divided we fall

21 currently obsessed with avatar fuck ai

[sunmoonsweets]

Masterlist

So'lek x Reader

Fortune Fruits - fluff, angst if you squint

The Hours Between - fluff

In the shadow of the tipani - angst to fluff

epilogue to in the shadow of the tipani - fluffy fluff

Nightbloom - angst to fluff

Jake Sully x Reader

Counting Down - fluff, slight angst

Sky people celebrations - fluff

[sunmoonsweets]

Sky People Celebrations

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pure fluff, I love this one

You ask Jake about what the sky people celebrate, and he tells you about birthday parties - so you decide to surprise him with one:)

Jake Sully x reader

words: 2,419 - proofread (p.s i love this gif of him, he's so hot)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had started, as most things between you started, with your curiosity.

You were endlessly curious about him. Not in the way of someone collecting information — in the way of someone who had decided that understanding a person completely was one of the most worthy uses of attention available, and who brought to that project the same focused patience you brought to learning the forest’s most complex medicines. You asked him things. Not intrusively, not persistently, but in the quiet way of someone who had noticed a door and was waiting to see if it would open on its own before trying the handle.

You had been sitting at the edge of the village one evening, the forest doing its luminous work below, and you had been watching him watch the bioluminescence with the specific quality of attention he brought to things he loved about this world — the wonder of it never fully domesticated by familiarity, always arriving a little fresh — and you had asked:

“How do sky people mark important days?”

He had looked at you. “What do you mean?”

“The Omatikaya mark the hunts, the births, the passing seasons. We gather and we sing and we remember together.” You had looked at the forest. “Sky people are so far from their home. I wondered what they carried with them. What they remembered.”

He had been quiet for a moment. Then he had told you about birthdays.

You had listened with your whole attention, the way you listened to everything, and he had described it with the slight self-consciousness of someone explaining a custom that sounds stranger the more you explain it — the specific day each year, the same day every year, marked for the person rather than the event. The gathering of people who loved you. The food made specially, the sweet dense cake you could not quite picture, the small fires made not for warmth or cooking but for counting — one for each year of the life, blown out with a breath, a wish made in the moment between the flame existing and not existing.

And the singing. The specific song, the same words every time, everyone singing it together for the one person in the room whose name went in the middle of it.

“That sounds —” you had started.

“Cheesy,” he had said, with the particular tone he used to get ahead of his own feelings. “It’s kind of cheesy. It’s a very sky people thing.”

“I was going to say it sounds like being told you are seen,” you said. “That your life is worth marking. That the people around you are glad you exist.”

He had looked at you.

You had looked at the forest.

“When is your day?” you asked.

He told you.

You had nodded. Said nothing else about it. The conversation had moved on, the evening had moved on, and Jake had filed it under the long list of moments with you that he returned to sometimes and held carefully.

—

He had not thought about it again. That was the thing he would think about later — that you had told him and then not thought about it again, which was its own kind of testament to how thoroughly he trusted you, how completely he had stopped bracing for things in your presence.

The day itself arrived the way most days arrived on Pandora — with the forest’s particular version of morning, the canopy brightening, the night creatures giving way to the day ones, the root network shifting its frequency in the subtle way it did with the changing of the light that he had learned to feel through the soles of his feet without noticing he was doing it.

He woke to an empty kelku.

You were up before him sometimes, which he had learned was simply who you were — a person whose relationship with the early morning was easy and instinctive in a way his had never been, who moved through the pre-dawn with the same comfort you moved through everything. He lay still for a moment and listened to the forest and felt the morning arrive and thought about nothing in particular, which was one of the things this life had given him that the before hadn’t — the specific capacity to lie still in a morning and not immediately need to be somewhere.

He got up. Went through the morning in the ordinary way. You appeared at some point and were perfectly normal, which was — he would recognize in retrospect — itself a kind of masterpiece. You were not performing normalcy. You were simply fully present and warm and entirely yourself and there was nothing in your face that suggested anything other than a regular morning.

He believed it completely.

He would think about this later with something that was equal parts admiration and mild indignation.

Around midmorning you said you needed to check something on the far path, the one that ran toward the eastern part of the village, and asked if he would come with you. He came. Of course he came. You had asked.

You walked through the forest in the comfortable way you walked through everything together — not hurried, not silent, the easy conversation of two people who had no distance to manage between them. You pointed out something in the undergrowth that you had been watching, a particular plant, and he crouched to look at it and you told him about its properties and he listened with the genuine attention that had always been the thing you trusted most about him.

Then you said: “Come. A little further.”

He followed you around the wide root of one of the great trees.

And then he stopped.

—

The whole clan was there.

Not assembled formally, not in lines, not in the ceremonial arrangement of the Omatikaya’s gathered moments — but there, present, filling the space between the trees in the particular warm way of a community that has decided to be somewhere together and is entirely at ease with that decision. Fires lit at intervals, not for warmth but for light, small and deliberate. The bioluminescence of the plants woven into structures you had clearly spent time on — the light arranged in patterns that you had decided, based on his description, were probably what the small fires on the cake were meant to evoke. You had made the light part correctly. That was the thing that got him first — you had understood that the fires were about visibility, about being seen, and you had made him a forest full of it.

He stood at the edge of it and did not say anything.

You stepped beside him and looked at what you had made with the expression of someone who had worked very hard on something and was currently operating in the specific tension of not yet knowing if it had landed.

“I spoke with the one you call Norm,” you said. “He told me about the cake.” A pause. “I could not make cake. I don’t know what cake is, exactly. But I made the thing that is sweet and dense and I put the fires on top.” You gestured. There was a flat woven surface near the centre of the gathering, and on it was something that was clearly the result of considerable research and effort — a pressed sweetfruit preparation, dense and dark, with small wicks made from dried plant fibers lit at intervals across the top. “Norm said they are one for each year. I put many. I wasn’t certain of the number so I put what seemed like enough for a life well lived.”

He looked at the wicks. There were a lot of wicks.

“I also spoke with him about the song,” you continued. “He taught it to me. And then I taught it to the clan.” You paused. “The words are very simple. I wasn’t sure if that was intentional.”

“It’s intentional,” he said. His voice had done something he hadn’t authorized.

“Good,” you said. “Simple is easier to sing together.” You looked at him with the direct eyes that he had been falling into since he had first understood what they were saying. “It is your day,” you said. “The day you were born. The day you came into the world.” A pause. “I thought it should be marked. I thought the people around you should tell you they are glad you exist.”

He looked at you.

He looked at the gathered clan. At Norm near the back looking deeply moved in a way he was clearly trying to manage with minimal success. At the fires lit between the trees and the bioluminescent arrangements and the thing that was not cake but was your very sincere attempt at cake.

He looked back at you.

“You did all of this,” he said.

“The clan helped,” you said. “Once I explained the concept they were very enthusiastic. Mo’at said it was a good practice and that the Omatikaya should have thought of it themselves.” A small pause. “I think that was a compliment.”

He made a sound. It came from somewhere he couldn’t immediately locate, somewhere below the careful managed distance that he no longer really needed with you but that had been his default for so long that it still lived in him as a reflex. The sound was not quite a laugh and not quite something else. It was the sound of someone encountering something they had not known they needed until it was in front of them.

“Okay,” you said, and turned to the clan, and said something in Na’vi that he had learned enough of by now to follow.

You were telling them it was time.

And the entire Omatikaya, in the clearing between the trees on his birthday on an alien moon several light years from where he had been born, began to sing happy birthday.

—

It was not quite right.

The melody had been transmitted through Norm, who was not a singer, to you, who had never heard the original, to a clan who had learned it as a new and slightly mysterious sky people ritual, and what emerged was recognizable the way a river was recognizable when you had only ever been shown a drawing of one — the shape of it, the general movement, the intention completely clear and the specifics their own entirely.

They sang his name in the middle of it. That part was exactly right. His name, in the middle of the song, their voices around it, the forest listening.

He stood at the edge of the gathered clan and his face did something he was not going to be able to explain to anyone and he did not try to explain it, he just let it happen, let the whole of it happen — the singing and the fires and the not-cake and you beside him, you who had asked him one question on an ordinary evening and had then quietly, without telling him, turned his answer into this.

He looked at you.

You were watching the clan sing with an expression of quiet satisfaction, the expression of someone whose project has succeeded, and you were also watching him with the peripheral attention you brought to everything that mattered to you, the attention he had learned to feel even when you weren’t looking directly at him.

You felt him looking. You turned.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the words right now and he knew it and he didn’t try to find them.

You looked at him with those eyes and understood completely, the way you understood most things about him, without requiring the words.

“Blow out the fires,” you said. “Norm said you make a wish.”

He looked at the not-cake with its many wicks. “How many wishes do I get?”

“One,” you said. “But Norm also said it doesn’t matter because they don’t come true anyway.”

“Norm is a deeply practical person,” Jake said.

“He said you’d say that,” you said.

He almost laughed. The real one, the one that lived below everything else, the one that you had been one of the only people who could reach without effort.

He walked to the not-cake and crouched in front of it and looked at the many small fires you had made for him and thought about what to wish for, which took approximately two seconds because the answer was the same answer it always was and had been since before he had fully admitted it to himself.

He had everything he wanted. He was already living the wish.

He blew out the fires.

The clan made the sounds that Norm had apparently told you they were supposed to make, which were sounds of celebration and approval, and the bioluminescent arrangements pulsed their warm light, and you crouched beside him and looked at the extinguished wicks and said: “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It worked.”

You looked at him. “You’re not going to tell me what you wished.”

“Norm told you about that rule too, didn’t he.”

“He was very thorough,” you said.

He looked at you, the person who had asked him one question and then gone and built him a birthday out of forest materials and clan goodwill and secondhand information from Norm, who had apparently been an unexpectedly excellent resource for sky people customs. He looked at you and felt the specific quality of a man who has been seen so completely and so specifically that he no longer knows what to do with it except be grateful.

“Thank you,” he said. The words not big enough and also exactly right.

You pressed your palm to his cheek. He turned into it.

“You are seen,” you said quietly. “You are here. That is worth marking.”

He covered your hand with his and held it there and the clan moved around you both in celebration and the forest glowed and Eywa was in the roots beneath you and somewhere in the gathering Norm was definitely crying and pretending he wasn’t and the fires you had made for him still sent their small threads of smoke into the Pandoran air, one for each year of a life that had gone in directions he had not planned and had brought him here.

To this forest. To this world. To your hand warm against his face and your eyes on his and the very certain knowledge that the wish had already come true before he made it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

no taglist for Jake Sully fics - lmk if you wanna be on one!

[sunmoonsweets]

Nightbloom

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this is a bit of an angsty one, ending with fluff - that's my favorite category to read and write woo!

So'lek's mate is kidnapped by the RDA while gathering herbs, used as bait to lure him in. He rescues her, tends to her recovery, and they rebuild in a new hidden home together. Ends soft and sweet

TWs: kidnapping, interrogation, non-graphic torture, a device used on a kuru - read at your own discretion

words: 5,581 this is proofread!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning had the particular quality of mornings that don’t know what they’re about to become.

Soft, warm, and unhurried. The kind that arrived gently on Pandora. The light filtering down through the canopy in long pale shafts that moved slowly across the floor of the home as the sun climbed. The sounds of the forest coming awake around the kelku in layers — first the birds, then the insects, then the deeper resonance of the root network humming its slow, ancient frequency beneath everything.

You had been up before So’lek, which was unusual. He was a light sleeper by habit and long practice. The kind of man whose body had learned to surface at the smallest change in the room, and so it was rare that you moved through the early morning without waking him.

But today he slept deeply, the lines of his face smoothed out in a way they rarely were when he was conscious, and you had lain beside him for a long time watching that — the specific unguarded quality of him in sleep, the way he looked younger, the way the weight he carried everywhere lifted from him in the dark — before you had finally, carefully, slipped out of the hammock without disturbing him.

He had been pushing hard lately. Three facilities in two weeks, each one further than the last. The resistance was stretched thin, and the RDA was pushing back in ways that meant So’lek came home with new bruises layered over the old ones and the particular exhausted set to his jaw that told you he had folded up more than usual on the journey back.

You learned to read him the way the forest read the weather — in the small signs before the thing itself arrived. The way he held his shoulders. The careful way he lowered himself to sit when something was hurting that he wasn’t going to mention. The quality of his silence, which had many different textures and which you mapped over years of loving him until you could tell the contented ones from the ones that needed tending.

He needed tending lately. He always did, he never said so, and you long since stopped waiting for him to say so.

The salve was running low. You mentioned it to him the night before, briefly, the way you mentioned practical things — not as a complaint or a request, simply as an observation. The quiet inventory of someone who was always thinking three steps ahead about what was needed.

He nodded and said he would gather the kxania root himself on the next hunt to save you the trip. You smiled, said of course and privately decided you would go in the morning while he slept because the next hunt could be days away and his shoulder was not improving on its own.

You packed your gathering satchel quietly in the grey pre-dawn light. You left a small bundle of his favorite dried fruit where he would find it when he woke, arranged in the particular way you arranged things when you wanted him to know you had been thinking of him while you did it. You slipped out into the early morning forest and let the door close softly behind you.

The path was familiar. You walked it enough times that your feet knew it without consultation. The particular placement of roots and stones mapped in your body the way the constellations were mapped in your mind — not consciously, just known.

The forest was luminous and cool at this hour, the bioluminescence still visible in the lower growth where the morning light hadn’t yet reached, and you moved through it with the easy, unhurried pace of someone who learned to belong in a place.

You were thinking about So’lek’s shoulder. The left one, which he favored less than usual lately and which he had deflected from twice when you’d tried to look at it properly. You were thinking about the best approach — whether to simply begin treating it while he was distracted, which sometimes worked, or to address it directly and wait out the mild resistance before he allowed you to help, which also sometimes worked and took longer.

You were thinking about this with the focused, gentle strategy of someone who had made a long study of caring for a man who did not always know how to be cared for. You were not thinking about the forest around you, or the distance you had covered, or the fact that you had, gradually and without noticing, moved further from the kelku than you usually went alone.

You found the nightbloom first. A cluster of them growing in the crook of a fallen tree where the moisture collected, exactly what you needed. You crouched to harvest them with careful hands, turning each one to check the bloom before adding it to your satchel with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this many times.

You found the kxania root a little further along. And then, further still, the particular grey-green moss that you used as a base for the wound paste that So’lek went through fastest.

You were reaching for it when you heard the sound.

Not the forest. Not anything that belonged here.

You straightened slowly. Turned.

The clearing behind you was not empty.

—

So’lek woke to an empty hammock and lay still for a moment, reading the quality of the absence before he opened his eyes.

Not wrong. Just empty. The particular emptiness of someone who had risen carefully rather than been taken, the hammock still holding the warmth of you on the side where you slept, the kelku carrying the small sounds of morning rather than the sounds of disturbance.

He opened his eyes. Looked at the ceiling. Listened to the forest coming awake outside and the absence of you inside and understood, without urgency, that you had gone out.

He sat up. Found the dried fruit on the mat beside the hammock where you had left it — arranged in the particular way you arranged things when you wanted him to know you had been thinking of him while you did it — and held it in his hand for a moment before he ate it slowly, looking at the stacked containers near the fire.

The salve. You mentioned it last night, briefly, the way you mentioned practical things. Running low. He had said he would gather the kxania root himself on the next hunt to save you the trip. He thought that settled it.

He almost smiled. You had not waited.

He rose. Moved to the door of the kelku and looked out at the morning forest, pale and cool and luminous at this hour, and thought that you were probably not far. That you knew these paths as well as anyone, that you would be back before the morning was properly underway with your satchel full, your hair catching on things and some new observation about something you had seen on the path that you would tell him over the morning meal with the particular enthusiasm you brought to the world that he never once found excessive, only extraordinary.

He made tea. He began his morning tasks. He kept one ear toward the path.

—

The transmission came through two hours later.

Teylan’s voice, urgent and clipped, the particular register that meant something had moved faster than expected. A facility north of the mountain range, a signal the resistance had been tracking for days that had suddenly gone active. Equipment being moved. A window of hours before it closed.

So’lek listened to the transmission data with the focused attention he brought to all intelligence. The coordinates verified. The source confirmed through Priya’s secondary check. The signal consistent with RDA operational patterns he had encountered before.

He had been uneasy from the first word. He learned, over years of this work, to trust the feeling — the particular quality of alertness that arrived in his chest before his mind had caught up with the reason for it. He turned the data over twice, looking for the thing that was prickling at him, and found nothing.

He tried your frequency before he left. No answer, which meant you were still out on the path, still gathering, your communication piece left at the kelku the way you sometimes left it when you went close to home. He left a message. He told himself he would be back before you were.

He had been three hours out when he found the facility.

Empty. Not recently evacuated — empty in the way of a space that had never been properly occupied, a shell of infrastructure with nothing inside it, no equipment, no personnel, no evidence of the operation the signal described. Constructed well enough to pass initial verification and nothing more, intended to be found and found quickly. To send whoever found it somewhere very far from where they needed to be.

The unease became something that had no adequate name.

So’lek was already moving before he fully processed the thought.

—

He tried your frequency first, running back through the forest - flat out, every resource committed to speed, the forest floor blurring beneath him. No answer. He tried again. The silence on the line had a quality to it that was different from a simple failure to connect, a texture he recognized and refused to name.

He tried Teylan.

“The signal was false,” he said, when Teylan answered. Not a question.

A beat of silence. “So’lek —”

“Where is she.” The words came out with the particular flatness of someone who has moved past the register of normal speech into something that runs deeper and colder. “Where is my mate.”

“We’re looking,” Teylan said carefully. “There may have been a breach in the network. Someone found a thread we thought was scrubbed — a record we believed was gone. So’lek, we think they’ve had this planned. The false signal was designed to move you. The timing —”

“How long since you lost her frequency.”

A pause that told him everything before Teylan said: “Two hours.”

So’lek said nothing. He ran.

—

He found the satchel first.

It was lying at the edge of the path, half open, the nightbloom scattered around it in the way that spoke of sudden movement, of something set down fast or knocked loose rather than placed. He stopped beside it, crouched and looked at it for a moment with an expression that no one was there to see, which was perhaps fortunate.

Your gathering knife was three feet further along. Still in its sheath, which meant you hadn’t had time to reach for it.

He picked both up. Set them carefully inside the satchel. Closed it and held it in his hands for a moment before he made himself set it down against the base of a tree where it would be safe, where he could find it again, where he could bring it back to you.

He stood.

The forest around him was as it always was — luminous and vast and entirely indifferent to the thing that had happened in it. The bioluminescence pulsed at the roots of the trees. The canopy moved in the high wind.

So’lek stood in the path where your things had fallen and let himself feel, for exactly the span of three measured breaths, the full specific terror of what he was feeling. He did not look away from it. He let it move through him entirely, catalogued it, understood it, and then he folded it up — not small, not the way he folded up the small daily frustrations, but differently. The way you folded something you needed to carry a long distance without losing — and he set his jaw and opened his transmission to Teylan.

“Find her,” he said. “Now.”

—

It took Teylan forty minutes and it was the RDA’s own transmission network that found you.

“They moved her between units,” Teylan said, his voice tight with the controlled urgency of someone managing multiple things at once. “Internal frequency, encrypted but not well enough. We intercepted the relay. So’lek — we have coordinates.”

“Send them.”

“Already done.” A pause. “There’s something else. They transmitted to your personal frequency. Deliberately. They want you to see it before you go in.”

So’lek was already moving. “Send it.”

“I don’t think —”

“Teylan.” One word. The tone beneath it left no room.

A beat. Then the transmission came through to his device, and he slowed to a stop in the forest and he watched it.

Forty seconds.

The interior of a small room. You, restrained, your wrists bound above you, your kuru exposed and vulnerable in a way that made the breath leave his body in a slow controlled exhale that was the only outward indication of what it cost him to keep watching. The RDA operative’s voice, sharp and demanding, asking you something you were not answering. The device in his hand. What it did when he used it. The sound you made in response — the sound that came from somewhere below the composure you had been holding onto, involuntary and small and entirely honest about what was being done to you, the kind of sound you would never have made if you had known he was watching.

The transmission cut out.

So’lek stood in the forest with the device in his hand and was very, very still in a way that was not stillness at all but its shadow — the shape stillness left behind when everything inside it had become something else entirely.

“So’lek.” Teylan’s voice, careful and distant. “They sent it to provoke you. To make you go in reckless. She needs you to go in with a clear head. You hear me?”

He stood there for another moment.

“I hear you,” he said. His voice was even. What was underneath it was something he was going to have to manage very carefully for the next hour or it was going to make him dangerous in ways that would not serve you.

He started running again.

—

The RDA facility was smaller than most — a forward outpost rather than a full installation. The kind that appeared quickly and disappeared quickly and existed for specific purposes rather than long occupation. It sat in a depression in the landscape where the trees thinned, ringed with perimeter lighting that So’lek had disabled from three separate installations before this one and disabled again now without breaking his stride.

He went in from the east. He went in alone, which Teylan had argued against and which So’lek had not argued back about because there was nothing to say. There was only the facility and the forty seconds of transmission and your satchel sitting at the base of a tree in the forest waiting to be brought home.

He moved through the first two rooms without stopping.

And then he heard you.

He was in the second corridor, moving toward the third room, when the sound reached him through the wall — the RDA operative’s voice, sharp and demanding, asking you something you were not answering, and then the device, and then the sound you made, and it came through the wall and hit him somewhere below thought entirely.

It got louder with every step.

Your voice, strained and ragged, still refusing to give them what they wanted. The operative’s voice, harder now, less patient. The device again. The sound you couldn’t stop making no matter how hard you were trying not to make it, and So’lek could hear that you were trying. Could hear the effort of it in every breath, and that — that specific detail, the sound of you fighting to hold yourself together while they used that thing on the most sacred part of you — was the last thing that reached him before he stopped being able to hear anything except the door in front of him.

He went through it.

The room. Two operatives. You, restrained, your head down, your kuru bearing the marks of what had been done to it, the device still in one of their hands. So’lek registered all of it in a fraction of a second and then he stopped registering things the way a thinking person registers things and began operating on something considerably more fundamental.

He was not counting. He was not calculating. He was not the controlled, methodical, tactically precise fighter that the resistance knew and that the RDA had learned to be afraid of. He was something older than all of that and considerably less interested in restraint. The room was small and there were two of them and neither of them was prepared for what came through that door.

He was still moving when it was over. Still somewhere the rational mind had no useful contribution to make. His breathing hard and ragged in a way it almost never was. The forty seconds playing behind his eyes and the sounds from the corridor still living in his ears and his hands —

A sound.

Small. Involuntary. From across the room where you were still restrained, a sound that was not fear of what he had just done, but something physical. The echo of pain still moving through you in the aftermath of everything that had preceded him into this room.

It reached him like a hand on his shoulder.

He stopped.

He turned.

You were looking at him. Your eyes clear despite everything — despite the exhaustion and the hours of it and the marks on your kuru and whatever it had cost you to hold yourself together in this room without breaking — and you were looking at him with an expression that he would carry for the rest of his life because it was not fear. Not of him, not of any of this. It was relief, enormous and uncontrolled, and underneath it something steady and certain that had apparently never wavered.

“So’lek,” you said. Quietly. Just his name.

He crossed to you. His hands, which had been something else entirely thirty seconds ago, were gentle on the restraints. Careful. Deliberate. He freed your wrists and caught your arms as they came down and held them with the same focused attention he brought to tending your injuries, to anything that involved you — the care that lived in him for you specifically and expressed itself differently than anything else in his life.

“I have you,” he said. Low and certain. More to himself than to you.

“I knew you’d come,” you said. Your voice was hoarse and small, nothing like its usual self.

He looked at your kuru. At the marks on it. And the thing that had been running hot in him since the forty second transmission did something complicated and quiet. He closed his eyes for a single moment before he opened them again and looked at your face instead and held onto that.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He picked you up anyway.

—

He carried you out of the facility and through the perimeter and into the forest with the particular focused deliberateness of a man who was doing one thing only and that thing was getting you away from there and he was not going to put you down until you were somewhere safe.

Behind him, at a distance he had communicated to Teylan before he went in, the facility ceased to exist.

He didn’t look back.

—

He found a place in the forest, far enough from the outpost, where the roots of a great tree formed a natural shelter and the bioluminescence was strong enough to see by, and he sat down with you still in his arms and he held on.

You were quiet for a long time. He could feel you shaking, finely and continuously. The kind of shaking that came from hours of fear finally finding somewhere to go, and he held you through it and said nothing because there was nothing to say yet. He understood that what you needed right now was not words but this — his arms, and his heartbeat, and the specific irreplaceable certainty of him, solid and present and not going anywhere.

Eventually the shaking eased.

“They knew who I was,” you said. Very quietly. Into the space between his jaw and his shoulder.

“I know,” he said.

“They knew about you. They said —” You stopped.

“You don’t have to tell me now.”

“I want to.” A breath. “They said they would keep taking things from you until you stopped. That you should have understood there were consequences.” Another stop. “They said that you would come for me and they were right and I was so — So’lek, I was so frightened that you would walk into something.”

He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. Held it there.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m whole. You’re whole.” His arms tightened. “That is the only thing that matters right now.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“My kuru,” you said, and your voice was different on those words, something in it that was not quite the physical pain but something adjacent to it. Something that lived deeper.

“I know,” he said. Low and careful and carrying everything he felt about that in a way that he was choosing very deliberately not to put into full words right now because you did not need his fury, you needed his steadiness, and he was going to give you his steadiness even if it cost him something to do it. “I’m going to tend to it. As soon as we’re home.”

“You should let me tend to yours first,” you said. “Your shoulder has been —”

“No,” he said. Simply. Firmly. With the absolute finality of a man who was not going to be argued with on this particular point.

“So’lek —”

“No,” he said again, gentler.

You didn’t argue. You tucked your face back against his neck and breathed slowly and he held you in the shelter of the great tree and the forest moved around you both in the dark and neither of you said anything else for a long time.

—

He didn’t sleep that night.

You did, eventually — exhaustion pulling you under despite everything, your body making the decision that your mind might not have, and he lay beside you in the dark and listened to your breathing. He kept his hand light and careful near your kuru without touching it, looked at the ceiling, and thought.

He thought about the forty seconds of transmission. He thought about the marks on your kuru. He thought about the sound you had made in the corridor getting louder with every step he took toward the room and the way you had been fighting to hold yourself together in there and the specific quality of your voice saying I knew you’d come with such steadiness, such certainty, as though the possibility that he wouldn’t had never entered your mind.

He thought about the satchel in the forest path. The nightbloom scattered around it.

He had known there was risk. He had always known. The resistance work, the facilities, the name the RDA had given him — he had known that name meant something. That it painted a target; the space around him was more dangerous than the space around others. He had believed he had protected you from that. He had believed the precautions were sufficient.

He had been wrong.

That wrong had a weight and a specific shape and he was going to sit with it until he understood its full dimensions, because that was what he did with the things that mattered — he looked at them clearly, without the mercy of distance or the comfort of partial understanding, and he let them be what they were.

You stirred at some point in the deep of the night, found him awake and said nothing. Just reached for his hand and held it. He turned his palm up and held yours in return, and the night moved slowly around you both.

—

The days that followed had a texture he had not experienced before.

Not the texture of grief — you were here, you were healing, every hour that passed was an hour further from what had happened and closer to you being whole. Not the texture of fear, which had its own particular quality he knew well. Something else. Something quieter and more persistent, something that sat in him at a low level all the time and that he had to move around carefully the way you moved around a bruise — not ignoring it, not pressing on it directly, just aware of its location at all times.

He did not leave. He said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t, and there was no discussion about it because it was simply what was happening. The way weather simply happened.

He tended your kuru with the same focused care you brought to his injuries, which he understood was not a coincidence — that you taught him this without meaning to, by example, by the years of quiet, attentive healing you had offered him without making him ask for it. He learned the particular way you needed it handled, the pressure and the angle, and the specific warmth that helped. He brought that same careful attention to it every time with the focused dedication of someone who understood that what had been done to this part of you was not only physical and needed to be met accordingly.

He made your meals and brought them to you and sat beside you while you ate and did not hover but was always within reach — the presence without the pressure, the availability without the demand. You taught him that too, in the early days, by being exactly that for him.

You slept a great deal. Your body was doing the work of recovery, and he left it to that work without interfering. Lying still beside you during the long afternoon sleeps, listening to the forest, thinking.

On the third day you said: “You’re blaming yourself.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I failed to protect you.”

“The RDA laid a trap,” you said. “Specifically designed to move you away from me. That is not a failure of your protection. That is them being willing to do anything.”

“I missed something in the intelligence.”

“Teylan missed it. Priya missed it. The entire resistance network missed it.” You looked at him steadily. “And you are sitting here deciding it was yours alone to have caught.”

He looked at you. Said nothing.

“So’lek.” Your voice, gentle and absolutely certain. “Hear me. What happened to me was not a consequence of your choices. It was a consequence of theirs. They chose to do what they did. The responsibility for it belongs to them entirely.” A pause. “You came for me. That is what I will remember. You came and you were —” Something moved across your face. “The look on your face when you came through that door. I will remember that every day of my life.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he reached out and took your hand with the same care he had been bringing to everything involving you since he carried you out of that facility, the specific tenderness of someone who has been reminded, at great cost, exactly what they are holding.

“I will do better,” he said quietly. “With the intelligence. The network. The precautions.”

“I know you will,” you said. “And while you’re doing that —” you turned your hand over in his, “you could also let me tend your shoulder. Which I have been trying to do for two weeks and you have been avoiding.”

A silence.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“It is not fine,” you said pleasantly. “I have been watching you favor it since before the false signal. I have the salve, I have the time, and you are going to sit still and let me help you.”

Another silence. Then, very quietly, with the particular rueful quality of a man who knew when he had been outmaneuvered: “You just recovered from —”

“So’lek.”

He sat still. He let you help him.

And you worked in the quiet together, your hands on his shoulder and his eyes on your face and the forest breathing around the kelku, and it was the most ordinary thing. It was also, in the particular way that ordinary things became extraordinary after you understood what it meant to almost lose them, everything.

—

The move happened ten days later.

Not far — not so far that the work was impossible, that the resistance lost So’lek’s reach entirely. But far enough. Deeper into the forest, further from the known coordinates, into a part of the mountain range where the trees grew thick enough that the canopy blocked aerial surveillance and the root network was so dense that Teylan could reroute the signal through it in ways that left no trace in any direction.

The new kelku was smaller than the old one. Older, built into the base of a tree so ancient that its roots had formed the walls themselves, the wood grown through and around the woven structure over decades until the two were inseparable. It smelled of moss and deep soil and the particular dark sweetness of old wood and it was, in the way of places that had held generations of life inside them, immediately and entirely a home.

So’lek stood in the middle of it on the first evening and looked around at what you had brought with you — the woven things, the containers of salve, his weapons arranged carefully along the root wall the way they always were, your star charts pinned to the interior where you could look at them from the hammock — and felt something in him settle that had been unsettled for ten days.

You appeared at his shoulder. Looked at where he was looking.

“It’s good,” you said.

“Yes,” he said.

A beat of quiet.

“Your satchel,” he said then. He turned to the pack he carried in and withdrew it — your gathering satchel, the one he had found in the forest, which he had carried back and kept in his pack ever since, waiting for the right moment. “I kept it for you.”

You looked at it. Something moved across your face.

“You found it,” you said.

“Yes.”

“When you were —” You stopped. “On the path.”

“Yes.” He held it out. You took it, held it in both hands, and he watched you look at it. He thought about the moment he had found it, your knife beside it in the dirt, and he thought about all the things he had not allowed himself to think about in the weeks since. He let them move through him briefly and completely, then he folded them up and set them down.

You looked up from the satchel and found him watching you.

“The nightbloom is probably past using,” you said softly.

“I gathered more,” he said. “On the way here. I thought you might want to make the salve again.”

You looked at him for a long moment. At this man who had gathered nightbloom on the path to a new home because he knew what you needed before you knew you needed it. Who carried your satchel for ten days because setting it down somewhere else felt wrong. Who stayed awake every night listening to you breathe and held your hand in the dark and had sat still and let you tend his shoulder and had said I will do better with the quiet certainty of someone who meant every word of it and would spend the rest of his life making it true.

“So’lek,” you said softly.

“Mm.”

“Come here.”

He came. You put your arms around him and he folded around you the way he always did — completely, without reservation, with the ease of two people who have learned the precise geometry of each other and no longer have to think about it. His face pressed into your hair. Your face pressed into the curve of his neck. His arms pulled you in and held on with the quiet certainty of someone who had been given something back and was not, not ever, going to take the holding of it for granted again.

Outside, the new forest breathed around the new kelku, ancient and unhurried and entirely its own. The bioluminescence began to strengthen as the evening deepened, finding its way through the old wood walls in faint traces of blue and green, painting the interior of the kelku in the colors that had always meant home to you. That would always mean home to you now, wherever they appeared.

“We’re alright,” you said. Into the warmth of him.

His arms tightened.

“Yes,” he said. His voice low and certain and entirely without qualification. “We are.”

So’lek held you and breathed slowly. Outside, Pandora turned toward dark, and the forest kept its deep indifferent watch over all the small tender things sheltering within it.

And they were, both of them, finally, all the way home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (comment if you wanna be added or removed!) : @weeeeeeeeeeeeee2 @natwriteswords @ravenyia @feralcoffeecryptid @r4y-cr34t0r @goldentrenchtome @eesomee @zeebee44 @kekereads97 @iitstaylorme @kirjeela @a0-o @emneedshelp

[sunmoonsweets]

Been so busy with finals but done now so I’ll be posting more avatar fics! I’ve got some featuring So’lek, and Jake saved in my notes - writing em was a great de-stressor

I took an astronomy class this semester and it kicked my ass but it was so fascinating omg

[sunmoonsweets]

Epilogue

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this is the epilogue to 'In the shadow of the tipani'

I just couldn't put this story down yet, so i wrote this, the "after"

words: 1,096 - not proofread

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three weeks after the shadow forest, you wake to find a bloom on your pillow.

Not a grand gesture. Just a single small thing — one of the delicate luminous flowers that grow only at the highest points of the floating mountains. Pale and threaded through with bioluminescence that persists even after picking, so it glows faintly in the early morning dark like a held breath. You have to climb for them. The path is narrow and the handholds sparse. It is not a short journey even for someone with So’lek’s reach and ease in high places.

He is already gone by the time you find it. Out before dawn, the way he often is, the hammock cool beside you. But the flower is there, still glowing, and beside it — laid with great care — one of the fortune fruits he knows you love. The best one from the bunch. You can tell because he always picks through them first when he thinks you aren’t watching. Selecting the one with the most perfect weight, the deepest color.

You lie there in the early morning dark, holding it in both hands and feel something move through you that is so full it almost aches.

—

It has been like this since the grotto.

Not loudly. Not in a way that announces itself or asks to be noticed. Just consistently, quietly. Woven so thoroughly into the fabric of your days together that you would have to be looking closely to catch each individual thread. The flower on the pillow. The way he always makes sure your bowl is filled before his own. The manner in which he has begun to stop what he is doing — completely, fully, whatever it is — when you speak to him. Turning to face you and giving you the whole of his attention as though what you are saying is the most important thing currently happening across all of Pandora.

Which is perhaps the one that undoes you most completely. Because it is such a small thing. Because you had not realized until he began doing it how much it means to be looked at like that. Like your words land somewhere real, somewhere that has been cleared and made ready for them.

You notice all of it. You don’t say anything. And then one evening, three weeks and two days after the shadow forest, you say something.

—

The fire is low and the night is warm. So’lek is behind you, your back to his chest, his arms loose around you in the particular hold he saves for evenings like this one — unhurried, content, nowhere to be. His chin rests on top of your head. You are watching the bioluminescence strengthen in the valley below as the dark deepens, the whole world slowly illuminating itself.

“You don’t have to keep doing it,” you say softly.

A pause. “Doing what?”

“Proving yourself.” You turn your head slightly, enough to feel his jaw against your temple. “I told you I forgave you. I meant it. You don’t have to earn it every day. It’s already given.”

So’lek is quiet for a moment.

Then — “I know.”

You wait.

“I know you meant it,” he continues, and his voice is low and unhurried. The tone of a man who has thought about this and arrived somewhere certain. “I know the forgiveness is real, and I know you do not need the gesture of the flower or the fruit or any of the rest of it as proof of something still owed.” His arms shift slightly, pulling you a fraction closer. “That is not why I do it.”

“Then why?” you ask quietly.

He takes a breath. Lets it out slowly.

“Because I spent a long time being a man who moved through the world without allowing himself to want things from it. Who convinced himself that distance was wisdom and that needing nothing was the same as being strong.” A pause. “And then you.” He says it simply. Just those two words, carrying everything. “And now I understand that what I thought was strength was only armor. And that the bravest thing I have ever done is not any battle or any hunt but choosing, every single day, to let you see me.” His lips press briefly to the top of your head. “So when I bring you the flower — I am not paying a debt. I am practicing the bravest thing I know.” A beat. “I am practicing choosing you out loud. So that you always know. So that you never have to wonder or doubt or lie alone in the dark uncertain of what you are to me.”

His voice drops lower still.

“It is not for guilt,” he says. “It is for love. And I will do it every day until I have no more days left, and if Eywa grants me the grace of finding you again in whatever comes after — I will do it there too.”

You are very quiet for a long moment.

The valley below pulses with its slow blue light. The night breathes around you both. Somewhere nearby Amay shifts her wings in sleep and settles again.

“So’lek,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“I love you.”

You feel him smile against your hair. That particular quiet shape of it, the one you know better by now than you know your own hands.

“I know,” he says. And then, softer: “I love you more.”

“Not possible,” you say.

And you feel his whole chest shake — once, warm, the quiet laugh he saves for moments no one else will ever see. His arms pull you closer. You tuck yourself into him, close your eyes, and listen to his heartbeat. And the valley below. And the breathing of Pandora all around you, and you think —

This. This is the thing.

Not the grand declarations, though they undo you every time. Not the gesture or the proof or the hard-won ground of trust rebuilt after tested. Just this. Just him. Just the particular stillness of a man who has decided that loving you is the bravest and most important work of his life, practicing it quietly every single day, asking for nothing in return except to be allowed to keep doing it.

You reach up and cover his hand with yours.

He turns his palm over immediately. Holds on.

Outside, Pandora breathes on in the dark, luminous and vast and ancient, indifferent to everything except, perhaps, this — two souls that had found their way home to each other.

And here, in the warmth of him, you had.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (comment if you wanna be added or removed!) : @weeeeeeeeeeeeee2 @natwriteswords @ravenyia @feralcoffeecryptid @r4y-cr34t0r @goldentrenchtome @eesomee @zeebee44 @kekereads97 @iitstaylorme @kirjeela @a0-o

[sunmoonsweets]

In the shadow of the tipani

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This one is my personal favorite, and I've written an epilogue to go along with it

Rimu is so badass and I love her, but I also love So'lek and a lil angst - you and so'lek are flying over the forest where the tipani reside, take a break and run into Rimu who never let go of your now mate

idk where the tipani clan resides or what they call their part of the forest so I just named it the shadow forest?? i did my best ok, and the ikran is named amay bc I named my ikran that in AFOP

also I am chubby so this was made with a chubby reader in mind, but can be for anybody who has ever felt they took up too much space in rooms that were never meant for them

So'lek x reader

words: 7,970 - this is not proofread:)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The forest below shifts as you fly, the canopy changing beneath you the way a mood changes — gradually, and then all at once. What had been the familiar greens and golds of open Pandoran jungle deepens into something older, something that swallows light rather than reflects it. Shadow trees rise from the earth like sentinels, their enormous trunks draped in bioluminescent moss that pulses faintly even in the grey of afternoon, and the air that rises up to meet you carries a different quality — cooler, stiller, threaded with the scent of dark water and deep soil.

You lean forward over Amay’s neck, watching it with wide eyes. “It’s beautiful,” you call across the wind to So’lek.

He is quiet for a beat longer than usual. You glance over to find him looking not down at the forest but ahead, something in the set of his jaw that you can’t quite name. Iley feels it too — his great wings adjusting, reading his rider’s stillness.

“We should find a place to land,” So’lek says. “Rest the ikrans before the light goes.”

You nod, following his lead as he begins to descend, and say nothing about the way his eyes move over the treetops below like a man reading something written in a language he once knew.

—

The clearing is small but sufficient, the shadow trees forming a natural enclosure around it, their canopy knitting together far overhead and filtering the remaining daylight into something pale and blue. Amay and Iley settle with the quiet relief of creatures who have earned their rest, and you busy yourself unpacking the meal you had prepared before leaving — dried yerik strips, travel bread wrapped in broad leaves, two small portions of the sweet pressed fruit So’lek had packed at the last moment because he knew you would want it, the same way he always knows.

You spread everything out on a flat rock and look up to find him standing at the edge of the clearing, one hand resting against the trunk of the nearest shadow tree, his eyes on the dark between the others.

“So’lek.”

He turns. Meets your eyes. Something in his expression settles, like a man returning from somewhere far away. “Come,” you say, softer. “Eat with me.”

He crosses to you and sits, close enough that his shoulder presses warm against yours, and for a little while there is only the sounds of the forest around you — the distant calls of unseen creatures, the bioluminescence beginning to strengthen as the afternoon dims, the quiet of two people who have learned to be comfortable inside the same silence.

“You know these woods,” you say. It isn’t a question.

His jaw shifts. “I did,” he says. “Once.”

You wait.

“The Tipani clan resides here. In the shadow of these trees.” He looks ahead rather than at you, his voice measured in the way it gets when he is choosing words carefully. “I spent time among them. When I was younger.”

You understand without asking. You have always understood the things So’lek says in the spaces between his words.

“They know we are here,” he adds quietly. “They always know.”

As if in answer — as if the forest itself has been listening — the shadows between the trees shift. A figure steps forward into the pale light of the clearing with the ease of someone who has never once in her life been uncertain of her welcome.

She is tall, as So’lek is tall, built with the kind of lean, quiet strength that speaks of a life lived in motion. Her markings are deep indigo against blue skin, her eyes amber and sharp, and when they find So’lek they warm with a recognition so immediate and unguarded that your chest registers it before your mind does — a small, involuntary tightening, there and gone.

“So’lek,” she says—his name in her mouth like something worn smooth from use.

And So’lek — your So’lek, who does not startle, who does not break his composure for almost anything — exhales what might almost be a surprised laugh. “Rimu.”

He rises to greet her, and you watch.

—

Her name settles over the clearing like the bioluminescence — quiet and pervasive, impossible to ignore once you’ve noticed it.

You had known of her, of course. So’lek is not a man who hides things from you. He had told you once, simply and without ceremony. The way he tells you the things that matter: there was someone, before. Her name was Rimu. I thought I understood love then. I know now that I did not. He had looked at you when he said that last part, and you had believed him completely; you still do.

Knowing and seeing, you are learning, are not quite the same thing.

Rimu greets him the way people greet each other when they have shared history that hasn’t fully finished being felt — both hands closing around his forearm, holding on a beat past what is necessary, her chin tilting up toward him with an easy familiarity that suggests she has stood in his space many times before and never once been asked to leave it.

“It has been too long,” she says, warm and certain. “Eywa guided you here.”

“Eywa guided us here,” So’lek says, and turns to extend a hand toward you.

You rise, moving to his side. His hand finds the small of your back, and you feel the familiar steadiness of it. The way he always anchors you both without seeming to try.

“This is —” he begins.

“Your travelling companion,” Rimu says pleasantly, her amber eyes moving over you with an assessment so brief and so complete it’s almost impressive. Her smile doesn’t waver. “Welcome to Tipani territory.” A small pause, light as anything. “We don’t often receive visitors who lose their way.”

Who lose their way. The words are dressed as hospitality. You hear the seam.

So’lek either doesn’t catch it or takes it for the jest it’s costumed as. “We weren’t lost,” he says easily. “Only looking for a place to rest.”

“Then you’ll stay,” Rimu says, and it isn’t a question. “We have a guest kelku. You must eat with us this evening.” Her hand settles briefly on So’lek’s arm again, her eyes not leaving his face. “There is so much to catch up on.”

—

The evening unfolds the way uncomfortable things tend to — slowly, and with a surface warmth that makes it difficult to name what’s wrong without sounding as though you’re inventing it.

The Tipani receive you generously. The food is good, the fire is warm, and all around you the clan moves with the particular ease of people who are home in their bones. You sit close to So’lek, and he keeps you near without thinking about it. The way he always does — a hand at your back, your shoulder against his arm, the small constant language of a man who wants you in his orbit.

Rimu sits across the fire from you both. She speaks mostly to So’lek, which is natural enough. You listen and eat and let the conversation move around you, content enough.

Except.

The evening had settled into its second hour when Rimu made her first move.

Not at So’lek. Not yet. That came later, and it came differently. This one was aimed at you, and it was aimed with the precision of someone who had spent the whole of dinner taking your measure and had identified, with the particular instinct of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. The place most likely to leave a mark.

It happened in the middle of a story one of the elder hunters was telling — something about a hunt from years past, something funny, the whole fire leaning into it. You were laughing, genuinely, your head tipped back slightly the way it did when something caught you fully off guard, and you felt warm and full and almost, almost able to forget the way Rimu’s eyes had been moving over you all evening.

And then Rimu leaned across toward the woman sitting beside her and said, in a voice pitched just low enough to be intimate and just loud enough to carry: “She laughs with her whole body, doesn’t she.” A small, warm, perfectly constructed pause. “All of it.”

The woman beside her made a soft sound that could have been anything.

Rimu’s eyes found yours across the fire with an expression of such complete and pleasant innocence that you understood, in the space of a single breath, exactly what had just happened.

Around you the story continued. The fire crackled. So’lek’s hand was warm at your back, and he was still smiling at something the hunter had said. He had not heard it, or had heard it and taken it as warmth. As a simple observation. As Rimu being Rimu.

You felt the heat of the fire on your face and the heat of something else underneath it. You smiled, looked back at the hunter, and said nothing.

All of it. The way she had said it. Like the size of your joy was the same thing as the size of your body. Like both were equally excessive. Like she was simply noting a fact and wasn’t it charming, wasn’t it sweet, that you took up so much space with your laughing.

You kept your face easy. You were very good at keeping your face easy.

—

The second one came later, quieter, worse for its intimacy.

The clan had thinned around the fire, a few at a time, until it was a smaller group — you and So’lek and Rimu and two others. The conversation lower now, more personal. Rimu had shifted closer to So’lek in the way she had been doing all evening, incremental and unhurried. You had noticed, filed it, and said nothing.

She turned to you at some point with a smile that was warm and genuine-looking and said, “You must find it difficult. The mountains.” A tilt of her head, concerned and kind. “The altitude. The climbing.” Her eyes moved over you briefly, just briefly, the way a blade moves. “You should tell So’lek if the terrain is too much for you. He would not want you to struggle.”

So’lek glanced at you. Something easy and reassuring in his expression, the look of a man who has heard a reasonable thing said by a reasonable person. “She’s right,” he said. “You only have to say.”

You looked at him for a moment.

“I’m fine,” you said. Pleasantly. Meaning it to him and meaning something entirely different to Rimu. Understanding that only one of the two of them would receive what you were actually saying.

Rimu smiled. Warm, satisfied, and entirely at peace with herself.

So’lek rubbed a small circle on your back and returned to the conversation.

You looked at the fire, breathed slowly, and thought about how much you loved him and how much, in this exact moment, that love was the thing making this particular flavour of hurt possible.

—

It was later still, the fire lower now, most of the clan long gone to their kelkus, when Rimu reached out and picked something nonexistent from So’lek’s shoulder — a piece of nothing, a fabricated reason to touch him — her fingers lingering a beat too long while her amber eyes cut sideways to you with an expression you recognized from the whole of the evening.

I see you watching. Good.

And you thought — quietly, with the particular restraint of someone who was raised to hold themselves still in discomfort — enough.

You set your cup down. “So’lek. Can I speak with you a moment?”

Something flickered in Rimu’s expression. Satisfaction, possibly. You didn’t look at her long enough to confirm it.

So’lek followed you a short distance from the fire — not far, just enough. The embers still glowed amber behind you. You were not so foolish as to think Rimu wasn’t watching.

You kept your voice low and even. “She is flirting with you. I need you to see that. And she has been saying things about me all evening — not loudly, not obviously, but she has been.”

So’lek looked at you. In the dim light his expression was patient, careful — and then, faintly, something that you had never had directed at you before and that stung more than you expected. “What exactly do you think you saw?” he asked, quiet but with an edge like the beginning of exasperation.

“She picked something off your shoulder,” you said. “She has been touching you all evening. She said I would struggle with the terrain. She said —”

“She was being thoughtful,” he said. “We were in her home. She was making sure you were comfortable.” He exhaled. Glanced back briefly toward the fire. “Rimu is a dear friend to me. She was important to me once, and what you are seeing is the ease of that history, nothing more.” His eyes came back to you and there it was — the faint edge of annoyance, worn thin by an evening he had been enjoying until this moment. “I need you not to read into what isn’t there.”

The words landed quietly and did a great deal of damage for their size.

You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, waiting, certain.

“Don’t be jealous of the history we share,” So’lek said, lower now, the words weighted with a kind of quiet finality. “It does not diminish what I have with you.” A pause, and then the second thing, said gently, said with care. Said in a way that was meant as comfort and landed as something else entirely: “And please — do not let your insecurities put a meaning into her words that wasn’t intended. She would not be cruel about that. She is not that kind of person.”

Jealousy, you thought. Insecurities. He thinks this is both of those things.

Something closed in your chest. Not dramatically. Just a door, settling quietly shut.

“You’re right,” you said. “I’m sorry. I think I’m tired.”

His expression softened immediately with relief. He pressed his forehead to yours for a brief moment. You breathed him in and said nothing at all about the fact that Rimu was still watching.

“Go rest,” he said gently. “I’ll be in soon.”

You said goodnight to the remaining Tipani with a warmth that cost you more than it should. You did not look at Rimu.

But as you turned to leave, her voice followed you — lilting, conversational, directed at the fire in general and no one in particular.

“She seems tired,” Rimu said pleasantly. “Long flight for a soft creature.”

A ripple of quiet laughter from somewhere around the embers. So’lek said nothing.

You walked into the dark, and you did not look back. You kept the quiet of it pulled so tightly around you that it didn’t make a sound.

—

You didn’t go to the guest kelku.

You found an empty one further along the path — dark and still, smelling of dried grass and shadow wood. You slipped inside and lay down on your side in the dim blue glow of the bioluminescence coming faintly through the woven walls.

And you let yourself feel it, where no one could see you feeling it.

It wasn’t jealousy. You told yourself that first. You knew the shape of jealousy — hot and restless, reaching outward — and this was something different. Something that moved inward instead. Something that sat down in the quietest part of you and began to ask questions you didn’t particularly want to answer.

Except.

Except that when you closed your eyes, you could still see the way Rimu had looked at him. Not with want — or not only with want — but with knowing. The particular ease of someone who has been permitted into all the rooms of a person. Who carries memories of So’lek that you will never have access to, that existed before loss shaped him into the man who found you and chose you and had sat beside you all evening with his hand warm at your back while another woman used your body as a blade and he had called it your insecurity.

That was the part that sat heaviest. Not the flirting. Not even the comments themselves.

The insecurities. His voice. Gentle, certain, and entirely wrong.

You had spent years learning to take up the right amount of space. Not too little — you had done that once, made yourself small, quiet, and careful; it had cost you something you were still getting back. Not too much — you had learned, gradually, to exist in the body you had without apology, to let your softness be what it was without explaining it. It was not a battle you had won once and kept. It was a thing you chose every day. Quietly, without ceremony, and some days it was easier than others.

Rimu had looked at your body all evening and seen a limitation. And So’lek, who loved you, who had said with his whole chest that you were everything to him, had sat beside you while it happened and told you not to be insecure.

You pressed your face into the curve of your arm.

You are not too soft for these mountains, you told yourself. You know this. You have always known this.

But the dark was very quiet, and Rimu’s voice was still somewhere in the back of your skull — long flight for a soft creature — and So’lek’s was beside it — do not let your insecurities — and you were tired. So tired, and for just this moment in the privacy of this empty kelku, you allowed yourself to be uncertain. To wonder if the woman who was soft in every sense was ever really going to be enough for a man like him.

The thought was unworthy of everything you knew to be true.

You felt it anyway.

You lay there in the soft dark, breathed, and listened to the distant sounds of the Tipani home settling into the night around you, and you waited for a sleep that took a very, very long time coming.

—

The fire had burned to almost nothing by the time the last of the Tipani found their way to bed.

So’lek sat with his arms resting across his knees, his gaze on the last of the coals, his thoughts drifting. He was thinking about you. Feeling, distantly, the residue of the conversation on the path — the faint discomfort of having spoken to you with an edge he hadn’t quite intended. He told himself he would be in soon. A few more minutes.

Rimu shifted beside him.

It was subtle at first. She moved closer under the pretense of warmth, and So’lek made room for her the way he would for anyone without thinking about what he was making room for. She tucked her legs beneath her and looked at him the way she used to when they were young — with that amber certainty, the look of a woman who had decided she would wait as long as the waiting took.

“It is good to have you back in these woods,” she said. Low and warm.

“Mm.” He prodded at the embers. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” Her hand found his forearm — easy, familiar. This time her fingers curled. Held. “I’ve missed you, So’lek. More than you know.”

He went still.

“Do you remember,” she said, her voice dropping into something intimate and careful, “when we were young? Before the RDA. Before everything became what it became.” Her thumb traced a slow arc across his forearm. “We were good together. We always were.”

“We were young,” he said, measured.

“Yes.” She tilted her head. “And now we are not. Now we have lived through things. Lost things.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “Eywa brought you back to these woods, So’lek. That is not nothing.”

He looked at her. Something was beginning to clarify at the edges of his understanding, cold and slow, the way ice forms.

“She has someone,” Rimu said then, and there it was — the first clean note of something that was not warmth at all. “Your soft mate. I’m sure she is sweet.” The corner of her mouth moved in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “But So’lek — you need someone who can match you. Someone forged in the same fire.” Her hand moved up his arm. “She is soft. In every sense. She will never understand you the way I do. She can care for you, yes, but she cannot follow you into what you are.” Her voice dropped further. “I should have followed you when you left. You should have stayed. Either way — Eywa has corrected it now.”

She is soft. In every sense.

The cold reached him all at once.

Not gradually. All at once, like being submerged. Like the air leaving a body.

So’lek looked at Rimu’s hand on his arm, and he saw — with a clarity so sudden and so complete it was almost violent — the whole of the evening. Every comment landing soft as anything. Every touch. Every amber glance sliding sideways across the fire to find your face and check the damage. She laughs with her whole body. All of it. The terrain might be too much for you. Long flight for a soft creature.

And his own voice. Do not let your insecurities put a meaning into her words that wasn’t intended.

He removed his arm from her hand.

Not roughly. But with a finality that was unmistakable.

“So’lek —”

“No.” The word was quiet. Firm as bedrock. He rose to his feet and looked at Rimu with an expression that was not anger — not yet — but something colder than anger. Recognition. “No.”

Rimu blinked. For the first time this evening, her certainty flickered. “I only meant —”

“I know what you meant.” He looked at her for a long moment, this woman he had once believed he understood, and found that the understanding he had carried of her all these years was a version she had constructed and left behind for him to find. “I know exactly what you meant.”

He didn’t say anything else to her. There was more to be said and he knew it — tomorrow there would be more — but right now there was only one thing that existed in the entirety of his awareness and it was not Rimu’s hand on his arm or her voice in the dark.

It was your face on the path. The careful composure of it. The way you had said you’re right, I’m tired and walked into the dark.

It was his own voice saying do not let your insecurities, and understanding now, fully, without the comfort of ignorance, what those words had done.

He turned from the embers and walked.

—

The guest kelku was empty.

He knew it before he fully stepped inside. Your pack was still there. Amay was still settled outside beside Iley, unbothered. But the woven sleeping mat was undisturbed and the hollow of the space that should hold you did not.

So’lek stood in the empty doorway for a moment and let the full weight of what he had done settle onto him without flinching away from it.

You had tried to tell him. Twice. Quietly, without drama, without asking him for anything except to hear you. And he had — with the absolute confidence of a man who had decided he already understood the situation — told you that your perception was wrong. That you were jealous. That you were letting your insecurities invent a meaning that wasn’t there.

He had said that to you. About your body. About the things being said to your face while he sat beside you, and called it nothing.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then he began to search.

—

He found you by the bioluminescence.

A faint pulse of blue-green light through the woven walls of the small, unoccupied kelku at the far end of the path. Through it, the shape of you. Curled on your side, still and quiet in the way that told him immediately you were not asleep.

He had already done the accounting by then. That was the thing you would understand later — that he had not come to you confused, or defensive, or still partially convinced that he had done nothing wrong. He had gone back through the whole of the evening with the cold clarity of a man who finally had the context he’d been missing, and what he found there had not been comfortable to look at.

He had replayed the laugh you let out at the fire when the hunter told his story, and Rimu’s voice carrying just far enough, and the way your smile had stayed in place and your eyes had gone somewhere careful. He had replayed the moment Rimu had said the terrain might be too much for you and he had said she’s right, you only have to say - and watched your face compose itself into pleasantness so thorough it had looked, to him then, like agreement. And looked to him now, in the cold light of understanding, like the specific composure of someone who had been handed something and had nowhere to put it.

He had replayed do not let your insecurities and felt the full shape of what those words had done.

He pushed through the entrance softly.

“Paskalin.”

You didn’t turn over. Your voice, when it came, was even and carefully so. “I thought you were staying by the fire.”

“I was.” He crossed to you and lowered himself to sit at the edge of the sleeping mat, close but not touching. His elbows on his knees. He looked at the bioluminescent wall rather than at the back of your head because he understood instinctively that you did not want to be looked at right now.

The silence sat between you, not hostile — never hostile, that had never been the two of you — but weighted. Full of things.

And then he said:

“She laughs with her whole body. All of it.”

The words in his voice. His voice giving them back to you, flat and deliberate, stripped of Rimu’s warmth so you could see exactly what they were without the wrapping.

You went very still.

“The terrain might be too much for you,” he continued, the same way. Each one set down carefully. “Long flight for a soft creature.” A pause. “She is soft, So’lek. In every sense.”

The bioluminescence pulsed.

“I heard her,” he said quietly. “All of it. I heard it, and I did not understand what I was hearing. I told you not to be insecure.” The words carried everything he meant them to carry. “I told you that. To you. About your own body. About the things being said to your face while I sat beside you and called it kindness.”

You had turned over at some point without deciding to. You were looking at him now. His profile in the faint blue light, the set of his jaw, the quality of stillness that was not composure but its opposite — a man sitting very deliberately inside the full discomfort of what he had done and refusing to look away from it.

“So’lek,” you said softly.

“Let me finish.” Not sharp. Just necessary. “There is nothing about you that is too much. There is nothing about you that is a difficulty or a limitation or a softness to be managed or explained away.” He turned then and looked at you fully. His eyes in the dim light were certain and entirely without deflection. “You are not too soft for these mountains. You are not too much for this life. You are not —” His voice tightened slightly. Held. “You are exactly as you are, and what you are is everything I have given thanks for every day since you came into my life, and I sat beside you tonight while someone used your body as an instrument to make you small and I called it your insecurity.”

The quiet of the kelku held you both.

“I am sorry,” he said. The words not decorated or softened. “For all of it. The flirting I didn’t see and the comments I didn’t hear and the things I said to you on the path. All of it. I am sorry.”

You looked at him for a long moment. At this man who had arrived at your door already knowing, who had gone back through the evening alone and done the full accounting and come to you carrying every item of it without being asked. Who had said the words back to you in his own voice so you would know he had truly heard them.

“I know,” you said finally. Quietly. “I know you are.”

He reached out then and his hand covered yours where it lay on the mat, not gripping, just present, and you turned your palm over after a moment and let his fingers close around it and the kelku breathed its soft blue light around you both.

“We can talk more in the morning,” you said.

“Yes,” he said. “We can.”

He didn’t leave. He lay down behind you and stared at the ceiling. Kept his hand where it was, warm and certain. You fell asleep holding it and he stayed awake a long time after, thinking about a laugh around a fire and all the things he had not understood until it was almost too late.

—

Morning comes slowly in the shadow forest.

There is no sudden flood of light the way there is in open country — the canopy is too dense. The trees too old and too tall for that. Instead, the dark simply softens, incrementally, the bioluminescence fading as a pale grey filters down through layers of leaves and moss and the particular stillness of a forest that has been breathing through the night.

You are awake before So’lek. You had surfaced from sleep gradually, aware before you were fully conscious of the warmth at your back — of him, close but not quite touching, having closed the careful distance sometime in the night without waking you. His breathing is slow and even. His hand rests on the mat between you, open, palm up, not reaching but present. Available.

You look at it for a long moment.

Then you sit up.

—

He wakes to the sound of you moving and is upright almost immediately; he finds you sitting with your knees drawn up, looking at the pale light coming through the woven walls. Your eyes clear in the way that comes after a hard night — not rested exactly, but resolved. Like a storm that has finished with itself.

So’lek says nothing, waiting. He had told you last night that you could have the morning, and he meant it.

You are quiet for a little while longer. Then —

“When you told me not to be insecure,” you begin, your voice unhurried, “I need you to understand what that did. Not because you meant it cruelly. Because you didn’t, and it still did it.” You turn your head to look at him. “I have spent a long time learning to exist in myself without apology. That is not a small thing. It is something I choose every day. And last night someone spent an entire evening trying to take it from me in small, careful pieces, and when I tried to tell you, you handed it back to her.”

“Yes,” he says. Simply. No defense rising to meet it.

“That hurt,” you say. Still quiet, still even. “Not because you disagreed with me. Because of both things at once — you didn’t believe what I was seeing, and you didn’t believe what I was feeling in my own body. In the same breath.” Your eyes stay on his. “I am your mate. My word should mean something. About what I observe and about what I experience.”

So’lek holds your gaze and does not look away from what he finds there. “You were right about all of it,” he says. “Every part. And I stood next to you and told you that you weren’t.” A muscle moves in his jaw. “I have thought about that for most of the night.”

“I know,” you say softly. “I could feel you awake.”

A beat of quiet.

“I don’t need you to have been perfect,” you continue. “I need to know that when I bring something to you, you will hold space for the possibility that I am right. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it complicates something.” Your eyes stay on his. “I am your mate. My word should mean something.”

“It means everything,” he says, low and certain and stripped of any performance. “Your word means everything to me. And I failed to show you that last night. I failed you.” He shifts then, closing the small distance, turning to face you fully, his eyes carrying everything he needs you to receive. “I will not do it again. Whatever you bring to me, whatever you see, whatever you need me to hear — I will listen first. Every time. From this moment.” His hand moves to yours. “And I will never again tell you that what you feel in your own body is your insecurity to manage. Never.”

Something in your chest loosens. Not all at once. But enough.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

His thumb moves across your knuckles.

“Okay,” he repeats, like a door opened. Like the first breath after surfacing. “Come. Let’s eat. And then —” something resolves in his expression, quiet and certain — “there is something I need to take care of.”

—

The communal area of the Tipani home is dappled in the morning’s pale light. Most of the clan are already moving through their day — quiet conversations, children underfoot. The small, ordered industry of a community at home in itself.

You find a place to sit near the edge of it all, watching the Tipani morning unfold around you. So’lek had pressed his forehead to yours before going to collect your meal, his hand cradling the back of your head with that tenderness that still undoes you. You had closed your eyes and breathed him in. Felt the truth of last night beginning — slowly, at the edges — to be replaced by something warmer.

You are watching a small child chase something through the roots of a shadow tree when you hear it.

Her voice. Low and bright.

“So’lek.”

You don’t turn around. But you go very still, and you listen.

—

So’lek had seen her coming.

He turns from the food to face her with an expression that is not cold — he is not a cruel man and does not wish to become one — but is absolutely, entirely closed.

She approaches with the confidence of the night before, something in it slightly recalibrated. She stops a short distance from him, tilts her head, and attempts the smile that has always worked. “You’re up early.”

“I am,” he says.

A beat. She glances toward where you are sitting, then back. “I thought perhaps we could —”

“No.” He says it before she can finish. His voice is even, final, and carries no anger in it, which is almost worse than if it had. “No, Rimu. Whatever you were about to suggest — no.”

Her expression shifts. The smile holds, but the warmth behind it doesn’t. “So’lek —”

“I need to say something to you,” he continues, quiet, “and I need you to hear it fully.” He sets down what he was holding and turns to face her completely. “What you did last night — the comments, all of them, every one of them — that was beneath you. The things you said about her body. The concern dressed as kindness. The terrain, the softness, all of it.” Something moves through his expression — not anger but its more enduring cousin. The kind that has been thought through and will not be easily moved. “I heard every word when I finally understood what I was hearing. And I need you to know that I heard it.”

Rimu is very still.

“She is soft,” So’lek says. His voice drops lower, weighted with a quiet and absolute certainty. “Yes. She is. She is soft the way deep water is soft — the way something that has settled completely into itself is soft. She moves like rolling water. Like something that found its own shape and kept it.” His eyes hold Rimu’s without apology. “There is not one part of her I would change. Not one. And I sat beside her last night while you tried to make her believe otherwise. I did not see it, and I will carry that. But I see it now. And I am telling you now so there is no confusion.”

“We have history,” So’lek continues. “I valued that history. I carried it for a long time. But you were cruel to my mate. Deliberately. In small, careful ways that you believed I would not catch.” A pause. “I wish you well, Rimu. I mean that. But I will not be carrying this forward.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Something in her expression moves through several things before settling into a stillness that is, at its core, dignified. She nods. Once.

And then she turns and walks back into the shadow forest, and the morning closes behind her.

So’lek stands there for a moment in the dappled light.

Then he picks up your meal, and he goes to find you.

—

You had heard enough.

Not all of it — the distance had swallowed the particulars — but enough. The tone of it. The finality. The way his voice had carried even across the morning air with that quiet, immovable certainty that you have come to know as the truest expression of who he is.

You are watching the child and the shadow tree roots when he finds you. He settles beside you and presses the food gently into your hands. You take it without a word and lean into him just slightly, and he curves around you the way he always does, and neither of you speaks for a little while.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asks eventually, low and close to your ear.

“Yes,” you say.

“Good.” His lips press briefly to your temple. “I know a place.”

—

He does know a place.

Of course he does. So’lek moves through Pandora the way water moves through rock — finding every passage, knowing every hollow — and the place he leads you to feels like something the world made for the purpose of being stumbled upon by people who need it. It takes perhaps an hour of flying, the shadow forest falling away beneath you and giving way to something entirely different — a break in the canopy where water has carved its way through ancient stone over countless years. The result is a hidden place, small, impossible, and glowing.

A grotto. Fed by a thin waterfall that catches the midmorning light and breaks it into pieces. Rimmed with moss so green it seems luminous, threaded through with the delicate bioluminescent vines that seem to grow wherever Pandora wants you to understand that something here is sacred. The water at the base is still and clear and shallow, and the sound of it fills the space entirely — not loud, just present, the way breathing is present.

Amay and Iley find perches above, content. You and So’lek descend into the grotto on foot, and it feels immediately like a place outside of time. Like the shadow forest, the Tipani and the long, hard night have stayed behind at the treeline where they belong.

You sit beside the water. So’lek sits beside you.

For a while, you simply exist there together. Letting the sound of the falls do what it does. You finish what remains of your meal slowly, unhurried, and the quiet between you is different from last night’s quiet — not weighted with things unspoken but simply full. The way silence gets when two people are putting themselves back together in the same space.

“She’s in pain,” you say eventually. Quietly. “Rimu.”

So’lek glances at you.

“I’m not excusing it,” you say quickly. “What she did was unkind, and I’m not — I’m not there yet, with forgiving it. But I could see it.” You look at the water. “She never let go of you. That is its own kind of suffering.”

“Yes,” he says. “I think you’re right.” A pause. “I think I allowed myself not to see that clearly, for a long time. Because seeing it clearly would have required me to address it. And it was easier to carry the idea of that friendship than to examine what it actually was.”

“That wasn’t fair to you,” he says. “Even before last night.” He exhales slowly. “I’m sorry for that too.”

You nod. Accept it. Set it down in the growing collection of things being gently resolved between you.

The waterfall moves through its endless task. A small creature lands briefly on a stone across the water, regards you both with its enormous eyes, and disappears again.

“Can I tell you something?” So’lek says.

“Always.”

He is quiet for a moment in the way that means he is finding the right entry point into something large. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands loosely linked, his eyes on the water. When he speaks, his voice is its usual measured quality — low, unhurried, each word placed with care.

“When I met you,” he begins, “I was not a man who expected anything further from his life than the work of it. The resistance. The fight. I had made a kind of peace with that.” A pause. “I had loved before, or believed I had. I had lost, and the losing had taught me to hold things at a distance. To be useful rather than present. To move through the world without wanting things from it.” He glances down at his hands. “I thought that was strength.”

You are very still.

“And then I walked into your tent,” he says, “bleeding and exhausted. Fully prepared to be stitched up, sent on my way, and you —” He stops. Something moves in his jaw. “You were so gentle with me. Not in a way that asked anything or expected anything. Just genuinely, completely gentle. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of a stranger. Like I was worth the care.”

He pauses for long enough that the waterfall fills all the space.

“I didn’t know what to do with that,” he says quietly. “I came back. I kept finding reasons to come back. And every time I was near you, I felt like something in me that had been closed for a very long time was being asked, very patiently, if it would like to open.”

Your throat tightens.

“I fought it,” he says. Something almost rueful in it. “I told myself it was gratitude. That it would pass.” His eyes finally leave the water and find yours. What is in them is completely unguarded. “It did not pass.”

“So’lek —”

“Let me finish,” he says gently. “Please.”

You close your mouth. Nod.

He looks at you for a moment longer, as though steadying something. Then he looks back at the water, and his voice when it comes is quieter still.

“Last night, when I understood what had been happening — when I saw it all clearly, what she had been doing, what I had dismissed, the things I said to you on the path —” He stops. His jaw is tight. “I thought about you lying in that kelku alone. About you lying there, having been told by someone who loves you that what you felt in your own body was your insecurity to manage.” A long pause. “The idea of you lying there in the dark, doubting yourself because of something I said —”

His voice breaks.

It is the smallest thing — a hairline fracture, barely audible, there and then immediately held — but you have never heard it before, and the sound of it cracks something open in your chest like a door blown wide.

He presses his mouth together. Breathes. Continues.

“I do not know who I am without you,” he says. “I need you to understand that. Not as something poetic. As a literal truth.” His hands tighten. “You came into my life, and you made me inhabitable again. You made me want things. Want to be present. Want to be known.” He turns to look at you fully, and his eyes are bright, the brightness held with great effort. “There is no one else. There has not been anyone else since the moment I walked out of your healer's tent.”

A tear escapes. He doesn’t move to stop it.

“She said you were soft,” he says then. His voice low and certain. “In every sense. Like it was a flaw. Like the thing I love most about you was something to be apologized for.” His jaw tightens. “I laughed. I didn’t understand yet, and I laughed, and I need you to know that I have thought about that every hour since.”

“You didn’t know,” you say softly.

“I know now.” He looks at you steadily. “You are soft. The way deep water is soft. The way the last bits of sunlight from the day paint gold across the vast forest is soft. The way something that has settled completely into itself is soft.” His thumb moves across your hand. “You move like rolling water. Like something that found its own course and kept it without asking anyone’s permission.” A pause, and his voice drops to something that belongs entirely to this grotto, this moment, and to no one else. “There is not one part of you I would change. Not one. And I would wait for you — in whatever comes after this life. Whatever Eywa makes of us next, I would find you. I would always find you.”

You had been holding on very admirably.

You stop holding on.

The tears come quietly, the way yours always do. So’lek makes a low sound and pulls you into him without hesitation. His arms wrap around you fully, his face pressing into your hair, and you feel him exhale against you — long and shaking slightly at the edges. The last of something enormous finally releasing its hold.

You hold each other beside the water for a long time.

Not speaking. Not needing to.

The waterfall moves through its endless patient task, and the bioluminescent vines pulse their slow rhythm. Above you, Amay and Iley rest their great wings, and Pandora breathes on in the way it always has — vast and indifferent to small tender things and yet somehow, in its vastness, making room for them.

“I forgive you,” you say eventually, into the warmth of his chest. Quiet and certain.

His arms pull you closer. A sound leaves him that is not quite words — something deeper than words, something that moves through his whole chest and into yours where you are pressed against him. His lips find the top of your head.

“Irayo,” he breathes. Thank you. But the word carries everything else inside it too — I see you. I choose you. I would choose you again and again until there are no more chances left to choose.

You stay in the grotto until the light has shifted golden, until Amay chirps with the gentle impatience of a creature who knows it’s time. So’lek rises first and takes your hand to help you up, and then does not let go of it.

He holds it the whole way home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (comment if you wanna be added or removed!) : @weeeeeeeeeeeeee2 @natwriteswords @ravenyia @feralcoffeecryptid @r4y-cr34t0r @goldentrenchtome @eesomee @zeebee44 @kekereads97 @iitstaylorme @kirjeela @a0-o

[sunmoonsweets]

Counting Down

This is for @junebugonjupiter's event, Pandora in Bloom! I wanted to participate, and this was fun to write.

The prompt is: Counting down the days until

Jake goes away on a mission, and you're both counting down the days until his return.

Let me know what you think! I'm also going to expand the characters I'm writing for - I will figure out how to create a masterlist soon!

Jake x reader

this is not proofread:)

words: 4,092

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning he left, the sky was still dark.

You had been awake before him — not unusual, but that morning it felt different, charged with something you were both choosing not to name out loud. You had watched him move through the familiar motions of preparation with the quiet efficiency of a man who had done this more times than either of you cared to count, checking fastenings, adjusting the pack, running through the internal list he never had to say aloud because his hands already knew it. You had helped where you could and stayed out of the way where you couldn't and tried not to let the shape of the morning settle too heavily on your chest.

It was meant to be two weeks. Maybe a little less if things went smoothly.

The mission had been months in the planning — careful, meticulous, the kind that required patience before it required anything else. A large RDA facility, deep in territory that had been quietly expanding its reach for the better part of a year. Not a raid. Not yet. Intel first: numbers, layout, what they were building out there in the dark of the forest where they thought no one was paying attention. Jake's team would fly out on their ikrans as far as the cover allowed, then go to foot — no ikrans near RDA airspace, nothing to put on their scanners, nothing to give away that anyone was watching. From there it was tracking and patience and the slow careful work of learning an enemy before you moved against it.

Two weeks, he had said. Give or take.

You nodded. You wrapped your arms around him, and then pressed your fingers to his wrist for just a moment — not holding on, because you never made things harder than they had to be — and then you let him go.

The ikrans lifted into the pre-dawn dark, and you had watched until the sky swallowed them. Then you had gone inside and begun the counting.

* * *

Day three.

Jake hates this part. He has always hated this part — not the mission itself, not the work, which is necessary and important and something he believes in with the full weight of himself. He hates the specific ache of the distance. The way it lives in him not loudly but constantly, a low persistent frequency underneath everything else, the awareness of how far he is from you and in which direction.

He is not a man who was ever good at halves. When he loves something he loves it completely, with everything he has, and the consequence of that is that the absence of it is never small.

On day three the team makes camp in a valley two days' walk from the facility, deep enough in the forest that the canopy closes overhead like a sealed room. It is beautiful here — Pandora is always beautiful, indifferently, extravagantly — and Jake sits at the edge of the camp in the last of the evening light and thinks about you with the focused attention of a man inventorying something precious.

The way you had looked at him that last morning. Still, steady, giving nothing away except in the brief press of your fingers against his wrist that said everything your voice hadn't. He turns that over in his mind. Holds it.

Two weeks, he thinks. Fourteen days. I can do fourteen days.

He has done harder things. He reminds himself of this.

It doesn't make the distance any shorter.

He settles in for the night and closes his eyes and thinks of you, and eventually sleeps, and does not yet know that the dreams are coming.

* * *

The dreams start on day nine.

He knows, the way you know things in dreams, that they are not real. And then he forgets — the way you always forget in dreams, the way the mind seals itself against its own knowing — and for a little while you are simply there.

The warmth of you. That is always the first thing. The specific, particular warmth that belongs only to you, that he has never been able to fully describe even to himself — not just temperature but something underneath it. Something that has to do with safety in a way he has no clean language for. A man who spent the first part of his life never quite belonging anywhere does not take lightly the feeling of a place that is unambiguously, completely his. And you are that. You have always been that.

In the dreams you turn toward him the way you do in sleep — without waking, without deciding, just the slow gravitational shift of you finding him, one hand moving to his chest and settling there like it is simply confirming something it needs to know before it can rest. He covers your hand with his. He feels your breathing even out beneath his palm.

He can hear your voice. Not always words — sometimes just the low, unhurried register of you in the dark, the one that belongs only to that hour, the one you have never performed for anyone and never had to. Sometimes you say his name. Sometimes you say nothing and the nothing is more than enough.

He does not know how long the dream lasts. Long enough. Never long enough.

Then the cold comes.

It comes the way it always comes — not gradually, not with warning, just the sudden hard fact of it replacing the warmth of you like something has been taken from his hands mid-reach. He surfaces to the sounds of the camp, the particular dark that is not the dark of your home, the absence of you so complete and so total that for a moment his whole body simply refuses to accept it. His hand moves before he is conscious — reaching, finding nothing, finding the cold ground where you are not — and something in his chest does the thing it does every morning, that quiet violent lurch of remembering.

He lies still and breathes through it. He has gotten practiced at this, which is its own kind of grief.

On day fifteen the dream is so real that when he wakes he can still feel the exact weight of your hand against his chest. He lies with it for a long moment, not moving, trying to hold the edges of it before it dissolves the way dreams do. He thinks about the sound of your voice. He tries to remember precisely enough that it stays.

It fades anyway. It always fades.

He gets up, because there is nothing else to do. Because home is a fixed point and he is moving toward it even when the distance seems impossible. He carries the cold of every morning with him like something he is walking away from, step by step, day by day.

On the morning of day twenty — already six days past when he should have been home, already deep into the kind of overdue that he knows is costing you something — the dream is the most real it has ever been. He can smell your hair. He can feel the exact specific weight of you against his side, the way you tuck yourself in without ceremony, like the space was made for you because it was. He thinks, in the dream, I am never leaving again. He thinks, I don't know why I ever leave. He thinks your name, not out loud, just internally, the way he thinks it when you are right in front of him and he is grateful in a way too large for speaking.

He wakes and reaches and the cold is waiting.

He is up before he has fully surfaced, moving before the loss of the dream can settle into him, because today he is going home. Today the distance ends. He had told himself that last night before he slept and the fact of it had been warm enough to hold onto even through the dream, even through the waking.

I am going home today, he thinks.

Then the scouts come in at a run and the world comes apart and he does not go home that day.

* * *

You do not mark the days the same way.

You stopped counting forward somewhere around day twelve, when the two weeks began to feel less like a plan and more like a hope. After that you started counting differently. Not in numbers at all — just in the particular quality of each morning when you wake and reach across the woven mat and find the space beside you still empty, still cool, and have to remind yourself, again, where he is. That he is coming back. That this is temporary.

You tell yourself what you know to be true. That he is capable. That he has survived things that should have ended him more times than you can name. That Pandora does not give Jake Sully up easily and neither do you.

You tell yourself this on day fifteen.

You tell yourself this on day seventeen.

By day eighteen, it takes longer for it to work.

You keep your hands busy because that is what you know to do. You maintain what needs maintaining. You eat. You sleep, most nights, eventually. But the evenings are the hardest — the particular quality of the light when it shifts toward amber and the kelku fills with the sounds of everything winding down, all those small domestic sounds that used to mean he will be home soon and now mean nothing except the absence of him. You have started going outside before the light changes. It is easier to wait where you can see the treeline.

When Neytiri finds you on day nineteen, standing in the dark well past the hour you should have gone in, she does not say a word about it. She sits beside you, close enough that her shoulder presses against yours, and you are grateful in a way that lives too deep for speech. She has done this kind of waiting. She knows what it asks of a person and how heavy it gets and how you hold it anyway because there is simply no other option.

"He is coming back," she says, finally. Quiet. Certain.

"I know," you say.

And you do know. You know it the way you know your own heartbeat — constantly, underneath everything, whether you are paying attention to it or not. But knowing and the fear live in you at the same time and you have made your peace with the fact that they do not cancel each other out. That some days the knowing wins and some days the fear is louder, and on both kinds of days you get up and keep going because there is nothing else to do and because he would hate to think of you otherwise.

You watch the treeline until it is too dark to see.

Then you go inside and lie down in the space that still smells faintly of him, and you wait for morning.

* * *

The wound is not the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

He knows this. He catalogs it with the flat practicality of a man who has learned to assess damage without letting it become a conversation — a blade, caught on his side below the ribs, deflected but not fully. Deep enough to need tending. Not deep enough to be the end of anything, which is the only metric that matters out here.

It had bled badly for the first hour. He had pressed his hand against it and thought about your hands, and kept moving.

For three more days, he kept moving.

He thinks about the moment you will see it. He has been thinking about it since it happened — not with dread exactly, but with the particular pre-emptive ache of knowing what it will do to your face. You will not fall apart. That is not who you are. But he knows you. He knows every version of you, the ones you show and the ones you don't, and he knows the composure will cost you something and that he will have to look you in the eye while it does.

He moves fast on day twenty. Faster than is comfortable, the wound pulling with every beat of his ikrans wings, and he ignores it with the singular focus of a man who has a fixed point he is moving toward and intends to reach before dark. The terrain that felt hostile on the way out feels different now — still vast, still demanding, but every ridge and crossing is a marker he recognizes, a distance he can name. Every inch is an inch closer.

He crosses the last ridge at dusk.

The lights of home are below him and the yearning that has lived in him as a low constant frequency for twenty days suddenly lurches — sudden and overwhelming and almost too much, the way it always is when the distance finally collapses into something real and close and almost-there. His chest aches with it. His throat tightens with it.

He lands at the top of that ridge and looks at those lights and feels the full accumulated weight of twenty mornings of reaching and finding nothing, twenty dreams that dissolved into cold, every day of distance that was supposed to be two weeks and became something much harder — beneath all of it, underneath the exhaustion and the wound and the twenty days, just the one simple thing that has been true since the beginning.

He needs to get to you.

He starts down.

* * *

You hear him before you see him.

The forest shifts the way it does when something known is moving through it — that particular change in the quality of the dark, the subtle settling, as though the trees themselves recognize him and are making room. You have learned this over years of living close to the forest, of paying attention to the language of it. You know the difference between the dark when it holds something unknown and the dark when it holds something coming home.

You are on your feet before you have decided to stand.

He comes out of the trees and the first thing — the only thing, for one long suspended moment — is that he is real. He is here. He is standing on his own two feet and his eyes find you the way they always find you, immediately and completely, like there is something in him that is simply oriented toward you and requires no searching.

And then you see how he is carrying himself. The careful compensation on his left side, the controlled quality of his movement that speaks of pain being managed rather than absent. Something cold moves through you — and then, right behind it, the relief so sudden and so enormous it nearly takes your legs out from under you, because he is here, he is hurt, but he is here; and for six days past when he was supposed to come home, you have not known which of those things would be true.

The space between you closes.

And then you are in each other's arms and for a long moment there is nothing else — no words, no questions, nothing that needs addressing yet. Just this. His arms around you and yours around him, the quiet fierce hold of two people who have been too far apart for too long and are not ready yet to be anything except exactly this. You feel what twenty days have done to him in the way he holds on — both arms, completely, with a quiet desperation that belongs only to you, that he has never needed to perform. His face comes down against yours and the sound that leaves him is not quite a word. It is something older than words, something that lives below language, the sound of a man who has been cold for twenty mornings and is finally, finally warm.

You hold on just as hard. You press your face against his neck and you let him feel all of it — every morning you reached and found nothing, every night at the treeline past dark, every time the knowing and the fear fought each other and you held steady anyway because there was nothing else to be. You have been steady for twenty days. You let him feel what it cost.

After a long moment he pulls back — just barely, just enough — and his hands come up to hold your face, and he looks at you in the way he has been dreaming of looking at you, like he is confirming something he stopped being sure of. Then his forehead drops to yours. His eyes close.

And quietly, without ceremony, without anything that needs to be said first — you close the last small distance between you.

The kiss is soft. Unhurried. It asks nothing and says everything — I'm here, I'm real, I found my way back. His hands hold your face like something precious. You feel him breathe you in. You feel the last desperate edge of the distance finally, finally dissolve.

You stay there for a moment in the warm dark, foreheads together, eyes closed, just breathing each other in. Neither of you speaks. There is nothing yet that needs words.

Then you pull back and look at him, really look — and your hand finds his side, the gentle press of your palm, and he goes still beneath it in a way that confirms everything. You look at him. He looks back with that honest, undefended expression.

"Inside," you say softly. Barely a sound.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

* * *

The kelku holds the warmth of the day.

The light is low and amber, soft in the way that only this hour makes it, turning everything it touches gentle. You settle him with hands that know what to do without being told — guiding without fussing, careful without making the carefulness a thing he has to manage. He lets you. He puts himself in your hands without resistance, without the deflection he might give anyone else, and that alone tells you more about what these weeks have held than anything he has said.

You move quietly. The salve, the cloth, the water still warm. You kneel beside him and begin to work.

And you feel his eyes on you.

Not on your hands. Not on the wound. On you. The specific, unguarded weight of it — the kind of gaze he keeps mostly for the dark, for moments like this one when the rest of the world has fallen away and there is nothing left to perform. You work in silence for a little while and let him look; then you glance up, find his expression, and the breath catches somewhere in your chest because of what is in it.

He looks like a man who is not entirely sure you are real.

He looks like a man waiting to wake up.

"Hey," you say softly. "Where did you go just now?"

He blinks. Focuses on you — and there is something almost relieved in it, the way a man reaches for something solid. He is quiet for a moment, working out how to say the true version, the way he has learned to do from years of you asking for it.

"I kept dreaming about you," he says finally. Low, careful. "Every night out there. You were so—" He stops. His jaw works slightly. "So real. Real enough that I'd forget where I was. Real enough that I'd wake up and reach for you before I even knew I was awake." A beat. "And you weren't there. Every time. Just — cold. Cold ground and the wrong dark and you were gone." His voice has dropped to almost nothing. "I did it for twenty mornings. Twenty times I woke up and reached and had to remember all over again how far away I was."

Your hands have gone still.

"The morning it all went wrong," he continues, quieter still, "I'd just had the best one yet. I could still — I could still feel you. Right there. And then the scouts came in and everything fell apart and I couldn't come home and I kept thinking—" His voice catches, barely, just at the edge. "I kept thinking that if something happened out there, the last real thing I'd felt was a dream. Just a dream of you." His eyes find yours and hold them. "I needed to get home. I needed it to be real."

You look at him for a long moment. The amber light moves slow across the floor between you. The forest breathes outside.

Then you reach up and press your palm to his face — your real hand, your warm hand — and he closes his eyes and leans into it with the full weight of twenty days, the way a man leans into the thing he has been walking toward for longer than he should have had to. A breath leaves him, long and unsteady and completely honest.

"I'm real," you tell him. Low and certain and only for him. "Jake. I'm right here. This is real."

"Yeah." His voice comes out rough. His hand covers yours, pressing it more firmly to his face like he needs the pressure of it to believe it. "Yeah." A long breath. "I know."

You stay like that for a moment — his eyes closed, your hand against his face, the salve still on your fingers, the kelku quiet and warm around you both. Then, gently, you turn back to your work. He watches you with those open eyes that keep saying the thing he has already said and cannot seem to finish saying.

You are real. You are here. He is home.

"You didn't break," he says, at some point. Soft. Wondering.

"No," you say.

"You wanted to."

You look up at him. Hold his gaze. "Some days."

Something moves through his face that is too large and too full for any single expression. His hand finds yours where it rests at his side and holds it — not stopping you, just holding, just needing the contact the way he has needed it for twenty mornings when it wasn't there.

"I would have come back to you," he says. "From anything. You know that."

"I know," you say. "I knew that every day." You turn your hand until your fingers are woven through his. "Knowing didn't make the days shorter."

"No," he says quietly. "It never does."

The light shifts slow and golden across the floor. Outside, something calls into the dark and is answered. Jake watches you in the amber warmth with the eyes of a man who has dreamed of this exact scene — this light, these hands, this quiet — every night for twenty nights and woken cold from every single one.

He is not cold now.

You finish with the salve and set it aside, and without a word he opens his arms — that particular gesture, not quite a request, that simply makes a space and waits — and you go to him carefully, mindful of his side, tucking yourself into the warm familiar space that has been empty for too long and was always, always yours.

His arms close around you. Slow and complete.

His chin comes to rest on the top of your head. His heartbeat is steady under your ear — real and present and here — and you feel the last of what you have been holding for twenty days come quietly, finally undone. Not loudly. Just the slow release of a breath held so long you forgot you were holding it.

"I'm not leaving for a while," he murmurs into your hair. "Just so you know."

Something escapes you that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. You press closer.

"Good," you say.

His arms tighten. Outside, Pandora breathes on in the dark — vast, ancient, and luminous.

Here, in the amber warmth of the home he has been dreaming his way back to for twenty days, everything is exactly as he left it — and somehow, impossibly, better.

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. Soft and unhurried. Like a man with nowhere left to go and no desire to be anywhere else.

The counting is over.

He is home.

And this time, when he reaches, you are there.

[sunmoonsweets]

The hours between

ok i really like this one, it is entirely self-indulgent and very fluffy:) mentions of kissing

Edit: I rewrote the beginning and I like it so much better now

let me know what you think!

words: 2,111

Solek x reader

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fog has been sitting on the mountain since morning.

Not the kind that burns off when the sun climbs — the kind that settles, that makes a home of itself, that winds around your ankles when you move and stays when you stop. You have been moving through it all day, trying to find somewhere to put the hours, trying to make your hands useful so the rest of you has somewhere to be.

The baskets are done. The arrows are done. The knifes are as sharp as they are going to get.

The meal has been wrapped in leaves since midday and sat near the fire — roasted yerik glazed with swamp hive nectar and fragrant herbs, his favorite, yours too, made with the particular focused attention of someone who needed to be doing something specific while waiting for something uncertain.

You had made enough for both of you without deciding to. You always do.

The floating mountain has its own sounds and you know all of them by now, the way you know the sounds of any place you have been long enough to stop hearing as background and start hearing as language.

The wind through the upper growth. The distant calls from the forest canopy below. Iley settling for the night in the place he has claimed as his at the mountain’s edge, the particular sound of his wings folding.

You know the sound of those wings leaving. You have been listening for the sound of them returning since before the stars came out.

So’lek had pressed his lips to your forehead in the grey of this morning before you were fully awake, a kiss so soft you almost didn’t register it, and you had felt him go still for a moment with his forehead against yours before he made himself leave. You had kept your eyes closed. You don’t know why. Perhaps because the closing of them made the moment last a breath longer than it would have otherwise.

The hours since have had a particular weight. Not dread — you have learned to hold his absences without letting them become dread, learned it slowly and imperfectly over the time you have been his and he has been yours. Just the specific gravity of caring about someone who moves through dangerous things, the way the hours stretch when someone you love is somewhere you cannot see.

Eclipse is near. The sky at the mountain’s edge has gone the deep violet of late evening and the bioluminescence in the valley below is strengthening. The whole forest floor beginning its slow luminous exhale, and you are sitting at the edge with your legs hanging over and your eyes on the dark below and your ears doing what they have been doing all day.

And then — the wings.

The heavy unmistakable beat of them, and beneath that the particular call that belongs to So’lek the way nothing else does, and you are on your feet before you have consciously decided to stand.

—

He comes over the edge of the mountain with the last of the light behind him and you watch him land, dismount, and give Iley the brief grateful acknowledgment he always gives him. Then his eyes find you and they do not leave you and you feel the specific quality of his looking the way you feel the fog — completely, from every direction.

He crosses to you with the long unhurried strides of a man who knows where he is going and has been going there in his mind for hours. His arms come around you before either of you says anything and you go into them the way you go into everything that is his — completely, without reservation, with the ease of two people who have learned the precise geometry of each other.

His face finds the crook of your neck. He breathes you in slowly, one long exhale of a breath, and you feel the tension in his shoulders begin its unwinding the way you feel it every time — not sudden, not all at once, but the particular gradual release of something that has been held at tension all day and has finally found somewhere safe to let go.

You do the same. His skin, and beneath it the particular quality of him, the thing that has no name but that you would know in any dark.

“I missed you,” he says. Low against your neck, rough with the day’s accumulation in it. “The only thing that kept me going today was knowing I would return home to you.” His arms wrap tighter. If that is even possible.

“I missed you more,” you say.

“Not possible,” he says. Simply. Certainly.

You hold on. The fog winds around you both and the bioluminescence pulses in the valley below and Iley settles nearby with the pragmatic comfort of a creature that has come home, and neither of you is in a hurry and there is nowhere else to be.

—

He finds the fruit in his satchel the way he always finds it — quietly, without announcement, the action of someone for whom this is not a gesture but simply the obvious thing. The thing that requires no consideration because it was decided long before he reached for it.

He turns and holds it out and you feel your face do what it always does when he looks at you this way — the flush rising, the deep fuchsia he has told you he loves, the warmth of being seen so specifically that there is nowhere to put it except in your whole face.

“For me?” you ask. As if you don’t know.

“What kind of man would I be,” he says, walking toward you with those dark steady eyes, “if I did not bring you your favorite things.” He says it without the inflection of a question because it isn’t one. “It is my honor to provide for you.”

You reach up and rest your palm against his cheek. He turns his face into your hand and presses a kiss there, soft and deliberate, and you feel it travel from your palm to somewhere considerably more central and you think — as you think often, as you have thought since a wounded man limped into your healing tent and looked at you with those eyes — that you have never in your life felt loved the way this man loves you.

Specifically. Unhurriedly. Like the loving is its own reward and requires nothing back.

“I’m just happy you came home whole,” you say softly.

He leans his forehead to yours. “Irayo, yawne,” he murmurs. Thank you, beloved. The words carrying more than themselves.

You take his hand and lead him to the fire.

—

Just outside, you hear Iley chirp quietly and begin to settle down for the night beside your ikran.

So’lek sits near the fire, sets down the fruit, and pulls you down to sit in his lap facing him.

“How was your day, yawntutsyip?” you ask as he reaches for the food. “Terrible without you,” he replies. You huff a quiet laugh, feeling exactly the same.

“Teylan had misinterpreted a signal from an RDA facility up North — he believed it abandoned. He needed tech they’d left behind to broaden the resistance receiver. I learned very quickly that it was not abandoned at all. Flooded with tawtutes and AMPs.” He sighs with exasperation. “It was a longer trip than I had expected. The RDA did not go quietly.”

Your eyes move over his arms, noting the faint red scratches that you’ll later lather in healing salve and small bruises that will fully form by morning.

“You cleared the facility?” you ask gently. He nods. “Not one tawtute made it out.” “Good,” you say firmly. “I thank Eywa she kept you safe. To return to me.” He leans forward and presses his lips softly against yours, still for a long moment.

When you part, the food has been unwrapped. He picks up a piece of meat and holds it to your mouth.

“Eat, yawnetu.” And you do, your lips brushing his fingers as you take it from his hand. He inhales sharply, eyes holding yours as though he can see straight through to your soul.

Maybe he can. He knows you better than you know yourself. You are his favorite subject to study.

You pick up a piece and hold it to his lips in return. “Your turn,” you whisper. He leans forward without letting his eyes stray from yours and takes a bite, a low sound of satisfaction escaping him as the flavors settle on his tongue.

His favorite. Well — second favorite.

You eat slowly, taking turns, savoring the meal and each other in equal measure.

With full bellies you stay just as you are — chest to chest, hips to hips — breathing each other in.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing small unhurried circles against your skin. The other moves slowly up and down your back.

Your fingers find the scars on his arms, tracing them gently — marks from a time long before you came and brought stillness into his life.

“Tsaheylu?” you ask softly, almost shy about it even now.

“Always,” he says, without a breath of hesitation.

He reaches back for his kuru as you reach for yours, eyes never leaving each other as you bring them forward and close the distance. The tendrils find each other as though they have always known the way.

He watches your pupils dilate, his being becoming one with yours. He feels your worry for him, the hours of it, the need that sat in your chest all day like something unfinished. He feels the love you have for him — how it overflows, how it heats you from the inside out.

And you feel him in return. His unyielding devotion. The way he had not wanted to leave you in the grey of this morning. The agitation of the long day that had felt as though it would never end. And beneath all of it, steady as the mountain beneath you both — the way your touch makes him feel alive. The way you settle the ache in his bones that nothing else ever could.

So'lek leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours and rubs your noses together softly. You can feel your body warming, he feels it too.

He presses his lips to yours and begins to kiss you softly, slowly. Your mouth moves in tandem with his. One of his hands rubs up and down your back, pressing you impossibly closer to him while the other tangles in your hair to gently tilt your head back, allowing him to explore your mouth further, deeper. You moan softly, and he swallows the sound, responding with a moan of his own.

--

The floating mountain has gone fully quiet around you now. The fog that wound around your ankles all day has settled into something still, something soft. The way the world does when it finally exhales.

Eclipse has come and gone. You hadn't even noticed. Too busy finding him — in the warmth of his arms, in the slow rhythm of his breathing, in the current of the bond moving between you like something that has always existed and only needed the two of you to complete its circuit.

You think of the morning. The cool pre-dawn dark. His lips, feather-soft against your forehead. The way you had watched him go and felt the shape of the hours ahead like a weight you would have to carry until he filled them again.

And now here. His heartbeat steady beneath your palm. His exhales long and slow. The last of the day finally, finally releasing its hold on him.

The firelight has burned low, painting everything in amber and shadow, and somewhere just outside, your ikran and Iley have gone quiet together in the dark — two creatures who understand, in their own way, the particular comfort of not being alone.

Your fingers trace idle patterns across his chest, unhurried. You aren't going anywhere. Neither is he. Worth it, you think — not quite a word, more a feeling that travels the bond without permission, warm and unguarded, blooming in his chest before you can think to temper it. His arms pull you closer. A sound leaves him, low and soft — not quite a word either, but you understand it completely.

He brings one large hand up to cradle the back of your head with a tenderness that still undoes you every time, tilting his head to press a kiss so soft to your temple it barely registers as pressure. Just warmth. Just him.

"Sa'nok said once," he murmurs into your hair, his voice rough with the lateness of the hour, "that Eywa does not give us what we want. She gives us what we are meant to carry." A pause. His thumb strokes slowly through your hair. "I did not understand that, for a long time." You feel the shape of what he doesn't say — Rimu's name, quiet as a held breath between his words. You press closer.

"And now?" you ask softly. He is quiet for a moment. Outside, the forest strums with the heartbeat of life. The last ember shifts in the fire.

"Now I think," he says, "that she knew I needed someone who would stitch me back together. In more ways than one."

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. "I walked into your tent half-ruined, paskalin. I did not walk out the same man."

You close your eyes. The bond hums between you, steady and sure, and through it you feel the truth of what he means. Not just the words but the weight of them, the years behind them. The particular quality of a love that was not expected and is therefore all the more fiercely held.

You are my home, you feel from him — not spoken aloud, just present in the bond like it has always been there, like it always will be. You press a kiss to his chest, right above his heart, and feel him exhale like something long-carried being gently set down.

"Rest," you whisper. "I have you."

And So'lek, who had crossed forests and skies and carried the weight of loss for longer than you had known him, closes his eyes.

And rests.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

idk if yall wanted to be tagged but i tagged u anyway since yall liked my post abt more solek fics:)

@weeeeeeeeeeeeee2 @natwriteswords @ravenyia @feralcoffeecryptid @r4y-cr34t0r @goldentrenchtome @eesomee @zeebee44 @kekereads97 @iitstaylorme @kirjeela @a0-o

[sunmoonsweets]

I have more So’lek fics in my notes and I think I’m gonna start posting them; they are entirely self-indulgent

edit: if you like this post ill tag you in any and all future solek fics! and comment or message me to be removed:)

[sunmoonsweets]

Fortune Fruits

prompt entirely from this post:

So'lek coming home early from a hunt, already exhausted and overstimulated, to hear your rowdy pre-teen son being disrespectful.

"My mind must be playing tricks on me because I know that wasn't my mate you were speaking to in such a way."

inspired by @moonlit-magnolias - thank you for letting me use your post as inspiration I just couldn't stop thinking about it :,)

Also, this is my first time writing and posting on here! lmk what you think!

words: 3,045

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air was humid, warm, as So'lek began his trek home. Back to you and your son. He never thought he'd get the privilege of having a mate and a son. A family. His family. He gave his thanks to Eywa every day — every time he gazed upon your face, or the face of your son, who looked so much like himself that it filled something in his chest he never knew was hollow. The same brow, the same watchful eyes. So'lek saw himself in that small face and felt something he still had no proper word for, even now.

He was not a man who had ever known how to love something halfway.

So'lek was exhausted. The kind that lives in the shoulders, in the hands, in the particular ache behind the eyes that comes from hours of stillness and focus and then the long walk home carrying more than just the weight of the hunt. He had set out in the early morning hours and he had been successful — bringing back enough meat to fill you all for a day or two at least. But he had refused to return to you empty handed in the other sense. Not today. Not any day if he could help it.

Tracking the group of yerik had been no easy feat, the trail doubling back twice before he closed the distance. He had finished the hunt by noon and spent the next few hours searching — and climbing — for the most exquisite fortune fruits he could find. High up, where the best ones grew; where the light hit them just right and the weight of them in the hand told you everything you needed to know. You had never once asked him to do this. That had never been the point.

Your son had inherited your taste for them, which meant So'lek had climbed a little higher and looked a little longer than strictly necessary. He did not mind. He would not have had it any other way.

He heard the home before he reached it.

Not the warm quiet he had carried in his mind all afternoon through the long walk back — but voices. His son's, edged with something that prickled at the back of So'lek's neck before he had fully registered why. And yours, carefully even, in the way you only became when you were holding something steady by will alone. He knew that voice. He knew every version of your voice, the way a hunter learns the forest — not by studying it but by moving through it so many times that the knowing becomes something closer to instinct.

He slowed without thinking.

The words reached him before he reached the threshold, and he went still in the way the forest goes still — completely, and all at once.

You just want me to be like you. Because you can't teach me anything a real hunter would know.

A beat of silence. Then, quieter, and somehow worse for it:

Father would never waste my time like this.

So'lek stood at the threshold, fortune fruits still cradled against his chest. He did not move. The exhaustion in his shoulders was still there but something had moved through him that made it irrelevant — something very calm and very certain, the way he became before a hunt when everything unnecessary fell away and only the essential remained.

He stepped inside.

You had spent your day attempting to corral your pre-teen son into sitting still long enough to learn. A simple thing, you had told him. Necessary, even. You had laid out the dried reeds across the woven mat, demonstrating the pattern with patient hands the way your own mother had once shown you. Over, under, pull through. The beginnings of a carrying strap — sturdy enough to hold provisions, light enough to wear across the chest on a long trek.

Your son had watched for approximately three minutes before the complaints began.

“I don’t need to know this.” He dropped the reeds into his lap, crossing his arms in a way that reminded you so painfully of his father that you almost laughed. Almost.

“You do,” you said simply, nodding toward the reeds. “Pick them back up.”

“This is weaving.” He said the word like it tasted sour. “This is what you do. I’m going to be a hunter. Like Father.”

You kept your hands moving, steady, unbothered — or at least performing unbothered very convincingly. “Your father knows how to weave.”

That gave him a moment’s pause. But only a moment.

“He doesn’t do it though.”

“Because he doesn’t have to right now.” You glanced up at him. “There will come a time when you are far from home, when something tears, when you have nothing and you need to carry more than your hands can hold. What will you do then? Hope someone nearby knows what their mother taught them?”

He was quiet for a beat and you thought, foolishly, that you were getting through to him.

“You could just teach me something useful.” His voice had an edge now, something testing and cruel in the way that only children who are just discovering their own sharpness can be. “But I guess you don’t really know anything a real hunter would need.”

The words landed harder than he probably intended. Or perhaps he did intend them — he was at that age where he was learning exactly how sharp he could make himself, pressing on things just to watch them give. You set your reeds down slowly. Looked at him.

“You will pick those back up,” you said quietly. “And you will learn this. That is not a request.”

But he wasn’t finished. His eyes cut back to yours and his chin lifted — So’lek’s chin, So’lek’s stubbornness, wearing a smaller face — and he said what he had clearly been building toward the entire afternoon.

“You just want me to be like you. Because you can’t teach me anything a real hunter would know.” A beat. Then, quieter, “Father would never waste my time like this.”

The entrance to your home was open to the warm afternoon air. Neither of you heard the footsteps slow. Neither of you heard the particular silence of a large, exhausted hunter going very still just outside — a silence that was somehow louder than any sound. So’lek stood at the threshold, fortune fruits still cradled against his chest, and he did not move. He had caught the last of it. Every word.

You were still looking at your son, composing yourself with the careful, quiet dignity of someone who refused to let a child — her child — see how well he’d aimed. Your son was still looking at you with that lifted chin, waiting to see what the damage would be, not yet aware of the shadow that had fallen long across the floor behind him.

So’lek stepped inside.

He set the fruits down with a slowness that was deliberate. His eyes were on his son, and his voice, when it came, was low and even — which was so much worse than anger would have been.

“My mind must be playing tricks on me.” He moved further into the room, the boy turned, and went very still. “Because I know that wasn’t my mate you were speaking to in such a way.”

Your son opened his mouth. Some reflex toward explanation, or defense, or perhaps just the instinct to fill the silence with something before it could grow any heavier.

“I did not ask you to speak yet.” So’lek said it without heat. Simply a fact. The boy closed his mouth.

So’lek crossed the space unhurried, lowering himself to sit — not looming over his son, but leveling with him, which was somehow more serious. He rested his arms across his knees and looked at the boy for a long moment with that steady, patient gaze that had never once needed to be loud to be heard.

“You said your mother cannot teach you anything a real hunter would know.” It wasn’t a question. He was recounting. Making the boy hear it again in his father’s voice. “You believe that.”

His son swallowed. Already the chin had come down. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” So’lek tilted his head slightly. “I want to know if you believe it.”

Silence.

“Because I will tell you what I know.” He settled, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world for this lesson — this one, not the weaving. “I have tracked game across the Kinglor Forest in the dark. I have crossed the High Ground in the deep wet season when the trails wash out and there is nothing to carry your provisions in because your pack tore three days back.” A pause, letting that sit. “Do you know what I did?”

The boy said nothing.

“I wove one.” So’lek held his son’s gaze. “From what I could find. Poorly, because I had not practiced enough, and it came apart twice before I made it work. I was very hungry by the time I reached home.” His expression didn’t change. “Your mother’s hands would not have come apart twice.”

You were very still across the room. You were not sure you were breathing.

“She knows the reeds that hold in wet weather and the ones that don’t.” So’lek continued, quiet and even. “She knows which knot holds weight and which looks strong but fails when it matters. She knows medicines that have kept me alive. She knows how to read the forest in ways that have nothing to do with hunting and everything to do with surviving.” He paused. “You called that a waste of your time.”

His son looked at the floor.

“Look at me.” Not unkind. Absolute.

The boy looked up.

“Your mother is not here to give you half of what she knows. She is not your lesser because her knowledge looks different than mine. It is not women’s work and men’s work.” Something shifted in his expression — not harder, but deeper. “It is our work. All of it. And a hunter who cannot see the value in what he does not yet know will not be a hunter for very long.”

He let that settle. Then, quieter still — the part that was no longer correction but something more like grief on your behalf:

“You told her that I would never waste your time.” So’lek’s eyes moved to you for just a moment. Something passed across his face that was too steady to be anger and too fierce to be anything else. Then back to his son. “I have searched for your mother’s favorite fruit for three hours today. I climbed for them. Because she deserved to have something she loves waiting for her at the end of her day.” A beat. “She spent her day trying to give you something that will keep you alive someday. And you told her that was worthless.”

He let the boy sit in that. Let him feel the full shape of what he’d done.

“You will apologize to her,” So’lek said finally. “Not because I am telling you to. But because you are going to look at her and you are going to understand what you said, and you are going to mean it.”

He rose then, and crossed to you, and pressed his forehead briefly to yours — a quiet thing, not meant for any audience. An acknowledgment that needed no words.

Then he reached back for the fortune fruits, and held them out to you. Still warm from the climb. The best ones he could find.

“I believe you have a lesson to finish,” he said softly. And there was something almost gentle in it — I see what you were doing. I see that you did not stop. I see you.

Your son sat with the weight of his father’s words for a long moment. You could see it working through him — the way children do when they are not yet too proud to feel things, when the lesson actually lands somewhere real. His hands were in his lap. The reeds were still scattered across the mat between you.

When he finally looked up at you, the chin was entirely gone. What was left was just his face. Young, and a little ashamed, and very much his father’s son in the way his brow pulled together when something sat uneasy in him.

He stood up and closed the space between you, settling onto the mat beside you the way he used to when he was smaller and the world felt too big. He was quiet for a moment more, like he was arranging the words carefully, the way So’lek had asked him to. Not just saying them. Meaning them.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” His voice came out smaller than he intended, you could tell. “I didn’t—” He stopped. Started again, more honestly. “I did mean to be cruel. I don’t know why.” His eyes stayed on yours, because his father had told him to, and because somewhere underneath the sharp new edges he was still your boy. “That wasn’t right. You were trying to help me and I said things that weren’t true and weren’t kind.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Let him sit in the honesty of it just long enough for it to matter. Then you reached out and pressed your palm to the side of his face, the way you had when he was very small, and he leaned into it just slightly — just enough to tell you everything.

“I know,” you said quietly. “And I forgive you.”

He exhaled.

“Now.” You pulled your hand back and nodded toward the scattered reeds with the particular calm of a woman who had been waiting all afternoon to finish what she started. “Pick those up. We are going to do this until you can do it without thinking.”

A breath of something that almost became a groan. But he caught it — perhaps feeling his father’s eyes still on the back of his neck — and picked up the reeds.

So’lek settled nearby. Not hovering, not intervening. Simply present, the way he was, solid and quiet as an old-growth tree. He worked at something of his own — checking the fastenings on his gear, methodical and unhurried — but every so often his eyes moved to you. Watching the way your hands moved through the pattern. The patience in them.

Over, under, pull through.

This time your son watched. Really watched.

He was clumsy with it at first, the reeds slipping, the tension uneven, and you corrected him without frustration — like this, see how it seats, feel where it wants to go — and slowly, slowly, the shape of it began to emerge in his hands. Rough and imperfect, but entirely his own.

By the time the light outside had shifted to the deep amber of early evening, he had made something that roughly resembled what you’d shown him. He held it up, turning it over with a critical eye that was entirely his father’s.

“It’s uneven,” he said.

“Yes,” you agreed. “Make another one.”

He almost smiled. Ducking his head, he began to make another one.

When your son finally went to bed — tired in the way that comes from a long day of feeling things and then working through them — the home settled into quiet.

So’lek found you the way he always did at the end of the day. Gravitationally, without ceremony, like water finding its level. He folded himself down behind you where you sat, his long frame curved around yours, and you felt the full exhale of him — the deep bone-tired he had carried in from the forest finally allowed to set itself down.

His chin came to rest on the top of your shoulder, in the crook of your neck. His arms found you without looking, without thinking.

For a while neither of you spoke. The sounds of the forest breathed around the home. Somewhere distant something called out and was answered. The last of the evening light moved slow and gold across the floor.

“He is a good boy,” So’lek said finally. Low, quiet. For no one but you. “He will be a good man.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. That had never been the question.

His arms tightened slightly, the way they did when words weren’t quite enough for what he meant. You felt him press his mouth briefly to the top of your head. Soft, unhurried.

“You did not yield to him,” he murmured. “Not once. You sat with it and you stayed.” A pause. “I saw that.”

You closed your eyes. Something in you that had been held taut all afternoon finally came loose.

“I just didn’t want him to see he’d gotten to me,” you admitted.

A low sound from him, not quite a laugh but something warmer. “He didn’t,” he said. “He saw only his mother. Patient. Certain.” His voice dropped lower still, something in it that belonged entirely to the dark and the quiet and to you. “As she always is.”

You turned into him then, tucking yourself against his chest the way you had so many times it had become its own kind of language. His heartbeat was slow and steady under your ear. His hand moved up your back, unhurried, the way it did when he was simply reminding himself you were there.

“The fruits were perfect,” you said softly, into the warmth of him.

You felt him smile. You couldn’t see it but you knew its shape by now — that particular quiet thing he kept mostly for you. “I climbed very far for them.”

“I know.” You kissed his chest, right over his heart.

“I would climb further.”

You didn’t answer that. You didn’t need to.

Outside, Pandora breathed on in the dark, vast and alive, indifferent to small tender things. But here, in the quiet of the home So’lek had built, filled and given thanks for every single day — here the small tender things were everything. And he held you until you slept.

[gottaluvkiks]

This was literally like Shakespeare wrote this

[sunmoonsweets]

You have no idea how much this means to me 😭 thank you so much I’m so glad you liked it!! And those pics are frying me lmao

[sunmoonsweets]

Fortune Fruits

prompt entirely from this post:

So'lek coming home early from a hunt, already exhausted and overstimulated, to hear your rowdy pre-teen son being disrespectful.

"My mind must be playing tricks on me because I know that wasn't my mate you were speaking to in such a way."

inspired by @moonlit-magnolias - thank you for letting me use your post as inspiration I just couldn't stop thinking about it :,)

Also, this is my first time writing and posting on here! lmk what you think!

words: 3,045

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air was humid, warm, as So'lek began his trek home. Back to you and your son. He never thought he'd get the privilege of having a mate and a son. A family. His family. He gave his thanks to Eywa every day — every time he gazed upon your face, or the face of your son, who looked so much like himself that it filled something in his chest he never knew was hollow. The same brow, the same watchful eyes. So'lek saw himself in that small face and felt something he still had no proper word for, even now.

He was not a man who had ever known how to love something halfway.

So'lek was exhausted. The kind that lives in the shoulders, in the hands, in the particular ache behind the eyes that comes from hours of stillness and focus and then the long walk home carrying more than just the weight of the hunt. He had set out in the early morning hours and he had been successful — bringing back enough meat to fill you all for a day or two at least. But he had refused to return to you empty handed in the other sense. Not today. Not any day if he could help it.

Tracking the group of yerik had been no easy feat, the trail doubling back twice before he closed the distance. He had finished the hunt by noon and spent the next few hours searching — and climbing — for the most exquisite fortune fruits he could find. High up, where the best ones grew; where the light hit them just right and the weight of them in the hand told you everything you needed to know. You had never once asked him to do this. That had never been the point.

Your son had inherited your taste for them, which meant So'lek had climbed a little higher and looked a little longer than strictly necessary. He did not mind. He would not have had it any other way.

He heard the home before he reached it.

Not the warm quiet he had carried in his mind all afternoon through the long walk back — but voices. His son's, edged with something that prickled at the back of So'lek's neck before he had fully registered why. And yours, carefully even, in the way you only became when you were holding something steady by will alone. He knew that voice. He knew every version of your voice, the way a hunter learns the forest — not by studying it but by moving through it so many times that the knowing becomes something closer to instinct.

He slowed without thinking.

The words reached him before he reached the threshold, and he went still in the way the forest goes still — completely, and all at once.

You just want me to be like you. Because you can't teach me anything a real hunter would know.

A beat of silence. Then, quieter, and somehow worse for it:

Father would never waste my time like this.

So'lek stood at the threshold, fortune fruits still cradled against his chest. He did not move. The exhaustion in his shoulders was still there but something had moved through him that made it irrelevant — something very calm and very certain, the way he became before a hunt when everything unnecessary fell away and only the essential remained.

He stepped inside.

You had spent your day attempting to corral your pre-teen son into sitting still long enough to learn. A simple thing, you had told him. Necessary, even. You had laid out the dried reeds across the woven mat, demonstrating the pattern with patient hands the way your own mother had once shown you. Over, under, pull through. The beginnings of a carrying strap — sturdy enough to hold provisions, light enough to wear across the chest on a long trek.

Your son had watched for approximately three minutes before the complaints began.

“I don’t need to know this.” He dropped the reeds into his lap, crossing his arms in a way that reminded you so painfully of his father that you almost laughed. Almost.

“You do,” you said simply, nodding toward the reeds. “Pick them back up.”

“This is weaving.” He said the word like it tasted sour. “This is what you do. I’m going to be a hunter. Like Father.”

You kept your hands moving, steady, unbothered — or at least performing unbothered very convincingly. “Your father knows how to weave.”

That gave him a moment’s pause. But only a moment.

“He doesn’t do it though.”

“Because he doesn’t have to right now.” You glanced up at him. “There will come a time when you are far from home, when something tears, when you have nothing and you need to carry more than your hands can hold. What will you do then? Hope someone nearby knows what their mother taught them?”

He was quiet for a beat and you thought, foolishly, that you were getting through to him.

“You could just teach me something useful.” His voice had an edge now, something testing and cruel in the way that only children who are just discovering their own sharpness can be. “But I guess you don’t really know anything a real hunter would need.”

The words landed harder than he probably intended. Or perhaps he did intend them — he was at that age where he was learning exactly how sharp he could make himself, pressing on things just to watch them give. You set your reeds down slowly. Looked at him.

“You will pick those back up,” you said quietly. “And you will learn this. That is not a request.”

But he wasn’t finished. His eyes cut back to yours and his chin lifted — So’lek’s chin, So’lek’s stubbornness, wearing a smaller face — and he said what he had clearly been building toward the entire afternoon.

“You just want me to be like you. Because you can’t teach me anything a real hunter would know.” A beat. Then, quieter, “Father would never waste my time like this.”

The entrance to your home was open to the warm afternoon air. Neither of you heard the footsteps slow. Neither of you heard the particular silence of a large, exhausted hunter going very still just outside — a silence that was somehow louder than any sound. So’lek stood at the threshold, fortune fruits still cradled against his chest, and he did not move. He had caught the last of it. Every word.

You were still looking at your son, composing yourself with the careful, quiet dignity of someone who refused to let a child — her child — see how well he’d aimed. Your son was still looking at you with that lifted chin, waiting to see what the damage would be, not yet aware of the shadow that had fallen long across the floor behind him.

So’lek stepped inside.

He set the fruits down with a slowness that was deliberate. His eyes were on his son, and his voice, when it came, was low and even — which was so much worse than anger would have been.

“My mind must be playing tricks on me.” He moved further into the room, the boy turned, and went very still. “Because I know that wasn’t my mate you were speaking to in such a way.”

Your son opened his mouth. Some reflex toward explanation, or defense, or perhaps just the instinct to fill the silence with something before it could grow any heavier.

“I did not ask you to speak yet.” So’lek said it without heat. Simply a fact. The boy closed his mouth.

So’lek crossed the space unhurried, lowering himself to sit — not looming over his son, but leveling with him, which was somehow more serious. He rested his arms across his knees and looked at the boy for a long moment with that steady, patient gaze that had never once needed to be loud to be heard.

“You said your mother cannot teach you anything a real hunter would know.” It wasn’t a question. He was recounting. Making the boy hear it again in his father’s voice. “You believe that.”

His son swallowed. Already the chin had come down. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” So’lek tilted his head slightly. “I want to know if you believe it.”

Silence.

“Because I will tell you what I know.” He settled, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world for this lesson — this one, not the weaving. “I have tracked game across the Kinglor Forest in the dark. I have crossed the High Ground in the deep wet season when the trails wash out and there is nothing to carry your provisions in because your pack tore three days back.” A pause, letting that sit. “Do you know what I did?”

The boy said nothing.

“I wove one.” So’lek held his son’s gaze. “From what I could find. Poorly, because I had not practiced enough, and it came apart twice before I made it work. I was very hungry by the time I reached home.” His expression didn’t change. “Your mother’s hands would not have come apart twice.”

You were very still across the room. You were not sure you were breathing.

“She knows the reeds that hold in wet weather and the ones that don’t.” So’lek continued, quiet and even. “She knows which knot holds weight and which looks strong but fails when it matters. She knows medicines that have kept me alive. She knows how to read the forest in ways that have nothing to do with hunting and everything to do with surviving.” He paused. “You called that a waste of your time.”

His son looked at the floor.

“Look at me.” Not unkind. Absolute.

The boy looked up.

“Your mother is not here to give you half of what she knows. She is not your lesser because her knowledge looks different than mine. It is not women’s work and men’s work.” Something shifted in his expression — not harder, but deeper. “It is our work. All of it. And a hunter who cannot see the value in what he does not yet know will not be a hunter for very long.”

He let that settle. Then, quieter still — the part that was no longer correction but something more like grief on your behalf:

“You told her that I would never waste your time.” So’lek’s eyes moved to you for just a moment. Something passed across his face that was too steady to be anger and too fierce to be anything else. Then back to his son. “I have searched for your mother’s favorite fruit for three hours today. I climbed for them. Because she deserved to have something she loves waiting for her at the end of her day.” A beat. “She spent her day trying to give you something that will keep you alive someday. And you told her that was worthless.”

He let the boy sit in that. Let him feel the full shape of what he’d done.

“You will apologize to her,” So’lek said finally. “Not because I am telling you to. But because you are going to look at her and you are going to understand what you said, and you are going to mean it.”

He rose then, and crossed to you, and pressed his forehead briefly to yours — a quiet thing, not meant for any audience. An acknowledgment that needed no words.

Then he reached back for the fortune fruits, and held them out to you. Still warm from the climb. The best ones he could find.

“I believe you have a lesson to finish,” he said softly. And there was something almost gentle in it — I see what you were doing. I see that you did not stop. I see you.

Your son sat with the weight of his father’s words for a long moment. You could see it working through him — the way children do when they are not yet too proud to feel things, when the lesson actually lands somewhere real. His hands were in his lap. The reeds were still scattered across the mat between you.

When he finally looked up at you, the chin was entirely gone. What was left was just his face. Young, and a little ashamed, and very much his father’s son in the way his brow pulled together when something sat uneasy in him.

He stood up and closed the space between you, settling onto the mat beside you the way he used to when he was smaller and the world felt too big. He was quiet for a moment more, like he was arranging the words carefully, the way So’lek had asked him to. Not just saying them. Meaning them.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” His voice came out smaller than he intended, you could tell. “I didn’t—” He stopped. Started again, more honestly. “I did mean to be cruel. I don’t know why.” His eyes stayed on yours, because his father had told him to, and because somewhere underneath the sharp new edges he was still your boy. “That wasn’t right. You were trying to help me and I said things that weren’t true and weren’t kind.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Let him sit in the honesty of it just long enough for it to matter. Then you reached out and pressed your palm to the side of his face, the way you had when he was very small, and he leaned into it just slightly — just enough to tell you everything.

“I know,” you said quietly. “And I forgive you.”

He exhaled.

“Now.” You pulled your hand back and nodded toward the scattered reeds with the particular calm of a woman who had been waiting all afternoon to finish what she started. “Pick those up. We are going to do this until you can do it without thinking.”

A breath of something that almost became a groan. But he caught it — perhaps feeling his father’s eyes still on the back of his neck — and picked up the reeds.

So’lek settled nearby. Not hovering, not intervening. Simply present, the way he was, solid and quiet as an old-growth tree. He worked at something of his own — checking the fastenings on his gear, methodical and unhurried — but every so often his eyes moved to you. Watching the way your hands moved through the pattern. The patience in them.

Over, under, pull through.

This time your son watched. Really watched.

He was clumsy with it at first, the reeds slipping, the tension uneven, and you corrected him without frustration — like this, see how it seats, feel where it wants to go — and slowly, slowly, the shape of it began to emerge in his hands. Rough and imperfect, but entirely his own.

By the time the light outside had shifted to the deep amber of early evening, he had made something that roughly resembled what you’d shown him. He held it up, turning it over with a critical eye that was entirely his father’s.

“It’s uneven,” he said.

“Yes,” you agreed. “Make another one.”

He almost smiled. Ducking his head, he began to make another one.

When your son finally went to bed — tired in the way that comes from a long day of feeling things and then working through them — the home settled into quiet.

So’lek found you the way he always did at the end of the day. Gravitationally, without ceremony, like water finding its level. He folded himself down behind you where you sat, his long frame curved around yours, and you felt the full exhale of him — the deep bone-tired he had carried in from the forest finally allowed to set itself down.

His chin came to rest on the top of your shoulder, in the crook of your neck. His arms found you without looking, without thinking.

For a while neither of you spoke. The sounds of the forest breathed around the home. Somewhere distant something called out and was answered. The last of the evening light moved slow and gold across the floor.

“He is a good boy,” So’lek said finally. Low, quiet. For no one but you. “He will be a good man.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. That had never been the question.

His arms tightened slightly, the way they did when words weren’t quite enough for what he meant. You felt him press his mouth briefly to the top of your head. Soft, unhurried.

“You did not yield to him,” he murmured. “Not once. You sat with it and you stayed.” A pause. “I saw that.”

You closed your eyes. Something in you that had been held taut all afternoon finally came loose.

“I just didn’t want him to see he’d gotten to me,” you admitted.

A low sound from him, not quite a laugh but something warmer. “He didn’t,” he said. “He saw only his mother. Patient. Certain.” His voice dropped lower still, something in it that belonged entirely to the dark and the quiet and to you. “As she always is.”

You turned into him then, tucking yourself against his chest the way you had so many times it had become its own kind of language. His heartbeat was slow and steady under your ear. His hand moved up your back, unhurried, the way it did when he was simply reminding himself you were there.

“The fruits were perfect,” you said softly, into the warmth of him.

You felt him smile. You couldn’t see it but you knew its shape by now — that particular quiet thing he kept mostly for you. “I climbed very far for them.”

“I know.” You kissed his chest, right over his heart.

“I would climb further.”

You didn’t answer that. You didn’t need to.

Outside, Pandora breathed on in the dark, vast and alive, indifferent to small tender things. But here, in the quiet of the home So’lek had built, filled and given thanks for every single day — here the small tender things were everything. And he held you until you slept.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (comment if you wanna be added or removed!) : @weeeeeeeeeeeeee2 @natwriteswords @ravenyia @feralcoffeecryptid @r4y-cr34t0r @goldentrenchtome @eesomee @zeebee44 @kekereads97 @iitstaylorme @kirjeela @a0-o

[woozycatz]

──⋆°.•✦ carrying tomorrow

prompt: the last daughter of the snow, who found peace with neteyam, lives her life in hiding—keeping her true ancestry a secret from their children. What happens when curiosity and quiet questions do grow roots?

wc: 11.8k (sorry!).

pairings: neteyam x reader, fem!na’vi reader x neteyam, dad!neteyam x mom!reader, snow na’vi!reader x neteyam

warnings: takes place in the future, very non-explicit smut, fluff, angst/comfort, tsaheylu, pregnancy, mentions child birth, arguments, trauma, child birth, snow na’vi concept. children have names. use of Y/n!, breast massaging.

translations: kíreytsìl (dawn of hope), pa’liwll (direhorse pitcher plant), yawne (beloved), prrsmung (baby sash)

notes: i have been working on this for a while LOL. i hope you enjoy, i tried!!!

Two years after the battle at the cove of the ancestors, the world finally felt quiet again.

The waves no longer carried the scent of smoke. The sky was no longer torn apart by metal ships and vile ash raiders. For the first time in a long time, you could breathe. 

You had been the last since before that battle—the last daughter of the snow, the last voice of the Kray’na People. 

Your people once lived where the mountains cut into the sky, where frost clung to braids and breath turned silver in the air. They were whispered about more than they were known. The hidden ones—a myth to most. 

And then the sky people came, fire against ice. Metal against bone. By the time the war reached the forest once more, you were already alone. 

Neteyam never treated you like something fragile because of it, that’s why you chose him in the first place. By the will of Eywa, he found you along with his friends and siblings, alone—somehow thriving in a cave. 

So, when your belly began to swell with life, with twins, something inside you both shifted. You would not let your children’s lives begin as ghosts. You chose the forest for their birth—the place Neteyam had once called home. His grandmother delivered them beneath the woven canopies of the People, while Neytiri stood at your side with proud, shining eyes. Jake, for once, was calm, grounded. 

Your babies were communed with Eywa before the tree of souls—lifted and welcomed. Their adorable, tiny hands brushed sacred tendrils as they were introduced to the Great Mother. Their first breath carried into something eternal, ancient. 

Your children would spend the first weeks of their lives in the same place that Neteyam did. It meant more than he could ever fully say, that you chose the forest, that you embraced his people, that you wanted your children to begin where he had begun. And for him to see Neytiri, who came along, overwhelmed with happiness, and Jake—disarmed, calm, and smiling. 

When you returned to the reef, the celebration lasted for days, Lo’ak boasted like a proud uncle, Kiri held your babies as if they were spun from glass, Tuk refused to leave your side, even Tsireya travelled with you to witness the ceremony, wide eyed and reverent beneath the forest canopy. Your children's lives were honored twice, once by the roots of ancient trees, and once by the endless sea. 

The years passed gently after that, eight of them to be exact.  

The reef became your children’s world, they grew strong in saltwater currents and sunlit shallows. They learned to dive before they could properly argue. They swam before they could run. 

And Neteyam, he grew into something formidable—stronger than the boy you fell in love with. Broader, sharper, quieter. 

There were more attacks after the mangkwan, more avatars, more raids on Bridgehead. The war never truly ended, it only changed shape. Neteyam was never still. He trained, he fought alongside the people, he’d return home smelling of salt and forest leaves, shoulders heavy with responsibility—but soft whenever they found you.

In the family Marui, photos and woven keepsakes lined the wall, memories of you, Neteyam, and of your children. Blurry, captured smiles of you and Neteyam when you were younger, memories of forest births and reef festivals too.

You sit cross legged on the mat, a shallow bowl of natural oils beside you. Your son sits between your legs, squirming as your fingers work carefully through his thick curls. 

“Mama! Are you almost finished? I want to go play.” He whines, squirming under your skilled hands.

“Moi’at,” you mutter, “let mommy focus, it is not my fault you decided to mess these up.” You tried not to smile. 

“Okay…” He obeyed, sitting still—aware that perhaps that will make this go faster.

The textural sound of the delicate, woven doorway catches you and your son’s attention. It’s Neteyam, returning from a hunt, his head ducked down ever so slightly as he entered. His expressive hair swinging over his face before he moved it away, he stood up straight, his broad shoulders looming a shadow over you and your eight year old boy.

“Little warrior,” He smiled, leaning down and placing a kiss on Moi’at’s forehead. “What’s mommy doing with your hair?”

“Re-twisting it, I ruined them while playing with Ro’uk.” 

“Ohh, Ro’uk…is he still coming tonight for your sleepover? He and Li’anu?” 

“You did not tell me this,” You cut in, hands pausing their movements.

Neteyam stepped closer, moving behind you and leaning down. His large hands moved to your swollen belly. “It was sudden. I’m sorry. You won’t need to do anything. I’ll handle them. Lo’ak has a date — I made a deal with him.”

you exhale slowly, head dipping back onto his shoulder. “I am with child, they will need to be quiet.” 

He nods immediately, rubbing gently against your growing tummy. “How do you feel?” 

“Tired.” you admit, though your hands move over his.

“Momma!” Moi’at protests. “You stopped again!” 

Neteyam laughs softly. “Okay, okay. Move.” helps you stand, guiding you carefully before taking your place behind your son. “Go rest.” 

You watched for a moment—the way his large hands attempt delicate twists, the way his tongue presses slightly against his cheek in concentration. 

Your chest tightens, then you move to the hammock woven specifically for the two of you. You don’t even remember closing your eyes.

As you drift off, Neteyam remains seated behind your son, twisting his hair as gently as possible. “Where is your twin sister, hm?” 

“In the water.” Moi’at spoke wistfully, his arms crossed around his chest and his eyebrows pinching together.

“Almost done. Just a few more twists.” He finished with surprising patience. “You look like a warrior.” He chuckles, holding Moi’ats shoulders.

“Thank you papa. I’m going to the water now.” 

Neteyam smiles, “Don’t get lost, stay close to your sister.”

His eyes immediately go to you when Moi’at leaves. He makes his way towards the hammock where you rest, brushing hair from your face, then lowering his hands to your belly. He leans down slightly, placing a soft kiss there.

Looking back, he cleans up the contents of hair products and stores them away for later use. He leaves the pod and heads to Lo’aks. “Pass me one of those.” He says, gesturing towards the crafted vessels filled with kava.

“How was the hunt? Y/n feeling good?” Lo’ak teases, handing him the cask. 

“The hunt was long, tiring. She’s fine, she’s just stressed lately.” He says, quickly shaking his head and correcting himself, “but I have no right to think like that when she’s the one carrying the baby.” Neteyam crouches, a long sigh escaping his lips.

“You’re whipped.” 

“Yeah. I've always been.” 

“I remember when we found her in the cave, and when we took her back. You carried her here on the Ilu, you were the first one to reveal yourself to her.” Lo’ak satirized. 

The children, Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, and Ro’uk listened  secretly from outside, their curiosity getting the best of them. “What cave daddy?! Are you talking about mommy?!” Your daughter is the first to leap inside, a tiny hand grasping at her tail—trying to hold her back.

“Alright, all of you come out.” Neteyam rolls his eyes, picking your daughter up and holding her against his chest. “Haven’t I told you to stop eavesdropping my conversations with your aunties and uncles?” 

“Yes…” She looks down.

“Look at me, it’s okay.” He smiles. “Daddy’s not angry at you babygirl.” He kisses her cheek softly.

“Then why won’t you tell me who you were talking about! What cave?” 

“Maybe later, okay?” 

“Okay…”

Neteyam puts her down, turning to face Lo’ak again, “Alright bro, I gotta get them ready for sleep.” He turns to face the children. “Come on kids, let’s go.”

Lo’ak and Tsireya’s children move to follow their uncle and cousins, skipping with excitement. 

Neteyam watches as Ro’uk and Li’anu say goodbye to their parents—he carefully guides the children into your family marui, eclipse approaches and they relax, playing with their wooden toys made from your careful hands alongside Neteyam’s.

He makes sure that the children are properly settled and comfortable before going to check on you. “Baby?” 

You sit awake, honing an arrowhead using a dense river stone. “Yes?” You respond without looking up, tongue poking out, focused. 

“Come, I prepared some food for you.”

“What is it?” 

“Roasted meer deer, coated in Pa’liwll. Your favorite.” 

Your lips part slightly and you practically launch up. “It has been so long! I have craved this! Even before pregnancy.” 

He giggles softly, reaching out for you. “I know, I know. Come.”

“Auntie Y/n!!” Ro’uk flings himself at you, his arms wrapping around your strong legs.

You laugh out loud, picking him up and carrying him on one hip. Neteyam brings the Pa’liwll smoked meer deer to the mat, setting it down and unfolding it. “Here baby.” 

Your mate helps you sit down, adjusting Ro’uk on your lap gently. “Thank you.” 

“Daddy! Can we hear a bedtime story?” Ni’alu stands, moving to where you are seated “I missed you today mommy. You slept all day.” 

“Oh, Ni’alu” you whisper, kissing her soft white hair. 

“Lay with us!” She drags you as soon as you’re finished eating. “Come on mama!”

“Mommy needs to clean up.” Neteyam says, standing before you and whispering quietly. “I left a couple bowls of river water there for you,” He points to the woven water carriers in the corner of the Marui. “Do you need my help?”

“I think I can manage,” you tease, arms crossing. “I love you.” 

“I love you.” He smiles, big, soft.

You set Ro’uk down and walk away, moving behind the second set of curtains and taking care of yourself.

The children drift off, all except for Ni’alu. “Dad, I still haven’t forgotten about the cave. I want to know the story…” 

Neteyam sighs, “Babygirl, I don’t know what to tell you, your uncle was just making stuff up.” 

“No he wasn’t. You agreed.” 

“Fine.” He lays in between the children, looking back to make sure that you were still bathing. “It was said to have all been a myth, the Kray’na, the snow people… they had never existed, they lived together in harmony; only away from everyone else, and so when the sky people came and they…”

“What did they look like daddy?!” Ni’alu inquires loudly, interrupting him and scooting closer into his embrace.

He looks at the doorway where you’re just inside. His Kray’na mate. Whom he made a promise to; to never tell the children, or anyone who does not already know of your true ancestry. “Nobody knows,” He faces his and Lo’ak’s children again, all of them awake and glaring up at him in wonder. “It is just a story anyway.” He tucks the children in. 

The children are asleep. Moonlight slips across the marui, silvering the marui and catching in your daughter's pale hair—it glows. Neteyam stares at it again, he always does. You walk in silently, undoing your braids. You feel the weight of his gaze before he even speaks.

“She asked,” he says quietly. 

You keep untying the beads from your braid. “About what?”  

“About the cave—why Lo’ak said I carried you here from it.” 

“That was many years ago.” You only hope that the conversation will end there, but it doesn’t. 

“It was not nothing.” 

You exhale slowly. “Then tell her it was a story.” 

He turns fully to face you. “It is not just a story.” 

You meet his eyes now. “It is enough.” 

“For you,” he says. 

The air shifts, you straighten up. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” he says carefully, “that it may be enough for you to bury it. It is not enough for them.”

Your jaw tightens. “They are children, Neteyam.” 

“They are our children.” 

“And that is exactly why they do not need to know.” 

His brows pull together. “Do not speak as if this only belongs to you.”

“It is my clan,” you snap. “My people. My loss.”

“And they are my children,” he replies, voice firm. “You do not get to decide what parts of them exist.” 

You step towards him. “Exist? You think I am erasing something?” 

“I think you are pretending it never existed.” 

Your breath catches subtly, “that is not fair.” 

“What is not fair,” he counters, voice rising slightly, “is watching our daughter stare at her own reflection and not understanding why she looks different.”

“She is not different.” 

“She is Kray’na.” 

The word lands like a blade, like the gunfire and destruction you watched destroy your people. “You do not get to claim that so easily,” you whisper. 

“I am not claiming it for me. I am claiming it for her.” 

You shake your head. “And…what—you think speaking it makes it safe?” 

“No,” he says sharply. “But silence does not.” 

You fold your arms tightly over your chest. “You did not watch them die.” Your voice does not break, it just sharpens. . “You did not hear the ice crack beneath fire. You did not see what was left when the smoke cleared.”

His expression falters, but he doesn’t retreat. “I know I did not.”

“You think I am hiding out of shame?” Your voice trembles now. “I am hiding because I survived by being forgotten.”

“And you think that will protect them?” His voice rises despite himself. “By teaching them that parts of themselves are too dangerous to speak?”

“They are dangerous!”

Neteyam’s voice breaks free for the first time. “No!”

The word echoes louder than anything he has ever directed at you. You both freeze, but the dam has already cracked.

“They are not dangerous,” he continued, voice raised, emotion bleeding through. “The sky people are dangerous. War is dangerous. Ignorance is dangerous. But who you are? That is not something to bury.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears, drifting to your daughter, then to your mate. “You think I do not know that?” You fire back despite the emotions. “You think I do not feel it every time someone looks at her hair too long?” 

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing you again. “I am tired,” he says, voice still tight, “of watching you carry extinction like it is something shameful.”

“It is not shame,” you snap. 

“Then why do you refuse to speak it?”

“Because it puts a target on them!”

“They already have one!” he shouts. The children stir faintly. Both of you glance over instinctively, chests heaving in tight rage. “You think I cannot protect them?” 

“That is not what this is about neteyam.” 

“It sounds like it.” 

“It is about preventing the need for protection in the first place!” You frown, hand flying to your sweaty forehead.

“You cannot control the world!” he snaps. “You cannot out hide it!”

The force of his voice makes you physically step back. He sees it, he sees everything—but he saw the flinch. Something in him cracks. Silence crashes down over the both of you, his breathing slows down first.

“I am trying to keep them safe,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You know in theory. You do not know what it feels like to be the last.”

His anger disappears completely at that. He closes the distance slowly this time. Carefully. Like approaching something wounded.“You are not the last,” he says quietly.

“I am.”

“You are not,” he repeats, voice breaking softer now. His hand lifts but hesitates before touching you. “You are standing right here. And they are sleeping right there.” His hand settled at your waist. “You’re not alone anymore… I raised my voice,” he says quietly into your hair. “I should not have.”

“You were not wrong.” 

“Neither were you.” He kisses your head gently, holding you tightly, as if you might disappear. Your hands finally lift, gripping his chest.

Your soft cries are muffled against him, he strokes your hair, whispering sweetly. “I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry.”

He carries you to bed, laying over you—one hand draped lazily over your belly, the other wrapped around your shoulders. 

Pregnancy had reshaped you in forms that Neteyam loved, your hips swelled, breasts grew for the purpose of feeding. He smiled softly, laying his head down against them. 

Dawn filters gently through the woven seams of the marui, soft gold sliding across your skin. Neteyam is awake before you, his arm is still heavy over your belly, his body curved against yours protectively. For a moment, he just watches the slow rise and fall of your breathing. His hand brushes your cheek. “Yawne,” he murmurs instead, voice low and warm. “Wake up.” 

You stir beneath him, before he can say anything else—the sound reaches him, faint splashing, distant laughter, entirely unsupervised.

 

He lifts his head slightly. The children are gone from the hammock, all of them. He exhales through his nose, a crackle hums through his comms. 

Lo’ak’s voice cuts through, “big bro, before you get mad…” 

Neteyam exhales through his nose. “You are not even here and I am already irritated.” 

Tsireya’s soft laughter carries faintly in the background, along with distant surf that only means they’ve gone far. “We’re heading further out,” Loak continues, “just for today, maybe tonight. I wanted to ask if the kids could stay with you one more day.” 

Neteyam glances toward the open weave of the doorway. Faint shrieks of laughter drift in from the shallows. Ni’alu’s sharp voice correcting someone, Moi’at arguing, Ro'uk's dramatic splashing, Li’anu trying to restore order. He rubs his jaw. “You owe us.” 

“I know. Reef fruit. Smoked shellfish. And that sweet kelp wrap that Y/n likes.” 

Neteyam glances down at the mention of you, you’re awake now, watching him through sleepy eyes.

“Is that Lo’ak?” You murmur. 

He nods slightly, and Lo’ak’s voice lowers. “She okay?”

Neteyam looks at you properly now — the calm in your face, the softness that settled after last night’s hard truths. “She’s resting,” he says. “She’s good.” 

“Tell her thank you, really.” The line clicks off at that.

Neteyam removes the comm slowly.

“Well?” you ask.

“They want another day.”

You close your eyes briefly—not in frustration, just calculating your energy. Outside, a splash sounds far too large for comfort.

“Are they close?” you ask immediately.

“Yes.”

You sit up carefully. Neteyam is already shifting to help you, one hand steady at your waist. “Then they can stay,” you say after a moment. “But you are managing them.”

“Yes Ma’am.” 

The children stay with your family for one more day, their excitement is palpable once their parents return. Everyone goes back to their marui, your family remains—happy, growing.

Ni’alu is curious, protective, and proud. Qualities which came straight from you. She has felt that there is something being kept from her—something about mountains, about caves, about snow. Children build whole worlds out of fragments.

Two days later, Lo’ak, Tsireya, You, and Neteyam are on the sand, watching your children play and laugh. You sit close by your mate, beneath the curved stretch of woven shade, Tsireya and Lo’ak are nearby, their shoulders brushing.

Ni’alu is racing her brother along the reef edge, Ro’uk and Li’anu trailing behind, arguing about who started last. They are loud, alive, happy. 

A group of older reef boys and girls wander down the shoreline, fresh from spear practice, taller, on the edge of adolescence. Old enough to notice differences. Young enough to comment on them without thought. 

One of them slows when Nialu pushes her hair back from her face. Her pale braids catch the sun, almost silver. He nudges the girl beside him. “Whys her hair so light?” 

Your daughter hears loud and clear, but pretends she doesn’t. 

A girl shrugs, “looks like sea foam.” 

A girl bumps into Moi’at, purposely, not subtly. He hisses instinctively, fangs bared, tail bristling. Your son has always looked more like Neteyam, his hair, and skin darker. Only when he is angry—then he mirrors you.

The group of teenagers freeze for a second, then laugh aloud. “Whoa! Look at those teeth! What are you? a predator?”

Another girl giggles, covering her mouth. “They’re huge! You could eat a fish whole!” Ni’alu glances at him, then takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

You rise from Neteyam’s arms, standing with measured grace. Your skirts brush the sand, but your voice is steady, warm, and carries across the shallow. “Enough.”

The group turns, startled by the calm authority in your tone. You kneel beside Ni’alu, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “Your hair is beautiful,” you murmur. “It is yours.” 

Then you glance at Moi’at, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “And your teeth, they are strong. They are you.” 

“From where?” 

Your hand stills for a second, Neteyam is behind you now. Hands firm on your shoulders, stomach pressed against your head. “From family.” You hesitate. 

Your children only nod slowly, but you can feel it—the question did not disappear. It just went quiet, but quiet questions are the ones that grow roots. 

Tsireya comes quietly, facing the group. “If you are done with spear training, perhaps you should help your parents mend nets before eclipse.” 

She dismisses the group, polite, and final. They disperse, chastened, not ashamed—muttering under their breath. 

And that is why, weeks later, the reef was quiet before dawn, the soft gold of early light not yet brushing the waves. You shifted slightly on the hammock, feeling the weight of your third child in your belly, you listened to the gentle rhythm of the water—drifting into deep sleep as Neteyam was already asleep beside you.

But the children were already awake. Ni’alu had slipped out first, a whisper of movement across the marui floor. Moi’at followed, tail flicking nervously as he trailed behind his sister. Li’anu and Ro’uk, eager to be part of the adventure, joined from their home without hesitation. The four of them moved like shadows over the sand, careful to avoid making a sound.

Ni’alu whispered instructions under her breath. “Keep low… stay close… don’t wake anyone.”

Moi’at hissed softly when Ro’uk stumbled on a rock, but they pressed on. Their goal was clear; the mountains. Ni’alu wanted to see the peaks, the icy cliffs, and the snow she had only heard about in fragments from Neteyam’s quiet stories which he refused to tell fully. 

Ni’alu has always been observant. Too observant. She notices the way your voice shifts when snow is mentioned. The way Neteyam stares north when the wind turns sharp. The way the elders glance at her hair and then look away quickly.

She remembers the argument you and Neteyam had, she was not fully asleep—curiosity grows teeth. “We are going to see it,” she whispers.

“The snow?” Moi’at asks, eyes wide.

“Yes.”

“That is far,” Li’anu says nervously.

Ni’alu lifts her chin. “So was the forest.” They take supplies quietly. Food wrapped in woven leaves, small blades from Neteyam’s box of weapons. and water pods.

Ni’alu knows the old flight paths. She has listened when Neteyam thought she wasn’t. The children go on the ilu. 

By the time the sun began to climb above the horizon, finally casting long, golden streaks over the reef, the children were already halfway along the path toward the mountains. You stirred, stretching, and glanced around, but the hammock beside you was empty of the little ones—Neteyam still asleep, your senses lulled by the pre dawn calm.

Hours passed. You went about your morning slowly, checking on the reef, preparing a few things for later, but a faint unease began to grow in your chest.

When Neteyam noticed the children were gone, his eyes narrowed instantly, voice low but urgent as he roused you. “They’re not here. Where did they go?”

He left the pod then, searching—long minutes of searching. You prayed silently in your home, clutching your belly protectively, eyes closed, begging for any sign of the twins. 

He returned with nothing, no children, nothing. Neteyam already had his comms ready. “Lo’ak,” he barked, “any sign of them?”

Lo’ak’s voice came through shortly after, calm but sharp. “Not yet. I’ll check along the usual paths. Stay put.”

Your mate kneeled beside you, held you against his chest. “Shh, it’s okay. We will find them.” 

The sun rose higher, the reef glowing in warm light, but there was no sign of Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, or Ro’uk. Neteyam, Lo’ak, Aonung, Tonowari, Rotxo, and Jake scoured the edges of the reef, searching the shallow coves and tidal pools, calling out for the children.

Every footstep and every shout brought worry closer to panic. Then they left, all six of them on the ikran—soaring through the sky. 

The children do not stop, the journey longer than they expected, by the time the whites begin to gather at the edges of stone, their voices are gone, laughter faded into quiet awe. 

Ni’alu steps onto it first, it crunches under her feet—the others hesitate but she does not, walking slowly, kneeling to press her hands onto it. “This is ours, I think…” She whispers to her brother. 

They go farther than they should have, noticing the blackened rock where fire once touched ice, half collapsed structures frozen into landscape. It is beautiful and wounded.

The children begin to shiver, “Look over there,” Ni’alu whispers, pointing toward a hollowed tree marked with strange carvings. Moi’at steps closer, fascinated, not noticing how close he is to the edge.

Ro’uk follows, holding a stick like a staff, scanning the ridge. Li’anu clutches her curls, uneasy, but stays behind everyone. Ni’alu leans toward the carvings, but a loose patch of snow shifts under her foot. “Careful!” she cries.

But it’s too late. Moi’at slips. His foot slides on the ice covered rock, and for a heart stopping second, he teeters over the edge of a shallow drop.

“Moi’at!” Ni’alu screams, lunging toward him, arms outstretched.

He grabs onto a tree branch at the last flailing moment. Snow spraying everywhere. He cries, the tree bark slitting his tiny hand open. He dangles, frozen in terror. 

Ni’alu’s hands grip his arm, trying to pull him up, but she’s small. Her own balance is precarious. Ro’uk drops to his knees, gripping a nearby root, trying to help. Li’anu screams, voice breaking, backing away in panic.

The moment stretches, every second feeling like an eternity. The cold bites, the wind whistles, the shadows of the mountains loom. Moi’at finally steadies himself, hands trembling as he pulls himself onto solid ground. “I…I want to go home!” He shouts.

Neteyam soared high on his ikran, Aonung behind him. Lo’ak and Rotxo followed closely. From above, they spotted them—Ni’alu, Ro’uk, Li’anu, and Moi’at, huddled near the snow-dusted rocks.

Neteyam’s heart leapt. “There!” he shouted, pointing—redirecting the ikran towards the kids. The moment their ikran touched down, Neteyam leapt from the saddle, rushing to the children. Moi’at’s small hand was smeared with blood from where he had grabbed bark and ice, trembling as he tried to staunch it with his other hand.

“Moi’at!” Neteyam cried, crouching beside him. “Show me.”

Ni'alu knelt next to her brother, panic flashing in her silver eyes. “I tried to help! Daddy I’m sorry!” she stammered.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He whispers, kissing their heads. 

Lo’ak landed beside Ro’uk and Li’anu, steadying them. Rotxo helped gather their scattered supplies. “Careful, please” Lo’ak said, voice firm but relieved. “You’ve given us all a heart attack.” He pulls his children close.

Ni’alu’s gaze flicked toward the edge again, whispering, “I just wanted to see the snow…”

Neteyam looked at her, voice low but firm. “And you did. But not like this. Not risking your life, not alone.” He lifted her into his arms.

With everyone accounted for, Jake and Tonowari arrived overhead, circling as Neteyam gave them a nod. The group began the careful trek back down, each step deliberate, Neteyam supporting Ni’alu while Aonung kept an eye on the others.

Neteyam returned with your children past eclipse, you paced heavily in your marui. The snow has melted from Ni’alus braids, but it lingers in her clothes. She trudges into the marui, eyes wide. Moi’at follows behind her. 

“Where were you?” your voice is low, carrying an edge of ice. The sight of snow on her clothes snapped something inside of you. 

“The mountains…” She whispers.

“The mountains?” You gasp, louder, hands clenching. Neteyam stands aside, organizing the marui and pretending not to listen. “You deliberately disobeyed us!  You went alone! Put your cousins in danger!”

“I just wanted to see…” her voice cracks. 

“You just wanted to see?” The words are sharp, slicing. “Do you even understand what you were doing? Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

Moi’at shrinks back, trying his best to hide his injury. 

“You could have died!” you shout, pacing toward her. “You could have fallen into the ice, lost yourself in the wind! There are things there you cannot fight, things you cannot even imagine!”

“How would you know?! You’ve never even been there!” 

You hesitate for a beat, her words cut deeper than she’d intended. Your chest tightened, the past surged forward—the jagged cliffs, the frozen hollows, the blackened ruins where fire had melted ice. The snow was home once, long before the world you now knew. Long before your people were gone. 

Ni’alu’s eyes searched yours, silver and questioning, unaware of the storm behind them. "You have been there?” she whispered.

Your lips parted, then closed again. You hesitated, unable to speak—not out of fear of Ni’alu, but because the memory was too close, too raw. The ache of loss pressed into your ribs, mocking, heavy and relentless.

Ni’alus voice edged with frustration, “say something!” 

You flinched, and almost without thinking, your voice came sharp and trembling. “Yes! I have been there, Ni’alu. And it is not a place for children to wander alone!”

Ni’alu recoiled, confused and hurt. “But it’s just mountains, just snow—”

“Just snow?” you snapped, finally letting the fear and fury spill over. “Do you think it’s just snow when it can cut you, when ice can make you fall, when fire can leave ruins frozen forever? Do you have any idea what it means to lose everything like that?!”

“I didn’t mean—” she stepped forward, reaching for you, but you only moved back. 

“No! You need to understand! You can’t just go wandering into a place like that thinking it’s a game! That is not how you survive!”

Neteyam placed a light hand on your shoulder. “Y/n…Stop.” 

You jerked away instinctively, spinning to face Ni’alu again, you went too far. Your anger, fear, and grief collided, spilling over the child before you.

She swallows hard. “I was careful—”

“Careful?” Your voice crescendos, trembling with fear.. “Careful does not save you from history! Careful does not bring back the lost! Do you think these mountains are safe?”

“I… I just wanted to know where I come from!” Ni’alu shouts. Her voice cracks, the fear finally spilling over.

“You come from here!” you scream. “From this reef, from this blood, from your family! And yet you chase after shadows!”

She stumbles back, tears streaking her face. “You never tell us anything! You act like it doesn’t matter!”

“It doesn’t matter?!” The words escape before you can stop them. “There is nothing left! Nothing of the people! Everything is burned and broken, and you think you can waltz in and claim it?!” Her small shoulders shake with sobs. 

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, tone clipped with barely controlled anger. “Y/n. Enough.”

You spin toward him. “No! You don’t get it! She could have—”

“She went because you hid it!” he interrupts, voice rising for the first time since your last argument.  “This is on you! You think keeping it secret protects her? You think pretending there’s nothing left keeps her safe? Do you hear yourself?”

“I—” You stumble, words caught in your throat. “I was trying to keep her alive!”

“And instead you taught her to hide, to go alone, to take risks she shouldn’t take! You pushed her to do this yourself!” His voice is harsh, crackling with anger. “Do you understand that? You pushed her!”

The marui feels smaller, the walls pressing in. Ni’alu cries openly now, curling in on herself, shaking. Moi’at shrinks.

“She’s a child!” Neteyam continues, stepping close enough to tower over you. “And you are treating her like she was nothing, like curiosity is a crime!”

You feel your chest tighten, tears stinging, but your anger hasn’t cooled. “She was—she could have been killed!”

“And she was almost killed because she needed to know what you refused to teach her, baby!” His voice breaks. “You let secrecy and fear dictate everything, and now look at the mess it caused!”

Ni’alu sobs, rocking slightly. You realize she isn’t just afraid of the mountains.  she’s afraid of you now.

Neteyam softens slightly toward the children but not toward you. “Go sit with your brother, my love,” he instructs Ni’alu firmly. She obeys, trembling. “You will not speak of this again tonight.”

Then he turns fully to you. “You think scaring her with your fear keeps her safe?” he asks, voice lower now, seething. “No. It almost destroyed her. Do you understand? This is on you!”

Ni’alu shrank back, blinking between the two of you, her eyes wide and uncertain. The tension in the marui was suffocating, the echo of what could have been a tragedy still hanging in the air.

You close your eyes, chest heaving. “I… I was trying to..”

“To protect her?!” He interrupts again, louder. “Yes. But you did it wrong. You let your fear become cruelty!”

The room goes silent, the children still watching, trembling.

“I did not mean it, stop raising your voice at me.” you whisper, voice small now, glancing at your feet. 

“Intent does not erase damage,” he says. His hands drop to your shoulders. “You need to understand this. You cannot protect by hiding. Not from them. Not from themselves.”

You swallow hard. “I just want to keep them safe.”

“I know,” he says, finally softening. “But they are alive because they are brave. Not because you scared them into obedience.”

You nod, tears slipping down, realizing the truth in his words.

Neteyam’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, but his words were still firm. “Y/n, I know. You’re scared, you’ve been through more than anyone could imagine. But that does not give you the right to terrify her. Calm down. Breathe. We fix this together. without shouting, without fear taking control.”

You nod, leaning against him. His hands wrap around your belly, placing soft kisses on your cheeks and down your neck. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, one hand reaching up and cupping your jaw. “Okay? I’m sorry..”

You glanced at your daughter—guilty, regretting. You nod again. Neteyam’s anger has not gone entirely—it lingers like heat in the air—but his hands on you are steady, grounding.

He stays up that night, he tries not to be so much like his father—he sometimes fails, letting anger flair too quickly. You can feel his stress, even in the quiet space between you both. “Y/n,” he whispers.

You stir, eyes half open, and meet his gaze. “Hmm?”

“I want to see you baby,” he says, quietly. “Come on.” 

You hesitate, chest tightening, unsure if you can face the vulnerability yet. His hand brushes your arm, gentle, patient, an invitation rather than a demand. The warmth of him seeps through the space between you.

“Where…?” you murmur.

“Somewhere private,” he replies, voice softening, “just us. No distractions, no walls, just you and me.”

The tension on your shoulder unknots, slowly, you nod. He helps you out of the hammock, the night air cool against your skin. 

He takes you out to the cove, kneeling before you on a rock, bringing you down with him. 

You meet him halfway, your kuru lifted in your hands, letting tsaheylu form. It hums through you and you gasp—the connection is grounding, carrying with it a sense of understanding that words could never reach. For a long moment, you simply exist in the bond.

He leans his forehead against yours, laying you down gently, balancing your head and your stomach. The argument, the anger, the fear—they all still exist, but in this moment, they are shared, softened by understanding.

You tilt your head slightly, brushing against him in the gentlest way, and he mirrors you, careful not to overwhelm or hurt you. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Just breathe with me.” 

His lips press against yours, fingers working on your clothes, and his. Time stretches, slow and deliberate. The only sound being your soft mewls and the velvety noise of skin against skin. “Do you feel that?” He whispers. 

The night hums around you, you stay pressed to him, tense, a knot deep in you. You come down simultaneously, his head falls onto your shoulder, kissing you there. yours falls onto the rock behind you, gently. “You’re so beautiful.” He smiles softly, stroking your braids, kissing your forehead. 

You stay together for a moment before remembering you must get back to your children. The two of you rise quietly, brushing sand from your skin. Your movements are wobbly, so he steadies you. You place soft kisses upon his chest once more, and he catches your chin, pulling you into a gentle kiss. 

He tastes of fresh yovo fruit and seawater, your tongues explore each other's mouths, hands steady, clasping one another carefully. 

None of you speak much on the way back, but the silence is comfortable, full of unspoken understanding. 

When you slip inside, you see the faint outlines of the children, curled up together, asleep. Their breathing is steady, and the soft glow of the lantern casts a gentle halo around their forms. 

You pause at the doorway, watching them for a long moment. The weight of the evening’s tension lingers, but seeing them peaceful, you feel a warmth settle into your chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and you rest your head against his shoulder.

“they’re out cold,” he murmurs softly, his voice just above a whisper.

You nod, adjusting the blankets around the children with care. “They’re safe,” you reply, more to yourself than to him.

Neteyam climbs into your hammock that night, drawing you gently against his chest and holding you there until your breathing evens out.

The following morning, you notice the way Moi’at winces when he moves. Guilt coils in your stomach as you uncover the injury he tried so hard to hide. You take him straight to Ronal for proper bandaging, murmuring reassurances the entire walk.

Not long after, Neteyam leaves on a hunting trip with his brother and a few of the others, promising it will only be for a handful of days—though only Eywa herself knows how long it truly feels.

With him gone, the marui feels quieter… and heavier. The tension between you and Ni’alu stretches thin but unbroken. Some days she cannot even meet your eyes. Other days, she speaks only to ask, flatly, without warmth—if she may sleep over with Li’anu again.

“No, Ni’alu. You’ve already stayed there twice. Tsireya has her own children to care for, and your uncle Lo’ak is away hunting. She needs rest—not more little ones to manage.” 

“Then let me stay with Grandpa!” she snaps, writhing in frustration, a hiss slipping through her teeth.

“Excuse me?” You rise slowly, hands pulling away from the food you’d been preparing. Your voice isn’t loud—but it is firm. “Ni’alu, that is not an option. You are staying here tonight. End of discussion.”

Her small frame stiffens, arms crossed, jaw set tight. “You never listen!” she snaps, her voice breaking between anger and frustration.

“I am listening,” you say, stepping closer, softening your tone but keeping the firmness. “I heard you, and I understand that you’re upset. But throwing tantrums or running off isn’t going to make things fair or safe.”

She cries, burying herself in the blankets of her hammock. You wipe your hands, finishing up the food and calling Moi’at to eat.

Once he finishes, you guide him towards the exit, directing him to play with his cousins at the shoreline. 

You pause by Ni’alu’s hammock once back inside, watching her curl up under the blankets, small and tense. The soft glow from the sun made her look even more fragile than she did in the marui earlier.

You kneel beside her, brushing a loose braid from her face. “Ni’alu…” your voice is low, gentle, carrying no anger this time. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“I was wrong,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I scared you. I let my fear take over, and it hurt you. I’m so sorry. I should have been there to guide you, to show you safely… instead of letting my fear control me.”

Ni’alu blinks, tears brimming but not falling yet. She whispers, “You mean it?”

“Yes,” you say softly, pulling her closer. “I mean it. Daddy  is away hunting with uncle Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo for a few days, so it’s just us right now—but I want you to know something important. I love you. I want to protect you, but I also want to trust you. Can we try that together?”

Ni’alu hesitates, then slowly leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, holding her close. The two of you lie together on the hammock, bodies pressed softly, hearts slowing as the tension of the evening starts to melt. 

You close your eyes for a moment, and the memory comes unbidden—the day Ni’alu was born. The marui smells faintly of the same salt and warm herbs that filled the air that morning. You were exhausted, body trembling with pain and awe, hands slick and trembling as you held her for the first time.

Her tiny body pressed against yours, fragile and perfect, and the moment you touched her forehead with yours, the world fell away. Tsaheylu sparked between you—tendrils of warmth and life that you had never felt so intensely. Through that bond, you could feel her heartbeat, her breath, the tiny rise and fall of her chest. You could feel her confusion, her fear, her wonder, and you could wrap her in your calm, your love. 

“I love you so much,” you whisper gently, stroking her hair.

“I love you too mama” she finally smiles, turning to hold you tightly. 

The days pass carefully, too carefully. Neteyam is still away, still hunting with Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo—a longer hunt, deeper into the forest territory. Three days, he promised. Maybe four. It’s been three. 

Moi’at remains at the Tsahìk’s marui while Ronal monitors his hand. The bark tore deeper than he admitted, and infection in the cold had settled into the cut. He pretends to be brave when you visit, but he winces when he flexes his fingers. Ronal insists he stay another few nights. 

So the marui is quiet, just you and Ni’alu. at first she moves around you cautiously, as if a loud noise might break something fragile between you again. But you make an effort. You sit with her while she weaves. You answer her small questions. You don’t avoid the word snow when it comes up. 

You do not offer everything, but you offer something. And she notices. One evening, she lays her head in your lap without asking. It feels like forgiveness. Your belly tightens more often those days. You tell yourself it is normal. It’s the third pregnancy. Your body is preparing.

But sometimes the tightening steals your breath in a way the others never did. Sometimes the baby shifts too sharply, too low.

On the fourth night without Neteyam, you wake from shallow sleep with a strange pressure in your spine.You sit up slowly, it passes. You say nothing.

 

Later that afternoon, you walk to the Tsahiks marui with your daughter to pick up Moi’at. He is proud when Ronal unwraps his hand one final time. “He may return,” she says, tying fresh wrapping securely around the healing skin. “But he must not climb, not fight, not test it.” Moi’at nods solemnly.

“Thank you, Ronal.” You smile, holding your son's hand. 

As you turn to leave, a sharp tightening pulls low across your abdomen. You pause, just briefly—one hand pressing instinctively to your belly. Ronal notices, her eyes narrowing. 

“You are well?” she asks, eyes soft with concern; a motherly instinct. 

“Yes,” you answer quickly, too quickly. “Just tired.”

She studies you for a beat longer than comfortable, then she nods. The walk back is slower. Moi’at chatters beside you, proud of his brave healing, his newly wrapped hand swinging at his side. Ni’alu runs ahead to show Li’anu a shell she found.

That night, the children are home, you cook, you braid Ni’alu’s hair. You help Moi’at settle carefully into his hammock so he does not jostle his hand. But you move slower than usual, you tell yourself it is nothing.

Before sleep, Ni’alu hugs you tightly. “I’m glad you’re not mad anymore,” she whispers.

You smooth her braids. “I was never mad. Only afraid.”

She smiles, and when the children finally drift to sleep, you sit alone for a long moment in the quiet marui, hand resting on your belly. The baby shifts low, way too low.

Before dawn,the pain wakes you. And this time, it does not fade. It is not gradual, it rips through you. You bolt upright in the hammock, a strangled sound escaping before you can swallow it down. Your hand flies to your belly. The baby moves, sharply, frantically. 

Another contraction hits before you can even breathe though the first, you slide from the hammock, knees barely catching you on the woven floor. “Okay, okay.” you whisper to yourself—but it is not okay. 

The pressure is crushing, your spine feeling as if it might split at any given time. You try to stand, try to reach for your comm, but your body is too heavy.  A broken gasp tears from your throat. 

That is what wakes the children, Ni’alu is first to sit up. “Mama?” 

You try to answer, but another wave crashes through you, stronger than anything before. “I- Go get grandma and Grandpa!” You gasp, panting desperately. 

She doesn’t hesitate, Moi’at, careful of his bandaged hand, follows her. You continue to cry out on the floor of your marui, just wishing your mate were here. 

Jake appears first, moving fast but careful, Neytiri close behind. Their eyes are immediately on you, in that moment, nothing else really exists.

“Y/n,” Jake says, voice low, firm, wrapping his hands around yours. “We’re here sweetheart. You’re not alone.”

He flips you onto your stomach carefully, more cries breaking from you.

Neytiri kneels beside you, her fingers brushing your hair from your damp forehead. “Sweet one… my precious,” she murmurs, her voice calm, anchoring. You clutch at her hand, drawing strength from the familiar warmth.

The children hover nearby, anxious but obedient, while Tuk and Kiri slip in behind them, curious and wide-eyed but silent, sensing the gravity of the moment. Moi’at is at your side, quietly murmuring comfort, a steady presence against the chaos of pain. Kiri prays silently at your ankles, holding them carefully. 

Your breaths come fast. Contractions hit harder than before, but surrounded by those who love you—by Jake’s steady strength, Neytiri’s calm touch, your children’s small, worried faces—you feel a thread of control in the storm. 

Jake’s hand hovers over the comm, hesitation flashing in his eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat and presses the page.

“Neteyam,” he calls, voice steady but urgent. “It’s… Y/n. She’s in labor. It’s early, complicated.”

Far across the forest, high over the canopy, Neteyam feels the vibration of the page through his ikran’s saddle. Aonung stiffens behind him, Neteyam’s heart jumps, his ikran responds to their bond, wings catching a therm. Lo’ak glances at him, alert, and Rotxo stiffens as well.

“Neteyam,” Jake’s voice repeats, clearer now, carrying across the comm. “I need you home, boy. Now.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. Three days of tracking, hunting… and now this. His mind snaps from the hunt to his family. He looks down at the forest far below.

He looks back at Aonung, riding with him, and then toward Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. “What is it?” Lo’ak calls over the wind, sensing the sudden shift in urgency.

“It’s Y/n,” Neteyam says, voice tight, “she’s in labor. We need to head back. Now” 

He grips the ikran saddle so tightly that his knuckles hurt. The wind begins to sound like your voice, his determination spikes—he needs to get home now. 

He redirects them, flying back to the village urgently.

The day drags. The forest moves in slow, endless ribbons below Neteyam as he flies, Aonung gripping the saddle tightly, Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. The wind presses against his face, but he barely feels it. Every mile between him and the village is a jagged pull at his chest. “Are you certain it’s serious?” Lo’ak shouts over the wind.

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Dad’s voice… It's urgent. She’s in labor. I cannot waste time.”

Aonung shifts slightly behind him. “We’ll get there,” he says, voice steady, but the tautness of his grip betrays his worry.

You clutch at your belly with each contraction, gasping, shaking, and your children hover near, eyes wide, hands small and tentative on your arms. Ni’alu whispers, “Mama… are you okay?” but you can only shake your head, gripping the mat below you as another wave crashes through you.

Jake keeps one hand on your shoulder, guiding you, murmuring low and steady words that are half comfort. Hours creep past. The sun moves slowly across the sky, then dips behind the distant ridges, casting the marui in shadows. You bite back a cry as the pressure sharpens, low and insistent. Every minute, every breath is agony. You can feel the baby shifting, too low, too fast—as if trying to find their way out, but unable. 

Your children cling to your sides. Moi’at squeezes your hand with his bandaged fingers, whispering encouragement that he doesn’t fully understand. And still, the sky beyond darkens, still Neteyam is far.

Stars began to prick the sky when several shadows appeared on the ridge. Your breath catches, a mixture of relief and desperation tearing through you.

“Neteyam…” you gasp, but the next contraction steals your words.

He lands in a heartbeat, ikran shaking the clearing beneath him. His chest heaves, sweat and exhaustion streaking his face, yet he runs, crouching beside you in the large space. “I’m here,” he says, voice low, urgent, and trembling. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You reach for him, every ounce of your strength pulling toward him, clinging to him as if he alone can carry you through the storm. He presses a hand to your shoulder, then to your belly, grounding you. “You’ve been so strong,” he whispers. “I won’t let go.” 

Neytiri slides her hand over his arm, murmuring softly. Jake steps back, giving you space, though his presence is steady and reassuring. Your children huddle near, wide-eyed, whispering and watching, held by Tuk. Moi’at at your side,  and Kiri, silent, but attentive.

Your body convulses with another contraction. You bite back a cry, but it escapes anyway. “It’s… too strong!” you gasp. “I—” Another wave hits, and Neteyam presses his forehead to yours, murmuring, “I know, I know. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Ronal steps in, eyes sharp and scanning, a small bundle of tools in her hands. “We need to move fast,” she says, voice calm but clipped. “This is complicated. I  need space.”

The others scatter, Neytiri takes your children to wait outside, Jake following closely behind. Lo’ak entertains them just outside, his children trying to peek glances at you, at their mother, going inside to help you. 

Tsireya slips in next, moving like water. She kneels behind you, one hand supporting your back, murmuring quietly, “Breathe, sweet one. Trust your strength.”

Another contraction slams you into the floor, trembling, sweat slicking your hair against your face. Your belly tightens impossibly, and you feel the baby shift, too low, too sharp. “I—I can’t—” you gasp, your voice breaking.

Neteyam does all he can to comfort you, every other time before this one— the twins’ birth was easier for you. He sits where Tsireya was, holding your head in his lap, supporting your shoulders. His hands press into your back, guiding the rhythm of your breathing.

He leans close, murmuring low praises, his hand never leaving your back. “You’re amazing. Our baby… it’s almost here. I’ve got you.”

The pressure spikes. Your body screams, your muscles trembling, sweat and tears mixing. Ronal’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Now push with me. One long push. Strong. You can do it.”

You cling to the warmth of every hand on you, summoning every ounce of strength. The air feels heavy, electric, and the ocean outside seems to hold its breath with you.

And then—a sharp, desperate cry. Your chest heaves. Your legs tremble. Relief and exhaustion crash over you as Ronal lifts the baby carefully into your arms. Warm, wet, crying, perfect. “She’s perfect,” she smiles.

You stare down at your daughter, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her eyes blinking open for the first time. Your heart aches with joy and exhaustion all at once. “You are ours… you are strong, and safe… you are loved.”

You collapse back against Neteyam, chest heaving, every muscle trembling. The baby is tucked to your chest, warm and small, and her cries begin to slow as she feels your heartbeat. You feel Neteyam’s breath brush against your hair, his hand stroking your back, grounding you in the dizzying aftermath of pain and relief.

Ronal adjusts a soft blanket around your shoulders and the baby, checking her quickly, murmuring, “Strong heartbeat… breathing steady… perfect weight.” Her hands linger only long enough to ensure safety, then she steps back, letting you catch your first quiet breaths with your daughter.

Tsireya kneels beside you, one hand gently brushing your damp hair from your face, the other smoothing the baby’s tiny head. “She’s beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice is calm, almost musical, and it eases the tremor in your hands.

Lo’ak, Neytiri, and Jake return with Moi’at and Ni’alu, peeking over the edge of the mat, leaning closer, eyes wide but soft. 

“Wow,” Lo’ak breathes. “She’s beautiful.” He steps back when Neteyam lifts his gaze, respecting the moment, but doesn’t leave—just watching, quiet and protective.

Your children creep closer, Ni’alu’s hand brushing the baby’s cheek, Moi’at holding her tiny fingers with his bandaged hand. “hello, little sister,” Ni’alu whispers, wide eyed, her voice full of awe. 

Neteyam leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “You did this. Our girl… our family.” His thumb brushes across your temple, then your hair, grounding you in the quiet after the storm of pain.

“I… I’m sorry,” you murmur, glancing at Neteyam, “I—this wasn’t how I planned… I wanted—”

“To give birth in the forest,” you finish weakly, the words trailing as your chest heaves. “Like before…”

Neteyam’s hand presses firmly to your cheek, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. His gaze is sharp, steady, unwavering. “Do not,” he says, low, and your words falter under the intensity of his presence.

“I just—” you start again, but he cuts you off, voice warm now, fierce in its tenderness. “Do not apologize,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. “You have given life. You have done something more than brave. You do not apologize for this, for anything. Not now. Not ever.”

You stare at him, tears slipping freely down your face, your shoulders trembling. His hands circle yours, resting over the tiny body of your daughter, anchoring you both.

“You are incredible,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Our children… our family… It is here because of you. Nothing else matters.”

You let yourself lean into him, exhausted, overwhelmed, but safe. You murmur a quiet, “I love you,” and he presses a kiss to your hair, murmuring back, “and I love you.”

The baby stirs softly in your arms, tiny hands curling around your fingers, and the tension in your chest loosens just a little. You had feared failure, feared being selfish, feared the world shifting beneath your feet, but his presence, his unwavering certainty, tells you that this moment is exactly where you are meant to be.

The marui is quiet now, the chaos of labor replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. You cradle your daughter against your chest, feeling her tiny warmth seep into you, each rise and fall of her chest echoing against your own. Ni’alu presses her cheek gently to the baby’s, whispering little promises you cannot hear but can feel—words spun from awe and love. 

Moi’at sits close, his bandaged hand brushing yours as if to anchor you both, eyes wide but steady, proud and careful. You let yourself sink into this moment, letting every inch of exhaustion and fear dissolve into the weight of her small body in your arms.

You feel the connection—not just between you and your daughter, but stretching through Neteyam’s steady presence, through your children’s cautious wonder, through the bonds of your community. The air vibrates with life, and for a moment, you are weightless, held in a circle of love and vigilance.

Ronal shifts closer, her eyes soft as they sweep over you and the baby. “She needs a name,” she says gently, voice steady, but you can hear the quiet encouragement beneath it. You glance down at your daughter, the small rise and fall of her chest, the tiny fingers curling around yours. Her presence feels enormous, and suddenly, the perfect name seems impossibly elusive.

Ni’alu tilts her head, wide-eyed, whispering, “Can I help, Mama?” You smile through your exhaustion, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Of course, love. We all get to help.” Moi’at leans closer as well, his hand still near yours, and you feel Neteyam’s steady warmth as he shifts slightly to wrap an arm around your shoulder.

Ronal watches carefully, then offers softly, “Names carry meaning. They carry strength, guidance, and hope. Think of the qualities you wish to honor in her.” The words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of them, the responsibility—but also the joy. You trace the baby’s tiny hand, feeling her pulse, and murmur, “She is… fierce already, gentle, and brave. I can feel it”

Neteyam smiles at the children, then looks down at you. His voice is quiet, tender. “What do you feel, my love? What name calls to you?” You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes and feel the name take shape in your heart. “Kìreytsìl,” you whisper, letting the syllables roll off your tongue, soft but certain. “She is dawn of hope.”

Ni’alu beams, brushing her fingers over the baby’s hand. “Kìreytsìl,” she repeats, marveling. Moi’at echoes the name, and even the baby seems to press closer, her tiny fingers curling tighter around yours. Neteyam smiles, pressing his forehead gently to yours, whispering, “Kìreytsìl… She is perfect just like you.”

The marui quiets at last, the children guided outside by Neytiri and Lo’ak, their whispers fading with each step. You sink back against the mat, your body trembling, muscles sore and spent, the newborn tucked carefully to your chest. Only Neteyam remains, his presence steady, warm, calming you in the dizzying aftermath of labor.

He moves gently, retrieving a soft cloth and a small bowl of clear river water. “Let me,” he murmurs, his voice low, sure, tender. You nod, too exhausted to speak, and he kneels before you, dipping the cloth in the water, wringing it carefully. 

His hands brush your soft, sensitive skin as he cleans between your legs, then move with painstaking care over Kìreytsìl, wiping away the remnants of birth. The water is cool, fresh, and every careful motion from him feels like a vow—protection, love, and reverence.

Once both of you are clean, Neteyam sits back slightly, letting you adjust Kìreytsìl against your chest. You watch her tiny mouth, her tiny hands curling at your collarbones, and feel an instinct stirring deep inside, a mix of awe and tenderness. You lift her closer, guiding her to your breast for the first time. Her small lips find your skin, and she nurses, instinctive and perfect. Warmth floods your chest, and you feel the thread of life connecting you, fragile but unbreakable.

Neteyam leans closer, his hand resting over yours on the baby’s back, thumb brushing lightly against Kìreytsìl’s tiny spine.

His forehead rests gently against yours. You close your eyes, letting yourself simply be—mother, mate, held, protected. feeling the gentle suckle of Kìreytsìl, the warmth of Neteyam, and the quiet certainty that this moment is yours alone, sacred and unhurried.

Time slips in the soft instant of nursing as your child lays her head down against you, your kept nails brushing softly against her new skin. Neteyam watches with silent admiration—he loves watching you be a mother. He plants the seeds, watches them grow, then watches you blossom into the mother you were always destined to be. 

Several weeks of blissful motherhood go by, villagers bringing gifts of love to you and your family, the children connecting with their baby sister—and you, telling the stories of your people. Kíreytsìl was born your daughter—pure kray’na. This time you would not let down on showing your children their roots. 

Neteyam prepared for the trip as soon as you said you were ready, flying your family out to the mountains in weaved, fuzzy shawls which you kept hidden in your baskets, dressing the children and allowing them to know the snow, see and meet their ancestors, to connect with the spirit tree that, even after all these years—had not fallen. 

Kíreytìl was communed with Eywa in the same place you had once called home. This time, your child’s life would be celebrated in three places—the mountains, the forest, and the reef. 

The return to the reef was special, calm in a way words could not express. You were at peace—your children understood now, where you came from, where their unusually large fangs had come from, and where your daughter's white hair had emanated from. 

Now you lay silently in the comfort of your marui, Neteyam holding you close, Kíreytsìl enswathed in a prrsmung against your chest, feeding from your breasts. Ni’alu and Moi’at lay against Neteyam, arms wrapped tightly around their father. 

His hands stroked her cheek carefully as she fed, nose nudged softly against your neck, inhaling your scent. “I love you,” he mutters.

“Mm I love you.” You smile, his fingers drift from her cheek to your hip, then settle over the soft swell of your stomach where your body is still healing. 

“You’re sore,” he says, not a question. 

“Yes.”

He nods once, absorbing that like information he needs to store. His thumb presses lightly into your lower back, testing at first. When you flinch, he adjusts without comment and begins kneading gently. You exhale before you can stop yourself.

“Better?” He huffs.

“Yes.” 

Your words are small, but he keeps going. 

Later, when the children wake, the marui fills with noise, Tuk and Pril running about, playing with your children—obsessing over Kíritsìl. You let it happen, leaning back against the woven wall and watching them.

Your body aches in places you don’t talk about, your breasts are heavy. Your hips feel wider, slower. You are softer in several places for now, Neteyam notices that too.

When the children run out to meet their cousins at the shallows, he stays behind. He pins the flaps shut quietly. You look at him, eyebrow lifting. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says—which always means something. 

He crosses the space slowly, kneeling in front of you and pushing your skirt up just slightly—not indecent or urgent, just enough to see the faint stretch of your skin, the subtle bruising of birth, his jaw tightens.

“Do not look at me like that,” you mutter, hands moving to cover yourself.

“Like what baby?” His eyes do not leave your thighs, featherlight touches are placed there. 

“Like I am wounded prey.” 

His eyes snap up immediately. “You are not prey.” 

“Then stop frowning.” He exhales through his nose, softer now. His hands move carefully, reverently over your thighs, your hips—just assessing.

You study his face, there is no disgust, no distance, just awe. 

The soreness settles deeper at night. It isn’t sharp anymore. Just a low, constant ache in your hips and breasts, like your bones haven’t quite decided where they belong yet, you try not to show it—but Neteyam notices the way you shift when you stand. The way you brace your palm against the wall before straightening. The way you lower yourself carefully instead of fluidly. He says nothing about it during the day, just steadies you.

That afternoon, you wash Kìreytsìl yourself without any help. The water is warm from sitting in the sun. She startles when you lower her in, tiny limbs jerking—but you murmur softly and she settles against your palms. 

Ni’alu sits beside you, chin in her hands. “We were this small?” 

“Yes.” You smile softly, glancing at her for a beat. 

“No,” Moi’at interrupts confidently. “I was bigger.” 

You laugh, a wet, jovial sound. “You were loud.” 

Neteyam sits behind you, repairing a spear shaft. He watches the way your hands support the baby’s head. The way your thumbs rub gentle circles over her ribs.

“You can help,” you say without turning. 

“With what?” 

“Her hair will dry wild if you do not soothe it.” He sets the spear down immediately, crouching beside you carefully. His hands look almost ridiculous next to her tiny skull and he hesitates. “You won’t break her,” you murmur.  

“I know that, baby.” 

But he is still careful, you guide his fingers, show him the direction to smooth, the pressure to use. His tongue presses lightly into his cheek for concentration, just like when he twists Moi’at’s curls, or when he braids Ni’alu’s hair. 

He glances at you once, catches you staring—a small smirk plays at his face. “What?” 

“Nothing.” You say, but your chest feels full in ways that have nothing to do with milk.

It happens for the third night in a row, Kìreytsìl feeds often, maybe too often. By the time the marui quiets and the baby finally sleeps, your breasts ache in a deep, swollen way that makes even fabric brushing against you feel like too much.

You try to ignore it, but your mate doesn’t. “Come here baby,” he murmurs behind you.

“I am here”

“Closer. Come on.” Based on your tone, Neteyam could tell something was bothering you. 

You back up—barely. He shifts closer anyway. His hand slides over your stomach first, grounding. Then slowly upward, pausing just beneath your ribs. “May I?” he asks quietly.

That’s what makes your throat tighten, he waits for your answer, and you just nod—you know you need it. 

His hand cups your breasts carefully, testing the weight, the heat. You flinch before you can stop yourself. “Too much?”

“A little bit.”

He adjusts immediately, applying less pressure, moving slower. His thumb moves in gentle circles along the side rather than the center, easing the tight pull without pressing where you’re most sensitive. His other hand mirrors it, patient, steady.

You didn’t realize how heavy they felt until he supported them fully, a tight breath finally leaves you. “There’s so much tension,” he murmurs softly, almost frowning. “You should not have to sit with this.”

“It’s normal,” you whisper.

“That does not mean you endure it alone. Tell me next time.” 

His palms warm you slowly, easing the tightness with careful pressure the way you showed him on your back earlier. When he feels where you’re most swollen, he adjusts again—careful not to hurt, careful not to stimulate too much, just enough to relieve the ache.

You relax back against him. “That’s better,” you admit quietly. His chin rests on your shoulder as he continues, slow and methodical.

“You give so much,” he says. “Let me give back.”

The soreness softens under his touch, not gone, but manageable. Supported. When he finally stills his hands, he doesn’t pull away. He simply leaves them there, warm and protective, holding you gently against his chest.

You cover his fingers with your own. “Thank you,” you whisper. He presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Always.” 

The sun melts into the horizon in streaks of gold and violet. The sea glows like liquid light. Aonung has built a small fire pit on the sand. Rotxo pretends he did most of the work. Tuk insists she helped. No one argues.

Tsireya passes around roasted shellfish wrapped in leaves. Kiri hums softly while braiding Tuk’s hair. Lo’ak is already halfway through teasing Neteyam about how emotional he looked in the snow.

You laugh, leaning into Neteyam’s side. He shakes his head but his arm slides around your waist automatically, pulling you closer.

Aonung nudges him. “You look softer.”

Neteyam smirks. “That’s because I don’t have to fight you every morning anymore.”

Tsireya gasps dramatically. “You two were impossible.”

“We were competitive,” Aonung corrects.

“You were children,” Kiri says calmly.

The others go to the water, leaving just you and Neteyam. You shift closer, his hand slides to your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. Your foreheads touch first—that familiar pause. That shared breath.

He kisses you like he always does—slow at first, testing. Giving you space to pull back if you want, and when you don't, when your fingers curl into the fabric at his waist, his other hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face slightly. The kiss deepens, not heated,  just steady. Intentional. When you pull back, you stay close enough that your noses brush.

“Let’s go before they start wrestling without us.” He laughs. Already dragging you to the water, when you dive in, he goes the complete opposite direction—towards the men, and you, of course, go towards Kiri, Tsireya and Tuk. 

You swim with your found sisters, for the first time in a long time, since the war, since living to protect your children, you feel just like a kid again. Sneaking off to swim with the friends who had found you in a cave. 

The night stretches, and you grow tired, so Neteyam takes you home. Not to the mountains, or the forest, just wherever he is going.

[dewylewis44]

SEVEN DAYS

So’lek X sarentu!femreader

Summary: it’s been a week since So’lek left for a mission, leaving you all alone perhaps a little needy. And when he comes back, oh boiiii get readyyyy, I’m not spoiling you.

Contain: SMUTTY, bodyworship, tsaheylu, mating, lotus?? Mostly reader pleasuring so’lek. MDNI, maybe a bit raw for my poetic smut lovers ?, silly & yapper Teylan mentioned (I love him sm)

A/n: sorry it took me forever to post it, and it’s clearly not my fav writing, but I was sick and had two internship, man I’m drained. Anyway enjoy !! And a little feedback is always nice. Kissessss on ur temples <3

W/c: 2k

Masterlist

It’s been a week now, seven long nights and days. There was no contact, no warmth shared between you and So’lek

You always counted time differently when he’s not around by the campfire, you barely even finished your favorite meals cause your eyes only drifted back to the darkness between the tall trees.

Tonight though, the forest was calm and quiet, you were sitting near the river on a hard rock with Teylan, your feet nudged the dust on the floor as the small fire crackled nearby. The light danced on the leaves, soft and greenish, and somewhere above, the canopy hides the stars that shimmered a sense of comfort and familiarity.

Teylan plopped down beside you with zero grace, nearly missing the rock.

“Oof—okay, wow. This rock is smaller than I remember,” he muttered.

And here you found yourself not reacting at all at his usual silliness.

He looked at you and squinted a little “you’ve been staring at the fire for a long time now, what’s the deal?”

You sighed softly “im just thinking”

“oh..” he nodded seriously, then leaned a little closer “about rocks? Or him”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes.

“Him I guess..”

Teylan’s face lighted up like he just solved a very hard puzzle. “Ah yeah that explains it”

You looked over at him, as he grabbed a stick and started drawing random shapes in the dirt, literally none of them made sense, circles and lines, something that might be an animal or maybe a shoe ?.

“its only been a week,” he said, reassuring you but in a very wrong way. “That’s basically nothing, I once didn’t had my favorite knife for three weeks and I was totally fine.”

You raised an eyebrow not believing what he just said “you cried.”

“okay but emotionally ? I definitely grew up”

A small smile tugged at your lips before you can stop it.

“he’ll be back,” Teylan continued, nodding confidently to himself. “So’lek is like… very good at surviving, and being quiet, oh and doing that intense weird cold staring thing”

He paused, thinking “actually maybe too quiet, have you considered he just forgot how to use the comm?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised”

“See? Also if he doesn’t come back soon, I can teach you how to whittle little animals, im bad at it but its fine.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, finally looking away from the fire.

There was a comfortable silence between you two, the river hummed quietly now as you were about to say something you heard a sound.

Crack.

Your head snapped up before you even realized it, your eyes scanning the dark between the trees while teylan noticed it instantly.

“Oh” he said looking around “ that’s either a predator or your melancholic staring finally worked”

You rolled your eyes as you stood up slowly, your heart picking up pace as you approached the shadow.

And then So’lek stepped into the firelight.

His hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands fallen out. One shoulder was smeared with dirt, the other one marked with faint scratches and paint. His chest rose slowly as he breathed, calm and steady. His eyes scanned the area out of habits before finally landing on you.

Teylan blinked.

“Oh..”

So’lek’s gaze softened instantly, his posture easing like he finally allowed himself to be casual.

“Took you long enough,” you said crossing your arms.

Before he could respond, Teylan cleared his throat loudly, stepping in front of you “hi, hello, welcome back from not dying, we were kind of worried uhh mostly her. I was medium worried, do you know comm are made to communicate with other people?”

You looked at Teylan throwing bombs at him, as so’lek raised his eyebrows “you are loud”

“Yeah..” he nodded “I’ve been told”

You crossed your arms, suddenly very aware of how fast your heart was beating. “You’re late”

So’lek titled his head slightly “a week”

“And you even counted huh?”

For a second you thought he might smile, he didn’t. But his eyes wore that softened and that was worse.

“Come,” he said quietly.

“Where?”

Instead of answering, he reached out and took your hand. You barely had time to react before he pulled you gently into the trees.

Branches blurred past, leaves brushing your arms, the forest opening for him like it knew exactly who he was. You struggled to keep up until he finally slowed near a quiet clearing, hidden and green, glowing softly with bioluminescence plants.

Up close you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the dried blood on his arm, and the tension he hadn’t let go of yet.

You swallowed, checking him out “you okay?”

He nodded softly “I am now.”

You didn’t thought twice, you stepped closer and for a moment neither of you spoke. Then so’lek leaned down slightly resting his forehead against yours.

His hand brushed against your cheek, as his eyes looked deep into yours, and finally his warm lips pressed against yours. The kiss was so gentle, also slow like he was afraid of breaking something previous.

His hand traveled on your hips, grounding you as your hands cupped his jaw, deepening the kiss even more.

“I missed you so much” you whispered against his lips.

“I did too” he replied, before devouring your lips again.

His warm tongue brushed against yours, the slow tango of your mouths made your heart beats even faster.

And when he pulled back, he guided you to lie down on the soft grass. Your hands hooped around his neck as you brought him down on top of you, his body pressed against yours as he kissed you again.

“Lemme make it up to you..” he whispered against your neck, as he peppered kisses all along it.

“No please.. let me do it,” you murmured before sitting down, guiding him to lean back against a rock.

You sat on his lap as you kissed him again, your hands traveled down his firm chest, feeling his heartbeat, then sliding to his abdomens, where the warm muscles tensed by the touch of your fingertips.

You cupped his jaw, looking at his eyes as you untied the lace of his loincloth, you kept your gaze on his while you gently traced the shape of his hard member with the tip of your fingers. He closed his eyes instinctively before letting a low grunt when your hand finally wrapped around his length.

“O Eywa..” he whimpered softly, as you kissed his jaw, your hand not stopping its movement. You felt him pulsing in your palm as you stroked him, alternating between fast and slow, you looked at the little bioluminescence freckles that englobed his shaft, plumping in your hand as you pleasured him.

“Look at you..” you said, voice low, only for him to hear. The state of desperation he was in right now, only made your core aching for him.

“Txantsan oe, yawne..” he grunted again as you pulled your lips back from his neck. You kissed down his collarbone, chest and slowly licked a long stripe of his abdomen, feeling the muscles under your tongue, you licked all the way down until you reached your desired destination.

You didn’t waste time as you took his tip into your mouth, gently sucking on it. You felt his toes curling as your hand stayed on his lap massaging them softly. His hand dropped to your head as you kept your devious ministration, feeling him pulsing against your tongue. And oh.. he tasted soo good, not because it’s sweet or anything but because it was his scent, and it made you crazy.

Your movement turned faster as you took him all in, trying to fit all you can in your mouth, he was a whimpering mess at this point. His head was titled back, his breath heavy. And all you could hear was inaudible murmurs from his lips.

“I’m close—” he groaned, spreading his legs a little more while looking down at you working on him, your eyes met his, and that’s how he loosed it.

With a last whimper — that sounded more like a whiny moan, he came. You kept working on it though. The way he looked was the best view you could’ve ever see. His breath eased as you pulled back from him, getting on his lap again.

“You missed me that much..?” He asked softly, still breathless as his hands hold your hips in place.

You simply nodded before kissing him again, letting him taste himself against your tongue. The kiss became heated as your core brushed against his bare length, that you purposefully rubbed against, the fabric of your loincloth was totally soaked as you kept moving against it, seeking pleasure from it. And so’lek noticed.

He gently took your fiber top off, letting his hand slide down your right breast before leaning and taking one bud into his mouth, sucking on it gently.

“Oh ma So’lek—” you closed your eyes as he nibbled at your hard nipple, suckling, and biting it gently. You kept grinding on his length as he moved to the other bud, giving it the same attention.

You reached back for your kuru, and his hands were already there, guiding his near yours. His forehead pressed against yours as you made tsaheylu. Feeling the warmth, love and desire for each other washing over you.

He kissed your cheek softly as he caressed your whole body, his hand traveled from your waist to your hips, admiring you like the most beautiful creature ever.

“You’re so beautiful paskalin..” he whispered gently, his voice calm and genuine. You caressed his cheek softly, and pressed a kiss on his nose.

“I need you—” you spilled out, feeling the need to get naked and vulnerable physically but mentally as well, letting him see through you completely.

He smiled gently before kissing your jaw, playing with the straps of your loincloth, and when it was gone your warmth pressed against his length. You both stayed here just enjoying the presence of each other.

And then your core enveloped him slowly, his forehead pressed against yours, as his fulness stuffed you gently. You both gasped when you moved your hips against his. The thrusts were more intimate that way, feeling your bodies molding into one as you rocked your cunt against his aching member.

“So good—” you moaned lowly as he stroked your back with one hand, as the other grounded your hips to guide your movement.

You moved back and forth agaisnt him, his mouth crashing agaisnt yours while the delicious frictions under you was making you weak in the knees. He kissed you senselessly, it was less gentle then earlier, it’s more primal. All you could hear was your whimpers and moans merging together.

Your movement fastened as you found yourself riding your highs. The bond that was attached to you made everything even more intense.

You moaned softly as he hit your sweet spot, your hands hopped around his neck as you clung to him.

“So’lek—” your plea made him stroke your back even gentler, his movement became frantic, every thrust was a path forward to your highs.

“You’re doing so good yawne, keep going I’m here” his little praise made your cunt clench around him. causing him to slip a grunt, he was never shy about the noises he made and you loved it. “Im here just for you..”

Your hips started drawing movement on him, writing his name with it, and with every letter he would let a loud grunt out. You bit your lips as you felt that familiar bundle of heat warmer.

“Ma so’lek I’m—” you moaned a last time before reaching your highs, clinging to him as you still felt him pulsing inside of you. And with the way your needy cunt clenched around him, it took him around four seconds before reaching his own high as well. He kept you close while you hugged him, sharing warmth as you breathed in, his hand rubbing your back again. You seeked reassurance from him, and you got it.

He held your chin, making you look at him.

“You did so good Nì’aw” he praised you one last time before placing a soft kiss on your lips. You smiled softly as he pulled you down near that rock, holding you against his muscular and comforting body.

His hand soothed the burning skin between your thighs, as you peppered kisses along his jaw and drew hearts on his chest.

“Get some sleep, you just came back from your mission, you’re probably tired.” You whispered softly.

“Yeah I am, come here” he pulled you even closer as you fell asleep in his arms.

SKEKEEEJ NEED THAT SO BAD, sorry 😛

[neteyamslovrr]

ASHAMED

words: 6k

summary: so'lek has had everything ripped from him, his clan, his family, the life he knew. he has sworn himself a life of vengeance until a certain avatar destroys everything he knew about himself.

contents: fem!avatar reader x so'lek, making out, slightly steamy, grief, guilt, angst, lots of shame (duh), fluff eventually

notes: okay so this is for @leonykennedy for my 4k event but i lost the goddamn ask. i really hope you guys enjoy it <3 i got decently carried away (sorry if there are any typos)

A new body. A new coat. A new skin.

An avatar.

You can’t recall the last time you spent more than a couple hours in your human body. Your real body.

It was a tough job to earn your avatar body. The RDA had become precautionary now. Considering how well it went for them last time. Scientists would have to sacrifice much to be deserving of an avatar. A sacrifice that costs more than money could buy.

Time.

5 years. 9 months and 22 days.

The longest 6 years of your life. Endlessly watching the ones who got the pleasure of being in cryosleep. Envying those who got to skip the painstakingly long trip. Each day dragging onto the next on a trip void of anything enjoyable. Stuck in a metal cage, unable to escape and never to return home.

It was heartwarming in a way. Deep down. Because she grew on the flight out. Well...you grew. The body was yours. Your DNA intertwined with the Na’vi. Creating a scientific feat almost unimaginable.

Though, that was almost 2 years ago now.

Your avatar was your own home within the Resistance. You didn’t stay in the RDA long, you couldn’t bear it. Everything felt so gut wrenchingly wrong, nothing sat well inside you, not the commands, or the goals and especially not the RDA food.

Now it had been a year with the Resistance. A year of living in rebellion. Alongside the Na’vi and Resistance members who valiantly risked their lives to destroy the RDA.

Now every time you got into your link bed, it didn’t feel like a simple task, a job to be carried out for the RDA but a way to return to what you believe was home. No matter how deluded you knew you sounded. This large blue body was meant to be yours. You sacrificed for it, you risked your life for it and you’d do anything, be anything if it meant you could leave your human body behind.

You met So’lek without ceremony. Barely a greeting.

He held no acknowledgement for you beyond the simple nod when he walked past you. Neither of you had held a conversation until a couple of months ago.

You were sitting in a small clearing outside of the cave. Resting on your hands breathing in the air. It was a feeling you could never get tired of. The fresh crisp air instantly invigorating your senses. It made you feel as if you were floating. The sounds of the trees in the wind. Their leaves crashing together creating a peaceful rhythm that nothing on your earth could replicate.

“You.” He said lowly, his presence commanding. “What are you doing?”

You looked up startled. “Huh?”

So’lek’s glare tightened. He stayed eerily still in his stance. “What are you doing?” He repeated.

“Um.” You faltered; the words jumbled in your mouth. “Sitting?”

So’lek was taller than most Na’vi. Certainly, towering over you. His body adorned with scars, telling the story of one who had survived against many odds. “You are sitting prey.”

You instantly became more alert as the words left his mouth. Sitting more rigidly, eyes darting around you. “Oh. Sorry I thought staying close to Resistance would mean less…animals.” You realized how stupid you sounded as soon as the words rolled off your tongue.

So’lek evidently thought so too as he let out a loud scoff. “Only small ones. Ones you cannot fight off.” You nodded, letting out a small sigh. Your naïve bubble popped with the sharp pin of reality.

“Should I go back inside?” Starting to get up So’lek put his hand out to halt you.

“Stay. I will sit with you.”

With some miracle, the meeting didn’t just become a moment. It became a routine.

He’d meet you in the clearing when your schedule allows it. Sometimes he’d already be there waiting for you.

Words came easily with time. Never about the past, just the quiet things that felt safe the share.  

Within those months, neither of you acknowledged the shift but it became second nature. His presence was no longer intimidating but grounding. Pulling you closer to Pandora.

Pulling you closer to him.

The night was warmer than usual. The humidity grossly sticking to your blue skin.

Yet that wasn’t what had you so flushed.

So’lek was sitting closer to you than he ever before. You weren’t quite touching, not yet. He was just close enough that every time he shifted his skin would graze yours for just a second. A second long enough to send the heat right up to your face.

You watched him silently, the way he rested on his hands. His eyes facing up towards the night sky. The stars shining onto his face. He was so…beautiful. Every part of him had been crafted with precision, and the scars that had formed on him told a silent story of his path.

He glanced at you, eyes shifting. “Do you ever stop staring?”

You jolted in embarrassment, face grimacing. “Sorry.” You responded tight-lipped, ashamed you had been caught so blatantly.

So’lek let out a breathy chuckle, turning his head towards you now. His arm shifting, close enough now that it rested behind your back, your side pressed to his.

Your ears flicked back in surprise. The contact sending a small, electric shivers down your spine.

His gaze was locked onto you, watching you intensely. He waited to see if you would retreat, run away from his touch.

But you didn’t.

“You are stiff.” His words were smooth, his head tilted down, lips brushing against the tops of your flushed ears.

You let out an exhale, your eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, gently, his hand lifted from behind you, settling on your waist. His fingers rough and calloused, tickling your soft skin. “So’lek…” You murmured, mouth slightly agape.

He inhaled quickly hearing the way his name mewled off your tongue. His hand flexing, grasping onto your waist tighter, pulling you close enough that your chest was flush against him. “You make this so difficult.” His voice was rough, as if the words were strained in his throat.

His tail flicked erratically behind him. Fighting the control slowly fleeting within him.

“What do I make difficult?” Your voice was trembling, eyes gazing into the ones he had screwed shut. “Tell me.” Your hands travelled up his vest, resting on the collar. “Please.”

He let out a small growl, chest heaving, his hands tight, forehead falling onto yours, fighting the last bit of self-restraint he had left. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”

“Then make me understand.”

That was all it took. The push for him to unravel in front of you. Both hands were on your waist, drawing you onto his lap. Even in this large avatar body you were still dwarfed by him. His body wide enough that when he sat you down on top of him, your hips stretched to wrap around him.

His breath was ragged. Head tilted down. He couldn’t help but admire the view that was straddled over him. “You will never understand” His words paused as his hands travelled further down, following the curvature of your frame. Letting a strangled growl out of his throat. “This feeling.”

His head slowly dipped down into the curve of your collarbone. He was controlled, his body stiff.

“Show me then.” Your breath was ragged, almost a pant as his lips tickled your skin. “If you can’t tell me, show me.”

So’lek’s lips crashed onto your neck, tongue gliding the stripes of your skin. He couldn’t contain himself any longer. This restless, gnawing urge that grew from the pits of his stomach ever since he first sat with you.

He hated himself for it. Letting himself get so carried away, especially to the likes of a tawtute [sky person]. But Eywa you were so irresistible, so smooth and soft. Skin untouched by the hands of fate. No, it was only his hands that have touched this body.

 His hands that moved from your back to your front, gliding up your stomach into the curves of your chest. His hands that grazed the sensitive spots of flesh. His hands that made you react so loudly.

You groaned in his ear. The sound sending tingles up his spine. Arms wrapping loosely around his neck. “So’lek- Please.”

His head lifted from your neck, lips parted and eyes clouded with lust. “Mm?” His voice rumbled in his throat gazing at the sight before him. “Please what?”

You panted pulling him closer to you, but your efforts were useless. He was strong, unmoving. His broad torso pushing against the tug of your slender arms. “Use your words.”

You let out a shudder, a soft mewl escaping your mouth. “You’re teasing me.”

So’lek smirked as your lips transformed into a pout. “Mhm…” His finger runs up from your sternum to your chin, tilting your head up, making your lips so easily accessible.

“Kiss me.” You pleaded, chest heaving.

So’lek didn’t waste time. The world around you coming to a halt as your lips met, leaving only the warmth between them. There was no calm or tenderness. It was raw and dominant. His hands pulling you in tightly, unable to escape the grip of his kiss.

Not that you intended to.

His lips latched onto your bottom one. Sucking it tightly enough for it to sting. But It stung so good. You let out a whimper as he released your swollen lips. But it just spurred him on.

He came back down onto your lips, crashing them together. If you thought he was noisy before he was blaring now. With every movement and meld he growled into your mouth, his fangs grazing your lips just enough for it to be present.

You were both intertwined, moving together as one. The sounds from your lips kept him raging on. Hands roaming each other’s skin, testing the boundaries that you both ignored tonight.  

So’lek was convinced nothing could break him out of the cage of your kiss. Your lips melded together like puzzle pieces. Latched together and locked with a key.

That was until your hands grasped onto the key.

His kuru.

It was a mindless action, just lustful hands roaming. But it became something catastrophic.

Every muscle in So’lek’s body went rigid. His breath hitching sharply as if you had struck him right in the heart. His lips broke away from yours, hands falling off your body as if they burnt.

How could he let it get this far. Setting his body upon this false skin. Letting his urges control him.

He looked down at you perched on his lap. His face grim and disgusted, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl.

You freeze, unable to react at the scene playing in front of you. Hands falling from the grasp of his kuru, falling limp at your sides.

“No.” He shook his head, voice hoarse.

Your mouth opened to respond to him, but he interrupted you before you could say something.

His hands, burning and shaking lifted you off his lap. Discarding you like trash next to him. He couldn’t look at you; his head wasn’t even turned your way.

You couldn’t help the emotions bubble in your chest, tears brimming your eyes. What had you done? Why within moments had you become a figure so horrid and unpleasant that you couldn’t even be gazed upon.

“So’lek, what happened?”

He swiftly stood up, his expression firm and disgusted. “This is wrong.” The venomous words burned his throat, an accusatory finger pointed directly at you, shaking with regret. “I should not have touched you. I should not have played into your fantasies.”

Your chest ached. A scoff escaping your throat. “My fantasies?”

“Yes.” He snapped. His voice was sharp as he spun to look at you. And just for a moment as he saw you sitting on the floor disheveled with tears threatening to spill, his gaze softened but he turned away. “Your demon fantasies. You wear a false skin and convince yourself you belong here. I should not have let you indulge into your human delirium.”

You turned away now, a whimper leaving your throat. This one wasn’t soft, the rhythmic mewls he made you let out moments before. No. This one was shrouded in darkness, raw and gut-wrenching.

“So this was a mistake?”

There was a long break between you. The world was no longer silent anymore. It was deafening.

“Yes.”

The lie that rolled off his tongue sat heavy between you.

Before you could respond he was gone. Disappearing into the forest. Leaving only the marks of his touch burning on your skin.

Hopelessly in denial you went to the clearing the next night. And the night after that.

You waited for him. Wishing that he would come and sit with you like he had before. But you knew he wasn’t going to do that.

Maybe he was right. Human delirium.

You rarely saw him in Resistance, and if you did, he would be gone within seconds. Putting all his efforts into pretending you didn’t exist. There were no more quiet conversations or lingering glances.

It was as if the months you both had spent building just a fragment of something real had never existed.

But your body remembered. Your skin ached in his absence.

And every night, as you left your link, and caught your reflection, you understood what he saw.

The air was different within the Resistance now. Everyone had noticed how off the two of you were. But no one dared to comment on it. Not when So’lek was acting so unlike himself.

Yes, he was a man committed to his mission but was rarely at Resistance anymore. Spending less time working with the other instead riding solo, searching through his rosters to hunt down any unlucky name that appeared on his list.

It had been almost a month since that night. And you were growing sick of the avoidance. You were rotting from the inside out. Unable to look at yourself.

How long had you convinced yourself you could become one of them? How delusional and crazy did you look to him?

Every time you catch your reflection you stop and stare. You didn’t recognize your human self any longer, but your avatar no longer felt safe. Every waking moment in that body you felt as if your skin crawled with the ghosts of his touch. The reminiscence of his touches still grazing along your skin and scarring your heart.

And yet, you still didn’t realize what you had done wrong. Each night you were kept awake, replaying the scene in your head. What did you do to make him lash out so instantaneously?

It was a question you had grown tired of being unanswered.

“Teylan!” You called out to him as he sat in a cushioned seat of Resistance beside the other humans lockers.

Teylan was someone you always found peace with. He was a talkative boy yet, he always knew when to listen. You found it an admirable strength of his.

“Oh! Hi! Is something the matter?” He looked up from the touch pad in his hands, resting it in his lap.

“Do you know where So’lek left to today? I need to speak to him.” You spoke as if you had run a marathon, yet it was only the nerves stealing your breath away.

“Hmmm…he said something about the Bloom of echoes, but I am not too sure.” You smiled

“Thankyou Teylan!” You ran off already trying to find Anqa to convince you to give you a lift to the upper plains.

The sight was nothing you would have ever expected. A purple hue caressing the area, glowing tendrils cascading from the large bloom on the rocky ceiling. Bioluminescent foliage that changes colour with each light-footed step.

The wind whistled through out the rocky formation, the breeze thick with the song of history. With every step your heart thumped in your chest, nerves wracking within your bones frightened of what may come.

Your eyes lit up as you saw him. He was knelt on the glowing grass, head bowed down, one hand bracing himself on the earth, the other holding onto the tendril his kuru was connected to. His shoulders were hunched, his posture stripped of the rigidity you often saw him with.

You froze in your place as his head tilted up, gripping tighter onto the tendril above him. You crouched down behind him, hiding within the cover of a large bush far from where he was kneeling.

You knew you should’ve turned back. Not invaded the privacy of his prayers. But you couldn’t get your body to move.

“Forgive me.” His spoke in a low murmur. “For I fear I have chosen the wrong path.” The words left his lips with pain, as if they were opening a scabbed wound.

“I carry the guilt of surviving. I carry that with me every day. And I wonder why I was the one to survive.” His head bowed down. “My clan, my family. Their blood has soaked the soil…and for a careless moment I fear I may have forgotten who spilled it.”

The tendrils pulsed brighter, the glowing green grass below him moving with his words.

“I have opened my heart to someone who I swore never to love. And in doing so, I have forgotten the journey that I have been set on.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, gripping tightly onto the bush in front of you.

“She wears our skin. You know of the creatures their kind has created. The one of Toruk Makto.” His breath shuddered. “She wears it so much I forget what she is inside. The tawtute inside of her. The same tawtute that has slain my clan. The same tawtute that has left me here alone.”

You shakily look down at your hands and though there is no blood you cannot help but feel dirty.

“And still, I yearn for her.”

A long silence followed, So’lek’s body trembling slightly.

“I laid my hands upon her false skin and felt nothing but peace.” His voice wavered. “Peace…that I do not deserve. Not when it comes to the people that took everything from me. Not when I carry the lives of the fallen on my shoulders.”

Your eyes were blown, hands shaking as you came to a devastating realization. He was ashamed. It boiled within him from the inside out. Your body- No. This avatar revolted him. It wasn’t yours; you have fooled yourself into thinking you belonged in this skin.

So’lek was never going to be yours. That was just a fantasy.

You turned away quietly stepping out of the bush. You had to leave; you had to run. You couldn’t stand to be there anymore. You didn’t deserve to be in this sacred place not while your presence would utterly disgust the man who has occupied your thoughts for months.

As soon as you escape between a crack in the rocks you run. You run until your feet can take it no longer. Muscles burned within your skin, your chest heaved as a loud sob erupted from your body. Collapsing you to the ground.

This planet was meant to be your escape. You thought that your sacrifices, the lost time could warrant you deserving of a fresh chance. And yet you had found yourself in another prison.

Solek was still in the same position, now his breath was shallower, his head hung low as he gripped onto the grass trying to cement himself from losing himself.

“I cannot solely blame her for the sins of her kind.” He continued. “But I cannot live with myself knowing I have betrayed my people. That I have betrayed them by wanting her with every fiber of my being.”

He bowed down completely now, his forehead resting against the soft grass. “I can bear the ache of her hating me, I can bear the hurt of her distance.” The tendrils started to dim.

“Please. I know of your powers Eywa and the path you have chosen for me. Please guide me.” His words break in a sob “Take this feeling from me. Take it away, because I am not strong enough to carry both my grief and the weight of her heart.”

Only silence answered him, the grasses glow fading beneath him. The winds no longer sing in harmony. Only an offkey tune.

He ripped his kuru off the tendril, slamming his hand on the ground.

So’lek was a powerful man and bowing here in front of the evidence of a failed prayer. He felt completely powerless.

So’lek immediately noticed your distance. Yes, he had been deliberately and painfully avoiding you but you entire demeanor had diminished. You didn’t linger with Priya or Anqa anymore. You rarely spoke to any of the Sarentu. And if he happened to catch a glimpse of you on a rare occasion, it broke his heart even more.

He expected you to hate him. Shit. He wanted you to hate him, he wanted you to be furious. To give him the punishment he deserved for being so careless. But you showed no signs of anger.

Your eyes were devoid of happiness. Your mind absent. You moved like a ghost.

He knew he was being a hypocrite. That he was allowed to avoid you, but you weren’t allowed to avoid him. But nothing he had felt these past months had made any sense at all.

He started to get extremely worried when he overheard Alma’s conversations. She talked about the instability of your link bed, urging you to stop using it for just a moment. That your human body was becoming weak and sick. Her words struck him one day, urging him to do something.

“If you stay in a link too long, your human body will not recover from this. You are one link away from never waking up. In either body.”

The world shrinked around him.

So’lek had lost too many already.

He could survive losing your love, he believed he had made peace with that. But your presence? Your existence? That was something he could not endure.

Luckily you were extremely easy to find. You never covered your tracks in the forest, and you could only travel on foot. It made So’lek worry even more. You shouldn’t be alone in this forest, not if he wasn’t there to protect you.

It was how he fell in love with you in the first place. Sitting by you, keeping alert making sure you didn’t get yourself naively killed.

He spotted you sitting on the edge of the riverbed, dipping your toes into the clear water. You were sitting just as he had found you for the first time. Resting on your hands as your face was tilted up to the beaming sun, breathing in the crisp air.

“It is dangerous out here.” So’lek said softly, his voice a low hum, waking you from your trance.

“I know.” You paused, not bothering to turn around. You knew exactly who had come to find you. “I’m fine here.”

“You are not.” His steps were careful, worried he may scare you off. The lack of reply grew into an eerie silence, stretching between you. “Talk to me.” He murmured. It wasn’t a command…but a plea.

You let out a hollow laugh, rolling your eyes. “That’s rich.”

So’lek’s frame stiffened. He should have expected the hostility and yet it still made an ache grow within him. “What is wrong?”

You turned around frantically, your eyes glassy and wide. Bewildered by the audacity of his question.

“What’s wrong? Are you serious?” Your words echoed against the forest shaking your head in disbelief. “You pushed me off like I was something filthy. You won’t look at me. You act as if I have branded your skin with my touch, and then you pray-- because you must be cleansed of me.”

Your voice cracked, the tears slipping from your eyes. You turned quickly to make sure he didn’t see you break in front of him.

“Are you ashamed of me?”

The words hit him like a blade driven straight into his heart.

“What?” It was so quiet, his voice barely carried.

Ashamed.

No. He was never ashamed of you. It was never you.

“You are” you continued, tears staining your cheeks. “Of this disgusting skin I wear and call my own. Of what I am underneath it. I disgust you so much you haven’t looked at me in weeks.”

“No,” the words tumbled out of his mouth immediately “That is not-”

“Then what is it So’lek?” You turned to face him now, despite the growing tremor in your legs. “Stop lying to yourself.”

“I am ashamed.” His words were slow, carefully treading on a tightrope. “But not of you.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Then of what?”

“Myself.”

You face morphed into confusion,

“I have a mission. A mission of vengeance.” He continued. “I cannot forget what was taken from me. Who took it from me.” Your expression faltered. “And yet when I am with you…that vengeance goes away.”

He takes a deep breath, desperately trying to ground himself. “And it frightens me” he admitted “Because it feels I am betraying the fallen.”

Your breath hitched head hanging low. “So…I remind you of the people that killed your family?”

“No.” he snapped, sharper than he intended to. Immediately softening as he witnessed the shock in your face. “You remind me that I’m still here…”

A long silence followed. So’lek looking at you, waiting, begging for you to say something.

“Which is it then? Am I your peace or shame?” You waited for him to answer, his eyes dropping down to the ground as you watched him go to say something but the words never came.

 “God.” You breathed “I knew it.”

You stepped away from him, your body swaying uncomfortable. Your balance almost toppling.

So’lek reached for you, Alma’s words ringing in his head. But you swatted his hand away, pushing past him. The rejection stung more than the slap, watching you walk away realizing how horribly he fucked up.

“I never meant to hurt you.” The words came out like glass, sharp and painful. Halting you in your track. “I was-” The words bubbled in his throat hand reaching out to you. “I was afraid.”

You swayed more in your spot. Feet tumbling in front of you. The leaves crunching loudly below your feet. The colour started to drain from your face. “So’lek-” the words slurred in your mouth.

You felt your body start to go numb, your legs wobbling as they grew weak below you. Panic started to set in as a daunting feel grew.

“What? What is it?” So’lek’s arms brace you, hands tight around your shoulders.

“Something is wrong.” You murmured as you faded in and out of your consciousness, the numbness spreading throughout your body eyelids fighting to stay open.

“It’s okay.” His words were calm, but inside he was panicking. Ears stuck to his head, his hands shaking as they grasped you. His arms surging to catch you as your knees buckled, your consciousness leaving the avatar body. “Hey- no. Wake up…wake up!” He bent down hands trembling as he carried you in his arms calling for his ikran.

He needed to get back to you. Back to the other you.

So’lek held your body in his arms pushing through resistance to the human quarters. The airlock couldn’t have taken any longer. His foot twitched, thumping on the cool metal floors.

The doors hissed open and So’lek rushed out, only to be brought to a halt immediately.

The air felt wrong, stale and stuffy. It burned with every ragged inhale. The commotion grew around the link beds. All the tiny humans frantically ran around, the space blaring with alarms.

Even with all the commotion the world felt empty. He drew closer to the bed, glassy eyes and furrowed brows decorated his face. He had felt this helplessness before, 16 years ago. And as it came back up it reopened all his wounds, letting him bleed from the inside out.

So’lek saw Ri’nela and Teylan rush over to grab you off him. He didn’t want to let go, he was afraid, afraid of what may happen if he can’t protect you in his arms. But it was Ri’nela’s words that broke him out of his daze.

“She is not here So’lek…she is there.”

There.

So’lek’s body felt cold as he saw you. Your human body that laid impossibly small and still on the bed. So fragile and breakable.

Humans surrounded you, their voices frantic, yet sharp with urgency. Wires and tubes snaked in and out of your body. The blaring machines blinked and hummed, the fluorescent lights above reflecting off your skin, so devoid of any vibrance. So different to the glowing blue form he knew.

This was you. At your weakest point. So’lek couldn’t help but blame himself, that he had driven you to neglect your own self to such an extent.

You had no tail, no sharp fangs or beautiful large eyes. You were just skin and bones, purple bruises blotching beneath the surface of your thin skin.

His chest seized painfully, inching closer to try and get a closer look at the woman in front of him.

Someone spoke to him, the words drowned out by the deafening silence in his mind.

“Her body couldn’t handle the brain overload of the link. She’s gotten an intracranial hemorrhage. We need to stabilize her, reduce the swelling in her brain-”

“We cannot perform brain surgery here!” Another human interrupted

The words dissolved into noise; there was too many English words for So’lek to understand them all. He saw the helpless looks on the humans faces that surrounded you.

“This is her?” So’lek asked his voice breaking through the thunderous conversations like a bolt of lightning.

Alma looked towards So’lek, her ears flat and brows furrowed. “She is weak. She isn’t stabilizing…”

So’lek shook his head crouching next to your bed, his hand coming to cradle your face. Your head fitting into the palm of his hand. Your chest rose and fell shallowly. Each breath looked as if it were painful.

“Why are your sky medicines not working? You must do something” He paused taking a trembling breath. “You have to do something!”

“We do not have the means to. She requires surgery…her brain is bleeding So’lek. There isn’t much we can do.”

“So, you are giving up?!” So’lek snapped his hands trembling and quaking as they grazed over your weak form. “There must be something! Let there be something.”

So’lek bowed down his massive head dropping delicately onto your forehead “Do not leave me…please…I can’t- I can’t lose you too.” So’lek could feel his throat begin to close, air getting tight as he tried to calm down his breaths.

“There is something,” Ri’nela stood nervously behind him. “But it is dangerous.”

So’lek looked up to her immediately.

 “We can ask Eywa to transfer her consciousness…But if it fails-”

“She will die.” So’lek was somber, looking down at your frail form, your breaths so shallow it barely looked like you were breathing at all.

 “If we do nothing” So’lek said hoarsely “She dies anyway.”

The Bloom of Echoes shined at night. The rocks inside lighting up with bioluminescence, the grass beating with the breaths of the words. So’lek held your human body in his arms, it was so small, so weak. He was frightened if he moved himself to fast that he would crush you.

“So’lek…put her down.” Ri’nela ushered to a spot in front of her. Right in the middle of the bloom. Where the wind whistled the loudest, the bioluminescent thumbed surrounded her.

Her kuru was connected to the roots in the soil, breathing in and out, feeling the powers of the earth below her.

So’lek was gentle with both of your bodies, laying them gently onto soil. His hands came to rest on your unconscious face, hand so big, it cradled your head. “Be strong little one.” He murmured connecting his kuru to the soil below.

Ri’nela moved to connect your avatars kuru to the soil. Humming a loud prayer as the winds shifted. The tendrils of the bloom, starting to flicker, growing brighter and brighter.

The world from below started to grow onto your human form, covering you in thin white thread-like roots that found home on your skin. Ri’nela’s hands laid out over the body her hands sweeping towards the avatar.

So’lek’s head dipped down resting on the avatar’s body.

Your body.

It no longer mattered to him what form held your soul, only that you did.

He listened closely to your chest, praying to Eywa that she sensed his desperation, that his prayer before was found in a shroud of darkness and grief.

The tendrils shun a light, brighter than ever seen before. Illuminating the area as if the sunlight had directly beamed over your bodies.

Your human body let out a long exhale, weak and painful. So’lek’s eyes darted towards you. “What is happening?”

Ri’nela shook her head, her body convulsing was the lights of the tendrils started to flash erratically. So’lek bowed his head over the Avatar body, gripping onto your sides harshly “Come back to me.” He growled, panic ripping through him.

Then.

Your finger twitched.

A sharp inhale tore through your blue chest. So’lek’s head flew up violently, praying that he did not make up what he thought he heard.

Your eyes flew open.

“So’lek!” you gasped loudly.

He was cradling you instantly, large hands coming to support you. Running over your body grounding you back to the soil. You relaxed with his touches. They were warm, solid, real.

“I am here.” He hushed shaking hands coming to cradle your cheek. “You are here”

Your vision started to focus. You looked up at So’lek and down at your hands.

Your blue hands.

Your blue body.

You sucked in a sharp breath, tears rushing to your eyes as reality hit you all at once. You had woken up in this body many times before. But this felt different. There was no tug of another body waiting for you.

No.

This was you.

“I was so afraid.” You whisper out, the words are crushing as you look up at So’lek.

“I know” he whispers back, crouching next to you, his hands never leaving your body. “I was afraid too.” His eyes burned fighting back the emotions threatening to spill from his eyes.

You went to talk but the silence spoke enough. It was warm and comforting, wrapping around you both. Your body moved quickly, pulling his large one into a tight embrace. And for once he didn’t have to fight the voices inside of him.

Because with you all he felt was peace.

So’lek’s hands enveloped your body pulling it tightly into his embrace. Your breaths synced together as you finally accepted each other with no woes and sadness.

“I see you.” His voice was quiet, forehead resting against yours. “I see you now…I pray you forgive me for being so blind.”

You shook your head, nuzzling against him. “I see you.” The weight of the words lifted off your chests. Allowing in only the joy of being loved.

This time when his head dipped down to kiss you it was not ravenous. It was calm, lips moving as if it they were always meant to be there. There was no fever in his movements, no they were careful and precise.

Because when his lips melted into yours, he wasn’t desperately searching for an answer.

He was certain he had found it.

a/n: AHH okay i really hope this was good <33 i cant remember the last time i wrote something over 2k words LMAO but im definitely proud of this.

please leave an ask, comment, reblog i love to talk to u guys and i appreciate all of the love sm. okey byeebyee

[female-failure-deactivated20260]

[smuttyjane]

Twin Fangs│Chapter 1

│RDA Neteyam x Female Omatikaya Reader x RDA Lo'ak

│Word count: 6.8k

│Summary: A warrior of the Omatikaya begins to lose the only place she’s ever felt safe when two unknown hunters infiltrate her forest, her home, and her life, tracking her not as prey to kill, but as something to keep.

│MDNI Warnings: au, no smut yet sadly

Since you were a child, the village was a home to many. The elders told stories of the ancestors. Men and women became warriors and hunters. Young children were cared for while the older ones were insistent on being in the way and overly rambunctious, you excluded.

The days were filled with mundane tasks. Hunting, skinning, and cutting meat. Carving, shaping, and preparing bows and arrows. Pelts and furs were sewn together for loincloths, mothers crafted songcords for their children.

While the adults went about their day, you snuck off. The treetops blocked the sun’s rays, but the heat always found a way to spread through the air. Humidity clung to your skin, sweat beaded along your forehead where stubborn hair lay. Your feet press soft into the grass, careful to step over sharp rocks that jut out from the dark soil.

Clearings where the sun shined through were your favorite. The ground was warm and inviting, like a hug from your father on the rare nights he had time to leave his duties. Animals swung from tree to tree while insects crawled on the forest floor.

The forest carried a low constant murmur, a kind of natural hum that blends in with the nature around. Rustling leaves, distant animal calls, the creek of wood that told stories from the first songs. Even as a child you chose to appreciate it for what it was.

In some places a creek ran through, breaking up the land. You could always hear it before you saw it. The gentle trickle of water slipping smooth over the rocks, light and delicate, as if a whispered conversation was being had. Every so often, there’s a sharper note. A droplet falling from a leaf above, or the faint lap of water nudging the muddy bank. Where the current quickens, it turns into a quiet rush, a steady sound that fills the silence without overwhelming it.

The water glistened, almost as if it sparkled when you neared as it reflected your image back at you. A small girl, so young, so oblivious to the world around her. Her features were soft, loved, and cared for. Her eyes glow like a child’s does, full of life and creativity. Not a single worry passes through her mind for she knows that when she returns home, dinner would be ready and her mother would sing lullabies until her eyes shut and her breathing slowed.

When the light turns to darkness, it is difficult to escape to a reality that no longer exists.

The water no longer trickles gently, it hisses as it slips between rocks, a low, restless sound that never quite settles. What was soft in daylight becomes sharp in the dark. Every gurgle feels too loud, too sudden, like something choking beneath the surface. The forest presses in, for without light the sound stretches. Each ripple of the water echoes for a little too long. Each sound that would feel normal during the day leaves your body tense.

As the sun slips below the horizon and your reflection fades, you no longer see that young girl. You see yourself for who you truly are, the fears that consume you as you lay in bed at night, and the life you would have never chosen for yourself if you had been given the choice.

The first-born daughter of the Omatikaya Olo’eyktan and tsahik.

A daughter born to observe, deify, and expect danger at every corner. Your body never stills; your mind never quiets. The features that present themselves on your face were nothing like the ones your mother kissed lazily in the mornings. Dark circles drag beneath your eyes, exhausted, and lifeless.

Your gaze moves constantly, flicking from shadow to shadow, never lingering too long in one place. No detail goes unnoticed. The shift of a branch, the pause in animal calls, the way the air feels just slightly off. Your muscles never fully relax, shoulders tight like you’re bracing for an impact. Your ears perk up; every sound you analyze to access the dangers lurking in the shadows. Even in stillness, you maintain a coiled readiness, ensuring that you could move in an instant if something were to go wrong.

The humans were to blame.

They infected your home, your forest. Metal ships tore through the sky, screeching as they descended while choking the air with smoke and ash. The forest did not bend for them; it broke from their touch. Trees that stood for generations, telling the stories of before you were born were ripped from the ground like they meant nothing. Their roots lay exposed and dying under careless hands.

Their machines were loud, violent, unnatural, made from metal that is forbidden by Eywa. The songs of the forest were drowned out and replaced with the constant roar of engines and the crack of weapons. The balance of the forest was disrupted.

The humans did not care. They saw resources, profit, another planet to replace the one they used to kill their own Mother. It was something to strip and hollow out until nothing remained but dark soil and silence. The ground was carved open, sacred places desecrated without hesitation, without thought, like Eywa herself was something they could dig up and sell.

The language they spoke was one the Na’vi did not know. They never tried to understand the people; they would not choose to listen even if they did. They pointed weapons before words and acted like they owned a world they could not even begin to comprehend.

They called it progress. Advancement. Another chance. A new world.

But it was not progress, it was greed with a prettier name.

The sky people do not learn for they cannot see.

Something draws you from the all-consuming thoughts that circle your mind day and night. Your ears lean forward against your head as you just barely catch the sound of familiar static and heavy footsteps that dig into the forest floor. Laughs and whispers fill the air around you. Goosebumps line your skin as the hair on the back of your neck stands at attention.

It was your duty to protect the people; to protect the place you call your home. Your father made sure you were trained by the best warriors, ensuring that one day you would be able to defend those you love. He instilled honesty, discipline, and authority in you. Stealth, caution, and accuracy were areas you excelled in.

You do not move through the forest; you become a part of it. Every step is placed with care, silent against the damp ground. Your body lays low as you slip between roots and hanging vines. The night wraps around you, thick and watchful, but you know the forest breaths with you. Eywa observes those carefully who eliminate what does not belong.

You hear them before you see them. The clatter of metal, the careless crunch of boots crushing everything beneath them. Twigs snap under pressure, animals scatter from the dangers surrounding them. The humans were loud. Obvious. They tear through the undergrowth like it is theirs to destroy.

The grip you hold on to your bow tightens as you track them. They do not know the forest like you do. Broken branches. Disturbed soil. The sharp, unnatural scent of smoke and machinery that clings to the air and burns your lungs. Every sign of them feels like an insult, a wound carved into the land.

In moments like these it is hard to keep your composure. Their lack of respect, the insanity in their minds fuels the anger deep within you. You choose not to rush. Hunting is not reckless for patience is a virtue. Control is number one. You follow just out of sight, letting the forest swallow you whole into the darkness while they stumble blindly forward.

Moving just in front of him, you climb nimbly onto a branch that overhangs his path. Your breathing quiets, your heart beat slows as you will yourself to reach a place of mindfulness. You lay low. Waiting. Watching.

The moment comes quietly. A pause in their noise. A shift in the wind. Your body tenses, coiled tight, every sense sharpened to a blade’s edge. The world narrows to a singular breath, to the distance that separates him from you, to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat that the bioluminescence seems to sync with.

Then you move.

You bring yourself up to a crouch, placing an arrow flush with the bow and pulling it back. Your eyes turn to slits, your movements steady as you take aim. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, hatred rings out deep in your heart. The arrow flies from your bow, whooshing past your ear from the sheer force it is released at.

The arrow lodges itself into the side of the human, ripping his flesh, tearing through the weak body and digging itself in between the ribs and into the most precious muscle.

The heart.

A quiet thump sounds. The only man prowling the woods lay bleeding out, giving his body back to the forest. You could have sworn you heard more than one, but your job here appeared to be done.

You move before the forest can warn you twice. The kill had been clean, quick, and silent, the way it should be. The sky man barely had any time to choke on his breath before it was over. You’d already begun to pull back into the undergrowth, back into the shadows where you belonged.

The sounds of the forest do not return like they usually did. Something shifts in the air.

Not sound. Absence.

The creek’s restless murmur feels too far away, the night holds its breath. Your foot hovers just above the ground from where you descend from your perch on the branch, but your mind was screaming something you could not comprehend.

Slowly, you lower your weight, easing into stillness as you set both feet into the soft grass that line the forest floor. Your fingers tighten around your bow; every muscle was drawn tight for a reason you were oblivious to. You were ready to vanish, to strike if need be.

You turn around, facing the dark forest as your eyes adjust to the shadows that surround you.

Two figures stand tall watching your every move. Their faces were casted in the shades of night that belong to you.

They were not like the others.

No crunching from their footsteps. No careless noise. They stand between the trees like they’ve always been part of them. Still. Deliberate. Watching. Close enough that your chest tightens, but not from fear, from the sudden realization that they have been tracking you just as carefully as you had tracked their man.

Two of them. Your head tilts to the side as you become intrigued. They were no humans. Their skin was dark blue, an exact replica of your own. One has four fingers, the other three. Their yellow eyes glow against the darkness of the night. The tails behind them sway with no fear. The similarities in their faces were no coincidence. Heavy, thick vests cover their chest, protecting their organs from dangers that lurk in the forest. They hold metal weapons, ones that tear through the flesh of the people faster than you can shoot an arrow into their skulls.

You remain still as your skin burns from their gaze, but your hands grow clammy and your grip on your bow is slipping.

One shifts his stance ever so slightly, just enough to close off an escape without stepping any closer. The other does not move an inch. His gaze stays locked on you, heavy, unwavering, like he has already reached a conclusion you haven’t.

They do not speak; they do not come closer. They observe.

The forest presses in, but it does not feel like it is on your side anymore. Shadows claw at your back, begging to swallow you whole again. Your breath slows into a controlled rhythm, though your pulse pounds hard enough to echo in your ears. Running would be a mistake. You knew they would not chase you.

They would track your movements.

The same way you tracked this human.

So, you choose not to run.

For a moment, nothing moves. Not you. Not them. The space between you stretches thin, taut as a draw bowstring. Then, just barely, do you see the one who hasn’t moved tilt his head.

Not in confusion, but in interest.

A shiver runs down your spine. Thoughts race through your mind, but you come to the realization that they did not care about the human who lay dying on the forest ground behind you. They did not care that the damp soil was eager to soak up the dark red, metallic liquid that drains from his chest wound.

This is about you.

His attention sharpens in a way that makes you feel as if you had been struck with a million tiny needles that pinned you into place where you stood. Nothing about him shows anger. It was almost as if he was memorizing the way you stand, the way you breathe. As if he was committing this moment to memory so he would have it for later.

The other’s grip tightens on his weapon, but he does not raise it. They do not need to attack; they have no desire to. The grins that pulled at their lips were telling. The decision remains unspoken but heavy enough to feel.

Your steps back are slow, measured, but you do not turn away fully. You refuse to even if every instinct screams at you to disappear into the trees that beg for your presence. Their eyes stay on you the entire time, tracking every inch you give up from the space shared between the three of you.

They were letting you go.

Not with mercy.

Never that.

As a choice.

A promise.

You feel it as you slip back into the forest; the shadows curl around you once more. They do not hide you the same, the safety is gone, replaced by something colder, most constricting. This hunt is no longer yours alone.

And somewhere behind you, in the silence they left behind, it feels like they’re already following you.  

When you know you were out of their direct line of sight, you do not run. Running makes too much noise, it leaves tracks to follow. The forest that once guided you now feels unfamiliar, almost hostile. Every path looks the same even in a forest you had walked in since you could stand on your own two feet. Every shadow seemed deeper than it should be.

You move quickly, but not carelessly. Each step is placed with precision, even as urgency coils tight in your chest. Accidental footprints placed into the malleable soil were swiftly brushed away. The last thing you wanted was for them to have an easy way of finding your village.

But the urge is there, clawing at your ribs, telling you to move faster. You push it down, that was all you could do. Control was number one. That thought ran through your head over and over. One simple mistake is all it took.

They may have let you go, but they still worked for the humans. There was no telling what kind of destruction they would cause.

The sounds of the forest feel wrong now. Too loud in some places, too quiet in others. A branch creaks somewhere behind you, and your body reacts before your mind does. Your breath catches in your throat, your body tenses as your head snaps in the direction as you listen to your surroundings.

Nothing.

You keep moving.

The path you’ve walked a hundred times twists under your feet, unfamiliar in a darkness you had never experienced before. Roots catch on your feet. Low branches brush your shoulders like hands trying to slow you down. Even the creek sounds sharper now, its constant murmur no longer comforting but exposing like it might give away your position.

Your grip on your bow never loosens, you take turns switching it between your hands to wipe off the oils that make them slick. You check over your shoulder without fully turning over and over again, not enough to lose your pace, just enough to make sure nothing lurked too close.

But the worst part isn’t seeing something, it is not seeing anything at all. No footsteps. No voices. No sign of the strangers that let you fall back into the cover of the trees. And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that if you stopped moving, if you made one wrong step, they’d be there again. Silent. Watching. Waiting for the perfect moment the same way you had when you crouched low on the branch, an arrow laying flat against the bow.

By the time you near home, your body aches from the tension, from holding yourself too tight for too long. You refuse to relax. Not yet. Not when the familiar shapes of safety come into view. Something followed you here. Not through sound. Not through sight, but in the certainty that the forest no longer belongs only to you.

The forest that once cradled you as a child of Eywa, felt like it singled you out somewhere that was meant to be empty. The night wraps around you, but its form takes a new shape, as if something, or someone else lingered close behind.

The night is thinning, but it does not feel like relief. Dawn is close. So close that it presses faintly at the edges of the sky, a pale, uncertain glow trying to push back the darkness. But the forest has not fully given up yet. Everything still exists in that uneasy in between where shadows do not vanish, they just soften.

You move through anyways. Either exhaustion has a hold on you, or you are being tormented by the figures that seem to reach their claws out from behind trees to grab hold of you. Two pairs of yellow eyes show themselves frequently. A figure of your imagination, or something real and tangible, you could not tell for sure. A soft breeze blows through, leaving goosebumps along your dark blue skin in its wake.

The village is quieter at this hour. Fires are low, voices reduced to murmurs or absent entirely. Most are still asleep, wrapped in the false safety of early morning stillness. They walk the line of morning duties, and the dreams or nightmares that hold them hostage. Only a few figures move between structures, slow and unhurried.

You felt out of place.

Your steps are steady, but there is a weight to them. Not fatigue alone, something sharper. Your awareness has not dulled. Every open space throughout the village feels too exposed, every shadow between woven walls feels like it could hide something that followed you farther than it should have been able to.

The forest is behind you, but it does not feel gone.

You keep your head slightly lowered as you pass through familiar paths, not because you’re trying to hide, but because your eyes will not stop moving. They track corners, entrances, the dark gaps between structures where the night still clings stubbornly.

By the time your home comes into view, the sky has lightened just enough to outline it clearly. Familiar. Steady. It should ease something in you. It should signal the end of the night when the oranges and pinks paint the sky.

You hesitate. Just for a moment, but it was long enough to be telling. Your gaze lingers on the entrance longer than it should, searching without meaning to. Listening without sound. Waiting for something your mind refuses to name.

Nothing answers the quiet pleas from your thoughts. The village remains still. Too still for your liking. You step inside despite the urge to leave. The air shifts immediately. Warmer, enclosed, safe in a way that the forest never is. The outside dulls behind you and is replaced by the soft hush of your own space. But your body does not accept something it should not right away.

Not even when the entrance settles behind you. Not even when the first real hint of dawn begins to filter through the world outside. Safety should feel like an ending, and this doesn’t. It feels like a pause, like you’re only taking a break from the horrors that wait for you outside of your kelku.

Your body relaxes ever so slightly. Everything is where it should be. Familiar scent and memory linger in the air as some kind of reassurance.

At first, you almost believe it.

You move slowly through the space, letting your hand brush along familiar surfaces without really seeing them. Your body is still locked in survival, but here there is no movement to track, no sound to chase. Only the faint settling hush of early morning outside as people begin to rise for the day.

Then you notice it out of the corner of your eye.

Something small. Wrong. Not obvious. It shouldn’t matter at all, but it does.

A shift in weight where something used to sit. Your songcord hangs at a slightly different angle. An arrowhead you meant to come back to before losing track of time in the forest rested just a fraction of a finger’s width off from where you left it. You try to dismiss it. Maybe you moved it by accident. Maybe fatigue made you careless. You can’t find the will to pry your eyes off it. The longer you look, the more it sharpens into certainty. No damage. No disorder. Interruption.

Your fingers hover before you touch anything, like the air itself has been altered. Slowly, carefully you step closer, your breathing quiets without meaning to. Nothing else looks touched, nothing is broken, and yet your skin prickles. The detail is too precise to ignore. Too deliberate to feel accidental. Like someone did not come here to destroy, but to prove they could be here without you knowing.

Your gaze shifts across the kelku, slower now. Measuring. Rechecking. Every surface suddenly becomes a possibility waiting to be discovered instead of a comfort. Every shadow is a place where someone, or something might have stood, watched, touched, left again without being seen.

You do not find anything else, and that almost makes it worse, because now it is not about what was taken or damaged. It is about what was not. A reminder, quiet and controlled, sitting inside your home like a breath that is not yours. A realization settles in cold and steady.

They walked your path closer than you thought, predicting you before you could redirect them. They found your home, smelled your scent, touched your things, and walked through the village where your people slept unbeknownst to them.

Your day begins the same way it always has with light bleeding through the entrance of your kelku, the village stirring beneath it. You get up when you are expected to, not that you slept anyways. You move when you should. The world moves with you, whether you are truly present or not.

In the training grounds, you stand among the warriors beneath the open sky, the air sharp with movement and sound. Bows are drawn; arrows are released in clean, practiced arcs that cut through the morning like threads of intent. You train until it becomes muscle memory, until your stance, your grip, your aim becomes instinct again. Each shot is precise. Each step is controlled.

Still, there are moments, small, quiet fractures in your focus where your eyes drift too far past the targets painted onto the trees, past the sparring fighters, to the tree line beyond. Not for long. Not too obvious. Just enough to scan, to measure, to confirm nothing is there, and then you correct yourself and continue.

Training never ends. There is always something to learn, there is always someone better than you, someone who can perfect your movement.

There is more work to be done, work that requires patience instead of force.

You sit with others as you weave new arrows, hands steady as you select shafts, feathers, and stone tips with edges sharp enough to cut through the thickest skin. The process is familiar, calming almost, only on the days you let yourself relax. Each piece is smoothed into place with practiced care, binding them tightly, checking balance, ensuring flight. Your fingers know the rhythm of it. Prepare. Align. Secure. Over and over again. There can never be too many arrows.

But even here, your attention never fully softens. The way you choose materials is careful in a way it does not need to be. Always assessing. Always noticing. Always aware of what could be used, what could be missing, or what might be wrong.

After a while you visit your mother where you learn the healing properties that the forest has to offer.

The forest provides everything if you know exactly how to listen to it. Leaves that ease fever when crushed. Roots that steady breath when steeped in water. Flowers that dull pain when their sap is carefully drawn. You learn and repeat the patterns. Grinding. Mixing. Measuring by feel and memory.

The scents of it cling to your hands, bitter, sharp, clean. You listen to your mother speak, absorbing her knowledge while your hands keep working. Even here, among healing things, your body does not fully relax. You note the exits without meaning to. You sit where you can see the space around you, keeping your awareness stretched a little too far, because a part of you still remembers what it felt like to be unseen in the forest.

When you return to your parents, the Olo’eyktan and tsahik, you are the daughter they always expect you to be. They speak of the village, of balance, of responsibility, of the people’s needs. Your mother’s presence is steady, grounding in a way only a tsahik can be. Your father’s voice carries leadership, decisions made and to be made only by him. They look at you with familiarity, with trust. You answer when you are spoken to, you nod when it is appropriate, and you listen like you always have. You never let the deepest parts of you free, no matter how hard it is to deny the desire to fall to your knees and beg your mother and father to protect you.

They did not raise a weak child.

With friends, you join in where you can. Laughter rises around you, shared tasks, shared stories of life. You participate. You belong, on the surface of it all. Sometimes you forget that anything is wrong, but it only lasts briefly.

Even in the middle of familiar life, training, crafting, healing, speaking, living, there is always a part of you that remains apart from it all. A part that is still listening for something in the trees. Still measuring silence. Still watching the edges of every moment.

Days drag along. Time feels endless when you deny yourself of the one place you used to escape. The one place you could position yourself in a different reality. The one place where you imagined the little girl running through the forest as it called to her.

It does not feel like fear, it feels like loss. Like something familiar has been quietly taken out of the world and replaced with something almost the same. The forest is still there, still breathing, still alive the way it has always been. The shadows move with the wind. The trees still sway like they remember you, like they are waving at you, but you do not step into it the same anymore.

You used to belong there without thinking. As a child, the forest did not just surround you, it welcomed you. The shadows weren’t something to watch; they were something you slipped into, something that held you without question. You knew its sounds, its hidden paths. It felt like home in a way that did not need explanation. The connection you shared to the forest Eywa provided you with was one that was hard to ignore.

And yet, now there is a pause where there never used to be one. A hesitation at the edge of the trees. Your body remembers how to move forward, but something in you resists it. Not loudly. Not with panic, but with a quiet refusal that feels like betrayal. Like you are turning away from something that once knew your name.

The forest looks the same. The shadows fall the same way across the ground. The wind still moves through the leaves like a language only you used to understand. But now, when you look into it, there’s something else layered beneath it.

Uncertainty.

You do not know if it is still the same place that held you as a child, or if something else had learned to stand inside it where it could not be seen. Something watching the way you hesitate. Something that remembers you just as clearly as you remember it.

You stop going as deep into the forest. You do not use it as a way to escape anymore. You stay closer to the village. You take longer routes. You tell yourself it is nothing, only the caution that was instilled in you since a young age. That it is just responsibility, just the weight of everything else that keeps you from the forest.

It does not change the ache inside you. It does not dull the call you feel from it. It does not rid the shadows from clawing at your skin when you unintentionally become trapped in them.

It feels wrong to avoid something you used to give yourself completely to, like refusing to speak a language you were born with. Like stepping away from something that shaped you before you ever understood what you were becoming.

And sometimes, late in the day when the light softens and the forest calls in a way that used to feel like comfort, you choose to stand at the edge and feel it most sharply.

At first, you tell yourself it’s a coincidence. A broken branch that was not there the day before, a faint shift in the undergrowth when you pass through a familiar path. The feeling of something just outside the corner of your peripheral vision, gone the moment you try to face it directly.

You never stop walking.

You continue your routine as if nothing has changed. You go to training. You help with supplies. You move through the village the way you always have. Steady. Useful. Visible. And all the while, you start to notice the pattern you wished you would never see.

The trails are never quite yours anymore. Not fully. A larger footprint where yours should be alone. A disturbance in the brush that does not match your movement. The slightest delay in the way the forest settles after you pass through it, like something else is learning how to follow the shape you leave behind.

You try to rationalize everything. Other hunters. Other movements. The forest is shared, after all, but the time is too precise, too patient. You begin to notice how consistent it becomes. How it starts to feel less like random presence and more like observation. Like something is studying you in layers.

Where you pause. How long you stay. When you return.

It learns you. Quietly. Carefully.

You are no longer just moving through your life; you are repeating it.

There are moments when you see them, just for a fraction of a second, as if they were taunting you. A shift in the tree line that does not belong. A stillness that holds too long to be natural. The brief outline of something that vanishes the moment your eyes lock onto it.

You never react. Not outwardly, because reacting would turn uncertainty into confirmation, and confirmation changes everything. So, you pretend not to notice. You continue your path. You finish your tasks. You only speak when spoken to. You let your expression stay calm, controlled, unchanged. If they are watching, then you refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break your rhythm from the fear of them.

But inside, something settles. Not panic. Not denial anymore. Understanding. They are there. They have been there and they are learning you the same way you once learned the forest. Patiently. Silently. Without ever revealing themselves fully at the wrong moment.

Something constant. Unspoken. Inescapable. Even the forest begins to feel different because of it.

Shared.

In the quiet spaces between training, between duties, between breaths, you start to accept it for what it was. You are no longer moving along through any of it. Somewhere just beyond sight, just beyond certainty, they are still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Adjusting to you just as much as you have been forced to adjust to them.

The restlessness builds slowly.

It starts as something small, an inability to settle, a weight beneath your skin that will not ease no matter how still you try to be. The village sleeps around you, wrapped in the quiet hush of night slipping toward morning, but you lie awake, staring into darkness that feels too close, too tight.

You beg yourself to stay.

You don’t.

The moment you step beyond your kelku, the air changes. Cooler. Sharper. The kind of night that used to welcome you without question. For a second, just a second, it almost feels the same. Familiar.

You follow it without thinking, your feet finding paths you mind has not agreed to take. The deeper you go, the quieter everything becomes, until the sounds of the village fall away completely, swallowed by the living breath of the forest.

It calls to you. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just… there.

The same pull you have known since you were small, threading through your chest, guiding you forward with a certainty that feels older than fear and for the first time in days, you don’t fight it. You let it take you.

The creek comes into view like a memory you have stepped back into. Water slipping over stone, silver in the low light of the moon, its sound steady and endless. Almost like a vision, you see the little girl perched over the bank of the water, gazing at her reflection. Her nails dig into the soft damp soil, her hair lays crazy, and untamed. Her tail swings lazily with content. She makes silly faces, laughing quietly to herself as she enjoys the company she shares with the forest. And when night comes, the shadows surround her, hide her from the dangers that lurk. The dark fingers slide across her dark blue skin, cradling her like a mother would.

It should calm you, and it almost does.

You don’t notice them at first, because the shadows feel right again. They wrap around you the way they used to, soft and familiar, hiding you instead of exposing you. The forest seems to settle, to accept you back into it, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that nothing has changed. That whatever followed you before stayed away from this place that has always soothed you.

But the shadows do not belong to you anymore. They shift too carefully. They hold too still. They breathe in a way the forest never has.

They are there, just beyond your focus, just out of sight. Hidden not because they cannot be seen, but because they choose when to be. For now, they observe.

You kneel at the edge of the creek, the cool air brushing against your skin as you dip your hands into the water. It is colder than you expect, biting enough to make you inhale sharply as you bring it to your face. The sensation grounds you, pulls you back into your body, back into something real.

For a moment, everything quiets. As if the forest waits for you.

Your shoulders loosen. Your breathing steadies. The weight you have been carrying shifts just enough to let something else through, something softer, something deeper.

You close your eyes, and you begin to sing.

It is quiet at first, your voice is barely heard above the water’s murmur. A song you have known your whole life, one that belongs to Eywa, to the forest, to everything that connects you to this place beyond fear or doubt. One that you would sing to the shadows when the sun sank past the horizon. One that you could swear the shadows hummed to when the wind brought your voice to them.

The notes come easier than you expect, slipping free like they have been waiting for this moment. The forest listens intently, almost like it was begging for more, the creek carries the sound, weaving it into the night, letting it echo just enough to feel alive. The bioluminescence seems to pulse with the rhythm of your voice. And for the first time since it all began, you feel something close to peace, fragile, fleeting, but real.

Your song continues. Your body sways with the forest, you let it guide you. Tears prick your eyes; emotions you have pushed down for weeks are brought to the surface. This song has not fallen from your lips since you were the same little girl looking at her reflection in the crystal-clear creek.

The word of Eywa consumes you. It drowns your fears and replaces them with peace, but it never did last long.

As you sing the last words of the song, you hang your head low resting your hands along the stone at the creek’s edge, oblivious to your surroundings. The moon provides just enough light to reflect you off the surface. Tears stain your cheeks. Your eyes dilate from the usual slits of uncertainty they maintained. The small dots in your skin glow, pulsing at the rate of your heartbeat.

You do not hear them move. You feel it. That shift in the air. That presence pressing closer, no longer hiding at the edges of the trees you have watched for some time now. Your ears lay flat against your head, and your tail flicks to attention behind you.

The shadows release them like they were never separate to begin with, their forms emerging between the trees with a quiet certainty that makes your breath still. They move like one, but two were always there. They have been there the entire time. Watching. Waiting. Listening. Like they always did.

For a moment, no one moves. The creek keeps running, soft and steady, like it does not understand what has shifted. Your last note still hangs in the air, thinner now, fragile, before it disappears completely into the night.

Silence follows. Not empty. Not peaceful. But tight.

You do not turn right away. Your hands remain braced against the stone at the creek’s edge, water dripping slowly from your fingers, your breath no longer steady as it was moments before. You feel them, closer now, no longer hidden, no longer pretending. It is different like this. Worse even. Before they were shadows. Uncertain. Distant. Now they are real.

You straighten slowly, every movement controlled, deliberate. When you finally turn, it is not with surprise, it is with something quieter. Something heavier.

They stand a few paces back, just beyond the edge of the water, where the trees begin. No rush. No raised weapons. Just presence as if they thought it would be enough.

They are watching you the way they have since the night in the forest. Only now, you’re watching back. Up close, they do not look like the others you have hunted. There is no carelessness in them. No loud, clumsy energy. They carry themselves with the same stillness you do, the same patience.

Hunters. But their game was different.

They stood closer than before. Your gaze rakes down both of them. They appear so similar, but the way they held themselves made it easy to tell them apart. One was antsy, the other was patient. One had braids that fell to his shoulders, the other tied his back and shaved the sides of his head. His face was calm and collected, the patient one. Whereas the antsy one seemed to bounce from feet to feet, his eyes told his emotions.

Slowly, they clap as they walk closer. Their boots dig into the dark soil; twigs break under their weight. The shadows seem to laugh at you from afar, and betrayal runs deep through your bones.

“Wow. Amazing. And here I was thinking our little birdy was avoiding us.”

You lift your gaze ever so slightly.

Their smiles come mirrored and deliberate. Twin fangs press into their bottom lips, dimpling the skin as if they have done it a thousand times before.

[sunmoonsweets]

this is so good I’m so overly invested LMAO I’m radio rebel looking up at them 👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅

[neteyamurmakto]

Neteyamur Makto

I reblog fanfiction of Avatar characters, especially my love Neteyam and my man Tonowari.

Neteyam Character Analysis

If there are any issues with the links, please let me know through an ask or a comment!

Reading List ˙⋆✮

Neteyam, My Love

(Loooovee his bioluminescent freckles)

Tonowari, My Man

So'lek

Jake Sully

Neytiri

Lo'ak

Ao'nung

Ralak

Tsu'tey

Wukula

Miles Quaritch

Poly

Random Fanfics and Materialists

Sully Family & Tsika Family (ft. Spider and Rotxo)