall for the person who waited in front of you instead of the one who had always haunted the shadows behind your eyes.

And yet, just hours ago, when Lloyd said it, naming the imbalance, the truth hit harder than the cold ever could.

You did like Lloyd more than Lloyd would ever love you.

Because even without him realizing it, all you saw was Tim.

Through tan skin, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles–you saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes and beauty marks.

Every small gift, you'd come home and set it besides the ones given to you by Tim.

For fucks sake you recommended Lloyd the same cologne Tim used.

You were disappointed when he tried the tester in the store and scrunched his nose, shaking his head with a soft and awkward smile.

Sitting in Tim’s car now, the heater blasting warmth that can’t chase away the memory of that parking lot, the streetlights reflecting off the damp asphalt like shattered glass, you see Tim in the glow of the Dairy Queen sign, all pale skin and dark lashes and eyes wide enough to swallow everything you think you’ve built. 

The blush creeping up his neck is more than color; it’s a reminder, sharp as a blade, of everything you’ve tried to forget.

You trace the curve of his jaw in your mind, remembering every late night, every quiet conversation, every time he had said nothing at all but made you feel known in a city that never wanted to know anyone. Every casual brush of fingers, every laugh, every way he moved—like he belonged in the same orbit you couldn’t leave—floods you now with all the things you’d denied yourself, all the longing you’d tried to disguise as ordinary life with someone else.

And Tim… Tim never stopped noticing. Never stopped caring. Never stopped being Tim.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches so much right now. Maybe that’s why the warmth in the car, the song low on the radio, the smell of him mixing with the faint hint of gasoline from your city outside, feels like a tether you can’t break.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

But you know one thing for certain.

It has always been him.

And you used to be furious about it. Angry in the way you only are when something is both inevitable and unfair, when it’s been carving into your chest for years and you’ve spent every ounce of energy pretending it wasn’t there. Now it feels… numb. 

Like touching a wound that never healed but also never bled, a dull ache that pulses quietly under the surface, paralyzed, anesthetized, but still very much alive.

Tim slides back into the car, shaking a light drizzle off his hair, the glow from the Dairy Queen sign painting him in gold and wet streaks. He’s smiling, that soft, crooked smile that used to make your chest flip entirely against your will. “Got us two Oreos,” he says, setting the cup holder between you, carefully balancing the blizzards against the gear shift before he locks the doors.

You remember your own words from earlier, muttering about Red Robin. 

“He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”, you said.

Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He hums as he adjusts the heater, flicking the vents toward you. “The cashier was just about to close up—we got really lucky, so—”

You shrug, eyes tracing over the familiar curve of his jaw and landing on the beauty mark you had drawn on Red Robin, the one just below his ear, just the right spot to catch a glimmer of light. “Probably because she thought you were cute,” you say casually, but your voice carries just enough weight to make him pause.

Tim freezes mid-zip, one hand suspended over his jacket like he’s been caught mid-breath. “Huh?”

“That’s why you were blushing, right?” You tilt your head, faintly amused, tracing the warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You’re still red. Come on, tell me—what pick-up line did she use on you, hmm?”

It’s a reflexive memory. The same teasing he used on you the first time you had dared talk openly about Lloyd in front of him, that sly tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he dug his nails into his palm, “What pick-up line did that Greek god use on you, hm?”

You watch him now, fingers tightening on his zipper, knuckles pale, jaw working as though he’s chewing over his words before they leave his lips. Tim’s never been good at casual lies. He’s too honest, too exact, too weighted by the things he feels.

“What—What are you talking about?” His voice comes out careful, slightly high, trying to steady, but it trembles anyway.

You blink, caught off guard by the genuine confusion in his expression. For a split second, the playful rhythm of your teasing falters. “It was a joke, Tim… relax.” You straighten in your seat, shoulders lifting, trying not to let the sting in your chest show. You lift a spoon of your blizzard to your lips, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, and the way he’s frozen there makes your stomach twist in ways that Lloyd never could.

The city hums quietly outside, Gotham rain tapping against the roof, a soft percussion to the pulse between you. Tim’s eyes flicker to yours, a mixture of something like guilt, embarrassment, and that all-too-familiar longing you can read in him like Braille. He’s close, too close, and every small movement—the way his hand hovers near the cup holder, the slight lean of his shoulder toward yours—pulls at old threads in your chest, tangling with feelings you thought you’d put away neatly in labeled boxes.

“…She wasn’t flirting with me.”

Tim says it like he’s placing something fragile on the dashboard between you, careful, deliberate. The sentence sits there for a second, humming with the low noise of the car, the heater, the city outside that never quite shuts up.

“She was teasing me to her co‑worker,” he continued after a beat, eyes fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching something far past the windshield. “About being ‘another slave in the rain for their master.’ Some other guy was here ten minutes earlier rushing for his girlfriend.”

You pause with the spoon still in your mouth. An oreo crumb dissolving slow and sweet against your tongue, cold blooming where you don’t want it. You don’t swallow right away.

“What I was… blushing about,” Tim adds, quieter now, voice thinning, “was that I realized I’m worse than an actual slave.”

The Dairy Queen lights flicker once, then go dark, leaving the interior of the car wrapped in soft amber and streetlight glow. Outside, two girls laugh as they lock up, their footsteps crunching faintly on wet pavement as they head for the same car, shoulders bumping, warmth shared without thinking.

“I’m choosing to be here,” Tim says, jaw tightening, “after being thrown out of the palace.” His fingers curl tighter when he moves his hands to rest against the steering wheel. “How pathetic is that?”

The word lands heavy, not dramatic—just tired. Worn smooth by repetition.

You don’t answer right away. You wait until the girls’ car pulls out of the lot, headlights sweeping once across the windshield before disappearing into Gotham’s throat. Until it’s just the two of you again, sealed inside this small, warm pocket of light and breath and old habits.

Only then do you turn.

Tim’s cheek is pressed into his forearms now, those braced against the steering wheel like he’s holding himself upright by force alone. His lashes cast shadows against pale skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture small in a way he only ever allowed around you.

+4 points to Tim Drake.

“…I always liked you pathetic,” you murmur finally, voice low, casual, like it doesn’t cost you anything to say. You scoop another bite of ice cream, deliberately unhurried. “You know that.”

Tim huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the sound sharp and breathless, and he drops his face fully into his arms like he’s hiding from the relief of it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, thinner, pitched exactly where he knows it will make you soften.

“I was too scared to ask you,” he admits. “When you said you didn’t think I was good for you… did you honestly think that sounded like a breakup?”

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth.

“It wasn’t meant to be a breakup…exactly…I guess,” you say, quietly.

Tim scoffs, straightening just enough to rake a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He shoves a too-large bite of ice cream into his mouth, jaw working like he’s punishing himself for it. “Yeah, you just went home and blocked me on Instagram.”

“Didn’t block your spam, though,” you shoot back automatically. You knew he'd just hack into your account if you did that.

He groans your name, long and exasperated, twisting in his seat until he’s facing you fully now. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. “What the hell did I do?” he asks, not accusing—just genuinely lost. “I—God, I know I fuck up more times than I’d like to admit, but we always talked through things. Always. I let it go because you seemed so sure it was what you wanted, but—”

He stops mid-sentence.

Because your hand moves.

Your fingers slide into his hair, cool and gentle, adjusting his damp bangs where they fall too low over his forehead. The contact is soft, familiar, devastating. Tim goes utterly still, breath hitching like you’ve pressed a switch inside him. His lashes flutter once, then lower, instincts winning out as he leans just slightly into your touch.

You feel the heat of him under your palm. Alive. Real.

“You always looked like Red Robin the most when your hair was like this,” you murmur, thumb brushing his temple. “I liked drawing you with wet hair. In suit or otherwise.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Tim’s eyes open slowly, tracking your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He searches your expression, looking for a joke, a deflection, a safe place to land—and when he finds none, his gaze drifts anyway. Your nose. Your mouth. The familiar curve of your jaw. Your brows. Like this might be the last time he’s allowed to look this closely.

“…When did you find out?” he asks at last, voice barely there. “Is that why you broke up with me?”

The question isn’t sharp. It’s scared.

Were you afraid?

That someone would come for him?

For you?

Or that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you first?

“…Yeah.” The word is a whisper, a soft confession that hangs between you, stretching longer than it should. You let your hand shift from where it had rested in his hair, moving carefully to his cheek, tracing the line from jaw to temple with a gentle touch, almost reverent. 

It pains you to feel him flinch just slightly, a reflex, the tiniest hesitation to let you keep touching him, and it twists something raw in your chest.

“I… I was actually going to argue about you being late to our date,” you admit, voice shaking a little, caught between guilt and memory, “then I saw you with that bandage on your neck, after watching Red Robin get struck in the news. I’ve drawn you both before—no, I’ve drawn you a million times, with and without the mask but that… that was the first time I noticed the beauty mark was the same. Because you were hiding it, covering it with a bandage.”

Your thumb brushes over his skin again, the motion gentle, unconscious, like you’re trying to soothe the memory away, like the touch can erase the hours of fear and worry that was tucked into your chest. Tim flinches again, but this time doesn’t pull away; instead, his hand rises to press yours against his cheek, anchoring you there as though letting go would mean you leaving for good.

“Do you know… do you know how scared I was?” you whisper, voice tight, breath catching. “How horrible it felt, knowing I was making you run from one end of Gotham to the other, after getting struck by a sword… all for a stupid coffee date?”

The car is still except for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic tick of rain against the windshield, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The city has receded, the distant rumble of traffic and sirens muted, as though Gotham itself is leaning away, giving you this small, private corner in the chaos. Tim presses his cheek more firmly into your hand, and you feel the subtle warmth of him there, the heat of his skin against yours, grounding you in the moment.

“You didn’t make me do anything, I—” His words falter, swallowed in the space between heartbeats.

“Tim,” you interrupt, firm, the edge of your voice tempered with care, “you were going to kill yourself doing that. Being Red Robin, working at Wayne Enterprises, keeping your grades decent enough for this semester—how could I ask for more than that?”

Your words float in the car like smoke, curling around both of you, and Tim’s shoulders slump slightly, tension leaking out as he exhales harshly through his nose.

“How dare you not?” he hisses, voice low and almost desperate, but the words tremble. “How could you make that choice for me?”

“I wasn’t making the choice for you,” you murmur, softening, pulling your hand slightly away—but not fully, keeping it hovering over his cheek, tethering him to you. “I was making the choice for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for using your time. I was being selfish… I am selfish, and I—”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” he whispers, cutting through the quiet like a knife, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

“Well I did.” You let it slip past your lips, a quiet affirmation, almost too soft for the sound to travel over the heater hum and the patter of rain.

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head just enough to avoid your gaze while trying to form a coherent thought, a shield against the storm of everything you’ve just said. His eyes, those blue storms, flicker briefly to yours before darting to the dash, the blurred neon outside reflecting like water on glass. Your chest tightens, because even in his attempt to hide it, you see him unravel, every careful layer of control peeling back with each blink.

“I couldn’t handle you,” you mumble, the words slipping out quieter than you mean them to, like they’re embarrassed to exist at all. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never shaped it into something real enough to hear yourself. “I couldn’t give you—”

“All I’m hearing,” Tim cuts in briskly, too fast, too sharp, “is that you loved me too much and your little head hurt at the thought of it.”

He rolls the window down, cold air rushing in, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses his Blizzard toward the far trash can. It arcs clean and perfect through the air, lands dead center with a hollow plastic thunk.

A perfect trick shot.

Any other night, any other version of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes and muttered, show off, just to watch him preen about it later.

Tonight, your chest feels too tight for sarcasm.

“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” you say instead, flat, defensive, staring down at your melting ice cream like it might offer backup.

“You’re saying what I want to hear,” he replies, softer now, turning fully toward you. He shifts in his seat, shoulder angling perpendicular to the driver’s side, body open in a way that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. His knee bumps the center console. He’s too close again. He’s always been too close.

You don’t respond. You just huff quietly and scoop up another bite of your Blizzard, chewing slower than necessary, dragging the moment out. It makes him smile—small, crooked, fond, like he’s catching a glimpse of something familiar and precious that he thought he’d lost.

“God,” Tim murmurs under his breath, not quite looking at you, not quite not. “How does he stand you being so in love with me?”

The words land heavy and wrong and accurate all at once.

Your entire body freezes.

It’s like being flash-frozen mid-thought, like your blood turns to slush in your veins, like you might shatter if you move too fast. Mr. Freeze would be proud. You feel brittle. Exposed. Seen in a way you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t possible.

“…He doesn’t,” you mumble finally, voice barely holding together. There’s no point lying. You know Tim—he’d peel it apart eventually. “He broke up with me.”

Tim blinks.

Then he straightens abruptly, posture snapping upright like you’ve yanked a wire inside him. His face scrunches with confusion, eyes scanning yours like he’s waiting for the punchline, the laugh track, the gotcha moment.

“Huh—wait, what?”

“Lloyd broke up with me,” you repeat, quieter. “In the parking lot.”

Tim actually gapes at you.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like the words keep slipping past whatever part of him is supposed to process reality. Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve cataloged it as another fond memory. Instead, your brain chants relentlessly:

Stay mad at him. Remember the guilt. Don’t forget why this hurts.

“He broke up with you?” Tim repeats, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Mhm.”

His hands lift helplessly, gesturing vaguely at you—your coat, your hair, your existence. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you say too quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than the truth ever could. “Maybe the blow job I gave him in the parking lot was ass.”

Tim freezes.

Completely. Like the sentence unplugged him.

For half a second, you consider backtracking, rolling your eyes, adding it’s a joke, Tim, relax, but you don’t get the chance. He’s already lunging for the window controls, shoving the glass down with frantic urgency before leaning out and promptly throwing up into the rain.

The car fills with the sound of retching, the cold air rushing in, the absurdity of it all crashing over you in waves.

You stare ahead, spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, wondering distantly how the hell the universe keeps finding new, deeply stupid ways to prove what you already know.

That it has always been him.

And that loving him has never been simple, or clean, or survivable without a little collateral damage.

Once your brain finally catches up, you move instinctively, slamming the empty Blizzard cup back into the holder with a clatter that echoes in the quiet car. Your hands reach for him, hesitating only a second before gathering the wet, dark strands of hair away from his face, bunching them carefully in your fingers.

“TIM—Hey—” you whisper, voice tight, low, unsure.

He just retches harder. His body shudders violently, leaning against your hand, the heat of him radiating through the sleeves of your coat. The smell of rain-soaked hair and ice cream fills the small space, cloying and intimate, and for a moment you can’t breathe around it. Your hands stay there, cradling the damp strands, unsure if you’re holding him back or holding yourself together.

You rub his back in slow, tentative circles, trying to anchor him, trying to be the thing that doesn’t move when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking. His shoulders tremble, and the quiet rattling of his breath mixes with the sound of the heater and the faint hum of the idling engine. The world outside the car blurs into wet, dark shapes and flickering streetlights.

After what feels like a lifetime, he pauses, shivering and slumped over, and then leans forward against the steering wheel with a deep, ragged heave. You kneel slightly on the seat to press a hand to his shoulder, letting your thumb brush the tense muscles under his jacket, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his back.

“Hey,” you murmur again, softer this time, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder. You don’t know what else to say—there’s no script for this moment, no words that could make it less raw, less humiliating, less…human. All you can do is be present, your hands stubbornly refusing to leave him, letting the warmth of your body tether him just slightly to reality.

He heaves again, slower this time, chest shaking against the wheel, and finally slumps fully against it. His wet bangs stick to his forehead, and you brush them gently aside, letting your fingers linger there. The storm of the city presses against the windows, but inside the car, with the heater warming your legs and the smell of ice cream and rain, the world narrows to him—this broken, beautiful, utterly human version of Tim Drake—and the ache of wanting to fix him when there’s nothing to fix but his own exhaustion and embarrassment.

You whisper his name again, almost a prayer, almost a curse.

His head lifts from the steering wheel, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes wet and trembling, and for a moment his brain seems to catch up to the situation. “He breaks up with you after the blow job? What a fucking douchebag.”

Of course he’d always defend you, even if the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered. Even if he has no context. 

“He didn’t like it, I guess,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck like slow flames, your ears burning in the dim orange glow of the Dairy Queen lights outside.

“Babe, don’t fucking play with me—your mouth is fucking—” Tim begins, voice low and strangled, before you cut him off by shoving a spoonful of Oreo Blizzard into his mouth.

“Does that get rid of the throw-up taste?” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as if the act could erase the memory of his words entirely.

He chews and swallows, still pulling back from the spoon, face scrunching. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I swear on Batman’s life you hear me—I—”

“He didn’t like that I was… too into it,” you whisper, embarrassment curling in your chest like smoke. Even if no one else could hear, Tim could. Oh, Tim could.

“Okay—what?” he stammers, eyes widening in disbelief as a faint greenish flush creeps across his pale cheeks. A wave of nausea flickers across his expression, sharp and threatening, and your heart lurches. 

Gods, he’s going to throw up again.

“Wait! Wait!” you exclaim, hands flying up defensively, waving like flags, as your voice cracks from both embarrassment and fear, “I was pretending he was you—so it wasn’t that hard, Tim—”

“Our dicks are the same size?!” Tim yells, scandalized in a way that makes your stomach do somersaults, your cheeks warming hotter than the car seat heater under your thighs. “I’M NOT BIGGER?”

You blink at him, dumbstruck, voice caught somewhere between mortification and awe. “Uh… sorry?”

He groans into his hands, still slouched against the wheel, hair wet and clinging to his temples. “I owe Stephanie four hundred bucks,” he mutters, like that explains everything.

Then, delirious, still tasting the faint bite of ice cream and bile, he flicks a glance at you, eyes wide, incredulous. “Did you… look for a guy with the same… on purpose?”

You stare at him, tilting your head slightly in the low, warm light of the Dairy Queen, the heater humming between you like it’s holding the moment hostage. “I went for a tan man with blonde hair,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, like a whip against his disbelief. “I want you to use your fucking brain and re-think that question and if you think Im that shallow.”

Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. The pale skin of his cheeks blooms pink, almost purple under the harsh fluorescent lights that slice through the car like guilty spotlights. You always had a way of making him look like a kid caught with his hand in a jar of Bat-snacks.

“Gods, you—” he starts, voice rising like a fragile dam on the verge of bursting, “you always pull shit like this to throw me off—so… what, you were okay with him since he had free time?”

You blink at him, unsure if you should laugh or huff, but then you murmur, “…Don’t word it like that.”

“I am!” he hisses, sharp and fragile all at once, his fingers twisting into his dark hair as if he can physically pull the frustration out. “God… was this not hard for you like it was for me? Being away from me? Do you know how much I missed you? I—” He pauses, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with something raw and desperate. “I sold out your fucking perfume, you know that? Bought forty bottles. I've gone through four in the past three weeks.”

You freeze, blink once, and feel your stomach twist with a strange, bittersweet mix of guilt and something almost like pride. Oh. That’s why your niche fragrance—the one you've had for years—was suddenly impossible to find, why you’d been clutching the last few sprays like they were oxygen. You’d thought it was coincidence, scarcity, Gotham nonsense. But no. He’d bought it all.

Your chest tightens. The heater hums low, the soft buzz filling the car like it’s conspiring to keep you trapped in this too-close, too-small world. Tim’s cologne fills your nerves as he shifts forward. You can smell him—aftershave faint under his natural scent, a mix of charcoal and night air, sweat from nerves and embarrassment.

Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to smooth the tension from his shoulder or his hair, to do something that doesn’t require words. But you stop, fingers frozen in midair, because every movement feels too loud in the shared quiet, too intimate.

Tim swallows, lips pressing into a thin line as his chest rises in a slow, uneven rhythm. “You… you really didn’t… think about me, did you?” he murmurs finally, not a question, more a plea. His voice is low, rough, weighted with longing and frustration and that thing he never lets anyone see—the part of him that’s still a kid in the backseat of life, afraid he’ll never measure up, afraid he’s too much or not enough.

“I thought of you too much,” you murmur, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the car heater and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “That was the problem. That’s why I broke up with you. That’s why… you’re not good for me.”

Tim groans, face pressing into the steering wheel as if the leather can absorb all the chaos between you. “Hey, babe… I think you need to see a fucking therapist,” he mutters, voice muffled, defeated, but still sharp enough to make you blink.

“You first,” you hiss back, crossing your arms, heat creeping up your neck, heart hammering too fast.

Tim scoffs, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal his dark eyes, pale skin flushed pink from both embarrassment and the heater’s warmth. Then, almost casually, he reaches into the back seat, where a brown grocery bag rests behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

You blink at him, unsure if you’re seeing things. “That… that’s the brand I use,” you say slowly, voice cracking slightly between disbelief and awe.

“I know,” he says, voice quiet but firm, almost a whisper of obsession, a breath of intent you can feel pressing against your skin. “Bought your whole hygiene routine before I came to the library. It's coming in useful more quickly than I thought it would.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, unable to process the layers of thought, care, and absolute chaos wrapped up in his words. He pops open the toothbrush like it’s nothing, casual and deliberate, but your brain freezes on the fact that he—down to the exact shade of pastel pink on the bristles—bought the same one you use.

“Your… you’re actually crazy,” you whisper, awe and incredulity warring in your tone, your fingers brushing against your lips as if touching them would anchor you back to reality.

Tim twists in his seat just enough to lean toward the open window, toothbrush already in his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. The rain has slowed to a fine mist, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling, and the parking lot is empty enough that Gotham feels briefly abandoned—like the city has stepped away to give you privacy it never usually allows.

You watch his jaw move as he brushes, quick and methodical, too hard the way he does everything when he’s trying not to think. His shoulders are tense, drawn up near his ears, black hair still damp and curling at the ends where your fingers were not that long ago. Pale knuckles grip the steering wheel when his free hand comes back to steady himself, and you can tell he’s grounding himself in motion because stopping would mean feeling.

It’s hard not to stare, even if he's doing something like brushing.

It’s harder not to ache.

Because the whole time he’s brushing his teeth out the driver’s side window of his car like some feral raccoon, all you can think about is how familiar this is—how many versions of this exact moment live in your head. Tim brushing his teeth at your sink at two in the morning. Tim rinsing his mouth and leaning over to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and coffee and him. Tim doing mundane things in your orbit like that’s where he’s always belonged.

You dig your nails lightly into your palm, trying to stay present, trying not to drown in the weight of what you lost and what you never really let yourself keep.

He spits out the window, sharp and practiced, then reaches for a water bottle from the cup holder, cracking the seal with his teeth. The sound is loud in the quiet car. He takes a mouthful, tips his head back, throat working as he gargles, eyes screwed shut like he’s holding something back that isn’t just nausea.

Your chest tightens.

Because this—this is the part you never knew how to explain to him. How loving Tim was never about grand gestures or dramatic heartbreak. It was this constant, low-level strain of being too aware of him. Of every breath he took, every sacrifice he made without complaint. Knowing that every small ask from you was another weight on an already overloaded system.

He spits again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then closes the window, caps the bottle and exhales slowly, shoulders finally dropping an inch.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

It was hard the whole time, you think—not just now, not just after you found out. It was hard when he showed up tired but smiling. Hard when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Hard when he tried to be everything, all at once, and still looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

Loving Tim felt like standing too close to a live wire—warm, electric, intoxicating—and knowing that one wrong move could burn you both.

Tim leans back into his seat, blinking a few times, eyes glassy but focused now. He sets the toothbrush aside into the grocery bag, hands lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s stalling.

You don’t say anything.

Because if you do, you might admit that even now—after watching  him spit toothpaste into the Gotham night, watching him exist inches from you—you still want to choose him.

And you’re terrified of what that says about you.

“…I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Tim says quietly, the words slipping out like a confession he’s been holding between his teeth all night. His voice is rough around the edges now, scraped thin. “Gods—I just can’t do friends.”

The car feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too close. You look at him and it’s unbearable how much of him there is to look at—his eyes still glassy from nausea and something worse, his lips a little pinker than usual, lashes clumped just slightly from rain. All the familiar details stack up in your chest until it aches.

“You…” You swallow. “I can’t ask you to be what I want.” The truth presses at you from all sides, heavy and immovable. “I wanted you to be my… everything. You know how selfish that sounds? You can’t handle that.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Tim says immediately.

There it is. That stubborn, immovable core of him. The part that never learned how to back down when something mattered to him.

“I do,” you huff, a small, tired smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself, because he’s still the same—still arguing even while he’s trying to give you everything. “I want you by my side twenty-four seven. I want you to only think about me. I want you to not even look at anyone else.” You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half plea. “Don’t you hear how crazy I sound?”

Tim hears it. He hears all of it.

And instead of recoiling, a slow smile starts to bloom on his face, soft and reverent, like he’s just been handed something holy. He shifts fully toward you, body turning perpendicular in the driver’s seat, cheek pressing into the cushion as if he wants to stay right here forever. His eyes don’t leave your face.

“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs. “They sent you just for me, huh?”

“You’re insane,” you hiss, heat flooding you all at once, down your spine and into your fingertips, because it’s been so long since he’s said that word like it means salvation instead of danger.

“You’re perfect,” Tim says, voice dropping, gentler now. “You’re too in love with me to see how fucking crazy I am too. Wow—you’re perfect.”

Your breath catches. You look back at him and watch the way his pupils widen just a fraction, the way his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again. When he speaks, it’s quieter than it’s been all night, stripped of humor, stripped of bravado.

“I know I’m not good for you,” he says. “I want you to choose me anyway.”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

“I—I can’t,” you say, the words barely holding together. Saying them feels like pressing on a bruise you’ve been protecting for months.

“You have,” Tim answers, gently now. Not accusing. Just certain.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper.

“You have,” he repeats, softer still, like he’s not trying to convince you—like he’s just stating a fact you’ve both been circling all night.

The car hums around you, engine ticking as it cools, heater blowing steadily, Gotham quiet outside in a way it rarely is. Two people alone in a parked car, suspended in a moment that feels less like a choice and more like gravity.

And the worst part is—you don’t know when you started leaning toward him.

The space between you collapses quietly.

Not all at once—no rush, no collision—but the slow, inevitable pull of two people who have already crossed this line a hundred times in their heads. Tim leans in first, tentative in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment. His hand comes up, hovering near your jaw, hesitating there like he’s still giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

When his thumb finally brushes your cheek, it’s barely there, a test more than a touch. Warm. Steady. Real. The contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tilt your head up just enough for him to close the last inch.

The press is soft at first. Careful. Like he’s relearning you.

Tim’s lips press to yours with a gentleness that hurts, the kind that carries memory with it—every late night, every almost, every time he wanted this and didn’t let himself reach for it.

You feel him exhale against you, shaky and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath for months.

He has.

Then you kiss him back.

And that’s all it takes.

The sound he makes is small and involuntary, a broken little breath that slips out as his hand cups your face properly now, thumb resting under your cheekbone like it belongs there. The kiss deepens, still unhurried but surer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s afraid to stop once he’s started.

Your fingers find his jacket without thinking, bunching the fabric at his chest. He leans into it immediately, body turning further toward you, shoulder pressing into the seat. The world outside the windows fades—the rain, the parking lot, Gotham holding its breath—until there’s only warmth and the quiet rhythm of two people breathing each other in.

Tim kisses you like he’s been missing you.

Like he never stopped.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

It doesn’t stay gentle for long.

Something gives the moment you press back into him, and Tim reacts like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm now, anchoring you there as his mouth finds yours again with more intent. The kiss deepens, unhurried but hungry, like he’s making up for every second he forced himself to keep his distance.

His lips move against yours with purpose this time—still careful, still restrained, but undeniably heated. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, thumb pressing into your pulse point as if to reassure himself that you’re still here, that you haven’t disappeared again.

You shift closer without realizing it, knees on the center console, moving as careful as you can be. Tim follows the movement instinctively, body leaning back further, shoulder braced against the seat as he leans back for you. The kiss grows warmer, breaths breaking between touches, foreheads brushing when you part for half a second before coming back together again.

Tim freezes for half a heartbeat when his arm hooks under your thighs and lifts you, like even that small escalation startles him. Then instinct takes over. He settles you onto his lap carefully, one hand steady at your hip, the other still at your neck, holding you like something precious he’s afraid to drop.

Your teeth catch his bottom lip—soft, tentative, almost reverent—and the sound he makes is wrecked. A low groan that vibrates into your mouth, more feeling than noise. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your hands curl into his jacket like you need something solid to stay upright.

He responds without thinking, mouth tilting, pressure increasing just enough to mirror you. When his teeth catch your lip back, it’s not cruel—but it’s real. Sharp enough to make you gasp, sharp enough that there’s a brief, metallic tang between you. Copper and heat and something dangerously close to relief.

He pulls back immediately, forehead dropping to yours, breath uneven. One hand tightens at your waist, not to pull you closer, but to keep you there. To stop himself from doing more.

“Hey,” Tim murmurs, not a warning—more like a check-in, like he’s grounding both of you at once.

Your noses brush when you breathe. Your hands are still fisted in his jacket. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your side, undoing the bite even as his eyes stay locked on your mouth like it’s gravity itself.

The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, restrained by sheer force of will. All warmth and pressure and promise, none of it rushing anywhere. Your knees are tangled, hearts loud enough to drown out the city—both of you painfully aware that this could tip into something unstoppable if either of you lets go.

And neither of you does.

The realization makes his restraint crack—it doesn't shatter, but splinters.

Tim’s hand tightens at your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the pressure to stay present, to keep from tipping completely. The next kiss turns rougher in rhythm rather than content—more insistence, more heat. He kisses you like he’s been starving politely and just lost his manners. No finesse now, just want, mouth pressing harder, chasing yours when you try to pull back for air.

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging without thinking, and the sound he makes is sharp—half breath, half warning. His grip shifts, one arm bracing you fully against him now, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens even a little.

Tim kisses you again, deeper, teeth catching your lip—not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind you he could. Enough to make your stomach flip and a whine leave your mouth. His breathing is uneven against you, chest rising fast beneath you, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.

For a moment it’s messy—foreheads knocking, breaths stealing, the car creaking faintly as he adjusts the driver's seat. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding, claiming, stopping himself.

Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, breath ragged, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice wrecked, like the word is torn out of him. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds you tighter, hands moving to work the buttons of your coat open.

You can feel it in the way he’s shaking—not with fear. With effort.

The kind it takes to stop.

Tim’s breath keeps stuttering against your neck, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to steady or fall apart completely. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, pressing you more securely against him, like gravity itself is insisting you stay right there. The car feels too small for the way everything in him is brimming over—fogged windows, the low hum of the engine still warm beneath you, the rain ticking faintly outside like it’s counting time neither of you are keeping.

Tim leans back in, slower this time but heavier, like the weight of it finally landed. His mouth finds your neck, not frantic now but insistent, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a choice he’s making again and again. His hands stay where they are—one firm at your waist, one steady at your hip—like he’s drawing hard lines around what he won’t cross, even as everything else tilts.

You feel the tension in him through every point of contact. The way his shoulders stay tight. The way Tim’s jaw clenches when you press closer on him. When your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, he lets out a sound that’s barely there, swallowed before it can become anything dangerous.

Tim breaks a kiss on your collarbone, moving to rest his forehead resting against yours now. His nose brushes your cheek when he exhales, warm and shaky. You can feel his pulse under your hands, fast and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it with you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

It’s not restraint born of distance—it’s restraint born of knowing exactly how badly this could spiral if either of you gave an inch more. His thumb presses once at your side, grounding, almost apologetic.

Then he pulls you into one last kiss, slower, deeper, less rough but heavier in meaning—like punctuation instead of a sentence. When he finally lets you go, it’s only by a breath, hands still bracketing you, eyes dark and searching, like he’s memorizing the moment in case it’s taken from him again.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The silence between you is loud with everything you both know now.

“Get in the back.” Tim mumbles, “Mm…gonna give you head.”

You chuckle at that, running a hand through his hair just to watch the way goosebumps form on his neck, feel the way his breath stutters against your lips, “Gonna give your girlfriend head?”

“Yeah.” Tim mumbles against your skin, “Mm…my girlfriend.”

For once in this past year–you're exactly where you want to be. And you don't think Tim’s ever going to let you leave again.

author is too tired to add the tag-list rn I'ma do it tmrw. tagging my fav Tim Drake stan tho: @moonologyy

[ivsarchive]

you don’t understand what this fic does to me, like yeah the suggestive stuff is hot as fuck—but it’s the the soft yearning, love, and adoration in the way they know each other so well is what undoes me. fuck this is so pretty and so good, like seriously.