-`♡´- kiri x reader | TÌYAWN TRR — PANDORA’S DAY OF LOVE
a/n | this oneshot was probably my favorite to write, i love the sully's so so much. and kiri is such a joy to write ahhhh i love her character sm <333 and yay happy valentine's!! hope everyone has amazing day!! ❤️
synopsis | atokirina’ are said to drift toward the one your heart longs for. kiri calls it Tìyawn Trr superstition until you sit beside her and the glowing seeds fall into her hair.
Tìyawn Trr arrived like it always did for the Omatikaya—carried on warm breezes and bright morning light, filling the forest with a gentle hum of hope. The day honored chosen bonds, whether between lovers, close friends, or family. Decorations sprouted across the Home Tree as if Eywa herself encouraged the celebration: woven cords dyed in violet pigments hung from high branches, clusters of fresh heartseeds dangled from rafters, and children darted through the roots with gifts for their friends clutched tightly in their hands. Songs drifted from every level of the village, soft melodies rising like threads of color weaving the People together.
For most Omatikaya, the day inspired a hush of excitement. Couples exchanged handmade offerings. Friends created bracelets of seeds or carved small figures in wood. Elders whispered old stories of the first hearts braided under Eywa’s gaze. Everything glowed with shared sentiment.
Kiri did not glow.
She sat cross-legged in her family’s canopy, arms folded across her chest, tail flicking with visible annoyance. Tìyawn Trr had never been a holiday she cared for, and this season’s enthusiasm from her clan only deepened the crease between her brows. The idea of ritualized romance, carefully timed confessions, and coordinated gifts made her stomach twist. She preferred the quiet connections, the ones unspoken, free from pressure, free from expectation. Watching everyone drown in sentiment made her feel strangely distant, like a spirit moving through a world too tangled in its own threads.
Despite her irritation, her family prepared for the occasion with their usual energy.
Neytiri stood near the far wall, fastening a decorated collar of painted seeds around her throat. Its patterns shimmered faintly whenever she moved, catching the sunlight spilling from the canopy entrance. She hummed under her breath as she worked, the notes soft and melodic. Jake hovered beside her, adjusting the small knife strapped to his hip with an expression torn between admiration and impatience.
“You look incredible, baby,” he said, stepping back to admire her fully.
Neytiri’s lips curved into a warm smile. “You say this every Tìyawn Trr,” she replied.
“I mean it every Tìyawn Trr,” he insisted, drawing a laugh from her.
Kiri rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull.
Tuk bounced around the pod with uncontained energy, her tiny hands full of beads and feathers she had collected to make gifts. She held up one brightly colored feather toward Kiri, eyes shining. “Do you think Lo’ak will like this?” she asked.
“He will pretend he hates it,” Kiri replied dryly, “but he will keep it forever.”
Tuk squealed with delight, sprinting off to add the feather to her growing pile of treasures. Her braids swung wildly behind her, beads clicking like little stones in a stream.
Neytiri turned toward Kiri with a knowing smile. “You could make gifts too, ma ’ite (my daughter),” she said gently. “Even small ones.”
Kiri lifted her chin, unimpressed. “For who? You know I do not celebrate this holiday.”
Jake let out a small snort. “You say that every year, kiddo.”
“Because it is true every year,” she snapped back, though her voice carried no real heat. Her frustration felt older, deeper, threaded with emotions she refused to name aloud.
Tuk hopped back into view, practically vibrating. “Mom, Dad, when will you leave? You said you were going on a date!” The word spilled from her tongue with pure delight.
Jake laughed, slinging an arm around Neytiri’s waist. “We’re leaving in a moment, Tuk-Tuk. Let your mother finish looking perfect.”
“She always looks perfect,” Tuk insisted.
Neytiri brushed Tuk’s cheek with a tender thumb. “Irayo (thank you), my tsmuke (my child).”
Kiri sat back on her palms, scrunching her lips at the overly sweet display. “Are you both truly leaving just to share a meal together?” she asked. “You could eat right here. Quietly.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “It’s not just a meal, Kiri.”
Neytiri added, “Connection must be tended to, even for long-bonded mates.”
Kiri groaned. “I understand connection. I do not understand why it must be celebrated like this.”
Her tone faltered for a breath.
She averted her gaze, pretending to adjust a loose bead on her armband. There was truth beneath her irritation—an ache she never voiced. Everyone around her seemed to fit into the rhythm of Tìyawn Trr with ease. Everyone understood the language of shared gifts, silent promises, stolen glances. She watched her brothers find partners who pulled laughter from them, watched her parents grow deeper into their bond with each passing year, watched Tuk glow over every little moment of affection.
Yet she always felt on the outside of that.
Present, but not part of it. The truth pressed against Kiri’s ribs with a weight she refused to acknowledge. She fixed her gaze on a loose fiber in the floor mat, picking at it absently, hoping the motion would ground the restlessness clawing through her chest. Neytiri watched her with a softness that held no judgment, only concern tempered by understanding. Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but Tuk bounded forward, tugging urgently at Neytiri’s waist-cloth.
“Where are you and Dad going?” Tuk demanded, bouncing on her toes with a mix of excitement and impatience.
Jake grinned, slipping an arm around Neytiri’s shoulders once more. “It’s a surprise, baby girl.”
Tuk gasped as though he had revealed a sacred prophecy. “A secret date!”
Jake laughed. “The best kind.”
Before Kiri could roll her eyes again, footsteps clattered outside the entryway. Neteyam stepped into the pod first, tall and composed as always, though a faint weariness clung to his shoulders from the morning hunt. Lo’ak trailed behind him with Spider, who still had paint smudged across his face from Tuk’s earlier decorating attempts. The boys’ laughter carried into the space long before their bodies entered, filling the canopy with high spirits that clashed directly with Kiri’s mood.
She straightened, preparing to slip out before they noticed her, but Tuk tugged her wrist. “Kiri must stay,” Tuk insisted. “She is watching me.”
The invisible chain of responsibility locked around Kiri’s ankle. Babysitting duty kept her rooted in place even as her entire spirit screamed for distance.
Spider spotted her first, weaving past Lo’ak to drop onto the mat beside her with his usual dramatic flop. “Kiri, hey,” he said gently, nudging her knee. “What’s going on with you?”
Lo’ak snorted before she could answer. “What’s going on? She is pouting because she’s lonely. You know she gets like this during Tìyawn Trr.”
Heat flared beneath Kiri’s skin, her tail snapping once in irritation. “I am not lonely,” she hissed.
“Sure, sure,” Lo’ak teased, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s why you’re sitting like a wilted fern.”
Neteyam chuckled, giving his brother a shove hard enough to make Lo’ak stumble. Spider stifled a laugh into his palm, and the combined sound pricked Kiri’s already raw nerves.
Neytiri stepped in with a stern look. “Enough. Do not tease your sister on this day.”
Her sons nodded meekly for a heartbeat.
Lo’ak ruined it on the next breath. “I am just saying—if Kiri had someone to give gifts to, she would not be snarling like a viperwolf.”
Kiri surged to her feet, fury crackling down her spine like electricity. “Say it again,” she growled, stepping toward him, her jaw tight and her eyes blazing. “Say it again, Lo’ak te Suli, and see what happens.”
Lo’ak lifted his hands defensively, still grinning. “Hey, I am just trying to help. Maybe she secretly wants—”
Kiri’s entire body snapped with tension, like a bowstring pulled too far. “I will tear everyone's tails off,” she spat.
Neteyam cleared his throat, failing to hide a smile as he knelt to empty a woven satchel onto the floor. A mountain of gifts spilled out; small carvings, braided cords, polished seeds, painted chimes. His Tìyawn Trr offerings had clearly come from half the young hunters in the village.
Lo’ak let out a low whistle. “Look at all that. Neteyam is drowning in affection.”
Spider smirked. “Even he is doing better than Kiri.”
That broke her last thread of composure.
She stormed away from them, her braid whipping behind her like a snake. Anger beat through her veins in a hot rhythm—anger at Lo’ak, at Spider, at the stupid holiday that made everything feel sharper, more exposed. Anger at herself for caring at all.
Jake watched her retreat, his smile fading into parental disappointment. He turned his attention to the boys with a sharp glare.
“Way to go,” he muttered. “I told you not to tease her.”
Spider shrank slightly. Lo’ak winced. Even Neteyam sighed.
Jake shook his head and stepped toward the exit. “I’ll go find her.”
He disappeared into the walkway, following the path Kiri had taken with an urgency only a father carried. Kiri heard his footsteps before he called out, the tone of his voice pitched low with concern. She stopped near a wide branch overlooking the glowing forest and stiffened when she sensed him getting closer.
“Baby girl,” Jake said softly, breath steady but warm, “hold up.”
“I do not want to talk,” Kiri replied sharply, refusing to face him. Her tail twitched in agitation, betraying the frustration curling inside her. “Just leave me.”
Jake reached out and caught her wrist before she could retreat deeper into the foliage. His grip was gentle, never forceful, but firm enough to remind her she was not alone in her spiraling emotions. He guided her toward a broad branch draped with moss and settled onto it, patting the space beside him until she reluctantly sat. Her legs dangled over the side, toes brushing stray leaves while her shoulders remained high with tension.
Silence stretched for several breaths. The forest murmured around them, filling the space Kiri refused to fill with words. She kept her eyes on the distant glow of the bioluminescent vines below, jaw tight, expression unreadable even to him.
Jake drew a slow breath, placing one hand on the bark beside him. “Kiri,” he began, voice softened by memory and affection, “you know it is alright if you do not celebrate Tìyawn Trr.”
She did not look away from the forest floor, but her ear flicked in acknowledgment.
He continued, “You do not need to give gifts. You do not need to receive gifts. You do not have to feel excited about today just because everyone else does.” His voice dipped lower, threaded with reassurance. “You show love every single day. You protect the ones who matter to you in ways that do not need decorations or braids or songs. That is still love.”
Kiri’s head lowered slightly, though she kept her expression guarded. A small nod slipped from her, reluctant but genuine.
Jake smiled faintly at the movement, encouraged. “On Earth,” he said, leaning back against the trunk with a sigh, “there was a holiday kind of like Tìyawn Trr. Valentine’s Day.”
Kiri glanced at him sideways, curiosity cracking through her irritation for the first time. “What was it for?”
“It was… well, basically the same idea,” Jake explained, scratching his cheek with a sheepish grin. “People gave gifts to the ones they cared about. Flowers. Chocolates. Cards with drawings of fat babies holding bows.”
The confusion on Kiri’s face almost broke his composure entirely.
He chuckled. “Trust me, baby girl. You would have hated it too.”
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
Jake continued with a shrug. “I never celebrated it. Not once. I never got gifts. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not even as an adult before I met your mother.” He lifted his eyebrows dramatically. “Zero. None. Not a single person ever gave me a Valentine’s gift.”
Kiri let out a genuine laugh. The sound shook loose the tightness lodged in her chest and softened her entire posture.
Jake smiled fully then, relief evident in his eyes as he nudged her shoulder gently. “See? You are already doing better than I ever did.”
Her tail uncrossed from around her leg, settling against the branch. Her gaze softened slightly as she looked down at her hands, fingers tapping quietly against one another.
The smallest hint of calm replaced the earlier storm in her chest, settling into her bones like the first breath after a long cry. Jake watched that shift in her posture; the way her shoulders loosened, the way her jaw unclenched, and his face softened with quiet relief. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, the gesture full of affection that required no holiday to justify.
“Come on, kiddo,” he murmured, helping her rise from the broad branch. His hands guided her up with fatherly care, steady and warm, though she didn’t need the assistance. She let him hold her anyway; accepting comfort from him felt easier than fighting it.
He stepped back once she stood firmly on her feet. “I’ve got to get back to your mother before she thinks I ditched her,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. Neytiri’s wrath was a force even he respected.
Kiri nodded, her voice quiet but steady. “Go ahead. She will not wait long.”
Jake grinned. “Exactly why I should run.”
He moved toward the walkway before pausing to shoot her a pointed look over his shoulder. “Keep Tuk out of trouble while we’re gone.”
Kiri rolled her eyes so dramatically her beads clicked. “I always do.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she insisted, though her tail flicked with a guilt he noticed instantly.
He barked out a short laugh. “What you really mean is that she gets out of trouble on her own.”
Kiri crossed her arms and looked at the ground, unwilling to admit he was right. Jake’s grin widened as he took a step backward toward the exit.
“Also,” he added, pointing a finger at her, “no sneaking out to see them.”
Heat surged up Kiri’s neck and blossomed across her face in a vivid flush that even the dim forest light couldn’t hide. “Gross, Dad,” she snapped, shoving at his chest with far less force than her tone implied. “Do not say things like that.”
Jake laughed openly now, unbothered by the way she swatted at him. “What? I’m just saying—you should not mope on Tìyawn Trr. Not when you have them.”
Kiri’s ears flattened, her blush deepening until her freckles glowed against her skin. “Stop talking,” she hissed, trying to maintain the edge in her voice. “You sound ridiculous.”
Jake only smiled wider. “I sound correct.”
Her glare sharpened, but the heat in her eyes revealed more embarrassment than anger. The momentary stillness that followed said everything: she cared far more than she ever admitted. The thought of you—the mere mention of you—softened her in ways nothing else could.
Jake took a few steps backward, his grin refusing to fade. “Be kind to yourself today,” he said gently. “Eywa knows you deserve joy.”
He disappeared into the walkway before she could argue.
Kiri remained outside for several more breaths, letting the quiet of the forest settle her. The air tasted cooler beneath the canopy, rich with the scent of moss and the distant hum of glowing insects. A thin breeze brushed across her cheeks, carrying with it the rustle of leaves far above. The lingering sting of her brothers’ teasing faded slowly, replaced by the steadier rhythm of her own thoughts. Her father’s words had soothed more than she wished to admit. By the time she turned back toward the home tree, her heartbeat had returned to its familiar calm.
She stepped into the family’s pod with quiet footsteps. The space looked different without her parents; lighter, more chaotic, and more alive with youthful energy. Jake and Neytiri were gone, their absence marked by the faint scent of Neytiri’s floral oils and the missing weight of Jake’s weapons near the entrance.
Tuk played near the back wall, surrounded by a halo of beads, feathers, and half-finished gifts. She hummed happily, unaware of the earlier tension. Neteyam sat cross-legged nearby, sorting through the mountain of offerings he had received. His expression hovered between amusement and exasperation as he attempted to categorize each gift into neat piles.
Lo’ak and Spider lounged beside him, leaning against a woven support beam while they whispered to one another about their earlier scolding. Lo’ak gestured animatedly, dismissing half of Neytiri’s lecture, while Spider clutched his ribs from laughing too hard.
Tuk looked up first.
Her entire face brightened as she scrambled to her feet, beads clattering across the mat. “Kiri!” she squealed, barreling into her with a force that nearly knocked Kiri backward. Tuk wrapped her small arms around Kiri’s waist, squeezing her tightly before pulling back to beam up with adoration.
“You came back!”
Kiri smoothed Tuk’s hair with a sigh that could not hide her affection. “Of course I came back. I had to check on you.”
Tuk leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “Sa’nok (mom) scolded the boys,” she whispered, eyes widening with exaggerated fear. “It was so scary.”
Kiri huffed a laugh and glanced toward Lo’ak and Spider. Tuk’s terrified reenactment made them look far more pitiful than they deserved. She stuck her tongue out at them in childish triumph, her eyes narrowing with mock menace.
Lo’ak rolled his eyes so hard his entire head tilted. “We apologized already,” he muttered.
Spider crossed his arms, echoing the tone. “Yeah, we get it. We were mean.”
Neteyam did not look up from his sorting, but the smirk tugging at his lips made his stance clear. “Your timing was bad,” he said, shaking his head. “Very bad.”
Lo’ak scoffed, stretching his arms overhead. “We apologized, didn’t we?”
Kiri crossed her arms, arching a brow. “Those were apologies?”
Spider threw his hands up. “Fine. Sorry for teasing you, Kiri.”
Lo’ak chimed in quickly. “Sorry for saying you’re lonely.” He paused, his grin creeping back. “Even though you were.”
Neteyam shoved him with his foot, almost knocking him sideways. “Lo’ak,” he warned.
Lo’ak groaned dramatically. “Alright, alright! Kiri, I am sorry. Truly. We are skxawngs (idiots).”
Kiri exhaled slowly. The apologies were far from graceful, but they were sincere enough, wrapped in the brothers’ usual clumsy affection. She nodded once, accepting the offering.
“Good,” she said. “Try not to be butts for at least an hour.”
Spider saluted. “No promises.”
Lo’ak snorted. “Absolutely not.”
A reluctant smile threatened the edge of Kiri’s mouth, though she kept it hidden behind an eye roll. The tension inside her loosened another small degree. Their banter, however irritating, felt familiar, almost comforting.
Tuk tugged on her hand again, pulling her toward the play area. “Come sit with me! I made gifts for everyone!” The pride in Tuk’s voice warmed the air, softening the last traces of Kiri’s mood.
Kiri let herself be guided, though her mind lingered on her father’s last words. You have them.
Her ears warmed, betraying the direction of her thoughts before she could stomp them flat. Tuk tugged her eagerly to sit, and Kiri’s attention shifted to the tiny gift her sister pressed into her palms—a small, woven wrist-band decorated with feathers dyed a soft indigo. Tuk’s clumsy knots stuck out in uneven loops, but the feathers fluttered lightly in the air, catching the warm glow of the lantern fungus overhead.
Kiri blinked in surprise. The rush of warmth that filled her chest caught her off guard. “Tuk,” she breathed, fingers brushing the soft feathers. “This is beautiful.”
Tuk’s grin widened until her cheeks lifted her lower braids. “I made it for you because you always braid mine! So I wanted to make you something you can wear.”
Kiri laughed softly, a sound gentler than her usual tones. “Irayo, tutee (thank you, little one),” she said, fastening the band around her wrist with careful movements. “I will wear it tonight.”
The joy radiating from Tuk could have powered the bioluminescent lights in the entire Home Tree. She launched herself forward and pressed a quick kiss to Kiri’s cheek before bouncing off to gather the rest of her gifts.
Kiri’s heart softened further. She helped Tuk tie ribbons, adjust feathers, and pack small offerings into tiny pouches. Her irritation faded into a calm rhythm as she focused on her sister’s excitement. The small motions steadied her; braiding twine, sorting beads, handing Tuk leaves dyed in bright colors.
A sound pierced the moment.
A strange call echoed just outside the canopy entrance, sharp and slightly off-key, unlike any forest creature. Kiri stiffened, her head snapping toward the opening. Tuk, Lo’ak, Neteyam, and Spider remained entirely focused on their activities, oblivious to the noise.
The call came again but longer, louder, unmistakably artificial.
“What is that noise?” Kiri asked, brows knitting.
Neteyam looked up briefly from the pile of gifts at his feet. “Probably just a stray pa’li wandering near the roots,” he said, uninterested. “Ignore it.”
Kiri frowned. That sound did not belong to any pa’li. But she eventually let Tuk tug her back to the feathers and beads, returning to her task with lingering suspicion.
A flicker of movement near the entrance caught her eye.
Kiri glanced up instinctively.
Her breath hitched.
You crouched just outside the woven doorway, half-hidden behind a curtain of vines. Mud streaked your legs and a few leaves clung stubbornly to your shoulder. You held a large leaf over your head as if disguising yourself, but your grin completely ruined the attempt at stealth. Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you waved both hands, trying desperately to catch her attention without alerting anyone else.
Kiri slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh rising up her throat. The sight of you—dirty, disheveled, thrilled with your own antics shattered the last remnants of her sour mood. She shook her head pointedly, mouthing, What are you doing?
You rolled your eyes dramatically and gestured emphatically for her to come outside, pointing to yourself, then the path, then your heart, as if performing a theatrical pantomime of longing.
Kiri snorted behind her hand.
She formed a quick sign back: I cannot. Tuk.
You widened your eyes into exaggerated, pleading circles, pure puppy-dog desperation. You clasped your hands under your chin and tilted your head, projecting the most pathetic expression she had ever seen on a living being.
Kiri’s ears sank under the weight of her own helpless fondness. Her resolve wavered with humiliating speed. How could anyone expect her to refuse you when you made your face look like that?
She held up a finger, signaling one moment.
You nodded eagerly.
Kiri waited until Lo’ak resumed bragging to Spider about a gift he hadn’t actually received, waiting until Tuk became fully absorbed in organizing a mountain of beadwork, waiting until Neteyam bent over a delicate carving with full focus.
Her steps grew light, as quiet as drifting seeds.
She slipped through the side opening of the canopy, careful to avoid the rustling vines, and eased herself out into the forest air before anyone noticed her absence.
A single breath later, she reached you.
Her cheeks warmed despite the cool breeze, and she crossed her arms to hide the fluttering in her chest. “Must you announce yourself like a wounded yerik?” she whispered sharply, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You will get me in trouble.”
You grinned.
Exactly the look that always unraveled her far faster than she wanted to admit. Your grin glowed with triumph, wide enough to reveal the faint dimples that always made her chest tighten. Kiri tried to glare, but the edges of her mouth kept betraying her.
“You will not get in trouble,” you whispered, stepping closer. Your voice carried the confidence of someone who had already decided the course of the evening. “Your parents have a soft spot for you. They always have.”
Kiri narrowed her eyes in immediate disagreement. “That is not true. They treat me like everyone else.”
“You really believe that?” you asked, tilting your head with amused disbelief.
“I know it,” she insisted, crossing her arms to hide her growing fluster. “I do not get special treatment.”
Your expression said sure, whatever helps you sleep, and Kiri’s ears twitched in irritation.
Before she could argue further, you reached forward and gently caught both her hands. The contact stole the breath from her lungs. Your palms were warm and slightly rough from earlier work, grounding and steady in contrast to her quickening pulse. You gave her hands a soft tug, guiding her toward the walkway that spiraled down the great trunk of Hometree.
Kiri stumbled forward, startled. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded, though her tone lacked any true bite. “What are you doing?”
“To the forest,” you said simply, squeezing her fingers. “It is a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Her ears angled backward, part suspicion, part panic. “For what reason?”
You cast her a smile over your shoulder. “Because I want you to enjoy yourself tonight.”
Kiri huffed, exasperated. “I told you, I do not celebrate Tìyawn Trr.”
“I know,” you replied, slowing your pace enough for her to walk beside you instead of being dragged. “I noticed the holiday sours your mood every year.”
Kiri stiffened. Her instinct told her to deny it, to hide herself behind arguments and dismissive comments, but you continued before she found the words.
“I do not like seeing you unhappy,” you said. Your voice softened, losing its playful edge. “So I thought… maybe I could brighten your night.”
The walkway dipped into a darker passage wrapped in hanging vines. Glowing insects drifted lazily through the air, scattering tiny sparks of blue light. The forest breathed around you both, steadying your footsteps with its familiar pulse.
Kiri’s heart stumbled. “Why?” she asked quietly, unable to stop herself. “Why do you care so much?”
Your hand tightened around hers.
“I care because you deserve joy,” you said gently. “Even on a day you do not like. Maybe especially on a day you do not like.”
Kiri felt heat bloom beneath her skin. The words curled around her ribs, warm and unsettling in their sincerity. Small irritations clung to her like loose petals—anger at Lo’ak and Spider, annoyance at the holiday, frustration with the world, but your presence chipped away at each one with alarming ease.
She tried to hide the shift in her chest, but her voice betrayed her—softer, quieter. “You did not have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” you said, your tone unwavering. “You matter to me, Kiri. You always have.”
Her breath faltered. For a heartbeat, she looked at you with full vulnerability; wide eyes, parted lips, confusion tangled with longing.
The forest opened into a clearing bathed in blue-green light, the ground soft with moss and faintly glowing fungi. You released her hands only to step ahead and face her fully, your smile gentle now, stripped of earlier theatrics.
“I brought you somewhere quiet,” you said softly. “Just for us. No teasing brothers, no crowd, no pressure.”
Kiri swallowed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What are you planning?”
Your fingers brushed the small pouch at your hip, the one she hadn’t noticed before. The gesture made her stomach twist with anticipation.
“If you wish to know,” you said, your eyes brightening with warm mischief, “you have to sit with me.”
Kiri’s pulse thudded beneath her skin, loud enough she felt it in her fingertips. Her gaze drifted from your smile to the glowing clearing behind you.
Her chest tightened, overwhelmed by a sudden, impossible truth: she wanted to sit with you. That desire pulsed beneath her ribs with a warmth she had no name for. It frightened her. It thrilled her. It wrapped itself around her heart like a vine blooming in secret.
You guided her deeper into the forest with a gentle tug to her hand, moving at a pace slow enough that she could bolt if she chose, but she didn’t. The canopy overhead thickened, filtering starlight into thin ribbons that painted her skin in silver. Kiri’s curiosity swelled with each step. Every breath of air held more bioluminescence, more electric quiet, more intention she was still afraid to understand.
A bend in the path opened into a clearing she had never seen before.
You stepped aside, revealing it fully.
Kiri froze.
The patch of forest had been transformed into a glowing sanctuary. Vines braided with luminescent moss hung from low branches like constellations brought down to earth. Clusters of hand-tied flowers that were dyed deep violet and pale pink were arranged in sweeping arcs along the roots. Polished river stones formed a winding spiral across the ground, each one etched with patterns familiar to the Omatikaya: shapes of unity, protection, chosen connection. Tiny lantern fungi lined the perimeter, their soft blue light glowing like breath.
Her hand flew to her mouth, covering the tremble of her lower lip. Her eyes widened, shimmering with a mixture of disbelief and awe.
You smiled so widely it nearly broke her. Your joy radiated outward, warm and bright, striking her chest with a force that left her breathless.
You began to speak before she could gather herself. “I decorated it over many nights,” you said, rubbing your palms along your thighs as you stepped closer to her creation. “The vines took the longest because I kept choosing the wrong patterns, and the stones… well, that spiral took forever. I redid it three times.”
Kiri still didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat felt thick, swollen with emotions she wasn’t prepared for.
You kept talking, nervous energy spilling into words. “I wanted it to feel peaceful for you. I know Tìyawn Trr never sits right with your heart, so I wanted a space that wasn’t loud or crowded or full of gifts you didn’t want.” You gestured helplessly to the glowing sanctuary.
Kiri’s fingers pressed harder against her lips.
You continued, face warming as you gestured to the vines overhead. “It took days. I had to work when everyone was asleep or out on hunts. Neteyam almost saw it once. So did your grandmother.” You laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Spider definitely saw. I had to blackmail him with—well, never mind that part.”
Kiri’s eyes softened despite herself.
You waved toward a long, smooth log at the center of the clearing. Moss grew along one side, glowing faintly where you had shaped it into cushions. “Come sit with me,” you invited, voice quieter now. “Please.”
Kiri lowered her hand from her mouth. Her fingers trembled. Her lashes fluttered as she took in every detail—the flowers, the stones, the deliberate care woven into every corner of the clearing. The sheer devotion behind it knocked the air from her lungs.
She stepped toward the log, drawn not by your request alone but by the undeniable truth humming beneath her skin: she wanted to be close to you.
Her body lowered onto the moss, still dazed, still silent. The forest held its breath around her. Even the glow from the vines seemed to soften, as if dimming itself to honor the moment.
She did not notice the first atokirina drifting down.
The sacred seed spiraled slowly toward her shoulder, landing with the lightest kiss of weightlessness. Then another descended, brushing your hair. A third settled between your knees like a blessing.
Eywa watched.
Eywa always watched Kiri, but now the forest responded with unmistakable purpose. A cluster of glowing seeds floated downward in a gentle flurry, circling both of you before settling across the clearing like falling stars.
Kiri’s breath hitched as she finally saw them.
“Eywa…” she whispered, eyes widening in reverence.
You looked up, startled, then back to her. The glow of the atokirina lit her face in warm silver, softening every line of her usually guarded expression. Awe trembled behind her eyes, raw and luminous, as if the forest itself had peeled back the layers she hid beneath.
Kiri blinked rapidly, snapping herself out of that vulnerable daze. “They are just Tìyawn Trr superstitions,” she muttered, lifting her chin in forced dismissal. “Seeds fall everywhere on this day. It means nothing.”
Your quiet laugh broke through the tension like a warm breeze. “Ma Kiri, if you wish to believe that, I will not argue.” Your smile lingered, tender and teasing. “But Eywa seems fond of you tonight.”
Kiri scoffed, though her ears betrayed her by dipping in a shy twitch. “Eywa is always near me. That does not mean she approves of… this.”
You decided not to press the point. Instead, you motioned toward the glowing sanctuary surrounding you both, your expression shifting from playful to earnest. “Do you like your surprise?”
Kiri’s breath wavered. Her eyes swept across the clearing again; the carefully braided vines, the spiral of stones, the soft glow of lantern fungi, the flowers you had tied by hand over the course of many nights. Gratitude surged through her so quickly it almost hurt. She tried to speak, but her throat tightened.
A few false starts left her lips silently parting and closing before a rush of words tumbled free in a single breath.
“You did not have to do this,” she said, voice thinner than usual. “Truly. I do not deserve this kind of effort. I did not even get you a gift, and you spent so many nights working out here—why would you—how did you—”
The rambling spiraled faster, her emotions flaring in every direction at once. Her hands fluttered helplessly in her lap, trembling slightly. She looked overwhelmed, grateful, guilty, and touched all at once.
You angled your body toward her, the corners of your mouth curved in a soft, steady smile. “Kiri,” you murmured, interrupting her flood of self-criticism. “You never need to get me anything. Your presence is a gift. Being near you is enough.”
Kiri’s breath hitched sharply, as if your words cut through every protective shell she carried. Her eyes darted briefly to the forest floor, unable to hold your gaze without her heart stumbling.
“I still feel—” she began, voice strained by emotion she couldn’t swallow fast enough.
You reached into the small pouch tied at your hip before she could finish her sentence, your fingers brushing the carved strap within. With a smooth motion, you pulled out the gift and placed it gently in your open palms.
Her head snapped upward, eyes wide as she stared at your hands. The gift lay across your palms—a carefully crafted tool belt woven from flexible bark fibers, reinforced with thin strips of cured leather. It was dyed a soft green that mirrored the moss she loved collecting samples from. Along the outer edges, you had sewn tiny pockets and loops for her blades and gathering tools. Several compartments were engraved with spiraling patterns of roots and leaves, carved with careful hands over many nights. It was beautiful, but it was also practical, useful for wandering, for studying, for healing, for doing the things that made Kiri feel like herself.
Her breath stilled. She reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the carved grooves along the belt. Warmth bloomed beneath her touch. “You… made this?” she asked, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.
You nodded, watching her with gentle apprehension. “I noticed you always balance your tools in your hip wrap,” you said softly. “You drop them often, and it frustrates you. This will carry them for you. Everything in one place.”
Kiri swallowed, her throat tight. Her eyes shimmered as she lifted the belt closer, weaving her fingers over the compartments as if memorizing each detail. “You carved these patterns,” she whispered. “You learned the curve of the roots. You matched the moss shade.”
Atokirina drifted down from above, settling lightly into her hair and across her shoulders. Their glow illuminated the subtle shake in her hands. She didn’t brush them away; she didn’t even seem to notice them anymore. They clung to her like blessings, like confirmation, like a quiet pulse of Eywa herself.
Her voice trembled. “This is not a simple gift.”
“It isn’t,” you replied, your tone steady with truth. “It is a piece of my heart. A way to help you carry the world you love. A way to walk beside you.”
Kiri’s gaze snapped to yours, wide and raw with emotion too deep for words. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, shimmering like stars caught on the edge of breaking. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, breath uneven, overwhelmed by meaning she never expected to receive.
You parted your lips to explain further, to tell her why you had labored so long, why you had chosen each detail with care, why you had poured so much of yourself into this gift.
Kiri refused to let you finish.
She surged forward without warning, hands rising to cradle your jaw as her lips claimed yours with fierce, trembling urgency.
The kiss crashed into you like a wave, sudden and unhesitating. Her mouth was warm and uncharted, moving against yours with a hunger sharpened by years of unspoken want. She kissed with the wildness of the forest, the raw, sacred swell of emotion too powerful to hold inside her chest for even one more breath.
Her lips pressed hard against yours at first, as if afraid you might vanish if she didn’t anchor herself to you. The pressure drew a soft gasp from you, which she swallowed eagerly, molding her body closer. Her thumbs stroked along your cheekbones, trembling with devotion and fear and relief all tangled together.
The kiss deepened gradually, shifting from desperate to deliberate. Her lips softened, moving in slow, searching strokes that explored every angle of your mouth. Each pass grew more confident, more tender, as if she was learning you by touch alone. Her breath spilled warm across your lips between motions, mixing with yours in a quiet rhythm that bound you together.
Your fingers rose instinctively to her waist, pulling her closer, guiding her into the curve of your body. She melted against you with a soft, almost startled sigh, the sound vibrating against your mouth. Her hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you deeper into the moment. Her nails grazed your scalp, sending shivers racing down your spine.
The atokirina encircled you both, drifting in slow spirals, bathing the kiss in pale, shimmering light. They clung to Kiri’s braids, to your shoulders, to the space between your bodies.
Kiri broke the kiss only long enough to press another to the corner of your lips, then another to the edge of your mouth, whispering against your skin with a breath that shook. “Oel ngati kameie (i see you),” she murmured between kisses, “Ma tsngawnu (my darling).”
You replied by drawing her back into you, your lips meeting hers again with equal devotion. Her breath caught, and she kissed you deeper with a reverence that made your knees weak. Her tongue brushed yours softly, exploratory, hesitant in a way that made your heart lurch. You matched her pace, patient and warm, letting her guide the depth and rhythm. She exhaled a quiet, trembling moan into your mouth, raw and vulnerable, as if the kiss unraveled a knot she’d carried for seasons.
Her forehead rested against yours when she finally pulled back, lips swollen, breath ragged. Her eyes glowed with emotion so intense it nearly buckled your knees. The atokirina continued to fall gently into her braids, weaving themselves into her hair like threads of divine approval.
“Kiri…” you whispered.
Her voice shook, full of courage born from years of silence finally breaking. “You do not understand,” she murmured. “This gift… this place… you.” She cupped your cheek again, tracing your lower lip with her thumb. “You pulled joy from a day I have always hated.” Her eyes softened, pupils widening with affection she no longer tried to hide. “You gave me more than a gift. You gave me a place where my heart feels seen.”
You smiled at her, a soft curve lifting your lips as the glow of the atokirina danced across her flushed face. “Then my job is finished,” you murmured, brushing your thumb lightly along her cheek. “If I could make your Tìyawn Trr feel even a little less terrible, that is enough. Maybe the day no longer sucks for you?”
A spark of amusement flared in Kiri’s eyes. She scoffed loudly, though her grin betrayed her. “Do not push your luck. This holiday still sucks.”
The sound of her laugh—full-bodied, genuine, finally freed from the bitterness of the day pulled a warm laugh from your chest as well. “Even if Eywa blessed us?” you teased, flicking a glance toward the glowing seeds tangled in her braids.
Her lips quirked into a smirk. “Yup.”
Your laughter echoed softly through the clearing, mingling with the hush of the forest. The air felt warmer now, sweeter, as if the sanctuary had exhaled in relief. You reached toward her, taking her hand with fingers still trembling from the kiss you shared.
“Come,” you said, giving her hand a gentle tug. “We should return before Lo’ak starts shouting that a nantang ate you. Your siblings have surely noticed your absence by now.”
Kiri groaned, rolling her eyes so dramatically that her entire head followed the motion. “Great Mother, Lo’ak will never let me hear the end of this. He will probably claim he rescued me.” She squeezed your hand reluctantly. “Must we go back so soon?”
Her voice softened on the last word, her reluctance slipping through in ways she couldn’t fully hide.
You squeezed her hand in return, your smile reassuring, warm. “We can come back later, if you want. This clearing is yours now. It will always wait for you.”
Kiri glanced around at the glowing sanctuary once more; the vines you had woven, the moss shaped into cushions, the spiral of stones carved by your hands. Her chest rose in a deep inhale, a breath filled with hope and love.
“I will come back,” she said, her voice low but sure. “With you.”
Her admission warmed your chest, sending a quiet thrill through you. The forest seemed to answer her promise: another cluster of atokirina drifted down, catching in her braids, clinging to the tips of your fingers.
Kiri ignored them this time, stepping closer until your shoulders brushed. She lowered her voice, softer than the glow surrounding you. “You made this night… bearable. That is rare for Tìyawn Trr.”
You chuckled. “I will take bearable as a victory.”
Kiri bumped her shoulder against yours. “Do not get arrogant.”
Note: going through my docs and just finding fics i have not uploaded or were abandoned WIPs... so i figured i might upload some
Warning/s: none, just all lovey dovey, fluff
GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!
“Come here, come on!” You encouraged her as the two of you walked out into the shore, the darkness looming over you while the only source of light was from the moon and the bioluminescent plants and the freckles that littered both your bodies.
The fish that swam in the sea, along with a few ilu’s made magical glowing patterns underwater.
“I still think sneaking out is a bad idea.” Kiri comments.
“We’re nearly there, and if we get caught, I can just take the blame for you.” You suggested with a shrug, turning around to face her.
“You don’t have to do that.” She replied. You smiled and extended an arm out for her to grab your hand.
Being taller than Kiri certainly did have its advantages. “You’re moving too fast.”
“Sorry, maybe its just because I really want to spend time with you.”
Kiri looks at you with a shy smile, grabbing your hand as you led her towards underneath a tree. You sat down and leaned your back against it while Kiri still stood, looking at you. You extended both your arms for her. “You’re gonna have to make me.” Kiri says, sticking her tongue out at you.
“Are you challenging me?” You smile mischievously, moving to stand back up again.
“Maybe?” Kiri says, her tail swishing, you glanced at it, and you smirked, playfully grabbing at her tail, having her gasp in surprise and move away from you. “You know I’ll never back down from that.” You spoke.
“Then catch me.” Kiri said before taking off with a laugh.
You watched for a few seconds, giving her a head start as you shake your head. You take a deep breath in before you smiled, your feet picking up the pace.
You spent the last few minutes chasing each other, then you finally caught her, wrapping your arms around her from behind as she let out a yelp of surprise. You undercalculated your movements because before you know it, you were both sent onto the sand. Your back hitting first as Kiri’s weight dropped on top of you, making you wheeze.
“Oww..” You wheeze as Kiri just laughed, placing her hands atop your own on her waist. You sit up, you were pretty sure your back was covered in sand, along with your hair. But you didn’t mind. Not one bit as Kiri was now sat on your lap, your arms still wrapped around her as you laid your chin on her shoulder.
You were both facing the ocean, the waves sounding like music to your ears. You’ve never met anyone like Kiri before, she was unique. The two of you started to become close friends after helping along to teach her family the way of water. With that, things escalated from there and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You were staring at the ocean deep in thought of Kiri.
She turns her head to look at you her ears perking curiously as she tilts her head, looking at you. She relished in your warmth, leaning in. She lifts her hand to place upon your cheek, then an idea popped into her head.
She squeezed your cheek, that seemed to send you back as you looked at her. “What was that for?”
Kiri giggles, doing it a couple of times again until you hid your face behind her shoulder, smiling.
“What were you thinking about?” She asked.
“You.” You responded nonchalantly, making her flustered.
“Hm? Why? I’m literally just right here.” She said as you rested your chin on her shoulder again. “I just like thinking about you.”
“Thank you?” She responded unsurely that sent you both laughing.
Then something caught your eye. “Kiri, look!” You say, pointing at the ocean. Her eyes followed to where you point to find two ilus on the surface in the middle of the ocean, swirling around one another as they squawked and nudged their heads together.
“Oh my…” You hear Kiri whisper in awe.
You smiled, seeing the two ilu bond.
You pressed a small, feather-light kiss on her shoulder as she watched the creatures.
“They’re amazing.” She followed.
The night was spent with you and Kiri in each other’s embrace, admiring the beauty of the ocean, all your worries swept away like the waves crashing on the shore.
