Urgent update: Unfortunately, my daughter Walaa's situation has worsened due to the unavailability of insulin. Obtaining it has become extremely difficult for me. I appeal to anyone who can help to stand with us during this difficult time, as her medication is essential for her life. Your support could save her.🙏
Hi everyone,
This Palestinian family from Gaza t… Fadi Zakkout needs your support for Donate to Walaa & siblings to provide med
I can't stand when I am reading an X-Reader fanfic and y/n cheats. I don't mean angst where y/n is cheated on (which doesn't really matter because I read that type of angst). I mean we are the cheater whether it's random Joe Shome, who we are dating or in a relationship, and we cheat on this person with the character the fic is about. This includes us being the other woman the character.
I don't mind being cheated on by the random Joe. I love fic that is angst to fluffy. But not me doing the cheating. I don't know, maybe it stems from my hatred of being in the wrong in general fic or real life, or perhaps it's just because I despise cheating. So no, I don't want to kiss the character the fic is about before my wedding, no, I don't want want be emotionally cheating with the character because my boyfriend is busy with things, and no, most certainly don't want to sleep with them when I already have a relationship.
I don't care that it fantasy, I don't like cheating, period. But that's just me. Some people like it, I'm just not that person.
prompt: in a world where spiritual bonds dictate life, neteyam struggles with forbidden desire, rivalry, and destiny, forcing love, loyalty, and leadership into a dangerous collision that could change the clan forever.
pairings: Neteyam x reader, neteyam x enemy!reader, Neteyam x you, Neteyam x rival!reader
wc: 18.1k (had fun writing this lol)
warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, slow burn, takes place in the future (in which the sully’s never left the omatikaya people and neteyam is still olo’eyktan-to-be), grown up characters, angst, tsaheylu, kissing, touchy!feely! neteyam, established relationships, reader is curvy :)
notes (please read): this was supposed to be just one, long, one shot but tumblr won’t allow more than 1000 blocks so part two is already (almost) done and will be out! lmk if i made any mistakes because this isn’t proofread.
i didn’t see you before, but i see you now.
The forest has never cared for titles, it does not fold to bloodlines or future leaders. It answers only to balance. You move through it without sound.
The undergrowth parts beneath your soles, grass brushing your calves in silent recognition. Your fingers skim bark as you pass, feeling the pulse beneath it—slow, ancient, alive. The air is thick with green and gold light, the scent of damp flora rising with every breath.
Eywa hums softly in the forest, not words—never words. Only by instinct, by the way your heartbeat slows when you draw your bow so fluently.
You kneel, pressing your free palm to the soil, warm, recently disturbed. Hoofprints ahead, small herd, moving east—one limping.
You rise, mercy is a part of balance too. When you pull the arrow back, the world narrows into breath and distance. The string presses into your fingers—the forest holds her breath.
The arrow flies true. This is strength. Not inheritance. A clean kill, right through the yerik’s airway. You kneel beside her carefully, hands tapping lightly against the succulent meat just beneath her skin.
“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmuke, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì.” You pray before her, a distant call breaks the quiet. Your name, again.
You exhale sharply, irritation flaring through the serene patience you held one moment ago. The call does not belong to the forest, it belongs to the village.
You retrieve your arrow and draw out your knife, preparing to slice these gifts into small pieces for the clan. Then the call comes again.
“Y/n!”
Your tail flicks in utter gall, snarling to yourself—pocketing the knife and lugging your kill back with you instead.
By the time you reach the tree line near the Omatikaya settlement, the air feels different, heavier.
A large council of warriors sits before you, planning something. You drag the yerik to the communal fire pit anyway, where it will be used later.
You move swiftly to sit amongst other warriors inside the circle, voices overlap in low debate. Warriors stand along edges, hunters, apprentices, watching.
And in the center, Neteyam, leading this raid—straight backed, composed, the weight of expectations resting easily across his shoulder as if it had always belonged there.
“…increase patrols along the western frontier. Defensive positioning only. We observe before we act.” He speaks, measured, controlled.
Murmurs of agreement ripple outward, you step in without waiting to be invited. The movement shifts attention like a stone thrown into unmoving water. Neteyam’s eyes find you immediately, they do not widen, or narrow, but they sharpen.
You dip your head briefly to most warriors—not him. “Observation will not stop a threat from growing,” you say evenly. Your voice does not rise, it does not need to. “If something tests our borders, we meet it before it grows teeth, before it knows our patterns.”
A few warriors exchange glances. Neteyam pauses briefly, his lips parting—then closing again, every word you speak fuels anger in him. You always think that you’re right. Everyday, he watches the villagers honor you with such reverence that it sets his teeth on edge.
On the other hand, his family has nothing but respect for you. They see you in the strength that mirrors their own. Courage, decisiveness, a vision that promises safety and prosperity to the people.
Only Lo’ak understands Neteyam’s deep dislike directed towards you. He does not hide it either—scowling when you speak, his words clipped when he must interact. He only sees you as a feeble thing who craves attention.
Neteyam finally answers without looking away from you. “And if we strike without understanding what we face?” His voice is calmer than you’d expected.
Yours is steadier, never fiery or clipped, just smooth and humble. “If we strike without understanding what we face, we will show the forest that we are not prey.”
He steps forward presently. “Leadership is not a reaction. It is restraint.”
Leadership. There it is, not his name, not the plan—just the title waiting for him.
The hunting grounds are quieter at the far edge, where the smallest of bows are kept. Tuk stands in front of you—large ears twitching in concentration, tiny fingers gripping the bow too tightly.
“Relax your hands,” you murmur, stepping behind her. “gentle…like this. The bow is not your enemy.”
She huffs. “It feels like it.”
You smile, crouching so you are at level with her. “Then you must show that you are not afraid.” You gently adjust her elbow, lift her chin, and guide her breath.
“Inhale. Allow the Great Mother to steady you. Exhale, and draw.”
The string trembles as she lets go, her eyes shut, shoulders tense.
Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects postures sharply, commands are barked. Your tail, once stilled, now flicks in irritation.
But here, where you teach—it is still. You do not rush anyone, you do not take hold of her bow, because your spiritual, placid nature keeps you from teaching children harshly.
Tuk’s arrow releases, it misses the center, but strikes the woven target cleanly. Tuk gasps like she has felled a thanator. You just grin, tapping her shoulder gently. “Again.”
Behind you, Neytiri watches from beneath a broad leafed tree, arms folded loosely across her chest. Just observing.
Tuk draws her arrow again, stronger this time, the arrow strikes closer to the center and you laugh softly with her. That is when Neteyam notices, he had been mid instruction when the sound carried. His gaze lifts from the boy in front of him to you, leading by instinct.
He perceives the approving glance from your mother, the slight bow of your head which you offer to her—and she only retaliates, inclining her hand forward. I see you.
Neteyam steps away from his group, crossing the field with measured strides. The young warriors part instinctively, respectfully.
“Tuk,” he says, voice controlled, “your shoulders are lifting when you release.”
You step back immediately, giving space. Tuk looks between you both, her mentor, and her brother. “Listen.” You mouth encouragely.
Her brother adjusts her stance, more precise, more structured. You watch silently, hands behind your back. After a moment, Tuk releases again.
The arrow lands nearly center, her delighted squeal cutting through everything. Neteyam allows a soft smile, then his eyes flick to you—an eyebrow raising, not playful, not friendly…challenging.
Your head tilts slightly. “She breathes better when she feels safe, worry about position too much and you won’t catch a thing.”
“She shoots better when she is corrected,” he replies, hands at his hips, commanding—correcting. “Fix her position now, and she will learn to shoot that way for the rest of her life. Then there won’t be any problems. She will never miss.”
“You do not get to stand here and insult my teaching.” You try to remain as calm as ever, but he makes it so, so hard.
“You both are correct.” Neytiri steps in quickly, raising a hand between you and her son. “You teach instinct,” she says to you before her golden eyes shift to Neteyam “and you, teach control.”
You step back first, Neteyam does not.
“Those are both spirits that the clan needs. instinct, and control. Our people are not led by one spirit alone.” Neytiri continues. “The Olo’eyktan decides, the Tsahìk listens. You mistake each other's paths for opposition.”
Neytiri nods to you once more before walking Tuk back to the village, a hand lingering on her son’s arm.
The clearing empties, just you, Neteyam, and other mentors remain. You kneel, arranging small arrows, quivers, and bows.
You can feel Neteyam’s gaze tearing through you, the edge in it makes your tail flick reflexively. “What?” You sigh without sparing a glance, hands curling around a small bow.
“Why must you always show off?” His voice is low, yet sharp.
“show what?” you ask evenly, rising slowly. Your simple top swinging over the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips moving naturally as you shift your weight. Carrying with you a poise imperceptible to Neteyam.
“You dishonored my authority. Publicly. Before many warriors.”
The air between you tightens, not loud, or explosive. Just taut. You straighten fully now, meeting his stare without wavering. “I dishonored nothing,” you reply, calm but unyielding. “Authority is not so fragile that it shatters when merely questioned.”
His jaw tightens, that lands where you meant for it to. “You stepped into my council,” he says, taking one measured step closer. “You contradicted me before warriors who look to me for direction.”
“They look to the clan, not to pride.”
For a moment you think he might snap, but Neteyam has never been reckless. That is the problem. His restraint is carved into bone. The perfect son of Jake Sully and Neytiri. The future Olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya.
“The clan needs unity,” he says, voice lower now. Controlled. Dangerous in its calm. “Not division.”
“And unity does not mean silence,” you answer. “If I believe something threatens us, I will speak. Even if you do not like how it sounds. I will not yield to you simply because you are the next big thing.”
“I am not asking you to yield to anybody.” His voice is steady, even, controlled, down to the last breath.
You let out a low scoff. “You expect it anyway. And you know that.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Oh?” Your brow lifts. “Explain.”
“You assume I haven’t thought through my decisions,” he says. “You assume I speak for effect.”
“If you don’t want it questioned,” you reply, “make it stronger.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly over it. “You undermine me again in council,” he says, “and I will address it formally.”
The patrol was meant to be observation only, it’s what Neteyam instructed. You move along the western ridge regardless—four warriors trail behind you, quiet, uncertain. They had looked to him when the patrol had begun, now they look to you.
The forest feels wrong, Eywa does not hum here. The hum is more mechanical than anything, the sound does not belong to the flora, or to the wings of your ikran, it is metal. Biting into bark.
You raise a hand and the warriors behind you pause immediately, you crouch, pressing your fingers to the soil, smelling. There are no hoofprints this time, only boots. Your jaw tightens instantly.
Through the lattice of the ferns you see it, glint of alloy against green. A small extraction rig, half concealed beneath camo netting. It is not a full scale assault, they are testing, measuring, and mapping.
“Tsamsiyu, we were ordered to stay back, to observe.” The scarred warrior behind you speaks, eyes wide, tension coiled in his shoulders.
You close your eyes, allowing the forest to breathe around you, letting the winds stir the leaves. You have always been spiritual—have always hoped to someday take the role of Tsahik. “Yes. I know. I moved anyway.” you reply finally, voice low.
You nock an arrow, taking careful, practiced aim. The wind hums through the leaves, you feel the Great Mothers pulse beneath your palms, in the dirt, through the bark of the nearby trees. The arrow flies steadily, cutting straight through your jagged breath. Sparks flare and the humans freeze, panic rippling through them. Another shot, precise. The rig’s control panels shatter, wires exposed, metal dented.
The humans scatter into the foliage, the ridge smells now, of scorched earth and iron. And then you hear it, the screech of the ikran, your tail flicks instinctively at the sound of wings cutting through treetops.
Neteyam. The patrol rode with him, ikran stretched in perfect formation, the riders poised and alert. He is the first to dismount, eyes sweeping the ridge before landing on you.
“You disobeyed my orders.” he says, voice flat. “You moved ahead of the warriors I sent. You engaged without permission. Do you understand what you have done?”
“I saw a threat. I acted before it became a danger.”
Neteyam steps closer, the patrol behind him watching silently, tensely. “You put yourself—and every warrior who followed you at risk. You overstepped. You act as if you are in charge. Do not mistake your skill for authority.”
A flick of his tail punctuates the words slipping off of his tongue so easily. “Your father was a good warrior, yes. Brace, skilled. Dead. You are not your father. You are not above orders. You are not above the clan.”
You tighten your grip on your bow, glancing to the side, raising four fingers in his face. “I protect the clan,” you say, voice unwavering. “I act when I must. I will not wait for permission to protect what is ours.” You lower your hands sharply.
His eyes narrow. “You think courage is enough? You think instinct is enough? You are reckless. Dangerous. If anything had gone wrong today, it would have been your fault.”
“I did what needed to be done.”
He steps forward, so close you can feel the heat from his presence. “No. You do not get to make that choice. Orders are not optional, you are not your father, and you are not the clan. You are a woman who thinks her skill makes her untouchable, and it will not. Not with the sky people. Not now. Not ever.”
Your tail whips violently, muscles coiled. Your eyes meet his without flinching. “I do not serve you, Neteyam. I serve Eywa and the Omatikaya. If that conflicts with your pride then so be it.”
He turns, gesturing to the warriors behind you, and the ones behind him. They mount their ikran and rise above the canopy. Leaving you on the ridge with the forest humming, the charred remnants of the rig, and the echo of his words slicing through the quiet.
You sink to your knees, bow resting across your lap. Fingers brush the soil, a rhythm of life, now absent. Your tail droops loosely behind you. Alone, for the first time since your father’s death, the weight of the years presses down.
He would have known what to do, you think. He would have felt the threat without hesitation, acted without question, moved with certainty. And now… you do, you feel it, yes. But you act alone. And every time you do, the memory of his absence gnaws at your chest.
At eclipse, the walk back to the village is deliberately slow, bow leaving deep, rigid streaks in the soil. You step past the last stretch of trees—elders bow their heads in recognition, others notice your slower pace, the dark brown staining your knees, and your tense shoulders.
You do not waste time, not even bothering to enter your own home—fastening your steps, going straight to your mother.
She sits near the fire, weaving a strap of leather. She looks up, eyes large, golden. You feel the familiar mix of warmth and quiet judgment. “You’re late.” She says simply, voice calm but knowing.
“I needed to move.” You reply awfully fast, kneeling beside her.
She shifts closer, hands brushing yours as she lifts them from the bow resting across your lap. “You carried more than you should alone,” she murmurs, voice soft but firm. “Even the strongest warriors need rest, Y/n. Even the bravest must lean back sometimes.”
You close your eyes, head tilting into her touch.
“Come now, Ma’ite. The gathering is beginning now.” Your mother brushes your cheek, already collecting new weavings for you to wrap yourself in. “Dress well. The tsahik is making an announcement.”
“I will see you there,” you smile, letting her go and changing into a new loincloth, laced in deep, earthy tones—the fabric is soft, supple, and wraps low across your plump hips, the edges fraying naturally. Your top fits just right, a wrap of dyed plant fibers and fine leather riding up your sternum, the swell of your chest visible.
You rise from the quiet of your mothers tent, the soft laughter of children filling your ears, men and women discussing patrol routes and food.
The communal gathering sprawls ahead, filled with every member of the clan. The scent of smoke and roasting meat carries, layered with the subtle sweetness of forest blooms and the resinous tang of recently carved wood.
Villagers part as you and your mother arrive, recognizing the two of you with gentle bows or subtle nods. You keep your gaze forward, catching glimpses of familiar faces; Lo’ak near the edge, Kiri leaning against a tree, Tuk tucked close to Neytiri. The elders murmur quietly among themselves, eyes flicking toward the center where Mo’at stands.
Neteyam stands at her side, composed, commanding—utterly controlled. The very sight of him sends a prickle through your spine, a mixture of irritation and something sharper you dare not name. Beside him, Aysea stands quietly, serene, wearing a confidence that feels both earned and infuriating.
The gathering stills when Mo’at raises a hand. You crouch beside your mother, her hand squeezing yours gently.
Everyone’s eyes are on the Tsahik, her smile is large, yet serious. “The Omatikaya gather under Eywa’s watchful gaze to honor the bonds that guide our people,” Mo’at begins, her voice calm but resonant, carrying across the circle. “Our clan thrives because of the strength, courage, and wisdom of those who lead, and the choices made today will shape our path forward.”
Your stomach twists. You already sense the pivot of the moment, the shift in destiny that has nothing to do with your skill, your instinct, or the years you’ve spent preparing for this. Your gaze lowers, eyes shutting briefly.
She pauses, eyes sweeping across the circle, briefly resting on you and your mother. “It is time to recognize the role that Eywa has laid before our people. Neteyam will soon take his place among the leaders of our clan as warrior and protector.”
The announcement draws no gasp, no surprise from the people. It has been destined since his iknimaya, Neteyam will take after his father in every sense.
“And by Eywa’s blessing,” Mo’at continues, her gaze shifting from Neteyam to the figure standing beside him, “the one who will serve as the clan’s next Tsahìk, guiding the Omatikaya with wisdom, clarity, and vision, will be Aysea.”
You press your mother’s hand harder, grounding yourself as the weight of the announcement settles in. The role you had trained for under Mo’at’s watchful eyes, the path you had worked toward, is no longer within reach. Your tail flicks in agitation, the beads along your outfit clinking faintly.
You swallow, forcing your shoulders to relax, tail coiling beneath you. The forest hums faintly beneath your feet, reminding you that you are still a warrior, still strong, still capable.
Everything settles, you are too burdened to notice. Your gaze lifts only to see Neteyam’s steady hands guiding the future Tsahik through the crowd, finding a space to sit and eat together.
It is not his pitiful hand on the small of her back that bothers you, it is the role. That was supposed to be your role. Your mother leans down slightly, whispering, “Stay present, Y/n. The clan watches, always. Learn from this, even if it is not yours to hold.”
The next days go by slowly, only emphasizing the tightness in your chest. Eywa knows you’ve prepared thoroughly for the role Aysea has been given—perhaps it is because you and Neteyam had never connected, Mo’at needed somebody who could rule with her grandson together, not divided in the way you two are.
However, the idea of mating had never even reached you. especially the idea of mating with Neteyam. Several warriors had made attempts at courting you—did they ever succeed? No. You were far too busy for that kind of thing, but it never stopped the men from giving you their gifts, their praise, and their intense gazes.
The training grounds are crowded when you arrive, you’d been quiet since the announcement was disseminated, moving as productively as ever—just allowing the forest to guide you.
Tuk leaps to you as soon as you are in eyeshot, hands hooking around yours, dragging you to the target she’s been training with since the beginning. “Tuktirey,” you sigh, leaning down to her level and smiling.
“What?” She giggles cutely, hands squeezing yours.
“Come with me, to the ponds. It will be a hunt.” Tuk has been your student since she began learning, you thought it was about time she had learned to hunt at least one small creature.
“A real hunt?!” She exclaimed, hands letting off of yours, flying up in loud celebration.
“Shhh,” you laugh, handing her a smaller, yet stronger bow and setting off.
The ponds are alive and sounded in the early morning, fish of all kinds swimming about. Mists curl over the water in pale ribbons.
“The water is not like the soil,” Tuk observes, leaning down to touch it.
“No,” you murmur, crouching at the bank. “The water listens in another way.”
You guide her into the shallows where the currents grow thick, silver bodies flicker beneath the surface, quick and clever.
“Fish do not fear footsteps,” you explain softly. “They fear shadows. Keep your back to the sun.”
She nods with solemn intensity, mimicking your stance. You do not correct her immediately, you let her feel the water first—cool around her calves, alive against her skin.
A fish darts and Tuk jerks her bow too fast and splashes, missing wildly. You stifle a laugh, covering your lips. “Again.”
Across the bank, you feel his presence before you see him, Neteyam.
He stands leaned back against a broad tree, arms crossed lazily over his chest. Your stance is steady in the shallows, water curling around your calves. The low tweng at your hips is darker now where it’s soaked, clinging to the curve of your thighs. Your braids hang forward over your shoulders as you lean to correct Tuk’s angle, beads chiming softly. You pretend not to see him watching.
You adjust Tuk’s wrist gently. “Slow your breath. The water keeps moving even when you don’t.”
This time she waits, tongue poking at her cheek in concentration. She releases. the arrow pierces right through a mid sized fish, the water blooming red for a second. “I did it!” She gasps.
You grin, pride softening your features. “You did.”
A slow clap sounds from across the bank, your smile fades. Neteyam pushes off the tree, crossing towards the waters edge. His movements are measured, deliberate—like he’s stepping into a battlefield instead of a shallow pond.
“You took her beyond the perimeter. Beyond the training grounds.” He says, not calm, but not sharp.
Tuk beams up at him, holding her catch triumphantly. “I hunted!”
His expression softens for her. “I see that.”
Then his eyes shift to you. Hard again. “The ponds are not cleared for training.”
You straighten slowly, water slipping down your thighs as you step toward shore. You do not rush. You never rush for him. “They are now.”
His jaw sets tight, “you do not get to decide that.”
“I did not bring her into danger,” you say evenly. “I brought her to learn.”
“You brought her beyond secured ground without informing the patrol.”
“You secured the ground?” Your brow lifts slightly. “Or you simply marked it and hoped the sky people would obey your lines?”
His nostrils flare faintly. He hates when you frame it that way.
Tuk steps closer to you, small hand brushing your thigh. “There was no danger,” she insists, holding up her fish again as proof of triumph.
Neteyam exhales slowly, kneeling so he is level with her. His voice gentles instantly. “That does not mean we stop being careful, Tuk..”
She frowns. “But Y/n was careful.”
“Sometimes Y/n is wrong.” He shoots you a pointed glare. “You move as if the rules do not apply to you,” he says quietly, standing slowly.
“And you make rules as if they are always right.”
His tail flicks once, controlled but sharp. “Since the announcement, you have pushed every boundary I set.”
Your spine stiffens at that. “Since the announcement, you have tried to tighten every boundary around me.”
The air between you thickens. Tuk senses enough to step back, clutching her fish and edging toward the bank.
“You think this is about the Tsakarem,” he says, voice low.
“You think it is not?” You finally let a crack show—not anger, but something raw. “I trained for years. Under Mo’at. Under my mother. I learned the songs. The herbs. The dreams. And in one breath it was given to someone who stands beside you more easily.”
“Aysea was chosen by Eywa,” he mutters.
“And I was not?!”
Neteyam does not answer immediately, his eyes running over the riverbank—not at you.
“Should I take the fish back?” Tuk asks awkwardly.
“Yes.” you both say at the same time.
Tuk scrambles off, glancing back one more time before disappearing into the trees.
“Do not twist this.” You say, tail flicking sharply. “I am disappointed in the choice.”
“Aysea is very capable.”
“I did not say she wasn’t.”
“But you think you are more so.”
“Yes.”
“Confidence is not destiny.”
“And lineage is?” you fire back.
His shoulders square, he steps closer instinctively, chest falling and rising with each deep breath. “You think everything I have is handed to me?”
“I think everything you have is expected of you.” That lands differently, the silence between you two is tense, chests heaving with anger.
“Do not…bring Tuk here again.” He takes angered steps back, whipping around and walking back to the village.
The following day begins with chaos, your mother, a mighty huntress, a warrior—helping you to your ikran, mounting her own, and flying after several others.
A raid. This time Jakesully leads it, Neytiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak following close behind as always. Several warriors surround you. Gunships roar over the canopy, rotors chewing the air into shrapnel. Smoke spills downward in gray ribbons, staining the green—gold morning.
Your mother flies to your right, posture unshaken, braids snapping in the wind. The other warriors orient subtly around her without meaning to. They always have. Even the eldest hunters defer to her aim, to the quiet certainty in her movements. She does not bark orders because she does not need to.
You dive together, arrows streaking downward. One of yours pierced a gunner's throat. Another explodes through a rotor housing. The sky people scatter, recalculating.
A concussive sound cuts through the air, a thud so violent it folds the air inward. You turn just in time to see the missile strike her ikran’s wing.
The creature streaks as membrane tears. Your mother does not scream, she shifts her weight, compensating, trying to pull upward.
Gunfire rips through smoke, three rounds, center mass. Her body jerks, the world slows into a crawl, your soul leaping to your throat.
You see the way her fingers tighten once around the reins. The way her chin lifts, not in fear, but in refusal. Then gravity claims her.
“Ma’ Sa’nok!” You yell, diving without breath, without thought. The forest canopy rushes up in a violent blur of green and shadow.
Your hand almost reaches her, almost. A hand clasps around your tricep with bruising strength. Neteyam. “Let go!” you roar, thrashing.
“She’s gone!” He shouts back, voice raw. “You cannot save her.” He holds you back despite the loud cries escaping your throat.
The battle ends in pieces, you do not remember landing, you remember only the moment your feet met the soil and you ran. You find her where the canopy broke her fall, she is not intact.
The forest is eerily careful around her. Leaves drift down like quiet witnesses. Her body lies twisted but proud. She lies cradled in ferns, as if the forest—Eywa tried softening the blow she could not prevent.
Your legs no longer understand how to move. You kneel beside her. You cannot touch her at first. Your hands hover over her chest, trembling. There is blood—too much blood. It has soaked her leather, pooled beneath her spine, darkened the roots of nearby plants.
“Ma,” you whisper. Your voice does not sound like yours. You press your palm to her sternum. It is warm, still warm. Hope detonates in your chest. “Can you stay? Stay please, do you hear me?”
Your hands run over her neck, searching for the pulse you felt at birth. The pulse she taught you to find in wounded animals. There is one, two, three beats. But no fourth.
You lean down, pressing your forehead to hers the way you did as a child when storms frightened you. Her skin is cooling under yours.
Your hands are slick with her blood when the others finally reach you. You hear them dimly—the rustle of warriors parting leaves, the low murmur of disbelief. Someone inhales sharply, another whispers her name.
You press your forehead harder to hers as if heat can be forced back into her by will alone. “Ma’ sa’nok…” It breaks this time. Not a whisper. A fracture.
“She fought well.” Jake murmurs, sitting opposite of you.
“She was not supposed to fall.”
Jake holds your gaze from across with a grief he does not try to hide. His jaw works before he answers, voice roughened by smoke and memories. “No one is.”
Branches part behind him, you raise your weapon instinctively as measured footsteps approach. Neytiri emerges first from behind Jake’s shoulder, her eyes fall to your mother’s body and something inside her fractures silently—one hand lifts to her mouth, yours falls slowly, letting your bow slip from your fingers.
Lo’ak steps into view from behind her, his expression hardens the moment he sees you kneeling there. Not sympathy, not softness. And then, Neteyam. He stops when he sees her there.
He steps forward once, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. His voice, when it comes, is low and stripped of commands. “I am sorry.”
“You had no right,” you say, it is not shouted, it is hollowed out of you. “You had no right to stop me.”
His jaw tightens. Not anger, but containment. He kneels opposite you, beside his father, mirroring the way you crouch over her. “If I let you fall too—”
“You do not decide that!” The sound tears from your throat, sharp enough that Lo’ak shifts behind him. “You do not decide who I lose!”
Neteyam’s voice lowers before he speaks. “She was gone before you dove.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“How?” Your eyes blaze, wet but unyielding. “Because you are always certain? Because you’re always right?”
His nostrils flare. “Because I watched the rounds hit her,” he says quietly. “Because I saw where they struck.”
You glance down at your mothers chest as if defiance alone will restart it. But the warmth is fading beneath your palms. The forest hums, soft and distant. Your shoulders begin to shake, though you refuse to bow your head completely. Not here, not in front of him.
Jake moves then, placing a hand gently on your shoulder, then another on your mother’s. “We’ll take her home.”
You do not move as the warriors step forward, Neteyam stands before you, offering a hand. You only stare at it before standing without taking it.
When you reach the village edge, elders bow their heads. Your mothers absence moves through the clan like a shadow. Neteyam walks beside you the entire way, not close enough to touch, not far enough to escape.
Aysea watches from the crowd, her eyes dark with something discourteous.
You do not sleep that night. You stay hidden in your home, letting the tears fall down where they won’t the next day.
And when the day comes, you stand in the crowd, your mother being lowered into the ground. Her braids have been cleaned and restrung. Her weapons rest beside her, not as trophies, but as parts of her life returning with her.
She looks as if she is sleeping, too still. Too quiet. At the center stands Mo’at—her posture is unwavering, her age carried like carved stone. When she raises her hand, the forest stills.
Beside her stands Aysea. Tsakarem. She carries the bowl of sacred herbs, arranging the woodsprites at your mother’s feet. She does not lead, but she is being shown how too. Mo’at begins the song, it is soft—carrying through the crowd and into the night.
Low and ancient, vibrating through the roots beneath your knees. She speaks of courage. Of sacrifice, of a warrior who did not falter. She presses her palm to your mothers brow. “Eywa receives what was always hers.”
Aysea kneels when instructed, placing the woodsprites along your mother’s chest. Her movements are precise, reverent, and
The soil falls over your mothers head, a piece of your soul is returning with her. When the clan disperses it is only you, your fingers press into the soil, feeling the warmth beneath them.
There is only continuation, and you sit there until the light fades completely.
Three long months pass, the change happens slowly, at first, the clan thinks grief has softened you—it hasn’t, it has refined you.
In council, when Neteyam outlines patrol rotations, you do not interrupt. You do not challenge his flanks or question his caution, you only nod.
When he assigns you to a specific perimeter—the most tedious stretch. You accept it without comment. That is what unsettles him.
He watches for the tilt of your chin, for the spark in your eyes, and for the inhale before you dismantle his strategy—but it never comes.
During training, he corrects your stance. “You are compensating too far left.” He murmurs too close to your ear.
“I will adjust,” you reply evenly, not sarcasm, no bite. You do adjust, perfectly. He studies you longer than necessary.
At the communal gathering, Aysea sits at his side, one hand splayed over his thigh. His arms are wrapped around her waist, nose dug into the crook of her neck—but when he looks up, his eyes find you, crouched over the fire, helping the elders cook.
Lo’ak nudges his side gently, whispering into his ear. “You prefer her to be angry.” He teases, laughing too loud.
The tension—you—sharpen weeks later. Aysea spends more time assisting Mo’at. Learning chants, preparing meals and medicines, walking beside Neteyam after council discussions about spiritual morale. You tell yourself it does not matter.
One afternoon, the warriors gather for coordinated target drills. The air is thick and humid, insects buzz lazily over the clearing. Neteyam moves between archers, correcting forms. He steps behind another female warrior—tsu’ren, adjusting her elbow with careful precision. “Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs.
His hands are close to her waist as he demonstrates alignment. It is nothing inappropriate, it is leadership. You know that, but your jaw tightens anyway. When your turn comes, you draw your arrow harder than necessary.
The string snaps forward and the arrow veers wide, a miss. You never miss. Neteyam’s head turns instinctively, he approaches you then. “You are distracted.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He says, stepping behind you. his hand hovers near your elbow, not touching. Then he adjusts your arm, fingers brushing your skin.
“Stop it,” you pull away, shooting another arrow dead center. He steps away immediately, a little smirk creeping through his exterior.
The sun had barely set over the horizon when jake approached you, moving carefully along the platform where you were just weaving, several men and women surrounded. Neteyam sat behind Aysea, her head laid back against his shoulder as she weaved him an armband.
Jake paused, eyes lingering on you and then shifting to Neteyam. “You two are going to patrol together.” he said, voice firm. “It’s about time you two learned to read the forest as a unit.”
Your protests fall flat under your Olo’eyktan. Neteyam’s eyes meet yours briefly, sharp yet unreadable. You simply nod, not speaking and letting the weight of the task settle over you.
Aysea stood then, gliding up beside Jake and letting her hand brush your shoulder. “You’ll see, Y/n,” she said, voice sugary. “He can be…” she glances at Neteyam, winking slyly. “Difficult… But don’t worry, you’ll manage, I'm sure.”
You pulled your shoulders back subtly, keeping your voice neutral. “I manage just fine on my own.” Her smile faltered ever so slightly, replaced with a cool glare that she masked quickly.
The forest had received the assignment before you had even registered it. At dawn the following morning, mist clings low to the roots around your ankles as if testing whether you will move differently today. You will not. You braid your hair tighter than usual, reaching first for your warriors' raspu’—they fit close to your legs, leather hugging your skin tight from the curve of your hips to your ankles.
Your top fits sung across your chest, made for fighting. You secure your bow, your knife and walk to the ikran perch without looking at him. He is already there. Neteyam stands beside his ikran, one hand resting along the creature's neck ridge. He does not greet you. His eyes skim you once—that glance that you hate—quick, assessing, then away.
“Ready?” He asks, securing his cummerband.
“I was ready before I arrived.”
A muscle in his jaw shifts. “We patrol the north ridge first. Then sweep east toward the ravine.” You nod, no argument. It unsettles him more than defiance ever did. You mount your ikran in silence, the slice is clean—two shadows slicing through gold, morning light. Wind whips past your ears, braids snapping behind you. The village disappears beneath the canopy.
The forest below feels heavy—no metal scent, no smoke. Just leaf and life and breath.
When you land along the north ridge, you dismount smoothly and kneel without instruction. Fingers press into soil. Cool. Undisturbed. “Nothing crossed here,” you murmur.
“I know,” he replies, eyes watching over you.
“You did not check yet.”
“I watched the birds.”
Your eyes narrow faintly, you hadn’t noticed the pattern shift until he said it. “You are not the only one who listens,” he adds quietly.
You move east, chest tight, weapons ready—the ravine narrows into stone and shadow. Vines hang thick like curtains. The air dips cooler, you step first this time, not asking, simply moving. He follows—for once, not correcting.
Halfway through the descent you freeze, he nearly walks into you, but your hand lifts and he pauses instantly.
Below, faint but distinct, boot tread. Fresh, pressed into soft clay near the polluted water’s edge. His breath shifts, you look at him once he only nods, no words needed.
You slide down the slope silently, positioning left flank. He takes right without discussion. Years of tension crystallize into instinctive coordination. You draw first; he mirrors the motion half a breath later.
Through bushes you spot it, a lone survey drone wedged low between rock walls, scanning. Not a full rig, but a scout.
You meet Neteyam’s gaze across the ravine. strike or observe? This time, he waits. You inhale slowly, fighting the urge to shoot.
“If we destroy it, they know we found them. If we track it, we know where they return.” Neteyam says.
“Track,” you mumble, lowering your bow. You climb higher along the rock shelf, keeping wind at your backs. The drone hums faintly below, unaware.
After nearly an hour, a small retrieval skiff emerges downstream. Two sky people, lightly armed. Careless.
You nod, this time, you fire together. Two arrows, two clean kills. The drone sparks as Neteyam’s third blade severs its stabilizer.
When silence returns, the forest exhales. You remain still, no scattered panic, no chaos.
He steps down the rock shelf carefully, nudging one of the sky people’s weapons away with his foot. “Clean,” he murmurs. Not praise, not surprise, just fact.
You descend after him, cutting the drone’s core free with precise efficiency. “They were careless,” you reply. “That will change.”
The light thins faster than any of you had anticipated. By the time you clear the ravine and reach the upper ridge again, the sun has dipped low enough that the canopy swallows what remains of it. The forest shifts into its night breath, cooler, denser. Neteyam glances west, gauging distance. The ikran cry again, but farther now. “We won’t make it back before full dark,” he says. Not irritated. Just calculating.
You already know. The shadows here are too thick to risk flying blind. “Come.”
He follows you because of course he does. Because you always move like you already know where you’re going.
The light drains faster, canopy swallowing what remains of day. “Where are you going?”
“You’ll see.”
The edge in your voice makes something flicker in his expression, irritation, suspicion…challenge.
You push through a low sweep of fern and descend into thicker undergrowth. The air warms, the soil softens beneath your feet.
He notices the change immediately, less rock, more loam. The forest hums deeper here, you part a final curtain of vines.
The hollow opens before you—nestled between two massive roots that arc like protective arms. The ground is layered in thick moss and spring grass, lush and undisturbed. Soft enough to sink into. Hidden enough that even moonlight filters in gently through biolumescent leaves.
You step in first, kneeling to test the ground, you sigh contentedly when the moss dips around the curve of your hips—yielding under your weight.
Neteyam watches silently from the entrance, the way the moss parts around your knees. The way it cushions you when you lean forward to press your palm into the ground. Your raspu’ stretches across your thighs as you settle back onto your heels, leather hugging the roundness of you as the ground gives.
“You come here often?” He asks, finally entering and dropping his weapons—leaving them close by.
“I used to. Is there a problem?”
“No.” He forced his gaze anywhere else. You rise slowly, moss clings to your calves before springing back. The movement is unhurried and controlled. “This will hold warmth,” you say.
“…it’s concealed.” He admits.
“Yes.” You unstrap your bow, crouching to set it within reach. When you kneel again—this time lowering fully onto the moss, the ground dips more deeply beneath you, forming to the shape of your body.
He inhales, stepping past you abruptly, circling the hollow, checking sightlines, elevation, and canopy breaks. So efficient, so controlled.
But when he returns, you are still kneeling—this time adjusting the placement of your knife against your thigh.
You shift to sit back more comfortably, the movement slow. The soft ground still molds beneath you, cushioning the curve of your hips, supporting the arch of your spine.
He lowers himself opposite you, The moss compresses under him, but not the same way. It irritates him. “You chose this place because it’s comfortable,” he says.
“I chose it because it is smart.” You reply starkly.
“And soft,”
You tilt your head slightly. “Do you object to soft ground?”
“No.”
“Then stop complaining. Sleep.” You close your eyes first, your back flat against the soft moss, fingers curled in it.
He exhales sharply, watching the rise and fall of your chest. The way the moss cushions you. The way even in sleep your brow remains faintly furrowed, as if ready to argue with him in your dreams.
You hate him so much. So much that it feels like a second heartbeat. It lives between your ribs. And he hates you just as much, but he lays back tonight—not because he trusts you, but because he’s simply just tired.
You wake first, rousing him. Dawn bleeds pale gold through the village when you and Neteyam return. By the time your ikran’ touch down near the training grounds, the clan is already stirring. Warriors gather in loose formation. The air smells of damp flora and smoke.
Jake stands at the center, arms wrapped around his mate, Neytiri, who stands beside him—posture relaxed but eyes sharp. A few spaces behind them, Mo’at stands with her staff, near the woven target posts with Aysea.
You and Neteyam land in unison, Jake steps forward, nods once, and speaks. “Report.”
Neteyam begins, voice steady. “Scout drone in the eastern ravine. Two retrieval personnel, eliminated. No trace left.” Murmurs ripple.
Jake’s gaze shifts to you. “Anything else?” You hesitate half a breath, Neteyam notices.
“There was a secondary track north of the ravine,” you add evenly. “Light, testing perimeter range. We extended patrol through the night to confirm.”
Jake’s brow lifts slightly. “Extended without rotating?”
“Yes.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. That had been your call. Jake studies you both. “Risky.”
“It ensured no follow-up unit was waiting,” you reply.
Neteyam does not look at you—but you feel the flicker of irritation roll off him. You made it sound like your insistence carried the patrol.
Lo’ak shifts nearby, muttering under his breath, but loud enough. “She’s so unbelievable.”
Aysea steps closer, soft voice floating through the clearing. “It is good you were protected through the night.”
“Protected?” You echo.
She smiles faintly. “The ravine is unpredictable terrain. Thankfully, Neteyam is experienced with difficult environments.”
Neteyam exhales through his nose. “It was handled.”
Jake claps once, waving his hands to the clan surrounding you. “Good, training continues.”
You move automatically toward the small bows. Tuk is already waiting, bouncing on her heels—grinning wildly. “You were gone forever!”
“Forever is one night?” you murmur, crouching to adjust her grip. Behind you, drills resume. Commands barked. Arrows thudding into woven targets. You guide Tuk’s elbow gently. “Relax here.”
She nods seriously. Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects stances with sharp efficiency. His voice carries.
Tuk releases—her arrow strikes wide. “Again,” you whisper. A shadow falls over you, this time it is not Neteyam, it is Aysea.
“You teach her like she is fragile,” Aysea observes lightly.
You don’t look up. “She is learning.”
“Correction builds instinct.”
“Do not question my teaching when all you do is stand around and watch.” You say, hands falling to your thighs. “Safety builds courage.” A few warriors pause—listening from where they are perched.
Aysea only smirks. “Courage without discipline is recklessness.”
At that, you finally rise to stand. “Discipline without trust brings fear. You and your mate or whatever always find a reason to diminish my teaching. Leave.” Tuks small fingers press tightly into yours.
Aysea tilts her head, voice lowering. Still audible to the closest. “You always resist structure.” You know what she is doing, framing, positioning.
“I resist nothing when it makes sense.”
Her mask flickers. “And yet you always resist him. Neteyam.” There it is. Several heads turn now, Jake’s voice fades mid conversation, Neytiri’s eyes sharpen.
“This is not about Neteyam,” you say, turning back to Tuk.
“It always is with you.” She fires back, sharp and measured.
Tuk frowns, squeezing your fingers. “Why is it about my brother?”
“It is not.” You kneel slightly toward her.
Aysea’s composure cracks. “You spend an inappropriate amount of time at his side,” she says, dropping her voice.
“I patrol where I am assigned,” you say, trying to keep it even.
“You seek those assignments.”
“That is untrue.”
Her tone dips lower, sharper now. “You were not chosen. Not as Tsahìk. Not as mate. Perhaps that is why you cling to proximity.”
Your eyes flash, back straightening, hands moving to rest on your hips. “I do not cling to anyone. I do not want his shadow.”
“Then why are you always in it?”
Your voice cools. “Because I am a warrior. And he leads warriors.”
“And you cannot accept that you do not lead beside him.”
Tuk tugs your hand. “Y/n…” You squeeze her fingers gently.
“I trained for a role,” you say evenly. “That role was given elsewhere. I accepted that.”
Aysea lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Accepted? You have grown quieter, yes. But silence can be resentment.”
“You mistake discipline for bitterness.”
“No,” she says softly. “I recognize hunger.”
“You speak boldly for someone still learning to carry Mo’at’s bowl without trembling,” you say, voice low, not sharp, not raised. The warriors nearest you go completely still. Lo’ak turns first, Kiri straightens in her more secluded spot, Jake’s voice pauses mid conversation, Neytiri’s gaze is still sharp, only turned to you. Mo’at stills—only observing.
“You walk as if something was taken from you,” she says. “As if the clan wronged you.”
“I lost my mother,” you say flatly. “Something was taken. I do not blame the clan.”
“And yet you act as if that loss entitles you.”
“Entitles me to what?”
“To stand above correction. To challenge leadership. To speak as if you know better than those chosen by Eywa.”
“You questioned my readiness?” she asks.
“I question your restraint.”
“At least I understand reverence,” she snaps. “I do not parade my defiance as strength.”
“And I do not mistake proximity to power for wisdom.”
“You think your parents would approve of how you behave?” she asks suddenly.
Your shoulders stiffen, fists clenching involuntarily, The shift is subtle, but it is there. “This is not about them.”
“Everything about you is also about them,” she presses. “Your father’s reputation. Your mother’s name. You carry it like armor.”
“Do not.”
“Your father was brave,” she says, voice tightening. “But bravery without restraint is recklessness.”
In this moment, the clearing is silent, it is just you and her in your mind. You feel the silence before you hear it.
“And your mother,” Aysea continues, “she followed leadership. She did not challenge it at every breath. Perhaps if you learned from that—”
“That is enough.” This time your voice cuts across the training ground, drills stop. Neteyam arrives seconds later, drawn by the sound—not the words. He steps between you instinctively.
“What is happening?” His gaze lands on you first. Lo’ak steps to his side immediately.
“She started it,” he says. “Disrespecting Aysea again.”
“I was reminding her of boundaries,” Aysea cuts in. “She grew defensive.”
Your jaw tightens. “She mentioned my parents.” you say, voice tight.
Neteyam’s gaze flicks to you, a small hesitation creeping through. “And?”
“And she implied my mother reached too far.”
Lo’ak steps forward, “You think too much of yourself,” he mutters under his breath.
Neteyam’s eyes narrow. “You always assume the worst,” he says to you, low and firm. “Not everything is an attack.”
“You did not hear what she said,” you reply, pain threading your words.
“I heard enough,” he says.
“No,” you insist. “You heard her version.”
Aysea touches Neteyam’s arm lightly, claiming space. “The clan sees tension,” she says. “It weakens unity.”
Jake steps forward. “Enough.”
Silence falls heavy. Mo’at studies you, Neytiri watches with quiet concern, Kiri frowns but says nothing.
You drop your gaze briefly, letting yourself feel the sting of solitude. Always alone. Always the one who bears the weight quietly. You close your eyes for a second, swallow, then lift your head—steadying the tremor in your voice. “I have done nothing unprofessional,” you state.
Neteyam’s stare is unyielding. “Then it should be easy.”
Tuk tugs lightly at your hand. “Did I do something wrong?”
You kneel instantly, smoothing her braids. “No, my love, you did perfectly.”
You rise, keeping your composure, though your chest still aches from the loneliness that never truly leaves.
Arrows fly again. The clearing feels colder now. Neteyam’s gaze lingers longer than he intends. Lo’ak mutters a discontented hiss directed towards you to Aysea. Aysea stands serene, claiming her place beside him.
You do not look at them again, finishing Tuk’s lesson with quiet exactness. When she runs off towards Kiri you remain kneeling for longer than necessary—collecting scrambled arrows from the dirt ground.
Mo’at watches silently, realizing—Aysea speaks of the dead in an unlikely manner. Eywa could not have chosen her.
The night settles gently over the forest, glowing with quiet bioluminescence. Blue and violet lights flicker along vines and roots, reflecting softly across the wide communal gathering.
The clan gathers around the growing fires, a successful hunt always loosens spirits—laughter ripples between groups, children dart between legs, elders trade quiet stories. The scent of roasted sturmbeast and spiced roots fills the warm air.
You sit among the warriors closest to the cooking pit, helping to carve portions from the evenings catch. Grease glistens faintly on your fingers as you pass a strip of meat to one of the younger women.
Across the fire, Neteyam sits with his back straight beside Aysea, who leans slightly against his side, he has an arm pressed tightly against her waist. Her presence there has grown natural to the clan. too natural.
Your eyes never linger long enough to make it obvious. But his sometimes do. Only not tonight.
Tonight he keeps his focus on the warriors beside him as they recount the hunt. His father, Jake, laughs loudly at something Lo’ak says, while Neytiri quietly distributes bowls to the elders, a large smile on her face.
Near the center platform stands Mo’at, speaking softly with the older women of the clan.
The moment is peaceful until Aysea notices you. You are laughing softly with one of the younger warriors, head tilted back slightly, the firelight tracing the curve of your cheek and the braids along your shoulder.
Aysea’s smile stiffens, she watches the way several hunters gather around you naturally as you help divide the food. It is effortless.
No position, no title, yet they gravitate towards you anyway. Her fingers tighten around Neteyam’s arm. “You seem comfortable tonight,” her voice carries faster than she’d intended, a few conversations pause.
You glance up from the meat you’re slicing. “We ate well today,”
“That is not what I meant.” Now more heads turn. Neteyam shifts slightly beside her, sensing the switch in tone. “Aysea,” he murmurs quietly, but she continues.
“It is admirable,” she says, eyes fixed on you. “How easily you settle back into the clan.”
You wipe your hands slowly on a cloth, rising to your feet. “I never left.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Aysea laughs softly, the sound is brittle. “No. But grief often isolates people.” Your shoulders stiffen faintly.
“I would not know,” you say evenly, and she tilts her head, a challenge.
“You carry it loudly enough.” A few elders exchange uncomfortable glances. Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Aysea,” he says again, firmer this time.
But something has already slipped in her composure. “You challenge council decisions,” she continues, voice sharpening. “You undermine leadership in training. And yet you stand here tonight as if nothing has changed.”
Your gaze remains steady. “I do my work.”
“You resent your place.”
“I accepted it.”
“No,” she snaps suddenly. “You endured it.”
The clearing grows quiet. Even the children have stopped running. Aysea rises to her feet now, stepping away from Neteyam entirely. “You think everyone cannot see it?” she says, voice rising. “The way you linger around command. The way warriors still look to you first?”
You cross your arms loosely. “I cannot control where people look.”
“That is the problem,” she says.
Neteyam stands now too. “Aysea,”
She ignores him. “You act as if you deserve more,” she continues. “As if something was stolen from you.”
“Nothing was stolen,” you reply calmly.
“Then why do you behave like a displaced leader?”
The insult lands heavily, several hunters shift uneasily. Your voice remains level. “I behave like a warrior.”
“No,” she says sharply. “You behave like someone who cannot accept she was not chosen.”
Silence spreads across the clearing, Mo’at has turned fully toward the confrontation now. Your expression does not change, but your voice grows colder. “You speak boldly tonight.”
“I speak honestly.”
“You speak emotionally.”
Her eyes flash. “And you speak arrogantly!”
That word cracks through the clearing like a snapped bowstring. Neteyam steps forward immediately. “That is enough.”
But Aysea is no longer listening. “You hide behind humility,” she continues, pointing at you now. “But you believe you would have been the better Tsahìk.”
You do not answer, and your silence is confirmation enough for her. “Say it,” she presses.
You meet her gaze steadily. “Yes.”
The word drops calmly into the firelight, gasps ripple through the circle. Neteyam’s head snaps toward you. “You think Eywa made a mistake?” Aysea demands.
“No.” Your voice stays measured. “I think Eywa has reasons we do not yet understand.”
“That is convenient,” she scoffs.
You tilt your head slightly. “Faith often is.”
The clan watches, frozen between shock and fascination. Aysea’s composure finally fractures. “You think you are wiser than the Tsahìk?” she demands.
“No.”
“Then stop behaving like it!” Her voice cracks. And the crack is everything. Mo’at sees it, the lack of stillness, the loss of reverence. The anger.
You, meanwhile, remain completely calm. “You asked my belief,” you say quietly.
“I did not ask for your pride!”
Neteyam steps between you now, physically separating the two of you. “Enough.” His voice is sharp enough to cut through the tension.
Aysea’s chest rises and falls rapidly.“You defend her now?” she demands.
“I am stopping this,” he says firmly.
You glance at him briefly, then step back. “I will remove myself.”
Without another word, you turn and walk away from the firelight, disappearing into the darker edges of the clearing, no anger, no retaliation, just absence. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any argument.
Mo’at watches the aftermath, her eyes linger, not in the direction which you disappeared, but on Aysea. A Tsahik must carry stillness, a Tsahik must hold grief, anger, fear, and transform it.
But Aysea did not transform anything tonight, she unleashed it. Mo’at's fingers tighten subtly around her staff, across the clearing she noticed something else. You had been attacked, your parents invoked, your grief questioned. And still—you never raised your voice, never insulted Aysea, never lost control. Mo’at exhales slowly. For the first time since Eywa’s supposed sign months ago…
A doubt stirs—soft, unwelcome but undeniable. Perhaps Eywa had not finished speaking.
Later that night, Neteyam stands alone near the outer platforms of the ridge, the forest breaths quietly around him, his mind refuses to settle.
He had expected anger from you, defiance, sharp words, that was the usual pattern. But tonight, you had simply said yes. Yes, you believe you could have done better, not arrogantly, not loudly, just honestly. And somehow that unsettled him more than any argument you ever threw at him.
He remembers the way the firelight caught your face, calm, unafraid, even when Aysea pushed harder. His jaw tightens, Aysea had crossed a line.
He exhales slowly, running a hand over his braids. For years, he believed you challenged him because you claimed authority, but tonight—somethjng shifted. You had walked away from it completely with quiet certainty.
He wonders if the person he misunderstood the most was you.
Far deeper in the forest, beneath towering roots and glowing vines, Mo’at kneels alone before a sacred tree as the clan sleeps. Only the soft breathing of the forest remains.
Mo’at places both hands against the bark, whispering ancient prayers. “Great Mother… guide your children.” Her mind returns again and again to the feast. Aysea’s anger. Your stillness. The imbalance.
Something about it disturbed the harmony of the moment. Mo’at closes her eyes. “I ask not for judgment… only truth.” The tendrils of the tree sway softly. She reaches forward, connecting her kuru to the sacred fibers.
The bond forms, the world dissolves. For a moment there is only light. Memories ripple through Eywa’s network—voices, laughter, battles, births, deaths.
And then a sudden pulse. Not calm, not balanced, it is disruption. Images flash across Mo’at’s vision; You as a child kneeling beside your mother during healing rituals.
Your father teaching you battle forms. Your hands glowing faintly beneath the Tree of Voices. Aysea standing before the clan tonight, anger, fear, possession. The images fracture. Another pulse surges through the connection, strong.
A whisper flows through the roots, not words, but direction. Mo’at gasps softly as the connection breaks. Her eyes open slowly, the forest glows brighter than before.
For decades she has served Eywa, she knows the difference between imagination and guidance. And what she felt tonight…was guidance.
Her fingers tighten around her braid. “If I ignored you once,” she murmurs softly, “I will not ignore you again.”
You were laid comfortably in the warm embrace of your home, the doorway pinned shut— your weapons stored away.
The long day had left your muscles heavy, and you had only just begun loosening the ties of your top. The leather cords slipped slowly through your fingers as you untied them.
The night air moved softly through the woven walls of your hut. Insects hummed outside, and somewhere far off an ikran cried into the darkness.
You were just pulling the garment over your head when a knock sounded from outside. The sudden sound against the woven wall of your hut frightened you.
No one ever came this late, so of course, your head snapped towards the door. For a moment you stayed still, just listening—then the sound came again. “Who is there?” You called quietly.
A female voice sounds from the other side. “Warriors,” Torchlight flickered faintly through the woven curtain.
A male voice followed. “The Tsahik calls for you.”
Your eyebrows furrowed almost immediately. “For me? At this hour?” A brief pause followed, then the woman spoke again—her tone respectful but certain. “Yes. She asks that you come now.”
Your mind drifts to earlier, to Aysea’s raised voice, the anger that had flashed across her face when the argument turned against her. The words she had thrown at you in front of others. And to Mo’at, who watched silently.
“One minute.” You mumble, retying your coverings, knotting them properly. You push other thoughts away and move towards the door.
When you pull the curtain aside, torchlight spills into the hut. The warriors stand on the platform outside, inclining their heads respectfully. Both are older hunters you recognize from patrol, their bows resting over their shoulders. “Tsahik.” They say simultaneously, reminding you.
“Did she say why?”
“No, she only said to bring you.”
Something in the way he says it makes a quiet tension coil in your chest. Mo’at is not a woman who acts without reason, you fall into step behind them.
You pass sleeping huts, quiet cooking fires, racks of drying fish and woven baskets, no one stops you, no one even notices. The warriors lead you deeper into the center of the village until the familiar scent of herbs begins to drift through the air. Mo’at’s kelku.
You had spent countless hours there growing up, training, learning plants, grinding roots, listening to Mo’at speak of Eywa and the old ways of the People.
The woman gestures toward the curtain. “She waits.”
They step aside, you lift the curtain and step inside. The flames burn low but steady, casting warm gold across the hut. Bundles of herbs hang from the beams above, and bowls of crushed leaves and medicinal pastes sit scattered across the floor.
The Tsahik sits beside the central fire. Mo’at looks exactly as she always does; calm, still. Yet the moment you enter, her eyes sharpen.
She gestured to the mat across from her. “Sit.” Her voice is quiet, but firm. You lower yourself onto the floor immediately. The fire crackles softly between you.
Mo’at studies your face as if she is searching for something inside of you. Finally she speaks. “I went to the tree of voices tonight.”
A Tsahik only seeks Eywa there when she needs answers. Her gaze never leaves yours. “For many years,” she continues slowly, “I believed the path of this clan was already clear.” Her fingers rest loosely against her knees. “Aysea walks the tsakarem path. She was meant to follow me.”
You nod once. Everyone knows this. Mo’at exhales softly. “But tonight… I asked that Eywa show me the truth. And she showed me something I did not expect.” She leans forward just slightly. “Two paths. One was Aysea, and the other was you. Y/n.”
You shift slightly on the mat, trying to steady the sudden wave of pressure. “Me?” You whisper, though it’s hardly a question.
“Yes, you.” Her fingers tap the edge of the mat, moving to rest on your knee. “The path… it is always inside you, Y/n. Your bond with Eywa, it is strong, steady. Never waver, even with anger, with fear. You have strong heart.”
“But…” you say. “Aysea is chosen. She is to be mated with Neteyam. People expect her to lead.”
“Yes,” Mo’at says. “But the expectations of others cannot change the path that the Great Mother has set for you. You carry more than duty. You carry choice.”
You swallow, feeling the weight of it all press into your ribs. “Choice…” you whisper, testing the word as if it were foreign.
Yes,” Mo’at replies softly. “And with choice comes responsibility. The path will not be simple. It will be tested by anger, jealousy, and fear. You will face those who doubt you, who challenge you at every step. But it is yours to walk, not theirs.”
Your fingers rest on your knees, still trembling slightly. “And Neteyam?” you ask, your voice low. “He… he will not understand this.”
Mo’at tilts her head, expression unreadable. “Neteyam is loyal to the clan, as all warriors are. But loyalty does not always see the vision of Eywa. Your bond with him is strong, but it is separate from the path you are called to. You must lead with stillness, with patience, and with courage—beyond personal feeling.”
“I feel it. Sometimes. I don’t understand this feeling. If it is acceptance or still hate, or rejection.”
“The bond?”
“Yes.” You say honestly
She nods thoughtfully, swallowing heavily. “Go. Rest now. I will seek you continuiously, my dear.”
“Yes, Tsahik.” The hut quiets when you leave, your steps are steady leading you back to your home, the night is deep, the forest alive with soft murmurs of insects and distant calls of nocturnal creatures.
A sudden movement ahead makes you pause, Neteyam stands there, just beyond the curve of the path. His shoulders are squared, his expression unreadable. “Y/n.” He says, voice quiet—but fierce.
“Neteyam.” You say, continuing to walk.
His hand hooks around your arm. “Wait.” You pause, letting him hold your arm, though you make no move to pull away. His grip is firm, measured.
“I watched you tonight.”
You scoff, your other hand resting on your hip. “Didn’t everyone?”
“That’s not—that’s not the point. I saw through the clearing. how you carried yourself. the way you handled everything.”
“I did what i needed to,”
“Yes.” He lets out a slow breath, releasing some tension, but he doesn’t let go of your arm. “I underestimated you. I thought I knew you.” He mumbles under his breath.
“And?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.
“And…you’re impossible to ignore.” He releases your arm slightly, but the tension between you is thicker than the forest itself. “Not because i agree with you. Not because i like your choices. i just see more clearly what i’ve been dealing with.”
Your lips twitch, half a smirk, half a warning—but you stay silent. “I handled tonight poorly,” he continues, voice measured, no apology in it. “I let assumptions cloud my judgment. But that doesn’t mean I respect everything you do, or that you’ve changed my opinion of you.”
“Good,” you say simply, stepping around him. “I wouldn’t want it if you did.”
Dawn paints the canopy in soft gold, bright and early the next day. You move silently through the forest with Neteyam at your side. Neither of you speak at first. The quiet is precise, disciplined—almost a competition. Your steps are measured, your eyes scanning the ground, and you feel him mirror every movement.
“You’re overcompensating." he says after a moment, voice a clipped whisper.
“I’m aware,” you reply evenly, not looking at him. The irritation in your tone is subtle but deliberate.
He grunts and falls silent. You sense the weight of his gaze, but it is neither approval nor criticism—just attention. you refuse to meet it.
Later, at council, Aysea leans slightly towards him like always, a faint smile playing at the edge of her lips. Her presence is deliberate. Every suggestion she makes seems designed to highlight your supposed mistakes.
“You persist with impractical strategies,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to you. “The clan cannot afford impulsive actions.”
“I act when hesitation would cost lives,” you reply evenly. Neteyam shifts, jaw tightening. He doesn’t speak, only watches, and the subtle tension makes you aware of his presence in a way nothing else does.
“You two are always at odds,” Lo’ak speaks from his spot.
“You are always noticing.” You say back.
“Never,” he murmurs, almost to himself, low enough that only you hear.
Hunts are no different. You and Neteyam track a sturmbeast through dense brush. You push forward, determined, and he snaps, “You’re reckless!”
“And you’re slow,” you fire back, ducking under a branch.
The sturmbeast leaps, growls vibrating through the ground. He moves fluidly to protect the group, his proximity brushing against yours in a way that sends a fleeting awareness through you—your back stiffens, lips sealed. He does not meet your eyes. He doesn’t have to.
At the feast later, the tension does not ease. You pass bowls to children, helping them navigate the chaos. Neteyam stands nearby, not speaking, just observing. Every subtle movement feels deliberate, and your chest tightens when his gaze lingers slightly too long.
Aysea notices, of course. Her fingers tighten against his arm more than usual, her eyes flicking to you with sharp calculation.
“You favor her too much, why?” she snaps quietly to him once, voice low but venomous.
“I maintain balance,” he says every time, tone even and controlled, and she stiffens as if struck.
During another council, after a rough patrol, Aysea escalates her provocations. She questions your judgment, your strategy, your loyalty, framing each comment to imply your presence is inappropriate.
“You influence him more than you realize,” she hisses, eyes flashing at you.
“I influence no one,” you reply calmly. “I do my work.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightens, a subtle flare of irritation crossing his features. He does not intervene, not yet, but his attention lingers in a way that makes her anger grow.
Her lips press into a thin line, ears flicking back slightly. The reaction is small, so small most of the council misses it. But you do not. And neither does Neteyam. Silence settles over the council circle.
Aysea straightens, smoothing invisible creases from her arm bands before speaking again, voice controlled but sharp. “If you do not influence him,” she says carefully, “then perhaps you simply enjoy standing where you do not belong.”
A few murmurs ripple through warriors close enough. As if she’s done anything during patrol. The words slip from her tongue as if you haven’t been trained for this your entire life.
You remain calm, hands resting loosely on your knees, posture relaxed. “I stand where the clan needs me,”
“The clan needs stability,” she presses. “Not someone who constantly challenges the structure that has protected us for generations.” Lo’ak shifts beside Neteyam, clearly sensing the rising tension. His gaze flicks between you and Aysea with open curiosity.
“You mistake challenge for instability,” you say calmly.
“And you mistake defiance for leadership,” Aysea shoots back.
For the first time, Neteyam moves, not dramatically. Just enough. His shoulders straighten slightly, his tail flicking once behind him. The motion pulls several sets of eyes toward him. And of course, Aysea notices it too.
Her voice softens immediately. “Neteyam,” she says gently, turning toward him as if inviting agreement. “You see the same problems I do. The clan cannot move forward while certain individuals continue disrupting—”
“That is enough.” His voice cuts through the air like a clean blade, the council stills. Aysea freezes. Neteyam rarely interrupts. When he does, people listen. He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes focused on the ground for a moment before lifting toward the circle. “I hear both sides,” he says carefully.
But then his gaze shifts to you, only for a second, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “And I decide based on what protects the clan,” he continues.
Aysea studies him carefully. “You agree her methods are reckless.”
Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately but his jaw tightens faintly. “She takes risks,” he says. Your brow lifts slightly, a small reaction, almost amused. “But reckless?” he finishes slowly. His eyes flick briefly toward you again. “Not always.”
The silence that follows is thicker than before, Aysea’s fingers curl slightly against her thigh. Lo’ak grins faintly under his breath. You say nothing, your expression is unchanging. But something quiet and electric shifts between you and Neteyam across the council circle.
Something complicated.
Later that evening, the forest is quieter than usual. Most of the clan has retreated to their homes to spend quality time with family. You move along one of the higher walkways, balancing easily across large branches, you feel him before you see him. “You followed me,” you mutter.
“I walked,” he replies, stopping a few steps away.
You glance over your shoulder. “That path leads nowhere except for here.”
His ears twitch, tail slowing. “Then perhaps I meant to come here.”
You lean slightly against a tree trunk, arms crossed over your chest, the faint glow of bioluminescent plants reflect in his eyes. “You defended me today,” you say.
“Barely.” He corrects.
“Still.”
“For someone who claims not to influence people,” he says quietly, “you occupy a concerning amount of my thoughts.” Your breath pauses. Only briefly, then your composure settles again.
“That sounds like your problem, Neteyam.”
His gaze sharpens. “Maybe.”
Another silence, it lingers longer this time.
Then, from below the platform, two younger warriors whisper as they pass beneath.
“…they’re at it again.”
“…they always are.”
“…one day they’ll either kill each other or—”
Their voices fade into the forest, Neteyam closes his eyes briefly in visible irritation. You almost laugh. When he opens them again, you’re still watching him, calm and unmoved.
Over the following weeks, each hunt, each training session, each patrol is a battleground of unspoken tension. He anticipates your moves, sometimes too close, sometimes just far enough to frustrate or test you. His restraint is deliberate, but it hums beneath the surface like a taut bowstring.
At first it is only small things, a glance that lingers too long, a silence that stretches between sentences, the way the air shifts when you and Neteyam occupy the same space.
But there are some people in the clan who notice everything. and none of them have the guts to say a thing.
Mo’at notices first, she always does. During a quiet afternoon near the healing circle, you kneel beside her sorting dried herbs. Your hands move automatically, separating leaves, stems, and roots with practiced precision.
She watches you; not openly, just assessing, like she always does. “Neteyam has been restless,” she says after a while.
“Many warriors are.” You say without looking up.
“That is not what I said.”
You finish tying a small bundle of leaves before answering. “Then tell me what you mean,”
Mo’at hums thoughtfully, her wrinkled fingers roll a seed pod between them. “He watches you when you are not looking.”
You finally glance at her, expression flat. “He watches everyone.”
“No.” The word lands gently but firmly.
“He studies everyone,” she corrects. “But watching is different.”
Your gaze shifts back to the herbs. “Perhaps he studies longer when I am present.”
Mo’at’s eyes glint with quiet amusement. “You deflect well.”
“It keeps conversations short.” You smile, hands pausing briefly.
She leans forward slightly. “But not with him. Hm?”
Your hands stop completely. Mo’at notices, of course she does—but she says nothing more.
Jake notices next, not because he is looking for it. Only because Lo’ak will not stop talking about it.
“You should see them,” Lo’ak says one evening while helping his father repair a bowstring. “It’s like watching two thanators circle each other.”
Jake snorts. “That sounds healthy.”
“I’m serious!” Lo’ak insists. “They argue about everything.”
“Also healthy.”
“But they keep ending up together.”
Jake pauses—that part catches his attention. “Together how?”
“Like…” Lo’ak waves his hands vaguely. “Not together together. Just always near each other.”
Jake leans back slightly. Thinking. Then he mutters, “yeah… that tracks.”
Lo’ak blinks. “That tracks?”
Jake shrugs. “Boy, some people fight because they hate each other.”
“And?”
“And some people fight because neither one knows what to do with the other.”
Lo’ak squints at him. “You’re being so cryptic.”
Jake grins slightly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“I am older!”
Jake pats his shoulder. “Exactly.”
Neytiri is the last to say something about it—though she probably noticed before Jake, or Lo’ak. Who knows?
But her reaction is the most intense. She stands at the edge of the training grounds one afternoon, watching the warriors spar.
Neteyam faces you across the clearing, both of you are calm. Both of you are focused. And both of you are very clearly trying to win.
Your spear strikes first, fast. Neteyam blocks it smoothly, stepping inside your guard. You twist away, pivoting with fluid precision, sweeping your leg toward his ankle.
He jumps back—barely. The watching warriors murmur quietly. The pace increases. Strike. Block. Counter.
Neither of you speak, just pant and hiss softly. But the tension between you crackles like lightning. Finally your spear locks against his staff.
The two of you freeze, faces only inches apart. Your eyes narrow, his jaw tightens. For a moment it looks less like a spar and more like a challenge neither of you intends to surrender.
Then Mo’at’s staff taps against a root nearby, the sound is soft, but final. You both step back immediately, training ends. The watching warriors disperse.
But Neytiri remains where she stands. Her eyes follow you as you leave the clearing, then they shift to Neteyam. He notices and immediately looks like a child who has been caught doing something he cannot explain.
She approaches him slowly. “My son.”
“Yes, mother?”
Her gaze sharpens, a hint of a smile creeping through from the corners of her mouth. “You fight her differently.”
Neteyam stiffens. “I fight everyone differently.”
“That is not what I meant.”
He exhales slowly, Neytiri folds her arms.
“You watch her.”
He says nothing. “You defend her.” She continues.
There is only silence, Neteyam’s soft pants filling the air, breath leaving silver as the sky darkens.
“And she challenges you in ways the others do not.”
Neteyam’s tail flicks in irritation. “She challenges everyone.”
Neytiri tilts her head slightly. “No.”
Her eyes soften slightly. “Only you.”
That lands harder than anything else. Neteyam rubs the back of his neck. “It is not like that mother.”
Neytiri raises an eyebrow. “I did not say it was.”
He groans quietly—across the clearing, you disappear into the forest path without looking back. But Neytiri’s gaze lingers on the direction you went, thoughtful and gentle.
Then she says something that makes Neteyam freeze completely. “She is strong.”
She pauses, nodding gently. her attention redirecting—slowly—towards Neteyam. “Perhaps too strong for someone who cannot decide how he feels.” Her hand pauses on his shoulder.
Neteyam blinks. “Mother—” But Neytiri is already walking away, smiling softly.
The tension in the village does not fade after the spar. If anything it grows. People talk, quietly, carefully—but they talk. And the person who hears the most of it is Aysea.
For two days she says nothing. She trains. Hunts. Attends council. Things she never used to do before, but the warmth she usually shows Neteyam becomes sharper. More deliberate.
One evening you pass near the upper platforms and hear quiet voices. Neteyam and Aysea. You do not stop, but the wind carries their words.
“You are pulling away,” Aysea says softly.
“I am not.”
“You are.” There is a small pause.
Then you hear the faint sound of beads shifting as she steps closer. “You used to come to me when things were difficult,” she continues. “You trusted me.”
“I still do.”
“Then why do you watch her?”
Silence falls between them, you keep walking.
But the conversation continues behind you. “She challenges everyone,” Neteyam says.
Aysea laughs quietly. “Do not lie to me.”
A longer silence follows, then she does something unexpected. Her hand lifts to his face, you do not see it, but you hear the small intake of breath.
“You and I understand each other,” she says quietly. “We always have.”
Then, a soft kiss, not passionate nor desperate, but intimate—familiar. The kind shared by people who have done it before. You keep walking, your pace unchanging.
Behind you, Neteyam exhales slowly. “Aysea…”
Her voice is gentle. “You do not have to choose.”
But the way she says it makes it clear—she expects him to.
The next morning Mo’at summons you, this time it is a summons. You enter her hut quietly, she is kneeling beside a bowl of glowing seeds, eyes half closed in thought.
“You wished to see me.” Your voice is soft in her quiet home.
“Yes.”
You wait, shifting as she studies your face. “The clan shifts,” she says.
“Clans always shift, don’t they?”
“This one shifts around you.”
You say nothing, chest tightening
“You provoke strong reactions.” She continues.
“That is not new.”
“No,” Mo’at agrees. “But now it touches my grandson.”
Your eyes flick toward her. “You disapprove?”
Mo’at smiles faintly.
“I observe. And I see you.”
“I see you, Mo’at.” You whisper.
She gestures for you to sit, and of course, you do. “You fight him.” She says.
“Yes.”
“You challenge him.”
“Sometimes.”
“You refuse to soften for him.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers tap lightly against the floor, head nodding slowly. “Good.”
That word surprises you. “He needs someone who does not bend,” she says calmly.
You blink once. “I am not here to shape him.”
“No.”
Mo’at’s eyes glow softly in the dim light. “But Eywa places people in each other’s paths for reasons.”
You lean back slightly. “And you believe I was placed in his?”
Mo’at studies you for a long moment. “I believe you may both be placed in something larger.”
You don’t answer, but the thought stays with you longer than you like.
Three days later another hunt is called. This time the prey is dangerous. A massive forest predator has been attacking smaller herds near the eastern cliffs.
Jake assigns the team personally. Neteyam, you, two young learners, Aysea volunteers as well. Nobody objects, so the hunt begins at dawn.
Mist curls through the forest as the five of you track the beast’s path through broken branches and claw marks. The tension between you and Aysea is quiet but sharp. Neteyam notices but he says nothing. Hours pass before you find it. The creature explodes from the brush like a living storm.
Everything happens fast. You leap aside as it charges. Neteyam fires an arrow. Aysea circles left. The beast slams into one of the younger warriors, throwing him into a tree.
You lunge forward with your spear, the predator turns toward you—fast, strong. Its claws swing. You realize too late you are exposed.
Then Neteyam hits you hard. His shoulder slams into you, knocking you sideways. The claws that should have ripped through your chest rake across his side instead.
He hits the ground hard, blood spills across the leaves. Your stomach drops. The predator roars again—but now the entire team attacks.
Aysea drives a blade into its flank, you thrust your spear deep into its chest. The creature collapses with a final violent thrash. Silence crashes down over the clearing, your heart pounds—but your eyes are already on Neteyam. He’s on one knee, breathing hard, blood running down his ribs.
You kneel beside him instantly. “That was unnecessary,” you say sharply.
He grimaces.“You were about to lose your arm.”
“You miscalculated.”
“You’re welcome.”
Aysea arrives seconds later, her face tight with fear. “Neteyam—”
He waves her off slightly. “I’m fine.”
You press your hand against the wound, stopping the bleeding, your voice is quieter now. “You are not.”
Neteyam looks down at you. Something strange flickers in his eyes. “Seems I owe you a rematch.”
You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”
But your hand does not move from his side. And for the first time—Aysea sees something in your expression she has never seen before. Concern, the real kind.
The walk back to the village is slow. Mist clings to the roots of the forest, and the hunters move carefully through it. The two younger warriors stay ahead, still shaken. Aysea walks on Neteyam’s other side, though her gaze flicks toward you more than once.
You are the one keeping pressure on the wound. Blood continues to seep between your fingers along his ribs. Not enough to panic—but enough to matter.
“I’m fine,” he mutters after a while.
“You are bleeding,” you reply calmly.
“That happens when you get cut.”
You glance at him briefly. “Your understanding of injury is remarkable.”
Despite the pain, he gives a quiet huff of amusement. Behind you, Aysea remains silent.
The village smoke appears through the trees, an injured warrior never goes unnoticed.
As expected, people do notice immediately. Warriors climb down from the higher walkways, children lean over tree tops, and someone runs toward the healer’s hut. A young apprentice returns moments later, slightly out of breath, “Mo’at is with a birthing mother,” she explains.
No one interrupts the Tsahik during a birth. Neteyam exhales slowly. “Well. Good timing.”
You ignore his comment. “Bring me some boiling water.” You guide Neteyam to the healer's hut; Mo’at being absent, delivering new life in a hut farther away.
He raises an eyebrow slightly as you push the woven door aside. “You sound very confident for someone who isn’t the Tsahik.”
“And who do you think trained me?”
His gaze shifts to the floor, an amused glint in his eye. “My grandmother.”
“Yes.”
You move immediately, selecting herbs from the bundles with practiced certainty. Neteyam watches with open curiosity. “You’ve spent a lot of time here.”
“I have made this clear.” Your tail whips against the ground in exasperation.
“Mawey, I was just observing.”
The bandage is nearly finished, paste being squeezed between the wraps and his ribcage. Your hands move steadily as you wrap the final strip of cloth around Neteyam’s ribs. The herbs have already begun to stain the fabric a faint yellow.
“You are frowning again,” he says quietly.
“I am concentrating.”
“You were concentrating before.”
“And now I am finishing.” You pull the bandage snug.
Neteyam exhales sharply. “That was unnecessary.”
“It will keep the wound closed.”
“It will also prevent breathing.”
“You exaggerate.”
He shifts slightly, testing the wrap. The moment he moves, your hand presses instinctively against his side to steady him. “Do not move yet,”
“You move through this space like you belong here.”
“I spent many seasons training here,”
“And you can just talk to Eywa?”
“To a certain extent, yes.” Your careful hands store away the healing supply.
“And you feel her?”
“Don’t we all?” You smile, lifting yourself before assisting him.
“Yes.” He whispers.
You and Neteyam exit the hut together, Aysea approaches immediately, placing soft kisses along Neteyam’s cheeks.
You step away immediately, Lo’ak sees you first, his grin spreading. “ look who survived.”
“Were you hoping otherwise?”
“Depends,” he says cheerfully. “Did you two kill the beast or eachother?”
Neteyam walks with Aysea by his side, an arm wrapped carefully around her waist. He ignores Lo’ak’s comments, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “The beast.”
Jake looks pleased, Neytiri watches more carefully—the way her son leans towards you even when the tsakarem is wrapped in his arms.
The drums echo across the village platform, steady and strong, their rhythm moving through everyone. Fires flicker, coasting dancing shadows across the dancers, and blue seedlights shimmer in the trees above.
Children laugh and stumble between adults, copying the steps as best as they can. You crouch beside a small child, guiding her tiny feet. Beside you, Kiri moves fluidly, helping the other children find the rhythm. Together, you two are a seamless unit, teaching, laughing, and moving with effortless grace.
Neteyam doesn’t notice anyone else. Not Jake, not Lo’ak, not the circle of warriors or women. His gaze is fixed entirely on you. Every sway of your hips, every controlled turn, every movement of your shoulders and arms draws him in.
Tonight, you’re not in your usual training garb. Your outfit is elegant yet functional for dancing; a fitted top that traces the curves of your chest and waist while leaving your arms free, a flowing skirt that clings to your hips, fluttering with each step, and a loose sash around your waist catching the firelight. Your hair is half pulled up, half cascading down your back, straight, glossy, swinging lightly with every turn, framing your face and shoulders beautifully. Every motion feels deliberate, confident, sensual, and utterly captivating.
A male warrior steps into the circle, matching your rhythm. His hands brush your hips as he mirrors your steps. You smile, guiding him through spins and turns with ease, laughing softly, all while keeping the children moving with Kiri beside you. Every gesture is smooth, controlled, and magnetic.
Neteyam stiffens, a coil of jealousy tightens in his chest, but he does nothing. Jaw set, fists brushing his sides, eyes locked on you, but he doesn’t speak or move.
Lo’ak notices immediately, leaning toward him with a wicked grin. “Brother…look at you. Is the mighty warrior jealous? And those hips? She’s practically daring you not to notice. And that outfit? Sooo dangerous.”
Neteyam exhales sharply, sparing a sidelong glance at him. “Lo’ak, stop.” He says, voice low and clipped.
Lo’ak freezes for a moment, smirking, but doesn’t push further. Then, leaning closer again, he murmurs, “And what about Aysea, huh? She’s over there trying to get your attention, and yet your eyes are glued to… well… you know who.”
Neteyam mutters quietly under his breath. “I said stop.”
Jake, leaning against a post and watching Neytiri dance, shakes his head with a knowing grin. His gaze lingers on her, deep and appreciative. The curve of her arms, the effortless strength of her shoulders, the way her torso twists naturally with the rhythm, her feet moving precisely yet fluidly, the swing of her braids, the playful sparkle in her eyes. He drinks it in, admiration and desire mingled. Then his attention flicks to Neteyam, a smirk spreads across his face.
He chuckles low, already walking over “well, locked eyes…tight jaw,” he pokes Neteyam’s jaw. “Chest puffed, and not a single step taken.”
Neteyam groans quietly, jaw tightening even further. The warrior brushes lightly against your hips again, moving perfectly with the rhythm. You spin, guiding him with subtlety and ease, your laughter soft and flowing. Every motion, the sway of your hips, the roll of your shoulders, the fall of your hair—draws Neteyam in further.
His chest rises faster, fists clenching slightly, yet he remains frozen, passive, watching. Lo’ak leans in again, smirking. “That’s not even the worst part,” Lo’ak continues, enjoying himself far too much. “You’re doing it right in front of—”
“Finish that sentence,” Neteyam mutters quietly.
Lo’ak raises both hands in surrender, though the grin never disappears from his face.
The drums taper off, slowing into a softer, lingering rhythm. Children stumble and giggle, Kiri guiding them beside you. The warrior steps back slowly, leaving you moving alone now, every motion fluid and deliberate, commanding the circle while teaching the little ones. The firelight traces your curves, the sway of your hips, the movement of your hair, highlighting every detail.
Near the fire, you straighten from your crouch as the last child runs back toward their family. Kiri brushes her hands together, laughing softly.
“You make them dance better than the adults.”
“They are easier to teach,” you reply calmly.
Kiri tilts her head slightly, following your gaze across the clearing. Her lips twitch. “Ohh.”
You blink. “What?”
Neteyam stops just inside the circle, the firelight casting long shadows over his shoulders. The fresh bandage beneath his chest wrap is hidden, but the stiffness in his movement betrays it.
You glance at him briefly. “You should not be walking so much.”
He ignores that entirely. “You dance well.”
Your eyebrow lifts, “that is a strange observation.”
“You were impressive. what can i say?”
You dust ash from your hands, completely composed. “I was teaching the young boys and girls.”
“And a warrior.”
You look at him now, properly. “Is that why you were watching so intensely?”
Neteyam pauses—for a moment the village seems to fade behind you two. “Yeah.”
Your tail flicks once, the honesty was unexpected. “You should be resting.”
“I am standing.”
“That is not rest, Neteyam.”
“You did not answer my question earlier,” he says.
“I do not recall asking one.” You almost turn away but he steps in front of you.
“When I asked if you feel Eywa.”
Your expression softens, just slightly. “Yes, yes I feel her.”
“And what does she say?” His hands mess around with his songcord absently, you study him for a long moment, then you walk past him, shoulders brushing. “She says you should stop getting injured.”
Neteyam lets out a quiet breath of annoyance. Behind him—Lo’ak, sitting among the group of hunters, huntresses, and warriors, wheezes. Across the clearing, Aysea is still watching, composed for the sake of the people surrounding.
And near the outer ring of the dancing circle, Neytiri notices everything. Including the way her son turns to follow you with his eyes again.
She exchanges a slow, knowing look with Jake, and he smirks. “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention—but you probably noticed, right?” he murmurs under his breath.
Of course, you notice it first, others see small things, Neteyam leaving prayers early, his answers in council arriving half a breath too late. His eyes drifting upward into the canopy as though he expects something to answer him.
But you see the deeper shift, he no longer breathes with the forest, he breaths around it. The first time you approach him, he brushes you off. “I am fine.”
You watch him for a moment longer than he likes. “You are not listening.”
His jaw tightens. “I hear everything,”
“No,” you hiss quietly. “You are thinking.”
That irritates him, he turns away before the conversation can continue, but the seed is planted and you can feel it.
Several days pass, days of quiet wonder, you’re always watching him now, always feeling the shift. He is bothered more often than ever, always gone—Aysea following, not grounding.
One night, footsteps approach your home, you do not have to turn to know who it is. “I knew it would be you.”
Silence hangs for a moment, then his voice, low and rightly controlled. “I cannot hear Eywa.”
Your neck twists to see his face, now you look at him, not with pity, not with surprise, just understanding. “Since when?”
“Since the last assault.”
It has been weeks. weeks since the last assault. “And you told no one?”
“I don’t—i’m not allowed to be so uncertain. especially not now.”
You stand and step closer, “you are allowed to be alive. There is more to life than expectations.”
He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding into the sound. “You still feel her,” he says.
“Yes I do.”
“How?”
You tilt your head slightly, “because I stopped trying to lead her.”
Silence settles, then he says the words that cost him the most. “Help me.” He asks.
You bring him to the moss hollow deep in the forest, the one that remembers the shape of your body. He does not question you, he kneels where you tell him. You sit directly behind him, close enough to feel his heat. “Breathe,” you whisper.
At first, like always, he resists. He always does. Your palm presses lightly to the center of his back. “Let it go”
He does, he lets go of everything. The weight of the clan's expectations, Mo’ats legacy, the future of the clan, You, opposite him. His breath shatters.
You lower his hand to the soft moss beneath you. “Listen.”
For a long time, there is nothing. Then something does answer, something faint, but warm, alive. His shoulders tremble. “I feel her,”
You smile softly against his back. “I know.” When he turns to face you, your foreheads almost collide—he is closer than he should be.
“You brought me back,” he says quietly.
“No,” you murmur. “You let yourself be found.”
His fingers brush your jaw, the contact sends shivers up your spine, making you straighten just a little bit.
Something that the forest will hold begins then, something sacred.
After that night, things shift, subtly. Neteyam looks at you before speaking in council, he pauses when you inhale, as if waiting for your thoughts, at gatherings, he drifts closer without realizing it.
Other’s notice, Lo’ak notices first, he watches the way his brother’s gaze finds you across the fire before anyone else has spoken. The way Neteyam’s shoulders loosen when you enter a gathering.
Kiri notices too, Neytiri notices, Jake notices, and Mo’at notices everything. Aysea sees most of all. Her gaze lingers longer now, sharp, searching. But nothing has even happened.
You sit alone in the hollow again, your back to the entrance, hair cascades down your spine like satin falls. You do not expect him, but you feel him before he speaks.
“You are quieter tonight.” His voice moves through the darkness like a ripple through water. You turn slowly. Neteyam stands at the edge of the hollow, shoulders tense, as though he has walked here arguing with himself every step.
“So are you,” you answer. For a moment, neither of you move. The forest hums around you. Finally he exhales, long and unsteady.
“I am trying,” he says, “not to need you.”
The words land like a bow, they are not accusation, but they are confession. “Why?” You ask softly.
His jaw tightens, so much that you can see the muscles moving. “Because I am promised.”
You hold his gaze. “Promised is not mated.”
His eyes darken, heavy, dangerous. “You will not make this easy.”
Your voice is quiet but steady. “You do not like easy. You do not want it.”
He steps closer then, the careful distance he has kept for weeks collapsed in three strides. “You make me forget who I’m supposed to be.”
You feel the weight of that, he is the son everyone depends on—you take one step toward him, then another, until the space between you disappears.
“Then stop being who they expect,” you whisper, eyes glossing over his broad shoulders and tense, muscular arms. “Be who you are”
His restraint snaps like a bowstring pulled too tight, his hands find your waist with sudden certainty, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself in something real.
Your foreheads meet, for the first time—none of you are pulling away. Your breaths meet his, the world narrows to just his warmth.
“You choose this?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes.” You breathe.
His thumb traces the curve of your hip. “Even if it changes everything?”
You do not hesitate to answer. “Yes, Neteyam.”
He kneels, bringing you down with him—your kurus brush instinctively, Neteyam freezes. The weight of what that means floods his expression, connection is not casual, it is truth, memory, soul.
You do not hesitate, hand lifting. Your tendrils seep into each other's, the bond clicks into place. The world explodes open, spirit crashes into spirit. There is no hiding inside tsaheylu. You feel him, all of him.
Your breathing deepens, his hands squeeze the ground as if longing for something to finally hold, but he can’t reach for you right now. You feel the pressure of expectation crushing his ribs every morning. The moment he first realized he might never truly be free to choose his own path.
And the quiet fear that one wrong step could fail his entire clan. His loneliness, his longing, and he feels you. Your mother’s final breath, you, a young girl who’d just seen her father gunned down by the sky people.
The way your hands trembled when you held your mother beneath the forest. The grief you carry like a bullet hidden in your ribs. Your pride, your stubborn strength, your refusal to bend. It is too raw, too honest.
For a heartbeat, none of you move. Your foreheads still rest together, your breath mixed. You feel the storm inside him through the bond, fear, relief, and want. It trembles through his chest.
Your hand lifts slowly, fingers sliding up his arm. His muscles tense under your touch, not in rejection, but in the effort it takes for him not to pull you closer too fast.
Your palm settles against his shoulder. He exhales, the sound shaky, raw, and desperate.
His nose brushes yours first, tentative, testing the space between you. The contact sends a quiet spark through the connection, heat floods into you like a wave, pooling low inside you—neteyam feels it, the true awareness that this moment cannot be undone.
“Tell me to stop, baby.” he murmurs.
But you don’t, instead your fingers curl into the braid at the back of his neck and pull him the smallest inch closer.
That is all the permission he needs, the kiss is slow, that’s how it starts. Almost careful. Neteyam kisses you like someone learning the shape of something precious—lips brushing yours softly at first, barely and pressure, as if memorizing the feeling.
But the bond betrays him. Through tsaheylu you feel the surge of emotion he tries to hide. Weeks of restraint, every time he looked away first, every time he forced himself to keep distance.
It all rushes forward at once. His other hand slides up your side, fingers spreading along your ribs as he pulls you fully against him. The kiss deepens instinctively, his control slipping as the reality of you settles in his hands.
You answer without hesitation, your hand moves from his braid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below his queue. The reaction is immediate, a shiver that runs through his body.
Neteyam makes a low sound against your mouth, half breath, half disbelief. He shifts, guiding you gently backward until the soft moss meets your back. You sink down with him following, one knee braced beside you so he can keep your body close to his.
His fingers trace slowly along your side as if mapping you through touch. Every brush of skin sends another ripple through the connection between you. You feel how much he is holding back. How badly he wants to lose that control.
“Do you know,” he murmurs breathlessly against your lips, “how hard it has been not to do this?”
“Please, let go of your restraint Neteyam, I am ready.” You snap.
He pulls back, a small smile on his face. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He moves closer, teasing at first—but even he knows how hard it is to resist you.
His lips crash against yours, hungry, relieved. Not the slow, careful kisses from before. The contact rips a small, involuntary noise from your mouth.
The reaction only makes him tighten his hold on you. Tongue pushing against the line of your lips, the last bit of contact that had been missing.
His hands fumble slovenly with your loincloth, he pulls away for a second to focus on untying the tight knots there, his braids swinging in your face.
“Neteyam—“ You whisper, eyes fluttering, hands moving to help his.
“Hm?” He hums, finally pulling your cloths off.
Your body tenses, you squeeze his arms tightly when the cool air hits the bare, sensitive skin between your legs.
He sits back to take in the sight before him, eyes wide and pupils blown dark.
Then, with a reverent kind of slowness, he lets his fingertips skim your thighs, the heat of his hands trailing higher, urging you open.
He lowers his mouth, breath ghosting over your skin, his voice rough as he murmurs your name just before his tongue finally touches you.
Heat blooms beneath his mouth, an embarrassing cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.
“Neteyam-“ he flicks his tongue again, steady, eager, the sensation sending shocks of pleasure prickling up your spine.
He buries his face between your legs, sucking and licking greedily until your thighs tremble around his head, each gasp drawing him deeper into the task, determined to wring every sound from you.
Instinctively, your hips cant upward, seeking more pressure from his mouth. Neteyam grunts in approval at your desperation, hands tightening to hold your hips still.
Still, he refuses to rush, slowing the movements of his tongue deliberately as your frustration grows.
“Teyam, please.” He pauses, lips barely brushing you, then finally gives in completely as he drinks in your pleas.
He glances up at you through half lidded eyes , watching your chest rise as you struggle to breathe in the heat of the moment, hunger clear in his intent stare.
He pushes two fingers inside, scissoring them to stretch you just right. He pumps them in and out, slow at first—curling them each time. You mewl softly below him, nails digging into his forearms.
He smiles softly against your clit, the curve of his mouth sending another jolt through your body as he presses a lingering kiss, savoring every trembling reaction.
Your orgasm comes with a sudden, unstoppable force, making your legs clamp around his head as everything else disappears.
“Oh, Neteyam..” You fall back into the moss, body still trembling as the aftershocks ripple through you, heart thundering in your chest while his hands never leave your skin.
He finally lifts his head, chin dripping with your juices, cheeks flushed with heat as he watches you reclaim your breath. Still catching your breath, you reach for his hand, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch.
He lays back beside you, pulling you up to straddle him. Heart pounding, you settle onto his lap as his hands roam over your hips, grounding you in the present.
His hands struggle to find their place anywhere below the hips, unsure if he can handle all of it, his pulse thrumming with nervous excitement as you lean into his touch.
You untie his loincloth slowly, easing the fabric away to reveal him fully as anticipation pools between your thighs, heavy with shared need.
He sucks in a shaky breath, the heat in his eyes intensifying as your fingers brush against his bare skin, desire thrumming loud between you both.
You guide him into you in a single, deliberate motion, savoring every second of the joining as the new sensation overtakes your senses.
A broken whimper escapes his throat, hands kneading your ass, finally. You roll your hips smoothly as he digs his fingers in deeper, helpless against the pull of your body eliciting shudders with every steady thrust.
His hips buck involuntarily, trying so hard to take over. You grab his wrists, forcing his hands flat against the earth as you set the pace.
He smirks slightly. “Let me touch you at least.”
Your eyes narrow, letting go of his wrists slowly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, immediately cupping your breasts. He kneads them gently, thumb brushing over the sensitive peaks.
Your walls flutter around him, movements slowing down, that’s when he decides to take over for you, pushing you down against the ground softly, hands clasping your thick thighs, folding you just enough to hit the sweet spot inside you continuously.
He leans over you, chest brushing yours, forearms on either side of your head as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I see you.”
You freeze for one second, eyes closed, your lips curve with a gentle smile, hands brushing his shoulders. “I see you.”
His fingers brush your jaw, his hips thrust just twice more and you come down first, legs trembling, hands shaking against his shoulders.
Then he does, thrusts slowing, hands squeezing the moss beside your head, low, guttural groans escaping his throat as he continues to push in.
Neteyam crumbles, sensitivity at it’s peak, sending small shivers through his body. “I love this—i love you.” He murmurs, brushing your hair from your face.
“I love you too.”
You lay together for a second before he pulls away, shoving his loincloth back on and laying beside you.
You sleep tangled together, his hand resting possessively at your lower back, your leg hooked around his.
A sharp inhale wakes you, you open your eyes slowly, morning light filters through the leaves above, pale and gentle.
Neteyam still sleeps beside you, arm still braced over your waist—your queues remain loosely entwined. Your body hums with the quiet warmth of the bond, bliss.
You shift slowly, feeling the weight of the morning and lingering closeness, then— “mm…” A soft, tired murmur escapes him. His lips part slightly in sleep. You freeze, watching him breathe.
Movement sounds at the leafy entrance. Aysea's closest friend stands there, frozen. Her gaze sweeps over you, then drops. Your bare shoulders, Neteyam’s arms around your waist, your loosely entwined kurus, her face fractures and she screams.
Neteyam stirs immediately, mumbling again. “Mm…Y/n” He jolts awake when he feels your body tense.
Hunters crash through the opening, you instinctively curl in on yourself, arms across your chest—but not in fear, just instinct.
Neteyam rises in an instant, still in his loincloth, positioning himself between you and the entrance. “Look away!” He snaps.
The hunters hesitate. “Turn around. Now.” He commands again, voice sharp, almost trembling with the need to protect.
Your ears flatten, mirroring his. “Do not look at her.” His authority makes them obey. Only then does he glance down at your scattered clothing, the top and loincloth from the night before. He picks them up quickly, holding them out to you without meeting your eyes.
“You can dress,” he murmurs softly, still low, still protective.
You take the clothes, cheeks warm. Fingers fumble as you pull the top over your shoulders, then the loincloth, shy, still humble, not timid, a fighter. Blush rises, but your posture stays firm.
Neteyam waits patiently, never turning from the hunters until you are fully dressed.
The forest trail feels heavier underweight. Some hunters still lag behind, muttering lowly about alliance, duty, and foolishness. “You went against the alliance,” one murmurs.
“The Olo’eyktan-to-be, defending her over duty… what kind of leadership is that?” another adds.
Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately. His hand brushes near yours—not touching, just close enough to ground you.
“Shut your mouths,” he says finally, low and unwavering. “All of you. Now.”
The murmurs die.
You glance at him, shoulder brushing his, feeling his calm authority anchor you, but you keep your head high. Not shame, not humiliation. Just quiet humility.
Ahead, the village clearing opens, fire burning low. Familiar faces are already gathered. Jake, Neytiri, Lo’ak, Kiri—all calm, observing, understanding.
Neteyam steps fully into the clearing beside you, shoulder brushing yours, shielding, steady. Aysea steps forward first, voice sharp and trembling with anger.
“You mated with her?” Her lips curl in disgust.
The clearing falls silent. Neteyam blinks, gathers himself, and looks at you. “Yes,” he says firmly.
A sharp gasp escapes Aysea. Her hands clench. “You lied to me!”
“I never promised you mating,” he replies quietly.
“You allowed it to be believed!” Her gaze swings toward you, fiery. You meet it calmly, humbly, but with strength.
Her hand swings suddenly. You shift, catching her wrist with ease, eyes wide, not to strike, but to block. The movement is calm, precise, controlled.
“Enough,” Neteyam says, stepping between you and her. Voice low, certain. Gasps ripple through the clan.
Aysea jerks free, eyes blazing. “You think Eywa chose you?” Before she can strike again, Mo’at raises her hand. Silence falls instantly.
“You think I did not see this growing?” she says to the clan. Her gaze settles on Neteyam. “You are Olo’eyktan-to-be. If your spirit is divided, the clan suffers.”
Her eyes move to you. “You steady him.”
Aysea stares at her in disbelief. “You allowed this?”
“I allowed truth,” Mo’at replies.
“And me?” Aysea asks bitterly.
Mo’at’s voice softens. “You were worthy. But you were not chosen.”
Her eyes move over the gathering, settling finally on you. “This one,” she announces, voice clear and measured, “stands where spirit and balance meet. She steadies the olo’eyktan-to-be, not with pride, but with humility. She is our Tsakarem. Y/n has always been.”
Her words ripple across the clearing. Every head inclines in acknowledgment, Jake’s expression softens, subtle yet certain. Neytiri smiles, her gaze steady, filled with quiet understanding. Lo’ak leans back, relaxed, a small smile of approval finally touching his lips. Kiri watches, wide eyed, absorbing the weight of the moment.
Aysea’s gaze lingers, sharp and searching, but the firelight softens her features. Finally, she exhales, lowering her hands. “This… is your path,” she says, voice tight but measured. “I will not stand against it.” Her eyes meet yours for a long moment, and though there is still tension, there is understanding, too.
Neteyam nods once to her, then he turns to you, hand brushing lightly against yours, smiling softly.
Mo’at steps forward, raising her hand again. “My People,” she calls, her voice ringing clear. “Witness this bond, for it steadies the Olo’eyktan-to-be and strengthens our people. Let all know that these two carry the future, not for power, not for pride, but for balance and truth.”
୨୧ Summary: Satoru Gojo is supposed to be Romeo, and you’re Juliet. Perfect casting. Perfect play.
So why is Ryomen Sukuna—the campus bully everyone hates—standing onstage in full costume, telling you to “Get the fuck down from there, Juliet.”?
enemies to lovers, fluff and crack, slow burn, Theatre AU , 0% seriousness 100% silliness
01 || 02 || 03 Taglist Index
01 - Not My Prince Charming
Your crush on Gojo Satoru wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t public knowledge either. It lived in that quiet middle ground of “people probably knew,” but were too polite to say anything. You’d known him since middle school as your families were long-time business partners, so it wasn’t strange to see the two of you together. Back then, it had been harmless. Background noise. A mild academic admiration with eyebrows.
But things changed
Specifically, he changed.
It started the summer after your third year of high school. He came back from a trip abroad somehow taller, deeper-voiced, and built like he’d been sculpted by a department store mannequin artist. He’d been attractive before, sure, in that quiet, symmetrical, tragic backstory kind of way. But now? He looked like he’d been personally airbrushed by God’s PR team.
The crush didn’t hit like a truck. It arrived like a monthly subscription: quiet, persistent, and increasingly difficult to cancel.
You didn’t panic right away.
The panic took its time. It showed up quietly during lunch, when you caught yourself adding vinaigrette to your salad with the kind of soft-focus intensity usually reserved for perfume ads. Like maybe if you drizzled it slowly enough, he’d glance over. Like maybe the dressing was a metaphor.
Still, you weren’t delusional. You knew just walking up and confessing your undying admiration was a little too forward. You needed something... elegant. Strategic. Scripted.
So when you heard he was cast as Romeo in the university’s upcoming Romeo and Juliet production, your plan practically wrote itself.
You would audition. Get cast as Juliet. Share romantic dialogue. Maybe a stage kiss. Let the chemistry “blossom organically.” Fall in love with iambic pentameter.
It was flawless.
Until it wasn’t.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
Gojo was cast as Romeo weeks ago. Naturally, every theater enthusiast, Literature major, and their mother had auditioned. The student assistants who were in charge of the castings in a rare show of bureaucratic responsibility, had conducted a rigorous, multi-phase assessment of all the Juliet candidates. There were monologue rounds. Improvisations. Emotional authenticity scoring. Someone even cried. Twice.
None of it mattered.
Because Nanami, the director, misplaced the shortlist.
And when you showed up at the Performing Arts office to ask about auditions, he blinked once, glanced at the empty chair in front of him, and decided: “Yeah. Sure. You’ll do.”
That was how you became Juliet. Not through talent. Not through fate. But because Nanami couldn’t be bothered to dig through a filing cabinet.
You had secured Juliet.
Gojo was Romeo.
Your fate was sealed.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You spent the next two days memorizing your lines. Highlighted them. Annotated them. Whispered “parting is such sweet sorrow” to your ceiling at night. This wasn’t just a play. This was the beginning of a romantic arc.
Your first rehearsal was set on a Wednesday.
You showed up early. You wore your best “effortlessly alluring but academically focused” outfit. You applied lip balm. Twice.
And then… you waited.
And waited.
You glanced at the time. Ten minutes past start.
A few of the supporting actors were present, chatting near the stage. Someone from lights was climbing into the rafters. The director was hunched over a binder, muttering about costume budgets.
Still no Gojo.
You shifted your weight on the prop balcony (read: a poorly reinforced makeshift tower meant to evoke “Juliet’s window,” but mostly evoking the risk of shin splints). The director had told you to wait there for blocking, which you did. Proudly. Nobly. Alone.
Then the stage door slammed open.
You turned.
And time stopped.
Because standing there, in full costume attire—black boots, white open-collared shirt, red sash—was not Gojo.
It was Ryomen Sukuna.
Who looked you dead in the eye and said:
“Get the fuck down from there, Juliet.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“No,” you said.
“What?”
“No.”
He stomped toward the stage. “You’re on the fuckin’ wrong mark.”
“I am in the correct mark. The mark of sanity. The mark that says you are not Romeo.”
Sukuna pointed at you like it was your fault. “The white-haired princess sprained his ankle doing some dumbass campus festival stunt. They dragged me in ‘cause I’m ‘physically convincing.’”
You looked at him.
At his dumb poorly dyed hair. At his boots. At his perfectly fitted sash.
Oh god. He was physically convincing.
No. Focus.
You turned to the director. “Excuse me. Mr. Nanami? This can’t be happening.”
Nanami looked up from his binder. “It’s happening.”
“But this is Romeo and Juliet. Not... How to Commit Verbal Arson in Twelve Steps.”
Sukuna climbed onto the stage and picked up the script. “Shut up. Let’s get through this crap so I can leave.”
You stood there, stunned. Like someone had hit pause on your mental slideshow of “future wedding with Gojo.”
“Why are you even doing this?” you asked.
He scowled. “Course credit. And the director owes my mom a favor.”
You briefly considered lying down on the floor and letting the stage curtain smother you into the next dimension.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
The first read-through was a disaster.
Sukuna refused to speak in anything other than his regular voice. You tried to keep things dignified, but it was difficult when he read lines like “With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls” while glaring at you.
He also refused to call you “Juliet.”
Instead, he pointed.
Or mumbled “you.”
Or said “drama chick.”
You were half an hour in when he said, “This script sucks.”
You snapped your head toward him. “Shakespeare wrote that.”
“Then Shakespeare sucked.”
The girl playing the Nurse gasped somewhere in the corner.
Nanami sighed. “Take five.”
You stomped off the stage, pacing in angry loops near the prop bin.
This was not the plan.
This was supposed to be poetic. Romantic. Tastefully pining.
Not Sukuna yelling, “Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set on the fuckin’ fair daughter of this rich-ass Capulet.”
You sat down on a crate and rubbed your face.
He followed you a minute later. Not to apologize. Just to stand there.
“You gonna cry?”
You looked up. “No.”
“You look like you’re gonna cry.”
You inhaled deeply. “I’m going to end you.”
He clicked his tongue. “Not my fault your little blue eyed prince bailed.”
“I didn’t do this for him,” you lied.
He raised an eyebrow.
You turned away.
At the end of the rehearsal, Nanami announced, “We’ll be keeping Sukuna as Romeo. His delivery’s modern. Energetic.”
You turned back toward the man who once told a professor that office hours were for cowards, and watched him nod proudly.
Cut the cameras.
Deadass.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You showed up at 3:47.
Not because you were eager. But because the alternative was sticking around near the vending machines, where Yuuji and Todo were mid-argument about whether orange soda had a more “alpha-coded flavor profile” than grape.
You slowed. Listened.
“…I’m just saying, grape is situational. Orange commits.”
You had heard enough.
You turned on your heel and headed straight for the auditorium. Whatever that debate was, you refused to be involved in it.
Inside, the auditorium smelled faintly of duct tape and unresolved tension. The lighting crew was testing gels. Someone was stress-sewing lace onto Juliet's second act skirt. A fog machine sat ominously untested near the orchestra pit.
Sukuna was already there, in the front row, hoodie up, arms crossed, legs spread wide. He wasn’t glaring at the set anymore. He was evaluating it. Like the stage was up for consideration, and so far, it was underperforming.
You reminded yourself not to take it personally.
He probably just hated the theater. And group bonding. And vowels.
Still, when he took the stage twenty minutes later and read his lines with all the romantic nuance of a filing cabinet being pushed down the stairs, it was hard to feel charitable.
“Love’s light wings… somethin’ somethin’ climb these walls… love can’t be stopped, yadda yadda,” he muttered, barely scanning the page.
“You just yadda-yadda’d Shakespeare.”
“I summarized.”
“It’s not a podcast.”
He flipped a page. “Do you want romance or efficiency?”
“I want a scene partner who doesn’t treat sonnets like court depositions.”
He shrugged. “That's just showbiz.”
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
Rehearsals didn’t evolve. They looped. Every new run-through promised improvement but instead delivered new and creative forms of disasters.
"Can you just try to take this a bit more seriously?" You plead.
"Fine." He cleared his throat, “Then plainly know,” he said, “my heart’s dear love is set on the fair daughter of rich Capulet.”
He paused.
“—Even if she’s a nosy perfectionist with the stage awareness of a malfunctioning spotlight.”
You snapped your gaze to him. “That’s not the line.”
“Sure felt like it.”
You stepped forward. “Are you incapable of sincerity?”
He raised a brow. “Are you incapable of chill?”
“I have chill!”
He glanced around theatrically, sweeping his arm across the room. “Is chill in the room with us?”
Your scream started as a dignified growl and pitched into a gremlin-level screech halfway through—
“AAAGH—”
“Take five,” Nanami said, not looking up.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You were supposed to be on break.
Instead, you stood at the edge of the stage, squinting at your blocking mark and trying to figure out how anyone was meant to deliver tragic sincerity while planted next to what looked like a plastic fern duct-taped to an old mop handle. Whatever emotional weight this scene was supposed to carry had already been undercut by the set design.
A girl from the costume crew darted across the stage clutching a fraying hem in one hand and a needle in the other, whispering what sounded like a very urgent prayer. Two stagehands were engaged in a silent turf war over which side of the fog machine was “safer.” And someone behind you was taping down cables with the kind of misplaced urgency usually reserved for landing aircraft.
Sukuna, meanwhile, was across the stage, thumbing through the script. He had the unreadable focus of someone who could believably be reviewing an instruction manual for explosives, and frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what it was.
For someone who recited his scenes like they were mandatory evacuation instructions, he sure seemed invested when no one was watching.
You frowned. That was… confusing.
But before you could think about it any further, one of the fog machine crew yelled “Test run!” and you were immediately blinded by an unholy cloud of artificially-scented smoke.
You coughed. Somewhere in the mist, Sukuna muttered, “The hell is that smell?”
“Emotion,” someone offered helpfully from the wings.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You tried venting to Nobara.
“It's supposed to be love declarations, not a hostage trade!” you said, still coughing up stage fog from that unfortunate smoke test run.
She nodded, sipping her juice pouch. “And yet, you two kinda work on stage.”
“We don’t.”
“It’s got that classic enemies-to-actual-enemies vibe.”
You snorted. “At this rate the stage is going to blow up before we get to Act III.”
She raised a brow. “So if the stage spontaneously combusts, I’m not allowed to call it chemistry?”
“I will personally throw myself into the flames.”
Nobara grinned. “I think he likes watching you squirm.”
“That is not romantic.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
You glared at her. She offered you some juice.
You accepted it. Begrudgingly.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
“Let’s run exits before we call it a day,” Nanami said, lifting his fifth cup of coffee, a quantity that, by now, felt less indulgent and more necessary, given the dumpster fire of a day he’d been managing.
You blinked. “Exits?”
“We’re practicing farewells.”
You returned to your mark. Slightly crooked. Slightly tired. Slightly aware that Sukuna was watching you a bit too intensely.
The cue hit.
He turned.
“Farewell,” he said flatly. Then, with zero theatrical training and the poise of a man exiting a convenience store, he raised two fingers in a casual salute. “Later.”
You stared at him.
This was supposed to be Juliet’s emotional goodbye. A farewell drenched in longing. The kind of goodbye that echoed through eternity—or at least until intermission.
You inhaled. Tilted your head. And replied in your best “not-about-to-lose-it” tone:
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night… till it be morrow.”
Sukuna blinked once. “That was real moving,” he said, voice flat. “You almost sounded like you meant it.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction. Just left you standing there: jaw tight, hands twitching, and very aware that he was definitely smirking as he walked away.
a/n: sorry in advance lol this was such a treat to write after progressing with Darling Dearest which is a complete contrast to this silly fic, thanks for reading!
dededos
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
annaxmalina
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
