synopsis: it only took Neteyam one time to see you smile at someone else for him to finally realize how he did not want to have to pretend having a platonic relationship with you anymore.
contents & pairing/s: neteyam x fem! omatikaya! reader.
part two to platonic horror
Geniuses. It was a heavy word, defined by an exceptional intellect or a skill that bordered on the divine. At twenty, Neteyam carried that definition like a second skin. As the heir to the Omaticaya, he was a masterpiece of expectations met, a warrior whose grace was matched only by the strategic sharpness of his mind. His grandmother, the Tsahìk, saw it. The clan felt it.
But Neteyam’s world wasn’t built solely on duty. It was built on her.
Y/n. She was the daughter of a fallen warrior—orphaned by a war she did not witness. A girl who had traded weaving needles for obsidian spears at thirteen. While other girls were learning the rhythm of the loom, Y/n was learning the rhythm of the hunt, her eyes reflecting a fierce hunger to be seen as more than a tragedy. They had grown up as mirrors of one another—two souls forged in the heat of training and the quiet of the forest.
He knew the calluses on her palms. He knew the specific way she held her breath before releasing an arrow. He had been her guardian, her spar-mate, and her confidant. He told himself he cared for her with the protective duty of a brother, yet he watched her with the soul-deep intensity of a man who had already chosen his mate, even if his mind was too stubborn to admit it.
The village was alive, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and the golden glow of a massive central bonfire. Dancers swayed in the center, their bodies painted in shimmering bioluminescence.
"That is Asïm," Or’du whispered, leaning into the circle of young warriors. "Ninat’s daughter. See how she moves? Like the river itself."
The young men leaned in, captivated. Neteyam, however, sat with his spine straight, his fingers tracing the rim of his wooden bowl. He glanced at the dancers—they were beautiful, certainly—but his eyes felt restless. They didn’t want "beautiful." They wanted home.
She would look better in those silks, Neteyam thought, his gaze drifting away from the performers. He could see it clearly: Y/n, with butterfly residue dusted across her cheekbones, her fierce eyes softened by the firelight, wearing the diadem of a lead dancer. The thought made his chest tighten with a sudden, sharp ache.
He found her in the shadows near the edge of the hall. She was laughing with Kiri and other younger girls, her head tilted back, exposing the graceful line of her throat. She looked so relaxed, so untouchable, that Neteyam felt a surge of possessive heat. He didn't just want to look at her; he wanted to be the reason she was smiling.
"Why are you staring at Y/n again?" Tsan’ti nudged him, a playful, knowing smirk on his face. "Focus, brother! There are five girls over there trying to catch the future Olo'eyktan’s eye, and you’re busy doing a head count of your sister’s friends."
"I am not staring," Neteyam lied, his voice like gravel. "I am... observing the perimeter."
"Right. And I’m a Leonopteryx," Tsan’ti laughed.
Neteyam stood to leave, needing to clear the fog of her from his brain, but he was immediately intercepted. Asïm and An’tem, two of the lead dancers, slid toward him like silk.
"Neteyam," Asïm purred, her hand sliding boldly onto his forearm, her fingers tracing the corded muscle there. "The night is young. Why leave the music behind?"
Neteyam froze. The touch felt invasive, wrong. His eyes instinctively darted across the clearing to see if Y/n was watching. She was. Her head was tilted, her expression unreadable—half-amused, half-observant.
Don’t look at me like I’m a prize they’ve won, he pleaded silently.
"Dance with us, my prince," the other girl whispered, leaning close enough that her breath fanned his neck.
Neteyam’s patience snapped. He pulled his arm back with a sharp, jarring motion. "It’s not happening," he said, his voice cold enough to cut through the humid night air. "I am not picking any of you. Find another partner."
One of the girls gasped, her lower lip trembling at the blunt rejection, but Neteyam didn't care. He turned on his heel, his eyes searching for Y/n, ready to walk over and reclaim his place by her side.
But the space beside her was no longer empty.
A young warrior named Hárim had slid into the spot Kiri had vacated. He was leaning in close—too close—whispering something into Y/n’s ear. And then, the sound that broke Neteyam’s composure: Y/n laughed. Not a polite, clan-gathering laugh, but a genuine, bright sound that belonged only to her.
Neteyam felt as though he had been struck in the solar plexus. The "brotherly" mask he wore cracked, revealing a raw, jagged jealousy that burned like acid.
"That’s Hárim," Kiri’s voice appeared at his shoulder, dripping with intentional mischief. "In case you were wondering who was making her enjoy the night."
"I wasn't wondering," Neteyam snapped, his tail lashing behind him, nearly knocking over a basket.
"And, oh, brother. He’s very romantic," Kiri continued, leaning against a post and watching her brother crumble. "He brought her a rare forest orchid earlier. I think she’s considering him. He’d be a strong mate, don't you think?"
Neteyam’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. He watched Hárim reach out and playfully nudge Y/n’s shoulder. Y/n didn’t pull away.
"She hardly knows him," Neteyam muttered, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Oh, I don't know," Kiri hummed, adding the final spark to the flame. "Sometimes a girl just wants someone who isn't afraid to show he wants her. Maybe she's tired of waiting for someone else to open his eyes."
Neteyam didn't respond. He couldn't. His heart was drumming a war beat against his ribs. He watched Y/n smile at Hárim again, and in that moment, the "genius" prince realized he had been a fool.
He didn't want to be her guardian. He didn't want to be her brother. He wanted to walk over there, drag her away from the firelight, and make sure she never laughed at another man’s jokes for the rest of her life.
"She is mine to guard," he whispered to the shadows, his eyes locked on her.
"Then go guard her, big brother," Kiri smirked. "Before someone else takes the post."
Neteyam didn’t just walk; he prowled.
The heat of the bonfire was nothing compared to the slow burn under his skin as he watched Hárim lean closer to Y/n, his hand hovering near hers as he spoke. Every laugh that left Y/n’s lips felt like a needle pricking at Neteyam’s pride. He had spent years being the one she turned to, the one who earned those smiles. Seeing them gifted to someone else felt like a betrayal he wasn't prepared for.
"I have never seen that flower in this part of the forest," Y/n was saying, her voice soft and full of genuine interest. She was looking at a small, glowing blossom Hárim held out to her. "It’s beautiful, Hárim. You really went all the way to the high cliffs for this?"
"For you? I would have gone further," Hárim replied, his voice dropping into a tone that made Neteyam’s ears twitch.
"Y/n."
Neteyam’s voice broke through their bubble like a crack of thunder. Both of them looked up, and for a fleeting second, Neteyam felt a pang of hurt when he saw the flicker of disappointment on Y/n’s face at the interruption. She didn't look at him with her usual warmth; she looked at him like he was a stray gust of wind ruining a calm day.
"Neteyam," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I thought you were busy."
"They are gone," he said shortly, stepping into the space between them, his presence looming. He looked at Hárim, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. "The evening meal is concluding. My father requires a word with the young warriors regarding tomorrow's patrol."
It was a lie—or at least, a very loose interpretation of a command—but it worked. Hárim looked between the two of them, sensing the sudden tension radiating off the prince.
"Of course," Hárim said, standing up. He turned back to Y/n, his expression softening. "I hope to finish our conversation later, Y/n. Perhaps we can walk to the river tomorrow?"
Y/n smiled—a real, lingering smile that made Neteyam’s heart sink. "I would like that, Hárim. Thank you for the gift."
As Hárim walked away, the silence between Neteyam and Y/n grew heavy. She didn't look at him. She flicked the petals of the flower Hárim had given her, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in her throat.
"You're being quiet," she noted, finally glancing up at him. "And you look like you’ve been eating sour berries. What is it, Neteyam?"
"You like him," Neteyam said, the words tasting like ash. He couldn't hide the hurt in his voice anymore. The "perfect heir" was gone, replaced by a boy who felt like his world was tilting on its axis. "You actually like him."
Y/n stood up, brushing the dirt from her legs. "He is kind. Fine. He listens. And he doesn't treat me like someone he has to lecture or a soldier he has to train. It's... nice, Neteyam. To be looked at differently."
Neteyam flinched. The jealousy that had been roaring in him suddenly quieted into something much more painful: realization. He had spent so much time being her "guardian" that he had forgotten to be her heart.
"I don't look at you like a sister," he whispered, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her. The bravado was gone. His tail was low, and his eyes were wide, searching hers with a desperate sort of honesty. "I never have. I was just... too afraid of losing what we had to ask for what I actually wanted."
Y/n went still, her fingers pausing on the flower. "And what do you want, Neteyam?"
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, a silent plea.
"I want to be the one who brings you flowers," he murmured, dipping his head sideways ad his voice cracking with a sudden, overwhelming sweetness. "I want to be the one you laugh with. I want to... I want to court you, Y/n. Properly. If you’ll let me."
The air between them changed. The sounds of the feast faded into the background. Y/n looked down at the flower in her hand, then back up at him. A small, shy dimple appeared in her cheek—the one that only showed when she was truly happy.
"The high cliffs are a long walk, Neteyam," she whispered, her voice teasing but soft, her eyes shining with a hidden invitation. "And those orchids only bloom at dawn."
She didn't say yes directly, but she didn't walk away. Instead, she reached out and briefly, tentatively, let her fingers brush against his wrist—the same spot where the other girls had tried to grab him, but her touch felt like a blessing.
"I’ll be awake at dawn," she added, her voice a soft promise. "I suppose I could see what kind of gift a prince brings before I make up my mind about the river."
Neteyam felt the breath rush back into his lungs, his heart doing a frantic, happy dance. He watched her walk away toward her own tent, her steps light, leaving him standing there in the cooling embers of the fire, finally knowing exactly where he belonged.
This is super clichè lol. Tell me if you guys want a part 2!!
pairing/content: so’lek x tamtey/the sarentu. established relationship between so'le and tam'tey. jealous sarentu. marking and scenting.
note/spoilers: rimu is a canon character from the comic, she appears in so’lek’s journey. The young so’lek fell in love with her during his time with the Tipani clan.
synopsis: So’lek and Tamtey have found peace in their bond. While trekking through the dense Tipani jungles, they rescue an injured Tipani warrior, leading the reclusive Tipani clan to grant them shelter for the night. The reunion between So'lek and the clan takes an awkward turn when they meet Rimu, the clan’s Tsahìk, with whom So’lek shared a complicated, unfinished past. And Tamtey is not having any of it.
Word count: 3.5k
The mist felt heavier as they transitioned from the open forest into the ancient, shadowed groves of the Tipani, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of the RDA’s nearby destruction. So’lek moved with a predatory silence, his footsteps making no sound on the mulch, his eyes scanning the canopy with a sharp, instinctive familiarity that didn't escape Tamtey. Even with the weight of the stretcher, he seemed to belong to the darkness here, his body leaning into the gloom as if it were an old friend.
"You move differently here," Tamtey whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant drone of a Samson helicopter. Tamtey watched the way So’lek’s ears flicked at every minute rustle, his body coiled like a spring. "Like you’re expecting the trees to jump at you. You’re more... alert. Even for you."
She adjusted her grip on the handles carrying the unconscious Tswìke—a Tipani warrior they had pulled from a pile of smoldering wreckage just an hour prior. The young warrior had been caught in the crossfire of an RDA clearing operation, his breathing now shallow and labored against the moss-covered stretcher.
So’lek let out a low, huffed breath, his tail twitching in a rhythmic arc. "In Tipani territory, they usually do. They are the shadows of the forest, and they do not take kindly to those who stomp through their home like RDA heavy-suits. I spent many moons here after my clan was lost.”
Tamtey frowned at the idea of So’lek being alone. He looked at her and sighed. “It was years ago. I was angry, reckless—a wounded animal looking for a fight I couldn't win. The Tipani did not pity me; they hunted me until I learned to disappear. They taught me that a warrior without silence is just a target, and a target is eventually a corpse."
He paused, his gaze flickering upward to a specific high branch, thick with glowing moss, that overhung a sheer drop.
For a moment, his stern features relaxed into something resembling a memory. "A Tipani, Rimu is her name, used to challenge me to climbs no Na’vi would ever dream of. She would leap before she looked, trusting the wind to catch her. She was... impressive. She had a way of seeing through the anger I carried."
Tamtey tilted her head, her curiosity piqued by the rare, localized softness in his tone. She felt a small tug of something she couldn't quite name—a desire to know every version of the man standing before her, even the one that belonged to another clan’s history. "Did she teach you the 'Boogeyman' glare too, ma So’lek? Or was she the one who softened you?"
So’lek stopped walking for a heartbeat, turning his head to look back at her. The bioluminescence of the jungle cast deep blue shadows across his face, making his golden eyes burn with a sudden, concentrated heat. His expression remained unreadable for a moment, the mask of the veteran warrior firmly in place, before a small, private twitch of his lips appeared—a smile meant only for her.
"Rimu did not seek to soften anything," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that vibrated in Tamtey's chest. "She tried to sharpen me into a spear that would never break." He stepped a fraction closer, the scent of rain and old leather clinging to him. "You are the only one who ever managed to find the man beneath the armor, ma’Tamtey. You are the only one who softened the blade."
The hiss from the trees cut their conversation short.
As Tipani warriors descended, So’lek’s shift was instantaneous. He stepped in front of Tamtey, his broad frame obscuring her completely, his hand not on his weapon, but held out in a gesture of firm authority.
The Tipani warriors moved with a silence that felt like a weight, their shadows blending into the dark bark of the trees. As the couple began the trek toward the main camp, So’lek didn’t move from Tamtey’s side. His hand stayed firm on the small of her back, a possessive, grounding touch that signaled to every hidden watcher that she was under his protection.
So’lek stepped in front of Tamtey, his body a literal shield. "We bring your brother, Tswìke! We come in peace, and we seek to help with the crab-blight the Sky People have caused."
The warriors hesitated until a woman stepped forward, her presence commanding. It was Rimu, now the Tsahìk of the clan. Her eyes widened as they landed on So’lek.
"So’lek?" she breathed, ignoring Tamtey entirely. "The 'Boogeyman' returns to us. And you’ve brought a... student? A Sarentu child?"
Tamtey noticed how Rimu’s tail gave a sharp, agitated flick every time she glanced back and saw them so close. Rimu’s gaze was fixed on So'lek, tracing the scars on his arms and the heavy RDA trophies on his chest, completely ignoring the woman beside him.
"You have grown into a formidable warrior, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice projecting back to him, ignoring the rustle of the leaves. "The boy I knew was fast, but this man... you look as though you have forgotten how to laugh. Perhaps the Tipani can remind you of the fire you once carried."
So’lek’s expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly against Tamtey’s waist. "The fire I carry is not the one you remember, Rimu. I have found a new purpose. My path is no longer solitary."
Rimu let out a short, dismissive breath. "Purpose is a heavy thing. Usually, it is shared with equals, not with those who need a guide through the brush." She stopped at the edge of a high platform and finally looked at Tamtey, her eyes cold and scanning. "I hope the Sarentu is as quick as she is colorful.”
“She is good.” So’lek affirms. Rimu eyes them both and Tamtey met her gaze with a steady, defiant look.
“Follow. But keep the Sarentu close. Our shadows do not play well with strangers."
As Tswìke was whisked away to the healers, the clan gathered around the central fire, the flickering orange light dancing off the sharp edges of Tipani armor. Rimu took her place beside So’lek, leaning in so close their shoulders nearly brushed, her presence a deliberate invasion of space.
"I heard stories of you, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice dropping into a melodic purr that carried over the crackle of the wood. "They say you carry the metal of the Sky People like trophies now. I remember when you only carried the weight of your bow and a restless spirit. We could take to the skies tonight, for old time's sake? The Great Canopy is beautiful under the full moon, and the winds are just as they were when we were young."
Tamtey, sitting on So’lek’s other side, felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the fire. She saw the way Rimu’s eyes traced the lines of So’lek’s face, looking for a boy who no longer existed. Without breaking gaze with the Tsahìk, Tamtey reached out, plucking a sweet piece of roasted fruit and holding it directly to So’lek’s mouth.
"Eat, ma So’lek," she said, her voice smooth but commanding, a soft edge of steel beneath the words. "You need your strength if we are to hunt the RDA. You cannot afford to be distracted by... memories."
So’lek didn't hesitate; he accepted the food from her hand and fed himself, his golden eyes meeting Tamtey’s with an intensity that clearly signaled where his loyalty lay.
But Rimu only smiled thinly, her tail flicking with annoyance. "He was always a big eater," she remarked dismissively. "I remember sharing my kills with him when he had nothing but his hunger and his grief. He was always so grateful for what I provided."
The air between the two women grew heavy and sharp. When Rimu eventually stood, she didn't just gesture toward the maps; she placed a hand firmly on So’lek’s shoulder, her fingers lingering on the leather strap of his armor to pull him toward the map tables.
Tamtey’s patience snapped. As she rose to follow, her movement was a blur of calculated Sarentu grace. She "carefully" nudged a heavy ceramic bowl filled with thick, purple grain mash sitting on the edge of the stone hearth. It didn't just spill; it launched, coating the hem of Rimu’s ornate hide wrap and splashing across her embroidered boots.
"Oh! My apologies, Tsahìk," Tamtey gasped, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that didn't match the steady, defiant fire in her eyes. She stood tall, refusing to look down at the mess. "I suppose I haven't spent enough time 'in the shadows' to find my footing here."
Rimu froze, the purple mash dripping slowly from her fine clothing. The surrounding warriors went silent, their eyes darting between their Tsahìk and the Sarentu woman who had just dared to mark her territory.
In the dim, bioluminescent glow of their guest shelter, the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the sharp metallic tang of whetstone on steel. So’lek leaned against the curved wooden wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Tamtey. She was sitting on the edge of their sleeping furs, her jaw set in a hard line as she sharpened her hunting knife with aggressive, rhythmic precision. Each stroke of the blade was a testament to the fire burning beneath her skin.
"You are angry," So’lek stated plainly, his deep voice vibrating in the small space.
Tamtey didn't look up, her focus remaining entirely on the edge of the blade. "She thinks I’m a child who found her way into the wrong woods. She thinks you are a trophy she simply misplaced and is now ready to reclaim," she retorted, the words coming out sharp and fast. She finally looked up at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of hurt and fury. "And you... you just let her. You sat there and let her talk about 'old times' while she looked at you like you were the last hunt on Pandora. Like I wasn't even sitting right beside you."
So’lek didn't pull away or offer a hollow defense. Instead, he pushed off the wall and walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt on the furs between her knees, a gesture of humility that was rare for a warrior of his standing. Gently, he reached out and took the knife from her hand, setting it aside on the floor.
He reached up, wrapping his large, calloused hands around her wrists and pulling them toward his neck. The intensity in his golden eyes softened, turning into something molten and devoted. "Then remind her, ma Tamtey," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "Remind her. Remind the Tipani. Remind the whole forest."
He bowed his head, intentionally baring the sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders—a profound gesture of total surrender and trust among the Na'vi. It was an invitation for her to claim him in the most ancient way they knew.
Tamtey didn't hesitate. The anger in her chest dissolved into a fierce, protective warmth. She leaned forward, closing the small gap between them. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, rubbing her cheek and brow firmly against his skin. She marked him with the distinct, sweet-woodland scent of the Sarentu—a fragrance of crushed moss, rain, and wild herbs.
It was a deep, lingering claim, a sensory seal that would stay on his skin for days, signaling to any other Na'vi exactly who he belonged to. So’lek let out a low, shaky groan of contentment, the tension finally leaving his massive frame. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the shelter fading into insignificance.
"Better?" he rumbled against her skin, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her own.
Tamtey pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders, tracing the marks she had made. A small, satisfied smile finally touched her lips.
"Better?" he asked softly. "Better," she replied, her fire replaced by a calm, steady confidence. So'lek gave her a quick peck on the lips and smiled sweetly.
They returned to the communal fire together. This time, Tamtey didn't hover. She reclaimed her Sarentu roots, moving gracefully toward a group of Tipani hunters and their children. She began to share stories of the western frontier, her voice melodic and diplomatic, charming the clan members as she ate. She intentionally left So’lek to himself, knowing the mark she had left on him spoke louder than words.
Rimu approached So’lek, her eyes flashing with anger as she gestured to her ruined robes. "It is unbecoming of a Sarentu to pour food on a clan’s Tsahìk," she hissed, her voice sharp. "They are meant to be diplomats, peacemakers. Your companion lacks the discipline of her people."
Rimu was never an angry person, so’lek remembered her to be a warm and welcoming friend. Perhaps only time knew how much she had changed. So’lek looked at Rimu, then his gaze drifted to Tamtey, who was laughing with the children across the hearth.
"Can you really blame her, Rimu?" he asked, his voice calm and unapologetic.
Rimu gave him a sharp, piercing look. "I regretted letting you go, So’lek," she whispered, her voice softening with a sudden, heavy longing. "I often wonder what would have happened if I had asked you to stay, if we had bonded back then—"
“Rimu.”
Before the words could go any deeper, So’lek stopped her. He didn't speak; he simply looked at her with eyes that were no longer searching, but entirely settled. He turned his head, his gaze locking onto Tamtey as she began a small dance with the Tipani children, her light reflecting in the fire. The look in his eyes was one of total devotion—the look of a man who was already home.
Rimu followed his gaze, seeing the way Tamtey moved and the way So’lek’s entire spirit seemed to lean toward her. She smelled the heavy, sweet scent of the Sarentu girl clinging to him, a mark she could never erase.
Rimu let out a long, heavy sigh, the fight leaving her shoulders. She looked away, finally realizing that the boy from her past was gone, and the man standing before her belonged to someone else. She lowered her head slightly, a silent acknowledgement of defeat, and gave up.
The golden light of Pandora’s morning filtered through the dense Tipani canopy as So’lek and Tamtey readied their gear for departure. The tension from the night before hadn't entirely vanished, but it had shifted. So’lek moved with a new sense of ease, his hand frequently finding the small of Tamtey’s back, a quiet but firm reminder to the entire clan of where he stood.
While Tamtey crouched to say her goodbyes to the group of Tipani children who had followed her all morning, Rimu approached So’lek one last time near the scouting maps.
"She is... spirited," Rimu said, her voice tight as she watched Tamtey laugh while a young girl tucked a blossom behind her ear. "But she is a diplomat, So’lek. A peacemaker. Is that truly what the 'Boogeyman' needs to survive this war? Or is she just a habit you’ve picked up because you grew tired of being alone?"
So’lek’s face hardened at Rimu’s words. “Sometimes it is best to keep some thoughts to ourselves.”
His eyes fixed on Tamtey, softening in a way Rimu had never seen during his years as a hardened survivor. "Tamtey is not a habit," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "She is the only reason I still have a heart worth protecting. Can you blame her for being fierce, Rimu? She has a warrior to keep in line."
He turned his gaze back to Rimu, and for the first time, she saw it clearly—the look of a man who was no longer searching for a place to belong. Rimu looked away, a long, weary sigh escaping her.
"I see. The shadows have truly lost you to the light, then."
As they prepared to mount their Ikrans, Rimu stepped toward Tamtey. The children were clinging to Tamtey’s leggings, reluctant to let their new storyteller go.
“Come back, Tam’tey!” One of the children says, a pang of sadness in their voice. “We enjoy your stories! Visit us next time—continue the story of Toruk!”
“Certainly.” Tamtey laughed, muffling their hands in pure joy.
"You should come back, Sarentu," Rimu said, her tone finally holding a touch of genuine respect. She strided towards them, hand behind her back, footsteps quiet. "The children will miss you dearly. You have a way with them that we lack."
Tamtey, still furious at Rimu’s earlier obliviousness and the way she had looked at So’lek, gave the Tsahìk a sharp cold shoulder. Enough for Rimu to notice but not be visible to the children as she shushed them back to their parents. She adjusted her Ikran’s harness without looking up. "I will come back for them," Tamtey replied shortly. "I’ll come alone next time. The children are wonderful, and they deserve to hear more from the world."
Rimu hesitated, then looked at So’lek before turning her eyes back to Tamtey. "Take care of him, Sarentu. He has been through so much."
Tamtey swung up onto her Ikran, looking down at Rimu with a fierce, possessive glint in her eyes. "Do not tell me how to treat my man, Tipani," she said, her voice echoing with the strength of a woman who had fought for every inch of her happiness. "I know exactly what he needs."
With a sharp cry, Tamtey took to the sky, and So’lek followed close behind, his Ikran’s wings beating in perfect rhythm with hers as they left the shadows of the Tipani behind.
The wind roared past the two, carrying the scent of the open plains and the freedom of the sky. They took to the sky, the wind rushing past them. So’lek brought his Ikran level with hers, watching the way the sunlight caught the Sarentu beads in her hair.
"You were good with those children," So’lek shouted over the wind. "The Sarentu were always a small clan... but it doesn't have to stay that way."
Tamtey’s ears perked up in surprise, eyes widened, a blush creeping up her neck. "So’lek! Are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?"
He let out a rare, booming laugh, diving his Ikran toward the canopy below. "I am saying that I am a man of the Sarentu now, ma Tamtey! And my clan needs a future. Are you fast enough to catch me and discuss it?"
Tamtey felt her heart hammer against her ribs, not from the flight, but from the weight of So’lek’s words. She looked over at him, seeing the way the sunlight hit his face, erasing the "Boogeyman" and leaving only the man she loved—the man who had just invited her to build a future that had once seemed impossible.
"So’lek!" Tamtey called out, her voice a mix of shock and blossoming joy. "You cannot just say something like that and then dive away!"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward, his Ikran, Ìley, shrieking in delight as they banked into a steep, plummeting dive toward the shimmering treetops. So’lek looked back over his shoulder, a look of pure, unburdened mischief in his eyes.
Tamtey didn't hesitate. She urged her Ikran forward, the great wings snapping shut as she mirrored his dive. "I am a Sarentu!" she yelled into the wind, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across her face. "I am faster than any grumpy warrior from the shadows!"
They raced through the clouds, weaving between floating mountains and spiraling through the golden haze of the morning. Their laughter echoed to the plains. For the first time in a long time, the war felt far away. There was no RDA, no Tipani, and no Rimu—only the two of them and the promise of a clan reborn.
As they leveled out over a sparkling waterfall, So’lek slowed his pace just enough for her to catch up. He reached out his hand, and for a fleeting second, their fingers brushed in the open air.
"I am serious, ma Tamtey," he said, his voice dropping into a warmth that carried clearly even over the wind. "The Sarentu traditions must be passed on. And I can think of no one better to teach them than a mother who is as fierce as she is kind."
Tamtey’s eyes softened, her hand lingering near his as they soared toward their home. "Then we have a lot to prepare for, ma So’lek. But first, let’s get home."
synopsis: Driven by a fierce jealousy he can no longer hide, Neteyam risks his life on a grueling quest to claim the legendary Tosli orchid—a pulsing flower that represents the ultimate declaration of love.
contents: neteyam x fem! omatikaya! reader. part two to platonic horror!
enjoy! reblog if you guys like it! also check out my avatar x av frontiers of pandora ff (neteyam x f!reader, solek x gender fluid sarentu)
The bioluminescence of the High Camp usually brought Neteyam a sense of peace, but tonight, the soft pulse of the woods felt like a ticking clock. While his brothers and sisters lay tangled in sleep, Neteyam sat hunched over a flickering glow-lamp, his eyes scanning the delicate, weathered fibers of the ancient weaving-scrolls.
These weren't just maps of the stars or lineages of the Olo’eyktan; these were the private observations of the Tsahìk, his grandmother. He moved aside a heavy record of medicinal mosses, his fingers trembling slightly from a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline, until he found it.
A sketch, faint and shimmering with silver-ink: The Tosli.
The description was written in a formal, archaic dialect that felt more like poetry than botany. It was a phantom of the Hallelujah Mountains, a flower that thrived in the "Mist of the First Ancestors"—the treacherous, gravity-defying crevices where the floating mountains wept waterfalls into the void.
According to legend, the Tosli didn't just grow; it chose its moment. It was said to be sensitive to the energy of the forest, blooming only when the air was thick with the promise of a soul-binding connection. Its deep crimson petals didn't just glow—they surged. Each rhythmic flash of light was timed to a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute thrum, mimicking the resting heart of a Na’vi.
To the Omaticaya, bringing a Tosli back was more than a gesture. It was a testament of survival and singular focus. To traverse the "U’tìl" (the jagged underside of the floating islands) where the Shadow-Stalkers prowled, just to pluck a single bloom, was the ultimate declaration. It said, I have walked the edge of the world to bring you the rhythm of my life.
Neteyam traced the drawing of the orchid’s spiraled stem. He could almost hear the teasing lilt in Y/n’s voice from earlier, the way she had looked at Hárim as if she were considering a life without Neteyam at the center of it. The thought was a cold splash of water to his soul.
He closed the scroll with a decisive thud. He didn't need sleep. He needed to prove that while Hárim could offer her the comfort of the river, Neteyam would offer her the very heart of Pandora. He stood, checking the tension on his bowstring, his golden eyes fixed on the distant, floating shadows of the mountains. He wasn't just going for a flower; he was going to reclaim his future.
The sky was a canvas of deep violet and shimmering teal, the first light of Pandora creeping over the horizon like a secret. Neteyam moved through the High Camp with a sharp, restless energy. Every strap of his leather gear was pulled tighter than necessary, his knife sheathed with a definitive click. He looked like a warrior prepared for a Great Hunt, but his mind was focused on a single, fragile bloom.
Then, he saw them.
Near the dying embers of the communal hearth, Y/n was adjusting the strap of her quiver. The morning mist clung to her skin, making the bioluminescent patterns on her shoulders glow with a soft, ethereal light. She looked devastating. Standing far too close was Hárim, leaning in with a smile that made Neteyam’s blood simmer.
"The water is calmest at this hour," Hárim was saying, his voice a smooth, low murmur that felt like an insult to Neteyam’s ears. "The river lilies are opening, Y/n. They only show that specific shade of blue for a few minutes after dawn. I’d like to show you."
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into their space, his presence looming like a storm cloud. He didn't just walk over; he occupied the air between them.
"I am heading out," Neteyam announced. His voice was deeper than usual, carrying the practiced weight of a future Olo’eyktan.
Y/n looked up, her eyes sparking with an unreadable emotion—surprise, perhaps, or a hint of the same mischief from the night before. "So early, Neteyam? The sun hasn't even cleared the canopy."
Neteyam ignored Hárim entirely, focusing solely on her. "The clan needs fresh meat for the evening feast. I intend to bring back something substantial—something a true warrior provides." He shot a pointed, jagged glance at Hárim. "Something more than just... lilies."
The insult hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Hárim stiffened, his smile faltering as he recognized the challenge in the Prince's golden eyes.
Neteyam turned back to Y/n, his posture softening just enough to let her see the raw, pleading honesty beneath his bravado. "I will be back by the time the sun is high. Wait for the feast, Y/n. The best is yet to come."
Y/n tilted her head, her gaze drifting over the scratches on his arms from the night’s training, then back to his intense, burning eyes. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "A substantial hunt, then? Don't let your ambition outpace your bow, Neteyam. Try not to come back empty-handed."
"I won't," he promised, his voice a low vow.
As he turned to stride toward the ikran cliffs, a hand clamped onto his bicep, pulling him back. He nearly spun around with his knife drawn before he saw Lo’ak’s crooked, mocking grin.
"Going after the orchid, aren't you?" Lo’ak whispered, leaning in so the others wouldn't hear. "I saw you hovering over Grandma’s scrolls last night. You’re crazy, bro. That flower grows in places even the ikran are afraid to fly."
Neteyam gripped Lo’ak’s shoulder, his fingers digging in with desperate urgency. "Lo’ak, listen to me. I need you to watch him." He jerked his chin toward Hárim, who was already trying to regain Y/n’s attention. "Do not let him take her to that river. I don't care what you have to do. Be loud, be annoying, break something—just keep her here."
Lo’ak’s eyes widened, then a slow, wicked light danced in them. This was the kind of mission he was born for. "You want me to cockblock a warrior for the future King? Say no more."
"I'm serious, Lo'ak," Neteyam hissed, his jealousy flaring as he saw Hárim laugh at something Y/n said. "If I come back and they are gone..."
"Relax, Brother," Lo’ak gave a mock salute, his grin widening. "I’ll enlist Spider and Kiri. We’ll be a nightmare. By the time you get back, Hárim will be begging for mercy, and Y/n will be so bored of his face she’ll be sprinting to meet you. Just get the flower. Don't die."
Neteyam nodded once, cast one last lingering, possessive look at Y/n, and flew toward the cliffs. He had a mountain to climb, a monster to fight, and a heart to win.
The air grew thin and frigid as Neteyam ascended. The Hallelujah Mountains were a labyrinth of floating islands and jagged archways, but he pushed his ikran, Ciraya, higher than they had ever ventured, into the "Mist of the First Ancestors." The clouds here were thick enough to swallow an Ikran whole, dampening the sound of the world below until all Neteyam could hear was his own ragged breathing and the thrumming of his heart.
He left his ikran on a narrow ledge, the beast huffing a nervous warning as Neteyam began the climb on foot.
“Do not worry, friend. I will be back.” He pressed his forehead to his ikran before releasing the bond.
The rock was slick with moss and ancient condensation, crumbling under his grip like wet sand. Twice, his foot slipped, sending a shower of stones into the bottomless white abyss below. But every time his muscles screamed or his spirit wavered, he saw Y/n’s face—the way she looked at Hárim, the way she had laughed. It was a fuel more potent than any adrenaline.
"You are not losing her," he hissed to himself, his fingers digging into a narrow crevice. "Not to him. Not to anyone."
The cave mouth was a jagged wound in the side of a massive, suspended peak. Inside, the world was silent, save for the rhythmic drip-drop of water. And then, he heard it.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was the Tosli. Deep in the shadows, a cluster of orchids pulsed with a crimson light so vibrant it looked like fresh blood under the skin. They were breathtaking, their petals curling like delicate fingers, glowing in a steady, seventy-beat-per-minute rhythm.
But as he stepped forward, the darkness shifted.
The Palulukan-yä-kì’—the Shadow-Stalker—emerged from the ceiling. It was a nightmare of obsidian scales and pale, milky eyes, built for the pitch-black. It didn't roar; it hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe.
The fight was a chaotic blur. Neteyam moved with the grace of a warrior, but the creature was faster in the dark. A set of claws raked across his chest, tearing through his leather harness and deep into his skin. He gasped, the metallic scent of his own blood filling his nose. He struck back with his obsidian knife, the blade singing as it sliced through the air. He managed to drive the creature back into the deeper recesses of the cave, but the effort was immense.
As he reached for the most perfect, central orchid—the one whose pulse was the strongest—the world began to tilt. The loss of blood, the lack of sleep, and the sheer physical toll of the climb finally caught up. His knees buckled. The last thing he saw was the red glow of the flower before his world went black.
In the depths of his unconsciousness, her voice was the only thing that could reach him. “Neteyam...” It wasn't a scream, but a soft, fleeting whisper that felt more like a memory of her laughter by the fire.
He jerked awake, his golden eyes snapping open to find the cave illuminated not by the gentle violet of the predawn, but by a harsh, accusing amber. The sun had already cleared the horizon.
"Skxawng!" The curse ripped from his throat, echoing off the damp, crystalline walls. Every muscle in his chest felt like it was being seared by a hot iron as he scrambled to his feet. The adrenaline masked the true depth of the gashes on his ribs, but the sight of the high sun made his heart plummet.
He was late.
He had promised to be back by midday, and the shadows on the cave floor told him he was dangerously close to losing his chance.
He didn't have time for a tactical retreat. His eyes locked onto the central Tosli. It was perfect—a deep, pulsing crimson that seemed to throb with an inner life. He snatched it, his hands shaking slightly, and wrapped it in the soft, treated leather he’d prepared. He tucked the bundle against his bare chest, feeling the faint, rhythmic heat of the flower against his skin.
Behind him, the darkness hissed. The Shadow-Stalker, sensing its prize was being stolen, let out a screech that set Neteyam’s teeth on edge. The clicking of its many-jointed limbs against the stone grew louder, faster.
Neteyam didn't look back. He sprinted toward the blinding light of the cave's mouth, his boots skidding on the slick, mossy floor. The cave didn't end in a path; it ended in a jagged drop of thousands of feet into the misty abyss. He could hear the creature’s claws raking the stone just inches behind his heels, the scent of its damp, musk-filled breath hitting his neck.
He didn't wait. He didn't calculate the trajectory. He tucked his chin, hugged the flower to his heart, and threw himself into the void waiting at the opening of the cave.
"Ciraya!"
The whistle was a jagged, desperate sound, torn from lungs filled with mountain air and blood. For three terrifying seconds, the world was nothing but a roar of wind and the biting cold of the mist. Neteyam was a stone falling through the sky, his open wounds stinging as the air whipped past them. Then, a massive shadow blotted out the sun.
Ciraya dived beneath him with a screech of her own, her wings snapping open with a thunderous crack that vibrated through Neteyam’s very bones. He slammed onto the saddle, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs, but his hands instinctively gripped the neck-strap.
Safely mounted, he let out a victory cry—a raw, primal sound that tore through the mountain peaks and scattered the smaller forest birds. He pulled the leather bundle back just enough to check his prize. In the daylight, the red glow was even more mesmerizing. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"Fast, girl!" he urged, leaning low over Ciraya’s neck. His voice was thick with a mix of triumph and a mounting, suffocating anxiety. "Faster! The river... the date... we have to stop it!"
As they soared toward the High Camp, the reality of his appearance dawned on him. He was covered in a thick layer of grey mountain silt and dried blood; his hair was a matted mess of twigs and cave moss, and a dark stain was spreading across his midsection. He looked less like the poised prince of the Omaticaya and more like a man who had fought his way out of the mouth of a demon. He did not even have the hunt he had promised to bring.
But as he clutched the pulsing orchid, he didn't care about his dignity. He only cared about the girl who was currently walking toward the river with another man because it took him too long to realize he wanted her.
The atmosphere at the High Camp had reached a fever pitch of coordinated desperation. Lo’ak, Spider, and Kiri had formed a human—and Na’vi—barricade around Y/n, who was dressed in her finest woven hunting leathers, her hair braided with fresh beads for her outing.
"But Y/n! The tension is all wrong! If I try to hunt with this bowstring, it’ll snap and hit me in the eye!" Lo’ak wailed, physically tugging at her arm to steer her away from the path leading to the river.
"And the bug, Y/n! It’s huge! It has like, twelve legs and it’s glowing purple!" Spider added, dancing in front of Hárim to block his view. "Kiri says it might be poisonous, or worse—it might be a sign from Eywa that we shouldn't leave the kitchen area!"
Kiri just stood by with her arms crossed, nodding solemnly. "It’s a very spiritual bug, Y/n. You really shouldn't leave until we’ve... identified its aura."
Y/n pressed her palm to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. She wasn't a fool; she knew exactly why the Sully siblings were acting like they’d lost their minds. She looked over at Hárim, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot, clutching a small basket of fruit he’d gathered for their stroll.
"Is the river... still happening?" Hárim asked tentatively, sounding like a man who was beginning to realize he’d stepped into a family circus.
Just as Y/n was about to answer, the sky seemed to split open. The heavy, rhythmic thrum-thrum of Ikran wings beat against the camp, and Ciraya came screaming in at an angle that was far too steep for a graceful landing. She skidded into the clearing, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust and scattering the younger children.
Neteyam didn't wait for her to stop. He tumbled off the saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He looked horrific. He was caked in grey mountain silt, his chest was striped with deep, jagged gashes that were still sluggishly weeping blood, and he smelled like a mix of ancient cave rot and wet moss. Most notably, his hands were empty of any game.
"Neteyam?" Lo'ak blurted out, staring at his brother’s battered state. "Where’s the... uh... the 'substantial hunt' you promised?"
Neteyam didn't even hear him. He was stumbling toward Y/n, his golden eyes blown wide and fixed entirely on her face. The relief that flooded him when he saw she was still in camp—not at the river, not with Hárim—made him nearly lightheaded.
"You're here," he panted, his voice a raspy shadow of itself. He came to a halt right in front of her, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "I... I have it. I made it back."
The silence that followed was deafening. Y/n stared at him, her eyes traveling from his matted hair down to the blood soaking his loincloth. For a moment, she looked stunned. Then, her face twisted into a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.
"Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan!"
She shrieked. She stepped forward and jabbed a sharp finger directly into the center of his chest, right between two fresh claw marks. "Look at you! You look like a snack for a Thanator! You look like you went through a meat grinder and came out the wrong side!"
Now would've been a nice time to fawn at her, but he didn't want to make it seem that her concern was being disregarded. Neteyam winced, hiding the bundle behind his back. "Y/n, wait—"
"No! What were you thinking?" she yelled, her voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. How the table have flipped. It was now Neteyam being parented.
The older Na’vi and even the elders stopped their work to watch, hiding amused smiles behind their hands. "You are the future Olo’eyktan! You go out claiming you're going to feed the clan, and you come back empty-handed, smelling like a swamp, and half-dead? For what? A 'hunt'? Where is the meat, Neteyam? Where is the 'warrior's provision'?"
Hárim watched this explosion and slowly lowered his basket of fruit. He saw the way Y/n was looking at Neteyam—the way her hands were shaking, not with anger, but with a frantic, desperate fear for his life. It was a look she had never given him.
Hárim realized then that he was a footnote in a story that had been written long before he arrived. With a heavy sigh, he turned and faded into the crowd, leaving his river lilies behind.
"I must patch him up before he bleeds out on the dirt and embarrasses us further!" Y/n snapped at Lo’ak and Kiri. She grabbed Neteyam’s ear—hard—and began dragging him toward Mo’at’s healing hut.
"Ow—Y/n, wait, the flower—" Neteyam hissed, stumbling after her, but he was secretly grinning. She was holding him. She was worried. She was his.
The air inside Mo’at’s hut was thick with the scent of crushed mountain sage and dried yavo, a stark contrast to the mud and metallic tang of blood clinging to Neteyam. The heavy flap of the entrance fell shut, muffling the chaotic whispers of the camp outside.
Mo’at, the Tsahìk, looked up from her bowls. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, swept over Neteyam’s battered frame and the fierce, protective set of Y/n’s jaw. She didn't say a word; she simply gathered a few fresh bandages and moved into the shadows of the rear alcove, leaving the central mat to the two of them.
Y/n pushed Neteyam down onto the woven fibers. She was vibrating with a restless, angry energy, her tail lashing behind her like a whip. "You are a fool, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan," she hissed, her voice cracking under the weight of her worry. "A complete and utter skxawng!"
Neteyam didn't winced at her tone. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, watching her with an exhausted, dazed smile that made his golden eyes shimmer. "You’re very pretty when you’re angry," he murmured, his voice raspy from the mountain chill.
Y/n’s hands, which had been reaching for a bowl of water, faltered mid-air. Her ears twitched violently, a deep, sunset pink flushing across her cheekbones. "Shut up," she whispered, though the bite was gone from her voice. "You smell like a bog and you look like you’ve been chewed on by a Palulukan. Sit still."
She began to wipe away the grime and dried blood from his chest, her touch surprisingly light despite her scolding. Every time he hissed in pain, her expression softened into one of pained empathy.
"I have something for you," Neteyam said softly. He reached into the hidden fold of his leather vest and pulled out the small, blood-stained bundle. He held it out to her like it was a piece of his own soul.
Y/n took it tentatively. As she unwrapped the leather, the hut was suddenly bathed in a rhythmic, crimson light. The Tosliorchid sat in her palm, its petals translucent and pulsing with a deep, steady glow—thump-thump, thump-thump.
She went completely still. She knew the legends. She knew that to find this flower, he had to have climbed into the Mist of the First Ancestors, a place where even the bravest hunters feared to tread. He hadn't gone on a hunt for meat; he had gone on a hunt for her.
She stared at it for a long heartbeat, her eyes welling with a sudden, overwhelming heat. Then, she reached out and plucked a thick, glowing petal.
"Wait! No!" Neteyam cried, trying to sit up, his hand reaching out to stop her. "Y/n, I almost died for that! It's for you... to wear in your hair. To show the clan."
"It is for me," Y/n said, her voice steady and low. She dropped the petal into a stone mortar and began to grind it with a pestle. The scent of sweet, sharp mint filled the air. She mixed the glowing red paste with a bit of medicinal fat, then leaned in close—so close that Neteyam could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. "And I am using it to heal what is mine."
She took a dollop of the red cream on her fingertips and rubbed it gently over the dark bruise on his cheek. The cooling sensation was instantaneous, the throbbing pain vanishing as if it had never been there.
The silence between them was no longer tense; it was thick with everything they hadn't said for years. Y/n’s thumb lingered on his cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw. She looked into his eyes, her gaze searching and raw.
"This flower... the legends say it heals the heart of the one who receives it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the hearth. "My heart feels very healed, Neteyam. But if you ever risk your life like this again, I will be the one who finishes what that Shadow-Stalker started."
Neteyam leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her and the minty orchid. "Does this mean the river date is cancelled?" he asked, a hint of his usual playful arrogance returning.
Y/n let out a soft, shaky laugh, her nose brushing against his. "I think I’d rather stay here. I have a lot of scratches to tend to, and I don't think you're in any condition to go walking."
She pulled back just an inch, her eyes reflecting the soft red pulse of the remaining orchid petals. "But Neteyam?"
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow... you're staying in the camp. With me."
"As you wish, sevin," he murmured, his heart finally beating in the same slow, steady rhythm as the Tosli lying on the cloth between them.
ugghhh poor harim!! i absolutely loved writing this! I had to come up with many stuff, i hope its accurate to the world building HAHA
also if you guys have any ideas but can't write as of the moment, feel free to request!
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝙉𝘼𝘾𝙆 𝙎𝘼𝘾𝙍𝙄𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙀 bakugo katsuki x reader! fluff! part 1 2 3 4 5
The cafeteria was a warzone. Lines everywhere, no seats left, and Bakugo somehow acquired the last pack of your favourite snack—the one he always fights people for.
You stared at it. Then at him.
His jaw clenched. “Don’t even look at me like that.”
“You know that’s my favorite.”
“And? Survival of the fittest.”
You shrugged dramatically. “Fine. Guess I’ll starve.”
For someone who “did not care,” he caved in immediately.
Bakugo tossed the snack onto your tray like he was slapping down evidence in a crime drama.
“Take it. God. You’re so dramatic.”
You blinked. “You’re giving it to me?”
“I don’t want it anymore.”
That was a lie. You knew it. His friends knew it. The cafeteria lady probably knew it.
He spent the rest of lunch stealing shy glances at you like he wanted to ask if you liked it.
But no, of course not. Bakugo Katsuki did not care.
can I request fluff for bakugo pleaseee like him pretending not to care for his crush
sorry it took so long anon! in return, I'll make this into a series lol
¹𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗕𝗔𝗞𝗨𝗚𝗢 𝗞𝗔𝗧𝗦𝗨𝗞𝗜 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗗 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙃𝙊𝙊𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙉𝙏 bakugo katsuki x reader! fluff! part 1 2 3 4 5
It was cold. Not tragic, not life-threatening—just the kind of cold that sneaks under your sleeves and refuses to leave. You shivered once, barely, and Bakugo noticed immediately.
Of course he did. He notices everything even though he pretends he’s legally blind.
Without warning, something soft and warm hit you in the face.
It was his hoodie.
His favourite hoodie.
“Take it,” he said, looking anywhere but you. “You look like a sad, freezing raccoon.”
You raised a brow. “Aw, do you care about me?”
His face did something complicated—like a glitching animation.
“No. I just don’t want you catching a cold and complaining about it in class. It’d be annoying.”
But when you slipped it on, he smiled at you. Barely. Quickly. Softly.
And he didn’t take it back for two whole days.
He also didn’t mention the way he stared at you whenever you wore it.
Content: katsuki bakugo with glasses isn't an office siren, he's more of an attractive dwight schrute imo. gender neutral reader. drabble. fluff. i just saw these pictures on pinterest and I watched myself cook.
Katsuki Bakugo rubbed his temples as he squinted at the whiteboard in the training room. The writing blurred together, a hazy mess that made his already limited patience dwindle faster than usual. His vision had been weird ever since that run-in with a villain wielding a blinding quirk during his internship with Best Jeanist. The doctor had said his sight would recover in a few weeks, but the lingering effects were starting to piss him off real bad.
“Bakugo, you okay?”
Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. You were sitting beside him, your head tilted slightly as you observed his uncharacteristic struggle.
He's been rubbing and rubbing his eyes that you're worried they'd pop off any moment now. Damn, he can't even focus on his notes of fucking course cause he can't read it with the stupid combination of fucking astigmatism, myopia and glaucoma.
“I’m fine,” he grumbled, averting his gaze.
You weren’t convinced and, of course, you were concerned. “Doesn’t look like it. You’ve been squinting at everything for the past few days. Maybe you should get your eyes checked again.”
“Tch, I don’t need a damn checkup,” he snapped, but his annoyance lacked its usual bite. You frowned.
“Come on,” you said, standing and grabbing his arm. “What’s the harm in getting it checked? If there’s nothing wrong, great. If there is, we’ll figure it out.”
He sighed, realizing you wouldn’t let this go. “Fine. But if this is a waste of time, I’m blaming you.”
It's a good thing you two were still in school grounds, it means Recovery Girl is no more than a few halls away from where you and bakugo were studying at.
The clinic was quiet when you arrived, and Recovery Girl was quick to examine Bakugo’s eyes. After a series of tests, the diagnosis was clear: his vision was still recovering, but for the time being, he needed glasses to help him see more clearly.
Bakugo’s expression was a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “Glasses? Seriously?”
“It’s just temporary,” Recovery Girl assured him. She then walked towards a closet in the far back and whipped out what seemed to be nerd glasses. “Here, try these.”
The doctor handed Bakugo a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He put them on reluctantly, and you had to stifle a laugh when you saw the way his eyes looked magnified through the lenses.
“What’s so damn funny?” he snapped, narrowing his newly enlarged eyes at you.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, but—oh my god, Katsuki! You look like a cartoon character!”
He scowled, but there was a faint pink tint to his cheeks. Despite his irritation, there was something oddly satisfying about seeing you laugh like that.
"I'd put a bow on that glasses if you'd let me! All you need now are beaver teeth and you'll be a certified goof ball!" You laughed, basically breathless. Even Recovery Girl couldn't help but stiffle a laugh.
“Shut the hell up,” he muttered, taking the prescription and storming out, but not before glancing back to catch you still grinning.
The next day, Bakugo walked into class wearing his new glasses. The room went silent for about three seconds before the laughter began. Even Todoroki and Tokoyami couldn't help their grin, their lips twitched in amusement.
“Bakugo!” Kaminari wheezed, clutching his sides. “You look like a scientist!”
"Whoah! Bakubro! I feel like I'm in a 3D movie with those lenses!" Kirishima added, laughing even harder than Kaminari.
"Heavens, Bakugo, Is that magnifying glass? Or are you just that eager to start class?" Even Iida couldn't help himself and added to the chaos. Bakugo was starting to erupt.
“I bet he can spot a typo on a billboard from a mile away with those,” Mina chimed in, tears of laughter streaming down her face.
"I bet he's craving bananas!" Mineta boomed. Unlucky for him, he was within Bakugo's range and got his ahh exploded.
“Shut the hell up!” Bakugo roared, his hands sparking ominously.
But his outburst only made them laugh harder.
You, sitting at your desk, couldn’t stop giggling either. You already had the laugh of your life when you saw him wear it for the first time, now you had the chance to actually examine him with glasses. “I think he looks cute,” you said loud enough for him to hear, still smiling.
Bakugo froze but his hands were still in the middle of choking Kaminari and Mineta, his glare snapping to you. “What? You didn't think it was yesterday,”
“It is cute though. Now that I stare at you more," you repeated, a teasing lilt in your voice. “The glasses suit you.”
He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your words. The classroom fell silent, everyone holding their breath to see how he’d react.
“Hypocrite,” he muttered, finally settling, sitting down and turning his attention to his notes. But you didn’t miss the way his ears turned red, or the way he didn’t try to blast anyone after that.
I think he looks cute! The glasses suits you... now that I stare at you more. I think he looks cute! It's cute though. I think he looks cute! Chanted at the back of his mind over and over. SHUT UP!
The next day, Bakugo showed up to class without his glasses. The change was immediate—everyone noticed, but no one dared comment on it. His glare alone was enough to keep them quiet.
During lunch, you slid into the seat next to him. “Eee? No glasses today?”
“Wearing contacts,” he replied curtly, poking at his food.
“Why? The glasses were cute,” you said, resting your chin in your hand as your gaze sauntered off.
He gave you a side-eye glance, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly when you weren't looking at him. “Yeah, well, I’m not here to entertain you idiots.”
You pouted dramatically. “I liked the glasses. I thought for sure you'd wear them until you get better. I never thought you'd like contacts. Are you ever gonna wear them again?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “That’s not good enough, Bakugo.”
“Tch,” he muttered, pushing his tray aside. “I’ll wear ’em during our study sessions, alright? Happy now?”
You blinked, caught off guard by his casual mention of your study time together. But you smiles nevertheless. “Oh. Yeah, that works! Lemme decorate it!”
“The damn glasses are not mine, idiot. But whatever,” He stood abruptly, leaving you alone at the table, your cheeks warm and your heart racing.
True to his word, Bakugo showed up to your next study session wearing his glasses. You couldn’t help but smile as he sat down across from you, his usual scowl softened by the frames perched on his nose.
“You know,” you said, flipping through your notes, “I think I like you better with glasses. You looked extra goofy cute.”
He snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. I’m ditching these things the second my eyes are back to normal.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the fondness in your smile. “Whatever you say, Bakugo.”
For the rest of the session, the two of you worked in comfortable silence, broken only by your occasional teasing and his gruff responses. At one point, you scribbled a tiny pink bow to which you cut out and Bakugo actually agreed with your request to put it temporarily on it. And though he’d never admit it out loud, Katsuki Bakugo didn’t mind the glasses so much when it meant he got to see you smile like that.
Content: part 2 to this. Part 3 (smau) You made a fool of yourself and confessed to your longtime crush, what an idiot. Luckily, he seemed to want to give you his answer to your confession. After all, Bakugo is a nice guy!
The familiar sound of drills and machinery filled the air as Katsuki Bakugo stepped into the support course's tech division. The sharp smell of metal and grease was everywhere, but he didn’t pay it any mind. His crimson eyes scanned the room, searching for the only person he wanted to see.
“Yo! Dynamight!” Hatsume Mei’s energetic voice cut through the chaos as she popped up from behind a pile of half-finished projects. Her goggles were askew, and there was a streak of oil on her cheek. “Looking for more gauntlet upgrades? I’ve been working on a prototype that—”
“I’m not here for you,” Bakugo interrupted, his tone blunt.
Hatsume blinked in surprise, then tilted her head with a knowing grin. “Oh? Then who are you here for?”
“Y/n,” Bakugo said without hesitation, crossing his arms. His gaze flickered around the room again, as if just saying your name would summon you.
Hatsume’s grin widened into something mischievous. “Ahhh, I see.” She leaned closer, tapping her chin dramatically. “You’re here for y/n, huh?”
“Yeah, so?” he snapped, his ears tinging pink. He's kind of shrinking too, that's what Hatsumei saw. “Where is she?”
Hatsume didn’t bother hiding her amusement. “She’s in the back, working on some designs. I'm sure you know where her cubicle is. Should I call her for you?”
“I’ll go myself,” Bakugo grunted, already moving toward the far corner of the workshop.
As he approached, he spotted you hunched over a drafting table, completely absorbed in your work. Your brows were furrowed, your pencil moving quickly as you scribbled down notes and adjustments. For a moment, he just stood there, watching you in your element, his heart doing that stupid thing where it felt too big for his chest.
“Oi,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the machinery around you.
You jolted, nearly dropping your pencil as you turned to see him. “Senpai? What are you doing here?”
“I need something made,” he said simply, stepping closer. He's practically invading your space, causing your legs to wobble.
You blinked, caught off guard. “But Hatsume usually handles your requests.”
“Well, I don’t want that nerd,” he said, his tone firm. “I want you.”
Your face immediately flushed, and you looked away, fumbling with the pencil in your hand. There was a few moment of silence before Bakugo broke it off with a cough, his cheeks going dangerously red.
“Oh. Um, okay. What do you need then?”
He handed you a rough sketch he’d scrawled out himself—a new attachment for his gauntlets, something designed to improve their efficiency in close combat, and it's also an efficient way he could think of to reply to your confession.
“Think you can handle it?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost teasing. He looked into your eyes and followed every glance, he wants you to look at him.
You studied the sketch, your nerves slowly settling as your focus shifted to the project. But you went back to your flustered state, there's a huge possibility you won't be able to stop thinking about him while making his gear.
“Yeah, I can do it. Definetly, haha... It’ll take a few days, though. I'll have to check in with you... for adjustments, of course... if, if needed.” You were stuttering, and you were pink. He was bound to know how you felt to his little scheme, he himself was excited for some reason.
“Good,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll come back to check on it first thing tomorrow.”
You still hadn't looked at his face, Bakugo was starting to feel flustered. "You don't have anything else to add?" You asked.
"Nope," Then he whispers, "Do you have something to say?"
You looked at him. Bakugo could feel his breath hitch, he regretted asking. He enjoyed your giddiness, but he doesn't want to trouble you. But the thing is, you knew exactly what he was talking about but no words could leave your mouth. So you two just looked at each other, cheeks flushed.
"I, I have free time this afternoon," Your fingers trembled and fidgeted, that was not how you wanted your answer to sound! At this point, just ask him out. "So— So! I'll do your gear! Th, Thank you for trusting me!"
Bakugo blinked and stared at you as you pretend to be immersed on his design sketch.
"I'll be patient with you. No pressure, nerd." Bakugo sighed, then he snickered. "I'll see you then."
He left, you swore you saw him smile. Or maybe you were hallucinating. Maybe this whole thing was an hallucination. Heck, he isn't even usually like that. Isn't he supposed to be brash? And loud? And.. everything else.
From her spot across the room, Hatsume watched the interaction with a gleeful expression. As soon as Bakugo left, she bounced over to you, barely containing her excitement.
“He totally just confessed to you,” she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“What? No, he just—”
“Oh, come on, as if he'd say 'I want you' to anyone!” Hatsume interrupted, mimicking Bakugo's words and mannerisms. She did kind of wanted to look silly as she copied him.
“And! He asked for you specifically! That guy doesn’t do anything without a reason. He's pretty dumb. You should’ve seen the way he said your name.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? It’s adorable!” Hatsume grinned, giving you an encouraging nudge as she walked away, giggling to herself. She knew all along, mainly because she's the one who set you up. “Damn, I didn't know I would get a free subscription to a romcom show when I enrolled in U.A.”
You sighed, glancing down at the sketch Bakugo had left behind. Although you can't ignore how you heart beated so fast in your chest. To your surprise, you saw something else written the longer you scanned into the paper.
'XXXX-XXX-XXXX call message me '
- katsuki
Immediately, as if someone told you to, you snatched the paper from your desk and screamed mentally. You've been crushing on the third year student the moment you laid eyes on him, of course you'd feel like screaming.
"He even wrote his first name." You whispered as you looked at the paper for the second time.
There was something about the way he looked at you earlier, something unspoken but unmistakable. And for the first time, you felt a spark of excitement bubbling beneath your nerves.
